The Movies - A Villains & Vigilantes Short Story- Cree & Jordan (Patreon)

This is unbeta'd/unedited. Completely off the cuff. I wasn't planning on writing this but I know you guys wanted it so here's a bit of a snippet.

Cree

Cree sat perched on the arm of a sofa in one of several Mulvaney mansion drawing rooms. He’d started the night with his friends but they’d drifted off in pairs, all except Lake, who had split from him to find Jericho to ask a question he’d said “just couldn’t wait.”

Cree was fine people-watching, especially when those people were wealthy, powerful people who seemed to have no clue just how wealthy and powerful they actually were. It was like watching a People magazine come to life. The Mulvaneys threw parties with a level of casual opulence that made Cree feel like he’d wandered into someone else’s fever dream. Golden candlelight reflected off crystal decanters, laughter bounced off double-height ceilings, and expensive perfume floated through the air. 

The whole house hummed with that familiar Mulvaney-brand chaos underneath the glam, murderers in couture, and kids darting around like sugar-fueled demons. Cree didn’t quite fit here, but he liked watching it from the edges, like observing a lightning storm from a safe distance.

He was so caught up sipping his drink that he almost missed the eyes on him.

Two people leaned against the wall that held up the marble staircase. One was decked out as Spider-Man, the other Deadpool. Couples costume? He wouldn’t have given it much thought except even with their faces covered, it was clear they were talking about him. Deadpool elbowed Spider-Man, not-so-subtly pointed at Cree, then bounced on the balls of his feet like he couldn’t contain his excitement. Even from across the room, Cree could sense the energy–bright, fizzy, impossible to ignore. Like soda about to explode.

Cree glanced down at himself. It couldn’t be his costume. Could it? As far as costumes went, it barely qualified. It had been Shiloh’s brainchild, turning him into the Crow. It was just a pair of–beyond uncomfortable–leather pants, a skin-tight long-sleeved black shirt, and a faceful of black-and-white makeup. Minimal cost, minimal effort. He looked like he belonged backstage at a rock concert, not mingling with billionaires under a chandelier the size of a baby elephant.

He didn’t usually mind being stared at. He stood out. There was no getting around that. He was tall–close to 6’3 last he checked–and broad, he had dark hair that fell past his shoulders, deep brown eyes and thick brows that Shiloh was always begging to tame. He was noticeable by any measure. 

But mostly it came from being the only Indigenous person for miles.

Most days, he didn’t think about it, not unless someone forced him to. It wasn’t like people were mean about it, just…invasive. “What tribe do you belong to?” Nehiyawak. “What percentage are you?” One hundred–as far as he knew. “Is there a reservation nearby?” No, at least not one for the Nehiyawak. The questions often went on and on, as if the only interesting thing about him was his ancestry. When they realized he didn’t have much to offer information wise, they seemed to take it personal. Like he was somehow at fault for his patchy memories. People always asked like they were entitled to the answers. Like he was a genealogy project instead of a person.

His early years weren’t a total black hole. He remembered his grandfather. He remembered spending most of his time with him. He remembered his mother’s scent more than he remembered her face. She’d smelled like…wet clay. She'd liked pottery. He wasn’t sure he’d ever even met his father before he’d been kidnapped. 

That's what he called it anyway. His 'parents' had called it adoption.

His life was just a few vague memories stitched together from well-worn threads. Sometimes he tried to pull at those threads, see what unraveled, but mostly it just left him with a hollow ache behind his ribs.

At this point in his life, he’d just accepted that his family was the one he’d created, not the one he’d been born into or forced into. His friends would walk through fire for him. Jericho was the closest thing he’d ever had to a dad. Lake was the closest thing Cree had to a brother. And now he had a huge extended family. The Mulvaneys were loud, ridiculous, terrifying, and half-feral–but they were loyal. All of that felt more real than anything the people who called themselves his parents had pretended to give him.

The only thing worse than standing out alone, had been standing next to his lily-white midwestern parents. They’d been missionaries. God fearing Christians who spent more time congratulating themselves on their selflessness than actually being selfless. They loved parading him around like a souvenir they’d collected on their honeymoon. One they’d happily stuck on a shelf and forgotten the moment the novelty had worn off. 

Cree had learned young that silence was easier than asking questions that made the people who held power over him uncomfortable. But he wasn’t a kid anymore, and his chosen family held a strange kind of freedom–scary, violent, chaotic, but honest in their own deranged way. They didn’t demand gratitude. They didn’t demand silence. They didn’t punish him for having a voice. Hell, half the time they acted like they wanted him louder. Wanted him seen. He didn’t quite know what to do with that.

He was lost in thought when Deadpool decided to unmask himself and Cree’s train of thought jumped the track and crashed into a tree. 

He’d never seen the other boy before. He was sure. He would have remembered him. He had soft wavy brown hair that brushed his shoulders, smooth golden skin, expressive eyes and a smile so bright Cree imagined it could power the city. Cree couldn’t tear his gaze away.

Something in his chest gave a strange, startled jolt, like stepping into cold water when he expected warm. Jordan looked like he’d been plucked from a different universe and dropped into this one just to be inconveniently beautiful.

He turned his head in Cree’s direction and stopped cold, realizing he was staring.

He said something to his companion, then he was walking toward him with purpose. Cree watched him approach. Was he about to get chewed out for staring like a creep? Instead, he stopped just in front of Cree, extending a hand.

“Hi, I’m Jordan.”

Cree gaped at him. No–at his plush mouth with the silver hoop snake-bite piercings. It wasn’t just his mouth. He had beautiful hazel eyes that were somehow equal parts brown and green, thick black lashes and perfect teeth. Jordan’s smile started to waver, his hand lowering. Fuck, he was still staring.

Cree took his hand. Jordan’s palms were smooth but his fingertips calloused. “Cree.”

The other boy mouthed his name like he was testing it out. “Nice to meet you. Do you wanna go somewhere and talk?”

Cree narrowed his gaze at him. “Depends.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Jordan gave an exasperated sigh. “On…”

Cree hid a smile. “Are you about to launch into a spiel about your lord and savior or something?”

A laugh bubbled free from him, rolling over Cree like something fizzy. “I mean, I just wanted to get to know you better. But if you want me to tell you all about my personal lord and savior–Bret Michaels, patron saint of hair spray and questionable fashion choices–I can.”

Cree blinked at him. “Who?”

Jordan gasped, pretending to clutch invisible pearls. “Bret Michaels. Frontman for Poison?” When Cree continued to stare blankly, Jordan pretended to faint.

Cree’s hand darted out on instinct, keeping him from collapsing dramatically, earning him another radiant smile. His skin was warm. Softer than Cree expected. And when Jordan’s eyes sparkled up at him in thanks, something low in Cree’s stomach tightened.

“How can you not know the greatest ’80s metal hair band of all time?” Jordan asked, staring pointedly at Cree’s large hand still wrapped around his bicep.

Cree dropped his hand–reluctantly. “Not really well-versed in classic rock,” he admitted, amused by the other boy’s enthusiasm.

Jordan scrunched up his face, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, what are you into?” he asked, like it was a test he expected Cree to fail.

Cree shrugged.

Jordan tilted his head. “Are you always this chatty?”

“I–I talk when I have something to say.”

“Am I annoying you?” Jordan asked, sounding more curious than hurt.

“No. Definitely not,” Cree said honestly.

He wasn’t sure how someone could be this bright without burning themselves out, but he liked it. Liked him.

Jordan bit his lip, swaying side-to-side. “Should I just leave you alone?”

“Only if you want to,” Cree said, hoping–unexpectedly–that the answer was no.

“I don’t,” he said, tone somewhere between flirty and self-effacing. “But I have this problem…”

Cree tilted his head, intrigued. “Which is?”

“Whenever I’m in a conversation with someone and that other person doesn’t speak, I feel the need to fill the silence, which often leads to me babbling and oversharing.”

“Okay,” Cree said.

This time it was Jordan blinking at him owlishly. “Okay what?”

“You talk, I’ll listen,” Cree said. “Seems like a win-win.”

Jordan’s smile spread slow and wicked. “You have no idea the power you’re handing me,” he said. “What if I talk your ear off about string theory or underwater basket weaving or the ethics of time-traveling clones?”

His hands started moving as he talked, punctuating each absurd topic like he was giving the world’s most chaotic TED Talk. Cree was riveted, dazzled even. 

His face lit up. “Oh! Or the Mandela Effect and how I swear the Berenstain Bears used to be spelled differently. Or my conspiracy theory that pigeons are government spies. And that if Bigfoot is real, he’s probably super hot.”

Cree was sure his face was expressionless, but inside, his heart was experiencing some kind of weird chemical combustion. Every time Jordan switched topics, Cree felt another tiny spark go off behind his ribs.

“I’m all ears.”

Jordan flashed his pretty teeth at Cree. “So…Does that mean you do wanna go somewhere else?”

“What’d you have in mind?” Cree managed. His voice sounded steady, but his pulse was thudding in his ears.

Jordan took his hand and began to guide him through the sea of people.

Cree frowned. How was Jordan so familiar with the Mulvaney property? He kept the question to himself, afraid to break the spell, afraid this gorgeous boy would realize he wasn’t nearly as interesting as he was. 

Jordan’s fingers stayed laced confidently through his like they’d done this a thousand times. Cree wasn’t used to being pulled anywhere. He was usually not one for touching. But this? This he didn’t mind.

Jordan dragged him deep into the bowels of the Mulvaney mansion until they ended up in the theater room. The last time Cree had been in there was when someone had come after Thomas Mulvaney and he’d made them all hunker down in the house until the man had been caught. He led him to the large black recliners in the back row, gesturing for Cree to sit.

“Is this okay?” Jordan asked, plopping down right next to him, his arm pressed against Cree’s own.

“Mm,” Cree said.

Jordan pressed the button on Cree’s recliner, giggling when he jolted at the unexpected motion, before hitting the button on his own seat.The recliners hummed softly as they moved, a low mechanical vibration sliding up Cree’s spine. Jordan’s thigh brushed his, warm and soft even through the costume, and Cree swallowed.

“Do you like old movies?”

“Mm,” Cree said again, a small smile playing at his lips at Jordan’s noise of frustration.

Jordan seemed to take his silence as a challenge, burrowing deeper into the recliner, his hand brushing Cree’s. “If you could only watch one old movie for the rest of your life–like, forever–what is it and why is it not Gremlins?”

Cree let his head loll to the side to look at Jordan, who looked adorably small and cozy in the oversized recliner. His Deadpool mask lay crumpled in his lap now, revealing every expressive twitch of his eyebrows, every dimple. It was…a lot.

“Gremlins isn’t an old movie,” Cree said with a lopsided smile. 

Jordan shrugged. “It is to me. It came out twenty-two years before I was born.” 

Cree’s eyes went wide. “How old are you?” 

“Nineteen. How old are you?” Jordan asked. 

Nineteen. Shit. Why did he feel like a cradle-robber when they were only six years apart? “Almost twenty-six.” 

“Oh, an older man,” Jordan murmured. “Hot.” 

Cree fought the smile turning up the corners of his mouth. 

“Fine. What’s your favorite old movie?” Jordan asked, his thumb softly brushing against Cree’s in a way that had his breath catching.

The touch was barely there, a ghost of contact, but it felt like Jordan had pressed a live wire to the inside of Cree’s wrist.

“It’s a tie between Rear Window and Rosemary’s Baby,” he admitted.

“How come?” Jordan asked, sounding far less judgmental than his friends would have been about his choices.

He was watching Cree like he actually cared about the answer–like Cree’s preferences were inherently fascinating.

“Have you seen them?” Cree asked. 

Jordan gave a bashful smile, like he’d been caught in a lie. “No, I’ve actually never heard of them. But they’re good? What are they about?” 

“Rear Window,” Cree said, voice going a little soft in that way that only happened when he talked about movies. “It’s Hitchcock at his best. One guy trapped in his apartment after breaking his leg, spying on his neighbors because he’s bored…and then he thinks he witnesses a murder. But it’s not really about the murder. It’s about paranoia, and the way people fill in the blanks with their own fears.”

He shrugged, a tiny smile tugging his mouth.

“It’s basically a masterclass in tension using nothing but one room, a camera, and human nature.”

Jordan blinked. “Okay, that actually sounds cool.”

Cree continued, warming up now.

“And ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ is kind of the opposite. Bigger world. Bigger stakes. It’s about this woman who slowly realizes everyone around her–her neighbors, her husband, her doctors–are gaslighting her, manipulating her, isolating her, because they want something from her. It’s one of the best examples of psychological horror ever made.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s the kind of movie that makes you trust your gut afterward. Even when everyone tells you you shouldn’t.”

Jordan studied him with new interest. “You sure do know a lot about old movies.” 

Cree looked down at his hands. “I like…I like feeling like I’m slipping into someone else’s memories. Like a perfect little snapshot of the world exactly as it was–people’s fears, their humor, how they talked, how they loved. I didn’t grow up with much, so nostalgia’s…weird for me. But those films give me this feeling like I’m remembering something I never actually lived.”

“I get that,” Jordan said. When Cree looked, the other boy’s eyes were closed. “Keep talking. You have a really nice voice.” 

Cree couldn’t tear his gaze away. “Plus, if you strip away all the noise we have now–CGI, jump scares, whatever–you get to see how good storytelling really works. Just light, shadow, and emotions.”

Jordan’s lips parted, opening his eyes to gaze up at Cree with a look he’d never seen on anyone before, something like…awe. “Damn. You sound like you’re in love with movies.”

Cree shrugged again, bashful. “I kind of am.”

“I hope someone talks about me with the same look on their face as you talk about old movies,” Jordan said wistfully.

“I’m surprised nobody hasn’t,” Cree said. 

His eyes went wide as he realized he’d said those words out loud. He forced himself to look at Jordan whose cheeks looked a little pink. 

The younger boy shook his head. “Sweet talker.” 

Cree’s pulse stumbled. People didn’t say things like that to him. But Jordan said it like it was the easiest truth he’d ever spoken.

Cree studied him. “Is your favorite old movie actually Gremlins?”

Once more, Jordan beamed at him, and Cree’s stomach plummeted to his spine. “Nah, but it’s fun to watch the snooty film students at my school lose their minds when I tell them it is.”

“You’re a troublemaker,” Cree said ruefully.

“I just like…provoking a reaction,” Jordan said.

His voice dipped, softer, the kind of tone that suggested layers Cree didn’t understand yet. The sparkle was still there, but something behind it dimmed just enough to catch Cree’s attention.

When he saw Cree studying him, he gave a smile that didn’t quite meet his gaze. “Ignore me,” he said. “I’m just being weird.”

“You have a lot of siblings, huh?” Cree asked.

Jordan’s tongue darted out to play with one of his piercings, studying him before he said, “Are you psychic or something?”

Cree covered his hand with his own, squeezing briefly before letting go. Jordan went still at the touch, not seeming scared so much as…surprised. Like he wasn’t used to someone touching him gently.

“You just seem like someone who probably got overlooked a lot,” Cree said.

“I have five siblings,” he admitted, expression grim. “Three older, two younger. What about you?”

Cree took a deep breath and let it out. This was usually where he made up some lie or claimed he was an only child. But this time, he told the truth. “I don’t know.”

Jordan tilted his head. “You don’t know?”

He shook his head. “I was adopted.”

Jordan studied him like he was reading him. “Oh,” he finally said, dragging out the word like that made sense. “So, like, therapy city then?”

Cree huffed out a startled laugh. “What?”

“What? Am I wrong?I know a couple of people who were adopted. They’re all hella fucked up about it.” 

At Cree’s arched brow, Jordan croaked out a laugh. “Okay, fine, not all of them. My friend, Shawn–his adopted parents were chill, but he was like twelve when they adopted him, so if they were gonna be weirdos he was old enough that he could have told people how fucked up they were. I’m guessing that wasn’t your situation?”

“Why? Do I look traumatized?” Cree asked, mildly amused by Jordan’s rambling assessment.

Jordan turned in his seat. Cree’s eyes went wide as Jordan cupped his face, studying him closely. Warm palms. Glitter-dusted fingertips. The faint scent of vanilla and hair products. Cree felt pinned, but not by force–by this gorgeous boy’s undivided attention. Real, startling attention.

Cree wanted to pull away from the scrutiny, but not Jordan’s touch.

After what felt like seconds, Jordan’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah, actually. But you’re definitely the type to grin and bear it. The strong, silent type.”

The words landed like a clean strike, precise and devastating. Nobody nailed Cree that quickly. Nobody saw him that clearly. He wasn’t sure what to say or do.

Jordan dropped his hands, his face falling as he said, “I’m sorry. Ignore me. I–I just shoot my mouth off and act like I know what I’m talking about, but I’m mostly just full of shit. I–”

“No,” Cree said quietly. “You’re right. I’m just…surprised.” He gave a small shrug. “Most people tend to avoid any deep topics to avoid any…discomfort.”

“Most people tend to avoid me because I love the deep topics that make people uncomfortable,” Jordan admitted. 

“I can't imagine anyone avoiding you,” Cree said honestly. 

Jordan’s breath caught, his expression softening, like Cree had handed him something delicate and he actually knew how to hold it. The dim amber light flickered, washing Jordan’s face in gold–and Cree had the ridiculous thought that Jordan looked like something out of a dream. Bright. Unfiltered. Impossible to look away from.

“I had a fucked up childhood, too. Just so you know. Like, I’m a big ol’ mess. I just shove all my angst into my music, you know? You need an outlet. Or a therapist. I’d say music is cheaper than therapy, but it’s not really true. Lessons, instruments…they cost a fortune. Luckily, for me, my parents were loaded and willing to throw money at whatever activities kept them from having to acknowledge I was anything but fine.” He gave Cree another lopsided smile. “But it’s a good way to channel my feelings.”

“Do you have a lot of those?” Cree asked softly, hoping his tone came across as teasing.

“Oh, I have all of them,” Jordan said, giving him a wry smile. It wobbled at the edges, like humor was his first line of defense against the world. “I’ve been told I’m very dramatic.”

Cree turned his whole body toward Jordan’s, mirroring his posture. Something about matching him felt instinctive–like meeting him halfway without knowing why it mattered. “I can see that.”

“Does it bother you?” Jordan asked, his voice small.

Cree frowned. “Does what bother me?” 

“That I’m dramatic?” Jordan asked. 

Cree shook his head, unable to stop himself from admitting the truth. “I’m not sure you could do anything to ‘bother’ me.”

Jordan’s breath hitched–a tiny, soft sound, almost too quick to catch. It hit Cree like a fist to the sternum. 

“Oh,” Jordan said, a little breathless. “Your flirting game is lethal.” 

Cree met his gaze, voice low as he said, “I’m not flirting, I’m just being honest.” 

Jordan’s eyelids fluttered like he was processing. He stared at him for a long moment before blurting, “I bet you have an amazing smile.” 

Cree wasn’t sure what compelled him to smile at him–his real smile. The one so rare it made the muscles of his face hurt to use them.

Jordan covered Cree’s face with both hands, fingers warm against his cheeks. “No, yeah. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Smile like that,” Jordan said, seemingly shy. His voice dipped, his lashes lowering, like Cree had just weaponized something tender.

Cree laughed softly, tugging Jordan’s hands down but not letting them go. “Why not?”

Jordan sighed wistfully. “Yeah, I’ll definitely fall in love.”

The words punched straight through Cree’s ribs. They were said like a joke, but Jordan’s eyes flickered–like maybe it wasn’t. Like maybe he scared himself with how easily he said it.

Cree opened his mouth, but then his phone beeped loudly, startling them both.

Jordan rocketed up out of his seat. “I should go find my friend.”

“Your friend?”

“Matty.”

Cree’s brows shot up. “Aiden’s brother?”

Jordan frowned. “Yeah, why?”

Cree stared at his phone. “Because according to the group chat, your bestie just took my bestie upstairs.”

Jordan’s eyes went wide. He looked like a startled cat–equal parts panic and disbelief. “There’s no way they’d hook up in the middle of this…whatever this is? Is there?”

“I…have no idea. Should we go find them? Maybe keep them from doing something we’ll all regret later?” Cree asked. “I don’t suppose you know where Matty’s bedroom is?”

Jordan scoffed. “Of course I do.”

Cree closed the recliner, getting to his feet, before helping Jordan stand. Jordan’s hand slipped into his like it belonged there, warm and light, a contrast to Cree’s steady grip. Jordan was just tall enough that Cree could tuck his head under his chin. That small detail shouldn’t turn him on, but it did. Heat curled low in his stomach, surprising him with its intensity. He needed to get them out of there before he did something stupid.

“You’re kind of the perfect height,” Jordan said, tipping his head up.

“For what?” Cree asked stupidly.

Jordan’s pink tongue darted out to lick over his full bottom lip, giving him a shrug. “Whatever,” he said, tone borderline flirty.

Cree felt his pulse stumble, the kind of electric jolt he wasn’t used to letting himself feel. “You’re gonna be trouble,” he said.

“You have no idea.”

And Cree realized–with something that felt dangerously close to anticipation–that he wanted to find out exactly how much.