Reggie is not having a midlife crisis at only forty-one years old. He’s not. He’s having a divorce crisis, definitely. An identity crisis, maybe. A location crisis, of course, moving to London and being stuck there after a bombing does that to a person. Dedsec being labelled a terrorist organization is also a bit of a crisis - even if he’s outgrown that lifestyle, because, yanno, that’s his roots, or at least some of them.
But, point is, he’s definitely having a few crises at this point in time, and one of them, a newer one that he hasn’t even had time to process yet, is seeing Defalt in his brand fucking new apartment (notably already ripped apart and fixed up to his needs).
Dropping his bag to the ground and kicking the front door closed, the maskless man eyes the other with a look of suspicion and confusion, and a little frustration. The moment stretches into at least a thirty seconds of silence, which feels like an eternity and also a bit like how they look in western films. Two cowboys - Two hackers standing off in the middle of a shitshow, in London, in the UK, far away from both their usual haunts.
A showdown. Only he didn’t have a gun and Lady Smash was currently being held by a very, very annoyed looking rat enthusiast.
“Reggie.”
Ooh boy. Reggie flinches, looking like an overgrown kicked puppy. “Hey Jay, uh, how’s it hanging?”
@immolatic liked for Wrench but I’m a stupid bitch and didn’t tag so now it’s fucked up
TRUST wasn’t all that easy to come by nowadays. a luxury few afforded and a resource spread thin in a world of ostentatious excuses for ‘ heroism ’. and, yet - here they were. marred fingertips pressing into the wealth of BARE THROAT … pointer slowly angling their head back, as skin grew feverish. a sudden HEAT HAZE warping the air about them — .
and, perhaps, this wasn’t a test at all. not the dangerous LEAP OF FAITH it appeared to be. instead, serving only as a simple reminder: keep both eyes on me.
@immolatic had an open starter / mutuals only.
There’s a lot about Wrench that can be said at the given moment. That he’s an idiot, that he trusts too much, that he thinks with literally any other body part but his brain. But the thing that can not be said of him in this moment, or really any other, was that he was a coward. Dabi reaches for him, and he does nothing. Dabi grabs his throat, and he just stares at him, unmasked, his lips quirked in that kind of amusement only he could portray, like it was all a game and he was just pleased to have found the right players.
(It’s not, it’s life or death, but when you’re Quirkless, everything is.)
The touch of a finger and he’s tilting his head back, lips still crookedly set in a smirk, eyes bright and defiant. It burns, it hurts, but he’s not afraid of a little heat, and certainly not bothered by receiving another burn.
“Da-bi-chan.” He pronounces the name carefully, the honorific even more so. “Is this a trust exercise or a game?”
@immolatic is once again, in my askbox, asking for two masked hackers
[ meme ]
Their first kiss had been a hot mess, but still a solid seven in Reggie’s book. He’d been high at the time, and probably suffering from a concussion thanks to a semi-poor decision - not to say that Jay had taken advantage of him (Although he could, at any point in time. Back then Wrench was beyond caring as long as he felt something.) but rather that the whole thing was a fucking mess. And, at a seven, it’d been the cause for many a spank bank session after, even long after the marks had faded.
However, a seven was still a fucking seven, and Reg has grown since then. There were things he wanted now in life - a little dose of anarchy, some violence, but most importantly stability and someone to not look at him like he was a constant fuck up. His ego, already as small as it was, had taken one too many beatings in far too a small a time, and for fucking once he wanted something normal, something not-a-seven but maybe an eight, or god fucking forbid a nine.
What he got instead of any of that, at the end of the entire Rampart affair, is a fucking smirk and a ‘you should have killed him.’ Even the Pearces, who had moments before been congratulating him on not murdering his traitor of a business partner, had blinked at that, in unison, and then looked between them before quickly exiting stage left. (And by that, they ducked out the front door after making excuses to talk to them later.)
So, to say that Reginald ‘The Wrench’ Blechman is steaming is an understatement. He’s furious. And weirdly hurt, left in the end of the entire affair feeling like his chest has been crushed in. And he’s fully aware, because he’s not a fucking idiot, that it’s his own damn fault. He had attachment issues even therapists were hesitant to touch, he had trust issues that were only outweighed by Jay’s own trust issues, he was divorced and sad and alone in a country full of people that were teaming together.
He’s also rapidly losing time and excuses, to avoid going home, which was a whole other issue on it’s own, one that he’d put second on his checklist of things he’d put together shortly after Jay’s arrival.
The checklist, for anyone curious, ran a little something like this:
✓ Murder Fuck over Thomas Rempart
✓ Avoid going home until he’s ready
✓ Convince Jackson Pearce to let him be his second uncle
✓ Give London a little bit of a boost to put itself back together
✕ Not fall back into like-like (or rebound crush) with JB Markowicz
✓ Contact Sitara and apologize for being a prick
✓ Warn Raymond that Jay was very much so still angry about the whole blackout thing
For anyone still hanging on that might have missed it, he’d failed checklist item number five pretty miserably, and that was arguably the most important thing on said list, minus revenge thing.
Which left him where he was: Chain smoking outside his apartment in the middle of the night, nursing one hell of a hangover, and trying to remember what exactly had been said during his drunken argument with Jay hours before. He’s pretty sure he’d spilled some important figurative (and literal, maybe) beans, but Reggie isn’t quite sure. Hard to be sure when the last thing he remembered was slamming into the apartment like a bat outta hell (which also, what the fuck did a bat outta hell look like, Meatloaf?) and yelling. A lot.
Pretending not to hear the door opening behind him, Reggie kicks his legs over the brick half wall he was sitting on, the picture of absolute ignorance (he hoped) and focuses instead on the smoke in his lungs, and the nicotine he could taste on his tongue.
“Wrench.” Reginald doesn’t turn around, thank you very much, because he’s the peak of maturity and also he wasn’t wearing his mask, ergo, he was not Wrench. He takes another drag of his cigarette, the smile that curls his mouth small and self serving as he hears a sigh and then his legal name. “Reg, you can’t avoid it all fucking night. Again.”
Yes, he could, Mr. Markowicz. Avoidance of subjects such as ‘going home’ and ‘you got your revenge, it’s time to go’ and ‘Marcus hired me to bring you back’ was a fucking skill of his at this point. In fact, it was so high up on his skill list, it was right under ‘Getting inappropriate crushes’ and ‘Breaking (important) things.’
Ashing his cigarette, Reginald turns to give the man a mild look, blinking only once in surprise when it occurs to him that Jay is far closer than he’d thought. One could say, too close. “What?”
“Reg.” A puff of annoyance, and then a glare. And then -
The hackervist had wanted at least a seven-point-five - and maybe a normal fucking kiss - but this was at least a nine and, well, he’d had a mouth full of smoke and Jay to his credit doesn’t even seem mildly put off. In fact, he pulls back, exhales smoke with a raise brow, and then grabs the front of Reggie’s sweater and pulls him back in for a part deux. All teeth and clever tongue and knowledge of things Reggie liked and things Reggie really like-liked.
“Come inside.” Jay says when they part, with only the smallest of bites to Reggie’s poor mouth. “We need to talk and you need to stop fucking sulking.”
In the shuffle to get up, Reggie drops his very expensive imported cigarette.
He doesn’t even look at it.
(Later, much much later he tells Jay ‘ten point five’ without context, but Jay smirks. Because he knows him in far more detail than anyone should. And then, Reggie tells him ‘First one was a seven’ and he gets punched, which was also fair.)
I blackmailed @immolatic into taking a nap by promising a treat earlier. Here’s the treat.
Content warning: dark themes? I don’t know, I’m just here. I didn’t even re-read this for errors lmao
-
It’s not quite the sensation of pain that wakes him as much as it’s the sensation of pressure. Wrench - Reggie - is used to pain, he’s used to waking up with stiff joints and aches and pains typical of someone in his career. He’s used to waking up hungover and bruised and unsure of where he is. He’s not used to waking up to the feeling of someone’s fingers on his skin (not anymore), pressing against freshly laid bruises and flesh marked by teeth and tongue and mouth.
He’s not used to it. But he adapts.
Stretching out until his back pops, the man known formerly to most forms of government as The Wrench, groans out a quiet protest at being woken, and lifts his head to glare bleary eyed at his companion. “Nngh. Time?” Is all he gets out before he collapses, thumping his head back into pillow he’d been partially buried under.
Burnt fingertips - a texture he was still working on getting used to, a texture he didn’t mind, but found curious and enthralling - don’t falter in their movements as part time terrorist, full time pain in Wrench’s ass, Dabi, answers him. “Seven.” Fingers drag across the nape of his neck, where a particularly vicious bite lays, and Wrench grumbles in protest but doesn’t otherwise move.
“Whatchu working on?”
“The plans you interrupted my bath for.” Dabi’s voice hints at a smirk that’s as sharp as it is fond, but Wrench doesn’t look up to confirm. Instead, he opens his eyes and squints at the pad carefully balanced on the thigh nearest him. The hand not touching him is tapping a stylus against it’s surface, against Wrench’s carefully drawn out demolition plans. “You were right - that support is going to need more than what we have on hand.”
“Course I was right,” Sleep warm and comfortable as he is, Wrench can’t help the way he puffs at the gentle jab at his ego. He doesn’t have a degree - the only thing he actually has as proof of some education is the stereotypical trauma of someone who was bullied relentlessly through both primary and secondary school - but he’s not an idiot. He wasn’t wanted in at least twenty states because of his pretty face, he almost says as such but the fingers that have been carefully tracing around another bite drag up the back of his scalp and, instead, he mumbles vague complains into the pillow.
“Yeah, yeah.” Whatever tone Dabi is pushing for, it doesn’t read, and Wrench snorts a laugh at the fondness that drips from the words in it’s place. Fingers curl and tug in retribution and the hacker laughs louder, completely unbothered by the literal sociopath’s threat of violence.
That was the thing about Dabi, the guy was quite literally unhinged but Wrench didn’t care. There were things he did that Wrench did care about, the collateral damage that seemed to happen wherever he was, the way he spoke about the world, the way he looked at things, but... Wrench had always been toeing the line of violence for the sake of justice and violence for the sake of violence, and he might be letting Dabi’s tide of ultraviolence take him out to sea - and a predictable drowning - but it was like a siren’s call. He couldn’t help it, he couldn’t stop it because...
Because the terrorist wasn’t always bad. No, scratch that, he was always bad, always evil, always doing things just for his own fucked up sense of moral code and whatever damage that had been done to him. But Wrench had some influence over him. He knew it - and he wasn’t being some hopeful idiot in love about it either. There were things he could do, little ways of manipulation that he wasn’t above using, and he knew Dabi knew it too, but he let it fucking happen for whatever reason.
Fact was, they’d changed each other. Not in anything monumental - Wrench could not hope to stop whatever master plan the Fixer had, or the collateral damage that was always on the horizon, but he could redirect focus when he felt like he needed to. And Dabi knew his fucking buttons, and how to push him to his own needs, how to push him to allow collateral damage and whatever deaths he deemed necessary.
It was an even playing field, as far as fucked up maybe relationships go, but as long as it was even, Wrench was still about playing the game.
“Gunna need to order more supplies - Kelley’s are out of order now that Dedsec London is getting their feet under them.” Fucking finally. “Could see if Albion has some shipments?” The fingers in his hair start moving then, rubbing gentle circles into his scalp in something akin to a reward for coming up to a solution so quick. Wrench is pretty sure Dabi is one of the point five percent of people in the world to realize that he’s a far quicker thinker than he pretends to be - and far more dangerous than he appears. “Know you hate delaying shit but - can’t be helped.”
“Mm.”
It’s a hum of agreement and frustration, one that has Wrench finally pushing himself upright. Taking the tablet and stylus, the hacker casually tosses them to the side - smirking as Dabi glares up at him through dyed locks - and then climbs into his lap. It’s an awkward movement, Wrench’s brain is awake, but his body is still mostly asleep, and Dabi isn’t exactly too pleased with being interrupted, but Wrench is a determined mother fucker when he needs to be - and stubborn - and the Fixer relents after a hiss of annoyance.
“Hey, Dabi-chan,” Pressing a hand against a scarred chest, Wrench pushes him back, smugness growing as the other man relents easily, allowing himself to be pushed back against pillows and headboard. “Relax,” Pushing his other hand against his chest, he almost pets the other - alternating between feather-light touches and touches just shy of too rough depending on the scarring under his skin. Wrench is careful like that, he’s still trying to figure out Dabi’s sensitivities, what skin is okay to be rougher with, what needs to be touched gently, what needs a firm touch and what doesn’t, but he’s careful.
Everything he’s learned, he applies in the moment, petting at shoulders and neck and chest and arms in something that’s almost platonic and just shy of genuinely affectionate.
“Relax,” He tries again, once the other has relented enough to be almost at ease. “It’s not going anywhere. None of it is. No one else is targeting your list.” He smiles, soft and open, and then winks. “And even if they were - no one has me on their team but you. So, arguably, you’re ahead of the game in more than one way, Dabi-chan.”
There’s a moment, brief and silent, where Dabi considers him. Then Wrench finds himself sprawled on the bed with a pillow being thrown at his face.
“Oh yeah, don’t threaten me with a good time.” - @immolatic
“Oh, why is that? Afraid you’ll enjoy it too much, hot stuff?” Although G O O D T I M E might have different meanings to people. And in her case, there was potential for TROUBLE and a few other things. It shouldn’t be hard to recognize the shine of euphoria in bright red eyes face the anticipation for a delightful time. Intentions often more crystalline than otherwise, never so prone to put a façade and play a role that felt nothing like herself. She wasn’t so hard to read. “But maybe it is a threat after all. To spend the rest of your days incapable of having this much fun again or regretting never giving it a chance. Either way we dance.”
"I’m the least terrible option you’ve got.” - @immolatic
That was probably true. What other options she had? Rumi couldn’t trust any other hero. After what she’s heard, any of them might be compromised, corrupted to the core. And Keigo? The Commission had their hands around his neck, ready to control, ready to k i l l. The rabbit hero considered him a friend, but he arrested his own senpai, so what would become of her if he caught her in that mess, her hands all over pieces of information that did not belong to her and yet should be exposed to the public. Heroes would fall, it would be end of society as they knew. It was suicidal, even.
“That’s the kind of conundrum I got myself in, r i g h t?” Was it a risky move to offer him any bit of trust? Undoubtedly. But Rumi has always been one for dangerous decisions and actions that look reckless to everyone’s eyes. But erroneous of them to think so. To believe that she hadn’t been excruciatingly going through every alternative for days. Probably invading the League’s hideout would be a great way to die. Perhaps it had been luck that she’s found him before she’s done something absurdly stupid. Or it was just destiny weaving her end. “Fine -- you’re right.” Don’t make me regret it.
"well. to what do I owe the pleasure of not getting a bullet through my skull?" taking it as a potential positive that he was face-to-face with her, rather than the pavement. - @immolatic
“Benefit of the doubt. More than I should give you, if I have to be honest.” Kaina could not trust the heroes, that didn’t mean any of the villains were worthy of trust as well. The last time, it almost ended with her demise. The woman raised her hand to rest at her shoulder, an innocent gesture to most, a threat to anyone vaguely aware of her quirk. But after everything she’s been through, the former hero thought she had all the right to allow a bit of paranoia. “Still, if you’re here to kill me, rest assured the courtesies will end here.” After having her body explode, she still had no idea if that quirk was a one time only or if she was a walking bomb, always ready to be detonated once again. The fact that she still was alive could mean the first option, but also All For One’s way of torturing her with the unknown. “He’s be really underestimating me if he’s sending brats to do the job.”
