for the fuzzy sweater prompt: fratt get caught in the rain and go back to matts, matt's only clothes that will fit frank are the sweaters that his kind old lady clients knitted him that are a few sizes too big
ANON!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OH MY GOD THANK YOU FOR THIS PROMPT!!!!!!!!
(1k words, stupid disgusting amounts of fluff, no warnings, not edited, written at like twice my normal speed so sorry if it's bad, I'M SO SOFT FOR THEM!!!!!!)
By the time they started the walk home, it was pouring. Frank pulled up his hood and waited to see if dinner with their friends had put Matt in a good enough mood to not call him on it.
They made it a block. “It’s still fifty degrees out,” Matt said, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “I guess you didn’t need a coat after all.”
Frank shot him a look. “It was clear when we left.”
“I said it was going to be raining on the walk back, not the walk there.”
“Next time I’ll ask if you smell rain before I go anywhere, yeah? That what you want?”
“It was the atmospheric pressure, not the smell,” Matt said easily, like Frank didn’t know what revealing any detail about his senses cost him. Frank shook his head, huffed in annoyance when rain fell from his hood into his face.
Matt grinned then offered out his hand, stopped moving his cane. Frank put it in the crook of his elbow and gathered Matt close, feeling the welcome heat of Matt’s body against his own.
Still, by the time they made it the few blocks to Matt’s apartment, Frank was freezing. Frank stripped off the drenched hoodie on the way to the bedroom, tossing a mild “fuck off,” behind him when Matt laughed. He pulled open the dresser drawer Matt had given him, then remembered he hadn’t done laundry in a week, and hadn’t moved enough of his things here to have more clothes. He’d gotten the key six months ago, kept a toothbrush here for much longer, but Matt hadn’t asked him to move in, and Frank hadn’t brought it up. He didn’t want to ruin whatever this was by putting a name to it.
If he asked Matt to borrow something, Matt would tease him about it for the next fifty years. If he took something from the laundry, Matt would refuse to sit to close to him until after he changed and showered. He put the drenched hoodie back on.
“What are you doing?”
Frank glanced behind him, saw Matt had already changed into a pair of sweatpants he’d kept on the bed, the jacket and button-down replaced by the ratty Columbia sweater Frank wasn’t allowed to mention whenever Nelson was around. The one time he’d asked Matt if he’d wanted it, the debate over whose it was went on for an hour.
“Nothing,” Frank replied. “This actually’s the warmest thing I have right now is all.”
He began moving back to the living room, planning to take the side of the couch closest to the radiator and steal the throw blanket. Matt’s head tilted, then he sniffed. “You don’t have anything else clean, do you.”
Matt walked over to stand next to him, rifling through one of his drawers until he offered Frank a bundle of bright red fabric. It was a cable knit sweater, a little on the larger side, but right now Frank didn’t care. He changed into it, closed his eyes when the warm, dry yarn hit his skin.
Matt handed him an extra pair of sweatpants to replace his jeans, then lead them back to the living room. He took a seat on the couch and then gestured at Frank to join him. Frank ended up half on top of him, chest to chest, and Matt grabbed the blanket off the back to cover him with.
“Warm enough now?” Matt said, just enough teasing in his voice for Frank to catch.
“For now,” Frank said. “Patrol’s gonna be hell tonight, though.” Matt hummed, noncommittal.
Frank pulled back enough to glance up at him, trying to read his expression. “Thinking about staying in?”
Matt did his best to shrug, beginning to card a hand lazily through Frank’s hair. Frank grunted and dropped his head back down in content. “I’ll keep listening, see if we’re needed. But with the weather…” There would be fewer muggers and rapists out in this kind of downpour, and they didn’t have anything larger planned.
Frank was alright with that. He didn’t mind taking a night off, and Matt could use the extra sleep.
They laid there in silence for several minutes. The chill had been all but chased from Frank’s skin, and he said, “Never seen you wear this sweater before. S’warm.”
“Yeah, it’s wool. Took a case a few years ago, suing a doctor for medical malpractice. Our client was retired, but she knitted each of us a few sweaters. That’s the black one, right?”
Frank hesitated. It was as black as a fire truck, or a Santa hat. “Yeah.”
Matt stayed quiet for a second, then sighed. “It’s the one that Foggy said I should start wearing over my suit.”
Frank half-smiled against the side of Matt’s neck. “Yeah.”
“I guess I should be grateful. Karen said she could be mistaken for Barbie in one of hers.”
Frank huffed a laugh. “Would take it off her hands if I could fit in it. Wool’s expensive. You don’t wear it ‘cause of the color?”
“It’s wool,” Matt said in a disgusted voice.
“Yeah?” And?
“It itches.”
“Huh.” Now that Frank was paying attention, it was a bit itchy, but the feeling faded with his concentration. Still, if he could feel it, must be much worse for Matt. “Next time, ask your client to use cashmere yarn.”
Matt laughed, and Frank smiled again, broader this time. There was so much blood on his hands, but he could still make his—boyfriend? partner?—laugh.
Frank was half-asleep when Matt said quietly, “I can clean out another drawer if you need.”
Frank blinked open his eyes, pulled back to watch Matt’s face. “What?”
“So you don’t have to do laundry every week. It gets expensive.”
Frank glanced away and then back, trying to decide how to ask the question. “A drawer?”
“Two? A closet? Some space under the stairs for your weapons?”
Frank blinked, swallowed. “I mean, uh. I got a safehouse with all my shit in it.”
Matt nodded. His eyes flicked towards the floor, pointedly away from Frank, then back. “You can keep it, if you want. But you don’t have to. If you want.”
Frank looked away this time, trying to decide. “Yeah,” he finally said, then shifted closer to kiss him, once, gently. “Yeah, alright.”
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There’s something rotten in Acmetropolis.
Chances are you haven’t seen it, most go their whole lives without noticing or being touched by it. Well, at least not directly.
It’s not your fault, of course. Acmetropolis is big and bright and bustling, its citizens crisscrossing the city and weaving into each others' lives not unlike a tapestry. Their rich lives make up the heart of Acmetropolis, vibrant and flashy and pulsing. The post-meteor cleanup was backbreaking, but the speed at which they rebuilt the city could only be attributed to the testament of their ingenuity, resilience, and most importantly, hope at putting the pieces back together after the catastrophe.
Here’s the problem though: Acmetropolis was rebuilt with that rot festering in the city’s foundation.
The meteor didn’t just wipe out most of the city, you see, it wiped out the governance of it as well. The early rebuilding of government wasn’t so much a democracy and more of who was willing and able and powerful and ruthless enough to come into that vacuum–although they quickly learned to hide the blood on their hands. No one was privy to the marriage of power and money and secrets that were traded behind close doors, the whispers and handshakes that sealed the rebuilding of Acmetropolis. No, most of its citizens were too busy mourning their losses and digging through the wreckage for a semblance of their old lives, for a shred of hope buried deep under the rubble and claimed by the earth.
So for years the rot remained unchecked. Crime families with their illicit activities and armed forces willing to look the other way and politicians in their suits backing them and sitting down to a family dinner with the same people. The rot continued to grow.
No, the Loonatics don’t know about it. Why would they?
Here’s the thing about rot though: even if you don’t notice it, it festers. Until eventually, one day, it all comes crumbling down…
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