#Dream of the Endless in Feral Fashion

[obsessiveagony2point0]

Hob wearing it

Original Post Date: November 5th 2023

Twitter/X•AO3•Pillowfort •Linktree•Bluesky•Ko-fi

[witchofthesouls]

I love your bayverse Isekai AU, will there be any more snippets on the shenanigans with our feral wildling prime with equally feral newsparks and politically rogue sentinel actively failing and somehow successfully courting the said feral prime while simutaneously giving the metaphorical middle finger to the council regime.

You're standing in the middle of a pale desert. The white sand ripples without wind, and it's endless without anything in sight. A stark divide between the ground and dark sky. The stars are strange. Dripping like a child's clumsy first ventures into watercolors; saturated, vibrant hues fading into weak trailing brushstrokes. With enough concentration, you parse out the shapes of the stars, outlines squirming, moving back and forth, bleeding across the night like odd-shaped marbles.

Someone calls out, and you turn to see a fluttering-

______

You wake up, and the dream fades. The remaining echoes of crying easily meld into the newsparks' wails for your attention, even under Thundercracker's crooning engines, calm field, and fuel production. They look for you, blindly reaching out, fields refusing to settle until well entangled under your own and dozing on your chest.

______

Because you and information slugs don't mix, you're learning the old-fashioned way: direct practice.

And there's nothing in this current life nor your past human one that could prepare you for Iaconi dining etiquette and their culinary practices.

Sentinel is surprisingly patient and encouraging. Star Saber, on the other hand, is demanding and pompous as usual.

A few pieces of the cutlery are familiar in a vague shape-sense, like a spoon should be a spoon, but the spoons' handles have delicate metal leaves with tiny bundles of shiny berries. One grouping is so fragile that the shells jiggled as it rose from a well-hidden compartment from the table. Another clutch isn't round but more hexagonal. A blue hexagon-like raspberry with reddish fuzz.

There's also a tool that looks like a love-child between a well-used slinky and nunchucks and a doohicky that combined a two-pronged fork with a honey dipper.

There's nothing on the table that looks remotely close to honey or a sauce to use said dipper.

You deeply yearn for the simplicity of Thundercracker's cubes and her endless supply of snacks.

Biting the bullet, you commit to a spoon, and Star Saber exudes disdain as you try to scoop out the plain tofu lookalike on your plate. It jiggles and warps the moment the utensil touches it, and the berries, every single one, fall off. The hard ones bounce off, tinking across the table and floor, and the fragile ones splatter the tofu. A contained mess of color and sound clash as discordant strings and chimes overlay and warp.

Sentinel is then right by you. "Like this," he says, and he takes your hand to pick up the fork end, guiding you to twirl the dipper right over the plain tofu block. It quivers, and there's a lovely wind-chime noise before the entire thing flows upward, carving into long, unbroken chains by following the grooves, and artfully twirling backdown into a nest.

A plate of color-splattered noodles now sits before you.

Sentinel uses the slinky, applying the nunckuck ends to his thumb and middle finger and gently bounces the slinky over the noodles. The noodles slither their way into the middle, and after a mouthful is gathered, he brings the contraption near his face, flicking off the thumb attachment and the flexible tubing and 'drinks' his food as if it's a straw itself.

A sharp, ringing hum grabs your attention, prickling over your senses at vibrates in your field. When Star Saber stops circling the rim of the wine glass, the hum dies down as well.

"You failed when we entered." You stare blankly at the Seeker, and he clicks his glossa before explaining, "The most prominent member signals the rest to sit."

"But I waited for you because you're the most experienced!" Star Saber had literally spent weeks beating it into your processor about the teacher-student dynamic: who sits, who stands, who dismisses, and many other important, little steps of social nuance.

"Yes. If this was an educational setup, but this is a formal meal, it's the established Prime that signals to everyone else to sit."

You throw all caution to wind and reach over to the turn table in the middle. Sentinel laughs as you manually spin it until you reach your target: the deconstructed savory pies basket.

Star Saber remains unamused as you take a bite of the sphere, and spices flood your senses, coating your glossa with a hearty, thick gravy. The 'wrapping is supposed to be peeled, but it's completely edible and flaky layers.

It's a performance piece with the right sounds and gestures. The wrapping would gracefully unravel, and the contents reorganize itself into a sophisticated piece of art before settling into cups to be eaten one by one.

You find it more comfortable to eat the pie in one whole go. Star Saber deeply sighs at your atrocious manners and actually snaps at Sentinel when the mech decides to follow your lead.

[shirajellyfish]

Expectation vs reality

You are a new employee at the Pizzaplex. According to the job description, you basically just have to monitor the daycare animatronic for malfunctions and that's it. Maybe occasionally do the odd thing the animatronic can't, like confiscating any weapons (and by 'weapons' it's clear they mean things like fake toy guns, maybe a pocketknife), but other than that it seems like you're just going to be sitting there while getting paid a suspiciously high amount. This is going to be great.

You go through the training videos and marvel at the capabilities of this animatronic. The way it's able to perfectly blend genuine love for the children with untiring robotic perfection. The energetic Sun mode, the calming Moon mode, the endless amount of situations they can handle with ease. Everything a team of childcare professionals could dream of knowing is all programmed in. This animatronic is a work of art, and overseeing it… no, working with him is going to be an honor.

It's your first day on the job after training completes. You open the door and hear SCREAMING SO MUCH SCREAMING

The children are yelling and screaming as they run around like feral animals. A little girl screams as another child pulls her hair. Two ten year olds are screaming about if Charizard could win a fight against Goku. And Sun, Sun is screaming. He's covered in paint and dirt and greasy handprints. Two children are pouring glitter glue directly onto him while three more hold his arms down, clinging with a frightening tenacity. The Sun, he screams.

You rush over and shoo the children away. Sun immediately lunges at you, gripping your shoulders.

"LIGHTS ON. LIGHTS. ON!!"

"Wha-"

"KEEP THE LIGHTS ON, NEWBIE, OR EVERYONE IN THIS ROOM WILL DIE."

"What??"

"EVERYONE. ABSOLUTELY EVERYONE HERE. WILL DIE. KEEP THE LIGHTS ON. ON."

Sun then skips away in a jarringly merry fashion. He ignores the complete disaster state the play area is in, as well as the still wet glue covering him from head to toe, in favor of re-stacking a pile of toy noisemakers. Every time he finishes stacking them, a giggling toddler knocks the whole thing over again. Sun begins stacking again in an infinite loop.

The hourly pay makes sense now.

[ants-personal]

anyways more lil tidbits about the everymanhornets au

Whenever otherworldly things take place habit is well aware of who or what is happening and honestly he wouldn't help cause its funny but also that means something else gets to torment evan and that's just not allowed tbh so he helps save tim to save evan so he can go back to being the only thing causing misery

Evan does have knowledge of the other anes simply cause of habit which is distressing he knows whatever happened caused some cracks in his pocket of the universe he knows that tims friends are stuck in the ark suffering and his are stuck in candleverse and fairmount he doesn't share this information.

Habit constantly berates tim for being lame and boring such a let down since from what he's understood tim was suppose to be one of slenderman's big players The masked one meant to help good ol slendy trap others in his games a real top dog and instead he gets... this the masky nowhere to be seen even if habit can sense it laying dormant for now

When masky does show up he is aggressive towards evan evan even when he's himself since he can sense habit any parts of tim are not present and at one point he even bludgeons evan to death with a pipe letting habit take back control puppeteering evans corpse pissed off and clawing deep marks in maskies neck

Tim has been over the years been able to suppress masky and really any control slenderman has with the help of his doctor and new meds plus just being away from the center of activity helps to move on keep the good memories block out the bad creating a space in his head to trap masky in

He uses what he learns to try and help evan at the very least stay in control longer and more with habit course its easier when your alter or whatever isn't constantly whispering in your ears or tearing apart your insides to claw himself to the front seat. It's hard to do but works even when whatever building or maze evan tries to trap habit in inside his mind he always finds a way out pissed off

Tim and Evan are more durable then normal people for obvious reasons but evan is the only here that can't actually died (for now :) habit refuses to let him but he does feel every death the pain never dulls blood never tastes any better. Evans not the biggest fan but will do what he needs to to protect Tim and Habit needs him even if tim hates seeing evans dead body being animated by those shiny dead purple eyes. He has new scars and yeah they are badass okay but still sucks cause when evans back he looks like the living dead and acts like it body trying to keep up. Tim tries to ease his suffering cutting the days drive short so evan can lay in an actual bed.

Along the way slender man's influence does start being able to seep back into tims mind dreams hallucinations doing whatever it can to make tim stop helping habits plan using his friends against him in typical fashion blurs and figures on the side of the road that only tim notices sending information that ends up sending them out of the way cause tim was certain it was something important

Tim doesnt know what the hell the rake is but he sure doesn't like it or the way it's trying to literally eat them. (The sequence i have thought out for this part is inspired on the setting and events of one of my fave into the dark movies *Im Just Fucking With You* but instead of a person evan and tim are dealing with the rake running around causing mayhem and death)

Tim does get stuck in something close to ark a space created specific for him to break him down and stop any progress. Its an endless abandoned building there is not exit and any windows show nothing but pure black void the horrible twisted versions of his friends run and attack throughout the halls. Alex nothing more than a feral man spewing nothing but hatred for tim trying to kill him with the same knife used to kill him. Jay screams out for tim but no matter how fast he gets there jay always dies blood pooling asking tim why he wasn't here till alex finds and chases him away cycle repeats. Now brian is a little different aware of what's happening sometimes unable to fight for control and trying to kill tim himself but when the cycle restarts he tries to find a way out for tim. Eventually on one run he runs into a guy he's never seen before sneaking through the halls trying to find Tim himself talking to himself? He doesn't get the chance to ask before he's transported back to his spawn area

Oh yeah this is where Tims mask returns but he's not the one who finds it. Evan does in what looks like an abandoned classroom there's a message on the board and laying on top of the desk is Tims mask. Evan picks it up a lil amazed because he's only seen this thing in videos and cmon its cool unaware that he has triggered a change in Tim masky coming back in full force standing silently in the doorway eyes white traces of static flicker through them. Posture stiff and breathing slow anger rolling off of him in waves at evan for even touching the mask. Evan tries to get to tim and when its not working and hes getting slowly caged in he tries to run to keep the mask away cause its not what tim wants its futile evan is able to fight him off for a bit hiding and running from room to halls dodging masky and corrupted alex and jay before masky catches him and kills him so he can take back what his. Course habit doesn't like masky or being beaten by him even if it was evan so they end up beating eachother and destroying the place main area of the place till brain is able to find open the door evan had come through and helps habit send both him and masky through it landing them back in the small clearing of the quiet forest. Tims back and panics flinging the mask off his face while habit laughs at him and brags how he very much won that fight

Uhh i have like fun ones too but i have more scene thought out then others as you can see the fun ones are like downtime between evan and tim learning to be a sorta found family but not father son and also bonding over how fucked up their lives were and are :p

[delicrieux]

☆ﾐ 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 “𝚘𝚑”

PART 13: ...O-OH?

it’s the night of the big stream. y/n uncovers a strange, albeit deep, bond with charlie. corpse interrupts her garden date with sykkuno quite unceremoniously. tensions are high as ever; proximity chat reveals internal monologues and stray thoughts. y/n’s “batshit insane” energy affects everyone. this is, quite literally, the best game of among us bretman has ever played.

─── corpse husband x reader, sykkuno x reader (if you squint, it’s very one sided)  ─── soc. media + written fiction! ─── word count: 6.1k oops ─── ❥ reqs: sum people requested some interaction w bretman + jealous corpse + flirty sykkuno

author’s note: guys....GUYS WE’RE ON THE 3RD “OH” hope ur excited cus i am!!! this was rly fun to write, but then again, everything is better than writing an essay lmao! this is extremely chaotic and a bit seggsy but like a minuscule bit u wont even notice it i swear xx there’s not much social media in this one, mostly written lol. as always lmk wat u think n thank u for all ur kind words n sooo manyyyy ideassss!!! love u lots

ultimate masterlist.  ҉  myso masterlist   ҉   previous. ҉   next.

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It’s happening, you think, picking the discreet, angelic white color for your astronaut - with a halo and all, truly, you are a seraph that stepped through the gates of heaven and descended onto earth to grace these morals with your presence...quite literally, you’re not only donning white in game, but also in real life, cute as a button or more like as a bunny. Cat girls are overrated - cat boys, on the other hand, you’ll ardently defend till your last breath - but bunny girls...Safe to say, your chat had been going feral. Your endless ego is fed well. You even swore on your heart that no devilish trickery would follow in this game - you had left your snake ways behind you.

No one believed you. The Roaches know you too fucking well.

The influx of new subs, however, do not. Look at this cute girl! She wouldn’t hurt a fly! You chuckle at the compliments. At the exact same moment, Rae pipes up on the discord call, “Y/n is leering and cackling evilly. No one trust her.”

Demon woman herself must be watching your stream before starting her own. You pout, all adorable and innocent, but your eyes gleam slyly. Truly, a mastermind of manipulation! Look at you go! The chat is swooning. The viewer number steadily climbs past 16K and you hum happily, welcoming all that decided to join your little clan, “Don’t listen to Rae. Wifey is mad because I said I’m not bringing her back a souvenir. Well guess what, bitch, I’m the gift.”

Your perfect image does not quite align with your tone, nor the affectionate nickname you call your roommate (bitch, not wifey). The new viewers are none the wiser though, just like your new stream mates.

There is laughter from people you don’t quite know. The lobby is almost full, but not everyone has trickled in yet.

“Filing divorce papers right now.” Rae mumbles, but you hear the smile in her voice. It makes you crack a grin, too. 

More hello’s and shy introductions to the people in the lobby. Sykkuno’s green astronaut pops in with a upbeat, “Hey, everyone! Hi, Y/n!” as his character circles around yours. A collective awww echoes in your stream chat as you, quite breathless at the wholesomeness, reply with a “Hi! Hi hi!” as well.

Corpse is next to join, mysteriously ominous. The discord call is pure chaos, everyone screaming over the other variations of his name while stressing different syllables. Silent as a grave, he just stands there, his black astronaut seemingly eyeing everyone in the lobby. 

Alas, when the noise dies down, he utters, “Whaddup, baby.” and it’s pandemonium all over again. You are screeching/laughing along with the rest. His astronaut swiftly glides to Sykkuno, still circling around you, “Hey, Sykkuno.” He says. The latter abruptly stops. The game hasn’t even started, and already - betrayal! Sykkuno starts circling around Corpse now, leaving you in the dust.

“Hey, dude!”

“Yo,” You interrupt, “I’m like here too, yeah?”

“Fight, fight, fight!” Pokimane jeers. You can’t see her, but you’re certain she’s pumping her fists in the air. 

“Let’s leave the bloodshed for the game, yeah?” Dream offers past her laugh ridden urging.

“No, fuck that, let’s start this shit right now,” Charlie declares - his monotone is strangely pleasant to the ear, and you lean back in your chair with a thoughtful hum. Something about his energy just clicks with yours instantly, but perhaps you’re judging too quickly- “Got my fucking knife ready to slit some throats. You can all pretend you aren’t ready to kill on sight, but that’s not me. I’ll teabag your dead fucking body.”

-yeah, no, your initial estimate had been correct! What a pleasant surprise, you feel like you and he will get along beautifully. 

“Way to be subtle, Charles.” Rae snorts.

“Subtle doesn’t make an interesting game, Rae,” He’s quick to bite back, “and if I’m Impostor, you bet your fucking ass I’m going after you first.”

“Noooooo!” She shrieks, rushing to your astronaut, which is still just standing there, abandoned, like the equivalent of that one emoji, “Y/n, protect me.”

“Of course, baby.” You purr. 

There’s mumbling in the discord call, though it’s barely audible. Corpse seems to be repeating the word to himself: Baby...Baby?...Baby...

“You’re gonna stab me in the back the first chance you get, won’t you?” She questions, already painfully aware of the answer.

“You know it!”

“Finally, someone that’s not fucking cowering in their boots and flaunting their real nature.” Charlie says, “Y/n, form a Big Dick Alliance with me.”

“Oh for sure, man.” You agree immediately, trailing to his in game figure, “Let’s show these virgins how it’s done.”

“This is going to be a mess, isn’t it?” Sean’s voice rings with a cheerful laugh, making you flustered. Yes, you’re actually playing with THE JacksepticeyeTM. You still haven’t fully wrapped your head around that part, “I’m very excited to see where this will go.”

“Nowhere good.” You say with unparalleled sincerity - every word you speak to him, the icon, the legend, the one of the few youtubers you actually actively follow, must be genuine. You doubt you can lie to him. He’s too good of a person. You admire him too much. Stuck between wanting to be a shady bitch and an absolute saint, you refrain from addressing him more - you are simply not worthy.

its the y/n trying to act like a normal person in front of jack for me

ikr she looks ready to join the monastery

each day we stray closer to gods light???

Your viewers are snide as always. Gosh, you love them.

The last player pops in, fashionably late, “Hey, y’all.”

“Hey, Bretman!” The call choruses somewhat harmoniously.

“Hi, daddy.” He’s speaking to Corpse now, a smile in his voice - you can hear it even past the static of his atrocious mic. Your eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up. Your friends are cackling, but confusion refrains you from doing the same - were you not the only one Corpse offered, seemingly so long ago!, to be his sugar baby? 

One betrayal after the other. You’re glad for the Big Dick Alliance. The name has a nice right to it, too. 

Corpse laughs, “...Hey, Bretman. How are you today?”

Damn, two sentences for him, but not even a word spoken to you!? You’re already scripting a very melodramatic paragraph you will text him after the stream. With poorly masked discontent, you mutter, “Wow, thanks for such a warm welcome, Corpse, my day’s going great, yeah, loving the company.”

“Now now miss girl,” Bretman chimes, “we can’t be all daddy’s favorite.”

“Careful,” Charlie drones, “I think you just got yourself onto Y/n’s shit list.”

“Right next to Corpse Husband and Valkyrae.” You agree, “Sykkuno!” You suddenly call him.

“Uhm-Uh-Yes?” Is his nervous reply.

“You’re safe.” You state coldly, “For now.”

“You are not going after Sykkuno on my watch.” It must be a belated holiday miracle because Corpse finally decides to address you. His words seem to awake something in him, “Hey-Hey-Hey-” He swiftly glides to you, standing right next to your minute virtuous angel, “When are you coming back to Cali?”

corpse stop acting weird challenge

literally omg lmao

he does bring up a good point y/n y u not in cali yet?!

^pack it up corpse simp he disrespected the queen when he didnt say hi

“Back off, buddy,” Charlie interjects, “this spot is for Big Dick Alliance members only.”

“I’m never returning.” You inform him, your voice cold like the Arctic snow, and the look in your eyes is no kinder. You feel like you’re having a stare down through screen. 

Silence stretches. Is this an intimidation tactic? Because if it is, it’s a paltry one. Your conviction to be petty is stronger than any vulnerability you might feel.

“Then I have nothing to say to you.” He admits and fucks right off with that. Fine, go join Sykkuno and Rae in their little corner of betrayal! Friendship ended with Corpse, now Charlie is your best friend.

“Okay, guys, guys, guys-” Toast, noting this is going to spiral any minute now, tries to catch their attention, “Let’s start?!”

You look into your camera, and the roaches know what you’re thinking. You’re twins like that, communicating telepathically. You are taking back your tender promise of not being a conniving bastard. It’s fucking on. You will destroy everyone in your path, starting with the guy you have a stupid crush on - maybe?! Feelings are confusing, you’d rather just not think point blank period.

With no objections from the cast, the counter ticks away seconds and, for the first round, you’re stuck as CREW MATE.

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Charlie is a gift. Truly, you had not expected such a sudden, wonderful relationship to bloom. How have you not known of him sooner?! It’s a crime that you hadn’t spoken to him earlier. You are a 100% certain if you had found him before you started streaming, he would’ve been a big inspiration. 

The two of you do your silly little tasks and curse like sailors, commenting about this and that thanks to proximity chat. You wouldn’t have been able to stand the claustrophobic silence if it was just a normal Among Us game - to think, missing out on all his foully worded quips! It almost springs a tear into your eye. He’s just as unhinged as you.

worried about this dynamic 

its a trainwreck lol i love it plz collab more plz

Caught in a headed discussion in Electrical - TikTok trends, or audios specifically - you defend the app the best you can. Charlie thinks it’s super cringe, and you insist it’s part of the charm as you connect wires.

“I mean, have...-do you know that one audio, the one that goes, like,” You’re spilling your words, heated, frustrated that he’s so dismissive of the app that literally saved 2020, “it goes like, uhm,” You clear your throat, prep your voice - even take a sip of your favorite drink. Drawing the syllables, you try your best to make it drop an octave - it must sound like you’re doing an atrociously bad and nauseatingly scratchy Corpse impression with an extra dramatic flair, “My assssssss, your cockkk, you do the mathhh.”

“Did-Did I just-” You freeze hearing Corpse’s voice, finally done with your task. Charlie is muffling his laughter behind his palm; Corpse’s astronaut stands in the doorway, “What the fuck did I just walk into?” He seems genuinely confused, though a strangely winded. You’re mortified. Your shoulders are shaking. You look at the stream chat but it’s going too fast for you to follow. Manic laughter bubbles in your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut, mouth split into a toothy grin, lowering your head and trying to hide the blush dusting your cheeks.

“Hey? Guys? What the fuck are you talking about?” He questions again.

“Honestly?” Charlie chimes, “No fucking clue. TikTok, I think. Ask Y/n.”

You can’t reply. You’re crying. You cover your face with your palms, muttering a soft oh my god before bursting into a full blow laugh, throwing your head back, the motion accidentally knocking your headphones off.

“Y/n.” Corpse calls you, “Fuck was that?”

You’re howling. Your stomach hurts. There are literal tears in your eyes. You think Charlie might be laughing too, but you can’t really tell over your loud screeching. Hastily fixing your headphones, you wipe away the tears stuck to your lower lashes, heaving, “S-Sorry, I-” You stutter, breaking into another fit of giggles. Corpse patiently waits you to calm down. Catching your breath, you start again with a sniffle, “TikTok, yeah.” You idly fix your hair, trying to bite down a smile, “It’s an audio.”

“What- What kind of videos are you watching?”

“The good kind.” Your reply is instant, merciless, “Also, why are you here? We’re having a BDA meeting, you know.”

“I-I...” He trails off, “I...I heard people talking and...I just came here to check it out, but...I’m regretting it.” There’s a lilt in his voice, and you know he doesn’t regret jack shit. You bet he’s smiling. You wish you could see it.

“Bitch, then leave!” You huff. You aren’t sure what is with him today, and you don’t want to stick around and find out - his playfulness makes your stomach flip at the most inappropriate times! Like when you’re trying to sound threatening. You must retreat posthaste, “No, wait, I’ll do it for you.” You say, brushing past his character. Charlie follows after you.

“Dude, you’re so fucking lucky neither of us are the Impostor because you’d be deader than I’ve been feeling since I was 10.” Your favorite companion comments. Charlie is truly a modern wordsmith. You’re pretty sure you adore him, because you’re nodding your head, so quick to agree with him that even you’re surprised. 

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A meeting is called. You spare a glance at your fallen crew mates. They will be missed. Sean most of all, God, why does heaven always take the good ones?! The game feels emptier without him, even if you really only passed him once on your trek to Cafeteria with Charlie.

You may or may not have been avoiding him, afraid you’d accidentally say something horrible and he would hate you. It’s a silly fear, though a deep one. And with Charlie keeping you company, you had not uttered a single objectively  good, or even coherent, sentence. Your parents can’t watch this stream once it’s uploaded onto your Youtube channel. They know you’re barely keeping it together in most of your videos, but here, now? Yeah, no. Charlie is already hard to listen to on his own for sensitive viewers, and hearing you agree with literally everything he says with your own chaotic ideas? Your dad would stumble into an early grave.

Mom probably wouldn’t mind too much, but you’d have to explain your relationship status again. She is under the assumption that everyone you collab with is your significant other. You’d say it began with Sykkuno, though the exclamation of “Finally! My daughter isn’t pathetically single! We need to celebrate.” had started with Rae. Truly, a scandal.

Speaking of which, Sykkuno is gone, too, but you had time to mourn him already. You found his body roughly ten minutes ago; so torn with the fresh agony of heartbreak, you could not do anything else but cry. It was Charlie, bless his heart, that reported it.

“Someone killed Jack,” You say, voice dripping with venom, “court is now in session. I’m ready to vote the fucker out.”

People speak all at once. Toast roars over them, “ORDER! ODER IN COURT!” as he slams his hand onto his desk repeatedly. That seems to work, though briefly.

“I think it’s Y/n.” Corpse says. You stare at him, hand gripping your heart, mouth falling open in surprise.

flame him

corpse boutta be a corpse fr

beat his ass queen!!!!!

“Pardon my french,” You grumble, “but nani the fuck?!”

“It’s definitely Y/n, I found her and Charlie conspiring in Electrical. Surrealist experience of my fucking life, but it’s definitely her.”

“Dude, we’ve been over this,” Charlie sighs, shushing Rae who was about to comment something - knowing your luck, it was probably in favor of the man throwing you under the bus, “we would’ve snapped your fucking neck the moment you walked in. But we didn’t.”

“Yeah, we didn’t.” Corpse notes, “I said nothing about you, I’m just saying it’s definitely her. She probably didn’t kill in front of you because of your stupid alliance-”

“Someone sounds salty because he wasn’t invited.” Pokimane snickers.

“-or possibly she did tell you and you won’t betray her for the exact same reason.”

“That’s some big brain logic you pulled there, genius,” Charlie says, absolutely unimpressed, “sure you didn’t have an aneurysm trying to connect all of that together?”

“Well,” Rae pipes up, “Y/n and Charlie did say they will kill right before the game started. If you ask me, it’s not unbelievable. And Sykkuno was sorta on the shit list.”

“I’m writing down your name twice, Rachell.” You spit.

“Not helping your case at all, Y/n...” Dream worries, “And Rae makes a good point. Charlie and you have professed desire for murder. I’m just saying! It’s a bit suspicious, you know?”

The next words to leave Corpse’s lips sound incredibly smug, “See?” He drawls.  The pressure is getting to you - you don’t understand where this beguiling talent of his to convince literally everyone comes from, but it doesn’t inspire any confidence. Your fist suddenly feels incredibly lonely, so useless - oh, how you long to swing at him, “It’s definitely Y/n.”

“I dunno...” Toast mumbles.

“It’s Y/n.”

“Corpse-” You try, but he's ignoring you - shocker, as if he hadn’t been doing that from the very start of this stupid game - and chanting your name like it’s a fucking mantra or something, a smile in his voice, knowing, relishing in the fact that he’s grating on your nerves, “FIRST OF ALL,” You scream into the mic, successfully cutting him off; catching your breath, you exhale, and continue, calmly, lowly,  “get my pretty name out of your mouth.” 

There’s a pause full of tense silence. 

Then, there’s a sound, seemingly stuck in the back of his throat, “...O-Oh...?”

“Second of all,” You continue, words like honey dipped in arsenic, “This is the clearest smear campaign I have ever witnessed. By how hard you’re trying to frame me for fuck knows what reason, I’m led to believe it’s you that killed them. You’re the Impostor.”

“Corpse wouldn’t kill Sykkuno, though.” Rae comments, skeptical.

“Then the other Impostor did it.” You counter.

“Maybe you’re both Impostors.” Pokimane chirps.

“Y/n would never betray the Big Dick Alliance like that.” Charlie states.

You grin, “Charlie, I literally love you.” 

“Wait hold up now,” Corpse seems to get his bearings together, “what’s this about love I’m hearing?”

“I have none for you, dick.” You snap, flipping him off. Your chat cheers. While he can’t see it, you hope he senses it through the screen, “I officially hate you.”

“No, wait-”

“Boo, Corpse, you suck.” Toast laughs.

“Y/n, please-”

“Let’s all vote for Corpse Husband, okay?” You say it like it’s his full official name with an encouraging smile and multiple soft nods. Sykkuno can’t be here to nod, so you’ll do it for him. You eye the rapidly decreasing timer before clicking on Corpse’s figure and voting for him. The VOTED icon instantly pops up beside your adorable astronaut.

“Baby, I-” It slips past his lips so easily, as if he’s not even thinking about it, like it’s only natural to call you that and a spike of anxiety shoots up, making you glare. It’s only halfhearted. You try your best to ignore the rapid and uncoordinated pulses of your heart. Replace unwanted feelings with anger and hate - works like a charm, every time.

“You are not allowed to call me that.” You hiss. The chat spams snake emojis. 

“Wait-” Bretman chimes, “Hold up, y’all, slow down a minute. Why does Corpse never call me baby?”

“Yeah!” Pokimane agrees, “I want to be baby, too!”

Pokimane may not have been called baby, but you just single-handedly decided her nickname for her - Target 4. Welcome to the shit list, she is officially your public enemy number 1. You aren’t sure why the thought of Corpse ever referring to anyone else as baby makes you sick to your stomach (you actually do know why, but brain no think at the moment), but you wish this whole conversation never happened. You don’t like it.

20 seconds left. More VOTED icons appear by your friends. Corpse is the last one to cast his ballot at, you assume, you, as the rest wait for his quick explanation before everyone (or not) returns to the game, “...Because she’s my baby.”

Goodbye. Life had been sweet, and there was sorrow, though the amount of embarrassment you feel now is worse than when the internet found your cringe worthy high school pictures on your mom’s Facebook. It’s a mixture of dread and excitement - the pleasure of being noticed, cherished even, though anxious from vulnerability. Someone is screaming a very prolonged “WHAAAAT?!”, or maybe multiple people are, you aren’t sure, your ears start to hurt from the loud, conflicting cacophony of voices as you stare blankly at the screen. You received two votes, just like Corpse, Charlie got one, the rest skipped. With no one flung out, you all find yourself back in Cafeteria again.

Baby. My baby? My baby. My baby. The sentence is playing ping-pong in your mind, reverberating louder each time. You’re actually speechless for the first time in your life; your chest hurts, your heart beating so fast your hands start shaking. Had he meant it? Or was this a some joke? Was he trying to get a rise out of you again? You might just go insane from so many questions. My baby. Holy shit, this is a heart attack, this is what a heart attack feels like, dear God, you figured you at least had ten years before you get one!

  ✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

First round ends with IMPOSTORS raining victorious. Your sixth sense had been working wonders since, true to you previous estimate, it had been Corpse. His companion was Pokimane. For absolutely no reason what’s so ever, you change her name once more from Target 4 to Target 1. Normally, you’re all for girls supporting girls. Men don’t deserve anything, really, but now you’re so flustered and still reeling from what you are 80% sure was cardiac arrest that you genuinely don’t care about your established morals.

Round two starts without much deliberation. You get CREW MATE again; the game must sense your growing bloodlust, making sure that once you do get IMPOSTOR, you will not hold back. True power is granted to those who are ready and strong enough to wield it. You wait for your moment with bated breath.

Charlie is taken from you too early. The two of you were once again caught in a discussion - God knows about what, Minecraft, hentai, oh! your server! - as you tried to card swipe for the umpteenth time. The lights blew out and you just knew one of you was getting murdered there and then. Charlie’s voice abruptly cut off, and you think a part of you died with him.

It’s a cold meeting; with your new best friend being the first to go, everyone decides to skip. You proclaim you seek vengeance. When the meeting comes to an end, Sykkuno is the first to offer his condolences.

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” He says, and while he’s not in Brooklyn, you somehow feel him patting your back. You feign a sniffle.

“There’s nothing to apologize for...” You murmur sadly, “Unless...” Your voice turns sharp as the knife that was surely twisted into Charlie’s back, “It was you?”

“NO!” He exclaims, “I would never-you gotta believe me! I would never kill him. I know he’s important to you. I wouldn’t do that, I swear.”

“He was like a brother to me.” You admit, solemn, “Charlie, if you’re haunting me right now, know I will avenge you. I will not let this go.”

Sykkuno hums, circling around you, “Hey, I have a task in Greenhouse. Would you, uh--Would like to, uhm, join me?” Despite the shaky start, he finishes on a firm, pleasant note. He’s trying to cheer you up. Having lost your closest friend, he’s offering you his company. You accept with a soft smile and a cute “Yes, please!” and he releases an airy little laugh. The two of you make your way to your favorite place in map MIRA.

It’s difficult to stay sad for long when Sykkuno’s so sweet; the atmosphere of the Greenhouse is strangely calming; your problems seem to be left behind the shut doors. If you tried hard enough, you could imagine being in an actual Greenhouse - the warm, damp air clinging to your skin, the unmistakable smell of earth and vegetation, the pleasant silence broken only by yours and his hushed voices and clumsy footsteps.

The two of you are talking. Mainly about your choice of attire. Cat first, Sykkuno ponders aloud, doing his task as you watch the plants grow, now bunny, what’s next? You affirm that you will most likely dress up in cow-print next, or as an adorable sheep. He laughs, admitting you’ll look good in anything before he trails off. His awkwardness is really endearing. 

“Or!” You chirp happily, content with being locked away with him for the whole game. The idea must be playing in his mind, too, because he seems in no rush to leave, “I could, like, dress as someone from My Hero Academia. I watched the stream you did with Stella, the one where she made you look like Todoroki. It was really cute. You were really cute.”

“Oh, uhm-well, uh, thank you, thanks, I, uhm-” He clears his throat, and despite his stutter, you hear the smile in his voice, “I-I think you’d look better, though. Not as Todoroki. Or, probably as Todoroki, too. But, uhm, what character are you thinking about?”

“Maybe Momo?”

“Momo!” He yeps, “Momo is good. Yeah, she’s great. You’ll-uhm-you’ll look amazing. Really. Momo is awesome. Very pretty. Just like you.”

You are blushing. A stupid, toothy grin makes your cheeks hurt. Your eyes flicker to the chat, but again, it’s going wild. Giggling, you thank him for his sweet words, so giddy it’s honestly embarrassing. Why can’t you stop smiling? This is incriminating. You hide your lips behind your palm.

“...What’s this?” Corpse question. You had failed to note his sudden appearance, too busy gushing. “Am I interrupting?”

“Hey, Corpse!” Sykkuno greets. For someone so awkward and shy, he sure is good at hiding it when he wants to. Perhaps it’s all an act and you had been deviously tricked! Probably not, but you can’t help but narrow your eyes suspiciously, finally able to calm down. You definitely underestimated him, you just haven’t figured out how yet, “Not really! Y/n was sad Charlie died so I took her here.”

“You interrupted our date, dipshit.” You deadpan. 

“...Fuck you say?” Corpse dares, his voice low and somewhat menacing - for someone who exclusively portrays his emotions through only his voice, he’s incredibly hard to read. This is payback. Your love for wreaking havoc resurfaces suddenly. Serves him right for pulling all this ignoring shit at the start. Maybe you’ll make him say oh again.

Your sly smirk is promptly wiped. Fuck. He said oh, he literally said oh out loud. The Teruhashi fangirl in you is screaming. You had been so caught up in defending yourself you didn’t even register it at first. Alarmed, you look at the camera, then at the chat. First oh, then my baby. There’s no way he had been teasing you, and this proves it. Holy shit. You mouth the words “HE SAID OH!” for your audience only.

now she notices

snail pace baby we’ve been loosing our shit for the past hour 

corpse x y/n saikik au enemies to lovers 500k words slow burn im here for it

opening wattpad rn^

Your heart races in your chest - it might be considered an Olympic medalist at this point; flustered yet again, you wish you could cave into yourself. You should’ve brought your bright blue wig with you to Brooklyn. Turns out it would have been perfect for this stream. Yes, yes thinking about unnecessary details always works in distracting you from the butterflies throwing a fucking rave in your stomach. 

“I guess it is a date!” Sykkuno admits, “Kinda after a funeral, but still.”

Corpse hums. You’re still too stunned to say anything. The black astronaut with adorable cat ears approaches Sykkuno. 

“It’s not.” He states. Your mouth falls open in shock as your date, your companion, the Shoto to your Momo is murdered in cold blood right in front of you. His lifeless body, cut in half, lays on the tiles by the growing flowers, right beside you, “You didn’t see shit.”

“...I didn’t see shit.” Is all you can utter, breathless and terrified.

“Thaaaat’s fucking right, baby.” Corpse coos, “Now I’m gonna report it, and I’ll say we found Sykkuno together. Better stick close to me after the meeting, got it?”

If Sykkuno is Shoto, then Corpse is definitely Dabi. 

why is that kinda hot tho omg

didn’t know i needed dom corpse since now but i do

y/n looks like shes boutta throw up lmao 

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You follow him around like a lost puppy - because what else is left for you to do!? You’re helpless in this situation. He’s got you in the palm of his hand, successfully eliminating everyone you had previously interacted with. First it was Charlie, then Sykkuno, even Sean, who said hello in passing, was shot instantly. Real Sangwoo behavior. You almost want to scream warnings at everyone to not approach you. You cannot mourn another lost crew mate, you don’t think your conscience can take it. But words fail to form. You’re too weak. You fake cry to your audience. They’re quick to remind you to stop acting like a little bitch.

“Mean.” Is all you say, eyeing the comments.

“Hm?”

“Was talking to the roaches.”

“What are they saying?”

“That I should betray you.”

“...Better not.”

A shiver shoots up your spine and you half believe he will bust down your door and drag you into his basement for real. A nervous laugh slips past your lips, “I won’t, I won’t.” You reassure him, “Don’t worry, I’m sticking with you. I haven’t seen shit.”

“I like that you listen to me. You always this agreeable?”

“You’re kinda not giving me a choice right now.” You grumble, vending yourself a drink while he looms behind you, protecting you. From who?! Himself?!

“Oh my fucking God, finally,” Bretman exclaims, “girl, I’ve been running around the whole map trynna find someone, is everyone like, dead?”

You’re scared to reply. Corpse does it for you, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, maybe? Not sure. Where have you been?”

“Oh you know,” Bretman grins, “doing tasks, talking shit, the usual. You two are not, like, Impostors right?”

You shoot a look at Corpse, but he obviously can’t see it. Biting your lip, you murmur, “Nope.”

“Just your regular crew mates doing regular crew mate things.” Corpse says, no, purrs. Because that’s not suspicious at all. You’d recommend Bretman to run, and not only because that sounded shady as fuck. But he seems to enjoy danger, or he just doesn’t care.

“Hmmmm, crew mates, sure. Miss girl Y/n,” He’s addressing you now; you smile anxiously, “How come every time I see you, you’re with a different man?! Like damn, leave some for the rest of us, for real!”

You like Bretman. You like his high-pitched whine and drawl. You would like him even more if not for the complex situation at hand. You fear for his life. Chewing at your bottom lip, you snicker, “Sorry, Bret. I can leave you Corpse if you want?”

He laughs, “Girl, I’d say yes so fucking quick, but I know he wouldn’t want that. Normally I wouldn’t care, but y’all are such a cute couple it’s making me not want to be a shady motherfucking bitch. Changing my ways, embracing the lord. Love it.”

 Corpse doesn’t correct him that you are, in fact, not dating. His lack of reaction unnerves you slightly. Does he...? No! No think! Only exist! You catch that train of thought and steer it away from forbidden territory. Looks like it’s up to you to clear the air, and that is exactly what you do after trying to swallow down the lump in your throat, “Uh, we’re not together, actually. We’re just really good friends.”

“Bitch, then move over,” Bretman says snappily,”go like, back to your other boyfriends. Or find another one. I think I saw Dream near Navigation.”

“Near Navigation, huh?” Corpse hums thoughtfully. It’s a subtle warning, but you catch it. Yeah, even if you try running, Dream’s going to join your other ‘boyfriends’ in the afterlife. Granted, killing someone by just talking with them is kind of cool. Or maybe Stockholm Syndrome is finally kicking in, “Bret, the thing is, Y/n’s scared of dying, so she asked me to stay with her.”

It’s disturbing how good at lying he is. It is also really really attractive, as bizarre as that is.

y/n stop being in a toxic relationship with corpse challenge

making fanart of this omg her face

its the blushing for me girl get your head outta the gutter!

^she cant, it lives there

“Baby, you’re gonna fucking die if you stick with her,” Bretman points out, “have you noticed the mortality rate of her partners? Rest in peace, daddy.”

“He’s right, you know.” You mutter, dramatically looking to the side, “I’m no good, Corpse.”

“Not leaving you, end of discussion. Bretman, join us?” Corpse offers, catching you by surprise. He might still be lying, though. Creating a false sense of security before eliminating Bretman. Probably would laugh while doing it, too. Wow, he truly is evil.

Turns out he doesn’t have to do any of that, because when Dream strolls into Cafeteria, he kills Bretman instead. The two Impostors are finally revealed. You promised not to snitch on Corpse, but you didn’t say shit about not exposing Dream. You press the REPORT button and say just that: “Dream just murdered Bret right in front of me and Corpse.”

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

The last meeting is called. Dream had been voted out with the help of Corpse, and now only you, he, and Rae remain.

“Baby, you know what to do.”

The VOTED icon pops up beside Corpse’s astronaut. Rae wheezes, “No! Y/n, it’s not me, you gotta believe me, I swear it’s not me!”

“...I really don’t know,” You murmur, “I’ve been with Corpse a lot, and...Rae, I’m not sure...”

“Please! I swear it on my Kagayama cardboard cut out, I’m not the Impostor, please! You know me, I’d never lie to you like this.”

“She’s definitely lying.” Corpse says, sounding pleased.

“Don’t listen to him! Remember, during the first round, when he tried to convince us that you were the Impostor? He’s doing the same shit to me!”

“I also remember you agreeing with him.” You remind her.

“I was stupid! Small dumb brain moment! He was using us to win! He’s using you right now!” She votes, “Please, Y/n, make the right choice.”

You’re silent for a moment.

“I’m gonna...I’m gonna vote for who I think it is.” You lastly say.

A slow, lazy grin makes it’s way onto your lips, eyes gleaming mischievously. You had not forgotten your promise to your brother from another mother, you had not forgotten the pride of the BDA, you had not forgotten your beautiful friendship. Two miniature astronauts pop up by Corpse’s at the exact moment Rae screeches “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!”

“Fuck.” Is all Corpse says with a laugh.

The screen changes, informing of the first CREW MATE victory.

Your ears are assaulted with different voices as you appear in the lobby.

“Now that’s what I’m fucking talking about.” Charlie raves, “I swear to fucking God, Y/n, you even got me going for a second. Pulled some 1000 IQ shit right there. It was fucking amazing. Best back stabbing I’ve seen in a while, and I’ve seen a lot.”

“That was absolutely fantastic, Y/n.” Sean applauds, “I really thought you joined Corpse like some crew mate accomplice or something. Can’t believe you switched on him at the last second.”

“That’s my wifey!” Rae cheers, strolling to you, “Love you, mwah.”

“Hey, Corpse,” Charlie calls him, “How does it feel to be a fucking loser?”

“I’m surprisingly fine with it.”

yeah he would be lmao

mom is the best snake ever i love you sm y/n

rae and y/n’s friendship....the feeeeeels

As the rest sing your praises for another solid minute or two, the third round begins. CREW MATE again. Though, just because you’re stuck as an underpaid worker in a dying spaceship, it doesn’t mean you’re innocent. Your last round proved that quite well. You can’t help but silently snicker.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

TAGLIST IS CLOSED!

tags (in italics is those i couldn’t tag! make sure all’s ok w your settings!) : @littlebabysandboxburritos - @fairywriter-oracle - @tsukishimawh0re - @ofstarsanddreams - @bbecc-a - @annshit - @leahh19 - @letsloveimagines - @bellomi-clarke - @wineandionysus - @guiltydols - @onephootinfrontoftheother - @liamakorn - @thirstyfangirl - @lilysdaydreams - @pan-ini - @mxqicshxp - @tanchosanke - @yoshinorecommends - @flightsandfantasy - @liljennyx3 - @bingusmode - @unknown-and-invisible - @sinister-sleep - @fivedicksinatrenchcoat - @mercury--moon - @peterparkerspjsuit - @unstableye - @simonsbluee - @shinyshimaagain - @ppopty - @siriuslystupid - @crapimahuman - @ofthedewthesunlight - @mythicalamphitrite - @artsyally - @corpsesimpp - @corpsewhitetee - @corpse-husbandsimp - @hyp-oh-critical - @roses-and-grasses - @rhyrhy462 - @sparklylandflaplawyer - @charbkgo - @airwaveee - @creativedogs - @kaitlyn2907 - @loxbbg - @afuckingunicornn - @fleurmoon - @yeolliedokai

more tags are in the comments bcs tumblr only allows me to tag 50 people max 💙

[darker-soft-starker]

Starker High School AU Pt. 6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5)

---

tw: general howard stark warning

---

There is a buzzing by his ear.

At first, Tony doesn’t really notice it, waking up in short increments before being pulled back under. But he keeps waking, unsure what keeps tugging him out of his dreams, hand flapping around his face as he tries to stop the incessant ringing.

“Blergh,” he mumbles into his pillow.

Batting his hand around to quell the source of annoyance, he comes to grip his phone, squinting as it lights up inches away from his face and vibrates against his palm. For a second he thinks it’s his alarm, but then he remembers that he didn’t set one. It’s a succession of text notifications cascading down his screen that alerts him out of the slope of slumber with a start.

The only time his phone goes off like this is an emergency. The first thing he registers is that it’s only eight-minutes after seven. He blinks, sight clearing from the sleep wedged in his eye as he reads the flurry of still-incoming texts.

> so thanks for last night > yknow > for the ride > i mean > you know what i mean > anyway > so that folder i gave you had my BIO notes, not econ > im such a doofus > i need them back > don’t bother looking at them lol > can we meet up?

Tony groans, eyelids heavy as anvils. Jesus christ. He didn’t get home until four after dropping this guy off and he’s already up and bothering him? What gives?

Exhausted and annoyed, he tucks his phone under his pillow and sets it on do-not-disturb for extra measure. There ain’t no way he’s getting up at seven on a Saturday for fucking class notes. Prick.

In his opinion, he’s filled his quote of good deeds for the month and he doesn’t need to be up for another few hours. Whatever it is, he thinks, snuggling into his pillow, he’s sure it can wait.

---

The next time he wakes it’s just after nine. There’s a gap in his curtains allowing a sharp shard of sunlight into the room where it directly pierces into his eyelids. 

He groans tiredly into the drool patch on his pillow, willing sleep to come back to him, turning on his other side, gripping the edges of the quilt and tightening it around himself until he is firmly cocooned within it. It’s nice and warm, and sleep is such a rare commodity to him so it’s novel to bask in its dregs. But there isn’t any more sleep to come he’s quick to realize, giving up after a few minutes and blinking up at the ceiling. 

Nine is practically six. It’s criminal to be up this early.

There’s an unusual flurry of texts on his phone, some from Rhodey, but most of them are from Parker, an endless ladder of increasing franticness. 

Tony tosses his phone to the end of his bed carelessly. 

It’s been literally less than twelve hours since he’s had to deal with the shithead. Surely whatever was lodged up his ass couldn’t possibly be as important as Tony ignoring him. 

Swinging his legs off the bed, he stands and stretches his arms up high, fingers curling. The stretch feels good and he takes a quick sniff of his armpits to gauge if he can forego a shower for the third day in a row. 

The stench is wicked. It’s possible that he’s overdue.

He strips off as he heads towards the adjacent bathroom, naked and nursing a semi.

He can’t help but shudder as his back meets the cold tiles, the intuitive shower head following his body with a mechanical whir, miscalculating its aim and spraying him in the face.

Ah. That will need to be recalibrated, he notes. 

But, he can’t say he really minds, tolerating the spray, even as it hits his mouth like a fire hose. He ducks his head to wet his hair, reaching blindly for the touchpad to dial down the pressure. Once the water is to his liking he reaches down to take himself in hand, leisurely stroking himself.

It’s just a perfunctory part of his morning ritual; he doesn’t really have anyone in mind as he brings himself to full hardness, just the fleeting memory of lips around his cock, the next of a well rounded ass, not feeling particularly creative. 

Okay, so maybe he pictures some big, brown eyes and dark hair he can run his fingers through. And maybe he goes off like a rocket. That’s his business.

Anyway, once he’s out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, he inspects his appearance in the mirror. The bruises on his face are still pretty gruesome, deep purple and beginning to yellow around the edges. The cut on his lip seems to be well and truly scabby.

Turning to the side, Tony takes observation of his overall torso region; his stomach is not as defined as he’d like it to be - probably due to his affinity for carbs and sweets, if he’s honest. Between a few fingers he can pinch the skin and pull it a little -- and look, he’s a bit soft around the middle, but he lifts, alright. Maybe he isn’t exactly steel cut like the dudebros on the football team who have made being ripped their life mission, but he has musculature under the adipose.

Is he a little self-conscious about it? Sure. Is he worried about it enough to give up garlic bread and cronuts? No. Especially when he spots a new chest hair nestled comfortably between his pecs.

Probably a bit too proud of himself because of a singular piece of hair, Tony gets dressed in a pair of jeans that have seen better days, speckled with singe marks and thinning at the knees and a singlet, slinging on his leather jacket for the finishing touch. 

He almost forgets the bot.

“Look at you,” he says, to the mangled mess of metal on his desk. Scooping the injured, beeping bot Tony stuffs it into his backpack. “Come here, darling. Shh, you’re okay.”

Peering both ways out of the hall to ensure the coast is clear, he quickly descends the stairs, shushing the bot the whole way.

On the ground floor, he pauses when he hears voices coming from his father’s office. It takes a second to recognise the voices, his father and Stane arguing over one another, loudly, then softly. He tries to listen in, catching somewhat audible hisses about the company finance officer.

Careful to avoid the floorboards that squeak he tiptoes to the kitchen to pocket a few muesli bars and a water bottle from the fridge. 

The voices get progressively louder as he sneaks to the front door, silently saluting their maid as he passes. She waves back at him, offering a sympathetic smile as he goes out the door. 

His heart pounds as he reaches his car, parked around the corner street. 

“Alright, baby,” he grins, revving the engine. “Let’s go.”

---

“The fuck?”

It’s hard to be sure, but perhaps Rhodey doesn’t expect Tony’s unannounced arrival at his front door. Not if the furious scowl and bunny slippers on his feet are anything to go by.

Nonetheless, he slips past the front door, welcoming himself into his friends home, despite the exasperated outcry of for fucks sake Tony, it’s Saturday and it’s not even noon, can’t you call ahead? 

No, he can’t call. Well, actually, he reconsiders, heading down the hall to the basement, his friends footsteps echoing behind him, he probably could, but it wouldn’t make anyone less mad at him, so what’s the point?

Besides, judging by the empty driveway and barren living room, Rhodey’s family is already out, he’s not sure what the issue is.

“The issue is I am tired, man,” his friend complains, following him down the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

“Me too, honeybear, freakin’ exhausted,” Tony mutters, skipping down the stairs. “Go back to bed. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“Oh sure, and let you solder your fingers together again. Nah. Not taking the fall for that.”

“I’m not going to solder my fingers together. I’m a pro.”

“Unless you need me to remind you of last summer,” Rhodey takes a seat at the workbench, “I suggest you shut up.”

“You’re rude, you know that?” Tony asks, retrieving the bot from his backpack and setting it upon the bench. “I’ll have you know that I’ve learned since then.”

“And yet you still refuse to wear gloves,” his friend sighs, settling heavily upon the adjacent chair. There’s a comfortable quiet between them while Tony works, carefully settling all the pieces onto the table, moving each with care.

It’s hard to miss the weight of observation on the back of his neck, but he lets his friend drink his fill before he’s ready to speak.

“You fuck up something?” He points to the bot.

Tony shakes his head, pressing the solder into the circuit board. “No. Well, yes. The coding is perfect, as usual, but this idiot isn’t any smarter than a Roomba. He’s meant to be smarter.”

“So?

“He is smarter. I dunno, sometimes he messes up,” Tony mumbles, reaching blindly for the bent-nose pliers before Rhodey places it in his hand. “He’s not bad, just dumb. It’s not his fault.”

“And again, what happened? Did you run him over?”

“No, the old man got sick of me playing with ‘toys’. Dumb-dumb here met the wall in a very dramatic fashion. It was an Oscar-worthy performance.”

There’s a sigh from behind him.

“Does that explain your face?”

Tony glances behind him and smirks. 

“You mean my dashing good looks?”

“Tony.”

“Honestly? I got into a fight with a feral racoon that ran off with some old lady’s purse. It nearly cost me an eye, but I saved the day. She called me a hero, gave me some stale crackers from her purse and then gave me her number.”

“Tony.”

“Fine. I was skateboarding. I was in the middle of executing a super complicated kickflip but lost control when an enlarged gutter rat scurried in front of me. I flew headfirst into the gravel. Very embarrassing. That work?”

“Tony.”

“Look, just leave it will ya? God, you’re like a nagging wife. Pick whichever story makes you feel all nice and fuzzy inside.”

Rhodey is suddenly before him, waving something in his face. “Your phone, jackass. Your better half is calling?”

Huh?

Tony blinks, gently setting down the pliers and the chip he’d removed, taking his phone. It vibrates, Your Better Half flashing across the screen. 

“Parker, ugh.” 

He really should have changed the contact name by now, he thinks, swiping to answer.

“Alcoholics Anonymous,” Tony answers by way of greeting. “How may I direct your call?”

“Ha ha, very funny, asshole. So you are awake. I’ve been trying to contact you all morning.”

“I know. I’m beginning to think you actually might have separation issues,” Tony says. “I just got rid of you like eight hours ago.”

“I’m calling about the folder. Didn’t you read my texts?“

“Oh, I read them,” Tony settles back on the stool and continues to work on the main circuit. “See, I was just ignoring you. Hoping you’d take the hint, but I forget subtlety is lost on you.”

“Look, I need my notes. Can we meet up?”

“Right, for Bio,” Tony rolls his eyes. “Can’t it wait until Monday?”

“No. I, uh -- I have a test first period. I need to study for it.”

“Uh-huh. Just remember, the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. You’ll be fine.”

“I take AP Bio, asswipe, I’m aware of that. Can I just get it back, please?”

“You take AP Bio? Was that an admin error or something?” he asks, holding the chip he’d retrieved earlier up to the light to inspect for any damage. 

It looks to be ok. The damage to the bot overall seems to be mostly cosmetic, couple of scratches, a few dents. Nothing that a few replacement panels wont fix. Whatever he hasn’t already got stored here Rhodey will surely have spare parts, it’ll be fine. God, what would he do if his friend didn’t lovingly tolerate Tony using his space for storage and barging in whenever he lucks. It’s lucky Rhode’s parents are so chill though, unlike his own. He may be a hot-head but he’s practically a saint compared to -

“ - hello? Are you still there? I can hear you breathing.”

Tony blinks. “Right. Your notes. Look, I’m kinda busy. I have a life outside of you and I don’t actually care about your academic integrity, so, you’re gonna have to wait.”

“For how long?”

“I’ll drop them off this evening, like six-ish. Hey, maybe we could do that interview with May if she’ll be around.”

“...I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

“C’mon, I already told you I’m not actually hot for your aunt. I’ll be professional.”

Rhodey shoots him a bewildered look.

“That’s not what -- look, whatever. Just don’t be late okay. I have a life outside of you too.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. I’ll try and not get in the way of your weekend plans of crying while you masturbate.”

“I literally hate you.”

“And yet you aren’t denying the crying. Anyway, I have to go now, try to clean yourself up before I get there. See you at six, bubby,” he hangs up, cracking his neck before refocusing on his mangled creation. “Now where were we?”

“What the fuck.”

Tony pauses, pliers in hand. There is a particular expression on Rhodey’s face erring on the side of confused and haunted. 

“What?”

“’Bubby’?”

“Don’t say it like that - it’s like an inside thing. Don’t repeat it to him, alright, he’ll get pissy. And then I’ll get pissy.”

“You know it’s just a project, right? You two aren’t actually married.”

“Thank god. Could you imagine being married to that guy?” Tony shudders. “Scary.”

“Two weeks ago you said he was the bane of your existence. Now you have ‘inside things’ with him? You saw him last night?”

He sighs, shoulders dropping. Yeah, he doesn’t really have a good explanation for any of that. 

The thing about himself, Tony’s found over time and trial, is that he really, really likes to press buttons. He likes to test variables, wants to see what would happen if he did something he wasn’t supposed to, and map out the world as it occurs in motion around him. Curiosity means he likes to test the parameters, to see what can yield, what will bite back.

More often than not that kind of impulsive brand of curiosity has gotten him in some sort of trouble. Turns out not everything and everyone appreciates being tested - and many things like to lash out when pressed.  

Parker, Tony has found, is somebody that doesn’t yield or bite. If Tony was a betting man he’d have placed his money on the boy being more of a yielding type - but what he does is he presses buttons just as much as Tony does, buttons he didn’t even know he had to be pressed. 

And that very much interests Tony.

He just doesn’t know what to do with that information, except to keep pressing.

“I’ll explain later,” Tony promises, mentally crossing his fingers. “In the meantime, can we forget about Parker and focus on my broken baby here?”

Rhodey relents, but Tony knows that look in his eye. He’ll be hearing about it later and at the most inconvenient time. And he’s gonna tell Pepper.

Wonderful.

He really should change Peter’s contact name in his phone.

---

By the time he leaves the Rhodes residence and heads to his next destination, his robot is in somewhat in working order again. It remains fairly immobile though, just until Tony can replace the damaged infrared and touch sensor. It clicks its metal claws sadly towards Tony in the passenger seat as he drives.

It’s a Roy Orbison kind of day, so the music is loud and the guitar is heavy as he makes the drive to Harlem.

And if Tony frees a hand to pat the bot on its’ metal head every so often, that’s his business.

When he reaches the other side of the city he parks in his usual space at a nearby lot and contemplates whether or not he should leave the malfunctioning bot in his car for the sake of being professional. It clicks at his jacket, weakly grasping the material as if on a plea - and damn, Tony knows the thing isn’t actually sentient but what kind of asshole would he be if he left it here for the day.

Heart squeezing with sympathy, Tony delicately places him in the backpack, leaving the zip partially open for ‘air’.

Next, snacks.

While he’s retrieving a pack (or two) of Reeses, he comes across Parker’s folder that he’d stashed there last night. Their conversation from earlier returns to the forefront of his mind.

Look, Parker might not be the knuckle-dragging, monosyllabic dumbass Tony initially suspected that he was, and yeah he was savvy as demonstrated during their trip to the rental market - and yeah, definitely smarter than his social circle would suggest, and is absolutely and a source of constant surprise to Tony - but is he AP Bio - or AP anything material? 

Time to find out.

The first thing that Tony notices is that the notes are definitely not for Bio. They’re for Econ, as initially prescribed. 

The second thing he notices, as he flicks through the papers, skimming over the complicated graphs and annotated research, is that what he’s reading is actually good. 

Well, I’ll be darned, Tony thinks, eyes getting progressively wider as he flicks through the pages. Not bad at all.

Makes him wonder why Parker thought he was missing his Bio notes though.

The answer to that becomes clear when a crumpled envelope falls out of the stack onto Tony’s lap. He picks it up, at first thinking it’s a part of the research, but pauses. It’s open and it’s addressed to May Parker.

“Um,” he says.

It’s from Queens Presbyterian Hospital, which should make him drop it as if it were burning. It doesn’t, though. Either it’s meant to be included in the folder, or it’s not and that’s why Parker has been acting like a crazy-ex all morning.

Hmm. Tony sits there, torn, debating whether or not to look into it, the overdue stamp standing out against the crisp paper like a warning sign. On one hand, he’s running kinda late and, y’know, privacy or whatever -- on the other, his fingers are already itching to know what’s in it.

Mind your own business, he can already hear Rhodey saying, mind your own business, Tony.

Curiosity and a distinct lack of a moral compass wins, as always. Just a quick peek, that should be okay, right? The envelope is already open anyway, so, it’s not like anyone will be able to tell.

God, this is none of my business, he tells himself, even as he’s retrieving the letter from within and starts reading it. 

Oh.

Tony quickly stashes the letter back into the envelope and back into the folder. Yep, definitely none of his business. 

Yeah, he really shouldn’t have done that. Big fucking yikes on his behalf. And yep, there’s the guilt -- or at least he thinks the stomach churning is guilt, it could be the stale muesli bar he ate on the way.

Nonetheless, it hangs over him like a dark cloud as he picks up his backpack and heads out to the garage across the road. What kind of asshole looks into someone’s mail because they can’t help themselves. This dick, that’s who.

Fixing a grin he doesn’t really feel, he heads to the back office. He knocks on the window, ducking his head into the open door.

“Yo,” he waves to the man sitting behind the desk. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Hey kid,” the man looks up, smiling before his face drops. “Tony, your face. What happened?”

“This? It’s nothing --”

“-- is that why you couldn’t come to work yesterday? Not that I mind,” the man stands up. “Are you okay? Was it --”

“-- Was it nothing to worry about? Absolutely,” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “Just an unfortunate encounter with a wild, feral squirrel in Central Park. I tell you, they’re deceivingly cute, but they’re pests. Totally out of control.”

“Tony.”

“Jarvis,” he interrupts, gesturing to the cars in the garage behind him. “C’mon. Look, let’s get to work, okay? Save the violins for later.”

And by later he means never.

The man sighs, world-weary, looking at him like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. At first he’s certain his boss is going to push the issue, but it must be a day for dodging bullets because he relents.

“Alright, kid. I got a ninety-four Ford sedan back there with your name on it. Busted fan belt, overheated engine. Probably needs a new set of spark plugs while you’re at it.”

With a grateful nod, Tony heads back, locating the vehicle in question. It’s rusted to all hell and probably not worth the cost of repair, but he gets stuck into it anyway, keen for a distraction. He sets his bag and bot down near him while Jarvis blasts Alice Cooper’s Poison.

Tony might not have all the answers to life’s problems, but this is something he knows how to fix.

---

He probably distracts himself a little too well, because by the time he’s wrapped up with the Ford it’s already five-thirty and he’s a mess of engine oil and coolant.

It’s only when Jarvis squeezes his shoulder and points to the clock on the far wall does he realise that he’s lost his sense of time. How the fuck is he supposed to clean up and get all the way from Harlem to Queens at this time of night?

“Ah, crap,” Tony mutters, setting down his socket-wrench in his toolbox. “I’m late.”

“Late for what? You got a hot date or something?” Jarvis asks, stepping back to give him some room as he rushes to the staff bathroom. 

“What, no,” He calls back, running the faucet and pumping soap over his hands. “I gotta go see about a guy.” He struggles to hear his boss over the running water but he doesn’t have time to stop and figure it out. 

“From school?”

“Yes, and a prime pain in my ass,” Tony mutters, drying his hands on his jeans, walking back into the garage. “Anyway, see you Monday, chief?”

His boss nods, passing Tony his earnings for the week in cash. Tony should have known to dash and run because he starts hearing the proverbial violins when Jarvis clamps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing in a way that is more paternal than Tony is comfortable with. 

“You know you can call me, you have my number. You come up and see me and the missus whenever you want.”

Tony fake snores.

“Jarvis.”

“We have a spare room,” he insists, shrugging sheepishly and stepping back. “It’s yours at any time.”

“I see you enough, okay, don’t push it. I’ll see you Monday,” Tony draws him into a one-armed hug and claps him on the back. “Don’t you worry about me.” 

“Don’t make me worry.”

“No promises,” Tony salutes, slinging his backpack on shoulder and walking backwards out of the garage to the street. “Hug the missus for me.”

Jarvis salutes back. 

With that he sprints across the street when there’s a gap in traffic, bot snapping gently at his hair as he runs.

Sweaty and sore, he is full of energy, a sense of accomplishment coursing through his blood, like an afternoon of work can only provide. He should fire off a text, he thinks, as he starts the ignition and heads out onto the road, yeah. Let Parker know he will be late.

And he does genuinely mean to send a message at the next traffic stop, but then Queen starts playing on the radio and Tony isn’t a fool, okay, he turns that up loud.

Next traffic stop, he promises himself.

---

“I’m beginning to think you can’t read the time,” Parker opens the door with a scowl. “You said six.”

Wincing in the hallway, Tony looks at his phone. Six-fifty-nine. It’s not totally his fault, okay. There was a pile up along the way and traffic was a nightmare of  ridiculous proportions. He swears he’s gonna be the first person to invent a commercially viable flying car just for the sake of personally avoiding road congestion.

“Yeah, so. Here’s the thing: I had things to do, okay, priorities --”

“You and your priorities, I swear to god --”

“Here,” Tony cuts him off, passing him his folder, letter neatly inside where it isn’t going to obviously slip out. “Your folder, dumbass.”

Peter grips it, holding it to his chest as he stares at Tony for a moment, before passing it to the nearest flat surface, a weathered and small table that holds their keys.

“Okay, thanks,” Peter nods, smiling grimly, looking behind his shoulder. “Appreciate it. You can go now.”

“So where are the Econ notes,” Tony blurts, wincing as he plays dumb. “I mean, if you had something prepared.”

Peter blinks, surprised. “Oh, uh. Um, It can wait until Monday, can’t it?”

“The assignment is due Wednesday.”

“Right. Um, just give me a sec --”

“Is that Tony?”

May appears behind Peter, smiling brightly. Tony waves, rocking back on his feet. 

“Hey, Missus Parker.”

“Hey there, handsome,” she hip-checks her nephew, joining him in the doorway and glancing between the two. “You didn’t mention we were having company tonight, Pete.”

“He’s not handsome and he’s not staying --”

“-- I was just dropping something off,” he looks to Peter. “And excuse you, the lady has spoken and I have to agree. I am handsome. Some might even say that I’m debonair.”

“And some might say that you’re deplorable.”

“Hmm, I think you mean adorable.”

That prompts a smile out of Peter. He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his chin up, all haughty.

“Tony Stark, you are many things, but adorable isn’t one of them.”

He leans in, pouting playfully. “Oh come on, Parker. I’m a little cute, aren’t I?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Uh, let me check,” Peter pauses before smiling sardonically. “Verdicts in - jury says you’re one-hundred-percent despicable. Sorry.”

"I’m sure I could sway the jury.”

“I think you mean you could pay the jury.”

Tony nods, pretending to be serious. “Well, yeah. You know, for consensus.”

Peter licks his lips, shifting closer.

“Consensus is important...”

“...Well, if you two are done,” May says after an extended period of silence, tying her hair back into a ponytail. “We were just about to head out to a Thai place around the corner. Tony, you should join us.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I should go --”

The rest of his words are cut off by a truly monstrous growl of his stomach. He winces, scrunching up his nose sheepishly. He probably should have eaten more than Reeses all afternoon.

“Well, I guess that settles that,” May says, stepping out of the doorway and beckoning Tony in. “Come in. Sorry about the mess.” 

It’s with Peter still staring at him that he reluctantly enters their apartment, brushing past the other boy. It looks the same as it did the other week, mostly tidy and smelling like incense. There’s a sizeable stack of unfolded laundry on the dining table, however, that wasn’t there before. 

Tony’s distracted by a pair of dancing-bulbasaur boxers sticking out of the pile when May leans in close to sniff at his hair. 

“You’ve got something in your hair, honey. Is that paint?”

He runs his fingers through his hair, palm coming back streaked with green. “Oh, uh, radiator fluid,” he explains, holding up his hand. 

“Can I ask what you did to your face?”

“I saved a homeless guy and his beef-sandwich from a pack of rabid, angry dogs. No need to call me a hero.”

May looks at him oddly. “Oh, well, if you say so. Go get yourself washed up and we can head out.”

The burn of Peter’s stare follows him all the way to their bathroom.

---

The meal is less awkward than Tony thought it would be.

Well, for him at least.

Over larb and khao pad they’d gotten through an informal interview with May about her experience as a caregiver with a single income. Not only was it informative for his own future financial independence, but she has been generous enough to speckle in colorful anecdotes of her nephew’s upbringing. Parker’s face has been getting progressively redder all night and it has nothing to do with the spice in his food.

Tony has enjoyed the evening thoroughly.

“ - and of course, we were lucky we hadn’t decided to go cheap on the health insurance. Especially when Pete here broke his wrist at gymnastics when he was eight.”

Tony barely holds back a snort. 

“You did gymnastics, Parker?”

Peter tips his head back to stare at the ceiling and sighs. The flush seems to be creeping down his neck too, Tony observes gleefully. He stuffs a large mouthful of rice in his mouth to mitigate the urge to tease. 

"Yes, he was very good, weren’t you, Pete? So talented, you should see his medals.”

“Stop, please.”

“C’mon, no need to be embarrassed, Pete, you were amazing,” she says. “You’re still a flexible little bug, aren’t you?”

Tony chokes on his rice.

Peter has his eyes squeezed shut and looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. 

“May, I’m literally begging you.”

“Uh,” he beats at his chest with his fist, swallowing roughly. “So how long did you do that for?”

“Until I was fourteen.”

“Why’d you quit?”

There’s a very deliberate, weighted pause. May and Peter share a look between them and Tony gets a deeply uncomfortable sense that he’s just stuck his foot in it. Retract, he thinks, already regretting opening his mouth.

“Well,” May clears her throat, her tone light. “After my husband, Pete’s uncle Ben died, we moved away and we had to make some... financial cuts at the time.”

The bite he’s just taken goes to ash in his mouth. God, he really is a big idiot isn’t he. He’d assumed that May never got married to the man in the photos or that they’d just divorced, he didn’t realise that he’d passed - and so recently, too. Welling up with shame, he can’t stop himself from glancing at Peter, who’s staring at the table, lips pursed.

“Oh,” he clears his throat. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to - I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” May waves her hand dismissively, but her smile is strained. “Anyway, what about you, Tony? You’re severely asthmatic, right? That must have been hard, growing up if you wanted to play sports.”

Tony’s eyes widen.

“Yes, um, so hard. Luckily I’m not really an exercise-y kinda guy. I personally prefer to keep a heart rate below eighty beats per minute.”

“Did you have any hobbies growing up?”

“Yeah, driving my parents crazy,” Tony says, glad for the shift from the somber topic. “Escaping from nannies, seeing how quickly I could get them to quit.”

“You like tinkering,” Peter says quietly, looking up. “You mentioned, before. Cars and stuff.”

He shrugs, starting to feel as if he’s under the microscope, especially when Peter looks at him, eyes glittering with thinly-veiled interest. 

“I mean, I don’t know. I like - building stuff, I guess. Machines and robots, y’know, cars. It’s like, whatever.”

“You want to be the next Elon Musk or somethin’?” Peter asks, not unkindly, resting his chin on his hand.

“Nah, I wanna be the first Tony Stark,” he scratches his cheek, suddenly bashful. It’s an uncommon feeling for him. One hard to avoid, however, particularly when there is a boy who Tony doesn’t really hate who’s asking about his life like it might matter. 

He clears his throat. “Anyway, mostly it was just me cataloguing all the ways I could make the vein in my fathers’ head pop. I’m still working on that.”

May looks between them, smiling.

“Sounds like you were a handful.”

“Sure was.”

Still is, apparently, no matter how much he tries to stay out of the way.

The silence that follows is punctuated by the sounds of cutlery scraping across plates, of shrinking ice cubes rattling against glass. It feels pensive at the same time as it does thorny, like Tony opened the door to let someone in but accidentally let out a few ghouls.

And despite knowing he’d stepped on a landmine with the Parkers, he can’t help but wonder what other pieces of the puzzle he’s missing. Why Peter doesn’t live with his parents. Not that Tony is invested in him or anything.

He just doesn’t like mysteries, that’s all.

May excuses herself after to head to the bathroom not long after. It’s during that time that the waiter brings the check, which Tony takes immediately, slipping in some of the cash he’d gotten earlier, despite Peter’s protests. He was gonna do it anyway, even if he didn’t have the letter in the back of his mind.

“Stop paying for me,” Peter says after he passes the check-book back to the waiter. “Your family is rich, I get it. I’ve told you, I don’t need your charity.”

Tony shakes his head. It’s not worth mentioning that the only money he spends doesn’t come from his family.

“It’s not charity. Do you really think I’m that nice, eh? C’mon. Maybe I like lording it over you.”

“Well, at some point I’m going to pay you back.”

“And when that time comes I’m not going to accept your money.”

“You will,” Peter smiles wryly down at his plate. “I have my ways.”

“As do I, sweetums. Now, do me a favour: shut up and finish your larb.”

Peter does, but something about him shifts. It seems more quiet and contemplative, his eyes staying longer on Tony than they normally would. He wants to tell him to take a picture, but for once, Tony thinks it’s probably best if he keeps his mouth shut.

---

Back at the apartment, Peter goes to retrieve his ‘Econ notes’, taking the folder from the table and retreating to his bedroom. In the interim, May offers to let Tony stay over, inviting him for what he’s sure would be a rousing game of Mario Kart. 

He politely declines.

“You sure? Winner gets to choose a movie.”

“I should really get home,” he says. “Thanks though. And thanks for dinner.”

“No problem. Thank you for paying, you didn’t have to do that. Let me pay you back.”

“No need. Think of it as payment for your services and letting us pick your brain tonight.”

She reluctantly accepts with a lot less pride than what her nephew displayed and that makes Tony feel a little sick, because it’s evident that she’s a proud and stubborn woman by nature. Her acceptance, albeit laboured, speaks volumes as to the reasoning behind it.

What takes him by surprise is when she hugs him goodbye and kisses his cheek.

“You’re a good egg, Anthony. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

It’s probably the most maternal touch he’s had since, well. Probably since he last went to stay with Jarvis and his wife. Fidgeting in the hold, he’s not sure if he wants to squirm or to sink into it.

May leaves when Peter comes back in, a familiar stack of notes in his hands that he passes to Tony.

“You gonna kiss me goodbye, too?”

“What?” Peter blinks.

"Uh, never mind,” Tony waves the papers at him. “Thanks for this.”

Peter looks around to make sure they’re alone before leaning in rather promptly. 

“Wow, hold up on the proximity there,” Tony inches back, startled by their sudden closeness. “I was joking about the kiss --”

“You read the letter, didn’t you,” Peter whisper-hisses.

“What? Letter? What letter?” Tony says, voice strangled. “I don’t know of any letter.”

He gets a painful poke in his chest for his lies.

“Don’t play dumb. It wasn’t where I left it.”

“I’m not -- ow, quit poking me.”

“Then stop lying. You’re unbelievable -- don’t you know that opening someone else’s mail is a crime?”

Tony’s shoulders slump as he concedes.

“Look, it was an accident, it just slipped out. And also, it’s not technically a crime, if the envelope was already open.”

“Oh and the letter magically opened itself and forced you to read it.” 

“That could be argued.”

“Why couldn’t you mind your own business?“

Sick of being poked, he shoves the papers between his arm and his ribs to hold them and takes Peter’s fingers in his hands, squeezing the digits when they struggle to break free of his hold.

“I should have, I admit it - I didn’t think, okay, I’m sorry. Is she okay?”

Peter stops struggling, looking over his shoulder again.

“I don’t know,” he leans in again to whisper, “I only found it yesterday, I haven’t spoken to her yet. Look, I know you hate me, but can you please not tell anyone about this?”

“Why would I tell anyone?”

“I don’t know, because you’re the devil, and you get a kick out of seeing me suffer?”

“True, but I’m not going to tell anyone. Promise. That would make me look like an asshole and you like a martyr. Ergo, I shut my cake hole and continue looking better than you.”

“You’re a real prince charming,” the other boy huffs, but seems to take him at face value. “If I find out differently I’m going to come after you. You’re going to need dental work afterwards.”

Tony lets go of their joined hands, balling his fists and raising them to his face, mimicking what the other boy had done last night. 

“You wanna tousle, huh?”

He gets a light shove out the doorway for his attitude.

“Alright, smartass. Get the fuck outta here already.”

“Going, going. Goodnight, princess.”

He mock bows, peering up under his eyelashes, momentarily arrested as he watches Parker roll his eyes and bite his bottom lip in an attempt to smother a smile. 

His heart continues to beat a bit oddly all the way down to the car, where he sits in contemplative silence for a few moments until the sound of metal clicking shifts him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, hey you,” he coos, gently retrieving his bot from his bag and placing it in the passenger seat, instantly feeling bad. “I didn’t think I would take so long. I’m sorry.”

Placing a seatbelt over the bot and buckling him in, Tony begins to narrate his night to him as he pulls off the curb and begins driving.

“I guess that Parker isn’t so bad,” he tells the bot, who swivels its head in response to his voice. “I mean, he can’t dress for shit and has questionable tastes in friends - oh, and cannot hold his liquor - but I dunno, baby-bot. He’s okay. Don’t tell anyone I said that, though -- and oh my god, did I mention he did gymnastics, what a fucking dork...”

The thoughts churn and buoy him until he pulls up to his house nearly an hour later. From the driveway he can see his fathers office light still on.

The sight of it makes his stomach drop, all good cheer gone in an instant. 

“Damn,” Tony whispers to himself, tapping his knuckles against the steering wheel. This time of night on a Saturday can only mean one thing and he is really not in the mood to be in the crosshairs of whatever his father and Stane are up to.

But before he can work himself into a worry his phone vibrates in his pocket.

> hey, look, thanks for not being a total dick tonight about everything > and last night as well, I guess > yknow what i mean < ur welcome < by the way, i’m proud of you  > for what < not finishing off ur aunts beer tonight < takes strength < asking for help is the first step > omfg i take back what i said > ur the worst < and ur a pain in my ass > they have creams for that u know > anyway, g’nite, butthole > p.s. you’re still not adorable Tony smiles down at his phone. < goodnight bambi The bot clicks at him, breaking him out of his train of thought.

“Don’t look at me like that. Let’s go in, but you gotta keep quiet, okay.”

He manages to avoid detection and attention from anyone, despite accidentally stepping on a squeaky floorboard. Maybe it had something to do with the record player and raucous laughter coming from the office.

In any case, Tony’s just happy to make it back to his bedroom. There, he toes off his sneakers and starts getting ready for bed, stashing the leftover cash into a drawer.

It makes him think about Peter’s reluctance for Tony to pay for over the last couple of instances, and how freaking annoying that is. And rude. 

Honestly, the dude should count himself as one of the lucky guys - Tony is not that magnanimous. He doesn’t experience an impulsive, unthinking eagerness to provide for just anybody.

Oh.

Tony stills in the middle of his bedroom.

Oh no.

He knows what this is.

“This is bad.”

---

*

*

---

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @muse-of-gods, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @plueschpop, @spideravocados, @jellybbunny,  @booktrashme, @elfkido, @mycatislickingmybedsheets, @queerghostboyo, @disneyprincessdominatrix, @cherrygoldlove @starkerflowers @starkeristheendgame @thewolffearsher @starkersugar , @starkerforlife6969, @css1992, @parkerrbitch, @fuckmemrstark, @blankblankityblank, @ilovemoreid, @blaquedecember, @killmylonelysoul, @notfor-temporaryuse, @arvaen

[supercasey]

this is a weird af question i'm sure but what would the avatar kids be like if they hadn't ran away to the institute/not realized how messed up their upbringings were?

Oooooooo, now THIS will be fun to answer ((tbh, this has been on my mind for awhile now, so thanks for the excuse to infodump))!!! I’m gonna try doing stuff for ALL the kids, but it’ll be a bit hard considering the fact that most of them are so unlikely to actually submit to their avatardom.

Jonathan Sims: His destiny is a bit of a toss-up, since it depends on which of his parents’ teachings he would end up following. If he takes more after Elias, he’ll end up becoming the perfect Eye avatar anyone could ask for; an endless slew of information and knowledge, not to mention loyal to his patron and his father. If he ends up following in Gertrude’s footsteps though, he’ll use his powers much more sparingly as he grows older and be about 40% more likely to get arrested for arson.

Martin Blackwood: This is going off of the idea that the Lonely’s first big ritual involving him actually worked, otherwise the only other option would’ve been Peter not rescuing him, in which case he would’ve disappeared forever into the fog. In this scenario however, the Lonely accepts Martin as a more physical vessel for itself, and he continues on as a more or less lifeless husk that just swallows everything in it’s sight. Very sad all around.

Tim Stoker: In the event that he never runs away, Tim would complete his training as a dancer and allow the circus to change him into something barely resembling a human anymore (I haven’t actually listened to much of The Mechanisms, but maybe he’d look something like the Tim toy soldier guy??? I like him). He's Danny’s right hand man, as well as the circus’ muscle when things get particularly dicey.

Danny Stoker: He would’ve ended up very spoiled and damn near as conniving as Sasha; takes a lot after Nikola and makes her proud at every opportunity, making him a bit of a mama’s boy. Would be an incredible ringmaster, praying primarily on those attending the circus with their family members (especially sets of siblings). Becomes much more powerful overtime, almost completely growing into a monster in the process.

Sasha James: An absolute master of manipulation and trickery, using her hacking skills to start the Web down a path of internet fraud and impersonation on a massive scale. Ends up being rivals with Eye!Jon, leading to them having a very Spy vs Spy dynamic that’s this close to them becoming friends, but alas, their parents hate each other and they know it. Ten times smarter than anyone else belonging to the Web.

Melanie King: Say hello to Grifter’s Bone’s new lead bassist and singer! She takes up the mantle by the time she’s thirteen or so, putting a more young punk spin on the band’s music, which draws in younger victims for the Slaughter’s influence. Has a thousand something knives on her at one time, and has a hard time not joining in on the riots the band starts.

Julia Montauk: In the event that Trevor can’t keep her from succumbing to the Hunt’s influence, she becomes a brutal, violent creature that stays primarily in her Hunt form, only turning human when she wants to draw out a hunt/trick people into thinking she’s one of them. If things go really bad, she ends up killing Trevor at some point to prove she’s stronger than him (and immediately regretting it).

Alice “Daisy” Tonner: I feel like her fall would be similar to canon, with either Trevor never finding her, which leads her to follow her canon path, or she joins Julia in fighting back against Trevor’s desire to save them, eventually running away to hunt on her own and become a fully fledged werewolf. Unlike Julia, she never turns human after a certain point, and eventually she goes on to kill Julia after she crosses into her territory.

Oliver Banks: I honestly have very few ideas on how he would end up in this sort of AU, seeing as he’s kinda already on a path that’s very aligned with the End’s influence, but if he completely gave in and did whatever it wanted, he’d probably become something akin to a grim reaper, stalking people in their dreams and making sure they’ll die the way they’re fated to. Might take an apprenticeship under Nathaniel Throp.

Georgie Barker: Similar to Oliver, I’m not 100% sure what to do for her. I feel like the Admiral is what’s keeping her from falling, so without him she’d definitely become a completely fearless and relentless avatar of the End, carrying out similar death sentences to Oliver, except she actually makes more people die than is necessary. If Jon follows Gertrude’s teachings in this scenario, then he starts trying to help her escape her powers.

Mike Crew: He’s kinda already becoming a fully fledged avatar of the Vast, but like Oliver, I can see him going further than he has. He’d be almost exactly like his canon self, except he’d have a much harder time blending in with modern society, relying on his connection to Simon and the rest of the Fairchild family for help getting by. If he ended up getting abandoned though, he might become more lonely over time... 👀👀👀 Martin could certainly use a “friend”

Helen Richardson: Seeing as Michael and Gertrude finding her is what’s essentially saved her already (I imagine she’ll still have Spiral powers for the rest of her life, but she could never become an avatar later on in the CA AU while she’s being raised by Michael), in this scenario she’s never rescued, and she either dies in the Spiral due to neglect, or she becomes similar to Martin, acting as a mere vessel for her patron.

Jane Prentiss: I’m still a bit iffy on how to write Jane, seeing as I added her after the AU was already kinda started (and also because I don’t remember much about her from S1), but I imagine without Adelard saving her, she would’ve eventually left Amherst to be raised by the Corruption in a more direct fashion, making her like Helen and Martin, but with more free will than them.

So all in all, Jon vs Sasha would be a big conflict with the Stoker Brothers occasionally getting involved just so they can Cause Problems On Purpose, Martin, Helen, and Jane are the resident “ghosts” that haunt everyone, Julia and Daisy are feral, Mike can’t cope with this shit, Georgie and Oliver are essentially grim reapers, and Melanie is the only motherfucker having any fun.

These are some very sad/unfortunate scenarios, huh? At least this is all speculative and in no way canon to the CA AU as a whole; it’s just a fun lil’ idea to think about! Thanks so much for the ask, Anon!

[selkra-souza]

@laggysoldier​ Oh boy what virtual pet website don’t I like?

Allow me to introduce to y’all my pixel babies:

My Neopets. They run a cosmetics & candle company. Janraye owns and manages the business, he’s desperately trying (and repetitively failing) to get his shop to be an official npc shop. Zoudiaq (pronounced “zodiac”) goes out into the wildernesses across Neopia to discover exotic plant ingredients to use as fragrance, she’s on an endless and fruitless quest to find Lutari Island. Qinia breeds plant samples Zoudiaq brings in the garden and has a rustic lab in an old barn for making essential oils and stuff, but she sucks at growing plants and secretly had to make a pack with dark faeries in order to grow anything. Sqwone (pronounced “squown”) just owns the house they all live in. He’s a slacker who secretly raids Meridell villages at night for fun.

My Marapets. They’re a witch coven living in a leaning, run-down tower within their beloved evil sorceress queen’s (Queen Eleka’s) castle complex. They’re the youngest coven in the queen’s magical army, thus very inexperienced, but enthusiastic to help their queen take over the world of Marada. Unltraviolet is the leader, she’s a warlock and the strongest physically in battle. Belindabee is a J-pop inspired lolita-dressed musical celebrity who tours the world singing performances that have subliminal messaging that brainwashes the masses into swearing allegiance to Queen Eleka. Sayri is a Nightmare witch who’s physically frail, but can fall asleep on demand to astral project her much more powerfully heavy-hitting spirit, and can invoke nightmares into her opponents (think Darkrai from Pokemon). Seolfor is made of cheese right now but I plan on turning him into a candle. He’s the only coven member who isn’t at all sinister, he’s naively fun loving, likes carnivals and is an amateur clown who practices illusionary magic (think pulling rabbits out of hats, that stuff). Cebolinha (pronouced “Se-bowl-leen-ha)” is the only non-coven member in the household, he’s a (permanent) house guest with nowhere else to live, and he’s a journalist who reports on world politics, particularly the world leaders (Queen Eleka, King Baspinar, The Sultan, a guy in a jelly castle after world domination, etc.)

My Subeta pets. They live in a rural cottage in a temperate pine forest called Veta and basically just live my cottagecore dreams. Xew owns the property, he maintains a huge garden of veggies and flowers, and keeps a shrine in a shed for rabbit spirits that visit the garden. Everyone else are people whom came to live in later. Hydrero spends most of the year working onboard a cargo ship called the Freyalise, making an income for the family. Floffy is a sarcastic and deadpan amateur inventor and junk food junkie. Gius is a vaporwave loving, cassette tape collecting, pulpy horror watching 80s nerd who’s super lonely, and she uses dark love magic to try to summon a girlfriend. Aescula is an urban explorer who films and photographs abandoned or decaying places that’s anywhere from dead malls in Centropolis to underground towns populated by zombies. Avoir is from the Rift, a 4th dimensional realm (my headcannon), and won’t shut up about how great that place is, he makes paintings and zines about the Rift, and nags at people at how “primitive” the 3rd dimension is (think the Sphere from Flatland).

My Verpets. All live in an abandoned district of a metropolis city that’s decaying and overgrown. Amaranth is a old fashioned Mickey Mouse-type cheery guy and a herbalist, Ishnu is a sea witch who has no touch with reality because she insists on drinking sea water regularly thinking it’ll give her the powers of the SEA. Macrauchenia is an urban witch (have you noticed I like witches?) who grew up on the tough downtown streets of the district before it depopulated, she likes rap music and cheesy 2000s pop songs like Darude Sandstorm and gets rough and tumble with any intruders stumbling into the district. They all primarily live the old apartment Mac grew up in, but have set up bases and hideouts all around the ghost town of a city district.

My Ichumon. Currently has no personality because Ichumon is boring.

My Rescreatu. Whom are all dead because they can actually die really easily and because Rescreatu is even more boring. But back in the day they were basically a feral clan of warriors that was a carbon copy of the Warriors cat series, even being called Bloodclan haha. If I ever revive any of them they’re going to need a complete character redesign, and I’m not interested in doing so now (possibly never).

[EDIT] I nearly forgot my Misticpets! They’re both partners in crime who are constantly on the run, traveling all over the world. Rickochet is the Eddy-from-Ed,Edd and Eddy-type “mastermind” who swindles passerbys out of their money, and he loves jewelry. Cocody is the nearly mute manger of the duo’s funds and treasures, and is a expert on tax evasion, also they like to doodle in a nature journal throughout the duo’s travels.

Then there’s a bunch of other sites I’ve played like as a kid like NeuroGalaxy and Zetapets and Teripets and Cenopets but those are long gone now.

So yeah, I invest a lot in my virtual pets, and if I had infinite time I’d post comics and shitposts about all these characters and I’d have finished their pet profiles by now.

[chris-evans-indian-fanfic]

Search

One-Shot

Description: Endless search for the Winter Soldier has made Captain America adopt more... gruesome measures.

Warnings: Gruesome torture, description of violence. Not for the faint-hearted.

Proceed only if you are 18+!

This is my entry for the third week of Weekly Challenges set by @donutloverxo @captain-a-rogerss and @optimistic-dinosaur-nacho . The challenge was to write a song fic and I selected "It's Been A Long Long Time by Kitty Kallen and the Harry James orchestra" (it's a classic okay?). Find the details of the challenge here-

My Main Masterlist

I don’t consent to have any of my work published or featured on any third party app, website or translated. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but Tumblr, it has been reposted without my permission. In that case, please do share the link and let me know.

…

Sam was exhausted. His back sore, eyes heavy with sleep and shoulders in pain. He closed his eyes, slowly massaging his forehead as he prepared himself to pull another all-nighter. Hours of reading every lengthy document, examining the smallest data entry, watching all the security tapes and assessing every interview that had ever belonged to S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra had borne no fruit. Sam Wilson could not find any information about the Winter Soldier.

Sam wanted to help Steve locate Bucky after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. The Hydra operative had gone completely undercover without leaving a trail. Steve had gratefully accepted Sam's offer to chase down any leads in the beginning, no matter how insignificant. At first, Steve had been patient, understanding even. But after months of futile effort, they were back to where they had started.

Steve entered the abandoned military base with dinner in tow. He smiled softly when he saw Sam's exhausted silhouette, "Hey pal," he placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, "You need to take a break. Come eat dinner, then sleep for a while. I can hold the fort for some time."

Sam jerked up in surprise. He hadn't heard the super soldier enter. Maybe he needed a break. But that would mean letting him loose…

"Uhh no. I don't need the rest. I can go on for days," Sam managed to reply with a forced smile. 

Steve shook his head, "Not on my watch. C'mon let's eat. I got your favourite sushi."

Sam obliged at the mention (and aroma) of his favourite meal.

The dinner progressed quietly, with Sam deliberately chewing every morsel slowly, hoping to lengthen the meal. Hoping to stop Steve tonight.

Patience was a virtue that Steve Rogers possessed in abundance.

He silently waited for Sam to finish, guessing the reason behind his action. 

Steve had understood pretty early that the files released by Natasha were a dead-end when it came to locating Bucky. He didn't doubt Sam's integrity for a second, but he had guessed that Hydra would have never hidden Bucky's details within S.H.I.E.L.D. files.

Steve Rogers' patience had started to wear thin.

The next step in finding Bucky had been obvious for Steve. Interrogate Hydra agents for any clue. That's what it was for Steve. Simple, old-fashioned interrogation. But the world today was different. He knew his interrogation methods would be… frowned upon to say the least. 

Hence at first, Steve had managed to keep his investigation a secret. But Sam had quickly caught on, sensing that Captain America had been hiding something from him, from his team. Steve had reluctantly included Sam in his plans, knowing that he would object to his methods, which Sam did.

But Sam had soon backed off. 

Something feral, wild ignited in Steve whenever the topic of Bucky came up. Sam found it unsettling that Steve would resort to such barbaric measures just to find his friend. This raw fire within Steve frightened Sam. He soon realised that the only way to put a stop to Steve would be to find Bucky. 

That's why Sam refused to take any break, combing through mountains of files and data, looking for a sentence, a word, a figure, that could help them in locating the Winter Soldier.

Sam finally finished his dinner. He offered to clean up but suddenly, felt his eyelids drooping. "You should sleep buddy. Take some rest," offered Steve gently, his tone containing the slightest authority. 

Sam unsuccessfully tried to stifled his yawns, "N..No. I can… still continue… can't s..stop."

Steve smiled indulgently as he half carried Sam to his room, the sleeping medicines working wonderfully. 

Steve cleared the takeout containers and changed into his stealth suit.

Confirming that the sound-proofing mode was still into effect, he slid a panel on the wall and headed down a dark corridor.

Unlocking the heavy door, he stepped inside to resume his interrogation.

The stale smell of blood and rotten infection greeted his nostrils as he neared the Hydra agent. Switching on the single light, Steve found Clarke Burtwall where he had left him, hanging from the ceiling, naked.

Clarke's scalp had been shaved completely. His head was covered in deep, bloody, infected cuts. His red eyes wore a hollow look. Both of Clarke's shoulders were dislocated, his hands having been stretched too far with the chains hanging from the ceiling. Cheekbones sunk, jaw bashed in, a huge cut extending from his throat to his chest. Glass shards stuck to his torso as blood coagulated around the wounds. His hip bones had been broken, so were the bones in his thighs, knees and calves, his legs showcasing more bruises and burnt marks. Steve had chopped off even numbered toes on Clarke's right foot, and odd numbered toes on his left. He still chuckled at his joke, Clarke was now an oddly-even guy, whatever that meant.

Steve stood in front of Clarke's scarred, bloodied, burnt and almost limp body. He pressed a button, and the speakers above Clarke blasted the instrumental beginning of the song It's Been A Long Long Time. Clarke jerked at the sudden noise, distracted from his pain-induced coma. 

"Do you know this song Clarke?" Steve asked him nonchalantly, "This song was made to welcome soldiers home from World War II. I never got to hear it then, I bet Bucky didn't either. So I want to play it for him when he returns home. But for that, I need you to tell me where he is."

Clarke looked blankly at Steve. Truth be told, Steve didn't know whether he had gotten through the Hydra agent or not. 

"Clarke, I cannot let you go, but I can give you a quick, painless death. All you have to do is tell me anything that you may know about the Winter Soldier's currently location," Steve tried again.

Clarke made a slight moment with his head and a second later, his spit drooled down his chin. "Oh you wanted to spit at me?" Steve asked with his eyebrows raised, "Long painful death it is then."

He reached the panel to his right side, sliding it open to reveal bow and arrows. Getting in position, he said cheerfully, "I don't know how Hawkeye does it. Never used a bow and arrow. Always felt comfortable with a shield. Help me with target practise, will ya?"

The lyrics of the song started as Steve released his first arrow, narrowly missing Clarke.

🎵Never thought that you would be... standing here so close to me🎵

Steve chuckled and sang along, "Never thought that you would be, hanging here so close to me,"

🎵There's so much I feel that I should say🎵

"There's so much I feel that you should say," he continued,

🎵But words can wait until some other day🎵

"But Bucky can't wait until some other day,"

🎵Kiss me once🎵 One arrow hit Clarke's abdomen

🎵Then kiss me twice🎵 Second arrow pierced his groin

🎵Then kiss me once again🎵 Final arrow penetrated his right bicep

As the song continued, Steve looked at the wall besides the panel, and selected his next target from the remaining 70 or so Hydra agents. He put a cross on Clarke's face on the list with a smirk.

"Hey Clarke," he shouted, "You were my 200th Hydra agent in the last 6 months! Congratulations man!"

Laughing, he sauntered over to Clarke as he resumed singing,

🎵You'll never know how many dreams I've dreamed about you… Or just how empty they all seemed without you🎵

Steve shook the arrow in his abdomen 🎵So kiss me once🎵

He twisted the other arrow into his groin 🎵Then kiss me twice🎵

Steve pushed the arrow in his bicep deeper 🎵Then kiss me once again🎵

"It's been a long, long time," muttered Steve as the song finally ended.

Taking immense pleasure in Clarke's pain, Steve wished him goodnight as he exited the room, leaving Clarke in a bloody darkness.

Steve Rogers was an honorable man, a patriot who would lay down his life for the greater good of his country and its citizens. But when it came to his best friend, his Bucky, Steve Rogers was ready to bring the almighty God himself down to his knees.

[citrusandbergamot]

so I haven’t watched the untamed yet

but in typical me fashion I have started reading fanfiction what is my problem I have so much due tomorrow the fuck

and I know, in the depths of my stupid emotional heart, that Jiang Cheng is my fave

the same way that Anakin Skywalker is my fave. I mean, I love Luke more than anything, and Obi-Wan is the best the BEST for loneliness!angst and survivor’s guilt and also the dry goddamn wit and the “how far can you push one person” levels of endurance

but Anakin Skywalker is my fave

if the troubled birds quote “he had an uncontrollable temper that made him literally insane when angry but he was good-looking” can describe them, then yes, they are my fave.

also worthy of consideration - I like Caranthir, Celegorm, and Maedhros the most out of all the Feanorians. Caranthir and Jiang Cheng give off the same energy, except Jiang Cheng is probably worse because he’s the youngest child, and being the youngest child myself, there is miles and miles and miles of entitlement to attention and preference, and soooo many feelings of inadequacy that nothing you can do can ever change (so why bother, right? I mean, I am beyond glad I’m not a middle child, I have enough issues thank). I love  feral!characters who are angry and do bad things and hurt people and I also love the characters who are proud, who will not apologize or bend even though they do more damage to their loved ones and to themselves by refusing to change. (Interestingly enough, I find angry!Dean winchester to be fascinating to watch, basically cause his competence at killing things is sexy but I do not consider Dean to be a fave character. Angry!Sam though, he would fit into what I’m saying. But Sam had the anger Cage!bent out of him and so *shrugs*) I just... it’s one of the things I love about stories with characters who do bad things. They’re not just faceless monsters, they’re not cartoon villians. They are people who hurt, and want, who have been hurt by others, who think they HAVE to do what they are doing, and so they do what they have always done. Because if they stop, if they look for one second beneath the anger and the pain, they would drown. You can’t go back, and so the path that you walk is the path that will dominate your life, for the rest of your life. How can you apologize when you keep doing the thing that is causing harm?

if you can change, than you could have changed before. if you were better, you never would have fallen so far. but there is something monstrous inside, and it eats away every soft touch, every outstretched hand, every hope. better to embrace the truth, better to push everyone away, better to hold onto anger. then you can fight, then you can stand tall, then you can survive; you can rage against the unfairness. It has made you bitter, it has made you cruel. You can make them all hurt. where else can that hurt go? The hurt that is inside? The hurt tearing you apart? Better to rage than to give in, better to hate than forgive. Better to hate than need forgiveness. What could forgiveness count? too much has happened for forgiveness. There is no way back across the river Sirion, as a Feanorian would say.

you have to keep your anger wrapped tightly in your fist. hold on to the hurt. How else could you stand it? How else could you ignore the howling emptiness inside you, the well of grief that has no end?

I added a couple paragraphs of Stars Wars Return of the Jedi Anakin Skywalker fanfic because I had things to say  and it seemed like Anakin could say them, so that’s under the cut. Whoops.

I think about Anakin Skywalker, trapped in a suit, unable to feel the touch of another’s hand, unable to feel the light of the sun, unable to feel the whisper of a warm breeze. Unable to smile, to see through his own eyes. Unable to turn from his dark path.

Until the end. When his son said, I need you, Father help me. Father, father, how could he be a father? He was a monster, burned and shattered, and held together with pain and a promise of vengeance. He was a faceless horror, attack dog and executioner. Kinslayer (ha!). Who would claim him as family? How could this boy claim him as family, while his friends died in the battle around them?

But he did. Father, help me. And Anakin Skywalker, the boy born in the light of the twin sons, the boy who wanted to be loved, who wanted family and safety and peace, looked out through Darth Vader’s mask and saw his son, his son crying for his help. Saw his master, with lightning at his fingertips and sadistic delight on his face. Father, I need you, help me.

My son. Padme’s son. What heart did Darth Vader have to give? What heart could survive in a Sith? What could he do to stop his master, what could anything amount to, after so long?

Father, there is still good in you. 

Darth Vader could do nothing. 

Anakin Skywalker could save his son. His son, his son, he had promised to love his son. His hands had trembled against Padme’s belly when she told him the news. Her hands had stroked his hair. They had laughed. They had been so young. It had felt like flying when Padme placed her hands in his, the weightlessness of hurtling over an edge, leaning into the fall, daring the ground to meet you, daring gravity to catch you and pull you into the crash, her hand in his, his heart full of sunlight. what could gravity do to such a heart? what force could stop him? Anakin, you’re going to be a father. 

Anakin was motionless, trapped in the center of a deadened husk, the ground rushing up to meet him. What force indeed. He had been falling for so long, he was insensate to it, the sickening lurch of nothingness beneath him, of nothing that could stop him. How much further could he fall? What would ever be enough? There was nothing there, nothing beneath him. Some days he was glad, because he would shatter such a foundation upon impact. Some days, he could convince himself the fall was over, a headrush, a bad dream. How could he still be falling if the abyss was all he could see? Father, help me. Please. 

Once, Anakin had known. Once, Anakin had leaned into the fall and dared gravity to reach out its hands and pull him to the ground and slipped, laughing, laughing, from its grasp. Once, Anakin had loved, and was loved in return. His son, his son, his son had a smile full of sunlight and soft eyes. His son had a face etched in pain. His son had spoken without bitterness, without weapon. His son, letting go of his rage, His son, palms upturned.  

His son, reaching out. There was the ground, after decades of the endless, bottomless dark. Anakin had longed for it, dreaded it, feared it, He had been afraid for so long. How had he done it, once? How had he leaned into the fall, unafraid? He had been falling for so long, what could lift him from it? He was pieces frayed and shattering, what could catch him? What could stop him now, with a heart full of hatred and hands made of ruin? 

Father, please.

There is still good in you, I can sense it. The conflict. 

Let go of your hate.

He was so weary. His hands shook. How could the sense memory that overcame him then, how could it still be his? his hands, his real hands pushing the controls of his pod-racer forward, knowing that he had to win. Knowing that he would. His hands on Padme’s skin, leaning into her kiss. She would recoil from his touch now, and she would be right to do so. What could he feel, through murderous, monstrous hands of her softness? He had held her tightly, in the fist of his love, his desperate, violent love pouring from his fist, outstretched. Fire raged around them. Fire raged within him, from him. Her words of love  choked in lies. Her lies suffocated by his love, his powerful love. Padme’s hands rising, useless. Padme’s hands, curled-in.

Luke’s hand, outstretched. Padme’s son, his, theirs. He had a son, still; still, after everything, even though his son knew. Obi-Wan would have told him everything, everything that Anakin had ruined and yet his son could not hold onto hate. It was such an easy hate to hold; it fell from his grasp (human, mechanical, like Anakin’s own, Anakin who had maimed his son, his son, who looked to him for salvation; his son, whom he could save, if he could just, if he just could...) as water falls from hands clean. His son, after such grief and betrayal, with a heart made full in sunlight, asking --

Anakin leaned into the fall and was saved.

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Vince & Dream

Author: FecklesslyFine

Year: 2010

Rating: G

Pairing: Vince/Sandman

Hearing the Nabootique's doorbell jingling was an exciting enough event in of itself, and one usually looking up from his copy of 'Cheekbone' for, but today, Vince Noir was even more rewarded than usual for his selfless act of raising his eyes from the hallowed glossy pages. There wasn't a teenage girl looking for Luke Kook standing before him, nor a jazzy freak only interested in flinty old elbow patches. There also, thankfully, wasn't a heroin-addicted turkey, a hentai tentacle rape monster, a Geordie nutjob, or even a Welsh person. Instead, there was what could only be described as... a god. Vince felt his eyes almost liquefying at the sight before him. Normally, this might be considered a bad thing by some, but to Vince, this was a compliment of the highest order. His eyeballs didn't melt for just anybody, thank you very much. The first thing he noticed was the contrast. Black and white. The man's skin was of such a pallor, he looked like a china plate, with blue ornate swirls beneath his skin pumping equally blue blood towards his heart. His eyes were dark and seemingly endless; with no discernible pupils, they seemed feral and distant. Two stones in a drift of fresh snow. Vince's eyes slid downward, his gaze moving slow as hand-pulled taffy. The customer's legs seemed to go on forever, encased in tight, high-waisted black jeans that were surely vintage 80s denim, because they didn't do such a perfectly subtle, acid-washed grain that way anymore. His blacker-than-Manic-Panic-Raven-Black hair put Robert Smith to shame-- made Siouxie Sioux look properly amateur. It seemed to defy gravity, just like his... cape. Or was it a trench? Hard to tell, with the way it was gently undulating in the still air of the shop. Also, it-- and the man-- didn't seem to have a shadow. Huh, Vince thought. That'll be well trendy in a few weeks, no doubt. Regardless of its apparent disregard for physics (which Vince was perfectly fine with, really-- sod all that multiplication stuff, or whatever), the cape's high, sharp collar complimented the man's high, sharp cheekbones perfectly. Vince swore to Bauhaus that he'd never again doubt that goth was in style. He had to actually put a hand to his chin and check his mouth wasn't open and drooling. "Alright?" He said, faintly at first, then overcompensating by blurting, "Welcome to Naboo's Nabootique where we sell lots of useless rubbish for ridiculous prices but would really appreciate you buyin' sommat anyway so I don't have to sell me favorite hairdryer to pay the rent because you really don't want to see what I look like without a proper diffuser. Ahem." He coughed delicately, finding his proper voice again. "Can I 'elp you, mate?" Eek, maybe that wasn't his proper voice at all. Sounded a bit too gravelly and Cockney. Bollocks. There was a moment in which the two men stood and regarded each other, though one maybe was a little more overzealous in his regarding than the other. "I'm looking for a... business associate of mine," the tall man said, a somewhat conspicuous pause between the first and second halves of his sentence. Vince bit his lower lip for a minute, pondering something. "Y'mean, Naboo?" The tall man looked relieved at this suggestion. "Yes. I am looking for Naboo. "Oh! Why didn't you say so? Naboo's out for the day," Vince said, thinking quickly. "He's, em, tending to his upside-down rutabaga patch. In Calcutta. Goes every Wednesday, takes him all day just to get there." It was a lie, of course.

Thing was, he'd skimped on the Root Boost today, trying to save the dolphins by using less aerosol, only to be later thwarted by Howard informing him that they no longer made aerosol cans with the bad gasses that hurt the Boyzone layer in the atmosphere, whatever that was, and anyway, that had absolutely nothing to do with dolphins. So, needless to say, his hair was lacking its usual height and circumference. He needed another chance to make a first impression on this tall, dark, handsome stranger. Naboo would probably be upstairs readying his afternoon hookah and Hula Hoops anyway, so no harm in making sure the man would be back again. He and his hair would be prepared, next time. "Ah," said the tall man, looking about the shop-- well, presumably he was looking about the shop, it was hard to tell with those eyes of his. Vince swore he saw stars twinkling in the lining of the man's cape-- genius application of glitter, that. "Well," the man continued, looking back at Vince, "Could you tell him that Morpheus would like to speak with him? I will call on him again tomorrow." Vince nodded somewhat vacantly. He was aware there was something of a dazed grin plastered across his face that didn't seem to have any intention of budging while the man was still in the room. "Morpheus. That's a well interesting name. Mine's Vince." He slid off his perch on the glass counter-top, holding out his hand to be shaken, or perhaps kissed. "Vince Noir. So's it just Morpheus, like Madonna?" Morpheus blinked slowly, as if he was trying to understand the question. "No," he said after a moment, porcelain brow marred by a furrow of restrained confusion. "The singer with the unusual metal apparatus on her busom? No, not like her..." He shook Vince's hand anyway, and his fingers were longer and cooler and thinner and paler than Vince's own stubby, pink hands, and Vince suddenly wondered if that's how Howard felt next to him-- oafish, ruddy, and clunky. "Riiight," he trailed off, wondering if this bloke wasn't just a bit off his nut. "So where'd you get that cape?" He tried again, taking a different tack. "I've been thinking of an anti-gravity pair of Chelsea boots for ages, but I reckon that's even more genius than anything I thought up."

Morpheus tilted his head a little, reminding Vince of a cat, then looked down at his garments. "What? This old thing?" He met Vince's gaze again-- well, presumably-- and Vince detected a hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth. First smile he'd given since he entered the shop, and though he clearly has been rocking the distant, brooding look since birth, Vince had to admit, amusement looked good on him. Knowing he wasn't going to get any more out of the man than that, Vince sighed, crossing his arms with a wry grin. "Alright, well I don't blame you for not telling, but I'll have you know, I'm friends with just about every reputable clothier and designer this side of St. Petersberg, and I will find out." He just hoped that St. Petersberg was enough far away to make that claim impressive. "I wish you luck," Morpheus inclined his head ever so slightly, before drawing himself up to his full height. "I must go now, but please do not forget to pass along my message. I will be back tomorrow." He paused, before adding, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Vince Noir. Do take care." Vince could only nod and smile as Morpheus turned to leave-- the man had put 'pleasure' and his name in the same sentence, after all. The clomping of Howard's sandals on the stairs reached his ears, and by the time Howard had reached the bottom, the jingling of the door was already fading. "Who was that berk?" Howard asked, after taking one look at Vince's dazed visage, then glaring out the window at the retreating back of the tall, dark man. Instantly, true to form, he was all puffed up and irritable like a nubby-legged, piebald pigeon. Normally, Vince would have outright laughed at him and made some only-half-teasing disparaging remark, but all he could do now was give a dreamy sigh, hopping back up onto the counter and swinging his crossed legs against the glass. "I dunno," He smiled blissfully, staring past Howard in a distinctly fashion-related reverie. "But wasn't his cape just fierce?" "Yeah," Howard said, flatly. "Just fierce."

[chalabrun]

seeping sorrowly (lunardyn)

Word Count: 1,998 Pairing: Lunardyn Rating: T Warnings: Temporary character death Event/theme: Day 4 of @ardynyesconweek, prompt: pain/angst, forbidden love, “Why do I love you...?” Summary: They weren’t supposed to be. Yet, fate conspired against him even in this for the one he knew would never be his beloved. For he is too terrible, she too far as the moon in her name.

                                             ( READ ON AO3 )

It had been months since the day. Months since they’d taken their relationship further than they intended, when he’d found himself lost in passions he’d never intended upon pursuing that far. Except—gods, he wanted her. Wanted her with a fain, bestial lust; wanted her the way devils dreamed of heaven while living in the fires of hell. To possess her, to make the Oracle his and boast her damnation to the gods themselves. It was wretched, this spiraling obsession. It consumed like flame and left nothing but unquenchable ashes and cinders that shimmering with firelight long after the pyre had cooled. It made him wonder, made him obsess.

Did Lunafreya truly see their affair as nothing? Through the lines of endless paperwork he ratified at the emperor’s expense, he saw her face. Gold in the rare allowances of sunlight reminded him of her hair, luster like maize. She reminded him of everything beloved and lost.

The phone at his desk began flickering with numbers on hold, foggily remembering who was the sole person who called upon that line. Reaching for it, he pressed the button of its respective line, almost pleased to hear the irate commander on its other end.

“Chancellor, it has been ten minutes. If you intend upon making me wait for a moment more—“

“Pray tell, Ravus,” Ardyn interrupted with a smug tone, “where your sister might be? These poor Graleans can’t get enough of her! Surely you understand the need for them to lift their spirits some through our beloved Oracle.” He could almost hear Ravus stiffen, a smile twisting his lips, a wolfish impatience wanting to snap and growl demands.

The line grew silent as Ardyn heard the telltale shuffling of papers, a ruse to disguise the incriminating silence. “You know as well as I that I haven’t the faintest idea. Did it never occur to you to inquire after this with Gentiana instead?”

“She is your sister, Commander. Is this a profession of truth I’m hearing? Or a declaration of incompetence?” Ardyn wheedled, brandishing his words like knives held to the younger man’s throat. He twisted the cord of his phone almost puckishly, leaning back in his seat, feet propped upon his desk. Ah, but perhaps he shared more in common with the commander than first sight would believe. Patience was clawed to shreds within his mind, wanting to dig into the recalcitrant commander most of all.

“I abide by what I say. Contact the manor itself if you are so desperate.” With that, the commander hung up.

Ardyn almost wanted to crush the receiver in his hands as a wave of frustration rolled over him virulently before he forced himself to calm through a stilted exhale. Would it be if it were so simple. No one knew where she was. Only that Fenestala had issued a press statement saying the Oracle was taking a months-long, holy reprieve into the wilds of Tenebrae with only her faithful hounds and the High Messenger as companionship. Hardly unusual, as Oracles in times past were known for their long retreats.

There was something unusual in this, however.

Lunafreya was tireless. In all the years she’d been Oracle, not once had she stopped for rest. If anything, whenever persuaded to, she’d simply gently refuse the petitioner saying the world didn’t stop for her, therefore neither should she.

But this? It was going on five months now. Even if an immortal had forever, parts of him were very much still human. Parts that looked to the scenery for the passage of time, to the sky for the arc and fall of the sun, and moon and its cycle. Yet, the moon that had become ensconced in his sky was missing and a hole that shouldn’t have been present, was.

Ardyn reached for his phone again, putting Iedolas’ secretary’s number on speed dial and relaying a simple message: the Chancellor would be absent for an undisclosed duration to conduct personal business and not to expect immediate correspondence until he was finished and his goals accomplished. What they were, even Ardyn didn’t know. But his foresight knew an intense need for closure.

While a feral one simply wanted the Oracle again in his arms.

Within the next few hours, Ardyn managed to clear his itinerary and relegate minor but numerous tasks he’d otherwise be obligated to finish to his personal staff and secretary, or to be put on hold until this mysterious task was completed.

At the air port situated atop Zegnautus, where its aerial fleet was stationed and dispatched, was where Ardyn headed by noon. He possessed his own airship, a grand thing issued to him from Iedolas years ago after his contributions to MT research had proved how invaluable he was. Red and accented in gold, it was impossible to miss from the skies unless flying extremely close to the sun at high altitudes—of which was Ardyn’s intent, bearing no wish to be seen even from afar. His pilot had his course, and knew how to preserve secrecy even from an airship.

It would be several hours before they arrived in Tenebrae. At the coastal city of Pagla that was traditionally where Oracles went on retreat, typically for religious reasons, for as long as they needed. Even from the sky could Ardyn see the white-tipped spires of Pagla Castle, only half the size of Fenestala but no less grand and beautifully cloaked in forests that cascaded down the mountainside. The furthest end of the Zoldara Henge before it poured into the sea.

Even if his suspicions were right, there was no guarantee that she would be willing to see him, let alone accept him.

Their last farewell had not been kind. Ardyn still remembered the keen stab within his chest when she’d demanded to know if he loved her, and the frigidity of her glacial gaze that reminded him only of a woman reared by the Glacian herself, even if the Astral had long been warmed by humanity.

His hands still twitched with the sensation of her, of embracing Lunafreya, of how she stood statuesque and cold. The man bit his lip in anger, drawing a bead of blood, wanting to claw through his hair as part of him began to regret coming here. Oh, he knew now what it was. Hateful, baneful thing! It hollowed his stomach and made it feel as though tar festered in his chest. It did, but this sensation made him aware, made him want to return were pride not sourly rearing there.

Ardyn knew what this was, and it was weakness. Defenseless, hollow weakness.

The sun vanished behind a thick queue of cloud cover the seeming moment he landed, espying Pagla Palace and setting his jaw. Dismissively did he wave the airship off, it alighting into the sky whilst buffeting winds whipped the tails of his overcoat in its retreating gusts. Soon, the din of its engine vanished and the man was left to find the forest trail that would lead him to the pearly white estate.

The air was thick with a residual chill of what could only be the Glacian’s magic augmented with Lunafreya’s. A barrier, even though Ardyn’s malefic presence bled sickly through it, was unable to be decimated by the gods themselves, passed through as though it were but a sheet of air. It was like traversing through to another realm, the vibrant and verdant woods hiding him from civilization.

Stray birdsong suddenly halted when he drew nearer, the frantic beating of wings and a tossing wind chattered through the leaves. It was silent; too much so. But the longer he walked, the more his own sense of dread gave way into inexplicable want and a winning smile that bespoke of vile intentions. As he always did.

He came upon a sprawling garden situated on the banks of a small lake, encompassed by beautifully tended blooms he could only see as the Oracle’s work. Even the trees seemed to bow away from the flora, beloved by Lunafreya’s touch in a vividness that hadn’t been known of before. At least, not since he’d been there last decades ago for her past relative.

Yet, it was what he saw that nearly struck him down.

Lunafreya had her back to him, tending to an incomplete array of sylleblossoms and white roses, the buds and blossoms arrayed around her as she planted them. A sun hat protected her from the harsh sunlight, working methodically to sow each with precision. But, it was when she stood that froze him.

From the side, even from wearing a baggy and dusty pair of overalls could he see the noticeable curve at her womb, of a distinct roundness. Brows furrowed, a sinking realization giving way to an anger. Ardyn stalked towards her and matched her rising gaze, the woman freezing in shock and dropping her gardening trowel in the grass before she motioned to turn away, but Ardyn’s ground-eating strides caught up with her too quickly and he seized her wrist in a vice.

“Let go of me! You have no right—!”

“No right to what, Lady Lunafreya?” Ardyn snarled acerbically. “Knowing that you are the mother of my child?!”  

Lunafreya wrenched her arm free, glaring at him whilst her sunhat fluttered to the turf. “I didn’t know,” she uttered through clenched teeth, lower lip worrying as she fought back tears. “By the time I did, it was too late to—” She stared blankly at the ground, trembling, but looking no less weak in spite of it.

Ardyn looked away in the fashion when a man’s world had been shattered. His chest throbbed painfully, to think after all this time, he could…?

With Lunafreya no less.

He roused to the sound of her wrenching off her gloves and dropping them to the ground, red-rimmed eyes glowering at him mistrustfully. She heaved in a harsh breath, standing taller than her height. “I wasn’t going to tell you. What right do you have to them? You’re a monster. You’d want them dead—or worse,” she uttered bitterly, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. “You took everything from me! You orchestrated my mother’s death, the loss of my home, my own brother’s alienation—you’re not going to have them, too!” Her voice pitched hoarsely, hands balling into fists.

Ardyn stared at her blankly, mouth just slightly agape. Why did he…? She was right. It had been his fault, but not an inch of him had remorse for what he’d done. Not when the gods whom had made their Star wanted them and him to suffer. So, he would mar their precious creation. He would remind them of the power he wielded of his own, and through man. That his ungoldly prowess wasn’t enough to stop him, for he was deadly enough to bring an empire to his beck and call with barely an effort.

And how they would tremble. And how they did.

But, this…? Seeing Luna like a cornered she-wolf protecting her young is what snapped him. Not his anger, but it stabbed into a vulnerability he rarely to never let anyone worm their way into.

This woman somehow had.

“Lunafreya—” came his faltering protestation, feeling his strength sap from him at her rejection.

“Gentiana!” Lunafreya shouted above this chaos, that which brewed in his mind, a fell, chill wind drifting upon him as he slowly realized his blood was curdling into ice in his veins. He was unable to do anything as he froze over, what it meant, where he would manifest again.

Three prongs plunged into his heart and he swore he saw furious blonde impale him on that accursed Trident. Though he felt little pain, a single, black pearl like a tear shed from his eye as she did.

Before all became black, a single thought stole across his mind:

Why do I love you so terribly, my dearest Freyja…?

[hollerace-blog]

The Shed

One of the salient advantages at growing up at 314 Midfield Avenue was that surprises were many and close between. My dad (and his friends) always seemed to have something in store. Add my mom’s brother, Uncle Buzz, to the mix, and adventure, usually concomitant with fun, was ever on the menu.

That spring Saturday so many years ago stands out. My brother and I awoke to the sounds of carpentry coming from the backyard. Various implements banged in a striking cadence of metal on wood.

Still pajamaed, we raced into the yard, mindless of our grandma’s call to breakfast. We scarfed down her velvety scramblers posthaste. A handful of men worked at the project. Uncle Buzz (a reputed carpenter by trade) led the tradesmen as Dad handled some plans and made measurements.

“IT’S A TOOL SHED. WELL, GONNA BE,” Mom offered. “BUZZ, YOU DON’T NEED A BEER! IT’S GOING FOR NINE!” My mother had a unique way of telling time. For years, I had no idea of actual numerical chronological increments. Our household was limited to a number of phrases that merely approximated real times in hours and minutes. We deciphered code phrases like “going for”; “a little after”; “not quite,” among others.

The concept of a tool shed did little to boost the morale of the Hollerkids, but it’s not every day a new edifice arises in your yard. So, jeaned and sneakered, we ventured out. This foray did not last long, since Buzz delivered yet another hammer blow to a gnarled, already indigo fingernail. A raft of curses ensued, accompanied by Dad ushering us out of earshot. Snagged.

Buzz came to the rescue, proffering his seemingly endless supply of silver coinage for us to go to the matinee at the Marilyn. We celebrated with Milk Duds, Junior Mints and popcorn doused in semi-buttery, mucilaginous petroleum product. A few Roadrunners, some Stooges and jutting-jawed white men shuttling fighter jets in dazzling array kept us at bay for the afternoon.

Back at home, the skeleton was complete. This seemingly massive structure spoke of more than a mere tool shed. My brother and I conferred in our bunks that night, sharing dreams about this mysterious new building.

By the time we got back from Mass the next day, our future shed was just about done. But the mystery lingered on. Over Mom’s paprikas, the subject stayed off the table. After the meal, I noticed Dad had left something behind. It was a clear piece of lucite. A small key dangled from one end. On the plastic, hand-etched in my father’s precise fashion were the words:

CLUB HOUSE AND TOOL SHED

“A CLUB HOUSE!” two boys screamed in concert. We burst out the back door and hit the shed. It was actually a two-room affair; the larger space was for the “club.” Someone had put a couple of old folding chairs and a rickety table about the room.

Somehow, the silent signal made its way to both our noggins. We owned this! No rules! No grown-ups! Nirvana! My brother and I were hootin’ and Holleran. We stomped, danced and otherwise caroused. With nobody trying to simmer us down.

Mom had to drag us out to the real world at suppertime. I made sure to secure the lock; no strangers could violate our Valhalla.

Our fortress was spare. A single, sliding window was the only outlook. To that end, we left the door open most of the time. The wall dividing the shed was made of Homasote, a dismal, gray fiberboard affair, but begging for thumbtacks.

Not to fear. One day, Tom and I retreated to our castle to see some color photos affixed to that wall. Willie Mays, Al Kaline, a crookedly grinning Larry Berra. All these borrowed from Dad’s Sport magazine. We cautiously decorated to our own tastes. A grinning, gapped Alfred E. Newman did not go over well, but remained. For some reason, adults viewed this character as a denizen of some warped Sixties Gehenna.

As school ended in June, we looked forward to quality time in The Shed, as Mom had dubbed it. One day, my brother brought up a touchpoint. “Do we have a club, or what?”

Whoa. The idea of an organized association of any sort was foreign to us. But heck, the Little Rascals had clubhouses. They even put on shows! But what about nomenclature? A cool handle meant everything. We both descended into deep thought. Which didn’t last long.

“I’ve got it!” exclaimed Tom. “The Night Crawlers!” Debate over. We both had seen the sign advertising these varmints at Ted’s Bait Box for years. The moniker was menacing enough, with no swears or other nastiness that might upset adults. Perfect.

Tom voted me president; I voted him sergeant-at-arms. Politics done.

Prospective members became a problem. Word ignited around the neighborhood. I got skinny that guys we didn’t even know—from the other side of the Avenue—were claiming to be members. Of course, Lloyd and Barry Tichey from across the street were charter Crawlers. We had to let in Linda Fortune, who lived in the three-top above the Ticheys. Her dog, Hercules, became our unofficial mascot.

We discussed others. Tom wrote the name of every vaunted associate in chalk on the fiberboard. Inky O’Doul, Johnny Sabo and Swedey Johnson, who was by popular mandate the most popular kid in Park Terrace.

I can’t accurately describe the Night Crawlers as an organization. We never had a meeting. No charter, no dues, no mission statement.

As luck would have it, things eventually went dark. One day, I returned from a sojourn to the local playground (better known as “The Field”). The door to The Shed lay open, as it often did. Only standing in that doorway was one Michael Fanelli.

I could hear him muttering something to my brother, who cowered away. Fanelli wasn’t the most hated kid in the neighborhood; he was just the least liked. He was not of any type other than rodentine. He could have been twelve or sixteen. Black clothing, engineer boots in summer. He seemed to belong to no school or family. . 

He was tolerated by the Dirt Kids from Tin Can Alley, mainly because he would treat for candy at United Cigars. Otherwise, no one claimed him as a friend. And I didn’t want him in my backyard.

His mouth was a slash of a sneer as he kept calling my brother “kid” in the snottiest way. I didn’t hesitate. “Clear out, Fanelli,” I said. “Hit the road.” 

“Screw you and your crappy club, kid,” said my nemesis. Nonetheless, he shambled down our driveway. I felt Tommy’s sigh of relief in Fanelli’s wake. I clutched him instinctively. He was already tough stuff but I could feel a tremble.

He said, “Fanelli said we had to let him in the club or he’d kick my ass.”I knew the interloper  was all mouth and no action. Word was that he would talk trash to guys at The Field and sidle away when anyone had a problem.

I saw no need to consult Bucky Maraglino and Rats Müller about Fanelli bothering my brother, knowing that these older guys would intervene for us. For a while, Fanelli faded.

The Shed served us well that summer. We’d hang out on drowsy days. Our grandmother would make us pitchers of iced tea, levering cubes out of trays to fill an old enameled pot that served as a cooler. Chips and other salt-laden treats were always on hand, and slabs of meat on Wonder were always available for lunch.

 Kids would come and go throughout the day. Tom and I ruled over this tiny kingdom. I just enjoyed sitting back, inhaling the still-fresh woodsy aura of the building. I felt safe, protected and independent.

 Guys supported us. Wifty Schultz, already a budding artist, dolled up a Newman poster with our club name in two-toned type! Some cool flame decals appeared for window decorations. The space became our castle, our keep. Dad would putter in the tool quarters but pretty much left us alone. 

These were heady times, for sure. The days seemed warmer, brighter. The two sturdy maples in our yard brought relief from city heat, slicing sharp sickles of sun that darted through the sparse, dusty patch where grass could find only a timid purchase. In those days of innocent clarity, nothing could stop us. We were indeed Dukes of Earl.

We were fortunate that Michael Fanelli never made a return visit to The Shed. One day, biking up to The Avenue, I peered down an alley behind stores. We used to flip baseball cards back there. I saw Fanelli kicking the wall, his black boots looking odd and scrufty in the heat.

I couldn’t resist, and approached the kid. He looked especially feral; his sneer seemed  nastier, more menacing. “They kicked me out of United,” he said. “Caught me stealing.” It was a neighborhood tradition not to nick anything from United Cigars. Old Mr. Kessler, no humanitarian himself, treated the kids with benign neglect.

Fanelli cast his eyes away from me. I was astonished to see he was crying. He said, “I guess I can’t be in your club.” I felt badly for him, for some reason..

“No. You can’t, “ I said. “Not when you threaten to beat up my brother,”

“I didn’t mean nothin’.”

I said, “You should think of that before you open your mouth.” I decided not to make fun of his tears, as much as I wanted to mock him. But I couldn’t resist a final dig. I  added, “Just stay away from our house, our club. Or I will kick your ass.”

He shied away, sniveling. I went into United and got a Tru Ade and a couple of Fireballs.  I wasn’t sure of any physical prowess over Michael Fanelli. I don’t even know if I ever saw him again.

I rode home and went right to the shed. For some reason, I gave my brother a Fireball and held him close. I said, “Nobody’s gonna bother us anymore. We’re the Night Crawlers.”

Tom and I stood there, clinging to each other, protected by The Shed.

And it was all good.

***

We had a few good summers in that shed. Soon, my brother outgrew me and became MY protector. After Mom sold the house, the new owners tore down The Shed. They also put a statue of a saucy jester in the front yard. That would have driven Dad up a wall.

Many years later, on a visit home from the Left Coast, I stopped by the Sons of Sweden. A lot of the old gang was there; drinks were hoisted; jollity ruled.  Some guy I didn’t recognize was reminiscing about the old neighborhood. “Where did you live, anyway?” said Hook Grywalski.

“Barketine Lane,.”said the guy.. This was up on the Hill, a small enclave for the monied set.

Swedey Johnson jumped in, “But you were never a Night Crawler.”

[the-wig-is-a-metaphor]

Stab Right Through

by Yuudan

Harry Potter/Tom Riddle

Time Travel

Angst

Harry's Life Sucks

Time Travel Fix-It

Thinly Veiled Antagonism

Set In Harry's Sixth Year

Unspeakables

Summary:

Getting lost in old memories is a dangerous thing for anyone, but in Harry’s case the whole situation is slightly more literal, and - as it always tends to be - much, much worse.

Chapter 1: Arrival

“Merlin’s beard, Tom!” yelped memory-Slughorn. “Seven! Isn’t it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case . . . bad enough to divide the soul . . . but to rip it into seven pieces . . .”

Slughorn looked at the young Riddle with a disturbed expression, perhaps starting to realize his true nature for the first time. Harry tried to meet Dumbledore's eyes, wondering what the old man thought of this, but the Headmaster appeared entirely focused on the memory playing out in front of them, seemingly refraining from blinking lest he missed something of importance.

If he was getting this right, didn't it mean Voldemort had split his soul seven times? Even contemplating it made him sick to his stomach . . .

And even leaving aside the unnatural act of ripping one's soul apart multiple times, this probably meant there were seven pieces of Voldemort's soul to somehow get rid of before he could even contemplate killing the man – or whatever he had become.

“This is all hypothetical, what we’re discussing, isn’t it? All academic,” Slughorn was saying, though Harry could tell he was regretting the conversation very much. After reassuring the Potions Professor, memory-Riddle left, but not before Harry had glimpsed his face – it looked feral.

“Thank you, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Let us go back now . . . ”

Harry was all for the idea, really – they had a lot to discuss after this particular revelation, and Dumbledore must have some more information to add – but the universe didn't seem to agree. Instead of soaring weightlessly, or being automatically ejected like every other time, the opposite seemed to be happening – it felt like he was being dragged down by force, like someone had grabbed his legs and was refusing to let go. He looked down at once, and saw Slughorn's carpet, on which he'd been standing, had started to swirl and collapse around his feet, forming a vortex he was already knee-deep in.

"Profesor!" he shouted at the disappearing figure, "Professor –"

Dumbledore noticed his plight, and alarmedly tried to grab a hold of his outstretched arm, even while being in the process of being expelled by the memory.

"Harry, don't let go of my hand!" the Professor said urgently, gripping his own sweaty hand with his good arm, "Focus on your mind, and try to – "

But he never found out what he had to try, because Dumbledore was violently blown away like a leaf in the wind, and disappeared in the distance, presumably out of the pensieve.

Meanwhile, the scene around him – Slughorn alone in his office, eating candied pineapples with a perturbed expression – dissolved like the rain had washed it away, replaced by a thick white mist that didn't let Harry see anything further than his nose.

He tried yelling for help, and tried focusing on his mind – whatever that meant – but with every pasing moment he was getting dragged deeper. Before he knew it, he was submerged to his waist, and thought he glimpsed an endless expanse of sand through the mist . . .

He heard Dumbledore yell "Harry!" from somewhere far, far away before the world turned black and he had the dinstinct feeling of falling down from a great height.

And then he did fall, with the sickening crack of broken bones, on what felt like metal spikes.

He made a squeaky sound like a dying seal, but in his defense his back hurt really badly and he couldn't feel his left arm.

"Why, hello there," a calm, if slightly confused voice intoned from beside him, "And who might you be?"

Harry jumped, or at least tried. Big mistake. He almost screamed with the pain.

But that voice . . . he cautiously turned his head to the side and realized a number of things simultaneously. For one, it wasn't spikes he'd fallen on, but Dumbledore's desk, which was more or less the same thing given the many metallic and pointy instruments that populated his worktable. Secondly, that was indeed Dumbledore who was staring at him perplexedly, but not any Dumbledore. Oh no. It was an auburn-haired Dumbledore, with marginally less lines on his face and an even bolder – if possible – taste in fashion. His arms were also both perfectly fine. In fact, he resembled very much the one he'd seen in the other memories he'd been shown. The one from fifty years ago.

Harry opened his mouth, to answer the question or to splutter he didn't know.

What came out was a feeble, "Merlin's saggy ballsack," before he passed right out.

"Are you awake, lad?" a brisk female voice asked as soon as Harry opened his eyes. He didn't need to ask where he was, the white ceiling all too familiar after years of waking up to it. He was in the infirmary. That was nice. It meant it had all been a bizarre dream – Voldemort hadn't created seven horcruxes after all and he hadn't been sucked into a memory vortex-thing, and –

And that wasn't Madame Pomphrey. And Dumbledore, who was standing next to his bed, was still red-headed and perplexed.

Blast.

"Am I?" he answered wryly, "No, I don't think I am,"

The unknown nurse – blonde, with an unfortunate nose – started to fuss around his head with her wand, muttering to herself.

"I fixed his back, but his arm needs rest and a bone-mending potion every day for two weeks," she said, presumably talking to Dumbledore, "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with his head,"

"Nothing? Are you sure?" Harry croaked, "Maybe you should check again,"

The nurse sent an unimpressed look his way, but repeated her spells and confirmed, "Your head is perfectly fine,"

Dumbledore nodded and said, "Thank you, Madame Spleen. I'd like to exchange a few words with our guest, if it's all the same to you?"

Madame Spleen nodded and left them alone in awkward silence, at least for Harry. Dumbledore seemed impervious to such pesky things as awkwardness, even as a slightly younger old man.

"Professor Dumbledore," Harry said hopefully, "I don't suppose you know who I am?"

It was unlikely by a long shot, but who knew? Maybe the headmaster had simply dyed his hair and the situation had nothing to do with him, for once.

. . . Yeah, right.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I've ever seen you before. And I make a point of knowing the names and faces of everyone in the castle," the headmaster said pointedly, "I also make a point of checking the anti-apparition wards every month . . . would you mind explaining who you are and how you got in my office?"

"I'm Harry, and . . . I'm not sure what happened, Professor," he said honestly, trying to sit up without jostling his arm, "I was in your office, watching a memory in the pensieve, and then bam – I was sucked into this vortex thing and fell on your desk,"

Dumbledore blinked at him a few times and started to say, "In . . . my office? With me?" but then something seemed to occur to him and he asked cautiously, "If I may ask, what memory were you watching?"

"My potions professor's memory from 1943," he replied honestly. No point in lying – maybe he was still dreaming, but if he wasn't Dumbledore was sure to be the only person who could help him out of this pickle.

The professor stilled, and stared at him at length with those eerily penetreting eyes of his. Finally, as if accepting that he was telling the truth, he said quietly, "Today . . . is 1 September 1942,"

Harry's eyes widened and he repressed the knee-jerk reaction of yelling 'Lies!' and shutting his ears. But it did seem extremely unlikely . . .

Dumbledore, seemingly reading his mind, twirled his wand murmuring "Tempus," and sure enough, the numbers wobbling two-dimensionally in the air confirmed what the professor had said.

Minutes and minutes of silent, dumb-struck denial ticked by, until Dumbledore cleared his throat and assumed a very grave air.

"I can't help but notice that you seem to know me personally, Harry, and if you were watching a memory in my office, a memory that has yet to happen . . . I'd have to deduce that you travelled here from the future, however unlikely that sounds,"

Despite Madame Spleen's reassurances, Harry's head felt like someone had used it as a gong and it was still ringing.

"But sir . . . ! How's that even possible? I wasn't doing anything related to time at all – I was watching a memory, taken from Professor Slughorn's head! If anything I should have ended up in his head!"

Dumbledore, still looking remarkably calm, replied, "Magic cannot be taken lightly, Harry, especially when interacting with the mind. It is entirely possible that your Professor's memories acted as a gateway between the present and the past – or for us, the future and the present,"

Trust Dumbledore to start theorizing in three seconds flat. "A gateway?" he repeated somewhat dazedly, "But you were with me sir! Why was it only me who ended up here?"

"Such things cannot be divined without proper study, my boy. Time, mind and magic are the most enigmatic and incomprehensible things in existence, and you seem to have run afoul of all three at the same time,"

After that they fell into helpless silence, Harry trying to come to terms with it all, and Dumbledore looking like he was terribly curious about something but at the same time dreading to hear about it.

"Aren't you going to ask why we were watching Slughorn's memory of 1942 together, sir?"

Dumbledore looked guilty for a moment, then said firmly, "Such matters are best handled by the people most qualified to – I'll contact the Department of Mysteries at once, Harry, so you must refrain from revealing anything until then,"

"The Department – ? But . . . I need help," he said with a truly pathetic amount of desperation, "I need your help. I'm sure – if you just hear me out for a moment, I'm sure –"

The professor raised a hand to stop him, and said sadly, "I'm sorry, Harry,"

Harry tried not to feel crestfallen, and failed. Even knowing that this Dumbledore didn't know him, the cold rejection stung.

Dumbledore stepped away from Harry's bed and headed for the door, "Wait here, I'll firecall Unspeakable Croaker, he should be here shortly," he said, then he paused and turned around, looking more vulnerable than Harry had ever seen him, "You mustn't tell me anything, Harry. I proved it, time and again – I cannot be trusted with this kind of power,"

Then he disappeared in the corridor, and Harry gave a half-hysterical snort.

"And you think I can?!"

Waiting with nothing to do, Harry tried napping a bit, hoping to Merlin and Morgana and every deity he knew that he'd wake up and find out he'd dreamed the whole thing. And yet, when he woke from his feather-light fitful sleep, his broken arm was there to remind him that no, everything was real. He was in the past. In a past where he hadn't been born yet – hell, his parents hadn't been born yet – where nobody knew him. Where Ron and Hermione were nowhere to be seen and Dumbledore wasn't yet old and all-knowing.

After a while he tried to get up, but doing that without moving his back was sort of impossible, so he gave up. Dumbledore had said an Unspeakable would be coming. Surely, he would know how to send him back to his time – he did remember from last year's escapade to the Ministry, that the Department of Mysteries had a Time room, full of Time-turners and whatnot...

Just then, the door opened and a tall man with glasses and an odd moustache stepped in, his almost black eyes immediately finding Harry and staring unblikingly at him. Dumbledore lead the wizard to Harry's bed and said, "Harry, this is Unspeakable Croaker, he studies time, as it happens, and would be very interested to know the circumstance of your accident,"

Croaker opened a briefcase and handed him a folder, saying, "A pleasure, Harry. You understand this sort of thing doesn't happen every day, but enough that there is a procedure to follow – firstly, you must fill in that form – you may leave out things if you wish, but I must warn you that the paper is spelled to prevent untruths from being written upon it, so please refrain from lying,"

Harry didn't bother looking at the form and demanded, "You'll return me to my time, right? You have a Time room at the Department, so you must know how, right?"

Dumbledore stilled and Croaker looked at him sharply, his eyes lingering on his lightning bolt scar, and he said softly, "Now how would you know that, Harry?"

But he didn't want an answer, Harry could tell. He would have thought an Unspeakable, and one who worked with time at that, would be especially interested to know everything he could grill out of Harry, but apparently Dumbledore's friends were as wise as him.

"No, I'm afraid we haven't the means necessary to do that just yet," Croaker answered to his earlier question, "But your accident may help us get closer sooner,"

Harry lowered his eyes to the form even as a weight plunged into his stomach – he'd never go back to his time, never see Hermione and Ron again. Or Ginny...

Or well, wizards lived long lives, so he'd probably live to see them be born and grow up, but they'd never be friends like they were now – had been – never share all those adventures...

His sight became blurry and he was mortified to discover that he was, in fact, crying.

Croaker and Dumbledore tactfully refrained from commenting, and he was able to calm down and pretend nothing was wrong without incident.

He filled out the form in a matter of minutes, detailing what had happened to the best of his capabilities, hoping against hope that it would help the Unspeakables send him back. He wrote only his first name, not quite trusting the document with his full, famous name. Then he described the vortex of sand and the swirling white mists, and the sensation of falling down that had resulted in a literal fall on Dumbledore's desk. The form asked for a description of his background, which he refused to share as his background was not only distinctive and rather unique, but also something he preferred to keep to himself. The rest was normal enough – blood status, would-be date in his timeline, school he'd been attending and so on.

When he was done, Croaker skimmed it interestedly and asked clarification on some points, ("what color was the sand?", "How far did they extend?", "Was there a sun?" and so on) then stuffed the form in his briefcase and pulled out a roll of parchment marked by an official-looking seal.

"Don't worry about the form – it will appear blank to anyone outside the Department," the Unspeakable tried to reassure him, "Now this, this is a contract of sorts, also part of the procedure for time travellers. It will stop you from spilling the beans on things like politics, wars, natural disasters, economy and so on,"

After his drop of blood had been spilled where indicated, Croaker looked him in the eye and said, "The contract is not perfect, as you may have guessed, but then nothing human-made is, is it? I would still advise you not to divulge too much, as our department will be keeping an eye on you,"

Harry nodded distractedly. This seemed all pretty inconsequential before the looming knowledge that he would not be getting back to his time, would not get to kiss Ginny or avenge his godfather, or even get to see Ron and Hermione get married like everyone knew they would. Would they miss him? Would someone else fullfill the prophecy in his place?

Irritatingly, a picture of the Dursleys celebrating his disappearance popped in his head.

"The contract will keep you from revealing anything of great impact, but you'll be able to talk about innocuous tidbits normally – which I'd be careful with, by the way," Croaker stressed, "We will try to keep an eye on you, of course, but you have more than that to worry about. I don't know if it's the universe, the forces of time or magic itself, but something always happens to people who are more loose-lipped than they should. Many time-travellers suffered a horrifying fate for their carelessness,"

"Horrifying? Like what?" Harry asked, fascinated and nauseaous all at once.

Croaker leaned forward, an intense look in his eyes, "A woman who told everyone who asked about the future under the guise of being a seer, one day became inexplicably and incurably insane. They had to strap her to a bed until the end of her days. Another example is the man who published everything he knew on the newspapers looking for fame and money, and ended up paranoid and unable to get out of his house. he killed himself soon after that,"

Satisfied that Harry was suitably disturbed, Croaker cocluded, "It might just have been that living in a time not meant for them messed them up, but . . . you'd do well to be careful, anyway,"

At Harry's coscentious nod, Croaker got up and extracted a contraption that Harry recognized after a few seconds as a camera. Bloody hell, did it look old. The unspeakable muttered some spells on it, swirling his wand in small circles, and said, "Now if you would, I'd need some photographs,"

After that, throroughly documenting his appearance from all angles in what Harry suspected would become moving pictures of his puzzled blinking, Croaker left.

Dumbledore, perhaps interpreting Harry's pale face, reassured him, "He's mentioned only the blatant cases. It's actually a lot more common than you would think, for someone to be misplaced sometime else, and the great majority of them manage to live a normal life just fine. No need to worry, Harry, I'm sure you will be alright,"

"I hope so," he muttered, but he was still spooked and jittery.

After a few minutes in which Harry contemplated the complete joke that was his life and Dumbledore looked out of the window, Madame Spleen made another appearance, this time with a tray of about ten different-sized, different-coloured potions hovering about her elbow.

Harry made a face, but the routine of being in the infirmary and being fed foul-tasting potions was actually calming in its extreme familiarity – he'd been at it since first year, after all, and this almost seemed just one more of those adventures that had seemed insurmountable when he was living them but had ended up mere memories over time.

Except this time there was no clear enemy to defeat or person to save, no clear course of action that lead him to his objective, that is going back home – which had been deemed impossible by both Albus Dumbledore and the head Unspeakable . . .

But there had to be a way, and goddammit, he was going to find it if it took him decades to do it. So what if those old geezers thought it was impossible? He was Harry Potter, his very existence and survival had hinged on impossibilities since he'd been one year old.

They thought travelling back to his time was impossible, but then he bet they would say the same about surviving the killing curse.

[imaghosttown]

dream copypasta

[1:48:25 PM] [Pastel] Green: the dream was like, there was this Chell esque woman on a automated space mission? I guess she was on her way back? With her crew of four or so people [1:48:40 PM] [Pastel] Green: And something went devastatingly wrong and part œf the ship blew off and became a vacuum [1:48:56 PM] [Pastel] Green: Leaving her with one of her crew, her being locked in a room by thr AI of opthe sho [1:48:59 PM] [Pastel] Green: Sh [1:49:01 PM] [Pastel] Green: Ship [1:49:13 PM] [Pastel] Green: And the other guy who for some reason was DRUMPF [1:49:33 PM] [Pastel] Green: I GUESS WE SENT HIM TO SPACE TO GET RID OF HĪM [1:49:40 PM] [Pastel] Green: anyway, he fucking [1:49:41 PM] [Pastel] Green: Just [1:49:57 PM] [Pastel] Green: Depressurizes his room and flings himself into space (good riddance i guess?) [1:50:06 PM] [Pastel] Green: Leaving Space Chell behind??. [1:50:11 PM] [Pastel] Green: So the AI fixs [1:50:27 PM] [Pastel] Green: What remains of the ship so she can travel around, but she's stuck in space [1:50:28 PM] [Pastel] Green: Alne [1:50:38 PM] [Pastel] Green: For the next [1:50:43 PM] [Pastel] Green: HELL OF A WHILE [1:51:01 PM] [Pastel] Green: In a cramped now even smaller ship which at least has showers but sucks to be Space Chell [1:51:34 PM] [Pastel] Green: And then we cut to when she lands back on earth, the good old fashioned way of burning and falling into a nondescript body of water [1:52:08 PM] [Pastel] Green: And in her absence there was a Half Lifeesque hostile alien takeover, complete with zombies and parasitic electric acid tree monsters that murder hmans in the forest [1:52:37 PM] [Pastel] Green: And Chell who is pretty fucked up now from endless lonliness, cabin fever, claustrophobia and apparently space mutations [1:52:56 PM] [Pastel] Green: Is now borderline cave feral child complete with the hair [1:53:07 PM] [Pastel] Green: And she's found by the HUMAN REBEL LEADER [1:53:15 PM] [Pastel] Green: Who is [1:54:10 PM] [Pastel] Green: A mix between... morgan freeman, samual jackson and a superhero?? And he's all gruff and cool but super charismatic and kind [1:54:56 PM] [Pastel] Green: And he's friends with an human ambassador / spy/ double spy? Who is a bald white guy who is also gruff and cool but not charismtic and kinda definitely an anti hero [1:55:26 PM] [Pastel] Green: And they find Chell in an abandned house, alone, with her space helmet, huddled n a bath tub [1:55:46 PM] [Pastel] Green: And for some reasn all the zombies and acid tree monsters? Don't care about her [1:56:34 PM] [Pastel] Green: So she joins the RESISTANCE and becomes their wildling girl who can travel where no one else can and she has a father daughter relationship with the Two Dudes and its very good [1:56:43 PM] [Pastel] Green: And they fight THE ALIEN OVERLORDS [1:56:48 PM] [Pastel] Green: it was cool and i loved it [1:57:07 PM] [Pastel] Green: Also the ship and it's AI somehow tags along?. I guess Chell took it with her

[obsessiveagony2point0]

🧓 - Mature Themes (nudity that's nonsexual or partial nudity)

On the Wings of Eyeliner Art & Snippet

Human!MorpheusxHob --------------------------- Feral Fashion AU

What are little boys made of? Snips, snails And puppy-dogs' tails That's what little boys are made of

Uncropped Image and Close Ups

Original Post Date: December 18th 2023

Twitter/X•AO3•Pillowfort •Linktree•Bluesky•Ko-fi

Robert “Hob” Gadling had been raised as a “rough and tumble” boy. When he played, he played hard. When he got dirty, he got mud-in-his-pores-for-days dirty. Small scuffs and cuts were brushed off with a wave of his father’s hand and him saying, “You’re fine, boy. You’re not dying.”

Being a “rough and tumble” boy meant the typical boy stuff. Toys consisted of monster trucks, toy cars, dinosaurs, and play guns. Hob remembered the one time he asked his parents for a teddy bear. It was pink and very soft and he immediately loved it. He ran over and asked. His mother looked nervously at his father, whose face had gone bright scarlet. His mother had gently taken the bear out of his hands and redirected him to the stuffed dinosaurs. He’d gotten a blue T-Rex that day. 

Clothes were less fun. The shirts contained mostly the same as the toys: dinosaurs, trucks, and cars. Sometimes a sport would be thrown in or sayings like, “Cool Guy”. All the clothes were mainly the same color; blue, navy blue, brown, dark green, tan, red, orange. Sometimes there would be a pink or peach color there, but his parents never picked those.

As soon as he was old enough, his father had begun to sign him up for whatever sport or sports he could play. Baseball, basketball, football, rugby, boxing, fencing, track, cycling, field and ice hockey…you name it, Hob had probably done it. 

It was definitely a lot for a growing adolescent, but Hob personally loved it. Loved how damp his shirts would get after a practice or a game, loved the way his lungs would ache as he’d play against whatever opposing team in whatever sport, loved the dizzying high of adrenaline, loved the coppery tang in his mouth as high heart rate would skyrocket.

The rough, tough, gritty boy life was all he’d ever known.

📖 Continue on AO3 - On the Wings of Eyeliner