#default v.

@fifthimpact : cont.

Oh. Good. Usually, he's the only one in the room who doesn't know what the hell is going on. ( And that's totally not his fault, okay? People just expect him to keep track! It's like they've never met him! ) Although, right now, that leveled sense of what-the-hell-ness is a little disconcerting. If he doesn't know, and she doesn't know, then who the hell should!?

"When you can get this tiny, you just learn how to project your voice." he decides to actually reply, because there's really nothing better to do out here, unshrinking in the process. He looks around into the rubble, grassy greens scouting out any probable cause for the explosion. "I'd ask the usual 'got any enemies?' but I feel like that list's just gonna take us a year to feel out, yeah?" A few steps drive him over battered floor, a click of his tongue leaving at the total uselessness of his little scan. Nothing. No one, anyway, because in the corner of his eye he spots shards of the original explosive.

"Think we got something here." He strides a little too casually ahead, pinching the piece up between pinched fingers and displaying it to the other. If there's any luck at all left to people like them, perhaps the culprit's tech might lead them ... somewhere ( preferably not into another explosion.)

@murdocktm : [ HAZELNUT ] sender begrudgingly patches up receiver's wounds.

Oh, to live past the moment where he'd un-shrunk straight in the face of a drill. The wound won't let him, a deep impalement along his calve that taunts and reminds that though he'd doused the many threats riddling the construction site, the one that got him was a static object clicked open by the hands of coincidence. ( Right when he begins to forget the pointed irk in the back of his mind calling him a joke, this happens. Hooray. )

He huffs, a sound intended to deploy humor where it shouldn't. Locked and loaded with a defense against his own stream of thought. "It's kinda funny when you think about it, yeah? Hero almost saves the day - gets bested by a drill in a shitty plug." He says, verging on a chuckle before it shifts into a low hiss at the sting of antiseptic. "And sanitizer." Never an opportunity missed for a joke. The smile he gives himself can be heard in his tone, the lips curled to give his voice an airy inflection. " ... What were you doing at the scene, anyway?"

@agtwalker : 🎲🎲 kiss roulette meme

39. A tentative kiss.

So, he's blond. That's not why Scott's staring at his lips. His lips aren't blond. ( That makes no biological sense! ) They're simply his. And they're moving ever-so-tactically as he speaks, like they want to make themselves known. Like they're begging Scott to give up trying to maintain any semblance of eye contact and indulge himself in something quite contrary - a whole other realm of contact.

But it's John Walker. How does one kiss John Walker? ( Well, on the lips, of course, but it's more of a spiritual how. A how that thunders and forces hesitation down your chest. ) Scott's never been good at holding back. It doesn't work for him - never did. But all that really does is return him to the how. What does one say? Doing-wise, he's not being so subtle. His eyes are darting up and down like he's about to have a seizure, and the admiration sparkling within them could not have made things any more blatant.

"I, uh." You, uh, what? He finds his feet dragging him a step ahead, and that dreaded thumb with a mind of its own finding the tip of John's jawline, brushing back against it with a firm yet ... hesitant caress. "I usually listen to you. I like to. But, man, I ... can't seem to focus this time around. I heard absolutely nothing you said." The admission is said with a lilt of apology in that voice of his, coy little smile on his face that soon fades as he further zones out of the room and well into the other man's eyes.

"Because I just keep thinking ... what if I ..." With a drag back, first, and a twitch of that thumb, he closes the distance in a gradual lean - something to offer John a chance to slap him across the face, there, if he's not so inclined to go along. If it doesn't happen, lips meet. He presses them into John's and can't seem to find a balance between the tentativeness at the start and his desire to roughen it up. It's something more emotional than it is firm, the contact, a sincere kiss blurring the line between the time spent on it and all that came before. He's holding onto the side of his face, now, rest of the palm against his head as though holding onto him for dear life. The other hand finds his waist. Then they part - Scott breaks contact, and it immediately sets in what he'd done. For once, he doesn't know what to say.

@crimsonfive : [ 𝒔𝒎𝒔 📲 ] if ur trying to imply i ENJOY ur company . . . i plead the fifth ( from sam )

[ TXT : Soarin' Flyin' . ] un-plead it then cuz I'm not implying anything, I'm SAYING you ENJOY my company. [ TXT : Soarin' Flyin' . ] ADORE it, actually. [ TXT : Soarin' Flyin' . ] will die without it.

@fifthimpact : [ 𝒔𝒎𝒔 📲 ] how do i go to starbucks without getting murdered 🥲 / from ava !

[ TXT : who you gonna call . ] easy [ TXT : who you gonna call . ] the vents ;)

@stickytm     :     [  COMPANY  ]  for  one  muse  to  sit  with  the  other  so  they  don’t  have  to  be  alone  while  they’re  upset.

FZZzzOOowUHP.     One  minute  he  is  a  spot  on  the  floor,    the  next  he  is  Scott!     He  figures  the  other's  senses  will  have  already  alerted  him  to  his  presence,     meaning  there  was  little  need  for  announcement.     Popping  up  is  enough,  along  with  the  glide  he  allows  himself    towards  the  end  of  the  rooftop.

"Found  ya.  And  without  any  ant-y  sense,  too,  isn't  that  something?"    Something  to  lighten  the  mood,  though  he  quickly  wonders  whether  it  might  dwindle  in  poor  taste.    (     Such  is  the  gripe  of  speaking  while  you  think.    )    ...     There  is  a  gentleness  to  it,  though,    the  lilt  of  the  joke  as  it  exits  him.  Some  hushed  sense  of  concern  soon  to  blossom  beyond  his  plop  beside  the  fellow  hero.

The  question  of  whether  he  is    OKAY     or  not  is  much  too  futile  -  clearly,  the  latter  prevails.  And  thus  some  remedy  bids  its  space.     "Thought  I'd  bring  you  something  to  eat  while  you're  up  here.  City-watching  just  ain't  complete  without  a  little  snack."    Simple  pack  of  pretzels  is  offered,  matching  bottle  of  water  subtly  brought  to  light.

@threemoonflowers     :    🎲   (  jake  )        …      A  rough  kiss. 

YEAH,  OKAY.    That's  what  happens  when  you  walk  in  on  a  crime  scene.  (    This  time  around  :  unarmed.     Whose  idea  was  it  to  make  the  suit  only  washable  by  hand,  anyway?  Fucking  HANK!    )     You  get  pinned  to  a  wall.  Cornered.  He  can  feel  much  too  vividly  the  remnants  of  late  night  rain  against  the  solid  wall  -    brick  by  brick  against  the  back  of  his  neck   in  subtle  dents  as  though  to    beckon     that    adrenaline     alive.

Scott's  chest  is  writhing  against  his  innards  with  that  sickly  want  for  a  fight.     For  some  hell-ish  reason,  Jake  does  not  appear  to  be  giving  him  one.  He  almost  WAITS  in  there,  between  him  and  the  wall,  for  a  punch  or  some  other  semblance  of  sudden  impact  to    KICK  HIS  HEAD  INTO  GEAR     and    EARN  HIM  SOME  ACTION.

Yet  lo  and  behold,     it  doesn't  seem  to  be  coming.     Well,  then.  Perhaps  it's  Steven's  work.  Maybe  Marc's.  He  has  earned  some  camaraderie  there,  he  knows.  So  that  could  be  it.  Yeah,  yeah,  yeah,    SWISH  BADAOW,  FLIP     they  go.  With  fingers  dug  into  collar,  he  manages  to  steer  the  man  in  his  stead.  Now  that  Scott's  doing  the  pinning,  is  the  fight  going  to  get  on?

ADRENALINE  BEATS,  BAMS,  POWS,  TICKS,  BADUMS,  PAPAMDOWS.  It's  akin  to  some  other  thing  altogether,  isn't  it?   ( Yeah,  yeah,  yeah.  Okay.  )   "Fuck  it.  I'm  gonna  kiss  you,  yeah?"    Warning.  Because  even  now,  well,     it  all  has  to  be  mutual.     Then  he  goes  for  it.

If  not  stopped,  crash  TARAK,  lips  on  lips  and  hand  steadily  tightening  on  collar.    Fabric  dies,  wrinkles,  weeps  with  the  curl  and  burrow  of  his  fingers.     Hell  knows  if  brother  adrenaline  hadn't  dipped  at  the  eventual  unraveling  of  build-up,    he  probably  would  not  have  stopped.

But  he  does.  And  he  lets  go.     "Anyway."    (     Anyway  what,  Lang?  Jesus  Christ.    )