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lumosinlove · 3 years

Text

Vaincre

part iii

cw: brief, non-graphic mention of injury and medical assistance

September

Only blue talk and love

Remember

How we knew love was here to stay

Summer hadn’t truly felt over until Remus saw Regulus standing in the airport, bags checked for New York and backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Well,” Regulus said, shifting a little between his feet. “Here goes.”

Remus laughed. “It’s going to be amazing, Reg.”

“Maybe. Hopefully.”

“It will,” Sirius said. “But if you need anything we’re…what? A four hour drive?”

Remus nodded. “Yeah, you can call.”

Regulus huffed out a laugh. “You two sound like worried parents.”

Sirius laughed, too. “I’m just glad we know what those sound like now.”

Regulus’ expression shifted, tightening. He nodded, seemed to hang in hesitation for a moment, and then walked forward two steps and threw his arms around Sirius. Sirius froze, too, with his hands in his pockets, and then wrapped his little brother up tight.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Remus heard Regulus murmur softly. “I don’t really think you left me there. With them.”

Sirius made an indistinguishable sound, and Remus took a step back, giving them space and not sure if he was fighting tears or a smile. He used to just think about how he could kill Sirius and Regulus’ parents if he had the chance, but now, seeing how far the brothers had come, he wasn’t sure they were worth the time at all.

“Come home sometimes, okay?” Sirius said. “D’accord?”

“Ouais,” Regulus said.

They pulled apart slowly, both a little bright-eyed. Sirius laughed wetly, wiping his face.

“And make good friends.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “I think that’s supposed to be good choices.”

Sirius reached out for Remus’ hand. “Good friends are good choices.”

“Ah,” Regulus hitched his pack farther up his shoulder. “Of course.”

“Call when you get there, too,” Remus cut in. “My mom would definitely want me to say that.”

Regulus waved them off. “Okay, that’s enough parenting. I’m going now.”

Sirius held Remus’ hand tight as they watched Regulus go through security and then disappear with a wave, sliding his headphones on. He let out a long, unsteady breath.

“Merde.”

“Love ya,” Remus smiled, reaching up to wipe a tear from Sirius’ cheek.

Sirius glanced down at him. “He’s going to be fine.”

“He is,” Remus nodded.

“He forgives me.”

“No,” Remus said. “He told you that you never did anything wrong.”

Sirius let out another tearful laugh, sniffing. “Right. You’re right.”

Remus pushed up on his toes to kiss his cheek. “Wanna get dinner?”

“Ouais. That sounds perfect.”

They wandered the summer soft streets, cooled by the evening and by approaching September. Remus was torn between being ready to let summer go, and never wanting it to end at the same time.

It’s good to hear a packed Hogwarts Stadium again, huh, Dean? Even if just for a preseason game against our New York Rangers neighbors.

Right, Lee? I love this post-summer feeling, and I know our Lions do, too. Especially excited to see what our new talent has to offer. This’ll be fan’s first glimpse at Lupin and Reyes, our two…well, I suppose rookie wouldn’t be quite as perfect a word for Lupin as it is for Reyes. We’re used to Lupin’s face around here, huh.

That we are. Not used to seeing what is rumored to be some very quick feet on him, though. As far as testing went, that is.

Right, the bike test. As well as strength. Who knows. This could be building up to a very interesting season.

Remus stared up at the TV mounted on the wall as he peddled slowly on the stationary bike, keeping his legs warm. He felt bizarre, and had been dodging any type of media to avoid having to talk about it. He was dreading post-game. Every time he tried to think of something to say, his mind went blank.

I’m happy to be here.

I never thought I would be here.

The other half of his brain was trying to compute that it wouldn’t just be the preseason, practice scrimmages he was used to. It wouldn’t just been his team, his friends, out there. Not that it would be a full fledged game, either. No one looked to crushing blows during a preseason game. It was about getting warm. Remus was thankful for it. He didn’t know how he was going to feel when he put his jersey on. When he stepped out onto the ice. He had been nervous enough for the fitness testing.

“You’re literally the fastest guy here,” Finn had said after he’d gotten off of the bike—with the highest score. It had made him feel better, but he knew he wouldn’t really be settled until until coach called his name from the line card.

“Loops,” Logan said, swinging onto the bike beside him. “I keep running into you.”

Remus smiled. “Looks like we having similar warm-up routines.”

“Apparemment,” Logan nodded, turning up the resistance. “Nervous?”

Remus nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

Logan nodded, but stayed quiet and Remus was thankful. Everyone tried to talk him out of it, Sirius included, and he loved them for that, but at the same time, this was nice, too.

“Me too, sort of,” Logan said, and they traded a smile before looking back up at the Gryffindor pre-game show.

“All right,” Coach Arthur Weasley clapped his hands and gestured to the side of the room where the assistant coaches and staff were standing. The whole locker room was flooded with energy of all kinds—nervous, excited—and it flowed through those not in uniform, too. “We all know Moody. We all know our coaches. Mason, Alexandra, and Dan. We all know our PTs—should I say new PTs—“ there were some laughs. “Lars and Layla.”

“Double-Ls,” Thomas whooped.

Layla gave two thumbs up, and Lars remained stoic, arms crossed. He hadn’t said much since arriving aside from the occasional wise-cracking joke delivered without a trace of a smile.

“Who’s captain serious now, eh?” Thomas leaned in to whisper, and Remus suppressed a smile, glancing at Sirius—who was wearing an almost equally focused expression on his face, completely still where he sat a few stalls down, past Thomas and James. Remus glanced around the locker room, down the crescent-shaped row. Kasey and Leo, on opposite ends, were both geared up. Finn and Leo were sharing AirPods. Remus knew Kasey had worked hard over the summer, rehabbing his thigh, strengthening and increasing flexibility. He knew Leo was happy to be his back-up, but part of him wondered what Leo thought about all the games he had played in the play-offs, only to be placed right back on the bench now. It happened to a lot of guys—some were called up for injury, only to be sent right back down to the farm team when injuries healed. But Remus thought it was different for goalies. He hoped Coach wouldn’t leave Leo sitting on the bench for too long.

“Who’s calling first line?” Coach asked, and held the card out to Sirius. “Cap?”

Remus didn’t realize until the cheers broke out that he could be loud with the rest of them, and gave his stall a few bangs as Sirius rose, hat keeping his hair back. His eyes found Remus’ briefly once had turned towards them with the card, and Remus’ breath caught at his beaming grin.

“Okay, boys, first line,” Sirius said. “We’ve got Pots.”

Clap.

“Tremzy.”

Thomas drum-rolled his stall.

Sirius smiled. “Myself.”

Finn put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

“And on D, Olli and Timmy.”

While the boys burst into chatter again, Remus watched Sirius hand the card back to Coach, and caught his eye again, raising an eyebrow. Sirius held up Thomas’ number, and Jackson’s. Remus nodded to himself. That could be the third or fourth line, and he’d played well with both of them in scrimmages. It made sense. He could work with that.

And it meant he’d get to watch Sirius out there. At least that wouldn’t change.

“All right,” Coach laughed, putting his glasses back on and turning towards the other coaches. “Get dressed, get dressed.”

Remus had sat in his stall quite a few times by now. For his promo-pictures at the beginning of the summer—the first time he had slipped his jersey on, too, right over his suit and tie. But sitting in it now, strapping his pads over his bare chest before a game, a game where he would be up against other NHL players…that was different.

“You’re one of those?” Thomas snorted, flicking Remus’ bare ribs. “Doesn’t the velcro scratch?”

Remus laughed. “Can’t break old habits.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Or is now the perfect time to make new ones.”

“Not after a year like the last,” Remus said.

“Oh,” Thomas whistled, yanking the laces of his skates tight. “You’re that superstitious.”

“I try not to be,” Remus stood. “But playing again…seems to bring it out in me.”

Remus turned to step into his pants, adjusting the pads and his jock until everything fit together comfortably. He eyed his jersey, the number six hanging proudly on a hanger, and he smiled to himself but turned to his skates next. The jersey sent his heart leaping into his throat. He’d save it for last.

“Let’s go boys,” Pascal called, standing by the door to bump fists and pat helmets on their way out.

Remus laced up his skates, pulling them tight over his taped up socks, and then, finally, removed his jersey from its hook. He didn’t waste time staring down at it. That would just make him overthink and, hopefully, he’d have many times to put this jersey on again.

It slid over his shoulder pads, he tucked in the back, and grabbed his helmet.

“I like that Loops is just over there grinning to himself,” Finn snorted as he left for the tunnel.

Remus shrugged, eyes finding Sirius. He already looked like his mind was on the ice, even for such a low stakes game.

“You know,” Remus said as the team started to file down the tunnel. “I used to go last.”

Sirius’ intense eyes lightened into a softer gray. He shifted from one skate to another. “Oh? I don’t know if I knew that.”

Remus tilted his head, smile playing at one corner of his mouth. “Well? What are we gonna do?”

Sirius just stared at him. “I… I go last.”

Remus let out his laughter, leaning up to tap their helmets together. He vaguely heard a camera flash go off, and smiled. He wanted that picture.

“You should have seen your face, baby,” he whispered, and grabbed his stick from the rack before catching up to James.

He heard Sirius splutter out a laugh—and there was definitely some relief in there��and follow.

The sounds of the crowd in Hogwarts stadium only grew louder. Remus could feel Sirius close behind him.

“Ready, mon loup?” he asked quietly, just before the tunnel opened up to the lights.

Remus didn’t know if Sirius heard his yes over the roar of the team’s entry into a sea of red and gold, but then feet were on the ice he was doing a lap, the Rangers at the other end.

On opening night, Remus knew he would be taking this lap alone, along with Cole. A rookie’s first official NHL game. It felt surreal to think about. He couldn’t knock the feeling that he was too old for that—but he knew plenty of guys did it at his age. You didn’t have to be eighteen.

He picked up a puck and headed towards the goal, trying to decide if it would help to block out the noise, or let it overtake him. The boys were dialed in. Remus glanced over at Sirius, feeling strangely bare without him by his side. But he was over by center ice, tracing the Lion printed there—as usual. Remus didn’t want to seem favored. He didn’t want to seem clingy. They weren’t a couple out here, he knew that. They were teammates.

He shot at Kasey, who caught his puck in his glove, and began the wrap-around again before pushing backwards around the outside of the goal, as he always used to. He’d done his routine a few times at the beginning of practices, but it was nothing compared to being surrounded by a crowd—a bigger crowd than he’d ever actually played in front of before.

Kasey tapped a puck at him once he reached his first post, and he laughed, shooting it back until a sign waving at the glass caught his eye. It was held by a kid, maybe around Julian’s age.

I want a signed stick the ReMOST, Lupin!

Remus laughed at the kid’s wide eyes when he saw that he was looking, and gave him a thumbs up the best he could with his gloves on before holding up his stick.

“One second,” he called over the crowd.

When he got to the bench, Sirius was there stretching, holding out an already uncapped sharpie.

And looks like Lupin’s heading over to sign that young man a stick. I bet that’s a good feeling after—oh! Black’s got a pen ready for him.

Remus shoved a glove under his arm and took it. “You saw the sign?”

“I got the kid down to the glass,” Sirius grinned.

“I love you,” Remus said as he scribbled his signature, complete with the jersey number that players always included.

It took two tries to get the stick successfully over the glass, but for the look on the boy’s face, Remus would have tried twenty.

“Feels good, eh?” James said once the horn blew for warmups and they were settled onto the bench.

“Too good,” Remus said.

“First line,” Coach called, slapping his calling card against his palm. “12, 10, 7, let’s go. Olli, Tims, on D.”

Sirius sent him a quick smile, and Remus spun his stick in front of him. “Let’s go, Captain.”

Sirius snorted, rolling his eyes as he pushed away from the boards towards center ice, where Zibanejad was waiting.

Good to see that sort of…what would you call it, Dean, from Black?

Light energy, I think, Lee. Sirius is well known around the league for his intensity.

Right. Nice to see Lupin getting a smile out of him before what is most probably a season that holds more pressure than usual for the Lions, after a Cup year.

One of Black’s coaches once said in an interview that the only thing Sirius feels after scoring a goal is pressure to score another. Ha, sounds about right.

Remus all but held his breath when the ref dropped the puck. Sirius stole it back for James who nicked it over to Logan. Logan sped it into the neutral zone, narrowly avoiding Lafrenière.

“Bulky kid,” Finn said from beside Remus.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Logan?”

“Well—yeah, but nah, Lafrenière,” Finn nodded. “Built like a tree, what is he, nineteen? Crazy. I didn’t look like that when I was nineteen.”

“Well,” Remus said as the whistle blew for an icing on the Rangers. “People are comparing him to Crosby.”

“Kuny,” Coach called. “Lupin, Nado.”

Remus’ initial thought was surprise. The shock of being put out with the second line carried him somewhat numbly over the boards beside Evgeni and Jackson. He didn’t have time to look at Sirius take his place on the bench.

“Hey,” Evgeni said, drawing them in with a glove over his mouth so the Rangers filing out of their bench couldn’t read their lips. “I take Lindgren. Loops, go fast, okay? Nado get you puck.”

“Fox,” Jackson warned.

“Sergei take care,” Evgeni said like it was obvious, and loomed towards the face-off circle.

“Left side,” Remus said to Jackson before they parted. “I’ll try to shake Kravtsov.”

“Nice,” Jackson nodded.

Remus and Kravtsov shared a nod as they lined up shoulder to shoulder on the centerline.

“Welcome to the NHL,” Kravtsov said with a slight smile.

“Thanks,” Remus replied.

Kravtsov was so young. All of these guys were so young.

He couldn’t help feeling like time had been stolen from him.

Have you ever seen this many Russian players in one NHL game, Dean? Pretty nice to see. And here’s Lupin’s first shift. Let’s go.

The puck dropped and Remus gave Kravtsov a shove, spinning out and around him. His heart seemed to press the sound out of his ears until all he could hear was his own breathing. Evgeni won the face off.

“Kuns!” Jackson shouted, and Evgeni passed it to him deep in their own zone. It drew Fox forward, just as Remus knew it was meant to, but Sergei was there for Jackson to derail the puck. Fox was forced to turn around, Kravtsov was made to press forward for a pass, and it left Remus free to shoot into their defense zone. Strome tried to cross him, but Remus spun around him. Sergei and Jackson tried to get it to him, but it left the zone. Remus swore as he pushed hard to touch up the neutral zone.

“6, 58, 86, off, Reyes, O’Hara, LeBlanc, on!”

Remus pulled back to the bench, sending Cole a nod as he hopped over the boards for his first NHL shift. Remus’ shift had been thirty seconds that felt like ten, but he was breathing hard. Finn followed Cole with a tap to his back, promptly stole the puck from Chytil, and slapped it into the corner of the Rangers’ goal.

Remus had barely taken a drink of water when the goal horn blared Gryffindor’s roar filled Hogwarts Stadium.

He punched Sirius’ side, who had his arms raised. Sirius laughed from beside him as they settled onto the bench beside each other.

“Ouch,” Sirius rubbed his padding.

“I don’t know, I got excited,” Remus laughed.

They held his gloves out for Finn to tap as he came down the line, the goal song blaring, the crowd chanting along to the catchy drumbeat.

“Nice solo, Harz,” Remus called, and Finn grinned.

“Thanks, Rookie.”

It remained pretty even through the first and second. Panarin had three good chances, the fourth sailing past Kasey’s glove. Sirius scored a dirty wrap-around just before the second’s buzzer, and Remus didn’t think he’d ever like anything more than getting the full force of Sirius’ smile as he tapped gloves down the bench line. No sooner had the final face-off of the period set up than were Evgeni and Lindgren going at it, hands gripping the back of each other’s jerseys as they dropped their gloves. Gryffindor would start the third one man up.

Remus filed back down the tunnel towards the locker room, smiling at Layla as he dropped his gloves in the bucket she was holding to be dried. He felt warm, his muscles used and a little sore. He longed for an ice bath, but he wanted to use them more too. It was the most familiar feeling in the word. He smiled against it as he sat down in his stall, laughing lightly at the way Evgeni threw a wet towel over his head.

“Not skate enough over the summer,” Evgeni groaned.

Remus looked up when a shadow fell over him and was greeted by two hands on his cheeks and a warm, familiar kiss.

“J’adore,” Sirius said.

Remus laughed, holding his wrists where his pulse still high from the game.

“Nice goal.”

“Good to be back,” James said as he pushed his jersey over his head. “Crowd sounds amazing. How you doing, Reyes?”

Cole looked up from where he was re-taping his socks. “The crowd is amazing.”

Remus felt a slap on the back from Evgeni, towel around his neck now. “Good shift, rookie.”

“Kuns,” Remus sighed, and Evgeni just laughed teasingly.

Remus felt Sirius’ eyes on him throughout the entire intermission. He knew he was curious, and had been for months, about Remus’ game routine. He’d asked and asked over the summer, but that was the thing with Remus’ superstitions—he couldn’t talk about them.

Remus took two fresh sticks from his rack and sat back down. He began wrapping it steadily.

“Of course your tape job is perfect,” Thomas sighed, shaking his head. “Of course, of course.”

Remus laughed, ripping the tape with his teeth.

“Speak for yourself,” Jackson grinned, giving his stick a twirl, the tape warped and hurried.

Remus snorted. “All I see is a fucking candy cane.”

Power play. Lindgren went into the box, slamming the door a little too hard on his way.

“Black,” Coach called as the crowd shuffled into their seats, armed with food, and Remus had been expecting that. “Tremzy, Lupin, Fox, Sunny.”

Remus blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that.

Remus hopped the boards beside Sirius, and the stadium seemed to get louder. Sirius knocked their shoulders together, and Remus didn’t doubt the cameras were on them and he tried to control his expression. He didn’t want to look too pleased, or too dopy at the feeling of skating side by side with Sirius in front of a crowd.

I think this is the moment many of us have been waiting for, Dean.

You bet! I didn’t expect it to come so soon. Coach Weasley is trying out lots of different line combos tonight. What’s pre-season for? I hear Lupin’s played on the power play a few times in practice.

Sirius put his glove up by his mouth, holding his mouth guard.

“Try the double pass?” he said quickly.

“Yeah,” Remus nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Sirius bent down across from Zibanejad and the rest of the Rangers penalty kill unit.

It happened fast. Remus was used to seeing this from the bench—but maybe that was a good thing. He saw the ice as if through a wide lens, Sirius passed to Logan, and then it was on Remus’ stick to carry up. Remus blew out a breath, pushing his legs hard ahead of Panarin. He needed to get ahead, needed to stay parallel with Sirius. He felt Panarin scrape at his heels, but then Sirius was calling his name.

Shesterkin was still up and on his feet, reading to dive whichever way.

“Loup,” Sirius called, and it was as though it was only the two of them in the basement rink. Only the crowd was different, and absolutely roaring.

Remus snapped the puck to Sirius, who passed it right back. Shesterkin went down when Remus pulled his stick back in a fake, only for him to give it back to Sirius to tap into wide open net.

Remus’ hands shot up, and the crowd screamed. Sirius all but slammed into him, wrapping him up tight against the boards.

“Re,” Sirius laughed through he words, pressing their helmets together. “Mon loup, mon loup—”

Logan crashed into them next, followed by Adam and Henrik. Remus found himself in the center of elated shouts, the fans pounding hands on the glass from the other side.

“Merde, it sounds like the playoffs,” Logan shouted, pressing a hand to Remus’ helmet.

Remus could only laugh, giddy, high on it all.

What a goal! Well, Lee, I don’t think we’re going to have to wait long to see this young man’s first regular season point.

“He fell for it,” Remus said for the tenth time as he handed Sirius the last of their dinner dishes. “Shesterkin fell for it.”

Sirius laughed and slid the dishes into the sink and turned, placing slightly damp hands on Remus’ cheeks.

“You are amazing,” he said, accent heavy and laced with a need that Remus had felt stirring in himself since getting off the ice. They’d been on the ice together today. They’d built a goal together, scored. Igor Shesterkin had fallen for their fake-out.

“I was so happy today,” Sirius whispered.

Remus closed his eyes, caught between the feeling of Sirius’ body colliding with his own in celebration, and the feeling of his warm hands here, now.

“It’s everything I’ve ever wanted,” Remus said softly, and opened his eyes, hands against Sirius’ chest.

What a terrifying, wonderful sentence.

Sirius just leaned in to kiss him, mouth tender and insistent. It was the same fire he had on the ice, leading Remus in a way that made his insides warm and his toes curl. Remus let Sirius guide him slowly up the stairs, and he relished in the way they stopped on the landing, on a half-way stair, just to be closer again, Remus’ mouth on his neck, Sirius’ against his temple. The hallway was dark, lit only by the nightlight they kept plugged in near their feet. It cast Sirius in warm angles as Remus tugged his shirt off and dropped it right there in the hallway.

“I’m not saying I’m not going to miss Regulus,” Remus said as Sirius bent to mouth gently against his neck. “But I’m not saying I’m not going to enjoy being able to undress you wherever I want now that we have the house to ourselves.”

Sirius’ laugh was soft, a little breathless. “Name your room, I’ll be there.”

Remus laughed, too. “Bedroom. Nice, soft bed.”

Sirius walked Remus backwards through the door, hands on his hips. “How do you feel? That was quite the race with Kreider in the second.”

“Good,” Remus nodded, but let Sirius’ strong hands dig into the muscles of his shoulders and back. He sighed into it, resting his cheek against his chest. “But I won’t say no to that.”

Sirius kissed Remus’ temple and worked his shirt over his head. He lay him down on the mattress and Remus closed his eyes at the feeling of Sirius’ lips against his neck, and then his shoulder.

Sirius kissed over the scar that Greyback had torn from Remus’ body all those years ago at their shared college, keeping Remus from a career in the NHL—at least until now.

“I wonder what he thinks,” Remus wondered aloud, and he didn’t have to explain himself for Sirius to know what he meant. Remus wound his fingers into Sirius dark hair as he looked up at him.

“Me too,” Sirius admitted. “And then I see red and have to stop thinking about it.”

Remus half-smiled. “Yeah…I felt bad at lunch those few weeks ago. With Cole. I really think he thought he said something wrong, and I wish I could explain but it’s still…it’s still like this weird secret, you know? Like people could find out if they really looked but no one has? And I don’t really want to bring it up but at the same time I know Fenrir has already spread lies. Saying it was a car crash or…who knows what. Sorry.” Remus pressed a hand to his face. “God, I’m completely killing the mood.”

“Re, hey,” Sirius pushed himself up onto his forearm, falling to the side and keeping their legs tangled.

“And it’s such a good mood, I just was thinking aloud.”

“You’re not. Talk to me. You can talk to me whenever.”

Remus ran his thumb over Sirius’ bottom lip. “Okay…yeah, I know that.”

“This was a big day,” Sirius said. “Huge for you. Of course you would be thinking about him. I used to think about my parents every time I stepped on the ice, even after things were getting better. I think…I think its just time. It takes time.”

“It was strange today,” Remus finally admitted. “I couldn’t…I didn’t know how close to you I could be. Out there, I mean. I’m your boyfriend, you’re mine, but we’re also teammates. There’s so much debate, about my place on the team and if you did something to get me there…I don’t know. I don’t want someone to accuse you of favoritism. You don’t deserve that.”

“We’re both,” Sirius said. “We’ll always be both. You’ll always be the boy I love. You’ll always be my teammate.” Sirius shrugged. “It doesn’t matter if we’re on the ice or not. And I don’t care if someone thinks I favor you. We both know I don’t. Not like that.”

Remus made a soft sound and pulled Sirius further on top of him, making him smile. “Love you.”

Sirius let Remus press slow kisses to his lips. “This mood feels pretty good to me.”

Remus just hushed him, tucking a hand into his waistband.

Sirius kissed him until Remus’ cheeks were hot and his cock was aching, pressed up against his sweatpants. Remus could still hear the Lions’ crowd rushing in his ears. Sirius’ palm cupped him and pushed his sweatpants down. They were both flushed and pink. Remus wanted to see those colors together.

He pulled Sirius’ hips against his own, discarding clothing until it was all bare skin. Remus ran his hands over the hard curves of his back. He had to squeeze his eyes shut, hooking his arms beneath Sirius’, holding onto his shoulders.

Their mouths found each other messily, dragging and half open in gasps.

“Sirius,” Remus breathed, voice higher than usual.

The adrenaline that Remus had thought had faded with the game only seemed to thrum brighter. Remus couldn’t help the smile the crossed his face, brows drawn together at the feeling of Sirius rutting against him.

Remus pressed his ankle gently to the back of Sirius’ knee and rolled them, drawing breathless laughs from both their mouths that he sealed away to keep like a love letter. It was soft mouths and hard hands, clutching each other closer, getting the most out of the warm friction. Remus swallowed Sirius’ gasps. His orgasm built up below his spine and Sirius seemed to read his mind. He reached between them with a hand, brushing a thumb at his base, pressing up. Remus’ hips stuttered and he fell apart, shoving hard against Sirius’ tight fist.

Sirius followed at the hot streak of Remus’ come between them, and they lay there, panting, foreheads together. Remus eased their hips back together, both of them letting out a soft moan, then a laugh, as the spent cocks brushed, drawing out the last tendrils of their orgasms.

“That feels good,” Sirius mumbled, head sunken back against the pillows.

Remus rolled his hips slowly, bringing them down, and then pulled his head up. He pushed Sirius’ sweaty hair back from his cheek and kissed it.

“Communicate to score,” Sirius mumbled.

Remus laughed hard, squeezing his eyes shut, and dropped his face into his neck to catch his breath.

“It’s true,” Sirius said, running a warm palm up and down Remus’ back. “That article we looked at.”

They’d given in and read some press over dinner, laughing at some of the more excitable writers, and grinning at each other at the more serious ones.

Magnetism, one wrote. Feels like we’ve got some mind-readers on this team, a real Crosby-Malkin, Kane-Toews one-two-punch.

“Well,” Remus said, folding his arms across Sirius’ chest. “What am I thinking now?”

Sirius pressed his lips together, pretending to think. “Is it…how to get out of golf with James and the Cubs before the ring ceremony on Tuesday?”

Remus snorted. “Well, that’s definitely on my list. But nope.” He leaned in, brushing their mouths together. “That’s not it.”

Sirius grinned, and Remus sunk into how thick and sated his accent sounded. “Is it…will my handsome boyfriend please run me a bath and make me tea?”

Remus laughed into their next kiss. “Wow, that writer was right.”

It looks…maybe like a twisted knee? What do you think, Dean? Walker is definitely not making a move to get up—oh, there’s the medic. One of the Lions’ new staff members as, of course, someone had to take Lupin’s place. Ah, Walker is pointing to his foot now.

Man, is that a grimace if I ever saw one.

It sure is, Dean.

Here comes O’Hara to help out his teammate.

They were in Madison Square Garden, the Rangers giving them one hell of a re-match. Logan skated a close perimeter towards where Thomas had gone down, just between a line change.

“Shit,” Finn skated to a stop beside him. “It’s fucking pre-season. Did you see what happened?”

Logan shook his head. “Not really. Think it was just a bad fall. Strome looks sorry.”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re not jumping him right now.”

Logan’s mouth quirked up. “I have no interest in jumping Strome, thanks.” His eyes found Leo on the bench. With his hat flipped backwards, the intensity, the worry in of his blue eyes cut a clear path to Thomas.

“T,” Finn said, skating closer. “Need a hand to the room?”

Thomas winced as he made it to one knee. “Yeah, man, thanks.”

Thomas stared up at the dark ceiling from the padded PT table, listening to the game continue on the TV mounted to the corner of the ceiling. There was the X-ray pushed to the corner, his results pinned up on the light screen. Fracture. Minor, but it’d take weeks to heal. He’d miss the beginning of the season. He’d be in a suit when they lifted the Stanley Cup champion banner in the stadium. He missed Noelle.

The light flicked on so suddenly Thomas flinched.

“Walker,” said an unfamiliar voice. It was accented—Swedish, he thought. Thomas squinted at the speaker. He was tall, and dressed in the staff jacket he’d come to associate with Remus. Right. Lars.

“I…hey,” Thomas said. His eyes went to Layla, who gave a wave as she slipped in behind the man. “Hey, man, Lars, right?”

Lars gave a short nod. “Nice to meet you. So, you probably know the drill by now. Couple weeks. Aspirin will be fine for pain management.”

“Right,” Thomas nodded.

“We’ve got a boot for you here, but I’d take everything to a doctor, just for a second opinion. I’ll recommend someone,” he shrugged. “That was an unlucky hit. I’m sorry.”

Thomas blinked. He didn’t know someone could seem sweetly uninterested. He smiled hesitantly. “Thanks.”

Thomas snapped a picture of the boot once he strapped it on and sent it out complete with a frowning emoji.

He had just opened the door to the locker room, accompanied by his new crutches and to meet his victorious team, when his phone began to ring with a Facetime.

“T,” Noelle’s voice gasped. She was beautiful, her hair curling around her face. “Baby, I saw.”

“It’s not too bad,” Thomas said beneath the noise as the locker room filled up. “You look like you’re about to go somewhere, I can call back, I just wanted to…”

I’m just sad about it. It sounded lame in his own ears.

He cleared his throat. “Logan, say hi to your sister.”

Logan poked his head into the frame and stuck his tongue out, then left.

“Lolo!” Noelle shouted for the locker room to hear, and Logan groaned.

“Lolo,” Kasey imitated, grinning, and Logan shoved his mask down over his face.

“How is it?” Finn asked, wrapping an arm around him. “Hi, Noelle.”

“Fractured. Couple weeks.”

“Damn,” Finn sighed. “Sorry, T. That was an—”

“unlucky hit,” Thomas laughed. “Preach.”

“Hey, baby, we’re all heading to grab some food, but call you tonight?”

Thomas nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He tried not to feel lonely as the screen went dark. He was in a room surrounded by people. People he loved.

It crept in anyway.

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marauderundercover · 3 years

Text

This Side of Normal Ch. 7

AO3

Marinette Dupain Cheng didn’t have a normal life. On the contrary, some would call her life Miraculous. Well, one would. And she would whack him every time. As much as she loved her brother (in all but blood) Adrien, she couldn’t stand his puns most of the time. After he first lost his arm a year ago at the final battle against Hawkmoth, she let him get away with a lot of puns and awful jokes. Because she blamed herself for his injury. She should’ve been able to fix him. But she wasn’t. She still blamed herself some days, but she no longer laughed at every single one of his puns. He knew she hated them, and it was better for her mental health to let him know how awful they were. She’s stirred from her thoughts by Adrien nudging her, obviously trying to get her attention.

“Where are we going for our spring break trip? You helped Mme. Bustier plan that, right?” Adrien asks. She frowns, not sure what brought that topic up.

“We’re going to spend a week in New York and then a week in London. Why?” She asks, confused at his worried expression.

“Okay well, maybe you should tell Mme. Bustier that. Because she just said that we’re spending two weeks in New Jersey.” Adrien says with a grimace.

“WHAT!?” She yells, jumping out of her seat.

“Marinette! I was trying to go over the details of the trip. I’m very disappointed in you. You know better than to interrupt like that.” Mme. Bustier says, shaking her head with a small frown. Marinette’s face turns red and she drops back into her seat, muttering an apology.

“What do you mean we’re going to New Jersey? What’s even in New Jersey?” She asks Adrien in a hushed whisper, conscious of the glares from Lila at the front of the room but determined to ignore them any way she can.

“Gotham, apparently. And the Wayne family. According to Lila, she can get us in for a tour at Wayne Enterprises and Gotham Academy and every other thing the Waynes do. Because she’s dating Damian Wayne, didn’t you know?” Adrien explains, lip quirking in amusement. Marinette groans, dropping her head onto their table.

“Do you realize now I’m going to have to arrange at least part of that? Or we won’t have anything to do and we’ll be stuck in some random city for two whole weeks.” Marinette says, a headache already forming.

“Or, or, hear me out. You could just let her fail. And the trip will flop and everyone will see that she’s awful.” Adrien says. It was a much different response than what he would’ve had a year ago. But the defeat of Hawkmoth and the revelation that his father was a supervillain was enough to alter Adrien’s world view. He wasn’t hopelessly optimistic anymore. He was more cynical. He was still insanely kind, but he didn’t give out his kindness to people who didn’t deserve it. Like the lying bitch in their class.

“I don’t wanna be stuck in a hotel with her for two weeks.” Marinette points out with a grimace. “Wait a minute, why does Gotham sound familiar?”

“Probably from when you were friends with Alya. Batman and his whole team is from Gotham.” He says, slumping down in his seat so that he can continue to whisper to her.

“Oh goody. Crime capital of the US and Lila decides to lie her way into the city. But it wasn’t enough for just her to be targeted. Oh no, she had to get our entire class involved. Yippee.” Marinette snarks, shoving her face back into her folded arms on the desk. It was too much for this early. Time for a nap.

---

After submitting a five thousand word essay on how beneficial a tour of Wayne Enterprises would be and an additional three thousand word essay to Gotham Academy on the benefits of having an exchange class for a week, Marinette was pleased to say that their trip to Gotham wouldn’t be completely boring.

In fact, it would be similar enough to what Lila had lied that hopefully, she wouldn’t be blamed for messing anything up. Sure, they wouldn’t have personal tours from the Wayne family or an invitation to the Spring Gala that the Waynes were hosting, but at least they’d have something to do in Crime City. Hopefully with the amount of security at both Gotham Academy and WE, they wouldn’t run into too many villains. After three years under Hawkmoth, she never wanted to deal with a villain again. Unless she could punch him or her in the face. Then yeah, she’d happily meet a villain. But seeing as it’s highly frowned upon to piss off a Gotham villain like that, she’d prefer to just not see one at all. Would certainly make things easier.

Marinette huffs, glaring at the mess of clothes falling out of her suitcase. She’d started packing two days ago, and then yesterday discovered that she packed the outfit she wanted to wear on the plane. So then she had to take everything out, but then she couldn’t find the outfit and after throwing everything around she found the outfit. Still in her dresser. And now she had a huge mess falling out of her suitcase and not enough time left to pack neatly. Not if she wanted to get any sleep.

“Hey Adrien, can you give me a hand?” She asks, beginning to fold the mess of clothes back up. He’s silent for a minute, and then she hears a click. She sighs and looks up just in time to catch the arm he threw at her.

“There you go!” He says cheekily, a wide grin on his face as he hangs upside down from her bed. She narrows her eyes.

“You know what I meant, you absolute menace.” She deadpans. He snorts before dropping down, landing gracefully and catching the arm she throws back at him.

“You know you love me, Bug.” He says, helping her fold her clothes.

“Unfortunately.” She says with a dramatic sigh. “You hear from Jay yet this week?”

“Yeah. Told me, and I quote ‘stop annoying Pixie Pop with your lameass jokes kid. I can’t protect you from her fury from across the ocean’.” He says with a laugh.

“At least he knows I’d best you in a fight.” She says with a hum. Adrien sputters, an offended look on his face as he slams her last shirt into her suitcase.

“That is not what that meant!” He argues with a pout.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Kitty.” She says, zipping the suitcase shut and trying hard to ignore the bad feeling settling deep into her stomach. Something was going to happen in Gotham, and she wasn’t sure if it would be good or bad.

---

Of course the class would leave them on their first full day in Gotham. It made sense. They’d hated Mari before Hawkmoth’s reveal. And after Hawkmoth’s reveal, they were hesitant around Adrien. Even with the whole ‘my dad cut off my arm’ thing. So honestly, leaving the two of them stranded at the hotel was just par for the course.

“At least we’re together.” Marinette says bitterly, thinking of the fact that the class would be getting to tour Wayne Enterprises. A place that she had worked hard to allow them to tour.

“Come on Mari, look on the bright side.” Adrien says, grabbing her hand and tugging her along.

“What bright side? We were left behind, in Gotham, of all places. What could possibly be good about this situation?” She asks, slightly dragging her feet as he tugged her along behind him.

“Mmmm, the fact that Wayne Enterprises is only a block away.” He says with a grin. She straightens immediately, actually keeping up with his pace now instead of allowing herself to be dragged behind him.

“Why didn’t you lead with that?” She asks, shaking her head in faux disappointment. He shrugs.

“I like a little chaos.” He says. Marinette opens her mouth to snark back at him, but is instead silenced by the building in front of her. Wayne Enterprises was slightly intimidating, but she was still amazed by its design. It was modern and sleek and her hand twitched towards the sketchbook in her purse. She could just imagine skirts with the same sleek shapes and dark colors, suits whose build was used to make the wearer look taller. Just as she’s about to pull out her sketchbook, she sees a familiar head of hair walking into the building. Dark hair with a white streak. But-

“Was that Jason?” She asks, suddenly far more interested in the man who just walked in. Adrien’s gaze snaps to where hers is, frowning at the closed door.

“I don’t know, but let’s go see.” He says, and this time, she’s the one tugging him. Their class completely forgotten. Until they walk through the doors and hear the incessant chatter and noise that comes with being around Lila Rossi. But not enough that is enough to deter the two from their goal. Especially when the man they’d followed turns around, a familiar face set into a scowl.

“Jay!” Marinette calls, waving at him. The man’s scowl instantly drops into a wide smile and he rushes past the class, sweeping the two up into a huge hug.

“Pixie! Kid! What are you two doing here?” He asks, holding them close.

“Jay-Jay, can’t breathe.” Mari says, letting out a puff of air as he sets them down gently.

“Hey Jay!” Adrien says, a wide smile on his face, one of the most sincere smiles Mari had seen in a while. She felt her own face fall into an easy smile. After a year apart, they were together again.

“Uh. Jason? Job, remember?” A voice asks, pulling the three out of their reunion. Jason looks at the man and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, Dick, thanks. I’d completely forgotten why I came all the way here.” He snarks, no venom in his tone.

“Did you just-” Marinette starts to ask, uncertain if he was calling the man a name or?

“Shit, I forget that even though you speak it just fine, English isn’t your first language. His name is Richard, but ‘Dick’ is a nickname for Richard. It’s what he usually goes by.” Jason explains, snorting at the look on her face. She huffs and rolls her eyes.

“Well excuse me, Mr. To be fair, you calling someone that wouldn’t be out of the question. You have shitty language a lot of the time.” She teases with a smirk.

“That’s it. You’re disowned. I no longer claim you as my little sister.” He says, turning around dramatically and walking away. Marinette’s jaw drops at him. She looks at Adrien who just smirks, and then at Dick who just looks confused with the entire situation.

“What the hell was that? I thought I was the dramatic one.” She pouts.

“Looks like you’ve lost your touch Bug.” Adrien says, crossing his arms. Her eyes narrow.

“Is that a challenge?” She asks. He shrugs.

“Do with it what you will. Just don’t get him in trouble, I think he actually works here.” He says, glancing around the packed lobby. Marinette looks around and sighs. She didn’t want to make a scene with the class, and she definitely didn’t want Jason to get in trouble.

“I’ll get him later.” She mumbles, falling into place on Adrien’s right side naturally. The two walk in sync to the rest of the class, oblivious to the bewildered look given to them by Dick Grayson.

Master list

Tag list (open): @toodaloo-kangaroo @laurcad123 @kittenmywaythrulife @lost-in-the-world-of-maribat

#maribat #maribat jason todd #maribat marinette dupain cheng #maribat adrien agreste #platonic maribat adrienette #maribat platonic adrienette #fanfic #ao3fic #platonic jasonette #This Side of Normal #maribat big brother Jason Todd #maribat fic #akuma glass goes to gotham #maribat gotham fic #maribat but make it all left au

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natromanxoff · 3 years

Text

19 - The Dynamic Duo V Montreux

Hello folks. I was sitting around twiddling my thumbs and I thought I would give the old hard drive a clean up, so before I dump a load of rubbish I thought I'd better answer these before I throw everything in the recycle bin. Let's start with a lady from New Jersey who goes by the name of Dorothy who gave me a very interesting offer for the next time I'm in New York. If you're reading this Dorothy, could you send Jacky your email address so I can reply to you. I've just opened up a "secret" Hotmail account so I can send replies without pestering the lovely Mrs Smith all the time, and to test it I went to the guestbook and picked a few names at random. Maybe I should reply to the irate drummer, but if I do that he'll just reply to me and the girls in the office will miss out on laughing at him as well. Staying with the skin bashers for a mo, Ron Hansen in Madison is a drummer, and said he liked my jokes and reckons Mr Irate uses three sticks, two in his hands and one up his arse (his words not mine). Would I be correct in saying your a Zep fan Ron? Today's question is, "What do you get if you cross a drummer with a roadie?" The answer is a stupid roadie.

Moving on, last time around I mentioned a drink which we consumed in Brazil, and the charming Sonia and Dina informed me it was called Caipirinha, and a pleasant little tipple it was to. Somewhere in Australia there is a lady called Karen who is listening to the Offspring CD non-stop, so I'm gonna have to try and answer her question as she has such great musical tastes, even though she wants to know the..........(flashing lights, fireworks, drum roll) Hoover Salesman Story. ARGHHHH. Its actually a very short tale, and I think it's quiet boring but it seems to have grown in stature over the years, and as always I'm gonna drag it out and start from the first skiing expedition that I ventured on with RT.

Having checked my trendy little biog mag, I reckon the year is 1980, and the dynamic duo are in Montreux putting the finishing touches to Fun in Space and we have a few days off before a tour starts in Zurich when Rog says, "Let's go skiing." He had skied a few times before and was ok at it, but I had never put a pair of skis on in my life. I said, "Lets go, but you ski and I'll just get pissed." He then went on about what a buzz it is and how I would love it, etc. As we were touring soon our American crew had to fly out, so I called up Jim Devenney and told him to come over a couple of days earlier cause we were gonna ski. Jim is a great skier and was on the first flight available and I picked him up at Geneva airport ready for some fun. That night we hit the town and have too many drinks and Rog goes off to bed semi early, while Jim and myself sat out on the jetty of Duckingham Palace with a ghetto blaster, Derek and Clive tapes, and a vat of wine singing disgusting songs at full blast, which must have echoed over to France. Suddenly we hear a French voice screaming at us and we have no idea what he was saying so we carried on goofing around, and the next thing I hear is a huge splash as Devenney falls in.

Let me assure you that a drunk trying to get a drunk out of Lake Geneva is not an easy task, but we succeed and head back to DP and retire to our rooms. I'd just got into bed when I hear a crash and go to investigate, only to find JD had gone in the wrong room and was trying to get into a baby's cot, and getting him out of there was harder than getting him of the lake.

Next day Roger, Dave Richards, his wife Collette, Jim and myself set off to Zermatt, and on arrival we stock up on skis, passes and other skiing paraphernalia (big words now!) Dinner, drinks and off to bed. Next morning we're up and ready to go, and thinking I'll never ski again after this I refuse to waste money on a ski suit, so I wear jeans. My second wrong move, the first was agreeing to go. The hotel owner wouldn't let us leave the hotel without first drinking a couple of Sambuccas, not my idea of a good breakfast, eggs, bacon, tea, toast and Italian liqueurs, but who are we to refuse. Next I've got to try and walk in those godamn boots, and we eventually arrive at the top of the Matterhorn.

The OK skiers, RT and Dave set off on their own, Collette begins a very slow trip down while JD tells me he'll stay and teach me. On go the skis, and down I go, flat on my arse. Up I get and I'm off, for all of about 2ft before I'm down again. This is not any fun. After a couple more tumbles my great mate Jim said, "If you're gonna f*** around I'm going." And thats the last I saw of him all day. Thanks pal. I'm standing there watching people ski and think, "It can't be that hard. If you stand like this, lean like that, you can ski." So I stand and lean in the correct positions and I'm away, screeching down a mountain with only one very small problem, I have no idea how to turn or stop, so as I'm flying past Collette, and she reckons I looked very worried, I yelled for some advice and all she said was, "DIVE." Sound advice, so thats what I do, and by now I'm getting wet. I wait for her and then we set off together, the blind leading the blind, with me diving at the slightest bit of speed or bend in the piste. A million years later we eventually reach the bottom of this awful slope and it's finally over. Wrong. Theres a T-bar to get on so we wait in line till it's our turn. You're supposed to put the bar just under your bum and it drags you up, but I'm 6ft and Collettes about 5ft 5in, so the bar was either in the middle of her back or around my knees, and no one told me not to sit on the f***ing thing and we bounced around for a while until we fell off. I'm now getting really pissed off with all this, "Get me a helicopter," I demanded from Collete. She told me they don't just send them, you have to be hurt. I replied with, "I'll break my f***ing arm but I've gotta get off this mountain." Realising I'm not getting a copter I light a ciggie and ponder.

We agree to split up and go with someone our own height, so I ended up with a great German guy who was really helpful. Once on the T-bar I can see that it goes way up and I would have to ski back down to base camp, and in case you've forgotten, I can't ski, so I said that I was gonna bail out, and jumped off. I then head of in a straight line to the cable car, skis on the shoulder and wading through 3ft of snow in a pair of very heavy and very cold jeans. What seemed like hours of wading I make civilisation and head to the bar for a triple strength coffee and a triple scotch while everyone gawked at me cause I looked like I had a shower fully clothed. Yeah, I wanna do this again.

Dinner that night was great fun for the others cause they got to take the piss out of me. Their day will come. The rest of the nights activities shall remain sealed away, but a good time was had by one and all. The tour went smoothly and I try and put Zermatt behind me, except Collette, still to this day, takes great delight in telling everyone about it, and everytime she says it she makes me look more and more pathetic.

The next winter appears and I'm at home and the phone rings, "CT, wanna go skiing?" To which my reply was nothing like, "Oh I'd love to you fabulous little drummer boy." I can't believe he talked me into it again, but this time we were gonna do things correctly and go to Aviemore in Scotland and take lessons, this was the saving factor in his plan. So once again we pile into the Range Rover and aim north. We split the driving (for a change) and had a good journey up through the snow covered mountains till we get to the resort. A usual night was on the cards, dinner, drinks and bed, then up bright and early for some lessons and a good day on the slopes. This time we've both got the correct outfits so we head off to where our little group of idiot skiers are. We're all standing in a line, with Rog and me at the end, and each person gets to snow-plough a few feet. These clowns have less idea than my first try, and it's also incredibly cold and we've now got icicles hanging off our hair. It's our turn and we both look like olympic champions, but the only thing wrong with getting it right the first time is that the instructor then turns his attentions back to the start of the line. Here I am once again standing on the top of a mountain, freezing cold with two 'things' stuck on the end of a pair of stupid boots, and I inform His Royal Highness that the next trip away involves sand and sun, no excuses, end of argument. RT agreed that this wasn't much fun and thought my idea worth considering.

We finally heard the two magic words, "Lunch Break." We're gone in search of some good HOT food and a nice beaujolais, and we found both. We also found that the hotel bar had an amazing selection of whisky, and we had to try as many as possible. We're now semi pissed and decide that as we're warm we might as well go back to this lesson even though we are very late, and the instructor looked at us and said, "Where have you two been?" Rog came back with "Trying lots of your wonderful scotch's." He was fine with that answer and we carried on trying to learn something, and would you believe by the end of the day I could actually turn and stop.

Back to the hotel for a nap before dinner. Over a very nice meal and a couple of little drinkettes we agree that it's far to cold here and we'll clear off the next day, so into the bar we go with our earlier mission of trying all the scotch's. We were sitting at a table chatting away and cracking jokes with each other and end up talking to the couple on the next table, swapping skiing stories, needless to say mine were very short, and having a bit of a laugh, when the woman said, "What do you two do for a living?" God knows why, but I said; "We're Hoover salesmen." At first they didn't believe us but we both started going on about the difference between domestic and industrial cleaners, uprights, backpack types, ones you pull along the floor. We went on about the different wattage, suction power, the amount of pressure on Axminsters and Wilton carpets, even a couple of car expressions like overhead this and thats. What the hell do we know about vacuum cleaners? But boy are we good at this. After about 30 mins of utter bullshit the subject finally changed and they wished us all the best with our door to door salesmanship and off they went to bed. We then had to reassure each other what we actually did for a living, had some more drinks and tried to work out how we knew so much about cleaners as both of us have spent most of our lives trying to stay well away from them. We spent the drive back to London having a good laugh about the one day we spent in a Scottish ski resort.

Well that's it folks, the story of a small company, R & C Taylor,..... Hoover Salesmen. I did learn to ski quite well, and whilst in Gstadd doing the Shove it album Spike flew out cause he fancied learning to ski, and the fool asked me to teach him. I wasn't much help because everytime he fell over I burst out laughing cause I kept seeing myself in Zermatt, and Spike looked just as worried and stupid as I did.

Before I go I noticed that Jacky had to get her boiler fixed and said for me not to make a comment, but little things like that spark me off and I remembered that when we were recording in the Townhouse Studios I had a little, no a big affair with the studio chef. Every three months Virgin would do a magazine for all their staff, written by all the heads of various departments, airlines, studios, video, shops, films, etc. and they would say what was going on with their particular section. Alan Douglas, who was chief engineer of all Virgin studios wrote who was recording where, and he wrote, "Queen are in studio 4, and Crystal, their main man is stoking the kitchen boiler." I thought that was hilarious, but Jane went ballistic. That's it for now.

Loadsa luv Crystal (Carpet cleaner to the stars)

#oh i suppose i forgot to queue this!#queen #queen band #roger taylor #roger meddows taylor #spike edney #crystal taylor #crystal's tales

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barbasbodaciousbeard · 3 years

Text

The One with the Engagement Picture

Ayy, using this to try new ones. Another for @thatesqcrush’s FRIENDS challenge.

Peter Stone hadn’t always been as much of a partier as he’d become, and he would certainly reject the term womanizer. Anyone he dated or slept with knew that he just wasn’t ready to settle down anymore. Maybe it was because he’d tried to do that once and ruined it. When he tore his ulnar collateral ligament, he’d accepted he wouldn’t be pitching anymore, and slowly an ocean seemed to settle between himself and his teammates. He was bitter, and they were busy. As the partying stopped for him to heal and return to school, there was one woman he found himself content to spend nights with on the couch with. It was the first time since he’d been an adult that Peter was in a serious, monogamous relationship, and he thought it suited him.

Dahlia had moved to Chicago for graduate school, and she was thoroughly unimpressed with his baseball background. Did she think it was cool? Sure. Was she understanding they’d be going to games? Yes. But, he had to teach her how the game worked and let her know which of his friends even played when she met them. She was more interested in dragging him antique shopping or to old bookshops where he’d have to keep her from falling off of a ladder. While she learned his world, Peter got far more comfortable than he ever expected to with pin curls, vintage compacts, and inspecting dresses for sweat stains or cigarette burns. It made her happy to invest time in it, so if she’d wear his old jersey tucked into her high waisted jeans and go to a game with him, he’d take pictures of his pin up at the rockabilly festival they drove out to.

When he proposed, he was nauseatingly proud to find a mid century ring at the vintage jewelry store she loved. The owner knew him from each time he had followed her through, shopping bags in hand as she purused. That meant he had help from a woman who knew Dahlia’s ring size and which cut she’d like the most; he picked correctly anyway, she’d said. He’d been careful to plan an outing to the park, packing a picnic and red and white checked blanket. He had a friend hiding to capture pictures, and it felt like the timing was perfect. Soon enough, he had a picture of her, hand over her mouth as he asked her to marry him sitting on his desk at home, and one with her showing off the ring as she pressed a kiss to his cheek, his arms slung around her waist, sitting on his office desk.

Things were easier then, when he was working and she was in school. Their schedules still aligned, so they could see each other in the evenings. Then, she finished her MFA and taught night classes in order to make ends meet while she worked on her next novel. They’d met not long before the first was published, and he’d read a preview copy the first weekend he knew her and dug up poetry she’d published in volumes stored at the university. His brain didn’t work like that and he liked that about her. He was more about practicality and comfort. She was creative and artistic, comfort be damned.

The change in schedules made things hard. Peter wasn’t good when things got hard. The transition to not seeing each other much during the week, even though they lived together, quickly coupled with wedding planning stress to create arguments they hadn’t had before. Instead of quiet togetherness, they’d bicker. He got home late, so they didn’t see each other before she left to teach. She had to pick something up after work, so he was asleep when she got home. Dahlia wanted to plan the wedding, and Peter was getting nervous because he hadn’t watched many marriages stay happy. He pushed off decisions, avoided picking a venue. After a while, she got an offer to teach creative writing in New York.

“I could have normal hours, Peter. We could see each other. You know you’d get a job in New York.”

“I’m not going back there, Dahl.”

“It’s a big city. You wouldn’t even have to see him. We wouldn’t even have to tell Ben, would we?”

“No.”

“So we just keep not planning a wedding and not seeing each other? Do you even want to marry me?”

“You know I do.”

“No I don’t!”

“Then maybe you should take the fucking job without me.”

The minute he said it, he regretted it. The way Dahlia’s face fell and tears came made him feel stupid. She’d spent her weekends helping him with physical therapy. She’d taken the shitty adjuncting job to stay in Chicago until he was a little more established. She was patient about maneuvering the strained dynamic between Ben and Peter Stone. Hell, she wasn’t even asking him to go back to New York forever. It was a year and then the university would evaluate if they’d offer her a permanent position. They could be back in Chicago after a year. And now she was crying. He hadn’t made her do that before, not because she was sad.

“Fine,” she managed, jaw shifting as she tried to get the tears to stop. “I’ll go then. I can’t keep doing this. You won’t plan the wedding. We fight all the time. And now you want me to go? Here’s your fucking ring.”

If Peter had been used to having a girlfriend or wanting her to stay, Peter might have developed the skills required to do more than stare as Dahlia shoved her clothes into a suitcase and clutch the ring in his outstretched hand. He might have thought to fly to the city when he realized she’d actually gone ahead and moved and show up at her apartment unemployed and ready to go to the courthouse to prove he needed her there.

Instead, he steeled his jaw over the next few weeks. His arm had healed the first year of law school, so he simply returned to his circle of friends that went out and dated whoever and covered for each other. He always ignored the ones in a vintage dress or with dark curled hair. Those were the ones who could hurt him. Who let him pretend afterwards that it was Dahlia beside him, and they were married and happy.

When he moved out the apartment they’d shared-it was too much there now- he picked a painfully modern place and filled it with sleek modern furniture, The antiques she hadn’t taken were sold, and he finally felt that maybe he’d scrubbed his life of Dahlia, save the engagement pictures he kept in the top drawer of his desk. She had probably responded to the break up like an actual adult and moved on. Had a husband and career. Maybe even a baby. He hated the thought, so when he thought it, he’d pour another drink. And it was fine, because he’d just distanced himself from everything that could make him think of her. And that was fine, really it was. Peter had been a playboy before. He was a partier. He was an ex-baseball player. And he was fine.

Then his father died.

Peter felt the solitude then. There hadn’t been anything new and hard to process since Dahlia left. He wandered New York and wondered if she was still there somewhere or if she’d gotten another teaching job somewhere. When McCoy convinced him to take the ADA position after Baba’s trial, he couldn’t say no, and one of the engagement photos found a new home in the top drawer of his new desk. SVU was harder, and it found its way out more. He’d hold it in his free hand, sipping a drink as he tried to channel the advice she’d have given him.

“Ben liked her,” Jack said softly one day. “He had a copy of that picture until the engagement ended.”

“I was an idiot.”

“Aren’t we all at some point? Learn from it.”

Peter left it out after that. It faced him from the corner, and he remembered feeling grounded. That was what he really missed. Dahlia had given him a place to land. His dad had always felt unstable, and he wasn’t close with his mom. He wasn’t even always at home, staying with his aunt periodically. And then he’d made a happy stable home with Dahlia and ruined it.

When Pamela died, he stopped partying for fun and started using it to numb himself, but one night, he met a woman with dark brown pin curls and fair skin. She’d left when Dahlia’s name fell from his lips. That’s when he knew he had to reach out. He had to know if there was a family or a set of kids or a job in another city. He needed closure.

“Hello?” She sounded confused when she answered, and he suddenly remembered it was nearly midnight. He also remembered she never checked caller ID. Oh God, or she’d deleted his number.

“Dahlia?” Papers stopped shuffling and he could hear her sharp intake of breath. He could almost picture her, perched in an armchair, probably a yellow velvet one, with wide eyes and hair pinned up for the night and tied in a silk scarf as she graded or proofed her own manuscript. Maybe it was a friend’s manuscript.

Oh God, what if it was a husband’s manuscript. Another writer. She’d like that.

The cool metal of the picture he kept at home was pressed into the skin of his palm before he whispered, “Dahl, it’s Peter.”

“I know,” she said softly. “You don’t sound okay.”

“I’m not.”

“What happened?”

“Pamela.”

“What happened to Pamela? I can be on a plane to Chicago if you need someone. Or if you need help in the city, I can arrange things. Check on her.”

“How do you know I don’t have someone?”

“Would you be calling if you did?”

“I’m in New York. Where did you end up?”

“They offered me a permanent position. How long have you been in the city?” He could tell she was trying to mask hurt that he hadn’t called before now. But what was he supposed to say? Dad’s dead so I live here now.

“Since January. Dad died. I prosecuted an ADA. Then I took his job.”

“Ben’s gone?”

“So is Pam.”

“Pam’s gone?” He let out a shaky breath, chest tight. “Send me your address.”

“You don’t have to--”

“Address or I start calling your baseball buddies.”

“I’ll text it.”

“I’m not hanging up until I’m there.”

“Is it creepy I keep the engagement photo on my desk?”

“We’re not touching that right now Peter. You’re drunk and not okay.”

She was true to her word, not hanging up the phone until she arrived at his apartment. When he opened the door, he saw her just as he’d imagined her. Her hair was pinned in the silk scarf and a silk robe was tied over her pajamas. She had thrown it on over the same babydoll top and short sets she’d always been hunting down patterns for so she could make them herself and she’d slid on flats.

The sight of her made him feel tethered again, though he had had enough more to drink between the initial call and her arrival that he had gone from tipsy to unsteady. He went to hug her, and Dahlia carefully kicked the door close, locked it, and maneuvered him to his big leather couch that she looked terribly out of place on.

“Let it out, Peter,” she whispered, and he buried his face into the crook of her neck like she might float away or vanish. The cry wasn’t like anything he’d let her see before. He’d been careful and controlled anytime something hurt, glossing over details that could make it worse to give her a pig picture. But now, he cried like he was alone, heaving sobs with snot and tears and drool as he clutched her.

She settled into the couch enough he was basically curled in her lap. That’s how he woke the next morning too, curled against her torso with his head on her shoulder. She’d fallen asleep with her cheek pressed against the top of his head, and he was both embarrassed and relieved she was still there. Carefully he untangled himself from her, wanting to clean up before he had to face her. Face the fact it was his own fault he’d had to deal with it all alone.

He came out to find her having obviously used the guest bathroom to rinse her face, though she was clad in his boxers and henley now. She was too averse to pants for his sweats. And like the angel she was, Dahlia was cooking. He was, however, mortified to see what she was holding as whatever she’d put in the oven cooked was the engagement photo he’d been clinging to when he called. But he could also see she seemed to be looking at it fondly.

“Your interior design is terrible,” she teased gently, setting the frame aside. “I left you so much of the good stuff.”

“I couldn’t bring it from Chicago.”

“Peter, you forget I brought it from Chicago.”

“When I looked at furniture we found together, it made me miss you, so I got rid of it.”

“I kept mine because it made me remember you.”

“I’m the one that was an absolute moron.”

“It was easier then, huh?” she said softly, picking the picture up again. Their smiles were wider. There were fewer lines on their faces. Ben and Pam were in New York alive, and Dahlia and Peter had forever in front of them. Peter didn’t need to talk to her about something he didn’t want to remember.

“Yeah,” he whispered, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry I let you go.”

“I’m sorry I let you. I shouldn’t have left the first time we fought. I knew how you were.”

“You were right to. I went for what I knew would hurt.”

“We can address all of that later. For right now, do you want to start talking or eat and then talk?”

“It’s my fault Pam’s dead.”

“You need to elaborate on that one, Peter. Because I’m sure there is more happening than you’re saying.”

“I didn’t drop a case. A victim tortured her attacker. We didn’t know for sure at first. A cartel was involved and they threatened to hurt Pam if I didn’t drop the case. We had guards, but they massacred Pam’s facility and took her. Diaz killed her in the gunfire. Dahl, she recognized me. She called for me, and he killed her. It’s been months, and I just, I feel so lost.”

“Peter,” she whispered, pulling him close.

He stiffened at first. He’d expected disgust, not sympathy. This was his fault. That’s what he’d been telling himself for weeks, distracting himself with booze and bars and women like he had done when he wanted to pretend his family was fine, that Pam wasn’t sick, that he was close with his dad. This time though, the hurt was bigger.

He was crying into her shoulder again, and he suddenly wished he’d been smart enough to call the minute he’d arrived. That she’d been there at dad’s funeral and for the trial of Rafael Barba. Maybe then he wouldn’t have even taken the job. He’d have recognized something bad was brewing. Instead he’d gotten his sister killed and was clinging to Dahlia in the early morning light of his kitchen.

“It happened in May.”

“Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I didn’t mean to call now.”

“How have you been coping?” He was quiet, shifting awkwardly. “Baseball methods?”

“Yeah.” He was ashamed to tell her, and she squeezed him gently.

“I went with baseball methods after we split. You’re a single man. I don’t like the thought and it’s not healthy, but it’s better than other things you could’ve done.” They didn’t speak much as they ate. Neither one knew what to say to the other any more, but she didn’t want to leave him alone and he shouldn’t be left alone. When he did speak again, his voice was gentler than it had been in a while.

“Can we go antiquing?”

“You want to go?”

“I want to carry your bags and think about sweat stains.”

“How does that help you?”

“Is it manipulative if I say that’s the last time I was really happy? Because if you say no I won’t be mad. It’s just true.”

“It could be. But I believe you. I think it’s the last time I was really happy too.”

“Really?”

“Depends? Did I pretend to understand baseball between our last antiquing trip and moving?”

“No. You moved in the off season.”

“Then really. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been fine. I love work. I love writing. I love the city. But I like everything more with you. Even if you’re a jock.”

“I thought I was happy before you. But I wasn’t.”

“You have to take me home first so I can get ready.”

“Deal.” And that’s what found him in her living room while she got dressed. He wasn’t stupid; Dahlia was the same as she’d always been, so he was waiting patiently as she brushed out her set curls and did her make up. She came back out in a pretty shirtdress, one he felt sure he’d found for her a long time ago, and keds, and Peter knew he’d do anything to get this back. The feeling of groundedness, that maybe they could be a team again, awe she was even agreeing to comfort him on any level.

She led him through new vintage shops now. They were in a whole new state after all. He decided that maybe baseball methods didn’t work, and he talked to Dahlia. This time he really talked though. He’d brushed over stories about his father and Pam. He didn’t like the bad ones or the feelings they could bring up. Besides, Ben Stone was a saint, didn’t you know? Peter hadn’t ever been talk about his father, so he kept that habit up with Dahlia the first time. He also told her the truth. He’d panicked over marrying her because she was his first real girlfriend and the prospect of settling down and having her grow to hate him like his mother had his father scared him. That one was a revelation to her.

He’d basically moved in with her a month after their outing to go antiquing. She preferred their old furniture and her vintage collection. Besides, Peter, I have a built in vanity here! The engagement photo in the park was replaced on his desk a year later. It showed them now in a different park in a different city with different lives to the ones so long ago. They also had different methods of communication, meaning they’d weathered fights as they adjusted to things again. The same ring was on display, however, and the same smile was plastered on Peter’s face as Dahlia pressed a kiss to his cheek.

#thatesqcrushFriends #peter stone x reader #peter stone #peter stonex oc #law and order #law and order svu #law and order special victims unit

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thebibliomancer · 3 years

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Essential Avengers: Avengers #235: Havoc on the Homefront!

September, 1983

Welcome to the Wizard’s Mansion of Mechanized Mayhem!

This cover has got it going on!

Where “it” is “multiple things.”

Still, I love covers that are just like ‘here’s a couple things happening today’ and this is a great version of that concept with the things being viewing screens that the Wizard is looking at.

He’s watching the Avengers in various peril channel.

This is a good cover!

So last time: uh, a couple things. Wasp called Vision and Scarlet Witch in as reservists when Annihilus tried to blow up the universe with an invisible dome. The two basically contributed nothing but Vision was thrown into a robotic coma.

Wanda and Vision in a tube moved into the mansion while he recovers and Wanda recapped her entire backstory including new retcon that Magneto is totally her dad.

Then she had a Dr. Strange crossover. Since it also involved Monica, two Avengers makes it notable enough to synopsize in brief. And its titled Assault on Avengers Mansion! so its like its baiting me.

Dr. Strange astral projects to bother Wanda when she’s trying to get some grief reading in. He wants to find the Darkhold and she’s the last known possessor or vice versa because thats when she was possessed by Cththon and had to be saved with a care bear stare from the Avengers. But Dr. Strange really wants the Darkhold to stop Dracula from getting it. Yes, Dracula.

Since the Darkhold is being stored in a vault at Avengers Mansion after Beast brought it back from Wundagore, Dracula’s cult attacks and manages to break into the Mansion. Dr. Strange, Wanda, and Captain Marvel all fight off Dracula’s cult and then Dr. Strange trolls Dracula by teleporting the Darkhold somewhere else.

Also, Avengers Mansion got trashed in a break-in in Fantastic Four #257. Dammit. Whats with all the intertextuality in this era?

So that story there is: mostly a lot of Galactus eating the Skrull homeworld and fallout from aforementioned Annihilus story. Only the last two pages are relevant.

Mr. Fantastic shows up to Avengers Mansion to check on Vision, Wanda goes to make him tea, and then he’s teleported to a space trial leaving a giant melted hole in the mansion.

Honestly, I don’t know why FF got asterisked instead of the Dr. Strange issue. They both messed up the mansion but the Dracula cult was more of a break-in than someone leaving a giant hole in the wall. Although that’s more mysterious.

Anyway, with two different ‘read this also’s between issues that messed up the mansion, no wonder the opening splash has to be devoted to a repair crew patching things up.

Wasp is putting her size-shifting to good use to literally micro-manage. Zipping around at tiny size telling everyone how to do their job.

Captain America who is also supervising and impressing people with how buff he is gets annoyed and goes to tell her to stop but stops himself.

Captain America: No... No. She’s in charge here, and I have to let her handle things as best she can. Her methods do seem to bring results... They’re just not my methods, that’s all. Yeah...

And then he sulks off, ignoring Wasp when she asks what he’s muttering to himself.

Hm. The new leader honeymoon period is off, it seems. Cap was Wasp’s biggest supporter as chairperson and now he’s grumbling and second-guessing.

Dang.

I hope this isn’t snapback to Wasp not being leader because she’s flighty and silly. I hope we’re not just going to do that.

Cap wanders over to where Vision-inna-tube and Wanda are. Wanda is still glued to Vision’s side. And either Wanda can read minds or Cap says something between panels because we have Cap wondering in a thought bubble whether if Vision has shown any signs of improvement and then Wanda answering that he hasn’t shown improvement or worsened.

Cap(tain) America: “Well, don’t let yourself get too worried, Wanda. That husband of yours has been through worse scrapes than this. He’ll pull through!”

Scarlet Witch: “When you say it, Cap, I can really believe it!”

Inspirational Cap! Charisma rolls: Very.

Still, Wanda is sad because Vision is lying in a tube helpless and she can’t even touch him.

Cap wanders off again, without even saying goodbye (rude) while musing how much it sucks.

Cap: Blast it! Those kids were just starting to make a life for themselves, and this had to happen! Why was it that of all the Avengers who went up against the threat of Annihilus -- it had to be a couple of reservists who suffered most?

And then starts musing how weird it is that Scarlet Witch and Vision as reservists since they were active Avengers for so long!

Remember, Wanda joined the Avengers not very long after Cap did! Only a couple months in-universe! She was one of his Kooky Quartet!

Cap: At times I wondered if the Avengers would survive -- but somehow, through all the tumult and changes, the team not only survived -- it grew stronger! I pray it always will... with the menaces we so often face, we can’t afford to weaken. We’ve gone through so many changes lately. We’ve picked up two fine new Avengers in Captain Marvel and the She-Hulk, but we’ve lost Hank Pym... and now we’ve lost Iron Man, too. Even Thor has taken himself off the active roster to pursue a personal mission. I hope he won’t be gone too long.

Cap is clearly in some sort of dour Mood.

A dour and monologue-y mood.

And what’s Thor up to leaving the team roster OFF PANEL?

(Sigh)

Well, since the asterisk is telling me to see Thor #334... oh geez, Don Blake is under suspicion of killing Jane Foster. Thor, and Lady Sif take Keith Kincaid (the non-Thor love interest of Jane) on a trip to get the Runestaff (long story) and restore Jane Foster (long story).

Annoyingly, the Thor issue does show him telling the Avengers he’s going to be gone for a while and to take him off the active roster. And borrowing a Quinjet.

I think that it would have been nice to see at least a panel of that. Or something. I don’t want the book bloated with ‘see alsos’ but I’m confused why it put the most emphasis on the FF one when it was literally two pages where Reed manages to ruin the wall while getting kidnapped.

Whatever.

Anyyyyway.

Even though he thinks the new Avengers are good, Cap worries about having both Thor and Iron Man off the team.

Especially Iron Man.

He was their science/technical guy. And on the current team, the only one with any sort of science expertise is new trainee Starfox.

Who is busy making out and not being on time for his daily training session.

At least he remembers that he has a prior obligation.

And he’s only two minutes late. Or to put it another way, he’s a whole two minutes late. And Cap(tain America) is a notable stickler for punctuality.

Cap: “Punctuality may be an anachronism in this day and age -- and, for all I know, it may be unheard of on the planet Titan -- but in my day, it was something that was expected of people!”

Wow, Cap really pulled a ‘in my day.’

Frankly, I’m surprised he doesn’t pull that more often.

Starfox does seem contrite and apologizes for putting pleasure before business which sends Cap into an introspection about why he’s really being so harsh on Starfox.

Protip: It’s Tony. It’s almost always Tony.

Cap: Pleasure versus duty, that’s what it always comes down to. It was Tony Stark’s ‘pleasure’ which led him to giving up his Iron Man identity... leaving the Avengers. Some ‘pleasure’! He’s crawled so far into the bottle, he may never get back out. And there’s nothing I can do to pull him out... Nothing any of us can do, unless he lets us. That’s what’s really bothering me... isn’t it?

And he accepts the apology with a “just don’t let it happen again.”

You sound so old sometimes, Cap.

Meanwhile, She-Hulk is off on a jog through New York, listening to some Beach Boys’ California Girls.

An overeager driver scoots forward and cuts her off at the crosswalk and (I assume) in frustration, she punches the hood of the car.

And given it’s She-Hulk, she kinda punches a hole IN the hood. And probably engine.

The guy being either an idiot or incredibly unperceptive runs after She-Hulk to grab her arm and yell at her.

She does not care for that at all.

Like, why would you? She’s seven feet tall and green and just punched a hole in the hood of your car.

Luckily for the guy’s skeletal integrity, Spider-Man pops out of nowhere to be Friendly Neighborhood and mediate this conflict.

They both air their grievances.

She-Hulk: “This creep grabbed me!”

Creep: “Hey! She... she crunched the front of my car!”

She-Hulk: “That was you who cut me off in the crosswalk? You’re lucky I didn’t rip out your axle!”

Spider-Man: “Now, now! Let’s keep this friendly! Sounds like you’re in the wrong, chum! The lady had the light!”

Creep: “Lady?!? She’s no --!”

Spider-Man: “I wouldn’t say that if I were you! That’s the She-Hulk, dummy! Remember what she did to your car? Well, just imagine what she could do to you!”

Creep: “Oh yeah.”

And with the power of Spider-Man’s bomb-ass mediation, the guy realizes that he was in the wrong, apologizes, and leaves in a hurry.

(Her skeptical glare cracks me up for some reason)

Moral of the story: Don’t be a jerk. Stay behind the line when the little man is lit up.

After the guy takes off, She-Hulk praises(?) Spider-Man’s amazing mediation skills by saying he should have been a lawyer. And then they catch up.

She-Hulk is still having trouble adjusting to the East Coast lifestyle and lack of beaches so Spider-Man suggests checking out the Jersey Shore.

She-Hulk: “My big problem right now is housing. Avengers Mansion is nice, but I want a place of my own.”

Spider-Man: “It’s tough -- rents are pretty steep.”

She-Hulk: “The real trouble is finding a place I like. With the thousand a week I get as an Avenger, rent’s no big deal.”

Spider-Man: “I guess not, if you’re making a... a thousand A WEEK?!? I passed up a chance to become an Avengers, and they make $1000 a week?!? Oh, NO!!”

Ha ha, that ol’ Parker luck.

Maybe Thor should have mentioned the money when he tried to recruit Spidey.

Meanwhile, at a federal penitentiary in Vermont, a scene change.

Bentley Wittman, aka the Wizard, aka the Wingless Wizard, aka the adult man who thought the best use of his time was bullying a teenager, is being questioned about Plantman Sam Smithers’ escape from jail.

The Wizard claims that he knows nothing about Plantman’s escape and that he barely knows the guy anyway. They were airlifted from Ryker’s in the same helicopter and that’s it.

But a convenient x-ray tells a different story.

And that story is that “the Wizard” doesn’t have any skeleton bones.

... Were we really at the point in 1983 where we didn’t know about the dangers of overexposure to x-rays? They just causally scan both “the Wizard” and the guy questioning him?

Anyway, the ruse being rumbled, the fake Wizard rips the bars out of a window and jumps out to his death.

Or it would be death if he wasn’t just animate wood wearing a fake skin suit.

Kinda gross if you think about it.

Anyway, where is the real the Wizard?

Obviously, he escaped jail a while back. Not only is he a sinister criminal mastermind who has sinister masterminding to mastermind but also he was tired of the prison hair code. Because dammit, he wants to rock the goatee!

(Literally a comment he makes, calling the prison barbers butchers)

The Real Wizard gets a BLIP-BLIP-BLIP priority alert that informs him that the plant-him has been discovered which means that the authorities will be looking for him now.

Wizard: Now every law officer in the nation will be looking for me. Well, let them! They’ll not find me, unless they look here! And if they do look here, they’ll have a fight on their hands! The Wizard will not bolt and run like some common criminal! My home is my fortress! They’ll never get me out of it! Never!

Anyway, within an hour of the discovery of Plant-Wizard, a disgruntled agent of the national security council named Mr. Sirkorski receives a briefing.

Usually, this problem would be Gyrich’s problem but he’s busy somewhere else, probably making mutants miserable if I had to guess.

-checking- Yup, he’s over in the X-books, being involved in Project: Wideawake, the project that will later accidentally shoot Storm with a demutantifying gun that will take away her powers, leading her to kick Cyclop’s ass, leading to him leaving the team and feeling sad about being happily married.

Wow, Gyrich, you’re the worst.

Anyway, since the Wizard is tied to the presidential hostage crisis via Plantman, that makes it Serious Business.

Hence, Mr. Sikorski’s serious business.

And he hates it.

He hates this bonkers superhero universe. He just wants to live in a spy thriller universe without all this specific nonsense.

Mr. Sikorski: “Oh, great! Plant-Men... criminal scientists... prison breaks! Don’t they think I have enough to do, just keeping track of what the Russians are up to?”

Also Mr. Sikorksi, on the following page: “And it’s up to me to call in the appropriate parties. I feel a little weird doing this! It’s hard enough for me to believe there are such things as Avengers! I certainly never thought I’d be calling them for help!”

This guy is great. I hope he becomes a recurring and just continues to be low-key pissed about what genre he lives in.

SCENE CHANGE TO AVENGERS MANSION’s actually looking cooler than ever meeting room.

The table looks enormous and theres a giant viewscreen that they can display stuff on.

Only misstep in my opinion is that the seats don’t have personalized icons on the back.

On the big viewscreen map, Cap(tain America) is displaying for Captain Marvel known properties and hideouts that the Wizard has used in the past.

And then big boss the Wasp comes in with She-Hulk to start the meeting.

Since the government has requested that the Avengers help search for the Wizard, Captain Marvel suggests that she could zoom around and check off the whole list in no time flat by using her lightspeed.

Cap(tain America): “You probably could, C.M. -- that’s up to Jan to decide, of course. It would save us some time. After all, the Wizard could be in any of these places... or none of them!”

Wasp: “You think so? If I’d escaped from prison, I’d want to go home. But that’s just me, I suppose.”

Cool contribution, Jan.

I don’t mean to mock, its just she makes a goofy face.

(Hey, I wonder if her new costume was inspired by the FF’s negative zone’d ones. It’s kinda got a similar palette and rough design)

Anyway, Scarlet Witch asks whether she can be excused from superheroing for the day to keep an eye on the Vision.

Wasp: “Why, Wanda! I should say not! You agreed to fill in for Thor while he’s off in space, and I intend to hold you to that! I’m the chairwoman, and I’ll decide who goes where!”

In fact, since somebody does need to watch the Vision, Wasp chooses the most reasonable candidate.

Captain Marvel!

Who needs her to get the task done in five seconds! She can watch the coma-robot.

You make interesting decisions, Jan!

The remaining Avengers will split up into squads.

Captain America will take Scarlet Witch and She-Hulk to check the hideouts on the east of the map. Wasp and Starfox will check out the western ones.

She-Hulk: “You and Starfox, huh? That’s rich... the All Flirt Squad!”

Pfft.

Cap(tain America) isn’t feeling the humor and tells She-Hulk to save her jokes for when they don’t have a job to do.

Minutes later, the Avengers land a Quinjet on the front drive of the Wizard’s Long Island estate. He has one of those.

Cap: “Come on Avengers -- let’s get this over with!”

Good attitude, Cap.

Wanda notes that the grounds look neatly tended considering that the estate has been empty for the past several years but She-Hulk thinks a gardener was probably kept on retainer.

The Wizard was stupid rich.

When they get inside, Cap changes his tune. The place looks too tidy and ready for occupancy to be empty so maybe the Wizard is here.

So he pulls a ‘lets split up gang’ and splits up gang with each Avenger taking a wing.

Cap: “Oh, and She-Hulk, try not to break anything if you can help it. This is private property!”

Priorities!

Granted, She-Hulk is known to break things. Why just today she broke some dude’s car.

The Wizard is watching all of this on his home security system and springs individual traps on the individual Avengers.

She-Hulk finds herself in a series of identical small non-descript rooms, each more identical than the last.

So identical that its the same room, looping.

Wizard: “Through the circuity in that doorway, I’ve activated a dimensional matrix which will keep your walking back and forth ad infinitum through the same room!”

Except without seeing herself leaving which you’d think she’d be able to see.

It’s a smart way to trap a Hulk, provided they don’t run out of patience or get frustrated and smash something.

Meanwhile, Cap gets locked in a chamber where an anti-gravity field has been activated, leaving him flailing through the air.

Oh, and dozens of high-intensity laser torches pop out of the walls and start trying to carve up Cap.

Meanwhile, Scarlet Witch’s individualized trap is the most individualized of all.

Because She-Hulk’s and Cap’s could be used on any number of people really. But Wanda’s feels like it was created to counter Wanda. Pretty on the ball from the Wizard considering he doesn’t often fight the Witch.

When Wanda enters the room she suddenly starts spinning out of control, flies across the room, and lands in a chair.

Wizard: “Marvelous! I’ve ensnared the Scarlet Witch within something against which her astounding hex powers are useless. My field effect devices have generated a pocket of non-causality within that test chamber! Within the area, all actions have an equal chance of occurrence. Therein, all probabilities are skewed. She won’t be able to stand, much less cast a hex!”

Wow! That’s some high octane comic book nonsense science!

The point being that every time Wanda tries to do something, something random happens instead because its all equally likely. She tried to walk into a room and ended up standing on the roof. She tried to back out of the room, she started spinning. She tried to stop spinning and she flew into a chair.

Sure.

With the Avengers all trapped, the Wizard turns his attention to deciding how to dispose of them.

Except, as cleverly foreshadowed by my snide comments, She-Hulk’s trap is only as good as Jen’s patience.

Which is good forrrrrrr. Two dozens loops.

At that point, she’s sure some bullshit is up and scratches the wall with her nails to leave a tangible mark. When she sees the same mark in the ‘next room’ her suspicion is confirmed.

And now that she knows someone is jerking her around, she decides to ignore Cap’s suggestion to not break private property by breaking private property and rips the doorframe (and the dimensional matrix) to crap.

There’s a backup trap that drops slabs of six-inch omnium steel around her but yeah she’s a hulk and she’s not playing considerate anymore. She starts KRUNGing the walls with her fists.

Meanwhile, Cap uses physics to get out of his jam. He throws his mighty shield to break some lasers so action/reaction will propel him backwards and he can jump off the wall, grab his shield back, and uses one of the broken-off lasers against the others.

Also, meanwhile, Scarlet Witch tries to figure out her own, incredibly specific trap.

Scarlet Witch: This is like a nightmare! Whatever I try to do, something else happens. Just in making the attempt to call on my hex power, I wound up falling flat on my face! I can’t even... wiggle my fingers? I... I can! Oh, but only very close to the floor! Whatever is causing my actions to go awry must be weaker near the room’s outer surfaces! Then there’s HOPE -- !”

Wizard must have gone cheap on the pocket of non-causality projector for that room if it’s not completely covering the area. Sure, the area it doesn’t cover is relatively small but now what’s about to happen is going to happen.

So Wanda gets as low as she can go to the floor and uses her probability-altering powers.

This causes the non-causality field to reverse because why wouldn’t it? And causes feedback through the circuitry which causes the master control to shock the Wizard.

It also causes every logic circuit in the master control to overload and the whole dang thing explodes, Wizard barely flying out of the control room in time.

Right in She-Hulk’s path.

She’s not happy. He’s not going to like her not being happy.

She-Hulk: “After what I’ve been through, it’s gonna be a real pleasure to pound that helmet down around your ankles!”

Wizard nopes right out of her way and decides to abandon fortress.

Then Scarlet Witch probability alters his battlesuit flight controls to malfunction to halt his escape and make him crash to the-

...

I’m pretty sure his neck is broken now.

I mean, it’s apparently not because he keeps talking and moving and living but he look at that panel. Guy should be dead as movie Zod.

Y’know, if the Avengers are going to kill the Wizard, the FF should really get them back and kill one of their villains. I suggest Grim Reaper.

Anyway, surrounded by Avengers, Wizard pulls his trump card.

Wizard: “Your confidence is ill-founded, Captain America. There is one resource I can yet draw upon. There is a thermonuclear devise beneath my house -- powerful enough to destroy half of Long Island and make the remainder very unpleasant for a very long time. Much as I hate to see this place destroyed, I would press the button, so to speak.”

“You being such renowned public heroes, would hate that even more. But unless you allow me to go unharmed, I shall active the timing sequence of the bomb’s detonator.”

And Cap is like ‘do you mean this detonator’ and pulls out one he prepared earlier.

HAH!

You know, ironically, if he had just hidden in a safe room or on the roof or something, the Avengers probably would have came and went without noticing him. Springing traps on them really backfired in oh so many ways.

The threesome return to the mansion, presumably after turning Wizard over to the authorities, and Wasp comments that it sounds like they had a bit of excitement (Starfox grumbling to himself more excitement than he had searching the Bronx with the Wasp ha ha).

Cap(tain America): “You’ll be glad to know, Wasp, that your instincts were correct. The Wizard had indeed gone home. He gave us all a pretty good challenge... a welcome challenge, I dare say.”

Wasp: “Looks like I assigned the right people to search the right place, huh?”

Cap: “Yes, Ms. Chairwoman, I’d say you did!”

And elsenow, Wanda goes to the medical bay to check in on Vision and relieve Captain Marvel.

Scarlet Witch: “Can you hear me, darling? I hope you can. I was feeling awfully blue today... And I was given a duty that first seemed annoying, and later became dangerous. But I didn’t give up... I came back, and I won. I know that you can come back, too, darling! It’s just a matter of time... and hope.”

“It’s funny! I thought the Wasp was silly for sending me on that mission. But -- in a way --it was something I need. I think the others needed it, too!”

Captain Marvel: “Then that’s why she sent you, Wanda... because she knew what you needed! And that’s why she leads the Avengers!”

Secret friend mastermind Janet van Dyne sends you out for punch therapy when you need to punch something.

Reminds me of when Captain America picked a fight with Goliath Hank Pym to lift his spirits. Except with a lot less fighting her own friends and more pointing them in the right direction.

Something I love about this era of Avengers and with the big shift in Wasp after Hank’s court-martial is that while her character has changed she’s still recognizably and uniquely herself. She’s still a bit goofy. She’s still playful. And on top of that, she’s proven that she’s a good leader for the Avengers. It’s not mutually exclusive.

Cap (previously Wasp’s biggest supporter as leader) started this issue grumpy and even had his own ideas what the best tactic for searching for the Wizard would be, but by the end he agrees that Wasp made a good decision.

Despite playing the ditz for a long part of her career, Wasp isn’t dumb. And she’s got a good head for the interpersonal challenges of running a team too.

I’m reminded that during the much later Busiek run, when the Avengers need to expand and modernize to match up to expanding challenges, Captain America turns the leadership of the team over to the Wasp.

My point being, I was worried that there’d be snapback on Wasp being leader because she is flighty and silly. But instead, she can be flighty and silly and still a good leader.

I’m pleased with this take, Stern.

Follow @essential-avengers because there will probably be more Wasp being a good leader. Fingers crossed. Also, like and reblog this post maybe if you also like Wasp being a good leader.

#avengers #the Wizard #the Wasp #Captain America #Captain Marvel #Monica Rambeau #Scarlet Witch #She Hulk #essential avengers #essential marvel liveblogging #the great feud between witches and wizards #wasp does a leadership #Cap be like hey don't break this supervillain's doom fortress its private property

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back-and-totheleft · 3 years

Text

INSIDE a flimsy temporary office on a dusty movie lot here, a young man sits in front of a computer, showing off a three-dimensional rendering of the collapse of the World Trade Center. It was assembled by merging the blueprints for the twin towers — the before-picture, you might say — with a vast collection of measurements, including some taken with infrared laser scans from an airplane 5,000 feet above Lower Manhattan, just days after 9/11.

With a few clicks, Ron Frankel, who has the title pre-visualization supervisor for Oliver Stone's new 9/11 film, begins to illustrate the circuitous path that five Port Authority police officers took into the trade center's subterranean concourse, until the towers above them fell, killing all but two.

As Mr. Frankel speaks, behind his back a burly man has wandered through the door. He is Will Jimeno, one of the two officers who survived. He has been a constant presence on the movie set, scooting from here to there in a golf cart, bantering with the actor playing him and with Mr. Stone, answering questions and offering suggestions — a consultant and court jester. But he has never seen this demonstration before, he says, pulling up a chair.

Mr. Frankel, continuing with his impromptu show-and-tell, says the floor beneath Mr. Jimeno, Sgt. John McLoughlin and their three fellow officers dropped some 60 feet, creating a 90-foot ravine in the underground inferno. The difference between instant death and a chance at life, for each of the men, was a matter of inches.

Mr. Jimeno sits quietly, absorbing what he's just seen and heard. His eyes moisten. "I didn't know this," he says. "I didn't know this. I didn't know there was a drop-off here. This is an explanation I never knew about." He pauses. "We try not to ponder on it, because we're alive. But it answers some questions. That, really, played a big part in us being here." The countless measurements taken and calculations made by scientists and government agencies helped ground zero rescue workers pinpoint dangerous areas in the weeks after the attacks. The data also provided a fuller historical record of how the buildings collapsed and lessons for future architects and engineers.

Only a movie budgeted as mass entertainment, though, could harness all that costly information to reconstruct the point of view of two severely injured and bewildered men, who didn't even know the twin towers had been flattened until rescuers lifted them to the surface many hours later.

Their story, and those of their families, their rescuers and the three men killed alongside them, is the subject of Mr. Stone's "World Trade Center," which Paramount plans to release on Aug. 9.

The quandary that Paramount executives face is a familiar one now, a few months after Universal's "United 93" became the first 9/11 movie to enter wide theatrical release: How do you market a movie like this without offending audiences or violating the film's intentions? Carefully of course, but "there's no playbook," said Gerry Rich, Paramount's worldwide marketing chief. In New York and New Jersey, for example, there will be no billboards or subway signs, which could otherwise hit, quite literally, too close to home. And the studio is running all of its materials by a group of survivors to avoid offending sensibilities.

But Paramount, naturally, wants as wide an audience as possible for this film.

Nicolas Cage, who plays the taciturn Sergeant McLoughlin, says the movie is not meant to entertain. "I see it as storytelling which depicts history," he says. "This is what happened. Look at it. 'Yeah, I remember that.' Generation after generation goes by, they'll have 'United 93,' 'World Trade Center,' to recall that history."

Whether Mr. Stone set out to make a historical drama or a dramatic history isn't entirely clear. Mr. Jimeno and Mr. McLoughlin, who have both since retired from the Port Authority, say the script and the production took very few liberties except for the sake of time compression.

"We're still nervous," Mr. Jimeno said last fall, after shooting had shifted from New York and New Jersey to an old airplane hangar near Marina del Rey. "It's still Hollywood. But Oliver — it's to the point where he drives me crazy, trying to get things right."

There are many people of course who have been driven a little crazy for other reasons by some of Mr. Stone's more controversial films, "JFK," "Natural Born Killers" and "Nixon" chief among them. But in several interviews, sounding variously weary, wounded and either self-deprecating or defensive, Mr. Stone spoke as if his days of deliberate provocation were behind him.

"I stopped," he says simply. "I stopped."

His new film, he says, just might go over as well in Kansas as in Boston, or, for that matter, in Paris or Madrid. "This is not a political film," he insists. "The mantra is 'This is not a political film.' Why can't I stay on message for once in a while? Why do I have to take detours all the time?"

He said he just wants to depict the plain facts of what happened on Sept. 11. "It seems to me that the event was mythologized by both political sides, into something that they used for political gain," he says. "And I think one of the benefits of this movie is that it reminds us of what actually happened that day, in a very realistic sense."

"We show people being killed, and we show people who are not killed, and the fine line that divides them," he continues. "How many men saved those two lives? Hundreds. These guys went into that twisted mass, and it very clearly could've fallen down on them, and struggled all night for hours to get them out."

By contrast Paul Haggis is directing the adaptation of Richard Clarke's book on the causes of 9/11, "Against All Enemies," for the producer John Calley and Columbia Pictures.

Asked if that weren't the kind of film he might once have tried to tackle, Mr. Stone first scoffs: "I couldn't do it. I'd be burned alive." Then he adds: "This is not a political film. That's the mantra they handed me."

Mr. Stone says he particularly owes his producers, Michael Shamberg and Stacy Sher, for taking a chance on him at a time when he had gone cold in Hollywood after a string of commercial and critical disappointments culminating in the epic "Alexander" in 2004. "They believed in me at a time when other people did not, frankly," he says. " 'Alexander' was cold-turkeyed in this town, I think unfairly, but it was, and I took a hit. Nobody's your friend, nobody wants to talk to you."

Mr. Stone came forward asking to direct "World Trade Center" just about a year ago. He decided it would require a different approach from, say, "JFK." "The Kennedy assassination was 40 years ago, and look at the heat there, a tremendous amount of heat," he says. "I was trying to do my best to give an alternative version of what I thought might have happened, but it wasn't understood. It was taken very literally. 'Platoon,' I went back to a Vietnam that I saw quite literally, but it was a twisted time in our history.

"This — this is a fresh wound, and it had to be cauterized in a certain way. This is a very specific story. The details are the details are the details."

The details that led to the movie's making began in April 2004, when Andrea Berloff, a screenwriter, pitched a story about Mr. Jimeno's and Mr. McLoughlin's "transformation in the hole" to Ms. Sher and Mr. Shamberg. Ms. Berloff, who had no produced credits, was candid about two things:

"I didn't want to see the planes hit the buildings. We've seen enough of that footage forever. It's not adding anything new at this point. I also said I don't know how to end the movie, because there are 10 endings to the story. What happened to John and Will in that hospital could be a movie unto itself. Will flatlined twice, and was still there on Halloween. And John was read his last rites twice."

The producer Debra Hill, who had optioned the rights to the two men's stories, was listening in on the line. When Ms. Berloff was done, she recalls, Ms. Hill said, "I don't want to speak out of turn, but I think we should hire you."

Ms. Berloff and Mr. Shamberg headed to New York to meet with the two officers and their families, and to visit both the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where the men had once patrolled, and ground zero. In long sessions with the Jimenos in Clifton, N.J., and with the McLoughlins in Goshen, N.Y., Ms. Berloff says, she quickly learned that both families, despite the nearly three years that had elapsed, remained emotionally raw. "Within 20 minutes of starting to talk they were losing it," she says. "We all just sat and cried together for a week."

Before leaving, Ms. Berloff says, she felt she had imposed on, exhausted and bonded with the two families so much that she warned them that in all likelihood she would not be around for the making of the movie. "I had to say, 'The writer usually gets fired, so I can't guarantee I'll be there at the end,' " she recalls. "But I'd recorded the whole thing, and I said they shouldn't have to go through this with a bunch of writers. They'd have the transcripts to work from."

Ms. Berloff returned to Los Angeles, stared at her walls for a month, she says, and then wrote a script in five weeks, turning it in two days before her October wedding.

Ms. Hill died of cancer the following March. Mr. Shamberg and Ms. Sher moved ahead, circulating the script to Kevin Huvane at Creative Artists Agency, and to his partners Bryan Lourd and Richard Lovett. Mr. Lourd gave it to Mr. Stone, Mr. Lovett to his client Mr. Cage.

The agency also represents Maria Bello, who plays Mr. McLoughlin's wife, Donna, and Maggie Gyllenhaal, who plays Alison Jimeno. Ms. Gyllenhaal, who'd just seen "Crash," suggested Michael Peña, who made a lasting impression in a few scenes as a locksmith with a young daughter. (Mr. Peña did a double-take, he confesses, upon hearing that Mr. Stone was directing a 9/11 movie: "I'm like, let me read it first — just because you're aware of the kind of movies that he does.")

Given the need to shoot exteriors in New York in September, the cast and crew raced to get ready for shooting. The actors aimed for accuracy in different ways. Mr. Cage says he focused on getting Mr. McLoughlin's New York accent right, and spent time in a sense-deprivation tank in Venice, Calif., to get a hint of the fear and claustrophobia one might experience after hours immobile and in pain in the dark. Mr. Peña all but moved in with Mr. Jimeno.

Ms. Gyllenhaal had her own problems to solve. That April she had stepped on a third rail, saying on a red carpet at the Tribeca Film Festival that "America has done reprehensible things and is responsible in some way" for 9/11. She apologized publicly, then met privately with the Jimenos, offering to withdraw if they objected to her involvement. "We started to get into politics a little bit, and Will said, 'I don't care what your politics are,' " she recalls.

With Mr. Jimeno and Mr. McLoughlin vouching for the filmmakers, more rescuers asked to be included, meaning not only that dozens of New York uniformed officers would fly to Los Angeles to re-enact the rescue of the two men, but that there were more sources of information to replace Ms. Berloff's best guesses with vivid memories.

Ms. Bello, who had gone to St. Vincent's Hospital on 9/11 with her mother, a nurse, and waited in vain for the expected deluge of injured to arrive, contributed a scene after learning from Donna McLoughlin of a poignant encounter she had had while waiting for her husband to arrive at Bellevue.

Some of the film's most fictitious-seeming moments are authentic. Mr. Jimeno's account of his ordeal included a Castaneda-like vision in which Jesus appeared with a water bottle in hand. But Mr. McLoughlin recalled no hallucinations, or nightmares, or dreams: only thoughts of his family. "He kept saying I'm sorry — 20 years in the job, never gotten hurt, and here we go and I'm not going to be there for you," Ms. Berloff says. "So we tried to dramatize that."

Nearly everything else in the movie is straight out of Mr. Jimeno's and Mr. McLoughlin's now oft-told story: the Promethean hole in the ground, with fireballs and overheated pistol rounds going off at random; the hundreds of rescuers, with a few standouts, like the dissolute paramedic with a lapsed license who redeems himself as he digs to reach Mr. Jimeno.

And the former marine who leaves his job as a suburban accountant, rushes to church, then dons his pressed battle fatigues, stops at a barbershop for a high-and-tight, heads downtown past barricades saying he's needed and winds up tiptoeing through the perilous heap calling out "United States Marines" until Mr. Jimeno hears him and responds. Mr. Stone says he is adding a note at the end of the film, revealing that the marine, David Karnes, re-enlisted and served two tours of duty in Iraq, because test audiences believed he was a Hollywood invention.

Reality can be just as gushingly sentimental as the sappiest movie, Mr. Stone acknowledges, especially when the storytellers are uniformed officers in New York who lived through 9/11. And particularly when it comes to Mr. Jimeno and Mr. McLoughlin, who have struggled with the awkwardness of being singled out as heroes when so many others died similarly doing their duty, and when so many more rescued them.

"You could argue the guys don't do much, they get pinned, so what," Mr. Stone says. "There will be those type of people. I say there is heroism. Here you see this image of these poor men approaching the tower, with no equipment, just their bodies, and they don't know what the hell they're doing, and they're going up into this inferno, they're like babies. You feel saddened, you feel sorry for them. They don't have a chance."

Mr. Cage says he once mentioned to Mr. Stone that their audience had lived through 9/11: "That it's not like 'Platoon,' where most of us don't know what it's like to be in the jungle."

"He said, 'Well what's your point?' " Mr. Cage says. "And my point is that we all walk into buildings every day, and we were there, and we saw it on TV, so this is going to be very cathartic and a little bit hard for people."

Despite its fireballs, shudders and booms, Mr. Stone's film is also unusually delicate, from the shadowy intimacy of the officers' early-morning awakenings to the solemnity of their ride downtown in a commandeered city bus, to the struggle of their wives to cope with hours of uncertainty and then with false reports of their husbands' safety.

"It's not about the World Trade Center, really. It's about any man or woman faced with the end of their lives, and how they survive," Mr. Stone says. "I did it for a reason. I did it because emotionally it hit me. I loved the simplicity and modesty of this movie.

"I hope the movie does well," he adds, "even if they say 'in spite of Oliver Stone.' "

-David M. Halbfinger, "Oliver Stone's 'World Trade Center' Seeks Truth in the Rubble," The New York Times, July 2 2006 [x]

#oliver stone #world trade center #the new york times #2006 #9/11 attacks

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hockeygods14 · 4 years

Text

Mathew Barzal - The Story Of Us

Masterlist

This was kinda just a little bit inspired by the song The Story Of Us by Taylor Swift

Word count: 1,394

“You’re the lucky ones,”

Anthony use to say that to us all the time. That we were lucky that we had found each other. That the love that had was one in a lifetime.

When Mat moved to New York and started to play with the Islanders we meet through some mutual friends. We would always hang out in as a group go to dinner or hang out at someone's houses. The one day Mat asked me dinner just the two of us. I was shocked that he was asking me out because I didn’t think he liked me more than a friend. I had a crush on him since the first day I meet him just never did anything about my feelings.

We dated for a while then both of our lives got busy and our relationship was mainly of the phone. He was traveling for hockey and I just started as a traveling nurse. We didn’t really get to see each other, only on FaceTime. We broke up both said it was for the best and that we could still be friends.

The thing was I was still madly in love with him.

——————————————-

I was currently at a party that I knew Mat was going to be at. I thought while getting ready that it was no big deal. We said we would still be friends after we broke up but what if I saw him with someone else. What if I saw him kiss another girl. I would just have to stand there and be okay with it because we broke up.

When we use to go to parties together I knew that my place was right next to him. I knew if he was talking to his friends he would make sure I was in the conversation too. If I was talking to the girls he would either be holding my hand or have an arm around me. My place use to next to him.

Now I’m standing alone in a crowded room and we’re not even talking. I want to know if it's killing him like it's killing me seeing him across the room. He’s laughing at whatever Anthony had said to him. He didn’t look at me once, at least not that I saw.

“Y/N come on let's go get you a drink before he sees you staring at him.” One of my friends that I came with pulled my arm lightly and I followed her. She was right I probably look like a creep just standing there looking at him.

“How did we end up like this?” I say out loud. My friend turns around to look at me. “I mean I am here pulling at my clothes because I’m nervous that he will see me.” I shake my head.

“You are thinking about this way too much. Stop thinking about him.”

“That’s easy for you to say. How can I stop thinking about him if I’m still in love with the man?” My eyes went wide and I covered my mouth. I can’t believe I just said that out loud.

“Wait Y/N you're what?”

“Yeah I’m still in love with him but we broke up.” I grabbed another drink and went back to where the party was. I didn’t want to stay and hear what she was going to say about the news I just told her.

I found a group of people that I knew and stared to talk to them. I turned around for a minute and saw Mat looking at me and walk the other way. I sighed and went back to the conversation.

He’s doings best to avoid me and I don’t blame him. I would probably walk the other way too. I knew if we were close to each other I don’t know what I would do. I might tell him that I miss him. I might tell him that I want him back. I might tell him that if it means having him back I would get a normal nursing job at the hospital which I would be just fine with. Because truth be told I don’t know why I took the traveling nurse job.

“I need some air,” I told the people around me.

It broke my heart that he would just turn around when he saw me. I don’t know what I really wanted him to do. Maybe just come up and say hi I guess.

“Why don’t you just go in there and talk to her?” I heard someone say on the side of the house. The voice sounded familiar. I couldn’t point my figure on it though.

“What am I suppose to say to her? Hi, you look beautiful as always how have you been?” I knew that voice right off the bat and once I heard Mat’s voice I knew he was talking to Anthony.

“You are betting yourself up over this breakup. You either of in there and talk to her or tomorrow you call her and talk to her.” Were they talking about me?” I was about to do something I didn’t want to do but there was something in me that said ‘get over there and talk to him.’ I mean the door was right next to them too so, either way, I have to go over there.

I coughed a little letting them know that they aren’t alone. I walked out from around the corner and came into view of Mat and Anthony. Mat’s eyes go wide and Anthony smiles.

“Perfect here is your chance.” Anthony looks at Mat and then at me. “It's nice to see you Y/N.”

“Its good to see you too,” Anthony didn’t say another else he just walked back into the house and closed the door. I looked down at my feet because I didn’t want to look at Mat.

“How much of that did you hear?” Mat was the first to speak.

“Just something about you wanting to talk to me.” I looked but not at him. I don’t know what really I was looking at but I know it wasn’t at Mat.

“Well, that is true. Y/N we do need to talk.” I heard him walk closer to me. I wanted to take a step back but my feet wouldn’t move. “What are doing?” I heard him speak again.

“We are standing outside,” I look around and laugh a little bit and it made Mat laugh too which made me smile a little bigger. I have missed his laugh.

“No, I mean what were we thinking when we broke up? Because I miss the freaking hell out of you. I miss our FaceTime dates. I miss seeing you're weird snapchat faces you would send me daily. I miss you.”

“You know why we broke up Mat, we didn’t see each other as much we wanted to.”

“We could figure something out! Hell, I will quiet hockey to be with you. Y/N I love you and I don’t want to go another day without you.”

“Mathew Barzal you will not quit hockey because of me.”

“Well, I don’t want to lose you.” I finally looked right into his eyes. I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath.

“I want us back to Mat. I want to go to your games again and wear your jersey and know you are going home with me after.” Mat took my hands into his. “I have thought about this a lot and I don’t know why I didn’t think about this before. I am going to quit my job and just Geta a job at the hospital. I don’t have to travel to be a nurse I don’t have to travel to save lives I can save them right here in New York. I don’t want you to leave the thing that you love to do Mat. There are other ways for me to be a nurse. There is only one way to be in the NHL.” I wasn’t able to say anything else because Mat’s lips were placed on mine.

I don’t know how long we kissed for but I didn’t care. “So does this mean you will be my girlfriend again?” Mat asked me pulling away a little bit.

“If it means you will be my boyfriend.”

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cakesunflower · 5 years

Text

Quiet Hours [College!Luke AU] Ch. 3

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3

“YOU’VE BEEN BACK at school for only, like, two weeks and Mom and Dad already want you home,” said Paisley Wright, Ophelia’s twenty-four year old sister who currently sat across from her at the local campus cafe. As Paisley used both hands to lift her coffee mug, the diamond on the left ring finger glinted against the sunlight streaming through the window they were sitting against. “If I wasn’t convinced you’re the favorite child before, I sure as hell am now.”

Ophelia let out a light laugh, knowing her sister didn’t mean anything by her comment as she took a bite of her salad. It was part of her new plan for healthy living; eating a healthy meal at least three times a week. Truthfully, it wasn’t much of a plan, but it’s the most she could bring herself to do. Her hate for exercise was as great as her love for flaming hot Cheetos. “I would visit more if they didn’t move to upstate New York,” she said after swallowing her bite, “it’s annoying to drive up there.”

Paisley chuckled into her mug, nodding along to her sister’s reasoning. It was a two and a half hour drive from Ophelia’s college in northern New Jersey all the way to upstate New York, where their parents had moved during Ophelia’s spring semester of her sophomore. They began complaining that their youngest never visited, and though she did feel guilty, Ophelia also didn’t like driving that far. “How’s the wedding planning going?” the younger girl asked over the abuzzed chatter of the other cafe patrons. It was Monday afternoon, Ophelia being done with her classes, but the cafe was busy.

“Exhausting,” Paisley sighed dramatically, lowering her cup as her thumb instinctively grazed over the diamond ring. She loved staring at it, a reminder of the next chapter her and her girlfriend of three years—fiance, now—were about to start. “We’re trying to figure out the seating chart and there’s just so many people. I wanna make sure we don’t seat people next to someone they’ll wanna stab or something.”

Her words had Ophelia choking a laugh into her sweetened lemonade, covering her mouth with a napkin as she giggled at Paisley’s apparently serious words before the older woman began laughing, too. “Anyways,” Paisley rolled her dark eyes, “are you enjoying being an R.A.?”

Ophelia nodded, “it’s fine.” She then couldn’t help but roll her hazel eyes as she pursed her lips before saying, “except for my neighbors.”

“What about your neighbors?”

“They’re so loud,” Ophelia all but whined, her feet stomping lightly under the table in frustration. Her shoulders slumped, lips pouting as amusement flickered across Paisley’s face. Her sister may be twenty years old, but her almost doe-like eyes and naturally puckered lips sometimes made Ophelia seem like a younger teen. It was endearing. “I’ve told them to keep it quiet a bunch of times but they never shut up. They’re jerks.”

Paisley took a bite of her egg sandwich before asking, “are they boys?” Ophelia nodded as Paisley’s expression turned suggestive. “Cute?”

Ophelia pressed her lips together, thinking about her loud neighbors consisting of four seniors. She would be lying through her teeth if she said they weren’t handsome—because they were. Then she began thinking about the Australian one of the bunch, tall and blonde and blue eyed who made a suggestive comment the other night that caused a blush to spread across Ophelia’s cheeks even now. Of course, Paisley took notice of the way Ophelia bit her lower lip and ducked her head, purposefully stabbing her salad as she avoided her sister’s gaze.

“Oh, my God—are they?” Paisley demanded, leaning forward eagerly because she wanted to know why her sister looked so damn flustered. “You wouldn’t look like a tomato if at least one of them wasn’t.”

“They’re annoying,” Ophelia stressed, not wanting Paisley to think that she had some kind of crush. Because she didn’t—Luke Hemmings had just said something unexpected to her at the dive bar, and she was still overthinking it like she tended to do. He was most likely just kidding, flirting like his persona screamed he does, but Ophelia kept thinking of the shiver his words had sent up her spine. “I can’t sleep sometimes because they’re always listening to music or watching TV loudly.”

Paisley hummed, dark eyes narrowing at the younger girl across from her because she wasn’t entirely convinced that Ophelia was telling her the truth. Ophelia, on the other hand, merely gave her sister an overly sweet grin before bringing her fork up to bite off the caesar dressing covered crouton, chicken, and lettuce only to freeze. Her mouth was open and the fork was right in front of her, but her gaze was on the door of the cafe that had just opened across the room, and she bristled in her seat at the sight of the tall boy dressed in black skinny jeans and a simple striped shirt.

Over the people in the cafe chattering, Ophelia could hear the deep laugh that escaped Luke’s mouth as he turned back to look at Calum following in after him, the dark haired boy laughing as well. The two boys approached the counter to Ophelia’s right, the hazel eyed girl watching as Luke ran his fingers through his blonde hair that was a mix between curly and wavy, pushing it back from his face while peering up at the overhead chalkboard menu.

Ophelia kind of hated herself because her gaze trailed over Luke’s tall form, lingering on the way his tight jeans hugged his backside gloriously, and that mere admiring observation sent a heatwave across her cheeks as she quickly looked away and at the table in front of her. But when her gaze flickered up, meeting Paisley’s dark eyes, Ophelia almost groaned at the way her older sibling’s gaze had followed Ophelia’s before looking back with widened eyes.

Leaning forward, Paisley whispered with an amused guffaw, “Lia, who the hell is that guy you were just undressing with your eyes?”

Desperately, frustratingly, Ophelia wished that she wasn’t such a flustered mess when it came to dealing with boys she genuinely found attractive most of the time. She was the kind of girl that was quirky and flirty when it came to boys she wanted to sleep with for the night, but put her in front of a boy she was genuinely attracted to and all bets were off. It was especially bothersome for her now, when the boy she was attracted to happened to be her loud neighbor that also easily annoyed her. Was it possible for Ophelia to want to take Luke up on his offer at the bar while simultaneously wanting to smack him in the head for whenever he got irritating?

“I wasn’t undressing anyone with my eyes,” Ophelia hissed at her sister, staring at her with a wide eyed glare, silently telling her to shut up.

This time, Paisley wasn’t going to let this go. Her eyes flickered to the two admittedly good looking boys that had just walked into the cafe, standing in line to order, before looking at her sister once more. “Was it one of those guys? Do you have a thing for one of them?” God, she could be so nosy.

Ophelia wished her sister would shut up instead of trying to get an answer out of her; which was a bit difficult all on its own, seeing as Ophelia herself didn’t know what to think. Did finding someone attractive equal to having a thing for them? She wasn’t entirely sure. “Paisley, seriously, just—”

“R.A. Ophelia!” The dark blonde haired girl froze in her seat, words dying in her throat at the familiar Australian voice that called out her name. She hesitantly glanced to her right, trying her hardest not to sink in her seat as Luke approached their table with a wide grin, a mildly amused looking Calum trailing behind him. They stopped in front of the girls’ table as Luke greeted, “‘s good to see you.”

As she looked up at him, Ophelia caught the way his grin was bordering on being a smirk, and offered a tight lipped smile back. “Hi guys,” she nodded, gaze flickering to Calum, who smiled back at her.

Just by gazing down at the hazel eyed girl, Luke could tell she seemed a bit on edge, which he found amusing, if he was being honest. He then looked at the woman sitting across from Ophelia, who wore her own look of mirth as she looked between Ophelia and the boys, before Luke held his right hand out towards her. “I’m Luke,” he introduced in his Australian drawl, “and this is my mate Calum.”

Paisley sat up as the words were directed towards her before grinning at the younger boy as she shook his much larger hand. “Hi,” she spoke as she then shook Calum’s hand, “I’m Paisley, Ophelia’s sister.”

Calum hummed in acknowledgment, smiling, as Luke grinned a bit too as he cheekily mused, “really? Should’ve guessed—you’ve both got the cheekbones.”

Behind him Calum stifled a laugh at his best friend’s words, shaking his head. Meanwhile, Ophelia and Paisley exchanged looks of raised brows and growing smiles, Luke’s statement threatening laughs to escape. “You know, strong cheekbones run in our family,” Paisley disclosed, leaning forward on the table as her finger trailed around the rim of her mug. She shot Ophelia a subtle wink, who ducked her head as a knowing grin spread on her lips. “That’s exactly what our parents were looking for in a baby when they adopted Ophelia.”

The look of realization that fell upon Luke’s face had Ophelia letting out quiet giggles while her sister smirked, the younger girl covering her mouth with her hand as she peered up at Luke. Much to her surprise, Luke looked almost sheepish as he felt his neck and face heat up from mild embarrassment, not expecting that piece of information. Behind him, Calum was pressing his lips together as his dark eyes widened slightly, and Ophelia was trying very hard to stifle her laughter because this was a lot funnier to her than it should be.

“You’re adopted?” Luke found himself asking, gaze going back to Ophelia, who was still giggling lightly. He wasn’t sure why, but finding this about his resident advisor was a bit of a surprise to him. Luke wasn’t going to lie—it made the hazel eyed girl a whole more interesting.

“Mhm,” she nodded her answer into her glass of lemonade, finishing the drink before leaning back in her chair. “Not that a lot of people know—the similar cheekbones help,” Ophelia added with a teasing smile, feeling her stomach flutter at the way Luke let out a breathless smile.

“So anyways,” Paisley spoke up, earning everyone’s attention as she wiggled her finger from her sister to the two boys, “how do you guys know each other?”

Ophelia took in a breath as Calum answered, “Ophelia’s our R.A. and neighbor,” while shoving his hands in the pockets of the army green bomber jacket he wore.

Paisley’s eyebrows shot up, looking at her sister who was shooting her a warning look. “Neighbor?” Ophelia subtly yet desperately shook her head, knowing what Paisley was thinking, but the latter instantly blurt out, “the loud, annoying ones?”

Both Luke and Calum’s eyebrows raised, this time looks of amusement flashing across their faces as the two handsome boys smirked, while Ophelia wanted to do nothing more than to sink to the floor. Especially when she noticed Luke’s teeth sinking into the corner of his lower lip as he peered down at her, appearing too delighted and too sexy for Ophelia to handle. She totally want the ground to swallow her whole because of the embarrassment she felt—sure, the boys probably knew Ophelia was exasperated with their behavior, but they didn’t need to hear from her sister that she found them annoying.

“Guilty as charged,” Luke chuckled deeply, bright blue eyes meeting Ophelia’s green. The look they exchanged spoke loud and clear that they were both thinking of the first time they properly met at the courtyard. “We love to drive our R.A. crazy.”

The resident advisor herself narrowed her eyes at Luke, which only caused his smirk to widen just as the one of the cafe employees called out his and Calum’s name. The two boys glanced over their shoulders before Luke returned his attention to the girls. “It was nice meetin’ you, Paisley,” Luke grinned at the older girl, who returned the smile before the Australian turned his attention to Ophelia. As expected, his grin retracted to a smirk, causing Ophelia’s stomach to flip as he said, “see you around, R.A. Ophelia.”

Calum offered a friendly smile and wave of his own before the two boys turned to walk away. Ophelia found herself looking after them, watching as Luke grabbed his to-go bag from the counter and following Calum out the door. As he walked away, Luke glanced over his shoulder, the boyish grin on his face as he offered a two fingered salute with his free hand before exiting the cafe.

Once he was gone, Ophelia felt a sharp sting on her arm, letting out a yelp and forcefully leaning back in her seat as she stared at her sister incredulously. “What was that for?” she all but exclaimed, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise as she rubbed the spot on her left arm that Paisley had slapped. Ophelia’s eyes darted around to see if anyone heard her yelling, though thankfully everyone couldn’t care less.

But Paisley merely stared at her sister with an unbelieving expression of her own, lips parted but curling into a grin. “You conveniently left out the part where your annoying neighbors are hot,” Paisley scoffed, leaning back with her hands still on the wooden table. “And one of them being a blonde cutie.”

Ophelia let out a breath before licking her lips as she looked out the window. Students were walking around outside, the weather on the colder side today as everyone wore coats and scarves. “I didn’t do anything conveniently,” she defended herself, furrowing her brows slightly. “And stop calling them hot—you’re engaged.”

“Still a bisexual,” Paisley shrugged, waving her off before grinning. “Blondie couldn’t stop smirking at you,” she recalled, her mind flashing to the way Luke kept staring at her sister, a look in his eyes that Paisley sees in her fiance every time before she’s pressed against the wall. Paisley hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should utter the next few words, before finally saying conversationally, “I’m pretty sure he wants to dick you down.”

Her older sister’s promiscuous words had Ophelia’s eyes widening, completely taken aback before feeling her cheeks lighting up with a hot fire. She took in a breath at both Paisley’s words as well as remembering what Luke had said to her at the bar. Ophelia couldn’t believe this; she had recently just met her neighbor and already she’s had two conversations with and about Luke wanting to sleep with her. What the hell was going on?

“Paisley?”

“Hmm?”

“Please shut up.”

*****

When Ophelia returned back to her apartment at twelve-thirty in the morning after a whole day of classes, homework, and rounds around her side of the floor, she wanted to do nothing more than crash into bed. She had a class at ten in the morning the next day, so she quickly took a shower and went into her room, ready to go to sleep. But as Ophelia returned to her room in her night shorts, a white tee with a pug on it, and her damp hair falling around her shoulders her jaw dropped in disbelief as she heard the muffled sounds seeping through the wall behind her bed.

She stood at the food of her bed, staring at the picture covered wall as the unmistakable sounds of a bed creaking and pleasurable moans passed through the wall and into Ophelia’s room. Her eyes widened at the obvious act going on on the other side, wishing more than anything that these walls weren’t paper thin because she could hear everything. From the squeaking of the metallic framed beds the building consisted of to the decipherable noises emitting from both a man and a woman. And while Ophelia didn’t care who was having sex on the other side, she did care if it interfered with her sleep because there was no way she would be able to do so with all of that noise going on.

The thought of actually having to go there, knock on the boys’ door and tell whoever it was to keep it down was kind of mortifying.

Especially when she suddenly heard a very female from the other side of the wall go, “oh, God, Luke.”

Oh, my God—why? Even Ophelia’s thoughts were whiny as she realized who exactly was the other person causing their bed to groan underneath them. But there was also an uncomfortable twisting in her stomach at the knowledge of the Australian being the one clearly enjoying the company of a girl, which Ophelia tried her best to ignore. She knew she had absolutely no right to feeling that way because Luke and her weren’t even friends, so why should she care what—or who—he does? It wasn’t any of her business, except that it was too loud for her to go to sleep.

Her lips pressed together as the creaking of the bed continued, accompanied by high pitched female whimpering and the deep moans of the Australian blonde. Ophelia bristled where she stood at the sound of Luke’s satisfied groans, her thoughts going into a place that both made her blush and briefly wonder why it couldn’t be her pleased cries mixing in with Luke’s guttural ones.

“Oh, my God,” Ophelia muttered, rubbing her hand down her mouth as that thought fluttered through her mind, feeling embarrassed for even thinking that and thanking God that no one could hear her musings.

“Are you gonna do something about that?” came Tanya’s voice, prompting Ophelia to turn around to see her friend in the doorway. The Indian girl was also in her pajamas, long hair tied into a haphazard bun because she had already been asleep when Ophelia arrived. “I can hear it from my room,” she added, throwing an annoyed look at the wall as yet another grunt sounded from the other side.

“This is gonna be so embarrassing,” Ophelia complained, running her fingers through her damp hair as she slipped on her purple Puma slippers.

Tanya snorted sleepily. “Yeah, for them,” she responded, stifling a yawn. “Just tell them to shut the hell up because we can hear them like it’s a live porno. Hopefully they’ll get embarrassed enough to stop.”

Ophelia bit her lower lip, thinking of Luke and how he seemed like the guy to not get embarrassed so easily. Even when he wore that sheepish look on his face after finding out Ophelia was adopted, he had instantly gone back to the cocky guy he seemed to be. She doubted he would be at all ashamed if she told him to keep his sexual endeavors quiet.

Letting out a groan, she walked past Tanya and down the short hall, crossing the living room where Laurel and Isabelle were watching an old episode RuPaul’s Drag Race. The two seated girls watched as their green eyed friend exasperatedly walked towards the door in her pajamas, exchanging curious looks, while Ophelia stepped out to the hall and took the few steps towards the door to their right. She stood in front of the door, rolling her lips into her mouth as she wiggled her fingers to work up the courage to knock on the door. I can’t believe I have to do this, she sighed to herself before raising her fist and knocking on the door.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, picking the nails of both of her fingers as she waited for someone to open the door. Ophelia was sort of hoping it’d be any of the boys except Luke, because she felt that telling them to pass along the message to their roommate would be better for her than actually having to talk to him. If he was busy with the girl, then she doubted he would stop what he was doing to answer the door.

The door swung open as Ophelia’s head snapped over to see Michael standing there. The tall boy stood wearing glasses in a pair of sweatpants and a matching black sweatshirt, silvery blonde hair a mess as he offered a tired smile to his resident advisor. “Hey,” Ophelia greeted, relieved that it was anybody but Luke. She had a class with Michael in her last spring semester, and they were friendly enough with each other. “This is, uh, gonna sound really awkward but—”

“You want Luke to stop being so damn loud?” he cut her off knowingly, quirking a brow as Ophelia’s lips tugged into a somewhat nervous smile as she nodded. Thank God she didn’t actually have to say it. Michael let out a breath, running his hand through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck. “Trust me, we’ve tried. He’s just not the quiet type in bed.”

Ophelia’s eyes slightly widened at Michael’s words, though he seemed unfazed by them as she felt her neck heat up. She cleared her throat after her breath got caught in it, hastily saying, “just tell him we got complaints from the other residents. It’s not fair to them.”

She was lying, of course. The only complaints were from her and Tanya but she figured that counter. Fortunately, Michael just nodded with a smile, telling her he was sorry on Luke’s behalf before shutting the door. Ophelia let out a sigh of relief, figuring that was painless enough as her gaze fluttered up to the ceiling, hoping that this was the end of the sounds she previously heard through her wall.

Of course, that wasn’t the case, because when she returned to her room and shut the door behind her, the grunts and groans and creaking were still heard, just as before. A scoff of disbelief escaped the brunette as she glared at the wall, as if somehow her heated stare would reach the offenders on the other side. Ophelia waited for a few moments to see if Michael would interrupt them, hope sparking in her chest as she heard the muffled sound of someone knocking on the door before a voice on the other side of the door that was in Luke’s room.

But all of that hope came crashing down when, just moments after Michael’s supposed interference, the same noises started up again. Annoyance sparked in Ophelia as the girl’s irritating whines and Luke’s deep groans sounded once more, and she wondered just how long they were gonna keep going because, holy shit, she wanted to sleep. They must have some serious libido and stamina to keep going for so long.

Finally, unable to keep it together, Ophelia climbed onto her bed and sat on her knees on her pillows, raising her hand and slapping the wall thunderously and repeatedly. Briefly, she wondered if the pictures she had stuck on it would fall, but they only shook ever so slightly. Hopefully her own loud interruption was going to be enough for her neighbors to stop.

She paused for a moment, eyes on the wall as she listened. It was almost creepy, Ophelia had to admit, waiting to see if the people next door were still having sex, but when it came to her sleep, she wasn’t going to let anything get in the way. To her relief, though, it was silent for a few moments and she was about to slip under her covers when those very offending noises started up again.

“Are you fucki—” Ophelia let out a sharp breath before slapping the wall again, this time the words slipping out, “people are trying to sleep here!”

The sounds ceased, and it was silent once more.

Ophelia was proud of herself, smiling as she moved to get under her blankets and was about to turn off the makeup mirror light she used as a lamp sometimes when she heard loud knocking on the front door of her apartment. This time her eyes widened, kicking off her comforter and running out of the room and towards the door. Laurel and Isabelle had gone back to their respective rooms as Ophelia approached the door, swallowing inaudibly as she swung it open without bothering to check through the small peep-hole.

Her breath got caught in her throat as she saw Luke standing there in nothing but a pair of black Calvin Klein boxers, not caring the slightest bit that there were cameras in the hallways and anyone could walk out and see him. But Luke Hemmings was a proud guy, having nothing to hide with a body as tall, lean with a good amount of muscles as his.

Ophelia, on the other hand, was staring at him, utterly stunned. She was doing her best not to let her eyes trail over the Australian man’s body, feeling her neck heat up. Luke’s neck, unsurprisingly, had several love bites littering the smooth, milky skin that stirred something unpleasant in Ophelia’s stomach. His curly mass of hair was completely disheveled as if someone had been running their fingers through it continuously, full lips slightly swollen and red from the kisses they had taken part in.

When Ophelia’s eyes landed on his face, she took notice of the annoyed expression he wore, bearded jaw clenched and blue eyes narrowed in frustration while chest moved up and down at a faster than normal pace. Luke was trying to catch his slightly picked up breathing after being buried so deep in Rachel, a girl who lived on the floor below them, and he was beyond irritated that he had been so rudely interrupted after being so close to the edge. Hell, his dick was practically throbbing in his boxers for release, but when someone was hitting on the wall right next to his bed, it made coming a bit harder.

“Were you the one banging on my wall?” Luke demanded, his Australian accent deep and raspy and resonating in Ophelia’s chest.

Ignoring the fluttering that was happening in the pit of her stomach, Ophelia kept her eyes trained on Luke—she didn’t dare look any lower in fear of resembling a tomato—as she nodded. “Yeah, I was,” she answered almost defiantly, remembering what he was doing here in the first place. “You’re way too loud—people are trying to sleep, you know. It’s quiet hours and late.”

As aggravated as he was, Luke still managed to smile smugly as he remarked while leaning towards her, “don’t know what kind of guys you’ve been with, sweetheart, but the louder in the bedroom, the better the pleasure.”

Ophelia leaned back slightly as Luke neared her, catching the mischievous glint in his eyes that matched the curl of his lips. Her throat dried at his words, gaze flashing to the marks on his neck for a split second before quickly meeting Luke’s eyes once more. Though, he caught the action easily, his boyish grin widening as he raised his left arm to lean against the doorframe. Ophelia didn’t dare notice the way his bicep flexed.

She hated how he looked unfairly sexy. Which, she supposed, wasn’t surprising seeing as he literally just rolled out of bed with another woman since his curly hair was tousled and already inviting lips looked even more plump.

“That’s just—” Ophelia stammered, mentally cursing herself for stumbling over her words before taking a breath and crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s not the point. You’re being disruptive to other people, Luke, who have classes in the morning. I wanna be able to go to sleep without hearing what’s going on on the other side of the wall,” she added with a frustrated huff. She wasn’t gonna lie to herself—having to hear the Australian having sex wasn’t fun, especially since she always felt her throat drying and stomach lurching at the sight of him ever since they met in the courtyard.

She saw Luke around campus often ever since then, now being able to recognize him in the crowd, and every time their eyes met Luke would offer that devilish smirk that she knew could make knees weaken and breaths to dispel from lungs. At least, that’s what happened to her. Though he was still loud in his apartment, along with the rest of the boys, and she was willing and able to tell them to keep it down. But this time it had to do with Luke’s sexual escapades, and she didn’t really wanna risk having to see what kind of girls he brought back to his room.

Ophelia had no right to feel the spark of jealousy, but she did, and she was disgruntled with herself for it.

Luke, however, could read the girl like a book it seemed, which was hilarious since he didn’t know her all too well—save for the fact that she was adopted and most likely didn’t have the best sexual partners. But as he gazed at her, noticing the way she tried to appear defiant rather than showing the mild envy he could see swimming in the green of her eyes, the knowing smirk only widened on his face. Not one to ever shy away from what he wanted to say, Luke mused in his throaty tone, “are you jealous, R.A. Ophelia?”

He found it adorable the way her eyes widened ever so slightly, bristling in her spot as she tightened the arms that were crossed over her chest. She appeared surprised at his question, though he could track a hint of guilt in the way her teeth sank into her lower lip, and Luke almost groaned at the action. He didn’t even remember that Rachel was in his room, waiting for him to return so they could continue in practically breaking his bed. Instead, Luke’s eyes trailed down Ophelia, biting the corner of his lip as his gaze washed over her tanned smooth legs that were displayed in glorious view thanks to her shorts, her protruding collarbones that Luke could just imagine himself leaving marks of his own over, and her pouty pink lips that he was sure were made for kissing.

Shit, he could feel the blood rushing and his confined dick beginning to get hard just at the sight of her, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. He knew Ophelia wasn’t as innocent as she appeared, but the last thing he wanted to do was come off as some sort of creep and scare her away.

“I’m not jealous,” she denied, tilting her chin upwards slightly to strengthen her resilience. Truthfully, Ophelia was well on her way to being mortified that Luke was able to read her that easily, to be able to pick up that small hint of jealousy she thought she had successfully buried. Guess the Australian was more perceptive than she gave him credit for. Knowing she would get flustered if this went on any long, she let out a breath and uncrossed her arms, left hand going to grip the door knob on her side. “Just keep it down, okay? It’s not that hard.”

Luke’s cheeky grin widened as he straightened, dropping his hand from the door frame. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart,” he winked and while Ophelia always found it creepy when guys did that, she was frustrated beyond belief to realize that when Luke winked, it came off as nothing but sexy. “Like I said—the louder, the better.”

And with that, the tall blonde backed away and went back into his apartment, leaving Ophelia to stand in her doorway with flushed cheeks and a lower lip she had chewed the inside of into oblivion. Running her fingers through her now dried hair, Ophelia locked the door behind her before entering the room, trying to relax the tension in her shoulders from that brief encounter with Luke. How was he so successful in working her up without her even realizing it?

When she entered her room and got into bed, Ophelia quietly listened, praying that she wouldn’t have to be subjected to the pleasurable groans of her neighbor and his girl of the night. But when she didn’t hear anything, a sigh of relief escaped her as she shut her eyes, glad that Luke had decided to be a decent person and keep it quiet.

She wouldn’t know that Luke had actually told Rachel to go home to her apartment below, unable to go through being with her for the night when all he could think of was the hazel eyed girl next door. Needless to say, Luke had taken a very cold shower before going to bed himself.

tags: @crownedbyluke @irwinkitten @glitterprincelu @astroashtonio @softforcal @hotmessmichael @valentinelrh @meetashthere @hereforlukescruff @c-sainthood @captain-what-is-going-on @angelbbycal @babygirlcashton @calntynes @calumh-excess @invisiblexcth @inlovehoodx @soulmatecashton @calumsmermaid @kchillout @thewackywriter @akacalciumhood @calumculture @ohhmuke @empathycth @flannelpunkcalum @poppedpins @wrappedaroundcal @walkedhomealone @calistheloml @gettingjillywithit @hearts-to-the-sky @old-zeppelin-shirt @5sos-stan4lyfe @all-i-want-is2b-loved-by-you @calumthoodsyonce @softboycal @xhaileyreneex @rosecoloredash @asht0ns-world @cxddlyash @misskarynie @mysteriouslycali @lmao5sosimagines @monsteramongmikey @calteahood @5secondssofssummer @sublimehood @bloodlinecal @biwriting

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carlos-penavega · 6 years

Photo

Out on the town with ‘Boys in the Band’ star Andrew Rannells:

A decade or so before “Girls,” Andrew Rannells was doing “Grease” at Elmsford, NY’s Westchester Broadway Theatre. There, above the dinner theater’s clatter of silverware and the scraping of plates, he and the rest of the cast soldiered on till intermission, which often seemed endless. Blame the brownie sundaes.

“They would serve dessert at intermission, and the sundaes were very time-intensive,” Rannells explains. “If a lot of people ordered them, we’d get an announcement: ‘We’re holding for brownie sundaes!’

“But you know what?” he adds, with a wolfish grin, “It was fun! I was 21 and thrilled to be working. And that was the show that got me my Equity card.”

There’s no intermission, brownie-filled or otherwise, at his latest gig, “The Boys in the Band.” First performed 50 years ago — a year before NYC’s Stonewall Riots helped change the gay experience in America — Mart Crowley’s bitchy and biting drama is back. A starry revival opened May 31 on Broadway, its proudly out cast led by Rannells, Jim Parsons, Zachary Quinto and Matt Bomer.

“I knew that this was something I would like to be a part of,” he says. “This play is not only a great depiction of how far we’ve come, but it’s a great depiction of friends, and your chosen family … There actually is a lot of love in this show.”

Speaking after a matinee in the Booth Theater’s fusty-looking lounge, the 39-year-old is warm, witty and — unlike the characters in the play — comfortable in his own, well-toned skin.

Rannells had never performed with any of his “Band” mates before, though he bumped into two of them several years ago at the city’s Pride parade.

“There’s millions of people just milling about and who do I run into but Matt Bomer!” he says. Bomer happened to be with Quinto and all three, along with their respective friends, ended up hanging out together. They’re planning to hit the parade together again this Sunday.

There were no Pride marches back in 1980s Omaha, Neb., where Rannells grew up. He knew from an early age that he was gay, and was pretty sure everyone else knew it, too. After all, he says, “I was a little boy who watched ‘Solid Gold’ every week and wanted to be a ‘Solid Gold’ dancer. And I would do very in-depth reenactments of ‘Grease 2’ and ‘West Side Story’ with my sister Natalie in our garage. I was a very theatrical kid.”

Even so, he waited until after high school, just before leaving for New York’s Marymount Manhattan College, to come out to his family. “No one was surprised in the slightest,” he reports. Better still, everyone was supportive.

Once in the city, the theater major skipped classes to go on open calls and auditions. Along the way, he held a string of jobs — coat-check clerk, health-club receptionist, server — but never for long.

“Sometimes, I’d last one night,” he says. One of his longest gigs was a three-month stint at Chez Josephine, on off-Broadway’s Theatre Row. Rannells was a lousy waiter (“there was a lot of yelling” from restaurant owner Jean-Claude Baker), but he got to sing standards with a pianist at the end of the night.

By 2006, he was singing on Broadway, having stepped into “Hairspray” as Link, the heroine’s pompadoured object of affection. He then rode that hairstyle through a two-year run (on the road and on Broadway) as Bob Gaudio in “Jersey Boys.” In 2011’s “The Book of Mormon,” Rannells — minus the pompadour — originated the role of Kevin Price, a clean-cut, perky proselytizer.

Soon after came HBO’s “Girls” and his scene-stealing turn as Elijah, Hannah’s gay BFF: all big emotions and short pants. What started as a recurring role evolved into a main one (and fan favorite) for the show’s final three seasons.

Not surprisingly, Rannells misses Lena Dunham and Allison Williams, his frequent scene partners, the most. Luckily, he says, “the show wrapped in September and aired in January, so there was time to come to terms with the fact that we were moving on.” A few months after the series ended, “a huge, huge box” arrived at his Chelsea apartment. It was stuffed with Elijah’s clothes, including a few bold-patterned sweaters Rannells knew he’d never wear in public again.

“Elijah had some bad taste,” he jokes.

His own style he calls “sort of classic and clean,” which explains what he’s doing in head-to-toe J.Crew: socks, pants, shoes . . . even that alligator shirt? He shakes his head. “Lacoste. Lacoste, for J.Crew!”

Rannells’ hair is something else again. “It is a little pompadour-y, yeah,” he says. “And it sometimes has a mind of its own.” To keep it under control, he swears by Kevin Murphy’s line of hair products: “They have this texturizing dust that’s kind of amazing. My hair is actually pretty fine, so if you put [the product] in at the root and run your hands through it, it makes it a little thicker and stand up.”

Given his predilection for the clean and preppy, Rannells surprised himself by choosing a bottle-green Paul Smith tux to wear to the Tony Awards earlier this month. “Initially, when I saw it, I was like, ‘I can’t wear this,’ and then I put it on and was like, ‘This is cool!’”

He and his “Boys” co-stars presented the Tony for Best Play, but Rannells was a nominee himself last year, for his heart-breaking turn as the doomed lover of “Falsettos.” So wrenching was that musical, set in the time of AIDS, that the cast members took turns meeting fans at the stage door.

No such problem so far at “Boys,” he says, where people come with “Big Bang” memorabilia for Parsons to sign, “Star Trek” paraphernalia for Quinto and “Book of Mormon” Playbills for Rannells. “Boys” finishes its run on Aug. 11, but Rannells is on the move. He just shot a pilot for cable’s Showtime and he has a memoir, “Too Much Is Not Enough,” coming out in February. If it’s anything like the excerpt published in the Times’ “Modern Love” column, it will be a wonderfully honest, poignant and funny account of a gay Nebraskan’s early years in New York. (The actor is currently single.)

And yes, Rannells points out, there are now Pride parades in Omaha, Neb. His widowed mother, Charlotte, even heads the local PFLAG chapter. But he’s quick to say that while America’s become more tolerant since the pre-Stonewall age, coming out is never easy — and should always be a personal choice.

“Do it in your own time, and don’t feel like you have to tell anyone anything until you’re ready to,” he says. “Surround yourself with people who are going to support you regardless of what your sexual orientation is, and you can have a beautiful life, filled with love.”

#Andrew Rannells #The Boys in the Band #TBITB #ew he's so precious and pure!#I like the random (the actor is currently single)#comment just thrown in there #like it doesn't even belong there!! LMAO #1K

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hennyjolzen · 5 years

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by PAM GROSSMAN May 30, 2019

Pam Grossman is the author of Waking the Witch: Reflections on Women, Magic, and Power.

Witches have always walked among us, populating societies and storyscapes across the globe for thousands of years. From Circe to Hermione, from Morgan le Fay to Marie Laveau, the witch has long existed in the tales we tell about ladies with strange powers that can harm or heal. And although people of all genders have been considered witches, it is a word that is now usually associated with women.

Throughout most of history, she has been someone to fear, an uncanny Other who threatens our safety or manipulates reality for her own mercurial purposes. She’s a pariah, a persona non grata, a bogeywoman to defeat and discard. Though she has often been deemed a destructive entity, in actuality a witchy woman has historically been far more susceptible to attack than an inflictor of violence herself. As with other “terrifying” outsiders, she occupies a paradoxical role in cultural consciousness as both vicious aggressor and vulnerable prey.

Over the past 150 years or so, however, the witch has done another magic trick, by turning from a fright into a figure of inspiration. She is now as likely to be the heroine of your favorite TV show as she is its villain. She might show up in the form of your Wiccan coworker, or the beloved musician who gives off a sorceress vibe in videos or onstage.

There is also a chance that she is you, and that “witch” is an identity you have taken upon yourself for any number of reasons — heartfelt or flippant, public or private.

Today, more women than ever are choosing the way of the witch, whether literally or symbolically. They’re floating down catwalks and sidewalks in gauzy black clothing and adorning themselves with Pinterest-worthy pentagrams and crystals. They’re filling up movie theaters to watch witchy films, and gathering in back rooms and backyards to do rituals, consult tarot cards and set life-altering intentions. They’re marching in the streets with HEX THE PATRIARCHY placards and casting spells each month to try to constrain the commander-in-chief. Year after year, articles keep proclaiming, “It’s the Season of the Witch!” as journalists try to wrap their heads around the mushrooming witch “trend.”

And all of this begs the question: Why?

Why do witches matter? Why are they seemingly everywhere right now? What, exactly, are they? (And why the hell won’t they go away?)

I get asked such things over and over, and you would think that after a lifetime of studying and writing about witches, as well as hosting a witch-themed podcast and being a practitioner of witchcraft myself, my answers would be succinct.

In fact, I find that the more I work with the witch, the more complex she becomes. Hers is a slippery spirit: try to pin her down, and she’ll only recede further into the deep, dark wood.

I do know this for sure though: show me your witches, and I’ll show you your feelings about women. The fact that the resurgence of feminism and the popularity of the witch are ascending at the same time is no coincidence: the two are reflections of each other.

That said, this current Witch Wave is nothing new. I was a teen in the 1990s, the decade that brought us such pop-occulture as Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed and The Craft, not to mention riot grrrls and third-wave feminists who taught me that female power could come in a variety of colors and sexualities. I learned that women could lead a revolution while wearing lipstick and combat boots — and sometimes even a cloak.

But my own witchly awakening came at an even earlier age.

Morganville, New Jersey, where I was raised, was a solidly suburban town, but it retained enough natural land features back then to still feel a little bit scruffy in spots. We had a small patch of woods in our backyard that abutted a horse farm, and the two were separated by a wisp of running water that we could cross via a plank of wood. In one corner of the yard, a giant puddle would form whenever it rained, surrounded by a border of ferns. My older sister, Emily, and I called this spot our Magical Place. That it would vanish and then reappear only added to its mystery. It was a portal to the unknown.

These woods are where I first remember doing magic — entering that state of deep play where imaginative action becomes reality. I would spend hours out there, creating rituals with rocks and sticks, drawing secret symbols in the dirt, losing all track of time. It was a space that felt holy and wild, yet still strangely safe.

As we age, we’re supposed to stop filling our heads with such “nonsense.” Unicorns are to be traded in for Barbie dolls (though both are mythical creatures, to be sure). We lose our tooth fairies, walk away from our wizards. Dragons get slain on the altar of youth.

Most kids grow out of their “magic phase.” I grew further into mine.

My grandma Trudy was a librarian at the West Long Branch Library, which meant I got to spend many an afternoon lurking between the 001.9 and 135 Dewey decimal–sections, reading about Bigfoot and dream interpretation and Nostradamus. I spent countless hours in my room, learning about witches and goddesses, and I loved anything by authors like George MacDonald, Roald Dahl, and Michael Ende — writers fluent in the language of enchantment. Books were my broomstick. They allowed me to fly to other realms where anything was possible.

Though fictional witches were my first guides, I soon discovered that magic was something real people could do. I started frequenting new age shops and experimenting with mass-market paperback spell books from the mall. I was raised Jewish but found myself attracted to belief systems that felt more individualized and mystical and that fully honored the feminine. Eventually I found my way to modern Paganism, a self-directed spiritual path that sustains me to this day. I’m not unique in this trajectory of pivoting away from organized religion and toward something more personal: as of September 2017, more than a quarter of U.S. adults — 27% — now say that they think of themselves as spiritual but not religious, according to Pew Research Center.

Now, I identify both as a witch and with the archetype of the witch overall, and I use the term fluidly. At any given time, I might use the word witch to signify my spiritual beliefs, my supernatural interests or my role as an unapologetically complex, dynamic female in a world that prefers its women to be smiling and still. I use it with equal parts sincerity and salt: with a bow to a rich and often painful history of worldwide witchcraft, and a wink to other members of our not-so-secret society of people who fight from the fringes for the liberty to be our weirdest and most wondrous selves. Magic is made in the margins.

To be clear: you don’t have to practice witchcraft or any other alternative form of spirituality to awaken your own inner witch. You may feel attracted to her symbolism, her style or her stories but are not about to rush out to buy a cauldron or go sing songs to the sky. Maybe you’re more of a nasty woman than a devotee of the Goddess. That’s perfectly fine: the witch belongs to you too.

I remain more convinced than ever that the concept of the witch endures because she transcends literalism and because she has so many dark and sparkling things to teach us. Many people get fixated on the “truth” of the witch, and numerous fine history books attempt to tackle the topic from the angle of so-called factuality. Did people actually believe in magic? They most certainly did and still do. Were the thousands of victims who were killed in the 16th- and 17th-century witch hunts actually witches themselves? Most likely not. Are witches real? Why, yes, you’re reading the words of one. All of these things are true.

But whether or not there were actually women and men who practiced witchcraft in Rome or Lancashire or Salem, say, is less interesting to me than the fact that the idea of witches has remained so evocative and influential and so, well, bewitching in the first place.

In other words, the fact and the fiction of the witch are inextricably linked. Each informs the other and always has. I’m fascinated by how one archetype can encompass so many different facets. The witch is a notorious shape-shifter, and she comes in many guises:

A hag in a pointy hat, cackling madly as she boils a pot of bones.

A scarlet-lipped seductress slipping a potion into the drink of her unsuspecting paramour.

A cross-dressing French revolutionary who hears the voices of angels and saints.

A perfectly coifed suburban housewife, twitching her nose to change her circumstances at will, despite her husband’s protests.

A woman dancing in New York City’s Central Park with her coven to mark the change of the seasons or a new lunar phase.

The witch has a green face and a fleet of flying monkeys. She wears scarves and leather and lace.

She lives in Africa; on the island of Aeaea; in a tower; in a chicken-leg hut; in Peoria, Illinois.

She lurks in the forests of fairy tales, in the gilded frames of paintings, in the plotlines of sitcoms and YA novels, and between the bars of ghostly blues songs.

She is solitary.

She comes in threes.

She’s a member of a coven.

Sometimes she’s a he.

She is stunning, she is hideous, she is insidious, she is ubiquitous.

She is our downfall. She is our deliverance.

Our witches say as much about us as they do about anything else — for better and for worse.

More than anything, though, the witch is a shining and shadowy symbol of female power and a force for subverting the status quo. No matter what form she takes, she remains an electric source of magical agitation that we can all plug into whenever we need a high-voltage charge.

She is also a vessel that contains our conflicting feelings about female power: our fear of it, our desire for it and our hope that it can — and will — grow stronger, despite the flames that are thrown at it.

Whether the witch is depicted as villainous or valorous, she is always a figure of freedom — both its loss and its gain. She is perhaps the only female archetype who is an independent operator. Virgins, whores, daughters, mothers, wives — each of these is defined by whom she is sleeping with or not, the care that she is giving or that is given to her, or some sort of symbiotic debt that she must eventually pay.

The witch owes nothing. That is what makes her dangerous. And that is what makes her divine.

Witches have power on their own terms. They have agency. They create. They praise. They commune with the spiritual realm, freely and free of any mediator.

They metamorphose, and they make things happen. They are change agents whose primary purpose is to transform the world as it is into the world they would like it to be.

This is also why being called a witch and calling oneself a witch are usually two vastly different experiences. In the first case, it’s often an act of degradation, an attack against a perceived threat.

The second is an act of reclamation, an expression of autonomy and pride. Both of these aspects of the archetype are important to keep in mind. They may seem like contradictions, but there is much to glean from their interplay.

The witch is the ultimate feminist icon because she is a fully rounded symbol of female oppression and liberation. She shows us how to tap into our own might and magic, despite the many who try to strip us of our power.

We need her now more than ever.

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lumosinlove · 5 years

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Sweater Weather

part iv

Remus hovered outside James and Lily’s house, waiting for Lily to answer the door and watching his cab drive away. Lily and James lived in one of the nice, private neighborhoods, not too far from Sirius and some of the other guys, but it meant a bit of a cab ride for Remus. He’d splurge though, for Lily.

The door swung open and Lily smiled, even if she did look a little frazzled. “Re.”

Remus raised his eyebrows. “Hi, Lils.”

“Hi, hi. What’s up?” She reached and pulled him into a hug—a tight hug. “Come in?”

“Yeah. Hey, are you alright? I haven’t heard from you in a while. You seem…” Remus struggled to find the right word, but ended up settling for, “James is being weird.”

“Well, hello to you, too, Lupin.” James appeared at the bottom of one half of their twisting, grand staircase. He was in what Remus assumed was most of the guys’ uniform on their days off—sweatshirt, sweatpants, and socks. All Lions labeled.

Lily huffed, but smiled a little at James as he came over to wrap an arm around her.

“Isn’t he always being weird?” She leaned up for a quick kiss. “I want ice cream and I want to watch movies. James, shoo, Remus is mine for the day.”

James feigned offense for only a moment before grinning and giving Remus’ shoulder a little shove on his way to the kitchen. “See you in a bit, Loops.”

“Yeah. Hey, I hope your shoulder’s taped under there.”

“Of course it is,” James said, and crossed his fingers behind his retreating back where Remus could see. Remus laughed as he was tugged away by Lily.

Remus eyed her carefully as she looped their arms together, leaning her head on his shoulder and practically dragging him to her and James’ media viewing room. Something still seemed odd with her. The projector was already on and it looked like its last use went to James watching game tape.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Remus said.

Lily just looked at him, wide-eyed from where she was burrowing down in the many blankets on one of the huge couches, and Remus really knew something was up. First James at the dinner, now this.

“I’ll get the ice cream,” he said, half because he thought they’d need it, and half to give Lily a second.

“Yeah,” she said faintly, then groaned and face planted into the pillows.

James was still in the kitchen when Remus got back upstairs, seemingly fixing himself a sandwich for lunch. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Remus said hello.

“Jesus,” Remus laughed, “you just saw me. What’s up with you two?”

James laughed, but it wasn’t his normal one. He ran a hand through his hair, scrubbed it over his face, and then braced both arms on the kitchen island on either side of his sandwich fixings.

“No, sorry. I don’t know, I guess I was lost in thought. Or something.”

“Right.” Remus stooped to get the ice cream out of the refrigerator. He felt like James and Lily’s house was something like his second home, and there was nothing he was more grateful for than meeting Lily at that first pre-season barbecue. Remus had never really had that many fast friends, but him and Lily had talked all night. Remus thought she was part of the reason he was so close with James and all of the guys, unlike so many others on the Lions’ staff.

“Um” James cleared his throat, “so, what movie are you watching?”

“I don’t know yet.” Remus did look at James this time as he scooped chocolate brownie and mint into two bowls. “Pots.”

James looked up from where he was squirting mustard on his bread. James had his glasses on, the round ones that the boys made fun of on road trips. James wore them rarely, mostly when he needed a break from his contacts.

“Are you okay? Both of you, is everything…”

James swallowed a hard swallow and nodded, just a little. “I’m just gonna let Lils talk to you, alright? Don’t worry.”

Remus paused beside him, hand on the silverware drawer, “How am I suppose to not worry when you give me an answer like that?”

James picked up his plate and waved Remus off. “Your ice cream is melting.”

When Remus came back with his two generously portioned bowls, Lily was sitting back up and took one almost greedily.

“So.” Remus said, pushing his shoes off his feet with his toes and crossing his legs to face her, “Your boyfriend is remaining tight-lipped. What’s up?”

Lily just looked down at her ice cream, hair hanging so far over her face that it took Remus a good minute before he realized that her bottom lip was trembling.

“Lils, hey, hey…” His voice was nearly a coo as he took their bowls and set them just within reach on the table and scooted closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “Lils…I’m sorry, I…” but Remus didn’t think it was him. He squeezed her gently, thumb rubbing over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“It’s—” Her voice broke and she sucked in a shaky breath.

Remus’ heart was suddenly in his throat again. Even if James hadn’t said anything, that didn’t mean… “I…Is it—are you and James…”

“No.” Lily gasped, even laughing a little as she wiped at her eyes, “God, no. James is perfect. We’re perfect. Fuck, I feel so stupid for even crying because it’s not actually—actually bad, I’m just—”

Lily looked up at Remus then, green eyes shining and bright. The tear tracks on her face made her many freckles look stark and beautiful. “I’m scared, Re.”

“Scared? What do you mea—” Remus’ breath cut off with his words. He glanced down at Lily’s stomach, noticing now that she had both arms carefully wrapped around it. Remus’ heart picked up and he looked back at Lily, wide-eyed. “You mean…”

“We didn’t—it was an accident, but…but we’re…”

“Happy.” Remus finished for her, feeling a smile start to cross his face.

Lily sniffled and then let out a half-laugh half-sob. “Yeah. Yeah, we are, but…you’re not freaked out? Like, we’re young—Fuck, he’s so focused on the team and he just got back from his concussion last year and he doesn’t need this right now—”

“Lily.”

Lily’s rambling cut off and she blinked at Remus, then groaned and put a large spoon of ice cream in her mouth. “What?”

“What do you want? Not worrying about anyone else. What do you want?”

This was suddenly so close to the conversation he had had with Sirius.

Lily was quiet for a moment. It didn’t seem like she was really thinking about it, exactly, more just taking her time with her words.

“I want this,” she finally said. Then she smiled a little, hand against her stomach, “more than that, I want—I want it with James.”

Remus had only just opened his mouth to respond when there was a sniffle from their right. They both looked, and Lily let out a tearful laugh because James was there, rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses, in the doorway.

“‘m not listening, I promise.” James said hoarsely, but he didn’t move.

“Oh, get over here, you idiot.” Lily said thickly, wiping her cheeks.

James smiled a little sheepishly and crouched in front of the couch between them, hand reaching out to take Lily’s and rub over her knuckles. “Feel better now?”

“Mhm.” Lily said, gazing at him.

Remus suddenly felt like a bit of an intruder on an important moment, but then James said, “Finally told your best friend. I told you it’d help. Remus is happy, isn’t he?”

“So. Extremely.” Remus said, arm still around Lily.

Maybe this special moment included him. By what James said, maybe, just maybe, even this little part of what was about to be a monumental part of their lives, was even about him.

“I think it’s a boy.” Lily suddenly gushed, cheeks pink from smiling. She did look like an entire weight had been lifted off of her shoulders.

“I think it’s a little soon to tell…or—how long has it been?” Remus asked.

“About four months,” Lily said. “we’ll be able to tell at my next appointment, that’s what the doctor said.”

James made a little noise and rested his cheek on her knee, grinning up at her. She smiled back, running her hand through his ever-messy dark hair.

“Who else knows?”

“Our parents obviously,” James said, “but from the organization, the team…”

“Just you,” Lily smiled at him.

Remus raised his eyebrows, “not even Sirius?”

James laughed, “he’s next. He’s my Remus to tell.”

Remus smiled. He liked that, the notion that Sirius was to James and he was to Lily. It made him feel more apart of the Lions than ever, left his chest warm.

The first road trip of the season was to New York to play the Rangers and Remus never sat down for more than a few minutes before a road trip. For the boys, on the other hand, everything stayed relatively regular paced. They went to practice, took pre-game naps, and played their heart out. Remus sharpened skates, made sure they had a good number of everyone’s sticks, kept track of the token and the pre-game kick around soccer ball. He brought the med-kits and the extra jerseys, the back up skates, and the back up skates for the back up skates. It was exhausting, which is probably why, when he fell into a chair in the Lions lounge with a coffee that evening, he didn’t register he wasn’t alone until he heard hushed tones coming from behind one of the taller chairs, dark leather and plush. Leo had taken to falling asleep in them, much to the delight of James and Kasey’s habit of taking embarrassing pictures and having them printed out to cover various parts of the lounge.

“Oui, maman, ma cheville…c’est bien,” Sirius said, voice low and somber, like every word was being dragged out of him.

Remus didn’t quite speak French, but he had taken a few courses in college, just to be able to talk to some of the French-Canadian guys on his team, and he registered that Sirius was talking about his ankle, saying it was fine. He registered that Sirius was talking to his mother.

Remus should move. He knew he should move.

“Je ne serai pas violent sans raison,” Sirius continued, then, after a pause, a little harsher, “Ce n’est pas une raison.”

Remus swallowed. Sirius’ mom was asking him to play dirty, to hit someone, maybe. God, Remus couldn’t imagine hearing that from a parent—

“Si ce n’était pas un accident…d’accord. Il est bas. Il est ignoble. Je n’est pas.”

Remus heart was in his throat. They had to be talking about Snape, and Sirius was—he was—

If it wasn’t an accident…okay. It’s a low blow, and he is low, ignoble. I am not.

Remus knew Sirius had it rough, but he was glad he could stand up for himself.

“D'accord, la prochaine fois que vous me verrez, vous pourrez me frapper tout ce que vous voudrez.”

Remus sat up then, gasped a little, and Sirius’ head poked out of his chair to see who it was. His eyes widened a little and he whipped his head back around and out of sight.

“I have to go,” he said in English, and then he was standing, facing Remus and sliding his phone in the pocket of his sweats. “Re.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Remus stuttered. “I didn’t really know anyone was in here, I was on my feet all day, I just was going to have my coffee and go—”

Sirius shook his head, shoving both of his hands into his pockets instead. “Re, I’m not mad. It’s fine.”

Remus didn’t know what to say, too focused on the sad tone of gray Sirius’ eyes.

Sirius just shrugged. “It’s not like it’s a secret.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Remus’ mouth blurted before he could really think twice about it. “Fuck. Sorry, that’s not my place at all.”

Sirius just shook his head again, head low. “I didn’t say it was okay. I—you know, I see Heather about it.”

Remus nodded. Heather, their sports psychologist. “That’s good, Sirius. A lot of guys wouldn’t do that.”

“Someone’s gotta be the example right?” Sirius pulled his hands free and shook them out, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to roll a weight off of them. “Or at least try to.”

Remus stood, too, took a step forward, because he wanted Sirius to listen to this. “You’re an amazing leader.”

Sirius froze up a little again after that. And it was quiet between them, just in the small space. Remus hadn’t exactly meant to get that close but…now Sirius’ eyes were flicking between his, his lips parted.

“Thank you,” Sirius said softly, then he licked his lips, his chest breathed in like he was going to—

“Boys,” Kasey banged on the doorframe a few times, as if he needed to alert his presence. Then again, Remus thought as he caught himself staring at Sirius’ mouth, maybe that was a good idea. “Coach says wheels up at ten AM sharp tomorrow.”

Sirius looked up. They took a step back at the same time and Remus took a long drink from his coffee.

“Sounds good, Kase, thanks.” Sirius said and pulled out his phone again. Remus went to turn, to go, when, “Need a ride, Remus?”

Sirius smiled at him, a slightly nervous, closed lip thing, “Or…veux-tu dîner?”

“Hungry?” Remus blurted, because it came to him faster than the word dinner and Sirius Black had just asked him if he wanted dinner, potentially with him.

A laugh burst out of Sirius, his eyes crinkled. “Oui.”

Remus loved the way Sirius said oui, loved the way all the French-Canadian guys said it—but especially Sirius. This drawn out sound that was almost twangy. It was lazy, confident, like they were sure of their answer, like they had already known the question before it had even been asked. Sirius sounded mostly Canadian when he spoke English, but it felt like that twang kept up in all of his words at least a bit. Sirius swung a little on his feet, hips dipping back and forth while he waited, hands in his pockets still. He tilted his head, puppyish.

Remus swallowed hard. “Yeah. Oui.” It didn’t sound nearly as good as it did in Sirius’ slight accent.

“Okay.” Sirius nodded, grinning. “We’re getting pizza, don’t tell anyone.”

“That’s not on your diet plan.”

Sirius swung around as he lead Remus out of the room, walking backwards, “Shh!”

“You have your first away game tomorrow night!”

Sirius just put his finger to his lips and beckoned him forward and back to the locker room to grab his stuff. “Meet me at the parking lot,” he said before disappearing inside.

Only, waiting at the door the players used gave Remus time to think. To dwell, really. He knew they’d be going to Sid’s for pizza—anyone in Gryffindor went to Sid’s—but he didn’t know anything after that.

“It’s just Sirius,” he mumbled under his breath to himself, then, “Sirius fucking Black, Sirius.”

“What?”

Remus turned sharply on his heel, “What?”

Sirius was standing there with his backpack slung over one shoulder. He pulled the door open and waving Remus through. “I thought you said my name.”

“No.” Remus shook his head, “No, no. So, none of the guys wanted to come?”

Sirius just sort of shrugged and instead of answering asked, “Where do you want to go?”

They looked at each other as they walked side by side. A hint of a smile started to form of Sirius’ face, and then they both nodded a little.

“Sid’s,” they said, and grinned.

“Of course,” Remus laughed, “where else?”

Sirius chirped his car and Remus climbed in, waiting for Sirius to stow his bag in the backseat. He climbed in and started the engine, turning around to back up, his arm going around the back of Remus’ seat. This close, Remus could see the few dark freckles that dotted his neck and the bit of collar bone revealed by the hem of his worn t-shirt. There was one just on the underside of his jaw, too.

Remus looked away, out the window at the fairly empty lot. “Hopefully we’ll get in.”

“Hopefully I don’t get mobbed, you mean.”

“That, too.” Remus conceded.

Sirius withdrew his hand from the seat but kept only one hand on the wheel, relaxed. “Busy day, huh? Excited for New York?”

“Always,” Remus said. “And that busy day is partly your fault.”

Sirius glanced at him for a second, then back at the road. “My fault?”

“You’re the one who needs your left skate to be sharpened first and from back to front. Sort of breaks up the process when you have to think about it.”

Sirius scoffed, but it took him one glance at Remus to realize he was laughing and he gave Remus a little shove in his passenger seat. “Fuck off.”

Remus felt warm from Sirius’ hand, “Your superstitions are ridiculous.”

Sirius flicked his blinker on with a little more flourish than necessary. “Excuse me, my superstitions work, thank you very much.”

“You mean you work. See, that’s the part I’ve never quite understood.”

“What part?”

Remus looked at Sirius—he might as well get an eyeful in while he had to be focused on the road. “Hockey’s so focused on superstitions. But it’s all you guys. You work hard, I watch you work hard everyday.”

Sirius nodded slowly, seemingly mulling it over in his mind. “Yeah,” he said, “but…it’s a little magic, too, don’t you think? The chemistry…the team chemistry, or the relationship to—I don’t know, luck. Lucky stick, lucky order, lucky way of taping. It’s all it is, really. I just—I’m just looking for a bit of luck. A lucky charm.”

“Nothing can be perfect. Not even honey and butter toast at 5:00 o’clock sharp.”

Sirius smiled, rolling his eyes a little, and Remus watched the way his eyes brightened, how he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Maybe. But it feels nice to have something constant when nothing else is.” He looked over at Remus and held his eye for a second. Remus felt a little bit caught. “You know?”

Remus watched Sirius pull his bottom lip between his teeth as he looked back to the road, taking the left for Sid’s parking lot. His chest felt tight.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah, alright. I’ll buy that.”

“Some guys wait a lifetime for their lucky charm, you know.”

Remus laughed. “Yeah, I’ve seen Leo and his lucky tennis balls. Yours will probably a lucky—I don’t know, brand of peanut butter. Let me know when you find it, alright?”

“Oh, I will.”

Sirius sent him a look as he pulled the car into park. A big smile and then ducked away, out of the car, and Remus was left staring at an empty seat before he got out, too.

Sid’s was crowded, as they expected, but the guy manning the front desks’ eyes went wide when he saw Sirius and they were ushered to a table in the back before too many Gryffindorians could realize who was among them. Remus was grateful for the privacy and the dim lighting. Now, if he made a fool of himself, no one would be around to watch and Sirius wouldn’t be able to quite catch the way his cheeks flamed.

“I could eat three pepperoni pizzas.” Sirius groaned as they sat down, gazing at the menu.

“I don’t really recommend that, but whatever floats your boat.”

Sirius scrunched his nose. “That will definitely sink my boat tomorrow.”

Remus shrugged, and picked out a small ham and pineapple pizza for himself. Sirius scoffed when he asked what Remus was getting.

“Dégueu.”

“It’s not gross!” Remus protested. “Have you ever actually tried it?”

Sirius sank guiltily in his seat, eyes innocent.

Remus flicked a straw at him from the canister at the table. He didn’t know what made him do it and he regretted it almost instantly. It felt—well, flirty.

Sirius’ eyes, however, lit up. He threw two back. Of course he did.

Once their pizzas arrived, Sid’s was in full swing and they had to lean in close over their food to hear each other. Sirius did the funny thing where he folded his pizza in half to eat it and he now had a little speck of grease below his lip. Remus was still deciding what to do about it.

“The guys really didn’t want to come?” Remus asked, just for something to say.

Sirius paused for a second, mid-chew, then wiped his mouth with his napkin. The small speck of grease was still there. Remus shifted in his seat.

“I guess not. The game tomorrow, maybe. Besides, sometimes small dinners are nice, eh?”

Remus nodded. “No, yeah. Yeah. This is—This is nice.”

Sirius smiled a little. “Good. I’m glad.”

Remus finally gave in. “Um. You have—” he motioned to Sirius’ mouth.

Sirius’ rolled his eyes a little, playfully at himself, and wiped his mouth. “Better?”

“Not quite.” Remus’ hand itched.

“Now?”

“No, um. It’s just—here, I…” He started to reach forward before he could really think about it.

And Sirius jolted back.

They stared at each other, Remus’ hand slowly lowering back to his lap.

Remus didn’t want to think about that, what all of that might mean, and so he touched his own lip instead and said quietly, “here,” then he nodded and looked down at his pizza, busying himself with tearing a new slice, “yeah, you got it.”

“Remus.”

“Hm?”

When Remus looked up Sirius’ eyes were sad, even a little panicked.

“What’s wrong?” Remus asked, trying his best to sound like he couldn’t fathom that anything from the last minute could have upset either of them. It sat heavy in his stomach.

“Just…pictures.” Sirius said, “Not—It’s just that anything can be taken out of context, and…”

Remus nodded. He knew that already. He knew what it could look like, especially with the scrutiny Sirius was constantly under by the public eye. Especially now, at the start of the season.

“Yeah, all good, Pads.”

But Sirius still looked incredibly guilty, his eyes pleading for something that Remus couldn’t name. That Remus thought it wasn’t really fair of Sirius to ask him to be able to name.

When Sirius just kept looking at him, Remus rolled his eyes. “Sirius, it’s fine. I know what you mean. It isn’t a big deal.”

“It’s not?” Sirius asked. His expression had turned careful, questioning.

Remus shook his head and bit into his pizza slice, mostly so he didn’t have to answer. He wished he had never done anything at all. He shouldn’t even have agreed to come to dinner. Remus had feelings, Sirius didn’t. Remus was gay, there were no openly gay players in the NHL, and that was probably because being the first one would be so difficult. Sirius wasn’t, anyway, but even if he was, Remus had taught himself not to hope for anything a long time ago.

The rest of the dinner was a little weird, stilted, maybe, and Remus was reluctant to get out of Sirius’ car, which had just pulled up at his curb, on such a note. Sirius seemed reluctant to let him, and turned his entire body towards Remus.

“Look. I know I keep bringing it up, but, about the—the thing. It’s not that I have a problem with anything like that. I don’t. I really, really don’t. Whoever loves whoever, I’m for it.”

“I didn’t think you did,” Remus replied, trying to steady his breathing. This was getting a little too close for comfort.

“I wouldn’t want you thinking that about me. I’m not my parents.”

Remus looked back at him. His face was lit blue from the dashboard in the dark. His eyes took on the color and looked strange and earnest. Remus wanted to reach out, but he didn’t know when he’d next have the courage—not for a while. “Sirius, I don’t know your parents. I know you. I know you aren’t like that.”

It was true. But Remus still couldn’t bring himself to say more. To say that he would be Sirius’, if he ever, in some universe, this one or otherwise, wanted that.

The car got silent again, but Remus didn’t look away. If there was anything he could give Sirius, if not himself, it was reassurance and friendship.

Sirius let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “I’m sorry I ruined dinner.”

“You’d be stupid if you weren’t jumpy about cameras. It sucks but it’s part of who you chose to be. I get it, really. Please don’t worry.” Remus tried to offer him a little smile. “It wasn’t—It wasn’t even like that anyway, so it’s not like you hurt my feelings or anything.”

It was a lie, straight through his fucking teeth, but it had to be said. But, contrary to what he expected, Remus watched as Sirius’ shoulders stiffened.

There was a hanging moment where Remus held his breath, sure Sirius was about to say something—something—

“Ten tomorrow?” Sirius straightened, chewing on his bottom lip. “Do you need a ride?”

Remus felt like there was no air left for him in the car and he cracked the door, slipping out onto the sidewalk. “Moody’s got me.”

Sirius nodded, “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Sirius smiled, tight around the eyes, and Remus had no clue how to fix anything. “Night, Re.”

Sirius drove away slowly, like he was looking back at Remus in his mirror, rather than the road.

“Night,” Remus said to the street.

Remus felt like he was nearly going to fall asleep in the elevator of their New York hotel. It was three in the morning, the Lions had lost 4-0 to the Rangers and Remus had only just finished helping the equipment staff re-load all the Lions gear back into the trucks, ready to be flown out in the morning with the rest of the team. It had been a tough game. They’d had to swap Leo in for Kasey in goal during the first period. It turned out Kasey had hurt his thigh again in practice and he was day-to-day. And Leo, in his first NHL game, had let four goals in while Henrik Lundqvist had gotten a shut out.

Remus had seen Sirius earlier in the locker room talking to him quietly, but tonight was bound to sting for a bit for all of them. After a blinding start to the season, it never felt good to fall so far.

The door dinged, but it took Remus a minute to open his eyes.

“Loops! Asleep in the elevator! Alert! Alert!”

“James—shh! Jesus fucking Christ.”

Remus snapped his eyes open to see James, Kasey, and Sirius standing there, all with what looked like m&ms and potato chips in their hands. James was grinning, Kasey was yawning and favoring his good leg, and Sirius was looking down.

Sirius hadn’t really looked straight at Remus since that night at Sid’s pizza a few days ago.

“What are you guys doing up? It’s three in the fucking morning.”

“Day off tomorrow. Just a plane ride, we can sleep then. Plus…”

James didn’t say it, but Remus nodded, knowing what he meant. It was hard to sleep after a loss. Remus could remember that from college.

“Right, well,” Remus caught the slowly closing door, “get in or take the stairs, I’m exhausted.”

They were all going to the team’s floor and Remus let himself settle against one side of the elevator while the others talked. He looked up and met Sirius’ eyes, who was leaning against the other wall while James and Kasey argued loudly, echoing in the small space. Sirius didn’t look away, but didn’t really smile either. Remus raised an eyebrow, and Sirius tilting his head.

“What?” Remus mouthed silently.

Sirius shrugged one shoulder, then waved one hand, just a little, so the others wouldn’t see.

Remus’ brow furrowed, but he waved back. Then Sirius looked away.

Fuck. Remus just wanted to go to bed.

“Night, boys,” he said when the doors opened and they all stopped at James’ door.

There was a chorus of good nights and Remus was just sliding his key card into the door when there was a hand on his shoulder. He turned into it, and Sirius was there, looming over him.

“I—hi?” Remus said.

“Hi,” Sirius looked back down at the hall where the door to James’ room had just closed behind the others, then back at Remus, “Do you—Do you want company? Or—Or you’re going to bed. You’re going to bed.”

Remus studied Sirius’ face carefully. He had said that, if Sirius needed him, he’d be here, and Remus couldn’t deny that there were few things he wanted more in life than to be there for Sirius, no matter what he had done or assumed. And Sirius obviously needed something, or at least felt like something was unresolved between them. Maybe if Remus let him in, he would finally drop it and they could go back to how it was. A little distant, but friendly. That, at least, was better than this.

Remus motioned him in with a jerk of his chin, “Come on. We’ll watch something, get you wound down. Give me those skittles if I’m going to stay awake.”

Sirius handed them over readily, like they were his ticket inside Remus’ room, and shut the door behind them.

“I’m going to take a quick shower, if you don’t mind,” Remus said, already walking towards the bathroom, “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks,” Sirius said faintly.

Remus shot him a smile that he hoped was comforting before shutting the bathroom door. He let out a long breath and started the water before stripping. Having Sirius Black waiting for him on a bed would get him moving quick enough, not that he took very long showers to begin with. This was like some strange fantasy of his come to life—except, well, they wouldn’t be…

Remus huffed and stepped under the spray, grabbing for the shampoo bottle.

He realized only he was towel drying his hair that he hadn’t thought to bring an extra set of clothes into the bathroom with him and froze mid-rub, looking at himself in the mirror, wide-eyed.

“Fuck,” he said quietly, and turned to stare at the door. He could faintly hear the TV.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, making sure it was secure before opening the door. It wasn’t anything Sirius hadn’t seen before. Naked guys, that is, not Remus naked.

“Hey, sorry, forgot to get clothes before…yeah.”

Sirius had kicked his shoes off and was stretched out on the bed. He’d piled the pillows behind him and his shirt was hitched up on one side. Remus could see his flat, toned stomach. Sirius’ eyes found Remus in the dim room. His face was all soft angles in the flickering light from the TV. Sirius licked his lips, and then looked away. “s’okay.”

He still sounded unbearably sad and as Remus turned away he frowned, mentally planning his words instead of focusing on the fact that he was currently about to drop his towel and reveal his bare ass to Sirius Black, captain of the Gryffindor Lions.

He did it quickly, boxers at the ready, and soon he was in his sweatpants and pulling a sweatshirt over his head. He hesitated at the edge of the bed, and Sirius looked up at him.

“What?” Sirius asked. His voice sounded sleepy and content, much better than it had in the hall, tight and strained.

“Nothing,” Remus cleared his throat, then knelt on the bed, “You’re hogging the pillows.” He reached and tugged two out from Sirius’ mass.

It startled a small laugh out of Sirius, “Oh, sorry.”

Remus arranged the pillows to his liking, careful not to get too close to Sirius. “What are you watching?” he asked with a sigh as he flopped onto his back, “Fuck, that feels good.”

Sirius shrugged, “Just turned it on. You okay?”

“Yeah, just lots of loading and unloading today. My back is tired.”

Sirius hummed. “You guys work hard.”

Remus looked over at him. “So do you, just at different times.”

Sirius was flipping his phone idly in his hand. “Just giving you the credit you deserve.”

Remus smiled a little. “Yeah, I know.”

Sirius missed and dropped his phone on his chest with a little oof and it turned into a heavy sigh.

“Okay?” Remus asked quietly. He didn’t want to push too hard, but…

Sirius sighed. “I should be okay.”

“But you aren’t.”

“It’s one game.” Sirius let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling. “It’s the beginning of the fucking season everything is fine.”

Sirius turned his head. Part of his cheek was smushed against the pillow and his eyes were somber on Remus. “And I shouldn’t even be dumping this on you. You’re tired, and this isn’t even a real problem, and I’m just—I’m being stupid and I can do better.”

“That’s not how it works.”

Sirius closed his eyes and sighed again. “I know that.”

“You have a team, Sirius.” Remus said gently, “It’s not just you.”

“I know.” Sirius’ voice was even softer this time and, looking at him, eyes closed, brow drawn together…

Remus wanted to kiss him. So much.

“I think you need to get some sleep.”

Sirius’ eyes opened tiredly at Remus’ words, his blinks slow, and he nodded. “I’ll just lay there. I hate just laying there, in the dark.”

Remus’ heart pulled as the words brought to mind a much younger Sirius, with no escape from the pressure, laying in a smaller bed staring up into the dark.

Remus picked up the remote and flipped until he found a cooking show. Mindless, comforting.

“Well watch a bit, eh? Take your mind off of some of it. I’m just warning you, I might fall asleep. But…I’ll be here. If you need me. Just wake me up, I don’t care.” I care too much.

Sirius’ eyebrows were still low and worried, but he was looking at Remus with something like disbelief. “Thanks, Loops.”

Remus nodded and kicked back against the pillows, the bed jostling as Sirius did the same. They ended up with their shoulders brushing despite the size of the bed. Remus didn’t know why, but from this distance he could feel Sirius’ warmth. It wasn’t just another weight in the bed, it was a person, close by. It was Sirius’ even breathing, the sound of him fiddling with the draw strings of his sweatshirt.

Remus wasn’t sure when his eyes closed, but with the soft sound of the TV and Sirius beside him, he’d never fallen asleep faster.

#sweater weather #sirius black #remus lupin #sirius x remus #remus x sirius #hockey!au #hockey player!sirius #the marauders era #sirius/remus #remus/sirius #wolfstar #wolfstar fic #wolfstar fanfiction #lumosinlove #writing #wolfstar fluff #wofstar angst #wolfstar au

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kumkaniudaku · 6 years

Text

Wing Man: Two

Chadwick Boseman x CoCo (Black!Reader)

Warnings: Language, Smut references

A/N: Future pieces to this series will posted on this blog!

(1) (3)

“Lucy, I’m home,” Tasha cooed into the unusually quiet and warm Harlem apartment.

Usually Tasha drive in from New Jersey every other weekend after her job with the New Jersey Nets, barge into Chad’s apartment unannounced, scream some television line and wait for his sarcastic reply. Today, only the sound of a body shifting on the bed in the other room acted as a reply to her ‘I Love Lucy’ reference.

Rounding the corner Tasha found her lean, lanky best friend upside down on his bed. His shoulders and head hung off of the side, nearly touching the floor as he absentmindedly stared at the worn ceiling. A t-shirt and a pair of boxers hung loosely off of his frame and scruff peppered his jawline. The usually strong and almost regal young man looked withered and tired, as if he had been in his current position for days.

“Chad,” Tasha started quietly. His eyes briefly shifted to her while she stood in the door frame before they moved back to focus on the invisible spot on the ceiling. “What’s going on? Are you hurt? How long have you -”

“She broke up with me.” He deadpanned. Though his voice held little emotion, his eyes told a different story. A glassy gloss covered them, indicating that he had been crying at some point during the day over the loss of his long-term girlfriend, Jayme.

Tasha let out the breath that she didn’t know she was holding before pushing her body away from the door and sitting on the floor beside his head. He also let out a deep breath while turning lay on his stomach.

“Did she say why?”

“Something about not wanting to wait forever while I chase this acting dream.” He answered, using air quotes to illustrate the sarcasm on her end of the exchange. “She also said that she met another man. Travis.”

A drawn out groan into one of his pillows punctuated the sentence, the first verbal indication of his frustration.

“What? That’s...insane. I’m sorry, Aaron,” Tasha added rubbing his head over her shoulder. “Fuck Travis.”

A dry chuckle slipped from Chadwick’s lips as he slid from the bed to join Tasha on the floor. Lying his head on her lap, he stared up at her with a heartbreaking look of devastation in his eyes. To avoid his gaze, she focused her attention on the circles she rubbed against his forehead.

“Maybe…maybe she’s right.”

“What! Chad, no!”

“I’ve been here for nine years, T! I don’t have shit to show for it. Not a steady TV spot, a commercial, a straight to DVD movie; nothing. I’m chasing a dream that isn’t meant for me. I’m a director, not the guy in the front.”

Another awkward silence enveloped the stuffy New York apartment while Tasha tried to find the words to lift his spirits. A joke at this time was obviously inappropriate and there was no way that you would agree with him.

Chadwick hadn’t landed any serious roles but he was overlooking the work that he had accomplished. Deep Azure was a tremendous success and his directorial work garnered. enough accolades to necessitate another page for his official biography. Most importantly, his work with at the Schaumburg Center was impactful to the youth that regarded him as a superstar. At any point in the afternoon, one could find middle school aged children crowded around Chadwick and hanging on to his every word as if his voice held the key to life. They respected him more than anyone else in the building, wanting nothing more than to make him proud.

“Let’s go. We’re not sitting here and sulking.” Tasha demanded, pushing his head from her lap and standing to her.

Chadwick shot back a bewildered look as his eyes moved quickly between her stern expression and outstretched hand. “Are you being serious?”

“You bet your sweet ass I am! Let’s go. Now.”

Shuffling to stand up, Chadwick barely had a chance to grab hold to Tasha’s hands before she began dragging him into the bathroom to position him in front of the dingy mirror.

“What do you see?”

“I see...me?” He stated confused at Tasha’s intentions. “What is this about?”

“Can I tell you what I see?” She asked looking at him for approval to continue. Chadwick’s lips spread into a slight smile as a signal for permission. Placing a hand on each shoulder, Tasha hid her body behind his and began to speak.

“I see a Black man that fought tooth and nail to make it out of his fine arts program. Remember those long ass nights writing and rewriting drafts? Learning lines so you could relate to the actors on stage?”

“Damn near sleeping in the theater some nights,” he chuckled, vivid memories of those experiences flashing in his mind. The grind was his favorite part.

Tasha rubbed his shoulders before gently tugging them back so that he would stand up straight. “I see a man with enough passion in his eyes to make the world go ’round. I see Mr. Chad, the only person at Schaumburg to get those rowdy ass kids to be quiet and listen.”

Chadwick’s eyes moved from Tasha’s to finally look at himself in the mirror. He looked both confused and intrigued. How could Tasha see all of this when all he found looking back at him was the taunting face of a man that had failed to make his dreams reality.

“I also see,” Tasha continued “a man that loves with his whole heart and is going to make a woman very happy but, only when the time is right. You are amazing. You’re walking directly in your purpose. Your accomplishments are plenty and this is only the beginning. So tuck that chapped ass bottom lip back in and get it together, Aaron. You’re going to be just fine.”

Tasha playfully slapped Chadwick’s cheeks in as a way to smack him back to reality. Finally, a toothy grin found a resting spot on his face as he took one last look at himself in the mirror.

“Thank you,” He muttered, turning to lean against the sink and face Tasha “For everything. I owe you a hug.

“Oh no you don’t!” She exclaimed in an attempt to dodge his outstretched arms. “You stink! How long have you been in that bed?”

“I don’t know. Two days?” The longtime best friends scrunched their faces in disgust as the realization that he hadn’t showered in 48 consecutive hours settled into their brains.

“Gross, Aaron! Take a shower and get dressed.”

“Please don’t make me leave the house, CoCo.” He whined, using Tasha;s nickname in an attempt to change her mind.

“Don’t CoCo me! We’re going out because I need a drink and you need some fresh air to hit that funky ass body of yours.”

An incredulous look followed by incoherent mumbles drew a boisterous laugh from CoCo as she flopped down on the bed to being her wait.

If a pep talk couldn’t cheer him up, Tasha knew a double shot of whiskey and a dance party would do the trick. They hadn’t been out together in months. She missed their nights running the streets in the Summer, staying out too late and drinking too much. She’d try to set him up with some unsuspecting girl at the bar when she was fueled by liquid courage and he’d laugh and talk her down, usually citing his relationship or work as his reason to decline. It was always a lie, but it stopped Tasha long enough for him to change the subject.

“None of that matchmaker stuff tonight, Tasha. I’m serious,” Chadwick admonished as he closed the cab door after she’d exited the vehicle.

“Oh c’mon! You need it!”

“I’m serious, Co. Drinks only.”

Chadwick only pulled out Tasha’s nickname when he wanted something or when he needed to assert himself. The words she opened her mouth to counter his point with never made it into the warm summer air because of Chad’s conversation ending glare.

“Buzzkill,” Slipped pass CoCo’s lips in a disgruntled mumble causing Chadwick to scoff.

The usual bar was bursting at the seams with natives and tourists looking for a little fun to kick off the season. Jamie Foxx’s “Blame It” rattled the glass windows surrounding the bricked building, filling Tasha’s heart with excitement. Fortunately, the line outside moved quickly and finally allowed them to join in on the dance party.

“I’m gonna go get us some drinks. You go find a spot at the bar!” Before he could protest, Tasha scurried towards the bartender to pick the poison for the night’s activities. A fond smile never left his face while he watched her from his seat. He loved the way Tasha exaggerated her facial expressions when she was excited. Her animated conversations could bring him from the darkest depths of frustration and lift his spirits in a matter of seconds.

He committed to memory how her beautiful brown skin reflected the red and blue hues that emitted from the lights around the dance floor. There were no words to describe the way his stomach filled with butterflies when her hands touched any part of his body or when she said his name for any reason at all. His relationship with Jayme was full of love but not in the way that he loved Tasha. She brought that up in her parting argument but he felt it unnecessary to bring up for fear that CoCo would blame herself for his mistake.

“What are you over here smiling at?” She asked interrupting his thoughts while balancing four shots between her fingers.

Instead of letting his smile fall, he simply grabbed one of the glasses she presented him and instructed you to do the same. “To friendship?”

“To friendship!”

____________

Slurred speech and giggles bounced off the hallways wall, brightening up the dark corridor. A night of unadulterated fun was near its end if Chadwick could reach his apartment door without Tasha pulling them to the floor in a heap.

“Chaaadwiiiiiick,” Tasha sang, stumbling under the tight grasp of Chadwick’s arms.

He laughed and shook his head. “Tasha, this is third time you’ve called my name. Do you want something or do you just like the way it sounds.”

A hiccup preceded hysterical laughter and served as CoCo’s reply. By the 10th shot, third dance battle and the near scuffle by the bar, Chadwick decided that the party was over for his friend and practically drug her out of the building. Tasha’s drinking made it difficult for her to stand on her own and contributed to the sudden inability to keep her hands to herself.

CoCo’s fingertips traced Chadwick’s clenched jawline while he attempted to get his key in the lock of his apartment door. Chadwick drew in a sharp breath when her soft lips replaced her hands, sending blood and his sense of calm in a race to his lower half.

“Be careful, CoCo,” he spoke in a low rumble. “You’re about to start something you can’t finish.”

His warning did nothing to stop Tasha as you placed another kiss on his earlobe. The kisses became slower, moving from his ear, to his cheek and finally the corner of his mouth. A strained grunt emerged from his throat, carrying equal parts frustration and desire.

Desire won the internal battle, and before he knew it, he was pressing CoCo up against the front door out of pure desperation. His hands frantically grabbed her wrists to pin them above her head while their tongues danced in a lewd ballet.

“Dammit,” he breathed against her neck “We’re not supposed to be doing this.”

“Why not?”

Pulling away from Tasha, he peered into her dark eyes and found the same lust filled look that he was sure his eyes carried. He felt his heart’s pace begin to pick up.

Why couldn’t he take the opportunity to bury himself deep inside of Tasha? To taste the juices that had made an appearance just for him? Why couldn’t he finally make love to the woman that had been the best part of his life for over a decade? The fear of crossing the invisible line in their relationship, threatening to make him back out of the moment. He quickly shook his trepidation.

As if he never stopped, Chadwick hungrily latched his lips to CoCo’s neck, nipping and sucking at the skin that rivaled the sweetest milk chocolate. Following his cue, she lazily wrapped your legs around his waist to allow Chadwick and easier method of transferring you to his bedroom.

Tasha landed on his bed with a soft thud, slightly shaking up the contents of her stomach. She paid no mind to the sudden bout of nausea, instead choosing to watch Chadwick remove his shirt and expose his chest. He had grown so much since his undergraduate years. His shoulders were broader, chest more firm, accented with a small amount of hair, and his abs were more pronounced. She couldn’t have dreamed of a more perfect being.

Chadwick smirked at Tasha after noticing her bottom lip denting beneath her top row of teeth.

He slowly crawled to the top of the bed to press her lips against his in the most sensual kiss either of them had ever had. Chadwick planned to take his time with her tonight and deal with the consequences in the morning. Their moans harmonized under the moonlight, wrapping your bodies in a swath of brilliant light as if the act was written for the stage.

Before Chadwick could make a move to Tasha’s chest, a wave of heat accompanied the feeling of her mouth preparing for an acidic eruption to interrupt the activity.

“Oh my-Chad stop!” She blurted, throwing her hands up to cover her mouth.

“What? Why?”

“I’m gonna-oh shit. Move!”

Chadwick watched in amusement as Tasha darted into the bathroom to empty out all of the fun she had consumes a few hours ago. A fond smile spread across his face while he slipped on his t-shirt and walked towards the bathroom door, listening to her wretch and cure.

“I love you, CoCo.” he whispered to himself before pushing open the door to help her through her episode. “C’mon, now. Not on the floor!”

Tag List: @thegirlonhamilton @idilly @wakanda-4evr @redvonlace @onyour-right @wakandan-aesthetic @chocolate-flavouredcondom

(Let me know if you want to be added.)

#chadwick boseman #chadwick boseman imagine #chadwick boseman fan fiction #black panther fan fiction #chadwick x reader

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idemandoolong · 5 years

Text

Three wars and some presidents couldn’t convince America that Blacks are people, too. So you won’t, either. Oh, and Italians and Asians have blood on their hands. Happy MLK Day!

Ok, so we’re going to begin with the “abolition” of slavery. And the reason I put it in quotes is because the 13th Amendment slyly states “…except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted…”

Why is that important? Because that’s the loophole courts used to basically continue slavery. They would charge Black men with crimes, give them unfair trials, then sentence them to jail. From 1865 to 1964, states could (and would) legally deny people employment solely based on race, and until 1968, states could (and would) legally deny people the right to housing solely based on race. So slavery was over on paper, but contrary to many people’s beliefs, things didn’t magically become better for Blacks overnight.

So think back to the days when slavery has just ended. Former slaves were illiterate and unemployed. Many remained in their hometowns because they didn’t really have any other place to go. They took whatever jobs they could, and these were often the jobs the Whites didn’t want. And yes, they were severely underpaid. As a result, Whites would deny them decent employment and housing, charge them with vagrancy, then throw them in jail. This went on for decades. And was perfectly legal.

But let’s back it up to the end of the Civil War. The Department of War established The Freedman’s Bureau, which was an agency to help former slaves and poor Whites as the Civil War was coming to a close and the South’s defeat was imminent. It was officially founded on March 3, 1865, the South surrendered on April 9, 1865, and Lincoln was shot six days later.

Though the Freedman’s Bureau had good intentions, of course, many Whites opposed it. Including President Andrew Johnson. Some of the things the Bureau did were to establish schools (which later became Historically Black Colleges & Universities), help families that were separated during slavery reunite, provide job training, establish hospitals, and help Blacks with legal cases since the chances of them of getting fair trials were slim.

By late 1872, just seven years after being founded, Congress’s support of the Bureau had been waning and all of its efforts were discontinued. Five years later, the Reconstruction Era ended. This was an era in which the US attempted to literally reconstruct itself after the Civil War. The Freedman’s Bureau was a large part of the era, as were the 13th, 14th, and 15th Amendments. Additionally, Blacks were elected to state and federal positions during this time.

Now, this time is very important, as this is when the South began to identify with the Republican Party, and the North began to identify with the Democratic Party. Until then, Republicans would be what we would consider “liberal,” and Democrats were what we would consider “conservative.”

During the Civil War, when Northerners were Republicans and Southerners were Democrats, the North spent a lot of money to support the Union, and this in turn made many businessmen there wealthy. Because they were wealthy, they were then able to influence and to take part in the government. These wealthy White men were not too interested in supporting Black rights, because they did not believe government spending money to help such a small number of people would help them to maintain their money and power. As this is happening, as stated before, the South (Democrats) are opposed to the efforts of Reconstruction--especially the Freedman’s Bureau.

The federal government’s role in people’s lives began to diminish as wealthy White men helped to pass laws to make sure they themselves had as much freedom as possible to do as they wish with their money. See how this is tied to the dissolution of the Freedman’s Bureau?

And what’s even more sinister, more and more land in the Midwest and West of the country was being carved up and given to Whites (after it was taken away from the Native Americans), but Blacks were not allowed to have any of that land, let alone jobs, healthcare, education, and housing.

Now that we’ve got established, let’s fast-forward to WWI. After the War ends, Black soldiers return home and expect to be treated much better than when they left. I mean, they did put their lives on the line for the country…no, for the world. They return to the United States and realize very little has changed. As a result, the Great Migration ensues. Thousands upon thousands of Blacks leave the South and head North (and some went to California) where things aren’t exactly paradise, but they were a lot better than the South. This in turn is the catalyst for the Harlem Renaissance. Blacks had a swell of pride and their culture flourished. Angry White Southerners tried to stop Blacks from getting information about the North, and they even passed laws to make it difficult for Blacks to leave.

Now we’re in the 1920s. The economy is doing exceptionally well, but then the Great Depression happens. Republicans are blamed, so people began voting for Democrats. In fact, Blacks began to switch from the Republican Party to the Democratic Party because Franklin D. Roosevelt established programs to help those affected by the Depression—and as we all know, Blacks were affected a lot worse than Whites were.

So how did the Italian-Americans play into this? Well, let’s put this on pause and rewind. It’s before WWI, but after Reconstruction. This era is referred to the Gilded Age. During this time, may Europeans immigrated to the United States for a better life. Fine. Nothing new there. Well, as the United States has always done, it discriminated against them. The Irish were discriminated against. The Polish were discriminated against. The Eastern Europeans were discriminated against. And of course, the Italians were discriminated against—especially those from the southern part of Italy, because they tend to have darker skin due to the Moors settling there for thousands of years. But I digress.

The dark-skinned Italians are being discriminated against in the United States. To combat this, many of them began to point to Columbus as proof that they did not deserve the poor treatment they were receiving. This is around 1892…the 400th anniversary of Columbus landing in the Caribbean. While America is celebrating the anniversary, Italians are saying, “See? We Italians aren’t so bad after all!” This is despite the fact that Columbus sailed for Spain…not Italy. And this is despite the fact that the establishments in the New World made Spain richer…not Italy. Now I’m not saying Italian-Americans deserved to be mistreated, but to use Columbus as proof to show that Italians can do wonderful things is…specious, at best.

But at any rate, Italian-Americans used Columbus to escape discrimination, and it basically worked. But they were about self-preservation. They saw that other people (especially Blacks) were being mistreated, but it was more of a “Well as long as the Whites aren’t mistreating me, I don’t care.” This sort of established racial tension between Blacks and Italian-Americans in places like New Jersey and New York City which, unfortunately, continues to this day.

Let’s bring it back to the Great Depression and the Democrats. The Republicans are blamed because people are saying, “If you Republicans hadn’t been so greedy over the last several decades, none of this would’ve happened. We need the federal government to make sure this doesn’t happen again!” The Democrats take over and establish social programs to help pull people out of financial ruin. Those who are for social programs tend to be Democrats, and those who are for limited government tend to be Republicans. Which is where we are presently.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The Great Depression is happening, World War II breaks out, the United States enters, and the economy does well because of the social programs, and because people cut back on spending to help the war effort. The Axis is defeated, and Black soldiers return home thinking, “Ok…THIS TIME the White people have to respect us.”

Wrong.

Enter the Civil Rights Movement.

We’re now in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Keep in mind, racial discrimination is still perfectly legal. And also, this is where the Black family begins to crack. Before this time, as with all races, it was much more common than not to have an intact nuclear family: married parents and their children living together. However, during the 1960s, things for Blacks began to shift as far as their families are concerned. With the establishment of welfare, if there was an adult male parent in the home, families could not get welfare benefits. This was not just for Black families, but it happened more often for Black families because the men were, as stated before, being removed from their families for various reasons—and all of those reasons stemmed from the lack of opportunities Black men faced.

It’s virtually impossible to take care of your family if you’re not allowed to have a job, live in certain neighborhoods, or vote. Black women were literally being paid by the United States government to remain single mothers. Their daughters went on to become single parents, and then their daughters, then their daughters, and so on, and so forth.

What does this have to do with Asian-Americans? I’ll tell you.

As the United States began to reform its laws about race, it began to relax its immigration laws. Up until the mid-1960s, Asians were practically prohibited from entering the country and becoming citizens. Once those laws were repealed, they began trickling in. Now is it a coincidence that the United States began to actively improve its relationship with East Asia and Southeast Asia as tensions between it and Russia began? Maybe…but it’s also mighty convenient.

In other words, some (including myself) would point that the United States did not want to have tension with Russia and pretty much all of Asia as Cold War tensions escalated during the 1960s. With the immigration restrictions of Asians lifted, the United States conveniently began saying such kind things about Asians—hence the “model minority” stereotype. Americans would say things like, “Oh, Asians are so smart. And so polite. And so clean. And so hardworking. Please, come to this country.” Because Asian-Americans weren’t really established in the country before the 1960s, they missed all the discrimination that Blacks and Europeans faced. They didn’t really begin coming until most civil rights legislation had already passed.

This isn’t to say Asian-Americans aren’t discriminated against—it’s more to say they didn’t (and do not) face the type of mistreatment Blacks face.

Also, keep in mind, when Asians were allowed into the country little by little, only the best and brightest were allowed. This helped the United States to seem correct when they would point to them as the “model minorities.” It’s easy to be seen as the best when you’re only allowed to send your best over.

With Asian-Americans settling in the country, many of them wanted to fully integrate and be accepted by Whites. Families would encourage their daughters to marry White men, as this was seen as the paragon of acceptance. To this day, many Asian-American women “prefer” to date White men. They’ll openly say this, but then also say, “But I’m not racist.”

Yes, you are.

Also, Asian-Americans would discriminate against Blacks to gain White acceptance. Remember, they weren’t really around to witness slavery, Reconstruction, the Great Migration, and the Civil Rights Movement. Instead, it was like, “Hey…if I want Whites to accept me, all I have to do is do what they do. Hmmm…looks like they don’t like Black people for whatever reason. Fine. Neither do I.” This is also why there tends to be underlying tension between Asian-Americans and Blacks in many parts of the country.

Allow me to point out what happened to Latasha Harlins. On March 16, 1991 in Los Angeles, a 15yr old girl named Latasha Harlins went into a convenience store owned by a Korean-American family, the Du family. She put a bottle of orange juice in her backpack and held the money she planned to pay for it in her hand. The matriarch of the Du family, Soon Ja, accused her of trying to shoplift despite the fact that Harlins was at the counter with money in her hand. An argument ensued, and Du grabbed Harlins and tried to snatch her backpack off. Harlins hit Du three times, causing Du to fall back. Du then threw a stool at Harlins. Harlins picked up the orange juice botte and set it on the counter, and Du snatched it from her. As Harlins turned to leave the store, Du reached under the counter for a handgun and shot Harlins. The bullet hit her in the back of the head and she died instantly.

You can look up the security footage on YouTube.

During the trial, Du stated she killed Harlins because she feared for her life, so it was in self-defense. Two eyewitnesses disputed this, and so did the fact that Harlins was shot from behind as she attempted to leave. Du was found guilty of voluntary manslaughter, but rather than getting the 16yrs of prison, which was the maximum sentence, she was sentenced to probation for five years, given a $500 fine, (approx. $920 today), and told she had to complete 400 hours of community service.

The trial was overshadowed by the infamous Rodney King beating, which occurred two weeks later, which in then turn led to the 1992 LA riots after the police officers were acquitted after being videotaped beating him. Some believe (including myself) that the riots were also inspired by the outcome of Du’s trial.

Ok, you got all that? Let’s take it back to the late 1960s. The Civil Rights Era is coming to a close, and something called The Kerner Commission is published. Never heard of it? That was intentional.

Basically, The Kerner Commission was an investigation to figure out why Black people were the way they were. Moreso why they were rioting every so often. But it also answered why were their families falling apart? Why was their income so low? Why were they less educated than everyone else? Why were their neighborhoods violent?

You’d think it’d be obvious…but sometimes, people don’t like to admit they had a hand in creating a problem. A lot of White people would say, “Well slavery and all that is over. They’re just lazy. That’s why things are the way they are for Blacks. They’re not trying hard enough.”

But the Kerner Commission debunked all of that. Federal agents investigated the circumstances Blacks were in and concluded, “This is America’s fault. We’ve been screwing them over literally since the day they got here, and now we’re pretending we don’t know why things are so bad for them.”

Why are they poor? Because they’re denied jobs.

Why aren’t they educated? Because they’re denied education.

Why are they criminals? Because they can’t get jobs or go to school.

Why are their families broken? Because we paid their mothers to be single.

And what did the government do once the Kerner Commission was complete?

Nothing.

They just said, “Oh…well…ok…” and that was that.

What the government wanted to hear was: “Black people are lazy. They’re naturally move violent than everyone else. They don’t want to work. They hate school. They like drugs. They like to break the law.” But when that didn’t happen, the report was shelved.

Now it’s the 1970s, and Blacks are experiencing another swell of pride and culture. They’re letting their hair grow without altering it in any way, the “Black is Beautiful” slogan is popularized, and Black fictional characters in media are standing up to White people...which was unheard of before. This led to the 1980s where Blacks and Whites were slowly integrated in mainstream TV shows and films. You didn’t really see racially mixed casts before then. It was either virtually all black, or virtually all white.

Once Hollywood realized Blacks actually are marketable on their own, Blacks were able to produce their own projects with Hollywood’s help. From the mid-1980s up until the late 1990s, you saw many Black sitcoms and films doing quite well, and for the first time ever, the Black middle class was getting attention. Before this time, Blacks were typically depicted as working class or upper class in the media. People did not really think a Black middle class existed.

Unfortunately, even today, Hollywood is not too comfortable with Blacks who don’t “act Black,” so to speak. Those who run the media believe the only Black person who is marketable is one who portrays some sort of stereotype. And what happens is people believe these stereotypes are true while ignoring the millions of Blacks who aren’t in the service industry, who aren’t drug addicts, who aren’t criminals, who aren’t poor, who aren’t violent, who aren’t entertainers, etc.

Whenever a Black person comes along and says, “Actually, most Black people aren’t like that. And I’m living proof,” the response is, “Well you’re not REALLY Black, though. You act White.”

Presently, these attitudes continue. Many people still ignore history and say the reason Blacks are the way they are is because they’re not trying hard enough. Many still say, “You’re not really Black if you don’t [insert stereotype here],” and many discriminate against Blacks in order to subconsciously gain approval from Whites.

And even present-day Freedman’s Bureau tactics are reviled. Many non-Blacks think Historically Black Colleges & Universities are racist and unfair. They think anything specifically designed to help a Black person is unfair. They think if a Black person is successful, then he/she doesn’t really deserve it and must’ve had some unfair advantage nobody else had. But when you actually do your homework, you’ll see these “advantages” don’t really help Blacks as much.

Whites were given land, loans, jobs, healthcare, education…and this has helped them to prosper for generations. Asian-Americans benefited because they largely came after racial discrimination was outlawed. But Blacks? Soon as they get a scholarship, it’s “not right,” and it’s “reverse racism.” Do you honestly, truly believe a $5,000 NAACP scholarship will boost all Black people beyond the ramifications of slavery and legalized discrimination which lasted from 1619-1968? Do you know how long that is? That’s 349 years. That means Blacks have had complete freedom for 51 years now, but have been in the country for 400 years.

So don’t sit there and get upset that a Black kid got into Harvard although his SAT score was a little bit lower than a White kid’s. Don’t call it “unfair.” Don’t have a fit because the BET Awards exist, but the WET Awards don’t. And don’t call your state representative to complain that the black girl got the job over you despite being a little less qualified when you’re literally benefitting from the fact that her family wasn’t allowed access to basic necessities for 349 years.

Do your homework.

Well, you don’t have to, because I just did it for you.

Black people have a long way to go, and sadly, those alive today will not live to see the day where the consequences of slavery and discrimination are long gone. A scholarship here and a job there is a step in the right direction, but it’s not the end.

And it’s definitely not “unfair” considering what Blacks have had to endure just to get it.

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thestuckylibrary · 6 years

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Mod’s Reads: March 2018

Mod Iamnmbr3

But We Can Try by hetrez (complete | 10,567 | G )

Bucky said, "These are love letters, Rogers. You've been drawing me love letters.”

teach your man to fish by silentwalrus (complete | 12,835 | T )

Bucky doesn’t deign to stay in Stark Tower for much longer than it takes to completely clean out the kitchens’ fish supply. After slurping down the last oyster and sneering in disgust at the contents of the walk-in freezer, Bucky turns to Steve, pelt over his shoulder, and says, “Where do you live?”

Lonely Dragons by Taste_is_Sweet (complete | 4,813 | T )

Bucky was sitting in the corner where the railing met the building, cross-legged and hunched and of course in the ridiculous moose hoodie plus a quilt around his shoulders. It was the quilt Tony had ordered with vintage Howling Commandos and SSR symbols all over it—score—but the overall effect of Bucky sitting alone and all bundled up like that was just tragic. And adorable. But mostly tragic.

"You look incredibly tragic out here all by yourself like this. Just saying." Tony decided he wasn't going to have to holler for help or call one of his suits, so he fully committed to stepping out onto the balcony. It was, as he'd surmised, fucking cold. Maybe less so if one was wrapped in an awesome quilt and a ridiculous moose hoodie, but still. Tony tightly folded his arms, wishing he'd had the foresight to grab a hoodie himself—or a quilt—instead of just coming out here in his Sisters of Mercy tee-shirt. "Really, you're like, a lost kitten. A lost kitten with antlers. You do know we can afford light and heat and stuff, right?"

Steve, Bucky, and the Tinhat Collective by mypedia (complete | 7,015 | G )

The internet and the Avengers fandom react to the events of Civil War.

***

avengers-daily:

How do they get 200% more attractive when they're covered in dirt

#avengers

2554 notes

the coming of our golden age by buckyjerkbarnes (complete | 2,761 | T )

Bucky’s heart came to a stuttering halt in his chest: Steve, almost obscured if Bucky wasn't so used to finding him in places he wasn't supposed to be, was boot to boot with Thanos. He gripped the golden gauntlet in both his hands, despite one of the purple fucker’s arms being the size of his torso.

The mad titan looked as though his day had just been made.

[Or the one where everything works out and no one dies because I'm stuck in the denial stage. Speaking this into existence!]

A Precarious, Fragile Thing by Taste_is_Sweet for tigriswolf (complete | 6,961 | T )

"I didn't know he did that," Tony said. He knew Bucky liked tucking himself so far under Steve's arm that it was like he was trying to climb into his armpit. But he'd always stayed upright, just kind of plastering himself against Steve's side. This blanket thing was new.

"Seventy years of skin hunger," Steve said. His voice was just as soft, but for a moment his eyes flickered hot with anger, bright as the candy-colored screen. "He was always tactile. Now, when things get…well, sometimes it helps. The contact."

And it looked…nice, the two of them together like that: Comfortable. Familiar. Safe. Tony knew what a precarious, fragile thing it was, to feel safe in the middle of the night.

despite the threatening sky and shuddering earth (they remained) by praximeter (Zimario) (WIP | 57,623 | M )

“They really didn’t want the mask to come off.” Hill thumbed through the scans, and pulled out a film that she then handed over to Sam, face mostly expressionless but for the flat line of her pursed lips.

Sam accepted the film and held it up to the light, angling so both he and Steve could see it, squinting at the outline of the Winter Soldier’s skull, and the blips of unnatural white that showed up, God, in his brain, not to mention about half his teeth, plus the mask, with its thin protrusions—

“Those are pins,” Steve realized. He looked over at Hill. “The mask—it’s nailed to his face.”

Hill’s face was as unmoved as ever. “Like I said. They really didn’t want it coming off.”

Mod Blue

Flush by I_Dont_KnowWhatImDoing (oneshot | 4,923 | E)

Bucky would really like for his life to just be simple, but all evidence suggests that the universe is actively conspiring against this goal. This is further reinforced when Steve Rogers is dragged into his suite, almost completely unable to communicate under the influence of some crazy Wakandan flower, and randy as all hell.

Minimal Property Damage by Nejinee (oneshot | 6,704 | E)

Everyone assumes Bucky's super soldier body will process the gas that's gone and driven others mad with sexual hysteria. Everyone assumes the evil scientists messed up and Bucky's okay. Everyone assumes wrong because no one ever thinks about Steven Grant Rogers.

A sex pollen PWP.

Bowties and Bugs by Tsuki_Amano (complete | 41,014 | not rated)

In his line of work, Steve thinks he's seen everything. After all, it's hard to surprise a spy. So when he gets a call from one very disgruntled James Barnes who's handcuffed to a tombstone, it's safe to say they've set a precedent.

Or the one where Steve and Bucky are both spies working for SHIELD and get called in for a rescue mission. Which should be fine because Steve most definitely does not have an earth-shattering crush on Bucky Barnes and his perfect hair. Except he does. And they're playing the role of happily married husbands.

'til you come to me by radialarch (oneshot | 4,978 | T)

"I'll do it," Steve says. "I'll marry Bucky."

(It's because of the Russians.)

sometimes everything is touch and go by santanico (oneshot | 14,180 | E)

Bucky and Steve's mission is to infiltrate a suburban neighborhood as a married couple. In theory, it should be difficult, but it also kind of isn't.

Bucky hesitates. “It’s undercover. We’ve done undercover before.” He shrugs.

Steve laughs again. “This isn’t exactly the same as infiltration under the guise of being regular civilians. What is it again – what did Fury’s email say?” Steve pauses, tapping his chin with his index finger. “ ‘Mr. and Mr. Rogers are a couple who have recently moved into a neighborhood in northern Colorado. You are to maintain an image of high-standing and societal grace.’ That’s not exactly your scene, is it, Buck? Especially the part about being Mr. Rogers.”

Everything (that I couldn't have) by obsessivereader (oneshot | 7,252 | T)

“You don’t have to do this, Steve.” Bucky pushes away the letter from the Russian government demanding that one Dmitri Batischev, alias the Winter Soldier, be surrendered to them to stand trial for his crimes.

Steve hesitates in the doorway. Bucky must’ve heard the tail end of his conversation with Pepper. Now he looks tired, and resigned, and so done and Steve fucking hates that Bucky keeps getting dealt shit hand after shit hand. “I want to.” He hopes Bucky can hear the conviction in his voice. “I’m not losing you again.”

“But getting married? You think that’s gonna work?”

Satellite (I'm Part Of You) by Brenda (oneshot | 4,190 | E)

"I'm okay, Steve." Bucky raised his hand to cup Steve's jaw, his thumb slowly stroking over stubble.

Steve shuddered once, all over, then brought his own hand up to cover Bucky's. Felt the calluses and nicks, the steady pulse beating at his wrist. "I thought I was gonna lose you again."

Bucky gave him a small, fond smile. "I thought I was gonna lose you."

The Arsonist's Choir by Brenda (complete | 11,911 | E)

"It's Bucky," Steve added, helplessly. The buyer was now sitting at Mikhailov's table, but the mission seemed unimportant. "He's been arrested. In Texas. And, uh, apparently, we're married."

"Congratulations," Natasha replied, with a small grin. "Are you registered anywhere?"

yoga mesh by wearing_tearing (oneshot | 2,293 | M)

“You could just be honest with him,” Nat suggests. Beside her, Sam nods.

Bucky levels them both with a flat look. “This past weekend I asked if he wanted to go out on a date and Steve said not to be funny because, and I quote, ‘Where would we even find dates this late?’”

it's actually like you're photoshopped by biblionerd07 (oneshot | 11,870 | G)

Steve's relationship with Bucky violates a workplace policy. So, backed into a corner by his well-meaning but meddlesome coworkers, he does what anyone would do. He makes up a fake boyfriend. He just hopes it doesn't cause problems with his real boyfriend.

M is for Murder by rohkeutta (oneshot | 4,196 | M)

I’m pretty low on funds and need to make ends meet this month, Barnes types slowly into a new post three days later. I’m taking commissions for hits in the New York City area.

Will Not Kill: Captain America or other Avengers. Will partially refund payment if target turns out to be HYDRA. Will not go to Jersey. No dismemberment or killing children. Message for negotiations and payment details.

build it bigger than the sun by defcontwo (oneshot | 10,083 | T)

“Yeah, because nothing says heteronormative like living in Dupont Circle for two years and wearing skin-tight shirts to hit on hot airmen when you go running in the morning.”

“Look, I know you’re being sarcastic but I really don’t get how no one picked up on that.”

Steve and Bucky try to work out their relationship. The Avengers keep getting in the way.

The Spotless by BetteNoire (WeAreWolves) (oneshot, restricted | 5,640 | T) (reread)

Steve, the face on the screen said, dropping its gaze. I wanted to say first of all, thank you for everything you've done for me. I've had a lot of time to think here in Wakanda, and... A sigh, seventy years of weariness in one breath.

Then he looks up again. I wasn't worth it.

Bucky chooses to fix himself. And Steve realises he's nearly lost Bucky again, because he's been too busy being Captain America to be a friend.

Part 1 of Spotless

From You Have I Been Absent In The Spring by BetteNoire (WeAreWolves) (oneshot, restricted | 9,411 | E) (reread)

Natasha bangs on his door that evening. “Steve, nobody's seen or heard from you in three days. I'm invading the sadness palace. I have ice cream.” Then: “Five seconds until I pick the lock.”

Part 2 of Spotless

Lucky Seven by BetteNoire (WeAreWolves) (complete, restricted | 94,364 | E) (reread)

Captain America trashes his motorcycle a lot. Tony says he'll fix it, then never gets around to it and just buys him a new one. Steve, the Depression-era kid, can't stand the waste and goes looking for somewhere near him in Brooklyn where he can get his bike fixed. That's how he finds Red Star Bike Repair, and the hot Russian-immigrant bike racer who runs it: all long hair and muscles and tattoos. And for the first time since he woke from the ice, Steve feels a connection to someone; a comfort in the other man's silences and his space, an attraction in his sheer skill at racing. But James Barnes isn't exactly who he seems...

Happy Accidents by BetteNoire (WeAreWolves) (complete, restricted | 29,777 | E) (reread)

Bucky's still in cryo. Steve is in New York, angry and unsettled. And then Trump takes a photo in front of a Captain America mural like Steve has ever supported anything he says or does. So Steve enlists Pepper to throw a costume gala for LGBTQIA causes, and to celebrate his coming out.

It's a terrible idea, especially when a bunch of people come dressed as Bucky.

But then Steve meets a tall dark stranger...

These American Dreams (ain’t no white picket fences left for me) by kariye (oneshot | 50,608 | E)

In which Bucky has a house, a dog, an herb garden, and a serious case of insomnia. Welcome to Havensport, Indiana (population 8,294), where Tom’s Neighborhood Grocer stays open all night, little old ladies call the car shop to get their refrigerators repaired, and the heat of summer days and the length of summer nights can make you think that this perfect world will last forever.

Highest Bidder by Brenda (oneshot | 2,774 | M)

"Bidding will start at $5,000, ladies and gentlemen. $5,000 for an evening spent in the charming company of one of the most eligible bachelors in all of New York. The winning bidder will be chauffeured to Mr. Barnes' private yacht, where you'll both share a meal exquisitely prepared by his own personal chef, and a sunset cruise around the harbor. Who says romance is dead." The MC smiled, looking like nothing so much as a very hungry shark.

"$50,000!" Steve called, shocking everyone in the room – and himself – into silence.

The MC blinked. His perfect, plastic smile melted right off his face. "Uh...could you...I'm sorry, what was that?"

Part 1 of Going Once, Going Twice, Sold...

Contract Negotiations by Brenda (oneshot | 4,623 | E)

“If I don't get my mouth on you in the next twenty seconds..." Steve shuddered and paused as he looked up at Bucky like an acolyte seeking favor. "I need...can I? Please?"

"God yes, anything you want," Bucky breathed, and lifted his hips so Steve could tug his slacks and boxers down to his ankles. He was on board with anything – anything at all – as long as Steve didn't stop.

Part 2 of Going Once, Going Twice, Sold...

Booty Call by Brenda (oneshot | 6,703 | E)

Bucky leaned in, rubbed a light, lingering kiss to Steve's parted lips. "Why don't you tell me what you need," he whispered, his breath mingling with Steve's. "Tell me what you need from me."

"I just..." Steve's absurdly long lashes fluttered. He blinked, his eyes already glazing over with desire and want and trust, and it was the trust that shot through Bucky like a bullet. "I just don't want to think for awhile. I just...I want you to..." He paused, swallowed, adam's apple bobbing. "I need you to take me out of my own head for a couple of hours. Can you do that?"

Part 3 of Going Once, Going Twice, Sold...

Public Offering by Brenda (oneshot | 6,960 | E)

"Missed you so much...so fucking much," Steve moaned, then dove back in, his tongue curling, slick and heated, against Bucky's own.

Bucky just deepened the kiss, biting and sharp, slid his tongue alongside Steve's until all he could feel, all he knew, was Steve and only Steve. His touch, his scent, the solid feel of his body, the greedy moans as kiss slid into kiss. Nothing existed outside of this bubble of heat and desire.

"On your knees," he ordered, in the hushed space between them. "I want you to show everyone how sweet you look when you're choking on my cock."

Part 4 of Going Once, Going Twice, Sold...

Closing the Deal by Brenda (oneshot | 10,212 | E)

Bucky clicked the vibrator off with a smile that morphed into an outright grin at Steve's frustrated growl. "I am gonna have so much fun tonight."

"You're a dick," Steve huffed, but nuzzled Bucky's nape, breathing him in – the hint of woodsy, expensive cologne, the clean smell of soap, and under it, Bucky's own natural scent. Everything about him addictive, and Steve was – as always – completely at his mercy.

"Oh, don't worry, me and my dick have some definite plans for you later," Bucky said, and laced his fingers with Steve's, their palms sliding together perfectly.

Part 5 of Going Once, Going Twice, Sold...

Honeypot by cleo4u2, xantissa (complete | 133,204 | E)

Preconditions: One Sasha Marozow - internationally renowned assassin for hire, known as the Winter Soldier, ex-Hydra operative freelancing for the last five years; One Steve Rogers, Captain America - recently defrosted national hero and Avenger; One assassination contract; One set-up known in the intelligence community as the “honeytrap”.

Expected Result: One Winter Soldier in custody, the name of his employer attained.

Actual result: Definitely not as expected.

Part 1 of Honeypot

Give Up the Ghost by cleo4u2, xantissa (oneshot | 19,518 | E)

They were happy together and the year had been good for them. They thought nothing could tear them apart. They were wrong.

Part 2 of Honeypot

The Chosen Verb: Fuck by cleo4u2, xantissa (oneshot | 14,295 | E)

“God,' he said, 'I have to have you.' 'Take me. Own me. Use me. Pick a verb. Just please.' 'Fuck you. I'm going to fuck you. That's my verb.” ― C.D. Reiss, Resist

Steve needs Bucky, needs him to fuck him, to break him, to own him. What happens after Steve’s doctors clear him for more strenuous activity.

Part 3 of Honeypot

Cracked Mirror by cleo4u2, xantissa (complete | 34,497 | E)

The Avengers stumble upon an infinity gem while clearing out a smuggler’s lair. The result? Bucky Barnes is back from 1940, reminding both Steve and Sasha how much he’s changed.

Part 4 of Honeypot

Demonique by BetteNoire (WeAreWolves) (complete | 38,959 | E)

“Oh come on, Steve. You look at me like you want to put me on a pedestal and worship me. You look at Barnes like you want to tear his clothes off with your teeth. Tell me why you two aren’t...?” Peggy smirks at him, because of course this amuses her greatly.

Steve fidgets, trying not to blush. “Peggy, I can’t—“

Peggy steps closer. “Steve. Is this an American peculiarity? Because in the British army, as long as you’re discreet, that sort of thing between two men is fine. I mean, some of our greatest war heroes, and so on.”

“It’s not... that...” Steve cringes.

It’s Bucky’s tentacles.

And how badly he wants them inside him.

Into Infinity by rooonil_waazlib (complete | 6,888 | T)

Clint hadn’t said that Mr Barnes was such a goddamn DILF, tall and lean and dark-haired, skin a tiny bit tanned like he’d spent a day at Coney Island. Not even five years older than Steve. His face could be my throne, Steve thinks, madly, nearly choking himself on the thought.

Then the guy grins. Steve’s fucked. “You must be Steve.”

Part 1 of And Beyond

Sick Day by rooonil_waazlib (oneshot | 6,026 | E)

There, in the big leather recliner that looks out over the water, Adrienne is curled up in Bucky’s lap, swaddled in blankets, both asleep. Steve wants to draw them, wants to capture the ease with which they fit together, the gentleness with which Bucky holds his daughter.

Part 3 of And Beyond

The Manny by LilyInTheSnow (WIP | 54,052 | M)

Steve needs a nanny for his twins. Bucky needs a job and secretly adores kids. Natasha thinks they both need a husband. Or to at least get laid. Either way, it works. Or would if they'd get their shit together.

The thing that drives the wolves away by caughtinanocean (oneshot | 7,876 | T) (reread)

The thing about Bucky these days is that, while he might be a semi-mythical assassin, he's also vulnerable—the kind of vulnerable that makes total strangers want to drape a blanket over his shoulders and take him to safety. The problem is, of course, that Bucky is already safe.

The first time it happens, Bucky has no idea how to react. He and Steve are walking down the street, when a slight woman takes in Bucky’s terrified eyes, the dark circles so bad they almost look like bruises, and Steve’s protective hand resting on his lower back, guiding him down the busy sidewalk (but it must look possessive, to someone looking for a sign), and comes to the wrong conclusion.

You Will Meet a Stranger by spitandvinegar (oneshot | 3,061 | M) (reread)

When the mask falls off Steve recoils.

He'll never forgive himself.

Mod Julia

Kintsugi (Call It Love) by Anna_Heyward (oneshot | 28,653 | E)

Lt. James "Bucky" Barnes has had a long day. A cargo plane from Kabul, a 3 hour flight from Istanbul, and another 8-hour flight from Amsterdam, and he's finally made it to JFK. Just two more flights to go - one to Minneapolis, another to Fairbanks - and he'll be back at base. He can pack up his stuff, head back home to Brooklyn, and be a civilian again. He's got his discharge papers; all he has to do now is get through 12 more hours of flying and this long day will be over.

But the hot stranger he's seated next to on his flight has Bucky wishing that Minneapolis was a little farther away.

The Biggest Part of Me by Anna_Heyward (complete | 69,992 | E)

Newly divorced single dad Steve Rogers moves his kids from the suburbs to Brooklyn to start their new life together, and becomes captivated by the young man who works at the coffee shop downstairs from Steve’s apartment.

Bucky Barnes is 25 years old, working part-time in a coffee shop and still living with his mom. When a handsome single dad in a pinch offers Bucky a job as his nanny, Bucky takes him up on it.

It could be lethal (sleeping with a friend) by asleepygay (oneshot | 2,674 | T)

He’s in Steve’s room because it’s closer to the door in the apartment they share. And he’s starting to remember that they were very impatient last night.

Last night. Christ

drinks are had, sex is had, feelings are had

Lazy Sunday by Chiyume (oneshot | 2,231 | E)

“Watch it,” Bucky drawls. “Or you’re gonna end up in trouble.” He meets Steve’s eye, and Steve looks right back. The change in his gaze is minute – barely enough to notice unless you know exactly what to look for. Bucky, however, does know, and as Steve swallows tightly, Bucky feels his own lips widen in a smirk. “Oh,” he breathes. “So that’s how it is?”

In which Steve wakes up with a craving, and Bucky is all too happy to oblige.

Luck of the Irish Stroll by GoldBlooded (oneshot | 8,626 | E)

Every year Steve and Sam go on the Irish Stroll Bar Crawl, and ever since their first time on the Stroll four years ago, Steve and Sam cross paths with Bucky and Natasha.

Every year they drink and celebrate in a little group, and every year Steve’s world is rocked by the gorgeous, blue-eyed man that has captivated him since they first locked eyes fighting over a couple of pints of Guinness from the bartender.

Captain Cosplay by alby_mangroves, Ignisentis (oneshot | 9,184 | T)

James Barnes loves to cosplay as Captain America, and not just because he's damn good at it, either. No, it's the feeling he gets when he puts on the suit, the light in people's eyes when they see him, the thrill of getting the details just right. It also helped him feel connected to New York after he moved back there for work. Well, cosplay and his landlord,Clint. So when Bucky gets an invitation to his dream cosplay event, hosted by none other than Tony Stark and judged by the Avengers themselves, he knows he has to pull out all the stops and make a new Cap cosplay: the elusive Stealth Suit. Clint turns out to be surprisingly resourceful in that endeavor, and Bucky's more than pleased with how his cosplay turns out. As the day of the event dawns, he can only hope that Steve Rogers feels the same way.

A Vision of Ecstasy by a_splash_of_stucky (oneshot | 2,664 | E)

Sometimes, sex should just be had for the sake of exploration.

Smile by TheLocket (oneshot | 8,463 | M)

When an official Captain America press event runs over, the whole crew gets stuck in Cincinnati overnight. With only a few rooms left at the hotel, Bucky offers to bunk with Steve—how bad could it be? But he forgot how awful Steve can be as a roommate. He has no personal space. He never wears clothes. And, even worse, he smells really good.

Bucky is in for a rough night.

the blood is the life by obsessivereader (oneshot | 3,357 | M)

He can smell them when Bucky comes back to the apartment late at night. Different men, their colognes wafting off him as he lets himself in and walks past the living room where Steve’s always waiting. It may not be every night, but it’s at least two, or sometimes even three, times a week.

Tonight is no different. Bucky keeps his head down as he walks past. He goes straight into his room and closes the door behind him with a finality that means Bucky won’t be emerging till morning. The sound of the shower starts up not two minutes later.

Steve sits alone in the living room, the scent of cologne hanging in the air like an interloper in the apartment. He can’t help thinking Why not me.

weary of war by endofadream (oneshot | 3,190 | E)

Bucky’s fingers slip.

This time, he manages to scream the name: “Steve!”

You Could Be Mine by lambchop33 (complete | 33,818 | E)

Bucky Barnes never sees it coming when his buddy, Sam Wilson brings his buddy, Captain America, to visit him while he's recuperating in a hospital after a car accident.

He never sees it coming when he finds out sexy, courageous, self-sacrificing Steve Rogers is also... lonely.

One more thing he doesn't see coming? That he could possibly be the one destined to become the friend, the lover that Steve has been searching for ever since he came out of the ice.

Or, the smutty Valentine's season AU no one asked for...

#mod picks

179 notes · View notes

dumbledearme · 6 years

Text

chapter forty-three—freedom and courage

Okay... So I may or may not have stolen Elizabeth Swan's speech from Pirates of the Caribbean. What can I say, I'm a huge fan. (So credit’s hers)

read Child of Land and Sea here

Act V — Walking On Water

Part VI — But if you're not convinced that I'm invincible, put me to the test! I'd love to lay this rivalry to rest.

"What did they do to my city?" Andy's voice sounded tight and angry. She stood with the other campers looking down at New York. She could see almost everything from there and what she saw was the calmness, the silence. Even in the dead of night, New York is never silent. What had they done?

Traffic had stopped. Pedestrians were lying on the sidewalks. There was no sign of violence, no wrecks, nothing like that.

"Are they dead?" Silena asked in astonishment.

Andy shook her head. "No. Morpheus must have put the entire island of Manhattan to sleep. The invasion has started."

Anthony and Andy went to find Argus. The man was rummaging around in the back of his van. He brought out a bronze shield and passed it to Anthony. When he set it on the ground, the reflection on the polished metal changed from sky and buildings to the Statue of Liberty.

"A video shield?" Andy guessed.

"One of Daedalus's ideas," Anthony said. "I had Beckendorf make this before- Well, it bends sunlight or moonlight from anywhere in the world to create a reflection. You can literally see any target under the sun or moon, as long as natural light is touching it. It will let us see what's going on across the city. Thank you, Argus."

Argus grunted.

"You'd better get back to camp," Andy told him. "Guard it as best as you can." Then she called Mrs O'Leary. "Hey, girl. Remember Grover? The satyr? I need you to find him. We're going to need his help." The dog gave her a sloppy wet kiss and raced off north.

Anthony and Andy went back to the others.

"I don't get it," Pollux was saying. "Why didn't we fall asleep, too? Why just the mortals?"

"This is a huge spell," Silena answered. "The bigger the spell, the easier it is to resist. If you want millions of mortals to sleep, you've got to cast a very thin layer of magic. Sleeping demigods is much harder."

"How do you know that?" Andy asked.

Silena blushed. "I'm not just a pretty face."

"Andy," Anthony said; he was looking at the shield. "You'd better see this."

The image showed Long Island Sound near La Guardia. A fleet of a dozen speedboats raced through the dark water toward Manhattan. Each boat a packed with demigods in full Greek armor.

"Scan the perimeter of the island," she said. "Quick."

Anthony shifted the scene south to the harbor. Staten Island Ferry was plowing trough the waves near Ellis Island. The deck was crowded with dracaenae and whole pack of hell-hounds. Swimming in front of the ship was a pod of telkhines.

The scene shifted again: the Jersey shore, right at the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. A hundred assorted monsters were marching past the lanes of stopped traffic: giants with clubs, rogue Cyclopes, a few fire-spitting dragons.

"What's happening to the other mortals?" Andy asked. "I mean, is the whole state asleep?"

Anthony frowned. "I don't think so, but it's strange. As far as I can tell from these pictures, Manhattan is totally asleep. Then there's like a fifty-mile radius around the island where time is running really, really slow. The closer you get to Manhattan, the slower it is."

"Kronos is slowing time."

"Hecate might be helping," Katie Gardner said.

"Somehow they've surrounded Manhattan in layers of magic," Anthony sounded really frustrated. "The outside world might not even realize something is wrong. Any mortals coming toward Manhattan will slow down so much they won't know what's happening."

"Like flies in amber," Jake Mason murmured.

Anthony nodded. "We shouldn't expect any help."

Andy turned to her friends, to their stunned, scared faces. "Alright, demigods. We're going to hold Manhattan."

Silena tugged at her armor. "Um, Andy, Manhattan is huge."

"And we're going to hold it. We have to."

"She's right," Anthony stood up. "The gods of the wind should keep Kronos's forces away from Olympus by air, so he'll try a ground assault. We have to cut off the entrances to the island."

"They've got boats," Michael Yew pointed out.

Andy almost smiled. "And you've got me."

Michael seemed confused. "How does that help us?"

Andy tried not to be offended. "Dude, child of land and sea? Try to keep up, Michael. We need to guard the bridges and tunnels. Let's assume they'll try a midtown or downtown assault, a least on their first try. That would be the most direct way here. So Michael, take Apollo's cabin to the Williamsburg Bridge. Katie, Demeter's cabin takes the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. Grow thorn bushes and poison ivy. Do whatever you need to do, but keep them out there. Connor, take half of Hermes's cabin and cover the Manhattan Bridge. Travis, you take the other half and cover Brooklyn Bridge. Silena, take the Aphrodite crew to the Queens – Midtown Tunnel." Andy closed her eyes trying to think of what she'd forgotten. "Um, the Holland Tunnel. Jake, take the Hephaestus cabin there. Use Greek fire, set traps. Whatever you've got. The 59th Street Bridge," she glanced at Anthony. "Athena?"

He nodded and turned to his siblings. "Malcolm, take the Athena cabin, activate plan twenty-three along the way, just like I showed you. Hold that position."

"You got it."

"I'll go with Andy," he added.

Somebody in the back of the group said, "No detours, you two." There were some giggles.

"Yeah, I'm gonna let that pass because I know you're all nervous," Andy said. "But the next one gets a smack on the ear."

Jake Mason cleared his throat. "I think you forgot the Lincoln Tunnel, Andy."

Andy swallowed a bad word. Then a girl's voice called: "How about you leave that to us?" The daughter of Zeus grinned. "The Hunters of Artemis, reporting for duty."

"Thank the gods," Anthony murmured as Thalia hugged him. "But if we don't blockade the rivers from those boats, guarding the bridges and tunnels will be pointless."

Andy glanced at all of them. "It's time, boys and girls. You are the greatest heroes of this millennium," she told them. "I know I said we didn't have a choice, that we have to do this. That's not true. Each one of you are here by choice. And when the enemy look at us, they will see that freedom. They will hear the ring of our swords and they will know what we can do! By the sweat of our brows, and the strength of our backs, and the courage of our hearts. Demigods," she raised Riptide in the air, "for Olympus!"

They shouted in response, and their voices echoed around the sleeping city.

On their way, Anthony decided to stop in the middle of East 23rd. He stood before a bronze statue of a dude sitting in a chair with his legs crossed.

"Why is..." Andy approached to see the name, "William H Seward important?"

"He was a New York governor," Anthony said. "Minor demigod – son of Hebe." He climbed on a park bench and examined the base of the statue.

"Don't tell me he's an automaton," Andy said.

Anthony smiled. "Turns out most of the statues in the city are automatons. Daedalus planted them here just in case he needed an army."

"To attack Olympus or defend it?"

Anthony shrugged. "Either one. That was plan twenty-three. He could activate one statue and it would start activating its brethren all over the city, until there was an army. It's dangerous, though. You know how unpredictable automatons are." He pressed the tip of Seward's boot, and the statue stood up. "Hello, William."

"Bill," Andy suggested.

"Shut up," Anthony asked her. "Uh... Governor Seward. Command sequence: Daedalus Twenty-three. Defend Manhattan. Begin Activation."

Seward jumped off his pedestal and went clanking off toward the east.

"He's not very polite," Andy said.

"He's probably going to wake Confucius," Anthony guessed.

"Do they know we're not the enemy?"

"I think so."

Then a ball of green light exploded in the evening sky, somewhere over the East River. "We need to hurry," Andy said.

"Perhaps you shouldn't go alone," Anthony said staring at the dark water.

"Uh, unless you can breath underwater, I don't think there's much you can do."

He sighed. "You are so annoying."

"No. I'm just right. Which must be an unpleasant surprise for you. Also I'll be fine. I've got the curse of Achilles. I'm invisible."

He crossed his arms, trying to keep his face serious. "I think you meant invincible."

"I meant to make you smile." Andy winked and jumped into the river. She tried to find the spot where the Hudson and the East River's currents seemed equal. There she shouted, "Hey! I heard you guys are so polluted you're embarrassed to show your faces. I heard the East River is more toxic, but the Hudson smells worse. Or is it the other way around?"

The water shimmered. Two giant forms appeared in front of her. The god of the East River said, "Are you trying to get yourself killed? Or are you just extra stupid?"

The spirit of the Hudson scoffed, "You're the expert on stupid, East."

"Watch it, Hudson," East growled. "Stay on your side of the island and mind your own business."

"Or what? You'll throw another garbage barge at me?"

"Hey!" Andy shouted. "We've got a bigger problem."

"The kid's right," East snarled. "Let's both killed her, then we'll fight each other."

"Sounds good," Hudson said. Before Andy could protest, scraps of garbage surged off the bottom and flew straight at her from both directions – broken glass, rocks, cans, tires. But the debris shattered against her skin.

The two river gods stared at her. "Took a dip in the Styx?" Hudson asked. Andy nodded. Both rivers made disgusted sounds.

"Well, that's perfect," East said. "Now, how do we kill her?"

"Listen to me," Andy said. "Kronos's army is invading Manhattan!"

"Don't you think we know that?" East asked.

"Then stop them," she pleaded. "Drown them. Sink their boats."

"Why should we?" Hudson grumbled.

"I can pay you," she said taking out a sand dollar from her pocket. It'd been a birthday gift from Poseidon. The river gods's eyes widened. She broke the sand dollar in half. "You each get half," she told them. "In exchange, you keep all of Kronos's forces away from Manhattan."

"Oh, man," Hudson whimpered. "It's been so long since I was clean."

"The power of Poseidon," East murmured. "The guy's a jerk, but he sure knows how to sweep pollution away."

They looked at each other and spoke as one: "Deal."

Andy gave them each a sand dollar half.

East flickered his hand. "Invaders just got sunk."

Hudson snapped his fingers. "Bunch of hell-hounds just took a dive."

"Thank you!" Andy said. "And stay clean!"

Back on shore, Anthony was looking pretty shaken. Andy was all wet, but he held her tight in his arms like he thought she'd never resurface again.

"All good," she said. "The rivers are safe."

"We've got other problems," he told her. "I just talked to Michael. Another army is marching over the Williamsburg Bridge. The Apollo cabin needs help. The Minotaur is leading the enemy."

An entire phalanx of dracaenae marched in the lead, their shields locked together, spear tips bristling over the top. The Apollo campers would hide behind cars and snipe at the approaching army, setting off explosive arrows, building fiery barricades. Hell-hounds leaped ahead of the line from time to time. Most were destroyed with arrows, but one got hold of an Apollo camper and dragged him away.

Michael Yew had a bandaged cut on his arm but he was smiling like he was having the greatest time. "Glad you could join us," he said. "Where are the other reinforcements?"

"For now, we're it," Andy said.

"Then we're dead," he said joyfully.

"Do you still have the flying chariot?" Anthony asked.

Michael shook his head. "Nah. Left it at camp. Told Clarisse she could have it. Whatever, you know? Not worth fighting about anymore. But she said it was too late. Look! Here come the uglies!" He drew an arrow and launched it toward the enemy. When it landed, it unleashed a blast. The nearest car exploded. A lot of monsters disintegrated. Others ran. Michael laughed maniacally, but the other monsters were still coming. "We need to fall back," he said. "I've got Kayla and Austin setting traps farther down the bridge."

"No," Andy said. "Bring your campers forward to this position and wait for my signal. We're going to drive the enemy back to Brooklyn."

"How do you plan to do that?"

Andy drew her sword. Anthony moved like he was ready to follow her, but Andy shook her head. "I need you to help Michael coordinate the defensive line. I'll distract the monsters. You group up here. Move the sleeping mortals out of the way. Then you can start picking off monsters while I keep them focused on me. If anybody can do all that, it's you."

Michael snorted. "Thanks a lot."

Andy glanced at him. "Oh, Michael. Get a girlfriend. She'll say nice things like that to you."

She focused back on Anthony who nodded reluctantly. "All right. Get moving."

"Don't I get a kiss for good luck?" she asked. "It's tradition!"

Anthony drew his knife and stared at the army marching toward them. "Find me, Seaweed Brain. And then I'll kiss you."

"Ha!" Michael laughed. "Too bad."

"Nobody asked you, Michael," Andy muttered. She walked up the bridge in plain sight, straight toward the enemy. The Minotaur was in the middle of the invading legion. When it saw her, his eyes burned with hatred. He bellowed to let her know he remembered all too well.

A few dracaenae threw flaming javelins at her. Andy knocked them aside. A hell-hound lunged and she stabbed it, mentally apologizing to Mrs O'Leary. More monsters surged forward – snakes and giants and telkhines – but the Minotaur roared at them, and they backed off. He unstrapped his axe and swung it around.

Andy raised her sword and sliced the axe in half like it was nothing. "Moo?" he grunted, uncertain. Andy spun and kicked him in the snout. He staggered backward, trying to regain his footing, then lowered his head to charge. He never got the chance though. Her sword flashed – slicing off one horn, then the other. The Minotaur tried to grab her, but Andy rolled away. He bellowed in rage. He charged and she ran for the edge of the bridge, pushing some dracaenae out of the way.

The Minotaur ran after her. Then Andy changed direction, jumped and stabbed her sword into his breastplate. He exploded in gold dust. Andy turned toward the rest of his army. It was now roughly one hundred and ninety-nine to one.

She spread her arms. "Who's next, you bitches?" None dared move. So Andy charged. She sliced through armor like it was made of paper. Snake women exploded. Hell-hounds melted to shadow. She slashed and stabbed and whirled, and she even laughed – a crazy laugh that scared her as much as it did her enemies.

The Apollo campers were behind her, shooting arrows, disrupting every attempt by the enemy to rally. Finally, the monsters turned and fled. Andy followed them with the Apollo campers at her heels.

"That's what I'm talking about!" yelled Michael Yew. They drove the monsters toward the Brooklyn side of the bridge.

"Andy!" Anthony yelled. "You've already routed them. Pull back! We're overextended!"

The monsters were running straight toward their reinforcements. Andy recognized the leader as Kronos himself. Anthony and the Apollo campers faltered. Kronos gazed in their direction. "Pull back!" Andy shouted. The Titan lord's men drew their swords and charged. "Retreat!" Andy commanded. "I'll hold them."

In a matter of seconds they were on her. Michael and his archers tried to retreat, but Anthony stayed behind with Andy, fighting with his knife and mirrored shield as they slowly backed up the bridge.

Kronos's cavalry swirled around them, slashing and yelling insults. Andy tried to wound his men, not kill, which slowed her down. But they were demigods, they were people, and she couldn't bring herself to kill them.

Andy stood shoulder to shoulder with Anthony. They'd almost made it to the middle of the bridge when it happened. Andy fell the knife approaching her weak spot. She was about to turn, but then Anthony was the one falling. Andy watched, stunned, puzzled. Her head spun. He couldn't have known... Nobody did.

She locked eyes with the enemy demigod: Ethan Nakamura. Why wasn't he dead yet? How had he survived? Why hadn't she killed him when she had the chance? Andy slammed him in the face with her sword hilt. "Stay back!" She slashed the air in a wide arc, driving the rest of the demigods away from Anthony.

Kronos smiled. He towered above her on his skeletal horse, his scythe in one hand. "Bravely fought, Andy Jackson," he said. "But it's time to surrender. Or the boy dies."

Anthony groaned something Andy didn't understand. The situation didn't seem to register in her head. His shirt was soaked with blood, blood so bright it twisted her stomach. What could she do?

It was Blackjack who came to the rescue. He swooped down and clamped his teeth on the straps of Anthony's armor. They soared away over the river before the enemy could even react.

Kronos dismounted. Andy was still a little dizzy but she met his first strike with Riptide. The impact shook the entire bridge, but Andy held her ground. Kronos's smile wavered. Andy kicked his legs from under him. His scythe skittered across the pavement. Andy stabbed downward, but Kronos rolled aside and regained his footing. His scythe flew back to his hands.

"You had the courage to visit the Styx," he studied her, looking mildly annoyed. "I had to pressure Luke in many ways to convince him. If only you had supplied my host body instead... No matter. I'm still more powerful. I am a Titan!" He struck the bridge with the butt of his scythe, and a wave of pure force blasted Andy backward. Even his own men were blown off the edge of the bridge.

Andy got to her feet. "Make the bridge collapse!" Michael Yew shouted. Andy looked down and saw the fissures in the pavement. It was all or nothing.

She stabbed Riptide into the bridge. The magic blade sank to its hilt in asphalt. Water shot from the crack. Andy pulled Riptide and the fissure grew. The bridge shook and began to crumble. Within a few seconds, a fifty-foot chasm opened between Andy and Kronos.

The Titan lord looked at the rising sun and smiled. "Until this evening, Jackson." He mounted his horse and led his army away.

Andy turned around to thank Michael but couldn't find him anywhere. She searched the wreckage, but he wasn't there.

Then Silena came running toward her. "Andy!" she yelled. "Come quickly! It's... It's Anthony!"

#andromeda #andy jackson #anthony chase #andony #child of land and sea #fanfic #genderbend #dfcrosas #walking on water #fem percy jackson

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