#THERE IS NO NEUTRAL STANCE WHEN YOU DAILY LIFE IS HELL

[juazz5ever]

i didnt see a father holding his child remains in plastic bags for yall tumblr little shits to tell me "um um, actually, kicking out the settlers would mean another genocide" SHUT THE FUCK UP!

#YALL ARE SO ANNOYING #THERE IS NO NEUTRAL STANCE WHEN YOU DAILY LIFE IS HELL #YOU GET FUCKING CHECKPOINTED BY THE ARMY FOR LEAVING FROM YOUR FRONT DOOR" YES 2 STEPS FROM THE DOOR #THEY WELDED HOMES FRONT DOOR SO FAMILIES CANT LEAVE. THEY LEAVE THROUGH THE ROOF #SETTLERS THROW TRASH AT PALESTINIANS HOMES AND ROCKS FOR LAUGHS #THEY SPIT AND KICK THEM JUST BY SEEING THEM #FUCK YOU #FUCK ALL OF YALL WHITE LIBERALS #THEY STEAL HOMES. PALESTINIAN HOMES AND CALL IT ISRAELI #if you zionists cant leave that home you stole and go back to your country. you will have your home in hell. all warm just for you

[phoenixyfriend]

The IzuTobi Prequel

Prequel to this post, which I’ve taken to calling the “Red Eyes = Spouse Material” AU.

WARNING: contains a reference to worries/fears of sexual coercion.

Like, okay, they did not know that Tobirama had red eyes at first. They weren't close enough on the river for Izuna to see, since he didn't have Sharingan yet, while Tajima and Madara were looking at their respective opponents, not Tobirama.

Then, once they were in their early teens, and Izuna already had his Sharingan, they met on the battlefield for the first time, and Izuna saw Tobirama's eyes. Sure, Tobirama wouldn't meet his gaze, but Izuna could still see him.

And Izuna, as is only natural, went to Madara to ask 'hey uhhhhhhhhh one of our enemies is actually Amaterasu-blessed, what do.'

And Madara's just like '!!!!!' because hey actually this is great news everybody knows that the first step upon meeting an unmarried stranger with red eyes is to figure out who the best person to court them is, they can get a marriage alliance out of this to end the bloodshed and child death! Even the Elders can't argue against having a clan marriage to an Amaterasu-blessed indivi--

They object.

Well, Tajima objects.

Madara and Izuna bring the issue to him, both pretty excited about doing the whole "arranged engagement in the early teens, actual marriage at twenty or so" thing as a way to stop killing kids but Nope! For a variety of reasons, most of which boil down on Tajima's side to "the Senju have killed three of my children, I have no interest in taking in one of their own," the plan is shot down.

Madara and Izuna are naturally devastated but keep an eye out for like. A chance. To slip the info to Tobirama or Hashirama so they're at least aware of the possibility for when Tajima dies, in case Butsuma is more open to it?

I can't decide if they actually manage to set up a Secret Meeting prior to their dads' deaths, but I'm leaning towards 'no.'

(In this plot, Izuna is still wary of the Senju, but much more open to the idea of peace on account of Auspicious Omens Are Here.)

Anyway, Tajima dies first, I think, and Madara's first act as Clan Head is to send Hashirama a request by hawk for a private meeting. Hashirama is still only heir, not Clan Head, but Butsuma is ill (infected wound, I think), so Hashirama has the option of accepting this.

They meet, and Madara explains that he can sway most of the clan into an alliance--not just an armistice, but an actual alliance, possibly even establish that village they talked about as kids--if they can marry Tobirama into the Uchiha.

"Does it have to be Tobirama?" Hashirama asks, because he's not the best brother, but he's good enough to know that Tobirama hates the idea of getting married.

"Yes," Madara says, and then explains that it's all in the eyes, that this is a deeply spiritual thing to the clan and while some of the more militant elders may object, most of the clan will take the red eyes as a sign that this is intended to happen.

And Hashirama is quiet, and then asks if a marriage would require Tobirama to sire any children.

"We're not going to try to steal a kekkei genkai."

"That's not it."

"...wait, does he prefer men? We can--we can make that happen. If it's... hell, in that case it might work better, he could marry me or Izuna, direct connection to the main house, skip the issue of heirs and--"

"No, that's not... not it. But it makes me feel better to know that. I'll have to run it past him."

Tobirama is VERY ace and Hashirama had strict plans to respect that so he's trying to feel out if consummation would be required, or if a kiss for the wedding and then cohabitation would be enough.

Internal logic is "I want peace but not at the expense of handing my brother over for coerced marital rape where he thinks he can't say no without restarting the war."

He manages to get the agreement that the Uchiha weren't looking to pressure Tobirama into any sex-related things, though Madara still thinks it's a matter of Bloodline Protection and that Hashirama is worried about, like, someone trying to steal surplus semen or something.

Hashirama goes home and outlines it to Tobirama, who is very ??? about the whole thing but willing to at least consider it after Hashirama explains the basic requirements and how he confirmed that sexual relations aren't necessary. Hashirama floats it past Butsuma as a Theoretical Exercise, and is shot down.

So, Hashirama sends Madara a letter to the effect of "Our esteemed Clan Head says no, but we'll keep it in mind [insert veiled implication that Butsuma's dying anyway here]."

Madara and Hashirama have always kinda held back against each other, but now Tobirama and Izuna are also holding back the teensiest bit, just enough that nobody can be sure (and tell Butsuma or and Elder about it).

Well, Touka notices, but her first resort is "ask Tobirama to his face" and second resort is "bother Hashirama about it" so she gets the rundown on how Madara and Izuna are angling to get a political marriage with Tobirama since his eyes are Apparently a spiritual matter to the Uchiha as a whole.

Obviously, Butsuma dies, and Hashirama then immediately sends Madara a letter like "HEY so I'm Clan Head now, here's a nice inn located in neutral territory, bring your brother and an advisor, I'll do the same, let's hammer out a contract ASAP."

So it's Hashirama, Tobirama, and Touka on one side, Madara, Izuna, and Hikaku on the other.

Tobirama explains that he refuses to engage in sexual relations with anyone he marries (internally he's thinking that he might eventually take interest if he gets comfortable enough, but overall the entire concept is a little disgusting to him, and he doesn't want anyone to think they can convince him to do it, so he takes a hardline stance during the marriage contract negotiation process), but is open to his marriage partner engaging in an extramarital affair for a period of time in order to secure an heir.

"I promise we're not trying to steal your--" "Madara. Look at me. I do not like sex, and have never had any intention to engage in the activity with anyone, Uchiha or Senju or any clan at all. I had no plans for marriage, ever. The only reason I am opening myself to this one is because I value the opportunity for peace." "...oh."

So, you know, that's out in the open now, but it actually makes it easier to negotiate because they now know why he's uncomfortable with the idea of marriage, so other things (like the cohabitation and dowry and whatnot) can be discussed without people getting resentful about the other party not trusting them with genetic material. Hashirama and Madara get really excited about the whole village idea again, in part because Hashirama wants his brother to be able to visit Really Easily.

At one point they ask Tobirama who he wants to marry, if there's anyone he's interested in? Male or female? What ages is he comfortable with? Main line would be most politically expedient, but--

And he's just like "I know Izuna best, as my rival, and I've taken note of enough recently to know he's not a terrible person, at least as far as any shinobi can be 'good.' If Izuna is open to it, then I would like to discuss what cohabitation would look like between us. Should our expectations of daily life line up well enough, then I imagine that would be optimal."

Izuna's torn, because Amaterasu-blessed, but also he'd kind of been hoping for a Real Marriage with Affection and Children. Touka loudly suggests they take a recess and let Tobirama and Izuna talk in private for a bit.

Izuna manages to get across his personal worries, and Tobirama laughs and says that he actually loves children and was planning to take on plenty of students. "If you don't like the option of the extramarital affair for a child, we could always adopt. As for affection... I've been told I cling like an eel in my sleep, if that suggests anything."

"So if I grew enough feelings that I wanted, like... a good morning kiss or something..." "Quite frankly, my feelings on kissing in general are pretty neutral. It's a little strange, but I could engage with it, once a rapport is built. Heavy petting is distasteful, however, and anything past that..."

And Izuna listens to all that like "Oh. Okay, I will be able to Acquire Cuddles."

Then they discuss the whole 'what do we anticipate out of cohabitation' thing, like pets and cleanliness standards and what spare rooms are for and what goes on in the basement and allergies. It matches up... not perfectly, really, but close enough that they can make it work. They shake hands like the nerds they are and call their families back in and say they've decided it'll work so let's get that paperwork drawn up and start planning a wedding.

Aaaaaaaaaaand then Zetsu kills Izuna and convinces Madara that it was Tobirama's fault so he loses the plot (or, well, finds the canon plot, really).

I'm happy to imagine Tobirama and Izuna on a couch in their house, Izuna halfway asleep and leaning his head on Tobirama's shoulder, while Tobirama's got on a pair of glasses and is reading a book.

Just. Really domestic.

Cutesy.

IDK I feel like they just end up as pleasant roommates who don't necessarily ignore each other, but are well aware of the fact that they entered into this arrangement with non-romance expectations, and they're both okay with that.

They take dinner together, talk shop, try to engage with each other's hobbies, go to events as each other's default plus-one...

It’s Nice

#IzuTobi #Uchiha Izuna #Senju Tobirama #Izuna Uchiha #Tobirama Senju #Uchiha Madara #Senju Hashirama #Senju Touka #Naruto #Naruto Oldies #Founders Era #Phoenix Posts

[thewondersofsmut]

The Bodyguard Trainer

Summary: After the devastating night of your mission, you opted for a less-life threatening job but something changed when you were met with your batch. 

Pairings: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Warnings: language, past traumatizing event, loss, angst, smut

Word Count: 4350

Author’s Note: This was supposed to be a series but I wanted to just make it into one huge story, hence the word count! Here’s another ABO fic, hope you guys like it!

“As your trainer, it’s my job to make you break.” You started. You watched them, either knowing how it is, or not knowing at all. “After all, this job you signed up for isn’t rainbows and butterflies.” You added. “You will all be protecting someone, clients, not just yourself. You are their shield in times of need.” You watched these men, Alphas and Betas, clench their jaw. “Being a personal bodyguard isn’t just being physically able to defend your client but also mentally and psychologically be prepared for the ultimate worst.” You continued. 

“My name is (y/n), I will primarily be your physical trainer and my colleagues will be training you with armory.” You said. “And hopefully, you are deemed prepared to protect your client and yourself after this whole training.” You said. And they nodded. “Any questions so far?” You asked. 

“When do we get to the weapons?” Asked this guy, 6 foot 2, at least twice your mass, the scent of an Alpha. You smirked, it was always a question with each new batch of trainees. “Of course,” You chuckled. “Arms and other weapon training will be after you pass the physical endurance test, obviously after your physical training.” You answered. “So what’s in the test?” This other one asked. “Good question.” You said, almost giving them evil eyes. “Couple of course runs, sparring, and most importantly, actually getting me and the other instructors on ground successfully.” You answered. 

The guy raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Step up, would you?” You said and he went towards you. He was nearly a foot over your head and he definitely covered your frame from the others behind him. “Mike, right?” You asked, learning their names. You placed your right leg back and grounded it and he did the same, lifting your arms in a boxing stance. You circled him and he eyed you. He throws the first punch and you veered left grabbing his upper right arm. You clamped your legs on his left leg and threw yourself down, him following towards the empty spot on your right. You tipped him until he was face down, him grunting under you, his arm was behind him and the other trying to grab you. 

You gently placed a knee on his back whilst holding down his arm. “First rule, never be cocky.” You said, smirking as he squirmed from under you. They didn’t know you were an omega, you had suppressants and you present yourself to them as an Alpha, even with your small frame. You looked up and you caught the eye of this guy, dirty blonde hair, pink lips in a smirk, green eyes smiling like his lips. It almost took your breath away, quite literally, his scent evading your thoughts. You pulled away and helped Mike up. He rubbed the back of his neck and you heard a small applause from the rest, giving them a curtsy. “He covered your frame, head to toe, how was that possible.” The guy said as you met his bright green eyes, eyeing you somewhat suspiciously. 

“Ex marine raider, special forces.” You said and they eyes went wide. “Was also a drill Sargent for two years before that.” You added. Wow. Was what inaudibly came out of his mouth as you watched him, not that you were specifically looking at his lips move, you wondered how those feel— 

You tear your gaze away from him and brought everyone’s attention. “Now that my identity is out there,” You joked, earning a few laughs. “Shall we begin our training?” “Yes, ma’am!” They all replied and you chuckled. 

You needed a partner to spar with, to show the rest of the trainees how to block and throw a punch. No one wanted to volunteer at first, not even Mike. Then Dean, the shorter Winchester out of the two, stepped up. His brother raised his eyebrows. “Be nice to my brother, (y/n).” Sam joked and Dean gave him a bitch face. 

You giggled as well as the others but nodded nonetheless. “Let start with a basic stance, then taking turns, each of you will thrown a jab, uppercut, left, and right hook.” You said, your attention to locked the older Winchester. You momentarily saw him glance down your talking lips, his tongue darting out to lick his. “Understood?” You asked and looked away. “Yes, ma’am!” Everyone got a partner. “Do I get extra credit by being teacher’s partner?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow,. You chuckled. “Maybe if you’ll keep it up you will.” You said. You weren’t one to flirt, if that’s even what this interaction is. 

You continued to spar with Dean. You kept your guard down and let Dean win, which you announced beforehand. Apart from daily bag punches, the pull ups, you noticed how his muscle rippled under his shirt you wonder how his chest will look— “You smell different,” He started, staring you down with curiosity. “Like’s there more to you.” 

You watched Dean’s moves, intently, and just as you guessed his next, there were some that surprised you that he would use. You saw his opportunity and gave it to him. You both landed with a soft thud, his body above you. “There’s something about you that I want to know.” He said, eyes boring into yours, his breath fanning over your face. You chuckled. “There’s nothing special bought me.” You said before realizing, you were leading him on but you kept a neutral face so he wouldn’t see the panic. 

“I think I deserve extra credit for that one.” He said. “Remember rule one?” You asked and before he can respond, you had flipped the both of you earning a grunt from him. “And what would Dean Winchester want as extra credit?” You asked, raising an eyebrow, helping him up. You were so glad your training area is huge and most people are far from earshot, apart from the occasional grunts and groans. “You.” He simply said, looking down at you, before heading to the break area. What was that supposed to mean?

“You.”

It rang in your head the whole entire day up until you left the training room. “Earth to (y/n)?” Fingers were snapped on your face. You looked at Benny, one of your instructors and closest friend. “You’ve never had that face since—“ You gave him a sad smile that he knew he wouldn’t push. “Are you okay? We haven’t had that much Alphas in one batch.” The Alpha said. “Nothing that I haven’t experienced before.” You nodded and went back inside when you decided to stay, heading to the bag room and began punching. 

“You’ve been at it for 45 minutes.” You spun around. “Why the hell are you still here?” You asked. “I forgot something but when I heard you, thought you might need company with your distressed scent.” He answered. “You’re bleeding.” He said, walking closer and seeing your fists. You looked down at your hands and sighed, the bandage loosened. “Need help?” He asked. “I’m okay. Why’d you stay, Dean?” You asked, turning around to the table to aid your wound. “Are you upset about what I said awhile ago?” He asked. You shook your head. “I like to train too that’s why I’m here.” You said.

You felt the heat of his hand close to your back and you breathed deeply as his finger ran over your mark. He moved his hand quickly and you sighed. “I’m sorry, that was crossing the line.” He said and you turned around. He started to move back, as if giving you space. “You’re claimed—sorry, I didn’t—“ He stammered. “Was.” You cut off his ranting. He knitted his eyebrows. He hadn’t suspected that you’re an Omega, considering nowadays, omegas claim their Alphas.  

“Dean, what do you see in me?” You asked, seemingly sounding vulnerable. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re obviously beautiful and your scent just—it drove me nuts.” He said. “Dean, I’m damaged goods.” You said. He knitted his eyebrows, clenching his jaw. “You definitely are more damaged than me but that doesn’t make you damaged goods.” He replied, the Alpha in him coming out with this sense of protectiveness. “But if you don’t feel the same way I do, I’ll back off.” He said. “I do.” You found yourself mumbling. 

“Alright,” You started, the day good as it can ever get. You loved training outside. “Let’s start the course easy, finish it as fast as you can and throughout the day, I want you to beat it, at least once, understood?” “Yes, ma’am!” They scrambled as your ‘Alpha’ senses overpowered. You left the guys alone and you grabbed a water bottle. “(Y/n), someone’s here to talk to us.” Benny said, running to get you. You saw Commander Novak. Your expression was hard and unreadable even in the presence of an Alpha like him. “It’s nice to see you again, (y/l/n).” He said. “Whatever this is, I am done, and I’m not coming back.” You said, starting to walk away. 

“Crowley’s whereabouts is found.” He said. You clenched your jaw. “I don’t care.” You said. “I told you, she wont talk.” You heard Benny say before heading towards the group of people waiting for your instruction. 

You directed the men to their next training and sighed as you got a whiff of Novak. “You’re still here?” You asked through gritted teeth. “If you finish this mission, it will certainly be the last.” Your anger boiled over and you punched the table below you, almost splitting it in half. Novak didn’t flinch just as you suspected an Alpha like him wouldn’t. “I think that’s enough. Commander Novak, will all due respect, (y/n) and I lost our men and we won’t endure that again, it’s best you form a new team.” Benny said, escorting him off the grounds. “Ketch, please finish up with them.” You said as you passed by him. 

It hasn’t been a good day, and Novak appearing out of nowhere and asking you to come back was well to top it off. Heck you broke a table. “I’m sorry, (y/n), I tried my best to stop him from even entering.” Benny said as you both closed up for the day. “He was asking for too much.” He added. “It wasn’t your fault.” “Omega, he was talking about our unit, I know how painful it is.” He said, making sure no one was around to hear him. You sighed and nodded.

Dean’s POV

Everyone heard the distinct crack of wood and looking behind me, (y/n) was storming out of the grounds. Before Ketch notices, I was gone, I followed her. It was probably stepping my boundaries, but above all, I wanted to be there for her. It physically strained me when I caught her distressed scent, not one something I would even get from an Alpha. Who ever that guy was, brought nothing but bad news to her. I didn’t know where she went but after hearing the soft ring of gunshots, I knew she’d be somewhere in the range room. I didn’t want to startle her, if that was even possible, by closing the door a little louder. I saw her head tilt the slightest towards my direction.

I looked at her target and it had at least 5 right on the head and three on the chest, not missing any. “You should’t be in here, Dean, and you should be training.” She said, placing her gun down. I placed a hand on her shoulder and she sighed, slumping down. She unloaded her gun and instinctively backed up into me. “I thought you might want someone to talk to.” I said, watching her closely, inhaling her scent. 

A few seconds passed and I caught it. “You’re an omega.” I stated, barely a whisper, 

I wasn’t sure I said it. Her eyes slightly widened but her demeanor remained authoritative.

“And that doesn’t change the fact that I am your trainer and I don’t care if you’re an Alpha.” She replied. “And that—the way you talk, how you show yourself, is what caught my attention, aside from just how good you smelled.” I continued but not once showing some sort of hierarchy towards her. 

Your POV

His eyes darkened yet his features remained calm and collected, even his whole structure was. No Alpha that you didn’t know allowed you to boss them, especially not in this line of work, hence the suppressants. You obviously caught his scent, how it almost knocked you out with how good he smelled, you were attracted to him the way you were attracted to your late Alpha mate. 

“I just couldn’t help but get closer to you, (y/n), I’m drawn to you. But it will only be with your permission, but I’d be really great if I took you out.” He said. Your eyes glimmered with playfulness at that statement. “Like with a sniper or a date?” You joked. His green pools lightened, joy filling your chest as you saw him this lightness. “I think the latter is favorable.” He said, stepping closer. 

You drew in a breath, he somehow intoxicated you in a way you used to feel but it felt stronger, same yet different. 

“I’d love to.”

He had picked you up from your house about 2 hours later, you sighed and looked at yourself from the mirror, Am I ready? You asked yourself, it was rather, was your heart ready. Your thoughts were cut off by knocking on the door. You opened it and inhaling his scent instantly made butterflies go off in your stomach. His body was rigid and somewhat on the edge. “Come in.” You said and he nodded, stepping inside your humble home. 

“You didn’t use suppressants.” He said and you bit your lip. “No need to, right?” You asked and he nodded. To him, you looked so much more vulnerable but knew you weren’t, not at all. He breathed you in, feeling his body shudder with your presence. “Would you like to go now?” He asked and you shook your head, feeling it was a little bit too early. “Would you like something to drink?” You asked and he nodded and you prepared some coffee. 

You came back to see him looking at the framed photos on the wall. “We were in the same unit.” You whispered.  Dean turned at you, eyes soft. “You lost your Alpha there.” He said and you nodded, instinctively placing your hand where your faded mark was. You felt tears prick the sides of your eyes. He turned to you, cupping your cheek and wiping the stray tear you didn’t feel come down. 

“I couldn’t imagine the pain you’ve gone through, not only losing people but also losing your Alpha.” He said as he sipped his drink. “It was tough, it made me tougher.” You replied and he nodded. After finishing your drinks you stood up. “We don’t have to go today, you’re in distress.” He softly said and you smiled, shaking your head. “I’d want to.” You said, your tone giving him the unnecessary push. 

You smiled as a lovely lady took your orders. “This diner is nice.” You said, looking at your surroundings, mostly Betas and a couple of Omegas, and the lovely owner was a nice old lady, an Alpha, in fact. “I used to go here a long time ago with my family.” He said and you looked at him. “Then my mother died when I was 14, my father went to war a few years later. He—he never came back.” He continued. You sighed, understanding his loss. “It was me and Sammy from then on.” “You should be proud of yourself, you raised him well.” You said, reaching your hand to hold his.

He looked up and gave you a small smile, “I am.” Cradling your hand into his, feeling how soft, yet rough on the edges he was. “You built yourself up considering,” “That I’m an Omega?” You finished for him, he replied with his apologetic look. “My father was a colonel and my mother is major, and she’s an Omega too. It wasn’t hard to trust that their only Omega daughter would get up to the test.” You replied. He was in awe. “My mother despises and punishes whoever looks down upon an Omega. She’s just as strong as my Alpha father.” You said and he nodded. 

“I’m really enjoying my time with you, ‘Mega.” He said, mostly thinking to himself. “You too, Alpha.” You replied with a smile. Not realizing you can actually hear him he froze, looking up. “I—uh, didn’t mean to—“ 

The doors of the diner were roughly opened, and a few people screamed in shock as four men entered.

“Hands up! Nobody move!” 

You looked at Dean as you grabbed something in your bag, while the first guy looked behind him to his little friends, you tumbled from the seat to the floor and shot the first guy with a tranquilizer, his body slamming to the ground fast. You got up and punched the second guy, kicking his leg until he fell but the third guy pounced towards you, “Little Omega trying to pick a fight.” He grunted with a sinister smile, ready to tackle you down, whiffing your scent. You aimed your gun at the guy you had just kicked and shot him on the thigh. You ducked and spun around until you kicked the third guy down and immediately shooting him. The fourth guy grabbed your body, lifting you up, making you groan. You focused all your weight on your body and slammed down, taking the guy with you. You threw your head back, butting his head and shooting him on his stomach. 

You rolled yourself up, dusting your pants, it took you approximately 4 minutes and 35 seconds to get these guys down. Everyone was staring at you and the distinct noise of the siren and red and blue flashing lights in the background made you feel almost like a vigilante superhero. The cops talked to you and the owner of the diner thanked you profusely. You got out and leaned against Dean’s car, watching the police carry 4 robbers that you shot a paralyzing tranquilizers at. “I was hoping for less action tonight.” You commented, chuckling. 

“Well, I was hoping for more action tonight.” He joked, smirking at you. You chuckled, looking down at your feet, feeling your cheeks heat up almost instantly. You felt his fingers on your chin as he brought your face up to look at him. “Can you be anymore badass than that, ‘Mega?” Dean asked. You smiled but shook your head. “I just acted on instinct.” You said, eyes lingering towards his lips rather than his eyes, somehow his calm and protective smell was lingering on you. 

Suddenly, his lips were against yours, your eyes closing, leaning up, letting yourself get engulfed in your own little bubble. Dean pulled away and you looked directly into his eyes, a darker shade of green illuminated by the light. “I acted on instinct.” He whispered, biting his lower lip. He pressed you against his car, gasping as you felt the bulge hit your hip. “Fuck, Omega.” He muttered as he kissed you. “Alpha, let’s go?” You asked as the want—need started dropping down to your core, aroused by the moment and he growled, his body stiffening. 

You unlocked your door, feeling his breath against your neck as he trailed kisses, making you shudder in response. You closed your eyes, trying to concentrate. When the door was finally closed behind you, you turned around, pinning him against the door, kissing him. Dean chuckled, holding your hips. “‘Mega, gotta keep that guard down.” He said, kissing your cheek. He grabbed your thighs and lifted you up, making you yelp. 

He moved to the bedroom and slowly let you down, continuing to kiss you passionately. Dean placed your hands above your head pinning you down, your body arching up to him and he wrapped his other arm around your waist. “Dean,” You moaned. “What do you want, (y/n)?” He asked, looking deeply into your eyes. “You.” You replied. He tugged at the hem of your shirt, sliding it off your upper body then he started to undo your pants, sliding it off easily. 

“Want to see you too, Dean.” You shyly said and he nodded, lifting his shirt above his head. You were damn right about his chest. You didn’t even notice your hand trailing along his defined muscles. He breathed, rippling them. You unbuttoned his jeans and he kicked it off. “You’re gorgeous, Alpha.” You mumbled and he chuckled, grinding his body to you until he met your face, kissing you. “Let me be in control.” He said. 

You felt his hot lips on your neck, your collarbone, and then he had one breast in his mouth, the other being cherished by his soft hand. You were getting wetter, needing friction in between your legs with the way you were moving your thighs together. He moved his hand to part your legs. “Open them up, ‘Mega.” He groaned. The tone in his voice made you snap them open. “Fuck, Dean.” You moaned, eyes closing. He drew circles over your cloth covered core. Your pussy clenched wanting more from his naughty fingers. 

“Please, Alpha.” 

He smirked and pulled your underwear down and unclasping your bra off. He moved your legs up, kissing your inner thighs. “Fuck, that’s—“ You barely whispered before he delved right in. He attached his lips to your clit, sucking slightly. You instinctively closed your thighs and he hummed, sending vibrations up your body. He looked up, raising an eyebrow. “I said keep them open didn’t I?” He said and you slowly nodded. “Do I need to punish you, Omega?” He asked and you smiled small, shaking your head. 

“Good girl.” He murmured and if he didn’t see you shiver, lips parting. He smirked and licked through your folds, sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue. You couldn’t handle it. Your hands were on his hair, pulling him closed if that was possible. He moaned against you and before you can warn him, your walls clenched, coming apart. “Fuck, Alpha—shit.” You almost screamed. He lapped your pussy like it was the last thing he can have, riding your orgasm as it lasted for god knows how long. 

But before you can get over your high, he thrusts a finger in, a second following right after. He pumped his fingers in and out of you, various noises leaving your parted mouth. Your hands flew to your sides, gripping the sheets in your fists as you hips started to move on its own, you orgasm wanting to get released. You eyes were shut as you felt yourself uncoiling. “Dean—jesus, fuck!” You screamed as you came, your legs shaking. 

His smug face came into view, kissing you up your stomach until he was kissing your lips, making you taste yourself. “You’re very tasty, ‘Mega.” He whispered, his eyes dark and lustful, it wasn’t hard to notice his cock hitting your thigh either. “Fuck me please, Dean. Please, Alpha.” You begged, getting aroused as he looked at you like the true Alpha that he is. He lifted himself up, grabbing your legs to rest right against his chest. 

You felt the tip of his cock enter you. You didn’t even get to touch his guy down there. Without warning, he thrusts into you. “God, (y/n), taking my cock so well.” He groaned. You yelped and your body shuddered. “Your pussy’s so tight around my cock.” He mumbled as he pulled his hips back before slamming back in again.

He set out a vigorous pace, profanities and moans leaving each of your mouths. His hips clicking into rhythm as you moved yours with him. 

“Fuck, (y/n), gunna make me come like that, sweetheart.” 

His hips started to falter as your walls clenched around his cock, getting close to your third orgasm for the night. You moved your fingers to your clit, rubbing just as fast as cock delved into you. You groaned. “Dean, gunna come—please, Alpha.” You moaned. “Fuck—fuck, (y/n), I won’t be able to stop myself.” He said, looking directly into your eyes. “Don’t stop, Alpha, want your knot.” You almost begged. “Fuck, ‘Mega.” He grunted and you can feel the swell on the base of his cock as he knotted you. You instinctively moved your head to the side and his instincts kicked in delving in and biting right beside your mark, claiming you. 

You reached forward opposite of him and bit down between his neck and shoulder, his cock spilling into you as you claimed him, your new Alpha. 

You let your legs fall to either side of him and he kissed you softly, both of you deeply sated. Your body hummed as your orgasm waved, your marks tingling on your shoulder, shaking as you two came down from your blissful high from pleasure. . When his swelling went down, he stood up, getting a damp cloth from your bathroom and helped you clean up. 

He climbed into bed right after, grabbing the covers from the floor to cover you both up, pulling your warm naked body against his. He kissed where his mark was placed and you sighed deeply, sinking yourself into his embrace. “My Omega.” He whispered and you smiled. “My Alpha.” You replied and he tightened his hold. 

“Thank you for saving me tonight.” Dean murmured after awhile. You giggled. “Am I your knight in shining armor?” You joked. He chuckled and you felt him nod. “I’m surprised no one has claimed you.” He said and you turned your body to look at him, him whining at the loss of your heat. “You thought I was an Alpha and if I didn’t use suppressants, they see my mark and back off. Not a lot of people knew my old Alpha was gone, that bond broke.” You answered and he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “I promise to live up to him.” Dean said, caressing your cheek. 

“You already are, Alpha.”

Taglist:

@andkatiethings @kpoplover1306xdepressedgirl315 @sallyp-53  @ilovefanfic86 @deviljoonie @incorrect-quoted @malindacath @aunty-peggy @adoptdontshoppets @brindz30 @myloveofdean @miss-kristendior 

#dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #alpha!dean x omega!reader #dean winchester #alpha!dean #alpha!dean winchester #alpha!dean smut #dean smut #dean winchester smut #alpha!dean winchester smut #dean winchester fanfic #dean fanfic #alpha!dean fanfic #ABO #ABO fanfic #ABO smut #spn fanfic #spn smut #spn fanfiction

[missbrightsky]

On My Honor

Fics Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Chapter 10: Feyre

“Farther,” Captain Knight commanded. I struggled to obey, pulling my strained arm back even more, taking a slow, steadying breath to line up the target.

“Release.”

I let the arrow fly, straight and true. It thunked on the distant target, just a hair shy of a bullseye.

“Good,” he praised, clapping me on the shoulder. I gave Captain Knight a small nod before rolling my shoulder. The past week and a half of training had been hard on my body. Hard on everyone beneath Tamlin’s command. Every day we woke up at dawn for that dreaded five-mile run and every night I fell into my bedroll, too exhausted to worry about anyone discovering I was a woman.

But, every day that five-mile run was a little bit easier and every day I relaxed a little more as no one looked too closely at my woman’s face masquerading as a boyish one. Alex and I had continued to bond with each other in this first ring of hell along with the others. Morning, noon and night, we ate, trained and bitched with and about each other and Tamlin (or Lieutenant Tool as some of us had started calling him when he wasn’t around). We knew what waited for us at the front, but the thoughts were eased by comradery.

It has now been just over two weeks since I left home, two weeks since I cut my hair and changed my name and left my family. Left my sisters behind to save my father from a bloody death. To trade his life with my own.

I returned to the small group behind me. Cassian’s hand-picked archers from the recruits. For what purpose, he hasn’t told us yet, but every day after lunch we got excused from our lieutenants’ trainings to work with him.

How I got here? I’m not really sure.

After formation on that first day, Captain Knight asked the lieutenants to send all recruits that had a decent aim to him. Judging by the look Tamlin’s face, he didn’t like Cassian or his order very much but sent me and Adam along with about thirty others from the other lieutenants.

He had us shooting arrows for almost two hours, walking back and forth with a critical eye.

The sweating and trembling I did that afternoon had little to do with the heat or that morning’s exertion. A man like Cassian didn’t get to where he was by not noticing the tiniest of details. I should have been executed on the spot by the firing squad he had assembled.

Instead, I had been picked to be in the group of archers that he now trains every day.

Had I been a smarter woman, I would have failed the test and gone back to basic training, no more worries about Cassian figuring out that she didn’t belong here. But something in my chest tugged me forward, tugged me to pull back that string a little more, to aim a little more carefully before letting the arrow fly.

So here I was, getting instruction and praise from one of the most well-known captains in Prythian.

Adam finished his turn taking aim, returning to my side. He still didn’t say much, but we got along fine. Tamlin wasn’t too happy that every afternoon, he lost two soldiers to Cassian, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Cassian paced up and down in front of us, examining the targets that now bristled with arrows before facing us again. “Good job men,” I held back my wince at the m-word, “You have made steady progress in archery. I’m sure you all have been wondering why I assembled this group.” Murmurs broke out, confirming that we were indeed curious about why the captain had chosen us. Cassian waited for them to stop, “I can’t tell you much right now, but when we get to the front, I will be handing out special assignments when necessary.”

My heart picked up into a stuttering race. Not only had I managed to get myself personal instruction from a decorated captain, but now I would be going on special assignments. Certainly, the gods were looking down on me and laughing.

“That’s all for today, go find your lieutenants.”

We dispersed, Adam and I weaving a path back to where our group would be. We were nearing the entrance to the camp when thundering hooves filled the air. Two men and a woman rode in, barely checking their pace as they passed the front row of tents.

Adam and I edged out of the way, curious as to whom would ride in so recklessly but also not wanting to get trampled. I eyed the trio from the corner of my eye, trying not to look too interested. Both men were broad-shouldered and clothed in black. One in more formal clothing while the other looked like armor. The woman had golden hair tied back in a braid that had started to come apart. With a start, I realized that she was not wearing a dress, but instead had on a billowy pair of pants, highly uncommon for current styles. It appeared this woman didn’t care what others thought of her.

“Rhys! Az! Mor!” a familiar voice shouted behind me, Cassian’s. Holy gods… General Rhysand Knight. Captain Azriel Knight. The famed healer, Morrigan Solis.

“We weren’t expecting you for another two days!” Cassian continued while I had a minor aneurysm about who just came to our camp. Adam and I continued to slowly edge away, our curiosity piqued.

“We rode like hell just because we missed your face so much,” the black-haired one, Rhysand, if the stories were right, teased. So casual for those who lead the army.

“Awww, you flatter me,” the brothers clapped arms and Cas embraced Morrigan. “I believe you promised me a sparring match,” Rhysand said, looking around for someone. He spotted Adam and I, giving us a small nod of acknowledgment. Against my will, I blushed and ducked my head, hoping that the general took it as a sign of respect from a nervous recruit being recognized by a higher-up and not of a young lady getting attention from a handsome soldier. Because he was handsome. And dangerous. No one else in the camp seemed to have noticed that not everything was what it seemed but certainly the general, or his fucking spymaster, would take notice.

I fully turned away at this point, making haste back to our training area. Adam shot me a confused look but followed without question.

“Archeron! Haywood!” Shit shit shit shit. We turned, snapping to attention at the command in Cassian’s voice. As the group neared, I tried to keep my eyes from the general, but they were determined to betray me. The closer he got, I was able to pick out more of his features, each more attractive than the last. High cheekbones and full lips that were a gift from the Cauldron. Deep, blue eyes that bordered on violet assessed us, them lingering on me for longer. Fuuuuuck.

“General Knight is in the sparring mood, what are the chances that your lieutenant would oblige him?”

Fear made me a fool, causing me to blurt out, “Low, sir, if he hasn’t eaten recently.” I’m so fucked.

Cassian barked out a loud laugh, followed by Rhysand and cackling from Morrigan. Azriel only cracked a small smile, but rumor had it that very few could accomplish even that. Lucky me.

Rhysand was the one to respond to me, “Perfect, lead the way soldier.” He gestured to go on. Gods, even his voice is beautiful, smooth and deep.

GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, I mentally yelled at myself. I was here to fight in a war, not faun over handsome generals.

I turned on my heel, cursing my big mouth and small brain. I prayed to the gods that this would be the first, and last, interaction with them.

The walk to the training area was mercifully short, where Tamlin had paired off the recruits for hand-to-hand drills. And true to my prediction, he looked grumpier than ever, his frown turning to a downright scowl at the sights of our group.

“Soldiers, salute!” Tamlin called out, all of the men stopping to turn to the general.

“At ease,” Rhysand said, him zeroing in on Tamlin. Something like amusement flickered in his face, quickly wiped away the calm mask of a general. “Lieutenant Verdant, how goes training?”

Tamlin had schooled his face into a careful expression of neutrality, “Good, General Knight.” No extra words, no hint of deference. Had I known any better, I would say that Tamlin bordered on insubordination.

Rhysand scanned the crowd, nodding to himself. “I saw that you were working on hand-to-hand combat, how about we give your soldiers a little demonstration.”

Tamlin hesitated, something we had never seen from him. General Knight was the leader of this army, but Tamlin trained on a daily basis. The other soldiers tried not to look too interested in his reaction, most probably silently hoping to see their torturer suffer a little. “We’re almost done for the day…” he trailed off. An outright lie, I knew we had at least another two hours of training. When he saw the combined look of Cassian and Rhysand, he yielded.

Without instruction, me and the other recruits cleared out, allowing for a wide ring to take shape.  I ended up facing away from Rhysand where he turned to say a few words to the others, causing them to stifle laughs. A few moments later, he walked into the ring.

Without a shirt on.

I forced my eyes forward, demanding that this time they not wander over the curves and lines of muscles that were practically an artwork.

I was close enough to Tamlin to hear him mutter, “I’ll spar with you, pretty boy, and I’ll do it with my shirt on.”

I bit my lip to stop the laugh that threatened to bubble out of me. I didn’t feel up to the extra miles Tamlin would make me run if he heard me.

He strode into the ring, taking up a defensive stance.

“My money’s on the general,” Alex whispered in my ear. I had been so distracted by the general, that I hadn’t even noticed him standing beside me. I only shot a warning glace Alex’s way, but he had already turned back to the two men now circling each other.

For the past week, we had seen, and experienced, Tamlin’s moves. Despite being a swaggering prick, he clearly had the skills for the rank he earned.

The two men started to circle each other, each moving with their own fluidity. Rhysand angled his head, beckoning for Tamlin to make the first move. He obliged, exploding forward with a swiftness that we had yet to see.

Too fast for our untrained eyes to follow, a flurry of moves occurred before the men jumped back again.

Cassian let out a howl of laugher, “Are you a bit rusty, Tamlin? Don’t tell me the recruits have dulled down your edges.” Tamlin clenched his jaw, wincing with the movement. It seemed that Rhysand had managed to land some blows.

Rhysand��s back was to me, I was unable to see his response, but his body remained fluid and relaxed, almost as if he was teasing Tamlin.

This time, I knew what speed to expect the attacks and was able to follow along better this time. Rhysand took the offense this time, leaping forward with a sweep of the leg. Tamlin saw the move as it came for him, causing him to shift back to avoid the leg. Rhysand, however, expected this of him and used the momentum to punch his opposite arm forward to where Tamlin now exposed his shoulder. The impact of flesh on flesh was clear, followed by a solid oof from Tamlin. He didn’t let the blow stop him, instead, taking it in stride and countering with an elbow of his own.

Back and forth, the two traded blows. The soldiers on the sidelines slowly started reacting to the fight. Cheers and exclamations rang out in the clearing, garnering interest from other soldiers who were passing by. Soon, the ring was six rows deep of men shouting bets and suggestions. Loudest of all was Cassian, egging on the two.

Sweat poured off the fighters, throwing off refractions of lights from their twisting bodies. I was completely enamored with how they moved, trying, and failing, to focus more on the moves than the muscles.

Almost ten minutes later, the fight ended with Rhysand getting past Tamlin’s blocks to throw him to the ground and trap him with a knee to the back.

Cheers exploded through the crowd.

We knew that training would be even more hellish as Tamlin nursed his wounded ego for the next several days, but it was so, so worth it to see him with his face in the dirt.

Rhysand only pinned Tamlin for a second before removing his knee, offering him a hand up. The lieutenant looked more inclined to spit on it instead, but took it nonetheless, letting it go as soon as possible.

I stiffened as Rhys started to walk towards me, causing me to shift my face down and away from his violet gaze, now bright with adrenaline. Morrigan’s voice rang out behind me, revealing his cause to come in my direction. The crowd parted to let the victorious general through, some going as far to clap him on the back or shout their congratulations.

His body passed close enough to mine that the tang of sweat and his heat filled the air. A glance out of the corner of my eye was all that I allowed myself, only to find that his own gaze briefly settled on me before he moved on.

This time, I couldn’t even fool myself that the red on my face was from anything but flustered attraction. I knew that I would need to avoid the general like the plague while he was in the camp.

Alex had turned to me by this time, chattering and exclaiming at the moves Rhysand had used. I nodded along the best I could, barely offering my own words on the matter, my mind was still far too distracted by the victor.

Once the general and his group were far out of earshot, Tamlin barked, “Pair up, we’re running drills ‘til sunset.” With the ire radiating off out him, none of us dared groaned at his order, knowing that it would earn us a one-way ticket to the ground, courtesy of the lieutenant himself.

Next Chapter

#acotar #mulan #feyre #feyre x rhysand #rhysand #sarah j maas #SJM

[caffeineivore]

Commission #6, Belatedly

For @d3fiant, who prompted R/J from an old ficverse.

Holly isn’t in this business for the ill-gotten means, as it were, he’s sure of it.

Of course, it’s not her real name, but then again, none of the women that Jack has come across in the last two years since the beginning of his acquaintance and association with D use their real names. Men in their world still have an easier time of it-- most bystander witnesses would not remember the likes of Noel, for example, beyond hulking shoulders rippling with tattoos, or Konstantin beyond polished but nondescript businessman with watchful eyes and a three-piece suit. Holly, on the other hand, has a face which could grace the covers of glossy magazines and a voice to match the black satin of her hair. He’d been able to pick her out from across a crowded room the minute he’d met her. 

He wonders if D has an affinity for herbology of some sort -- certainly, the aliases of his female associates are various types of flora-- all innocuous but deadly. Holly. Jessamine. Daphne. Belladonna. He’s not paid to wonder about it, or about Holly’s origins and habits and what makes her tick and what makes her smile, but a man convalescing from a gunshot wound is a man with nothing but time and his mind for company. Holly, certainly, does not bother to visit more than the bare minimum. Sensible girl.

She brings him his meals, though, three times a day. He is almost certain that wherever she’d brought him is not one of the usual safe houses-- his room locks from the outside and he is both too weak and too smart to attempt to explore outside the confines of the four walls. There is a shelf full of books for his entertainment as he recovers-- ranging from leather-bound classics to trashy paperback sci-fi novels to a good year’s worth of subscriptions to various magazines both pithy and frivolous-- Time. National Geographic. Better Homes and Gardens. Vogue. Us Weekly. The furniture is elegant and tasteful, running towards graceful antiques rather than the sleek and modern, but for all that, there’s no coziness to the room. The hermetically sealed window-- storm-paned glass-- looks out to a well-manicured expanse of yard featuring velvety lawns and neat beds of stately, formal flowers-- two banks of rose bushes, red and white, line up with the precision of soldiers, bordered by neat green hedges. The yard is completely bordered by tall, upright poplars, shielding it from view of prying eyes. It’s certainly too nicely-appointed of a property for the likes of the average safe house, which in Jack’s experience has always been as deliberately nondescript as possible down to the dun-coloured siding and the mid-sized minivan generally kept parked in the driveway. 

A clock-- one of those graceful silver-and-glass affairs with Roman numerals marking the hours-- ticks away at the top of the bookshelf, and just as the hour of noon, a key turns in the lock, and Holly walks in with a tray. She is always punctual on these thrice-daily visits: breakfast at eight, lunch at noon, dinner at six. Jack gives her his customary grin, which she does not return, and takes her in.

She’s wearing a cream-coloured silk blouse and a quiet knee-length skirt in dove-gray, with matching stilettos which are completely silenced by the plush of the carpet. No adornment aside from the ruby studs in her ears. Add in a leather handbag and perhaps a long coat in a neutral shade, and she’d blend in with any socialite out for lunch or shopping. He’d bet any money, though, that there’s a gun strapped to her leg under the skirt. She doesn’t know him any better than he knows her. And considering the last time he’d seen her wielding a Beretta 92 at a pursuing car’s tires, he’s well aware that she’s more than proficient with firearms. 

“What’s for lunch, Jill?” His inquiry, as intended, earns him a thinly veiled glare. She doesn’t look like a ‘Jill’ either, but it’s fun to get a reaction out of her. She’s normally so controlled. She sets the tray down on the desk, in precisely the same spot as his breakfast tray from earlier had been. 

“Grilled salmon and a whole wheat roll, with a spinach salad with blue cheese and cranberries on the side. Don’t call me Jill.” It’s always healthy, well-prepared food, and he thinks that it is perhaps the type of fare that she would eat. There’s a bottle of grapefruit juice to go along with his meal-- no wine, no beer. He has a mid-level craving for a greasy, juicy burger with everything but the kitchen sink piled into it and an icy, foamy lager, but he’d have to be somewhere other than this most well-appointed of prisons before he’d be able to indulge. 

“You gonna join me for lunch for once, sweetheart? Just a quick meal between friends and associates. I won’t bite.”

“I have a lot of other commitments this afternoon, and you have a checkup.” 

“Ah, yes. With the good doctor from the docks. You know, I do think she’s the only one of us who actually has no ulterior motives or hidden agendas. The only ‘good’ one, as it were. She didn’t even ask questions when you and Noel brought me in, did she? What a kind soul. What’s her name again?”

“Angelica. You seem to have a real problem remembering people’s names.” Holly doesn’t spare him a glance as she lays out a place setting-- complete with a snowy linen napkin and heavy silverware, arranged formally, and pours his grapefruit juice into a glass half-full of crushed ice. She definitely grew up in a household accustomed to formal meals, whatever she’s doing these days amusing herself by running recon or engaging in gunfights rather like some elegant version of a gun moll. 

“I will try harder.” Jack tucks his tongue in his cheek and admires the way her legs look in that prim, narrow skirt. “So that’s a no on joining me for lunch, huh?”

“Noel will be over in an hour to take you to physical therapy. You need to fully recover from your wounds, and will be of very little use to D if that gunshot takes you out of the game.”

“It would be a damned shame, wouldn’t it?” Jack cuts into the tender pink flesh of the salmon with his knife and fork. “I suppose I’d have to live out the rest of my days in boring, civilian anonymity. Probably learn how to mow lawns and weed gardens. Your yard is very nice. Who takes care of it?”

“I have a gardener on staff, and contract a landscaping company that handles the heavy work.”

“So this is your home, then. I feel so honoured to be a guest.” 

Perhaps she was not trying to tell him so much. Jack grins even as she scowls. “Don’t worry, beautiful. I know not to brag about our time together. Is it so wrong that since I am stuck here until I heal I try to get to know you better? I knew everything about everyone on my platoon, down to MacMillan’s allergies to cats and Patterson’s wife’s obsession with reality TV to Rosenberg’s fondness for gas station hostess cupcakes. We spent a lot of time together, often in close quarters, always with the same people. And besides, isn’t the point of being part of a team knowing and trusting your team members?”

“If you think that spouting off some corporate bullshit team-building synergy nonsense is going to persuade me, you are vastly mistaken. I’m not here to be your friend or your confidante. Just eat your lunch and get yourself ready to your physical therapy.” Holly, clearly at the end of her patience, tidies up the remnants of his last meal and drops his empty coffee cup onto the tray with an irritated clatter. “I have to deal with you when we are working together so as to not end up on the wrong side of a bullet. Outside of that, we’re not here to be buddy-buddy.”

She takes the tray and walks out of the room without a backward glance, and Jack listens to the sound of the lock turning in the door. He could, if he really wanted to, pick it with the tines of his dessert fork. Or smash through the window and rappel down the side of the house and take his chances. But it would be a pity on all levels-- at such an egregious breach of conduct, D would kill him, if Holly didn’t do so, first. And he’s almost certain if the day came that his life was forfeit to the syndicate, he’d deserve it, and never see it coming. 

He finishes his meal-- it is expertly prepared and delicious, after all-- and goes over his mental notes about the beautiful, deadly enigma whose somewhat unwilling hospitality he is currently imposed upon. Holly looks to be perhaps in her late twenties, born into great wealth and privilege, and on their first meeting, had spoken flawless French like a native Parisian. But her English is definitely American, with traces of New England society in its haughtier moments. Her hands are elegant and manicured, but he’d seen her just as gracefully snap the neck of one of the goons who’d attempted to corner her in the deserted warehouse. She handles hand-to-hand with the cool, business-like attitude of someone viewing it as a necessary evil, competently and skillfully, but not with any particular relish. He can’t quite pinpoint where she’d been trained, but the style is distinctly Asian, with its graceful stances and lethal strikes and kicks. Every little tidbit of information he gleans brings with it more questions, more interest. 

“You’re a hell of a woman, Jill.” Jack grins at nothing in particular and makes his way to the en-suite bathroom to wash up after his meal. There, too, no expense is spared-- the towels are plush, the fixtures pristine, and the soap and shampoo smell pleasantly of cloves and sandalwood. He is given a razor to shave every morning, but it’s always gone out of the bathroom by breakfast-- taken out with his dinner tray and the hamper of clothing. She trusts him enough, perhaps, to keep him in her home rather than a safe-house, but not enough to leave completely to his own devices. Perhaps she wonders about his background and motives like he does about hers.

Noel knocks on the door before unlocking it, right on time. The big guy is a lot less mysterious than Holly is-- Jack already knows the gist of his background. Former Irish mob, a bare-knuckle brawler with the big arms and shoulders to prove it. He’d seen Noel hot-wire a car on one occasion in all of seventy-five seconds, and also seen those big bruiser’s hands, skillful and gentle as a maiden aunt’s, fiddling with wires and microphones to bug an opponent’s office after they’d broken in. Noel doesn’t try to hide the Boston in his accent, or indeed the Galway when he’s particularly riled up. He’s been in D’s employ for two years longer than Jack has, and simply refers to the kingpin as “Boss man”. Quite efficiently, Noel wheels him down the hall, then into an actual elevator. He’s brought outside into a van bearing the name and logo of a dry cleaner’s and efficiently strapped in. Noel takes a circuitous route through town-- not that Jack can see anything from the back-- but at least deigns to play music during the drive. It’s unapologetic, kick-ass hard rock heavy on the guitar and drums, precisely the type of music that does not invite or facilitate conversation.

By the time the van’s doors are opened again, Jack is far, far away from the polished, glossy neighbourhood of Holly’s residence. Garbage-laden alleys and derelict buildings dot these tenements with urban blight, and the industrial building they’re parked in front of is pock-marked with graffiti and rust stains on the concrete walls. To get in, Noel has to swipe a keycard, then punch in a code. They wheel down a straight hallway bright with fluorescent lighting and Noel unlocks the next set of doors with two different keys. The clinic that Dr. Angelica runs, though, despite its singular location, is clean as a whistle, equipped with state-of-the-art technology. She meets them at the door, a petite, pretty woman with sad blue eyes and a wistful smile, and turns her attention to Jack.

“You’re looking well. How are you feeling?”

“A lot better than when I’d gotten shot, that’s for sure.” The bullet had hit him in the leg through the door of their escape vehicle, and Holly had taken control of the wheel from the passenger side even as he’d slammed on the brakes, nearly causing a spin-out. In the tense seconds that followed, though, she’d managed to fire off three shots through the open passenger side window, taking out their pursuer’s two front tires and the windshield. That car had rammed into a wall head-on, and she’d managed to keep him awake and alert for long enough for backup to arrive. He’d woken up, briefly, in this same clinic, groggy on meds, with Angelica patiently stitching him up. She’d taken the time to explain that he’d caught a bullet in the leg and was very fortunate that it had not nicked his femoral artery, but it would be awhile before he could be up and running again. He’d taken it as a matter of course-- really, if one were to think of it, he’d been fired at with a lot deadlier weapons back in the day with his platoon in war zones. A 9 millimeter in the leg from a gang member’s Glock could have been a land mine, or a hail of bullets from an AK-47. Then she’d put him under again, and he’d woken up in that room in Holly’s house some days later, disoriented but safe enough. A week and a half later, Holly still lets herself get annoyed with him whenever he teases her, and a small part of him finds that gratifying.

“I don’t have to explain how lucky you are, of course. With your background, I’m sure that you know. But with the right therapy and exercise, I don’t see why you wouldn’t make almost a full recovery in good time.” Angelica tells him after running some tests. “You are quite healthy otherwise, and you neither lost a lot of blood or received any extensive bone and tissue damage. A clean through-and-through, as we say. It certainly could have been a lot worse.”

“I could be floating facedown in the river, yeah,” Jack says drily. “How long are we talking, Doc?”

“For someone of your size and health, you can be up with crutches as soon as two weeks from now. If you maintain a healthy regimen of light but steady exercise on that leg, you should gain full mobility in another month after that.”

“Do you really think Holly will put up with me for that long?” Jack asks drolly. He isn’t quite sure how well the good Dr. Angelica knows Holly, but certainly the doctor knows enough of the syndicate’s business to not only ask no questions when he’d been brought in, but set up a whole secret clinic in the slums that runs as well as a trauma center in a major hospital. He’d heard of the Doc in the docks since he’d started, but until now, had never had occasion to meet her. “You know Holly, right? Black hair, red lipstick, very hot, keeps a Beretta on her at all times? She can’t stand me.”

Angelica’s lips twist into a faint smile. “If you say so. I know her of old. We roomed together freshman year at Yale. She’ll find a way to tolerate your company for as long as needed, I’m sure.”

Yet another tidbit of information about his elusive, fiery partner-of-sorts falls into his lap. It’s almost more exciting than the prospect of crutches in the next two weeks. Jack lets Angelica poke and prod some more, answers questions by rote, and counts down the hours until he can see her again. 

#R/J #senshi/shitennou #sailor moon #fanfiction #fanfic #commission

[neoyi]

Can you tell us about your HLD headcanons please?

Sure. I should also add a small disclaimer that a lot of the headcanons are just story ideas based on an AU where Drifter and Guardian doesn’t die, instead living out their lives in a post-apocalyptic world and their growing romance and eventual family life they create for themselves whilst uncovering Drifter’s amnesic past. I want to also add that much of these ideas are contradictory to canon since I’m just messing around the world for funsies. …It would have been a romantic comedy. Sooooo on that note…*Drifter can be incredibly hyperfixated with their interests. This largely extends to ancient ruins and past history left behind by civilizations of yesteryear, especially from blue-skinned folks like they are. It’s not just a fascination of What People Did back in the days, but an honest attempt to find any clues of their memories. *Drifter likes games, strategic games specifically. They like solving puzzles and unraveling complex mathematics. They play alien tabletop RPGs; they dig epic, long novels and can memorize obscure facts and useless trivia. They’re the kind that’d have a blog and write long-winded essays on Why This Character Had Amazing Character Development. *Drifter has something of a reputation. Having traveled around the world for years has caused the dude to get into their fair share of scuffles. Drifter’s stance is largely Neutral and the most they do is stay in a place, then move on to find more ruins and historic sights. But every so often, there might be That One Criminal who damns an entire town or some Megalomaniac who uses ancient tech to try and blow up the world and Drifter just happens to be there. With their sword and gun. Wasting the shit out of That One Criminal or that Megalomaniac. And perhaps in time, Drifter became a bit of a legend, the “Red-Cloaked Hero”, the “Savior”, “The Crimson Drifter” or whatever inane nicknames the people named ‘em. Drifter has become a symbol of hope and in these struggling times, some people gravitate towards that. For all Drifter claims neutrality, they don’t sit back when people need help, but it comes with baggage and people tend to recognize them - both the decent folks and the jack-offs who seek to kill ‘em for their own means. All Drifter wants is to be left alone, man. *One of the things I’ll never find the time to do is create small, one-off comics of Drifter getting into all sorts of adventure. Most of these would be wordless and the situations could range from anything to Drifter helping archeologists unlock lost history and fighting a giant robot inside or something like saving a princess in a far-off kingdom from a monster or stuck pulling a heist with some well-meaning thieves. Whatever comes to mind.

*Drifter has helped other drifters and archeologists with their research because for some very odd reason, they can unlock specific tech and locales that even other blue-skinned folks can’t…*Guardian is the son of a farmer and a drifter. His mother settled down from drifting life to tend to the farm with her husband (who is far from a warrior as you can get.) He has an older brother who currently travels the world, getting by through trade stories and inventing weird things. Guardian left the farm shortly after his father died (a stack of alcoholic beverages landed on top of him one day) to travel the world to pursue his dreams of studying history of ancient civilization. He settled in Central at some point and has stayed there since. He keeps in touch with his family.

*Guardian’s real name is “Tim.” I got that name from a joke from an HLD thread I read a while ago. He also has a last name, but it cannot be written here for it is very, very, very long, and contains letters that aren’t even in the current alphabet. *Guardian is into kitschy decor. He unironically loves curtains with corn cob patterns or their world equ. of garden gnomes in his garden. I have a jokethat Guardian must be written to be the most blandest guy you could ever meet. He talks endlessly about the potatoes he’s grown in his backyard, goes to bed at a reasonable hour, and can listen to his neighbor talk about the structure and kind of bricks he used to build his house. Guardian is unassuming, but kind.

*Incidentally, this is why Drifter eventually fell for Guardian and chose to stay in Central: he gives Drifter a solitary, quiet life that they want. Drifter’s gotten into enough shenanigans - whether they wanted it or not - and damn it, they’re just tired. Adventure will always come to them because their need to explore old ruins and tech and those tend to invite trouble, but at least they can do it together! Once they’re finished, Drifter also has a home to go back to that gives them the respite they need.

*Drifter totally had a one-night stand with the Dashmaster. This is not scandalous news in Central because a frighteningly number of people have had one-night stands with Dashmaster. Because he’s Dashmaster.

*Guardian has two jobs in Central: he, along with other volunteers, guards and patrols outside of Central for monsters or any signs of danger. He’s also a teacher at the town’s only school. Subjects vary, but it’s mostly history on his end.

*The Swordmaster is Guardian’s best friend. The two (and a couple of other buddies) hang out at the local bar every week.

*Drifter was the one to propose to Guardian. That was the unexpected part because at that point, they’ve already been discussing marriage. They both just assumed Guardian would propose. *Drifter only ever won once against Soccer Kid. Once.

*Drifter only wakes up early whenever they’re not in town because it’s practical (gotta cover as much ground as possible when you’re on the move.) Whenever they’re in inns and other shelters though, they sleep in. (Guardian always wakes up at the crack of dawn. He is often subjected to pillows being thrown by Drifter whenever he gets too happy in the morning.)

*I haven’t decided where Drifter got their current clothing. I think Drifter got their helmet off of a dead soldier, the cape probably off of another drifter’s corpse, and maybe Drifter - in one of their rare moments - splurged a little on their boots. They’re good quality boots and you need ones that last!*Drifter used to own an old motorcycle they used to travel around for a bit. It got too damaged and had to be abandoned eventually.

*Drifter’s favorite food is red meat. Guardian likes potatoes. *Restless and/or impatient Drifter involves them chewing on things, tapping their fingers, or shaking their legs.

*Guardian’s method of organizing is mostly pushing books and materials off to the side as much as possible. Once Drifter gets the hang of daily chores, they tend to go far enough that things must be alphabetized, we are not animals Guardian. *Drifter is practical enough to be able to fix their clothes whenever it’s damaged, but Guardian is the superior seamstress. He’s also better in the kitchen. Course, a lot of this stems from the latter having lived in civilization most of his life while Drifter mostly learned what they needed to survive. The latter tends to take advantage of what towns offer (ex: they eat conservatively when out in the middle of nature, but stuff their face in taverns because they have the opportunity to do so.)

*The stray dog that wanders near the eastern sector of Central ended up following Drifter when the latter, feeling a tinge of pity, gave the pup some food. The dog has never left Drifter since. This bothered Drifter at first since they had no use for a pet, even going as far as naming the dog “Babo” (”stupid” in Korean), but damn if the dog did not grow on ‘em. (Incidentally I actually drew out most of the pages of this comic, but I never inked or posted them up online.)

*Life before Drifter was well, a drifter, was spent during the last remnants of the blue-skinned (yeah, I never thought of an actual name for these guys) civilization: in the midst of the great war that screwed them over. They were the [NAME REDACTED], child of the Librarian (herself a big contributor to the giant Titans) and a cut character from the game: Rivan. The latter was the last King of their civilization and, well, he was nicknamed Mad King Rivan for a reason. Knowing he was off his gourd in his mad pursuit for power, the Librarian stepped off the Titan project and got the hell out with intent on living a peaceful life alone with her than unborn child. Drifter spent most of their childhood with their mother with no acknowledgement on who their father was. The Librarian spent her time creating the pendant (and Drifter’s companion bot), containing memories of their time, and as much information on their culture as possible, slowly realizing over time that the end was nigh. The Librarian sent Drifter to safety during the last days of their civilization. Drifter was placed in a pod, frozen in time until they eventually woke up with no recollection of who they are. Drifter has no idea the pendant and their companion bot has pretty much all the info they could need (it also requires solving a complex algorithm to unlock the info, too.)

*That said, Rivan is still alive and he not only intends to bring his kingdom back (a big reach in and of itself at this point), he knows he has a child…

I think that’s all I can think or muster. Hope this is good enough.

#hyper light drifter #anonymous #neoyi talks

[ace-dameron]

For those that walk the Earth for eternity, paths are bound to cross. It had been centuries, two or two and a half, not that he kept an active tally. And still, seeing her dredged up some painful memories, some disdain, but he shrugged it off. He was beyond the pettiness she evoked in him for years, beyond the heartache and misery she had caused.

A sickeningly sweet smile found her lips as soon as her eyes landed on him. Her bitterness apparently receded over him turning her over to the Clave once upon a time. He still wasn’t clear on the details of her release, but Camille freely roamed the Earth once more. She kept a lower profile, barely blipping any radars; however, he doubted she could ever be truly reformed. Her ‘good behavior’ was a mere extension for her desire to remain free from the Clave’s clutches, no doubt.

“Magnus, you’ve been avoiding me.” She moved in closer, like a snake sizing up its prey.

“With good reason.” His stance remained rigid, his expression neutral, not allowing her the opportunity to strike.

“Let bygones be bygones. I hurt you, you hurt me. But for better or worse, we’re a constant in one another’s lives, the only constant.” She grazed his upper arm with her finely manicured nails, a seductive look ever-present.

Magnus shook his head, amusement clear on his face, “There are many constants in my life, Camille, you aren’t one of them.”

Her lips curled into a snarl, eyes narrowing just so, “How can you possibly still be in love with that Shadowhunter? It’s been centuries.”

A fond smile captured his lips as his guards came down in the slightest bit. “True love never dies.” He took a step back, placing a fair distance between the two of them. “You’ve never understood love like I do, never wanted it as I do. And in all this time, you haven’t changed a bit. Still trying to worm your way into a place where you have since been uninvited.” Magnus’ left hand moved to rest over his heart, his wedding band on full display. His heart belonged to another and always would.

“Alexander is and always will be my future. Our love only grows. It doesn’t diminish; not that I would ever expect you to understand.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as his face regained the indifference he regarded her with most of the conversation. Magnus turned and opened a portal.

“One day, you’ll wake up and realize what a mistake you’ve made, Magnus.”

“I sincerely doubt that, but if hell ever happens to freeze over, you’ll be the first to know.” He walked through the portal, leaving her behind.

The loft was dark and quiet when he returned, unsurprisingly. Alec had an early morning and it was well after midnight now. With a flourish of his hands, he readied himself for bed, unwilling to delay it by going about things the mundane way. Magnus crawled into bed, settling into the pillows when an arm snaked around him, tugging him close. He grinned at the sleepy smile on Alec’s lips, the way he looked soft as if he could drift off again at any moment.

“Sorry if I woke you.” Magnus murmured before gently kissing Alec’s awaiting lips.

“Be mad if you didn’t.” Alec mumbled, his eyes still closed. “Didn’t get to see you today.”

“You still aren’t seeing me with your eyes closed.”

Alec made an amused noise as he cracked open an eye, “Semantics.”

Magnus chuckled as he tangled his legs up with Alec’s, feeling an innate desire to be close to him. “I saw Camille tonight.”

The name soured Alec’s expression. “That’s never a good start to any conversation. What did she do?”

“Nothing but reaffirm what a miserable, loveless person she is.”

Alec pulled him closer until both of their heads rested on the same pillow.

“Not feeling any spark of jealousy, are you?” Magnus teased at Alec’s display of clinginess.

Alec gave him a look, “We’ve been together for over two centuries now. I love you and you love me. It’s fact and everyone who has ever heard of us knows it.”

“You’ve morphed into quite the romantic.” Magnus brushed his lips against Alec’s before resting his head on his chest. He listened to his steady beating heart, grateful for the magic that enabled this moment, all these years later.

“I love you, Alexander.”

“I love you too.”

other immortal husband fics can be found here and here.

for @stupidnephilimlove. thanks for listening to my malec related tangents daily.

#malec #malec fanfiction #immortal husbands #alec lightwood #magnus bane #shadowhunters #i wrote a thing #shadowhunters fanfiction #camille belcourt

[timespakistan]

Dance star boycotts planes and hits out at ´artistic jet set´

PARIS: The French choreographer Jerome Bel caused a stir Thursday by saying that he had stopped taking flights and was turning his back on the “artistic jet set”.

The enfant terrible of French dance told AFP that he would also be boycotting work by artists who flew or did not make an effort to combat climate change.

He is one of a number of art and theatre stars who are now refusing to travel by plane for performances and rehearsals, including the acclaimed British director Katie Mitchell.

Just like Hollywood stars, major performance artists and directors are globetrotters, who can clock up millions of air miles.

Bel said that neither he nor his dance company would be taking a plane again.

“We cannot keep destroying the planet as we are doing,” he said.

For his new show, “Isadora Duncan”, which is opening both in Paris — where he lives — and in the US, he had to work with his dancer in New York by Skype.

“There will therefore be two versions of the piece: one which will tour in Europe and one in the US, and both will travel by train,” Bel added.

He said the experience had pushed him to be even more radical.

“Like Greta Thunberg (the teenage Swedish environmental campaigner), I am going to boycott dance companies who continue to pollute,” he told AFP.

“How can you trust a choreographer or a company which contributes to global warming?”

– ´I was watching hell´ –

The “flight shaming” movement — which is trying to make frequent flying less socially acceptable — began in Sweden, where a concert hall in Helsingborg has become one of the first in the world to only book musicians and orchestras who agree to travel by train.

Bel said while watching a “not very interesting” show in Vienna recently, he “began to calculate the carbon footprint of what was going on in front of me: all the international trips the dancers had to take, the decor, the technicians etc…

“And I realised I was watching hell — I was watching the ice melting, the homes ravaged by storms, the millions of climate refugees who were going to have miserable lives,” he added.

A British government study published Wednesday found that just one percent of people in England were responsible for nearly a fifth of the country´s international air travel.

It also discovered that the top 10 percent of frequent flyers took more than half of all overseas flights last year.

Movie stars have come under increasing scrutiny about the gap between their lifestyles and their stance on climate change.

– DiCaprio ´carbon neutral´ –

British actress Emma Thompson was pilloried by some commentators in April for flying 8,700 kilometres (5,400 miles) from Los Angeles to take part in an Extinction Rebellion march in London.

She admitted Thursday that she “may well have been hypocritical” but said “I fly much less, but sometimes I have to when I´m working.”

Leonardo DiCaprio, who has produced the documentary “The 11th Hour” warning of climate change and the new film “Ice on Fire” championing possible solutions, audited himself and found he was responsible for more than 100 tons of greenhouse gases over a decade.

The Oscar winner said he is having trees planted in Mexico to offset that carbon footprint and has been investing in green energy projects.

DiCaprio said he is now lives a carbon-neutral life and tries to fly on commercial airlines if he has no option but to fly.

Bel said he had a eureka moment last winter when was adjusting the heating in his Paris apartment trying to “save as much energy as possible”.

Then he realised that at the same time his four assistants were flying to Hong Kong and Lima to help with the staging of his shows.

“That´s when I realised I was being a hypocrite, that I was lying to myself, that my life was like a bad play,” he said.

from Times Pakistan https://ift.tt/3pheo80 via Daily News

#TimesPakistan #PakistanNews #DailyNews #newsgoogle #newsyahoo #newsoftheday #newstoday #newsfortoday

[samk-icelebrities-blog]

SUSTAINABILITY FOR A #HAHT AUDIENCE

In 2015, Miami Swim Week was just another week for those in the swim industry to showcase their upcoming products from their newest swim collections. With minimalistic white washed runways, swim companies from all corners of the world travel to promote their new ideas. Though, with swim shows scaling to about a quarter of a million dollars, those participating have to be diligent and determined to make a mark on the swim world. Though, with all the same silhouettes and “curvy” identifying models, came a new character to the dynamic week. With exquisitely diverse apparel, model choices, and sustainable application, Hot as Hell established themselves as a true threat to the swim world in 2015. Since their debut at swim week, Hot as Hell, or as their family ran company calls it, “HAH”, remains as a dynamic force to the pairing worlds of sexy and sustainability when considering the swim industry as a whole.

Owner and CEO of HAH, Sharleen spent her days in the 90′s designing for the iconic swim division of Victoria’s Secret. This annual collection that is released once a year still remains iconic to the everyday Victoria’s Secret shopper and allows them to activate their summer accessories. Though, while designing these swim collections for so long, Sharleen noticed a detrimental amount of waste that the company was contributing to the world. She didn’t agree with these tactics in more ways than one and left the company to consider what she valued and how she could make change. With these morals in mind, Sharleen set out to create something that embodied both “sexy” and “sustainable.”  With these two core values, Sharleen established “Hot As Hell” , a digitally infused LA fashion label. Their style is designed as a “universal” line where their swim, lingerie, and apparel, can be altered to be worn in numerous ways. Providing a dynamic stance on the ever changing world of fast fashion.

When creating a fashion label to create change, one like Sharleen had to think about the people she surrounded herself with in order to embark on this journey. By cultivating a group of girl bosses into the “HAH” family, Sharleen selectively chose five girls to work hand in hand to make one dream happen. With a vision and all hands on board, The HAH team became a staple to their social audience. But from there, HAH’s efforts to be a transparent company stretched farther then the team making their products. By showcasing those who help to ship, package, and assemble their products, HAH made a universal commitment to show how there is no “I” in team. In the video linked here, you see a dynamic group of workers making Sharleen’s initial vision come true. All handing picking and creating these dynamic tasks, HAH has created an inner empire that reflects on great scales to their outer empire. Showing their audiences that its “cool to care” and that “Starting somewhere is better than not starting at all.”

One element that is a monumental to the HAH brand is their value for sustainability that is implemented into all of their swim and apparel. Looking to the figure above, you can see how HAH utilizes sustainable products to make their everyday wearable collections. With their sources and materials being composed of mainly corn starch, their fabrics are biodegradable. Their suits range from being UV protective, chlorine resistant, to not snagging or pilling. With these core concepts, the team at Hot As Hell has created their own terminology to define things that correlate with their brand by implementing the saying “HAH”, pronounced like laughing sound “ha-ha-ha”, into words like #HAHt, #HAHonesty, and other forms of this catchy phrase to embody their brands identity. From their swim that is made for the modern LA fashion mogul, to their one of “HAH” kind pieces that they thrift and repurpose, Sharleen has implemented the idea of valuing both “sexy” and “sustainability” into their brand’s landscape. Thus, bringing a new lens to the ever boring world of fast fashion when considering style and sustainability. 

From the sustainable aspect comes the deliverables that come with the products bought from HAH. They pride themselves on selling eco friendly clothing but make sure the bags they come in are reusable, recyclable, and overall sustainable as well.  In the figure below, you can see how HAH utilizes their bags for delivery. Along with their ideas behind being sexy and sustainable, HAH has also implemented the hashtag #StartSomewhere into their brand’s universal identity. This idea is implemented into their bags and is truly “HAHt” to their customers who care for the good of the earth while still being stylish. This hashtag also goes into their newest implementation of the HAH brand where with every sale made online, HAH will donate a percentage of the sales to planting trees in ecosystems all across the world. This “One for One” system is trademarked through HAH by using the hashtag #StartSomewhere to activate the ways that they can make change beyond the clothing they wear.  Giving the user a purpose beyond just buying clothes for the aesthetic and style, but for the community and atmosphere we identify with on a daily.

INTERVIEW WITH SHARLEEN ON THE TOPIC OF #STARTSOMETHING

From the well rounded world of sustainability implemented into HAH, Sharleen has also set out to make sure HAH is identifiable by all types of humans. By including models that actually don’t identify as “models” and more as personalities that embody the “go getter” lifestyle of HAH. By incorporating DJs, actors, dancers, and all type of performance based models into their campaigns, Sharleen has created an authentic atmosphere for HAH. This authenticity promotes all types of confident humans being their best selves with overall positive auras. Whether it be bettering themselves or bettering the world around us, HAH is always in collaboration to promote both walks of life into one garment. Even just this past campaign for HAH, Sharleen chose to use a plethora of plus size women from all walks of life to model their newly drafted collection. By having all types of humans in the campaign, Both Sharleen and the identity she has created with HAH shines through at grand scales.  Leaving those who interact with their brand able to always identify with being both sexy and sustainable. 

From sustainability to packaging to inclusion. HAH has made it their mission to check the most boxes and make sure those who identify with brand are mutually satisfied. With this in mind, they have also have made it their mission to make very gender neutral / versatile products. By having soon to be mothers and actual mothers walking alongside their toddlers, both covered in head to toe HAH on the Miami Swim Week catwalk, they have broadcasted that everyone is represented in regard to the brand. Leaving nobody questioning whether or not they align with the brand’s identity. By making clothing for such a modern demographic, HAH has effectively found the niche ways to include those interested with the environment along with being stylish.

In conclusion, when considering the ways HAH has implemented eco friendly clothing into the world of modern fashion, many would commend their strategic brand’s design. From apparel and swim crafted from corn starch to creating reusable and recyclable swim bags, HAH has made it their mission to make their impact on the world of digital fashion. With the background of Sharleen and her past experience working in the fast fashion world of Victoria’s Secret, it is notable to consider the effort she has made to make our world a better place. From the people working with the company to the way she create garments, everything is done effectively with a nod to the world around us. With love infused into every stitch and every cut, Sharleen has created an online empire of “#HAHties” that merge the world of being sustainable and fashionable. Creating and underlying movement that will continue to impact the ways audiences from all corners of the world view and assimilate with the atmosphere around us.

Going forward, HAH will continue to make garments that flatter every shape, size, gender, and all walks of life to embody their collections. By cultivating an atmosphere of its own, HAH will live beyond the world of the fashion industry and effect the ways future clothing brands approach making “Sexy” and “Sustainable” a #HAHT statement.

LINK TO HAH’S WEBSITE

LINK TO HAH’S INSTAGRAM

(ALL IMAGES AND VIDEOS FOUND FROM HOT AS HELLS WEBSITE)

#HAH

[matthewpejkovic]

ENTRY #4: TROLLING, IDEOLOGY, & THE CURIOUS CASES OF CLEMENTINE & MILO (Week 7)

Throughout all walks of life, there will always be a bully. That bigger, stronger, meaner mug of a person whose sole purpose in their life is, seemingly, to make yours a living hell. For digital citizens, the bully has taken on a whole new form: the Troll. While physical size is no longer a factor, the weight of their aggressive behaviour can still pack a wallop. Worst yet is when the trolls decide to assemble into an altogether different beast, akin to a hydra where when one head is cut off, another takes its place. Call it mob rule: social media style.

There are different definitions of what the word “trolling” actually means. One definition states that the aim of trolling is to “embarrass, anger and disrupt”, and that there may be political motives under the surface (Dahlberg 2001). One thing is for certain is that battle lines have most definitely been drawn between political ideology on social media. Now there is nothing wrong with a robust debate when it comes to politics. But on the online sphere “debate” is not quite the word to describe political discussion, nor is the platforms themselves exactly neutral ground.  

A study that analysed the interaction between far left and alt-right trolls on Twitter showed many similarities and differences. A major distinction is the Tweeters from the alt-right camp mostly embraced the option of anonymity on social media (Drezner 2016). And who can blame them, when high profile trolling in the form of intimate personal attacks from popular left wing figures are applauded as justice well done, as opposed to the plain bullying and harassment which it is. Take for example US Republican Senator Rick Santorum. Noted for his stance against same sex-marriage (and homosexuality in general), Santorum found himself at the end of an inventive yet grotesque example of trolling from noted gay activist Dan Savage, who along with his fan base, turned Santorum’s last name into a disgusting sexual innuendo via Google search (McGlynn 2011). Instead of suitably decrying such bullish tactics as akin to a child kicking another child in the never regions because he “called me a bad name!”, many on social media cheered the mockery and Google did, well, nothing.

For further analysis of the ideological divide that labels one side as “troll” and the other as “activist provocateur”, let’s compare two notorious figures who have made a name for themselves through the use of social media: Milo Yiannopolous, conservative agitator, public speaker and senior editor of Brietbart News; and Clementine Ford, feminist provocateur, pubic speaker and writer. You could not find two more ideologically opposed individuals on the subjects of gender, politics, and a smattering of other issues. Yet while Ford has received plaudits for her brand of fiery feminism, despite her constant stream of online abuse through her Twitter account towards figures both public and anonymous (Blair 2015), Yiannopolous was permanently banned from Twitter for calling Ghostbusters actress “a black dude” (Dunn 2016). Crude? Yes. But not as bad as oh say…

According to Twitter, this is deemed acceptable behaviour on their social media service, proving that when it comes to trolling at 150 characters at a time, be sure you are on the left side of the political divide.

References

Blair T 2015, ‘If Not For Double Standard, She’d Have None At All’, The Daily Telegraph, viewed 2nd of February 2017, http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/blogs/tim-blair/if-not-for-double-standards-shed-have-none-at-all/news-story/6f8baa431e059dfef98e5cc1e194e4ac   

Dahlberg L (2001) ‘Computer-Mediated Communication and the Public Sphere: A Critical Analysis’, Journal of Computer Mediated-Communication, viewed 2nd of February 2017,      http://jcmc.indiana.edu/vol7/issue1/dahlberg.html

Drezner, D, 2016 ‘Who’s the Nastiest Troll of Them All’, The Washington Post, viewed 2nd of February 2017,   https://www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2016/06/07/whos-the-nastiest-troll-of-them-all/?utm_term=.6c6364a7a9ee

Dunn M 2016, ‘Milo Yiannopolous Banned From Twitter , Which Highlights Double Standards of the Platform’, News.com.au, viewed 2nd of February 2017, http://www.news.com.au/technology/online/social/milo-yiannopoulos-banned-from-twitter-which-highlights-double-standards-of-the-platform/news-story/5245dd1c1cf06671f254d0fd9472ed11

McGlynn, K, 2011, ‘Dan Savage Has A New Name for Rick Santorum’ The Huffington Post, viewed 2nd of February 2016   http://www.huffingtonpost.com.au/entry/dan-savage-rick-santorum-video_n_910924

[pulitzerpanther]

Time Drift (4/?)

/At anon request. Well, kind of. The fic I was not asked to update that’s 2 years old but that I did, anyways. Maybe next time Anon will be more specific.

Chapter Title: And Now You’re Mine

Fic Description:

Cat Grant, a young journalist desperately trying to crawl her way up at the Daily Planet and start her own brand, becomes delightfully sidetracked by an unassuming, friendly lounge singer in a nearby bar. The only problem being that said lounge singer happens to be from the future...and doesn’t remember it. Supercat!Fic/AU *kind of. (With some Alex Danvers/Lois Lane for good measure. Yep. You read that right.)

Chapter Description:

"I'm not easy to love." Cat tries.

"I don't think that's for you to decide."  Kara immediately supplies and a writer's stomach ties knots out of what could have been a noose, years ago.

This chapter’s song-- Put A Spell On You Performed By: Samantha Fish

Chapter 1: AO3 | Tumblr

Chapter 2: AO3 | Tumblr

Chapter 3: AO3 | Tumblr

Chapter 4 (Current): AO3 | Tumblr - Below.

Wood scrapes along gravel, the faintest hiss piercing through the night air, lost underneath an even louder grunt from the heavy, sagging weight of someone being jostled from the motion.

“Come on, Nightwing.” Flamebird’s voice is exasperated even through the distorted, robotic twang of a helmet, underlined by the crisp hint of frustration through Alex’s earpiece, “I thought we didn’t do the tie up and torture thing.”

“No time like the present.” It’s a near chirp as treated leather creaks underneath trained knees, bending down in front of the squirming form tied to a chair, kneeling, robotic voice reverberating through the empty, rusted walls of a warehouse on the docks. The wood of the chair is chipped, but they made do with what they could find.

“Nightwing.” It’s snapped but Alex’s gloves curl in the tattered, bloody fabric of a sweat-stained shirt, bringing a trembling man’s face up to the mirror of faceless mask.  

“My partner hasn’t perfected good-cop, bad-cop, yet. So let me just go ahead and promise that I have no problems killing you.”

“Go to hell.” Spit spatters against the dark sheen of a helmet.

The blue wings of a bird glisten underneath flickering warehouse lights as an arm soundlessly swooshes upwards to swing downwards—a little dramatic, kind of like a 90’s soap opera slap—and before a blink or a lazy, knowing smile might tuck up cracked lips, that arm is gently caught underneath a red-lined black glove in a practiced, easy motion.

Good cop, bad cop was actually pretty easy between the two of them.

“Step back, soldier.”

The distortion keeps the smile from reaching Kara’s stern tone and Alex can only dream up how many ways she can tease her sister for it with a scrunching nose and stuck out tongue, later.

It’s the only hint of levity they have after days like these.

"Soldier?" Alex asks through their radio, instead. 

"What? It adds flair, right?"

Eyes roll. Boots skid along the dirtied, bloodied warehouse floor as the soldier does dutifully step back, arms thoughtlessly falling behind hips, at ease.

Old habits, watching as red swoops down like a phoenix, offering up tattered remains of a burned branch in a way only Kara ever can.

“Hey, we’re trying to help you, Vic. I promise, we’re really not the tie-up kind.” Flamebird kneels down in front of him and when his mouth opens—tutts, the noise staccato through the garbled, sharp notes of a voice modulator, finger raising up to wag. “And before you spit again, see this?” A decidedly less professional gesture of waving in front of her helmet, Nightwing’s chuckle hidden underneath the mute of her mask but undeniably heard in a sister’s ever-attentive ear. “Very effective at the spit-repelling. You’ll just be hitting yourself in the face with it. Not that people tend to listen to that, I mean—you guys like to shoot people even when you know they’re bulletproof. Well, you will like to. You're currently not. But that's besides the point.”

A beat.

Kara adds, after muting herself:

“I think.” Her crouch doesn’t ease up from the floor, forearms hanging on knees for a moment, “Alex, I think I hear a hiss. Do you want me to—”

“No, no, I’ve got it. Grease him.” Arms stay crossed, their conversation staying where it should—their helmets.

“So,” Kara continues and Alex’s eyes bop upwards towards their surroundings, taking in those ever vaulted, rusted ceilings of Metropolis’ finest shit hole of a dock. It's amazing, really--crimes always happen in the docks and all of the buildings always look the same. “I’d spend less time spitting, more time talking. Vic.”

Vic's mouth snaps shut, a sneer contorting bloodied features as Alex’s itching fingers roll over the blunt edge of a baton, stance casual but always ready to have her partner’s back, lingering for a few moments. Just in case, the hiss momentarily forgotten.

“Fuck you.” Vic might not muster up saliva, this time, but he sure as hell musters up enough ire, wrestling against restraints with a rattling, pained breath. His sweat pools on his brow—in the crevices of the lines of his face—drips down a dirtied neck before settling in the thirsty, swelling wood of his rickety chair.

A thin line of red raises slowly, casually, as Kara pops the first button on her visor, barely sliding black up enough to reveal a chin—lips—the smallest hint of a nose as her smile spreads.

Vic the thug freezes, visibly stunned from the effortless manipulation of Kara Danvers and that thousand watt smile. Alex is sure of many things about her sister, but one of them? That smile could convince an agnostic to have a little bit of faith. Sometimes it’s pretty infuriating and...sometimes? It’s just downright useful.

“I’m good, thanks. Not really interested. But, hey, really, you don’t have to be rude.”

“W-why are you—” A hint of confused fear curls up his throat, now, sweat-lined eyes widening at the sight of something close to an identity. Never a good sign, from masked vigilantes. Usually it means their captors are as good as dead, from Metropolis to Gotham. 

It's the company standard.

“Because,” Kara’s hand stretches over to loosen the small vat at hip, metal sliding underneath the popping belt of leather, “I told you, we’re not the bad guys. I’m not going to hurt you, Vic. We just have a few questions so…excuse my partner, they’re a little annoyed we had to fight with you to tie you back up.”

Annoyed is an understatement but used to it would also kind of apply and Nightwing doesn’t bother hiding her grunt of acknowledgement from either her vigilante-in-arms or their current captive, the note sounding out like the thumping start of Daft Punk intro thanks to the voice modulator.

Kara had called her a few hours ago from a payphone about an attempt on Cat Grant’s life and the men she’d managed to corral and tie up near a wall before asking Alex to make another call, entirely (her sister, apparently, had other places to be—

It’s a little hard for me to chase him down, right now, Alex. Secretly, I mean. I have to get back to Cat, I left her by herself up on the—

She’s still tailing you?

What? Tailing me? What is-- this isn't a buddy cop movie—

I don’t know, Cagney—

Okay, I know I’m blonde, but I’m pretty sure you’re Cagney—

You think you're Lacey? Only if you settle down and have Cat Grant’s babies. Okay, what the hell is that noise?

I’m looking for heels in the—Okay, first off, that’s so—anatomically impossible. I'm not--who said anything about having Cat's--you know what? I know you're just trying to...rattle me, so I'm ignoring you now. And—and, secondly, you know all those memory-recall studies we read are so right. Re-enaction is something. I’m suddenly having flashbacks of running through the city looking for Cat Grant’s heels before--like at least five different times--but—wow, I miss cell phones, this cord is not helping me look ar—

Okay, even without memories, how whipped you are is depressing.

Alex!

After an ambulance arrived earlier that evening to tend to apparent injuries sustained, Jim Harper from the MCPD had only managed to detain two of the men tied up for charges they were wanted for, but Vic? He scrambled free before arrest and Alex had managed to track him down through the depths of Suicide Slum’s darkest streets, the heat settling in puddles of piss and alcohol wafting in through her senses, sticking to her boots.

Kara had joined her halfway through with apologies and dodged questions and a voice that trailed a little too high at the edges to be normal, filing it away for later before a quick survey of the warehouse lead to a tactical slip-in.

It wasn’t hard to neutralize one scared, messy goon, but it was hard to neutralize him without hurting him and eventually Kara just literally sighed, made a show of very human-like tackling him to the ground, and sat on him with a bored elbow resting on her knee—chin falling to a palm—while Alex rustled through the warehouse to find a chair and some rope.

The good news about working in the shadows was that they didn’t always have to look professional. Usually, they just had to get the job done.

They don’t really look professional, now, but Kara always—always—gets the job done. Alex trusts her with that--trusts her with her life--but she’s still not sure why Victor Martin came here of all places, it was a dead end if either of them ever saw one and it's difficult to ignore the nerves curling knots out of her stomach. Nothing about the call in on his record gave them any clue.

Victor Martin, divorced. In and out of jail since a drug addiction revoked his visitation rights to his son, though he apparently had been trying to contest after being clean for five year. A few petty thefts. One assault. Two arson charges for insurance scams. Otherwise clean.

(There's a voice, sometimes, in the back of her ear--something that sounds so familiar, someone reading off victim's taglines with so much ease).

“Hey,” Kara’s voice is gentle, unfiltered as she tucks up that small little vial, “It’s just water, I promise. You have to be thirsty. Come on.” Dark eyes flick up from the cracked cement of the floor, watching Kara carefully tip up the water to their captor’s lips like he hadn’t just tried to assault Cat Grant, a masculine throat bobbing in a rough, dry swallow before he blinks, searching the line of an easy, genuine smile. It takes only a few seconds before he nods, eagerly drinking from it like a man in the desert.

“Rough day, huh?”

“You’ve got,” He gasps—coughs a little—

“Woah, woah, easy. Take it easy. I’m not going anywhere, and, hey—” She knocks the wood with an endearing chuckle that, surprisingly, makes Vic laugh, low and rumbling, “Neither are you, huh?”

“Fuck you.” But it unravels a little around the edges like fraying ropes by his wrists--a little more at ease--water dribbling down a grimy chin, rolling what’s likely a weary neck on shoulders. It’s amazing what a little kindness will do to someone in desperate straits. “What do you care.”

“I care about why you tried to kill Cat Grant, today. Why would you do a thing like that, Vic?” Kara’s voice is casual and Alex sighs, idly thinking maybe she should stick to the interrogating because his spine tightens like a pole as red hands gingerly set down the water. “From what I read up on you, you used to be a good guy, before everything happened with your wife.” His sharp inhale is palpable and it’s something, really, to watch. Because if Alex had said that, he would have spit a second time, but he seems to sag a little underneath the sincerity in Kara’s tone. It almost makes her remember—almost makes her imagine— “Look, I’m not after you. The truth is—and you probably already know this—is that the guy you’re working for, Vic, is kidnapping children.”

Surprisingly, his frame tenses more, but there’s something different in his eyes—something lasting. Something that might taste like copper, or the Suicide Slums, or ash—and his jaw rolls in a way that must sound like a tight roll of pennies scattering on the floor after the seal’s been ripped open to her sister’s ears.

“Did you know that, Vic?” Alex finally intervenes, distorted voice causing the grinding of his teeth to halt for a moment, “That they’re taking kids? That how you get your rocks off—”

“No!” The anger licks his tongue like a flame eating up oxygen and shadows composed of leather and blue stalks forward, “No, look, I’ve got nothing to do with that, I just—”

“You just what, Vic?” Nightwing presses, boot kicking away the small little canteen her partner had settled on the ground, “Smuggle in shipments for Luthor on the docks and pretend like none of it’s happening?”

“I…”

“What’s the shipment?”

“Fuck if I know, we don’t even get to see the containers--”

“So then where are the kid—”

“Look, I know shit, a’ight, so unless you wanna bring your cop buddy back in—”

Alex’s hand snaps forward with precision, landing right next to his jaw against the rickety wood of that splintering, dusty chair, that idle threat dying in a quick suck of air against barely-wet lips. Kara doesn’t flinch from where she’s crouched, lips staying in a thin line, visible underneath the Metropolis moonlight sifting through the broken windows above them.

For a moment, Alex wonders if Kara can smell this building—smell his sweat—his blood.

There were some perks to the mask. Alex can't smell much of anything, at all.

“Where are the kids, Vic?” Her sister’s lips part, unburdened, voice gentle—soothing—like a lullaby over orphan’s heads, fingers fanning out in the air around her knees, knuckles flexing. “Killing a defenseless woman is unconscionable--being responsible for children’s deaths is unforgivable.”

“Cat Grant is a bitch.” It's spit and Alex watches normally-kind fingers spread with restraint out of the corner of her eye, eyebrow raising behind the mask. “She shoved her nose where it didn’t belong. I would’ve done the world a favor if I—”

In one fluid motion, the visor snaps shut and that flexing hand is curved around Vic’s chin, snapping it upwards.

“That’s not very nice.” Just like that, Kara disappears in a sea full of obscured black and red, smile gone, replaced with something faceless. Victor's face, horrified, is reflected to himself.

“What happened to no torture?” It’s gasped, rough, from the jostle of her closing his mouth, teeth clenching underneath force.

“Who said I was going to torture you?” Flamebird innocently husks and wordlessly lifts the chair into the air and human muscles scramble against the tight curl of rope, a faint yelp of a startled scream starting in a bobbing throat that’s cut off by a rush of air when the vigilante hefts him up further up, holding him up only by her finger, curling underneath the wood. “You clearly don't want to tell us anything, I think I’m just going to drop you off at the police station—”

“Oh, God. Oh, God—What—What the fuck are y—”

“Don’t make me gag you again, Vic.” Nightwing calls up, humming from her casual stand, elbow leaning against the baton. “Can’t have you causing a commotion in the—”

"Tell us, or the cops."

Just like that, he breaks. Frantic.

“If I go to the cops, Luthor knows. Luthor knows and I’m dead—my kid—please! Please. You gotta—”

Well there’s a surprise, Vic the family man back in full force. Maybe the police report was a little useful, after all.

The chair settles back down on the cement with a clattering thunk, a sagging, nervous body absorbing the impact like a sack of meat dropped from the top of the Daily Planet onto the street below and Alex’s helmet perks up, then, the faint sound of hissing meeting her ears with a little more insistence, head whirling around to locate the noise. It’s getting louder. 

Did something get damaged in the fight, earlier? Was something damaged before they ever even came?

“What about your kids, Vic?” The visor is popped back open, now, voice unhinged by tempered glass but Alex doesn’t look over at her sister's attempt at bridging the gap, too busy trying to locate the sound of the small disturbance, walking across the warehouse where they’d first tangled with the wannabe-killer, Alex tackling him into what’s now a dusty, toppled pile of containers.

“Oh, God, he’s going to know. Fuck, they’re—the other guys, they’re gonna tell that cop and Luthor—you’re right, it’s gotta be Luthor—he has my—he has—” The voice is frantic now and Alex doesn’t really register Kara trying to placate it with soothing explanations as her own footfalls squelch against the dirtied cement floor. Each step is a squeaking, heavy noise and she pops open her own helmet—huffs into the slit of her visor and inhales and—

Brows knit.

It smells familiar, swelling lungs.

“Vic. Vic, calm down. Focus. Who does he—”

“He has my kid, you don’t understand. He's been watching them. Mary. Sam--” Vic’s voice seems far away, now—frantic—and Alex’s nose turns up, the faintest hint of something in the air catching on her tongue. "Look, I found these files, once. Nothing--nothing big, or anything, but he's--there's these...these experiments--that--that--"

Realization, the sound of a frantic voice and Kara's pressing, calm one lost underneath that hiss, because she knows that smell--

"What experiments, Vic--"

It’s a marked odor. A marked odo—

The hiss is louder.

Eyes snap upwards, heart hammering, glove swiping over one of the containers' mussed labels, not quite years of dust coming off of the peeled surface of peeling paper. Like these were brought in recently, the wording of a container catching eyes, its valve clearly opened before they got here. Acetylene.

Ethyne. The simplest alyne—hydrocarbon—and the formation pops into a scientist's mind out of habit as knowing legs stumble backwards, away from the canister, gut sinking even as the hair on arms stands up straight.

“I can’t let you. I won’t let you—”

One spark. One small ignition, and this place will blow.

“Shit, Kara—” The name tumbles out unbidden because there’s a chance she’ll never have a chance to say it, again. Head snapping up to meet exposed lips and a back that immediately turns to steel in response, the sound of Alex's heartbeat and the scent likely finally registering. Alex doesn’t even have time to run towards her. Warn her. Do anything but suck in a sharp inhale of breath as she snaps the visor closed--

They didn’t check him before they tied him up. It’s the nineties. Everyone fucking smokes.

“Wha—” The t cuts off with a sharp noise when that rickety, half-broken chair snaps backwards, wood splintering against unforgiving cement, Vic's grunt of pain underlined by the crack.

It's a judgment call that will linger as long as all of them do--longer than Kara will likely ever mention--those visible lips parting as Kara moves towards Alex, instead of Victor, the split second of reaction allowing the calloused, blood brunt of his thumb ample reaction time to flick the wheel of a lighter in his pocket.

A spark.

The ethyne ignites in a fell swoop of a backdraft, the heat of it not noticeable at first, but one ignition is enough and it’s almost like slow-motion, watching the flame crawl across the air, feeding it, filling the room with a hiss and a roar, and the boom of the second canister right next to it, leaning precariously against the wall, sounds like a dropping thud. 

Alex doesn’t have to have x-ray vision to imagine the widening of Kara’s eyes and there's not enough time for features to crumble or for blood to run hot or for the world to still before it’s all turned into a whirlwind in front of flames, wind knocked out of gasping lungs from an impact her heart understands, but brain somehow never expects. Another second ticks by and fingers curl into the bunched leather of her sister’s shoulder, one second flying underneath overwhelming heat, and the next second she’s on the ground outside, stumbling. Gasp spattering air and heat and spit against the newly-cracked visor of a helmet, falling to knees—

Gasping.

And then Kara’s gone in a blur of black and red and all Alex can do is weakly scramble after her before Flamebird bursts back through the door, stronger than the incoming explosion that might knock them both off of their feet if she wasn’t prepared for it, all of the oxygen in the room sucked up into a blast of fire, igniting, and Alex knows, knows--

Kara's trying to get the fire out of the building--away from Victor. Away from the canisters. Away from Alex.

But it's too late.

There’s something familiar about the way that Kara throws herself into an explosion—how she’s been throwing herself at explosions in front of Alex one way or another for three years now and maybe a lifetime before that—that makes knees tremble above cement that can't hold her before instinct and training take over, falling to a kneeling crouch behind her sister’s indomitable form, absorbing heat and flame for the both of them.

The unmarked odor burns the back of a clenching throat and Kara whirls around to check on her the moment the air crackles with the hint of heat dissipating from the backdraft.

Alex lets in a singular, quaking breath before she nods.

She can't speak, not yet. But she nods, gingerly bringing the burned flesh of her knuckles, barely caught in the fire, up to her chest.

Flamebird disappears into the warehouse a moment later and Alex stumbles backwards until her weary back meets with the adjoining building in the alley, helmet thudding when a heavy--heavy--head falls back to rest against its rough surface, the entire heart currently lodged in an aching throat likely the reason she doesn’t feel like she can breathe, at all.

And, yeah, okay. She needs a moment, hands shaking as they lower back to knees, the hint of adrenaline settling in a gasp as she shakes her head, again, not risking reaching a hand up to pop the visor before weak, trembling knees stagger forward at the sound of Kara’s faded, angry voice meeting her ears, tipping her head to activate the comms.

“Talk to me.” It's a wheeze, pushing through the adrenaline—the lingering fear—the sweat and fire eating at the back of her throat—

Get up, soldier. Get up—

“Flamebird.” It’s louder, more insistent, moving towards the front of the building where the flames have barred any form of passage, but she'll have no problem digging through the rubble if she has to, whether her sister is made of steel, or not, wounded knuckles flexing in preparation. “K—”

A frightened noise of a syllable doesn’t even break the stuffy air of her helmet before that silhouette appears in front of the rubble.

Flamebird looks like a paragon of her namesake, fire roaring at the spread wings of shoulders, highlighting the black, glistening flame of shining, treated leather like a painting of reds and yellows smeared along a night sky. Arms hoist up the burnt flesh of a sacrificial lamb—cradling a villain of choice against her chest as she takes the slow walk through the door, no need for haste, now.

Alex's stomach clenches from far more than nerves, now, ultimately--seflishly--grateful for the mask still tucked over her nose. They both know what burning flesh smells like, now, and it's something that lingers far longer than fire ever could. He was likely dead not long after the ignition, the doctor might have informed her sister years ago, but Kara walks like a soldier, now and Alex knows—she knows—there's no need to tell Kara anything, anymore.

(When did that happen? When did this city make soldiers out of symbols?)

But there’s no soldier in the way fingers gingerly ease the charred flesh that a few moments before had contained a trembling, frantic voice—there’s no soldier in the way Kara lays a dead man on the sidewalk like a mother who's lost a child, even when that man had tried to kill someone else she cares about like a phantom a few hours before, fingers sliding down eyelids that stick with a crisp snap against the thin remains of what he could have been.

How many times has Alex watched this, now? Watched Kara gently close eyelids so that a soul taken by a God from a planet He let fade might be able to look at the stars? How many times has Kara quietly helped people ascend up into the air even without flight, eyes no longer seeing what the rest of them do? Heroes. Criminals. Bystanders. Children.

Without a word, gloved hands raise to untuck a helmet, blonde locks flowing in the wind as Kara’s head bows, a look of determination settling on hardening features.

“He wanted us...” Kara's voice sounds even, unmoving, in the space between them, "To find his son."

A small piece of black tucks up in her sister's fingers that Alex hadn’t noticed before—a picture burnt from the explosion, melted in potholes of ash along its small 4x4 gloss. It’s indistinguishable, especially in the night, city lights drowning out the stars and any hope of recognition that might have been reliable in the keepsake. The only thing Alex can see is the barest hint of a boyish before it's peeled away and brought up to the stars, too.

“His name is Sam.” Fingers gently tuck the picture in the man’s chest by his heart, fabric crisping to ash underneath unyielding steel and Alex doesn’t move, baton ready at her hip so that her sister’s doesn’t have to be. “They took his son. It doesn't--it doesn't excuse what he--”

The wind whips through Kara’s hair before she slowly stands, shoulders rolling back and a bird spreading its wings from the motion, the edges of it glowing from the faint light of the fire. Alex's hand curves over her shoulder, knowing--halting any further argument. A moment later, a helmet covers any hint of blonde remaining, both of them looking up towards the stars, the sound of sirens bouncing off the brick of the alley.

Alex steps behind that symbol of a shining bird, arm moving to wrap around a waist, hold firm as she taps her baton against her boot twice before kicking it up into the air with the back of her heel, firm voice drowned out by the sound of the sirens and the air cracking as Flamebird launches them up into the sky, one arm wrapped around a Nightwing and the other wrapped around a baton.

“And we’re going to find him.” Alex promises, throat still tight from the impact.

This guy tried to kill Cat Grant, a few hours ago. Kara stopped him. And they couldn’t stop him from doing this.

It doesn’t matter, anymore. It doesn’t matter what criminals do—it doesn’t matter who they were, or became; their choices, their decisions—it doesn’t matter who they are, what the fire might have burnt into the leather surrounding their bones. Photographs are always gray after they burn, even if they started black and white. Everything's so...gray, now.

All of Metropolis seems so gray.

It doesn’t matter.

The Sams of the world, on behalf of the Vic's or not--

They’re going to find all of them.

--

“She’s not here--never came in for her shift the other night.” It’s so stereotypical—like a shot out of a low-budget Noir film, sideway angles and a mussed, non-descript white rag curled around masculine fingers as they dip in and out glass, cleaning its scuffed, dirtied surface. But The Sam sounds so non-plussed about it that Cat wants to wrap that rag around that annoyingly rugged, hair-dappled neck, instead, “Haven’t seen her in a few nights, actually.”

“Is that normal?” It’s pressed before Cat can remind herself that she shouldn’t care—that it’s none of her business—but it’s completely normal to worry about a girl who’s obviously ill-equipped for the city to not be heard from in a couple of days. 

Well, maybe not as ill-equipped as Cat had initially thought.

After all, the last time the unassuming, karate-kicking, guitar-playing, orphan-soothing Kara Danvers had mysteriously appeared in the night, it had been after she’d saved Cat's life from people who would clearly kill her, if they discovered who she was. Cat has a paper to hide behind. Kara?

Well, she has this guy. 

And her sneer is palpable to reflect that little unfortunate fact. Scotty’s lips barely twitch upwards and long-manicured nails drum along the sticky edge of a bar so that they don’t slap the glass out of his hand.

“Depends on who’s asking me questions. Normally, I don’t like journalists sniffing around, even if Kara’s got a soft spot for you. Must be the Gotham in me.” That rag is thrown over a broad shoulder before stacking the glass on top of his little drink tower, the bright light of the city settling into the dingy, dust-filled air of the bar between them, reflecting off its smooth surface. “You’re not the first journalist who’s tried to get her number.”

Eyes slit and, oh, she doesn’t have time for this, today.

“Fine. Tell her I came by.” A notepad is elegantly flicked out, elegant script gliding along the page, writing down a number of her own. “And don’t,” She waves the paper underneath his nose like a fine perfume before slapping it on the bar, “Let her get a big head about it. I just want to thank her.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure. Plenty of people try to get her number for that, too.” His hand wisely raises to stem her before she can cut that little smirk of his down a size. “Alright. Fine. She called. Told me she had a few loose ends to tie up, and would be back playing in a few days.”

“Loose ends?” An eyebrow arches over the rim of sunglasses.

“This is why I don’t do journalists. Yeah, a few days.” There’s a long pause as he moves back towards the bottles tossing over his shoulder, “But you know, we’re not the only place she plays. Give it to her, yourself.”

The eyebrow lowers, slow smile curving up lips, instead, as she slides that number into her pocket. He doesn’t give her the name, but it’s a lead, and Cat knows what to do with leads.

Unlike Perry White, it’s not bury them.

“Hah. Hah. Oh, you’re hilarious,” It’s drawled, huffing through nostrils a few hours later, the sound of ringing phones and idle chatter a constant backdrop of any conversation at the Daily Planet, “Look, Chloe, I’m not turning into the paparazzi. I’m just trying to find someone who might be in a bit of trouble after fishing me out of a hmm…tight.” Fingers wave in the air as she scribbles the address down on a small scrap of paper. “Spot. The other ni—

The dull thud of a heavy paper sounds on the hollowed, chipped wood of Cat’s cheap pressboard desk, a singular eyebrow hiking up into blonde. The phone hangs against the rock of her shoulder and chin for a moment before she realizes it’s their paper, obituaries facing upwards.

Fingers curl a little tighter around the phone, a quick goodbye lost underneath the sound of the receiver slamming downwards, righting itself in its holster.

The date is from a few nights ago.

“Did you chase this?” Perry’s voice is gruff—the sort of sound Cat imagines Ernest Hemingway makes over the rim of a glass of whiskey, brutish and misogynistic with every breath. Then again, maybe that’s just how everything sounds when it’s filtered through a salt and pepper mustache.

Cat’s fingers skim along the name, brows knitting. Victor Martin.

Breath catches against teeth like the sound of a heel breaking in the sidewalk—sharp. Quick. Stifling. But when her chin tips upwards, features are impassive, a low hum sounding out between them.

Whether Perry knows her better, or not.

“Perry, I really don’t understand why I should care about...Greta Donalin from 6th st—”

“Don’t.” Perry slaps the desk, palm smothering the name of her final (useless) lead. Her final, useless, murderous lead who is now apparently useless and dead. “Did you chase this? After I very clearly told you to keep your shit-sniffing nose out of it? Of course you did. Because you don’t know when to quit unless it’s a good fuckin’ thing, Grant.” The gruff is a thin veil for fury, voice ticking upwards and upwards and that hum buried in her chest turns into a sharp hiss of an inhale through teeth, now, her own palms flattening on this cheap desk like the hill she's very, very ready to sacrifice her career upon.

“Well, no one else here is going to do any—”

“A good friend of mine,” The paper is snatched from under curling nails, “At the MCPD called me this morning to tell me that an anonymous tip from a payphone in the slums listed three tied up men on the street. Two of them wouldn’t talk. The third mentioned a blonde who loved shoving her nose in their business, and Victor Martin. By name. Victo Martin. Who’s dea—”

“Oh, so your substantiated evidence of my involvement in a murder is based on the fact that I’m not a bottle blo—”

“This is the last straw, Grant.” It drops from the yell to the simmering roll of a boil, "Give me one reason why I shouldn’t tell them you were the last one to see him alive, because we both know that you’re pulling my final string, Kitt—”

“Other than the fact that it would be political suicide to throw me under the bus?”

“No, chasing down Lex Luthor is political suicide. Because, in case you didn’t look into this, you were chasing down a company that specializes in medical supplies for children with cancer, Grant.”

“Oh, no, Perry, I just shoved my nose up in the air, sniffed around, smelled you fifty floors up and decided it would be a wonderful day to ruin children’s lives. Yes, of course I looked int—”

“Then you know.” The paper is thrown from the room, its pages scattering in front of them--behind them--like everything else has, these past years-- “That you shouldn’t be looking into this, Cat.”

“What do they have on you, Perry?” Her voice is serious—borderline treasonous—but she’s one foot out of the door, anyways. Maybe further, if Perry keeps pushing her out of it. “Because the man I know wouldn’t bury a lead like this.”

“Kill it, Cat.” Perry’s finger lingers, pointed, but there’s something so deep in his eyes that her shoulders barely slacken. Quieter, grating and conflicted and so fucking furious that it hopefully covers the worry—

“Perry—”

“Kill it.” The finger lowers, hand lingering on the trim in his furious departure, head hanging, and for a moment he...looks like the Atlas outside of the door she’s walked into every day for the past ten years, shoulders hunched, the pale ring of skin along his hairy knuckle catching the too-bright sunlight of Metropolis. So much has changed for everyone here, hasn't it? A lot can, in ten years. She used to have a son, and Perry used to be happy, and Lois-- “Before it kills you. That’s not a threat. That’s someone who—” A sharp, gruff breath through that mustache, sinking a little further towards the hell he's dragging them to before he stands straighter than a phone booth. “Kill it. Some stories? They’re not worth the collateral damage.”

Lips part, watching the space where he left, for a long moment, before she picks back up the phone to listen to the long, drawn out dial tone on the other side, lingering before she hangs up, grabbing her coat on the way out, an address tucking safely inside her pocket, next to her own number.

Some collateral damage is worth the story. 

--

The heavy fabric of a mask clings to skin as aching fingers slowly peel it up and off, sweat soaking the hair that falls and hangs like wet rope along the flexing muscles of her neck the moment skin is free of the weight, sucking in a deep breath of stagnant apartment air.

Their dingy little apartment is still better than the stifling weight of a mask, after all.  

“Nothing.” The frustration curls up her tongue, tossing the mask across the distance of their room with a wet slap, starting to peel off gloves, next--ginger around her left, the wrap around her burn still fresh--both of them hitting the wall before falling into a small, toppled over basket.

God, the heat in this city never lets up. As if to mock her, the air conditioner rattles in greeting for two seconds before it peters out, Lois’ whistle of greeting from the corner met with a roll of eyes as Alex starts to peel off the long sleeves of a black athletic shirt, next.

“The docks. The slums.”

“Okay, eww—” Kara points towards Lois’ hunched form in their corner (reading through a magazine from last year, casually propped up on their linoleum counter), “And hey!” Her sister’s smiling face appears from the bathroom and Alex can see it—can see how it doesn’t reach eyes—but it almost does, and somedays that’s enough. Like today, when Alex is so tired she’ll take almosts in stride.

Hell, today she’d even take a kind of close-ish over anything else. It's good enough.

“What, it’s not like I haven’t seen it before. Oh, wow,” Lois deadpans, holding up the magazine to a flash-filled perp shot of Paul Reubens, “Peewee was arrested.” She tosses the magazine back onto the floor from where she got it.

Okay, so maybe the magazine is more than a couple of months old.

“Double eww.” Kara points towards Lois, again, nose scrunching up in a way that really makes it difficult for Alex not to push into it just for a little bit of relief on this hellish day. A fact Kara clearly picks up on, whirling around to point towards Alex, instead, “Don’t want to know. Nothing?”

“Nothing. Dead lead.”

“Hey, I just provide them,” Lois hops up, hands raised, and Alex pointedly ignores eyes lingering on the flexing shoulders visible around a camisole, starting to unravel the tactical belt around her waist, kicking off boots, “Something I’m going to tap out on soon. Seriously, you guys are burning a lot of bridg—”

Kara visible stills and looks away and Alex shoots Lois a look.

Journalists.

“Okay, burning was a poor word choice,” Said journalist gently admits and Kara is only quiet for a moment before coming forward, any hint of that smile in her eyes receding enough for Alex’s mouth to open, cut off by her sister's nothing but business voice.

And Kara likes to claim Alex is the one that retreats. 

“Well, then it’s a good thing that the guy who hired Victor Martin is coming to the club, tonight.”  

“What?” Alex pushes hands through damp hair, peeling off socks, next, hopping a little as she does. “You know, maybe you,” A grunt, whirling around to smirk towards Lois, “Should be a journalist, you’re giving Lo’ a run for her money.”

“Kara always gives me a run.” There’s a hint of pride in that smile and it looks like they can agree on something, for once, “Which I’m so grateful for, since Cat is snooping, too, and there's only so many things I can do to keep her off the track. She's like a bloodhound. Both because she's a bit of a bitch, and because--" A sharp look from Kara, surprisingly, causes Lois to raise hands in acquiescence and continue, "Okay, sorry. How’d you manage to track him down?”

“What can I say? Sometimes lonely people just need a smile and an ear.” Kara shrugs, the sound of water running from their half-operational sink not too far away reverberating through the small, cramped confines of the apartment. The pipes whistle like a songbird in response—a sharp, high-pitched noise above them that causes Alex to look up for just a moment to sympathetically take in her sister’s wince.

A few years and Kara still isn't used to the overwhelming sounds of Metropolis, their pipes being one of them, Alex knows.

“Speaking of Cat, she must be missing you.” It’s a tease, following after the retreating blonde into the bathroom.

“Oh, come on, I’m sure she hasn’t even come by,” A squirt of toothpaste, Lois leaning up against the door frame. They’re probably violating the fire marshall’s code, right now, for occupancy in the broom closet of a bathroom.

“Oh, she’s definitely come by.” Lois winks towards Kara’s suddenly-shifting form when Alex twists a squeaking knob on the shower, peeling off pants with a little more ginger effort, given the bruises.

"You okay?" There's those concerned blue eyes and Alex pointedly ignores both pairs as she waves them off. 

"I heard her asking someone about you, today. Well, before Perry bit her head off and she stormed out." Lois isn't deterred and Alex wonders if the eldest Lane sister is as determined to set up everyone to their happiest of endings as Kara usually is. Only Lois is fittingly more sarcastic about it, "I'm telling you, Kara, she likes you likes you--"

“Oh, God,” It’s murmured like a prayer as Alex peels off the rest of her tank, next, tossing it towards Lois, who catches it, pulling off underwear once she’s actually in the shower, for her sister’s sake more than anything. Not that it really matters, anymore, ignoring them both for a moment. “For once I am so glad we’re broke and this shower is always so fucking cold.”

She's far more ginger taking off the bandage about knuckles.

“What?” Kara’s laughter is too nervous, perking up into her hairline like a choir boy’s falsetto. “Come on, she’s just—she wouldn’t—why would you—” Seriously, a moment later, feverishly whispering, “Wait, did she say anything to you?”

“I can still hear you.” Alex calls over the shower. And then groans at the cold water, feeling it wash away a few layers of dirt and blood and sweat that this city has sunk into her bones over the years. No matter how much she scrubs, there’s always a nice little undertone of it beneath her, now.

“You need some alone time in there, Lexi?”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Okay, did you both miss my eww, earlier?”

“No.” Alex and Lois both supply and she’s glad the faintest flicker of a smile pressing upwards on features is hidden by their curtain.

“I hate you both.”

“No you don’t.” Is the once more uniform response but Alex leans out of the shower to raise eyebrows at Lois, all the same. “So." A smirk. "Did Kara’s crush say anything?”

She was going to ask for a washcloth, anyways, so it's really only convenient when Kara throws one at her face.

“Alex.”

“Maybe.” Lois' sly smirk is only doing Alex any favors.

“I get it, okay? It’s not a crush, Cat’s just—wait, what? Really? What did she—not that I am expecting her to—" Kara looks between both of their smiling faces before she huffs. Blushes.

It’s nice, really. So much of the city has sunk into both of their bones, Kara’s included—blue has seeped into black in a muddied mess between them—and Alex’s look turns a little softer. Enough noticeably that Kara leans forward to wipe a hint of sud from her brow before it can get into darker eyes with a mutter.

“Anyways.” A cleared throat, leaning forward to pluck back up the abandoned toothbrush near the sink. “Moving on from my failure of a love life, he’s going to be at the club later today. Let’s…focus on that, and not my definitely not a crush. Tag-team at the club?” Alex nods before once more disappearing into the shower.

"Bait and switch sounds good, unless you can actually get anything from him." 

“Speaking of getting something. Am I ever going to actually get any of this on the record anytime soon? You know, anything I can actually publish and pay for my rent with.” Alex can hear it—can hear the way Lane leans so casually up against the doorframe and weary muscles lean a little further into the stream, the chill of it causing a shiver down a curving spine. Tightening muscles and flexing fingers along tile that never cleans no matter how much either one of them scrub it.

It's always easier to focus on work.

“How do you feel about your red-k days?” Alex asks through the stream, thoughtful, giving herself a few more moments of scrubbing before Kara must hear her heartbeat calm, tossing a towel over the sliding rings of a cheap white curtain, knuckles puckered with torn, but cleaned skin wrapping it around and tucking it in after shutting off the water.

The pipes whistle in gratitude.

 “M’ wh--t?” A confused voice is muffled around the hanging handle of a toothbrush, popping it out through a mouth full of foam before Kara spits. “Red K? What are you—oh.” Kara sighs—groans, a little, chin tipping backwards as eyes skim along the pilling popcorn of their ceiling when Alex disappears into the bedroom—careful not to brush against any part of Lane as she goes—leaning over into the actual closet to grab soft silk, shoving a dress into sister’s hands. “Okay, what I remember of those are…not good days.”

A black, very tight, very intentionally slutty dress that is absolutely Kara’s size, not her own.

“Payback is a bitch.” It’s sing-song because she told Kara she would get her back for last year when she had to play the eye-candy at a party.

Kara pouts.

“Did you get his name?” Lois pecks Kara’s brow as she plucks up Alex’s sunglasses from the table, burying their arms in dark hair.

“All I have is Bloom. Alex, I am not wearing—”

“Bloom.” Lois repeats, memorizing it, letting out a second whistle of the day when Kara holds the dress up. “Yeah, it’s a shame Cat won’t be there to see this.”

“Okay, if Cat did see me in this, I am almost…nearly one-hundred percent positive that she would just—”

“Drool?” Suddenly Lois' smirk isn't endearing.

“Yeah, now it’s my turn to say eww.” Alex shrugs on a t-shirt, thankfully something not form-fitting or sagging from sweat. “Besides, it’s a good thing that you haven’t seen Cat. Right?” It’s pointed, looking up towards Kara, whose fingers curl in the thin fabric of the dress for a moment before she lets out such a quiet sigh that Alex almost feels guilty.

It’s the day for almosts.

“So, Bloom’s a lead.” Lois offers to break the silence, sliding those sunglasses down onto the bridge of her nose. “Time to go digging. Both of you try not to get into too much trouble, tonight, alright?”

The Danvers sisters meet eyes before innocently smiling towards Lois.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

A moment later, to a closing door, Alex yells as she shimmies up shorts:

"You better bring those back, Lane!"

--

If she thought Clark’s was full of smoke, this place is a living Bonnie Tyler music video in comparison, Halloween parody levels of fog filling the room from its slick floors to its high ceilings. Dark wood clings to every corner of the place, lights bright and stage even brighter, the place packed with more bodies than Cat would have expected for a Saturday, let alone a Thursday.

And there’s no surprise as to why, when fevered whispers mention who’s supposedly playing, tonight, like some kind of underground return-tour.

The journalist in her is aware of confirmation bias—now that she knows Kara Danvers exists, she seems to feel her everywhere in the city; see her in flashes around corners and in hanging signs; in bars and clubs and on colleagues’ tongues—but it’s still a little out of place, like something tucked away and secret has been put on display.

Then again, it seems Kara has that effect on people.

Especially--Cat realizes around a half hour after arriving--while wearing that.

The lights swamp the stage in a basking glow and when Kara gracefully walks onto it with that charming, spreading, thousand-watt smile, she seems to absorb them—like every inch of the girl’s skin is filled with light, alone—and Cat is caught by the sight of it for only a moment, noticing a lack of glasses (contacts?) before eyes skim downwards to take in the flowing lines of a particularly tight dress.

It’s not something she would have pegged the girl for wearing, but it’s not something she’s particularly unsatisfied with, either, watching the way it hugs curves as heels click. But, oh, there’s not a piano on stage, tonight.

No, apparently, it’s the girl who a recent memory had claimed to be sheepish about playing the guitar, tucking an electric one up on her body to a series of calls and whistles.

There's obviously nothing to be sheepish about and if Kara wasn't so unnervingly sincere all of the time, Cat might even feel played.

The guitar rings out skillfully into the club with such an overwhelming, hanging presence that the room is smothered to silence by it, the weight of it just as captivating as that smile—that dress—those eyes—

I put a spell on you—

There’s no smile on Kara’s face as she plays, tonight, and Cat wonders why. Wonders where the weight of her voice has come from—wonders how much more there is to her other than that smile and ever-listening ear, band slowly coming to play in the background alongside her.

Cat orders whiskey, tonight, swallowing the whole glass as she watches those fingers skim along frets with such ease and grace that the song might as well be true. Drowns her throat with clenching thighs and a tight stomach and playing Perry's words about collateral damage in her head like an athem.

And now you're mine--

A sharp breath, eyes closing, letting herself, for a moment, just listen. 

An hour later, Kara is far from the stage and hasn’t seemed to have found her, yet, and Cat wonders why each second curls her stomach tighter and tighter, the noise in this place too loud—suffocating—

A laugh warms up Cat’s spine like trilling fingers—like fingers dancing up ivory keys—but it’s far away and, oh, why is it that she immediately recognizes it, now? Kara's laugh.

“—Sam?” Cat hears at the edge of her ears over the loud din of the bar, leaning over on the stool to take in the sight of Kara leaning…comfortably close to someone around the corner. Her hand so familiarly skimming along a man’s shoulder as that laugh lights up the dark corner between them, eyes flicking down to his hip before settling on his eyes with a bright, bright smile.

But it looks a little…different, somehow. Forced. And suddenly Kara looks so out of place in this bar laughing with that dress clinging to her like a second skin and curiously, Cat’s fingers dip along the rim of her glass, eyebrow arching. Leans a little closer to listen—

“Look, he trusted me to look after Sam. All I want to know is that he’s okay. He told me you have…kids, right? A…boy and a girl—oh, gosh, sorry, are you—”

There’s a commotion as someone jostles into the pair when Kara leans up, both of them bumping into the man. A woman raises her hand with a scoff—a brunette, leather jacket wrapped comfortably around shoulders like she had just hopped off a motorcycle.

“Hey, whatever, just watch it, blondie.”

The brunette looks…familiar, slipping out of the bar door the moment she’s passed them and Cat’s eyes linger on her exit, watching smoke seep up into the night air in tendrils, and, oh, there’s that feeling in her stomach. That clenching, twisting feeling of anticipation—a gut feeling of—

Wasn't that—

Brows knit, turning back to the bar.

Blondie?

“You stalking me, Ms. Secret?” It’s quiet and smiling and low and skims right up the base of Cat’s fingers like fingers could, but Kara Danvers isn’t skimming her fingers along anything but a bar as she leans next to her, comfortably. Always so comfortably. Leaning a little close, maybe, to be heard over the noise of the club, even as her voice isn’t much of a yell, at all, and Cat’s eyes skim up the long lines of bare arms to bare shoulders to a bare neck before settling on a familiar, too comfortable smile. Always so comfortable.

Maybe it's just Cat's ever-present ego that assuages itself with the fact that Kara does look far more at place here than she had up against the wall with John Doe, or maybe it's something else, entirely.

Either way, Cat isn't comfortable with it.

“Hardly.”

“Because if you wanted to say thank you, you could’ve just showed up at the bar and—”

“Funnily, I did.” Cat turns on the barstool and it doesn’t creak, here—not like it does across the city. “And you weren’t there.”

“Oh.” Kara looks surprised and her smile quiets into something other than comfortable—something more than just familiar—and Cat waves her hand with a discarding notion, not wanting her to linger on it.

“You know where I work, now, too.”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“Just like you’re not supposed to know my name?”

“The only reason I know where you work is because of Lois Lane.” Kara, surprisingly, supplies, but Cat shouldn’t be surprised, should she? The girl is nothing if not honest. It doesn’t appear like duplicitous is in her nature and Cat is thrown by it, given the fact that she hasn’t heard anyone outside of newsprint be honest for years, Lois Lane included. “If you wanted me to know where you worked, least of all wanted me to show up there, you would’ve told me, Cat. This isn’t a creepy romcom.”

“It’s not?” Lips perk up at the edges.

“Maybe a romcom,” Kara shrugs that bare shoulder and leans on the bar, fingertips skimming up the wood by Cat’s wrist, not touching. But so close to touching that the hairs on her wrist might ache upwards to greet her. “But not the creepy kind. We did have a nice meet-cute, didn’t we?”

“Maybe.” A hum, lost underneath clinking glasses and music.

“Maybe.” That smile just spreads. “So, yes, I do know where you work, but so far that hasn’t been how this works. You come to me, not the other way, around. Unless…you’d like me to say hi, sometime?”

Cat’s chin barely ducks, thumb dipping along the rim of her glass. She wonders if it’s as clean or cleaner than the ones that Sam Malone was buffing at Clark’s, earlier.

“So…” It’s humming, tipping the glass back instead of offering anything else other than just conversation, “You do do blues. Lois mentioned that—mentioned jazz, too—but I was starting to think it was a myth.”

“I told you I had a couple of places I play around town which, you know—” Kara’s fingers come up to gently wave down the bartender with that charming, easy smile, “Club soda, please? This,” Eyes settle on Cat’s, “This seems a little out of your range, Cat.”

“Mmm, yes, well, maybe I was just lured here by that siren voice of yours.” It’s smirking.

“If that’s the logic, I’d think you would have come here, before. And trust me, if you did, I would have remembered.” And Kara’s eyes linger like her fingers had on the bar, Cat sees it—sees the way her eyes skim down from the line of her face to her chin—and dark eyes skim up that curving neck in retaliation, noting where sweat has pooled in the dips of it, highlighting the faint flex of Kara's swallow. This is the first time, Cat realizes, that she’s seen the girl sweat, at all, “You’re doing something that’s likely going to get you chased by a bunch of people in an alley, again, aren’t you?”

“Why? You fight one little Bruce Lee battle and suddenly you think you’ve got a job as my personal security guard? Is that a lust for danger I'm hearing?”

“If that’s the excuse that works.” Kara offers and, oh, Cat’s lips shouldn't twitch. “Although I’m not sure how I would do in security, but I could follow you around. Sing a theme song for you, or something.”

“That won’t alert people to my presence, at all, when I’m trying to be covert.”

“I can sing quietly behind you. In your ear.”

“Ah.” Cat’s tongue darts out over lips to cover her smile, turning around fully on the stool, their knees faintly brushing, “Isn’t that disturbing.”

“And here I was going for romantic.”

“If that’s what you’re going for, go again.” Cat advises, smiling through the murky amber of her drink.

“How about the fact that I was hoping it was you who would be walking through the door? The fact that I was singing because I was hoping you would hear it? Is that…a little more romantic?” Kara’s teeth are biting at her lip. There’s too much sincerity there. Enough that Cat searches her face, thumb slackening on the glass. "Or is that too much?"

"Hmm..." A small breath. “That’s a start.”

“So are you...following a lead?”

“Maybe. Are you sure you’re not a journalist?”

“Positive. I can't even get my names on checks, let alone on an article. Anything I can help with? A girl hears a lot more than just herself up on that stage…”

“Actually…”

“As long as you promise it won’t lead to anymore guns.”

Cat laughs.

“I can’t promise that.”

“Cat.” Suddenly that charming voice hardens into something surprisingly serious—like there’s a hint of steel in those shoulders, after all—and a nail that's finally been manicured this week trails down the ridge of the glass anchored on the edge of the bar between them.

Well, Kara can't be the only one bold. 

 “Would you be so surprised if I told you that you were the lead?”

“What?” All that smooth black dress bunches upwards into a straight, straight line as Kara sits up straighter, fingers falling away from the motion of it.

“What if I told you I was tracking you down?” Cat presses, further, and she can’t tell if Kara looks relieved or nervous. Offering: “To thank you. You weren’t…entirely off the mark, earlier.”

“Oh.” A breath, shoulders visibly easing, and there those tactile fingers go, raising up to skim familiarity along a slim wrist, heartbeat pressing up against the skin between them, which is suddenly...far less space, at all. “I was kidding. I told you before, Cat, you don’t have to thank me, right place—”

“Right time. Yes, yes. How noble. My hero.”

Kara’s lips part—that smile falters—and she looks like she might say something before her head snaps upwards, leaning forward to catch someone before they can roughly jostle into Cat with a surprisingly quick motion, catching their drink before it can spill all over her blouse.

Which is good, given the fact that it's new. And, oh, Cat can't even be too angry at the drunken idiot behind them, regardless of whether or not her latest acquisition was almost tarnished, Kara's quick gesture bringing long plains of open skin close enough that Cat can feel the heat radiating from her like a tall space heater, a sharp inhale of breath visibly tightening Kara’s shoulders. Kara, who must realize how close she is and moves to pull away—probably to do something ridiculous and…noble, like apologize—before Cat’s fingers wrap around that apparent boulder of a bicep, halting her.

Smiling, an inch away from that warm jaw. And that warm chin. And that warm smile--

“You’re making a habit of this, aren’t you? Right place, right time. Save my life. Save my blouse.”

So close that Cat can almost taste that sheepish grin and anything the girl might think of saying seems to be forgotten in favor of something else, entirely.

“Would you like to…go somewhere? Quieter. Not like—I didn’t mean like—” A cleared throat and, oh, Cat shouldn’t find it so endearing. “I just meant that it’s loud in here. The park, or—Clark’s isn’t far. I’m not working, tonight, and…anything I was going to do earlier doesn’t seem nearly as important, right now?”

“Why did you say that like a question?” Cat laughs, a little low, sheltered away from the rising smoke in this building underneath the awning of Kara's jaw.

"Because I wasn't sure you would like to go, at all." It's murmured, any of that bravado fluttering away like a little bird and Cat's glad they're close enough that she doesn’t have to yell over the rest of the noise in the bar. "Or maybe...I'm a little surprised at how much I want you to say yes."

“Hmm…I could use a little air. And a drink.”

“Clark’s it is.”

Kara leans up and away from her and the bar, the space between them suddenly cool, offering a palm to help Cat up, eyes lingering on lips instead of legs.

If Cat doesn’t drop the hand as they make their way into the city, well—

Whatever. Kara’s probably too polite to mention it, anyways.

--

“I’m so glad that I’m not the one that has to be doing the illegal things, anymore.” It's an easy, familiar snipe from Lois as Alex holds up the wallet, eyebrows raising when a journalist's excitement plucks it away, immediately rifling through the contents.

“I don't know what you're talking about, he dropped it.”

“Oh, really?” Lois laughs, leaning up against the brick of a nearby building, heel coming to rest by her knee. Idly, Alex thinks it’s the sort of thing that could be in a poster.

She wouldn’t remember, but it seems like the sort of thing that could be, anyways.

“It just happened to drop into my hand.” An easy smile, leaning up next to her, relaxing, just for a moment, letting the cooler city air sink into weary lungs.

Even smelling like smog and cigarettes, the air out here feels much better than the fire that’s been clinging to her lungs this week. The faint heat that’s sizzled up her spine.

“He has kids?”

“Two of them, a boy and a girl. Kara asked me to give her back the picture so that she could get it back to him.”

“Of course she did. Only your sister would help you steal a guy’s wallet and then—”

There’s enough of a pause for Alex’s eyes to open from where she’d rested against the wall, taking in the city-highlighted profile next to her.

She knows that look.

“What?” Lois quietly slips out a business card. It’s nameless, but there’s the faint emboss of a non-descript number on it. “Lois, what—”

Lois shoves the wallet in her hands, voice even and chin dipping as she sighs.

“This…” A sharp suck of a breath and when Lois looks back up at her, it feels like years ago when she last saw her truly laugh, because it probably was, “This is my father’s number.”

Alex wordlessly tucks the card back in the wallet along with the picture, sliding the whole undone pandora’s box into the back pocket of jeans, leaning forward to wrap the woman in a rare hug.

It’s a little more telling that Lois actually lets her.

“Don’t tell them.” Lois murmurs against her neck and Alex’s breath rattles as it spreads out her shoulders. “Not yet.”

Clark. Kara.

It’s a long second before Alex closes her eyes, fingers curling a little tight into Lois’ shoulder, and nods.

--

“It’s been...a particularly tough week at work.” Cat admits before she can wonder why, thumb running along the rim of a glass, unsurprised when Kara slides just a little closer--when that girl’s hand slides up the bar to settle right next to her own like she wants to remind her of her constant presence--chin tipping back as she searches those eyes, clearer underneath the smoke here than the smoke anywhere else.

Maybe even clearer than they had been, in the city. 

“Well, most people go to bars for that reason. If it was a good week at work, I would think you would have invited people from those...fancy business meetings of yours to bury in that bottle along with you, instead of…finding me somewhere, in a club.” 

“I doubt anyone in the office would celebrate with me, right now. They’re not exactly getting t-shirts printed with my face on them.” Cat grouses, tipping back a glass and looking up at Sam Malone, who is giving them a more than knowing look that’s easy to ignore through a martini. “I’m going to need something stronger if we’re going to keep talking about my job.”

“No Ms. Secret fanclub?” Kara turns towards that ever-knowing bartender with a resolute look, “Scotty, get us both a straight whiskey.” Tipping a little over as if to share with her out of the corner of her mouth: “It’s the nicest thing we have that doesn’t get watered down.” 

Cat blinks, “I thought you didn’t drink?” 

“I don’t. But I can’t let you go on thinking no one in the world will drink with you. I, for one, am happy to be here for your successes and failures and--oh, God, this is disgusting.” Kara’s nose wrinkles the moment she tips back the glass and Cat can’t help the faint laugh that rumbles on the edge of lips. Because Kara’s normally happy face looks like a cat who’s hacked on the edge of a hairball, features screwing tight before she turns around on the stool, offering up a glass with that same, determined smile, handing Cat hers.

Well, there's another new little fact to add to the steadily-growing list in Cat's mind:

Kara Danvers isn't a quitter

Fingers curve around the tumbler, amusement coating lips just as well as moisture does when her tongue runs over them, “You realize you consistently lose whatever I tip you on the drinks you buy me, don’t you?” 

“I’m not working tonight—well, here—and we have different definitions of lose.” It’s a little brazen and the girl seems to realize it, clearing her throat but not backing down as she tips the glass in a toast, “To...whatever it is you think is going wrong in your life?” 

“Ah,” Cat shrugs, “To everything, then.” 

“To everything, then.”

A beat, lingering on Kara and despite her better judgment, admits, “Well…maybe not everything.”

And there’s that fucking smile.

Their glasses clink and Kara somehow schools features into something stoic as she downs the glass in one long sip, an impressed whistle from the bartender resulting in a flourish of a bow from their resident musician.

“You’re supposed to sip it, you know. Not do shots like a college frat party.”   

“No way was I sipping that. Gross.” Her nose wrinkles underneath a small little laugh, Cat's amused chuckle creating a perfect harmony alongside it. “I told you, I don’t drink. But, um...you know. Solidarity? I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Of course it did.” A shake of the head before downing her own because, honestly, that doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Solidarity, even, seems like a wonderfully novel concept. It’s warm and cutting and Kara beams at her, fingers raising up to curl around her shoulder like an old friend and suddenly that warmth spreads from Cat’s throat down to curling toes, stockings bunching beneath the calloused pads of feet. "They always do." Cat's swallow is dusty, lashes fluttering as Kara's eyes flick down to lips--that endless smile skipping a beat like a syncopated rhythm--and blonde ringlets shake between them as the other woman pulls just enough away from her to raise those curled fingers around a dipped shoulder to shuffle glasses that...aren’t there.

A small little laugh at herself.

Sheepish. Annoyingly charming. 

“You know, not everyone in the world is out to get you. Lois Lane speaks the world of you, not that I told you that, and I just had a drink with you so...at least two people would rock your face on a t-shirt.” Kara offers and the laughter settles gently between them--as faint as the night-time wind rattling the bar's window panes.

“I wasn’t aware you and Lois were close. Outside of telling you where I work.” A breath of a noise, wishing that hand was back on her shoulder, but glad that Kara leans against the bar near her. Equally glad for the hint of space between them. What a contradiction. “She’s who recommended I come here.” 

“I know.” Kara admits and the surprise grows when the girl just smiles, a hint of something almost impish in those eyes--intoxicating--and Cat has the strongest, strangest urge to reach up to close the distance between them. “I asked.” 

“Did you, now?” That’s more intriguing than the drink. Kara hums but leaves it at that when eyes flick over Cat's shoulder to settle on stage.

“You know…when I go on, there’s always some point in the night that you love doing a disappearing act. But, you—” A hint of a nervous laugh, surprised—like Kara can’t believe she’s saying it, herself, teeth tucking a lower lip behind the gates of a nervous smile, “Why don’t you ever stay? After. I would share another drink. Club soda counts. You could tell me all about your journalism blues—I would always even pretend to understand half of what you say.”

“Somehow, I doubt you’ll have any difficulty understanding.” Cat murmurs, eyes barely slitting as she weighs the offer. Weighs the soft din of this smoky little hole-in-the-wall that does nothing to mute the hopeful light of blue above her. “Is this the piano-player version of a confessional? I thought the bartender was supposed to offer to hear all my worldly woes, not you.” 

“Scott’s got a full schedule on his plate with Rick.” Kara jokes, leaning just a little closer, “And...while I feel like saying this out loud might actually hurt my chances, I like to think that I could…be a friend to you, during the rough weeks. If you’d let me. Or...a stranger that looks a lot like a friend that would love nothing more than to be here for you. More than just--more than just what we already do.” 

“Why?” Cat asks before she can help herself--looking for this girl’s angle. For her motive. But that smile doesn’t dim underneath the faint lights and that hand slides a little closer and Kara just keeps smiling. Keeps biting her lip. Keeps shuffling like she doesn’t know how to do anything but ask, in the first place, and Cat can’t understand why. 

“I don’t know.” Kara seems to admit, humming, “It just...it’s something...it's something about you. I mean, it's something I want to do. Be here for you. If not, that’s okay. I know this is...new for you." A beat, almost rushing to add, "Us. New for us. I'm not trying to--” Another rap of knuckles along wood, leaning up to whisper something in the Sam’s ear before stepping away, “I’ll be right back. Before I shove my foot further in my mouth, like I'm currently doing a really, really good job at.”

And she slides away from the bar like she was never there in the first place, leaving Cat staring after her. It’s a little easier to watch her go in that dress, admittedly.

Oh, good, Cat  suddenly turns to objectification in her darkest hour.

“She does this for everyone, doesn’t she?” Cat asks even though she has a sinking suspicion that that’s not the case, at all. 

“Make friends with everyone? Yep. Listen to their problems? Sure. Drink with them? Nope.” Scotty hums, cleaning out a glass before setting down a singular martini in front of her and a glass of water that, undeniably, was also requested a moment before. Breath sucks through teeth. “Usually she’s actually kind of a recluse. She told me she doesn't want to get involved with anyone. Which is fine, we're all running from something, here.”

A hum of response, curious and lingering and thoughtful, gaze settled on the place where the girl just slipped away. 

What is Kara Danvers running from, then, if it's not from her? This. Whatever this...little tryst is, fizzled and barely under the surface.

And how big would Kara Danvers’ beam be, if she stayed the entire night? If they were left with more than just a few moments at the bar, even if Cat came here nightly? A few moments—minutes—an hour or two, maybe. What would it be, if they had more nights away from the smoke and the din and the quiet, drunken ramblings of the patrons that apparently fund an orphanage down the street as much as Cat’s apparent tab, here.

How warm would Kara’s skin be—her smile—Cat’s chest; how would the edges of fingers feel like the tips of fireworks when Kara settles next to her at the end of the night, where Cat would be a little drunker than she was when the singer left? What would it be like, for Kara to say something cheesily succinct like—

So tell me about your day, Ms. Secret—

And for Cat to unhinge her jaw—

Apparently, she has the gift of premonition.

“Sorry,” Those fireworks light match tips along Cat’s shoulders as fingers skim along skin, Kara settling next to her, “I had to check in with my sister, anyways, and that seemed like a really good time to go away and splash some water on my face before I babbled my way onto the street. So...”

The sister.

It clicks, Cat’s eyes flicking up to linger on Kara’s jaw, question pursing lips before Kara leans forward, shaking her head.

"Tell me about your day, Ms. Secret.”

Cat almost laughs at the knowing whisper in her ear and against every single fucking shred of logic in her brain…

Cat does. 

She tells her everything. 

Again.

She talks about her week and doesn’t stop and Kara just listens to every single word until she’s finished before reaching across the distance, squeezing her shoulder, leaning up and Cat’s certain she’ll disown ever knowing her--throw a drink in her face or finally inform her she doesn’t care or, worse, insist that she very, very much does--she’s certain she’ll say something idiotic or stupid, like it will all be alright or maybe next time? Or, worse, You're doing the right thing without any idea of how harsh the right thing can be.

Because she tells Kara about work, about the argument with Lane about the article—about the missing girls—about Perry. She tells Kara about how her business is falling through and she’s unsure how to get sponsorship, now. She tells Kara about how Perry White was threatening to pull her byline if she didn’t find something objective to focus on, about Vic Martin winding up dead, to a somber, haunted look on Kara's features than ever expected.

She tells Kara more than just words--she becomes more than just a lonely person sitting on the edge of a barstool, mysterious and enigmatic. She becomes a full-fledged person with secrets and anger and vitriol and mistakes (and, oh, she hates the mistakes). She becomes Cat Grant, a web of twisted mistakes and pointed career-hunting and passion, and she’s certain that’s far too much for this regular, happy piano player who wandered into a city that she apparently hides herself from in the tucked away corner of a stage.

Instead, Cat just blinks, because Kara whispers something like it’s the most natural follow-up to such a weighted confessional--

“Hey, do you like tacos?” A talented thumb points towards the door, “Because there’s a place around here that sells them until 2 AM and you probably need something on your stomach and I’m starving.” 

Like Cat hadn’t just bared her soul--like nothing had changed between them, at all--no expectations weighing down that raised smile. 

Cat just blinks--stares at her, lips a little agape--and nods.

--

It's nice, at least, to feel what air conditioning might be like, again. Alex sprawls out on the mattress, greeting the cool of it like an old friend with an arching spine, biting back a groan at the bruises that ache up her spine like a beaten tapestry, sinking back onto the couch with a huff. And she feels Lois' eyes on her, watching her stomach, her hips, and there's something to be said, at least, for honesty, because Lois doesn't look away when their eyes meet.

"We're not going through this again, Lois. It's moved past bad idea territory into dangerous." 

"Yeah, yeah." Lois sighs and Alex stupidly reaches up to skim fingers up her cheek--hesitating for only a moment before that finger skims down the curling rope of brunette hair that pools in her palm, fingers gently cupping the back of her skull, the glint of a ring catching off of Alex's neck underneath the apartment's lights before she tugs Lois back, once more. Closer.

There's no rules against sharing a metaphorical bed platonically, right? Because Alex, the idiot she is, had immediately acquiesced the moment Lane murmured something close to please in her--you can come over, if you want, and help me go through his files that I do have access to--

"You know, there's no guarantee your father had anything to do with this." Alex tries and Lois settles on top of her like a bag of rocks, sagging into the mattress with a sigh.

"Yeah, right. When the hell did you become an optimist? Let Kara stick with her strengths. I depend on you for your brood-y...over-pessimistic realist take."

"Hey, I'm not broody." It's grumbled, tired eyes fluttering closed for a long moment, feeling Lois shift to settle a little further on top of her and this couch feels better than their small little springboard of a bed ever has. "Clark would have come here, you know." It's quiet after a long moment of silence, the faintest quiver underneath burnt fingertips before they bury themselves in that dark hair, gently sifting through. Letting a slow, guilty breath seep out of her as Lois' nose slots against the pulse in her neck.

For the first time, she wonders if this is how Kara feels, every time her eyes linger a little too long on Cat Grant. She wonders if Kara would be doing this, right now, if they had the option. If the pull of it is just too much for weary shoulders, where her sister's have always been made of steel. Resolute. 

"He has other things he should be focusing on, right now. Stop talking about him like he's supposed to be here, instead."

A faint hiss from Alex's lips--are all journalists this annoyingly astute?

"He could have been. He's not. So just...shut up and be a pillow while I brood for a change, because we both know I'm going to have to go on a hunt after my dad and ugh--god, what if I have to tell Kitty she's right, I'm never going to hear the end of it, and this all--" 

"Hey. Lane." Alex sighs, fingers raking gently against her skull until she follows her own advice and shuts up, sagging further into Alex on the couch, the air conditioner cooling both of them with its faint little unfamiliar rumble. "We'll figure it all out tomorrow." Lois gently untucks Alex's hand and she's so glad she can't see the look on her face as a thumb gently smooths underneath burnt flesh.

It's healing.

A lot of things are, whether they want them to, or not.

"Until then, I'm going to enjoy this wonderful air conditioning, and pretty nice company, and you can stop thinking for a little while. If you're capable of that." 

Breath breaks against Alex's knuckles before Lois wordlessly brushes lips right above them.  

"I can try." Lois murmurs, cuddling into her side in a way they'll both likely deny in the morning. 

It's easier to ignore the guilt when she's too exhausted to care.

--

The tacos, surprisingly, aren’t the kind of corner-expectations that land a girl in the hospital with E. Coli.

“Does every night always end with food, with you?" A delicate lick of fingers.

"Most nights." Kara beams, "Okay, all nights."

"Hmm...so I just spilled my life story, piano player--”

“Actually, you just told me about your day.” Kara cuts her off, hastily adding before swallowing another impressively large bite of that bursting corner-street taco, “Which I was very, very happy to hear. But it’s not really a life story.” 

“Okay,” Cat drawls, heels clicking along the streets, steam from the grates not warming her heels as much as the faint heat radiating off of Kara’s…surprisingly muscular calves, “I was born in downtown Metropolis to a bitch of a writer, Katherine Grant--”

“Oh, wow, the Katherine Gr--” At Cat’s look, Kara seems to stutter and shut up. Wisely, “Um, right, well there’s obviously a sore subject, moving on.” 

“Went to college pursuing journalism--became editor--and had my hopes and dreams dashed when I interviewed with Perry White, only to become his assistant. And then...well, you know the rest, don’t you?” 

“Worked your way up through the fashion section to the gossip section. A tale you told me with no detail whatsoever, so I don’t know about know the rest, but--”

“You’re very nosey for a piano player.” 

“Ah, not just for a piano player. I am told,” Kara looks practically shit-eating around her next bite, swallowing, “That I am nosey for anyone. Particularly nosey. I’m proud of it.”

“It’s like your superpower.” 

“Hah! Right.” Kara gently bumps her shoulder, laugh high enough that Cat’s eyebrow raises despite that faint alcohol in her system because this girl is just...she must be psycho, or something. No one can be this wholesome. It’s like walking with an attractive neighbor in Leave it to Beaver. “Heh, like...people have super powers, right. Pfft.” 

Cat just stares at her, deciding when the girl moves onto her fifth taco: “They need to study you. I mean like an actual scientific study. With doctors.”

“I’m okay with that, you get paid for those.” It’s a tease. “You and Lois are friends, aren’t you. She tells me that at least weekly. Talk about similar strokes.” Kara huffs through her nose, but there’s a lightness in her eyes as she chomps down, happily swallowing before bumping Cat’s shoulder. Again. Tone bright and fingers curling, protective, along a shell. Cat can’t help but notice, even through leather, that the other woman is warm. And maybe Kara intentionally misunderstands where Cat's eyes linger, “If you want another taco, I can get you one, but stop eyeing this one, it’s mine.” 

A laugh scoffs through her own nose, shaking her head as she wipes her hands, full and unfortunately sober. “No. I have no idea how you're still eating, there's no way I'm going to finish this second one. So, what’s your story?” 

“My story?” Kara takes care wiping her mouth, making good use of a napkin before depositing it in a nearby trashcan, making a gesture for Cat’s, as well, who hesitantly hands it over, confused because the city is still steel in her bones. “You didn’t finish telling me yours.” 

“There has to be some quid pro quo, here, Carole King. It’s my job to know about people, and I know virtually next to nothing about you.” And there the girl goes, happily depositing trash in the nearby bin before trotting the small distance back over to catch up, like she wouldn’t want to burden Cat with waiting for even a second longer than she would need to. Of course. Because she's so chivalrous it's nearly insufferable. 

Cat quietly thanks her, regardless.

“Maybe I’m an enigma. That’s what keeps people coming back to the bar.” Fidgeting, tactile hands shove into the pockets of a jacket she apparently keeps behind the bar for nights like these. Cat wouldn't have pegged the girl for leather, either--maybe tweed, or something softer like cotton or bamboo weave--but she's struck, for a moment, by the image of that brunette jostling against Kara in the bar. The way the leather spread out over shoulders like an emblem--a ready, protective shrug--and it's how Kara wears it, now. The faint heat rises up off of the cooling concrete and now that the overwhelming heat of the city has tempered like anger beneath the bones of Metropolis, she feels far too comfortable for her own good.

“Drinks keep people coming back to a bar. You’re the reason they stay.” Cat hums and the city’s sprawling skyscrapers cast a beam of light over the faintest blush, despite the night. “Oh, so you’re not always suave.” 

“You thought I was suave?” A rumbling, quiet laugh that draws Cat just a step closer, both of them stopping their walk for a moment, “I’ve never heard that before. No one--and I mean no one--has called me suave without being sarcastic.” 

“First for everything.” Lips bat upwards, “Hey, stop stalling Myra Hess--”

“Myra Hess? There’s an unexpected ref--” Amusement twinkles like stars in those bright eyes but Cat doesn’t let go--why would she?

“Life story.” It’s a short demand and they start walking, again, those hands unravelling from pockets to raise in submission.

“You drop a lot of references, don’t you? There’s not much to tell, really.” 

“Everyone has a story.” Cat shakes her head, dusting off the remains of her taco from palms, “Where were you born? What do you want to do with your life? Why do you play? Why are you interested in music?”

“I didn’t ask you why you write,” Kara points out, “Do you want to know the reason I tell people to get tips, or the real, depressing reason?” 

“Hmm...both.” Cat decides, picking off a small bite of her taco and popping it into her mouth now that they have some forward momentum with more than just the faint shuffle of their feet. 

“Well, the reason I tell people is because music is a living thing--it’s impossible not to play it, when it’s got your claws in you. Usually I try to be, um...charming, or something. When I say it. Tips. I’m not very good at being charming, though.”

Cat begs to differ and the look she gives her seems to be enough to creep a blush up a long neck for a second time, Kara clearing her throat. 

“Moving on from that, the real reason I play…” Intriguingly, Kara hesitates--pauses--and there’s this faraway look in her eyes when hands shove back into pockets and this is the moment that Cat learns that pianists have the same nervous ticks smokers do, because she can’t seem to sit still. What else does she do to keep her hands occupied? From all of those protests, is there a stack of papers somewhere with unfinished stories littering the pages--half-composed sonatas or piano concertos?--does she tend to drinks or tuck up people’s cheeks with kind hands? Or does she just spend all of her idle, fidgeting time sprawling fingers out to relieve muscles before they curl tightly in fists? 

It’s still a little difficult to reconcile the image of the girl the other night--her unexpected savior--with the nervous tick next to her, eyes slitting over when Kara shifts a little closer to Cat’s side like it might ward off some kind of invisible chill. Which would be impossible, given the heat. But then the girl shakes, just a little, and brows knit, scanning over her and ignoring the ridiculous urge to untuck her own jacket and wrap it around a wide frame.

“It helps me...remember. I lost my parents when I was young and the older I get, the...less I remember them. Or anything, really. Anything about my life--” Something catches in that bobbing, slender throat and Kara emphasizes, “That life. I don’t have many memories of my childhood.” 

“Oh.” Cat murmurs, not surprised but...illuminated, an apology dying on lips because there's nothing more infuriating than murmured, half-consolations of I'm sorry against an ear. Instead, she notes, “That explains why you play so well. Art and loss do tend to go hand and hand. Or, at least a desire to perfect it.” 

The way the guitar hung in the air, tonight, suddenly makes sense. The space in Cat’s lungs where air should be that’s been lost in the notes that breathe off of Kara’s lips suddenly make sense.

Kara, suddenly, makes a little more sense and there's a breathless kind of twisting ache curling in her chest.

“Or preserve it.” There’s a hint of smile from the girl, then, almost timid as she shrugs, hands still firmly stowed in pockets, but she leans closer to her, still, and Cat lets her, because the warmth isn’t unwanted. “When I play…” Her chin tips up, like she’s reading a treble cleft in the stars like a measure with which to tempo the major key of her voice, “Music is something that you can’t forget. It’s intrinsic and my mother...she had a beautiful voice. So did my aunt. They both used to sing me to sleep, and I always that. Music. I always had music. No matter where I was, or who I was, or...when I am. Even when I had…nothing, I always had music. Or it…it always had me. Found me. And I told you, I was a singer in another life,” A breathless hum--a laugh--and Cat rolls her eyes so that she doesn’t laugh with her, “It just seemed like a good fit. I don’t need much, but it’s nice to connect with...my memories, sometimes. What I have of them.” 

“And you want to share that with the world? A young hopeful finding her way to Metropolis to--”

“No.” Kara’s surprisingly adamant and Cat pauses, turning up to look at her. “No, I’m fine just the way I am. I don’t need much, I have my sister and the bar--a couple of jobs, sure--but the music is for me. Everything else...well, I guess that’s for everyone else.”

Everyone's running from something, Scotty had said.

“And what’s that? That everything else?” 

“The Metropolis Orphanage.” Kara shrugs and then continues on, “So that’s about all there is to me. I moved here with my sister--to stay close to her--I play music, and volunteer.” 

“And...you’re okay with that. No big plans, no ulterior motives, no grand schemes--” And Cat is surprised, because she’s surrounded herself with people filled with that ever-chomping motivation for so long she had thought it was impossible for someone not to have it, at all. Even Clark Kent has a fire in his eyes, somewhere, and it’s surprising for a woman whose skin burns fire and eyes burn something deeper than a fire could ever be not to have an ounce of it. Cat looks into Kara and sees oxygen igniting underneath a fire, and she doesn't understand where heat rises to, if it's not up.

“Nope.” Kara holds out her hands, smiling, “I’m a simple woman.” 

“You realize simple can mean stupid, right?” Cat smirks and Kara shrugs, hands still stretched out. 

“Did I mention that I was raised in the country?” A little quieter, “I think.” 

“You think? Maybe you are simple.” The laugh is bright--unburdened--from Cat's lips and, oh, Kara’s smile is almost lopsided and eyes bright and...suddenly widening in surprise as the girl reaches forward to tug her close, a second before the whirring of a bicycle passes by Cat's ears. She's too surprised by the warmth of the body pressed up against her to think much of the action--of Kara saving her yet again from the most mundane of tragedies. Palm flattening over a bare shoulder and that sloping column of Kara's clavicle that's no longer lined with sweat. Husking, “Or a lot smarter than you look.”

“Sorry, there was—um a—I mean, a—” Kara clears her throat but doesn’t pull away as she helplessly whispers: “Bicycle?” 

Those blue eyes flick down to lips and Cat leans a little upwards, feeling the way Kara’s muscles flex beneath that fabric, that hold just a little tighter. Feeling the way her arms wrap so tightly around her waist like an anchor.  

“My hero.” 

She’s close, very close--so close that Cat can smell a hint of earlier whiskey on the girl’s breath when it dances along her lower lip, cautiously venturing, the sound of the city fading into a soft murmur around them so that all she can hear is the way Kara breathes against her lips. 

Since she’s not pulling away like her brain insists, body betraying her with a quiver of breath, it’s best to get it out of the way.

“So that...woman who was in the bar with you the other day--” Barely a murmur. “In the club with you, earlier—” 

“My sister.” Kara immediately supplies. “Alex.”

“That boy from—”

“A, um...orphan. From the orphanage.” Kara shakes her head, leaning a little closer, “You saw him--Winn--I didn’t steal him, he just likes the piano—”

“You offering to listen to me, tonight—”

“Was a genuine offer and something I would do every night you le—” 

“And...you,” A murmur, but somehow Kara still hears her, “Leaning in so close to me right now…” 

“Very,” Kara breathes, “Very intentional. Did I miss filling out a waiver somewhere, because if you need paperwork or something, I’ll fill it in a heartbeat. I can wait if you need a moment. I’m all about consent and I’m told,” Oh her breath curls up in that smile like the smoke in a bar, “That I interview very, very well.” 

Cat laughs and Kara beams and, God, she shouldn’t find that quite so charming, body relaxing into Kara's arms. 

“You don’t even know me.” 

“You just told me your whole life story, remember?" Kara argues.

"I told you the story about my day. Oh, are you just picking and choosing, now?"

"Maybe that's why you think I'm a journalist." Oh her wit is sharp and Cat just leans further up into her, thumb swiping along the ridge of a collarbone, smoothing up to a swallowing throat. Kara sounds a little breathless. “I happen to think we know everything there is to know about one another, Ms. Grant, and everything else, I’d love to learn.”

“Alright. Fine. Then let's stop beating around the bush--"

"You do seem like the tackle head-on type." Kara doesn't pull away and maybe that's the most damning of all.

"I’m difficult and work-driven and have very, very little time for anything outside of—” 

“Used to it. You really have not met my sister.” Kara leans closer, still and Cat can taste her breath. Can curl fingers in the lapels of that leather jacket and feel a delicious warmth radiating from her and—and, oh, damn. Damn, because she can’t remember the last time she wanted to kiss someone so badly—

"I'm not easy to love." Cat tries.

"I don't think that's for you to decide." Kara immediately supplies and a writer's stomach ties knots out of what could have been a noose, years ago. “Please give me all of your concerns so I can shoot them down. Bring it on. Stop beating around the bush, like you said.” Lust was one thing, sure, but Cat’s never wanted to kiss someone so very, very badly. 

She’s never been so curious if someone sings in the shower or if her lips would move like a song or if her fingers could dance melodies up Cat’s spine like a concerto—

"Fine, if you want a challenge. I'm stubborn and have lingering commitment issues--" 

"I'm stubborn and have more than just lingering abandonment issues, we'll have plenty to talk about." 

"My mother is unbearable--insufferable--"

"My sister will try to arrest you. We have also shared a bed for three years because we're broke and alone."  

"Well that sounds unhealthily co-dependent." 

"Well, I am." Kara's fingers skim along the dip of Cat's back and that flattened palm pushes up to curve around Kara's cheek and, oh, she leans into it like she's been waiting to mold the clay of her cheek in hands her entire life and suddenly, this little banter feels a little too serious. "But it also comes with a very loyal drive to protect the people who are closest to me. Sometimes, as my sister will readily point out, to my detriment."

"Well you're obviously a giver. I'm a taker. I'll always choose my job." Cat husks. "I usually can't even go an entire dinner without having to leave to find a lead--"

"I've never finished a single date without something coming up."

A huff.

"We're women." Cat tries the last weak excuse she has. 

"I definitely picked up on that. So did you. And I saw your interview, last week, you're one of the few openly bisexual reporters in the business." 

"That doesn't mean it will make me starting my company easier." 

"So we'll be discreet. I can be discreet."

"I'm not giving you a promise ring, Kara--"

Surprisingly, Kara leans down, nose brushing along Cat's. 

"Someone told me to dive, once. I don't swim, I dive. I'm not a casual date, Cat."

Cat licks her lips. 

"I'm divorced." It's swallowed. "And a mother." 

Kara pauses and victory shouldn't feel so hollow but any breath Cat could have had is stolen by the look of something untouchable on Kara's face, as her hand raises up to curve so gently around the one cupping her cheek, stepping impossibly closer.

"I don't have something for that." Kara admits, quiet, leaning a little closer, "Other than I'd like to learn more about who you are, because you definitely left out some of that life story."

And Cat decides to fuck it--or, more hopefully, fuck Kara—leaning up to close the distance between them when a noise sounds around the corner, a loud crash of a thing followed by a yell and she lets out a gasp when she’s immediately tugged forward and pressed against the wall, Kara’s body easing over her and pinning her there like some kind of human shield.

Just like she had on that fire escape.

She’s close enough to feel the that entire long, warm body tighten like steel—to watch that jaw straighten and her head snap up to attention like some kind of guard dog. 

Someone screams and Kara, phenomenally, apologizes—

Like it has anything to do with her—

“I am so sorry, I think--I think someone’s in trouble, I should go--” And backs away with raised hands, eyes apologetic. And it’s then that Cat realizes why the fuck she’s apologizing in the first place. “I should go check and—can you call 911? I’m going to go check on them and...and can we, um...can we pick this up—”

“Are you crazy?” Cat hisses, because her mind’s still reeling from the 180 of going from kiss her to watch her back-pedal towards a scream. She hates rollercoasters--the emotional kind being the obvious worst. “What do you think you’re going to—” 

“I have to make sure I can’t help! I’m so sorry! 9-11 and...and raincheck? Please say raincheck! I—I would come after whatever…this is, so that we could talk, or--not talk, but I don’t—I don’t know where you live and—I’m so sorry—” Kara might whimper. Might let out a frustrated grunt of a noise before running towards the scream and Cat, who’s officially lost her mind, races after her, stumbling down the street, skidding around the corner on hopping heel clicks to give Kara a piece of her mind when--

Empty. No one there. 

Kara disappears into the night and that’s that—no more screaming or explosions (gunshot?) or...anything and Cat’s eyes frantically take in the street with a quiet curse before she rushes over to the payphone on the corner, heart sinking down into her stomach and slamming down the receiver the moment someone’s dispatched. 

There goes any chance of her lips being warm and…the quarter in change she got from that last taco.

Dive, she'd said, before diving off the fucking deep end, heartbeat frantic and--

“Great.” Cat husks to the very, very empty street, hands raising towards the heavens because she just drank whiskey and ate tacos for a ghost, more than a little frustrated with how this week is going with the big fucking man upstairs, “I’m officially falling for an idiot. Seriously? No, I mean it, seriously?” It's a plead case to the Coco Chanel up in those big bright heavens, “No goals? No drive? No future, and now you throw a hero complex on top, oh, this is a cruel joke.” She waves a finger towards the night sky, “Even for you, big guy. Girl. Whatever the hell you--oh, I'm losing my mind.” 

Losing her goddamn mind because all Cat can think about is tracking Kara down to kiss her, fingers angrily crumpling up the phone number in her pocket before tossing it in the nearby trashcan. 

No one is on the street to answer her and Cat kicks a nearby piece of wayward, pulled up asphalt before stalking back towards her apartment, ignoring the sound of sirens and the worry in her chest that gets louder and louder with each and every step.

#supercat #fic #//what even is alex and lois' ship name #ooc #out of chanel #//I did NOT mean to post this earlier oops #//very much #//meant to q it #//didn't mean to update a 2 year old fic but here we are

[blogagog-blog1]

Fear: Pt 2

Read Fear Pt. 1 To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong. - Joseph Chilton Pearce

Okay, I need to be serious for a second. Before going any further, I wanted to share something that I think is infinitely important and we should all take note of.

...Fear was back from his piss break in like, 10 seconds. And you know what they say: He who pees quick, got a small - sorry, what was that, ref? Game on in 3, 2, 1...now? Okay. 

Let’s go, bitch.

Ourselves.

I’m acutely aware of the first instance where fear sashayed in and said “Stop what you’re doin’ cuz I’m about to ruin.”1 After realising my love of music was more than the average appreciation of a pretty tune, I borrowed a classical guitar and learned the My First Rock Tunes™ Starter Pack: Cranberries’ ‘Zombie’, Nirvana’s ‘Come As You Are’ etc. By the time I finally got an electric, I was into insane guitarists like Eric Johnson and Steve Vai. This may have been...unfortunate. See, this was right around the time ol’ depression started poking around, and at this stage, I literally had no idea what was wrong with me. So the rampant self doubt just seemed like logic: the quantum leap from the beginner I was to these guys was clearly one I’d never accomplish. And so the guit’ had to sit.

Fast forward to today. I’m a pretty shit guitarist as far as real players go, but having been forced in the past bit to play in order to create my own music, I can do things I couldn’t dream of a year ago. Imagine if I’d started 15 years ago. Even 6 years ago...but at that point, the stance was: “Welp, it’s too late now.”

There’s that one famous quote: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.” Speaking solely for myself, I find that to be the biggest load of hippo poo ever written. What we are afraid of, Ms. Williamson,2 is falling flat on our faces and proving beyond a shadow of a doubt (instead of just having a strong suspicion) that we absolutely suck at the things most important to us.

I was trying to think of a metaphor, and for some reason, this (admittedly ridiculous) scenario popped into my head. Bear with me here. Imagine you’re 10 years old, and you see old footage of Jane Goodall on TV - just kicking it with the chimps. They’re signing amongst themselves about the tastiest banana strains, the best poop-throwing techniques and whatnot. Suddenly you have an epiphany: that’s what you want to do with your life. You dive into every primatology book you can find, you volunteer at the zoo - nothing can stop you, man. And then you attend your first kids’ ethology class - and you have no idea what’s going on. The other kids seem fine - but you’re just sucking up a storm. And then your Dad, whose words are immediately considered fact cuz, you know, you’re 10, mentions: “Oh wait, did nobody tell you? Chimpanzees fucking hate people with red hair. (Or named Theodore, or whatever applies to you.) So, that’s not going to work.”

Now, the fact is your Dad just wants you to be a doctor so you’ll be loaded and take care of him when he’s decrepit. But you don’t have any reason to doubt him, and since you’re pretty sure this is a done deal, why would you go through the pain of trying anyway? 

Or worse yet, maybe your Dad isn’t even telling you straight up - he’s whispering it in your ears when you’re asleep (Jesus Christ - your Dad is an ASSHOLE, dude). So now you’ve got this subconscious fear of failing at your Goodall-Goals - and although it never sits right, you’ve gone ahead and convinced yourself you’re dying to go to medical school and primatology was just a passing kid’s fancy. What I’m getting at is, you can dismiss some random hater telling you you’re going to suck. The voice in your head that you rely on daily to operate is harder to ignore - especially when it’s dropping the doubt bombs subconsciously.

Is there something you’re really passionate about? I don’t mean you like it oodles and bunches and arms-held-wide “diiiis much” - I mean it’s inexorably intertwined with fibre of your existence. If so, imagine diving head first into it and discovering, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you’re Absolutely No Good at it. That’s the underlying fear - how exactly do you reconcile that and move on?

Here’s the thing though. If you look around, that pretty much never happens. The folks who turn their passions into successes tell us over and over that after being useless at the beginning (just like us normies!), they told self-doubt to suck it and kept it trucking with absolute focus and belief. The majority of those who gave it their all and didn’t find outrageous success did have a great chapter of their life, which was hopefully followed by a different but equally sweet one. And sure, maybe circumstances derail deserving people sometimes. But the human (and kitty cat) condition of being afraid to put our toes in the water derails us a hell of a lot more.

But I’ve always tried to make the best of fear, because without fears, there’s no art. - Tracie Bennett

                                 Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. I’m doing it but fuuuuuuck.

Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream. - Paulo Coelho3

Most of the time, though, getting stuck in a questioning-your-qualities quagmire (bam. my alliteration game is lit af4) doesn’t have anything to do with some lofty goal. The challenge most of us face is simply being able to get out of our own way and experience - I mean really experience - life.  

We all know someone who is - well, stuck. Stuck in a dead-end job they hate, stuck in a relationship with an undeserving douche, or just stuck in neutral across the board. They’re bemoaning their current lot in life and you’re tearing your hair out pointing out all the moves they can make with the potential they have. Nothing crazy or overwhelming - just that small first step to get things moving. So if you can see it, and they can see it, what’s the prob, Bob?

This, I think, is a chance to out the annoyingly unblinking Fear (I’m starting to think this prick doesn’t have eyelids) on another one of his sneaky li’l techniques. Sure...when you’re just plain stuck, it’s depressing. Sure, you hate the fact that this is your life. But it’s a shitty life that you know. It sucks, but it’s nothing to be afraid of. This  new existence that these baby steps are supposed to bring - now that’s scary. What if, at some point, the Curb driver taking you through this new life (cuz it’s weird and unknown, so there’s no Uber or Lyft) drops you off in some fresh hell without so much as a Maps-enabled iPod? Without the tools to deal or road map to get out, there won’t be much to do except curl up in a fetal position and wait for your imminent demise. No siree, I’ll stick with my current conundrum. Final answer Regis, thankyouverymuch.

I honestly think this can be harder to push past than the fear of shooting for the stars. I know someone properly stuck in that place, and it’s heartbreaking how much of a struggle it is. And while I throw up in my mouth a little every time I get anywhere close to banal, overused bullshit or condescending platitudes, there’s no way around it: the only way to start moving out of this one is with those clichéd as Christ ‘small steps.’ If you know someone in that spot, and truly want to help, be prepared to be around and do some lifting. Because your feet can get heavy, man.

People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar. - That Nhat Hanh

I like when people compare or equate Fear with the devil. Mostly because I think a concept attributed to the latter 100% applies to the former as well. 

“The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” 

Fear-The-Fuckface isn’t any less sneaky - in fact, I’d argue he’s more so. Sure, he’s loud and proud when it comes to us being terrified of spiders, air travel and Willem Dafoe. But when he’s doing the real nitty gritty of putting our lives on pause and trying to break us at our core, he slips on his Groucho Marx glasses and moustache to stay incognito. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, the trick is to recognise him and know that once we act, there ain’t shit he can do. I, for one, can assure you he’s real. He and his stupid face are staring me down right now. That’s okay. We got one more to go.

I just realised that when I initially pictured Fear in my mind yesterday, he bore a passing resemblance to Digital Underground’s Shock G. Swear to God. And in a rare bout of perfection, a search for a picture of him brought up this.

I have nothing against Marianne Williamson. She seems like an exceptional human being that has helped millions - I just really hate that quote. Of course, she’s the one that wasn’t afraid to write and publish ten works that have sold over 3,000,000 copies, so maybe I should shut the fuck up.

I’m aware I used this quote already. But it applies here too, and I do what I want, bruh.

Don’t ever say “ay-eff” to me in real life instead of “as fuck.” I will literally slap you.