POW!

"I hope you can afford a flea motel, then," Jason answers mercilessly. "You can crash on my couch for the night, but you're ass is out that door tomorrow morning, got it?"

Jason is not Bruce Wayne, and he will not be collecting random strays.

redemptioninterlude

oh, what's a little bit of pain! she thinks that she's doing her best, and shouldn't he be thankful? ought he not be? but yet he complains! or at least he flinches, though, alice can't quite find herself in the position to BLAME HIM for that one, as she works the needle, the thread, through flesh. and he doesn't really look at her as she does it, alice, humming cheerfully along, as she loops and moves and eventually ties off at the end of it.

it's something to start with. she's quick to MOVE once she's knotted the last of it, scurrying away to find rubbing alcohol to press into the bloodied thread.

and of course she wants to know why. why. why? who did this and for what reason would he not go to the hospital? more questions than it's worth to him, and she dare believes he wouldn't ENTERTAIN HER ( the devil he was ). tongue clicking in her mouth as she dabs what still spills over, glancing upwards to meet his gaze.

her own, brightening instantly. "look! all neatly done~ so. aren't you happy i was here? call it a blessing! meant to be! so don't be all grumpy when i come stop by again, you hear me?" as if she were eager to explain her own presence, though, she seemed unbothered in explaining the WHY herself. "are you feeling better?"

- @powderedhcarts

#indie marvel rp #indie dc rp #ooc

Pointing out that he had every right to be grumpy that she broke into his apartment seems sort of pointless. He stares at her for a long moment, then just huffs and gets up to find a fresh shirt.

When he gets back, he looks a bit more put together, at least. "I'm feeling better," he agrees, which he supposes is true. "Why are you here? Did you get lonely?"

#redemptioninterlude

btw ive been reading way too many jason todd/bucky barnes fics. so... you know.

watsonjackpot

+ " I'll FORGIVE your forgetting of the PINEAPPLE just this once . " Mary Jane teased with a TONGUE-IN-CHEEK tone of voice . Considering the outright CARNAGE that she had seen flash by on the NEWS , it was a touch of NORMALCY for her night that she was more than GRATEFUL for in every way . Closing the door behind her guest, she made sure to LATCH it .

Living in New York could be DANGEROUS ; as Aunt Anna had always told her .

" So what's new in the wonderful world of PETER PARKER ? I miss anything MAJOR ? " Trying her best to ignore the way her stomach was GROWLING like it hadn't seen food in days , she eagerly followed the aroma of melted cheese and toppings .

"You're a kind and benevolent woman," Peter answers, eyes dancing as he heads straight for her kitchen to grab them beverages and napkins, humming to himself as he balances everything with ease. As long as he doesn't think about it too hard, he mostly manages not to be clumsy. You'd think it'd be the other way around, but no, it's really just the nerves that turn him in an embarrassment.

"Oh, man. Uhh, just biochemistry, mostly," he sighs. "That dissertation won't write itself, you know? How about you? How'd that audition go earlier this week?"

#watsonjackpot

fcggywindows

closed for;; @powderedhcarts plot;; as discussed :)

• • • • •

The bar is smoky and dingy, as bars like to be, and those glasses? Why, if anybody asks, they're filled with water and juice, of course.

Remy walks out on stage, his hair over his shoulder, his suit tailored just so, making the hair on his chest and the swell of his breasts stand out, painfully obvious even in the dim light.

The chatter continues all around, even as the pianist begins to play, and it's not until Remy leans into the microphone on-stage and begins to sing that a hush falls over the crowd.

Bruce is at the bar under the guise of work, but the truth is that after a long day, he could just use a drink. Of course, this particular speakeasy has live entertainment, like many of them do, but Remy is a hushed local legend.

He's gorgeous, busty, and talented. Plus, rumour has it he's a real talent with a knife, if you have need of such a thing. Bruce doesn't, but it never hurts to keep an, ahem, close eye on the city's most dangerous people.

Bruce takes a slow sip of his drink as he listens to Remy croon, waiting to catch the man's eye.

#fcggywindows #au: noir

heirgrim

Jesse tapped his pinky patiently on his coffee cup, watching his quarry from over the top of the notebook he held folded in his hand.

He had been keeping an eye on Tony for weeks, tracking his movements, recording his haunts... He had watched him before-- Jesse had become a regular at this little coffee shop-- but today he'd be taking a big step. Today, he would follow Tony for the first time.

His nerves sang with anxiety as he watches Tony leave the shop. He waits a few beats, then drains the rest of his mocha in a few strong chugs and rises to his feet.

He tosses his cup in the trash on his way to the door, eyes leaving Tony only long enough to locate the can. By the time he looks back, Tony is all but flinching- Jesse swears under his breath as the billionaire breaks into something just short of a dead sprint.

He flinches to follow, keeping his own pace to a quick power walk while he mentally files through all of Tony's haunts in the area. His precious tower is a bit of a hike from here... will he look for refuge closer?

#au: no heroes/villains #heirgrim

He's been getting the weird feeling off and on for a few weeks now, and Tony's given up on the kind of life where he'd ignore a weird feeling. Last time he did that, he found out his dad was a weapons-dealing super murderer.

He's mentally cataloging the streets, trying to figure out what might be the quickest route back to the high-rise where he rents out, living in the penthouse suite himself. That would allow him the security of a doorman and of a fobbed elevator, but it's quite a walk, and depending on his follower's plans, he might not have the time to speedwalk 30 minutes back to his condo. Plus, he's not sure if his ticker can take that much strain.

Chewing on his bottom lip, he decides to go for the second-best thing over security: a crowd.

He turns on his heel and changes routes, heading for his favourite suit store. There should be a handful of employees and people inside. Not enough for him to disappear, but enough that there'll be eyes on him, especially if he goes in there acting as obnoxious as he can muster.

His senses scream for just a split second, but he lets Jason take the knife.

He watches him.

For several long moments he watches him.

"You must not be as close to them in this world as you are in the comics I've read. Or the fanfictions."

He rubbed at the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry I bothered you. I just...I don't know Tim's address."

Jason wishes he didn't know what a fan fiction is. Unfortunately for him, Tim is obsessed, and when he's feeling particularly vindictive, he'll send whatever deranged shit he can find out on the internet to Jason as revenge for whatever admittedly out of pocket thing Jason's said to him lately.

Sometimes, he wishes he could figure out how to keep his mouth shut a bit better. Other times, he wishes he was meaner.

"You can't trust those things," he tells Peter, in a tone almost like a father scolding his son (god, he sounds like Bruce).

He tucks the knife away and then heads over the closet, pulling it open and dragging out his tool box, motioning to it. "You're already here, so knock yourself out, but I don't have any of those tiny screwdrivers or anything, so not sure how useful any of it will be."

Peter watched Steve for several moments.

"Would you rather stay in?"

His heart is pounding.

"Or maybe...go on a date with me instead?"

He's blushing as he looks away.

"I mean...it's honestly neither of our scene. And I like you. I liked my world's version of you too, but...this you I actually got to know as a person and..."

He's suddenly shy.

"You know what. Forget I said anything."

Steve's never thought of himself as particular oblivious, but he's still blind-sided by Peter's proposition. Somehow, he'd really gotten it into his head they could just go to a gay club, sit down with drinks, and watch things for a while. If he'd done anything other than be nervous about it, he might have thought about it for a second and realized it was a place where flirting would be happening, and that a guy who looks like him might have to politely decline a fella or two.

He just hadn't expected one of those fellas to be Peter.

"Um, I'm flattered, Peter. Really, I am. I'm sure a fella like you has got plenty of prospects, but I'm not ready for anything like that," he says.

He can feel himself blushing. Back when he's from, a guy's expected to not only be raring to go, but eager if offered any potential at sex. Steve had been teased more than once for insisting on being a gentleman and not trying anything on a first date, not that he'd often gotten further than a first date. It had been pretty tough for a guy as sick as him to be much good in the bed.

vvolfstare

Even with his eyes closed, even after decades apart, he knew the sounds of Steve in distress. His pacing, his heartbeat (not quite matching a regular human's), his breaths. It was utterly unmooring to be so near him again. He'd spent decades clinging to scraps of memories, decades more with no idea of who he was or why he mattered, and now he knew he'd only just scratched the surface of what lay in his past, buried beneath layers of ice and electricity.

For all that, he had not expected him to seem so familiar. For a moment he could only gaze at Steve's face in quiet wonder, remarkably unchanged from the last time he'd seen it. Supernaturally unchanged, much like his own, although Bucky could see the wear on himself. He'd never worn his hair this long back then, and whatever training the Soviets and HYDRA had given him had filled him out and also taken something, some spark of humor or life from his eyes. Then there was the obvious with his arm, of course, the metal fingers flexing slightly as he thought of them. He was surprised the Avengers let him keep it, but perhaps they couldn't find a way to remove it. It was fused to his shoulder; HYDRA didn't care if it ruined his posture or kept him in constant pain when they only brought him out of cryo for short periods of time.

"Sorry… should've called first." His voice was raspy, the corner of his mouth cracking into half a smile as he tried to lighten the mood. He knew he had so much explaining to do, especially to Steve. It was mind-blowing enough that they were both alive and somehow in this century together, to say nothing of what he'd been through in the intervening years. He gave his hand in his a gentle squeeze, the warmth of him familiar and foreign all at once. If he had to guess, the last person to hold his hand like this would have been Steve during the war. His gaze flicked over him, taking in the details of him anew. "You look good."

The arm, Tony had said, was not removable without the use of excessive force and power tools. Both Steve and Natasha had vouched for Bucky's character, and eventually, they'd all agreed he could be allowed to keep it, though Tony was actually sitting just outside the room, waiting in case he needed to come in and, ahem, forcefully deactivate it, but so far, it's looking like that won't be needed.

Steve laughs even as tears threaten to spill down his face, his throat feeling scratchy and constricted. Of course Bucky would find some way to make light of their absurd situation. "You, too. Long hair suits you."

#vvolfstare

"I'd do it. But...then again...I'm going to have to take over after dad. He's been talking about retiring."

Looking at his Uncle, he shrugs.

"Do you think I would do good with the cape?"

"I think... you're more suited to Metropolis, anyway," Bruce says after a bit of thought.

"I dunno about the cape, though," he muses. "Don't see a lot of the younger crowd wearing them." Then he chuckles. "Did you know Dick says he started that trend with his Nightwing outfit? That man's ego knows no bounds."

monenblogi-a

“Y’ yanks really are a skittish bunch. You really think th’ CIA would negotiate with the SAS to borrow their best demo-guy in the regiment and ‘ave him be a flop?” Soap can hardly help the snort as he grabs one of the cobbled together igniters—the bag of powder, specifically, and tossed it over. Laswell would be in stitches about this.

And judging from the snorting on the other end of the com line, so was Ghost.

“This is m’ civvies. Borrowed th’ vest and kit from local PD when it got called in.” Jeans and generic blue shirt number 27, he couldn’t get simpler in his life if he tried. “If you’re that serious ‘bout the drinks though, gimme an address and I’ll make it in 10. Maybe 20, we usually drop out to a pub after things anyways.” Though now that he said it out loud, he was just going to go ahead and start undoing the Kevlar.

Luckily, it wasn’t the one blue shirt that seemed to get attached to anything remotely velcro feeling, or this would’ve been embarassing.

“What place anyways? M’ mates spotted some trash looking dive hole off o’ 2nd I was gonna meet ‘em at. Boss said it used t’ be her favorite ‘fore it became an obvious dump for wannabe punks. Sounds like my kind o’ hole though.”

Steve is tempted to point out that Soap is the one who was just suggesting caution to him, but it seems pointlessly argumentative at this point, and probably just best to be thankful to the guy who made sure they all made it out of this mess alive.

"Oh, gosh," Steve sighs, scratching the back of his neck. He can feel his pale cheeks reddening. "To be honest, there's this place in Queens that's been there since the 30s, and I have no idea how it compares to other places around here, but the beer still tastes the same, so it's where I like to go."

Never mind he can't get drunk off anything less than Asgardian mead. He really just drinks beer for the familiarity and the company these days.

#monenblogi

heirgrim

open starter connection: your muse lives in jesse's apartment building and told him they were sick and calling out of work this morning. it's now lunch time

Jesse took a deep, steadying breath as he stopped in front of is tenant's door. He was balancing a Pyrex bowl and a gallon baggy with several pieces of white bread in the crook of one arm. The glass bowl was warm against his sleeve, the chicken noodle soup inside fresh off of the stove; he'd only let it cool enough to avoid burning himself or cracking his mother's bowl.

It had been a few hours since his tenant had told him they were sick. Naturally, he had to keep an eye on them through the cameras throughout the unit- he had to make sure they were okay, after all.

As the day had worn on, his concern had mounted as they camped out as a lump on the bed, not eating anything and barely even drinking.

Exhaling, he raised his hand and rapped on the door.

Tim honestly couldn't believe that he'd found as nice of a place as he had. Bruce had offered to pay his rent for him, of course, or even to set up a trust, but Tim's always been stubborn, to a fault, about paying for things himself as an adult.

He's on Bruce's insurance, but other than that, he fends for himself, so when he found a gorgeous, cheap place to rent, it had felt simply impossible to resist. The fact that the landlord kind of looked like Bruce was just a bonus.

He'd even let himself settle in a little, going so far as to wander around in boxers and a t-shirt on his days off after a nice hot shower, to start unpacking some of his stuff instead of living out of suitcases like he'd gotten in the habit of doing when he was going between foster homes, to buy himself a nice desktop computer set-up built from scratch.

Then he got sick, and all of the little ways he had been relaxing disappeared under the haze of illness. He curled up in bed, head pounding, feeling nauseated and weak, too hot, too cold. Everything he considered eating felt completely insurmountable, and all he wanted to do was sleep and take the occasional sip of ice cold water.

When he hears a knock on his door, the last thing he wants to do is get up and answer, but, fearing it might be Bruce, Dick, or Barbara, none of whom are afraid of making a huge scene, he forces himself to his feet and, blanket still around his shoulders, pulls his door open.

#heirgrim #83c

"Neither of us is ever going to find 'The One' if we don't put ourselves out there. This is just how it's done in this day in age."

But Peter would rather just fall into Steve's arms. The idea of it makes him blush. Sure, he's an adult, but Steve probably sees him as a kid.

"Besides. I am a hot twink and I can get myself any man I want. Right?"

He chuckles and takes Steve's hand.

"Come on, lets go get us some dates."

The idea of finding himself a date sort of makes Steve want to lie down in a nice, big hole in the ground and stay there.

"Oh. I, uh- Do you think people will be, um, doing that?" he asks falteringly. It sounds like Peter is expecting a fair amount of flirting, which Steve supposes makes sense, but in all honesty, he was sort of doing this with the intent of being a fly on the wall. He just wants to... to see, to see if he'll feel like he's part of things.