When is a door not a door?

When it's ajar.

[notamanamachine]

open

open hold the door open for them.

Derek holds a finger up to his lips, and is gratified to see two little hands mirror the gesture right back at him. Diana and Hank grin back at him behind the fingers held up to their lips. (And lucky for Derek, Diana’s braids are still looking good, because that’s Spencer’s wheelhouse, not his. Thank god for that memory of his.)

“Daddy has a headache.” They’re a rare occurence, thank god. But they’ve happened enough times in the kid’s little lives that they know to tread lightly when they do. Derek is just leaving out the part about this not being a sensory headache, and more a ‘daddy can’t hold his liquor’ headache.

“So we’re going to get dressed and have breakfast downstairs. And then Grandma is going to take you two little monsters to the zoo.” Hank does a little wiggle, halfway to a ‘whoo!’ before he clamps a hand over his own mouth. 

Having his mom in town for a week has been fun. And maybe they’ve been having a little bit too much fun. But Derek’s brushed his teeth and his hangover feels less like a truck hit him and more like he fell down a flight of stairs. He’s a man in love, he’ll brave his mother and a hangover to get Reid another hour of sleep. 

He gets the kids dressed and set up at the kitchen table with toast and cereal, and he’s able to meet his mother at the door before she rings the bell. It means Clooney doesn’t bark, and the quiet lasts a little longer. His mom even keeps her voice down while she bundles the kids out to her rental, even though she shoots Derek a playfully scolding look on the way out.

The woman was starting to think she’d never get grandkids. There was no way she was going to talk shit when she got to spend even more time with her grandbabies. 

Once they’re out the door and Clooney has been fed and taken out, Derek puts the coffee pot on and starts some toast. He knows Reid’s stomach isn’t going to handle much more than that.

And if he puts all of this on the breakfast-in-bed tray he bought as a joke years ago, well there’s no one around to see. 

Just like there’s no one around to see Derek leaving the tray on the dresser and stripping down to his boxers to slide into the Reid warmed sheets and curl against his back, waking him with a slow series of kisses along a pale shoulder. Derek is rewarded with a groan that’s half dismay, and half want. 

“Remind me to get you wine drunk more often, pretty boy.” He murmurs the words affectionately against Spencer’s shoulder. “It’s been a lot of years since you’ve been that freaky.”

His laughter is lost to the knobs of Spencer’s spine as he traces kisses down along the divots. “Before you start name calling, remember that I brought you toast, tylenol and coffee.”

He stops halfway down Spencer’s spine, because if he goes much lower he’s going to be a man on a mission, and that coffee is going to get cold before he’s done.

“And that I love you.”

[notamanamachine]

❝ I had on my prettiest dress and he never even looked at it. ❞

It is pure, unadulterated madness that he asks Spencer to meet him at his favorite club. It’s the crossing of a line that Rafael has been very meticulous about maintaining since he took a job in the DA’s office. 

He had an aura he had to project. The men and women on trial in this district would not take him seriously if they knew the truths of his private life. Rafael is not ashamed of being gay. He’s not ashamed of loving that he loves. But it’s an unnecessary fight.

His mother has already given up on asking him for grandchildren. (Another place in his life where Alex stood looming over him.) Marriage was out of the question. Two fulfilling lives wasn’t a bad deal. 

And Rafael was happy with them. Both of them. Until he met Spencer Reid, with his big dark eyes and his messy hair and endless font of facts and statistics. Who’s curiosity was never manufactured, who never laughed or scoffed or thought less of him for each reveal of his second life. 

The request just…slipped. A mountain of paperwork between them on Rafael’s desk, a case bleeding over into the wee hours of the morning and a raspy when this is over, we’re going to the club. 

Rafael doesn’t drink at the club. (Tommy Shelby just happened to be one of the clients he exonerated from a murder case where he was wrongfully accused, even if Rafael didn’t tip well for his mocktails, he’d still be welcome here.) But part of him wants to, watching the clock tick closer to nine. 

He ends up at the front of the club, because of course he does, with Klaus on the piano (and his doctor sipping a mint julep at the bar and trying to pretend like he’s looking anywhere but at Klaus). 

The song isn’t exactly one he’s familiar with. But it has a hell of a high note and he’s been practicing it at home. (And if he’s honest, the piano music settles into his heart and makes it feel like he’s flying, and Rafael can’t help but chase that feeling.)

He doesn’t even need the microphone. His voice carries through Tommy’s club just on the weight of his own projection. Rafael loses himself to it, to the music and the message and the effort of pushing himself. (And *performing*, God he loves eyes on him.)

He’s standing on the piano bench next to Klaus, arms thrown out wide before he catches sight of Spencer at the far end of the club, near the door. 

Well. 

There was his leap. 

[stilesedit]

But no one’s done anything wrong. Yet.

[lulusunicorn-deactivated2020071]

He’s enjoying it.

[notamanamachine]

off track

off track get lost with them

When he closes his eyes at night, Tommy dreams of the earth. He dreams of dirt beneath his fingernails, clogging his nostrils. He dreams of the tunnels and the whispers of the earth. The way it called to him to come home. To sleep and never have to hear a gun shot again. 

When he dreams with his eyes open, Tommy dreams of Alfie Solomons. Never with the bullet hole in his face, never eaten alive by the cancer that was swallowing him the same way the earth tried to swallow Tommy. 

He dreams of him whole. 

A reflection in a pub mirror, a voice just out of ear shot. A nasal rasp that settles against the base of Tommy’s spine and takes hold. Listen to the voices, silly boy. He tells him. Open the door and come home to me. 

Sometimes, Tommy puts the gun to his head to see if he can summon Alfie with that the way that he summons him with the bottle of opium in his breast pocket. Sometimes, he looks at Oswald Mosley and sees only his own seething hatred, and the way Mosley said jew and gypsy like they were worse than scum. 

Subhuman. That was the word Ada used, plucked from her books and her long lost life. When Tommy cradles a boy’s body on the street and tries to think of how to tell Ada her lover is dead, all he can think of is Alfie. 

Come home, Thomas the ghost over his shoulder whispers to him while he stands at the side of the cut, and offers a name out of muscle memory. A jew being a bigger obstacle than dead, that’s what the billy boy says. Tommy barely hears him. 

Dead. The word sounds in time with the beat of his heart, steady as the drum of shovels hitting dirt. Over and over again. Dead. Dead. 

Tommy doesn’t remember getting out of bed. He doesn’t remember walking to the edge of his property, out through the trees and into the moonlight with bare feet and no coat in the clutch of winter. 

( In the bleak midwinter…)

“I don’t even have to rub the bottle to summon the genie.” Tommy speaks to the shadow cast long over the paltry fire he’s started here. Pretending like he’s amongst the green. Like he could ever get lost again. 

Not with the ghost beckoning him home. 

“Death by exposure is long and slow, Alfie. Will you keep me here? Will you remind me not to crawl back to that big house you hated so much?”

Tommy looks up at the man across the fire from him, no opium in his veins and the vision as true as if it were life itself. His blue eyes are shadowed, pale skin beneath them bruised with weeks of death and loss and cowing beneath an evil man’s hand for a purpose. 

He’s so tired. All Tommy wants is to sleep. 

“Will you hold me down until the earth swallows me up again, Alfie?”

[baneedom]

Malec Alphabet ∟ C • Caress

[stilesedit]

I think you might be overestimating my abilities.

[notamanamachine]

rush

rush tackle them to the ground.

He hears the voice long before he knows where it’s coming from, though Tommy has a good guess where to find him. It’s a mishmash of Yiddish and the Gypsy tongue, prattled on at high speed. And sure enough, when Tommy steps down from the caravan, little Peter is holding court with the horses, kicking his feet where he sits on the steps to the second caravan, getting nuzzled by two great big war beasts. 

This is a mercy. This is Alfie Solomons giving Tommy a little sliver of the life he always dreamed over, never more than a portal away. Alfie doesn’t care for the green, he doesn’t like the whisper of life around them. But he trundles his great big self into a caravan and he sleeps next to Tommy on a hard bed, and he endures. 

(Because this is love. Because this is a family.)

“Are you telling all my secrets to the horses, Peter?” His accent is muddy thick here, just like the ground where it sucks at his shoes. Peter looks up, big brown eyes going wider as he calls out Daddy! before he races on light little feet to careen into Tommy’s legs. 

He picks his boy up while he’s still small enough to do so, a frail little thing even at the age of three. They’d worried the life before might stick with him. Where Raven’s husband had grown out of his malnutrition and hard birth, little Peter didn’t seem as if he’d have the same luck. 

Tommy presses a hand against his back, pushing in great big soothing circles as Peter presses his cheek against Tommy’s shoulder, clinging to the lapels of his jacket. 

“What did I tell you about that, eh?” The words are soft, but playful enough that the boy lights up with laughter. Although Tommy poking at the ticklish spot on his side doesn’t hurt either. “Giving away all my secrets.” He tsks, shaking his head slowly until Peter’s little hands press against his cheeks and hold him still. 

“Next thing you know, you’ll be telling you Abba all my secrets.” Tommy leans in close, their noses brushing. “And we can’t have that. Your Abba is insufferable as it is. You tell him how much we love him, and there will be no living with him. His head won’t even fit through the wagon door.”

[masterofallevils]

Impossible just means try again.

[cockbarrens]

you’re the only one i love

[rylandbuckleys]

 For the next Tony Stark, I trust you ⚬ Do Not Tag As Ship [insp] 

Bonus: 

[controlyourface-deactivated2018]

Tommy Shelby x Alfie Solomons (@tumblr def: sexually explicit content)

[oscar-piastri]

Peter Parker in Avengers: Endgame (2019)

[asgardianthot]

a bABY

[stilesedit]

3x23 / 4x12 for @forthesakeofyourwolvelihood

[notamanamachine]

Steve, incoming. 

That’d be a great piece of intel, if Steve wasn’t already flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him, and one of those damn Ultron bots half on top of him. And currently being lifted away by green swirls of magic.

Magic. Gods. Robots. His mother would laugh herself silly if she knew what he was dealing with. (He wonders briefly what she’d think of the teasing look he was currently getting from a God. Or how it makes him hot under the collar.)

“Incoming already came in, Stark.”

Steve takes a knee when the bot is hurled off of the edge of the broken bridge, and with a palm on the ground, he lifts himself to his feet. “You saw that thing coming.” He’s not asking. Loki’s smirk says it all. 

Bastard. 

“Back to work, Loki.” But as the God turns away from him, Steve decides he’s not going to risk missing another dance. (He can’t decide if Peggy would love, or hate Loki. But he knows she wouldn’t want him to wait forever.) 

“Hey.” He strides across the debris to where the God is standing, or hovering, more accurately. With his toes a few inches off of the ground, they’re practically the same height. Steve cups a hand against the back of Loki’s neck, pulling him into a quick, chaste kiss. 

“We’ll talk about this more once everyone is safe.”

———————————————————————————-

“This is crazy. The city is flying. We’re fighting robots. And I have a bow and arrow.” Clint shrugs, putting on the best grimace of a smile that he can for the poor kid hunkered down in the building with him. They’d been locked in a cage for years, used by everyone they knew. He can’t expect Magnus to trust him, but he’s got to try. 

“It’s crazy, but it’s my job. That means I can’t stay in here with you. But you don’t have to go out there and fight. It’s your choice. If you want to stay here and hide, that’s fine. No one is going to blame you. I’ll send Alec to come get you when it’s all said and done. But…”

A blast explodes overhead, and they’re crowned with a dusting of concrete particles and ask. Clint stands from his crouch long enough to send an arrow through the hole, and get a lay of the land. 

“But Kai is out there. He’s my guy. And as long as he’s being a super hero, that means I have to be one too. So I’m going to go out there and be the best damn powerless super hero I can be.”

The words land. Clint may not be good at much, but he never misses. 

“So stay if you want. But if you walk out that door, you’re an Avenger. You’re one of us. And we’re going to do everything we can to save these people.”

An explosion rocks the ground beneath them. Clint blows out a breath as Magnus watches him, a deer in the headlights. “Okay…good talk. I’m going to…” He stands, nocking an arrow. “Robots. Okay, time to go fight robots.”

—————————————

He tells himself he’s not going to get involved. His job is to free Kai from the cell Ultron put him in. That’s it. Once he does that, he can get the hell out of here. There’s too many civilians. Too much risk. 

(Harlem is a nightmare imprinted against the backs of his eyelids. No escaping it.)

But Kai isn’t going to run. He silently begs with those big, dark eyes and Bruce can’t seem to remember that this is what the agent is trained to do. The same thing he did when he found him in the middle of nowhere.

A moment’s hesitation is all it takes for the ground to shake under him. The city is dozens of feet above the ground before they clear the building and Bruce is able to figure out what’s going on. 

He’s trapped. The breath gets stuck in his lungs, too short and too fast. His vision tunnels. Bruce can’t do this. He can’t be here. But if he jumps now-

“Banner!” The voice cuts through him like the crack of thunder that follows. Bruce jerks backwards in surprise as Thor lands, hammer spinning. He blocks the blow from the incoming Ultron bot, but the laser slips through the manic curve of the hammer to cut into Thor’s arm. He gives a shout of pain, only taking a knee for a moment, but the damage is done. 

Fear is gone. Everything is gone but one simple feeling. Rage. 

Green spreads through his veins. With a roar, the Hulk catches the robot and crushes it in his hand. 

“PUNY ROBOT. NO ONE TOUCH. MINE.”

For a moment, there’s a flash of recognition in those wild eyes when they meet ethereal blue. With a jump, the Hulk is gone, chasing after retreating metal bodies. 

———————————–

“Friday, record and put on the ghost server, just in case.”

Yes, boss. 

Tony is underneath the massive chunk of the city, watching as Fury’s lifeboats retreat. The only vital signs left on the rock are his own, and Thor’s. At least if this went as sideways as Tony was calculating, the loss would be minimal, aside from Thor.

The world could recover from this. 

“Hey kid. Sorry this is so choppy. Doing a little work. I just want you to know that Dad loves you, okay? I really, really do. You’re the best parts of me. And as much as you might hate me one day for going out like this…I do it for you. Because I want this world to be a better place for you. You deserve a better world. And whatever I can do to try and fix my mistakes to get there…then so be it. I love you, Pete.”

The recording ends, and Tony sucks in a deep breath. “Alright Thor, on my mark.”

—————————————————–

Magnus feels the first bullet tear through him. 

Then the second. The third. The fourth. 

He hits his knees, agony like he’s never known burning through his heart. Alec. Magnus screams, and doesn’t hear the sound come from himself. Magic tears out of him at all angles.

Bodies fall. 

More and more magic twists around him. Building. A bomb, just like the one that Ultron built with his help. This was his fault, all of this was his fault. 

Boy. He’s alive. But if you don’t let go of this hatred and go now, you and I won’t be alive to see him wake. 

It’s the trickster who speaks. He stands unafraid in the maelstrom of Magnus’ magic. After a beat, the words sink in. Alec is still alive. He wasn’t dead. It wasn’t over. 

Magnus doesn’t have to ask. The Trickster nods. Green magic builds around them, a bubble to contain him. 

Magnus lets go.

————————————————

Hulk hates metal men.

Crunch is fun. But they cowards. Run away. No fun, running. Hulk likes smash. City goes smash. Falls. Hulk jumps. 

Red in the air. Falling like smashed city. Not city. 

Thunder. 

Hulk jumps off broken car. Catches Thunder. Keep him safe when they hit the water. Lifts Thunder. Safe. 

Hulk’s. 

—————————————————-

“You know, nobody would know.”

Jack points his gun at where the little speedy pain in the ass just took off, after bringing him another “trophy”. (Keeping count was for kids, even if Jack was winning. Not that he was counting.)

“Two bullets. One in each kneecap. Oh no, Ultron fell on him from the quads down. What a terrible fate. I’ll sure miss the guy.”

He blows out a breath, and a quiet ‘ow’ as he limps his way back towards the city center, and the rest of the Ultron bots. 

“…Daniel is going to kill me. I should’ve retired.”

[bambu60]

Happy Holidays!! :D