#I’m still percolating and forming my thoughts

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Something something about the 500 bee stings and the concept of cumulative effect.

Something something about the concept of the 500 bee stings being a metaphor for each member of the firefams trauma piles and the cumulative effect it can ultimately have on a person.

And also how were stronger together - bees working in collaboration to ‘take down a foe’ with 500 stings and the firefam having to work collectively to take down their own foe…

[natsaffection]

Lines crossed. Pt. 2 | N.R

Avenger!Natasha x AntiHero!Reader

Warnings: 18+! Fluffy Smut (fingering and oral), talk about past, scars

Word Count: 2,8k

A/N: Okay, since the first part exploded and many people wanted a sequel, the second part is now here!

Part 1

The first light of dawn filtered through the rain-streaked windows, casting a soft glow over Natasha’s apartment. The storm had passed, leaving a quiet stillness in its wake. Natasha stirred from where she had been sitting, her eyes red and heavy with exhaustion. She had stayed by your side all night, watching over you, making sure your condition didn’t worsen.

You lay on the couch, covered by a warm blanket. Your breathing was steadier now, though your face still bore the marks of pain and fatigue. Natasha stood up quietly, stretching her stiff muscles before heading to the kitchen to make some coffee.

The aroma of fresh coffee filled the room, and the sound of the percolator seemed to rouse you from your restless sleep. Your eyes fluttered open, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings before your gaze settled on Natasha. She approached with a mug in her hand, her expression a mix of relief and concern.

“Morning,” Natasha said softly, handing you the mug. “How are you feeling?” You winced as you shifted to sit up, accepting the mug with a grateful nod. “I’ve been better,” you replied, your voice raspy. “Thanks for… everything.”

Natasha sat down on the edge of the coffee table, her eyes searching yours. “You gave me quite a scare last night. Do you remember what happened?”

You took a sip of the coffee, the warmth soothing your throat. “Yeah… I was outnumbered. I thought I could handle it, but…” You glanced down at the bandages on your side, your expression darkening. “Guess I miscalculated.”

Natasha’s eyes softened. “You’re lucky to be alive. Those wounds were serious.” You sighed, your shoulders slumping. “I know. I just… didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Natasha reached out, placing a hand on your arm. “You did the right thing coming here. I’m glad you did.” You looked up at her, a hint of vulnerability in your eyes. “I’m not used to asking for help. It’s not… easy for me.”Natasha nodded, understanding. “I know. But you don’t have to do this alone. We can help you. I can help you.”

You hesitated, the weight of your past actions pressing heavily on you. “But what about S.H.I.E.L.D.? The Avengers? They won’t just forget everything I’ve done.”

Natasha’s expression hardened with determination. “We’ll figure it out. But first, you need to heal. Then we can talk about what comes next.” You nodded slowly, the reality of your situation sinking in. “I don’t know if I can ever make things right, Natasha.”

Natasha squeezed your arm gently. “It’s not going to be easy, but you’re not beyond redemption. We all have our demons. The important thing is that you’re willing to try.”You met her gaze, the flicker of hope in your eyes growing a little stronger. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For not giving up on me.”

Natasha smiled, her eyes warm. “You know,” she began, her voice soft, “I also wasn’t always this person. I used to be someone very different. My past… it wasn’t pretty.” You looked at her, curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

“I was trained to be an assassin,” Natasha said, her eyes distant as she recalled her past. “I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. But then, I was given a second chance. Someone believed I could be more than what I was trained to be. They saw something in me worth saving.” You listened intently, feeling a connection forming. “And you changed?”

Natasha nodded. “It wasn’t easy. It took time, and I had to face a lot of my demons. But I did it. And if I could do it, so can you.” Her words resonated deeply within you, giving you a glimmer of hope. “I want to believe that,” you said quietly. “I really do.”

Natasha’s gaze softened, and she leaned in a little closer. “You’re already taking the first steps by being here. That’s more than enough for now.”

Without thinking, driven by a sudden surge of emotion, you leaned in and pressed your lips to Natasha’s. The kiss was gentle but filled with desperation and gratitude. For a moment, Natasha froze, and panic set in. You pulled back, your eyes wide with fear that you had ruined everything. “Shit, I’m sorry,” you stammered, your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have—”

But before you could finish, Natasha cupped your face in her hands and kissed you back, her lips soft and warm against yours. The kiss deepened, filled with unspoken promises and a shared understanding of pain and redemption.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. Natasha’s eyes held a mix of emotions, but there was no anger, only acceptance. You stared into her eyes, feeling a connection that you had never felt before. The room seemed to close in, and the outside world faded away. All that mattered was the two of you in that moment.

Driven by a mix of gratitude and the need to repay her for her kindness, you leaned in again, kissing her more deeply this time. Your hands found their way to her shoulders, pulling her closer. Natasha responded, but with a controlled intensity that made your heart race.

“I kinda want to repay you..” You said and Natasha pulled back slightly, her eyes dark with emotion. “You don’t owe me anything,” she said firmly, though her voice was gentle. “But if this is what you want… then let me take care of you.”

Natasha’s hands moved to the hem of your shirt, but she paused, glancing at your bandaged side. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” she asked, concern evident in her voice. “I am,” you replied, your voice steady. “Just… be careful.”

Natasha’s eyes softened, and she carefully lifted your shirt over your head, her touch both gentle and firm. She ran her hands down your sides, avoiding the bandaged wound, her fingers sending shivers through your body.

You reached out to touch her, but Natasha gently pushed your hands away, a smirk playing on her lips. “Let me,” she whispered, her voice low and commanding.

You felt a thrill of excitement and a hint of frustration. “What if I want to take care of you?” you challenged, your voice breathy. Natasha’s eyes flashed with amusement and something darker. “We’ll see about that,” she replied, her tone teasing but firm.

She leaned in, kissing you again, her hands exploring your body with a careful yet possessive touch. Her lips trailed down your neck, making you gasp softly. You felt her fingers brush against the scars on your chest, and you tensed slightly.

“You’re beautiful,” Natasha murmured against your skin, her words sending a warm flush through you. “Every part of you.”

You relaxed under her touch, feeling safe and cherished. Natasha’s hands moved with expert precision, caressing and teasing until you were trembling with need. She was rough enough to assert her dominance but always mindful of your injuries, never pushing you too far.

“G-God..” you moaned softly, your hands gripping the couch cushions as she continued to drive you wild with her touch. “Shh,” she whispered, her lips brushing against your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

You surrendered completely, allowing Natasha to guide you. Her movements were a perfect blend of roughness and tenderness, making you feel desired and protected at the same time. She kissed her way down your body again, exploring everywhere, her touch igniting a fire within you.

You couldn’t deny how good her touch felt. Natasha continued to explore your body, her hands and mouth leaving a trail of sensations that made your head spin. She was rough enough to keep you on edge but always careful, never letting you forget that she was in control.

When she finally moved lower, her hands parting your legs, you gasped, your body arching towards her. “Natasha,” you breathed, your hands reaching for her.

She held your gaze, her eyes dark with desire. Your breath hitching as she moved closer. Natasha’s touch was both commanding and gentle, her fingers exploring you with a skill that left you trembling. She brought you to the edge, holding you there, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Please,” you begged, your voice barely a whisper. “I need you.” Natasha’s lips curved into a smile. “Patience,” she murmured, her touch driving you wild. When she finally took you over the edge, it was with a fierce intensity that left you breathless and trembling.

You cried out, your body arching towards her, your hands gripping the couch cushions as waves of pleasure washed over you.

Natasha held you through it, her touch gentle now, soothing you as you came down from the high. She pulled you into her arms, holding you close, her lips brushing against your forehead.

She kissed you again, her lips soft and inviting. You could feel the fire reignite within you as her hands roamed your body with renewed fervor. She leaned back slightly, her eyes meeting yours with a dark intensity. “Ready for more?” she whispered, her voice husky. You nodded, your breath hitching. “Yes… please.”

Natasha smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes as she resumed her exploration. She kissed her way down your neck, her hands caressing your sensitive skin. Her touch was both commanding and tender, igniting every nerve ending as she moved lower.

You gasped as Natasha’s fingers found their way between your thighs, her touch electric. She moved with a deliberate pace, building you up again with expert precision. The tension within you coiled tighter and tighter, the need for release almost unbearable.

Natasha leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. “Come for me, Y/n, come on..“ she commanded softly, her voice sending shivers down your spine. With a cry of pleasure, you came undone beneath her touch, your body arching towards her as waves of ecstasy crashed over you again. Natasha held you close, her hands steadying you as you trembled in her arms.

When you finally came down from the high, Natasha kissed you softly, her eyes filled with warmth and satisfaction. “You did so well,” she murmured, her voice soothing.

You lay there in the aftermath, your breath slowly returning to normal. Natasha’s arms around you felt like the safest place in the world. She glanced down at you, her eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Y/n,” Natasha began softly, her fingers tracing the scars on your body. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s a long story,” you murmured, your voice tinged with sadness. “I wasn’t always like this. I had a family once. A sister. She was everything to me." Natasha listened intently, her hand gently stroking your hair. "What happened?"

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "She got involved with some bad people. Tried to help her, but it was too late. They... they killed her. The police did nothing. They said it was an accident, but I knew better. I saw the bruises, the fear in her eyes. I knew she was in trouble, and no one was willing to help."

Natasha's eyes softened with understanding. "So you took matters into your own hands." You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. "I couldn't let those monsters walk free. I couldn't let anyone else suffer like she did. So I started hunting them, taking down the ones who hurt innocent people. It became my mission, my way of coping with the loss."

Natasha pulled you closer, her embrace comforting. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. No one should have to go through that." You sniffled, wiping away a tear. "I know what I did was wrong, but I felt like I had no other choice. I had to do something."

Natasha nodded, her voice gentle. "I understand now. Your intentions were good, but the methods were extreme. But we need to find a better way." You looked up at her, a glimmer of hope in your eyes. "Do you really think it's possible?"

Natasha smiled softly. "I do. But it's going to take time and effort. And you're not alone in this. I'll be with you every step of the way."

The next few days passed quietly. Natasha helped you regain your strength, providing a safe space for you to heal. She was always there, offering support and understanding. You found yourself opening up more, sharing stories and fears you had kept buried for so long.

One evening, as the two of you were sitting on the couch, Natasha turned to you, her expression serious. "Y/n, there's something I need to tell you."

You looked at her, sensing the gravity in her tone. "What is it?" Natasha took a deep breath. "Don’t be mad, but I called Fury. He's on his way here."

Your heart raced, a surge of panic rising within you. "What?! Why? I thought-“ Natasha raised her hands, trying to calm you. "No, listen. He's coming alone, and he wants to listen to you. I explained your situation, and he agreed to hear you out."

A short while later, there was a knock at the door. Natasha stood up, giving you a reassuring nod before opening it. Fury entered, his expression unreadable but his presence commanding.

"Romanoff," Fury greeted, his gaze shifting to you. "Y/n." You swallowed hard, trying to steady your nerves. "Director."

Fury sat down across from you, his eye fixed on you with an intensity that made you shiver. "Natasha tells me you want to make things right. I’m all ears.“

You took a deep breath, recounting your story, your motivations, and the reasons behind your actions. Fury listened intently, his expression unreadable.

When you finished, there was a heavy silence. Fury leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours. "You've taken the law into your own hands. That's a dangerous path.“

You nodded, "I know what I did was wrong. But to all respect..Do you know what it’s like to watch innocent people suffer because the system is too slow or too corrupt to act? To see those people walking free because they can afford good lawyers? I did what I did because someone had to.”

Fury sighed, his expression softening slightly. "You're a fighter, Y/n. I can respect that. But you need to learn to fight the right way." You looked up, surprised by his words. "What do you mean?"

Fury glanced at Natasha before continuing. "You want justice? Fine. We'll give you a chance to prove yourself. You'll work for us, under supervision. Help us take down the real threats, the ones that slip through the cracks. But you step out of line, and it's over. Understand?"

The weight of his words settled on you. This was it, a chance to prove yourself, but also a heavy responsibility. You glanced at Natasha, who gave you an encouraging nod. "I understand," you said firmly. "Thank you..“

"Good," Fury said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D. Don't make me regret this."

---

As you walked through the halls of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, you felt the eyes of agents on you, their expressions a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and, in some cases, outright hostility. You tried to ignore the whispers and the glares, focusing on the promise you had made to Fury and to yourself.

Natasha guided you to a conference room where the Avengers were gathered. The room fell silent as you entered, every eye on you, again.“

"Everyone, this is Y/n," Natasha began, her voice steady. "She'll be working with us from now on." Tony was the first to speak, his tone skeptical. "So, we're just supposed to trust her now?"

"I know it's a lot to ask," Natasha replied, her gaze steady. "But she's here to make things right. And Fury's given her a chance. We need to give her one, too."

Steve stepped forward, his expression serious. "It's not going to be easy. You'll have to earn our trust. But if Natasha believes in you, that's a good start."

You nodded, feeling the weight of their scrutiny. "I know I have a lot to prove. But I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

You took a deep breath, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. "I won't let you down." Natasha guided you to a room in the living quarters. It was small but comfortable, a far cry from the places you had been staying in recently.

"This is your room," Natasha said, her voice softening. "It's not much, but it's a start." You looked around, feeling a strange mix of emotions. "No, it's perfect.."

Natasha placed a hand on your shoulder. "Remember, you're not alone. We're in this together." You nodded, feeling a sense of hope for the first time in a long while. "I know. And I won't forget it."

As you settled into your new room, the reality of your situation began to sink in. The road to redemption would be long and difficult, but with Natasha's support and the chance to prove yourself, you felt ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. And as you lay down to rest, you knew that this was just the beginning of a new chapter in your life. A chapter filled with hope, determination, and the promise of a better future.

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@mrsrushman @lOnelyish @imnotslouching @a-colletion-of-cells

[stevebabey]

this is pure stupid hell crack that took more time than it should’ve to finish BUT i’m ready 2 release it from my drafts <3 this is actually technically written partially w @corrodedcoughin in mind bcos i think u will mighty enjoy it! for cockney eddie!

It comes with the territory, the accents.

Drama kid or dungeon-master, either one could be credited with contributing heavily to his affinity for all of Eddie’s little voices.

There was the deep, low raspy one reserved for trolls in campaigns — and a nasally high one he used for goblins to pair. Wise wizards giving out crucial advice sometimes had a strong Scottish drawl to their words. And Dwarfs? Always English.

So, yeah, Eddie has a couple different accents in his different repertoire. Pulls them out as he needs — a regal tone when referring to Hawkin’s very own royalty or a buried Southern twang used when he’s in trouble with Wayne. The most common is a shoddy Cockney accent for when any conversation dips too far towards awkward or boring.

It's why it's not so surprising anymore when they just... slip out sometimes.

He's learned more now, when specifically not to do it (Mrs. Donnell had not found his plea for a re-sit, in a heavy Irish accent, endearing in the slightest). But with friends who know Eddie, they know the accents come along too.

Steve fucking loves them.

The first time one had taken over his voice, some New Yorker twang to carry a joke, Steve had laughed so hard he’d snorted. And god, had Eddie lit up at the noise— loved knowing that, deep down Steve Harrington had a delicious wonderful ugly laugh that he only showed to people he trusted.

Basically, it’s hardly news to Steve then, all of Eddie’s little voices.

But well, even Eddie didn’t expect… okay, the truth is he never expected to be in this situation at all.

It’s a Wednesday evening when it happens. Steve is over round the trailer like he is every Wednesday, keeping Eddie company while Wayne is out on the double night shift.

It originally had started out as ensuring wounds were checked and dressed properly — considering half of them had scaled up his back, where Eddie couldn’t reach — for the both of them. Then, when technically Eddie could manage the worst of his words, Steve was still coming around. Dustin’s insistence, he’d said.

Then it was… because Eddie asked Steve to come around, to stay a little longer.

So, Steve Harrington is in his kitchen and it’s a Wednesday ritual that they have together and that’s not even the weird part of the evening.

(And somehow, neither is the fact that Steve is, as of a few months ago, his boyfriend.)

Steve’s cooking. Something simmers low on the scarlet glowing hob, bubbling quietly and releasing aromas of spices that percolate into the Autumn evening air.

Eddie feels his stomach growl in its own twist of hunger as he follows his nose. With one hand still scrubbing a towel against his wet hair, he ambles down the hall, fresh out the shower, ready for love — be it the form of food or, he thinks giddily, kisses.

Steve’s not watching the food as Eddie enters, his eyes fixed somewhere across the room. There’s a crease between his eyebrows, an indication of his deep thought.

Eddie grins, approaching without any attempt of being sneaky, (Steve’s as good as comatose when he’s distracted as he’d found) and jabs his boyfriend’s calf with his toe.

“Thinking mighty hard there, Stevie. That’s dangerous.”

Steve jolts, snapping out of his thoughts. He straightens up automatically, then seems to recall the company he’s keeping, and relaxes back down.

He scowls affectionately at Eddie’s barefoot, still jabbing into his leg, and reaches out to flick it with his finger.

“Dickhead.”

Eddie’s faster. He dances away and laughs at the instinctual pout that forms on Steve’s lips.

“What ponders thy mind, hm?” Eddie drawls, a lilt of a Regency style accent in his voice. He sinks into one of the kitchen chairs and drops his task. The towel hangs over his neck, his damp curls resting against it.

Steve seems to jolt again at that, his shoulders rising for a moment. He spins, picking up the wooden spoon beside the stove to swirl the contents of their dinner around. Eddie admires him, broad shoulders and long back, ripe for his taking. Silently, he sighs dreamily on the inside.

“Just… what movie we’re gonna watch tonight.” Steve says unconvincingly. “I’m not doing another re-watch of the Fly.” He adds lamely, an attempt at his usual bitch.

Eddie lets him have it. With one final squeeze of the towel, trying to wring out all the droplets in his hair, Eddie abandons it on the chair as he stands. He waltzes forward, into Steve’s space, and hooks his chin over the other's shoulder.

“You know, that’s what you said last time.”

Steve side-eyes him, his eyes narrowing into a minuscule glare; bitch personified. Eddie grins. Then bats his eyelashes.

It makes Steve laugh, shrugging Eddie’s weight off politely as he gives their dinner another stir. There’s still this tenseness to his frame. Though, maybe it's one Eddie can only notice because he’s paying such close attention.

“Alrightttttt,” He pretends to relent dramatically, his hands coming up to give Steve’s shoulders a quick squeeze. “I’ll let you pick the movie tonight.”

He drops his hands back to his sides, smarmy grin already plastered on as Steve turns to face him, the wooden spoon placed down on the bench.

“Oh, you’ll let me, will you?” He gives this incredulous look, even if there is this playfulness toying at the corners at his lips.

“Uh huh,” Eddie affirms with a severe nod, then begins counting on his fingers as he lists off. “No badgering, wailing, complaining, of any sorts I—“

Suddenly, Steve’s reaching out, his deft hands reaching out to snag the waistband of Eddie’s pyjama pants. It supposed to be a smooth move he’s used countless times before; fingers looped through belt loops to pull a girl in for a kiss. It usually works like a charm.

Except, there’s no belt loops— and when Steve tucks his fingers beneath the waistband and tugs him forward, Eddie shrieks.

“Fucking christ, Steve!” He bats Steve’s hands back without thinking. Steve holds them up defensively.

“Sorry! I was just—”

“What are you doing sticking your hands in my pants?!”

“It was a move!” Steve insists, voice a little whiney. “God, you’re dramatic- I was trying to pull you closer, numb-nuts.”

“Oooh,” Eddie switches up in an instant, hands shooting out to grab Steve’s own. He pulls them forward and settles them on his own waist, shuffling in closer like he hadn’t just shrieked a minute earlier. “Continue.”

Steve chuckles, delight peeking through on his face. His hands, large and slender, curl around the skin of Eddie’s waist and Christ, he’s still not used to that. Eddie’s too focused on repressing his shiver to see the shadow of nervousness cross Steve’s face.

“I was actually thinkin’ about,” Steve starts lowly, eyes skirting off Eddie’s face, over his shoulder. His fingers tighten their grip. “How—”

He sucks in a breath, like drawing in courage, and meets Eddie’s gaze. “About how much I love you.”

There’s the smallest tremble to his voice, giving away the immense emotion behind the words.

And here’s the situation that Eddie never expected to be in, ever. His breath catches, his eyes widen — his heartstrings tangle and knot themselves as he soaks in Steve’s admittance. Love, love, love — he loves me.

His lips part, a raspy noise escaping as he tries to compute, tries to think of anything to say because the longer he stays silent, the more crushed Steve’s expression becomes. And then—

“Well, I luv ya too.”

The words fall out, thick in that godawful Cockney accent.

Steve's face doesn't change but Eddie's does, contorting in an amalgamation of pure cringe and panic as embarrassment crawls beneath his skin. He slaps his hand over his own mouth as if it can take back his awful reply to being told he's loved by Steve.

"I—" He starts, speaking through his fingers, except it still comes out in a funny accent. Eddie squeaks, his grip over his mouth tightening, brown eyes wide in his panic. Oh God, never in stupid silly life has his accents come back to bite him in the ass so magnificently.

"I'm so sorry," Eddie whispers-yells in his regular voice, finally dragging his hands off his face sluggishly. "Jesus H Christ, I didn't— that wasn't making fun of you, I— oh god, you know that happens when I'm nervous sometimes. Shit. Shit, I'm so sorry, Steve."

Steve hasn't moved, his hands still resting on the small of Eddie's waist. His expression is guarded, nothing betrayed. His dark eyes scan across Eddie's face and just before he speaks, the smallest glimmer of amusement glitters across his face.

"Well," Steve begins, heaving a faux large sigh. His hands squeeze comfortingly at Eddie's waist again. Eddie who is still frozen, still cursing himself internally, still echoing around the apparently true fact that Steve loves him— well, maybe not anymore with how awfully Eddie responded.

And then Steve opens his mouth and the most appalling attempt at some accent comes out. It makes his words all garbled and Steve's pink in the face, obviously embarrassed but trying to commit to some shoddy Scottish when he says, "Aye, that's al'right."

Eddie stares at him. Steve stares back.

The moment of silence is broken as laughter seizes him, a guffaw bursting from his lips and holy fuck, Eddie loves him so much. Steve laughs too, the two of them relaxing and sinking into one another. Eddie's hands, previously fluttering and unsure, find their natural place curled in underneath Steve's jaw and when he leans in, he's fighting off his laughter. His grin is unbearably wide, cheeks aching.

Steve's got this shine in his eye, his hands sliding further around to pull Eddie in closer, his pink lips quirked in delight. Eddie practically purrs, so close to kissing him but not quite closing the gap.

"Yep," He says, eyes bright as they bounce over Steve's face to drink in his boyfriend's love-soaked expression. He loves him. Steve loves him. Eddie sounds as lovesick as he feels when he whispers, "It's decided. I think you're it for me, Stevie-baby."

He presses forward, lets his mouth find their home in the curve of Steve's lips. It's warm like nothing he's ever felt before, softened by their gooey-grins of love. It's an in love kiss.

"Even if you're terrible at accents." He murmurs against Steve's mouth.

"Shut up."

Steve hisses, but he’s still grinning. The dinner bubbles behind them, still cooking away behind them. "Like I'm ever going to let you live that down."

Eddie finds he doesn't really mind all that much — God forbid his boyfriend ever remind him they're in love.

"Shut up," He still says, then sticks out his tongue, like he's ten years old. "You love me."

"I do." Steve admits easily, his fingertips dancing along the small of Eddie's back. Eddie has to tuck his bottom lip behind his teeth to restrain his wild grin.

"And I love you." He says, properly this time, jabbing his finger into Steve's chest — so there's no absolutely mistaking it.

[definitelynotshouting]

*glances up from shoving my hands into hauntingly neutral Speaker concepts* you got any worldbuilding you wants to talk about? I’m love worldbuilding

Okay i let this one percolate for a little bit bc i didnt immediately have anything i could like, coherently speak abt at the time, but i do actually think this could be interesting for yall to hear???

So in hunger au, the universe is quasi-sentient, and all the entities within it (Players, Watchers, Listeners, even Seekers when they were still alive) are like... its fruiting bodies, if we wanna put it in fungal terms, so to speak. Entities are the universe's way of exploring, understanding, and experiencing itself; because of this, everything is connected to it via the Greater Code in some capacity. (For newly Spawned Players especially, this connection is very deep and strong-- its what teaches them how to survive, how to function on their own; its what urges them to make that first crafter and begin playing the game, to learn and to keep learning. I've likened it before to something of a mental umbilical cord, of sorts, that fades over time as the Player emerges into their own.)

The point here though is that everything in the universe is the universe, and is therefore technically the universe speaking to itself, over and over and over again, in many different voices.

Which means that, functionally, there is only one native language in this universe.

This doesnt mean multiple languages dont exist, but the thing is, theyre all conlangs!! Language is in itself a form of play-- its not uncommon at all for Players to develop their own languages, unique dialects, and body-language that are all very server(or even individual)-specific

I dont really have a name for this universal language (frankly id probably just borrow it from galactic; as i told @/raichett when it came up in dms the other night, my skills really do not lie in making conlangs atm 😂😂😂😂😂) but i thought that would be fun to toss out there for you guys to munch on as i edit hunger au chap 10 :] thanks for asking!!!

[hairasuntouchedaspartoftheamazon]

This is largely for @ryebreadlord

So...something about Jersey does weird things to the people who come from it, and subsequently the music they make, which explains two of my favorite bands being My Chemical Romance and The Gaslight Anthem. due to being raised on the latter and falling head over heels in love with the former at age fourteen, the discographies of these bands exist in conversation in my head. can I rationally explain these conversations? the answer is: sometimes!

Basically, this is why The Spirit of Jazz (Gaslight Anthem) and Save Yourself I’ll Hold Them Back (MCR) are married in my head.

To begin, there’s a few superficial similarities between the songs:

In the second verses of both songs there are mentions to dark haired lovers and a special relationship between the narrator and their lover:

“ So what now, lover with your long black hair? If I cut you open, baby, I can repair. Bandage your wounds with the salt on my tongue. And I'm the only one around here ” (The Gaslight Anthem)

“ I'm the only friend that makes you cry, You're a heart attack in black hair dye” (My Chemical Romance)

Both songs loosely allude to a vague form of immortality via movies and music, suggesting that the narrator is aware of the story they are telling:

“ The Cool is dead, baby, go on to sleep, Rest your weary head and love a better me, And in the morning we'll start over again, That's how they do it up on the screen “ (The Gaslight Anthem)

“ They say we're never leaving this place alive, But if you sing these words, we'll never die” and “ This ain't about all the friends you made, But the graffiti they write on your grave” (My Chemical Romance)

These are superficial similarities, but they allow me to get the ball rolling and thoughts percolating.

To me, the songs are just similar enough in ideas and concepts mentioned to plausibly create two perspectives of one narrative. Two snapshots of one story, if you will, with the individual context of each song creating a larger narrative. Save Yourself I’ll Hold Them Back has a narrator who is simultaneously desperate and hopeful, screaming for their lover to get out and save themselves while also saying that as long as they keep hope and beauty in the world, none of them will truly die. The Spirit of Jazz has a narrator who is nostalgic, remembering previous times with a lover and waiting for that lover to return, while still professing their love. To me, these narrators are one and the same, just separated by time. At first, the narrator is young and in a desperate situation, sending their lover away for their safety. Later, they are waiting, wondering if they will ever see that lover again. At no time do they ever doubt their devotion to each other, there is the question of whether they did the right thing.

To compare the choruses:

“ Was I good to you, the wife of my youth? Not another soul could love you like my rotten bones do, So I will wait on the edges in between, These New York streets where you and I would meet” (The Gaslight Anthem)

“ We can leave this world, leave it all behind, We can steal this car if your folks don't mind, We can live forever if you've got the time “ (My Chemical Romance)

These are in conversation with each other. In an earlier time, the narrator and their lover wanted to run away, and claimed they would live forever. Later, the narrator is waiting, perhaps forever, for their lover to come back to them. The Gaslight Anthem song mentions waiting multiple times throughout the song. In the lens I’m using, this can be viewed as the narrator waiting at an arranged safe point after being separated, and wondering if their lover is ever going to meet them there.

Additionally, both songs make references to times when the narrator has saved their lover from pain, both self-inflicted or otherwise:

“Get off the ledge and drop the knife, Not a victim of a victim's life, Because this ain't a room full of suicides, We're believers, I believe tonight” (My Chemical Romance)

“And only I can heal your wounds, Only I can heal your wounds, When you can't go on, when you can't go on, When you can't go on, when you know, hold on” (The Gaslight Anthem)

Finally, one of the more blatant similarities with the narrator describing their lover:

“ But I'm a cannonball to a house on fire, And you're slow like Motown soul” (The Gaslight Anthem”

“ You're the broken glass in the morning light, Be a burning star if it takes all night” (My Chemical Romance)

Both of these songs describe the narrator’s lover as moving slower or ‘taking all night’, which supports the narrative I’m establishing. Of course the narrator is giving their lover time to escape, the lover moves slower and needs time(a whole night) to get away. And of course the narrator, much later, is still waiting for their lover to reappear, they take their time like soul music does. I also love how both lines shown here reference the lover in close proximity to fire and destruction.

Both songs are also oddly hopeful! Save Yourself I’ll Hold Them Back continuously states that the narrator and their lover are going to live forever, while The Spirit of Jazz remembers the old times with only fondness and repeatedly states that the narrator will wait as long as it takes to see their lover again.

To sum up: To someone who listens to a lot of sad yet oddly hopeful rock music from Jersey, these songs have a lot in common and can form a narrative when put together. Go listen to them, I provided links. Stay tuned for when I compare more songs!

[slinklove]

hella work posted / added on here throughout the week/weekend —— making progress on a cool paper , watching it form as I’m forming it lol jus an amalgamation of files in my Google drive rn but something beautiful is cooking 👩🏾‍🍳

Goin back n forth on locations for second install - now I’m thinking of presenting a garment as opposed to consuming wall space - or making a large vinyl? For the annex window? -(most likely in hindsight) The big wall of DAAP pictured? Of me wearing said garment with the original IM NOT BLACK IM BLACK printed? Having a QR code embedded that takes them to a landing page that’s just a “simple poem”/digital installation by me about what I mean , then they can navigate deeper into my website if they so choose…. Hmmm idk sounds cool idk what im choosing yet fr fr tho but I feel the percolation and I know some people might deem this procrastinator but I really feel very on top of it even thought it’s still vague to me….

[eirenical]

*drops by to yell about "post-canon Huo Daofu and Xiao Ge… time-sharing Wu Xie"* <3 <3

AHAHAHA-- RIGHT. So, @elenothar when I told you I wanted to hold on to this ask and let the fic percolate, I didn't think it would then CONSUME MY THOUGHTS for the next several days until I had to get some of it down on paper. O_o;;; So, this is shaping up to be longer than originally intended, and this bit is still on the rough side, but here's the first (1200+ word) scene? To gauge interest, maybe? (...oh who am I kidding; interest or no interest, I'm gonna write it anyway. XD) Enjoy? ^_^

*

It was quiet. The party that had raged and roared like a living beast for hours before now slumbered. Huo Daofu threaded his way carefully through the sleeping and unconscious bodies it had left in its wake to take up a careful perch on one of the few remaining upright pieces of furniture. As he settled in, the bench's occupant lifted his bottle to clink aimlessly against his, then briefly raised it before taking a pull. Huo Daofu obediently took a sip from his own bottle; there was little enough left in it.

Lowering his bottle, Huo Daofu let it dangle loosely from his hand as he leaned over to brace his elbows on his knees. It had been a long time since he'd indulged himself this way. A very long time. Beside him, Wang Pangzi leaned back to rest his elbows on the table behind them, tipping his head back. He was smiling. "Now *that* was a party."

The corners of Huo Daofu's lips pulled up in an answering smile before he even realized they had. They'd been doing that a lot lately. Smiling without his express permission.

They used to do that often. Before.

The smile fell from Huo Daofu's lips as though it had been washed away by a bucket of cold water. He'd been down this road before. He'd been down this road before, and it had only led him to heartbreak. He had no desire to travel it again now that he knew where it led. He looked up, gaze catching on the only other upright person in the room. Zhang Qiling. Xiao-ge. Wu Xie's Menyouping. Wu Xie's—

Huo Daofu tore his gaze away, closing his eyes to the sight and finishing off his bottle in one long pull. By the time he had finished, Pangzi's leg was a heavy line of warmth against his own, his outstretched knee lazily nudging into him. He laughed. "Now, where have I seen that look before, I wonder?"

Taking advantage of the few inches remaining on his side of the bench, Huo Daofu shifted away, frowning to discourage Pangzi from claiming the inches he'd ceded. Pangzi, of course, took no notice. Wu Xie had ruined his understanding of personal space, like he had for so many others… if Pangzi had had any to begin with. Pangzi had rolled onto his hip to face Huo Daofu, one arm propping his head up on the table, the other bracing his own bottle on his hip. He raised an eyebrow.

Huo Daofu matched that look, stare for stare, for as long as he could before breaking. He twirled his empty bottle idly back and forth between his hands, wishing he hadn't finished it, that he could take another drink in lieu of answering the question so clearly waiting in Pangzi's open expression. Finally, he sighed, leaning back against the table. Quietly, he said, "How do you let him go? When the mission is over, when the wounds are healed, and to the victor have gone the spoils… how do you let him go?"

Pangzi's snort ruffled the short hair at the back of Huo Daofu's neck, and he repressed a shudder. "Xiao-ge?" Pangzi's hand waved wildly across the room for a moment before he snorted again. "He's like a feral cat, that one. Happy to accept food and skritchings and pettings when it pleases him, but restless and aggressive if tied down to one place for too long. It's better for everyone concerned to let him wander where he will and when he will. Eventually you just…" he shrugged. "…learn to accept it." There was a brief pause, then Pangzi reached out and poked Huo Daofu hard in the shoulder. "Aiyo. You're not turning into another Sang Bei'er on me, are you? One Xiao-ge superfan is already more than we can handle."

Huo Daofu turned to face Pangzi, his face hardening. Zhang Qiling. Really.

As their eyes met, Pangzi's face abruptly softened. "Ah. Ah, ah, ah. OK." That last came out in English, and Pangzi reached out again, this time to pat the spot on Huo Daofu's shoulder that he had just poked a moment before. "Apologies, apologies. I misunderstood." Another pat.

If Huo Daofu could have moved further away without falling off the bench, he would have. He wasn't used to… this. Pangzi sat up beside him, finally, taking another pull of his bottle before turning his own gaze across the room. Zhang Qiling was still sitting upright, looking down at a boneless Wu Xie, who was sprawled across his lap like some oversized cat, with a softer look than Huo Daofu had ever seen on his face. His fingers slowly sifted through Wu Xie's hair and Wu Xie curled *closer* and— Huo Daofu's stomach clenched at the sudden sense memory of his own fingers sliding through that same hair. He dropped his head into his hands, doing his best to convince himself when Pangzi's overly heavy patting resumed moments later, that it was reassuring and not intrusive.

Softly, and with almost more sympathy in it than Huo Daofu could bear, Pangzi said, "I hate to say it, but I think you're very much barking up the wrong tree here. I don't have a great track record, myself, of being able to let him go. Exhibit A being me literally falling to my knees and begging for his life outside your very own youtiao shop, not all that long ago… in case you forgot."

Quietly. "I haven't forgotten."

How could he?

It had been years at that point, since Huo Daofu had last set eyes on Wu Xie, years since what they'd had had ended in a fiery explosion of tempers that had left a hole inside him that had still been only slowly healing when Wang Pangzi showed up on his doorstep. He'd seriously considered, then, leaving Wu Xie to die, had still been considering it days later when he joined them on that frantic rescue mission from which Wu Xie should not have returned. But being near him, supporting him, taking care of him, day after day after day… of being subject to that wry, unassuming smile and the dry sense of humor that they'd always shared… of having that body back in his arms, no matter how dire the circumstances… it had weighed on him until he'd reached a wary sort of peace with himself and an even warier sort of peace with Wu Xie. Huo Daofu had bid him goodbye on that last desperate mission fully expecting it to *be* goodbye, that having made their peace, they could let each other go, and Huo Daofu would be left to remember him fondly after his death, instead of with the bitterness that had so overshadowed their last parting.

But then Wu Xie had returned.

Whole.

Healed.

With Zhang Qiling at his side.

And now Huo Daofu was faced with a Wu Xie who had let *him* go… and he being unable to return the favor.

Pushing himself off the bench, Huo Daofu gave Pangzi a pat of his own in return. "Never mind, Pangzi. I'll find my own way." Softly. "I always do." And then before Pangzi could say another word, Huo Daofu turned and left. He had responsibilities. He had his pride. He was no longer 20 years old, willing to pine forever after the unattainable. It was time to let go. Angry words hadn't worked the last time, formed as they had been of barbed hooks that pulled both ways. This time, Huo Daofu would simply… wish Wu Xie well. And hope that that would be enough to cut the ties that needed to be cut, for both their sakes.

[fear-before-valor]

AU Ficlet: Jim, who was raised by the Order from the age of five, attends Arcadia Oaks High, for his first day of human high school. Weird things happen in Arcadia, though, and his appearance seems to be one such weird thing to the residents in this small, strange town... 

Aka: How an Order-raised Jim met Toby and Claire

Words: 2939 II Warnings: none II ok to rb --

Jim dropped his backpack at the empty desk next to one Tobias Domzalski’s, one of the only people at school who’d been properly friendly to him so far. It was Jim’s first day of mortal high school, and he’d been vetted mercilessly by every student group but Tobias’s, though he was beginning to suspect that said group consisted of only Tobias.

Of course, Jim had been screening his peers right back, but it was still exhausting. He thought he’d been ready after the Order’s… extensive lessons on humanity, and how to fit in with the mortals like himself, but already, everything he’d done felt like it must have been a social faux pas of some kind.

Act quiet around the quiet kids? Then no one speaks, until the silence grows so long that it’s awkward, and starting up a conversation makes it feel painfully forced. So, okay, maybe find some louder kids and try to blend in with them. Except, they start to grow obnoxious, and at some point, the headache simply stops being worth it.

Jim wasn’t even going to dare try and bond with the overly studious; he wasn’t here to vie for valedictorian, nor was he all that interested in making grades that separated him from the pack. Not to mention, he much preferred whatever lessons the Order could teach him anyway. They were very practical things, going over philosophy, strategy, combat, computations. He was already conversational in Bellroc and Skrael’s original languages, and though he knew Spanish would be equally valuable, the Spanish teacher seemed… intense, in a way that Bellroc and Skrael, who could likewise be rigorous sometimes, were not.

In fact, the only class he was indeed eager to take was history—and, okay, perhaps physical education didn’t sound horrendous, so long as he was careful about holding back in certain areas—because while he could learn plenty of history from his very ancient guardians, to hear of human history from the mouths of humans, like himself… it sounded unique, in a way that he hoped was amenable, at the very least, if not genuinely interesting or entertaining.

As he sat down in the chair beside Tobias, the boy seemed to light up, beaming over at Jim, a reaction that he hadn’t expected from his peer. He’d thought he’d rather botched his first conversation with Tobias in homeroom that morning, as he hadn’t known anything about anything that Tobias had referenced (what on earth was Gun Robot?). But, evidently, he must have done something well—or at least, acceptably— because Tobias was leaning over and excitedly holding out his hand to show Jim something which clattered in his palm as he moved. Politely, Jim glanced over to see what it was, and—oh.

Oh no.

That was definitely the remains of a troll.

Tobias was holding out small, grey pebbles for him to see, on which Jim could just make out hints of tattoos that had been etched into the troll while they were alive.

Holding back his mild panic, he gave a tight smile and a nod, as his classmate diagnosed them incorrectly as gneiss—which, admittedly, Jim thought wasn’t a bad guess, really. It’s not like the other boy had any reason to think that the rocks he was holding were anything but an average metamorphic stone.

Tobias was looking to Jim for a response, though, so he opened his mouth to speak, breathing in—

—magic.

Jim froze once more. The distinct tingle of magic had just washed over his senses, keen and undeniable, unlike anything else he’d felt that day.

It was raw, underdeveloped, not yet bolstered by the right teacher, but it was there, and it spoke in tones of purple, pulsing with potential.

Jim was no wizard himself, much preferring combat to the arcane arts, having not a strong penchant for it or its intricacies and delicate, temperamental nature, but even still, he’d been raised with the three most powerful magic-users in the known world. They’d taught him from youth how to recognize when magic was present, how to glean as many clues as he possibly could about it, or who might have cast it, might be walking in it, based on its style and scent, its intensity, or its intentionality. He wasn’t quite the best at sensing the finer details, nor could he find it when it was masked, but when it was open, unhidden, he could feel it like a mild electric shock that one might get when touching a door handle in dry weather; he could sense it like the faint scent of ozone during a storm, or like a prickle on the hairs on the back of his neck, when lightning was about to strike.

What’s going on? He thought, as he turned his head in the direction of the epicenter of the magic. First, there’s troll remains in the hands of a classmate with the same schedule as him, and then there’s—the girl, there. The girl with the blue streak in her hair.

The witch.

She’d caught him staring, as she set her books down on a desk in the front row, a couple columns over from his. Beside her plopped down two more girls—her friends, Jim noted, as they chattered familiarly, cheerfully.

The girl gave him an awkward smile, then, and Jim realized that he must have been staring for a few moments too long, so he rapidly flicked his eyes back to the surface of his own desk, trying not to think about the flush he could feel splash across the back of his neck, or the tips of his ears.

Tobias did not grant him such grace.

“Ooh,” he grinned, smug as a cat in a sunbeam. “That’s Claire Nuñez. President of the drama club, valedictorian candidate, great actress. She’s tied with Seamus Johnson and Shannon Longhannon for top of the class right now, I heard. She’s wicked smart, and—Jim?” Tobias huffed, “Are you paying attention to me?”

Jim’s eyes darted back to his new friend, from where they’d been briefly studying Claire Nuñez’s back, trying to get a more in-depth read on her arcana. He nodded distractedly. “Yeah, yeah, smart, a president; I heard you.”

Tobias sighed, shaking his head. “Jim.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, indicating that he was listening.

“She’s out of your league.” He deadpanned. “She’s super popular, and you’re, no offense, definitely not.”

Jim shot Tobias a confused look, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

The boy stared openly at Jim. “What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’? Do you really not— Oh my god.”

Jim blinked. “What?”

Tobias shook his head. “Jim, you’ve kinda… scared a lot of the people in our class today. They don’t know what to think about you. You’re like a giant question mark! No one even knows where you came from—”

“Ohio.” Jim recited his cover story, which Skrael had helped him pick the night previous. They’d chosen a city that started with a c… right. “Columbus, Ohio.”

Tobias shot him a deadpan look. “Okay, fine, Jim Lake from Columbus, Ohio. Why’d you suddenly move to Arcadia, then? Why not L.A.? Why not Burbank?”

Jim frowned. “Do you interrogate every newcomer like this? My parents got a good job opportunity here.” He held up one hand, “And before you ask—real estate.”

“Oh yeah? How come I haven’t seen them put up ads, then?” Tobias crossed his arms. “I’m just saying, dude; I think you’re cool, but you freak a lot of people out with that brooding, silent thing you do.”

Jim snorted. “I do what?”

“Y’know—”

“No, I don’t know—”

“You act, like, all silent and mysterious when people try to talk to you.” Tobias shrugged. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing, but some people don’t seem as ready to brush it off as me. I’m only telling you so that you can make more friends here.”

“Well, I have you, don’t I?” Jim’s head canted.

Tobias blinked, floundering at that. “Well—y…yeah, I guess so, but—”

“I mean, we are friends, aren’t we?”

It was Tobias’s turn to go a bit pink, shaking his head in bewilderment. “If you want, yeah, but—”

“Then there we go. I have a friend.” Jim smiled.

Tobias tried to protest, “But—” only to find himself cut off as Mr. Strickler strode into the classroom at that moment, placing a leather briefcase on his desk with a decisive thump. Cacophonous voices incrementally petered out, as attentive heads turned to the front of the classroom, where Mr. Strickler had pulled out a stack of syllabi, handing them to the student nearest the door, with the instructions to “take one and pass them,” spoken precisely to the class.

Tobias looked like he wanted to say something when Strickler turned his back to write his name on the chalkboard, but Jim shushed him from the corner of his mouth, opening a fresh, blank notebook as he did so. This was the only class he’d bothered to buy a separate notebook for, and, to be frank, was the only class he’d even intended to take notes in at all.

Tobias looked chagrined, but not angry, as he rolled his eyes and went to fetch a pencil from his own bag. Might as well have something to do with his idle hands for the next hour.

—

As his first day was winding to close, Jim had to admit, having a friend at school did end up making it a little easier.

The rest of his time there had passed largely unremarkably, since a rather thrilling start to the history curriculum. Jim’s hand had shot up just as much as the apparent reigning top of the sophomore class, one Miss Claire Nuñez’s, had— a fact which had, according to Tobias, already begun to percolate across campus.

The lesson had only briefly covered the basics of ancient Rome, going over a bit of easy, more widely known trivia, to see what the class already knew about their oncoming first unit, but, nonetheless, Jim had been eager to jump in, to talk almost directly to Mr. Strickler, going back and forth in the form of a discussion. He’d spoken quietly, quickly, and he’d felt the eyes of his peers glued to his desk, but had ignored the sensation altogether, in favor of listening to what his teacher had to say about aqueducts, instead.

When the hour had finally come to an end, in fact, he’d packed up slowly, most of his classmates abandoning the room as quickly as they could—the lunch period was about to begin—though Tobias was kind enough to wait for him. As such, Tobias was the only other person present to hear Mr. Strickler stop Jim after class, paying a brief compliment to his performance that day, and accompanying his words with a poster for the history club. Jim didn’t think his furtive smile had gone entirely missed by the teacher, but as they’d exited into the now mostly empty hallway, he forgot to worry about it further, as Tobias wasted no time in asking him how the heck his new friend knew so much about history already?

Jim had shrugged it off, saying that it was his favorite subject; and besides, didn’t Tobias— “Seriously, dude, it’s Toby, by the way”— know more about geology than anyone else in their class? The compliment had made Tobias—Toby— preen, and he’d promptly dropped the topic, instead launching into an enthusiastic lecture meant to coach Jim through the cafeteria process. Jim, who had tried to jump in to say that he’d heard this at orientation the week prior, but Toby had shot him an appalled look at that, swiftly informing him that orientation did nothing to help the social side of things. Sure, he knew the motions, but did he know how to do them without standing out in the crowd? Absolutely not—in fact, the thought was almost laughable, according to Toby.

So, Jim had grinned, followed Toby’s lead, and had just barely survived the ever-important lunch line waltz.

The rest of the day had passed mostly the same way, in the end. Toby, having warmed up to Jim, took him through the whole rest of the day, guiding him through the intricacies of Arcadia Oaks High, and by the time the final bell was ringing, Jim almost felt like a normal student. Some of his peers had even started waving to him in the hallways; he’d broken the ice, after all.

Well. He’d thought so, until Toby had said goodbye, peddling away on his bike toward home, leaving Jim alone in the courtyard by the bustling lockers, surrounded by students eager to either go home, as Toby had, or to dive into after-school clubs and sports.

Jim opted to take his time, though, to enjoy the Southern California sun, as he strolled casually across the campus, toward the front of the school grounds.

As he rounded the corner, though, intending to head toward the Arcadia Oaks sign, where he’d stop and shoot off a text to the Order that his first day had gone well, and that he’d be home soon, he felt a tap on his shoulder, instead, and heard a throat being cleared behind him.

He knew who it was before he even turned to face her; her magic had given her away as soon as she’d reached a hand for him.

Despite this, Jim whirled as if she’d caught him by surprise, schooling his features into something startled but friendly, relaxing his shoulders as a polite smile crossed his face, upon seeing her. “Oh, hey. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting—” he rethought his words, shaking his head. “Never mind. …It’s, ‘Claire,’ right?”

She nodded, returning his smile. “Yeah! And you’re ‘Jim Lake’, hm?”

Something about the way she asked that question sent up a warning bell in the back of Jim’s mind, but he tried not to look unsettled; it was probably just nerves.

“Yup; just Jim is fine, though.” He added with a casual laugh.

Claire tilted her head, continuing. “So, you’re quite the history buff, huh?”

Jim’s hands dropped to his pockets, as he glanced at his shoes, then back up to her. “Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“You guess?” She teased. “You were on fire in class today.” She lifted her chin, to look at him head on. “Do I need to worry about you unseating me, Jim Lake from Columbus, Ohio?”

Jim snorted, shaking his head. “No, no; it’s not like that. History’s just a hobby.”

“Pretty intense hobby, if you know half as much as you seem like you do.” She raised an eyebrow at him.

Jim grinned. “Intense? Like being the president of drama club, the vice president of debate, and the supposed shoe-in for the lead in the play this fall?” he recited, much to Claire’s surprise, who shot him an impressed look.

“Huh. You sure do pay attention, don’t you?”

He glanced around, making it a leisurely movement, concealing the way he was searching for anyone who could overhear, before his eyes met hers again, as he said, “Only to certain people.”

Claire blinked, cheeks reddening, mistaking his meaning. “Oh, yeah? What kinds of people?”

Jim rolled the dice. “Well, people who seem nice, or kind, who I could make friends with. People who do things I wanna do, too, so I can have an ‘in’. Like clubs, and things.” he clarified.

“And, uh…” his voice grew hushed, “Magic-users in the human world.”

Claire’s face fell. “What was that last one?” Her nose scrunched with the skeptical look that overtook her features.

Jim’s eyes darted to look for an exit, realizing coldly—fearfully— that he had grossly miscalculated.

“Uh…” Stupid. He chided himself. Think of a lie before you go backing yourself into a corner. Skrael would be disappointed in him if he were here.

“Did you just say ‘the human world’ like you… aren’t human?” She stared at him suspiciously.

Jim blinked. “What? No. I’m human. Of course I’m human.” He gave a strained laugh. “What else would I be?”

“…Someone who thinks they aren’t?” Claire’s brow furrowed.

“It was a rhetor- well. I mean, I guess that’s true. But I’m not!” He smiled weakly, and then froze for a split-second, rapidly adding, “Someone who thinks they aren’t human! I know I’m human!”

Claire’s eyes shot to the street, where, to her poorly hidden relief, her dad had just pulled up to the curb, there to pick her up. “…Right. Well, Jim Lake from Cleveland, Ohio, my dad’s here, so I need to go, but this has been… interesting.”

Jim nodded rapidly, shooting her one more smile— a sheepish, apologetic one— as he gave her a shy wave. “…Yeah.”

Claire hoisted her backpack onto one shoulder, giving him a half-hearted wave back. “…Bye, Jim.”

“Bye, Claire.”

As she turned to leave, Jim frowned to himself. He wasn’t sure why, but something felt wrong. He supposed it could have been the awkward manner in which he’d acted, but in a flash, he decided that wanted to see her again, just in case that wasn’t it. He couldn’t be too careful.

So, before he missed his chance, he called after her retreating back, “See you around?”

Claire stopped, hand poised on the handle of the passenger side door, freezing there for a heart-pounding pause.

Then, she shot him a look over her shoulder, one of interest, meeting his eyes deliberately. Jim got the sense that he should heed it carefully.

“Yeah. See you around, Jim.”

[kaylaoldridgecorson]

Beskar’s Bounty - A Mandalorian FanFic

Hello all!  I’ve been working on a Mando fanfic since last year and posting it on AO3, but I thought I’d post here as well for more traction. It’s still very much a WIP and I post new chapters when I can (every 2-3 months). It is Mando x Female Reader/You (I try not to specify much about looks for the reader). Also, I am not great with reader warnings/TW, but I do classify it as being rated M. Not much smut as of yet, but it’s progressing there. Very slow burn. Please have a read and let me know what you think! And stay tuned for new chapters! (I also apologize for the wonky layout! It doesn’t transfer well from word to Tumblr/AO3)

Chapter 1

         So, this was it? How it was all going to end? I quietly swear at myself for never leaving this cursed planet and seeing what else could be out there. Being too scared to stray too far from what I have known my entire life, even if it was only pain. I heard that last thoughts before you died were supposed to be flashbacks of all you loved and great moments in your life...instead, I loathe myself for never actually living a life as I lay in the grainy sand that I despise and my blood pools beneath me, as I stare up into the visor of a helmed stranger in shiny armor.

--------------------

Earlier that day:

         I startle awake from another nightmare. The same nightmare, actually. The one I have had almost every night since I was a young girl. I despise going to sleep, knowing each and every night that I will have the same nightmare. Never being able to prevent it, no matter how hard I have tried...and I had tried. Meditating...self psychology...drinking...even stooping so far down as to buying blasted roots and rocks from a traveling peddler who promised that if I drank the steeped roots and held the rocks while I slept, it’d prevent them. Nothing ever worked.          I take a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare myself for another day, and huff myself up and out of bed. The suns have just started rising, filling the sky with a burnt orange color that fills my one room sandstone and mud home with the same hue. I stretch my arms out, feeling each crack of bone from staying stagnant for too long from sleep. Blasted bed is going to break my back, but there was no point in investing in anything new since sleep was the last thing I wanted anyways.          The caf starts percolating as I comb through my forever tangled hair with my fingers, the sand and dirt caking it for all my life without a real proper bath to clean it. I sometimes wonder what it would look like with a good washing. I sigh in defeat, as I do every morning, deciding on putting it up in a messy bun, even though my scalp aches from it being up all the time.          Water was a commodity around here and I didn’t waste it often on cleaning myself up. What was the point? I live alone, far enough away from others so that I didn’t see anyone on a daily basis, and if I did, they were just as dirty as I was. That was life on Tatooine.

         Today was one of those days I needed to head into town. I’m running short on caf, which is one of my very few needs and a personal treat. There were few things I got to enjoy and caf was both gratifying and useful to keep my energy up, especially after my nightmare-fueled nights. I also needed to stop to visit Llain, who owned the only moisture farm around, to drop off repaired clothes and help clean up her place.          Wiping my face with a dry cloth to try to remove some of the stubborn caked sand, I take a hesitant glance into the old, cracked mirror and sigh heavily. My eyes are beginning to become like a strangers to me...no longer youthful or of that little girl that I used to see staring back, but now older, hardened out of necessity. My brows furrow and I watch the motion in the mirror, watching tiny wrinkles form at the corners of my eyes and the middle of my forehead, just above my eyebrows. The fine layer of sand makes the creases more pronounced than they are...at least I hope that was the case.          For a moment I am reminded of my mothers face and how her eyes crinkled as she laughed. And my father, who constantly furrowed his brow, never finding anything amusing, but always softened his gaze when he looked at me. Quickly, I jerk myself out of the memory, cursing myself for even letting my brain wander that far into thought. Keeping those memories at bay has kept me safe from becoming too soft...like my parents were.

         The caf is bitter, like always. When I think back, I have only had a decent cup maybe twice in my life. By the time trade had reached Tatooine and then made its way to my outer reaches trade outpost, it was nowhere close to fresh. But, it was caf and it was better than nothing. The drink warms my bones better than the suns ever could. It’s an internal warmth, filling my empty stomach with the energy I need to get through each day.

         As I sip my caf, I start getting my items together, doing a mental checklist of everything I need for the journey ahead. Satchel...check. Canteen with my last remnants of water...check. Cloak...check. Llain’s repaired clothes...check. Gulping down the last drop of caf, I wrap my cloak protectively around my head and shoulders, throw my satchel over my shoulder and across my chest, and head out the door into the light of the already bitterly hot suns.

         I have lived on this little spot of land for as long as I have been alive. I don’t know any other life...any other way of living except for this harsh environment. My father did odds and ends for the other villagers, bartering his services for our needs. That’s how all of us have survived out in the middle of nowhere on a shit planet no one else wished to travel to. He would fiddle and repair speeders and droids, and would trade with whoever passed through, including Jawas on the rare occasion,and Tusken Raiders on even rarer occasions. Anything he could do to provide for his family. My mother did her part as well, hemming or repairing clothes in exchange for food or water. That's how most of everything in our home came to be, from one exchange to another, including that blasted bed and the cracked mirror. I learned how to survive from watching them, even at a young age I had to do my part to contribute, from helping my mother sew or handing my father tools. They taught me the skills that have kept me alive.

--------------------

         After an hour long walk, I finally made it to Llain’s moisture farm. Llain is sitting on a sun bleached wooden chair in the shade, watching me approach. She is old...older than old. She was ancient when I was a baby and she has somehow maintained her appearance after all these years. Her white hair, braided and rolled into a bun atop her head, is in stark contrast to her overly tanned skin, a result from living in the suns her whole life.          Llain waves at me. “There you are!” she calls out to me. I start digging in my satchel to pull out her folded clothes I had mended. “I know I’m a few days late, I was dreading making the trip and put it off for as long as I could.”          “Oh, I understand,” she sighs, “I couldn’t do it now if I tried...not that I would want to.” She holds out her rough, wrinkled hands to accept the bundle of fabric.          “I did the best I could, but the fabric is getting pretty thin.”          She smiles broadly up at me, “No worries, dear.”          I genuinely smile back at her. Llain became a sort of guardian to me after...my parents. She supplied me with water and food until I was able to fully care for myself and still continues to support my water needs in exchange for mending her clothes and doing odds and ends around the farm that she is no longer able to do on her own. I am alive still because of Llain. She told me once that I reminded her of her daughter, but said nothing more on the topic.          I go to work as she stays seated in the shade.

         It’s mid-afternoon by the time I finish cleaning and giving the droids a once over. I start wrapping my cloak back over my head and shoulders when I hear Llain call from her seat outside. “A sandstorm is coming!” I walk out into the suns light just as I sling my satchel back over my chest. It’s a clear day, nothing abnormal in sight. I glance out into the distance, not seeing the invisible indication for an impending storm. But it’s a feeling that suddenly washes over me, in my bones, and I know she’s right. There’s one thing everyone on Tatooine knows, and that’s having the uncanny ability to know when a sandstorm is just on the horizon. “Of all days I pick to head to the trade post,” I sigh. Llain suddenly grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. I peer down at her quizzically, feeling a sudden weight in my palm. “Hurry up, girl! Get what you need from the shop and get home. It’s going to be a bad one, I can feel it.” I believe her and stare down at my hand to find a few credits there now. “Do you need anything while I’m there?” I ask after a moment. I should give the credits back, I don’t need the hand out. But, the sudden weight in my grasp makes my mouth water at the possibility of better food and caf. She smiles up at me, shielding her eyes with a hand. “No...no…just, get home safe. I’ll send my droid with a water delivery after the storm passes.” “Thanks,” I say, with a parting smile. “Stay saf-” I start, but my voice is cut off from the sudden whir of an approaching speeder in the distance. Shielding my eyes with a hand from the suns, I watch as it speeds across the sand and away from the farm, kicking up small flurries of sand and dirt in its wake. “What…?” I start. Llain shifts uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes suddenly filled with concern. “Go, quickly! Get what you need from the post and go home as fast as you can.” I don’t ask any questions, I just nod in understanding and clutch at the cloak around my neck as I continue on my way.

A fine time for me to make this trip. I shake my head angrily at myself. A sandstorm on the way, and soon from the feeling in my gut. I’ll never make it home before it hits. And then the unknown speeder. I’ve worked on enough of the locals bikes, and that one definitely wasn’t familiar. And from the looks of it, it was headed for the out post. We don’t get visitors passing through here, especially not on speeder bikes. I sigh heavily, this wasn’t what I expected when I woke up this morning.

--------------------

Living out here, alone, for most of my existence, I have learned the way things are, quickly. Firstly, don’t form attachments of any kind. The only exception I have made is for Llain, and even then I attempt to keep an emotional distance from her, as she has with me. I don’t take offense and neither does she. That is just the way things are. Second, don’t expect handouts. I have had to work, hard, for everything I need. There have been many days I have gone without food. Third, don’t trust anyone. The only person looking out for you, is you. Lastly, you are alone. You were born alone, you live alone, you will die alone.

That’s how I have mostly lived my life since being on my own. That’s how everyone out here lives. Families don’t last out here on this blasted land, this is a place of solitude. A place you come to die. I’m the youngest around here now. There was a time, when I was younger, when families did live out here, with kids my age. We all grew up together, playing, then became teens and experimented with each other. But slowly, one by one, they left, or worse, died. I was born here and long ago I decided I will die here...for I made one vital mistake, and that was getting attached to the only thing left of my parents. Our home.

Another hours long journey and I finally enter the town, but it is hardly such. All but a few sandstone buildings litter a single road. A trade station, a cantina and board, and a few lowly huts used as homes for those too scared to stray far from others are all that stands here. Nothing of note. We call it a town, or an outpost, but there’s no official name and I am sure it is on no map. But...it’s home. There aren’t many of us now who even live in or near it. Everyone has either died or left to find something better. I never knew why my parents decided to settle here, a secret they took to the grave. Soon, this place won’t even exist, once we all die away and the sandstone buildings and crudely made huts collapse under the harsh elements of Tatooine. It’ll be as if we never existed at all.

I quickly scan my surroundings for any sign of a visitor. I don’t see any speeder bike in my view, nothing of note to tell me that someone new is here. Determined to quickly finish my business and get back home before I get stuck in the middle of the impending sandstorm, I clutch my cloak to my chest and continue forward to the trade station.

The door to the outpost clicks open as I near and I sigh when the dim, cool air hits my sweat sheened face as I unwrap the covering around my head and enter the post. It’s not an abnormally warm day, not for Tatooine standards, but I can’t help but still sweat under the twin suns.

“How you doing?” Barbek asks from behind the counter, barely lifting his eyes from his personal game of Sabacc, although I’m not quite sure how that’s even possible to play alone. I don’t ask him, but shrug my shoulders to myself. Barbek was a Sullustan, the only one I’d ever seen. He has run the trade post for the last few years, and where he came from before that, who knows. He never speaks to me except for simple greetings. “Good,” I answer back, short. There is no need for pleasantries.

It’s a small post, only carrying the necessities of living. Canned goods and portions, random clothes that were traded for other goods, thread and needles for clothes repair, and...caf. I walk through the post, ticking off my mental checklist of items I need. My hand instinctively goes to my pocket and my fingers wrap around the cool credits there. I hate myself for accepting the handout from Llain, but not enough to give them back. Credits were hard to come by and they could buy me better rations...or caf.

I just needed a few meals to hold me over for a few weeks. If I portion them out enough, I can get by on one meal every two days, maybe more if I don’t over exert myself. With the storm moving in, I won’t be outdoors doing much, and who knows how long that storm might last, so I can go three to four days if I needed to. I am used to going without a meal, my body adjusted to hunger pangs long ago. But water, water I needed...and caf, caf is a different story. I need caf every morning to keep my spirits high enough to keep me going.

Walking through the tiny outpost, I grab a few cans and portions I need, then find myself headed to the back of the shop, behind a stand alone shelf. I peer at the slim selection of caf available when I hear the door hiss and click open. I stop. “How you doin?” Barbek asks on default. Silence. I take a chance glance, standing on my tiptoes to peek over the top of the shelf, just enough to see the top of a shiny helmet. My heart instantly flutters as my mind begins to race and spills over with images of soldiers in white and my mothers screams filling my ears. I gently shake my head trying to erase the pictures, both feet now firmly on the floor, and take a deep breath. I remain utterly still. The silence carries on. Who knew silence could be so deafening loud? I can no longer stand it, not knowing, the quiet, and I peek around the shelf, just to see what is going on. Barbek’s eyes are on the fully armored stranger, his eyes full of...what is that? Terror? I see as his hand slowly goes under the counter, to reach for a blaster I assume. “What can I do for you, Mandalorian?” Barbek asks, cooly, but I can feel how tense he is. The stranger, the Mandalorian, doesn’t say anything for a long moment, helmet tilted towards Barbek.          “Have you seen a Rodian around here?” His voice comes through the helmet modulator, smooth.          “We don’t get many visitors out this way,” Barbek answers.          The helmed man is silent again and from my view I can see that he takes a look around the tiny shop with a hard gaze.          “And you?” his voice calls out as I can feel his eyes meet mine from the corner I’ve been peaking around. “Have you seen a Rodian?”          With a deep breath, I come around the shelf. Standing before me is a tall, armored, beast of a man. Every inch of his body is covered with either dark clothing or a shiny armor I have never in my life seen before. I look up at him, tilting my head slightly back to do so, and shake my head no. I can’t even form a word against my now dry mouth.          And he just stares straight at me, saying no words, and the viser where I imagine his eyes would be, burns into my mine. Without a word, or nod in understanding, he simply turns and walks out of the shop, the door hissing and closing with a click of finality behind him.

I stand there, frozen, watching the door, almost waiting for the armored man to come back. It’s not until I hear Barbek clear his throat that I turn my head and look at him. He looks just as stunned as I feel, as he brings his hidden hand back up and drops a small blaster on the counter that his fingers had tightly been gripped around.          I look at the weapon and back at Barbek for a second longer until I collect myself and go back to the caf shelf, grabbing a couple packages. I quickly finish grabbing the additional items I need and place the items on the counter, next to the blaster.          Barbek gives it all a once over. “Trade or credits?” he asks.          “C-credits,” I croak, the first words leaving my dry mouth, so dry that my throat hurts from the word.          He just nods as I place my newly acquired credits on the counter and start placing my items in the bag draped over my chest.          I turn to leave, but suddenly stop short, curiosity getting the better of me. My eyebrow raises in question. “What is a...Mandalorian?”          He huffs before answering, “Expert killers.”          I blink. Without another word exchanged, I turn to leave through the same door the armored man went through and head for home.

--------------------

         Llain was definitely right, a storm was coming in, and fast. I need to be quick if I want to get home before it completely blankets over me. But with the extra weight of the items I bought, and having had no food for two days now, I’m not feeling very optimistic. I was going to get caught in the middle of it. But I continue forward.

         Passing Llain’s home, she has already packed in all her items and shuttered herself in, prepared for the approaching weather. I momentarily think about asking Llain if I could stay with her until the storm passes over, but I quickly dismiss the thought. I needed to get home. I can’t rely on help, especially after she passed me those credits earlier.

         As I inch closer to home, it becomes harder to walk. The winds have now kicked up, whipping sand at my limbs like tiny needles of pain. Even through my clothing, albeit, thin clothing, I wince at the biting sand. I clutch my cloak tighter around my face, trying to protect my eyes as much as I can. The wicked air pushes against me, forcing me to take one strained step at a time.

         It takes me at least double the time to make it home than it took me going into town. It’s dark by the time I reach the step of my familiar door. My whole body aches from not only the journey, but the wind biting sand as well. Groaning in pain, I push open the door and watch as it forcibly blows open, sending sand into the one room living space. I curse silently, watching the sand already start to pile in the corners of the room. I take a step in and try to force the door shut behind me, using all the energy I have left to work against the force of the wind. With my limbs aching in pain, the door clicks shut and the room becomes still.

         Through the little cracks in the sandstone, I can feel the draft of the now howling winds blow right through my home, but it’s safer than being outside. I sag against the door, my body no longer wanting to do anything else but just be still, but after a moment and with a sigh, I push myself up. Setting my bag of supplies on the tiny table in the middle of the room, I unload and put away my items. I start a small fire in the oven and place a tin of food on the counter, knowing that I need to eat to regain my strength. While I wait for the fire to slowly grow, I pull off my weathered cloak and shake it out, getting sand on the woodbeaton floor. It didn’t matter anyway, sand was already coating every surface in the place and forming tiny piles on the ground, resembling the sand castles I used to make when I was young. I sigh at the mess, but with the storm blowing and not knowing how long it’ll last, I knew all I had was time to stay inside and clean. So with that, I let down my hair and shook it out as well, making it rain particles of sand and dirt too.          I unfocus my eyes and watch as the particles float through the air. It was a childish thing to do, but I let myself smile at the dancing specks. But then, suddenly, in the corner of my vision I see a shadow that should not be there. Quickly, I refocus my vision and my eyes go wide as I see a figure standing in the corner of my home, watching me. A Rodian.

         Something like fear and anger shot through me simultaneously. I didn’t know much about fighting, or anything at all in the ways of self defense, but I am prepared to fight if I need to. I quickly glance around, looking for any kind of weapon I can grab to use against the intruder, but as I take a single, tiny, side step towards the small dining table to reach my bag, the Rodian raises a blaster right at me, dead center to the little furrow between my eyebrows. I stop.

         He starts speaking in a language I don’t understand, but it sounds just as threatening as the blaster raised to my head. Cautiously, I raise my hands in the air.          “There are some credits in my bag,” I jerk my chin towards the table with my belongings, “I have some food and very little water. You can have whatever it is you want. Just leave.” I’m surprised by how confident I sound, because I am deathly afraid on the inside.          The Rodian speaks again in the foreign language, this time yelling, slightly frantic.          “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Please...please...just, leave,” my voice quivers this time.          He waves the gun aggressively as it remains still pointed directly to my head and he continues shouting words I don’t understand.            Although terrified, a calm somehow washes over me and I close my eyes in something like acceptance. This was it, my end.

         But, just as I accept my fate, my front door crashes open, slamming hard against the wall behind it. I jump and blink rapidly as the wind carries in a flurry of sand that whips around the room as if we were outside and not protected by four walls at all. The sand stings my eyes and makes them water, my face feels the thousand tiny prickles of grainy sand and I suddenly have to cover my face from the pain.          Then, I see it...him. A glint of shining armor standing in the doorway of my home, like the shining heroes in the stories my mother used to read to me, who saved women from villains. I stare, watching him duck to enter the small doorway into my little sandstone and mud home, looking too large to be in such a small space. The wind still whips the sand about the room, stinging my eyes, but I can’t take my gaze off of the Mandalorian. At that moment, Barbek’s words suddenly come to mind. Expert killer.          Why is he here?

         There’s movement in my peripheral vision and I turn my head to watch the Rodian take his blaster aim off of me, lowering the blaster, and moving his focus solely to the armored man. He speaks again in the unknown language, directly to the Mandalorian.          To my surprise, the Mandalorian answers him back in the same dialect and they carry an unknown conversation between each other until abruptly he turns his visor to me. I don’t know how, but I know, I feel, his eyes peering right into mine. I catch my breath as we stare at each other, seemingly waiting for...something. He’s only a step or two away from me and something inside me wants to reach out and grab for him. But, that’s crazy, I don’t even know this man...this killer, this--          And then it all happens at once, as I see the Rodian intruder swiftly take aim at the Mandalorian from the corner of my eye, who is still focused on me, and puts a finger on the trigger of his blaster.          “Watch out!” I yell out at the Mandalorian as I take an unthinking lunging step towards him to push him out of the path of blaster fire. My hands meet cold, unbelievably hard metal, and I wince at the pain I feel in my wrist. But the Mandalorian barely moves at my push. I wrap my arms around his hulking figure in an attempt to move him, just as I hear the blaster go off behind me, and then I feel like the breath has been knocked out of me and I fall into him instead. A metal arm catches me as I lose all control of my body and I flop into the embrace. Another shot fires, this time from the Mandalorian.          Then he’s wrapping both of his cold arms around me and placing me gently on the woodbeaton floor. I look up into the visor of his helmet, seeing my reflection, but not entirely recognizing myself. Instead, I see the screaming face of my mother staring back at me, a face twisted in an unknown agony. And now I feel it, the scorching pain shooting through my body, that was clearly on my face even before I truly felt it. The Rodian’s first shot missed its armored target and hit me instead.

         So, this was it? How it was all going to end? I quietly cursed at myself for never leaving this cursed planet and seeing what else could be out there. Being too scared to stray too far from what I have known my entire life, even if it was only pain. I had heard that last thoughts before you died were supposed to be flashbacks of all you loved and how great you had it...instead I loathed myself for never actually living, laying in the cakey sand that I despised as my blood pooled beneath me, while I stared up into the visor of a helmed stranger in shiny armor. I blink up at him, seeing no flashbacks...no memories...just him, before it all goes black.

[silhouetteofacedar]

When We Drive, Ch. 2: Early Flights, Used Tissues, and a Swan

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated T (for now)

Dulles Access Road, Dulles, Virginia

6:27 AM EST

September 1995

It’s easier for them to talk when they’re in the car. Maybe it’s because they can’t make eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time, only observing each other at intervals as one of them drives. Over the past couple years Mulder’s spent in cars with Scully, he’s learned her patterns. Given enough silence and time to percolate, a gentle question or offhand comment might spur on a deeper conversation.

Not today. Today she seems more distant than usual. Granted, the sun’s barely up, and she’s decidedly not a morning person. They’d met at the Hoover building before 6 a.m., Scully shoving her suitcase in the trunk of his car and bundling herself into the passenger seat, all the while grumbling about needing more coffee and wanting to shoot whoever booked their early morning flight to Oklahoma.

It was him. He doesn’t mention it.

It’s a forty minute drive from the Federal Triangle to Dulles International Airport and they haven’t said more than two full sentences to each other for most of the way. Mulder has the radio on softly, in case Scully is trying to snooze. He figured some classical music might sooth the rumpled, sleep-deprived agent plotting his demise in the seat next to him.

He recognizes the piece that comes on; the Swan, he thinks, by Camille Saint-Saëns. He turns the volume up cautiously, allowing the delicate piano and violin to waft through the sedan.

He glances over to see if Scully is awake and is surprised to find her staring straight ahead, eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Scully?” he says softly. “You alright?”

“Pull over,” she says quietly.

“What? Why?” Mulder asks in surprise as he slows the vehicle onto the shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she replies, her voice tight. As soon as the car stops she hastily unbuckles her seatbelt and clambers out.

Mulder watches her in the rearview mirror as she stiffly walks several paces away from the car before stopping and dropping her head. He sees her shoulders begin to shake.

He turns off the engine, switches on the hazard lights. He gets out of the car, the cool morning air nipping at his cheeks. His shoes crunch in the gravel as he steps up behind her. “Scully?” he says cautiously.

She’s sobbing. She’s angling herself away from him, cupping her face with her hands, and he can sense that this is something she doesn’t want him to see. He lays a careful hand on her shoulder, and she doesn’t react.

He can tell she doesn’t want to face him, and her won’t make her. Instead he lightly wraps his arms around her shoulders from behind, rests his cheek on the top of her head as she cries.

They probably look ridiculous, one federal agent holding  another at dawn on the side of the road, but he doesn’t care.

Scully’s shoulders relax as she sniffs noisily and slips from his arms. “I’m fine, Mulder,” she says uselessly, voice soggy with tears.

“I-I know,” he says quietly. “But I thought you might need a friend.”

Scully busies herself with extracting a tissue from the little pack she keeps in her coat pocket. “She liked you,” she says, blowing her nose. “Granted, she thought you were a little unhinged, but she saw good in you.”

Mulder stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Scully women are very discerning,” he says.

“Mm,” Scully replied, nodding. “Missy was. Though she always insisted I had the second sight.”

“An Da Shealladh,” Mulder says. “Irish ESP.”

Scully shakes her head. “Of course you know what it is,” she says, voice sad and almost fond.

“A skeptical scientist with the sixth sense,” Mulder muses, kicking a stray rock across the pavement. “I”ll admit I find the idea intriguing.”

Scully shrugs. “It was just one of Melissa’s things.” She sighs heavily, tilts her face towards the dawn-pink sky. “She liked that song,” she says by way of explanation.

He nods in understanding. Grief doesn’t announce itself; it creeps in beside you, lays a cold hand on your heart, steals your breath. Mulder’s been battling it in some form or other since the day Samantha vanished. Melissa’s been gone for less than a month, and yet Scully still forges ahead in spite of it. He’s in awe of her resilience.

So they stand there together on the side of the road, draped in dark wool; two searching, hungry people with stolen sisters. The needle aches as it enters them, the thread tugging their skin as they are slowly, painfully stitched to each other. Two mismatched halves being sloppily joined with sharp cords of loss.

“It’s cold out here,” Mulder says eventually, stepping forward and giving her sleeve a gentle tug, “And we have a flight to catch. Let’s get the engine running. We can crank the heater as high as you like,” he offers.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Scully answers wryly, voice still husky from crying. She bumps her shoulder against his arm as they walk back to the car.

“You can have some of my seeds, too,” he offers, then stops. “Sunflower seeds,” he explains quickly.

The corner of her mouth quirks upward. “Clearly.” she replies, raising an eyebrow at him. “I’d prefer coffee.”

“I buy you one at our gate,” he promises.

They’re tucked back into the car, safely belted in and reassembled. Mulder pauses with his key in the ignition. “If - when- this happens again,” he stammers, “You… you don’t have to hide it from me. I hope you know that.”

Scully’s lips are pressed together tightly, and she tilts her head in what could almost be a nod. “We should get going,” she replies.

The engine turns over, and they move forward.

[pirate-tink]

And so we've come to the end (for now...)

I was slower watching these new episodes than I thought I'd be, but I got to really enjoy them and let them percolate in my brain. Thanks to everyone who read my rambling, half-formed thoughts, and didn't immediately vote me off the island for being a little insane around the edges.

Thoughts on The Mastermind Job, with ever-present spoilers, below:

This was so sweet and fun and exciting! I loved it! It was a great mix of the feel and spirit of the original show, and the characters and relationships of the new show. I never would have come up with the idea to have an old lackey coworker of Nate's "borrow" his stories and try to publish a book with all the team's secrets, but wow does it work really well. (It felt very 'Ember Island Players' to me, and it made me giddy.)

The team is really sweet in the beginning, trying to rally around Sophie and help keep her spirits up on her and Nate's anniversary. But I appreciate her calling them on their coddling behavior. ("You can't con a conman.") She even called Parker out on letting her run the jobs and cons. I hope that means we'll get more Parker leadership, or at least equal representation, in the back half. Our girl has so much to offer, and so much knowledge to show off.

Fake mastermind guy is just... meh. I mean, that's kinda the point, especially with his "superpower" of putting people to sleep, but still. Meh. He's as bland as some of the characters Nate used to play, and now I'm wondering if Nate didn't borrow inspiration for some of his grifter identities from certain accountants he knew.

For some reason, Harry trying to figure out how to sit casually and hide the taser after Parker tied him back up is really funny to me. (If I knew how to gif things, I'd gif that moment.) He was slightly more background/comic relief here again, and it's still great. His grand solution to distract his guard was to literally be himself. But hey, it worked.

Breanna is also a little more background, but her valley-girl PA character in the beginning is so good. She's hilarious, and I love her.

We get Russian and German Parker, and southern Sophie, and valley-girl Breanna, all in this episode! I love it. All the accents! All the grifts! I'm betting Eliot is the one who taught Parker that yelling at someone is a good way to get them to go away and let you do your thing. It probably works much better for her than trying to use Sophie's jedi mind tricks to convince people they want to do what she's making them do.

Eliot really made that woman fall in love with him in less than two minutes, and I for one admire him for that. I feel like that's what Christian does with the fandom. I'd trust him to protect me any day.

I really love how the episode mostly focused on Sophie, Parker, and Eliot- our full-time original cast members. (I miss Hardison! But he got so many mentions in this one!) The story really honored the original show, what the characters built, and how and why they came together. It's really nice for the fans of the original. And this ep was written by Kate Rorick! She's the new show runner for Leverage: Redemption, and one of the executive producers! Knowing that she's the mastermind behind this wonderful episode makes me feel certain that the show is in good hands, and will hopefully continue to go in a direction that allows for growth, but not at the expense of the past.

I'm sad that I've run out of the new episodes already, but that just means I'll have to watch them all again! (And go even deeper in my meta-analysis of it all...)

[the-bed-gremlins-reading-list]

(This got a bit rambling so tucking most of it under the cut - but summary: I’m starting a new WIP in addition to this one (oops).)

I’ve been thinking (a dangerous pastime, I know) about my last blip of an update and I realized something: I’m writing Phoenix Knight for free and just for fun - and I don’t intend to even open the support function until the entire thing is finished and up, and maybe not even then.

But that means I’m not on anyone’s timeline but my own. And I don’t have to feel guilty if I want to work on anything else either. Because it’s free and for fun it means that working on another project is something I can choose to do. I don’t have to talk myself out of writing something else too because there isn’t a deadline.

The only pressure here is what I put on myself (which is, uh, probably still too much but we’re not going to undo years of damage caused by academic over-achievement followed by a brutal collegiate burnout anytime soon).

That being said. I’m going to start my new project. (Actually I already have. The file is open. I’m taking a break from setting up the StoryInit page and setting a basic color scheme that doesn’t burn the eyes completely from the sockets (we’re just gonna ignore that I still haven’t figured out PK’s scheme either cus I’m probably not gonna leave it salmon) and at least a general arc plotted and the prologue fully planned.)

SO - I had a really shitty week all in all. But the last time I actually got a lot of work done with Phoenix Knight I had the foster kitten my brother brought home to bottle feed with me. We lost Porkchop to fading kitten syndrome at the beginning of the week. And I know it isn’t uncommon to lose bottle-babies that are that young, which is why I don’t like fostering but it still hurt even if it was always a possibility I acknowledged, ya know? And then I got really sick - like woulda been in for major surgery or died if I’d kept being stubborn and refusing to go to the doc sick. I’m still kinda getting over that but feel like a human today (mostly).

Between those two things weighing on me I think having a focus on the new-shiny details of building everything for the new project rather than filling in the scaffolding and ironing out the kinks (like with PK) will help me more right now.

So progress on Chapter 2 might be a bit slower. (Though, since I’ve been glaring at it and making a few sentence’s worth of progress for over a week so stepping back and letting it percolate and breathe might actually help.) But I am also going to take the time to sit down and organize my plans for it on paper (or an electronic equivalent thereof) instead of just in my head.

(And wow am I loving the parentheses as asides today.)

Right now the new WIP is titled “Code Name: Oracle” in my files but I’m planning on changing that once I get a better idea. I haven’t decided if I’m just going to change the name on this blog and use it for both projects or create a new devlog side blog for it.

You’ll play a detective that ends up with powers after being kidnapped and experimented on by a villain. Upon the discovery of said powers they are ‘promoted’ to the local superhero team as an investigator and liaison - not a field operative.

I have at least three RO’s semi-fleshed out with a fourth being played with. One of those routes is enemies-to-lovers with a “villain” who is more anti-hero than evil (oh, and it’s very important - they are not the kidnapping mad scientist), and you can choose to befriend or not outside of the romance route too.

The other two I’m sure of are heroes on the team.

(Although, everyone is currently missing names. And faces. Though I know their powers and some of their personalities already. ^^’’)

I’ve already found I do not have the patience for building and balancing actual skill stat systems so instead there will be three ‘Detective styles’ to set for your pre-kidnapping career which my notes have labeled as “Talker”, “Chaser”, and “Sherlock” if that gives you an idea of how it’ll form out. But I plan on having it so you can potentially change your approach style after the kidnapping, etcetera, to create a mismatch in the detective’s reputation and current approach as a result of experiences. The style won’t force you to take any path that you don’t want - if my plan works out - but it’ll affect the flavor text some.

And I know - detective with superpowers that involve visions and seer-like abilities isn’t that inventive or new or whatnot but it’s a trope I enjoy. I’m not aiming to be inventive or even all that creative with the new baby. (And, yes, I already had to talk myself out of throwing the whole concept out a window due to the fact that I know it’ll end up with similarities to more popular works.)

So. That’s it! Thanks for listening to my thoughts!

[some-dr-writings]

Nagito comforts a depressed Reader

·       In all honesty, it was a rather lovely day. Winter was showing signs of ending, not quite cool or warm. A breeze gently rolled past, lightly rustling the leaves. There were scarcely any clouds in that endlessly deep blue sky.

·       A lovely day…

·       And yet…

·       You strolled along the path with no particular destination, just like your life. Just moving because you were born, no other reason. No ambition. No pride. No dreams. And yet you were called ‘super high school level’, ‘ultimate’… what the hell did those mean anyway? Did you have a path now? Just follow wherever your talent led? Was that your only choice now? Well, you already screwed that up so probably not. Sighing, you continued to walk along, getting absorbed in the blue sea that hung above you.

·       Walking along the road you listened to the tapping of your and others’ foot falls against the stone sidewalk. Your head was just empty. Anything absorbed your attention, consuming everything. It felt like you were underwater. You were aware of your surroundings, but it was all blurry, not able to fully comprehend what was around you unless you bothered to reach out, but even then there was something in the way, whether it be the water or yourself.

·       Suddenly you and someone else crashed into one another. “A-ah, I’m so sorry!” You managed to squeak that out seeing the other person had fallen to the ground.

·       Great, you screwed up, again.

·       Like always.

·       Your vision blurred, tears percolating in the corners of your eyes. Before the stranger could say anything, you dashed away. Leaving him to watch as your silhouette faded into the distant crowd. “Huh? What’s this?”

·       Damn it. This was so dumb. You shouldn’t be crying over this! It was just a little accident… You tried taking deep breaths to ease yourself but it all just kept welling up. Everything. All the stresses, all the fear, all the confusion and sadness. You couldn’t stop or hold back any of it anymore. Even as your breathing hitched, wiping the continuous tears away, you kept walking.

·       Then you heard something. A bird? A seagull. And… waves. Following the sounds, you found yourself leaving the quiet streets for the seaside. The beach seemed to stretch for miles while the ocean was endless, the horizon being nonexistent, the sea and sky appearing to be one and the same. The wind was much more powerful than before carrying that salty scent wherever it went. The shore and town were on separate elevations, only when you had found a small staircase and descended did you see there was a small area of grass separating the sand and the stone settlement of the town. It all appeared so grey or at least muted in color. Perhaps it was because of the patches of snow that sill sat on the grass, refusing to melt even under the sun’s rays. There was not a soul around, just you.

·       Not wanting to deal with the aftermath of sand getting stuck in your shoes you took them off, walking barefoot along the shoreline, the foaming water lapping at your feet. It was freezing. Then you sat, hugging your knees to your chest, the waves occasionally reaching your toes.

·       You never realized just how noisy the beach was even when no one was around.

·       …

·       It even sounds like it’s screaming sometimes…

·       Screaming that kept getting louder with each second…

·       Okay, what was-

·       The noise came to a stop when a boy suddenly appeared beside you. From the marks behind him it seemed he slid face first against the sand! “A-are you okay, sir?” “I’m fine, just some bad luck.” You tried helping him up, gently pulling him by his arm. “Um, you sure? You look… hurt.” He was absolutely banged up, covered in scratches and bruises. His clothes were covered in sand, lightly tattered, absolutely disheveled. There were even leaves and some trash in his hair. “Really, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” Then it seemed he noticed something. “Are you okay though?” “Huh!? U-uh…” “Probably not, you started crying when we bumped into each other earlier.” “You’re the same guy!?” You never took a good look at the person, but what you vaguely remember was similar to this guy, most notably the white hair. “I’m so sorry!” “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I don’t mind. You seem to be having a rough day.” “I… I…” Your voice quieted and waivered. “I guess you could say that.” You couldn’t stop the tears forming in your eyes, you turned back to the nonexistent horizon wanting to pretend you were trying to hide it.

·       And you just let yourself indulge in it. That oppressive sadness and pain that constantly crushed you under it’s unbearable weight. “Want to talk about it?” Why was he still here? “I’m just a nobody, the best I can do is hope to be useful, a steppingstone for others.” You buried your face into your knees. You just…

·       Other than sheer laziness, you didn’t see why not.

·       “Do you see it? The horizon?” He looked, even squinting his eyes. “No.” “It all looks like one giant ocean that’s endlessly surrounding us. When you first step into the ocean, it seems nice, but the further in you go the more you realize just how endless it is, not just on the surface though. It just sinks. Deeper and deeper, darker and darker it gets, till you can’t see any light at all. And the more water there is above you, the more pressure there is. With so much pressure, it can be impossible to even open your eyes, to try to do anything anymore. By the time you even begin to wonder which why is up or down, you can’t do anything anymore, and you just keep sinking. Sinking where, you don’t know, you can’t even tell if somehow you were starting to float upwards. And you just keep going and going. When you want to try, it’s impossible to anymore. No matter h-how much you fight, you can’t stop it. You can’t move. You have no control, at all.” Though he didn’t say anything, the unlucky boy thought of your words, taking them in, finding their sentiment, your situation, all too familiar.

·       Then you started laughing. It was a pitiful, quiet laugh, sounding like a cut-up cry. “T-that… has been my entire life… and… heh, know what the worst part is?” You honestly couldn’t care what this stranger thought anymore. Even that was too much of a pain, you were just… exhausted. You looked to him, letting him see your tear stained cheeks, puffy eyes, your red face and pained expression. “I purposely sink myself. I do it over and over and over again. It’s comfortable, being in misery. I’ve been in it for so long, I don’t know anything else. Any chance I get at happiness, I destroy it. I’m scared. I don’t want to be like this anymore but before I can even think to stop myself, it’s too late, I’ve already destroyed the opportunity beyond repair and I tie another stone around my neck to sink deeper. I don’t want this, but I can’t stop myself. J-just like this time… this time i… i…” You couldn’t even keep your head up. You just… slumped over. “I received the opportunity of a lifetime on a silver platter and I just ruined it. Without a second thought! It could change my life, I could gain some semblance of control, but I just…”

·       You couldn’t even speak anymore.

·       You couldn’t do anything.

·       You just kept sinking, like always.

·       “You’ll be okay.” “huh?” “You’ll be okay. Even now I see it. The hope blooming inside you! It’s so brilliant and bright! Even though this is the lowest you’ve sunk, and you handicap yourself, you’re still fighting for hope! And even if you sink further, that hope inside you will not break. When you get past this, you’ll be unstoppable! The deeper the despair you face now, the greater your hope will be when you overcome it!” “… what? you don’t even know me. you don’t know that. i don’t need you to lie to me.” “I’m not lying. And you know it.” Amongst the crashing waves and the call of seagulls, you heard a new sound. A light crinkling? You slightly tilted your face as to see what it was from the corner of your eye. “… how did you get that.” “I found it on the ground when we bumped into each other earlier.” You shut your eyes and nuzzled into the little warmth you still held. “The letter is only partially burnt. You stopped yourself.” “… I’m just going to burn it later.” “… No, you won’t. Look at your hands.” You didn’t move… Ever so gently, he lifted up one of your hands. “You stopped yourself this time, it’s already blooming, you’re already trying to change.” Sighing, you glanced at it for but a moment. “It’s just my hand.” “You’re burned.” “… I’m physically self-destructive as well as emotionally and mentally, so what?” “You grabbed the letter as it was burning, even though you would get hurt… You wanted to save it. You may want to wallow in despair, but the hope inside you has grown so much, you can’t repress it anymore. You’re scared to change, but your want for change will soon outweigh the fear.” He slipped the letter into your hand. “But… by the time you gain the courage to take the leap, to try to swim to the surface, it might be too late. I don’t know what this opportunity is, but… it’s clear you want it. You should go for it… but this is coming from a nobody, so I guess my opinion doesn’t really matter.” You felt a small, deep chuckle rumble deep in his chest. “great, another way to screw over myself.” “Another challenge you’ll overcome.” “or not.” “You will.” “you don’t know that.” “I do.” “that’s impossible.” “It’s not.” “i don’t believe you.” “You don’t have too.” “… well you… i… but… I don’t know how to respond to that.”

·       You sighed, realizing you were defeated. You held up the letter, taking a better look. Seeing the ash, you recalled how you so fervently grabbed it off the newly lit log in the fireplace… “I don’t believe you, not a word you say. But… I… might want to believe. Maybe? I don’t know.” You hugged that comforting warmth, not wanting to think of this. Just letting yourself get lost in the moment. The sounds of the waves. The cool wind rushing past. The soft sand and the warmth you felt in the unlucky guy’s voice, his words, what you were holding so tightly and the feeling growing in your chest.

·       Wait…

·       It was then you realized it.

·       When you helped the guy get up, you never let go of his arm… and eventually you started hugging it… And you were leaning your head on his shoulder, even nuzzling into him during your entire conversation… You were even still holding hands…

·       You threw yourself back, a new warmth spreading across your entire face. “I-I, I. I’M SO SORRY! I DIDN’T REALIZE I WAS TOUCHING YOU! WAIT, NO THAT SOUNDS BAD, I WASN’T-I DIDN’T MEAN- I’M SO SORRY!” You ran away as quickly as you could. This was so freaking embarrassing! What were you doing!? In your panic you didn’t notice how when you ran off you were running on sand… Sand which was kicked up and crashed into the poor, unlucky boy. “Huh… was meeting them the good luck that evened out the bad from earlier?”

·       You were so embarrassed you ran all the way home. Once there it sunk in what you had done. And you felt so ashamed for leaving him behind like that.

·       You dwelled on that encounter. For a long time you did. Eventually you reached a conclusion. Taking a deep breath, you accepted the offer. You needed to make a change. Now.

·       Not even two months later and there you were, standing at the entrance of Hope’s Peak. You were actually here. You were going to do this. You trembled, feeling your heart booming in your ears and against your ribcage. This was it. A new chapter in your life that you made happen. A chapter you had control over.

·       Then you heard a crashing sound, seeing something fall out of a tree. You raced up to it, hearing groaning. “I wonder what this bad luck streak is leading up too? It’s been two months now.” “It’s you!” “Huh? Oh.” You were here. “I’m so sorry about just leaving you at the beach! Here, please let me help you up, and I won’t hug your arm this time, I swear. Heh, hehe, heh… I just kinda like hugs and touches and stuff. Wait! Don’t take it the wrong way! That sounded weird, didn’t it? Sorry!” He smiled, instantly knowing that this moment, you reaching your hand out to help him to his feet, chatting away as you walked to class together, being in the exact same class. This was what all that bad luck was leading up too. Meeting you again.

[wordynerdygurl]

Skin Deep ~ Part 1

Author’s Note:  Hello, hello, hello!  I hope everyone’s staying healthy and Six Feet Away from everyone else!  Remember, kiddies, wearing a mask keeps all of us safe! With that out of the way, I hope you all like this new series!  The idea has been percolating for awhile and I’m happy to share part one with you here.  As you all know, I typically write for Loki and while he will be making a major appearance in this ditty, it won’t be until Part 2.  Come along for the ride, won’t you?? You know that I love all of you, all the likes, comments, reblogs, and consideration... so thank you all so much! Asks are open, so message me if you have an idea!  Or, asked to be tagged in future stories! Always, thanks to @sammy-jo1977, beta reader and friend, for encouraging me during this one!

Pairing:  Loki X Reader, Steve Rogers X Reader, Natasha & Reader friendship Summary:  Loki’s leaving two years ago changed you in ways that Natasha and Steve can’t abide.  Encouraged to find love again, in the arms of Steve Rogers, seems like a great idea.  But what happens when Loki comes to claim what he’s promised? Warnings:  Angst, Lost Love, Eventual SMUT

Part 1

Plopping down to the planed floor with a soft “Ooph”, you immediately reached for your water bottle.  Oh sweet, icy cold condensation rolling off, taunting you with the allure of complete hydration.  With a swipe of your sweat covered brow, you flipped open the cap, panting, “Why do we do this?”

“Because we ate all of Tony’s gourmet donuts.”

“That was weeks ago… and all your fault, I might add!”  

Natasha eased herself down to your level, not looking as winded or wiped as you did, “God, they were delicious.”

“He special orders those, ya know?  Calls the bakery weeks ahead to make sure they bring enough of those… what are they?  Eclairs?” “Cream horns.  Loves those things.”  Natasha, grunting, as she pulled her ballet slipper free. Turning to your friend, laughing tiredly, “So do I!”  Resting your head on the wall behind you, “Thanks for coming with me.  I know you get your workouts in with the team, but I just can’t imagine running around in that gym…”, you trailed off, unsaid words hanging in the air.

Natasha didn’t respond beyond a nod, adding, “It’s fun!  And I don’t have to hear Steve’s whining over you the whole time.” “As if, Nat.” “I’m serious.”  Natasha stretched like a cat before rising, “He likes you almost as much as you like Tony’s donuts.”  Chuckling, you took the hand she offered, pulling you up to standing.  You moved through the locker room, still out of breath, trailing Natasha until she stopped in front of units 14 and 16.  Throwing you a towel, drying her own dampened skin, “Donuts aren’t Loki.  You know that right?” Snorting around the bottle at your lips, sputtering, “Jesus, Nat!  Yes.  Yes.  I am very well aware of the fact that Loki is not donuts… or donuts are not him.  Or whatever the hell you are trying to say to me.  I know, Ok?” “It’s just…”  She busied herself digging through her bag, not looking at you, trying to keep her voice light. Edged with unspent anger, gruffer than you liked to hear yourself, “Yea?” “You’re... snippy.  How long has it been now?”  Tossing the question over her shoulder casually like it was no more than her sweat soaked towel. Standing now on overworked legs, “You know how long it’s been Nat.”  Pulling your locker open with a jerk, a hard sigh ripping from your throat, the flash of hurt undeniable. Shutting her own firmly, “... when do you move on, then?” “When?  Better question:  How?  How do I?  He asked me to wait, Natasha.  I told him I would.” “It’s been two years.” “One year, ten months, three weeks and 5 days.”  Correcting your friend didn’t make you feel better.  Leveling you with her cool stare, that secretive partial smile pulling at her lips, Natasha lowered herself onto the bench.  Your back rested against the cool mesh metal and damn it if the liquid heat of tears weren’t forming in your eyes.  Slinking over to you, Natasha wrapped her arms around your shoulders, her diminutive strength holding you close despite your clammy skin.  “You deserve happiness.  Even Loki would understand that.”  Pausing, Natasha zipped up her bag, nudging you to follow.  “Besides, you need to get laid.” Snatching up your own gym gear, “Nat!  I do not.”  Grumbling, you followed her towards the locker room doors, zipping up your hoodie before pushing out into the street. “Trust me.  You do.” Stopping at the corner, you grabbed your friend’s hand.  “He’s a God.  It’s not that easy to just replace him… in my life.  Or… in the bedroom, ya know?” Holding up two fingers, like a VE day salute, Natasha wiggled them in your face.  Her meaning was clear.  It had been two years.  Too damn long. “Ok.  Ok.  Fine.  Let’s say, you’re right.  I do need to move on.  What does that even look like?”  Stepping through the Tower’s automatic doors, whispering your fear out loud made you feel guilty, as if you had already betrayed your promise somehow.  Punching in the passcode and selecting your floor number from the elevator, Natasha focused straight ahead, answering, “You’re surrounded by super heroes.” “So?  They’re co-workers.  Well, technically, they’re my boss’ husband’s co-workers.” “Come on.  When Loki was… around, you all hung out together.  And, since he’s been gone, I know at least one of them has been keeping a close eye on you.” Interest piqued, “Really?  Who?” Chuckling at your eagerness, “Steve.” “Oh.”  You flexed your neck, looking at the lights above you, not entirely surprised by Nat’s admission.  He might have thought his actions were stealthy, but the Captain had made his interest pretty clear, always pulling out your chair, asking about your day, and in general showing up wherever you happened to be. “You should give him a chance.   And you know as well as I do-”

Cut off by the ping of the opening doors, she took a step back, letting Steve Rogers into the lift.  “Ladies.” “Captain.”  Nat nodded. “Captain Rogers.”  Everything Natasha has been saying flooded your mind.  How Steve was into you, asking about you, thinking of you. Suddenly you were acutely aware of how you looked.  Short hair tucked into a cloth headband, sweat soaked strands stuck to your neck.  Your sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, the thick strap of your sports bra exposed in all it’s fluorescent green glory.  Did you smell?  Oh god.  Sliding to the back of the car, you cowered, hoping that Captain America would ignore you completely.  No dice.  “How was the class?” “Good.  This one-” pointing at you, Natasha continued, “-is quite the leaper!” Hot blood flooded your face, painting your neck, as you flushed under the praise.  Facing you now, Steve licked over his bottom lip, “Is that so?” Had you ever noticed just how sharp his jaw actually was?  Or the way his shirt sleeves, rolled up to the elbows, made his arms look so strong?  Your heart thudded dully in your ears, crowding out Steve’s voice as you imagined, just for a second, being alone with him in the lift. “What?”  Asking dully, stunned by the force of your long ignored need, you hadn’t heard his follow up question. Lowering his head, softly chuckling, “I asked if you two were having lunch?  Could I join you?” “I’m in a meeting… Fury is in town.”  Rolling her eyes, Natasha stepped out on her floor, “See you later!”  You just knew she was going to grill about all this at some point, but now you were trapped in a metal box with one of those sexy superheroes she’d told you to move on with. Doors closing with a metallic hiss, Steve smiled at you sweetly, “About lunch?” “Um… well, I’d need to shower.  Change…”  Talking with your hands, betraying your nervous energy, you struggled with an excuse as to why you couldn’t join with the Captain. “I can wait.  Want to meet up on the patio… say, forty five minutes?” Looking so hope filled, you found yourself smiling broadly at the blonde Adonis, now holding open the doors, waiting for your reply.  “Sure.  Forty five minutes.”

It took an hour.  You hadn’t meant to, but by the time you’d cleaned up, thrown on a skirt and tucked in your tee shirt, slapped on a bit of mascara and tied your sneakers, it had been sixty minutes.  Even though you were jumpy and jittery, since Loki left, this was the closest thing to a date you’d been on. Stepping out onto the patio, squinting into the noonday sun, you spotted the golden boy easy enough.  Sitting comfortably, a brown paper bag on the table, Steve looked completely at ease waiting for your grand entrance.  Shifting, he glanced your way, freezing at the sight of you. Gaining his feet slowly, Steve watched your approach, “Hi…” There was a tone of appreciation in his voice that made your skin tingle.   “Hello, Captain.”  God, even the sound of your voice was sexy.  Steve found himself stuttering, flustered, by the overwhelming sweetness of you.  Clapping his hands against his leg, “Um… please, call me Steve, ok?”  “Yes, ok.  Steve.”  A long minute passed where you looked at Steve and he looked back at you.  He was just so glad to have you all to himself, uninterrupted, that looking at you took his breath away.  It also erased his manners for a heartbeat, “Please, sit down.  I, uh… I had some sandwiches made.” Tucking a lock of short hair behind your ear, you grinned, “Is this… is this a picnic?  For me?” Squinting a bit, shrugging his shoulders with a laugh, “Maybe?” “Maybe is ok with me.”  Reflecting that tentative tone, part curious, part cautious, you reached for the bag.  “I’m starving!” Sipping from your glass bottle Coke, you looked over the Avenger before you.  So wholesome, so clean cut.  Nothing like the dark and devious God of Mischief who’d stolen your heart and then abandoned it so long ago. Munching on your sandwiches, delicious and fresh, your nervousness ebbed away.  Basic first date stuff flowed between the pair of you, movies you loved and why, favorite colors and school subjects.  Hobbies came next, and you found yourself surprised when Steve shyly admitted, “Drawing.  I love to draw.  Before I was… um… when I was just Steve, I could sketch myself into another world.  It was freeing.” “That’s how I feel about music.”  Talking to Steve felt nice.  And you knew that was a cliche adjective, but nice was so easy.  It’s how you found yourself talking about your first live concert, Heart, when you were eight and how it made you love rock music as a kid.  “Heart… sounds familiar.”  He was cute as mused over the placing the name, wiping the Dorito dust off his fingers. Excitedly you recited songs that meant so much to you, “Barracuda?  Magic Man?” “Magic Man… I think I know that one.” Unable to stop yourself, singing into the now drained Coke bottle turned microphone, “Try to understand, try, try, try to understand!  He’s a Magic Man, mama… He’s got magic hands!” Clapping at your performance, Steve smiled at you, warm and even.  “Magic Men?  Magic hands, huh?” And suddenly, Loki was there, front and center in your thoughts.  The scent of worn leather and dark liquor filled your nose, phantoms from memory, come to torment you.  An image of Loki and those wickedly smart hands, coaxing you onto your back as his silver tongue devoured your sopping center already overdue for his attention, was as real now as when you had lived it.  He had magic hands.  He’d proven that to you over and over again.  Tears rose to your eyes, clouding your vision, as everything that was sweet about the afternoon turned sour.  “Um… I’m sorry Steve.  I need to… uh… I have to go.”  Stumbling to your sneakered feet, you quickly cleared the table, unable to look at the super soldier as you made a fast escape. “I lost someone I loved too.”  His words made you stop in your tracks, his tone darker than you’d ever hear before.  In four long strides, Steve caught up with you, just as your hand gripped the door’s handle.  

Unable to turn, afraid to face him, sobbing softly, “I know Steve… but this is different.” “Yea… I know.  I know it is.”  Hearing his voice, just as raw, just as ragged as your own, made it easier to give in.  Putting the door to your back, looking at Steve through wet lashes, frustration in his baritone, “I just… damn.”  

Lifting his blue eyes to yours, begging for the words that would somehow make all of this normal, “Would you ever… could you ever…?” Your mouth started moving, swayed by the earnestness of his sentiment, “Maybe.  It’s the best I can do, Steve.” “Maybe is ok with me.” 

Wavering now, your smile faltering as tears threaten to fall, “Thanks.” If he answered, you didn’t hear it.  Rushing inside with a fist in your mouth, hoping to block the lovesick cry that ripped from you, practically running down the hallway to your place.  Not wanting anyone to see you so broken, so torn, after all this time, you needed to escape. Safely in your apartment, all alone, collapsing on the bed, you couldn’t stop your mind from replaying the afternoon.  From the gentle banter and kind hearted ‘get to know you’ vibes of your lunch with Steve, when you had opened up to the idea of a new love, a new start.  To how easy it was to let Loki creep into your thoughts, a riptide pulling you back into the shadows of your feelings for his dark desire.  Guilty bile burned your throat at the idea that you might be betraying your absent love… letting him down, somehow. Hitting the pillow behind you, weeping openly now, you thought about the last time Loki had come to you.  His words, his actions, all showing a deep affection for you.  Even if Loki had never said the actual word, he had shown you time and again that he did truly love you. “Pet.  We must speak.” Sex drunk and sapped, you curled over the lithe chested God in your bed, “Sounds serious…” Sitting up, Loki forced you to move, his profile sharp in the dim light of early dawn.  “I’ve been called to Jotunheim.” Leaning back on your elbows, “Ok… Jotunheim.  Why?” His broad back to you, Loki’s head dipped forward, resting on his folded legs.  “I… I am the rightful heir to their throne.  They need a ruler and-” turning to face you, “-it is me.  There is talk of war.  If there’s any chance to avoid it, I must be there.  I have to go.” Leaning your cheek into his shoulder, you sighed, “You have to go.  I understand that.” “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” Nosing under his arm, smooshing against Loki’s ribs, “Hmm… you’ve been away before.  I always manage, somehow… and...” Looking down at you through his dusky lashes, a secretive smile on those tasty lips, “And?” “You always come back to me.” “I do… I have.  Will you…”  Pausing, Loki twined his fingers with yours, testing the weight of your hand, “That is… wait for me?” Pressing a small kiss to his sweet mouth, “Always, babe.  I’ll be right here.”

“Promise me.  Promise that you’ll wait for me.”  Panic flashed over him, causing Loki to tug you closer, crushing you against his chest, his mouth conquering yours thoroughly. “I promise, Loki.  Promise me that you’ll be careful.”  Solemnly nodding, “Yes.  I promise, pet.” Satisfied, smoothing his hair off his forehead, “I love you.  You know that.” Soothing the shaken prince, your words calmed him and Loki found a fragile peace in the parting of your lips.  Lowering you against the cotton sheets, taking what was promised to him once more, Loki lingered over your tender body, committing every dip and dimple to memory.  Your arms clung to his, hooked under his bulging biceps, fingers wrapping over the back of his shoulders. There was only you and Loki in the deepening dark of dawn.  His slow and steady rhythm forcing your knees to the side, opened wide for him.  Your body, always eager, now overflowing with want, welcomed Loki again and again.  How softly he hummed, “Pet… my pet… wait for me.  Wait for me.” And your own responsive reply, “Yes, Loki.  Yes.  Always.” Teeth nipped at your neck, biting hard, marking you.  In that shared moment of giving and receiving of pain, your body surrendered to Loki’s masculine invasion, even as you conquered his desire.  Shivering in his arms, sleep pulling you away from your lover, “Loki… I’ll wait forever.” When you woke up, still dressed from your lunch date with Steve, your pillow was soaked through.  You hadn’t cried over Loki in months, let alone in your sleep.  Talking it over with Natasha later you whispered, “It was like I relived our last night together.  I could feel him, Nat.  Smell him.  Loki was there.” “No.  He hasn’t been on Earth in two years.”  Shaking her head in disbelief at your close to insane theory, Natasha was quick to correct you. “Well, it felt real.  And you know why this happened?” “If you’re going to say it’s because of Steve, don’t.” Ignoring Natasha, whispering conspiratorially, lest your imagined Loki overhear you, “It’s because of Steve.  Somehow, Loki knows.” “We don’t even know if Loki is alive.  So, him knowing that you’ve gone on one… almost date with Steve, that’s just…”  Words escaped her, but a hand gesture that questioned your mental status finished her thought. Sitting back in your chair, eyeing your friend cooly, “It’s not crazy, Nat.  And neither am I.” “I didn’t say you were.” “You implied it.”  Mimicking her hand motion, miffed, you started typing on your phone.  Why couldn’t she get it?  Loki wasn’t like Steve.  He wasn’t like any other man.  Loki knew things, felt things, even across space and time. 

After multiple failed attempts to engage you, all met with your stony silence, “I’m sorry, ok.  I just… I just really don’t believe that Loki is haunting you from outer space.”  Snapping open her iced tea Natasha took a long sip, “Besides, I want to know what happened with Steve.” Still concentrating on your phone, “It was fine.” “Fine?  That’s it?  You were on the patio for a long time.”  She was teasing you now, but damn it, Natasha didn’t have to be so dismissive.  “So?  It was nice.”  Eyes still locked on your device, you knew it was killing her, but you wanted Natasha to validate your Loki theory before you gave her any details about your date. Sighing, Natasha picked at her salad greens, “Ok.  Ok.  Loki is watching you from afar and he’s probably ghosting you, so you have every right to be worried.” Beaming widely, having won the battle of wills, “Thank you!” “Now, please, please, will you tell me about you and Steve?” Shifting in your seat, “He was sweet.  It was all going well… until…” “Until?” “Until... Loki.” you shrugged. “Ugh."  Sighing with unchecked disgust, Natasha tossed her fork down, fixing you with a hard stare. “It… it’s hard ok?  I mean, I’m trying to be… open to Steve, to the idea of Steve.  And, he really is so kind.”  You couldn’t help blushing just a bit.  He had been so awfully understanding, so real in a way that Loki had never been, that you felt a bit bad about bailing on him. Listening, Natasha could see that you were working on opening up to the super soldier, so she let you off the hook saying, “I know… I know.  I’m just really pulling for you two!” Placing your hand over hers, you squeezed, “I know you are.  I just… I’m not sure that I’m ready.” Natasha's face softened and she bobbed her head.  Munching on her veggies, “Listen.  At some point you have to get back to being yourself.  I miss you.  The old you.  We all do.” This was news to you.  “You all miss the old me?  I haven’t changed.” “But you have.  Look at you.  Today you’re wearing grey.  Yesterday, grey.  The day before, black.” Pulling at your simple, comfortable, sweater, “Your point?” “You had pink hair when I met you.  Remember?”  Folding her arms on the table, leaning into you, Natasha was begging for you to challenge her assessment. Of course you remembered.  You had dyed it yourself, but that was a different time, a different you.  Coolly answering, “Well, I wasn’t Pepper’s PA then, was I?” “No… but you were still working here.  Tony hired you for your ballsy attitude.  Truthfully, I think that’s why Loki fell so hard for you too.”  Stopping to gauge your reaction, Natasha smiled tightly, “You were so…” “Full of life.”  Rich and warm, you recognized his voice without turning around.  Steve swung into the free chair at your table, interrupting your conversation, gaze pointed your way. “Exactly!”  Agreeing, Natasha clapped the super soldier on the back before refocusing her attention on you. “Wow.”  The recently quelled anger crept back into your tone as you sassed, “Well, I guess I didn’t realize that I had become a shadow of my former self.  Excuse me, Captain.  Natasha.  Wouldn't want to bum you out.”  Unable to hide the hurt in your voice, you rose smoothly, swiftly breaking for the exit. “Wait!  Will you please, just hold up a minute.”  Barely jogging to your side, Steve caught up with you a little too quickly for your liking. Still raw, you bit into your bottom lip, glaring at him defiantly, “Yes Captain.” “Don’t do that, doll.  Please?” “I’m not your doll.” but you did stop, turning on him, an angry glare in your clear eyes. “Fine.  You’re not.  I just thought…”  trailing off, Steve, always unable to say exactly what you needed to hear went silent now. “You thought?  What?  That all of the sudden you and Nat would convince me that I don’t love Loki?  That I’m a fool for waiting for him?  That he’s clearly not coming back?  What exactly were you thinking Steve?” fury spun out from you like smokey swirls, threatening to burn the boy down. Steve kept his cool even though you saw his jaw tighten, “No.  Not that.  I thought… I thought, maybe…”  Running a rough hand through his blonde hair, “I thought I had a chance.” “I told you maybe, Steve.  Maybe.  Maybe I could…”  Dropping your hands in defeat, damp eyes pleading with him silently, “There’s more to this story than you know.” “That might be true.  Maybe there is some element here that I’m missing.  But I know this,” closing in on you, your rump bumping into the wall behind you, “If you were mine, I would never leave you.” Impossibly near, you could smell the minty holdover of toothpaste on his breath, the clinging scent of his aftershave overwhelming your senses.  Watching, waiting, Steve cupped your cheek.  His touch was so soft you thought you might have imagined it.  Tracing your jaw, Steve’s caress continued, those smart fingers tilting your chin up.  Parting your lips, your feet moved independently of your head and heart, bringing you closer to the heat of his chest.  You didn’t want to want Steve.  You weren’t ready to let go of Loki, even after all this time… and yet… Steve was here.  With a wide, hot hand wrapping around your waist, drawing your hips snugly against his own.  Closing your eyes, feeling your way over flexing arms, you settled your flying fingers on around his ribs.  Always a man of action, dipping his full mouth yours, Steve’s kiss was spun sugar light.  Offering sweetness and sunshine, you rose up on your toes, meeting him more than halfway.  Oh, the feeling of a strong man under your hands.  Someone real, not dream or memory, but warm and solid and here.  Licking over the seam of Steve’s lips, spurring him on, you sighed when his tongue tentatively tasted your own.

Cradling your face in his impossibly large hands, your need swelled at the grounding support Steve offered, eagerly matching his intensity.  As he pulled away, your feminine flavor on his lips, a light of lust shone in his bright eyes.  Swallowing hard, “I… I hope that was alright.” Breathless and boneless, “It was more than alright, Steve.” Twisting a lock of your hair, his knuckles brushing over your blush soaked cheekbone, “I have wanted to do that for a long time, you know?” Suddenly shy, you lowered your gaze, “I know. Sorry...” Lifting your chin once more, Steve huskily whispered, “Don’t apologize, doll.  Not to me.  Not to anyone.” The next morning, at your desk typing away, you weren’t really expecting America’s fiercest fighter to find you.  Yet there was Steve, a checkered button up shirt stretched dangerously over his wide chest, sleeves turned up so that the enhanced veins of his wrists were on display.  “Hey doll.” “Hey yourself!”  Again that flustered feeling washed over you.  Steve was hovering right at the edge of your space, too far away, but still shockingly close.  “Captain!  Great to see you!  Tony’s on his way up, but maybe you’d like to wait in my office?”  Pepper blew in, graceful and glowing, immediately commanding the attention of their guest. “Sure.  I’ll be right there.”  But he didn’t budge.  In fact, Steve settled himself on the corner of your desk, crossing those impossibly muscled arms, looking you over keenly. Sitting up straighter, swiveling your chair his way, “Is there something I can do for you, Captain Rogers?” That sent one of his golden eyebrows skyward, a playful grin lighting up his face.  Steve leaned into you, “A few things, actually.  But let’s start with dinner.  Tonight, no excuses.”  Pulling himself up to his full height, imposing but impossibly charming, “Not too fancy, ok?”

Breathlessly, “Yes.  Ok.  Yes.”

Swinging back to your computer screen, your chair stopped, forced to stillness by Steve’s heavy hand.  “Oh, and doll?” Those lips of his found yours, providing enough pressure to part your own, taking you by surprise at so public a display of affection.  But how could you resist when Steve curled you close?  He tasted like autumn sunshine, all warm honey and cinnamon sugar, making you melt into his kiss, oblivious to the world around you. “Steve?  Oh, Captain, My Captain!  Please, stop harassing the help!  That’s an HR nightmare waiting to happen!”  Tony chided playfully as he approached. Sighing, Steve straightened, his hand lingering on your shoulder.  “Tonight.  I can’t wait.”

Beaming, you bit your bottom lip, Steve’s taste still on your tongue.  “See you then.” Natasha watched you, pacing nervously, worrying a hole in the rug of your apartment.  “He’ll be here.  Relax.” “I’m not worried about him not showing up.  I’m terrified that he will.”  Sitting on the edge of your couch, fiddling with the hem of your skirt, “I should cancel.  This… this is all happening really fast.” “Fast?”  Scoffing, Natasha sashayed into your kitchen, pulling a wine glass from the cabinets she knew so well.  “I wouldn’t call your first date in two years fast.  If anything, you’re moving at a snail’s pace.” Giggling at her silliness, “A snail’s pace, huh?” Handing you the overfilled goblet, laughing herself, “Yea.  Or, like maybe a tortoise?” You sipped cautiously, more to keep your shirt stain free than out of worry about overindulgence, “Slow and steady wins the race, Nat.” “Then what exactly are you racing towards?”  It was Natasha's innate ability to turn a question back on you that made her one of your closest friends.  Somehow a calming glass of pinot was part of an existential debate on your future.  What were you after? “Um… I guess, I want to feel…” words failed you.  Feel. Loki had taken all of those ideals with him when he left.  If you were completely honest, you weren’t sure what love looked like without the impish, mischievous man at your side.  Perching on the arm of your couch, brushing over your search for the right words, “Listen.  I know that you’re still… torn.  But, give Steve a shot.  He’s been alone too long.  Just like you.” A firm knock distracted you both.  “Well… how do I look?”  Smoothing out your skirt, you twirled for your friend, eager to be complimented. “Great!  Really great!  Have so much fun tonight!” Hugging her quickly, you whispered, “I will… try.  I will try.  And,” stepping back to look at your thoughtful friend, “Thanks.” Another knock, steady and even as the man on the other side of the door, “No problem!  Now get out there, Steve’s waiting.” Nodding once more, you almost danced to the entryway, Natasha peeking into the hall just to make sure that you didn’t falter at the last minute.  She felt a small pang of guilt as you opened the door on Steve, standing there with a small bouquet of flowers, hope written across his fine features. Natasha had read the last communique from SHIELD, Fury had made sure of that.   What it said, that Loki was alive, and his return to Earth was almost assured, had been running through her mind ever since.  All the more reason to get you out of his clutches and into Steve’s while she still could.  Just the thought that Loki might come back to claim what was his, meant that there was no way you would have taken her advice, no chance that you’d have accepted Steve’s dinner invitation.  Even with his smooth skills, the super soldier knew precious little about wooing women, something Nat chalked up to years under the ice.  Unlike Loki, who was as clever and quick as they come.  So, Natasha was the matchmaker, the one who hatched this whole scheme.  It wasn’t a role she relished but it did require the skill set she had perfected over the years.  Watching, waiting, setting a baited trap, springing it at the right time.   

And Natasha had executed her part to perfection as evidenced by the adorable look on your face after Steve’s impromptu kiss following your tantrum the other day.  Or how he’d visited your office and made your knees weak in front of everyone, including Tony.  It was all anyone could talk about.  To be honest, Natasha didn’t think Steve had it in him, and yet, you were walking out the door with him, off to a night of fun and romance. “Um… Nat?  Could you?”  Handing over the small bundle of blossoms, Natasha took them, a satisfied smile on her face.  This was going to work, she could feel it.  You were already halfway gone from the looks of things and Steve had been yours since the first time he’d met you.  If Loki spent another month, or, fingers crossed longer, off world, Jotunheim, Vanaheim, hell, the Forest Moon of Endor, you’d be hooked on Steve and safe from that Trickster and his shifting plans. Questioning herself, Natasha wondered, not for the first time, if she was doing the right thing.  The noble thing.  The plain truth was she couldn’t watch you break again, not after last time.  Steve wouldn’t cause that kind of hurt, he just wasn’t built that way, and that’s why she’d pulled your collective strings.  Moving your pieces into play, always in your best interest, always to help, that’s what Nat told herself.

But always, deep down, she was a company girl and it was Fury who wanted to keep tight tabs on you.  Without knowing the whys of Nat's scheme, he had been happy to learn about Steve's growing interest in the girl who once tamed Loki.  His reasoning, as he explained to the Black Widow, was two fold.  

First, knowing Steve was with you to keep you safe and under surveillance in the event that Loki contacted you was a good thing.  No need to search for you while you were necking with the Captain.  Second, if Loki came back needing a reminder on why he should behave, you were there as incentive… or bait, depending on the severity of the situation.

Sighing, Natasha gulped down your unfinished wine, wondering if her plan would be enough to keep you safe.  Why couldn't Loki stay gone?  Maybe he had moved on, just like you, and he would stay away.

Fat chance of that happening with you in play.  Loki would be back.  That would happen. As she placed Steve’s floral arrangement into your vase, Natasha hoped that it would be later, much later, than her reading suggested.

~ Part 2 Coming Soon!~ My Beauties:  @just-random-obsessions @brokenthelovely @vodka-and-some-sass @lots-of-loki @jamielea81 @thefallenbibliophilequote @lokislittlecorner @iamverity @crystalizedcaramel @rorybutnotgilmore @jessiejunebug @alexakeyloveloki @ahintofkiwistrawberry @shxdowofdarkness @nonsensicalobsessions @mizfit2​ @procrastinatinglikeabitch​ @thenatallie​ @wolfsmom1​ @unadulteratedwizardlove​ @sammy-jo1977​

[let-it-raines]

your wonder under summer skies (12/?)

Summer in Storybrooke, Maine means one thing for its residents: tourist season. This year, for Emma Swan and Killian Jones, it means relationships ending and friendships changing all the while they attempt to figure out just what their relationship is. It’s somewhere straddling the line between friends and lovers, and there’s no guarantee of a soft landing if they fall into new territory.

rating: mature

ao3: beginning | current

tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 |

-/-

His hand moves back and forth with the vacuum, guiding it under the couch to try to get up dust that’s accumulated before moving to the baseboards. When was this last time they cleaned these? They’re disgusting, and Killian doesn’t know how he let it get like this? He always cleans these, keeps them from getting to be like this, and yet it looks like they haven’t been touched in at least six months.

Six months.

Bloody hell.

How did he let this happen?

The whirring of the vacuum gets louder when Killian pushes it up against the wall, and he’s definitely going to break it if he keeps forcefully holding it like this. But the damn dust and dirt won’t get sucked up, and he has to fix it. It can’t stay like this.

If the rest of the apartment and the offices downstairs are going to be clean, Killian needs this to match.

Why didn’t Liam pick up the slack since Killian has obviously been too busy fucking Emma to remember that he has responsibilities and a life and order to keep?

He tugs on the cord to try to move further down the wall, but all of the sudden the whirring stops, and when he glances over at the outlet, he can see that it’s still plugged in.

Today would be the day that his vacuum stops working. Go figure.

Groaning, Killian puts the device down and moves to change the plug, seeing if maybe an outlet simply went out. It doesn’t work in either plug, and when Killian tries it in another outlet altogether, he’s still disappointed.

“Dammit,” he mutters under his breath. “Dammit, dammit, god-fucking-dammit.”

“Talking to yourself again?” Liam asks as he walks down the hallway, his footsteps as quiet as they always are.

“The fucking vacuum broke, and we need to clean our baseboards.”

Liam waves him away. “I’ll look at it later. I’m sure it can wait.”

“I’m cleaning now. I don’t want it to wait. I’ll take the damn thing apart myself.”

“Are you honestly this cross at the handheld vacuum breaking? It’s not that big of a deal, Killian. That thing has to be decades old. We’ve been needing to buy one that wasn’t from a secondhand store for ages.”

Killian grinds his teeth and flexes out his fingers to keep himself from forming a fist and knocking the teeth out of his brother’s mouth. He knows that would be excessive. It shouldn’t even be a thought that’s at the back of his mind, and it isn’t, not really. It’s at the damn forefront.

He might be losing it a little bit.

Does it count as a win if he at least realizes that about himself?

“It’s been a long day,” Killian sighs, “and I’m trying to clean. Excuse me if I’m cross over the fact that our place needs this because no one has bothered to do it.”

Liam’s eyes narrow, and he crosses his arms over his chest while his jaw sets. “What’s this really about? The woman you’re seeing? Did something happen?”

What the hell?

Where did he get that thought from? That’s…ludicrous.

“Why would frustration over a vacuum make you think I was mad about a woman?”

“Because no one in their right mind would get that pissed over a vacuum.”

“We’re most likely going to have to get a new one, which is not something I budgeted for even if you’ve apparently been thinking about it. Do you know how expensive these are?”

“We have the money.”

“Not if we waste it!”

“My God, Killian,” Liam laughs as he turns around to walk toward the fridge, “give it a few weeks, it’ll pass.”

Has Liam lost his bloody mind? And is he really about to put on another pot of coffee right now?

Why does that make Killian so damn furious?

“And what, pray tell, will pass?”

Liam picks up the pot and waves it around. “Your infatuation with whoever you’re sleeping with. It’ll pass, and then you won’t be getting pissed off like this about whatever it is she’s done.”

Killian swallows and puts the vacuum down before he breaks it even more, and really, what would be the harm in that? He desperately wants to do something like punch a wall – or maybe Liam’s face – but maybe he can hold this rage in until he can get out onto the beach and go for a run until his legs are burning so much until they’re on fire.

Skipper shuffles next to Killian’s feet before settling down on top of them. Of course.

Maybe the dog will hold him in place so he doesn’t punch Liam.

“How could you possibly know that I’m seeing someone?” Killian seethes, unsure why he’s actually asking Liam this. He doesn’t honestly care for his answer.

“That’s how it’s been for a long time. I don’t know why this girl would be any different, especially since you’re hiding her away from all of us like you usually do with the others.”

He’s not.

Not technically.

And really, that’s the problem.

Well, one of the million he’s thought of since he left Emma last night.

Fuck.

Why did he do that? Why didn’t he let her come up to his apartment with him? Instead, he dismissed her, pretty much told her to go home without any question, and she wanted to come up. He wanted her to as well even if his intention was to stay away from Emma.

But deep down, he wanted her to stay even if he didn’t give her an opportunity to.

Even if it was just to sleep. That’s probably all that would have happened with how tired the two of them were, but it wouldn’t have mattered had they fucked. That’s what they’ve been doing after all, as per their agreement. Hell, they slept together yesterday morning, and it was…well, it felt like hell of a lot more than fucking, and Killian is not okay with that. He’s not here for anything other than casual, and he’s especially not here for something more than casual with Emma.

They’ve gotten too close, too comfortable.

No, scratch that. He has. It’s all on him.

He’s the one whose hand reaches for hers when they’re driving to get lunch, and he’s the one who dipped his head down to kiss her in greeting the other day. It was just the one time, but that was enough. He’s the one who is showing more than a friendly affection when he shouldn’t be showing her anything close to that outside of sex. Even during, there should be limits.

Obviously, he wants to take care of her when they’re intimate. She’s Emma. She’s his friend and a person and someone he cares for deeply, but limits.

There have to be limits.

Killian has blown those limits out of the water, and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do.

Break vacuums, apparently.

“My business is not any of yours,” Killian finally barks at Liam. He steps away, moving Skipper off his feet, and picks up the vacuum to put it in the storage closet. He’ll deal with that tomorrow. “You’re so bloody nosy about everything that I do. I’m not your child. I’m your brother, and I don’t know if you know this, but I’m not a lad anymore.”

The coffee percolates in the pot, and Killian can smell it now, warm and inviting and everything this conversation is not.

“I simply want you to be happy, little brother.” Killian grits his teeth. Now is not the time to nitpick Liam’s inane name for him. It’s never going to stop. “Is it so bad for me to wish that you would stop pursing relationships you know are nothing more than temporary?”

“More than temporary?” he scoffs. “When has anything in my life ever been more than temporary? It’s not that simple for me. You know what I’ve been through and what I’ve lost! Even things I thought were forever were gone in the blink of an eye!”

“That woman lied to you. She was not who you thought she was.”

Do not punch Liam, Killian reminds himself. Do not.

It would feel so damn satisfying, though.

“I loved her,” Killian says quietly, the rage still boiling just below the surface. “That doesn’t change. A hell of a lot of other things changed after she died and after I found out the truth, but that didn’t change the core of our years together. I’m not bloody like you or like Elsa where I can trust myself to be with someone and not screw everything up, so excuse me if I’m not interested in something that’s more than temporary!”

“You know what, Killian,” Liam begins as the coffee maker quiets, “I think you do want something that’s more permanent, and that’s why you’re pissed right now. You’re pissed at me, which I probably deserve for being a bloody ass to you, but I think you’re angrier at yourself because whoever this girl is, you’ve realized you might want something more with her.”

“I’m going for a run,” Killian hastily says. “I don’t know if I’ll be back tonight, so don’t wait up.”

“Killian – ”

“Let Skipper out if he needs it. I’ll make sure I’m here to run him in the morning since that always seems to be such a big inconvenience to you.”

And then he’s grabbing his keys and his wallet and slamming the door behind him. he doesn’t even have on the right shoes or clothes to go for a run, so before he sinks into the sand, he slips of his socks and his shoes and decides that if he can’t run, he might as well go for a walk. Maybe the ocean will calm him and bring him some kind of peace, but he doubts it.

It’s usually his safe haven, the place that keeps him centered, but he keeps running that conversation with Liam over and over again in his head. Liam’s right. Killian knows that he is, and he hates it.

Liam has always been right about Milah, but Killian has never wanted to admit that. He still doesn’t, and he certainly doesn’t think that he can admit to it now. Instead, he focuses on other things, on the one other thing that has been going over and over in his mind for the past few days.

He has feelings for Emma, who has been the best friend he’s had in quite possibly his entire life, and he absolutely cannot go there.

He’ll fuck it up.

He knows that he will. He hasn’t had a stable relationship in over half a decade, and Emma is not the woman he needs to try again with.

She deserves better than him, always has. She deserves someone who will know how to treat her well and who won’t screw her over and screw everything over because they don’t know how to handle their emotions. Emma has been through enough in her life. Her childhood was more screwed up than his was, and her relationships as an adult have been no better.

How could Killian possibly do any better than Neal?

In the end, he’d fuck it all up just the same even though he would never want to hurt Emma.

“Shit,” he mumbles to himself before sitting down in the wet sand.

The moonlight reflects of the water in front of him, silver strands of light mixing in with the deep indigo of the water, and the waves calmly crest before waning, a push and pull that never stops. A breeze joins in, lowering the mid July temperatures to the point of a chill, but Killian revels in it and the way that he can feel it in all of his bones.

The ocean is true and unfailing. It’s always there, even if the colors change and the creatures that reside below migrate, and for a moment, Killian is seventeen years old and in England, sitting on a chair in Brighton with Liam beside him because he was home for once. There aren’t a lot of good memories from Killian’s upbringing, not after his mum passed away, but that day was one of the good ones.

No fears or complications.

No warring brothers.

No warring mind.

“You know, if you’re looking for a place to hide out, I don’t think the beach in front of a lit country club is the place to do it.”

Killian chuckles and twists his head around to see Emma walking toward him. He really doesn’t need to see her right now, but God, if it isn’t good to actually see her.

The string lights hanging above the club’s deck are still illuminating Emma, creating a golden halo around already golden hair, and he barely manages to look away in order to scan down her body. Her dress is long and flowing, hitting right above her ankles, but the floral material hugs the rest of her so that he can see the curves that he knows every inch of better than he knows the marking of the scars on his hand and the ink sketched into his skin.

Stunning.

“I honestly did not realize I’d circled back to here.”

“How? Are you drunk?”

“I am completely sober.”

He hears her laugh and the rustle of fabric before she’s sitting down next to him and playfully bumping her shoulder into his.

That’s the other thing. Even if he could be the partner Emma deserves, she’s likely got no interest in anything other than being his friend and fucking when she’s in the mood.

Not that he minds either of those things. He agreed to them both, and it’s worked out quite well until he allowed himself to slip and develop feelings that he has no business having.

And yet he can’t get up and walk away right now. Sitting with her is the only place he’d like to be.

It was before. It is now.

It’s simply different.

It’s a frightening thought to think that the one who is ripping him apart is also the one who can stitch him back together, threading the needle so carefully that he won’t be left with scars this time.

Those are a hopeful man’s words, though, because he can already feel the scars inking themselves into his skin. He guesses he’ll have to learn the new ones too.

“Are you playing hooky from work?”

“Nah. We’ve got a dinner going on, and they’re in the middle of their main course. They won’t need me for a little while.”

Killian hums and leans his hands back behind him. “The impeccable Ms. Swan, catering to the elite of Storybrooke since 2011.”

“My dream job, obviously.”

“What’s your real dream job, love?”

“Inheriting millions of dollars and never working again.”

Killian’s head tilts back with laughter, and he glances to the side to see the moonlight catching off the side of Emma’s face. It’s so damn similar to last night that his heart aches.

But no, he’s pushing those thoughts away. He’s pushing them away and ignoring them and choosing to think that for a little while, things will be alright. He’s lying to himself, but that’s alright for now.

“Okay, but if you absolutely had to work for a living,” he prods, genuinely curious now.

“Well, I don’t know,” Emma admits. “I kind of lucked into this job. I was a waitress, because that’s all I’m pretty much qualified to do since I barely got out of high school with a degree, and Mary Margaret took me under her wings and helped me get promotions. It’s not bad here. I like it most days. I could go for a different boss, but it’s nice. Nice pay, mostly nice hours, even nicer free food.”

“Ah, that’s why you stay then? The food.”

“Absolutely.” Emma toes her sandals off and drags her foot through the sand next to his. She absentmindedly touches his leg, and a shiver runs down his spine. He tells himself that it’s the breeze and the water, but he’s apparently not that good of a liar today. “But really, I don’t know. For awhile, I wanted to be a social worker to help kids like me, but I realized that would be too painful for me. I’ve never really had a goal, but I kind of like where I am. Maybe I’ll figure something out in the future.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. What about you, KJ? Being in business with your brother the dream?”

“The Navy was the dream, but this is probably second or third best.”

“Third?”

“Well, yeah, I wanted to be in a band as a teenager, and I think I still hold out a little for that.”

Emma laughs beside him, her head tilted back so her hair flows off her head, tips hitting against the sand. “You know, I can see it, but I can’t decide whether or not you’d be a John Mayer type or a Freddie Mercury.”

“Well, I guess I’d have to try for us to find out.”

“I will be front row at every show. Promise.”

Killian swallows the lump in his throat and turns away from Emma. Every time he looks at her, there’s a twist in his gut. He can’t decide whether or not it’s painful or not, but even if it is, he keeps craving it.

Craving her.

He shouldn’t.

This has to break the rules of their agreement, these feelings. They never said, not explicitly. So maybe they don’t, not if he always puts the friendship first.

Not if he doesn’t allow himself to go too deep.

“What are you doing out here?” Emma asks him after a minute or so of silence between them.

“My bloody vacuum broke.”

“And you thought you were going to find the parts to fix it here?”

His eyes roll. “I may have gotten a tad…heated, and I need some fresh air.”

“Note to self, don’t get between Killian Jones and his vacuum.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

Emma’s foot brushes against his leg again, and this time he doesn’t bother slowly moving away.

“I get off in about an hour. You want to go to the Rabbit Hole?”

“Drinking on a school night, love?”

“I’m a rebel like that.”

“Don’t I know it?” He nudges her shoulder, and his hand reaches back behind him until his fingers brush against hers. She takes his hand, and he lets Emma be the one to twine their fingers together. “I can’t tonight. I’m afraid I need to go home and apologize to my brother.”

“You two have it out about the vacuum?”

“Believe it or not, we did.”

“Wow,” Emma laughs, squeezing his hand, “that is something else, but you know, I’d never keep you from having to apologize. Maybe another night then.”

“Definitely.”

Killian pulls their hands up and presses his lips over her knuckles, ignoring the sand.

She’s so light tonight, these past few days really, and he could never imagine ruining that.

Ruining her. There’s no way in hell they’re going to get out of this unscathed, and he can’t stomach the thought of hurting Emma.

“You should get back to work, love. It’s going to take you awhile to get all this sand off your ass.”

“Well, hopefully no one will be staring at my ass, so they won’t be able to tell.”

“It’s a damn good ass, Swan. And in that dress? People are definitely going to stare.”

She scoffs and lets go of his hand to stand up, brushing her hands across her ass as the sand falls off. Killian stands as well, brushing off his own sand, but he knows he’ll immediately be taking a shower after this, so it’s not all that important.

“You going to stare at me walking away as I go back to work?” Emma teases, her bottom lip between her teeth.

“You know that I am.”

“I’ll put a little extra sway into it for you.” She smiles and then presses up on her toes, her soft lips gliding against his for one second and then another, each of them blending into the next until he doesn’t know how long it’s been. But then she’s pulling back, her breath as heavy as his is, but unlike him, she’s got the softest smile on her face. “Goodnight, KJ. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Goodnight, love.”

And then she picks up her sandals and starts walking away, her hips swaying a little more than they normally would.

Dammit if he’s not half in love with her, and dammit if he doesn’t want to stop before he gets all the way there.

Killian watches her go until she’s standing underneath the string of lights and then disappearing inside the club until she’s nothing more than a face in a crowd of people who are laughing and drinking spirits while paying a copious amount of money to eat small plates of dessert.

And then he walks back home, focusing on his breathing with each step, and when he makes it up into the apartment, Liam is sitting on the couch in the dark, the television lights flickering across his face. He doesn’t acknowledge Killian, so Killian quietly walks into the kitchen, grabs two beers out of the fridge, and then settles down on the couch with Liam despite the fact that he definitely doesn’t have all of the sand off of his ass.

When he holds out the bottle to Liam, he takes it, clinking it against Killian’s before taking a sip.

“It’s your life, Killian,” Liam says. “It’s not mine, and I have no right to push you into things you don’t want to do. I judge your relationships too much, romantic and otherwise, and I need to stop because the last thing I want is to push you away. God, I mean, if it’s not with whoever this woman is, it’s with Emma. I don’t know why I’m such an ass toward her. I know you’re friends. I just – I guess I thought I once saw you look at her the way I look at Elsa, and I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Too late for that.

“Emma’s a friend,” Killian says as he tilts the bottle against his lips, “and you are an ass to her. She knows it, too. She thinks you hate her, and if that’s the reason why…God, Liam, you can’t hate every person who has the ability to hurt me.”

“I know. You’re right.”

Killian raises a brow. “Are you sure you weren’t drinking too much before I got home?”

“No,” Liam laughs, “no, I wasn’t. I’m serious. I’m sorry about tonight and every other time I’ve been a wanker. Emma doesn’t deserve it. You don’t. I should be better.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Killian takes a long, cold sip of his own drink. “Thank you. And you’re right, you know? About me running from anything serious. I do run from any kind of commitment, and I’m not sure I can stop that.”

“When you find the right woman, you might just figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Killian sighs, sinking down into the couch, “I hope you’re right.”

-/-

-/-

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[emerald-amidst-gold]

So, Dragons...

Time for me to ramble ramble about the whole basis of my fanfics when it comes to Dragon Age! 

Honestly, it all started when I was just playing, made Fane a Reaver, and decided that he would be a dragon. 

But then I started thinking and beautiful things can happen when one thinks for over long. 

To start: I’ve always believed dragons have a connection with Uthenera. My reasoning to that is because they go centuries without waking until something either awakens them (’normal’ dragons its could be a number of things and Archdemons are awakened with the Taint). Who’s to say that dragons don’t have magical connections or dreams, either? The Archdemon can reach out to a Warden in their dreams, but this could be from the Taint itself. Who knows? Furthermore, dragons expel elemental attacks (fire, ice, electricity), and the only beings we know that can do that from practically the moment they’re born is mages, albeit mages don’t come into their powers until fairly later in life, but that could be because of the presence of the Veil. 

So, what would potentially awaken a dragon other than the darkspawn or a ‘instinctual’ time clock to mate? Perhaps in the way Solas did? They just woke up after sleeping for years and years and years? Or did someone or something powerful wake them? And my thought on the dragons in Dragon Age: Inquisition is that the Breach woke them up. After all, Solas states that animals can be driven mad by the Breach and its effects (the wolves in the Hinterlands were being controlled by a demon that more or less probably came through a rift). I think this because of how many dragons we face in Inquisition (10 base; 3 DLC). That’s a total of 13 dragons where in the other games you had barely any. (Origins there are 4; that includes the Archdemon and in DA2, there’s the two in the Bone Pit).  

This influx in numbers proves to me that something is going on, and it could be the Breach’s influence or it could be something more. 

Now, in my stories, I constantly reiterate with Fane saying, ‘The Veil is driving my kin mad. It must come down. It isn’t natural to them. They see this world and it is wrong to them; it is wrong to me.’ This ties back to my thoughts on Uthenera. Imagine waking up centuries later to a world that was not what you fell asleep to. Imagine the sky feeling different, feeling like a wall rather than a clear expanse and not knowing why or how. Imagine seeing familiarity in everything, but it still feeling foreign because it is. Imagine not hearing or smelling your brethren, your kin, your people, when they were otherwise rulers of the skies. This exact thing is what happens to Solas; everything he wakes up to is not the world he knew and loved. And I believe the same thing happens with dragons who’ve been asleep for just as long, if not longer. 

They awaken to a world that doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel like home. So, the ‘mindless’ destruction of settlements where they used to have a lair, the constant ‘ravaging’ of livestock where there used to be plains of game for easy picking? It’s all in an attempt to try and fix what feels so wrong. After all, would you be sane if you woke up in a place you were unfamiliar with, if all you ever knew was gone and destroyed by something you could only feel, but couldn’t see? I think dragons are more sentient than we’ve seen thus far, and they can feel emotions. Fear, despair, anger, happiness; I think they can feel it all. And to have your home torn to shreds, to have the world crumbling around you when it otherwise sang with life, to have pitchfork and boulders thrown at you because of ignorance and misconceptions, to see none of your people among the masses of snarls of disgust or eyes of fear of creatures you don’t recognize. That would induce madness, insanity so deep, so potent, so destructive that it would cause any being to lash out, to try and correct what was wrong, even though they knew they shouldn’t. Again, these are just my thoughts based on how I observe dragon movements in games and patterns they have, but I feel like something is missing. Dragons are more than just a fun boss battle or an inclusion for world building.

Mainly because dragons in Dragon Age appear in almost every ancient civilization. Tevinter with the Old Gods, who were represented by dragons. The Elvhen (basing this off the theory about the Forgotten Ones), who believed taking the form of a dragon was only reserved for divinity, and thus anyone that took that form without ‘inherent’ permission was considered reviled, to be forgotten. It’s a stretch, I know, but what if dragons were the first right along with the Elvhen? What if they were actual guardians of the world like how I depict in my stories, tasked with perserving and observing the creatures that had been wrought? 

Obviously, I’m leaving a lot out from the comics and whatnot, but from what I’ve read, those have some fascinating depictions and actual scenes where dragons are more than just mindless creatures fueled by lone instinct and primal surges. 

BIOWARE. I NEED ANSWERS. TELL ME I’M NOT MAD. 

Anyways, thank you for crinkling the tin foil with me! It’s a little scattered and sloppy, but percolating thoughts must be brewed! >:D