#so the red for red flag is a half-coincidence + he DOES look good in it + it still says something about his character lol

[tiredassmage]

is it really official if i haven't done a text post dump? /lh

last one in particular w/thanks to @eorzeashan for reminding me i had it saved already with this comment xD <3

[downtonabbeyrevisited]

Season Two Episode Four

A 1918 timestamp ushers us into one of Downton’s more slow moving episodes where three parts painful banality has been mixed with one part life-or-death peril.

Providing more interesting political and cultural conflict than WW1 (at least at Downton) is Isobel’s ongoing grating at Cora’s very soul. Cora has had the temerity to ensure that the staff don’t collapse on their feet and has done something with the linen that I can’t quite fathom which, of course, Isobel takes as a slight upon her medical knowledge. Isobel makes the fatal error of calling Cora’s bluff threatening to ‘seek some other place’ if she is not appreciated at Downton. Major Clarkson also takes sides with Cora and Isobel now has no choice but to throw herself and her messiah complex upon the Red Cross in Northern France. I am sure they will be thrilled. 

With Isobel’s departure, Moseley and Mrs Bird find themselves at a loss having deep cleaned the house and moaned about their employer’s eating habits. Turns out that one thing they forgot to do was deploy any semblance of a security system as a random man with a drama school limp wanders into the house looking for food. In a manner that would make the current Conservative front bench recoil with horror, Mrs Bird starts up a soup kitchen out of her own (presumably rather small) pocket. In her latest attempt to not do her job, Mrs Patmore drags Daisy out for some fresh air and in the process uncovers this particular bit of well meaning but financially unsustainable charity. Mrs Patmore scales up the operation, creating a “special storage area” to squirrel away surplus from the army’s stock, which O’Brien conveniently overhears (but to be honest, it’s not that much of a coincidence. I imagine most of the kitchen heard it considering that Mrs Patmore practically yelled it). In an effort to try and inject a bit of actual drama into this episode, O’Brien reports this to Mrs Hughes but (un)fortunately, Mrs Hughes could not care less. But after watching the world’s most appalling secret handover of goods in the village, O’Brien rallies and this time is successful in bringing Cora to the nefariously compassionate Bird-Patmore coalition. To absolutely everyone’s surprise (viewers included) Cora orders food to be taken from the house stock rather than army and with all the over-confidence of a consultant sets about re-arranging tables and streamlining the workflow. 

Feeling much less charitable than Mrs Bird, Moseley heads to the Abbey and attempts to make himself indispensable and reach the dizzying heights of ‘Valet to the Earl of Grantham’. But not long after the peels of laughter that such a notion invites have died down, Bates returns and takes Mr Molesley’s shoehorn which one can’t help but think is emblematic of something. The return of Mr Bates is, naturally, a painfully protracted process that involves key protagonists not talking to each other, Thomas smoking on a wall, and the obligatory invocation of Kamal Pamuk. Robert invites Bates back to help him through the ‘veil of shadow’ and as such I was intrigued to learn that he is a World of Warcraft devotee. Bates reappearance downstairs also allows for the return of two other key Downton Abbey tropes: Anna and (John)Bates having a heart to heart under the cover of darkness, and Thomas and O’Brien’s irrational loathing/scapegoating of Britain’s most infuriatingly lovelorn character (outside of Thomas Thorne) to resume with aplomb. 

Less happy to be within the confines of the Abbey is Edith who continues to signal that all of this is really a bit beneath her (certain elements quite literally). Ever the teacher’s pet, Mr Molesley reports the sighting of an Officer by the maid’s staircase to Mrs Hughes who hears that there have been lots of rumours on the timeline tonight and comes out to say that she does not live in a sack. Unfortunately, Major Bryant does not live in one but definitely frequents one and, as such, it is of course Ethel is dismissed. As she rapidly packs all her belongings, Anna pleas to Mrs Hughes on her behalf confirming that she is indeed the friend we all want but probably don’t deserve. But Mrs Hughes can’t get rid of her that easily as Edith (and passenger) skulk back to liven up the end of the episode with news of an oncoming baby *Eastenders drums intensify*. 

Talking of undeserving relationships, Sybil and Branson receive more air-time than usual, providing the latter the opportunity to demonstrate that at times he really can be a muppet. And a slightly malevolent one at that. Sybil is firmly under the cosh this week with Violet making thinly veiled references to inappropriate alliances and Mary asking probing questions whilst she tries to get on with her job. Mary thinks that she has spotted her sister and Branson having some kind of romantic exchange but in reality, all that she has seen from afar is Branson telling Sybil that she is in love with him which when you think about it, is all kinds of awful and hardly the basis for a healthy relationship. After a long walk through the grounds where I am half expecting Branson to appear on a horse Willoughby-style, Sybil eventually caves and confesses to Mary that she doesn’t know if she likes Branson despite his eminently creepy voice over. Sybil then relays her sororal confidence and rather than taking this as an opportunity to ingratiate himself, Branson for whatever reason attempts to coerce Sybil into a relationship but not before he belittles her job. Sybil looks rightfully outraged as some equally emotionally manipulative strings wail in the background in an attempt to try and make us think that anything that has just happened was evenly slightly dreamy. 

Threaded through this glacially paced episode has been the looming threat of a both a concert and the death of Matthew and (to a much lesser extent because that is how class works) William. In an effort to break the monotony of walking around the exact same bit of French trench (see previous re-caps for further details), William and Matthew take to wandering across some largely unadulterated land and into the path of some nonchalant Germans. Daisy’s lack of (presumably fawning) letters from William starts off a chain of enquiry which confirms that the War Office has declared Matthew and William missing enabling Mary to once again deploy her signature move: weeping into her gloves. But only one hand this time because she needs to keep a bit of composure for the show must go on! Apparently. Following some abysmal piano playing (I grew up in an appallingly musical household and we all had to endure the torture of other people at the early stages of learning an instrument. It was of course blissful when we got good but, heck, I was thrown straight back to the horror of it all with that ‘accompaniment’ and had an odd sort of stress response which I won’t describe here), Mary and Edith do a rendition of If You Were the Only Girl (In the World) as everyone looks on stony-faced before participating in the millenia’s most morose sing-a-long. With a very good sense of drama, Matthew and (to a much lesser extent) William make their return. Matthew takes his place at Mary’s side and joins in the signing to what is now presumably quite a bewildered audience. Ah, Downton. 

Romantic declaration of the moment 

Violet raises reasonable concerns about Richard Carlisle but Mary is more interested in expanding her real estate portfolio and agrees to throw her lot in with a fiscal agreement disguised as a marriage. Upon his ‘miraculous’ return, Matthew gives the union his blessing on the condition that Richard remains deserving. Not that he ever really was. But the sentiment is what matters here and what is more loving* than putting another’s presumed happiness before your own.

*there are actually a lot of other more loving things but in the interest of formatting, we’re going to sweep those under a very large rug for now. 

Expressive eyebrow of the week 

Rather than training as a nurse or being actually pretty useful in a convalescent home, Mary’s contribution to the war effort is being amicable with Edith. Violet declares that she has now “seen everything” as the spirit of Mrs Adelman moves on. 

Wait, what? 

“I wish we had a man” Presented without comment 

“If I am not appreciated here, I will seek some other place” Yes. PLEASE. 

“What must he do to persuade you he is in love with Lavinia? Open his chest and carve her name on his heart” No, Mary. Matthew merely needs to carve her name with a compass on his forehead to prove that… 

undefined

“I hate the word ‘missing’. It leaves so much room for optimism.” Robert is a bit emotionally weird isn’t he? 

“We haven't kissed or anything. I don't think we've shaken hands. I'm not even sure if I like him like that. He says I do, but I'm still not sure.” And lo, another red flag is raised. But because Branson is Downton’s version of a Bolshevik, both Mary and Sybil view this not as a warning about the boy’s behaviour but rather a symbol of his political leanings and such signals are duly ignored.

“He always seems a romantic figure to me” Daisy Robinson writes fanfic. Pass it on. 

“Sometimes in war, one can make friendships that aren't quite…appropriate. And can be awkward, you know, later on. I mean, we've all done it.” Once again, Violet, tell us more! 

Bates says that he has returned to “Downton at war” which sounds like a lucrative exhibition name if I ever did hear one. 

Despite Mary’s most valiant efforts, no musical performance had ever gone out to such an impassive audience until Rosalind came along 

undefined

Matthew of course is used to a much better quality sing-, sorry, song-a-long 

undefined

[buckyskorpion]

11 hours - part two

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: thank you guys so much for the incredible response i got to part one!! it made me so happy so thank you. let me know wha yall think of this bit, we’ve got some plot going on which i always enjoy. i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist

part one

You don’t hear from Bucky for a while after the party. It’s disappointing - you’re self-aware enough to admit that. But you also aren’t stupid enough to expect anything else. Bucky asked you to that party as a favour, you got a one-night-only special being in his life and you’re not expecting anything else.

You had hoped it wouldn’t have impacted your nightly rendezvous, but those had stopped too. You suppose Bucky decided not to trust you after all.

Almost three weeks later and you’re at work, thoughts of Bucky barely a buzz in the back of your head compared to the job at hand. You’ve always been able to let your work consume you, and it pays off in your line of business. Being a private investigator requires attention to detail, lateral thinking, and a questionable moral compass. Your patented paranoia doesn’t hurt either. Your dad tells you every time you visit that he wishes you’d get into something more stable, something less dirty, but you’re not really good at anything else. Considering the majority of your clients are partners trying to figure out if their significant other is cheating, it also pays well for quite minimal effort.

Quick rule of thumb for aspiring PI’s: they’re almost always cheating.

Today is one of those clients. You’ve tailed the guy in question to a tattoo shop in Red Hook, which is already a red flag. He’s an investment banker and buys Louis Vuitton cufflinks for his ugly work suits. He stands out like a sore thumb in this grungy neighbourhood. You snap a few photos of him outside the store, very obviously checking left and right for a tail before entering the place. People suck at being subtle, you’ve come to realise over the years. And at being observant, because all you’ve bothered to do to hide is sit at the cafe across the road and pretend to be taking photos of the latte art on your coffee.

Entering the tattoo parlour is a no-go, even if your grunge aesthetic would fit in with the clientele more than your straight-laced prey. There are other ways, though. You leave some bills on the table and cross the street into the alley beside the tattoo shop, wrinkling your nose at the dumpster smell. There’s a fire escape which you can reach if you stand on the lid of the offensive dumpster in question, leading to a window you hope will get you some insight into what Mike Shorditch of suspected-cheating fame is up to. Maybe he has a tattooed, lip-ringed young girlfriend he meets here? Or a heavy-set biker boyfriend? Or he just wants a tattoo and his wife is as paranoid as you are.

Squeezed uncomfortably between the bars of the fire-escape, you manage to aim your camera lens at the window and zoom in - jackpot. It’s a small window near the ceiling of the high-roofed shop, letting in minimal light to ruin the dark aesthetic of the place, allowing you a somewhat clear view of the shop inside. It’s really nice, you notice, and they have good taste in music. Slowly Slowly bleeds minimally through the glass and you try focus your lens on the faces inside, catching Mike among them like a unicorn in a goth reunion. He’s talking to someone, waving his hands around dramatically while the guy he talks to towers over him, arms folded over a ginormous chest.

You know that face, you realise as you aim your lens a little higher. The shock burns, almost makes you drop your camera and fall off the fire escape you’re precariously lying on. It’s Steve, blonde head unmistakeable as he glares at your target and dismisses whatever Mike says to him with an eyeroll. Without questioning it, you snap a few photos of Steve’s imposing figure - so at odds with the friendly, downright cuddly man you met at the party a few weeks ago. Just when you thought you’d gotten rid of thoughts about that night, they show up at your work. How is this possible?

None of this sits right with you. This strange coincidence, the weird behaviour at the party towards Bucky and his friends, Bucky’s general evasiveness and the feeling you get of being watched just being around him. Nothing is adding up and you’ve never been the kind of person to leave well enough alone. You snap photos of the shop, as much as you can - Steve’s tattoo sleeve that had been hidden under a jumper at the party, the stencils lining the walls, the locks on the front door, the counter where a scrawny kid in glasses bends over what looks like genuine high-school homework and ignores the adults in the shop. There are too many variables - you have to start making sense of one of them.

The easiest thread to pull is Mike, and he’s the one you’re being paid to solve, so it makes sense to start there. Clearly it isn’t cheating his wife should be worried about, but the meeting he’s having with Steve and the others doesn’t look like a friendly catch up with friends either. His personal cybersecurity is poor enough you figure you’ll be able to solve that particular mystery easy enough.

Bucky and his friends, however? That’s going to take a bit more digging.

***

According to Mike Shoreditch’s bank records, he owes somebody a lot of money. You get this from an account his wife doesn’t even know he has, believing all their money goes into a shared account with a completely different bank. Mike has a lot of secrets but cheating isn’t one of them - the print outs of his secret bank account statements and the pictures of him at Steve’s tattoo parlour would be enough for you to close the case and get your money. But you don’t. Not just yet. You have your own itch to scratch, now.

You’ve taken to watching the tattoo shop’s comings and goings, snapping pictures here and there. Steve comes in at ten in the morning, ready to open the shop up by lunchtime for customers and doesn’t close it until midnight. His customers are the usual sort you’d imagine at a rough tattoo shop in Red Hook - heavy set guys with full sleeves and chest pieces, grungy couples who probably live upstate but are rebelling against their trust-fund parents, random walk-ins who’s nerves you can sense from across the street at what’s become your usual table. There are a few, though, who stand out. Leather jackets and motorbikes they park in the alley beside the shop, using the back entrance you snap a shot of one night once they all went home.

You’re not jumping to conclusions just yet, you’ve learnt the hard way from doing that, but you’re also not stupid. Whatever Steve is into, whatever Bucky is by association a part of, there are some shady looking people involved as well.

It’s one of those days where you’re watching the shop from the cafe, camera left on the table in favour of devouring an almond croissant and cataloguing the people you’ve now dubbed regulars at Steve’s as they enter the shop. You should probably be doing your actual job but you can’t bring yourself to, too caught up in the shady business across the street from you. Absorbed, in fact, so you practically jump out of your skin as your phone rings and you send it flying to the pavement with an errant elbow.

You pick up without checking the ID, and boy was that a mistake. Heart pounding painfully in your chest, you answer, “Hi, hello, hi, this is (Y/n) speaking,” all in a rush.

A familiar, honey-warm laugh rumbles down the phone to you and your previously racing heart all but stops beating. Bucky says, “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Does he know? Had Steve caught you spying and called Bucky asking why the random girl he brought to a party that one time was stalking him? You glance around the street, half expecting Bucky to be standing behind you and catching you red-handed. He’s not, of course he’s not, you’re just losing your mind a little bit.

“No, no, sorry,” you say, running a shaky hand through your hair. “I’m at work. What’s up?”

“I won’t keep you long,” Bucky says, sounding amused, and you hate how the rough catch of his voice through the phone all but erases the suspicions you have for him, warning you to stay away. You had missed him, is all. He says, as if plucking the thought from your brain, “I was missing you.”

“Yeah?” you ask, glad he can’t see the grin you send to the table. “That why you disappeared after the party?”

“Let me explain over drinks?” Bucky asks, dodging your jab with ease. No, no, no, don’t be stupid, he’s bad news and you’ve got the proof, don’t-

“You’re paying,” you say instead, silencing the smart side of your brain.

“Always do,” he says, which is blatantly not true but whatever, “Nine at Joey’s?”

“See you there,” you say, and hang up before you can do anything else stupid.

You bury your hands in your hair, leaning your elbows on the table and letting out a frustrated sound probably inappropriate for a public place. How are you going to go meet Bucky and pretend you aren’t, essentially, investigating his best friend? Maybe you don’t. Maybe you use this to get more answers, full-stop some of the question marks that have been playing havoc with your head all week.

And sex. You’re not going to pretend you won’t be ending up in Bucky’s bed again, shady secrets be damned.

***

Joey’s is a divey, underground bar you absolutely adore, and you’ve met Bucky here multiple times. He introduced you to the place, actually, a week or so into meeting up him. He’d laughed at how excited you were over the movie posters they used as decor behind the booths, the bartender who squeezed fresh apple juice into your shot of Jameson, the dirty bass-heavy music you eventually convinced him to dance with you to. Bucky is clearly trying to win you over by meeting you here, and you can’t say it’s not working. Just a little bit. You’ll still make him work for it.

Bucky’s got a booth at the back when you arrive, two whiskey apple’s already waiting on the table as he stands up to greet you. He pulls you into a hug, not letting you set the tone at all, but you can’t find it in you to mind as you’re crushed into his chest and he rests his stubbly chin atop your head. He smells nice, reminding you of spiced rum or something else warm and comforting, and his hands feel real nice as they dip under your top to press against your bare skin. Had you really missed him this much? You squeeze him tightly, ignoring the thump of your heart as he starts rubbing circles into your back, and you stand there in his arms for far too long to be appropriate.

Pulling away, though, feels like you’ve lost something.

Across the booth from you, now, Bucky slides a drink towards you with his usual cheeky grin. You roll your eyes at him, popping the straw in your mouth and looking out at the bar so you can pretend not to pay attention to him. He bumps your foot under the table but you ignore him, hiding your smirk in the rim of your glass.

“Doll,” he says, exasperated, and reaches across the booth to place his giant hand on the arm you have resting on the table. You look at him then, scrunching your nose up at the pet name which makes him smile. His eyes crinkle up at the sides, all soft and blurry blue, and you feel yourself forgetting why you’re supposed to be mad at him in the first place.

“What,” you say, mimicking his tone just to watch his jaw clench. His frustration is hot, what of it? You love winding him up like this.

“Brat,” he retorts, and oh, that makes you feel something you probably shouldn’t, all low and coiled hot in your belly. “Did you think I was avoiding you?”

“You were avoiding me,” you correct, raising your eyebrows at him. He hasn’t let go of your arm, now taking to rubbing his thumb back and forth across the leather of your jacket. You refuse to let it melt you.

“I was away,” he says, eyes sparkling. He’s practically laughing at you, which is- rude. You huff, barely believing him, and he says, “I was! Did you want me to tell you I was going or something?”

“No,” you say, rolling your eyes at him. You sigh - he’s right, what did you expect? Nothing, and yet you were put out anyway, but that’s a problem you’ve got to deal with on your own. Bucky doesn’t owe you anything and he knows it. You relax, finally, putting your drink down to cover Bucky’s hand with your own. You smile, say, “I’m just messing with you, Bucky.”

“Sure you are,” he says easily, but you know he doesn’t believe you. It’s dropped, then, forgotten as you sit there staring at each other in the dim light of the bar. You really had missed him, even if you still barely knew him. His stubbly jaw, the close-cropped sides of the new haircut he’d gotten since you’d last seen him, the glint of his dog togs against tanned skin disappearing under his t-shirt. The swirl of his chest piece peeking out from the neckline, and you can fill in the blanks because you’ve seen what’s under that t-shirt. You’ve traced your tongue over it, as well as every other inch of him you’re trying to memorise in case another month passed before you saw him again. If you ever saw him at all.

“What?” you ask when you realise he’s starting to smile at you, holding back a laugh. He shakes his head, looking down to pick up his drink and take a sip. You lean back, retracting yourself from his grip and folding your arms across your chest - he’s making fun of you, you know it, but you don’t know why. He does laugh then, also leaning back in his seat and regarding you with that head tilt that infuriates you.

“Nothing,” he laughs, eyes saying the opposite. “It’s just- it’s nice to see you.”

“You going soft on me, tough guy?” you tease, but he sobers at your words, the smile dying on his pillow-plump lips. He stares you down, that deep thing that reminds you how easy it is to get lost in him (if you aren’t already).

“Maybe I am,” he says, and that surprises you. You had been joking, but the heady way he’s looking at you turns it serious. “Would that bother you?”

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to say the right thing. You don’t even know if that’s a good response or not, but you’ve done it now and Bucky nods, downs his drink, all without ever breaking eye contact with you. You get the distinct feeling you’ve just agreed to something you don’t entirely understand, entangling yourself further into Bucky without even trying to. Given what you’d been uncovering about his friends the past week, you should know better. You should leave.

But you don’t. You lean across the booth, coming to him this time, and peel his hand off his glass to entwine your fingers with his. The cool metal of his signet rings offsets the warmth of his palm against yours, and the way he grips your fingers tightly signs the deal. Bucky is too enticing to stay away from, and you are too tired of trying to.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” you ask, but it’s not really a question. You watch his eyes dart across your face, tongue flicking out over his lips, stalling for time. You wonder what he’ll say. My friends run dodgy business deals out of a tattoo parlour? I’m involved in that, too? I’m dangerous, I’m a liar, you should stay away?

“I’m a mechanic,” he says. You try not to show your disappointment, but still, this is information you didn’t have before and you’re greedy for anything. “I have my own shop in Queens. Natasha helps me out, helps me run it. I’ve been obsessed with cars and bikes and shit since I was five.”

You smile at that, imaging little Bucky running around a car yard trying to convince his dad, or whoever, to teach him how to drive even if he couldn’t reach the pedals yet. You imagine him now, the hand you’re holding all greased up and elbow deep in a car’s guts, maybe with his shirt off and sweat dripping down his back. You’ve got to see that one day before you die, you decide right then. That’s too hot to just stay in your brain.

“Your turn,” he says, shit-eating smirk in place like he can read your mind. You blush, despite yourself, and scramble for something to say that’s not I’ve been investigating your friends all week and it’s not looking too good for them.

“My dad,” you blurt out, and Bucky give you a funny look like he thinks that’s your fact - you have a dad, isn’t that something. You curse yourself for starting this, you could’ve gone with anything and you said ‘my dad’? But you’re here now, so, “He raised me on his own, like, I don’t know my mum at all, but he always said he wanted me to have something of her so he taught me Russian. She taught him, apparently, and he taught her English. Now it’s like our secret language.”

“Russian, hey?” Bucky asks, and he seems far too surprised for the anecdote you’ve just given but you suppose it is the first actually personal thing you’ve told him. He doesn’t seem off-put by it, though, like you have expected him to be because you don’t do personal. In fact he just leans closer, almost unconsciously, baiting you to tell him more.

“Yeah,” you say, compelled to keep going. “We’d leave each other notes around the house in ‘code’, y’know, but it was just in Cyrillic. Thought it was so cool.”

“It is cool,” Bucky says, smirking at you again, “You’re cool.”

“Fuck you,” you laugh, kicking his ankle under the table but immeasurably grateful for the tone change. You don’t know why you’ve just told him that. You don’t know if you’ve ever told anyone that - Russian isn’t exactly a handy language to know. You feel drunker than you should be after a tiny bit of whiskey, high on the rush of unleashing a secret. Drunk enough that Bucky unlatching his fingers from yours to grip your wrist tight, a bit bruising, tugging you close, makes you flush from your scalp to your toes.

Bucky looks at you, dark and heavy, and asks, “Want to?”

You nod, throat suddenly very dry, and Bucky tugs you out of the booth without another word. Usually you wait a bit longer before getting on Bucky’s bike, have a few more drinks, maybe dance a bit if you can coax Bucky into it. Not tonight. You’re both on the same page - it’s been too long and you need his mouth on you about five days ago.

He pushes you into the apartment by the shoulders, rough enough you stumble but you’re quickly righted as he strides through the door after you and grabs you by the hips. Bucky crushes his mouth to yours, swallowing your needy whine with soft lips and velvet tongue as you fist his t-shirt and drag you both backwards, going and going until your back hits a wall. His palm slams into the drywall by your head but you don’t flinch, only groan as he smudges his spit-slick mouth across your jaw and down your neck. Bucky bites down, sharp teeth on soft skin, and you rake your nails down his stomach as payback for the mark you’ll have later.

“Off,” Bucky grumbles as he shoves at your jacket, getting it stuck at your elbows and trapping your arms by your sides. He seems to like like this, eyes flashing something dangerous in the dark of his hallway. You hold his eyes, heart thrumming something wild in your throat at being caught, pinned, vulnerable. With Bucky, though, you like that.

You want to reach for him but you can’t, so you wait for him to come to you. Kissing you breathless, hand fisted in your hair, other undoing the front of your jeans. God, you wanna touch him so bad but Bucky has you in his grip, yanking your head back to kiss that same bruised spot.  He sucks another under your chin as you cry out, pinpricks of pain-turned-pleasure bursting at the base of your scalp.

He gets his hand in your jeans, in your panties, runs two fingers down your cunt so easy with how wet you are already before rubbing bruising, slow circles on your clit. Your whole body jerks against Bucky’s hold on you, his thighs bracketing your body into the wall and his hand still fisted in your hair. Your mouth drops open in a soundless moan and you feel, rather than hear Bucky laugh against your throat. All executive function has diverted to the radiating ache of pure pleasure from Bucky’s fingers on you.

Bucky lets go of you hair only to press his hand on your throat, cold rings digging into your burnt-up skin and pressing you back into the wall. Long fingers tilt your jaw to look at him, increased pressure warning you against looking away, but you don’t want to anyway. Bucky’s eyes are dark like a sea storm, molten blue, and he squeezes his grip just once before saying, “Still think I’ve gone soft?”

Jesus christ, but you can’t answer him like this - not with your pulse thundering against his palm and the way he picks up the pace on your clit, making your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. Bucky grins, boyish and crinkly, and it’s so at odds with the way he slides his two fingers down and pushes into you, twisting to the knuckle, that you think you might be losing your mind. Unravelling, Bucky pulling at the threads, and the only thing holding you together is his hand on your throat.

“Bucky,” you say, his name a broken breath as you start to lose focus. Everything’s hazy, glassy, your toes are going numb and tingly so you know it’s coming, building tight in your stomach as he rubs his fingers back and forth inside of you. At his name Bucky makes a sound almost like a growl, pressing his body against yours and somehow further into the wall. You need that contact,  the press of his muscles holding you up as it gets harder and harder to breath with the heat coiling up inside of you. He presses his forehead against yours so all you can see is blue edged out by black, claiming your every breath and moan, drawing you in deeper and deeper because you’re his, now. There’s no way back from this.

He presses his thumb to your clit, thrusts his fingers deeper into you, mouth parting with yours as you moan as if he means to swallow the sound. You’re there, you’re right there, and then he kisses you so soft you might’ve imagined it and you’re coming, your whole body clenching up and whiting out while he finger fucks you through it.

Trembling muscles come to leant against the wall, barely holding yourself up as Bucky extricates himself and allows you room to breath. He gently tugs your jacket all the way off, freeing your arms to come up sluggish and heavy around his neck, holding on. He laughs, just quietly, letting you nuzzle your way into the side of his neck and breath in that warm honey Bucky smell as you try and regain mental functions. It’s hard. You think Bucky’s just blended up your brain with a swizzle stuck and sucked it out through a straw.

“C’mon,” he says, gravel rough, and nudges his nose against the side of your head. “Not done with you yet.”

“Hmph,” you say, but let yourself be picked up under the ass and wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you to his bedroom. You press a kiss to the skin of his neck you can reach with every second your body comes back online, digging your teeth in a little when he squeezes your ass as he walks. You’re both still fully clothes, basically, but you don’t plan to be for long. You’ve got tattoos to kiss and a dick you want anyway Bucky’ll let you. You’ve got all night, after all.

***

It’s late, you should be going, but you steal a few more minutes lying on Bucky’s chest. He’s sat up against the headboard, trying to braid little pieces of your hair with the cutest look of concentration on his face. The way he goes from dirty to dork always makes your heart do complicated things in your chest. You’re drumming your fingers on his chest, right next to his dog tags, and before you can overthink it too much you pause your drum solo to pick them up.

Bucky doesn’t pause in his hair-braiding but you can feel him watching you as you turn the worn metal over in your fingers. They’re well loved, a bit bent in places and the letters starting to rub flat  but you can still read it. His birthday, March 10th, and his name. You’d never thought to read these before - they always seemed part of Bucky’s past, something you weren’t allowed into yet. But tonight has made you bold, and you run your thumb over the letters of his name so you can memorise the feel of them.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you mumble, words half said into his skin. Bucky hums but doesn’t respond, so you say, “I always knew no mother could look at their newborn child and call it Bucky.”

“Watch it,” Bucky warns, but without any real heat. You don’t ask what the tags mean, which war he fought in, when he got back. You lay them back on his skin carefully, straightening out the chain, before turning in Bucky’s arms to prop your chin on his chest piece and look at him.

“I should go,” you say, as you continue to lie there with legs tangled and Bucky’s hand now resting idle, cupping the back of your head. He bites his lip, strokes his big hand down the back of your hair and making you close your eyes for a second. You’re enjoying his touch too much, you’re getting too close for a man you don’t know. A man who you know has secrets you probably don’t want to uncover, but you can’t stop yourself.

“You could stay.” Bucky’s words hang there, suspended in the space between you. He’s never said that before. You never thought he would say that, ever. Bucky looks at you, face unreadable, and you don’t know why you feel sick to your stomach all of a sudden but you do. There are lines being crossed that you can’t backtrack from. You’re not ready to make that step yet.

“Not tonight,” you say, and it’s not a no but it’s not what Bucky wants to hear. He withdraws his hand from you, letting it drop uselessly to the bed beside him. You take that as your cue to go, rolling off the bed and dressing silently with Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in your skin.

You’re pulling away, trying desperately to regain some distance and control from his man who already has you swallowed whole, he just doesn’t know it yet. Even still, you can’t stop yourself crawling back on the bed and straddling his lap, holding his face in your hands as you kiss him. You want him to remember this - not you saying no, but the way your body will always say yes to him as he holds your hips and keeps you there, kissing you back as desperate as you feel.

But now you know you have reason to climb through the laundry room window that night and sneak away from Bucky’s apartment building, that you’re not just being paranoid because you’ve got photos to prove it. It’s that thought alone that makes it bearable to leave him, even if your heart is begging you to stay.

Part 3

[edorazzi]

It’s the post everyone’s been waiting for! 

It’s taken a little while for me to get around to this, but it’s worth it for being able to make a full reaction post. This is really long so I’ll put it under a cut, but check it out for my complete scene-by-scene reaction of Miraculous’ “Felix” episode! (´∀｀)♡

Okay, I’ve been putting this off for days now so it’s time to finally get to it. I’m comfy and undisturbed and have my supplies ready to go.

I know next to nothing about what I’m going into. I’ve seen a little bit here and there because some people haven’t tagged their content properly, but I haven’t watched either of the trailers. I haven’t even looked directly at the images of Felix which have been going around. I’ve tried to stay as blind as possible, so as a result I’m pretty excited but also very anxious. I’ve taken two beta blockers today and I’m considering taking a third.

I usually liveblog episodes on our Ladybug PV Discord server (message me for an invite!) but this time I’m making a proper post out of it. I’ll be typing up my reactions as I go then cleaning everything up a little bit afterwards. I think it’s the first time I’ve done something like this on my blog so here goes!

- “Script: Thomas Astruc” NO. HE REALLY COULDN’T JUST STEP AWAY FROM THIS EPISODE GRACEFULLY, COULD HE. HE HAD TO GET HIS HANDS DIRTY. I’m not going to say “fuck this man” but, you know, identical sentiments. I’m opening my chocolate bar.

- God, Emilie looks more like ET every time I see her. Such an awkward model.

- Oh but wait, Sébastien Thibaudeau was on the script? That does actually give me some hope! Next to Zag himself he’s the only writer on this mess of a show I trust. HE FIXED WAYHEM, CAN HE DO FELIX A SOLID TOO? PLEASE. PLEASE SÉBASTIEN OL BUDDY OL PAL OL FRIENDA MINE

- Does Gabe have anything else to say to his wife other than monologuing his Miraculous plan over and over? They say people in comas can still hear things but Emilie’s probably double unconscious from how boring her husband is.

- DON’T LIKE THAT KNIFE SOUND EFFECT FROM THOSE RINGS. Am I supposed to find it sweet that Gabe’s taking such good care of their wedding bands or is he about to use them for evil? Also where’s Felix.

- ADRIEN SWEETHEART. I maintain that it’s weird to have a statue of your wife/mother/self in your own garden but it kills me that he’s just sitting there in front of it like a lost kitten.

- “Of course, someone will get you right away.” IS THAT FELIX. WAS SHE ON THE PHONE TO FELIX. WHERE’S MY SON, NATHALIE HAVE YOU SEEN MY SON

- That wide-eyed look Adrien turns up towards the window is killing me even more. I’M SO SAD. I see he also hasn’t noticed he’s sitting in the middle of a giant butterfly circle, unless he’s so used to it being Gabe’s logo that he’s just not paying it any mind. When was this all built? Has Gabe always used a butterfly motif even before he got his Miraculous and it was just a great coincidence, or did he commission this whole garden area after Emilie went missing? I guess you could pass it off as eccentricity but in the real world that would be a HUGE red flag that Gabe murdered her. I dunno man.

- DON’T WAVE AT HIM LIKE THAT, NATHALIE. YOU RATTED HIM OUT IN 5 SECONDS IN THAT THEORETICAL FUTURE WHERE YOU DISCOVERED HE WAS CHAT NOIR. YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT THIS BOY. >:V

- “It’s been one year.” HAS IT? Hasn’t Adrien been at school for at least a year now? Didn’t his mom vanish two years prior to that?! Maybe she’s talking about how long Gabe has been fighting Ladybug and Chat Noir but knowing this show’s messy timeline it could be anything. WHERE’S FELIX.

- That’s the song from Chat Blanc! Was that something his mom taught him? OH NO, I’M EVEN SADDER NOW. This is what I mean about Sébastien’s writing, we’d never get this kind of focus on Adrien from Garbage Man Astruc. This kind of character exploration does wonders for ML whenever it’s brought up so I hope this is consistent.

- SHIT, GABRIEL’S OUT OF THE HOUSE. SOMETHING’S WRONG. THOSE EXPENSIVE LEATHER SHOES HAVEN’T TOUCHED ACTUAL GROUND IN YEARS. ADRIEN GET OUT OF THERE.

- I do like that Adrien doesn’t get up when his dad comes to stand right next to him like that. It’s just informal enough. He’s waiting for Gabe to make the first move this time and that’s nice development considering how stiff and cold their relationship was in S1.

- OOOOH GABE THAT’S AN AWKWARD CROUCH. Any lower down and his back is going to go. He’ll be stuck there. I do LOVE that he’s trying though, I don’t even know what he’s going to say to Adrien but this is already SO good.

- “There’s something important I have to talk to you about.” Finally time for The Talk, huh.

- GABE PLEASE. ADRIEN’S WAY TOO CHIRPY TO HAVE ACTUALLY CAUGHT ON TO WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY. HE THINKS YOU’RE TRYING TO SAY YOU LOVE HIM OR SOMETHING ELSE RIDICULOUS

- “I’ve noticed how close you and Nathalie have become!” CLOSE ENOUGH. Still in the ballpark of Adrien thinking his dad has real human feelings! 

- “HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY THINK SUCH A THING??” I GENUINELY LAUGHED OUT LOUD AT HOW ANGRY GABE WAS ABOUT THAT. I’m not sure what to think of the “Nathalie replacing Emilie when Emilie’s technically still alive” plot either but GABE’S DECIDED FOR ME. Also good job yelling in your son’s face when you were JUST having a moment, good luck getting back up off your knees in order to storm away, old man.

- Oh alright, he did get up, but it was with a strange angry bow-legged prance. I think he still had trouble.

- I love the way Adrien just kinda wide-eye-blinks at him, like Gabe’s emotional outburst is going totally over his head. He’s been dealing with akuma FAR too long to be bothered by this.

- Guests, plural? I’m guessing Felix is one of them but is he with someone else? That makes sense given he’s (as far as I’ve gathered) the same age as Adrien so he wouldn’t be running around far from home unchaperoned, but OHHH this is so interesting.

- So they ARE claiming it’s been one year since Emilie vanished! This just doesn’t work as a Season 3 episode, especially with Nathalie and Gabe’s romantic development being as far along as it is. Emilie’s been gone for at LEAST three years by this point! Read your show bible once in a while you horrible garbage man!!! Also ADRIEN SWEETHEART THAT’S A LITTLE PREMATURE. You can say “went away forever” when you’re three years into her disappearance, the anniversary of one year really isn’t long enough to claim she’s never coming back!

- OH NO, IT’S THE GIRLS. I’m already bored. Unless Luka is here I really just do not care what they’re all up to. I haven’t missed Marinette at ALL in the first two-and-a-half minutes and I don’t want to see her now. WHERE’S FELIX.

- I’m sorry, how are Lila, Chloé AND Kagami all on a video call together without any blood being drawn? Also for god’s sake PLEASE leave Adrien alone, you want to ask first if he’d LIKE some company or if he’d prefer a quiet personal day to think about his mom? OF COURSE NOT MARINETTE, YOU WOULDN’T WOULD YOU. 

- Okay, a video message is definitely a better idea than trying to break into his house AGAIN. At least then he can watch it whenever he feels up to it. The first good, safe, noninvasive idea Mari’s had for SEVERAL episodes when it comes to Adrien.

- I’M REALLY TORN WHEN IT COMES TO THE ENGLISH DUB. On one hand I hate how little screentime Nino has when he’s not just being Alya’s fashion accessory, but on the other hand I’m so glad they switched scenes the moment Nino started his video because I CANNOT handle his dub voice. Nino just deserves better in general really.

- HE WAS CRYING. MY BOY WAS CRYING AGAIN. I’M NOT COOL WITH THIS. IT’S NOT ABOVE YOUR PAYGRADE TO GIVE HIM A HUG, NATHALIE.

- ALRIGHT HI ELSA. IS THIS HIS AUNT? THAT’S SPOOKY. 

- Her name is Amelie? So their parents had twins and named them Amelie and Emilie, and they turned out the same right down to the over-the-shoulder Dead Anime Mom hairstyles? That’s lazy parenting down to a tee, can’t mix your twins up if you never have to learn the difference between them in the first place! But that’s INTERESTING that Felix is (I assume, still haven’t seen him yet) from Emilie’s side of the family, I’ve always had the impression he was a petit Gabriel.

- OHHH THAT’S MY BOY! I CAN SEE MY BOY IN THE DOORWAY!!! OH MY GOD GIVE HIM TO ME. GIVE ME FELIX. GIVE ME MY SON.

- ADRIEN IMMEDIATELY JUMPING ON HIM IN A HUG IS ABSOLUTELY PERFECT. WHILE FELIX’S HAND IS STILL OUTSTRETCHED FOR A HANDSHAKE. I know this episode is going to go downhill because there’s no way it won’t, but this one single moment is EVERYTHING I WANTED. I should just close the tab now and leave it at this, I really should.

- “Do you remember when they used to have so much fun pretending to be each other? Once they had you and Emilie fooled for a whole weekend!” WHERE HAS THIS BEEN FOR MY ENTIRE ORDEAL GETTING THROUGH THIS SERIES. I don’t even care if this Felix is a stone cold bitch, it’s enough to know he and Adrien were besties when they were kids and Adrien still wanted to hug him the second he walked through the door. AMAZING.

- “I WON’T BE FOOLED A SECOND TIME.” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN, GABE. THEY WERE PROBABLY TODDLERS. ARE YOU JUST SO USED TO GETTING YOUR ASS HANDED TO YOU BY CHILDREN THAT YOU’RE SUSPICIOUS OF EVERY SINGLE ONE NOW

- Aww, Felix is American (dubbed, anyway). I was really hoping he’d be British with all the references to London over the last season. He does have a nice voice though! I can tell he shares Adrien’s actor but he’s got the softness I’d have expected from his character. There’s kind of an interesting look about his face though, I wish they’d tweaked it a bit to give him a sharper look but I guess he IS like 14, he can afford to still have a bit of baby-cheeked roundness. I’m going to find the positives in every part of this because I will NOT give Garbage Man Astruc the satisfaction of being disappointed like I know he wants me to be. It’s been a fucking war from the moment I saw his name in the writing credits and my best weapon is being pleased about everything in this episode.

- Okay, he looks a little better in the following closeup where his eyes are slightly narrowed. I think it’s the slightly-below-the-chin angle which doesn’t really work for his character model with his soft cheeks and high collar. FELIX IS A BABY.

- WHY WILL NOBODY SHAKE HIS HAND. Adrien hugged him instead and Gabe is ignoring him completely, Felix is clearly so perplexed and I love it. He’s fourteen! He’s fourteen and doing his best with social graces but NOBODY WILL HELP HIM.

- “Felix, you know your uncle’s never been the physical sort!” HE KICKED HIS OWN SON RIGHT ACROSS PARIS IN THE LAST EPISODE BUT SURE, IF YOU SAY SO.

- “Oh, how sweet! You’re still wearing your wedding band!” YEAH? IT’S BEEN LIKE A YEAR?? Again this would make more sense if it had been around three years like we KNOW Emilie’s been gone for, but picking someone out for still wearing their ring after 12 months?! And why isn’t Amelie more emotional about this anyway, isn’t it her sister who’s missing? I wouldn’t be poking fun at MY sister’s husband for keeping his ring if SHE went missing. No wonder Felix seems like he turned out weird.

- I CAN’T MAKE OUT THE NAME OF HER BRANCH OF THE FAMILY AND IT’S KILLING ME. SOMEONE LET ME KNOW WHAT THAT WAS. Graham de Vanily? I can’t place the words. I mean I’m going to keep calling Felix “Agreste” no matter what but I’d like to know what canon is trying to get at.

- “It’s been a long journey from London” I KNEW IT, I FFFFFFFFFUCKING KNEW IT. SO THEY ARE BRITISH?! BUT THEY HAVE AMERICAN ACCENTS?! I mean I guess they’re French first and foremost, but what the fuck is with the American accents if you’re making a POINT about them being from London?! I can’t wait for the French audio to be released, I really want to know what Felix sounds like there. Regardless AAAH MY SON IS FROM MY CITY, I’M SO PLEASED.

- “TakeFelixtoyourbedroom.” EASY GABE THEY JUST MET, ALSO THEY’RE COUSINS

- Poor Felix looks so depressed being saddled with Adrien. Sweetie it’s okay, think positive! You could be stuck with Marinette and THAT would be a true nightmare.

- Now why does Felix keep glancing at Gabe? Is there something going on there? Is he suspicious about what happened to his aunt? I can’t imagine he knows anything about the Miraculous so what’s the deal here?

- UuuuuUUUUGH we’re back with the rest of the gang. I’M NOT INTERESTED, SHOW ME MORE FELIX.

- “Help me Tikki! What would you tell a Kwami friend who’s lost their mom?!” You’re talking to a 5000-year-old demigoddess, Mari, I don’t think she’s gonna relate.

- MARI YOU CAN’T CONFESS TO ADRIEN. NOT AFTER CHAT BLANC. GABE WILL LOSE ALL HIS CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT TO WRECK THE LOVE SQUARE AND ALSO THE MOON’S GOING TO EXPLODE. WHY ISN’T BUNNIX HERE TO SLAP THE TABLET OUT OF YOUR HANDS

- Should Tikki really be encouraging this?! I have no idea where in the timeline this is supposed to be. Maybe this is at a stage where she doesn’t know Adrien is Plagg’s chosen so there’s no reason to steer Marinette away from bonding with him. Or maybe every episode just plays by its own rules and there’s really no such thing as continuity in this series. I want to see Felix again.

- YANKING AT AN ELECTRONIC DEVICE ON THE OUTER EDGE OF A BOAT ISN’T GOING TO END WELL. DON’T. I do love how :D Alya is about it though, if nothing else I love what a supportive friend she is.

- Oh, the tablet didn’t go into the water! I’m genuinely surprised by that. Though I imagine Felix is going to fuck things up in some way so he’ll probably be the one to destroy the video somehow. We all know the relationship development isn’t allowed to move forward so SOMETHING’S going to happen to it.

- Thank god we’re back to the mansion. I’m surprised and pleased that (for now at least) we’re only getting the girls in small doses and the plot is mainly focused around the Agrestes. Gorizilla is my favourite episode to date and it did a similar thing with allowing Marinette to be a side character for once along an Adrien-centric plotline, so hopefully this episode will be similar. I’m liking its odds so far but who knows what Horrible Garbage Man Astruc has up his sleeve.

- “I’m really sorry I didn’t come to your dad’s funeral.” I’M SORRY WHAT? PARDON ME? THAT’S AN ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM I DIDN’T EXPECT. As a side note I love Felix being killer at basketball for some reason, he doesn’t look like the athletic type at ALL but he still made that net over his shoulder without even LOOKING. Goddamn. Can everyone please appreciate how cool my son is!!!

- “My father thought it would be too hard on me, considering everything that’s happened this year.” So Felix lost his dad VERY RECENTLY. OUCH. DON’T LIKE THAT. Or I DO like that because it’s already giving his character some extra depth when we’re still only just getting to know him, but on an emotional level I don’t like that. 

- “He’s very... protective of me.” CHAT BLANC REALLY WAS A HOT MESS OF AN EPISODE WASN’T IT. 

- Now Felix is giving Adrien a hug?! I didn’t see that one coming. My canon Felix would mean it but I don’t quite trust this new Felix yet, he’s probably up to something.

- WHAT A JARRING PIANO TRANSITION. Also why?! What does he have to gain from swiping Adrien’s phone? He’s probably got a terrible roaming plan on his own mobile, that’s always my problem when I go to France. If you truly loved your cousin you’d let him browse Reddit on your phone, Adrien. This is worse than not coming to his dad’s funeral.

- PLAGG KNOWS SOMETHING’S UP. He ought to, in another life he and Felix are STILL dealing with each other.

- Okay I take back what I said about Felix’s voice. Bryce Whatshisface isn’t doing a very good job separating the tones. I can buy that Adrien and Felix sound very similar but their delivery should be completely different! I really do want to watch this in French, I get the feeling it’ll sound much better.

- AH YES, HERE WE GO. I’m getting the feeling this is Garbage Man’s part of the episode. Squished cheese aside, I do like the implication Felix does (or did) card magic and karate. I’m thinking of that Mickey Mouse episode where he vanishes Donald’s car keys with a hand trick except it’s Felix vanishing Marinette’s phone when she’s about to text Adrien or something. I’ve got to draw that.

- “Mind if I take a shower?” WHY, FELIX. I mean I’d probably want to shower too after the London-Paris commute (and I’m sure he’s only going in there to wreak havoc, put food colouring in Adrien’s shampoo bottles or something) but what a weird time to ask!

- I mean Plagg has a point about difficult home situations not justifying bad behaviour (and I feel like that’s not what’s going on, with how he was glaring at Gabe I think he’s behaving like this for some other reason), but Felix’s dad LITERALLY DIED. Like they had a funeral and everything. Emilie is just “missing”. They’re SIMILAR but that’s still a false equivalence because Adrien’s got hope to hold on to and Felix doesn’t.

- So we’re not going to talk about how Felix got into Adrien’s passcode-protected phone? I guess he could have done the fogging-up-the-screen trick from Oblivio. Standing around in a steamy bathroom in three layers of clothing is a great way to sweat yourself out and ruin your hair though, way to get even more gross than a five-hour commute between countries.

- “Of course that idiot has a crush on a superhero!” EASY THERE, MR HOWLING-ON-A-ROOFTOP-BECAUSE-HE-SAW-THE-GIRL-HE-LIKED. WE’VE ALL SEEN THE PV.

- I’ve just noticed Felix has a ring too! I don’t know how I missed that before this scene! That’s NICE. He’s still not allowed to have it on his middle finger (LET HIM SWEAR) but that’s a nod back to Chat Noir which I really appreciate!

- ROSE HAS BEEN ON THE HELIUM. SOMETHING’S NOT RIGHT THERE.

- FELIX KNOWS CHLOÉ! THAT’S NICE, THAT’S GOOD. I LIKE THAT. That’s also a really nice little video from her, I love the few small moments we’ve had that affirm she and Adrien really ARE friends, whether she wants to date him or not. 

- OOOH HE DELETED THE VIDEOS. I’m curious about him borrowing Adrien’s clothes too, are they going to dress the same? You’d think Adrien wouldn’t give someone an exact copy of the outfit he’s currently wearing but I genuinely don’t know if he owns anything different. I hope they don’t just use two Adrien models for the rest of the episode, please let me see Felix properly :/

- WHY. HONESTLY, WHY. CAN I PLEASE GET AN EXPLANATION FOR WHY FELIX IS DOING THIS.

- OOOH MARI YOU’RE NOT GONNA LIKE THIS. I can imagine Felix is going to say something nasty and that’ll set the girls off and bring about the akuma of the week. I’m mildly entertained but I’m still not engaged with this idea without any proper explanation. We’d better get something by the end of the episode which justifies what’s made Felix do this, because “he’s just evil lol” would be a reeeeally low move from Garbage Man Astruc. 

- MARI SWEETIE. YOU’VE GOTTA LEARN TO CHECK A ROOM IS EMPTY BEFORE YOU RUN INSIDE AND START FREAKING OUT VERY LOUDLY. LUKA’S HEARD ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING. 

- Luka is such a nice character. Why does he get to be so high quality when Felix has been turned into a cheese-smashing phone-stealing gremlin? I mean I KNOW why, but I’d like to think the showwriters are better than this. They’re not, but I’d like to think they are.

- WHAT A VIDEO MESSAGE. I love how Luka’s just sitting there grimacing while Mari speeds off into battle, he doesn’t know what she’s about to do but he knows better than to try stopping her.

- Back with Gabe and Nathalie. Is this what was being foreshadowed when Gabe claimed he wouldn’t be fooled by the boys’ identity switch twice? Is he GOING to be fooled again or will he be the one person who can tell immediately that this isn’t his son? 

- “FELIX.” WOW, HE REALLY WASN’T FOOLED TWICE. RESPECT. He may have trouble getting up off the ground if he sits down too low but he can at least identify his child in a difficult situation like this, props to Gabe this week.

- “All this disappointment might just help us get rid of our unwanted guests!” SHUT YOUR MOUTH, FELIX IS A DELIGHT. The only unwanted guest here is Astruc on the writing team.

- “Felix... I told you that you couldn’t fool me twice.” Way to blow your identity in five seconds Gabe. I guess he hasn’t sent out the akuma yet so this might just be a personal monologue, but he starts addressing his victims directly so often at this stage that I’m really not sure what they can or can’t hear. SHIT’S RISKY.

- OH OKAY, SO HE’S SENDING THIS TRIPLE AKUMA AFTER FELIX? AND/OR ADRIEN, DEPENDING ON HOW HARD IT IS TO TELL THEM APART? I guess that’s what he means by getting rid of their guests, if the house is attacked by a monster (or monsters?) they aren’t going to want to stick around, but I REALLY HOPE YOU’RE TAKING ADRIEN’S WELLBEING INTO ACCOUNT HERE GABE OL BUDDY :/

- “TIKKI, SPOTS ON! MNUURGH” ME TOO MARINETTE. I’M REALLY ONLY 12 MINUTES INTO THIS.

- I’m gonna be honest, I’m not really interested in the girls. I was hoping for a real triple akuma (like Oblivio was apparently Alya and Nino together) but they’re all just villains we’ve seen before. There’s stuff I could comment on here but I just want to see more of Felix, that’s what I’m here for.

- “Nathalie, get Adrien to a safe place far from his cousin!” YOU’RE REALLY JUST GONNA SACRIFICE FELIX LIKE THIS. I guess that makes sense, I WAS complaining during Chat Blanc that Adrien is Gabriel’s weak point, so all things considered I’m not surprised that he’ll protect Adrien but just flat-out wants Felix dead. Fair enough.

- WOW. I THOUGHT ADRIEN WAS GOING TO BE HEROIC AND DEFEND FELIX BUT HE WANTS HIM DEAD TOO. Or was that a double bluff to make the akuma think he MUST be Felix so he can lead them away and keep his cousin safe? He’s just run off with a wild cackle so I’m thinking it’s the latter. HE’S A GOOD BOY AND A TRUE HERO.

- I also find it kind of funny how Nathalie will jump in harm’s way to defend him when there have been INNUMERABLE other episodes of Gabe just setting an akuma directly on Adrien for the hell of it. Maybe because there isn’t really any ‘harm’ here to start with; the three girls’ powers are probably the least violent of all the akuma we’ve seen so far.

- AM I REALLY ABOUT TO SEE FELIX DRESSED AS ADRIEN DOING KARATE. I HOPE HE’S GOOD AT IT.

- OH MY GOD HE IS GOOD AT IT. That’s cool! I was expecting him to totally flop considering how badly his imposter trick went down a few minutes ago, but it’s nice to see he’s as capable at fighting as he is at basketball. When do I get to see his magic card tricks?

- YEAH I FEEL THE SAME PLAGG. WHAT’S EVEN HAPPENING. Not that I think Adrien shouldn’t save Felix, I just want to know WHY Felix felt like he had to do this in the first place! I feel like “can I PLEASE get a waffle” except instead of watching the employees fight I’m watching this episode careening away with no pauses to explain what’s going on.

- FELIX C’MON. STOP CAUSING PROBLEMS ON PURPOSE. I can tell Garbage Man Astruc still has the reins here because causing even MORE trouble even AFTER Adrien saved his ass is a completely illogical course of action. PUT SÉBASTIEN BACK IN THE WRITERS CHAIR.

- “WHICH PART OF THE WORD ‘NO’ DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?!” Oh perfect, great, can’t let this episode end without accusing Felix of not respecting consent! That’s a hot button issue and if Garbage Man Astruc can get him on that bandwagon then fans HAVE to hate this character! Great move! Fucking pillock!

- WOW CHAT THAT’S MEAN. I guess accusing Felix of having no friends is justified in the context of the episode but yikes :(

- Was that a flash of humiliation from Felix there? God will one of the writers PLEASE save this character, PLEASE don’t let this episode end without someone getting him out of the Garbage Man’s big meaty claws.

- Excuse me WHAT? Felix is talking directly to Papillon?! So he knows about all the Miraculous stuff?! Oh NO, is this about getting his dad back? I don’t know whether the One Wish is common knowledge (I don’t think it is?) but maybe Felix put the pieces together on his own back home, so all his behaviour here has been trying to incite an akuma that he can take advantage of to appeal to Papillon?! Or he could just be a bitch all on his own, which is probably what the Garbage Man would prefer, but this makes a lot of sense all of a sudden.

- BRO HE NEARLY DIED. BRO. BROOO.

- “I hope you’ve learned your lesson!” YOU’RE NOT EVEN GONNA ASK ABOUT THE PAPILLON THING? YOU CAN’T JUST TREAT THIS AS A REGULAR DISTURBANCE, FELIX KNOWS SHIT ABOUT THE MIRACULOUS YOU GUYS--

- FELIX’S MOM IS REALLY GOING TO BLAME HIS DEAD DAD FOR THIS? HARD YIKES. NO WONDER FELIX IS WEIRD.

- I’m expecting this isn’t over, because Felix still clearly wants something specific that he didn’t get, but I’ll take this cute hug for what it is. He didn’t have an evil expression behind Adrien’s back this time either and the music is all soft and nice, plus he FINALLY got a handshake from Gabe, but I absolutely do NOT imagine this episode will end without getting an extra shot in at the PV fans somehow. We’re not getting off this easy.

- Why doesn’t Gabriel want Adrien to go after Felix? Is he scared he’ll try to run off, or ask them to stay longer when he really wants to get rid of them?

- AHAHA FELIX STOLE GABE’S RING. WHAT A BRAT. Was that the “jewelry” he mentioned wanting in return for helping Papillon? I figured it was a Miraculous thing but maybe not.

- OHHH, look how much Felix loves his mom! This is such a sweet scene. I particularly like the idea that Amelie was trying to get the rings back to give one to Felix because the way she was speaking to Gabe made it sound like she wanted them Just Because. But you can’t mention some wild story connected to the rings and then not explain it! I want to know what that is, I want to know why Felix is so fascinated with it!!!

- ALSO, FELIX GETTING A BIG KISS RIGHT ON THE FOREHEAD. EXCELLENT. I’ll fucking BET this is another scene Sébastien sneaked in because it’s such an emotional quality shift from the whole clone mess. Like what the fuck even WAS that.

- Yep, Felix is still evil! WHY THOUGH. WHAT’S GOING ON. CAN I PLEASE GET A WAFFLE

- I was expecting a worse ending, but “Felix can’t ever come back to Paris because Gabriel will kill him with his bare hands if he does” is decent enough. If there’s no further confirmation (and NO, anything Garbage Man Astruc tweets later on does NOT fucking count so don’t try me) I’m going to take it that he WAS actually sorry for what he did to Adrien. That’s better than nothing.

.

.

WELL THAT WAS AN EPISODE. That actually wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be - it could have been a lot better but it could have been a lot worse too. The beginning and end were nice enough even if the middle part was Garbage Man Astruc’s usual atrocious mess of self-service, though I do particularly despise the hamfisted consent issue shoved in there just to generate extra reasons to hate the character. WE GET IT, YOU DON’T LIKE FELIX. OFF YOU FUCK. 

I’ve slept on this next paragraph to give myself time to formulate some concrete thoughts about the plot, so... Well, it was a mess, that’s for sure. They spent way too much time establishing how oH sO eViL Felix was and not nearly enough time actually explaining his character. 

Why is he acting out like this? What has he got against Adrien in particular? Is he really sore about Adrien not supporting him at his dad’s funeral or is that just what Adrien thinks is his problem? What was his relationship with his dad before he died? Was his troublemaking all about trying to provoke an akuma and ask Papillon to help him get his family rings back (which he was clearly trying to steal from the moment he walked through the door, only Gabe wouldn’t shake his hand the first time), or was that just a side effect of causing shit for no reason? Did he mean his apology to Adrien at the end? WHAT was the deal with the rings and the story attached to them? There’s a whole interesting story buried in here which just got completely overlooked by the emphasis on how terrible he was and that’s really disappointing. 

I did like his damaged-but-still-good relationship with Adrien though, there’s still hope there and maybe Felix (if he ever shows up again, which I only hope he does if it’s NOT another excuse for Garbage Man Astruc to shit on the PV fandom again, for the love of FUCK don’t give this guy multiple opportunities) will start coming around and making the effort to be a better cousin since Adrien’s given him a second chance. I don’t know. What I liked just as much was Marinette actually barely being in this episode at all, for the first time since Gorizilla she’s ALLOWED to be the supporting character again and that’s GREAT.

I don’t really know what else to say. I’m exhausted. Adrien’s a darling and I think I prefer my Twin AU, though canon Felix being a delightful little gremlin who causes problems-on-purpose is something I can work with in the future too. 

Thanks for coming on this... interesting journey with me! I posted a set of tweets last night which I’ll leave here to finish up:

[inkribbon796]

Dr. Strangelove and Ticking Timebombs Ch. 2: Slippery Fingers

Summary: A strange container, strange meet-ups and zero coincidences.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3

When the heroes got to the warehouse, they were stopped by the bomb squad and several individuals in full hazmat gear walking around. Abe was sitting on a bench and rubbing his temples, Oliver was standing next to him. His vape in his hand.

Which surprised Logan because Oliver usually didn’t travel this far from the base.

“What happened, did the situation get worse?” Logan asked.

“You could say that,” Abe rubbed his face and stood up. “I was planning on showing you what was in that container in person, but Bing was in some camera feed and he called Brighton’s Health and Safety, and they came with fucking hazmat suits. Then he came in and started clearing people out.”

“Why?” Logan asked in confusion.

“Lo,” Bing shot out of the closest electrical panel, “there you are. An’ Marvin, perfect, I was about ta call you.”[1]

“Yeh wanted me an’ Logic?”[2] Marvin asked in confusion.

“Yeah,” Bing answered. “So you can’t go inta the warehouse, they’re still sortin’ out the pitchblende an’ findin’ what else got contaminated.”[3]

“Excuse me, did you say “pitchblende” why is that here?” Logan demanded.

“What’s pitchblende?” Tommy asked

“It’s a radioactive ore,” Logan explained. “Uranium-235 and Uranium-238 can both be synthesized from the ore to build nuclear reactors, but why is it here?”

“Why are you guys here then?” Silver asked.

“Well the ship’s manifesto caused some red flags to get raised,” Abe answered. “Some good Samaritan called the cops and pulled the container to the side. But instead of there being people in the cargo, there were some crates. And one of them was a lead box full of what Bing identified as pitchblende. He was watching us through some camera because he was bored, or some shit. And I’m glad he did because he saw what was in the box when my partner lifted some of it out and he cleared all of us out instantly. He was looking out for us.”

“Do we know where this shipment was supposed to go after it reached port?” Logan asked.

“Apparently a truck was supposed ta[4] come fer[5] it last night,” Bing answered. “But they pulled the container an’[6] no one saw a truck pull up fer[5] it. So I bet it scared ‘em[7] off.”

“I believe you might be right,” Logan decided. Then he looked at Abe. “Was there a name orva destination?”

“Just a name, a Tuberculosis Gadget,” Abe read with the type of smile he usually had just before he hit someone . . . typically that someone was Wilford. “I’ve seen some bad fake names, but this one is pretty up there.”

“Tuberc—” Tommy repeated in recognition.

Which immediately got Abe and Logan’s attention.

“That name ring a bell, kid?” Abe asked.

“I’m not a kid,” Tommy shot back.

“Whatever big guy,” Abe rolled his eyes. “Do you know the name or not?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know why it would show up here,” Tommy shrugged. “Don’t know what Tubs would want with somethin[8] radioactive. He’s a lawyer, not some crazy maniac.”

“Does he have other aliases, do you know this individual’s name?” Logan demanded.

Tommy hesitated for a second before he opened his mouth, but Ghostbur had started glancing around, half bored and half unable to put his concentration on any one thing for too long.

As the other heroes were trying to get information from Tommy, Ghostbur spotted two people off in the distance, watching them. He was so excited he spoke without thinking. “Tubbo? Hey Big Man, look, it’s Tubbo and Jack.”

The heroes looked at the two people just inside the cordoned off area. One was a man with a shaved head and red and blue glasses, the other was a much shorter man with a fluffy vest and brown hair that covered his eyes and most of the burns on his face. The second figure had a set of curled goat horns coming from his forehead.

“Tubbo?” Logan repeated in surprise, recognizing the burns.

Abe startled a bit, “Excuse me, but this is an active crime scene investigation, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Ghostbur, what are you doin’[9] here?” Tubbo asked before his eyes scanned the crowd before he just stared at Tommy. “Tommy, why the fuck are you workin’[10] with these assholes?”

Tommy sputtered in surprise, as the other heroes braced to intervene, “I am not some common pleb named “Tommy” or some such shit.”

“Tommy, don’t be a fuckin’[11] idiot,” Tubbo shouted. “I know it’s you, I’ve known you fer[5] fuckin’[11] years. You’ve only covered half yer damn face, an’[6] you didn’t even try to even talk deeper at the very least. You’re shit at hidin’[12] yer[13] identity.”

Tommy paused for a second or two, then said in a deeper voice, “I am not Tommy.”

“That’s worse, mate,” Jack Manifold told him, rolling his eyes behind his 3D-colored glasses. “Please use yer[13] normal voice. That one’s just complete dogshit.”

“Well fuck you too,” Tommy scowled, his tone a touch quieter.

Logan’s head was spinning, unable to reconcile the young man at the bed and breakfast who loved bees, with this same young man arguing in front of him. His whole body felt on edge. “Did you order this shipment?”

“Yer[14] gonna half to be specific,” Tubbo asked with a smile. “I order a lot ‘a[15] things.”

Jack looked at the amount of heroes, “Maybe we should just—”

“Save it, you can go, but I’m not goin’[16] anywhere,” Tubbo warned with almost an angry growl to his voice.

“This is an investigation, you can’t just be here,” Silver warned.

“Were you here to pick up a shipment from dock 14?” Logan asked.

“The one with my new smoke detectors an’[6] lanterns?” Tubbo smiled.

The other heroes were confused, but Abe and the androids weren’t.

“That’s not the only thing in there you sick fuck,” Abe spat.

“So it is yours?” Logan reeled a bit, Tubbo’s smile didn’t drop. “I don’t understand, you own a bed and breakfast, what on Earth do you want with Uranitie?”

“Ehhh, science marches on, big guy,” Tubbo shrugged.

“This not just for the sake of science,” Logan rebutted, a desperate tone to his voice. “This is a potential ecological and natural disaster waiting to happen. What do you intend for these items?”

Tubbo’s answer was given with terrifying calm, “To prove a point, really.”

“Ta[4] us?” Marvin gestured to them. “We get it, yeh[17] wanna be some big scary threat. We’ve faced worse.”

“Nah,” Tubbo dismissed. “You’re still human. Don’t care what you think ‘a[15] me.”

Then he gestured to Logan, “I meant ta[4] them.”

“Me?” Logan scoffed in disbelief as the pads of his fingers tapped once to his chest. “I thought you proved your point more than effectively at your establishment. But clearly I was gravely misinformed about your character.”

“I meant demons in general,” Tubbo dismissed. “Don’t take it personally. Although speaking ‘a[15] you, how lifelike are yer[13] little arms because the one that liked spiders had a whole personality an’[6] everythin’[15]. Did you give him that or is he naturally that skiddish. Hope it’s the second one because that’s seriously fucked up, dude.”

“The—” Logan felt alarm pass through him, he hadn’t been aware that Virgil and Tubbo had done more than look at each other across the game room of the bed and breakfast. “When did you speak with him?”

Tubo’s entire demeanor seemed to change. “The purple one? Can you not see everythin’[18] the others do?”

The skin and hair on Logan’s body stood on end, as if one current was going through him, “I think you must have confused me with someone else.”

“That depends on if you’re still the one who said you liked my bees,” Tubbo asked.

“I don’t think it wise of me to give my identity to you,” Logan warned.

Tubbo nodded, “Then tell yer[13] boss that Dream wants to speak to him. Has fer[5] a while now, we just haven’t been able to get past his door guards.”

Tubbo and Jack then looked up at something.

“Well, I think you’ve all made yer[13] point clear so you win an’[6] get to keep my stuff,” Tubbo shrugged. “G.G, we’ll just be off then.”

“No wait a second,” Abe ordered as Jack and Tubbo pulled out some green eye orbs and were already turning.

“Give me those!” Marvin yelled as the heroes raced forward. The orbs went sailing as Silver and Marvin raced for the two of them. Marvin grabbed onto Tubbo’s arm. “Yer not goin’ anywhere yeh—”[19]

The eyes opened and Silver flew back in surprise but Marvin didn’t and felt something rip Tubbo right out of his grasp.

Marvin screamed in pain as all of his fingers broke and the two people were gone.

“Fook!”[20] Marvin shouted in pain, holding his hand. “Motherfooker!”[21]

“Marv,” Silver began. “I’ll call the docs.”

Marvin screamed as he tried to keep his fingers still. “No, I’ll go after, we need ta[4] find these guys.”

“****!”[22] Bing cursed. “When did someone ****[20] with the cameras?”

“What?” Abe shouted and raced back into the warehouse. Logan was already on the phone with Henrik for Marvin.

Tommy and Ethan were a bit torn on who to go with for a bit but he shouted for Tommy to start getting into communication with Jackie and the other heroes.

Bing and Oliver were faster into the warehouse, keeping Abe out until they were sure it was clear. When the two androids got inside they saw several agents and hazmat workers lying dead around the facility. Arrows sticking out of some of them, bullet holes in others, and one or two of them had three lined up puncture wounds like they’d been stabbed with a trident or a multiple-pronged weapon like it.

Besides the dead people, the boxes were all missing. There were a few stray smoke detectors and a lantern or two that had been thrown by the wayside and were probably broken. But the lead boxes were gone, as were the box of magical crate

Bing tested the radioactive signature on the air and still found it slightly contaminated and therefore unsafe.

“Hey Bing,” Oliver messaged the other android.

“Yeah?” Bing replied as he was messaging Abe and giving him pictures and a report of the situation.

“Found something,” Oliver held up a small box that had come from the crate of magical supplies. Bing took a few pictures of it before opening the box and found that someone from the investigation team had already started labeling it. It was full of chunks of raw coconut.

“Weird,” Bing commented, taking more pictures and then placing the box in a radioactive-leak proof container so they could decontaminate it later.

They had missing radioactive material to find.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Accessibility Translations:

1. there you are. And Marvin, perfect, I was about to call you.

2. You wanted me and Logic?

3. So you can’t go into the warehouse, they’re still sorting out the pitchblende and finding what else got contaminated

4. to

5. for

6. and

7. them

8. something

9. doing

10. working

11. fucking

12. hiding

13. your

14. You’re

15. of

16. going

17. you

18. everything

19. You’re not going anywhere you—

20. Fuck!

21. Motherfucker!

22. Shit!

[salemroleplayhq]

❝You aren’t much, I said one day to my reflection in a green pond, and grinned.❞

MEET…

Johnathan Adamik 

Age: 36 

Birthday: April 23rd, 1984 

Gender/Pronouns: Cis-male / he/him 

Hometown: Great Bend, Kansas 

Length of time in Salem: 1.5 years 

Occupation: Fisherman 

Faceclaim: Jake Gyllenhaal

HIS STORY

trigger warnings: child abandonment, military mention, death mention, attempted murder, near-death

His first name implies nothing, and his last, maybe even less. John: a colorless everyman name, when it's called, it doesn't make a sound, it's an echo.

It's a name that has claimed him from its genesis through the mouth of a father who seemed to name him by coincidence. What was an accident of noise to the passive ear of a god was the first voice that reverberated in his head. An echoing permanence he'd always answer to even after his father leaves him, his siblings and mother behind.

Just as the conception he'd been named, his father leaving was merely another incident, even if the tightly coiffured women that his mother flocks with on Sundays were domestically inclined to imply something else. Some kind of implicit tragedy under the speckle-clouds of their powdered sympathetic humor (little boy, big man, you’re not making trouble are you, you’re takin’ good care of your momma ain’t ya, little man of the house now…). It doesn't matter though, like most things in life, noise and all- that's how it goes. If you couldn't accept it, either way, it will make sense of itself regardless, and to him that's enough to be made of living.

How things go is how his mother charts the life that continues on beyond the stagnant echoes. And how could she not? The day after his father left, his mother, red faced - the color flushed to a forgotten youthfulness in her cheeks - crams the last box into an old rat colored clunker of a car. She'd decided that they were going to have to move to someplace smaller and though he doesn't remember what he'd said, it must’ve been something childish. But he remembers her eyes, darkly translucent and certain, looking at him when she goes well baby that’s just how some things go, don’t it?, echoes of unnamed prairie borderlands in her accent as it liked to remind itself to her sometimes. Only twenty-four, four children, and nothin’ else much to her name besides the car on a countdown to a wreckage (and that would’ve been a real tragedy), far away where she didn't quite belong in a town with nothing much but the sluicing river naming it. Great Bend, Nowhere.

After that, with a sense of resigned certainty is how he carries on with his life, the way most would in a living where days were another day after each, when they can barely afford to simply be let alone live beyond each one. Being smart enough, and being that ambition for as long as he'd understood it - past a time when he could stand in class to mumble I-umm--want-to-be-a-doctor-or-scientist-or… - was not something that could be afforded. Like his mother said, that's how some things go. So it goes that as soon as he could, he marched up to a recruiter- some matchbox patriot salesman of the hour on a quota beat, to be signed and shipped off without the complimentary pitch.

Then continuing on, to march with the rest of the other canned green tin men, distinguished in the patina of the Navy. In the blind, geared maws of The Machine though, every batch is the same. Being a tin man among other green tin men at the bidding of pressed suits assembling a conveyor tongue belt of necessary wars. It's necessary in wars that there must be a creed, streamlined from the veined hands into the synthesized consciousness of the tin men they move so the job (and it is just a job to him) comes assumed with ambition (that isn't his) because wars require dignity to be justified and it is presumed that having ambition dignifies. What else is more dignifying than a man who dies for it? If he were to argue, he'd say it's not ambition that dignifies, it's dying that does, but throughout the years the hands that pull the levers and turn the bolts of The Machine will occasionally drape a flag over a casket and say this is why it’s necessary.

So life goes on, more things that whatever else could be said- or wouldn't be said by him- simply happens. Deployments. Cycles of shittiness. Waiting and more waiting. Then the lapses in between, incidents made into whisky-blather fodder at a shithouse bar during happy hours. Then there are days when he's alone that he feels as if he'd woken up from an embryonic coma, realizing he's got hands that carry everyone's will but his own. Duty had become him. He'd once heard a chaplain drone on that service to man is service to god, but there's not much of god in the places he's been and still he's only got his hands.

One day he wakes up again after returning from a deployment, and wakes up to nothing. Nothing to return to either. It's less a delayed epiphany and more of a clarity that couldn't be ignored- finally seeing and not just looking behind peering half-lids. After living half-asleep, years of answering others to a name given to him from someone with a severed chord, he leaves the Navy. Distinguished, but not in any way that will say anything about him. Not anything that really means.

When he thinks of epiphanies- tries to picture them- it starts as a nacreous core, undefined, bursting outwards into a vague sensation that meant it was already too late. When he thinks of epiphanies he sees a bullet.

They'd called him Saint.

When he was still tinted with the dress fatigue greens he'd been diseased by a strain of prodromal benevolence that degenerated into terminal cynicism. Because you can't be a saint without looking at your fellow men to be able to say you still recognize them.

And he did look at the one that shot him, and he understood. Because to look is to still recognize in spite of your fellow man, and betrayal isn't hard to understand because it's one of the oldest acts in the history of humanity.

So a particular day goes that he's: ratfucked, someone gets angry wrong, the right person has a gun, so the tip of his right ear gets blown off, and he isn't meant to be alive. Then it follows that he disappears before someone learns to correct their mistake- scrounging up whatever measure of life he still had into a bag and a truck and no definite destination besides a road that will go and go. From one place to the next.

He ends up in Salem eventually, where the epiphanies are no longer like the ones he'd come to know- they're more like the afterwaves of one, like trying to familiarize to a place that will always be unfamiliar, ripples from somewhere in the vastness. At least here it's the right place for lingering ghosts. There aren't really days of waiting, more like something else that waits for him. Either way, they're days he can call his own- a kind of living, at least, and besides- people usually don't think to ask what else a fisherman is.

PERSONALITY

+   conscientious, dependable, patient

-   cynical, stubborn, reticent  

Johnathan is played LIFFI

[sareyen]

Das Haus am See: The Lake House Cherik AU (Part 3/3)

Read on ao3

A Lake House Cherik AU: Charles and Erik both lived in the lake house, Charles in 2017, and Erik in 2019. By magic or fate, the two find out that the house’s letter box is able to send letters through time - and, in doing so, the two fall in love despite living in two different years. They vow to meet in the future, but fate is fickle, and time waits for no one.

Chapter 3

Charles stared at the screen of his computer, page blank. There was a half-drained bottle of scotch resting beside him, and pages of crumpled and torn note paper was strewn across his desk and oak floors – papers covered with desperate apologies that Charles had only just stopped sending to Erik through the letter box.

A week had passed, and the letter box was full to bursting with the numerous letters Charles left there, hoping that Erik would read them – any of them. Each day, Charles wrote handfuls of apologies, pleas and wishes, praying that he could hear the familiar phantom scrape of the letter box’s red flag and see the letters disappear two years into the future.

But Erik had been true to his word – he hadn’t come back to the lake house again.

When Charles saw the pile of forgotten letters through the haze of his hopeless gaze, he felt his blue eyes grow wet again, slamming down the screen of his computer before dropping his face into his hands. He pressed hard against his eyes with the palms of his hands, trying to will the tears to stop, as if he were applying pressure over a stab wound.

Erik’s final letter had felt like a stab wound, in the end, and had left Charles bleeding.

Charles had spent the majority of the week drinking his sorrows away and berating a version of himself that didn’t even exist yet. Charles had laughed bitterly, never hating himself more than he had in that moment. Charles hated the him living two years in the future, a version of himself that was as much a stranger to him as the nameless people he passed on the street.

Hours passed until Charles opened his laptop again, steeling himself as he tried to write – to finish Max and Wesley’s story.

Charles Wesley clung to the letters from Erik Max like they were his tether to everything that was real – because, to Wesley, there was nothing more real to him than Max. Max’s mind was a beacon, a light house saving Wesley from crashing onto the rocks. Before Max, Wesley had been floating aimlessly, adrift and lost.

It was when Wesley met the man beyond time that everything seemed to make sense, that Wesley began to find his purpose. With Max, Wesley finally felt like he wasn’t alone.

But, Max was not a man who believed in love so easily. Unlike Wesley, who was optimistic and filled to the brim with unadulterated hope, Max was a pragmatist, a realist and cynical in nature. Max was not one to easily believe that Wesley’s affections were strong enough to stand against time, even if Wesley himself knew the true magnitude of his longing, his pining – of his love.

Wesley did not know how to make Max hear his voice. With the seemingly insurmountable wall of two years between them, Wesley could scream and scream, but Max could not hear him, his head and his heart blocked by barriers of impenetrable steel.

How could Charles get Erik to hear him?

Charles looked at the clock on his desk, and it was well past midnight now. The lake outside was still and quiet, so silent it was almost eerie. The sound of cicadas punctuated the silence outside, alongside the occasional creak of the rafters as wind tugged at the walls of the lake house.

Getting up from his desk, his laptop left open to his novel without an ending, Charles walked outside with the bottle of scotch and planted himself by the edge of the lake. The night was crisp, but Charles warmed himself up with the burning slide of liquid amber down his throat.

Charles wondered if Erik ever sat by the lakeside like this, looking out over the expanse of water from the same vantage point as Charles did now. Have they ever appreciated the same view? If they have, Charles could begin to pretend that Erik was sitting beside him, looking in the same direction.

“Why did I abandon you?” Charles whispered to no one, his question responded to by cicadas and the wind. “I don’t understand… I would never abandon you, Erik.”

Charles drained the rest of the scotch, feeling light headed and heavy at the same time, and let himself fall back onto the plush grass. As Charles stared up at the stars, they stared right back at him, judging and questioning.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Charles grumbled at Cassiopeia, the constellation seeming to roll her eyes back at him. “I’m not lying. I’d never leave Erik like that. Never.”

Soon, Charles’s vision began to swim, the alcohol and his fatigue overtaking him.

‘Yes, I’d never leave you like that, Erik.’

‘I’ll find you.’

***

“You don’t look too good, Sugar.”

Erik didn’t even bother to lift his head from where he was staring into his now-cold coffee in the break room, sensing Emma slide into her usual seat across the table from him, white tailored suit filling Erik’s periphery.

“Not in the mood, Emma,” Erik grunted, finally taking a sip of his coffee.

“No, you’re definitely not. Your mood is terrible, it’s making all the new interns consider dropping out because you terrifying them,” Emma said, Erik looking up at her with weary eyes rimmed with dark circles. Emma just raised a brow as her cool eyes flicked up and down her co-worker, before letting out an irritating, all-knowing hum as if she could read Erik like a book.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Erik said, Emma smiling.

“Of course you don’t. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Come on, Erik. Sometimes it helps to get things off your chest, instead of bottling in all of those feelings you so abhor,” Emma pushed, Erik glaring at her. Emma was undeterred, leaning forwards a little in her seat. “Erik, we’re friends – at least, I consider us friends. Talk to me, I’m worried. Frankly, you haven’t been like this since… you know.”

Emma waved her hands around vaguely, but her insinuations were more than vague, the unspoken word divorce lingering in the air.

“I really don’t want to talk about him, Emma,” Erik said, Emma snapping her finger.

“Ah, so it’s about a him? I see.”

“Emma.”

“Erik,” Emma countered, rolling her eyes and tugging up her white sleeves. “I’ve seen you. You were always a workaholic, and I’m going to be blunt, but that’s part of what made things fall apart with Magda. Of course, there were other things, but let’s not pretend that your work wasn’t a part of it. But lately, over the past month, you’ve always been leaving the office on time on Fridays, and that Wednesday the other week. You never leave work early, and especially not when Shaw has given you so much to do. It’s obvious that you met someone, and I was honestly glad for you. You’ve seemed… happier, as of late, Sugar. And we both know you haven’t been happy in a long time.”

Erik stared at his co-worker – his friend – who was just giving him a look which told Erik that it was pointless to argue. Emma, as always, was right – and far too observant for Erik’s liking.

“If you know so much already, Emma, then you know better than to ask me anything else,” Erik responded with a grimace, sinking into his chair. Emma just sighed, rolling her eyes.

“I wouldn’t ask anything else if you didn’t look so depressed, Erik. Ever since last weekend, you’ve looked like a kicked puppy. Did things fall through with your new guy?”

What could fall through, when nothing ever started?

“There was nothing there to begin with,” Erik grumbled, shrugging. “We… We had only met once.” And I didn’t even remember it.

Emma blinked.

“Sugar, you met this guy once and he’s got you moping around like this? Damn, I want to meet this guy who managed to do this to the great Erik Lehnsherr.”

“It’s… complicated,” Erik said, biting his lip. “We… we talked. Through letters. We wrote letters to each other, and met once – a coincidence, really. At least, I think it was, on my part at least.”

“When did you meet him? Is that why you look like a kicked puppy now? The real thing didn’t match up to the person in the letters? And… letters? Really, Erik? How antiquated.”

“The letters were… I’m not even going to bother explaining it to you. And no, he-” didn’t show up. He abandoned me. “No, we met two years ago, right before Magda and I… I didn’t really remember, but we started talking through letters about a month ago and… Ugh. Anyway, it’s complicated, and long story short, we made plans and he didn’t show up. So that’s that,” Erik said, Emma sighing.

“Ah, so you got stood up. That must hurt, Sugar,” Emma said, before pausing. “But wait, so you met two years ago, but only now started talking again? You said you forgot him – he must have remembered you, though? To start talking to you again?”

Erik snorted at that – of course Charles remembered, he had just lived it, while it was two years in the past for the lawyer. Charles was still in 2017, and as much as he promised Erik he would weather time for him, he hadn’t.

“It’s too complicated to explain, but it’s over now. I ended it, and… and it’s for the better. He has his life, I have mine,” Erik said, Emma tilting her head to the side, scrutinising him before getting up from her chair to pat Erik’s shoulder once. The action reminded Erik of the balcony and Charles, how the once-stranger had comforted Erik in a similar manner.

Erik’s heart ached.

“Love is complicated, Sugar,” Emma said, giving Erik a small smile. “But, does this letter-writing ex-man of yours have a name?”

“Why do you want to know?” Erik asked, eyes narrowed. Emma just smiled, laughing a little.

“I did say that we were friends, did I not? I’d like to know the name of the person who stood you up in case I ever run into him. With my car,” Emma said, Erik letting out a snort at her ridiculous notion, but giving her a grateful look for her (potentially ill-directed) support.

“I don’t want him to be hurt, Emma. He… Charles had his reasons,” Erik said, Emma humming.

“Charles. Sounds like a pretentious prick,” Emma said, Erik barking out a laugh at that.

“I thought so too, at first. I mean, ‘Charles Xavier’ – I really shouldn’t have been surprised to find out that he has a posh English accent,” Erik said, Emma freezing.

“What did you say, Erik?” Emma asked, voice still.

“What?”

“Xavier? You said his name is Charles Xavier?”

“Yeah?” Erik said, frowning now, confused by Emma’s odd reaction. The woman rarely looked thrown, but right now she was gazing at Erik with a foreign look. “What is it, Emma?”

“No, it’s probably just a very scary coincidence. I mean, Charles is a common enough name, and I could have heard wrong, and it wouldn’t be surprising if there was more than one Charles Xavier in New York…” Emma said, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

“Emma, I don’t get what you’re trying to say,” Erik said, standing from his seat now to level himself with Emma.

“No, it’s just that, you know the case Shaw is working right now?”

“The Francis Graymalkin one, of course I know. Shaw hasn’t shut up about it for the past few weeks,” Erik responded, Emma nodding.

“Yes, well Francis Graymalkin was just the man’s pen name, a pseudonym,” Emma said, and Erik let out a grunt of knowing.

“I know. The man’s sister is the one who hired Shaw, right? Because their step-father and brother are trying to weasel their way into Francis Graymalkin’s inheritance. Her name was something Darkholme, so I figured Francis Graymalkin was a pseudonym – he’s probably called Francis Darkholme, or something of the like,” Erik said, Emma shaking her head.

“See, that’s the thing. Erik, Francis Graymalkin’s real name is Charles Xavier.”

***

Charles woke up the day after with a headache and a chill in his bones – falling asleep on the grass outside had made Charles awaken with a scratch in his throat and lungs that felt two sizes too big for his chest.

Still, Charles remembered the dream he had that night – of driving to NYC, of banging on Erik’s door, his pregnant wife be damned. In his dream, Charles had been selfish, pulling Erik into a molten kiss that sent his heart into spasms, his toes curling in his shoes. In his dreams, Erik hadn’t tasted of cigarettes but of scotch, heady and warm.

The Erik in his dreams had murmured a sigh against Charles’s lips, saying “Gott, Charles. What took you so long?” before tilting his head to slot his lips closer to Charles, devouring him in body and spirit.

People were always bolder in dreams; maybe it was a subconscious understanding that dreams couldn’t hurt you, and that they weren’t real. Dreams weren’t real, but they reflected Charles’s innermost desires. He wanted Erik, and he knew he wanted him, more than he has wanted anything before in his life.

Erik had said in his final letter that, since Charles hadn’t shown up to any of their planned meetings, that he clearly didn’t want Erik. That Charles couldn’t wait two years. Charles hadn’t believed him, but Erik knew the future better than Charles.

So, if it was true, and for some reason Charles couldn’t wait, why did he have to?

Erik said that he had to live his life, and maybe Charles should do the same. He should find Erik, talk to him like he did at the wedding. Yes, Erik had a wife that was with child, but Charles knew how that would turn out. Charles abhorred his own selfish and distasteful thoughts, but he couldn’t help them – Charles never wished such tragedy and misfortune upon any one, least of all Erik, but he couldn’t help but want a man who was taken.

At least, in 2017.

But oh, Erik. Erik. Charles couldn’t give up on Erik like that. Not Erik, who inspired Charles, who made him feel and live and want to live.

Charles rallied his determination, and peeled himself off the grass. Charles showered and shaved, and tamed his slightly over-grown mop of chestnut hair as much as he could. He brushed his teeth and ironed his clothes, pulling on his most comforting cardigan that he wore like armour.

Then, Charles picked up the keys to his rust-bucket car and gingerly tucked Erik’s The Once and Future King under his arm, thumb rubbing against the worn paperback.

As he walked to his car, Charles checked the letter box like he did every day, and found that it was still empty.

‘I’ll find you, Erik. Here and now,’ Charles vowed silently, getting into his car with Erik’s book in the passenger seat.

‘I’ll return your book to you, in person. I vow to you that I won’t break this promise, unlike the me of the future, which broke them all.’

***

‘Francis Graymalkin’s real name is Charles Xavier.’

The words echoed around the empty darkness in Erik’s head.

Coincidence?

Fate?

“But, since the man has been dead for two years, it’s obviously just a scary coincidence that he shares the same name as your pen pal,” Emma said, Erik barely registering her words over the repeated chant in his head of ‘Francis Graymalkin’s real name is Charles Xavier’.

Logically, it had to be a coincidence. But, there was nothing logical about any of this – about Charles, about the letter box, about everything.

Erik didn’t say a word as he pushed past Emma and out of the break room, his numb legs taking him straight to Shaw’s office. Bursting in, Erik was glad to see that the man was not there.

Erik wasted no time, not hesitating for a moment, striding over to the files splayed out on Shaw’s desk. Francis Graymalkin’s – Charles Xavier’s – poorly-written will was on top. Legal documents from some people surnamed Marko, notes regarding Charles Xavier’s properties and financials were scattered across the mahogany tabletop.

Properties.

Erik sifted through the papers, seeing some documents of ownership for a house in England, a holiday home in Cuba and a sprawling estate just outside of New York. Among them was a document of ownership for an idyllic lake house made of red-brick and a roof topped with blue tiles.

Erik felt like his heart was in his throat as he picked up the document, eyes flitting down towards the signature at the bottom – an elegant scribble with wide, confident loops sat under a printed name, in hand-writing that Erik had seen time and time before.

Charles Xavier.

The name had the same swooping ‘C’, the same looped ‘l’, and the same curled ‘r’. Charles Xavier was written in the exact same way that Erik’s Charles signed his letters, letters that Erik had unwittingly engraved in his memory and heart. Erik would never mistake that handwriting.

Erik’s Charles was Charles Xavier, and Charles Xavier was Francis Graymalkin.

And Francis Graymalkin was dead.

Erik felt bile begin to rise up his throat.

Francis Graymalkin died two years ago.

That meant that Charles, Erik’s Charles, died two years ago too.

“Oh, Gott,” Erik choked out, hands dropping the stack of property papers in his hand as his heart plummeted, everything going blank.

Erik now knew why Charles hadn’t picked up the phone that day. Why Charles hadn’t surprised him in Central Park in person. Why Charles didn’t show up for dinner at Genosha last weekend.

How could he, when he was already dead?

Erik remembered everything – Charles had been so sure that he would never break his promise to Erik. He had been adamant that he could wait, that he was a patient and faithful man. Charles, who knew who Erik was on the balcony but didn’t give in to his own selfish notions, because Erik had a pregnant wife. Charles, who begged and pleaded for Erik to give him another chance. Charles, who loved Erik. The man never said it aloud in words, but screamed it between every line in each of his letters. Erik knew that Charles loved him, that he loved him enough to be willing to wait for two years.

The plaque on Erik’s bench in Central Park had asked Erik to wait for Charles to catch up.

But, Charles had always been the one waiting for Erik. Charles, who loved a man that hadn’t yet known that he existed, that hadn’t had the chance to fall in love with him just yet, because Erik hadn’t lived at the lake house until later, because he hadn’t received that first letter until after Charles was already buried beneath the ground.

And what had Erik said to him, in his last letter? He said that he couldn’t wait for Charles, that Charles didn’t feel as much as Erik did. That Charles couldn’t keep his promise, to meet Erik two years in the future.

While Charles had always whispered his love between the lines, Erik had accused him of abandoning him in the same spaces.

But Charles hadn’t abandoned him – hadn’t even been given a chance to choose to abandon Erik. No, Erik had abandoned Charles, and Charles had died.

Charles died thinking that Erik hated him. That Erik didn’t love him.

Erik never told Charles that he loved him.

Oh, Gott. Fuck. CharlesCharlesCharles. No.

Suddenly, the door to Shaw’s office opened, revealing the man and a slightly familiar woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Shaw asked, voice snapping. Erik didn’t even care that his boss was staring him down, absolutely livid once he noticed the messy papers on his desk that Erik had obviously rifled through. Erik was too busy staring at the blonde woman, who was just looking at Erik curiously, a large book bag hanging from her slender shoulders.

“Did you know Charles?” Erik asked the young woman dumbly, voice cracking. The girl frowned, but nodded.

“Yeah, he was my brother,” she said slowly, Erik’s heart cracking.

Was.

Erik suddenly lost all words, as well as his breath. The woman – Raven Darkholme – stared at Erik questioningly.

“Did you know my brot-”

“Erik, I said, what are you doing in my office?” Shaw said, cutting the woman off. Raven’s large eyes flashed with something akin to recognition.

“Erik? Your name is Erik?” Raven asked, stepping past Shaw towards the man of that name.

“Yeah,” Erik coughed out, Raven biting her lower lip. “Yeah, I’m… I’m Erik. And I know… knew… shit. I knew your brother. Charles. How did you… Did he tell you? About me?”

“He only mentioned you once, on the day he…” Raven said, suddenly swallowing, like she had a boulder in her throat. Coughing a little, the young woman continued.

“What happened?” Erik whispered, Raven blinking to get rid of the tears. It had been two years, but Charles’s death still hurt her – he was her only family, even if not by blood.

“He told me about you, how he had… met someone. He said he – you – were a lawyer, who lived in New York. And… And that he was going to see you, and said that he had to, even if you didn’t want to see him or even know him – I never understood that part – but then there was a car accident. It was raining, and Charles… Charles was tired and sick, feverish, and… and… a truck… The paramedics, they said that he was calling out ‘Erik’ when he…”

Charles was going to see Erik.

Charles died because he was going to see Erik.

Erik swayed on his feet a little, but did not collapse, even if it felt like his head was ringing.

“When?” Erik asked, voice stretched thin, simmering with panic. “When did Charles… die?”

“Wednesday, March 15, 2017, at 7:39pm. Two years ago today,” Raven said quickly, like she was reading from a book.

Francis Graymalkin died two years ago, on Wednesday the 15th of March, 2017.

That meant that Charles, Erik’s Charles, died that day too.

Today was Friday the 15th of March, 2019.

That meant that two years ago, Charles would die today.

“No,” Erik breathed out, rushing out of Shaw’s office. Shaw yelled at his retreating figure, Raven stared at him in confusion, and Emma’s eyes followed Erik’s form with disguised concern.

Erik was barely registering what his body was doing, and soon he found himself in his car and driving down the highway out of the city.

Like his body was being controlled by an outside presence, Erik drove to the lake house, where he had to tell Charles not to find him. To tell Charles that he would die if he did, to tell Charles that he should wait a little longer.

Wait for Erik a little longer, because Erik loved him.

Erik had to tell Charles that he loved him.

***

Charles’s cold took a turn for the worst about five hours into the drive. He pulled over for a short break, refuelling his car, using the restroom and buying himself a coffee to warm his throat and shivering body. It didn’t take long for Charles to get back on the road, headache building and throat churning out harsh, shoulder-wracking coughs.

Charles smiled sourly to himself – of course, the day he chooses to see Erik, he had to have a cold. Even if he had showered and blow-dried his hair and picked out clean and crisp clothes, his effort went out the window the moment he got sick – his cheeks were feverishly flushed and dark eye bags prominent. His nose was dribbling and his lips chapped, and he was hardly attractive in such a ragged state.

Still, Charles wasn’t banking on anything happening – it was 2017, and Erik was still married, and his wife still pregnant. Charles wasn’t going to push anything, not now. But, Charles could be there for the man, get to know him in person. They could become friends, and maybe, two years in the future, when Erik was no longer married and knew who Charles was, the author could tell him that he loved him, and Erik could, maybe, say it back.

It was a nice dream, a dream that was shattered when a large freight truck slammed into the side of Charles’s car without warning, sending his rust bucket rolling across the highway. Charles couldn’t even scream, because he didn’t even know what was going on – one moment, he was fiddling with the radio that kept dropping out, and the next he was hanging upside down by his seatbelt, glass falling like snow over his face and something wet and warm dribbling down his forehead.

Strangely, Charles didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t move his legs. In fact, he couldn’t really move anything at all.

Images flashed before his blue eyes, which were slipping in and out of lucidity. Charles heard voices, so many voices, but he couldn’t understand a thing. Soon, there were flashing lights in pretty shades of red and blue, and then Charles was finally moving, even if he couldn’t really feel it.

Paramedics kept asking Charles questions, but the man couldn’t answer – his chest gurgled with blood, and he heard the paramedics curse, which made him try to laugh. God, why did laughing hurt?

Laughing should never hurt.

Things drifted in and out for Charles, but strangely, Erik was there; when Charles was awake, he saw Erik resting beside him, wearing the suit he had at Angel’s wedding, with his copy of The Once and Future King in his large hands.

‘Oh, I must have returned it to you,’ Charles thought, the Erik sitting in the ambulance with him smiling with all of his teeth.

When Charles fell unconscious briefly, Erik was still there – this time, Charles saw him sitting in front of a familiar letter box, small smile on his face as he read a letter covered with Charles’s cursive scrawl.

When Charles woke up again, Erik had disappeared, but a paramedic was hovering over him and yelling for him to stay awake.

“Erik…” Charles gurgled out, the paramedic leaning in to try and hear him over the sounds of his lungs collapsing.

“Erik? Is your name Erik?” the paramedic asked, trying to keep Charles’s focus on him. “Come on, stay awake for me!”

Charles tried to speak again, but everything was red, so he just thought instead.

‘I’m coming, Erik,’ Charles thought into the screaming silence, the ambulance pulling up to the emergency wing of the hospital.

The paramedics wheeled Charles out of the chair, blue eyes beginning to lose their lustre.

‘Erik, wait for me.’

“He’s crashing!” a doctor yelled out, wheels rolling across the concrete leading up to the hospital, rain beginning to drizzle down.

‘Erik, where are you?’

“We’re losing him!”

Charles’s blue eyes flittered here and there, losing their hold on everything real.

Well, everything except for the man standing outside of the hospital, brown-copper hair a little damp with rain, glowing embers of a cigarette dangling from his fingers. When Charles was wheeled past the man, time seemed to slow, if only for a moment.

The man’s face looked distraught, which was understandable considering he was at the hospital because his wife had miscarried for the third time and he had come outside to try and clear his head. When the man looked up into the sky, he wondered how much longer it would take for him to stop feeling so lost.

In a final flash of clarity, Charles recognised the man as the person he has been looking for this whole time.

Erik.

‘Oh, there you are, Erik. See?’ Charles thought, blood-splattered mouth curling upwards with eerie tranquillity.

‘I found you. I didn’t abandon you.’

***

Erik was sure that he would get a speeding fine, but he didn’t care. All he could think about as he drove like a madman, the route to get to the lake house second nature by now, was that Charles is going to die.

Erik’s car clock said that it was just past ten in the morning and Erik had been driving for an hour already, having bolted from work barely an hour in. Erik had always been good at numbers, and if it took Erik six hours to get to the lake house, he would get there around 3pm.

Charles died at 7:39pm, but he had been on the road at the time.

How long had Charles been driving for? Was this the stretch of road Charles died on?

‘Please, please let Charles still be at the lake house. Please, don’t let him leave, not before I tell him that I love him, not before I beg him not to look for me.’

When Erik reached the unfixed bottle neck that Charles had found frustrating two years ago, Erik screamed in the suffocating confines of his car – Erik willed the cars around him to move, because he had to get to Charles, and he was already two years too late.

When Erik finally pulled up to the front of the lake house, parking haphazardly on the lawn, he didn’t even bother to turn the engine off before fumbling to find some paper and a pen from the glovebox of his car. Erik ran to the letter box, scribbling frantically and wildly, breath lodged in his throat and heart threatening to burst open at its stitched seams.

Charles, I know why you didn’t answer your phone, why you weren’t at the park, why you didn’t show up for dinner. It wasn’t your fault, Charles. You didn’t abandon me.

I know who you are now, I know that you’re Francis Graymalkin. You were trying to find me that day – today. Charles, you died that day, trying to find me.

So please, don’t go.

Just wait, please.

Don’t look for me, don’t try to find me. I need you to live, Charles.

I love you.

It’s taken me all this time to say it, but ich liebe dich, Charles.

I told you in my last letter that I couldn’t wait for you, but I was wrong. I’ll wait for you forever. Professor X waited for Magneto for decades. For you, I’d wait centuries, because I want a life with you, Charles. I want you by my side.

We want the same thing.

So please, wait for me once again. Wait with me.

Just wait.

Wait.

Wait two years, Charles.

Then come to the lake house. Come home.

I’m here.

Erik’s hands were shaking as he shoved the letter into the mail box, slamming the flag down. Erik took a hasty step back, like giving the letter box space for it to work its magic would help.

Erik’s breaths were thin and shaky, steel-grey eyes staring at the unmoving letter box without blinking.

‘Please, please, please, Charles. Check the letter box. Please, don’t let me be too late. Please, I love you, bitte. Gott, please, not Charles. Please, please.’

A sob clawed its way out from Erik’s throat when the letter box didn’t move, sending Erik crumpling to his knees. Erik crawled forwards to grip the letter box, shaking it before dropping his forehead against its still surface.

For the first time in a long time, Erik cried.

“Please, Charles, bitte,” Erik whispered, shaking. The letter box remained still, stagnant. “Gott, please. Not now, not after all this. Please.”

Erik held on to the letter box like he wanted to hold onto Charles, to tether him to this world, to keep him by his side, but it remained unmoving, and all Erik could think was:

‘Oh Gott, it’s too late. I’m toolatetoolatetoola-”

Thunk.

Erik’s tremors ceased at the sound, the familiar scrape and clunk of the metal flag tickling his ears.

‘Wait for me.’

Slowly, Erik looked up through wet eyes, a sprig of hope emerging from beneath the cold.

Then, the letter box shook, the flag leaping.

Erik let out a sound between a sob and a laugh, opening the letter box with careful hands.

Inside was a single red carnation atop a small folded piece of paper, a single sentence written upon it.

Turn around, Erik.

Erik pulled himself to his feet, shuffling around like he was compelled to follow the written words. As he did, he saw a slightly beat-up car begin rattling across the street before stilling by the curb of the lake house. Erik’s breath caught, his feet beginning to walk, one step at a time, across the lawn.

The driver stepped out of the car, wrapped up in a light lilac sweater and grey tweed coat. Full head of dark brown hair, flushed red cheeks and even redder lips, bright blue eyes that were so alive.

Erik’s mouth parted slightly in awe, relief and hope as he walked towards the man – Charles – who began moving towards Erik as well.

The two met, almost toe-to-toe, in the middle of the lawn in front of the lake house. Erik held the three-word note and carnation, while in Charles’s hands was a very worn letter – the one that had been in Erik’s hands only moments ago. The one that told Charles that Erik loved him.

Erik stared into Charles’s eyes, and Erik into his, like they couldn’t quite believe what was happening. They both seemed to be waiting, waiting like they always did, so Erik had to speak.

“You waited,” Erik breathed out, and that was all it took for Charles to immediately surge into Erik’s space. Charles cupped Erik’s cheeks desperately, fingers careful but firm, and kissed Erik with two years’ worth of longing. Erik almost whimpered into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Charles’s frame and pulling him close, crushing him against his chest and deepening the kiss, wanting to feel Charles, to confirm that yes, he’s alive, he’s here, he’s with me, he waited.

The two pulled back for a brief moment, only when they remembered that they needed to breathe.

“Sorry for the wait, darling,” Charles murmured, kissing Erik’s mouth again, and again, and again.

“What took you so long?” Erik asked teasingly, nipping at Charles’s mouth, which curled up in a wide smile that made his eyes crinkle in the corners, a small peal of laughter lighting a fire in Erik’s heart.

“Mm, sorry. Traffic was horrendous. You’d think they’d have fixed that blasted bottle neck by now,” Charles said, shooting Erik a small smile before leaning in close to bury his face into Erik’s neck, breathing him in. Erik held him tightly, deciding that he’d never let go again.

“Let’s go home,” Erik murmured against Charles’s hair, the shorter man humming in agreement, Erik taking his hand as they walked towards the lake house that had been the beginning of everything.

When Charles and Erik stepped through the threshold of the lake house, the red brick and blue-roofed house seemed to sigh – it had been waiting for this moment too.

***

Erik’s hands traced abstract patterns atop the map of freckles on Charles’s back, the author letting out a blissful sigh. It was late at night, and the two men lay in bed, tangled in each other’s limbs.

“Your sister owns this house now?” Erik asked, Charles nodding from where he rested his head on Erik’s chest.

“Mm. I gave it to her two years ago. I… knew I couldn’t live there, not when you were supposed to move in. You changed the future – my future – Erik. This… This wasn’t the plan, and I thought that if I tried to force it to change, to meet you prematurely like I tried to before…”

Erik knew what Charles was skirting around – the last time Charles had tried to upend Erik’s past, he had paid the price with his life. The two men didn’t understand the fabric of time travel, they didn’t know of the rules that fate and lady time had laid down. All they knew was that they were meant to meet, but only at a certain time. Charles had tried too early the first time, and he wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

He hadn’t made the same mistake again.

“I don’t think we were meant to meet until now,” Charles then whispered, pressing a kiss to Erik’s collarbone.

“We met at Angel’s wedding,” Erik reminded Charles, as if it were yesterday. Charles chuckled, a little wistful.

“Yes, but I didn’t try to change anything when I met you then. Meeting me didn’t change the course of your life between 2017 and now. I mean, Erik, you didn’t even remember me,” Charles said, chuckling in jest as he kissed away the frown building on Erik’s face. “But, the day I… died, I wanted to… well. Let’s just say that the world didn’t want me to change your past.”

“But it let you change my future?” Erik mused, Charles propping himself up to look at Erik, reaching out to smooth some of Erik’s sex-mussed hair from his eyes, gaze fond.

“I don’t know how this works, Erik, but, I wrote a theory about it, in my novel.”

“Your incomplete one?” Erik asked, raising a brow. Charles grinned.

“Well, considering I didn’t die, I had two years to finish writing it, darling. My theory is that the past can’t be unwritten. I couldn’t change your past, as in, anything that would have a lasting impact on your life before 2019. And you couldn’t have changed what would be considered my past, either,” Charles said, Erik’s mind whirling.

“But, I did change your past. I… You died before, Charles. But now you’re here, and…” Erik felt his tumultuous emotions begin to surface again, and before he completely lost it there and then in their bed, Erik kissed Charles. Charles indulged him, sighing into the lawyer’s touch, before pulling back with a serene smile on his face.

“Yes, I’m here, darling. And I don’t plan on leaving. But, like I was saying, you can’t change my past. Erik, I was living in 2017, so even though everything that happened that year for me was the past for you, it was still my future. You simply changed my future, Erik.”

“But still, what about all the other effects? The ripples that change caused. I still remember everything that would have happened – your step family contesting your will, your sister hiring Shaw. None of that would’ve happened if you died…”

“Ah, yes, well, that’s what has me in a bit of a rut. You seem to remember the events of your past timeline, but what I remember is different. It’s a funny thing, really – I ended up re-writing my will when I was… reminded of my mortality. There are no more loopholes, and my step father and brother lay no claim to anything I own. As for my sister, she still ended up hiring Shaw, just not about my will. Something about a secret trust fund that was hidden from her, courtesy of our lovely step-father,” Charles said, rolling his eyes. “So, in the end, not a whole lot changed – I’d wager that these minor ripples didn’t bother fate herself too much.”

“And you’re saying that you escaping death was only a ‘minor ripple’ as well?” Erik said, scoffing.

“Well, in my book I do say that fate had made an error in her original time line and sought to correct it,” Charles said, eyes softening. “You see, I’m inclined to think that we were destined to meet earlier.”

Erik’s mouth twitched at Charles’s words, instinctively drawing the man closer.

“Go on,” Erik said, bumping his forehead against Charles’s. “Tell me about this theory of yours.”

“Mm, demanding. But yes, I believe that we were supposed to meet sooner, but fate and time cocked up and we missed each other – so, they had to try and fix their mistake without undoing all of their other work. That’s why they linked us through the letter box, so we could meet and… well. The rest is history, isn’t it?”

“You really are a fiction writer, aren’t you, Francis?” Erik said, Charles laughing and swatting his lover’s chest.

“Oh, please! I know you’re a fan of my work, you’ve told me before. I have the letters to prove it!” Charles said, before suddenly sitting up like he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. Or an epiphany.

Erik was surprised when Charles suddenly wrenched the blankets off their naked bodies and jumped off the bed, tugging Erik’s arm. “Come on.”

“Charles, what are you doing?” Erik huffed, wanting nothing more than to have Charles’s weight pressed against him in bed, his thoughts apparently written all over his face when Charles laughed, kissing Erik’s lips briefly.

“I promise we’ll go back to bed soon. Just… humour me, for a moment, I almost forgot,” Charles said, squeezing Erik’s hand. Erik wasn’t going to protest, not now. Charles could probably ask him to do anything, and he wouldn’t think twice about doing it.

The two men didn’t bother putting their clothes back on, just wrapping some blankets around their shoulders as Charles nudged Erik down the upstairs hallway and to the drop-down ladder leading to the attic.

“The attic?” Erik asked, Charles nodding.

“Yes. Remember your first letter to me? The one you addressed to the new tenant?”

Erik did, Charles having brought Erik all of the letters he had saved, the two of them reading them together curled up by the fireplace.

“You mentioned the burn in the kitchen, courtesy of my poor cooking skills,” Charles said, giggling at his self-deprecating remark, which Erik found endlessly endearing. “But, you also mentioned the box in the attic. You obviously didn’t think too much of it back then.”

“No, I only glanced inside when I moved in, but it was just… full of stuff,” Erik said, Charles laughing.

“Full of my stuff,” Charles corrected, climbing up and tugging a dusty, slightly humidity-damp box, sneezing as a flurry of dust swirled in the air. Opening it up, Charles rummaged through the random knick-knacks that Erik had disregarded when he had moved in, before procuring something hidden beneath all of the irrelevant bits and pieces.

“What’s that?” Erik asked, Charles giving Erik a small smile, pressing it into Erik’s hand. And oh, Erik knew what this was.

“I believe I promised you that I’d return this to you, in person,” Charles said, leaning forward to lay his hand atop Erik’s, which caressed the book in his hand.

‘The Once and Future King.’

It had been here all along, simply waiting for Charles and Erik to unearth it, together.

“I love you,” Erik said, the words not quite able to convey just how deep Erik’s love ran. But, Charles seemed to understand, like he could hear it pouring directly from Erik’s heart.

“I love you too, Erik. Let me show you just how much,” Charles said, Erik letting out a breathless laugh as Charles kissed him.

Charles did show him. In the span of a kiss, Charles showed Erik two years’ worth of love.

And they both thought, for a moment, that yes, the wait was worth it.

Every single second.

[starcountesseevee]

A Rocket Coincidence (Part 13)

Part 12  / Part 14

     Friday night came faster than Kali would have thought given how much she was looking forward to it. They hadn’t had a good girls night out in a while and they both could use the break. Mara, of course, had insisted that absolutely none of their clothes were good enough for this occasion and had dragged Kali shopping; which was how Kali ended up with the new little black dress she was slipping into Friday night. 

     “What’s this place called again?” Kali asked as Mara joined her and leaned against the front of the bathroom sink.

     “Echo. Here, sit, let me.” Mara took the eyeliner out of Kali’s hand and made her take a seat. “It’s only the hottest up and coming club around.” She continued as she worked on Kali’s eyeliner. “And it has the added benefit of being right around the corner, so even after a night in these heels we can still walk home.”

     “You’ve given this a lot of thought, huh?” 

     “Only a little. There.” Mara took a step back to survey her work. “Now come on, ladies are half cover for the next hour.” 

     Kali was surprised at the line outside Echo, Mara hadn’t been kidding when she said this was one of the hottest spots in town. As they approached Kali started heading towards the back of the line but Mara grabbed Kali’s hand and pulled her to the front. 

    “Hey, Dwayne!” Mara greeted the bouncer. “How’s the hamstring?”

    “It's doing better, that class definitely helped. What brings you ladies here tonight?”

    “We,” Mara hugged Kali around the shoulder for emphasis. “Are celebrating a new business venture. Think we can skip the line?” Dwayne didn’t answer immediately as he glanced between the two girls, clearly thinking about something. 

    “Only if my next class is free.” 

    “Done!” Mara extended her hand to shake on their deal. 

     “Alright then, enjoy yourselves ladies.”

     Inside the club was as busy as Kali had expected given the line outside. The two friends pushed their way through the crowd to get to the bar first and Mara had to elbow her way in between other patrons to be able to order.  

     “To new opportunities!” Mara raised her glass for a toast, clinking her shot with Kali’s before downing it and ordering another for herself. “You want a second?” 

     “Maybe in a bit.” 

     “Suit yourself.”   

     Cliff had been gazing idly off into the club when he spotted a familiar face from across the room, Kali’s red hair making her stand out from the crowd. It was his first night in Celadon City and Sierra and Arlo had dragged him out after work. After all, they reminded him, it was becoming a tradition to go out together the first night they all ended up in the same location. While it wasn’t somewhere he might have chosen to get a few drinks he had been outvoted by the other two leaders, although now he was glad they had. 

     “Earth to Cliff?” Arlo waved a hand in front of the other man’s face. 

     “Hmm?” 

     “I asked how new recruiting was going?”

     “I thought we weren’t talking shop.” Sierra objected as Cliff took a moment to send a quick text under the table. Kali felt her Pokegear buzz in her bag and pulled it out, clicking on the new message from Cliff. 

     *You look nice.* Kali’s heart skipped a beat. What? He was here? 

     “Who’s that? Oooo your boyfriend?” Mara teased, reading the message over Kali’s shoulder. 

     “He’s not my boyfriend.” 

     “Okay fine, man crush.” Mara teased again as Kali looked around. She spotted him and two other Team Rocket members, obvious from the large red “R” on their outfits, at a table by the far wall. Seriously, did they ever not go around advertising who they worked for? Cliff nodded at her with a smile. 

     “He’s not my man crush….oh why do I even bother with you.” Kali blushed.

     “Oh come on, I know you too well.” Mara winked. “So does that mean he’s here? What are the odds of that?” Mara looked excited and followed the direction of Kali’s gaze, easily spotting the three. Kali had told her he was part of Team Rocket. “Which one? Tall, bald, and muscles? Or the scrawny one in the oversized glasses and hoodie? No judge either way.” 

     “It's...the first.” Kali blushed deeper, biting her lip as she prepared for her friend’s critique. 

     “Look at you girl!” Mara gave Kali a mock punch in the arm. “I mean, aside from the maybe questionable chin patch, damn! That guy is built! I bet he’s got a-” 

     “Shut up!” Kali laughed, blushing deeper. 

     It didn't escape Sierra's notice that Cliff was distracted, eyeing him surreptitiously as he kept checking his texts under the table. What could be so damn important that he was practically ignoring her and Arlo, she wondered. She knew he encouraged his subordinates to not hesitate to contact him if they needed but this seemed different. Following his gaze across the bar she spotted the girl with red hair that Sierra recognized from Cliff’s call the other day. So that’s what this was about. While Sierra studied the other girl she hadn’t been paying attention to the ongoing conversation but she was vaguely aware that Cliff said something and Arlo began laughing. She hadn’t heard, or really cared to hear, the joke but she began laughing just the same; over-exaggerating herself by throwing an arm over Cliff’s shoulder and playfully slapping his chest with her other hand. She watched the other girl from under her lashes and when Kali’s mouth opened in surprise Sierra smirked. Good. 

     Kali turned back to the bar, a sinking feeling in her chest. She tried to shrug it off, why should she feel jealous? She had told him she was spoken for tonight, why should he have said he would be here. It's not like she told him she would be and it's not like either of them would have expected to run into each other here. She glanced over at the table again, eyeing the other woman. The man lived and breathed Team Rocket, of course he would have a girlfriend who was part of it.  

     “Hey, what is it? I’m only teasing.” Mara questioned, noticing the change in her friend’s demeanor. 

     “It's fine, I know you are.” Kali replied limply as she reminded herself he was only being nice to her to try and get her to join Team Rocket.

     “Ohhh.” Mara glanced back at the Team Rocket table and noticed the woman in the white jumpsuit hanging on Cliff, immediately putting two and two together.

     “Maybe I will take that second shot."

    "One more, coming right up!" Mara flagged the bartender down. Kali looked down at her Pokegear, still in hand, and decided not to reply. They had acknowledged each other’s presence and that was enough, she wouldn’t want to interrupt anything. She set her notifications to silent and shoved it back in her bag before picking up her drink, downing it quickly.

     “Alright, no time for moping! It’s a girls night out and we are celebrating!” Mara looped her arm through Kali’s and began dragging her to the dance floor. Kali reluctantly obliged making Mara roll her eyes. “Come on! Give him something to be jealous of, girl!” She twirled Kali until they were both dancing to the beat. Mara did her best early on to shoo away anyone trying to dance with them but after a few more trips to the bar neither girl cared that much. 

     Cliff checked his Pokegear again, frowning at the three unread messages to Kali. He knew she had seen him but what he didn’t know was why she hadn’t replied. He spotted her on the dance floor with yet another stranger and felt a fire rising in his chest. Apparently she was too busy to respond. Sierra leaning heavily on his shoulder brought his attention back to the group as he carefully extracted himself from her again, chalking up her behavior to alcohol. 

     “You are being such a sourpuss tonight!” Sierra whined, looking over at Arlo for support.

     “You do seem a bit off.” Arlo crossed his arms as he surveyed Cliff across the table. “Everything good?”

     “It’s nothing.” Cliff quickly shut down that conversation, finishing his drink to avoid Arlo’s stare. 

     Kali, for her part, tried focusing on having a good time with Mara, or on the drinks and music, or on whoever asked her to dance but every so often her attention drifted back to the other table. It seemed like every time she glanced over the other woman was closer and closer to Cliff, hanging on his shoulder or touching his arm. She also tried to push away the flare of jealousy rising in her chest, reminding herself again she was nothing more than a potential recruit, but that didn't go so well either. When Mara pulled Kali away from her current dance partner to head back to the bar Kali stalled.  

     "Let's call it a night, huh?" 

     "Okay, okay. How about one more shot, then we'll go?" 

     “Alright. But just one more.” Kali laughed, shaking her head as Mara grabbed her hand and bounced over to the bar. When their drinks came Mara raised her glass for one final toast.

     “To...wait what were we celebrating?” Mara giggled. “Oh! To new business opportunities!”

     “And to girls night out!” Kali toasted before clinking her glass to Mara’s and drinking. “Now let’s go home.” The two hung on each other for support as they made their way to the exit. Kali was grateful Mara’s apartment was only a few blocks away as they were both pretty drunk, very good planning on Mara’s part. Sierra had just stepped away to use the restroom when Cliff spotted the two friends leaving and used the opportunity to excuse himself from Arlo and meet them by the door. 

     “Leaving without saying goodbye?” Kali stopped abruptly as Cliff’s familiar voice sounded from behind them. 

     “Ooooooo.” Mara giggled as they both turned around. Cliff stood with both arms crossed over his chest looking indignant as he met her gaze. Kali felt the flare of jealousy she had been pushing down all evening rise in her chest but this time she let it. 

     “Why would I? I wouldn’t want to interrupt your date.” She shot back.

     “Date? What are you talking about?” 

     “Miss spacesuit with the purple lips.” 

     “Sierra? She’s just another Leader, and not my date.” Cliff raised a brow. “In case you didn’t notice Arlo was there as well, you gonna accuse him of being my date too?”

     “Maybe…but I didn’t see him hanging all over you.”

     "Like you didn't have a bunch of guys hanging on you out there, hmm?" Cliff's anger got the better of him and he instantly regretted it as Kali’s cheeks flushed red.

     "I'm a single girl, I can dance with whomever I want!" 

     "Oh can you?" Cliff glared at Kali, about to continue but stopped himself and took a deep breath. “Look, I think you got the wrong idea. She’s not my date.” He reasoned, trying to reign the conversation back in.

     Kali leaned up closer to him so their faces were almost touching. Even in heels he was still a little taller than her. “You so sure about that, mountain man?” 

     “Yes, and you’re drunk.” Kali ignored his observation. So what if she was.

     “Cause your girlfriend looks like she’s pissed that you’re talking to me.” Kali continued, looking past Cliff to Sierra who had just returned to their table and spotted them.  

     "What are you talking about?" Cliff turned to see what Kali was looking at as Sierra began heading their way.  

     “Let’s get out of here.” Kali muttered as she turned back to Mara who was being unusually quiet.

     "Hey, wait just a minute-"

     "She doesn't want to talk to you right now, got it?" Mara decided it was time to step in. She glared at the Team Rocket leader before grabbing Kali by the waist and steering her towards the door. Cliff watched them leave before turning around to find Sierra standing behind him.

     “Turned down were you?” She smirked. 

     “No thanks to you. What the hell is all this about?” 

     “Honestly, I still don’t see why you’re wasting your time on some dumb trainer.” Sierra snorted. 

     Cliff narrowed his eyes. “Sure it’s not that you’re just jealous you aren’t the prettiest girl in the room?” He raised a brow before walking off to tell Arlo he was heading home for the night.

Part 12 / Part 14

[creativenicocorner]

Lets half-ass a discussion about Merlin at 2 3am! 

Stop me if you heard this one before:

An old man goes out into the world set firmly on a code for chivalry, going on an unending quest to do what he thinks is good, causing more problems in the process, making ladies uncomfortable, and did I mention making more problems? While the subtlety of reality passes over his head.  

Now with that in mind Lets Talk About How Merlin’s character design reveals so much about him, and how I don’t think it isn’t a coincidence so many people associated that design to Don Quixote. 

In fact the mere association to Don Quixote is a big tip that things aren’t what they seem, and I’m not just talking about seeing giants out of windmills, but rather how the perseption of the character Don Quixote has changed so much in the public consciousness. 

That there is an intentional (I think) dissonance between expectation and reality.

Our first thoughts of Don Quixote is perhaps this fuddy duddy old guy on a quest to live out the adventures and chivalry of his books, and romanticizing said lessons while trying desperately to put them into practice. 

From, The Man of La Mancha singing about Dreaming the Impossible Dream  

Or to go even further the fuddy duddy old guy in the ballet interpretation of him, doing roughly the same thing although following the book a bit more, and yet conveniently dropping a few details  ( for those interested you can find the full 2hour ballet with Natalia Osipova, with the choreography by Rudolph Nureyev,  here [ x ] ) 

And maybe, if you’ll bare with me...maybe once Merlin did see himself as that, specific, Don Quixote does here...once...doing what is right and just...once believing himself to be this fantastical noble chivalric version of himself...truly believed it. Maybe at some point our Merlin got wrapped up in this preconceived notion of himself in the name of what he thought was right (his version of the chivalric code) blind to the consequences...and perhaps over time becoming not so blind to his actions the harder the ‘choices’ became and the ‘bigger the picture’ he saw. 

Who’s to say? This bit we’ll just have to wait and see how the story pans out. (I’ll save the discussion and HC on how Merlin and Morgana are just like two gods messing with a giant chess board without paying too much care as to what happens to their chess pieces, for another time) 

I don’t have the skill of screen shots, but there’s this...this moment of eerie stillness that is so weighty when Merlin has Jim tied up. No Dialogue. Just the two characters sitting in front of the other. That is just silence. A pause. A beat. Merlin can barely even look at Jim. Inviting the audience to reflect while Merlin reflects on how best to answer Jim’s question: 

“Why me?”

And delivery wise? [ chef kiss ] amazing. The whole ordeal? With the fight and the cornering and the idea of choice that isn’t entirely there? 

Like, all the power to the writers there to have me realize what a horrible situation this is. Like I was on edge and side eyeing this Merlin since he first woke up, from that stranger danger approach to Claire, how he spoke to Blinky and Strickler and just uugh lot of red flags. 

AND YET

This show invited me to contemplate and sit in this situation with these two characters. If I could I’d shake all the writers hands. Like WOW what a horrible situation! I felt it!! Gutturally!! You did your job team, and I appreciate it and thank you. h e c k 

Like what a moment to reveal (or rather show the last straw) this uncanny bad side to a character the public consciousness up to very recently and thanks to several tv adaptations and a few movies had us think Merlin is right off the back a good guy and WHAM the rug is pulled right out from under us and just WOW. 

You know who else isn’t an all together great guy, who the public consciousness transformed into this fun old guy who means well and just wants to romanticize chivalry and a code long since gone Dreaming that Impossible Dream re-imagined into a tragic out of touch man?

Don Quixote. Well...Alonso Quixano to be more precise

I could go on but Overly Sarcastic Productions explains it with an eloquence far better than mine. Here’s a link to the video if it’s not working here [ x ] 

Some neat take aways:

Don Quixote (written in 1605 by Miguel de Cervantes) was written as a critique and dissection of the at the time popular chivalric romance. Basically the Arthurian and expanded mythos. 

The protagonist causes more problems than good to those around him. To the point other plots just fly over his head.

Dulcinea ( or rather how the protagonist treats women)

How the reality of the plot is so much more interesting and complex than the fantasy in Alonso’s mind

Duality. 

Really, I invite everyone to check the video out it’s [ chef kiss ] neat! 

tldr: I don’t think the character design choice was a coincidence, but intentional. As most character design choices are. After all character design is a way to describe a character visually to the audience in as blunt or as subtly as the creator needs. Yet here served as a sort of juxtaposition of two literary characters who both had their nature and how they were perceived change in the public consciousness over time (which is really neat to use story wise and keeping the audience on their toes, and use as a foreshadowing device .) 

In one corner Merlin transforms from Welsh legend, to Christian Arthuriana be it half demon or advisor, to wise old helpful teacher, to what we have now

In the other Quixote transforms from a questionable old man used as a critique to the genera of chivalry, to opera and ballet centerpieces, to Dreaming the Impossible Dream and embodying fully that persona almost from the get go.

Now if the design choice is for this association in particular I’m not sure. For all I know there might be more information in the art book which I don’t own. Or something will come up in the story proper, which I’m very excited to see what will happen in Wizards! Where will this rollercoaster go?! 

I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I guess I just find it fascinating how characters can be taken and changed through the public eye over time. Take the Wicked Witch of the West for example.

but I digress.

Tune in next time and I might half ass about  Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Merlin, who, while also being a Roman Catholic Cleric, was inspired by local Welsh legends of Myrddin Wyllt (Myrddin the Wild by Elis Gruffydd a Welsh chronicler, transcriber, and translator) a poet and seer, who’s stories resemble that of a figure named Lailoken. 

Or maybe it’s not that deep, but for now I think I’ll tap out of this rabbit hole. 

[fanfic-scribbles]

Trade Up

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Summary: You always thought meeting your soulmate would be a humdrum affair, but he does what he does best and saves you.

Quick facts: Romance – Sam Wilson/Reader – Nondescript Reader

Warnings: Fluff, soulmate fic where your soulmates words are on your skin, jumps POV momentarily from Reader-focused perspective to a wider perspective ((marked like so)), they/them pronouns for Reader

Words: 1667

A/N: This story is interesting in that I wrote it and lost it and found it and lost it again and I just found it again so I typed it up real fast so at least I don’t have to tear my belongings apart just to know where it went. I like this one; it is pretty by-the-numbers but sometimes you just wanna grab a glass of Sam-Wilson-saving-you-from-a-terrible-date and sink into a warm bath of and-they-were-soulmates. Cheers.

     You think the people who say they’ll never date again are incredibly valid. After tonight, you might become one of them.

“I know you won’t understand, but I’ll try to simply it for you…”

You understand that, with soulmates and all, some people find dating to be a waste of time. You don’t expect those people to be on a website for ‘frivolous’ dating. And yet here you are, with a man who had seemed nice in emails and a brief phone conversation, but who currently cannot seem to care less about making even a decent impression.

God; you’re pretty sure someone at the table to your left is live-tweeting this, from how they’re snickering over their phone with their friends, and looking at you and your date every now and then. They’re not the only table stealing glances, but they are the most blatant about it. It’s telling that you’re pretty sure that you’re pretty sure that’s Captain America sitting a couple of tables away and yet no one is talking about him or his group of equally attractive friends. Even they are focused on you, especially the really cute guy on his left, which just figures, doesn’t it.

Your date is still talking and you trace the condensation on your glass of mostly-untouched water. You’ve moved past the stage of embarrassment where you want to crawl under the table and die. You’ve tried your excuses, they’ve all failed, and you’ve accepted this is your life for the evening and you’re just waiting for it to end. Hopefully without much more notice.

  ((Meanwhile…))

  “I've never heard someone talk that much,” Natasha mutters under her breath. “And I’ve sat with Tony while he was on the verge of a panic attack.”

Sam frowns and Steve’s jaw clenches even tighter. Bucky and Sharon trade long-suffering looks. “Stop it,” Bucky says when Steve’s arm tenses.

“That guy’s a dick,” Steve says, not taking his eyes from you. “I’ve gotta do something.”

“And embarrass them more by causing a scene?” Sharon says.

“You're not a skinny little nobody anymore,” Natasha adds. “You go over there and it’s going to be a story. Worse, it might make that asshole sympathetic. Does it look like that poor person wants that sort of attention?”

Sam watches as you hunch under the attention already given and look longingly at the black screen of your phone. “I’m with Steve on this one,” Sam says.

Bucky rolls his eyes and takes a drink. “Of course you are; you’re just like him.”

“Look,” Natasha says. “If he gets up again I’ll go ask if they want help. Until then, you two sit your asses down. Am I clear?”

Sam and Steve both frown deeply but they nod. Natasha sits back and watches them shrewdly. Sharon nods at Bucky. “At least self-preservation seems to have kicked in.”

“For now,” Bucky says, mirroring Natasha almost exactly.

Sharon hides a smile in her glass, but a look meant to evaluate ‘the situation’ is caught by Natasha, who gives her a sharp glare as well.

“Three of them,” Bucky mutters in Russian.

“God help us,” Natasha says and downs her drink.

  ((Back at the table…))

  “Everybody’s too damn focused on soulmates these days.”

You think he’s about to go off on another rant that will inevitably turn offensive, but he’s actually quiet. You’re so startled by the prospect of actual engagement that you trip over your tongue. “Not– not any more than they have been, I think. In fact–”

“I’m seeing a lot less people on the dating scene these days,” he says. “And so many people are all–” he goes into a mocking falsetto, “‘I’m waiting for my other piece.’ Ugh.” He takes a drink. “Or ‘pieces’ depending on whether they got the ‘harlot’s mark,’ you know?”

You haven’t heard that term from anyone other than really old bigots and you actually flinch. “That’s a gross–”

“I mean, it’s like nobody knows how to have fun anymore,” he says. “The whole point of having a soulmate is that someone’s always going to take you no matter what. Why doesn’t everyone do that?”

From ‘harlot’s mark’ to ‘why doesn’t everyone fuck around.’ You wish you could be surprised by this shift in attitude, but he’s spent almost the whole date justifying why he’s fine and the rest of the world is wrong. Still, you have a bad feeling as to why he’s bringing this up. “Um…not everyone is cool with it, I guess,” you say cautiously.

“Doesn’t matter.” He knocks back his drink and flags for yet another. “If they’re your soulmate they’re stuck with you. That’s fate.”

That’s not true and as sorry as you feel for his soulmate, you hope he learns that lesson the hard way (if only for their sake). But then he smirks at you. “It’s good that some of us do know how to have fun.”

The way he says that last part makes your skin crawl. “A different kind of ‘fun’ I guess,” you say, trying to sound as bored as you can. Rude, sexist, racist, so many types of phobic, obnoxious to everyone around him without even trying, and now creepy– if you had a bad date bingo card you’d have a blackout right now.

Earlier he had tried to skip out on the bill by excusing himself to the bathroom, but your waitress and the host had blocked the front and loudly instructed him as to where the restrooms were. Now you wish they’d had your back a little less. You’d take the hit to your wallet if it meant you could crawl home. But now if you get the bill would that be sending the wrong signal; would he take that for an invitation? Not that you care, you just don’t want to deal with it right now.

He keeps drinking, and you keep rebuffing his attempts to get you to do the same. You’re not sure what you’re going to do with him as he gets drunker and drunker, but it has the unintended benefit of shutting him up, which means all the onlookers slowly get bored and stop paying such close attention to your disaster date. Even the people recording this for posterity stop, and after a little while you can breathe again.

Until, when you’re reaching for a napkin, he suddenly grabs your wrist and grips. You try to yank it back, but he’s got a surprisingly strong hold. “Hey,” he says. “I think I’m just about ready.”

“Ready for what?” You wince. “Please let go; it hurts.”

“Sorry,” he says but he barely loosens a centimeter. “You take care of the bill, and I’ll take you to my place. It’ll be great.”

The one problem with no longer being the center of surreptitious attention is that it’s hard to find help that you can discreetly ask for. You’re about to damn all dignity and raise your voice to demand he let go, when someone bumps into your table hard enough to topple the glasses. You barely catch your water, but your date’s half-full drink goes right into his lap. He hisses and lets go of you to mop it up.

You look up at your savior, who even under normal conditions is probably one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. Right now, the lights give him a very appropriate halo and your angel smiles at you. How fitting for a man who uses wings to save people.

“I’m really sorry to interrupt, but have we met before? You look awfully familiar.”

Your heart stutters. Your words. It could be a coincidence. It could be, but it might not be. “I– I don’t think so; I’m a hundred percent sure I’d remember a face like yours.”

His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open and shit, you’re actually thankful for that asshole now. “Those are my– did I say–”

You scramble up and pull up your sleeve to show him your words. His words. He gently touches the skin and the way he smiles at you–

“Do you know this asshole?” your ‘date’ gripes.

“I do now,” you say, not looking away from the man. “He’s my soulmate.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope,” your soulmate says and, appropriately, doesn’t give the douchebag a single glance.

“Fuck it; this was a shit date anyway,” he says and stumbles out. He doesn’t leave anything for his half, of course, but you don’t even care anymore; he’s gone and you’re standing in front of your soulmate, who looks as happy as you feel.

He extends his hand to shake yours. “Sam Wilson.”

You introduce yourself and he repeats your name like he already loves it. “I know you’ve had a hell of a night, but uh, do you wanna go get some coffee or something?” he says.

“Your friends won’t mind?” you ask. Just to be polite, if you’re being honest; you’re ready to yank him out the door and never look back.

“No way,” he says. “Besides, I see those jerks all the time.”

“Okay. Okay.” You can’t stop smiling. Talk about an upswing. “Let me just pay the bill and–”

A wad of cash lands on the table. “The gentleman was kind enough to leave enough cash to cover the bill and a generous tip,” a woman with red hair and even redder lipstick says as she sidles past. “We’ll see you later, Sam.”

“Thanks Nat,” he says and they trade a small hug. As Sam helps you with your jacket he tells you, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” He straightens out the lapel. “We weren't sure if we’d make it better or worse. If it’s any consolation, Steve wanted to throttle the guy.”

“Well, as much as I appreciate the thought–” you hold your hand out, “–I’m glad it was you.”

Sam grins and slips his hand into yours, and you lead him out into the best night of your life.

[sicklyscribe]

hey so if you wanna hit me with that sweet sweet elijah’s characterization meta anytime please feel free. or direct me to any previous posts because my dumb ass is using this time to re-obsess over vampire melodrama.....

It appears that most of my non-tag and non-petty-casual commentary is still in drafts... so instead of finishing the ‘What the hell is wrong with season 4: an itemized list’ meta and finishing answering the ‘What would you change if you could rewrite any of the show?’ ask from a while ago, I’ll just pick out the Elijah bits and add on to them for garnish. (Those posts might exist at some point. But honestly not soon enough for me to worry about people getting annoyed with copy/paste so PREVIEW TIME: ELIJAH FLAVOR)

This is way sloppier and un-cited than I usually meta, by the way, but what the hell, The Fandom is Dead and I Only Have Friends to Entertain Now, so if anyone gets angry and tries to step into my asks then it’ll just be nostalgic rather than annoying.  Here’s the starter, which is from the F*CK YOU SEASON 4 meta and quite a few of these points will be repeated later because you asked for it technically so.

The cracks in the narrative began to show as early as season two, and believe me when I say I’m not saying this because I love him - it began with Elijah. I can make a lot of arguments to this effect, but the only one that I am certain is not propelled by my very strong bias concerns the presentation of the Red Door.

Initially, I was ecstatic at the opportunity to explore Elijah’s past, his perspective, his darkest moments. I was a bit wary in that it seemed as though the narrative wanted to Explain Everything about Elijah through this device, but he was finally getting some attention so I tried to hold back judgement.The result was pretty promising. One of the most gorgeous moments on the show occurs when Klaus enters Elijah’s mind and tells him how much he needs him. It showcases the main pillar of the show - the structural trifecta of Hope, Klaus, and Elijah. And afterwards, as usual, Elijah pushes the experience away.Until it’s convenient. 

Elijah begins to be erratically vicious. At first, I felt as though it wasn’t handled poorly, I could explain away my worries easily, and that was all I needed. But it happens over, and over, and over again, with the same excuse - protecting the family, protecting Hope. Elijah’s triggers, once so crucial, begin to break down, but we don’t see why or how that process occurs. He begins to be the character that is level-headed when it is convenient, and a violent one-track-mind when it’s convenient. Eventually, in order to maintain balanced tension with a softening Klaus, Elijah became violent without nuance in every situation. His continued development is no longer possible, since his character no longer displays depth.

Which is annoying, as a fan. But as a person who loves to analyze narrative, it’s a huge red flag. Elijah is necessary for this story. His love for Klaus, and Klaus’ relationship with him, is one of the things that holds the narrative together as it goes forward. The two of them need each other in order to experience growth, but cannot grow from each other any longer - and that friction is what provides energy and substance that can help drive a multi-year melodrama. This is why I mentioned above that Elijah’s violence was likely intended to balance with Klaus’ changing heart - but there is no balance in the level of development the two brothers experience. It has been shoddy in many places, but attention has been given to Klaus’ journey towards peace and kindness, while Elijah has been given a single metaphor, a single psychosis, and is expected to carry half of the narrative weight. The story has no choice but to make a plot device out of him - he simply does not have the required depth to be anything else, which is made obvious by the attempt to do so in the ritual to bring Inadu to the material plane, which I will discuss later.

When his development is ignored, when he is used as a tool to get from point A to point B time and time again - that’s when the pillar starts to crumble.

Zooming back in on s1, this was actually my only major structural gripe with season 1, so it comprises the entirety of the ‘what would you change’ for that season:

The poison that rotted the whole dang show started very small — casting Elijah too strongly as a white hat, to offset the darkness of the rest of the main family. This was the right move, of course, but it was pushed a twinge too far and it was the tiny weight that set everything wobbling. As an offshoot of that, this was also done with Hayley to a degree. I would have had them bond very similarly to the way they do in the show, but I would have had them connect at least once over the skeletons in their closets. (Only once or twice, again, since their ship relied in this season on the fallacy of each other being saviors). In fact, this was one I felt so strongly about that I actually did rewrite their scene in 1x07 ‘Bloodletting’.

Then season two when it gets more pronounced: 

The rift in the show widened with the swing-and-miss that was The Red Door arc. Elijah became a Problem when it was convenient for the plot and A Fixer/Sounding Board when it was not. They used probably the most INTERESTING and INTEGRAL part of his characterization -- which had been a mystery for YEARS counting The Vampire Diaries appearances -- and Elijah discovering that either from trauma or his mother’s magic, he has repressed the moments which forged him. This lack of knowledge, this lack of control, should have been something much more cataclysmic and its effects should be clear when comparing ‘Elijah Before’ to ‘Elijah After’. Instead, it kind of served to take off Elijah’s ‘White Hat’ that he’d been illy-fitted with in S1, and allow him to accessorize with it or whatever version of Elijah fits the episode at hand.

This tension, and this chaos should have been much stronger and much more messy than simply putting the Suit back on and being Pretty Much Okay (barring one plot-insignificant diner massacre) only a few episodes later. It would make the therapy scene later with Camille even more gorgeous than it already is and it would then place Elijah’s moment of catharsis, and the beginning of his attempts to move on, with Klaus’ monumental forgiveness in 2x11. I think this is what was intended, but it was not at all achieved, because Elijah is such a tricky character to write, and it is so very easy to use him for whatever the scene requires. Because of this, Elijah’s struggles got dropped just long enough for Klaus’ forgiveness to hit powerfully in viewers for Klaus, but not for Elijah. The writing began to lean on Elijah as a Drama Everyman more and more throughout the show, and it’s just tragic to me that The Red Door wasn’t utilized to its potential. (And that we didn’t have a Klaus/Tatia conversation, but hey, I have an unfinished fixit for that whole saga on Ao3, you’re welcome and I’m sorry).

In season three, we got a few good glimpses of the kind of complexity that Elijah should live in -- the way he kills Arianne, for example, I’ve linked what I called a ‘headcanon’ but in retrospect it was pretty explicitly canon -- and we see the youth and terror and involuntary power in him in the flashback where he discovers that Klaus killed their mother. But the relationship between Tristan and Elijah? The man that he made, and that made him? That was far too pedestrian to have produced either of them. If Elijah learned ‘nobility’ from Tristan, learned what ‘superiority’ looked like, and this was the time that he began to change... we should have had words between them, or a scene highlighting just them, at least once in the flashbacks. 

If this season was supposed to be about the creation of the Trinity, the First Children (because Finn didn’t tell no one that Sage is actually the oldest ‘cuz he’s an ashamed little bitch) why did we see only TWO of the THREE transformations? Klaus turned Lucien accidentally, trying to heal him. Rebekah’s sympathy and love were used as Aurora’s tool to turn herself. When and how did Elijah turn Tristan? It is explained that Elijah turned him in order to create a third vampire for his plot to trick Mikael into chasing them instead -- it is explained that Tristan, Aurora, and Lucien were compelled to believe that they were in fact Elijah, Rebekah, and Klaus in order to make their decoy impeccable. But when this compulsion was shattered -- when Lucien learned that he had been used and made monstrous as a tool for a monster who wasn’t even noble -- did he confront Elijah? Did they ever speak, or was their next meeting the day Elijah learned that Tristan had taken over Elijah’s coven? I would argue that Elijah needed equal weight in the France flashbacks even though he didn’t have a flashy romance (though if early press release rumors were true, he and Tristan could have had one and that would have been perfect) 

Season four is really where you can pick an episode and Elijah will put on the stage makeup and play any part. It’s also -- BIG COINCIDENCE -- where the plot deteriorates completely. Here’s just one example from my Excuse You What the Hell? Season Four meta: 

On to the next moment that showed major neglect (I know this has been Elijah-heavy so far, but again, this is where the problem started so I want to carry this thread through for a while before addressing other issues) - the ritual to bring Inadu to the mortal realm. The purpose of this ritual was to scare viewers with the risk of Hope’s safety and hype the Hollow’s “bad”ness, but also to make the first move in the ‘Letting Go’ thread between Hayley and Elijah. Elijah was supposed to be forced to choose between children's lives and letting the Hollow loose upon the world, and decide to kill the children. That was the dramatic point of placing this ritual in the narrative, but it isn’t mechanically sound.

It is stated outright that the ritual has to end with the death of the children linked to the spell. The children were linked via their totems found in 4x03 - placing Hope definitively in this group.

But we only ever see four of the five in one place. Maybe it was worth it to the Hollow to reach as far out as Hope was to bind her via her hairbrush, maybe it was worth it to the Hollow to drain her from afar, I’d buy that easily. But they made no attempt to kidnap her and place her with the other four children during the ritual. The ritual that required the deaths of five children. Unless it required Hope to be there only on standby, which is absolutely ridiculous. They had the kids on an alter, even if it was just for show. But why not all of them? If the real goal of the ritual was to lure Klaus and/or Marcel, wouldn’t kidnapping Klaus’ child be a more surefire way to accomplish that rather than just hoping the Mikaelsons would come to the right mystical diagnosis in time?

The reason why Hope wasn’t there was because the ritual was never thought through. The reason she wasn’t there is because it didn’t make sense for Elijah to want to kill Hope to stop the Hollow, which is what this ritual actually demanded if it actually worked the way Vincent claimed. In actuality, all that was desired was for Elijah to display a willingness to kill innocents in front of Hayley, and in doing so it demanded that Hope’s life both be at stake and not at stake at all. This failure to coherently execute a single-episode arc is plainly poor storytelling. It displays not only disrespect to the narrative structure, but a blatant flippancy towards one of their main characters and arguably the most complex one on the series. The sloppily contrived tension here between Hayley and Elijah does eventually contribute to the supposed theme, yes, but at what cost?

Elijah was neglected because he was hard to write, and even harder to write well as a ‘light’ foil to Klaus. Marcel should have fully owned that role, and not been similarly jerked around as a plot-serving every-man once the mystery of season 1 and the reasons behind Marcel’s ‘senseless’ cruelty were revealed. 

Elijah was always the cornerstone of the family’s narrative, because he was complex enough to carry it. Camille provided an additional column of support to Klaus’ individual journey as a person/father, but she was bulldozed for Allmighty Plot as well. By the end of season three, both she and Elijah had effectively been thrown in the garbage one way or another, and the show tried to go on without them. It couldn’t. 

I will say that Elijah’s conversation with Hope in that ludicrous backdoor pilot did make me feel things. I did also see the clip where Elijah and Klaus have a heart-to-heart in some sort of european flashback, which was touching, but felt incongruous for their relationship/dev at the time. Hope asking Elijah how old he was when he made his promises to Klaus, though? Elijah offering carte blanche to Hope for how to punish her friend’s bullies? TWO OF THE THREE SCENES INVOLVING ICE CREAM? 

SOME of season 5 is valid but ONLY because it stole scripts from my headcanons.

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

Grandthorki Day excerpt

...because for various reasons I just couldn’t get my shit together to have the actual fic finished, so here’s...well, the biggest chunks of it, probably. I really hope I can get the actual thing done soon, although knowing me, WHO REALLY KNOWS, I probably only have like...one and a half actual scenes left to write but a lot more transitions and stuff to turn the disconnected chunks into something coherent and that part is hard. but hey, at least this is a longish, whumpy excerpt.

this takes place probably a week or less after my previous fic for @grandthorkiday, which anyone interested in this should definitely read first, both because of context and because, well, the warnings are all basically the same. but in case for some reason you didn’t do that, the most important thing thing to know is that this is definitely non-con and also fucked up in general probably (and not really work-safe). also nonconsensual drug use, which is partly why I’m tagging it under Whumptober, given that the day’s prompt is “laced drink”. (honestly it hits a lot of the other prompts too, but too many tags gets a little ridiculous.)  

The music pulses beneath him like a heartbeat, and all the lights follow the same rhythm. It isn’t as overpowering as he’d imagined the Grandmaster’s parties to be, on the rare occasions when he’s thought about it, but it’s…hypnotic.

It takes him a moment to realize that the guests are also not quite what he expected, although at first he can’t say why—and then he almost stumbles, a jolt snapping through him like the shock of an obedience disk, because standing at the bar are two Chitauri. He’s never seen one outside of the invasion of New York, but their profile is unmistakable.

He takes a closer look at the guests, his unease growing. A few A’askavariians are here, as well as members of a few other tentacled races Thor doesn’t recognize.There, a Dark Elf, or someone of another race dressed to look like one. Another, considerably larger, with a strong resemblance to the Kursed who nearly killed Loki. Two races he doesn’t recognize, except for how much they look like slightly smaller variations of Jotnar and Fire Giants. The resemblance seems to be mostly superficial with the former, given the lack of frost anywhere around them, but the other leaves scorch marks wherever he goes, and Thor can feel the heat radiating off him from several paces away. Across the room—

Thor pulls up short, his entire body going cold and then nauseatingly hot. The hulking armored figure cannot be Thanos, and yet—

No. It is not Thanos, probably not even a Titan, but he looks so like him that he must be a related race, and the armor is nearly identical.

Thor looks around for the Grandmaster, his stomach churning. Some of the guests could be simple coincidences, given the vast array of species that wind up on Sakaar, but not all of them, and not the one that looks so much like Thanos. It has to be deliberate, and it cannot possibly mean anything good.

... Loki is on his knees, stark naked and clearly drugged, hands bound behind his back and chained to the floor. But none of that is the worst, because—just as the Grandmaster said—one of the guests has already gotten started. The guest looks like a male A’askavariian crossbreed of some kind, with abrasive-looking skin and several more tentacles, and most of them are wound tightly around Loki’s body, keeping him pressed close. One is stroking his thigh as if teasing, but far worse is the one curled around Loki’s neck.

There’s no reason for a random guest to know, in theory—unless the Grandmaster told them, which is possible, and even from here he can see Loki trying to shake his head, trying to say no, stop, terror breaking through the drugged haze of lust in his eyes. The other guest just pulls him closer.

“Can I trust you to behave, Sparkles?” the Grandmaster says. “I don’t want any incidents. Things just…ugh, it’s just such a downer when parties get messy like that. The bad kind of messy, I mean, they’re always the fun kind of messy.”

“Yes,” Thor says. “I swear.”

At least the Grandmaster said nothing about threats. He strides up to his brother, fists clenched and lightning crackling across his skin. “I will only say this once,” he says, pinning the other guest with a deadly glare. “Let him go. Now.”

The guest opens his mouth to snap something back, takes a better look at Thor’s expression, and unwinds his limbs so hastily that Loki almost collapses. Thor catches him by the shoulders, unable to suppress a wince at the fever-like heat of Loki’s skin. His pupils are huge, the green of his irises almost invisible. Sweat beads his forehead.

“What did he give you?” Thor asks, ignoring the other guest as he slinks off to the bar.

Loki shakes his head; shakes it again, wincing. “Don’t—don’t know. It was a drink. ‘m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Thor says quickly. It hardly matters, anyway; knowing exactly what’s in Loki’s system won’t help if Thor has no way to counteract it.

“He said. I was—too wound up. Needed to have fun.” Loki blinks, his eyes not quite focusing on Thor’s face. “Said—he was making sure I would have a good time. You understand?”

“Yes,��� Thor says. “I think—” Norns, there aren’t words for how much he doesn’t want to talk about this, much less actually go further. “I think he gave you something so you can keep coming, and something else that will make you sick if you don’t. And your options are apparently…anyone here who feels like it, or…me.”

Loki blanches. “I can—I can handle it. Did before. You don’t—have to—”

“Don’t think about me,” Thor says. “It’s—it’s fine. I made this deal and got you into this position, so—if I can help, I want to. What do you want?”

Loki shudders, head bowed and eyes squeezed shut. “You. I’m, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it’s what he wants, but—he chose special guests and I don’t—”

“Shhh, it’s all right,” Thor says quickly. “I know. I saw them. It’s all right. None of this is your fault.”

Loki makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “It is. All my fault. All of it. If I hadn’t been so stupid—”

“Brother…”

“You don’t know,” Loki says. “You think you know but you don’t, how stupid and—and pathetic—” He shudders again, hard enough to make the chain rattle. “If I’d left the Tesseract on Asgard—he would’ve claimed it but not on our ship, not by killing so many—I didn’t know, I thought I was keeping it from him but I was a fool, and even before that—if I’d said something, or, or made him kill me before I could break—” He raises his head, eyes red-rimmed and burning with drugged intensity. “Did you know, Odin told me I should have died as an infant? ‘Your birthright was to die, cast out on a frozen rock,’ that’s what he said, and I hated him for it even as finally hearing some honesty from him was a relief, but he was right, Thor, he was right.”

This conversation, or something very similar, is one they’ve needed to have for a long time, and Thor is hard-pressed to think of a worse possible time for it. A small part of him is tempted to let Loki talk, because the conversation truly does need to happen and a fully sober Loki might well refuse to start, but he dismisses the idea almost before it’s formed. Even if Loki forgave him for it, Thor isn’t sure he could forgive himself. “No,” he says firmly. “Loki, listen to me, we can—we can talk about this later, all right?”

... Loki is already shaking, but when his shoulders start to draw up tighter and lines of strain deepen around his eyes, Thor realizes another drug has kicked in. “Should I—”

“It’s—nnn.” Loki shakes his head, grimacing. “Not that bad.”

Thor finds this profoundly unlikely but refrains from saying so. One of the few things that would make this situation worse, after all, would be to take away any of the few choices Loki has left. He waits, one hand on Loki’s shoulder and the other digging crescents into his own palm, as Loki’s breathing grows increasingly ragged. “Just—let me know when and I’ll do it,” he says, and mostly manages to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Whatever you want, truly—”

Loki’s body jerks against the chains, his eyes widening. “Thor,” he gasps, “I can’t—” and the rest is lost as his inhalation thins to almost nothing. He tries again and manages only a faint wheeze, and with a nauseating jolt of terror Thor realizes he’s not having a panic attack but truly suffocating.

His own heart seems to stop. All he can think is that the Grandmaster must have taken it back now that he’s had his fun, no matter that they’ve done whatever he wants. Thor turns a wild gaze on the other party guests. He will find the Grandmaster and beg, he’ll do whatever it takes, he has no idea what else the despot could possibly want but he’ll do anything to keep Loki alive—

The Grandmaster is halfway across the room, chatting with some of his guests, but he turns as if drawn by Thor’s desperation—or as if he was expecting this and just wants to watch. He smiles, waves, and twirls his hand in a gesture that Thor has no idea how to interpret, only able to stare in panicked incomprehension. In response, the Grandmaster rolls his eyes, points to Thor, and makes an exaggerated jerking-off motion.

The drugs. It’s the fucking drugs. This is what he meant, not just pain but the one thing he now knows will terrify them both into cooperation. Loki is still wheezing, his breaths growing ever thinner. Without letting himself think, Thor spits in his own palm and takes Loki in hand.

... Loki slumps against him, trembling and exhausted. His breathing is ragged but he’s breathing again, fully and more or less cleanly, and Thor’s lungs expand in the first easy breath he’s managed since Loki started to choke.“I’m sorry,” Thor says. “Norns, Loki, I’m so sorry, are you all right?” It’s a ridiculous question but Loki nods anyway, still too breathless to speak. His erection has barely flagged, and Thor’s heart sinks. This isn’t going to stop—he doesn’t know if the drugs will even give them a break.            

“Okay,” he says, mostly to himself. Time to stop reacting and deal with the situation as it is, no matter how awful. He catches the attention of a passing servitor and requests lubricant, lots of it, and something to drink that might actually help with hydration. The first is easy, because it’s that kind of party. The second has to be specially ordered from the kitchens, apparently, because…Sakaar.            

“I’m sorry,” Loki says when the servitor leaves. “You shouldn’t have to—I’m sorry.”            

Thor is visited with the sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. As if the night won’t be bad enough already, they’re going to spend it wracked with guilt and constantly apologizing to each other, both utterly unable to accept reassurances. 

... Loki doubles over with a sound like he’s been punched. Thor starts to reach for him and forces himself to stop. “Should I—”            

“Yes,” Loki says, his voice fracturing.            

Thor squirts a generous amount of lube into his palm and gets to work, trying not to think about the way Loki flinches at the first touch, how rigidly he holds himself even as he can’t seem to stop trembling. And then the shakes worsen as he starts to choke, again, eyes widening with panic.            

Thor swears, his own hands shaking as he increases his efforts. Of course the Grandmaster would make sure the drugs make this as bad as possible. Of fucking course. Grimly, he forces himself to focus on doing this right, as much as he would rather think about anything else, but it’s impossible to ignore the pained rasp of his little brother fighting for air.            

Loki comes with a ragged gasp, almost collapsing again, and Thor futilely tries to wipe his hand off on the floor while rubbing Loki’s back with the other. There’s probably no point, they’ll both be filthy by the time this is over (if it’s ever over, if this isn’t the Grandmaster’s cheerfully sadistic way of letting Loki die all over again), but he can’t help trying.            

“Fuck,” Loki says between gasps for breath. “Fuck.”            

“I can be faster,” Thor says, a little desperately, although he isn’t sure he can.     

Loki shakes his head, wincing. “Probably…won’t matter. He likes—unpredictable. Well, for everyone else. Not for himself.”

[tastefullynefarious]

Torment never looked so goddamn fine

Chapter 3 / 10 - Kansas - Carry On Wayward Son 

Words:  3,387

Warnings: Stuff!, you can kinda see what to expect from the moodboard lol, SMUT!, emotions i think?, probably typos.

I was going for something, not sure how well it translated from my head but hope ya’ll enjoy! 

°˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

Masquerading as a man with a reason

My charade is the event of the season

And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know

On a stormy sea of moving emotion

Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean

I set a course for winds of fortune, but I hear the voices say

Carry on my wayward son

For there'll be peace when you are done

Lay your weary head to rest

Don't you cry no more

Billy had no idea if she'd still be there, but he didn't know where else to go, didn't have where else to go. In hindsight, it hadn't been his initial choice. He tried the quarry first but it was buzzing with horny teens basking in the late afternoon sun. He even went to stumble into the forest hoping for some alone and quiet, but he almost bumped into the chief of police, a trail a yellow flags in his wake. Billy didn't know if he had the energy to explain his bloody face nor to find out what was the cop doing. So he just hopped back into his car and drove aimlessly for a while, warm blood seeping from above his right eye. Passing by Motel 6 had been nothing more than pure coincidence. Sandy had been a good fuck, a great one even, but she was not his friend and definitely not his savior.

Despite his little rant, as soon as he saw the sign he turned the steering wheel and entered the parking lot almost mechanically. He passed the rooms on the ground floor, 01 to 10, in a daze. Would she still be there? Would she even open the door if she was? He went up the metal stairs and counted the doors, 11, 12 and finally 13, the world slightly spinning, or maybe it was just his pounding head wound. She was still a stranger despite their little midnight encounter a few days prior, she owed him nothing. If she was behind that door, she would send him away. He was not her problem, not her responsibility. Not a charity case.

The door flung open before he beat down this pride enough to knock.

"Well shit. Come on in." It was all she said as she stepped aside and he didn't question her sanity for letting him follow. Even in his state, blinking briskly to keep the blood out of his eye, it was hard not to notice she was only wearing an almost sheer bathrobe, her lean legs in full view.

She guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, gathering the notes and pages scattered on the mattress with some urgency before coming back with a first aid kit and began checking on his bleeding temple. Her cool fingers were already doing wonders for his headache. He relaxed into her touch, hands moving his head to find better angles with a steadiness and dexterity that only came from experience. His eyes never left her, the question of what was her story resurfacing like an undertone in the storm of thoughts that was raging in his mind.

"It's not that bad, head cuts just tend to bleed a lot." It was strange, the way all his wounds seemed to hurt less when she was the one treating them, her hands not particularly light as she whipped the blood away. And stranger still that she seemed to be able to find all the sore spots that weren't even visible, pressing her fingers to his side to see if his ribs were cracked. She even poked at his knee, an old surfing accident that didn't usually bother him, but a weak spot that his father sometimes exploited, knowingly or not. "Nothing's broken, but you should really watch yourself for a while. Stay off that leg as much as possible."

"Doesn't hurt much..." It was more of an afterthought. He knew the pain of broken bones well and that was not it. But she gave him a half smile, her eyes averting from his fast. His hands balled into fists at his side, anger running hot beneath his skin. He hated it, the pity, the walking on eggshells around him like he was one step away from breaking. He loathed himself even more because it was very close to the truth. But Sandy didn't seem to notice his fury, or chose to ignore it completely, picking up his left hand instead. Her brows furrowed as she examined the fast forming bruises on his knuckles, his fingers loosening at the unexpected touch.

"You should take a shower first. Then I'll bandage this up." He opened his mouth, but she was faster. "No complains, Billy! Get in that shower."

"You just want me naked." She faked an overly dramatic gasp, hand brought to her gaping mouth and wide doe-like eyes, but she was already moving backwards towards the door Billy assumed was the bathroom.

"Even if you discovered my wicked plan to get in your pants, you're not getting out of this, mister." There was a deafening silence left behind her as she disappeared from view and it rubbed Billy wrong. He shouldn't have come! Why did he? His usual routine would have been to seek an abandoned place where he could lick his wounds in solitude. So what brought him to this stranger's room? Sure, a part of him had been certain that he would only find an empty space, no traced left behind the mystery Florida girl named Sandy. But she had been still in town, still at the cheap motel, so what was he still doing there, sitting on her bed, waiting for her to dress his wounds for him? The damage was not even that bad this time around, the pain having mostly subsided already. He was left… numb, an endless black void inside of him screaming to be filled with something, anything, else.

Billy got up from the bed faster than he intended to, stumbling on the short distance to the bathroom. She was slightly bent over to reach the faucets, adjusting the water temperature. "Fucking finally. Get it."

Sandy sauntered towards the spot just past the doorway where he seemed to have caught roots. His eyes were dark, face set in all hard lines and jaw clenching. Paired with all the bruises and overall scuffed up appearance, he looked dangerous, the bad boy mothers warned their daughters about, the hungry wolf stalking the pen. The corners of her lips curled in a playful smirk, hands already tugging at his shirt. She pulled it over his head, her powers alerting her of the strain in his shoulders so she turned his dial lower. It was a risk, too much and he would start noticing something was off. Billy had other things on his mind though. One swift pull on the cord that held together the thin robe covering her and it was pooling at her feet, only a pair of lacy panties underneath. The snarl that came out of his sinful mouth was all kinds of cruel, his shoulders straightening as he inched even closer into her personal space.

"Were you already expecting company, doll?" She batted her eyelashes, eyes all big and feigning innocence.

"I was hoping you'd come around-" It seemed to be the correct answer, his mouth on hers barely letting her finish the last word. He pushed her backwards towards the shower and she made fast work of his jeans and boxers. In turn, he ripped the fragile lace than hung on her left hip letting the panties slide down her other leg just as they reached the shower.

The water was steaming, leaving their skin red and raw. Sandy turned their pain down another notch, breaking the kiss to wipe the blood from her nose, but masking it by quickly starting to nip and kiss down his throat. He let his head fall backwards as she went lower and lower, nails digging in his sides. A small groan escaped his lips and she thought he was enjoying it, but was surprised when he pulled her up and pushed her against the tiles rather forcefully, both her wrists caught in a vice like grip above her head.

On any other given day Billy would have more than welcomed her to wrap those lips around his cock, but he was desperate for something else. He lifted one of her legs, a jolt passing through his wrecked arm, but he ignored it, the pain already fading under the boiling water. He was inside her in one swift motion, her back a perfect arch and head pushed back against the hard wall. They settled in a frenzied rhythm, bodies slamming into one another with a ferocity that could almost be mistaken for passion. She moaned loudly and his eyes were drawn to her face, eyes half closed and lips parted. And blood flowing from her nose, still evident even under the heavy stream. She must have caught on his worried expression, his pace slowing down.

"Shit! Don't you dare stop now, Billy!" She rolled her hips with force and he followed suit, his thrusts becoming long and deep rather than fast. He let go of her wrists and wiped the blood off, her arms snaking around his neck instantly. She kissed him as soon as his thumb brushed away from her face, biting his lower lip and sucking on his tongue, teeth clashing as they rushed towards their releases. His now freed hand found her waist and pulled her even closer, fingers imprinting five dotted bruises on her skin. He wrapped her leg around, freeing his hand to tease her clit and she let out something between a moan and a scream as they both came, seconds apart. She rolled her head forward, resting it gently against his. The gesture was far from new yet somehow still foreign and he took a sharp inhale, the steam filling the minuscule motel bathroom making it particularly difficult. He checked her face for any signs of distress, but her eyes were closed and there was no more blood.

"You okay?"

"Better than." She lifted her eyes to meet his, but started coughing almost immediately. "But we should really get out of here before our skin melts off or we suffocate."

She untangled herself from him and turned off the water, the absence of both her body and the hot pour making him shiver despite the temperature still high in the small fogged up space. He followed her into the room, his eyes settling on her back. In better lighting he could finally see the long gashes marring her skin and they looked like anything but accidents. His hand shot up to trace one, but a baggy shirt was covering her before he could. She picked up the first aid again and sat on the edge of the bed, one leg underneath her. The burn-mark on her leg ran all the way from her the middle of her upper thigh to her waist line where he'd felt it.

"Sit." She patted the spot besides her, the tone of her voice sparking a little defiance in him. No one told him what to do! But he sat down nevertheless, towel wrapped around his waist. She was only helping him after all. She'd done nothing but help, taking his mind off of his father, off the aches in his beaten up body. He stared at her concentrated expression as she applied some cream on his shoulder, delicate fingers massaging it into his skin. When she moved to bandage his hand, he snapped at her a little, eyes averting from her when he thought she hadn't deserved it.

"Are you not even going to ask?!"

"Are you going to be honest if I do?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

"Well, that is refreshingly sincere." She continued her little ministrations unaffected by the exchange, while Billy was having a small breakdown on the inside, thoughts forming in his head only halfway through before another idea took their place, all mixed with images of his mother donning identical bandages and bruises to his own. Sandy's voice silenced the madness, cutting through it like a beam of light in the dead of night. "It's not hard to guess though. You already established your father is an ass, I just didn't realize how much of one."

Sandy let her hand fall on his chest and trail all the way down to where she knew the ribs were injured. She read his cuts and bruises like braille, each ache on his body mapped in her head and telling a story. Her powers allowed her to see the big picture better, distinguish between what was new and old. Her voice came out a little shaky as her eyes finally shot back to find his blues. "It happens often, too."

"It was my fault."

"I sincerely hope you don't mean that." When he gave no response, she caught his face between both her hands, thumbs pushing away some of the wet strands of hair. "There is nothing you could have done to deserve this from your dad. Any of it." He would have looked almost cute, a lost little puppy, if his eyes weren't so tired and sad. She could see in them that he didn't believe a single word she had uttered.

Billy stared back at the young woman, a range of emotions washing through him. It started with a seeping anger: who did this girl think she was? She knew nothing about him. It went on to a polar opposite calm curiosity: what had she been through? She looked like she'd seen some shit. It did a back-flip to annoyance: she was acting all high and mighty, but she was running away from her problems just as much as he was, she admitted it that night at the quarry.

Finally, Billy decided he wasn't up to reliving the 'fight' with his father, the memory still just a few hours old. There was no need for her to know how he disrespected Susan, reminding her that she'd never compare to his mom, and the unfortunate matter of Neil hearing him say it. In truth, he had no quarrel with Susan. She was the one who convinced his father to eventually let him buy the Camaro and not just take his hard earned money, arguing it would be useful to have another car. He just- he couldn't think clearly when she was trying so hard to replace her. There was also nothing heroic or dignifying about his torn knuckles, the wall he'd punched repeatedly in frustration the clear winner of the altercation.

Sandy's hands finally slipped away from his cheeks, accepting that he was not going to open up, and rested on her lap. He found his eyes drawn again to that little scar in the corner of her upper lip.

"What about you? Done anything to deserve that?" He gestured to his own lip, resisting the instinct to feel it with thumb. He was expecting some kind of sob story, but her face lit up with laughter.

"Never run around with scissors, that shit is real." He lifted an eyebrow, her words making close to no sense. Had she injured herself? Was she that big of a klutz? She just shrugged in turn. "What can I say, I was a bit of a mess a few years back. A walking danger zone." He wanted to ask more about that particular time of her life, but she shook her head dismissively before he ever got the chance. So he moved on to the next scar.

"And that?" He traced his fingers this time along a long gash peeking out of her short sleeve. It wasn't too obvious, barely a faint line a few shades lighter than her skin.

"Hmmm, got it in a bar fight."

"Bar fight?"

"Yeah. Believe it or not, some men are offended by my personality." There was an implied 'unlike you' at the end of her sentence, her eyes burning into his. Or so he liked to believe. "You should have seen the other guy though." The corners of his lips curled into a proud smirk. He could almost picture her, spunky and wild, breaking a bottle over some douchebag's head, taking no shit from anybody. He reached for her thigh, brushing his fingertips from the normal, soft skin to the rougher, scorched patch. It was almost three of his hands spawns wide, red and angry. He couldn't even begin to imagine how it would feel, the flesh sizzling and shriveling up.

"Must have hurt like a bitch." She shrugged again and he couldn't quite make it if it was bravado or she genuinely was over it.

"I don't really remember. Feels like it was a lifetime ago." She touched the mark herself, her eyes following his to it but not really looking. Her fingers brushed against his and he caught her hand without thinking. Which brought him in an odd stance, caught between wanting to pull her in and realizing he should push her away. The latter won by a landslide.

"I should go." It was getting late and there was no more reason to stay, she had served her purpose. He'd already spent more time with the chick than he usually did after a round of sex and he didn't want her to get any ideas. He went straight to the bathroom to gather his clothes, still damp from the steam and water they splashed around. It mattered little, the need to bolt out the door rising by the second.

Sandy didn't know what she'd done to offend him so, but it was not like she had been expecting him to stay over. From her experience with people in general, limited as it was, she thought she had a pretty clear picture of Billy's type. It was, in retrospect, not so different from her own. They both had walls put up, thick and high and mighty impenetrable. She was proud to be getting better at opening up and accepting her past as a lesson learned, but she had the advantage of breaking free of her torment. Billy stilled seemed to live it on a daily basis.

She was rummaging through some leftover pizza boxes when he came out of the bathroom looking confident and stone cold, ever the charming devil, but he wasn't fooling her. He went straight to the door to get his leather boots and Sandy took the opportunity to feel his sore points again, making sure she could keep the pain levels lower for him even from a distance. It was going to be a bit of a struggle to keep that up long term, but it was something she could at least try. When he nodded at her and opened the door, she crossed her arms.

"Billy!" He turned towards her, one foot already out the door, eyes wild with an emotion she couldn't quite place. She worded her next sentence carefully, not wanting to sound neither needy nor indifferent. "My offer still stands, you know? Come over anytime."

"Already miss me, doll?"

"You read me like an open book. Can I hide nothing from you?" She couldn't resist rolling her eyes. He was such a duffus. A drop dead gorgeous one, completed with the emotional fucked up baggage. He chuckled at her deadpan expression, the sound pure and honest. She'd succeed in not scaring him off. Probably.

"See you around, Sandy."

"See ya, Billy."

She watched him go from the doorway, followed him while he crossed the parking lot and started his car, her eyes narrowing when he drove off into the setting sun. He was still on the back of her mind when she was arranging the files on the lab and ever present in her thoughts as she brushed her teeth before bed. She was convinced she had Billy all figured out, but he was not the problem. She wasn't sure what her next move was with the whole Upside Down situation, or where to start looking for El and the other MKUltra kids. She didn't even know for how long she'd be in Hawkins. Only one thing was beginning to be certain though, the idea forming and cementing itself deep into her brain.

She had to pay Neil a visit before she skipped town.

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

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[italianfootballtheories]

Are We There Yet?

March 8, 2020

Two and a half years on from the Sweden debacle and Euro 2020 (we hope) on the horizon. By coach Mancini’s own admission, 2019 exceeded all expectations for Italy.

Credit: AP/PA Images  

The Azzurri are currently on an 11 game winning streak which includes 10 out of 10 in qualifying, eclipsing legendary Vittorio Pozzo’s longstanding record. Qualification was sealed with three games to spare and ended with the rare symphony of nine goals smashed past Armenia. Fans will be wondering if the boys in blue are back among the big, for real. Things seem rosy (and green) again at Coverciano, but is the renaissance only shirt deep?

Time, and possibly even the upcoming friendlies against Germany and England, will tell if Italy have re-established themselves among Europe’s elite or if the numbers from a (supposedly) modest group have flattered. Many have pointed to the lack of stern opposition faced in 2019 and some will be watching Bosnia’s performance in the play-offs from the corner of their eye for some clues on how accurate that claim has been. With Greece in transition and Bosnia inconsistent, humble Finland was Italy’s biggest threat in Group J and eventually went through in 2nd.

But even if the pessimism is true and Italy truly had a soft group, Roberto Mancini’s achievements are still impressive with all things are considered. When the former Zenith coach landed from Russia (with love), the entire set-up was in disarray; from federation to coaching staff, from the squad right through to fans and a disenchanted nation. Mancini himself was only selected by a commissioner awaiting a president elect for the FIGC - Italian football’s governing body. During 2 friendlies in footballing limbo, interim caretaker Luigi Di Biagio did little to help his future incumbent by naming a largely status quo squad while the country cried for revolution and rejuvenation. 

This left Mancini balancing experimentation with League A survival in the inaugural Nations League. Initially, Mancio was criticized for not using the competition to as an opportunity to restore pride and morale after the World Cup failure. Italy’s Nations League performances did shown progression, but a lack of goals (2 in total) had stifled optimism. Mancini’s vindication would eventually come in Euro qualifying. 

Depending on who you are in football, how you win is as important as winning itself. Mancini would have been forgiven for adopting pragmatism in order to churn out results in Italy’s precarious situation. Many were pleasantly surprised when Mancio gave them positive football; high pressing; playing out from the keeper; and controlled possession in the center with the deployment of both Verratti and Jorginho, defying those who said they couldn’t play together. Far removed from the archetypal Italy teams of the past; an attacking 4-3-3 dotted with exciting youngsters, always trying to score and never resting on the laurels of a 1-goal lead. Italy sides of recent history often scraped in 1-0 victories against the likes of Malta and the Faroe Islands. Each of the Azzurri’s 37 qualifying goals would have been liberating for fans across the peninsula (and beyond). Mancini deserves a lot of credit for flying in the face of tradition in a country that lives and dies by them. 

Of course Italy didn’t fly through the qualifying campaign without the odd bout of turbulence. Mancini’s men really struggled to deal with Dzeko, Pjanic and co in the home fixture against a Bosnia side that rightfully felt they deserved more. Had it not been for 2 moments of magic from Insigne and Verratti, the 100% record would have been nothing more than fan fiction. Away to Armenia, a controversial red card for the home side at 1-1 played a big part in Italy’s underwhelming victory. While away to lowly Liechtenstein, the minnows’ tempo caught Italy on the back foot for sections of the game, drawing fine saves from Sirigu before the flood gates opened late on. Optimists will remind us that great teams win even when they’re not playing well, but the coaching staff should nonetheless be re-watching those performances.  

A lot of time (in footballing terms) has now passed since the festival of goals against Armenia. At rest since November, the following few months will be delicate for the Azzurri, especially for Mancini who’ll want to make sure the momentum hasn’t frozen over during the winter. One of the Azzurri’s strengths in qualifying was their unity and desire to fight for each other under one flag, temporarily putting aside club interests for the greater good. The C.T. has intimated on several occasions that the bulk of his Euro 2020 squad has already been determined, with only 2 or 3 spots up for grabs, so the core looks set to remain intact.  

Mancio does have some other knots to untie though. Zaniolo’s injury almost counts as double, given his flexibility to play in midfield or as part of the front 3. Sensi too, after a superb start to the season, has struggled with injury and subsequently with form; a situation complicated further by the arrival of Eriksen at Inter. Chiellini returns, but this creates as many problems as it solves. Does Mancini reinstate his captain to the starting 11 or keep faith with his vice, Bonucci, and the in-form Acerbi? An ACL injury can be damning for players of an age; it effectively ended Marchisio and Montolivo’s careers, who were both younger than Chiello at the time of injury. The Juventus defender’s experience and dressing room presence alone merits inclusion, but his application on the pitch is still open to assessment. 

Other pillars of the successful qualification run are enduring their own share of troubles in some shape or form. Insigne was instrumental in Italy’s exceptional 2019, but back home in Naples he’s been at odds with club, coach, and fans. Bernardeschi’s form and game-time has been far from desired under Sarri, who’s appeared confused by the former Fiorentina forward’s instruction manual. Speaking of Fiorentina, Chiesa’s form has also been intermittent under the perpetual cloud hanging over his future in Florence. Belotti has stopped scoring of late, coinciding with Torino’s abject form, and even Lorenzo Pellegrini is going through a less than ideal moment in the capital.

The full-back positions are where most of the uncertainty regarding Mancini’s selections lie. Biraghi’s profile has risen since his surprise selection by Mancini and further solidified by his solid performances. Moving to Inter in the summer, the left-back has proved his on-pitch ethic and generosity, but he represents an option of quantity over quality. Spinazzola has played well when called on by club and country, despite the on-off saga of his failed move to Inter. Although the Roma man has struggled with fitness issues of his own and sometimes doesn’t offer enough defensively as he does going forward. Emerson Palmieri is a similar profile and he too is dealing with insufficient playing-time at Chelsea. 

Florenzi seems favorite to start at right-back in his adopted position. The versatile Roman now finds himself on loan at Valencia after being a marginalized captain in the capital. Napoli’s Di Lorenzo seems favorite to be the back-up, even if Spinazzola can also play on the right. Gianluca Mancini and Izzo have deputized on the right, albeit unconvincingly in a role unfamiliar to what they’re used to at club level. 

Upcoming friendlies later this month (if they go ahead) will give more clues on how Mancini plans to mitigate these issues and how the Azzurri fare against a more intimidating measuring stick in the shape of England and Germany.

In addition and on a final note, Serie A players will now have to contend with a fixture list bottle-neck due to coronavirus postponements. Of course, it goes without saying that football is not the top priority when an epidemic and human lives are concerned, but just as Jurgen Klopp suggested, we’ll leave that discussion to the virologists and scientists. My profession doesn’t come with an ist attached to it, so instead I’ll be following recommendations from experts qualified on matters such. As a human being, however, I’m qualified enough to see the all too evident panic driven discrimination and a distinct lack of compassion in a time that desperately needs it. Europe, in particular, seems more divided than ever in a year when the European Championships will be hosted across the continent. A decision intended not only to celebrate the tournament’s anniversary, but to also symbolize the region’s unity. In Italy, as in all of Europe, the irony of that message is spreading faster than the virus.  

[marshmallow-phd]

Memories Past

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Supernatural, Wolf Au

Pairing: Kris x Reader

Summary: The last thing Kris wanted was to move on. He was perfectly content wallowing in his misery while pretending everything was okay. But when you come walking into his shop with a broken down car, he realizes the thing he’d been avoiding the most just might be the cure he always needed. He just couldn’t believe that it’d been you all along. Kris had been your best friend when you were kids before he’d moved away without a word of goodbye. Now nearly fifteen years later, you run into him again by pure coincidence. The memories come rushing back to you, stirring something inside. A childhood crush shouldn’t upend your picture perfect life, but sometimes, destiny has other things in mind…

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I Final

**

This was the ultimate adrenaline rush.

Running through the woods with the stars above was definitely a thrill for any average werewolf. That was the time they were one with the forest, truly at home. It was only natural for that to be where a wolf sought solace.

But this. This right here was its own kind of high. With the rumble of the engine vibrating the whole car, Kris felt in complete control. Pushing his foot down on the gas pedal, he revved his motor threateningly, letting his opponent know who the winner would be at the end of this mile.

The flag girl stood safely off to the side, the white polyester cloth held up high for both drivers to see. At the race handler’s signal, she threw the flag in the air and they took off.

Kris nearly cursed to see his opponent had half a car length’s jump on him. Shifting gears, he pushed the pedal down even farther, the engine roaring and straining in protest. But Kris knew his car inside and out. He knew what it could take, having torn the engine apart before rebuilding it to the perfection it was today. And his baby never let him down as he watched the nose of his car inch up to be head to head with his opponent.

Flipping up a hidden switch, Kris pressed that fun little red button, giving him just the boost he needed. The car shot forward thanks to that punch of NOS, propelling him past the other driver and crossing the makeshift finish line.

Victory was his. Little yelps and laughs of celebration escaped his lips as he grinned from ear to ear. As he circled around back to the main area, he parked his car along the rows of other souped-up vehicles. Getting out of the car, he rounded to the front and leaned back against the hood to wait for his payment.

Jimmy, a short bald man and Kris’ fellow Chinese man, came up to him with too much energy. Kris held out his hand for Jimmy to take, pulling him into that classic brother half-hug.

“What’s up, man?” Kris smirked, knowing exactly why Jimmy had come over to him.

“I gotta say, you can race like no one else I’ve ever seen before,” Jimmy praised.

Kris laughed. Little did any of these people know that what made him so good was his werewolf reflexes. His timing was better as well as his ability to process a situation and make a quick decision. Very handy when the race usually only lasts ten seconds or so.

“Just lucky, I guess,” he shrugged.

Jimmy scoffed. “Yeah, right.” He held up a thick roll of cash. “Your take in the winnings, Racer King.”

“Thank you,” Kris grinned, pocketing the money.

“Still not going to count it?” Jimmy sighed.

“Told you,” Kris said as he headed back for the driver’s door, “I don’t do it for the money. It’s just a nice bonus.”

“I’m going to start taking a bigger cut, then,” Jimmy warned.

Kris shook his head. “No, you won’t.”

Even seated inside the car, Kris heard Jimmy mumble playfully, “Punk.”

Taking off down the road, the smile on Kris’ face began to fade.

Illegal street racing wasn’t exactly the safest hobby or activity to partake in, no matter how good and isolated the location was. Years ago, he’d dabbled into it. Until Jiyoon scolded him and made him quit.

Now, almost as soon as he’d settled back down in this town, he’d scoured all over the place to track down the races.

Was he being slightly self-destructive? Not completely. He was safe in how he raced, careful until the finish line.

Was he just running away without going anywhere? Plausible.

The drum-heavy music that blared from his phone mercifully pulled him out of his thoughts. Pressing the phone button on his dash, he answered the call through the Bluetooth set up.

“Yes, Tao?”

“Kris-ge,” the younger wolf whined. “Are you almost home? Sehun and Chanyeol are threatening to leave without you.”

Kris shook his head, exasperated. Twelve was just too many members for a pack. “If they do, they’re on bathroom duty for two weeks.”

Tao repeated Kris’ threat to the others which lead to several unintelligible cries of protest in the background.

“I’m almost there,” Kris groaned. “Hold on for five more minutes. Think you guys can sit still long enough?”

“Sure,” Tao replied. “I can, at least.” There was a pause and Kris almost hung up the call when Tao added, “Hey, Kris? Where you have been going lately? Between you and Junmyeon, I’m getting worried.”

“I’ve just been out running a few errands,” Kris lied, if a little guiltily. He knew if he told the others that he’d been out racing, they’d want to come along to watch. Considering the fact that drag racing in the streets was highly illegal, there was always the chance of the cops coming out and breaking it up and topping it off with a few arrests. Kris didn’t mind if he spent the night in jail, but if the others got locked up with him, Junmyeon would have a fit. Better to keep his brothers out of it. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m pulling up into the driveway now.”

“Okay.” Tao hung up without saying goodbye.

Pulling up around back, Kris turned off the engine and sat in his car. Without any prompting the boys ran out the door and huddled around the car’s left side. It was hard, but he resisted rolling his eyes as he got out of the car.

“Let’s go.” He tried his best to not sound as irritated and annoyed as he felt, but considering the questionable glance that Chanyeol gave him, he must have failed. At least tonight, Yixing and Minseok were going with them. That meant they’d be getting back earlier from the run since they had class in the morning and would be more adamant about getting some sleep.

They all headed for the forest, stripping themselves of their clothes to be picked up on the way back.

**

“Are you serious?” Ji Yeon gasped.

By pure luck, after Huan had dropped you off fairly early for class, Ji Yeon had found you just sitting at one of the stone tables in the courtyard as you waited for it to be an appropriate time to head to class. The two of you were quick to exchange numbers and then you told her about your ordeal on the way home the previous night.

“I knew yesterday was just going way too well for me,” you laughed, shaking your head.

“Where did you take your car?” Ji Yeon asked.

You frowned as you thought to remember. “Um, it was called Lang Auto Shop?”

Ji Yeon’s eyes lit up. “Really? I know the guy that owns that place! You, ma’am, are in very good hands. He’s a magician when it comes to cars. And, he won’t overcharge you. That is the real magic.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. The picture forming in your head was of a kind old man with a too-long beard that felt like everyone’s grandfather.

All too soon, it was time for both of you to get to class. Luck seemed to be on your side as your lecture halls were right next to each other, giving you a little more time to talk before you had to separate. Unfortunately, your schedules didn’t match up for the rest of the day, but Ji Yeon promised to text you to set a time for lunch tomorrow.

The rest of your school day was spent with your mind pacing back and forth. You wanted to focus on the lectures and PowerPoints that occupied your class time, but you were worried about your car. Two different people had sworn up and down that the owner of the body shop was a fair mechanic, but there was only so much they could do if your engine needed a part that cost more than a grand. The move had put a dent into your savings as well as Huan’s and the last thing you needed was a hefty mechanical bill.

Finally, the time for Huan to come pick you up from the university and take you to the shop had come. You had to miss out on your last class of the day to make it before the shop closed, but you figured one missed session early in the semester wouldn’t hurt you.

Hopping into the passenger’s seat of his well washed black Mercedes, you leaned over the middle console and gave your fiancé an appreciative kiss before greeting him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he purred back, stealing another kiss. “How was your day?”

You shrugged. “Fine. It’d be better if I wasn’t panicking over my car, but, you know, life.”

Huan just laughed at you. “Yeah, life does that.” As you put your seat belt on, he turned to the GPS, “Okay, what was the name of the shop?”

“Lang Auto Shop.”

Just like you, Huan seemed to find the name strange, but interesting.

It only took about fifteen or twenty minutes to get to the shop from the school. Huan parked right outside the garage doors and both of you got out to find an employee.

“Can I help you?” One of the mechanics approached you, wiping his hands on an already dirty rag. The patch on his coveralls said “Brian”. He certainly looked like a Brian with his blonde hair and cheerful grin.

“Yeah, my fiancé’s car broke down last night and she had it towed here,” Huan explained. “She left the spare keys with a note about what happened and so we were just seeing if there was any update on that or if you were able to even get to it.”

Brian nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Silver four-door, right?”

“That’s the one.”

“It was actually a simple fix,” Brian said to your relief. “Two of the wires under the hood had been rubbing together and the heat had melted the rubber coating on the outside and shorted the fuse box. We were able to replace the box and wrapped up the expose parts of the wire. I think it ended up being about a hundred dollars or so. We’ve got the invoice in the office.”

Brian motioned for you to follow him, but while Huan did so, still talking to him about the wires and what had gone on with your car, another mechanic in the shop had caught your eye. Bent over and inspecting the engine of a nice mustang was someone that you never expected to see again in your lifetime.

“Kris?”

At the sound of his name, Kris turned and met your eyes. When he did, his jaw went slack and his hand that was keeping him balanced above the engine slipped, causing his head to hit the lifted hood.

You snickered, not quite able to believe this situation in the slightest.

Rubbing the top of his head, he stuttered, “(y-y/n)? W-what are you doing here?”

Over your shoulder, you pointed with your thumb as your good-as-new car parked just outside. “My car broke down last night and we brought it here. This is just insane. Is this where you guys moved to?”

Eyes still wide open in shock, Kris gave you a shaky nod. “Yeah. Yeah, this is where we moved to.”

Something… strange was happening inside you. While Kris had always been slightly taller than you, now he just seemed like a giant, much taller and toned than you had ever imagined him to be. Not that you imagined what adult Kris would look like. Much.

As his brown eyes stared down at you in amazement, your heart started speeding up on its own. You scolded it for getting so worked up over nothing. Of course, Kris did seem to turn into a very handsome man, but that was to be expected. He was a cute kid so why shouldn’t he be an attractive adult? The ring on your left hand was suddenly much heavier.

“Hey, honey.” Huan came over and joined you, planting a kiss on your cheek. Affection like that was nothing new from him, but now you felt uncomfortable at his public display. Sensing some of the tension between you and Kris, he asked, “Do you two know each other?”

“Yeah,” you admitted quickly. “Huan, this is Kris, an old friend of mine. Kris, this is my fiancé, Huan.”

Huan, ever the pleasant and outgoing type, held his hand out. “It’s nice to meet you.”

On the other end, you could see the strain it took for Kris to return the gesture. “Pleasure to meet you, too.”

“Wait,” Huan grinned down at you. “Is this the Kris that you used to talk about all the time?”

Your own eyes went wide with panic. “N-not all the time.”

Kris laughed. “I’m a pretty impressionable guy, so I’m not surprised.”

That made you roll your eyes. Some things never change.

Huan didn’t seem to like the direction the conversation was going, so he looped an arm around your lower back. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Kris, but we should probably get going.”

“Yeah,” you agreed halfheartedly. Seeing Kris again so randomly was making your mind fuzzy. You needed to get out of here, but you didn’t want to leave.

“It was nice to meet you, Huan,” Kris said sincerely. Looking back to you, he gave a soft smile, “It was really good to see you again, (y/n).”

It was impossible not return it. “You, too, Kris.”

Your footsteps were heavy as you walked away from the shop. What strange coincidence was this?

Driving home in your newly fixed car, you were too preoccupied and lazy to cook anything for dinner so you picked up some take out instead, getting both of your usual orders.

At the table, Huan talked about his day like normal, but you found yourself only replying with “hms” and “huhs”. Kris’ face kept floating along in your mind. What had he been up to all these years? Did he go to the same school that you went to now? Did he work at the shop or own it? How were his parents, who always treated you like one of their own?

The muscles in the corner of your mouth pulled up at that last question, remembering the fond memories of playing at Kris’ house and being a bit spoiled by Mrs. Wu. Having no daughter of her own, she kind of doted on you, much to Kris’ irritation.

“What’s the smile for?” Huan asked.

You blinked, looking up from your food. “What?”

“You’re grinning,” he pointed at you with his fork. “What were you thinking about?”

“Just… fond memories,” you shrugged. “Kris’ parents were always really nice to me. I was just thinking about them.”

Huan nodded, looking a little relieved. “Oh, okay.”

He dropped the subject, much to your own relief.

Later that night, after the two of you had crawled into bed and said good night, you found yourself just lying there, staring at the wall and unable to fall asleep. Huan had no trouble drifting off, snoring loudly behind you with one arm draped over your waist, lazily holding you close.

Careful not wake him up, you slowly got out of bed, letting his arm slide off of you. Walking into the closet, you closed the door before turning on the light.

While most of your belongings were unpacked and put away, there was one box that you hadn’t quite gotten to yet. Most of the objects inside were things you didn’t really touch or hadn’t thought about in a long time so there wasn’t any hurry. Pulling the box down from the high shelf, you quietly set it on the floor and opened it up.

A lot of the knick-knacks were from your childhood; first day photos, crappy art projects, a yearbook here and there. Underneath all of that, though, was a very special shoe box. You’d put it away a long time ago, sometime before your sophomore year of college as your teen years were put behind you and real adulthood was coming along.

The contents inside were your most precious items. Items that reminded you of your best friend before he abruptly moved away without a single word of goodbye. It hurt to think about still, how you cried for a week straight while your mother held you and rocked you to sleep. All you wanted was your best friend back, but you didn’t know where he’d gone.

And now he’d magically appeared in front of you. What a jerk.

One by one, you pulled the items out, smiling as you did so. There were a few pictures of you and Kris from your zoo trips and birthday parties. Random rocks you’d found that you once thought were cool and even a red leaf that you’d laminated because you thought it was pretty and you didn’t want to lose it occupied space in the box. But the one thing that you were actually looking for was buried all the way down at the bottom.

Trying not to break the somewhat tangled chain, you pulled out the necklace and held it up.

On your thirteenth birthday, your mother surprised you by having the dumb moonstone that you’d always carried around in your pocket turned into a necklace that you could wear. The rock had always served its purpose, the one Kris had disposed upon it all those years ago. With it in sight, you really couldn’t think of anything else but him.

Sitting there on the floor of your closet in the middle of the night, you fiddled with the necklace, turning the stone in your hand over and over again. Was it a work of fate that he magically appeared in your life again? Or was it just a stunning coincidence?

Either way, you had an inkling feeling that your life was about to get a little complicated.

**

It was supposed to be a normal day at work. Kris was simply supposed to go in, work on the cars for the day and then go home to have dinner with the boys and maybe get some work done on his own baby.

The silver car that was parked out in front of the shop when he arrived in the morning didn’t seem like anything extraordinary. By lunchtime, he was able to get to the car, finding the problem right away thanks to his good eyes and the note left by the owner. He’d smiled when he read the name, thinking immediately of his childhood friend.

Never, ever in a million years would he ever expected that the same person who left the car and note would really be his old childhood friend – you. And not only that, but the biggest surprise was yet to come.

You were his mate.

The clenching feeling in Kris’ chest was almost overwhelming the second his eyes settled on you. Of course, he recognized you right away. You’d hardly changed at all, even though more than fifteen years had passed.

It was incredible. Something like this was rare, having known his mate since he was young. It seemed impossible that the one destined for him would be you.

And of course, being the smooth operator he was, he’d managed to slip and hurt himself on the car he was working on.

Then things just got worse.

A man came up to you and kissed you on the cheek. Reflexively, Kris’ muscles tightened on the wrench he gripped in his hand. The wolf inside growled at him to do something, to get that man away from his mate. But that was your fiancé. He couldn’t exactly just shove the guy off of you and steal you away.

Driving home that night, Kris felt like there was a war going on inside him. He’d held onto the memory of Jiyoon for so long, he didn’t know it would be this intense like to have those feelings washed away.

Kris had never wanted to find his mate. To him, no one could compare to Jiyoon. But… you felt like a mercy from Fate. The only person who could out shine Jiyoon would be the first girl he’d ever had a crush on.

But you had a fiancé. You’d already promised to spend your life with someone else. What was Kris to do about that?

Maybe this was for the better. If you were with Kris… something bad could happen to you. He couldn’t let you end up like Jiyoon. He didn’t want the same thing again. So, maybe this was meant to be. Kris had found his mate, but you could be happy with someone else. And… maybe you two could just be friends in this lifetime. The wolf didn’t like that idea.

A ferocious war indeed.

With heavy footsteps, Kris walked up to the farmhouse and stepped inside to the kitchen, expecting Kyungsoo to be slaving away at the stove on dinner. However, the house was quiet and no one seemed to be around.

“Hello?” Kris called out.

“No one’s home.” Junmyeon stepped into the kitchen. He was dressed down in sweats and a tank top, the complete opposite of his usual professor get up. In fact, he looked like shit. “They all went out for pizza a few hours ago. Chanyeol said he would text you.”

Frowning, Kris pulled out his phone. Sure enough, there was the text on his screen. He never heard the notification, probably because he was too lost in his thoughts. It was miracle he even made it home without an incident. He shrugged it off, not too put out by it. There was plenty of food in the fridge that he could eat and by now they’d be done and on their way home. Instead, he turned back to Junmyeon.

“What’s going on with you?”

Junmyeon sighed heavily, shuffling over to the breakfast booth. He sat down with a thump and rested his face in his hands.

Kris sat down across from him. “Junmyeon?”

He looked up and stared at Kris. “You don’t look much better.”

“Yeah,” Kris scoffed. “I just got the surprise of my life today.”

Junmyeon raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? I bet I can beat it with what happened to me last week.”

Sitting back, Kris smirked. “Really? Fine. We’ll say it at the same time and see who wins.”

Junmyeon actually laughed. “Alright. Deal.”

Kris held a hand up along with three fingers that went down with the numbers. “Three. Two. One.”

“I found my mate.” “I found my mate.”

The alpha wolves stared at each other in shock.

“Well,” Junmyeon swallowed, “this is quite the development.”

“Yeah,” Kris nod. “You got that right.”

Thunderous footsteps shook the house and the rest of the pack came tumbling into the kitchen from the front of the house. They were wrestling around and joking with each other, but when they noticed the two alphas sitting in the booth, the chatter stopped.

“Anything you guys want to share?” Minseok asked.

Kris looked at Junmyeon and waved his hand out. “You first.”

Junmyeon dropped his head down to the table and groaned. For Junmyeon to be this conflicted about finding his mate, the situation had to be either highly comical or deep trouble. Kris was curious to find out which one it was.

[mizu-writes-kumo]

Just read your cool shance fic were they race cars in street races. Think you could please post more for that. Like maybe lance wins a race against sendak. Shiro so proud of him that he twirls him around in his arms and kisses all over his cheeks. Than if sendak tries to start something shiro smirks and says blue lion beat you fair and square while casually holding a crowbar.

Sorry this took some time to get too.  Again it’s been a rather busy month and I’ve just been so tried from work.

It is also posted on AO3!

Warning: Gun violence, mentions of car accidents

—-

Shiro doesn’t like what was happening.

Not one little bit.

Not when Lance was so freshly released from the hospital after being struck by an unknown driver that sped away.  Still on some strong pain medication to function. And not after the doctors had said he was lucky to have escaped with broken collar bone and terrible bruised and sore body. That his tucking and rolling with the hit, no doubt saved him from more serious injury.  And definitely not after the representative that had been with Lance at the time had cover all the bills out of…thanks, Shiro assumed, for shoving him clear of the cars path.  

At least Shiro had convinced Lance to say as long as he possibly could.

But the fact that Lance was racing…

Well racing after everything was a terrible idea.

But there was no choice.  

Lance had been too cornered into things to even have a whisper of a thought of backing out.  

Sendak had seen everything to that detail.

If Lance didn’t show and race, the title Blue Lion name would be taken from him.  The streets would take it away from him with no chance for him to defend his claim to it.  And he would be branded as a coward, despite being hurt to the understandable point of not racing by most.  The whole race had been made into event before everything. And the only way Lance was getting out was if he was in a coma or dead.

Shiro knew the accident and everything was Sendak’s doing.

Everything was too conveniently close for it to be just a coincidence.  And far too vague in facts to really link Sendak to it. Though it was all such clear sabotage, it’s crazy the crowds that adore Lance can’t see it.

That and Shiro just knows Sendak.  

All the crap he pulled to get Shiro in his gang.  The stuff that had cost Shiro just about everything, and made him run to his old stomping grounds.  

There were other reasons, sure, but Shiro can’t lie it was a background fact.

And now Lance was racing him.

Lance and assured Shiro things would be fine.  

All would work out in the end if he just raced .

Even if he loss, within a week, the crowds would whisper and talk of his condition during it all.  Mutter how it wasn’t fair in the end. Sendak’s victory would become meaningless as they all saw the truth of it.  Whatever standing he managed to gain would falter under it. For Lance nothing would be lost.

If he won, well that would no doubt solidified his Lion name.  

Just like Shiro’s had been.

But Shiro doesn’t like it.  

The whole thing makes him anxious beyond belief.  So much so he feels sick to his stomach.

Yet the idea of leaving and not watching Lance made it ten times worse.  

When Keith suggested they go to some other area for some air, and a less public descent into a panic attack, Shiro nearly bit off his head.  He doesn’t fault Hunk though for taking the offer, and thankful that Pidge stay by his side. Quickly understanding leaving would just make things worse for Shiro.

“He’ll be fine,” Pidge assured flatly over the rumbles of car engines and cheers.  “He can do this track blindfolded.”

Shiro hummed.

His eyes fixed to the girl making her way between the cars.  She runs her hand over Lance’s old blue mustang as she does. The show of luck wished it felt like.  Before she stood in the middle to call out the track path and terms of the race, one last time.

Shiro can’t see Lance in the shadows of his car.

But he gives him a hopeful smile on the off chance he was looking over at him one last time.  Even if Shiro would much rather be bend over a trash can hurling.

“Lance will be okay.”  Pidge repeated again as the countdown began.

Shiro watched as the flag is dropped.

The two car engines roared loudly as tires squealed for a moment.  Looking for traction before they rocketed forwards. Sendak’s black Dodge quickly taking the lead over Lance’s beloved Blue.  

Similar to how most races went for Lance at the start.

The crowd knows this and expectations nothing more

But Lance is at Sendak’s heels as they speed away.  Approaching the first bend of the track. Red of brake lights flash as they both barreling into it.  Quickly disappearing from sight around it.

Five minutes.

That’s how long it too to race the set track on average.

Meaning it was going to be five minutes until the race was over.  Lance and Sendak would both return to cross the finish line. Hopefully close to each other’s heels, with Lance in the lead.  It was just five minutes.

But Shiro could feel his anxiety spike with each passing second.

He didn’t trust Sendak to race… clean.

Lance was already in pain and a bit loopy from the drugs.  Without a doubt his reaction time was diminished greatly. And Sendak was already willing almost kill Lance for any bit of an advantage.  

There was no doubt Sendak would try something to insure a victory.

God, five minutes was so long.

And Shiro can’t be there to watch every turn.

The circuit is too big.  And the idea of getting on one of the motorcycles that trail behind is paralyzing for Shiro.  It always had been. Even if it’s so follow after the race and see. So he was blind to what’s happening out there. He was just left there to stand and wait.

“Hey!  Earth to Black Lion!”  Pidge voice snapped harshly as Shiro felt the younger shorter girl jab at his side painfully.  Like he was ninety percent sure it would bruise, but she gave him little room to complain. “Here, look at this!”  She stated as she shoved her a tablet at him.

On screen is just a basic street map with one little blue dot on it.

The dot following the track of the race.

Lance .

Shiro realized before Pidge started to explain beside him.

She put a tracker in his car.  Or maybe more so a device that monitored every little thing could be hooked up to.  Speed, gas, heat, gears, tear pressure, to name just a few. More than enough to monitor things from afar.  A way to instantly see if there was a sudden shift in anything.

He doesn’t hear her talking beside him as he tore the tablet out of her grasp.

Eyes glued to the little dot.

There was no dot for Sendak.

Shiro can’t tell who was leading.  Nor could Shiro really make out any maneuvers Lance might be trying to make to defend a lead, or gain it.  Well he probably could guess something if he looked at the readout the device was tracking. Shiro knew how drive, and how to drive to race , and how he knew Lance drove to make a good guess at what he was doing.  But he couldn’t tear his eyes from the little dot.

Watching it make turn after turn on the map until…

Shiro looked up as the roar of an engine sounded over the last bend.

And to his instant relief it’s the 70s blue mustang drifting in wildly.

Shiro doesn’t fault the slight over steer as the car corrected itself.

Hell he doesn’t care about anything once the race is over.

Just that Lance got out of the car completely okay.

Which he did…sort of.

It looked like he half fell out of the driver’s seat.  Caught by some excited spectators that were close. They help him to his feet gingerly as everyone else starts to crowd around the blue mustang.  Complete ignoring the black Dodge as it rumbled past the finish line and parked a bit away.

The crowd parted instantly as Shiro made his approach.

Lance instantly in Shiro’s tight hold.

Shiro could feel relief flood into him at the feeling of Lance’s familiar warmth against his chest.  He gripped the back of Lance’s shirt as he held him. Mindfully being careful of how tight as he did so, not wanting to hurt Lance.  Doing his best to kiss every surface of skin and hair that he can manage. And he could feel Lance holding him as tightly as he can managed, burying his face in Shiro’s neck.

“I did it, I won.”  Lance repeated over and over in a soft laughing whisper.

It was something Shiro could barely hear over the cheers and excitement of the crowd.  But he knew well enough to know when it turned to soft sobs of relief.

Shiro didn’t lessen his hold as it happened.  Rather he took to assuring Lance with small whispered “Yes you did,” “You did so good,” and “I’m so proud of you” against Lance’s hairline.  Over and over again. Coupled with gentle ‘I love you’s as the crowd started to dissipate for something else.

Letting his relief settled as he just held Lance.

The angry sound of a car door was heard.  Along with the frustrated grumbles of Sendak snapping at his men.

Shiro pulled away a bit and turned to look at Sendak.

To glare at him one last time.  

Make it clear that he could not expand his territories to their city.  He was no longer welcome there, or near Lance. His men and him and overstayed their welcome.  That is was just best to go in the night and never return.

Only…

Shiro’s blood ran cold at the site.

He was frozen for a second as he watched Sendak storm forward towards them.  Hand moving behind from behind his back in all to familiar motion. The glint of  the gun’s metal caught some light from a street light.

Sharply, Shiro spun them around.  

So his back was to Sendak, and he could shield Lance from a bullet hopefully.

BANG!

Screams of panic erupted from a collect of spectators.  Followed by the fury of movement everyone trying to scatter for safety.  Shiro could hear the surprised yelps of his friends, and the sound of them ducking.  And he can feel Lance half try to drop to the ground and take Shiro with him.

He waits for the pain but it never comes.

Instant he heard Sendak let out an engaged cry of pain.

“Have you no sense of honor!”  Came a loud accented voice.  

Shiro turned to the sound to see Allura.  A sweet, kind, and rather rich woman, with a love and knowledge of cars that is so refreshing among the nuts that flock to the circuit.  Lance had taken her advice about something when others had rudely blown her off, and she’d been a friend since. Her white hair and name brand clothes make her usually stick out.

The small gun in her hand did that more now.

She doesn’t waver under the snarl Sendak threw at her.  “I expected you to be a sore loser. To complain and grumble.  Refuse to fade away without the last word” She growled as she continued.  Keith hurried to her side with a tire wrench in hand. Pidge follows his example with a tazer crackling loudly.  “ But to stoop so low .  To be so lacking in general decency of the streets, I have no words.”  She huffed as she settled the gun back into her purse gingerly.  “And against the beloved Lions, really shows the lack of your intelligence.”

Sendak growled roughly as he stood to his full bulk height.

Ready to advance towards Allura.

Despite the shifting tides against him.

“Leave this city as soon as possible.”  Shiro snapped, pulling Sendak’s attention back to him and Lance.  He rubbed gently at Lance’s back as he felt his love stiffen at his side.  “You lost to a far better racer, one you tried to sabotage as well. With speaks more Lance’s victory than anything else.  I suggest you take the loss, and go home and lick you wounds before the tides shift completely out of your control.”

Sendak growled roughly, but one of his men sees the sense in Shiro’s words.

A few of the spectators are seeming to take a turn on them.  Being a Lion is a coveted thing in their town. In their world.  Everyone there knows so, and they all love Lance one way or another.  Sendak trying to hurt him would gain nothing for him.

He pulls Sendak back towards the black Dodge.  

Piling him in before they hurriedly drive away.  

Shiro doesn’t watch them drive away, knowing everyone else probably is. He turns to Lance with a soft and wide smile.  He knows Lance’s claim to the name Blue Lion is safe. No one was going to think of taking it from him now. And he’s proud of his boyfriend for his accomplishment.

Lance smiled back tiredly.

“Alright, let’s get you back home to rest.”  Shiro said warmly.

“That sounds nice.”  Lance said tiredly with a sigh as Shiro carefully guided him towards the back seat.  He let Shiro help in as best he could with the smallest of hisses and groans of pain at the movements.  “Cuddling with you after today, that sounds nice.”

“Yes it does.”  Shiro said warm as crawled in carefully beside Lance with a small signal for Hunk to drive.  The sound of police sirens rang in the approaching distance as Shiro closed the door and Lance eased into his side..  “Yes it really does.”

—-

AN:  I don’t know  The ending is a bit rushed, but I didn’t really know how to end it.  Sorry about that.  But I hope you enjoyed this!