#not try to justify with he was high on cocaine

[madame-helen]

[inbeautifulruins]

Bringing this back from my other blog about Rafe Cameron. TW: Drug use, attempted murder, murder, etc. I am in no way a therapist or someone with a degree or studies such things outside of her own interest. I am not a specialist on this matter, and this is all speculation.

Daddy & mommy issues ( one plotting out his entire life and the other leaving, then we have Rose who…I think she doesn't give a fk as much as she lets on? I feel like she's just there because she either loves Ward, loves his money, or she's dickmatized. I said it.)

His entire life plotted out by dad, doing what he can to make dad happy but always seeming to fall short to Sarah, the middle, the favorite. And he doesn't understand why.

Ward not hesitating to tell Rafe when he's fucked up to his face.

He probably didn't get to express himself or be himself at all, ever. He had to be what daddy wanted and daddy clearly still didn't want him nor did mom because why else would she just poof ?

I believe his drug use, especially cocaine is self medicating. Not only to numb how he feels and how he can't show how he feels because his father would tell him to 'man up' but also because he may suffer from bipolar disorder / schizophrenia (this is speculation both from myself and reddits plus my experience with these disorders within my family.) After all he told Ward he isn't well and Rose even comments he wasn't right since age 10, so … getting mental help is not something that's going to happen in that family. So what does he do? What can he do? Drugs are making him feel better and that's what he knows to use. So it also makes sense when he cries when he's out. Not only is he crashing from the high, the withdrawl, emotions are probably flooding and it's a shit feeling.

While yes, he did kill someone and that is not justified, he did it to prove to his dad he's the loyal one, he's the one who is there for the family, he is the one willing to put himself on the line for the family, for HIM. For WARD. to get that praise from dad he's not getting. I also do not believe he intended on killing Peterkin and believed his dad when he said he'd call for help. But Ward didn't. And no it wasn't to protect Rafe, it was to protect himself. Though I think he knows he fucked up he's now in survival mode. Plus coming off of coke cold turkey? While fighting mental illnesses? Yeah, good luck buddy. When he shoots Sarah it's on accident, but he has to act like he doesn't care, truth is he cares he shot Sarah. But I believe with Sarah choosing the pogues over family, over him and not understanding where he's coming form ( which is hard to do, no lie ) he lashes out. I feel he does love Sarah, but feels she doesn't love him anymore or see what he's trying to do. ( Again, from his POV, it's really hard to be the outsider looking at what he's doing and get it because we're not in his head. ) Though again, does not justify him trying to kill his sister.

What he is going through could be a drug induced psychosis or a break down, or both.

Him being an asshole I think also comes from the drugs / the alpha male mentality brought on by daddy Ward, plus he's rich, he can get away with anything … so he does. Because clearly Ward has showed him as long as you have money you can get away with anything. I truly believe he wants help ; but no one wants to help him in the way he needs it and he can't ask for it because that's showing weakness. I mean the dude did tell his dad he's not okay and his dad's reply was just 'man up' and even slapped him so, that's repeated but it's a point I gotta make.

[eyesaremosaics]

I had a strange dream that I kept waking up from and picking up where I left off. I was at a party with a bunch of friends from high school, as well as some new people. My best friend Jeanne (growing up) was there too. Along with a Scorpio ex of mine, I’ve known since childhood. Strange because I haven’t thought of him in a while. He had a new girlfriend there, she was very plain looking, but sweet and shy. We ended up talking about him (he hadn’t arrived yet), and I kept warning her to get away from him. Explaining what an evil bastard he was. She wasn’t jealous or threatened by me, she just looked sad for me, and seemed shocked by his previous behavior. It seemed he was treating her pretty well. I didn’t feel bitter about this though… it was weird.

Everyone at the party was doing drugs. His new girlfriend told me that my ex does drugs constantly—any kind he can get his hands on. She expressed concern over this, and said she felt pressured to do drugs with him. I told her he did “dirty” drugs, like crystal (I don’t know if he does this in real life, I just speculate). I took out a bag of cocaine and was doing bumps in an upstairs room with his new girlfriend talking. It was dark and kind of grimy everywhere.

Suddenly my ex shows up to the party. He wants to talk to me. He looks the way he did when we last saw each other… but his hair is a little shorter. About shoulder length. I can’t make out the features of his face, I just see a glowing light, almost like he is a backlit silhouette… he keeps trying to apologize to me. I look at him and say: “oh, it’s you.” He replies “yes, it’s me.”

I keep snapping and saying horrible mean things to him and then fleeing into another room to get away from him. He keeps following me, trying to apologize, but I won’t let him. His new girlfriend keeps trying to get me to allow him to apologize but I just flat out refuse and then do more coke trying to escape emotionally. I keep trying to be alone in a room to do drugs, and he keeps barging in.

We actually get to talking for a minute. I start to hear him apologize. But I don’t believe anything he says, because I know what a narcissistic sociopath he is. Though his apology seems genuine in the dream. I still can’t make out his face.

My dad calls in the dream, and he’s crying. I ask him if everything is alright, he told me no. That grampy is 4 to 5. Whatever that means. I assume he’s dead. I wake up. I’m sweating and stirring fretfully. I go back to sleep, and right back to the dream. I will myself to make my grandfather dying go away. Suddenly I’m back in the room with my ex. I don’t remember talking, but I could feel us vibing off each other’s energy.

Finally I scream some really awful things at him. Though what I said exactly… I don’t remember. He leaves after this finally. I come downstairs later and Jeanne is hanging with his new girlfriend. They both look at me with wide eyes. Jeanne said: “you really said some awful things to him.” “Yeah, you crushed him.” I remember feeling no remorse about this, I was angry, and felt justified in my anger. Yet a part of me was really yearning for that apology. I woke up feeling confused and slightly sad.

[shitidontsay]

I am an addict.

This is something I have struggled majorly to be honest about. with myself, with others, in my journal, in therapy. But something needs to give. Especially if I want to pay 345 per therapy session.

I have been stealing drugs since 2015. It started with Melissa and her dexedrine. I would purposefully study with her, despite her driving me nuts - just so that I could take her medication. I justified this because of what it did for my grades. I went from struggling and getting mediocre grades to getting a 3.85 or something. I understand there was undiagnosed ADHD, but this was addict behaviour.

I was secretly smoking weed in university, often. I was also drinking on occasion before classes. I can only really remember a handful of times, but it was happening.

Grad school was similar. I was abusing whatever stimulants I could get my hands on. I also remember one day where I took FUCKING ACID and went to class. I said I had a migrane. My pupils were dilated.

I then was buying cocaine. No one knew I was buying it myself. Mikalyla only knew that I bought it from her once. I was doing it before dates, at work, on weekends etc. I was then smoking wed and taking Benadryl to be able to fall asleep.

I knew this was a problem, so then I got prescribed my own ADHD medication. The bad relationship I had with drugs immediately fell into place with this as well. I downplayed my abuse, but realistically it started the moment I began taking this medication. I would constantly be counting my pills and calculating what I could take and when. It was NEVER a relationship where I took what I was prescribed when I was supposed to.

COVID expanded this, and i abused alcohol and weed on top of the stimulants. I often went to work drunk or high. At some point, the alcohol tapered back, but did it? I remember so many nights when I was living alone, post-Mat where I would order alcohol to get delivered to the apartment, and I would drink alone. That night i hung out with Ryan I was a bottle of wine deep and had been smoking weed all night. The first few dates with Os, where he was not drinking - I was. I was drinking almost a bottle of wine before we met and hiding it.

I've lied about quitting stimulants multiple times - when in reality, I was simply refilling my prescription and blasting through a 100 day supply in a month. And now I am stealing meds from my lovely wonderful partner who has no idea what is going on. I have also gone to his house and used his MDMA and ketamine without him knowing.

That is the catalyst for me writing this. Lately, I have been drinking secretly, and no one knows. Last night I had two drinks after work, went to his house, snorted some drugs, and then felt weird about what I had consumed so I attempted to mix some salt and MDMA into the bag of K. Obviously SO dumb because the texture and smell/taste was wrong. I was so anxious last night and this morning and then spent this morning trying to fix it or dilute it. I am just praying he doesn't realize what I did, or blame me. But honestly who knows. I might be fucked. Another lie. DESPITE THIS. the fucked up thing is that I came home, was so anxious - and what did I do? I poured a fucking drink. I am sitting here, before 9am, drinking a gin-water-lemon juice concoction to manage my anxiety.

At this point it's obvious there is a problem. I have opened up slightly to Os - and it felt lie radical honesty at the time. But in reality there is so much that no one knows. Everything I read about recovery talks about the importance of honesty and forgiving yourself. And I feel like I am so far away from that.

So thats where this blog comes in. I think I need to be fucking brutally honest with myself and write about these things.

What I really want for myself is to end 2023 with honesty and being clean. I want to write everyday about what is going on, open up about my anxiety, and stop avoiding what is underneath. I have no idea how to do that, but I am going to try.

[fluffbyday-smutbynight]

Way Too Deep (TAB rewatch)

Going back to The Abominable Bride? What is this madness?

Do not fear, I won't even dwell on the hidden meanings of the whole parallel reality set in 1895. Instead, this will be the beginning of my modest attempt (read: slightly disfunctional coping method) at making some sort of sense out of S4. I could read all the meta, and agree with it even, but at the end of the day I just have to take the raw data and digest it on my own.

Why start from TAB? If I recall correctly, it wasn't originally conceived as a bridge between the two seasons – and yet, it has such a peculiar structure that I can't justify it being just a coincidence. If you will, I'll look at the frame rather than the picture.

TL; DR: what if Sherlock overdosed on the tarmac plane... and never came back?

So, let's begin well into the third act (1 hour or so into the episode):

MORIARTY: Because it’s not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. Of all people, you should know that. It’s not the fall. It’s never the fall...It’s the landing.

Sherlock wakes up on the plane and the narrative trick gets exposed: the Victorian adventures were a creation of Sherlock's drug-fueled mind.

Sherlock's usage is not exactly news to us - hello, heartbroken Shezza in a crack den - but this time it feels different. It's not just escapism or the siren's call of addiction; he doesn't look high, not even to John Watson MD, which by the way has already seen him under the effect. This is the very intentional treading the fine line between sanity and delirium, between life and death:

JOHN: For God’s sake! This could kill you! You could die!

SHERLOCK: Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality.

...all for the sake of "solving a case" or, should we put it in plain words, going deep and deeper into his own mind.

Strap yourselves in, 'cause we're going for a ride. From this moment on, we'll bounce back and forth between reality and hallucination, the two separated by a boundary so unstable that we won't even see it.

Notice how heavily drugged-Sherlock sounds fairly coherent so far – and yet, when Mycroft speaks:

MYCROFT: A week in a prison cell. I should have realised [...] that in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy.

...his mind palace fabrication unexpectedly bleeds into reality:

JOHN (offscreen): Morphine or cocaine?

SHERLOCK: What did you say?

JOHN: I didn’t say anything.

SHERLOCK: No, you did. You said ...

(As he says the next sentence, it’s Sherlock’s lips moving but we hear John’s voice.)

SHERLOCK/JOHN: Which is it today – morphine or cocaine?

What did spur this abrupt transition? What is Sherlock's worst enemy? Himself, his addiction or... Moriarty, though a figment of his imagination, trapped in his mind palace?

Victorian Sherlock goes on with his investigation, which ends with the crypt scene. Sudden plot twist: under the bride's veil there's not Mrs. Carmichael, but... Moriarty again.

MORIARTY: Is this silly enough for you yet? Gothic enough? Mad enough, even for you? It doesn’t make sense, Sherlock, because it’s not real. None of it. [...] This is all in your mind. [...] You’re dreaming.

Cue another transition to a hospital room, which looks just a bit surreal. What's up with the red blanket and the carpeted floor? Why is Sherlock just lying there in his suit?

Doesn't look very much like an overdose intervention... because it isn't. This is not reality.

In fact, Sherlock goes on all jolly to unbury Emelia's corpse (let me be pedant: just like a recent overdose patient should do), and we're given a couple lines that reinforce how much of a pressing matter all this is to him:

SHERLOCK: It’s why we came here! I need to know.

JOHN (turning away): Spoken like an addict.

SHERLOCK (straightening up to look at him): This is important to me!

Sherlock and Lestrade dig, Mycroft supervises (lazy sod, eheh), until the casket is unearthed – pay attention to what Mycroft says here:

MYCROFT: We do have slightly more pressing matters to hand, little brother. Moriarty, back from the dead?

And yes, immediately after Moriarty is mentioned, another turn into surreality takes place; the skeleton moves on its own, a spectral voice calls, and Sherlock is back to his mind palace.

VOICE (rhythmically, as if reciting lyrics to a song): Do not forget me.

... and Holmes starts violently and wakes up to find himself lying on his side on a narrow rocky ledge. Water is pouring over him as if it is raining heavily.

HOLMES : Oh, I see. Still not awake, am I?

"Still not awake" - what a peculiar choice of words. The line between reality and hallucination is feeble because it's not there; the plane, the hospital, the cemetery? All fabrications of his own mind.

Look, even Moriarty must be tired of beating around the bush, 'cause he doesn't talk in riddles anymore. He just lays it out:

MORIARTY: Too deep, Sherlock. Way too deep. Congratulations. You’ll be the first man in history to be buried in his own Mind Palace.

MORIARTY: I am your WEAKNESS!

MORIARTY: I keep you DOWN!

MORIARTY: Every time you STUMBLE, every time you FAIL, when you’re WEAK...

MORIARTY: I... AM... THERE!

MORIARTY: No. Don’t try to fight it. LIE BACK AND LOSE!

So, not only Sherlock has gone deep into his mind palace, he never got out of it and he literally can't.

John coming to the rescue must represent Sherlock finally waking up... or does it?

WATSON: So, how do you plan to wake up?

HOLMES: Between you and me, John, I always survive a fall.

In fact, Sherlock jumps and falls deeper down and while we're told he always survives the fall, we're never told about the landing. We're circling back to what Moriarty said.

At this point, is Sherlock waking up on the plane again even real? Do overdosed people just wake up like that, and go on with their day like nothing's happened?

Furthermore, if Sherlock really woke up on the plane, this should be where the episode ends.

Why, instead, go back again to 1895?

HOLMES: It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like, and how you and I might fit inside it.

HOLMES: From a drop of water, a logician should be able to infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara.

Where is this happening? What's the "Atlantic" (or Niagara, or Reichenbach) we should be able to infer?

The structure of TAB – the back and forth between past and present, fiction and reality - reminded me of this zen koan:

"Once upon a time, I, Zhuangzi, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Zhuangzi. Soon I awakened, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the transformation of material things."

As you may know, a koan is a paradox: for instance, you can't be both man and butterfly, but at the same time you can't be definitively sure about one or the other. This is where we're left at the end of the episode – hanging on the doubt that what we've seen so far has been imagination disguised as reality: Sherlock can't be both in present time (having woken up on the plane) and in the Victorian setting we've just seen.

So we should infer that he is still stuck in his mind palace, and his hallucination is not only about the 1895 timeline, but comprises all the scenes set in present time, too -"It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like"; also, he might have overindulged with his drugs, to the point of never coming back to consciousness.

WATSON: As for your own tale, are you sure it’s still just a seven percent solution that you take? I think you may have increased the dosage.

Notice how the overdosing incident will never be mentioned again, which makes sense if we assume that it's a point stuck in time with no foreseeable resolution – an idea which is supported by Mycroft's notebook, in the form of the Minkowski Metric we can see there:

a formula referring to special relativity, more specifically "the spacetime interval between any two events is independent of the inertial frame of reference in which they are recorded" (x)

All this, in the perspective of interpreting S4, makes for an interesting premise... but we'll look into it another time.

_____

Dialogue transcript source: Ariane DeVere

[zire-in-space]

What kind of mentality do tumblr anarchists and socialists have in order to say that deescalating a person threatening to literally kill another person is good in terms of "what social workers can do to help systemic oppression" bc yall have clearly not been threatened like that.

I could go on and on about how carjacking affected my family so bad that we had to starve ourselves so my mom would afford the bus to work, how our neighbors that smoked marijuana refused to stop after we asked despite my family's asthmatic history which affected my little brother the most, how kids in my elementary school knew how to cover up their clothes' scent so their parents wouldn't get caught buying illegal weed, how my best friend told me how he helped his parents when they were high - to cook and clean and drive them places - despite their drug addiction and abuse, but the only thing these so-called anarchists and socialists will see?

"Its oppression", "its systemic oppression pressuring colored communities to do these things out of survival"

Like yeah, sure, but try that on the white people and suddenly it changes to "i cant believe they would do that", "they should have stopped" "they should have tried to help themselves with their addictions" "just another crazy white person carjacking someone"

I could go on about how even thinking about killing or stabbing or physically harming someone is wrong and a person should not be treated as if it wasn't their fault. How serial killers often have these fucked up childhoods or histories with abusive parents or relationships, and how it really doesnt matter if you're gonna start harming people.

And all of you guys would be like "omg yeah, totally, people need to stop justifying bad behaviour with their background", you guys look at white people who commit crimes as bad people who actually deserve a punishment, maybe even look at a white criminal about to murder someone and you would have no problem with police killing that guy - then suddenly see a black person with a knife running full speed at some random person ready to literally murder them and then go "omg just deescalate the situation no need to harm the person that was about to fucking kill a pedestrian that they didnt know"???

Like have any of you actually been through shootings? Through death threats by your own neighbors? Have you slept only to hear a faint popping noise and go full on instinct survival mode because you don't want to get shot up by some gang? Have any of you seen your father go to the hospital beaten up and bruised because some random fellow colored guy decided to mug him?

No? Then seriously shut up.

I have seen police literally shoot up shooters near my school, i have heard their bullets whiz past my head while other students run for fucking cover, i have seen kids in gangs threaten others with knives, guns, or vague threats on their entire family. I have seen kids get neglected and abused by their parents with addictions, i have seen families try to support a mentally unstable relative only to get physically harmed to the point where one almost died, I have seen my fellow classmates dread going home because they would rather be in school than go back, i have had friends with drug addict parents ask me for perfume, for money to buy cologne, to cover the scent of cocaine from police dogs. I have seen people use up all their money on vapes, drugs, alchohol, and then harming their kids, their wives, their friends, neighbors, because of the mood swings. I have seen friends go homeless because their family could no longer afford a house or apartment, since someone was buying for their addictions. I have seen kids and grown ass adults harm people with nails, screwdrivers, knives, broken glass, and even a school chromebook, sending people to the hospital -

And all anyone says is "deescalate the situation, dont harm them"?

I get it, you don't want to kill a person, you want to stop seeing police brutality, maybe you want to stop having the police in general, I wouldn't blame you for that last part, i want police abolition as well.

But you guys better start thinking about being that person about to get slashed by another human being. How your breath stops, how you see all the anger, the hatred, the hunt in the eyes of the person about to harm you. How no amount of "deescalating" will make you forgive or be safe around that person.

You better have some sort of humane fucking punishment for those people or I guarantee the kids of the hood will be rioting.

[soulwillower]

i couldn’t be more in love • richie tozier

(richie tozier x reader)

my tag list hasn’t been working recently so hit my line if it doesn't work this time

requested: i can't find all the requests but i got asked for a part 2 several times!

warnings: some alcohol, mentions of drug use, heavy drugs (cocaine, and a brief allusion to heroin use), sexual themes, references to sex, references and mentions of addiction, angst, but a nice ending, unedited haha

part 2 of i wanna see you but you’re not mine, also inspired by paris and so far (it’s alright) by the 1975 lolol

[title taken from i couldn’t be more in love by the 1975]

(losers + reader are mid-20s.)

2.7k words

♡

bitter air nips at your nose as you inhale deeply, white noise of traffic clogging the atmosphere as lights tinkle behind your peripheral vision. the smoke makes its way to your lungs and in the darkness of the night, a swirl of sooty regret that calms your veins and sets them on fire all the same.

"i have to say, it's hard not to take offense of you not inviting me out here." a voice in the solitude of the back of the bar makes you jump a slight bit, but you blink as if unaffected.

but holy hell is that not true. your fingers shake with the beat of your heart as you meet richie tozier's eyes, feigning a smile as you let out a cough of a laugh. "wasn't sure if you'd want a smoke." you lie, twisting on the cold of the brick wall you lay against to take another drag while taking him in. 

he’s devastatingly beautiful. 

richie's rolling his eyes, walking closer to you in his bright jacket, the pattern nearly making you dizzy. slender fingers slowly grab your wrist and you do nothing but watch limply as he slides one of your cigarettes from the carton and then your eyes follow all the way up to his cherry lips and you're lost in thoughts again - memories of last year when he'd kiss you with those very lips, when those lips would travel over the expanse of your body. a split second and you can’t stop yourself as you remember when those lips said i want you to be mine through a bright smile, and then you remember the heart shattering fall of those same lips when you'd said no.

you remember the last thing those lips said to you.

i’ll see you around, those lips had said. but it had been a lie - you knew it then and you know it now - because that was five months ago and tonight was the first night you'd talked to each other since.

not for lack of you trying, but after the third missed call and several weeks of richie happening to be dead asleep whenever you were over, you stopped trying.

"so, how you getting on with your life?" you ask as you take a sip of your beer that you'd set on the concrete. and then the dismissive answer from richie, an uncharacteristically short and bored, "its alright."

you blink. not good, not bad, not well, my band just released a tape, or the other night i tied eddie's shoe strings together and he fell on his ass. 

 just alright.

you spare a glance at richie, and as he's lighting the cigarette you realize that he's so much different than the last time you saw him - physically he's nearly the same, except for the nostril ring that glints in the streetlight of the alleyway behind the bar. but emotionally, he's... not here. at all.  

“you’ve changed." you say, as if it's a casual thing and not the only thought that you can force through your teeth. richie lifts a brow. "no i haven't."

it's short clipped, and so you look away, heart stinging. he's hurt. you huff, shaking your head as your shoe scuffs against the dirt. as you exhale the smoke, a puff of your breath spreads around you and the cold air presses in on your bones.  

"so you left town for a bit, did you?" he asks, clearly trying to be nice. your eyes catch his forearm as he rolls up his sleeves, and the prickled bruises that scatter them cause a wave of nausea to overtake you.holy shit, that was new. he doesn’t seem to notice as you take a shaky breath, eyes tearing away from his arm before you got sick. you guess he never really was that good at selling. couldn’t cut down. 

you wonder where the old richie is, the one who used to let everything bounce of his shoulder as he laughed, cracking jokes and flirting mercilessly with anything that moved. despite this, you just nod. "paris."

"and? did it just change your life?" he's muffing you up but you roll with it, knowing that if you lose yourself now then this conversation will be explosive. and bill was banking on you and richie getting along tonight, as he'd reminded you.

"i learned a lot," you say through another drag, eyes trying to find the stars among the dark midnight sky in the middle of the city. "it was beautiful, the school. and i never really missed here, i guess. my folks just thought i couldn't hack it. i wanted to prove them wrong."

"but here you are. guess you proved 'em right... not enough noise but too much racket, huh?" richie asks through a drag of his cigarette. you roll your eyes as you move to look up at him. "maybe you were right. you're still the same poetic asshole after all."

he seems to take humor in your words as he pulls a drag through a half-assed chuckle, shaking his head. "there are a lot of things i could say to that, doll. but i'm not going to."

and you want to punch yourself in the stomach as you feel butterflies echo in your chest from his pet name. 

"for who's sake?" you ask, and richie's eyes meet yours. his pupils are huge, the black almost swallowing the bright blue whole, and his stare is almost empty. your heart hurts.

he just watches you, eyes flicking from the cigarette between your lips to your eyes and back. "you better tell me about your paris trip quick, y/n, i'm almost through with my smoke." he says jokingly, waving his lit cig between his knuckles. the burning embers bright up his face, narrowing his high cheekbones in the dark light.

"giving me an ultimatum? god, i missed you." you say to him, the look he shoots back giving you chills. richie narrows his eyes, and you know you're both walking on thin ice, dancing around the fact that he fell in love with you and then you fell in love with him but despite that, it didn't work.

 why didn't he love you anymore? because as much as you deny it, you know you never stopped loving richie tozier. richie laughs, but it’s too sharp.

"that's a ridiculous joke coming from you. but i...need to piss. i'll be right back." he says, putting out his cig on the brick wall, but you sigh as you shake your head. he's turning to leave, but you catch his arm just in time. he looks at you expectantly, and your heart pangs.

he gestures impatiently, and you decide fine... if he's going to be this way, then you're not going to beat around the bush. 

"what, you're not even going to offer me a line?" you ask. the wool of his sweater is rough against your fingers and his arm twitches slightly. he looks at you, guilty and nearly...surprised.

did richie really think you hadn't ever noticed? didn't he know you noticed all those trips to the bathroom last year, at parties or in the middle of a group hangout, or when it was just the two of you, in between romps in his messy bed? did he think you hadn't noticed how many bloody noses he gets, the dented credit cards, the twitchy eyes. his racing heartbeat? didn't he know you noticed everything about him?

he gnaws his lip, "only have like half a bump left with me."

you tear up despite your resolve, and you shake your head, "you don't need it. can't you just enjoy my company?" you ask. the sudden shift in tone is nearly palpable as richie's breath catches in his throat, his adam's apple bobbing a bit. you don't let go of his arm.

you know you sound desperate, but then again you are. the need to be with richie is tearing you into pieces, and it has been for months. you know you made a mistake - you just want him to listen to you. you barely catch his lip quivering before he tilts his head back, sending a quick huff of a laugh to the tall roof that covers you, the cold air fogging his breath. "the problem is i enjoy it too much, y/n. you know that."

you look at richie, mouth slightly open. "richie..." you don't know what to say. your silence seems to push him further, “i know we're trying to be friends. but i don’t want to feel us at all. i want to be numb again.” he says desperately, eyes rimmed with red and unshed tears that threaten to fall. you feel like he's just plunged an ice cold knife into your heart. "it was easier when you were gone." he mumbles, hand rubbing his face, his curls falling over his hand.

"even when i was here it seemed like it was pretty easy for you to ignore me." you whisper, eyes watery.

"you know why i didn't answer your calls, y/n." he says, leaning against the wall. you sniff, a tear falling down your cheek and leaving a stinging cold on your face.

"i was angry at you. i know that that's not... i know it wasn't really justified, but i just couldn't stop thinking." he says, and you drop his arm so that you can wipe your tear trail. he continues with a shaky breath.

"you were doing better than i was, i saw it. i know you wanted to talk to me, but... it's like you could just decide to flip a switch with your feelings for me. do you know how scary it was to fall for that?"

his words leave you silent, and it dawns on you that when you thought you were protecting your year-long friendship with richie, you were really tearing it in two.

"i was so fucking mad, y/n/n. i was so hurt because i went and fell for you and i thought you fell too, but then you said i was just a good fuck -" a tear escapes his eye and his glasses are starting to fog up. you feel like you're moments away from sobbing. "-and then you told me it was better if i starting seeing other girls after i asked you to be my girlfriend. and i was sort of just left in the dust, because you would still tease and flirt with me, especially when we were with the others... and i didn't know how to act. i was so scared and confused." he's crying, now. his cheeks are pink, as is the tip of his nose; his eyes are watery and he keeps sniffing, wringing his hands as he keeps speaking. you're stunned.

"then i went and did what you wanted, because you seemed happy and if you were okay then, y'know, i could be too. and i was seeing other girls, but you went and got upset with me for it. and i was so fucking mad.”

he’s wiping a tear and you itch to brush the curls from his forehead, but you don’t dare move, as you don’t know what’s about to come out of his mouth next.

“because what about this fucking insane love that i have for you? these feelings? it was like you were flipping a switch whenever it was convenient for you, or when you were lonely. and i was so mad that you didn't love me the way i loved you... that’s how i felt, i guess. but what was i supposed to do? wh-what am i supposed to fucking do now? and now, if i don't force myself to be all annoyed with you, i don’t know what i'll do. because i couldn’t be more in love. i don’t know what to do."

you can only stare at him, your heart thumping so hard you have to steady yourself against the wall. what the hell do you even say to that?

you gently grab his hand. his palm shakes in yours, fingers long and cold as they fidget slightly. but he squeezes your hand and so you lay your other on top of his and you gather the courage to try and put into words the amount of love you have felt for a year. "chee..." you mumble, his breath catching slightly when you use the nickname you used to use back when you were sleeping together.

"i... i’ve known how badly i fucked up, but i still had no idea how much i hurt you. i know i lack enthusiasm and urgency with...whatever this is. this has been. but i still care. i want to make you happy, but this stupid idea that you and i being together may ruin our friend group made me blind. i hurt you so bad, because i'm selfish and can't keep myself away from you but i was afraid of how much i let you affect me. i've been running from happiness and i'm so sorry i've hurt you, richie."

it’s quiet as he processes what you’re saying, and you know it’s going to take a lot more than just this to fix what you have, but you just need to be near richie. you feel like you may explode if you dont show him how much you love him. he deserves more.  

"i believe you." he says, and he's almost sighing in defeat, and that hurts you even more. "i'm sorry too. i was an asshole."

you shake your head, your hand rising to cup his cheek, and your eyes meet. you see the blue, the size of his pupils seemed to have returned to normal and your lip quivers slightly, "please, i miss you. i don't want to fight anymore."

he shakes his head, mumbling, "me neither." before crashing into you, engulfing you with himself. his sweater is warm and rough against your cheek as you wrap your arms around his waist, squeezing like he might disappear. 

even while hugging he's still towering over you, keeled like a bear over you and making you nearly lean back as he pulls you to him. and when he says it this time, it's raw and whispered, honest against the white noise of the city.

"i love you."

you turn to crane your head up and your nose hits his jaw, the smell of his cologne mixing with the cigarette smoke residue. he turns to meet your eyes, and you smile against him, a tear leaking from your eye slowly. "i love you too, richie."

he kisses you, just as you tilt your head to him, and his lips are warmer than you remember. it's soft, salty and laced with your tears; but it tastes like a promise and you put your all into it, hand sneaking into his curls. “i don’t want to leave you tonight.” he whispers softly against you, his thumb rubbing your cheek in a way that has you melting. 

"please come back to mine." you whisper against his lips.

and then an hour minutes later after brushing tears from each other's cheeks, richie ditching his nearly-empty bag of powder in the bin, bidding good-bye with fleeting explanations to your friends, a closed bar tab, a seven minute cab ride to your apartment, and a deep conversation, richie's climbing with you into your bed.

when you wake up the next morning, richie's hair is full in a curly halo around his head, his bare back rising slowly in the early morning light. he's on his stomach, an arm loose around your waist and his face towards you. his breathing comes out in puffs through his red lips, the sight making your heart swell. the heavy dread you've felt the last six months is finally gone, not following over your head like a deadly haze. you feel like the light is finally back for the first time since you fucked it all royally. 

you kiss his forehead softly, and he stirs.

"promise you won't kill me in my sleep, y/l/n." he mutters as his eyelashes flutter, and you almost laugh as you whisper, "i forgot how much you snore. may just have to smother you with my pillow next time to get to sleep."

you're covered in warmth as he laughs tiredly at that, pulling you closer to him, kissing your bare neck and heaving a sigh with his body pressed against yours. you lay with a grin on your lips, feeling like those old, romanticized ideas of you and richie that you used to have in your head finally have some closure.

a glimpse of the boy you fell for is shining through, and you realize that no matter which richie it is, day or night, rain or shine....

you couldn't be more in love.

tag list: @gabiatthedisco @blisshemmings @stenbrozier @simplesammyx  @sft-core @clownsloveyou  @moon-shine-baby @trashedfortozier @daughter-of-the-stars11 @oceandog13 @chl0bee  @kait16xo @upamongthestarss @fiantomartell @beverlyparkerr @beauregard-s @diorbubs @leighjaenikhowell @cowbellies @deepestofwaters @thegaytheatrekid @flowerceilin

© all content belongs to soulwillower 2020. do not modify, repost, or redistribute.

[7-wonders]

The Thrill of the Chase

Summary: Your path once again crosses with Michael’s, this time under much more dire circumstances. Life and death, specifically yours, has suddenly never been more prevalent in your mind.

Word Count: 2602

A/N: Hey y’all, this takes place after Lost In the Shadows! We’ve been talking a lot of True Blood on here lately, and when I wrote this sort of situation with Eric Northman, somebody said they could imagine this with Michael. Hence, this new work. I hope you enjoy, and please remember that likes, comments, and reblogs are what makes my world go round.

In the weeks since you had discovered that vampires are not just a myth written about in romantic novels and scary stories, and that your boss, Michael Langdon, was the first vampire and the Antichrist, life had been quieter than you were expecting. After luring Michael to your lab and forcing him to tell you about vampires, you had thought that he was going to make you go missing or force you to swear that you would remain silent. To your surprise, however, he gave you space. You had seen him multiple times since the incident had occurred, but every time he kept his distance, choosing to greet you with a simple smile before moving on to whatever a vampire CEO needs to do. 

Maybe this is some predatory habit of vampires, where they bait their prey before backing off and driving them mad with anticipation before striking. If it is, you would rather Michael get whatever he’s planning over with. This wait, whether it be for something or nothing, is starting to affect your work.

Speaking of work, it’s then that you shake yourself out of your thoughts and realize nearly an hour has passed since the typical work day ends. You sigh, running a hand through your hair and looking disdainfully at the paperwork that still litters your desk. Some days, being head of R&D has its perks. Others, when you have to sift through hundreds of funding requests from developers just as idiotic as Jeff and Mutt, make you want to walk out and never come back. You doubt you’d find a job with health insurance as good as Kineros’s, though.

Deciding that a walk to clear your head will do you some good, you stand and relish in the popping noise that your shoulders make when you stretch. The building’s your favorite when it’s almost completely empty, the comforting silence a perfect work environment. Greeting one of the custodians as she mops the hall in the direction away from your lab/office, you decide to walk downstairs to give her uninterrupted time to clean without you getting in the way. 

Eventually, and like always, you end up down at the main lab that Jeff and Mutt inhabit. You’ve made it a habit to come and check that everything is turned off and put back where it’s supposed to be, not trusting two men constantly high on cocaine to properly dispose of used chemicals and turn off the power source to loose wires. After getting on them numerous times about proper lab etiquette, they’ve actually become quite vigilant. Tonight, however, you can already see a bunsen burner that looks like it’s still on. While concerning, it’s not a disastrous situation. It’s not, at least, until you turn the light on and notice the ethanol-soaked rag right next to the open gas source.

That’s when the explosion happens.

It’s a perfect storm, with a combustible chemical having had plenty of time to oxidize next to a natural gas source. The heat emanating from the fluorescent lights that you turn on act as the catalyst, and you only have time to cover your eyes as the light from the rapidly-expanding flame warns you milliseconds before the explosion reaches your ears. The sheer force of velocity is enough to throw you across the room, with the all-glass interior proving no match as every surface shatters. Everything is happening so fast, yet it seems as though it’s in slow motion, an out of body experience in which you’re a passive observer watching what’s happening to you. Maybe you are having an out of body experience, since the bouncing of your head against the wall is something that you’re pretty sure knocks you out.

It’s unclear how much time has passed when you hear a voice calling your name. Long enough that the flames have started smoldering under the water of the fire alarms. You blink rapidly, trying to get your eyes to focus again. Finally, Michael Langdon comes into view. If you weren’t in a state of shock, you’d be mildly upset that of course the vampire whom you threatened last week is the one to come upon you in a state of mortal peril. Since you are dealing with a bit of shock, you can only stare at him in disbelief.

“(Y/N), can you hear me?” You nod. “What happened?”

“Cokeheads...chemicals...bunsen burner…” Damn, that sounded way more eloquent in your head. Your inability to string together a full sentence means a concussion is almost certain.

“Those fucking imbeciles,” Michael says lowly, eyes scanning you to catalogue the extent of your injuries. His eyes are dark red with veins extending to his cheeks, startling you just as much as the previous time you saw this side of him. What startles you even more is just how easily he bites into his own wrist to let blood flow, holding it out to you expectantly.

“No, I don’t wanna be a vampire.” You try to move away from Michael, but you’re in too much pain for even that.

Although your words come out slurred and confused, Michael still understands you. “You won’t, I promise. It’s a very specific ritual, and there’s not even a chance of you becoming a vampire from this. Please, just take my blood and let me heal you.”

Later, you’ll wonder if Michael had done some sort of vampire mind trick on you. That’s the only way you can justify taking his blood with so little hesitation. Regardless of the reasons why, the earnesty in his voice tells you that he’s being truthful.

Michael leans over you, slipping a hand around the back of your neck to help you up as you lower your mouth to the open wound on his wrist. While you grimace at the metallic taste when Michael’s blood first pools in your mouth, the taste changes to something much more pleasant. It’s like a new cocktail that you get at a bar; you’re not too sure of whether or not you like it, but you know that it tastes good.

By the time you notice that your head feels clearer, Michael’s deemed that you’re fully healed. To your muted horror, you realize that you don’t want to pull away, but Michael gently forces you off of him. His inquisitive eyes look you over once more, and he uses his thumb to wipe stray blood off of your lips.

“You healed me. Why?” Your head is reeling with how fast events have been moving in the span of just a few minutes, yet the one clear question you have is why Michael healed you when he could have just as easily killed you.

“Why not?”

“Well...because…”

“Are you feeling better?” Michael decides to take pity on your bewilderment, switching the subject. 

“Oh!” Now that he mentions it, you do feel better. You can think in full sentences now, and the dull ache in your head has disappeared. While you hadn’t seen any cuts on your body, the thin lines of blood left behind on your arms prove that there were wounds from the broken glass. “I am, actually.”

“You sound surprised. Did you not think that it would work?”

Laughing sheepishly, you shrug. “I mean, not really.”

You look around, just now seeing the destruction around you. “You think Jeff and Mutt have insurance that covers gross negligence?”

“Oh, they’ll be paying for this out of their own pockets. They’re lucky that I won’t have them criminally charged for any of this.” Sirens sound in the distance, and Michael pulls you up from out of the rubble. “Come, the authorities will be here soon.”

“Wait!” Michael allows you to pull him to a stop. “What do I even tell the police? I’m sure there’s security footage of me getting knocked out.”

“Conveniently, the cameras were knocked out due to the explosion.” Michael winks at you before disappearing like he was never at the scene, leaving you to stand among the carnage as authorities swarm what was once a laboratory.

//

It’s light out when you wake up after your whirlwind night, which is what you first recognize as odd. When you arrived home last night, you don’t remember falling asleep. The next thing that can be categorized as odd is the tall, blond vampiric Antichrist standing in the middle of your bedroom. You scramble up on the bed with a surprised gasp, pulling your blankets up to your chin and staring at Michael’s smirking face.

“What--how are you here? I never invited you in.”

“A common misconception about vampires.” Michael slowly approaches the bed, his languid movements reminding you of the predator that he is.

“But what about the fact that it’s light out? Shouldn’t you be a pile of ash right now?”

“I am not the final word of vampire lore.” He kind of is, and you would retort with that, if it weren’t for the way he crawls towards you. “Your heart is beating very fast.”

“That’s because I’m not sure if you’re gonna eat me.”

“Potentially, but not in the way that you’re thinking.” If Michael couldn’t hear your heart beating before, he surely can now, especially once he leans in and kisses you.

You’ve been kissed before, enough times that you would consider yourself pretty knowledgeable about the subject. If you know a bit about kissing, then Michael Langdon is an expert on it. He manages to be sensual, yet rough at the same time, a fang nicking your bottom lip and making you shudder in surprise. Just as quickly as the droplet of blood can bead up to the surface, Michael’s licked it away, moaning at the taste of your blood.

“I don’t know how I’ve managed to go so long between tasting you,” Michael mutters against your skin, using his skill to quickly remove the shirt that you had been sleeping in.

You’re not self-conscious at Michael seeing you topless, which is unusual for you. Maybe it’s just because he knows how to treat a person right, but it’s impossible to even have those thoughts when the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen is currently kissing his way down your abdomen. Michael’s fingers ghost over the top of your pants, and you thread your fingers through his hair in response. Then, there’s a loud knock on the door.

Sitting up in bed, you’re disoriented when you realize that it’s not light out, and you don’t have a gorgeous blond vampire on top of you. Somebody knocks on the door again, and you realize that must be what woke you up from your extremely vivid, extremely wonderful dream.

“I’m coming,” you say in the loudest voice you can muster, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders to combat the cold air that the open door will let in. “Michael!”

Either this is the weirdest inception-like dream you’ve ever had, or the man you were just having a sex dream about is standing at your door. “Hello, (Y/N). I hope you won’t be too upset that I woke you at this hour.”

“Uh, you’re fine.” You open the door wider to allow Michael to enter, but he just continues to stand in the same spot. “Do I...have to invite you in? Like, is that a real thing with vampires?”

“No, I just prefer to be polite and not barge into somebody’s home without their permission.” You smirk. Of course that myth would come from the overly-polite Antichrist.

“Come in, Michael.”

“Thank you.” He steps in, quickly appraising the entryway of your apartment with the detached air of someone who’s been in homes much grander than this (he probably has; you’ve seen a couple of portraits of the French court at Versailles with a blond lord who looks suspiciously like Michael). “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“That would be a question I have.”

“Well, I realized that I had forgotten to mention something about taking vampire blood when injured.”

“And you couldn’t wait until the next time that you saw me to tell me this? Wait, how did you even find my address?”

“I’m the CEO, I have everybody’s records.”

“So, what did you have to tell me?”

“I’m assuming, since you were asleep, that you had a pretty...imaginative dream about me?”

The blood drains from your face. “How did you know about that?”

“I was so wrapped up in saving you, and the commotion that followed, that I didn’t get to tell you that a human drinking a vampire’s blood bonds them to that vampire.”

“What does that mean?” you ask incredulously.

“What it means,” Michael explains patiently, “is that certain things are going to happen to you now that you have a vampire’s blood in your system. Your senses will be enhanced, you’ll have heightened strength…”

“And the dreams?”

“As I said before, drinking a vampire’s blood bonds a human to that vampire. Until my blood is out of your system, I’ll be able to sense if you’re in trouble and your emotions. It can also give you erotic dreams about the vampire whose blood you’ve consumed.”

You groan, dismay evident on your face. “Great, that’s just--fantastic. So when does it stop?”

“A couple of months? Blood doesn’t cycle through the body very fast.”

“You’re kidding me,” you say with a disbelieving laugh.

“I don’t see what’s funny about this.”

“My entire life since I’ve met you has been fucking hilarious! And now I’m apparently bonded to you because you just happened to cross my path when I was mortally wounded.”

Michael glowers at you. “I didn’t have to save your life, you know.”

“Yet you did, all the while knowing what would happen when I took your blood.” You want to say all the things you’re thinking of, like how you still would have survived out of sheer hatred for him even if you did have to wait for the ambulance to arrive (which they had, clearing you after you had explained to the very confused EMTs that you hadn’t been in the lab when the explosion happened, just right outside of it; they had accepted your lie, albeit dubiously upon seeing the devastation that wrecked the first floor of Kineros), but all you can think about are his goddamn beautiful lips and how badly you want to kiss them. “Fuck, I can’t even focus on being mad at you because of the urge to kiss your stupidly perfect face!”

The anger Michael was previously feeling evaporates as he fights the upward quirk that his lips threaten to take. “We certainly can kiss, if that’s what you’d like.”

“It’s not what I’d like! It’s that stupid bond you were talking about.”

“Maybe just once will help to quell any future urges you may have?” 

You’re not sure if you want to smack the cocky grin off his face or jump on him, so you settle for pointing to the front door. “Out.”

“Alright, but just remember that the offer still stands.” He produces a business card between his long, ringed fingers, and you snatch it out of his hand while still glaring at him. “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

You slam the door behind him, leaning against it to help your shaky knees. Michael’s laughter is still on the air long after he’s left, and you sigh as you wonder how on earth you’re going to get to sleep...especially when you realize that you won’t be able to take care of your little problem without Michael knowing. That laughter suddenly seems a lot louder now.

//

Baby tag list bc I’m lazy: @moonanonwriting​ @lvngdvns​ @wroteclassicaly​ @sojournmichael​ @chibi-lioness​ @ccodyfern​ @trelaney​ @xavierplympton​ @dyns33​ @michaelsapostle​ @ajokeformur-ray​

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - “Plot Twist” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Embroiled in the aftermath of two very messy break-ups, Crowley and Aziraphale are preparing to film their first love scene together. But how do you pretend to be in love when your love life is falling apart?

It probably doesn't hurt to be in love with your co-star. (2318 words)

Notes: So I made the chauffeur young Shadwell, but patterned after young Michael McKean, who I was desperately in love with back in the day XD Human au, ineffable wives, mention of past Aziraphale/Gabriel, mostly just fluff

Read on AO3.

“Ooo, I get a limo this time. Fancy, fancy,” Crowley mumbles, not nearly as impressed as she’s pretending to be. She’d much rather drive herself in her own Bentley and in her own sweet arse time. But she needs to keep up appearances. 

There are always two eyes and a camera lens on her at any given moment.

Even though it’s the literal buttcrack of dawn, she’s not alone. There are about thirty asshats, armed with cameras, camped out on her doorstep, climbing over each other to snap a candid of her for the gossip sites. A photo of her emerging from her rented townhouse fresh-faced and ready for another day on set will fetch an easy hundred pounds.

But if she looks like she rolled out of bed, drank a bottle of whiskey for breakfast, then fell down a flight of stairs, landing face-first onto a mountain of cocaine? Those pictures would fetch considerably more.

That’s what she gets for going through a horrendous break-up while having the nerve to be rich and famous.

She thought that when the production moved filming away from London and out to California, the buzz surrounding her personal affairs would die down. On the contrary. It seemed to get worse, in part because the states don’t have the same paparazzi laws the UK does.

She can’t sit down to take a proper shit without seeing a flash pop off.

Despite how she feels about her life at the moment, she went for class over crass. She shies away from hard drugs, and she can't justify looking less than her best, especially in public. 

She refuses to let anyone see her sweat.

“Antonia! Antonia! Over here!” the pariahs beckon, some of them whistling for her attention like she’s a dog. “Antonia! Hey, Crowley!”

Crowley.

That’s the one that gets to her - burrows into the roots of her teeth and makes her head pulsate with rage. It keeps her feet moving when she might have stopped to exchange a polite hello, given out an autograph. And the sick thing is these vultures probably realize that. 

That’s why they keep doing it. 

Who talks to people like that? When did it become acceptable to bellow out someone’s last name as a means of getting their attention? Is it too much to ask for them to shove a ‘Mrs.’ in front of it? Have these glorified stalkers forgotten that, if it weren’t for her and stars like her, the only jobs they could get would be snapping photos of families at Legoland for minimum wage?

Ugh. 

Too much thinking too early in the morning.

She could write an entire essay on how much she loathes pap culture, but today, she can’t be bothered caring.

She’s filming one of the most anticipated scenes of her whole career on one of the worst days of her life. 

That’s the hurdle she needs to focus on.

She slaps on a smile and waves, sliding her glasses down her nose only far enough so they can’t see how red her eyes have gotten from crying.

“Oh, ‘ello, loves! I didn’t see you all here! So nice of you to greet me at 5:30 on this fine winter morning! Oh, careful there. You spilled your coffee. And I think you just kicked that poor lad in the face. You wanna give him a hand up there? He’s bleedin’ all over the pavement.”

Crowley greets her guests this way every morning, killing them with kindness, as subtle an eff you as she can come up with when her brain cells have yet to kick in for the day.

Coffee. She needs coffee. About a gallon-and-a-half of it.

And a shot of bourbon might be nice.

Crowley glides through the crowd, an angelfish among sharks, and comes out unscathed.

A man with brown hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes, wearing a fitted, black uniform tailored to within an inch of its life, opens the car door for her as she approaches.

"Good morning, Mrs. Crowley."

“Good morning, Mr. Shadwell. It's nice to see you.” Crowley slides into the car, thankful when the chauffeur shuts the door. She sinks into the leather seat and tosses her sunglasses aside. “God!" she moans, burying her face in her hands. "I don't want to do this! I want to stay home, eat ice cream, and drink tremendous amounts of alcohol! I definitely don’t want to be snogging anyone today!”

Aziraphale, who had been waiting patiently with a small box of assorted cookies and wearing a sympathetic smile, frowns. “Wow. Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley's head snaps up, her face splotchy, and red enough to rival her hair in seconds. “Aziraphale! I am so sorry! I didn’t know you were …! That’s not what I meant!" She takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly. "It's not you, angel. I swear it isn’t. I just don’t feel particularly romantic today.”

“It’s all right. I know what you mean. I feel the same way.”

Crowley squares Aziraphale with a stern look. “Wow. Thank you.”

Aziraphale ducks her eyes, her cheeks turning pink as she offers Crowley a cookie from the box. She wonders if Aziraphale made them herself. She often does bake to pass the time. So much so that she's become quite good at it.

Life hasn’t been treating her too kindly, either.

The cookies are delicate little things, intricately frosted in red, green, and white, decorated as bells and angels and snowflakes in honor of Christmas. 

Because it’s Christmas. 

Crowley is having the worst day of her life a week before Christmas.

Sigh.

There is usually champagne, no matter what vehicle the studio sends to pick them up. She wonders where it’s gone, searching about for it. Crowley and Aziraphale rarely avail themselves to it, preferring to wait till after the shooting day is done to have a nightcap.

But today, it feels like a necessity.

Leave it to the studio to not provide them a bottle of bubbly on the one day Crowley longs to drown in it.

“I didn’t know Shadwell was picking you up first,” Crowley says, starting small talk to ease the tension. Crowley and Aziraphale don’t usually have trouble making small talk.

Today is an exception.

“Well ...” Aziraphale clears embarrassment from her throat “... I was just … you know … a few blocks down the way.”

Crowley sits up further, leans forward with interest. “So you did it. You left him. You left Gabriel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies quietly. “I couldn’t stay. Not after …” She stops and sniffles, turning her head to hide eyes that must be as red as Crowley’s. Crowley doesn’t know.

She only ever notices how incredible they are.

Crowley rests a comforting hand on Aziraphale’s knee. “I know.” 

“Yeah,” Aziraphale says with a slightly bitter laugh. “So does the whole world. In fact, the photogs knew I was leaving before I knew. You should have seen it. I could barely get past them.”

Crowley pulls a box of tissues out of the side panel and offers her co-star one. “They’re bottom feeders. The lot of them. Try to ignore them.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I know,” Crowley repeats, feeling exceptionally useless. She’s in the exact same boat, but her heart hurts more for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale doesn’t deserve what she's going through. She doesn’t deserve such a public break-up.

She doesn’t deserve having her name drug all over social media by an emotionally manipulative bastard who thinks he's God's gift.

Crowley gazes out the window at the sky above. The forecast said it would be clear and sunny today, but it’s cloudy and grey. It matches Crowley's mood. Everything is cloudy and grey.

Well, maybe not everything.

The cookie she's eating isn’t. It’s sweet and crisp and melts in her mouth. It puts a smile on her face.

That helps.

Aziraphale helps, too.

Even gloomy, melancholy Aziraphale helps.

Just being in Aziraphale's presence helps.

“Living in the public eye isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, though it sounds as much like a statement to herself as a question for Crowley.

“Not on days like today. But that’s the trade-off for being a star, I suppose.” 

“Would you ever give it up?” Aziraphale asks, taking a nibble of her Madeleine.

“I can’t say I would. You?”

“Nnnn ... no."

"There isn't anything else you wanted to do?" Crowley asks, latching on to her hesitation. "Not even when you were younger?"

"Well ..." Aziraphale bobs her head back and forth. "To be honest, I have always wanted to own my own bookshop. Or perhaps work in a library. But that's only if acting didn't work out. Acting has given me so many opportunities I could never have dreamed of. And all the great people I've met? I mean, this is what? The fifth film we’ve starred in together?”

“It is." 

Aziraphale chuckles. "Some of them have been real winners."

"I know! The roles you get offered when you're just starting out are criminal! Let’s see, we’ve been rogue enemy agents from different factions …”

“High school frenemies …”

“Alien co-conspirators …”

“Jealous rivals …”

“And now … lovers.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says bashfully. “And today …”

Crowley smiles. “We get together for the first time.”

Hearing Crowley say it makes Aziraphale’s heart race, her pulse thrumming so fast it disappears.

The day Aziraphale found out she’d gotten the role of Crowley’s love interest and not the ‘jealous ex’ (the role her agent originally pitched for her since they play adversaries so well) was a dream come true. The studio felt the two of them could take their insane sexual tension (the studio's words, not Aziraphale's, although she doesn't disagree) and use it to fuel the plot of their latest 'friends-to-lovers' rom-com.

Aziraphale has always wanted to be a leading lady. Deep down, she prayed that her first time, she'd play opposite Crowley. Now that it has finally happened, the role of her dreams comes with the greatest perk in the universe - an intimate moment with Antonia.

In front of about three dozen crew members, but still. 

It's Aziraphale's chance to indulge her crush, which she plans to savor since it may not come around again. 

Not in the way Aziraphale wants.

As friendly as Crowley is to her, as flirty as she can be, Aziraphale doesn't know for sure whether Crowley shares her feelings.

“If you don't mind my asking, when did she tell you?” Aziraphale asks.

“She didn’t." Crowley snorts humorlessly. "I woke up, and she was gone. I thought she had left for work. She had a table reading at six that morning, so I wasn’t immediately suspicious. Not until I started noticing important things were missing - clothes, toiletries, her contact lenses, her laptop …” 

"Did she tell you why she was leaving?"

Crowley chews her lower lip at the question she'd known was coming ... the answer she's debating whether or not to give. "Eventually." She glances up at Aziraphale, flashes a sly grin, and decides to go for broke. “She left because she thought I was falling in love with my co-star.”

"Really?" And just like that, Aziraphale dies, her heart shrinking into nothing and blowing away on the wind. "W-which one?" she asks, solely for conversation's sake.

This time, when Crowley snorts, clamping a hand over her mouth to keep from spraying crumbs all over the interior of the limo, it's genuine. "You, you gumball!"

"Oh. Oh!" Aziraphale’s expression of shock is so endearing, Crowley can’t look at it too long. There's a glow about her. It's like staring into the sun. “That's ... that’s funny. Gabriel broke up with me for the same reason. Because of ... you. At least, that's the excuse he gave on Twitter ... and Instagram ... and Facebook.” Aziraphale's glow dims as she talks about her ex. Their relationship, and separation, weren’t as civil as Crowley’s. In reality, trouble had been brewing behind the scenes for a while. 

She’s glad they finally went their separate ways, but it stings just the same, finding out that someone you once loved, who you thought loved you back, just wanted someone to push around. To control.

"That is funny. Not funny ha-ha. Just ... funny. Who would have thunk?" Crowley goes back to her cookie, taking small bites while keeping an eye on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale glances out the window as the limo slows, approaching the gates to the studio lot. Crowley doesn't follow Aziraphale's gaze.

She doesn't need to. 

She knows what Aziraphale sees by the way her face falls.

Aziraphale had hoped they could slip in quietly, but there's already a mob three feet deep waiting for them. The photographers and fans won't be able to see a thing through the car's windows. The tint on them is darker than dark. Still, the whole lot will be on high alert with them here. 

Inevitably, a handful will slip in. 

They may even find their way on set.

Aziraphale doesn't have the energy to deal with that.

Not today.

“How are we going to get through it?" Aziraphale asks. "Filming this scene? The timing is ... uncanny, to say the least.”

“Think of it this way …” Crowley slides across to Aziraphale’s side, sits as close as they're both comfortable with. Crooking a finger beneath her chin, Crowley draws Aziraphale's attention away from the gathering crowd and over to her eyes instead “… we get to spend the entire afternoon making each other feel better. That's how we're going to get through this. Agreed?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lower, flicker to Crowley's lips unintentionally. When they travel back up, she notices Crowley's eyes do the same. She swallows hard. At this distance from Crowley, from her mouth, Aziraphale only has the wherewithal to say one word. She makes it count. "Agreed."

[gerberbabey]

sad saturdays | kiara carrera

2nd part of cocaine. this goes out to that one anon. 

masterlist | cocaine series : 1 | 3 

summary: Kie spends her Saturday inside. 

warnings: more of that gay shit, im high so the writing is bad (well the writings always bad), angst, cursing, mentions of depression, more of me being collectively obsessed w both Euphoria and Outerbanks

♫ Sad Saturdays by JOBA ♫

Kie wondered if perhaps she should call 911. Her chest was hurting so much that she was so sure it was a heart attack. She’d even stayed up at 3 AM  googling everything she was feeling and what it could possibly mean but she only ended up self-diagnosing herself with cancer. It probably wasn’t cancer.

“Kie...sweetheart?” her mom stood at her doorway. 

Kie hummed from where she was buried under her covers. 

“Baby, do you need anything?” 

“Mmmno...”

Kie waited for her door to shut before she peaked over her shoulder to see if her mom had actually left. Seeing that the woman was gone, Kie sighed and turned over to lay on her back. She tried to think about the last time she felt this terrible. Physically she was probably fine, she’d felt worse before (the pain in her chest really wasn’t the worst of it). Emotionally and mentally? That one was kind of hard to pinpoint. 

Her generation was practically founded on not being the mentally strongest. As fucked up as that sounded, considering how depressing shit was because of the older generation, she thought she was pretty justified in her thinking. She didn’t want to think too hard about it. 

“Fuck....” she mumbled as she felt her lip quiver. 

Kie sucked in her cheeks and tried to blink away the tears gathering at her eyes. 

She’d been in bed for 3 days now. Meaning it’s been 3 days since she kissed you and ran. Kie instructed her mom that if anyone came around she didn’t want to see them. Kie’s mom was reluctant of course, she didn’t want her daughter isolating herself willingly when she knew that being alone was something she’d struggled with before. But she followed her daughter’s wishes. 

Even if that meant turning you away more than once in the past three days. __________________

“Sexuality is a spectrum. It’s not like anyone’s 100% straight or 100% gay.” 

Kie made a face as she laid her head against your shoulder. The two of you had started binge-watching Euphoria as soon as all the episodes had gotten released and it was now 3 am and the two of you were well into the show. 

“There are people who are definitely 100% gay,” Kie argued and you hummed in response, trying to pay attention to both her and the show, “One of my cousins is 100% gay. Women do not and could not ever do it for him.” 

You paused the show as you realized you couldn’t multitask in this situation. 

“I don’t think she even really realizes what she’s saying Kie,” you explained once you noticed how bothered Kie seemed to be by the line. Kie didn’t even really understand it herself but she was heated. Kie wasn’t really one for staying in and watching shows. If anything your entire friend group tended to not stay in and do stuff like that. You and the boys didn’t really have subscriptions to streaming services (sometimes you didn’t even have working cable to watch TV) yet you had seen the trailers for the show and had insisted that the two of you watch it. Kie couldn’t really say no to you. 

“I don’t know, for a show that’s representing so much, that seems really out of place. I don’t know what the writers were thinking.”

“I mean Maddy’s a character who’s just trying to calm her aggressive abusive boyfriend down. I don’t think she herself understands what “Sexuality is a spectrum’ means. I don’t think the writers are putting it off as anything bad.” 

Kie could feel herself calming down as you spoke to her. You had that weird effect on her. 

“Do you get what it means?” the question came out before she could even really think about it and Kie felt her chest tighten up in instant regret.

As open as the Pogues were with one another, it was just different when it came down to deep shit. JJ despised talking about his dad, Pope rarely opened up about his anxiety and the pressure he felt, the topic of Kie’s year at the Kook academy wasn’t even an option, John B denied any negativity on the topic of his father, and you avoided even saying the words “mom” or “dad” when it came to your own parents.

The topic of sexuality wasn’t exactly a common conversation topic. 

Kie wasn’t sure what she was afraid of. Would you connect the question back to her sexuality? Would that connection reveal her feelings for you? Would you scoff at the idea of believing Kie loved you?

She knew that she wasn’t afraid of any type of homophobia. Especially not from you. 

“Yeah I mean remember when Kat was explaining it to her. She said at the end of each spectrum is gay and straight. Maddy probably just understood wrong cus her boyfriend’s an asshole. But yeah like sexuality is a spectrum,” Kie blinked at that, “I mean like I’ve never dated a girl but I’m not on the 100% straight part of the spectrum. If being gay was a choice, I wouldn’t like men at all.”

Kie didn’t really accomplish much that night. You were still opposed to the idea of love. You still didn’t know about her feelings. Nothing had really changed. 

But that night, Kie felt happier than she had in a while. 

________

Kie recalled the episode of Euphoria where Rue had gone through a depressive episode and it led to a kidney infection. Kie was terrified of the idea as a whole and had forced herself to get up and use the bathroom. 

Pushing the bathroom door open she dragged her feet as she made her trek back to her room. It was at the most a few feet but damn did it make her tired. Her head felt heavy on her shoulders and her body ached. She wouldn’t be surprised if she’d somehow caught a fever in the midst of all of this. She’d forced her body through an entirely different routine for the past three days. 

“Jesus Kie.”

Kie jumped at that and nearly screamed at the sight of JJ. 

“Shit! JJ what the hell are you doing here?! You scared the fuck out of me!” 

“Sorry jeez,” JJ put his hands up in defense, “We were worried and your mom wasn’t letting anyone see you so I snuck in through your back door,” JJ’s casual way of speaking left Kie speechless.

“What the fuck JJ....Don’t you have like work? Or something better to do on a Saturday than break into my house?” 

“Well I have today off actually. John B and Pope are both working and (Y/N)’s sick too so I don’t-”

“Wait what?” Kie backtracked for a moment, “(Y/N)’s sick?” 

“Yeah I mean I don’t know-”

“How do you not know JJ!” 

“I just-I don’t know, (Y/N) just said she was sick, why are you yelling at me?!”

Kie pressed her hands to her face in frustration. Even when you weren’t around her you were still somehow affecting her emotionally. 

“JJ I really cannot have you here right now ok, I need you to go,” Kie motioned to her door but JJ wasn’t having it. Kie hadn’t spoken to any of them in the past 3 days and he knew it had something to do with you. You weren’t telling him anything either but he was more observant than you thought. You had fallen off the face of the earth at the exact same time as Kie and the only time you responded to any of his texts was when you were telling him you couldn’t hang out with the Pogues because you needed to check on Kie. 

“No ok I’m not dumb, did something happen between you and (Y/N)? Are you two fighting or something?”

“No JJ-”

“Then what? Did someone break the fucking girl code?”

“NO!”

“Did she hook up with a guy you called dibs on-”

“I KISSED HER!” 

Kie sucked in a breath as she and JJ looked at each other in the eye. The shock was clear on his expression.

“I kissed (Y/N)...because,” Kie’s shoulders shook, “Because I love her. But she-she won’t love me back.”

“What...you don’t know that Kie,” JJ tried to soothe as Kie began to sob, her hands shaking. 

“I do, ok, I do know. (Y/N) has been...hurt so much, and I wish I could help her fucking love again, as cheesy as that sounds, but she has been pretty straightforward about how she feels about crap like that.”

JJ clenched his jaw and fidgeted with his hands. He was completely out of his element in this type of situation. He wasn’t exactly the best example of anything that regarded relationships or even opening up about feelings and here was his best friend venting to him about his other best friend. If he was being completely honest he thought he was going to have this conversation with Pope about Kie, not Kie about you. 

“I love her JJ...” Kie sobbed and JJ licked his lips then his eyes and attention flickered off to the side at the sight of movement. 

Kie turned at that and back into her room and nearly into JJ at the sight of you standing in her doorway. 

You bit at your cheek as you looked at the two of them. 

“Hey Kie....” 

part 3? 

[autolenaphilia]

Exit Sherlock Holmes by Robert Lee Hall

This book, first published in 1977, is one of the weirder Sherlock Holmes pastisches. This book is almost entirely impossible to discuss without spoiling the ending, so I will put the spoilers underneath a cut.

This story begins in October 1903,with Holmes telling Watson that Professor Moriarty had also survived the Reichenbach falls. The villain has now re-emerged, and to fight him, Holmes has to go into hiding without Watson, his retirement to Sussex being a cover story for this.

Not long afterwards, Watson has a strange, brief confrontation with Moriarty, and decides to find Holmes himself. But he discovers that Holmes has not only obscured his present whereabouts from his friend, but also his origins, which are shrouded in mystery.

The book then centers on Watson trying to uncover not only trying to find where Holmes now is, but also who Holmes and Moriarty actually are. He teams up with a now adult Wiggins to do so.

The central Holmes-Moriarty mystery grows ever more bizarre. Why did Holmes have a hidden laboratory with a strange metal cage in the basement of 221B? Why does Moriarty look so similar to Holmes, yet denies being his brother? Is Mycroft Holmes actually Sherlock’s brother? And this is only some of the more obvious questions in this story.

This part of the book is actually quite well-told. Watson’s narrative voice feels credible, including the depictions of various canonical side-characters, and the build-up of suspense and mystery is well-done.

Then we get to the reveal, and in order to avoid spoilers, I’m going to place the rest of this under a cut. (although this book is like 40 years out of print, and not sure I can recommend it either, despite it being weird and sort of interesting because of it).

It turns out there is no mundane explanation, but a fantastical one. How this reveal is sprung on the reader is what makes this story so weird. Because while there are certainly hints of it, the science fictional angle isn’t explicit until the final part of the story and isn’t advertised at all on the cover of my edition. I knew of it going in, but that is because I was spoiled by reading about this book in an essay about Holmes pastiches. I can’t imagine how out of the left field it must be for the ordinary readers of this book.

The substance of the reveal is that both Holmes and Moriarty are time travellers, from about three-hundred years into the future from 1903. Their era is highly advanced, with space travel and cloning. Holmes and Moriarty are identical clones, test-tube babies, genetically modified and trained to be brilliant actors and performers. There is a dystopian, Brave New World angle to this, as other clones are made to be obedient.

While Holmes came out of this process as a good person and a great actor, Moriarty while brilliant, became evil and greedy for power and attention. He decided to time travel back to the Victorian era in order to use his superior knowledge to conquer the world, and forced Holmes with him because he wanted Holmes to challenge him. Reaching England in 1878, they assumed the identities of Holmes and Moriarty. Holmes then fought Moriarty and the evil organization the professor created, as in the canon. The cage is Holmes’s attempt to reconstruct the time machine, and Mycroft is an actor Sherlock hired to give himself the appearance of a past in this time period.

Stories in which the great detective is confronted with supernatural or science fictional phenomena are common, but this one is extremely weird. The supernatural elements in these Holmes pastisches are often up-front, with titles like “Holmes vs. Dracula” or “Holmes vs. Cthulhu”, whereas “Exit Sherlock Holmes” doesn’t advertise itself as a science fiction story at all. And while he is usually just a brilliant representative for ordinary humanity in those stories, this one posits a fantastic origin for Holmes himself.

It is a twist entirely out of the left field. The only context I can really think of is the great success of the book “The Seven-Per-cent-Solution”, which had a revisionist take on the Holmes mythos, with Holmes going insane from cocaine and imagining his old mathematics tutor Moriarty being a criminal mastermind. Publishers have tried to replicate the sales success of that book practically ever since. This is the reason why (plus Holmes starting to fall into the public domain 1980) so many Holmes pastiche books have been published in the past 46 years or so .

And particularly in the immediate wake of “Seven-per-cent-Solution” in the 70s, the influence of that novel led to several revisionist takes on Holmes being published, which tried to up the ante in that direction. It led to a particularly infamous novel where the twist was that Holmes was Jack The Ripper, and apparently this book, where Holmes and Moriarty are time travellers.

And I’m not sure how it works. Certainly, the build up of suspense and mystery to the reveal is well-done. The world Holmes comes from is pretty much a standard high-tech science fiction future, but the details Holmes reveals are interesting.

But I don’t know if Holmes needs this sort of explanation. This reveal is fun, but it ultimately feels random. Certainly, Holmes seems ahead of the detective methods of his time, but he always felt like a pioneer rather than a time traveller. I don’t see his abilities as so superhuman they need a fantastical origin. In fact, his deductions are often based on his detailed knowledge about the environment and time he lives in, which the time-traveller idea doesn’t go easy with.

The climax also hinges on a plot point that doesn’t entirely make sense. Holmes is convinced that the only way he should defeat Moriarty is by forcing him to travel back into the future with Holmes. Yet he is sad to leave the world of 1903 and Watson. But it is never clear why time travelling back is the only way to defeat Moriarty. It mostly comes across as an irrational obsession of Holmes. Why can’t Holmes just kill Moriarty and then stay in the time period he prefers? Neither man is invincible, Moriarty himself tries to kill Holmes in the climax with a simple revolver bullet to the brain.

The ending of Holmes using the time travel device to literally exit the story seems only to exist to make it absolutely clear that time travel is indeed real in the world of the novel. It isn’t well-justified by the plot leading up to it.

Exit Sherlock Holmes is ultimately a very weird book that is hard to rate. It is a mostly well-written book, the build-up to the reveal is well done. It also displays a clear knowledge and love of the canon. The final reveal is certainly imaginative, if nothing else. But that imaginative reveal isn’t entirely satisfactory. The reveal is well-integrated into the canon, but it doesn’t feel justified by it in my opinion and mostly comes across as random. It is a fun enough read, but really not sure  if I can really recommend tracking it down on the used book-market.

[darker-soft-starker]

Starker 007 AU >>

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

The painting is hideous, there are no two ways about it. 

The longer Tony stares at it trying to find a justification for the thirteen-thousand dollar price tag, the more dumbfounded he becomes. Affixed to the wall it presents like a gaudy canvas banner, a bewildering clutter of haphazard spills and splotches that might have a certain panache adorning the walls of the penthouse of the pretentious elite, but Tony can’t make sense of it. 

The gallery is lined with paintings of a similar aesthetic, abstracts that look like psychedelic blood-spatters, moody self-portraits and ten-feet-tall modernism canvas of writhing, spaghetti-lines that looks like it belongs in a first grade art class. 

Maybe Tony is a simpleton, but he has at least some taste.

A man slips beside Tony to observe the painting, head tilted up to peer at the artwork in quiet consideration. Outside the corner of his vision Tony can tell the man is stunning. Suit expertly tailored, the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones beautifully chiseled, milky skin brushed with a hint of gold and long, long that fingers that wrap around a perspiring glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

Tony sips his whiskey, a smooth burn down his throat as his interest is piqued. He’s seen a hundred, a thousand of men just like this one - well dressed and impeccably styled - but however girt by the exquisitely woven threads he may be, the unconscious tug of the mans smile seems genuine in partner with the down-to-earth brown of his eyes. He’s beautiful but doesn’t flaunt it.

It takes only a beat for the man to notice Tony’s staring, the mellow harmonic chords of the piano lulling away in the near distance. He offers a shy smile at the attention, turning his gaze back to the painting to resume his quiet scrutiny, eyes flickering over the slapdash strokes.

Oh yes, Tony thinks. He’ll do just nicely. 

He clears his throat roughly, catching the startled gaze of the younger man, mouth falling open in quiet surprise. 

“Stark,” Tony introduces himself, holding his hand out in greeting. The man's grip is pleasingly firm when he shakes Tony’s hand after a moment's still contemplation. 

“Parker,” the man smiles, eyes crinkling adorably at the sides. “Peter Parker.”

He tries to not find himself charmed by the way the hairs of one of Peters’ eyebrows are swept skyward like he’d rubbed his face, or the way his long fingers tap at the stem of his wine glass as he sips from it, licking his bottom lip to catch a wayward drop.

“What brings you here, Mr. Parker?” Tony inquires, surreptitiously tracing temple of his glasses to activate the sensors built within them. 

His vision goes blue for a prolonged moment as the AI brings up schematics and data in a blinding stream of text and symbols. Another tap has EDITH zeroing in on the younger man, registering his heat signature in blistering oranges, his recent social media and his squeaky-clean criminal record.

PETER BENJAMIN PARKER

24 YEARS OLD 

PLACE OF RESIDENCE: QUEENS, NEW YORK, UNITED STATES. CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CIVILIAN

A quick skim of the hurried cascade of information informs Tony that Peter was tardy eight times in high school and is now currently an engineer for Oscorp. 

That’s a shame. Tony guesses being pretty doesn’t account for taste.

“My employer is a patron of the arts,” Peter smiles. “What about you Mr. Stark? Is this business or pleasure?” He gestures with his half-empty glass to the sea of people, a motley swarm of greasy politicians, haughty high-flyers and glittering socialites.

“A smart man finds a way to do both at the same time,” Tony winks, giving the younger man a deliberately slow once over, warming the hollow patch behind his ribs when the man's cheeks bloom pink. Peters eyes drops to Tony’s lips when he licks the residue of whiskey off them, lingering there for just a moment before politely looking away. 

Play indeed. Sure, the auction for the artworks is set to begin at any moment and Tony’s mark is idling somewhere in the background - but there is always time to enjoy himself, Tony justifies as he turns in towards Peter and gives his best charm.

Potts always did drone on to him about having a proper work-life balance.

“What do you think?” Tony asks, pointing to the abstract artwork, analysing Peter as he breaks from their stare and assesses the nervous mess of brown and splintering white acrylic. 

“The Delicate Spider,” the man orates expertly, not missing a beat. “Ruth Bauer Neustadter.”

“Wow, just rolls right off your tongue there,” Tony blinks, mildly impressed. “You some kind of art aficionado or something?” 

“Nah, I just like spiders,” Peter shrugs, looking over the piece appreciatively. “What about you, Mr. Stark?”

“Me? No thank you to anything with more than four legs and whatever this is,” Tony says truthfully, lifting his hands sheepishly. “Although I couldn’t tell the difference between a Pollock or a Picasso if you paid me, so.”

Peter seems amused, the corners of his lips twitching upwards as he rocks on his feet. He’s adorable and would look far more inspired contrasted against Tony’s black silk bedsheets than any one of these works of art.  

“That’s a shame, Mr. Stark.”

“It is,” Tony concedes with a smirk. “It’s a very hard life being so uncultured.”

“I can tell. Maybe I can give you an education some time.”

Tony grins, catching Peter’s gaze. “I’d like that very much Mr. Parker.”

The spell is abruptly broken when the interface of Peters smartwatch lights up, distracting them both. He looks to Tony sheepishly after reading its contents, using his pinky to tap away at it. The wriggle of the small finger shouldn’t be charming, honestly. 

“Ah, I’m afraid I must be heading out, Mr. Stark. Auction’s starting.”

Damn.

“Don’t let me hold you,” Tony supplicates, raising his glass to him, even if he is sad to see him go.”It was a pleasure.”

He can’t help the quirk of his lips at the word, nodding politely at the other man whose smile is tinged with regret this time, and the modest sweep of his gaze over Tony’s body tells him everything he needs to know. 

Not that it matters, when a warning red flashes alarmingly over his smart-glasses. His mark is moving, which means he needs to get moving himself.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Stark.”

“Call me Tony,” he calls out when the younger man waves and moves to leave, offering a roguish smile. “Maybe we can catch up afterwards. Get a start on that education.”

A chestnut curl falls delicately over Peter’s forehead when he turns to peer back at him. “Maybe,” he nods, waving again before departing for good.

He takes only a second to leer at the generous swell of Peter’s ass and mourn the missed opportunity, sighing to himself. This is what he gets for having a bonafide actual work ethic - if he were any of his sloppy, bone-headed colleagues he’d have had his tongue buried in that ass five minutes ago. 

Nonetheless once he’s out of sight Tony taps his glasses again, following the transparent map that pinpoints where his mark is. 

He’s got a job to do.

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

Neil McGarrett was a wealthy, eccentric billionaire. A media mogul who made his fortune from humble beginnings, starting from the sale of a single newspaper and now has his name splashed over his own cable news network. 

Decidedly right-leaning, McGarrett had an inclination of sensationalism over what some might traditionally label journalism, but it was undeniable that he was favoured by the republican voters in droves, if prime-time ratings were anything to go by.

The man regularly made headlines himself - from his sixth marriage falling apart, to his more unsavoury public affairs. Being photographed naked whilst snorting cocaine on his ten million dollar yacht every other week was commonplace. He’d been photographed dining with sex-offenders and simpering politicians and the wall street elite, caught on film talking about underage women and applauded for it by his peers.

He was a misogynist and a xenophobe and all of supporters loved him for it, dressing it up nice and pretty in what they called classic American values. 

For all of his questionable morality McGarrett was also a patron of multiple charities. He gave his time and money to various causes, was caught strolling the red carpet of many a gala and fundraiser and, sometimes, on occasion held a fundraiser - or an auction - of his own.

And that leads Tony to his current assignment, dressed to the nines and brushing shoulders with the obscenely wealthy, pretending like he knows a damn thing about art. 

McGarret had decided to generously place a portion of his infamous art collection up for auction and donate the earnings to charity - for the veterans, he had proclaimed, an endearing cause no one could fault him for - even if the charity receiving the funds was for-profit and only repurposed fifteen percent of their donations to actual veterans and its founder was vitriolically transphobic.

It only makes the reconnaissance that much more satisfying.

One of those sparkly big names that McGarret had been associated with was one Justin Hammer, a weapons developer. Whilst the two have little outward affiliation outside the sphere of the billionaire-boys-club, government intelligence suggested that their association may be something more than meets the eye.

Which led to Tony’s mission, scouring McGarrets’ Manhattan abode and gathering evidence that would confirm him as an accomplice to Hammer - the latter of whom was suspected to be selling arms to small island nations and aiming them squarely at American soil. 

Innocuous on the surface, they already knew McGarret paid for someone to disguise the transactions between the island nations and oil rich company executives, the media mogul looking to make a quick buck out of warfare and the ad space of the top rating morning program breaking news of an attack on American allies. Shockingly that top rating morning news program ran on McGarrets cable network and more of a ‘surprise’ was that McGarret owned stock in those oil companies and in Hammer Industries. 

The auction is a perfect setup for a distraction. McGarret, the mark, will be entertaining his guests, the crowd will have another focus and security will be concentrating on protecting the artworks. 

And Tony will be helping himself to some Saturday night intelligence gathering and infiltration. Perfect.

When he starts hearing the raucous bids from the ballroom it’s time for Tony to start moving.

He nods at various dignitaries, toasts to inebriated politicians as he wanders from hall to hall, politely acknowledging the lingering bedroom-eyes men and women cast upon him as he passes, Glock 26 rubbing against his lower back as his hips sway into the heart of the building. 

EDITH guides him to the third storey to a plain-looking room down the hall where McGarrets office is located and fewer people are found. The office doors are lined with the kevlar and shotguns of three men, each eyeing Tony with suspicion when he approaches with a teeth-baring grin. 

Holding his hands up in mock surrender Tony winks, incapacitating the armed guards with a flash of his palm-central gauntlets, tutting to himself as they slump to the ground in an ungraceful heap. 

Whilst he missed the old days of a good pistol-whip or an elbow to the face, there was a particular poetry to the flash and efficiency of the new tech. A certain je ne sais quoi in watching grown men crumple like a house of cards with the twitch of Tony’s fingers.

The EDITH glasses are the only development that Potts has allowed him to bring on field - which is honestly a travesty, however experimental and unregulated his tech is they’re missing out - it’s why they hired him after all.

With a grateful pat to the unmoving hip of one of the guards Tony delicately plucks the access pass from their belt and has EDITH check their vitals. 

The little red light turns green when Tony presses the pass against the reader, lock unlatching with a quiet, electronic whir.

The room is dark when Tony enters, lit dimly in a sickly yellow glow by two standing floor lamps. The blinds are drawn, slivers of pale moonlight streaking across the desk as Tony approaches it.

There’s a photo frame on the desk of McGarrett and a busty blonde with her arms around him, fingerprints all over the glass. When Tony picks it up for better inspection his fingers come away suspiciously sticky. 

Gross.

Wiping his hands on his suit Tony fishes out the USB from his pocket and leans over to place it in the processing unit of the desktop computer. The monitor awakens in a bright technicolour glow as the tech works it’s magic, hacking itself into the system and retrieving the data, storing it not only on the USB itself but transmitting it back to base wirelessly.

All Tony has to do now is wait for the download to complete, mourning to himself how frightfully boring it is when missions go this easy. 

It’s hard being efficient sometimes, he muses, wondering where McGarrett stores his scotch and if he’d notice if Tony helped himself to some.

“EDITH, how long since the download commenced?”

“Three minutes, twelve seconds, sir.”

Tony groans, already bored. Maybe he can join the afterparty and get inappropriate with one of the Victoria’s Secret models on the guest list. 

He sighs, turning to face the window - only to be surprised when someone behind him punches him in the face.

“Wha?” he manages, slumping against the desk momentarily as his vision spins, head pounding. He doesn’t have time for any reprieve however as his assailant lunges forward to attack him again - Tony barely manages to duck, aiming an elbow at the tall figure and making contact with their face.

It’s hard to be sure in the dark but the figure appears slight, but masculine and he recovers fast, charging forward to grip the lapels of Tony’s jacket in his hands. He pulls Tony forward and moves a leg upwards to knee Tony hard in the stomach.

The pain steals his breath but only riles Tony up, shooting his fist out to swiftly sock the other man in the throat, slamming his head down against the other guys skull. 

It’s enough to release his grip and Tony uses his bulk to crowd the other man against the windows, head throbbing. One hand shoots out to wrap around his attackers throat, the other reaching for his glock and pressing against the mans temple.

Even with a gun pointed at him, the man struggles against his grip, kicking his legs out ineffectually in an attempt to gain the upper hand. 

The movements shift the blinds open for enough street light to bleed in, illuminating the attackers face, young features twisted in a snarl.

“You,” Tony muses, blinking in surprise.

It’s the man from before - Peter Parker.

Except, all his previous air of innocence has all but dissipated, brown eyes cold and calculating. 

It’s a mistake to look.

Peter uses Tony’s startled pause to knock the gun away and out of Tony’s hands with surprising strength, slipping free from the chokehold with a kick to Tony’s ribs.

Goddamn that fucker is quick, Tony thinks as he stumbles back, clutching his side.

“When I said we should catch up later this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Tony snarks, dodging another fist to the face.

With a twist of his body he sweeps his legs out at Peter’s shins, the smaller man falling to the ground in a kneel.

“What, a little late night espionage not romantic enough for you?” Peter retorts, whipping a pistol out from his jacket and aiming it at Tony’s chest. 

Tony acts quickly, legs moving on instinct as a well placed kick flings the weapon away.

There’s a split second where Tony gets distracted because outraged pout on the man's face is adorable - it’s however shortlived, when Peter rushes at him, clocking him upside the jaw as they tumble to the ground in a heap, their weapons discarded somewhere to the side. The two wrestle for dominance, rolling over the floorboards, elbows flying as they try to one up one another.

 Tony gets another fist to his face and immediately tastes copper in his mouth. 

“On the contrary,” Tony groans, using his weight to roll over the younger man, straddling his slim waist to hold him down. “Sounds like a perfect date.”

“I don’t date thugs.”

“Well that’s just a shame, here I thought we had something,” Tony tuts patiently, pressing his thumbs against Peter’s windpipe, the younger man gasping for air as he bucks his hips upwards to try dislodge Tony. 

“So, who do you work for, Peter Parker? Hmm, you one of Hammers’ goons?”

Peter’s face goes pink, eyes bulging as his airway is cut off. He scrabbles at Tony’s wrists and tries to take another swing at him only for Tony to press down further. 

“What makes you think I work for anybody,” Peter snarks back, bucking his hips as Tony presses him further into the ground.

And, oh. That should not feel as good as it does, Tony thinks as Peter writhes underneath him. The younger mans’ back arches pleasingly as he tries to gain leverage, biting his bottom lip as he chokes.

“For one,” Tony comments, moving his hand from Peter’s throat to grip his wrists, “these little bracelets you have here are definitely off-market and two,” he tilts his head towards the open air-vent in the ceiling, “you definitely weren’t invited in here.”

Tony abruptly finds his back to the floor when, in lieu of answering and in a truly impressive feat of flexibility, Peter brings his legs up from behind Tony to wrap them around his chest.

Using the new leverage, Peter reverses their positions, using the strength of his thighs to slam Tony’s torso to the ground, his arms in a bind against his chest. On top, Peter straddles Tony’s hips, seating himself right over Tony’s groin.

Dazed, Tony tries to not be attracted to the way Peter looks when he retrieves a small dagger from his suit and holds it to his neck, the sharp tip grazing his vulnerable skin. Tony’s hips roll anyway. 

“Are you getting hard from this?” Peter hisses incredulously, holding the dagger lengthways along Tony’s throat column.

The metal is warm from Peters body when Tony swallows roughly, throat bobbing against the dagger. Goddamn he’s here to do a job.

“I refuse to take the blame for that. I mean, it’s not everyday that I get my ass kicked by someone so pretty and snarly,” Tony admits, looking skyward for some kind of means of escape. “Even if they’re a petty criminal.”

“Petty -- “, Peter cuts himself off with a growl - and god that’s hot too - reaching back into his jacket pocket to fish out a leather-bound badge, shoving it against Tony’s glasses. 

“FBI, asshole.” 

Of course he’s a fed.

Tony laughs, muscles going lax despite the weapon aimed at his throat. 

“You’ll have to do better than that, sweetheart,” Tony drawls, ease trickling down his spine as EDITH verifies the badge.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Who are you --”

“CIA Special Agent Tony Stark,” Tony talks over him, “Also referred to as TS007 - and that’s my dick you’re grinding on.”

Peter looks down at his own slow rolling hips in surprise, still pointing the dagger at Tony as he rises up on his knees to put some distance between them.

“Show me your badge so I know you’re not full of shit,” Peter demands, lips turned downward in a disbelieving frown. Tony smirks as he complies, retrieving his battered badge from his pocket and waving it aloofly in Peters’ face. 

It seems to do the trick. Peter stands to let him up, still looking at him dubiously. 

Tony grunts as he stands, back aching and head pounding, all his new wounds becoming known as the adrenaline subsides. He tries for a cocky grin but a sharp pain makes him wince at the action. He licks over a welt on his lip where it swells on one side.

He thanks Peter quietly when he retrieves both of their guns from the floor, passing Tony’s over.

“What are the suits doing here?” Tony prods, lifting his thumb to his lip to stem the blood. When it comes away wet he sticks it into his mouth, lapping at the metallic taste. 

“That’s, uh -” Peter stutters, eyes on the digit in Tony’s mouth, “ - that’s classified. What are the CIA --”

“Also classified,” Tony smirks. It’s true, but it’s also fun to watch the muscle in Peter’s jaw clench in petulant frustration. The younger man turns towards him and taps his smartwatch again, fingers flying over the interface as he types in a code at breakneck speed. 

“What division are you in?” Tony queries, siding up next to the younger man, looking surreptitiously at the USB that still appears to be downloading.

“That’s classified,” Peter mumbles, adjusting what appears to be a well-hidden earpiece with his other hand, body slumping as the fight goes out of him.

“You’re a bit young to be a field agent, aren't you?” Tony presses, EDITH catching a swarm of heat signatures outside of the room down the hall. 

Peter scoffs. “I have a particularly special skill set - and before you ask, that too is classified. ”

His irateness only makes Tony grin, reaching over the desk to switch on the desk lamp so he can see the guy better. Peters curls are in disarray, his cheek is already beginning to bruise and Tony can see where his own handprints have burst the capillaries on Peter’s pale throat. God, he’s a fucking vision.

“A man of mystery, huh? So secretive, I mean not that that’s a negative trait whatsoever, I can certainly get behind that.“

“Do you always flirt on the job?” Peter queries with a frown, but nonetheless spreads his legs slightly when Tony moves to shift between them.

“Only when I have a beauty like you in front of me, darling. You’re a real distraction, anyone ever tell you that?”

“And you’re a shameless old man,” Peter counters. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“I already told you my policy on mixing business and pleasure,” Tony nods shamelessly, slides his hands up Peter’s thighs. “What can I say? I’m multi-talented.”

“You’re arrogant.”

“You like it.”

“I have a job to finish,” Peter parries, even as an unwilling grin stretches over his face.

The mood is broken when the heat signatures draw closer and sudden yelling is heard outside as the bodies Tony left at the door are discovered. 

Peter peers at the door confusedly, crouching slightly to plant what looks like a listening device on the underside of the desk. There’s a commotion of footsteps and raised voices, someone is yelling to hand them over an access pass.

They’re going to have to act quick.

“We’ve got guests,” Tony turns to Peter, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket and dragging him close. “We’re going to need a diversion.”

The look he receives is unbridled bewilderment as the younger man stumbles into Tony, and for the first time he can appreciate the clean smell of sweat and copper and aftershave from the younger man. 

“What are you --” is all Peter gets out before Tony reels him in and kisses him. 

Peter’s surprised hum is swallowed by Tony’s lips and he goes rigid for just a second before he snaps into action.

Strong hands grip Tony’s hips, driving him backwards against the desk. The sharp maple edge digs painfully into his lower back as Peter presses against him, slipping his tongue into Tony’s mouth as he boxes him in. The press of Peter’s body against his feels fucking incredible when he moves, all ridged muscle as he presses them chest-to-chest, biting on Tony’s lower lip as he takes control of the kiss.

“Fuck, kid,” Tony breathes, snaking a hand down to cup Peters ass through his slacks, bringing their bodies closer together until Tony can feel that Peter too is just as hard as him. Tony gets lost in the small groan Peter breathes into his mouth, the kiss growing steadily sloppier as the voices grow louder.

The door flies open and the click of multiple guns loading breaks their lip-lock.

“Oh no, how embarrassing.” Tony gasps, pretending to act shocked as the room fills with armed men. “We’re so sorry - as you can tell we needed a room.”

“Put your hands up!” One man yells, readjusting his grip on his gun.

“Great diversion,” Peter mumbles against Tony’s lips, eyes flicking to his periphery as he slowly inches away. 

“It was worth a shot,” Tony smiles crookedly, assessing the situation. A number of armed men surround them, firearms aimed squarely at the duo. Going by their uniform they look like untrained goons, security for hire rather than any law enforcement. Perfect. Tony hates paperwork.

“You’ve got four at your six o’clock,” Peter mutters, shuffling discretely retrieve his pistol from his pocket, resting it against Tony’s thigh.

“You’ve got six,” Tony comments quietly, sliding his hand to grip his own glock in his pocket. “Not to gloat, but I think I can take out more than you, shortstack.”

“I said put your goddamn hands up!” The same man yells.

Peter looks delighted by the challenge. The two quickly shuffle so they’re back to back, facing the circle of pointed firearms. 

“Loser pays for dinner?” Peter asks.

Tony smirks, raising his gun and gauntlet at the same time Peter raises his. 

“Deal.”

[butterflieshq]

* ( TOM HOLLAND, 21 , CISMALE, HE/HIM ) welcome back to the redwoods ( DENNIS TAYLOR-WYATT ) i hope this time goes better for them than last. their friends like to call them the ( THE TRY HARD ) but they don’t believe that they behave quite that way. they are know for being ( LOYAL ) and ( INTELLIGENT ) but I doubt that people will over look the fact that the ( TWENTY ONE YEAR OLD ) is also quite ( ANXIOUS ) and ( SUPERSTITIOUS ).  i hope they can survive until the morning light *

TW FOR DRUG USE ( COCAINE ) BELOW THE CUT. 

BIOGRAPHY: 

Dennis - or Denny, as he’s affectionately known - isn’t someone you’d expect to be involved in an on-going police investigation. Known for being rather reserved, studious, and - for lack of a better term - a “goody-goody” he’s someone who’d prefer to stay in watching movies instead of partying it up in a cabin in the Redwoods. But, he’s also fiercely loyal to his friends. So when they decided on the plan for that fateful weekend, he couldn’t say no. He’s the youngest of 4 boys and, though he knows they love him, feels a bit like a burden on his overworked parents. They both have great careers and have pushed their sons to do the same, much to Denny’s dismay. His oldest brother is finishing up his last year of med school, the second just landed an associate position at a big law firm, & the third brother is climbing the corporate finance ladder. Meanwhile, Denny is getting ready to graduate with a degree in a field he isn’t truly passionate about, but that will impress his parents.

Throughout his studies, Denny has given 110% in everything he does because “that’s what Wyatt boys do, son,” an adage his father was always quick to bring into any conversation. He spent his free time devoting his attention to projects that would make him look good instead of what he really was interested in, but he’d rather have his parents’ approval than risk their disappointment. This caused Denny to develop a high level of stress, which he’s never really learned to deal with.

He’s not known for being rebellious; the craziest thing he’d ever done (before Nathlia’s disappearance, of course) was that he let one of the kids in his class cheat off his exam. Obviously this wasn’t his proudest moment, and his parents weren’t too happy with what he’d done. They made it seem like Denny force-fed the other kid the answers after stealing them from the teachers desk. That’s when he experienced his first panic attack, and vowed never to do something that “extreme” again.

However, when he got to college, to deal with the stress, a full schedule, & the overwhelming pressure to be the best, Denny experimented with drugs that would help him focus. It started off with taking his friend’s Adderall pills, but soon escalated into something more extreme: cocaine. An acquaintance in one of his classes was known around campus for providing undergrads what he called “performance boosters” & soon, Denny was hooked. But, he was able to keep control on how often he indulged & avoid it from becoming a habit he’d never be able to break. Denny completely kicked the habit before the start of the semester, but has been tempted to pick it up again with the stresses of senior year.

He justified going to the cabin by needing to let off some stress. He’d be able to spend time with his friends, get drunk, and just take some time for himself; a very rare thing for him. He lied to his parents by masking the trip as a “study retreat” in order to ease their worries & prevent them from saying he couldn’t go. Excited to (finally) be free for a weekend, Denny was prepared for a memorable time, and it was, but for all the wrong reasons. The years following that fateful weekend did a number on Denny’s mental health. He couldn’t sleep, he developed an anxiety disorder, and his stress levels were severely heightened. Obviously when his parents found out, they grounded him for what felt like an eternity, but was only for about a month. He still feels like they never really forgave him for lying to them & that they believe he could have actually hurt Nathlia. Whether he or not is a secret he’d never tell.

PENNED BY ZACK ! 

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

TLDR: Republicans believe themselves to be infallible and cannot be convinced otherwise

Republicans think America is perfect and always has been, while simultaneously believing that America is DOOMED and ON THE EDGE OF COLLAPSE at all times and want to bring us back to the Before Times™ when men were men and women were household appliances and minorities were someone else’s problem.  If you bring up a genuine critique of American culture or history they throw a pissbaby shit fit and start spewing nationalist platitudes, “America: Like It or Leave It!”  All their complaints stem from their perceived self-importance being eroded; they don’t like to realize that other people with differing opinions exist and should have their voices heard.  If a “brown” or a “black” or a “red” or a “yellow” is allowed to speak, that just means there’s one less space for a “white.”  All their complaints come from a slippery slope argument that if we don’t model our society after their specific cherrypicked interpretation of The Bible then we will degenerate into amoral savagery.

They say being gay is an abomination and allowing it will damn our children to hell; what they really think is that it’s gross and they don’t want to see things they think are gross.  There’s literally no good argument against marriage equality besides “I don’t personally like it.”  America is not a theocracy, so the belief system of Christianity should not be construed as the law of the land.  This stems from their belief that the Bible is infallible, “because the Bible says so.”  They don’t know and don’t want to know about the history behind it, nor the very contentious political landscapes at the times the books were written, nor the personal biases of the very human authors.  If the Bible is a literal textbook, then why?  What makes it so special?  By whose authority were its contents collated and designated THE Good Book?  If the Bible is literal, why not the works of Homer, or the Epic of Gilgamesh?  Just because the Bible says the Bible is right doesn’t make it so.  For the record, I am a Christian, and I think the Bible is just an old book.  I’m a Christian in that I follow the teachings of Christ, which can be summed up as “DON’T BE AN ASSHOLE.”  I live by that, and All the ChrINOs (Christians in Name Only) need to learn it.  Jesus would be ashamed of what he saw today.

They say that abortion is baby murder, on par with ritual human sacrifice and Satan worship. They don’t understand biology, they have a Sunday School understanding of philosophy, and live in a world so black and white that they can’t even imagine a reason someone would have an abortion besides that they’re a terrible person; a woman who would have an abortion is unfit to be a mother in their eyes because they see abortion as equivalent to smothering a baby with a pillow because you don’t want to take care of it anymore.  “He or she is alive, he or she has a heart beat!”  Well, at this point is is just a blob of tissue, not a living person; a heart beat alone does not make something alive or dead.  Your life comes from your brain, not your heart.  If someone is alive the moment their heart starts, then they must be dead the moment is stops, so CPR is necromancy.  A person isn’t considered dead until their brain is dead, so if they wanted to argue that life begins at brain activity they would have a stronger argument, though still weak because brain activity is not personhood either.  Patients in permanent vegetative states on life support may have some brain activity, but they are effectively dead.  There is no way a judge, appointed by senators elected by the people of the United States, can prove that not only do souls exist but that they are created the second a sperm fertilizes an egg.  If “souls” exist, they aren’t so much created as built up over time as we gain new experienced and our brains develop.  What we are is electricity in a ball of meat jelly in our skulls, and that comes to being at a point after which abortions are already banned.  Conservatives also just want to control women; Roe v. Wade isn’t explicitly about the right to an abortion, it is about the right to body autonomy.  Do women have the right to control their own bodies, or do they defer that right to their fathers and husbands?  Are women people or property?  Can a man make decisions on a woman’s behalf?  “You must forgive my daughter; as a simple minded woman she’s fallen into a stupor of female hysteria.  We’ll have the family doctor bring out the smelling salts and leaches.”

They say that certain vices are crimes against God, but only when some people do it.  Divorce is a sin because marriage is sacred, except when a conservative does it, then it’s totally justified because of such and such explanation.  Tattoos are the mark of the beast, worn by degenerates and lesbians, except when a conservative does it, then it’s just art and harmless self expression.  Marijuana is a gateway drug and we need to lock away its addicts and throw away the key, unless a conservative does it, then it’s just recreational, no big deal, we don’t want to ruin the [white] boy’s future because of it.  A black person who does cocaine is a criminal, a white person who does cocaine is a public figure (you’d be surprised how many actors and politicians regularly use coke; they have to have high energy 24/7 in case there are any cameras, so they need uppers to keep themselves presentable).  This all springs from the fundamental conservative philosophy of “it’s okay when WE do it, but not when YOU do it.”  That’s the long and short of it.  The in-group is allowed to do things, but the out-group isn’t.  It’s the Us vs Them mentality taken to the logical extreme; WE are people, THEY are monsters.  WE are allowed to have faults, THEY have to stay in line and follow all the rules.  OUR lives matter, THEIR lives are lesser.  When you strip away the showy bits and get down to the core of their beliefs, everything stems from their desire to hurt anyone who isn’t them.  They want power, they want to be special, they want the Good Guys™ to always prevail over the Bad Guys™, and they want to be the ones to decide who is good and who is bad.  Their opinions are the only ones that matter, everyone else is wrong because they’re not them.  Now, it’s not like you could solve every problem by opening up your mind to new opinions; there are some issues that are indeed black and white with objectively right and wrong answers, but they live in a world where they are incapable of being wrong.  They see personal growth as a betrayal of the self, that admitting a fault is terrible, that apologizing and learning from a mistake is traitorous.  No, they have to double down on every single one of their beliefs to re-instill it in their minds.  They can never doubt themselves, because God will punish them forever if they ever have doubt.  They can’t ask questions or look at things from other perspectives because that would be an admission that their perspectives are fallible.  They are afraid of changing their minds so much that they refuse to even listen when someone explains their opinions because they don’t want to have their minds co-opted by Satan’s LIES!  If they hear something convincing, it’s all over, their entire world collapses, everything they believe is a lie, they lose, they go to hell forever, The End.

That is the dichotomy under which Republicans live their lives.  Nothing matters but what they believe.  They don’t believe what they believe for logical reasons, so no amount of logic will ever make them not believe it.  They’re making up their own rules to win.  You’re playing Rock-Paper-Scissors and they throw Nuclear Bomb, which defeats all three, so you lose.  You say that’s not fair, they say tough.  You throw Nuclear Bomb, and they say they have a bomb proof shield, so the bomb doesn’t hurt them but kills you, so you lose.  You can’t even beat them at their own game because they’ve been playing it longer, and they cry foul when you stoop to their level, suddenly saying that you need to be the bigger person, walking right up to the line of admitting that what they do is wrong but not quite getting there, simply reverting to the complaint that you shouldn’t be allowed to do it.  “I can, but YOU can’t.”  That’s why it infuriates me when nobody ever calls out a Republican for their hypocrisy.  They do something, a Democrat does that exact same thing, they cry foul, but nobody ever says “well, you didn’t have a problem when you did it,” they just try to excuse their own actions rather than demand justification for theirs.  Democrats are always on the defensive, they always look like they’re losing even when they’re winning, so the Republicans can use that to build their base and rally together for the occasional victory (Democrats won 7 of the last 8 presidential elections; the last Republican to legitimately win the presidency was George H.W. Bush in 1988).

I don’t know how you’d even begin to fight someone who is this far down the rabbit hole of self denial.

Democrats self-reflect, Republicans self-deflect.

Democrats are progressive, Republicans are regressive.

Now I’m sure there are no Republicans reading this, but if there are they’ll make themselves known and “totally refute” everything I’ve said with some paper thin argument that doesn’t stand up to scrutiny, but they don’t care because it stands up to them.  They only need to show one example of a Democrat failing to write off the entire party; they only need to show one black Republicans to deny the existence of racism; one gay Republican denies homophobia; one women denies sexism.  They are the party of tokenism.

They will point out the mote of dust in your eye and ignore the plank in their own.

Debate me, I have nothing better to do with my time, I’m a dirty libtard cuckflake soyboy beta with a case full of participation trophies and handouts paid for by other people’s tax dollars (funny, they think handouts are for degenerates, except when they get them.  Inheritance?  Privilege?  Never heard of them!)

[nesari]

79’s

Off duty and ready to have fun Tup was giddy as he rode in the back of the taxi speeder with Dogma and a couple other shinies. Dogma however was not thrilled, sitting across from Tup arms crossed and scowling.

“I’m excited, I heard 79’s is a really flash place.” Tup said in high spirits.

“A bunch of rule-breakers and miscreants. I don’t think we’ll fine anything there but trouble.” Dogma told Tup rather grumpily.

“Aw, come on Dogma, you’re my best pal. Don’t be so pessimistic. Besides if you though it was just going to be trouble why’d you come?” Tup said back to him, trying to cheer up his buddy.

“That’s exactly why I did. I came to make sure you stay out of trouble. If one of the unit gets arrested chances are well all be punished.” Dogma said, arms still crossed as he leaned back in the seat.

“Don’t think like that, just relax and have a bit of fun tonight. No ones going to jail. Besides look, we are almost there.” Tup said and pointed out the bar ahead through the window.

“You had best hope you’re right.” Dogma droned.

But Tup just rolled his eyes endearingly as Dogma looked out the window, slightly done with his mate but he also knew that’s just how he was.

“Come on we’re here.” Tup said, scooting forward in the seat as the speeder came to a stop, and Tup popped open the door. “Come on Dogma!”

Begrudgingly Dogma followed Tup, getting out of the speeder and looking at the bar ahead of them, and Dogma’s lips snurled as he looked up at the place and to its grotty sign over head.

“You shinies can have the taxi fair, show war heroes a treat.” Tup said behind Dogma to the other two in the speeder that were going back to base, and turned back to Dogma still looking up at the building. “Come on mate. The shinies are taking care of the taxi.” Tup said and started to pull his brother along by the arm.

But Dogma snatched his arm away from to and gave him and evil look. “That wasn’t cool Tup. Those Shinies didn’t ask to come this way, they are going to have to pay for that detour.”

“It’ll be fine Dog, come on.” Tup said to reassure him, waving his to come with him before her turned back around to go in.

Rolling his eyes Dogma sighed angrily at Tup’s reasoning. “It’s Dogma.” He said after Tup, walking to catch up with him.

Walking into the club Tup looked around and smiled, looking at all the fun being had, and then to the ceiling and the multi colored lights. Dogma on the other hand furrowed his brows, rather concerned about the state of affairs in this place, how not one person was sober AT ALL, and it was very crowded, and one person was snorting cocaine in the corner.

Sin.

“Let’s get a drink.” Tup said, smiling over toward the bar, tapping Dogma on the shoulder to follow.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Dogma said still looking to the corner, but it was too late as Tup was already at the bar.

Turning around Dogma had to stomp over to the bar behind Tup, catching up as Tup ordered two drinks for them. “What do you think you’re doing?” Dogma pulled Tup around to look at him.

“I got us drinks.” Tup shrugged.

“I don’t think getting drunk in a place like this is a good move Tup.” Dogma told him.

Tup kinda laughed. “It’s one drink, we aren’t getting drunk. Just enough to have some fun.” He held his hand out to justify it to his mate.

Dogma sighed. “One drink Tup, then we should head back to base.”

“Yeah, whatever you say, pal.” Tup smiled and put his hand on Dogma’s shoulder, and then the bar tender sat their drinks down on the bar.

“Cheers.” Tup said and picked up his drink, and Dogma picked up his, going slightly cross-eyed at this “one” drink holding it up in front of his face seeing it was all of a foot tall glass.

Taking a sip Tup looked around the bar, but had to stop as he blinked rapidly and pursed his lips up, flexing his throat swallowing loud on the drink in his hand.

“Any good?” Dogma asked, slowly bringing his drink up.

“Yep.” Tup answered, and looked at Dogma as he took a sip and seemed to be totally ok with it. Nodding his head Tup pulled his lips in and started looking around the bar some more, glancing at the booths seeing who was there and if he knew anyone. And looking over he almost missed who he saw and did a double take seeing Nesari in a back booth with another clone at her side.

“Oh shot!” Tup said, turning back to the bar before she saw him, an fire of cold nerves going all over him.

“What? What is it, what’d you see?” Dogma looked around, snatching his drink down from his face really quick.

“Uh, uh I saw some one I know back there.” Tup said.

“Who? And where?” Dogma stepped up to him, laying an arm up on the bar beside Tup.

“Uh,” Tup sounded kinda nervous, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at the bar top. “You remember the girl that, that works with General Skywalker and General Kenobi?” Tup laughed nervously.

“Commander Tano?” Dogma asked, sounding rather surprised.

“Uh, no.” Tup said, and blew a breath out through his mouth. “I mean Nesari.”

“What? What the hell is she doing here?” Dogma said indignantly looking to the back to see if he could see her.

“I don’t know, Vod.” Then Tup smiled glancing over his shoulder back at her. “But I gotta go say hello.”

“Are you crazy trooper!?” Dogma turned quickly back to him. “You can’t just walk up to a, uh, an.. a military official!”

“You don’t understand, I have to go talk to her.” Tup told him, blowing out another nervous breath through his mouth, picking up his glass and taking a big drink.

“The only thing you have to do is—“ But Tup was already turned to leave, heading to the back straight for her booth. And Dogma had to yell quietly after him trying not to draw attention. “Tup! Tup!”

“Damn it!” Dogma gritted his teeth, pursing up his lips as he grabbed Tup’s drink and followed after him.

Reaching the back booth Tup smiled as he looked at Nesari, sitting back in the booth, leaned to the side with another brother beside her, hugging up to her. A big tough looking brother with sideburns and a dark tattoo covering his throat, but Tup couldn’t tell much about his rank or otherwise from what he was wearing.

“Uhm, hi,” Tup began, gaining her attention with a slight nervous tone to his voice. “You.. probably don’t remember me, but—“

“I remember you.” Nesari stoped him and said, looking out at him smiling slightly, and leaned forward.

“You.. you do?” Tup stuttered, looking kind of shocked, and that’s when Dogma walked up beside him cutting him an evil look as he caught up.

“Of course I do.” She smiled. “You’re from the 501st, you’re Tup.”

“Uh, yeah.” He laughed relieved of some of his nerves. “Yeah I am. How’d you remember me?”

Laughing a bit Nesari just looked up at him. “We’ve talked to each other before, Tup. Even though it wasn’t for very long. Besides I’ve known Captain Rex and the 501st this whole war.”

“Really? Wow, that’s pretty cool.” Tup kinda smiled, his stomach twisting in little knots. And Dogma just stood there, cutting little looks over to his brother while still holding the drinks.

“Yeah.” Nesari smiled, then turned her gaze to look at Dogma. “But I don’t remember having met your brother.”

Jerking to attention, Dogma straightened and faced forward. “Sir, you didn’t, sir.”

“At ease trooper.” Nesari almost laughed. “No need for all that with me, I don’t have any military authority.”

Relaxing down Dogma looked a little confused at what she said.

“Oh this is Dogma.” Tup told her and pointed a thumb at his brother. “But I thought you were a Jedi?”

“Ohhh, so you’re Dogma, Rex mentioned you before. And no, just a Learner.” She stated and looked both them over. “How about you boys have a seat? We can talk since we know each other.”

“That’d be great!” Tup said and was almost starting to sit down.

“Uh, actually if you could excuse us for just a moment, sir.” Dogma almost slammed the glasses down on the table and got his brother by the arm. “Come on.” He tight lipped Tup very quiet where she couldn’t hear them.

Pushing Tup along Dogma forced his friend away from the booth a bit to the wall separating it from the next one and got in his brothers face to talk quietly to him. “What do you think you are doing?” Dogma chided.

“What are you talking about Dogma? We are having a drink, Nesari invited us to sit down.” Tup defended himself, not understanding the reaction Dogma was having.

“Don’t play that game with me. You knew she was going to be here didn’t you?” Dogma questioned.

“I didn’t know, I swear.” Tup told him. “I wanted to come here because it’s a fun place. I just happened to see her sitting back here and wanted to say hello.”

Sighing and gritting his jaw, Dogma looked Tup dead in the eyes, and he didn’t see his brother lying to him. But still he didn’t want get into all this, how much trouble they could get in if they got caught fraternizing member of the republic military. “Alright, I believe you. But you know as well as I she is nothing but a bad time walking. And I don’t want us getting caught up in something of hers.”

“She’s not Dogma, I’ve talked to her before, I’m telling you, she’s really nice.” Tup smiled trying to reassure him. “She won’t get us in trouble. Now come on, let’s not be rude. We should set with her, have a drink. What could happen with that?”

Taking a deep breath, Dogma let go of Tup. “Alright. One drink, then we go. Rude or not.” He reluctantly agreed.

“Alright. One then we can go.” Tup agreed, secretly giddy on the inside that he got Dogma on the same page with him. And with that and one more dirty look from Dogma they turned back to the booth, going and sitting down like normal clones. Tup smiling his head off while Dogma just looked done already.

“Well, I think I’ll go. I have to get back to base.” The clone that was sitting by Nesari said, taking his arm from around her. “It was nice seeing you again tonight Nesari. Hopefully I’ll see you here again.” He smiled at her and then scooting to the edge of the booth.

“You too, I was fun talking to you.” She smiled back, and he stood from the booth, tipping his hat to her. “Bye.” She waved her fingers, and with a smirk he left.

“So, uh, what brings you here?” Tup spoke up, breaking the awkward pause he was having as he watched the other clone with Nesari, feeling rather curious to what was going on.

And Nesari turned back to them. “Oh nothing really. I like to come down here when I’m bored ready to get away for a while.” She shrugged. “Never know when you might run into some one you know.” She said and gesture with her hand to them as examples.

“Yeah really seems like it.” Tup said, still kinda unsure what to say to her.

“So what about you two?” She then asked.

“Uh, we just, just heard about it and decided to come down and get some drinks.” Tup shrugged off, not wanting to seem like he’d never been anywhere before.

“One.” Dogma interjected, glancing to Tup. “One drink.”

And at that Nesari felt as if you could cut the tension with a knife.

“Yeah one drink I meant.” Tup then kinda awkwardly said, reaching over and getting his glass from in front of Dogma.

“Well cheers then.” Nesari held up her little glass of blue drink, and Tup raised his too, having to nudge Dogma to pick his up as Nesari was already sipping hers, looking over the glass at them. And reluctantly Dogma picked his up and took a small sip while Tup took a rather big chug, looking like he’d swallow gasoline as he flexed his jaw as he took the glass down.

“What’s wrong don’t you like it?” Nesari asked Tup, seeing his reaction.

“Oh, no it’s just ah.” Tup said and tried to deny that he didn’t like what he had, not wanting to look a wimp in front of Nesari.

“If you don’t like it don’t drink it. I’ll order you one of what I have.” She offered.

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that.” Tup started as Dogma looked at the side of his head.

“No it’s fine, I’ll pay for it, I don’t mind.” She told him and waved down the waiter, ordering a round of what she had for the three of them. “What about you Dogma?”

“No mines fine.” He said, holding his glass with both hands.

“Are you sure?” She asked him once more, having noticed the tiny sip he took earlier.

“Yes.”

“Uh, he just doesn’t really like to drink.” Tup jumped in, saving a bit of embarrassment from his brother being rude.

“Ah, I understand that. What’d you guys get anyway?” She said, totally ok with his answer.

“Uh, vodka and club.” Tup answered.

“Oh yeah those aren’t very good. But you won’t get drunk on them though, so that’s why they’re popular.” She said, bold face lying through her teeth to both of them.

“Here.” She said, taking the straw she wasn’t using from her own drink and reached over and put it in Dogma’s glass. “I’ll tell you a trick, if you don’t like to drink, drink with a straw and it will keep you from drinking as much.” She lied again.

“Oh,” Dogma looked down at his glass, fingering the straw over to him. “Thanks for the tip.” He said, genuinely believing her and taking a sip.

“You’re welcome.” She smiled, hiding it mostly behind her glass.

And about then the waiter swung by with the new round of drinks, sitting them all down in the middle of the table.

“Thanks.” She said to the waiter as he left, and Tup reached and picked up one of the smaller glasses looking in it for a half second before trying a cautious sip.

Raising his brows Tup smacked his mouth, surprised eyes looking down at the glass. “Wow. That is good. What is it?” He asked her.

“It’s a Maluron Musk.” She told him. “The maluron juice hides everything else.”

“You aught to try it Dogma, it’s good.” Tup said, but he shook his head.

“I don’t think I will.” Dogma told him, not really interested is something that smelled so fruity.

“Well here.” Nesari picked up Tup’s old glass and sat it in front of Dogma. “You can stick with the vodka and club. You can drink Tup’s so it doesn’t go to waste.”

“I really should just stick to my own.” Dogma told her, holding a hand up to ad emphasis to what he was saying.

“Oh you don’t have to worry about it with those, there’s not that much alcohol in them.” Once again she lied, and Dogma looked a bit more convinced. And she took another tiny sip on her fruity drink. And then Tup took a drink, more than a sip, and after him Dogma took two deep sucks from his straw. Each following in turn.

“So what do you boys think about the atmosphere?” She asked, keeping it going.

“I like it.” Tup said, glancing around and Dogma nodded. And she put her glass back up to her mouth, looking over her rim at both them this time only touching her lips to it without drinking any, and watched as they fell in turn and drank once more following her lead.

“So are you boys staying light for a reason tonight?” Nesari asked, fishing with small talk.

“No.”

“Yes.”

The answers came back at the same time, and she just raised her brows slightly.

“Well no.” Tup continued. “Not for any reason, we don’t have to be back at base at any certain time.”

“Yes, but we should be.” Dogma interjected, looking over to Tup.

“Well what he means is he doesn’t like staying out too late.” Tup said over him. “He’s just that way.”

“I see. I don’t have to be anywhere either. So.. here we are.” She smiled and put an elbow on the table, resting her chin in it, watching as Tup looked a bit nervous smiling and not making eye contact with her while Dogma looked mildly irritated, the focus of his eyes staying higher than his normal sight-line.

And once more she picked up her glass to her lips, watching as they drank in turn, following her lead.

But as she watched them suddenly the lights fell some and the music dropped into trap, getting a lot louder than it had been as the lights switched from multi colored accent lights to all the lights being multi colored. And all the drinks on the table and all the accent colors of everything including their armor began to glow in the undertone of black light.

Looking up and around Tup and Dogma both looked equally confused as to what just happened, and Nesari just smiled.

“Looks like you guys got here just in time to see the start of the night mode.” She told them, raising her voice higher so she could be heard over the music. “When the fun starts.”

“The fun?” Dogma asked, raising a brow and looking a bit off-put.

“Yeah, now is when the music gets good. And the dancing starts.” She smirked a bit, glancing to Tup.

“Sounds fun!” Tup said over the music, leaning his chest and arms up on the table. “I like dancing. Dogma’s not so into it though.”

“Maybe he’ll be into it a little later.” She paused. “But anyhow we have all night, let’s just enjoy our drinks for now.” And at that she lifted her glass once more, faking them out and whispered under her breath “drink up boys” as they followed her lead.

[smileyjaeminies]

Protect Them All.

Synopsis: Mark watches over his friends in a crime ridden New York City. What happens when his most guarded secret is found out?

Word Count: 2,7 k

Genre: Spiderman au!

Warnings: Fighting, violence

Member: Mark, ft all the Dreamies

A/N: Hey guys! I’m back after what felt like an eternity. I hope this work makes up for it though. It is so precious to me that I managed to put together two of my favorite things, Dream and Spiderman. I hope you guys can enjoy this work as much as I do.

Part one, part two

       Mark was sitting on a rooftop at sundown. He stopped momentarily to admire the scenery before him, a view that never failed to overwhelm him. As the last rays of sunlight cast their light upon New York City, only for the cover of darkness to take their place, it felt as if a hand twisted at Mark’s heart.

     After being bitten by a radioactive spider his life had completely turned upside down. Harnessing his powers and realizing just what his late uncle had meant with the words “With great power comes great responsibility”, Mark had to balance two worlds: Mark Lee, the high school senior, and Spiderman, fighting off crime from the streets of New York.

     His main concern of course was his Aunt, May who should never find out about it all. Then it was his six best friends, all so different but all so dear to him. Four of them were juniors, Donghyuck, Jeno, Renjun and Jaemin. One a sophomore, Chenle and then, their youngest, only a freshman, Jisung.

     Mark had managed to memorize all of their schedules and did his absolute best to trail them while they returned home at night. First to leave for home was Donghyuck, returning from his singing classes. Once Donghyuck gets home, he has just enough time to make it to Renjun, returning from his art class.

     He usually catches Chenle and Jeno halfway through their way home from their basketball practice. Thankfully, that is really close by to Jaemin and Jisung’s dance practice. That leaves Aunt May, returning from work only a few blocks away from their apartment.

     He has been watching over his loved ones for months now with no incidents. He has stepped in in small fights, he has helped a woman to go home safely. He fights whenever he deems it necessary, he avoids being seen or making a scene. He helps with what he has and he tries his best.

     He works on his schoolwork when he can, but that is not always easy. His grades are decent, but nothing like Renjun’s. Still, he does his best for his Aunt.

     Darkness engulfs him while he is lost in his thoughts.

     “Well, time to go to work!” he thinks to himself and gets up.

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

      Mark is sitting in Calculus, looking down at a test full of equations he is supposed to know how to solve. He can’t help but stare at it with a blank look on his face. He had no time to go over the material the previous evening and he is so lost. He considers asking the teacher for help but he couldn’t even start asking questions.

     He takes a deep breath. “You can do this” he murmurs to himself. “You’re Spiderman” his subconscious adds.

     He picks up his pencil, trying to do the best he can. Before he can finish the entire thing, the bell rings.

     “Okay everyone!” the teacher exclaims loudly, “Turn in your tests on your way out, please”

     Mark looks down at his answers and can’t help but feel disappointed in himself. He makes a mental note to try harder in this particular lesson so he can make up, maybe he could ask that really smart girl in his class for help.

     He gets up and turns in his work feeling almost defeated. He walks out of the door and nearly loses his balance as a huge weight jumps on him.

     “I see you took your sweet time in there” Donghyuck proclaims, energetic as always.

     “How was it Mark? Better or worse than you thought?” Jisung asks.

     “Worse. Definitely worse. That was a bloodbath” Mark says as they make their way to the courtyard.

     “Hey, it can’t be that bad! I’m sure you’ll make up for it.” Jeno says.

     “I agree. Besides, it can’t be easy, with your internship and all. I mean, balancing everything must be super rough.” Renjun says.

     Right. The internship. The biggest lie Mark has ever said. He hated it, he hated it with a burning passion, lying to the people that mattered the most to him. But he had to lie. To protect them.

     After all, it’s not like he could walk in one day and simply say “Hey guys, guess what, I’m Spiderman!” No, it didn’t work that way. He couldn’t just put the weight of this huge secret on their shoulders.

     So he kept quiet. He had to.

     After the talk of his test ended, other topics took its place like the upcoming basketball game for Chenle and Jeno, Renjun’s current work in progress and Jaemin’s upcoming Bio exam.

     The conversation flowed easily between the friend group, as it always had. When a heated argument broke out between Donghyuck and Chenle about what game console was better, Jaemin leaned in to talk to Mark.

     “What’s on your mind?” Jaemin whispered. “And don’t tell me it’s about the test because I know you better than that. Something has been bothering you, I can see it”

     Mark tried to fight the urge to tell him everything. He gulped the true explanation down and answered just as quietly.

     “It’s just been everything I guess. Like Renjun said, it isn’t easy to balance everything. I think it’s just that some days it gets harder than others.” It was half the truth, but it would have to do.

     “I get it, I really do. But, Mark, maybe you should give up the internship. Maybe it’s just not your thing, maybe it’s not the right time. I’m not sure it’s doing you any good.” He replies.

     Mark had to smile. Of course Jaemin would be worried. That’s just… Jaemin. He tried his best to reassure him.

     “Thank you Jaems, I’ll keep that in mind” he smiled at his friend.

     “Mark! Back me up here! The Switch is so superior!” Donghyuck turned at him.

     “Oh no, do not drag me into this. Besides, you know I suck at any video game we play, how am I supposed to have an opinion?” He asked and the group laughed at him.

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

      Mark was getting worried. Donghyuck seemed to move very quickly, which made it even more difficult to trail him without being obvious. He lurked in the shadows or the rooftops of the buildings and followed his best friend on the way home.

     Then, as it was bound to happen one day, trouble found Donghyuck. He was trying to take a shortcut home, so he turned in an alley which was… occupied.

     Two men, clad in black were discussing in low voices, heads close together. It was a heated discussion filled with tension. Donghyuck was frozen in the entrance of the alley. He had to act quickly, but what would he do? Walk by them as if nothing is happening? Turn around on his heels and pretend he saw nothing?

     Mark chose that moment of hesitation from Donghyuck to jump down in front of the two men. They were clearly dealing something, probably drugs, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Donghyuck was okay.

     “Gentlemen, good evening” he said, his voice muffled by the mask and also slightly changed so Donhyuck wouldn’t recognize him.

     He saw both the men’s hands twitch towards their back.

     “Shit. They have guns” Mark thought. He wasn’t equipped for this.

     He gave them no time to react, swiftly throwing some web in the face of the man closest to him, he then grabbed him by his shoulders and throwed him in the direction of the other man. The men, losing their balance fell down. He gave punches wherever he could land them, in the man’s face, his jaw, his stomach.

     He throw some web in the second man’s hands, then his feet to keep him still. The first man then started to get up, taking the web off of his face. Mark crouched down, kicking his feet from under him and punching him once more, square on the jaw this time.

     “Donghyuck!” he hollered, “You need to go!”

     Donghyuck was still standing in the entrance of the alley, watching the scene unfold. His eyes darted from the two unconscious men to Mark. He collected himself and darted through the alley.

     “His house is only two blocks away. He is going to be okay” Mark told himself.

     He needed to sort this out before leaving.

     He pushed the two men towards the wall of the alley, casting his web to keep them there. He threw some extra web in their mouths to keep them from shouting.

     Mark searched their pockets to find what they were dealing. It was cocaine. He felt disgusted that people would use this, that they would ruin their lives for just a couple grams. He felt even more disgusted at the people selling it.

     He lifted his mask enough for his mouth to be out of it, and called the police from his burner phone. The coat of web on them would hold until the police came. It was time to check on Donghyuck.

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

     He quickly arrived at Donghyuck’s apartment. He ran up the stairs and banged on the door. His mother answered the door.

     “Hi Mark!” she greeted him happily.

     “Hello Mrs. Lee. Is Hyuck home?” he asked.

     “Oh no dear, he was just here, dropped off some things and headed right back out. You know Donghyuck, I could never know what he’s up to” She answered him with a light laugh.

     Mark started to panic. Where did he go? He tried not to show his feelings.

     “Thank you Mrs. Lee, now I remember where he is! He said he’ll go see Jeno and Chenle’s practice! I will tell him to come straight home when I find him!” he told her. She said something in return but Mark was already rushing down the stairs.

     Mark just had the thought to check his phone. He always had it on silent, something the others always whined about and he tried to justify with his “intership”. Just as he opened his phone he saw a message from Donghyuck.

     Hyuckie

I’m at The Corner. Come as soon as you get this.

     Mark noticed the message was sent to him and not to their groupchat which helped him breathe better again.

     The Corner as they called it was an old, almost abandoned building. It was pretty run down, so it didn’t feel like trespassing when they were there. Mark was pretty sure someone owned it though, someone had to. It was really close to all of the guys homes, so they made it their own hiding spot a little while after the group was formed. Jisung and Chenle absolutely loved it, they were the ones who found it. They had done their best to fix the interior but the lack of electricity made it harder.

     Mark made his way to The Corner and tried to gather his thoughts. When he arrived, he still hadn’t managed to stop his racing mind but he would do his best to keep his mouth shut.

     He walked in and saw Donghyuck immediately, on a broken down green couch Jaemin and Jeno had “saved” from the garbage truck. He had his head in his hands, his foot tapping against the wooden floor.

     Marks footsteps echoed and made the wood creak under him. That grabbed Donghyuck’s attention, making him whip his head up and turn to face his best friend.

     “Hey Hyuck.” Mark said slowly. “I got your message. What’s up?”

     Donghyuck sat there and looked at him for a minute before saying anything.

     “Fuck you. You “what’s up?” me? Me of all people? I mean if it was Jisung sure keep putting on your stupid act but me? I know you better than anyone Mark you can’t keep bullshitting me. Not after I just caught you red handed.” His voice was getting louder as he was getting angrier.

     Mark had to. He had to keep lying to him, as much as he hated it. He tried to keep a straight face as he answered.

     “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What happened?”

     “Like hell you do! You just caught two thugs selling I don’t even know what a few blocks from my house! And they had guns! Guns Mark! How are you equipped to take care of situations like this? You’re still in high school for fuck’s sake.”

     “Hyuck what the hell are you talking about? Who do you think I am?” he asked. Apparently, that was the wrong question.

     “FUCKING SPIDER-MAN THAT’S WHO. Don’t even try to deny it. Renjun and I have known for a while. Well, we suspected it. Renjun is the smartest in our group and I’m, well… Me. But I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to think that you would keep a secret like this from us, from me. I’m supposed to be your best friend God damn it.”

     Mark needed a minute to recollect himself after that. Renjun knew? And he didn’t mention it? That could mean that Jeno and Jaemin couldn’t be far from the truth either. He had to make a decision right then and there, to come clean or to keep his act together.

     That decision however, had already been taken for him.

     “Even if I were Spider-man, which I am not” Donghyuck shot him an angry glare at that. “Don’t you see why I wouldn’t tell you? You would be bait for any thug, any gang I opposed to. They could use you to get to me.”

     “You just called my name in front of those guys! Don’t you think they gathered that I was someone you cared about?”

     Mark was frozen. Did he really make such a rookie mistake? Was he that fucking stupid? Donghuck saw the distraught on Mark’s face and changed his stance immediately.

     “You didn’t know.” He said in a low voice.

     Mark shook his head. He had to sit down. He made his way to the couch and slouched down. His mind was racing again. A headache was soon approaching, he could feel it.

     “I’m sorry for pressuring you. I know it’s hard on you, watching over us all the time.” Donghyuck said, sitting down next to him.

     Mark looked at him. That was his best friend. He had saved his life tonight. He cursed at the universe for making him do this, he hated the lies, he hated everything but he had to continue. Always.

     “I need to go” he announced getting up and walking out.

     It had started to rain. Great. He had no umbrella, but at least the weather matched his feelings. He put his head down and started walking. He had to walk his Aunt home as well so he had to hurry.

     A hand at his shoulder stopped him. He spun around, seeing Donghyuck in front of him, also drenched in the rain.

     “What are you doing? You’re gonna catch pneumonia!” Mark shouted at the younger boy.

     Donghyuck just shook his head.

     “If you don’t want me to tell I won’t. I’ll make Renjun stop having doubts, I’ll help you find better excuses. I can help you Mark. Just please, you have to let me in. You can’t do this on your own.”

     Mark was at a loss for words. Donghyuck had always been there for him. Always. And now this. It was true, he couldn’t do it on his own. He hugged the younger boy, crashing him to his chest. The rain was still pouring over them, but none of them cared. Donghyuck sighed into the hug, hugging him back with just as much strength.

     It almost brought tears to Mark’s eyes. But they had to go.

     “Let’s get you home” he said, breaking the hug.

     “I have questions” Donghyuck answered with no hesitation.

     Mark sighed. Of course.

     “One question at a time, Hyuck. And only until I get you home.” He said.

     Donghyuck smiled and wasted no time.