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disgruntledspacedad · 4 years ago

Text

Save a Horse

pairing: Javier Peña x reader

summary: (fluff, slice of life) You ride a horse. Javi has a heart attack.

words: 2kish

warnings: language. Utter ignorance of ranch life, but Ears is enthusiastic, at least. No horses were harmed in the writing of this fic.

a/n: unbeta’d.

It was Pop’s idea to start with.

“Have you ever ridden a horse, Orejas?” he breaks the easy morning silence suddenly, resting his empty mug on the counter and shooting you an expression that can only be described as conspiratorial.

“No,” you answer honestly, thinking wryly that Pop certainly knows how to catch your attention.

Beside you, Javi stiffens, and you can feel his gaze heavy on you. He’s been a little jumpy ever since he’d got you back, and with good reason, really. You rest a reassuring hand on his thigh and squeeze, receiving just as much comfort from the gesture as you’re offering.

This man is your rock.

Pop is still watching you expectantly, and you feel your lips tug upward. It’s so easy to smile at Chucho Peña. “But I’m game to try anything twice.”

Pop grins, and Javi blusters a deep sigh.

It’s nice outside. For being early November, the weather is surprisingly mild in Laredo, the air smelling of grass and hay and maybe a little bit of horse, but in a good way. The sunshine is warm on your skin, the sky extending bright blue as far as you can see.

Pop leads you to the stables, prattling on about horses and saddles and other things that you don’t understand in the slightest. Javi follows silently, catching your fingers in a vice grip. His jaw is tense, his brow furrowed in that little frown that seems to be permanently affixed to his face ever since Colombia.

Your heart flip flops, and you stop, pulling him close enough to rest your head on his chest. Automatically, Javi’s arms wrap around you, pulling you in, and he sighs deeply into your hair.

“Freaking out,” you remind him gently.

He huffs a tiny laugh. “I know.”

You lift your lips for a quick kiss, and Javi obliges eagerly. “It’s going to be okay, babe,” you murmur as you pull away.

“I know,” he repeats softly, looking for all the world like he really doesn’t.

“Come on.” You tug at him, noticing Pop carefully not watching you in the distance. “It’ll be fun.”

“I doubt that,” Javi mutters darkly, but he follows anyway.

“This is Caballo,” Pop announces, stopping in front of a freakishly huge black stallion.

Creative, you almost say aloud, reminding yourself to be nice just in time. This man is as good as your father-in-law. It’s probably wise to keep that favorable impression you’ve made.

As if sensing your thought, Pop winks at you. “Javier named him.”

You shoot a little smirk in Javi’s direction, knowing that he’ll pick up on your teasing. He doesn’t rise to your bait, though, the killjoy.

In no time at all, the horses are saddled up and ready to go. Javi is perched atop a cream-colored mare, Cerveza, and Caballo is all yours.

Pop declines to ride, preferring to supervise you from the ground. “He’s very gentle, Orejas,” he tells you as he helps you into the saddle. “Won’t throw you or buck. Not like Cerveza.” He winks up at you. “Es una pequeña perra.”

Together, you laugh. You’ve picked up on enough Spanish curses during your time in Colombia to get the message.

Javi and Pop offer you some last-second advice - relax, sit up straight, and keep the reigns loose - and then you’re off, plod-plod-ploding at a mind-numbingly sedate pace around the fence line.

By the third lap, you are thoroughly, utterly, completely bored.

“I think I’m ready to go faster!” you shout to Pop. “Can I make him go faster?”

Pop tips his hat at you, shooting you a toothy grin. “Tap him on the sides with your heels, Orejas, and say, ‘giddap!’”

“Gently,” Javi warns you sharply.

You shoot him a glare that’s only half-mocking. As if you’d just kick this poor horse in the ribs - god, it’s like Javi doesn’t know you at all.

“Giddap,” you say in your most dignified voice, nudging Caballo with your feet like Pop had told you. Caballo jolts forward, cantering half-heartedly for a couple of steps, then slowing to a walk with a disdainful snort.

Ugh. You toss a questioning glance back at Javi. He’s doing a very poor job of hiding his grin.

Motherfucker.

Pop is smiling, too. “Try it with a little more authority, Orejas!” he advises. “He’s a big animal, and proud. You’ve got to tell him what to do, not ask politely.”

Javi snorts. ”Shouldn’t be too hard.”

You whip around to stare at him, lurching forward when Caballo reacts to your sudden shift in body weight. Behind you, Javi breaks out into snickers.

Well, then.

Exasperated, you decide that Javier Peña is far more of a big, dumb, proud animal than the horse you’re riding, and you manage to climb atop him every day and submit him to your will just fine.

Caballo shouldn’t be a problem.

You square your shoulders, determined to get it right this time, and summon every John Wayne movie you’ve ever seen to the forefront of your mind. It’s not an impressive anthology to pull from - you’re more of a sci-fi kind of girl - but it’s more than enough to get a clear picture in your head of what needs to happen.

You gather the reigns in one hand, straighten your back, and take a deep breath.

“Hyah!”

Caballo is off like a shot, surging forward with an enthusiasm that sends your body rocketing backwards. Your feet fly up, suddenly free of the stirrups, and its all you can do to hold like mad to the reigns with your right hand - why the fuck did you decide one hand was better, anyway?? - while your left flaps free in the wind.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” you tell Caballo. You’re not begging, you’re not.

You’re vaguely aware of shouts behind you.

You manage to pitch forward just enough to avoid falling off the ass-end of the horse, but it’s a near thing. Caballo is in a full-out gallop, lungs chugging beneath you, mane flapping in the wind and stinging your eyeballs. You lean in and hold on for dear life, and goddamn, none of those westerns ever mention just how rough it is on horseback. You are going to be so fucking sore tomorrow, ass, tits, and bits, but you can’t find it in yourself to care, because you are riding this horse, dammit.

You realize your mistake a moment later. Pride goeth before the fall, and your feet had shaken free of the stirrups on Caballo’s initial leap forward. Now, your legs are free-floating, flap, flap, flapping in the wind, and each bounce is sending you just a hair further over to the side.

Oh shit shit shit.

You flail, arching your toes in a desperate attempt to find purchase somewhere, but it’s a done deal. Grip with your knees, some primal instinct screams, or maybe that’s just Javi - you think he might be chasing you in the background.

By this point, you’re flat sideways on Caballo’s body, curled up more on his ribs than his back. Flop flop flop. He hasn’t slowed one bit, and you realize with sudden, horrifying clarity that gravity is a fucking bitch, and it’s a matter of where, not if or when, you fall.

You decide to do things on your own terms and let go, dumb as it may be. You pitch forward and roll, tucking your shoulder into the ground like your gymnastics teacher had taught you when you were six. There’s a horrifying moment of chaos and pain - the world is spinning, nothing is under your control, and the breath is knocked completely from you, but it’s over in an instant, and you’re left staring at the shockingly blue sky, blinking into the sunlight and listening to the receding hoof-falls of that goddamned horse.

“Ears! Ears! Ears!” Javi is making a lot of fucking noise somewhere over your shoulder.

The ridiculousness of the situation hits you all at once, along with a truckload of relief. You relive it all in an instant, picturing how utterly fucking stupid you must have looked, clinging to a runaway horse with your hair wild in the wind and your short little legs bouncing like chicken wings, and before you can find your way to your feet again, you’re laughing so hard that you can’t fucking breathe, which is almost a problem, because there wasn’t much air left in you to begin with -

Javi’s kneeling over you now, blocking the sun with his body, panting hard. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, Ears, are you okay?”

You can’t stop laughing long enough to answer him. You curl up in a ball on your side, trying push yourself up on your elbows, but you can’t.

“Oh… Oh my… Oh my god,” you stutter, breathless.

Beside you, the tension bleeds from Javi’s body in one long, broken sigh. You realize that he’s laughing, too. He leans his forehead into your shoulder, slumping into you bonelessly.

“I… I couldn’t… the fucking foot loops -” in your discombobulated state, the word ‘stirrup’ is lost to you. “My feet, Javi!”

He shakes his head into your neck, hot little breaths puffing on your bare skin. “I know,” he giggles, pressing a quick kiss to your jaw. “I saw.”

You try to stagger upright and don’t quite manage it. You’re feeling dizzy, almost a little drunk, but before you can stumble again, Javi is right there, hauling you to your feet and catching your lips in a deep, gentle kiss.

“You.” Javi breathes into you, his mustache tickling at your lip, and you lean heavily against him, allowing him to do most of the work of holding you up. “Ridiculous girl,” more kisses, “What do you have against me, huh?” a soft nip at the corner of your mouth, “It’s like you just try to scare the life out of me, Ears.”

“Dunno.” Your voice trembles, and you’re unsure whether that’s leftover adrenaline or the way Javi’s gigantic hands are stroking possessively at your ribcage. The flannel he’s wearing is worn soft with age, and you nuzzle into it, sighing. “It’s a hobby, I guess.”

“I can think of better hobbies,” Javi growls at the skin of your neck.

“Not right here,” you laugh, suddenly aware of Pop approaching. Javi whines like a puppy as you push him away gently, his hair mussed and his lips swollen, and your heart swells in your chest.

Christ, sometimes you still cannot believe how fucking lucky you are.

“Besides.” You can’t resist stealing one last kiss from his chin. “You know you love it.”

Javi’s breath catches. His eyes darken. One thumb strokes softly at your cheek, tucking back a stray hair. “Querida,” he starts -

You’re startled by a slow clap behind you, and both you and Javi jump back as if burned. Pop has finally made it to the scene. “Buena, Orejas!” he teases, his dark eyes dancing. “Well done!”

Asshole, you think fondly. Sarcasm runs strong in the Peña clan, it seems. You shake your head at him, a grin pulling at your cheeks.

Pop reaches to grip Caballo by the reigns. The motherfucker had finished his flight around the the ranch and wandered back toward you, sedately, almost nonchalantly, as if to say, ‘who, me?’

“Ready to go again?” Pop asks, holding out the reigns in your direction.

Javi groans. “No, Dad.”

You’re not sure if Pop’s serious, but you are. “Absolutely!” Fresh air and adrenaline have made you giddy, and you decide on the spot that, apart from almost dying, riding a horse is the most fun you’ve ever had in your life.

Caballo takes a little half step back, side-eyeing you with as much expression as a horse can muster, as if he’s sensed your intent and wholeheartedly does not approve.

You glance back at Javi. He’s sighing hard, head in his hands, rubbing his palms to his eyeballs with a ferocity that must have him seeing spots.

You decide to have mercy. “How about tomorrow?” you suggest, bumping shoulders with Javi in a gentle reminder that you’re here, you’re okay. “I know there’s still some beer in the fridge.”

Pop nods sagely, still grinning as he pats Caballo on the haunches. “I think so.” He offers you a quick wink, and you decide for the third time this morning that you really, really like your almost father-in-law.

“Thank fuck,” Javi mutters to himself.

You elbow him hard enough to draw a grunt, then offer him a quick peck on the lips in compensation. “Come on, babe. It wasn’t that bad.”

He huffs in response.

#Javier Peña x reader #Javier Peña x you #narcos #javier peña #pedro pascal fandom #javi x reader #javi x you #narcos netflix #Javier Peña imagine #pedro pascal #narcos fanfiction #reader insert #I don't know where this came from but here you go merry Christmas #ears is pure chaotic energy and really it's javi who slows her down not the other way around #ears is basically a blatant self insert character and i'm not even sorry #drops this and runs to wrap last minute presents #javi is so much like a fucking horse i swear #huffing and snorting all the time

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mayihavethisdanse · 4 years ago

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Stress Response

Waypoint Echo, 2288

We are left alone, without excuse. That is what I mean when I say that man is condemned to be free. Condemned, because he did not create himself, yet is nevertheless at liberty, and from the moment that he is thrown into this world he is responsible for everything he does.

Jean-Paul Sartre, “Existentialism is a Humanism” (1946)

"Ready, Paladin?"

“Just about.”

Danse shielded his eyes and squinted through the half-light. These clouds would probably send a radstorm somewhere else in the Commonwealth, but this close to the Glowing Sea, the drizzle had the opposite effect. The terrain was irradiated to hell, of course, but the rain actually seemed to keep the rads at bay. Slightly.

It wouldn't last, but that was one reason they wore Power Armor.

"Equipment's good to go. We should be at the site by noon," he tossed off in the sergeant's direction. "If you don't hear from us by nightfall, assume something's wrong. Air support might be—what is it, Haylen?"

"Orders for you, Paladin."

"What? From the Prydwen?"

"Yes, sir. Here."

Haylen tapped at the terminal and then stood back, letting Danse take her place to bend his neck down at the dim screen. It was a pain to use these things in armor, but at least the message was brief. A terse order to remain on site and see the munitions safely back to headquarters. Which meant…

Maxson knows.

It was the only thing Danse could think. The orders would have been unremarkable except for the explicit and unambiguous instruction that he return alone. Something was wrong. A reassignment? A reprimand?

He tried to keep his face neutral despite the hot flush of humiliation. Knight Williams stood across the outpost and it seemed there was still some mercy left in the wasteland, because her headlamp illuminated the woods in the opposite direction. Her armor glinted dully, a sheen of radioactive rain still clinging to the steel, but for once Danse's thoughts weren't on the possibility of rust.

Yes. It had to be about Cecily Williams. Maxson must have suspected Danse was getting too attached to his knight. Or he'd determined that Danse's priorities were out of order, just as he'd warned him against at the outset of this experimental partnership. Either way, Danse wasn't looking forward to explaining himself.

It would still be better than letting Williams take the blame for his own folly. The Elder had always been suspicious of her motives. But Maxson didn't know her the way Danse did. And he couldn't know that nothing else had happened between the two of them.

Honestly, Danse was a little offended that anyone would think it might have. He might have been quietly enamored of one of his soldiers, yes, but he was first and foremost a Brotherhood paladin. He'd die before he jeopardized the mission. And—it stung to think, but he suspected it was true—it might be for the best if he and Williams went to separate teams. He thought he was in control of his feelings, but he was hardly objective. If there was a risk of favoritism impairing his decisions in the field...

Damn. He'd have to face the music.

But there was no time for distractions. Their objective was of the utmost importance and he'd chosen their time of departure carefully. There was another hour before sunrise, and Danse wanted to be well into the Glowing Sea by then.

He stepped away from the terminal and snapped on his helmet.

"Ready now?" called Williams a second time from her spot at the perimeter, her voice filtered through the respirator.

"Ready," he asserted as he strode to her side. It might be the last time they set out on a mission together, but he'd be damned if he gave her any hint of that. She didn't need any more distractions.

"Good luck out there, you two," said Haylen. "Don't come back as ghouls, okay?"

"We've got it, Haylen. See you."

A final chorus of Ad Victoriam all around, and they were off.

(Continued under the cut. Also on AO3.)

The trek through the Glowing Sea was less miserable than their first had been. It wasn't scorchingly hot, for one thing, and they'd left the bulk of their gear at the outpost. A lighter burden let them move faster. If the maps were accurate, they were a few hours' hike from their destination.

"Less miserable" was still pretty damn miserable, however. Williams led the way and Danse turned frequently to check their backs. The rain impeded visibility and soaked through the gaps in their armor. He kept his headlamp on.

The edge of the Glowing Sea reminded him more of the Capital Wasteland than anywhere else in the Commonwealth. In a way, the outskirts were worse than the crater itself. That might as well have been an alien landscape or the site of some natural disaster. It held few reminders of anything to do with mankind, but here… as they passed a church, then a battered Red Rocket and an isolated bit of highway, there was no escaping the thought that humanity had brought this hell down on itself. His furiously clicking Geiger was a constant reminder of the rads they were subjecting themselves to. The Power Armor offered decent shielding, but this terrain really wasn't fit for human travelers.

Even if certain other things seemed to thrive. Danse caught a glimpse of a familiar and ominous shadow on the horizon—or what passed for the horizon when visibility was so poor. It was probably only a few dozen yards away.

"I don't think we're alone," he told his partner over his helmet radio, reaching for his rifle and searching the cliffs for movement even as he switched off his headlamp. "Reduce illumination levels."

"What is it?”

"Deathclaw. Seven o'clock. Might be stalking us."

She dropped into a crouch and swore. "We should detour."

"No. I don't want to get too far off course." Forget the wildlife, the terrain and the radiation would do them in. "If we get into trouble out here, that'll be it."

The knight let out a puff of laughter. "A deathclaw doesn't count as 'trouble'?"

"Just advance cautiously. Don’t engage if we can avoid it.” He checked the terrain again, assessing the threat, before turning back to Williams. "Let's move out."

In the dim light, she was just a silhouette in Power Armor. "All right, Paladin. Watch my back."

"Roger that."

The sun was rising around them, but the only real sign of it was the brighter glow of the fog. The two of them kept down and moved at a slower pace than before. Danse's nerves hummed with uncomfortable and competing desires to either flee or face the threat outright. He hated creeping along like a radroach.

As they advanced, an old radio tower emerged slowly from the fog ahead. He tracked their progress against its position, still monitoring their surroundings, until Williams dropped into a low crouch four paces ahead. Then she held up her arm in a signal he knew.

Danse reached for his rifle.

Fire and maneuver. Williams stayed in place, Danse looped around, and luck was on their side today because it was only a few minutes later that they stood over the body of a Deathclaw. The thing was glowing with radiation; it sent his Geiger into a new frenzy.

"We can't stay here," Williams said.

"No."

They moved away from the corpse and continued on south. Really, they couldn't reach the site soon enough for peace of mind. Danse's heart rate was still faster than it ought to have been, and it wasn't just the excitement of combat. This place set him on edge. It was... haunting. It was impossible to ignore the grimness of it as he scanned their surroundings.

Hard to imagine that Williams had seen the bomb drop. Hell, half the time he forgot where she'd come from. She was so sure of herself, so steady in the face of the world's horrors, that it put him to shame.

Danse glanced back at his partner. He couldn't see her face behind the helmet, but he could hear her when she said, "We're getting close."

"It's right there." He pointed ahead to a series of shadowy shapes through the fog. Broken towers, radioactive pools—and a large, blank pyramid behind them. That was their destination.

They skirted the radioactive pools and paused, staring in unison at a pair of abandoned bomb crates lying out in the open.

After a long moment, Williams started and checked her six. "Excuse my lapse in attention, Paladin."

"It's all right." It was his fault as much as hers, anyway. "Let me try to reach Haylen."

But as he'd expected, there was too much interference on the main Brotherhood frequency. Only an occasional gurgle broke the static.

Danse shook his head. "No go."

"Oh, well. It was worth a shot."

He looked back one last time when they reached the door.

The weather conditions had worsened significantly. A distant bolt of lightning lit up half the sky and whether it was his imagination or his laser rifle, he could have sworn he smelled the ozone even through his respirator.

"Let's swap positions," he said. "I'll take point."

She laughed a little wryly. "After you, Danse."

This facility had definitely been more than a disposal site. He said as much to Williams.

“Launch silo,” she repeated dully, leaning over the edge of the railing and peering down into the darkness. “Fantastic.”

"All right. Let's see what's down there."

The light was dim inside the silo, and the air was stale and almost immobile. Even through the filters of his helmet it was oppressive. That he was not imagining. But even the stale air was preferable to the stench that filled his lungs whenever they caught an updraft: standing water and dry rot, ferals and whatever rancid prey they'd dragged in from the Sea.

"Ugh," said Williams over her suit's radio as they passed a picked-over carcass of the latter. "This is disgusting."

"I'm in full agreement with you there, soldier."

He couldn't see her face, but he could hear the smile in her voice as she said, "We never go anywhere that isn't."

"There's always the Prydwen."

"The Prydwen is disgusting, too. We don't all have our own private quarters like some people. Have you forgotten how rank it gets in the barracks?"

"No," he said dryly. The distinct odor caused by too many feet in close quarters with insufficient ventilation was a common observation of new recruits. And old ones. "It's almost as bad as the mess hall."

"Was that... a joke? Paladin, I'm ashamed of you."

Before Danse could respond, a pale shadow flickered in the corner of his eye—

"We got ferals!" he shouted.

The site was full of ferals, in fact. They mowed through them diligently as they descended further into the structure. It was unpleasant work, but not difficult from their position, and the two of them worked well as a team. Battlefield cohesion had never been a problem with her.

With the premises cleared, they removed their helmets. Her face was averted, but she seemed to be holding up all right. Cecily Williams really did make a natural soldier. And she'd learned in the field: she searched the bodies of the ghouls with a professional detachment that she hadn't quite had when she joined the Brotherhood.

"Anything of interest?" he called as she crouched to inspect a corpse.

She looked back up at him, and for all his good intentions it was a struggle not to stare; it wasn't normally his way, but he was only human. She really was beautiful, despite—maybe because of—the scars that streaked down her face and twisted her lip, or the faint bruises that lingered nearly a year after her injuries. She just looked like… home.

Which was a preposterous thought. They were on a mission and home was where he'd be sending her shortly. It wasn’t for Danse to question Maxson’s decisions.

"Nothing," she said with remarkable good cheer. "Unless you're interested in a toothbrush or an extremely outdated newspaper."

"I think we can pass."

"Seems like these people were settled in here for the long haul, doesn’t it?"

Whatever preparations they'd made hadn't helped them survive the apogee of human arrogance. Danse shrugged off the observation as he and Williams made their way further back through the tunnels. The underground complex was a maze, but he thought they were heading back the way they’d come, away from the pyramid and toward the silent towers. At one point Knight Williams clambered through a hacked-out hole in the wall. He followed a moment later.

"Something like a control room down the hall," she said in a low voice. "And I see a blast door. I think we found the place."

"Outstanding."

Danse paced a few feet away. It was unexpectedly difficult to look directly at her.

"You should return to the airport immediately, Williams. I'll remain on watch until the vertibirds arrive."

He forced his eyes back to find her staring at him in apparent disbelief.

"You want me to go back on my own?"

"Without that deathclaw, the route we took should be clear. I know you can handle yourself out there. Here."

Williams stared at the assortment of supplies—extra stimpaks, RadAway, water—he held out to her. "That's ridiculous. Why don't I wait with you?"

He couldn't think about the dangers. Orders were orders. "I don't have a choice."

"But—"

"Dismissed, Knight."

She stared at him for another half a second. Then she nodded, collected his supplies, and turned to go. The heavy steps of her Power Armor echoed through the empty silo, followed by the distant bell of an elevator.

And then there was nothing but the clicking of his Geiger counter to keep Danse company.

That and a stockpile of nukes.

He swallowed the faint pang of distaste and directed his thoughts to the greater good. Overwhelming force was the most efficient way to secure the Commonwealth and ensure the long-term survival of its people. Liberty Prime would give the Brotherhood the upper hand against the Institute—and then some. That was all that mattered.

It would take a while for the message to be relayed. He kept his rifle at the ready, just in case; they'd dealt with the ferals, but there was still that cultist and his robot in the control room. Cecily had pacified the lunatic for now, but God only knew if he'd stay calm. And it was critically important to keep those bombs in Brotherhood hands.

He kept his safety off, too. Just in case.

An hour passed without incident, then another. Danse paced in growing disquiet, keeping half an eye on the control room above, but there was no sign of activity. His head was starting to ache. Williams should have reached the edge of the Sea by now, and Haylen should have relayed their position to the Prydwen. All he had to do was wait and try not to lose his mind.

As the minutes ticked by and turned into yet another hour, Danse began to find that task harder than he should have. He should have let Williams wait with him. Orders were orders, but he could have used his discretion as a field officer to make a different call than sending her back alone.

What if she had run into trouble outside? The Glowing Sea was a damn nightmare. Had he sent her out alone just to prove to Maxson—or to himself—that he could? That he wouldn’t let personal attachment get in the way of sending yet another person under his command to their death? He'd had so many close calls with Williams already. He should never have allowed himself to form such an attachment in the first place.

The throbbing in his head grew stronger. It had been too long. The vertibirds should be here by now. Danse shifted his weight uneasily and turned into the shadows to watch the door.

And then the chatter of static came on the radio in his helmet.

"Check—come in, Danse—"

Adrenaline flooded his body. The signal was so distorted he didn't recognize the voice. How was a signal even reaching him down here? Had Williams come back after all? He snatched for the switch of his transceiver.

"This is Paladin Danse. Go ahead."

"You need to get out of there. There’s an alert out for you. Over."

"What the hell are you—is that Haylen?"

But the voice on the radio didn't answer. From this location, it was impressive he'd picked up that much: the pulser beacon relayed his position, but that was all.

"What do you mean, an alert?" he said to the empty room.

But there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd known something was wrong—but this didn't seem like…

He tried the secondary Brotherhood frequency, then another. This time his radio picked up a clearer signal. Local.

The constriction in his throat eased, replaced by annoyance at the sloppy security protocol. He'd have to have a word with these soldiers' commanding officer.

And then the words they were speaking came through.

"I still can't believe it. How did Quinlan find out?"

"Some intel Danse's new pal brought up from the Institute. Bet he regrets bringing her on board now."

“Double-crossing traitor."

Danse paused on the verge of pressing the push-to-talk button on his transceiver.

"A synth. Who'd have fucking thought it."

"I don't know. I always thought there was something a little off about Danse.”

Down at the loading bay, Danse stood at a loss for words. What kind of sick joke—what were they—

The voices continued. "Pulser's going nuts. Definitely the place. Tracker on his suit says we’re close. Where the hell is he?"

"Must be further down. Look at all these—argh! Disgusting ferals."

“All clear?”

“Looks like. Try the tunnel.”

Danse switched off his radio with haste. And he listened. It was only a moment before the heavy clanking of Power Armor on metal walkways echoed through the silo. It was still distant, but they wouldn’t be long now. Not with that trail of feral corpses to follow. And the blast door was open.

It didn't matter. If it was a mistake... it had to be a mistake... they could sort it out later. But he wouldn't be able to do that if he was killed before he could speak to Maxson. To someone who could explain what was going on.

The Geiger counter clicked as furiously as his racing thoughts. They'd find him in a matter of minutes. He wasn't going to fight his brothers, and he couldn't…

What the hell could he do?

It was probably less than a minute before he decided, but it felt like longer. Even the Geiger seemed to slow as his thoughts converged. His mind focused like a scope on a target. One target, one thought: he had to get out of the godforsaken Glowing Sea.

There was nothing else worth taking from this site. Ferals with their rags. Some ancient debris, the crazed cultist upstairs…

He suddenly regretted giving Williams his extra supplies.

Survival was a long shot, but it was a calculated risk. He'd have better odds facing a Deathclaw naked than a vertibird full of Brotherhood soldiers set on capturing or killing an enemy combatant.

And there was no doubt they'd been given one order or the other. Any synth in the Brotherhood would be bad enough, but Danse was a paladin. If they thought he was an infiltrator... hell, he knew the order he'd have given.

There was nothing for it. His hazmat suit was back with the rest of their gear at the outpost with Haylen. His flight suit and hood provided a limited amount of radiation shielding. If he was lucky, they’d keep him alive. He could only avoid any obvious hotspots and hope not to encounter any hostiles.

It wasn’t impossible, even here in the most dangerous part of the Commonwealth. Danse could be stealthy if he had to. As a Brotherhood soldier, he rarely had to. It was one of the things he liked most about his job.

Had liked. One way or another, this would be the end of his career.

Danse pressed the hydraulic release valve and stepped out of his Power Armor.

Sentinel Site Prescott, 2288

When a man commits himself to anything, fully realising that he is not only choosing what he will be, but is thereby… deciding for the whole of mankind–in such a moment a man cannot escape from the sense of complete and profound responsibility.

Jean-Paul Sartre, “Existentialism is a Humanism” (1946)

The clicking of the Geiger counter stopped. It left an unsettling stillness in its wake and for an agonized moment, Danse wished Williams were still here.

No. It was better she was gone. Better she didn't know anything. If Danse had to go down, the last thing he wanted was to drag her with him. And right now, with Brotherhood soldiers approaching, he needed to keep his head more than ever.

He stepped away from the empty suit of Power Armor, leaving it to stand silently in the shadows between walls of munitions crates, and secured his weapons and pack. Then he crouched low and crept to the door of the loading bay, trying to stay out of the light. His uniform suit allowed for better stealth than Power Armor did, but the damn thing was still bright orange.

He waited, still keeping low, and hardly jolted at the first blast of laser fire overhead. So much for pacifying the cultist.

The momentary distraction of the soldiers gave him the break he needed to make a run for it. But which way? The freight elevator would take him the way Williams had gone, out of the silo and into the Sea, but it was exposed. Bright light, the creak of the lift mechanism—there was no way they'd fail to notice his escape.

His body insisted run, but he forced himself to think it through. The blasts of laser fire from the control room would cover the noise from the lift mechanism.

Danse hit the call button just before the firing stopped.

He froze. And then he moved, staying low, away from the creaking elevator and back the way he'd come in. It was still a maze of shadowy tunnels, but perhaps this time that would work to his advantage. It was good for him that they'd killed the cultist, actually. No one else could say they'd seen Danse flee. Not even Williams. He rounded a corner to—

More Brotherhood soldiers, racing in as backup. Of course there were more. If they weren't looking for him yet, they would be in a moment. Danse ducked behind a drainage pipe in the nick of time and found himself knee-deep in a pool of rancid standing water.

If he'd thought the stench of bloated mole rat corpses was bad before, without his helmet it was all but unbearable. But he stayed there, letting the tepid water soak into his boots and trying not to breathe too deeply, until the main tunnel was clear.

It looked like he'd have to take the elevator after all.

Danse had one stroke of luck, which was that no one had reacted to the clattering arrival of the elevator. It was still there, waiting for him, so he crept aboard and hit the button. And took a deep breath.

When he turned around, he found himself face to face with the grinning corpse of a Glowing One, splayed over a pile of crates in a macabre sort of invitation. Danse cursed, hoped there was still a remnant of Rad-X in his system, and nudged the grotesque thing away with the butt of his rifle.

Probably just as well he didn't have the Geiger. All it could do was tell him exactly how quickly he was killing himself.

At the top, he left the platform as quickly as he could and braced himself before the last door to the outside world. If he'd gauged his position correctly, he was in one of the towers northeast of the pyramid. Depending where exactly the vertibirds had landed, he might still have a chance to escape.

Slowly, he pushed open the door.

He wasn't in the vertibirds' direct line of sight. Good. Their propellers were visible over the crest of the hill, but that was fifty yards away at least. Danse breathed slightly easier. He'd still need to move carefully, though. It was highly probable they'd set a sentry.

A loud creak spurred him into action. Someone below had just called the elevator back. It seemed his streak of luck was over.

Danse stepped out onto the landing and felt the hot air hit his body like a wall. A flash of lightning revealed, just for a second, the shape of the Prydwen hovering over the horizon. A cruel irony. Well, at least he could orient by it.

He moved cautiously out further on the ancient grille, but the metal didn't even creak under his weight. That was abnormally jarring. Danse wasn't a small man, but he was accustomed to moving in Power Armor in the field. His proprioception was all off.

Dropping from a height wasn’t as easy as he was used to, either. But the ground was soft under his boots. He hoped it was from the rain and not from the radioactive sludge that circled the base of the concrete tower like a moat. Since there was nothing to be done about it either way, he didn't take the time to examine things more closely.

He just ran.

When he looked back, he regretted it. One, then two knights in Power Armor stood on the metal platform, scanning the terrain.

So he ran faster.

He didn't keep up the pace for long. Just far enough that he was out of firing range. It was enough to start. They didn't seem to have identified his direction.

He wasn't sure of the time, only that it was past sunset. The Glowing Sea never fully darkened, and the rain had stopped while they were inside, but the clouds lingered and visibility was still poor. Under the circumstances, that might work to Danse's advantage. Speed and stealth were the only way he'd get out of here. He only had a few things on him besides his guns. Food, less than he'd like. Ammo, less than he'd like. Two cans of water and that was it. He didn't even have his damn radio.

He stumbled over more signs of Williams: bloatfly corpses, half dissolved in plasma, and the familiar footprints of T-60 that disappeared into the dunes. He'd been right: his knight could take care of herself. It didn't keep the cold sweat from his skin, knowing he’d left her to face this hellscape on her own. Knowing why, exactly, he'd been ordered to wait alone.

He could hear the familiar rumble of a vertibird circling overhead. It had been a very long time since he found that sound menacing. Now, taking cover behind a boulder, he squinted up at the sky. What the hell were they doing? They needed to get those nukes back to the…

They were searching for Danse. Not just searching: hunting. If he’d had any lingering doubts as to their objective, the fact that it was a gunship rather than a transport would have eliminated them.

But his cover held. The lancers flew low and then they moved on.

Danse moved on, too. He counted his breaths. Paced himself. He knew how to survive in the wasteland. When he scrambled over rubble and crept past mutant-infested ruins, it was with thirty-something years of experience in doing just that.

...wasn't it?

No wonder they were hunting him. He'd gone AWOL. Deserted, even. He'd left his power armor—he'd even left the fusion core, goddamn it—and he'd abandoned the bombs in express defiance of his orders. Never mind that the Brotherhood soldiers had arrived before he left. He'd made a snap judgment to flee and now he had to live with the consequences. If there hadn't been a price on his head before, there would be now, even if it proved that Danse was exactly who and what he thought he was.

It didn't matter. All that mattered was getting out of here before he turned into a damn ghoul instead. He could assess the situation fully once he was in a secure location. He couldn't spend the night here in nothing but a flight suit. He’d have to power through.

He even had a destination in mind. A fortified bunker near Malden–a fallback point for his recon team. They'd never used it. Haylen knew about it, but Haylen knew all the same fallback points he did. And if that had been her on the radio earlier… well. It would make as good a safehouse as any, and better than most.

The route was another decision point. Danse had two options: the brackish marshes and fens south of Boston, which would require traveling through the city itself and skirting uncomfortably close to the airport, or following the highway north past the Brotherhood waypoint and God knew what else.

He went north.

He still didn’t have enough water. He eyeballed a pond but passed it without stopping. If the radiation didn't get him, he'd be lucky if stomach cramps were the best of it.

Fortunately, he did scavenge one single can of water at the relay tower. The relay tower that was… operational? They’d passed it on the way in. He didn’t remember seeing any lights before…

Knight Williams. Of course. She'd brought the relay online. That was how he'd been able to pick up Haylen’s signal: Williams. Was there anything she couldn't do?

He'd asked her that question once and been startled by her response. It was one of the only occasions he could recall her snapping at him. She usually brushed off the things that bothered her with a light quip.

Not that time.

"What can’t I do? Take your pick. Save my husband. Find my son. Turn back time so none of this ever happened."

He didn't know what to tell her.

She looked away. "Do you have a family, Paladin Danse?"

Danse shrugged. "I have the Brotherhood," he said.

He didn’t make it as far as he would have liked before the storm showed signs of returning. He had to find cover before the rain started up again. Fleeing unarmored and unequipped was one thing; doing it soaking wet was another. Every crack of thunder reminded him of the damage his body was taking. Even machines could only stand up to so many rads before the damage was irreversible...

Drawing on every bit of training and every year of practice controlling his emotions—fighting every natural inclination he had—Danse shoved the thought from his mind. The question of his identity could be dealt with later. Right now, he needed shelter to survive.

He found a semblance of it, eventually, in an ancient church half-sunk into the ground. He climbed in through a hole in the roof. He was probably still taking more rads than he ought to, but this was better than being out in the open.

Unfortunately, he wasn't alone. Stirrings of movement caught his eye just in time before he dropped to the lower level. He didn't have his headlamp, but he didn't need it: those scrabbling sounds meant more damn ferals. If he'd had the ammo to spare, he could have fired on them from above. If he'd had his armor, he could have gone down there and gone hand-to-hand with the mob. But he had neither.

Which meant he couldn't stay here long. If one of the disgusting things figured out how to climb to the upper level where Danse stood, the others would follow.

Maybe he could just… sit for a moment. The weather might be clearing: peering up through the broken rafters, Danse could even see a few stars through the luminous, omnipresent clouds. He must be almost to the edge of the Sea. He could afford a moment’s rest.

But his mind was blurring. He drank his last can of water in a few gulps but it didn't quench his thirst. He was hot, but he found he was shivering. Dehydration? Bad sign. Running a fever? That wasn’t a good sign, either.

Neither was vomiting over the railing into the nave of the church. It had been some time since Danse had last felt the symptoms of radiation sickness, but they were unmistakable. He'd never make it out of here if he didn't keep moving and get some help. It couldn't be far to the Brotherhood waypoint…

For a moment, confused by fatigue and radiation, he forgot who he was fleeing and why. And then memory struck like the lightning that illuminated the sky through the rafters.

He crawled up the stairs, as far away from the wakeful ferals as he could get, and his fumbling hands hit something in the darkness with a familiar metallic ting. A first-aid box. There had to be something inside. Maybe more water, maybe some stims—Rad-Away if he was lucky—

Frantically, he peeled off his gloves and pried it open, scraping his knuckles on the raw-edged steel to find...

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

The Capital Wasteland, 2286

The hum of the Prydwen's engines was quieter in the sick bay than in his own quarters. After a sleepless night, Danse resented the relative silence. His head was still throbbing and the lights were all too bright.

"I don't see a date of birth here," remarked Cade finally. "You're how old?"

"About thirty-four. Give or take."

"Wastelander, right?"

"Yeah."

"Recent radiation exposure?"

"No more than usual."

"Hmm. Any intimate contact with the civilian population lately? Non-humans?"

Danse almost laughed. "No."

Cade lifted a brow at him. "You know I have to ask, Paladin. You drink?"

"Sometimes."

"How often?"

The questions went on and on. Danse responded with as much patience as he could muster. The tapping of keys and the Knight-Captain's low, off-pitch hum wore on his nerves.

"Hm." Cade examined the terminal yet again. "You say you've been experiencing these symptoms for some time, but I don't see any previous mentions in your notes, Paladin."

"I didn't consider it worth bringing up until recently."

"Next time, let me be the judge of that," said Cade, looking up from the screen. "I'd rather do an exam than an autopsy. All right. Let's draw some blood."

Danse was starting to regret his decision to stop by the sick bay. When Cade came at him with a phlebotomy tray, his stomach churned and he barely resisted the urge to flinch away. "Is that really necessary?"

"Yes," Cade said wearily. "If it wasn't, I wouldn't have asked."

It hadn't been a request, but Danse rolled up his sleeve anyway and braced himself against the pressure of the tourniquet.

"We'll do a full workup," continued the doctor. "Results will take a few days."

"I don't have a few days. I'm back on the ground tomorrow."

Cade shook his head, fitting a needle into his syringe. "Where are they sending you this time? If you can tell me, of course."

"Up to the Commonwealth with a recon team. Could be in the field a while." Danse glanced away as the needle pierced his skin.

"All the more reason you should have come sooner. I'm tempted to deny your medical clearance."

"You don't have the authority to—”

"But I won't," Cade continued severely, "provided I have your word you'll follow your medic's advice out there."

Danse took a deep breath and shut his eyes against the lights. His head was still spinning. "I'll do so if... at all possible," he said, choosing his words with care.

"That's as good as I'm going to get, isn't it?" Cade withdrew the syringe somewhat less gently than he might have and dropped Danse's arm back onto the cold metal. "At least get some damn rest before you go, Danse."

"I'll try." He rose gratefully to his feet. "Knight-Captain."

Cade sighed and waved him out.

Danse doubted the tests would turn up anything useful. He'd get by, regardless. He always did.

Later, he wasn't quite sure how he'd made it to the edge of the Sea. Parts of the last leg were crystal clear, others hazy; he'd fought off a radscorpion, he thought. Or two. Maybe he’d only killed the one and the other had given him up as a worthless catch.

He certainly felt like a worthless catch. He'd rid himself of everything in his stomach and then some, but the waves of cramps kept coming. His head spun and he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His face felt hot, like he'd been in the sun too long, even though the sun was just now rising. He'd been in the Glowing Sea a full twenty-four hours.

The Brotherhood waypoint wasn't far. With his head spinning the way it was, he could almost have given himself up just for some reprieve. But he didn't. He steered clear of the waypoint and kept to cover as much as he could and finally, just when he started to fear he'd lost his way, the Sea began to yield to scrubland and he emerged just south of Lake Cochituate.

Still, when he saw a Brotherhood checkpoint ahead, it was a struggle not to run forward and hold up his arms. Explain what had happened—explain there had been a mistake.

But the checkpoint wasn’t manned by people in the uniforms he knew. That was unanticipated. Their manner of dress was vaguely familiar, however, and Danse squinted at them until his mind made the connection: Minutemen.

"Hey," one of them said. "Hey, buddy. You all right?"

Danse nodded, but his mouth felt thick and slow as he said, "Too many rads. Got… meds? Water?"

"Oh, yeah,” said a man, nodding at the woman next to him. “Ramos does."

The woman rustled around in her pack and produced a pouch of Rad-Away. Danse saw the moment she recognized his uniform: the extended hand paused in midair.

"You get lost or something?"

"I…" Danse’s mind went blank. He hated lying, not least because he wasn’t very good at it. “Yes. On patrol.”

Fortunately, he must look as terrible as he felt, because the Minutemen seemed to take his confusion as symptoms of the radiation sickness. Ramos shook her head. "I think maybe they left you behind, pal. They all pulled up stakes from that checkpoint last night and flew out in a vertibird.”

It was more difficult than usual to find his tongue. “I… see. Thank you.”

"How long have you been out here? All night?”

Danse nodded again. Even he could tell it was a jerky and erratic motion.

“Shit. You got real lucky. Human body’s not meant to take that kind of beating.”

A statement he really didn't need to hear just then. “They’re all gone?”

“'Fraid so. Anything else we can do for you?”

They helped him inject himself with the medication. They gave him the supplies he needed. They even showed him to an abandoned suit of Power Armor, and Danse felt his first flicker of hope since leaving the Sentinel site. It was X-01, not T-60, and devoid of markings. The Brotherhood wouldn't know he had it—it would suit his purposes perfectly—but there was no fusion core. Damn. No help at all.

But there was a Brotherhood terminal tucked under a makeshift shelter. At least Danse could see the details of the order against him.

He paused in front of the terminal. If he used his official credentials, the scribes would be able to track his location. But Haylen had set up a private communication channel when they'd first arrived in the Commonwealth. If he remembered correctly, besides himself, only Haylen and Knight-Sergeant Dawes had been given the access code. And Dawes was dead, whatever he'd known lost in a wet smear of brain and hair.

Danse didn't really expect to find a message, but he entered the password anyway. The connection went through. The inbox was empty, as he'd expected. But just as his finger hovered over the escape key—there it was. A new message.

I might be putting my own neck on the chopping block by sending this, but the situation is unbelievable. Danse, they're saying you're an Institute synth. Neriah ran some tests and they must have been pretty damn conclusive because there's already an alert out for your head.

l don't know what to believe. I hope to hell you're not a traitor. I don't know why else a synth would join the Brotherhood, but I know you. You must have had your reasons.

You know they won't care. If you see this, you need to run... and fast.

Danse's mind raced. The message could be a trap, but that seemed unlikely. He trusted Haylen. Moreover, the message didn't appear to anticipate a response. There was also no mention of a rendezvous point or anything else that would lead a searcher to him.

A second message followed the first. Reflexively, he checked to make sure no one was looking over his shoulder.

Got into the files Quinlan decrypted. Here's the evidence. DNA matched yours.

Danse stared at the attached report. His own face stared back at him—maybe younger, unscarred, but unmistakably himself. M7-97. Unit at large. Location unknown.

He couldn't have composed a response if he'd tried. But the confirmation filled him with a strange sort of calm, too. He'd been right to flee.

He left the Minutemen behind with only a brief word of farewell. He had to get away. Keep moving. Run. Maybe there was still some mistake.

That thought got him past a Mass Fusion disposal site, past a super mutant camp, into the dry wasteland at last. It was another mile before he let himself think about it again.

What if it wasn't a mistake?

His steps slowed and his knees went weak. He didn't feel like a synth. He felt human. But what did synths feel like? He could feel his heart beating. He could taste the blood in his mouth.

Sure, he'd always been a little removed from the others, but who the hell wasn’t? Danse was acquainted with plenty of senior officers in the Brotherhood. None of them were known for their healthy and enriching personal lives. The Brotherhood came first because that was how it should be. And Danse had fit right in.

He had no way to check. But…

It seemed absurd. It felt absurd. But looking at it objectively, it made a horrible kind of sense.

Danse didn't know his last name. He didn't know how old he was. He'd grown up alone… and all in all, if you were going to implant false memories in someone's head, his made for a damned convenient set. Was there even anyone he'd known before Cutler who could vouch for him?

But I remember, part of his mind cried out. I remember. I'm real.

Damn it.

This mission, the Commonwealth, it had changed him even before this. He’d been lurching from one crisis to another for so long. He’d spent ten months watching his team die one by one. Williams had pulled them out of what would have been their final stand but until the Prydwen had shown up, he hadn’t been certain he’d see the rest of the Brotherhood again.

Even when the Prydwen arrived, his relief was laced with a thread of anxiety. It was good to see them, but they’d come prepared for an occupation. For conquest. The culmination of their years of preparation. He was glad of it, but he hadn’t felt quite ready. It had passed him by, literally and figuratively; his mind struggled to keep up even as they watched and cheered from the police station. He slapped Rhys on the shoulder and got a hint of a grin out of him, but Haylen’s smile mirrored his own anxiety.

He hadn't taken the time to indulge their nerves. They’d gone to the Prydwen, Maxson had rallied the forces, and Danse had been inspired in the cause all over again. Whatever infrequent, private doubts he might have harbored about their young leader's decisions were dwarfed by the enormity of their mission, and with Maxson at the lead, a Brotherhood victory seemed… if not inevitable, at least within their grasp. There was hope for humanity after all.

Except Danse wasn’t human.

When it truly struck, he felt winded. He was shaking harder than he had with the radiation sickness; he reached out to an ancient petrified tree for support, clutching the branch like a lifeline until the brittle wood snapped under the pressure of his hands. He couldn’t fill his lungs.

He wasn’t human.

Listening Post Bravo, 2288

Man is nothing else but that which he makes of himself.

We mean that man first of all exists, encounters himself, surges up in the world—and defines himself afterwards. …to begin with he is nothing. He will not be anything until later, and then he will be what he makes of himself.

Life is nothing until it is lived; but it is yours to make sense of, and the value of it is nothing else but the sense that you choose.

Jean-Paul Sartre, “Existentialism is a Humanism” (1946)

Danse snuck past a raider encampment. It made him sick to just move on, to leave them to prey on innocent civilians, but alone—without his armor, without his team—he was nothing. The helpless, worthless feeling he'd spent his whole life trying to escape had finally caught up with him.

He'd been on high alert since the Sentinel site and that was catching up with him, too. He made sloppy errors. He almost lost a leg to a pack of snarling mongrels through his own damn carelessness. A disgrace to the Brotherhood of Steel in more ways than one.

It wasn't politic to say in civilian company, but Danse normally enjoyed combat. Not the death or the horror or the stench, but the excitement of the struggle and the satisfaction when it was over. The security of knowing you lived another day while your enemy didn’t. The pride of doing something you were good at for a cause you believed in.

Not this. This was just survival. He felt like a damn radroach all over again—except that even a radroach was a natural creature, not something... manufactured. Artificial. A hunted animal had more right to its freedom than Danse did.

But he wasn't helpless. Not really. Survival was what he knew: it was all he'd known, before the Brotherhood.

He just couldn't help anyone else.

There was no way out of this. The words on that display were incontrovertible. If Quinlan was convinced…

He passed Lexington. The Corvega assembly plant was another reminder of his failures. Malden. At this point he barely cared if he ever made it to his destination. His head throbbed. How long had it been since he slept?

The sky was darkening again by the time Danse stumbled over the hillside to the old listening post.

He cut the power to the elevator. It wouldn't stop anyone. But he'd have enough warning to decide what to do. They'd probably find him eventually.

It was so damn unfair. He'd given the Brotherhood everything he had only to wind up here, a hole in the ground with U.S. government paraphernalia everywhere. Reminders of another lost cause. The fact that coming here felt like coming home… well, the irony wasn’t lost on Danse.

Why had this happened to him? All he'd ever wanted to be was exactly what he'd thought he was. God. He was a living lie. He was a damn fool and he didn’t know what to do. How the hell could anyone escape their own self?

Slowly... inevitably... the reality of his situation began to sink in. And the room grew colder.

He'd made it this far on pure instinct. Now that his rational mind was engaged, he could turn and face the truth he dreaded: that there was no way out. That the enemy was inside him—that he was his own worst enemy, whether he liked it or not.

The Commonwealth was at risk. Humanity itself was at risk. Nobody could look at the wasteland and think otherwise. Nobody who'd seen the Institute's work firsthand. Certainly no Brotherhood soldier worth his salt.

Most recruits found the restrictions of military life uncomfortable. Danse had never complained. A bed in the Citadel—or later, a berth on the Prydwen–beat the doorways he'd slept in as a child or a sorry bunk in the Rivet City common room. But all that had been secondary to what else the Brotherhood gave him: a place to belong, people to call his brothers and sisters. And more than that, more than anything else, it had given him a purpose in life.

Danse had done things he regretted as a soldier, but the things he'd done to survive as a civilian filled him with a different kind of shame. The humiliation of knowing you weren’t worth shit.

He'd been on good terms with Arthur Maxson, but their backgrounds kept them on opposite sides of an invisible line. He hadn't been all but a prince, carefully sheltered because of the blood that ran through his veins, aware at every moment of his privilege and his responsibility. Danse had come from nothing, been nothing, and the Brotherhood had welcomed him anyway. Made him into someone he could be proud of.

He'd wanted to do something of value, and he had. He'd wanted to be part of something and he'd done that too. If his life was the cost, so be it. He wouldn't betray the Brotherhood. Not when it had given him everything that mattered. What else was he going to do—flee the Commonwealth? No. When they came after him, he wouldn’t resist.

He just hoped it would be quick.

He could speed things along. This site was set up for communication. He could radio the Prydwen right now—turn himself in to Haylen or Maxson or the entire ground force—but all he did was stare at the knob.

Maybe he should just do it himself.

It felt like the walls were closing in. Like all the air was leaving the room. He'd lived this long on stolen time, lived a life that was never meant for him, taken up space in a world he had no right to.

Even surrendering himself would be too much of a risk. Who knew what the Institute had programmed him to do? He could have sabotaged the Brotherhood from within, all the while serving his order with pride and thinking all his decisions were his own. Maybe he’d turn on whoever showed up first. Too much of a risk.

Trapped.

He's trapped.

He's been trapped before.

Another one. God damn it, another one.

There's no way out. How many waves of the things can they hold off without Keane? The ferals just keep coming. Rhys is already out of commission. Haylen's doing her best, but she's not a knight. It's up to Danse... and he's going to let them down. All of them, this time.

But it isn't just up to him, after all. There's someone else here. A stranger, suppressing fire—

“Civilian in the perimeter,” he calls.

Williams isn't coming to save his ass this time. There’s a pang of regret that he won't be able to say farewell. He thinks, vaguely, he might love her—not that it matters now. Not that it could ever matter.

Still... he wants to remember the look on her face the last time he saw her. But he can’t. His mind can only scrabble from one fragmented memory to another: Haylen’s devastation after euthanizing a brother on his orders. Krieg reprimanding him in front of the entire squad for slovenliness. Laughing over drinks with Cutler the day they signed on as Initiates. The flicker of surprise in Cutler’s eyes the moment Danse put a hole between them.

He looks down.

He’s standing in front of an ancient terminal. There’s an old holotape still in the slot. He tugs it out and runs his fingers over the smooth plastic casing, mind circling in the same endless loop. Over and over.

He's wondered how it will happen, of course. They all do. This isn't the glorious battle he once imagined; it isn't the honor of laying down his life for his brothers and sisters. But it's as close as he can get.

All he wonders now is if anyone will find his body. Probably not. What's one more set of bones in the wasteland?

No matter what he does, the Institute is one step ahead. He’s never been able to get away from their scheming and now he knows why: the same people who set the goddamn mutants loose on humanity are the same people who made him. He's an abomination. A mistake. A case study in man's hubris, not a man in his own right.

He refuses to be a part of their schemes any longer.

He records his final words, if that's what they are, and walks slowly into the back room. He sets the holotape on the filing cabinet. Tidies the desk. Checks the safety on his rifle.

The Brotherhood will take down the Institute. He has every faith in that. No more mutants, no more synths, no more sick experiments on the innocent people of the Commonwealth. His friend Williams will have her closure. Danse's own closure is simply arriving earlier than expected.

He lays out his weapons and stares at them. It isn’t an important decision. Any of them will perform the job adequately. He can't die a hero, but at least he can die like a human.

There's no way out.

So he'll add one more synth to the dozens he's already taken down. One small success to the record of Paladin Danse's failures.

He'll shut his eyes. He'll reach for the pistol.

He'll do it. He's doing it now.

When the Protectron blared an alert, Danse's first reaction was irritation. Couldn't the intruders have waited ten damn minutes? He was so close to finishing the job. It wasn't easy, fighting your own instincts that screamed survive, even if you knew better. Even if you knew those instincts weren't real.

Danse didn’t reach for his weapons when the firing started. He should never have been given the honor of carrying arms for the Brotherhood in the first place. His entire life was either a conspiracy or a mistake, and he wasn't sure which was worse. The only thing he knew was that it didn't matter.

He rose to his feet and moved to the middle of the room, empty-handed, and waited. He was calm. It was almost a relief. She'd finally come to finish what he couldn’t—and it was her. Of course it was her.

The shots didn't last long. His half-hearted defenses were no match for Williams. Danse was proud he'd brought such a worthy soldier to the Brotherhood. He was glad he could leave her behind in his place.

And there she was. Nothing felt right, but she was here. That was good. He didn't feel so alone anymore.

In an abstract, distant sort of way, he knew he should regret that she'd be the one to do it. It wouldn't be easy for her. But he was glad. She’d been his friend and he'd get to say a proper farewell.

Yes, this was better. It felt like an ending.

She got straight to the point.

"I wish you'd told me the truth, Danse." Her voice was so weary. So sad.

"I might have, if I'd known what I was." He might be a soulless machine, but he'd never have lied to her. "Does Maxson even want me alive?"

The bitterness in his own words was foreign. He didn't feel bitter. He didn't feel much of anything, actually.

"No," she whispered. "But I don't know what to do."

If he were capable of it, he might have been astonished. Didn't she have her orders? Dragging her heels would just make this harder for her.

"The right thing," he said. "Isn't it obvious?"

She wasn't in Power Armor, but she was carrying the rifle he'd given her. Strange how things had come full circle. Strange, but fitting: Danse had used that same weapon to destroy his closest friend. Now that it was his turn to be put down, he could hardly object.

"No," she gasped. "My God, Danse."

Maybe that was why he'd faltered before. Williams was the missing piece. He'd felt that the night they met and that feeling had never gone away. Now she was struggling, and yes, he was sorry. But it was time.

Danse swallowed. And then he dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his back.

Williams only stared down at him. Her eyes were bright and unblinking. Once again he noticed, in a detached way, how he felt when he looked at her. It was irrelevant. It wasn't for him. But his mind diligently recorded it anyway.

Maybe when he was dead, they'd look at his memories the way they had Kellogg's. Maybe they'd learn everything he’d ever felt about her, every inappropriate thought and—

“Can we just talk?” she said softly. “Just for a few minutes. Please.”

More than anything else, they'd find his shame. Not just about Williams. For all the things he’d thought and done, for everything he hadn't done but wished he had. He didn’t want to undermine Maxson. He couldn't.

"What are you waiting for?" he snapped.

"No," she said. "I won't do it, Danse."

Her voice cracked on his name and her eyes gleamed with unshed tears and it was like coming to the surface of a murky pond. He was suddenly aware of their surroundings when a moment before he'd only been conscious of her eyes. The stale air of the bunker overlaid the acrid smell of recently fired laser weapons. The miniscule tremble of Cecily Williams's beautiful mouth as she reminded him of everything she'd lost.

She didn't want to lose him.

They did talk. Not just for a few minutes but for hours, until the clock on her Pip-Boy said it was nearly sunrise. They debated and they strategized. He handed over his holotags and slowly the shards of his life took on a new form. She was right. Whatever sick plot the Institute might have intended, he'd done nothing but serve humanity. And there was nothing he could do to hurt the Brotherhood now. He wouldn't let it happen. Neither would she.

It wasn’t perfect—it was a hell of a long way from perfect—but there was a way out. He might have his own path to follow, but he didn’t need to find his footing alone.

And he was worth something. He’d worked for something. He could start over somewhere else and she could continue the fight here. They both deserved that much.

To his surprise, he found he was smiling at her.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

#paladin danse #fallout 4 #brotherhood of steel #sole survivor #blind betrayal #(aka danse's existential crisis fun time)#tw suicidal ideation #my art #my writing #my attempt to be compliant with a rather plot-holey canon

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crystalsexarch · 3 years ago

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Seventeen: Destruct - E

He has seen her do terrible, extraordinary things. Were she anyone but the Warrior of Light, they would surely call for her destruction.

He's also seen her masturbate.

Ambiguous female WoL. G'raha Tia has figured out where the Warrior of Light takes time for herself. He decides to take some time for himself, too.

Also on AO3.

Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge

He has seen her do terrible, extraordinary things. Were she anyone but the Warrior of Light, they would surely call for her destruction.

Within a week of her appearance at the find, G'raha Tia came to associate acts of great violence with a devilish laugh. Where others might've warded unruly hippogryphs away, she punished them at the call of a cackle and a leap of faith. He'd seen her fell ten enemies with a single slash, burgeoning with aether. He’d seen her rocket through the air like a fiendish fireball, bloody lance in hand. He’d seen her rend and cleave and kill and—

He'd also seen her masturbate.

The first time, he thought he was hallucinating. He was walking along the lakeside, picking up pretty rocks when he saw something like a siren reclining on a mound of water-worn stone. She wasn’t wearing her armor, nor her trademark helmet. In fact, her trousers had been tugged off of one leg entirely to hang at the side. At first his tail whipped with fearful suspicion—was she in danger? Was she hurt? And then he saw the rough rhythm of her fingers up and down between her legs.

All his breath left his body, along with the bulk of his balance. By some miracle he stayed on his feet and kept himself from combusting on the spot. She was smiling! Not a care in the world, bare and unabashed! Once G'raha got his footing, he wandered back the way he came, somehow making it to his tent without anyone noticing the shapely outline at his groin. There was only one reasonable way to get rid of it, and he did so with just a few quick strokes and a well-placed tissue.

It would be misleading to say G’raha simply stumbled upon her again. By then he’d probably jacked off more than half a dozen times and driven himself half mad in so doing. With every orgasm, his fantasy went further; his lips on her nipples, her hand groping his cock, his cum filling her cunt. Each night he would finish, sweaty, panting, and wide-eyed. He would stare at the floor and wonder how he might excise this profoundly unprofessional attachment. For a while, his accidental obsession plagued him even more than his headaches. He started taking walks again. And he tended toward a certain path.

One day, he passed the stone where he’d first seen her working for her pleasure. Her spot was empty. Feeling both relief and disappointment, he kept walking and kicked a few pieces of driftwood on the way.

On his way back, however, her half-naked form once again occupied the area. She had her knees up and her legs spread wide. From his spot around the corner, he couldn't see her hole but he could hear it, slick and wet as she fucked it with her fingers. Without thinking, he gripped his filling cock through the fabric of his trousers and squeezed. The wanting, the aching was so painfully immediate. He was doomed to come the moment he felt the warmth of his own hands and imagined how much warmer her body might feel around him.

Shamed, he waited for her to leave before making the solemn trip back to camp that time. Laundry day came early.

A wise man would've chosen a different walking path or changed his habits. G'raha needed to spend more effort on tomes and relics, but every time he settled into his tent, his red eye would ache like an icepick. The walks gave him temporary solace, the stones he found made pretty souvenirs, and the sights he collected? They made compelling memories, selfish as he was for indulging in them every night and morning.

But he could be a selfish man. He could be bold. The third time he saw her at the rock, he walked right out into the open, right into her line of sight, like he was confronting some ancient enemy. He knew very well she could kill him if she wanted to, but he had the most uncanny feeling that destiny wouldn't want to find a substitute to fill his role. He had a feeling he’d survive the encounter.

Her hand came to a gentle stop between her thighs. She didn’t say a word, but she did look at him at least. With a single eyebrow raised, she seemed more like a bored adventurer than a deadly dragoon. Something about the slightest quirk of her lips—something haunting in the electric shade of her eyes suggested words that went unspoken: well? And?

He looked to the lake for a moment, then rectified his mistake; this was suddenly a game of wills, and he didn't want to blink. He fingered his belt buckle and shifted his weight, trying to remember what confidence tasted like.

It probably tasted like her. When he reaffirmed his intent to gaze upon her nearly naked body, her little sneer grew twice as mischievous. She shuffled on the rock and spread her legs again, made her hips even with his across the way. For the first time he had a perfect view of her opening, glistening and swollen.

He wanted more than anything to pump her to completion. She was a hero, sure, but she had an emptiness he was capable of filling The proof was yalms ahead, pulsing before his very eyes. If only it could pulse beneath his fingers or around his cock. If she was letting him look, would she let him get away with more someday? In the heat of the moment, he thought it was a worthy gamble.

So he lost the belt. Just undid it and ripped it from the loops, tossed it aside. He wanted to look calm and confident for the next steps, so he took a deep breath before going for the fly of his pants. It was a bit like showing off, this act, so he slipped his cock out with a little twist of his tail and a loose, casual stroke. As if this weren't a big deal. As if this weren't the hardest his heart had ever pounded outside of direct mortal peril. Fully on display, he didn’t think he had anything to be ashamed of. He prayed he didn’t have anything to be ashamed of.

She narrowed her eyes and waited for him to stop moving. Only then did she let her gaze drop to his chest, his waist, beyond. Whatever she saw, it didn’t keep her from smiling, nor from hooking a finger between her lips and plucking upwards.

G’raha exhaled, his mouth holding a circle. He had his dick out in the middle of the shore, shaft hard and slit pointed skyward, but hells if he didn’t feel good about it. He might not have been a predator, but he didn’t think he passed for prey either. As she thumbed her clit, he dropped to a squatting position and tugged at his cock a few times, wondering whether words might ruin the moment.

What would he say? Let me handle that or let me fuck you. Let me finish inside. He could see it so plainly in his mind’s eye, the sight of her dripping with white and still not full enough for satisfaction. Let me breed you, came one especially foolish impulse. Primal, rooted deep in biology. And yet he felt it in his balls. He curled a fist around his base and steeled himself against the need to spill that very instant.

He survived long enough to keep stroking. She rubbed herself faster.

From there he moved so slowly, like he was trying to notch a silent arrow before a seldom-seen beast. She paid him almost no mind at all, fingering herself the same way she had before he came out of the shadows. He watched with every part of his body, cock coaxed to full length and attentive. As she spread herself with one hand and fucked herself with the other, he dabbed at the precum building at his head and slicked it down his length as best he could.

He wanted so badly to watch her come first. He'd made it so far without coloring the shore with his seed. Maybe he should've called himself lucky and gone into premature bliss with a smile on his face, but instead he whined and twisted his lips at the first unhappy spurt of cum. The jerk of his hips was ugly, strong enough to send him lurching forward. He placed his free hand on the ground to keep himself from toppling over completely. Stroking out the last of his release, his head darted up to check her reaction.

Well, he might not've been smiling, but she certainly was.

When she came moments later, she raised herself up on her heels and rocked into the curl of her hand, feverishly flicking back and forth. It was a long and frenzied climax, full of sighs and laughter. That cackle—it was the same one he'd heard echoing ahead in the Labyrinth of the Ancients, the same that many came to know before blacking out for good. For all the heat on G'raha's cheeks, the idea brought a cold chill to his spine. That and the breeze helped him remember where he was and how vulnerable he was while doing it.

While his hands stuttered in trying to get his dick back in his pants, the Warrior slipped easily into decency—smalls, trousers, and tunic back on in the blink of an eye. He was barely standing by the time she patted her thighs and turned over her shoulder. "Tomorrow!" she said.

"Tomorrow?"

But it was too late. She hunkered down in that dangerous way dragoons do, before launching herself over the side of the mound and onward. She was gone.

Around that time, his muscles started to ache, tired from holding the same ungraceful squat long enough to drain himself of semen. Were it not for an incriminating patch of ground before his feet, he might've been able to convince himself the whole thing didn't happen. And would it happen again? Tomorrow? He rubbed his forehead with the back of his arm and took a deep breath. Research. He should return to his research.

On his way back, he tread a bit heavier and with more unsteadiness in his gait. His footsteps looked uneven in the silt of Silvertear. For the rest of the night, his thighs hurt like hells...but for some reason his head didn't.

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv fanfic #g'raha tia #ff14 fanfic #mywriting

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jadekitty777 · 4 years ago

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The Thoughts We Carry

As promised, I had one entry near completion that I hoped be ready to post for @fairgameweek2021. I spent the last few days this week not getting enough sleep just to make the deadline (ssh I know it’s after midnight. Summaries are hard, okay?). I’m sorry I won’t have anything else ready in time, but I hope you all enjoy this one!

Day 4: Separation/Reunion

Dedicated to: @chiherah

Rating: K

Words: 6K

Summary: “I know everybody to some extent,” Qrow once told his nieces, and he hadn’t precisely been lying. At least, when it came to knowing other huntsmen in the four kingdoms, that is. Clover Ebi was just one of probably five-thousand examples. Yet, just as all shamrocks are clovers but not all clovers are shamrocks, all huntsmen are acquaintances but not all get to be friends.

That was why, upon arriving to Atlas, Qrow could tell there was more weighing on Clover’s mind than the Grimm addled streets of Mantle or Solitas’ fighter jet filled skies. More crushing, even, than the now-known threat of Salem on the horizon. A burden so great, it altered old routines and shadowed bright smiles.

And, as Qrow regarded the Aceops’ hasty roster change, he knew the solution to his friend’s plight was not one he’d need to seek, but one he’d need to bear.

Ao3 Link: The Thoughts We Carry

There were a few unanimous truths that came with being a huntsman:

The work was dangerous to the point most knew their future was beelining for a parking space in a graveyard.

Never falter in the heat of battle.

Keep bandages on hand because stemming an injury can extend a life from a few seconds to a few minutes.

Always know the best foods to forage in case civilization is too far or – worse yet – wiped out.

Pack light as work will require travel. It will require travel a lot.

Of all of them, the one Qrow was most familiar with was that last one. So much so, the towns he visited were just as much old friends to him as the people within them were. Vale and Patch were like playmates from primary school that were never forgotten no matter how much time had passed. Higanbaga was that party dude from university that always knew how to show him a good time. Atlas was that annoying classmate that he got stuck with one year on a group project and he was forced to put up with. And Mantle…

Mantle was that one struggling friend he knew could be doing better, if anyone would give it a break.

He felt that feeling in every swing of Harbinger, slicing through Grimm as he sidestepped potholes in the concrete and litter whirled up around his feet. Witnessed it when he peered through the city’s ever-present shadow to keep the kids in his line of sight, straining his ears to listen for the rest that shouts just blocks away nearly drowned out until they mysteriously stopped.

Despite knowing what it likely meant, he didn’t focus on it. He sheared through another Sabyr, and spun on his heels. Took in visual information in half a second: Weiss partially down an alleyway with Ren. Yang at his six. Blake a bit behind her. A Grimm leaping right for her.

His hand moved before his mind did, aiming Harbinger’s shotgun as Blake did the same with Gambol Shroud.

Another shot got it first.

A buzzing blast of green energy, not quite aura or dust, cleaved the beast in two. Similar shots rained from the sky, making quick work of the rest until the street was clear. The lampposts’ harsh red glows faded back to their calming yellow. From above, a drone expelling more green light rocketed up to the sky. As it hovered in the light of the moon and slowly floated down to ground level, its shape became more apparent and he could make out the features of a young girl with long, curling locks of ginger hair. Something about her was familiar.

It wasn’t until he heard Ruby’s choked gasp of “Penny?” that it clicked.

About a thousand questions rolled into his mind at once, but it was clear from the way his niece was suddenly bowled over by the enthusiastic android and the tears began to flow, that they’d have to wait.

After all, it wasn’t every day a cherished friend returned from the dead.

The other kids crowded around quickly, but Qrow couldn’t help but look to the one who lingered awkwardly on the sidelines, Oscar fidgeting with his cane the way Oz used to.

Something welled inside him that tasted a little like regret.

Not every day indeed.

It seemed ages before they started to make their way back to Pietro’s shop. Penny was deep in explanation on her miraculous revival, explaining how her memory chips had been recovered and her body repaired. In the back, Qrow let most of it float over his head. He wasn’t the only one.

“This is so… unexpected.”

He side-eyed Jaune, the blond’s face a mix of emotions that were hard to pin down. He couldn’t even begin to guess at what the other was trying to process. The joy of Penny’s return? The bitter unfairness it couldn’t happen for another that had been lost that day? The sorrow that Pyrrha now would never know that she hadn’t killed the android and could never make amends?

Whatever it was, it was definitely too much to handle on a regular day. Add two grueling battles, multiple aura breaks, and a long flight to Atlas on top of it all, it left little energy to deal with much else.

“But not unwelcome.” Qrow replied, catching his attention. “You don’t have to question the good things you get in life kid. You do that and you won’t stop to enjoy them.”

It was relieving it pulled out a small, but genuine, smile on the young man’s face. “That’s unusual advice coming from you.”

That’s because it wasn’t his.

Before he could think to respond, his sharp senses caught Ren tensing up. A sign he was detecting something.

His fingers were already halfway to his weapon when he heard it.

“Ah, and here I thought we had a problem. But it’s just Qrow again.”

His hand fell, a groan emitting from deep in his chest as he turned towards that painfully familiar voice. Sure enough, Clover and his poster squad of soldiers were heading their way. “Oh great, it’s you.”

“Salutations Captain Ebi!” Penny greeted with a salute.

"You know them Uncle Qrow?" Ruby asked. He could feel her curious stare burning through his cape.

"Yeah. They're Jimmy's attack dogs.” He scoffed at them. “Though considering we cleaned up this mess, they're more bark than bite."

Clover laughed, stopping just a few feet away. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?" He thumbed back the way they had come from. “Guessing you’re also the flyer of the unidentified Manta a mile west here, huh?”

“Uh, well,” He spluttered a bit, not sure how to explain that.

He didn’t have to, as the second-in-command spoke up for him, “I can’t believe you!” Harriet spat, quick in her temper as she was on her feet. “We almost deployed hostiles on that ship. You could have at least radioed in!”

“Well, see we woulda. ‘Cept our radio was on the fritz.” Yang stepped up beside him.

His other niece flanked his other side. “We didn’t mean to cause a stir, really.”

Qrow didn’t know whether to be proud of their synchronization, refined from years of getting out of groundings together, or concerned for their physical wellbeing as Elm’s eyes lit up with recognition.

“Oh Qrow, don’t tell me these are your cute little nieces!” She was in his youngest niece’s space almost instantly, shaking her hand with such enthusiasm Ruby looked a little dizzy. “I’m Elm. Qrow’s told us so much!”

“He has?”

“Oh yes, once he gets going, he can never shut up about you two. It’s endearing.”

He did his best to ignore the teasing nudges Yang gave him or the flush working its way up his neck.

“Wait, hold up a second.” Another of the soldiers interjected. “You’re the Qrow Branwen? You don’t look anything like what I thought you would.”

As his eyes met with the other’s, Qrow realized with a start he didn’t know him. “And you are?” He spat a bit harder than he meant to.

He felt a little bad when it made the Faunus shrink back a bit, his wagging tail slowing. “I, erm-”

“Oh right, you haven’t met. This is our newest recruit, Marrow Amin. He’s a bit fresh, but has been an outstanding addition.” Clover spoke up, clapping a hand on his shoulder like a proud father. It was the slight twitch at the side of his mouth that gave away he was trying very hard not to drop his smile.

The kid definitely didn’t notice, his tail wagging at full speed once again.

Qrow decided to shelve it for now.

Thankfully, the quietest member was quick to draw all the attention his way as Vine cleared his throat and spoke over them, “As pleasing as this reunion is, I believe taking this discussion away from the middle of the street would be more comfortable.”

“Right.” Clover nodded, straightening up. “The General is expecting our report and, though unanticipated, I’m certain he’d be happy to accommodate your arrival.” He tipped his head towards Weiss. “We’ll contact your sister on the way in as well. Lieutenant Schnee will be relieved to know you made it back safely.”

Despite the propaganda recordings still running on loop overhead, Weiss couldn’t hide her happiness. “That would be wonderful.”

“Sooo, when you say accommodate, you mean beds? And food?” Nora piped up hopefully.

Elm grinned. “Mess hall is always open. All you can eat!”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Oh, I like you.”

In the corner of his eye, Qrow could see Ruby shifting uncertainly. He rested a hand on her back reassuringly. This wasn’t what they’d hoped for. They had wanted to gather more information before they approached James. But it’d be suspicious not to take it and the last thing they needed was for things to go south when they were so close to the finish line.

They would just have to hope they hadn’t lost James’ loyalty like they had Leo’s.

“We could certainly use it.” He finally said. “Lead the way boy scout.”

Though sleep came fast that night, Qrow didn’t rest easy. Despite the exhaustion weighing him down, his mind refused to quiet, whirling over and over again on an anxious loop. James’ flawed plans for Amity if they didn’t tell him the truth. Oz’s deceits. The relic still resting out in the open. Salem’s unknown course of action.

Normally, when his brain was this busy, he’d drown it in alcohol. Let everyone else figure it out as long as he could get some rest from it all. But that wasn’t an option anymore. He wouldn’t allow it to be.

That was how he found himself dragging himself out of bed at the crack of dawn and wandering down the already bustling halls. Anywhere else, he’d say it would be weird to be walking past so many people so early; but Atlas had the majority of its’ facility and students on a strict military schedule. Something about how it taught basic discipline and the sleep regimen was good for promoting better health and performance.

It was a crime against sleeping in is what it was.

Despite the fact his last visit had been well over a year ago, Qrow had no trouble navigating the uniform halls, finding his way to the Ace-Ops’ quarters in record time. He knocked twice, only having to wait a few seconds before the door was flung open. The cartoon flamingos on Harriet’s pajamas seemed to mock the rest of the academy already starting the day.

It’s tactical, Clover had told him once when he’d questioned the special treatment.

Privileged, Qrow had corrected snidely, ignoring the multitude of night crews given the same benefits.

Sometimes it was just fun to see if he could get a rise out of Mr. Perfect.

Speaking of, a quick sweep over Harriet’s hairline told him he was nowhere in the room. He did spot the others though, seated around the dining table. Elm had her hair wrapped up in a towel and a piece of toast in hand. Vine was sipping on tea and scrolling through news. Marrow was giving him that same starstruck look from yesterday, a spoonful of cereal only halfway on its journey to his mouth.

“Boy scout ain’t here?” Qrow asked.

Harriet quirked an eyebrow. “He’s in the garden.”

On a Tuesday? That was new.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Guess I’ll be on my way then. See ya.” He gave her a nod of farewell, heading down the hall.

“Hey, Branwen!” He paused, seeing Harriet leaning out the doorframe, her stare almost challenging. “If you start antagonizing him, I’ll kick your ass.”

That was… also new.

He smirked. “Like to see you try speedy.”

She only scoffed. From within, he heard Marrow pipe up, “Hare! You can’t say that to-” The rest of it was cut off by the door closing, but he had a feeling it ended with ‘The Qrow Branwen.’

He started down the hall again, the foreboding that had been weighing on him since last night quickening his pace.

It didn’t take him long to get to the garden. Natural to Atas’ standards, the room was as grand as could be. Twice as large as the training facility, the greenery filled every inch of space, broken only by specifically designed pathways students or staff could traverse. Some ran to small manmade ponds with wooden bridges built over them where koi fish would swim underneath while others led to displays of delicately trimmed hedges shaped to look like animals. As there was no plant life in Solitas’ ecosystem, everything in the room had been imported. Desert roses from Vacuo, sage bushes from Vale, black pines from Anima. There were even some sunflowers he’d brought years ago from Tai’s little patch at home, still valiantly clinging to life among the rosemary bushes.

Practically on autopilot, Qrow went down the right-most path which wound along to the far side of the garden, where the trees grew taller and the branches hung down like arms reaching out for a hand, close enough for him to reach up and touch. There was one in particular, a lone willow, which had become a popular hiding spot due to its’ thick, curtain-like tresses. So much so, that it had become better known as the Kissing Tree. Though it was too early for anyone to be there now, more than once, he and Clover had stumbled upon a pair of students trying to sneak in a private moment between classes.

To say nothing of the numerous times when the tree was empty and Clover would always wink at him and say, “Looks like there’s room for two.”

The first time, Qrow had been too shocked to respond. Every time after, he’d wave him off and say, “As if you could handle me.”

Clover would laugh and they would continue on, sometimes to the exit.

But more often than not, it was on their way in to the pen.

Compared to the rest of the room, the five-foot, stock panel metal fencing was a bit of an eyesore. Doubly so with the glowing blue devices placed on every post that would activate if anyone without clearance attempted to enter. Hence why it was kept in the back.

But for Clover, it was the best place in the entire garden. Qrow could already see him to one side of the cage, sitting on a bale of hay, gently grooming a lop-eared rabbit resting in his lap while another dozen of various breeds hopped about his feet. The soldier was humming a peppy tune, so lost in his own world he didn’t notice Qrow at the gate.

“Annabelle’s eating your laces.” He announced as he tapped his scroll on the gate’s scanner.

Clover jerked a bit, but not enough to disturb Dumpling, who only thumped his back leg for his attention to continue. He rested one hand on the lop’s back, shooing Annabelle away with the other, “Lil’ menace.” Before acknowledging Qrow with a nod and a “Good morning.”

“Was looking for you.” He replied, shutting the door behind him.

The second he had, Jynx honed in on him like a missile, torpedoing across the pen in seconds to race excited circles around his feet. Clover watched the antics with a teasing smile. “Somehow, I only half believe that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Qrow carefully stepped around the dwarf rabbit and as he made his way over, plucked a daffodil from the treat container kept on a high-mounted shelf. He sat beside Clover on another hay bale, Jynx wasting no time as she leapt onto his legs and flopped onto her side. So content she was, she didn’t even bother to lift her head when he offered the flower, just munched it down when it got close enough to her mouth. He rolled his eyes, running a hand through her soft, black fur. “Still lazy as ever.”

“She can’t help it if she takes after her handler.” Clover pointed out as he returned to his brushing.

“Making fun of yourself over there, boy scout? ‘Cause I ain’t the parent here. I’m the uncle who spoils her rotten.”

Normally, they’d go at it for a while like this, trading verbal blows that were about as harmful as throwing a handful of feathers at one another would be.

Today, it was clear his friend wasn’t in the mood when he only hummed and said, “I suppose.”

In the quiet that followed, it gave him a chance to really look the other man over. Though he was prim and proper as ever, with clothes neatly pressed and boots shined enough to reflect the light, his face told the true story. Between the deeper lines under his eyes and slight graying at the base of his crew cut, Clover appeared as if he’d aged a decade overnight. Burdened by the weight of worlds’ most damning secrets.

Ones that he knew only got worse the deeper the hole was dug. Qrow felt so far under at this point, he wasn’t sure he’d find the sky again. And the worst part was, the only action he had left was to choose if he wanted to toss the next person the shovel.

Regardless of his convictions to be as candid and brusque as possible to his friends and family, the idea of burying Clover along with him was terrifying.

A quiet chattering drew his eyes back to Jynx. Her eyes were half-closed in blissful contentment, unaware and detached from the woes of her people. He rubbed a finger between her ears, the way he’d learned she liked all the way back when she was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Back when she was so tiny, they’d almost missed her when clearing out the illegal dust testing facility deep in Mantle’s suburbs five years ago.

The mission had been a spur of the moment thing. He’d been tracing one of Salem’s subordinates when the Captain approached him. He still recalled how Clover had buttered him up as he explained that with one of their teammates sick, he was in need of a fifth and he ‘just couldn’t think of anyone more suited than Qrow’.

He wouldn’t say it worked or anything but, well, it just so happened the person he was looking for was also said to be someone of ‘scientific talent’. He’d taken the job completely on the merit of it being a potential lead, but if Clover wanted to shower him with compliments in the meantime, who was he to complain?

Next thing he knew, he was knocking a needle-wielding chemist unconscious and lifting guinea pigs out of overcrowded cages.

It took nearly the entire day to clear the facility. Most of the animals were either unaccustomed to being handled or traumatized from it, and it was difficult to recage them without risk of further injury. It was eventually left to the animal experts that had to be called in. Yet, despite the mission being technically fulfilled, Clover had been stubborn to leave, trying to find ways for them to contribute and becoming agitated if anyone tried to derail him.

Even at the time, when Qrow hadn’t yet known the younger huntsman well, he’d understood the behavior was unusual for the other man. It was hard to say if he simply became driven to assist, his soft spot for animals painfully clear, or if it was some mild form of Hunter’s Shock, the stress and horror of the situation putting him into a repetitive state.

Whatever it was, it was clear they were stuck there until the job was done.

So, mostly trying to look busy while staying out of the way, Qrow had found himself lazily strolling through the basement’s already emptied cage ring when his eyes, sharpened by years of looking down the barrel of a shotgun, caught the almost undetectable movement of hay breathing. Sure enough, brushing it aside revealed one of the smallest rabbits he’d ever seen – though she certainly had the loudest cry when he picked her up.

Like a mother responding to a distressed child, the Captain came running. Though his expression was quick to melt when he spotted them, easing into a smile for the first time that afternoon.

Lucky Number 13, Clover had cooed to her while Qrow cradled the shaking thing against his chest. He’d carried her the entire way back to Atlas, afraid she’d get lost or injured among the other hundred animals they’d rescued. At some point, she’d bonded with him.

“More like imprinted!” Tortuga had joked whenever the subject was brought up.

Keeping the rabbits after the mission hadn’t been planned, but Clover had managed to pull enough strings on Jimmy’s iron heart that the General had come out of it thinking he’d thought up the idea all along. The pen was made in record time and the recovering warren was introduced to their new home. Within days, each rabbit had a name, a toy, a bed and enough treats to hibernate a grizzly bear. Mostly provided by the Captain himself, though some of the other facility and students had donated to the cause.

They were officially presented as a wildlife addition to the garden – they were unofficially and more truthfully known as Captain Ebi’s pets.

Though the rabbits didn’t need constant care and the gardeners attended to their daily needs, Clover still swung by frequently, fitting them into a daily routine he kept to like clockwork. Monday and Friday mornings were given over to training. Tuesdays and Thursdays to team-building with the Ops through sharing or even making breakfast together. Weekends and Wednesdays were reserved for garden visits.

The reason for the change was obvious, but Qrow wasn’t quite ready to ask.

“So. Jimmy told you.” He stated instead.

Clover nodded. “Yeah. He did.”

“And… how are you doing?”

He’d been twenty years younger, when he’d been in Clover’s position. Barely graduated, when he took that first walk through the vault, Ozpin spinning grand stories and waving magic to life before his very eyes. He remembered how terrified he had been. He was just some feral kid from the forests of Anima who could barely figure out how his own Scroll worked. In what possible way was he up to the task of saving the world?

After being in the fold as long as he had, he quickly learned even people more capable than himself all tended to feel the gravity of the job.

Even someone as confidant and unshakable as Clover was not immune, his sigh long and drawn out. “Honestly? It’s a little overwhelming. I actually thought, that uh,” He laughed embarrassedly, “James had lost his mind.”

Qrow blinked.

Maybe the world really was ending.

“I woulda paid money to see that.” He teased.

Clover pinched him. “Oh shut up.” The lack of brushing made Dumpling start to fuss again, but rather than continue to pamper him, Clover set the lop back on the grass, before he lent back, letting out another of those long sighs. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how when I was a kid, I used to think the only way Atlas could possibly stay in the sky like it does was from magic. Then I grew up and the academy taught me different. It’s… terrifying, realizing how easy it’s been to lie to a whole nation’s worth of people.”

“Guess that means you agree with Jimmy’s plan then.” Qrow surmised.

“You don’t?” He challenged back, frowning. “We have thousands of people roaming these halls, none of them knowing that a few floors down lies one of the most powerful objects in the world. Don’t they deserve to know that one day they might be in charge of protecting it?”

Shifting uncomfortably, he averted his gaze, mumbling, “I never really thought about it. I trusted Oz to make those kinds of calls. And now he’s-” He felt his chest tighten, guilt a healed-over bruise pulsing on his knuckles. “Gone. Again.”

“I can imagine how lost that makes you feel.”

“I mean, I guess.” He grumbled, if only to save face.

But deep down, he knew Clover was right. Qrow wasn’t like him, or Oz, or James, or Summer or even Ruby. He needed someone to guide him on the right path. He screwed up things enough merely by existing – he couldn’t make it worse by trying to also make critical decisions.

Maybe it was that thought that made him add, “Starting to think I wasn’t cut out for this whole gig. All I’ve done is drag my nieces and their little friends into this whole mess and nearly got ‘em all killed. Isn’t really comparable to ‘restoring world communications’.”

“Yeah, I suppose being on the front lines at Haven and ensuring a relic didn’t fall into Salem’s hands is a bit more impressive.” Before he could even try to argue, Clover placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “We’ve all had to make some tough calls lately, but I know those kids were in good hands when one of the best huntsmen in all of Remnant was at their side.”

He could feel a blush creeping up his neck. “You’re just saying that because you’re completely starstruck with me.”

“I am.” The admittance was said with absolutely no hesitation, the man’s smile growing. “Qrow, some of my very best missions have been the ones I’ve gotten to go on with you. I admire you. Not because of your skill, but because you’ve never let the job change you. You scoff at your own fame and you don’t take missions looking at lien signs first. You do it for the right reasons, every time. I think that’s amazing.”

The blush was definitely on his face now.

Worse yet, the doubts and worries that had weighed on his mind for days now seemed to lighten, just a little bit.

Gods be damned, how did he always do that?

With no idea how to respond, he mumbled out a soft, “Thanks” hoping it came out more sincere than awkward.

“Anytime.” Thankfully, Clover backed off a bit, focusing back on the rabbits at his feet, picking up Bolt. Having gotten his name from how skittish he was, the cottontail took time to calm enough so he could be brushed.

Long enough for Qrow to compose himself before he spoke again. “So, how have things been otherwise?”

“They’ve been…” His shoulders fell, “Rough.”

Any doubts Qrow might have had before about the Ace Ops’ unannounced replacement crumbled right alongside Clover’s normally strong posture.

He shut his eyes, taking in a deep, bracing breath. As he focused on his friend once more, it was with all the unexpecting kindness he could muster that he asked, “Do you want to talk about him?” For a split second, Clover looked just like the rabbit in his lap – ready to sprint as far away as he could from danger. So Qrow quickly added, “You don’t have to, if you’re not ready.”

Silence blanketed over them like a snowstorm, cold and desolate. The kind of weather that blew in fast and came down slow, pressing everything into such an unnoticed hush most didn’t notice their homes being covered until they looked up and saw they were six feet under. That’s where Clover seemed to be now, stuck inside and standing at the front door, uncertain if he was prepared to create the unavoidable mess it would take to dig his way outside.

Only this time, Qrow had given him the shovel. He just had to use it.

Leaving the soldier to sort out his emotions, Qrow idly pet Jynx, fingers scoring through her sleek black fur.

And he waited.

His gaze drifted to the ring of Cypress trees that bordered outside of the pen.

And he waited some more.

When Clover finally did speak, it seemed a struggle, the words fighting their way out. “Can you imagine how it was for us that day, when we watched our own Knights turn on Vale’s citizens? It was like a nightmare. We didn’t know what had happened. No one did. Without James to explain – to speak for himself – the council started shutting down units left and right. The AKs, the paladins, even our Manta Flyers. We had to rip out billions of lien in automated equipment just so we could fly down to Mantle.”

As if he were a Flyer himself, Bolt suddenly leapt out of his lap, landing back on the grass below. He quickly crowded himself between Orion and Sirias, trusting the giant Altexs to protect him.

Clover just let him go, dropping the brush beside himself as he shook his head. “By the time we got there, the city was overrun. Normally, we’d have enough firepower to deal with it. But James had brought most of the troops with him. Even when they came back, none of them were allowed to deploy to the field until they got questioned. It was a mess. Students and soldiers were kept in lockdown. James was incarcerated. It was months before we learned anything. And every day the public was kept in the dark, every day people feared the other kingdoms would come for us, was another day Grimm surged to our borders.”

It was a familiar story. Beacon’s fall shook the world in a brutal way, leaving no Kingdom untouched. Borders closing. Grimm everywhere. The peace between nations suddenly balancing on a delicate string, just waiting for something to break it.

Yet of everything that had come after that one, awful night, it was the personal losses that struck the hardest.

“I kept telling my own team to just… hold on another day. That things would get better soon. But then-” Clover choked for a second, having to swallow hard. “We got a report of a nest of Centinels in the basement of an apartment complex downtown. We were still cleaning up some stragglers nearby, so I sent Harriet and Tortuga ahead. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before Harriet started radioing in. ‘The building came down!’ she kept screaming. I’d never heard her so panicked.”

Qrow sucked in a sharp breath and for a second, he was right there with the other huntsman. Except, for him, it was with a scroll in his ear and Oz’s grief-filled voice shattering his soul as the headmaster told him one of his closest friends wasn’t coming home.

The flash of memory faded as quick as it had come, but the heaviness in his heart stayed as Clover pressed on.

“She told us that some Centinel acid had melted through a supporting wall. Tortuga had been slowing the damage while Harriet tried to get all the occupants out in time. Any other day, they could have done it. If we weren’t all running on empty, I know they could have. Instead, they were only halfway through when suddenly, it all just came down. Harriet was outside when it happened.” Clover lent forward, hay crunching under his grasp as he clutched onto it. “The whole time I was running to their position, I kept telling her everything would be fine. I’d use my luck and we’d pull him out and he’d probably laugh at us for worrying so much. Never knowing it didn’t matter how much luck I had.” He chuckled. It was a hollow, broken noise. “He was already gone. The pathologists said he’d died instantly.”

Then that chuckle turned into a sob.

Knowing better than most that there were no words that made this part easier, Qrow did the only thing he could as he slid a hand along the other’s back and tugged him close.

It was a quarter to nine by the time they were getting ready to leave. Clover gave one last cursory check to the food and water while Qrow mentally counted the warren for a fourth time – they didn’t need another incident like when Snowblossom escaped and terrorized the lavender field. He’d finished his count by the time Clover was ushering him through the gate.

He’d finished it again when it locked behind them.

As they started around the first bend of the path, he almost couldn’t fight the urge to go back just to be safe.

Luckily, Clover was a great distraction. “So now that you’re in Atlas, what do you and your entourage plan to do?”

“Uh.” Was that a trick question? “Help with Jimmy’s pet project, obviously.”

“Besides that. It’s not like we’re going to work you all 24/7.”

Qrow wouldn’t mind if they did. At least, for him. Free time seemed… dangerous, when he’d used to fill it with taking shots at the nearest bar. Really, the more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t really do much else. When he was bored, he went to a bar. When he had a day off, he went to a bar. When he was looking to have fun, he went to a bar. When he didn’t want to see people, then he skipped the bar, got a six pack, and drank himself to oblivion.

Shit.

He was going to have to find a hobby, wasn’t he?

In the end, he shrugged, replying glumly, “Guess we’ll have to figure it out.”

“What about training?” Clover held up a hand in a gesture of peace as Qrow frowned at him. “Not you. The kids. There’s going to be a lot ahead for all of us and the sooner we get used to working together, the better. And, well, considering their age I’m sure some of them are still rough around the edges too.”

He snorted, but didn’t argue that fact. Really, all of them were incredibly skilled, but that didn’t mean perfection. Ren was still flaking in the stamina department. Weiss had to work on her spatial awareness. Jaune needed, well, everything. After years of being a combat teacher, it wasn’t hard to pick out the kids’ flaws. To say nothing of Oscar who, without Oz as a crutch, probably would be better off if they just shipped him into a witness protection program.

It was time that worked against them all. Ideally, it’d be best enrolling them back into school, were they could finish off their graduate programs and gain the wisdoms of various professors who could help them hone their talents. But, seeing as that wasn’t in the cards, he supposed getting some pointers from some of the best Atlas had to offer was a decent replacement.

“I’m sure they’d like that.” Qrow could already imagine how Ruby would bounce off the walls at the idea of getting trained by real huntsmen. As if he were chopped liver, or something.

(He could also already picture her waving his complaints away. “Uncles don’t count. You’re obligated to do nice things for me.”)

“Great! We can work out a schedule once you’re all a bit more settled.” Clover was practically glowing, as if he couldn’t wait to start penning things in on his calendar. Dork.

Yet, he’d take this much happier, lively Clover over the despairing, grieving one he’d just consoled any day of the year.

In fact, the air was so much lighter than it had been, as they rounded another bend and the willow tree came into sight, he was already preparing himself for the other man to drop his usual line, retort already on the tip of his tongue.

Yet, as they came level with it, Clover did something even more daring as he reached across the space between them and caught Qrow’s hand in his.

He stared down at this grand declaration, then up at Clover himself, meeting questing, hopeful eyes.

Heart racing, he curled his fingers over Clover’s, and despite the other’s rounded knuckles or his own lanky fingers, despite mismatched calluses and hairline scars, despite the rings or the gloves, they seemed a perfect fit.

Perhaps, Qrow wouldn’t be so bored in Atlas after all.

#qrow branwen #clover ebi #fair game #fairgameweek2021 #rwby #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

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yeojaa · 5 years ago

Text

TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why. Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds. When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you. "Yes." Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic. Always had been. It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary. You use your one brain cell for love. It doesn’t always end well.

pairing. who knows, honestly. the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.

tags. blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy.

rating. general (for now?)

word count. ~3750

chapter 4.

Time passes as it always does, swirling around you in the form of hungry patrons and waning sunlight.

Occasionally, it crawls and the words don't come, weighed by an anchor you can't quite lift. It feels heavy in your hands, a door that won't open no matter how much you fidget, graphite leaving dots across pristine white paper. It taunts you and tricks you every time you hazard a glance at your phone.

Other times, it's gone in the blink of an eye, the glowing numbers on your screen a reminder of its perpetual movement.

The only consistent is Jeon Jungkook.

You appreciate his presence, the familiarity it brings as he sits quietly, every so often chuckling to himself when he scrolls past something funny on his phone. A snap of his friend's face superimposed over a pig (don't ask); a meme off the front page of Reddit. You're grateful for the fact that he keeps otherwise quiet and doesn't try to share his finds, taking extra care not to disturb whatever creative process you're in. He knows as well as you - you take inspiration where you can get it.

Still, it's hard not to notice him.

There'd always been something about him that drew your attention, like he was a planet and you were caught in his gravitational pull. You couldn't avoid him if you tried.

Looking at him now - sneaking glances when you know he's miles down his Instagram feed and won't catch you - he's everything you remembered and so much that you hadn't. It makes your heart ache a little, just as it had in the first few months of radio silence. You'd honestly thought you'd gotten used to it - draped a cloth over the Jungkook-shaped hole in your life - but sitting there with him, you realize you definitely hadn't. It's like a cold draft that won't go away, curling around his gaping silhouette and rousing memories you don't mean to dwell on.

Maybe it was your fault. Maybe your refusal to explore the how's and why's had festered the wound and kept it from healing. But if you were to blame, then so was he. After all, you'd never meant for it to happen.

Isn't that how it always happened?

Things had been fine, for a while. Better than fine, in fact. You'd found a kindred spirit in the boy that'd taken up root beside you, discovering fragments of your dreams in his film vignettes and buried between the layers of his watercolour.

You'd gone through the motions of getting to know each other before casual conversations in the lecture hall had transitioned to harried 3 a.m. texts about whether you'd completed the assignment or not. (He always had; you, not so much.) The Friday editing sessions had even turned to weekend day trips in search of inspiration, not realizing - or not acknowledging - you'd found it in each other. Of course, you never addressed it, finding too much comfort in each other to dare turn the spotlight on it. You'd thought that maybe, if you acted like it wasn't happening, everything would be okay.

You thought whatever you were would be safe, hidden among the moon and stars.

After all, it was inevitable, like the changing of seasons. Spending so much time with someone else tended to open you up to them in ways you'd never expected.

Still, it had hit you like a freight train colliding with a pipe bomb when you'd drunkenly invited him back to your dorm and he'd agreed, enthusiastic and intoxicated. You'd been celebrating the completion of your thesises (or theses, as Jungkook had so sagely reminded you when you were four bottles of soju in and slurring your words).

Never in your wildest dreams - and oh, how you'd dreamt - had you thought it would happen.

You should've known it was a bad idea when your adoration had nearly swallowed you whole, the familiar desire to stick your tongue out at him replaced by one to use that muscle in a very different way. But everything had happened so quickly that night, intensity engulfing every single one of your sensibilities and igniting it in flames. He'd felt so good - so right - like he'd been created just for you, all of his sinew and bone a testament to a higher power that had deemed you worthy enough.

If you were a recovering addict, he was the 40 year old malt that sent you right back into inebriation.

You hadn't cared then, drunk off something other than liquor. All you'd wanted was him and that beautiful smile for a little while longer.

You'd even told yourself you could get past whatever repercussions arose. That was the strength of your friendship. And yet, you'd been wrong. You'd hardly been able to look at him the next morning, fleeing to the library with a note left on your pillow. You'd been the one to run away, leaving him to wake up to an empty bed.

It was the right thing to do, you'd told yourself. Better to avoid an awkward morning after.

Except that silence had stretched on and by the time you'd realized your mistake, it was too late. You weren't sure who was ignoring who and you were too afraid to ask.

"Do I have something on my face?" Your companion is swiping across his mouth, alarmed by the intensity with which you've been ogling him. God - how long had you been staring at him?

Heat spills over your neck and you can feel it rising into your hairline, sweeping across your ears and drowning them in red-hot embarrassment. "No. Sorry. I zoned out." You're stumbling over your words, a choked half-laugh crossing the threshold of enamel.

Jungkook looks at you like he could unravel your excuses with but a word but says nothing. His capacity for silence always surprised you.

"Should we get going?" He finally offers. Your saving grace.

"Oh, sure." A cursory glance at your phone has you near bolting out of your seat. "It's almost two?!" You're immediately shoving everything back into your tote with manic energy, nearly stabbing your pencil through the fleshy underside of your palm when you miss its rightful pocket. You'd never been good with time management.

"You'll be fine - the studio's close by." He's not wrong but his reassurance has you halting, strap of your bag looped around the hook of your elbow. For a second, you're confused. He can see it in your eyes.

He debates saying something, waiting for the cogs in your head to click into place.

They finally do and you finish your motion, hiking your tote comfortably onto your shoulder. Your over-ear headphones are tucked neatly into the pocket in the front and zipped in for security before a single AirPod replaces the quiet left behind by their departure. Habit. You always need music.

He knows them too, you remind yourself.

(You don't know how it hasn't come up yet. Maybe because it's been eight excruciating months of the Great Depression, as you tended to call it.)

You're about to bid him farewell, the words primed, when you catch his expression. It might just be your own emotions projected across the chiselled curvature, but he looks almost wistful. Like he's not quite ready to say goodbye.

You decide you aren't, either. "Do you want to walk with me?"

You know he doesn't take longer than a moment to consider the offer, though he plays at mulling it over, a decidedly artificial look of deliberation spreading.

"Fine, your loss," you state with an exaggerated roll of your eyes.

When you move toward the door, he's right there with you, and when you head into the early afternoon light, he's at your side. You try not to think about how close he is, how you're not sure whether the heat is from the sun or his body or the emotion that boils beneath your skin. It's hard.

"How long have you been interning?" He's sweetly curious, the picture of friendly attention.

"Since September."

"Do you like it?"

"I love it." He hears the animation that threatens to drag your words into overdrive, throwing ending syllables into one another. A quirk of yours - like your heart couldn't catch up with your mouth. "It's been a really incredible experience and I have so much respect for the people that put their entire lives into it. Namjoon and Yoongi - they've been so great. A little rough around the edges," Jungkook's hum is wrapped in understanding because he intimately knows what you mean, "but so, so good to me." You seem to realize you've taken off like a rocket and slow, allowing yourself to readjust as you plummet back to Earth. "It's like everything I'm feeling finally has a home, you know?"

"I get it." Something tender lingers in his gaze as your eyes meet. Your heart skips a beat. Then he's still, forcing you to do the same. You realize you're at your destination, imposing building rising high above your heads. "I guess this is goodbye."

You hate the sound of that more than you should. You offer a little wave as you begin backwards, shoulder meeting the glass door. You can't look away. "How about see you later instead?"

He looks like he's just won the lottery when you disappear inside.

They're two figures huddled together when you slip into the studio, your Dr. Martens replaced with soft Ryan slippers that stand in stark contrast to your neon green socks. You think they must not hear you by the lack of acknowledgment and take your time in setting your bag down, extracting your items one by one.

Phone, notebook, headphones. Your water bottle. Pencils and pens in every pastel shade you could find. If only you were this organized in school.

"So, you and Taehyung, huh?" Yoongi's low drawl has you whipping around but he hasn't even turned, instead still preoccupied with the melody that filters through his studio headphones, one side trapped against his head by the flat of his palm. You see more than hear the silent laughter that catches his shoulders, rolling over his lithe frame.

"Hello to you too, Min seonsangnim," you chirp, ignoring the question in favour of settling down behind them. It's your usual spot beside the electric piano, comprised of a sleek Herman Miller lounge chair and simple black table that you neatly arrange your belongings onto. You unfold your notebook and drag it into your lap, legs crossed in your seat, as you wait for them to finish whatever they're working on.

Namjoon hums to himself, fingers tracking with practiced precision as he lays a certain beat differently, dragging a note to the forefront. You watch, ever curious, as his deft movements transform the sounds that reach his ears, bringing an appreciative nod from the man beside him.

What you wouldn't give to hear what they were working on.

Instead, you focus on the litany of lyrics scrawled across the pages of your notebook. You drag them over and over in your head, letting them curve across different melodies in hopes one will stick. You know it's backwards - tune first, Namjoon always said - but you're stuck on these goddamn lines. You want them to make sense so badly.

You must look as frustrated as you feel, because you register a soft laugh and your name right as you're about to slash out another two lines.

"You're going to regret it." You know he's right. You huff, all but slamming your pencil down on the table as you meet the expectant stares of your mentors. It feels a little different today, as if you've crossed some invisible line you hadn't known existed. It's not an unwelcome feeling.

"Just another thing to add to the list," you answer, dryly.

"Woah now." There are tendrils of concern wrapping the words, something unspoken in the way Namjoon looks at you rather than the words he speaks. His chin cants, mouth pursed in that distinct way of his, and you can't help but feel a little childish, like a student caught red-handed by their principal. How fitting that that's what he was to you. "Is everything okay?"

The smile you offer is genuine, steeped heavily in appreciation. You're fine - you know you are. The past few days have just gotten weirder and weirder and it's a little hard to wrap your head around it. You're not sure how to explain that.

"Is it because you're pining over Tae?" It doesn't seem like he's going to let it go any time soon so you level Yoongi with a stare that would make him proud, reeking of barely concealed dissatisfaction. It's a complete facade, meant only to act as an apathetic mask. He knows that. You know that. He snickers, arms folding across his chest as he maintains that look of anticipation.

"I'm not pining over him," you retort. And really, you're not. You're just pleasantly intrigued.

"But you do like him." Now it's Namjoon locking you with the implications of his question, the words acting as proverbial blinders. You can't look anywhere but his eyes.

"I mean, I hardly know him." You know your answer isn't enough by the silence that meets it. You blow a steady stream of air through your nose, trying to find patience among the fluttering in your chest. "Fine, I like him. I'm interested." It feels strange talking to them about this. They've never involved themselves in your personal life. Not even when you'd asked them to help you with your songs, begged to pour your heartbreak into something material.

All things considered, you can't blame them.

"Good. Because he's a good guy." You don't doubt it but it's still nice to hear, especially from those whose opinions you hold in such high esteem. It lightens your burden a little, stripping worry away from your heart like daisy petals.

You like him, you like him not, you like him.

With a languid roll of your eyes, you edge closer, sock sliding back into your slippers. Your notebook is set down, forgotten temporarily, as you rock to your feet and cross to join them in front of the various monitors. "Can we focus on something other than my love life now?"

The sun is but a flicker of burnt orange over the horizon when you exit the building, drifting low behind buildings and casting faded warmth over everything it touches. It's colder than you'd anticipated, the soft knit of your cardigan doing little to rebuff the evening air. It's invigorating, if not a little unwelcome.

You slot your earphones into place before you begin walking, enamoured with the strike of ivory keys and unfiltered lyricism. A quick swipe through your messages, nothing immediately catching your eye. Good. You're ready to go home and dive into a bowl of ramyeon.

Or, at least, you were - before you're colliding with a solid mass.

You blink once, twice, trying to make sense of what's happened. You know this area like the back of your hand, have walked it both sober and drunk, in the afternoon and hours past midnight. There's certainly not supposed to be an obstruction in the middle of the street.

"I'm so sorry." The voice registers as desirable, heavy in its timbre, a sound you'd gladly tumble headlong into. It's also familiar, though that recognition comes more slowly, in bits and pieces that form a haphazard picture in your mind. It's fuzzy around the edges because you're not intimately familiar with it but oh, how you could be.

"Kim Taehyung?" You're not sure how many times you've uttered those same few words but it falls again, framed in surprise and perhaps a little hope.

"Hi." He breathes the greeting like it's a secret, his big boxy grin stopped short only by the way he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. There's a flash of pink as his tongue follows suit not long after, laving at the indents he's left behind. A tic of his, you notice. One that stirs butterflies in your chest and tension in your stomach. You mimic the action without realizing and it's his turn to inhale sharply, his attempts at suffocating the excitement with a lungful of air feeble. "Surprise?"

It's an understatement if you've ever heard one.

"What're you doing here?"

The reminder that this isn't normal - that your meeting isn't planned nor somehow caused by some sort of cosmic interference - seems to bring him to his senses. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hand rising to scratch at the nape of his neck. He's tonguing his lip again, the tell-tale flash of pink distracting you momentarily. In the open, like this, he's even more handsome than you remembered and you admire him with little hesitation.

"Namjoon-hyung mentioned they'd have a late night."

That certainly doesn't answer your question. "But what does that have to do with me?"

"He said he and Yoongi-hyung would be here all night but... that you were leaving soon." By the way he speaks, it almost as if he's ready for a reprimand or rejection. He won't even look at you fully, his gaze bouncing from your eyes to your mouth to some indeterminate spot behind your left ear. He looks like he's about burst when he finally meets your stare. "I thought you might want to get dinner. "

You can't deny how charming it is, how giddy it makes you feel. You're beaming as bright as the sun. "I'd love to."

The breath he'd been holding escapes as one giant laugh that reverberates his shoulders and crashes out of his mouth in unadulterated mirth. He tries to hide it behind his hands, palm pressed to his lips as his face contorts into a makeshift cage. He's a kid on Christmas morning and his excitement is infectious.

"I guess this is our first date then." There's that aching sweetness again, blanketing his words in promise as he extends his hand. Maybe it's a little too forward, a little too much - you can see the uncertainty buried deep in his irises - but you take it nonetheless, slotting your digits with his as if its the most natural thing in the world. You like the way he feels, the weight of his hand in yours. You're gladdened by the fact that you still feel sparks where your skin connects, a live wire linking the two of you together.

It hadn't just been all in your head.

"Where should we go?"

"Anywhere." You don't mean to sound the way you do, a girl on her first date. It causes a revolt against your cheeks, pretty pink painting the apples. "I'm not picky." A poor attempt at sounding somewhat blasé. Why you try, you're not sure, because Taehyung looks just as enamoured as you. It's both powerful and terrifying. "You choose."

So he does - and you like that, too, allowing him to lead the two of you to a nearby shop that specializes in jokbal. He won't stop talking about it the entire way, regaling you with stories of late night munchies with his hyungs and making you laugh so hard you shake.

He never drops your hand, not even when he's opening the door for you with his other.

You find your seats quickly, settling across from each other at the small table. It's reminiscent of the first time you'd met and you can't help but smile, mouth pursing so as to stave off the expression. It catches his attention, though you're uncertain it'd been anywhere else. "What?"

"I feel like we should be answering questions again."

There's playfulness curling his lips, stretching his cheeks and rounding them into his characteristic smile. "Do you want to?"

You're surprised. Why not? "Sure. It'll be like old times."

Now, he snickers, once again hidden behind the slope of his fingers. "What percentage did you put at the end?" It's like a flipped switch how quickly he goes from cherubic aegyo to serious, effortlessly handsome in his sudden gravity.

"I'm not telling you that!" You gasp as if affronted, voice warbling like an old widow asked about her dearly departed.

"Come on!" He comes back, just as quick. A hand cradles his heart now - lays right over where it lies beneath the soft cotton of his plain black shirt - and tenses. Some sort of very fake sob comes out, hushed in consideration of the other diners, and he levels you with a look that makes you want to kiss him. "You're breaking my heart, Cho Jiyeon."

A part of you wants to drag this on, keep that all-encompassing smile in place for as long as you can, but he's already shifting. He's leaning across the table and you can count each individual eyelash and every mole. You're once again left breathless by the sheer beauty of him.

"I put 100." The admission comes so easily from him that you almost feel bad for holding out. Almost.

You think you might if you weren't completely over the moon and lost to the stars above. "Me too."

He's never looked better than when he hears that and you try to memorize the way his eyes squint, the start of his smile when his mouth pulls subtly to the left, the deep lines that run the length of his chiselled cheeks. Like a painting by the old masters, it speaks volumes.

"You're not just saying that?"

The juxtaposition is laughable when he finally speaks. Here he is, devilishly handsome and brimming with euphoria, and yet his words sound like they've taken everything out of him. It makes your heart squeeze in a downright lovesick way. "One hundred," a pause that's meant to be cute, "percent serious."

Your bad joke has him laughing, sweeping you up in the sound. "You won't regret it."

You tell yourself you believe him because you're hopeless and you don't know better. But when he focuses on you like this, you can't help it. He's like every wish you've ever made, a shooting star across a spotless night sky, illuminating everything in its path. He makes you see in full spectrum colour, setting your vision to ultra HD. You don't want to go back to shades to grey.

notes. just when kook was getting some face time, in comes taehyung. whoops!

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goliath-de-senfina-sango · 5 years ago

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Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Danny Phantom Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Danny Fenton & Tucker Foley & Sam Manson, Danny Fenton & Jack Fenton & Jazz Fenton & Maddie Fenton, Danny Fenton & Sidney Poindexter, Danny Fenton & Lunch Lady, Penelope Spectra & Bertrand, Jack Fenton/Maddie Fenton Characters: Tucker Foley, Danny Fenton, Sam Manson, Jazz Fenton, Valerie Gray, Jack Fenton, Maddie Fenton, Angela Foley, Maurice Foley, Ida Manson, Jeremy Manson, Pamela Manson, Skulker (Danny Phantom), Desiree (Danny Phantom), Paulina Sanchez, Bertrand (Danny Phantom), Penelope Spectra, Wesley Weston, Walter Weston, Spike (Danny Phantom), Edward Lancer Additional Tags: I'm back baby, The Fentons are a family of Geniuses, Mulltilingual Danny Fenton, Multilingual Tucker Foley, Multilingual Sam Manson, The Ghosts have backstories, Bisexual Male Character, Transgender Danny Fenton, Space Core! Danny, round 2 friends, reseting the world to fix your mistakes Series: Part 2 of Monstrous Mundane Magick Summary:

Ghosts are a part of life that none of them can get rid of, apparently, so now they just have to figure out how to manage them. Join the ghostly Trio as they deal with bad wishes, fight a demon (because of course ghosts aren't all there is) and even deal with a dragon or two! Will they catch any semblance of a break, or will the horrors of the supernatural break them?

Green mist, the crackle of the Specter Deflector mk1 resisting the energy in that mist, and then darkness. That was about what Tucker could remember of the fight if you could even call it that. After what felt like forever, he opened his eyes to find he was in his room. Sitting up with a groan, Tucker rubbed his head and took stock of the situation, just like a badass in a movie. “Still in all my clothes from the fight, Sydney isn’t here, Danny and Sam also aren’t here, room’s a mess as usual…” Grabbing his phone, Tucker checked for any panicked texts and saw none. It was just Friday again, Friday morning even. “Alright, so maybe cotton candy wasn’t her power. Ugh, whatever she did it clearly had no effect on me, so that means the Fentons at least know how to make a good protective belt.” Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed Tucker tapped the Specter Deflectorand paused. “Oh, wait, will whatever she did affect me if I take off the belt?”

Deciding he didn’t want to find out, Tucker climbed out of bed, brushed his teeth, changed most of his clothes, and checked more of his room. To his dismay, he found that Hunter’s mech was not, in fact, here in his room anymore. “Where the heck could that’ve gone? Mom and Dad didn’t move it last time it was this morning.” He paused, scratching his head. “Did they? Ugh, ok, that’s something to worry about later. If I ask they’ll just get upset that I lost track of it ‘because it’s dangerous’ or whatever.”

Heading downstairs to find his parents in the living room, Dad watching football and Mom knitting something, Tucker called out his usual good mornings and headed into the kitchen for some much-needed bacon, eggs, and hashbrowns. Headphones in, the latest Dumpty Humpty songs on, and the smell of food filling the kitchen, Tucker almost didn’t notice the oddness of getting practically no messages from Danny or Sam the whole morning. By now Sam should’ve been complaining about being sick, at the very least.

When he finished up his food, Tucker headed out the door, calling out to his parents, “Gonna go visit Danny, see ya later!” And before they could respond, he was out the door and putting on his helmet. The AI he’d rigged together pointed him toward his board, which he was more than grateful to still have even if Hunter’s suit would be useful, and soon he was in the air. Still, even with no air traffic since the boards weren’t exactly for sale - yet, he needed to talk with Danny about that - he stopped before texting Danny. He couldn’t just phase through a building instead of crashing because he wasn’t looking where he was going after all.

Hey Danny, where should we meet up? I’m omw to tell you something wild.

He guessed, of course, that Danny was at home, so he took off for FentonWorks. Music blaring in his ears, the wind tugging at his body as he did a loop, Tucker considered whether or not he should see if a random girl at the park would find his board cooler than the girls at school. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he blinked a few times, lifting up his helmet to make sure he was reading this right.

Astroboy: I’m at my uncle’s place, u know that.

“Alright, the ghost did more than just chuck me back to this morning, apparently. Why would she put Danny at Wes’ place?” Tucker readjusted his helmet and sped off, going a bit faster than before. He took a moment to take in everything below him, seeing no signs of the fight with Hunter that took place outside the library as he passed it. “There should be something there though… the plasma and the lasers melted holes into the walls and street.”

When Tucker reached the Weston home, he was almost certain of what had happened. The ghost had been some sort of wish granter, like a genie, and she’d heard him wish that Danny hadn’t gone into the portal. That explained the lack of Hunter’s marks on the town, without Danny being half-ghost the poacher had no reason to go after him. Maybe Danny just grew closer to Wes without the ghost stuff in the way? Regardless, Tucker went through the awkwardness of greeting Mr. Weston when he answered the door, “Hi there, I’m Tucker Foley. I’m not sure if you remember me but I’m Danny’s friend and he said he was here.”

“Ah yes, Tucker,” the ginger said, taking him in and clearly searching for a memory. “The one he made the hoverboards and the rockets with, right?”

“Yup! That’s me. May I come in?”

“Of course, sure. Shoes at the door and all that.” Tucker kicked off his shoes and Mr. Weston pointed him upstairs.

When Tucker finally found Danny, his good mood at the fact that his best friend didn’t have to worry about fighting ghosts or questioning who and what he was anymore dropped like a lead ball. It looked like a half-assed recreation of Danny’s actual room, desk and posters, and even his Horrorstation all together in one room. It didn’t have the murals of the stars on the ceiling or the walls like in Danny’s real room, but it looked too personalized to be a guest room. Danny looked up from his handheld and waved at him, looking for all the world like something was crushing him. “Hey, Tuck. What’s up?”

“More than I wanted to be, it looks like,” he muttered. Taking a seat on the bed next to Danny - and it was his bed, the exact same mattress - Tucker took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “How do I ask this?” His eyes swept over the room, marking where things should be but weren’t, until he landed on Danny again, looking concerned and tense and just as thin as he was before. He wasn’t as pale as he’d been growing but he was still paler than Tucker thought was healthy. “Right, ok. Rip off the bandaid I guess. Say a ghost has, for whatever reason, messed with my memories so that I remember things a whole lot different than they are now.” Danny scowled at the mention of ghosts, the same way Dr. Fenton did. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “What’s happened since August?”

Danny sighed, leaning back on his hands and glaring at the ceiling. “Ghosts. Ghosts have fucking happened since August. Of course, they had to mess with you too, they already messed up everything else.” Danny looked at him again, trying to judge how much of Tucker was the Tucker he knew probably, and Tuck was doing the same. He’d never heard Danny refer to ghosts as a whole with such venom and ice in his voice. It wasn’t right. “After you convinced me how stupid it would be to actually go inside the Ghost Portal, Mom and Dad figured out what was wrong with it - an extra switch inside that would’ve had to be pressed to activate it - and after they fixed it, it worked. Jazz had a fucking fit when she realized she was wrong about Mom and Dad being delusional for believing in ghosts.” Danny looked down, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “I wish she was right.

“At first it seemed like the portal was working the same way all the other portals worked: a window into another world for Mom and Dad to look through and examine what was happening on the other side. But then something actually came out of the thing.” Danny shuddered and Tucker threw an arm around him. “I remember seeing the ectopus thing for the first time. It was so... wrong. Like a messed up hologram that made my eyes hurt to look at it. We all had weapons, thank the stars, but it took a while to get that thing back into the portal.”

“Ok, so it was a door and they didn’t want one of those yet, so they tried unplugging it,” Tucker said when Danny went quiet. He remembered this conversation when Hunter came up. “But it didn’t work that way. Self-sustaining or something, right?”

“A self-sustaining interdimensional intersection that was apparently powered on the other side as much as it was on ours. Stars, Tuck, the freakin Lunch Lady from the 50s came through - or rose up in the cafeteria kitchen, I guess. Either way, when Sam had her menu change thing done and we started a food fight with Dash over it, the ghost lady set the kitchen and cafeteria on fire because we were making a mess of her cafeteria.” Danny scoffed and Tucker winced. “Mom and Dad to the rescue with the Fenton Foamers, since regular extinguishers and stuff wasn’t working. That one got them attention,” he muttered. “The whole town suddenly had their eyes on us, so Mom and Dad did a press conference and then the whole world was paying attention. And then things went wrong.”

“Went wrong, how?” He almost didn’t want to know the answer but at the same time, he knew that he should know what happened because of his wish. This was his fault, and he needed to know what.

Danny curled up in a ball under his arm, and his breaths grew a bit shallower. Tucker was certain he wasn’t going to say anything but a moment later, Danny opened his mouth and forced out the words like they stung his mouth to say. “This giant fucking ghost hornet killed Jazz while I was in the counselor’s office and talking with Ms. Spectra about how the media circus was affecting my home life.” He leaned against Tucker, face streaked with tears and chest heaving. “Jazz fucking died of a giant hornet sting and I was talking to a counselor. One who fucking ratted my parents out called them neglectful and said they were endangering us at home and CPS shoved me into uncle Walter’s house.”

Tucker knew what being punched in the face felt like, Dash had made sure of it. Now, however, it felt a thousand times worse. Like someone had taken a hot poker right out of a fireplace and shoved it into his chest. “Oh my god.”

Tucker stayed with Danny as long as Mr. Weston would tolerate, getting the fact that the Mansons were moving out because of the danger in Amity out of him before they played some videogames to get all of this off of their minds. It didn’t, of course, because nothing could get this off of Tucker’s mind, but he had to at least try to get some normalcy out of this for Danny. He got curb stomped by a HellKnight and Danny took on being the Doom Slayer while Tuck stewed.

How the hell am I gonna fix this? That one thought bounced around in his head, the only thing besides static, and for what felt like forever, it didn’t go anywhere. Then he checked the news app on his phone for once in his life and saw that cotton candy had flooded the swap meet. I’ll fix it how I messed it up. I just need to find that ghost.

When Wes knocked on the door and told Danny it was time for dinner and heavily implied that Tucker should probably leave, he got up and squeezed Danny in a hug. He got squeezed right back, and it was weird how quickly he’d gotten used to the hum of energy under Danny’s skin that he couldn’t feel anymore. How odd it was to think this should hurt a bit more just because your friend was hugging you as hard as he could, but without superstrength.

On the flyby heading home, Tucker made a detour to the swap meet and started looking, though he wasn’t entirely certain what he was looking for. “Something Alladin-esque, I guess,” he muttered under his breath. Reaching into his jacket pocket thankfully produced the ecto signature tracker he was hoping for, and he followed it to several shards in front of a stand near the center of the cotton candy flood. That was good, at least. The woman putting things away gave Tucker a swell of hope, even if he felt she was probably wearing too much pink. Hopping off the board and removing his helmet he cleared his throat.

“Are you Madam Babazita?”

She stood, turning around to raise a brow at him. Pointing above at the sign that said Madam Babazita's Mystical Oddities. “Who else would I be, kid. Are you here to help with the cotton candy clean up?”

“Actually, I was here to ask about the uh genie that got released around here.” The Babazita turned her full attention to him, and Tucker flinched. There was a sharpness in her eyes and something… off. He didn’t want to make her mad.

“Oh really? You’re here about the djinni?” She looked him up and down and spread her arms out. “I didn’t see you here when her lamp broke.”

“Well, not this version of this morning, no.” He chuckled and cleared his throat again. “I jumped the gun and made a wish without realizing that she could grant them. The only reason I remember all of this, apparently, is because of this.” He raised his shirt to show off the Specter Deflector™. “It blocks out ghostly energy. Is there anything you can tell me about this genie ghost thing that would help me to fix the mess I made?”

Madam Babazita stared at Tucker for several long moments, her beakish nose raised high and her eyes sharp as a hawk’s. After another beat of silence, he opened his mouth to plead a better case than ‘I made a mess and need your help to fix it’ when she held up a hand. “Alright, kid. You look like whatever you did, you regret enough to keep bothering me about it. I’ll tell you about that djinni, but if you get hurt fighting her that’s your fault, not mine.”

“Got it.” She frowned at him and Tucker winced. “I understand, madam.”

Learning of Desiree’s life was a sad story to hear, but finding out that she was compelled to grant any wish she heard was a lifesaver. Sure, it sounded rough having to fulfill everyone else’s desires and not your own, but Tucker needed that kind of guarantee that he could get what he needed so long as he asked for it correctly. Unfortunately, that would have to wait. The sun was going down, and his parents probably didn’t want him out late with ghosts on the loose.

There were things Tucker could get away with, such as staying out particularly later than he should, ignoring all the vegetables on his plate and generally being less engaged in dinner discussion because his parents weren’t the parents he knew. Not exactly, anyway. A few months could really change someone. One thing he could not get away with, however, was taking a shower in Angela Foley’s household. So, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took off the Specter Deflector™. Nothing happened. Opening his eyes, Tucker found nothing had changed. He could remember everything from how it was supposed to be and he didn’t get any new memories aligning with what Danny had told him. “That’s one mystery solved,” he muttered. That done he got rid of the rest and cleaned, trying to devise a plan.

When he woke up the next morning he had a plan. It was a relatively simple one. “Find Desiree, unwish my wish, and the world is fixed.” He put the belt back on with his new outfit of leather pants, a green sweater and a leather jacket he’d found sitting in his closet. “If she can change reality this much then who knows what else she can do? She probably remembers me shooting at her.”

Even with the wildness of a ghost messing around with people’s desires and a huge, overly public case regarding the town crazies who discovered the afterlife - a thing that Tucker was going to file under ‘think about in more depth later’ - life still went on. There were movies to attend, and people still went to them. This was not the place where Tucker expected to be dealing with a ghost of any sort. And yet, here the tracker pointed him, leading to Paulina… chibified. “I know chibis are supposed to be cute, and on-screen they are, but this? This is horrifying, and I don’t like it. I dunno how anyone else thinks this is cute.” Everyone in the theater was going nuts over Paulina, who steadily grew into a seven-foot-tall chibi version of herself. “Oh wow, the weebs are feeding her power or whatever. That’s just great.”

Riffling through his jacket pocket, Tucker felt the handles for familiar weapons - an ecto-pistol, a tube of lipstick that also shot lasers, the wrist ray he should have on and was now putting on- but none of those guaranteed he’d be able to get the ghost energy out of Paulina. Was this a good idea to act on? “Only one way to find out…” Aim, charge, fire. A beam of green struck chibilina in the forehead, dead on, and her supernatural form rippled with a green light. Everyone turned to Tucker, who sucked in a sharp breath, ran for his board, and flew away.

“Ok, I don’t have a weapon on me that can push the ghostly energy out of someone,” he muttered, hoping and praying that Paulina couldn’t also fly. “Good to know. Ugh, where would I find a wish obsessed djinni?” He looked down below him, and up above him even, hoping he’d spot any kind of clue as toa car flew within an inch of Tucker’s face and it’s tailwind dragged him into a spin.

Once he corrected himself in the air and almost caught all of his breath back, Tucker focused on the car zooming around through the air with green energy pulsing through it. “I know we were talking about making flying cars happen, but not like this.” He flew off and after the car, having to push the engine of his board to keep up, and knocked on the driver’s side window. “Uh, hello, this is technically speeding, I do believe.”

“DUUUUDE WHAT THE HELL!?” The blond surfer stereotype screamed, bringing Tucker to question his style and location. There were no beaches in Minnesota.

“Roll down the window!” Tucker pointed at the button, which the guy thankfully hit, and Tucker reached in to grab the wheel and steer the man away from the city. “Alright, so I don’t know how to drive exactly but I’m pretty sure there should be some brakes down there.” No sooner did he say that than the car stopped. It stopped dead in the air, and gravity took hold - a thing it did at inconvenient times. Thankfully, Tuck didn’t have to scream for the man to hit the gas again since this sudden a drop kept him from being able to catch the air needed for screaming. When they started moving forward and up again, Tucker clung to the car door and wheezed in his helmet, shaking his head. “Find. Empty. Parking spot. Think about going down. Slowly.”

“Oh what, just fuckin think about it going down smoothly and it’ll go down?” Tucker, who was on his hoverboard of all things, was being glared at. By some surfing wanna be. He had no time for this kind of bullshit.

“DID YOU WISH FOR IT TO START FLYING AND IT FLEW?!” the guy flinched and nodded, face screwing up with concentration as he steered the car. Tucker felt free to let go as the vehicle descended toward an empty-ish parking lot and began to slow down. When the car landed and Tucker hovered only a foot off the ground, the man practically kicked his door open and wrapped Tucker in a hug. “Whoa! Ok, ok this is happening.”

“Thank you! Fuck, man, thank you so much! I almost died, flying around in a car!”

“Yeah, I’m looking to find the person who did this so I can stop her.” Tucker gently pushed the man away and started floating up higher, his visor flashing with a status update on his board. It might need maintenance after pulling speeds like that. “You just do your thing, probably avoid using this car for a while. Buh bye.” That said, he sped off into the sky.

“You’re serious?”

“Would I be telling you this if I wasn’t 100% serious, Sam?” Tucker groaned, sitting on his board on the roof of the school. It was the only place he could think of that’d be abandoned on a Saturday. “I know how to be serious, you know!”

“I dunno,” Sam drawled, “you can be pretty insensitive.”

“Enough to joke about messing up everyone’s lives with a wish?” Tucker glared at his phone. “Sam, Jazz is dead in this timeline! I wouldn’t joke about being the cause of that!”

The line was silent for a long moment, and he checked to make sure he hadn’t been hung up on. Finally, Sam sighed the crackle of it in the receiver matching the static in his head when he learned about that little tidbit. “Fine. Ok, let’s pretend I believe you. Why do you want my help instead of Danny’s?”

“Pardon?”

“Danny’s the one with access codes to all the weapons his folks have for fighting ghosts, not me. Why are you telling me this instead of Danny?”

“First of all, I have the weapons I need to fight her if it comes to that, which gods I hope it doesn’t.” With all the chaos she was causing, Tucker didn’t want to get into an actual fight with Desiree. He had a feeling Danny wouldn’t have won that fight with his powers either. “Second of all: gee Sam, I wonder why I didn’t tell Danny that I essentially got his sister killed with a hasty wish?” The line was silent, and Tucker took a few deep breaths. “I’m sorry, if I sound harsh or anything I just. You’re the one who comes up with most of our winning ideas, and I don’t wanna hurt Danny any more than I already have. All I need to do is find Desiree and make a wish. Any ideas on where she might be?”

“Well, she might be at a place where people typically go to make wishes. Everyone has a desire to ask for pretty much all day but a wishing well or fountain or something would probably do the trick.” There was a loud clacking of keys and Tucker winced.

“You need to ease up on that poor keyboard.”

“It’ll be fine. There’s a wishing fountain around the middle of Magnus park. Heck, toss a coin in and make a wish of your own, that might get her attention.”

Why hadn’t he thought of that? “Thanks, Sam, you’re the best.”

“You know I am. And Tucker? Be safe, or as safe as you can be.”

“Safe as anyone can be going after a djinni, yeah. I will be.” Tucker nodded and hung up, slipping on his helmet. Putting in the directions for the Magnus park fountain through his PDA, Tucker took off into the sky and hoped that things went even a bit ok.

Finding Walter Weston as he wished for a million bucks and peridot green mist swirled around him like a caress as a familiar voice spoke was not what Tucker would call ok. Still, he took the opportunity to stop another stupid wish from getting twisted - a million bucks could be quite a few deer or even just that much money crushing him under its weight. Slowing down enough to not break anything, Tucker swerved, yanking Mr. Weston up out of the smoke, and dropped him off a few meters away. Looking up, Tucker saw an infuriated Desiree glaring down at him and shouting in a language he didn’t understand.

That was fine though. He didn’t need to understand her just yet. She understood wishes in English just fine, clearly. “I wish that I hadn’t interrupted your conversation with Danny!” The djinni stared at him, eyes bright red with obvious fury, but her hands glimmer pink and green, and the mist wrapped around him again.

“So you have wished it, so shall it be!”

#Danny Phantom #Tucker Foley #Angel Foley #Maurice Foley #Danny Fenton #Wesly Weston #Walter Weston #Paulina Sanchez #Desiree #fanfiction #Phanfiction #fanphiction #fanfic #phanfic #fanphic #phanphiction #phanphic #Rexy Writes #Monstrous to Supernatural

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jadenjace · 4 years ago

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‘ TUNNEL VISION ‘ - A SELF PARA FOR JADEN LAPOINTE . ( atlanta task 006 )

tonight's the night to run a red light , drive past the words and continue despite what he said and the fact that he begged you to swallow your pride just this once . save tonight , save the show , broken glass and broken bones , tonight is all you'll know , show them how fast you can go . please slow down , you'll roll us both over the last that i heard hell had froze over ; you lost your war , you lost your race . so just swallow your pride and cover your head , because you're in the fast lane to a hospital bed . you risked it all , how fucking dare you still show your face ??

trigger warning : car accident , injury , blood , horror imagery , death .

he wouldn’t have missed this , not for the world – jaden had been nearly counting down the days until he could see ezra again , not that he was clingy at all but simply because he couldn’t contain his excitement to be going on a date with the girl that he’d seemingly been hopelessly crushing over . god , she was beautiful , and totally out of his league at that , but even though his invitation to the arcade was dorky and lighthearted he knew that this could be the start of something real . she wasn’t made up of pixels , she wasn’t fictitious ( as much as his friends seemed to tease him ) or something he’d made up to seem cool and maybe , just maybe , there was a chance that she felt the same way back . with a bunch of lilacs bundled into one hand jaden parked up his car and exited the vehicle to hurry up the staircase , tapping knuckles against the door he’d been pointed toward over and over until it cracked open ever so slightly , then more so to reveal the brunette beauty on the other side .

“ you’re early , “ “ you’re beautiful , “

he was cheesy , most of his pick-up lines learned from movies or the books he’d been reading , but it didn’t seem to matter . dressed up in what was deemed ‘ fancy ‘ in his mind ( a shirt unbuttoned a little too low tucked into dark jeans , low-ankle doc martens ) it was clear jaden had made an effort , but nothing could hold a candle to how stunning his date looked . so far he’d only seen ezra in her cinema uniform or in her comfies walking through the basketball courts , but with just the slightest lick of makeup and a dress that fit her curves just right .. he was speechless , high cheekbones flushed with a rosy pink that he was thankful the darkness masked . “ yeah i know it’s lame . let’s go , i wanna get there before the big guys get their hands on the best games . did you know that ermac in mortal kombat was originally just an error in the code ?? he was never meant to exist , but he became such a cult figure from the early games that they remastered him and added him into new releases as his own separate character , “ the oldest lapointe sibling could speak about video games for days , and he often did . between their journey from ezra’s apartment to the parked white audi outside he continued to spout off facts that anyone else would deem as useless , although to him they were priceless artefacts that lived in his mind rent-free . “ -- and tomb raider : angel of darkness was released super early to compete with the indiana jones game , so it means it’s super glitchy , but if you ask me it’s favorite one . that and legend , or maybe anniversary .. you get to stand on midas’ hand and shoot gorillas which is super , super cool .. oh god , and a fucking t-rex , ezra !! you gotta fight a t-rex -- “

babbling turned into white noise but soon enough he was opening the passenger side door for her to slide into . once shut , jaden looped around the car to take his position in the drivers seat . since passing his text ten years ago he’d barely ever worn a seat belt , not really seeing the need to since up until this point he’d been an impossibly safe driver . there was nothing to be worried about when he was behind the wheel .. or at least that was what he thought . the couple continued to be lost in conversation . perhaps that was both their blessing and their curse , the radio blaring at full volume with giggling voices only just raising above powerful speakers , finding common ground in all things buffy , the office , roswell .. nerdy things , really , that made him adore the girl even more . chatter was so relentless that he hadn’t noticed the other car driving a little too close to his own as they rocketed down maine streets . closer , closer still .. jaden’s eyes were trained on the road in front of them but that wasn’t where he should’ve been focusing , unable to react quick enough to the glare of headlights and a screech of metal , an ear-piercing wail of rubber against tarmac . in a split second all he could think about was protecting the girl beside him and so both hands turned on the wheel , veering the car to narrowly avoid the collision which would’ve no doubt stolen ezra’s life in a second .

the beloved audi first swerved off the road and down the grassy bank , before flipping over and over and throwing the young lovers around inside like a shaken snow-globe . having neglected to pull his seat belt over his chest in the first instance jaden was smacked against the window , headbutting the dashboard , crashing against metalwork as the shell of his vehicle continued to twist until coming to a halt at the bottom . commotion was the last thing he heard . the male was knocked out on impact once his brain collided with plastic but his unconsciousness was probably for the best — if the searing pain had been felt the older of the two would’ve been screaming , sobbing for help , but instead he lay completely still among the empty mcdonald’s bags and spare items of clothing he kept in the car for emergencies . crimson pooled beneath him in a puddle that settled in the cracks of the vehicle but even when it looked like there couldn’t possibly be any more the stream continued on . jaden had never been the best at biology and science but he did know one thing – blood loss was bad , really bad , and there had been a hell of a lot of loss on his part . it was a miracle that the male was still breathing . although it was ragged , shallow , gurgling in his throat , he was clinging onto the hope that by some blessing of god he’d make it out of this alive .

the way he was laying like a rag-doll with the strings cut made it seem like the figure in the driver’s seat was a discarded mannequin , lifeless and sickly pale compared to his usual tanned complexion , but the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he lay barely conscious showed any medical professionals that he was clinging on , barely . his right leg caught between the collapsed bonnet barely resembled a limb anymore , a bloodied mess of his shin with jagged bone protruding outward , surrounding area yellowed and bruised beyond recognition . sure , he was only three quarters of a man now , but he wasn’t giving up without a fight even if his energy was dwindling now more than ever . that voice was unmistakable , and although his eyes were shut and his throat croaked whenever he attempted to speak jaden knew that if he remained in silence with only the occasional moan he was destined to die there . gritting his teeth and digging deep to muster all remaining strength , a blubbery excuse at her name shuddered from his lips . syllables were so slurred it was barely audible but he hoped ( no , he prayed ) that ezra would at least hear the grunt and turn to see the mess hidden within trash-bags .

the stretch of road had been rather deserted but to their surprise , and later relief , bystanders had caught glimpse of the incident and dialled 911 as fast as their fingers could . time seemed all but an illusion now and so it could’ve taken seconds or hours , but soon the gargling of fluids from jaden’s mouth was subdued by sirens , flashing red and blue through a treeline that he was convinced was the last thing he’d ever see . beneath broken branches and shattered trees laid the car that had once been one of his prized possessions with the engine continuing to whirr , the melodies of pop-punk records wavering in tone from a spluttering and dying CD player . the first thought in his head was whether ezra was okay , fluttering lashes forcing his gaze to the side where she lay bruised , bloodied , but conscious . the next was how , if he wasn’t dead from this , his dad would kill him for totalling the car . in reality neither of these things would be a worry , instead weeks of a drug-induced sleep and months of trauma , physical therapy , night terrors and a healthy dose of post-traumatic stress disorder thrown into the mix .

the scene was a bloodbath , taken straight from a horror movie , and it was clear on the faces of the paramedics that this was something they hadn’t experienced before . not to this level , anyway . the leg ( or lack thereof ) was mauled in such a way that it was difficult to see what was left of it , let alone the telling sharp bite marks that left jagged cuts of skin around the wound . if he pulled through they would serve as a constant reminder of what happened , of that clown who’s eyes seemed delighted at getting a taste of such a fulfilling meal . how was he meant to explain all this to the traumatised girl above him that fought to keep him awake against all odds ?? as he stared up at her , eyes glassy and fogged over , her face was illuminated as if she was his very own guardian angel . maybe he was hallucinating those feathery wings or the glowing halo above her head , his body’s way of stopping him from going completely insane from the agony , but if he hadn’t thought she was beautiful before she was simply ethereal now .

#atgatask #car accident tw #injury tw #death tw #horror tw #blood tw

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justjessame · 4 years ago

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Put Me In Coach Chapter 33

Eric and Steven talked me into unpacking Trey’s and my things while we waited for Negan. Laura looked relieved that it would give me something besides fear of whatever was greeting the man I loved in Alexandria to focus on. She offered to help keep Trey occupied while we found places for all of our things.

Luckily my closet wasn’t packed full, and there was an empty drawer in the dresser, so all of Trey’s clothes found a spot easily enough. Not that he had a huge wardrobe, but being able to put them away made the move feel real somehow. Then came his toys, with the basket we’d kept them in at the house we shared, easily tucked under the coffee table from our first house. His cups and plastic plates, Laura helped find a spot for in the bar in the entry room. She stopped and stared at the frame that Eric had given me when she noticed it dead in the center of the bar.

“What’s this?” She asked, squinting at the photo and I shot Eric a look that would have melted steel.

Eric snorted and walked over to the fearsome guard. Picking up the frame, he grinned widely at the confused woman. “THIS,” he slid his finger along the dusting of hair that seemed to make up the entirety of the image, “is Negan’s happy trail. It’s the tamest naughty picture that Coach ever sent our girl over there, so I blew that fucker up and framed it. I mean, come on, isn’t that fucking lickable?”

I heard Laura snicker and shook my head. “Please,” she whispered to Eric, “call me when Simon comes up here and asks for an explanation?” Who the fuck was Simon? “I HAVE to see his face when you tell him that.”

I shook my head and went back to finding places for things. The photo albums that I’d drug along for the ride, holding all the proof of mine and Negan’s relationship, I laid on top of the same coffee table that had Trey’s toys underneath. I couldn’t help opening the book, and smiled as I felt Trey’s tiny body leaning on my legs to see.

“You want to look at Mama’s book?” He nodded, and I shifted the album so I could scoop him up and sit him on my lap. “See?” I watched his pudgy fingers trace the photos of his mother, Eric, Steven, and me when we were kids. “That’s Mary,” I whispered, smiling and kissing his head. “She was your mommy, but she didn’t make it-” I felt my heart clench at the loss of her again. “She gave me you, baby, and I’m going to make sure you know her.” A flip of the page and Negan started showing up in the photos. Trey, seeing me and his newest pal, bounced a little. “Yeah, that’s Negan, isn’t it?”

Eric and the other two had made their way over, I could feel their bodies hovering over the back of my chair. “God look at how young we all looked.” Eric breathed, his own finger along a group shot of the four of us, before Mary had come back after graduating. “Coach without the scruff, Christ, remember how-”

“How I looked when I didn’t have fuzz covering my mug?” His deep voice from the doorway made my heart pound, but it also released all the stress of him being gone from my body. I turned, and saw the blood splattered across his t-shirt and under his chin. Damn it.

“Negan-” I closed my eyes, hoping that he wasn’t hurt. My tone was irritation mixed with relief, which was confusing even to me. Trey was lifted from my lap and I forced my eyes back open. He was cradling Trey to him, who I was shocked to see didn’t seem fazed by the blood, but the bare face was clearly interesting to our toddler. His tiny hands were stroking Negan’s face like he couldn’t decide whether he liked the change or not. Mama didn’t, if anyone wanted my input.

“Do you like that, buddy?” Negan was asking Trey, smiling at his finger poking one of his dimples. “Dada shaved.” No shit, Dada shaved, I thought, glaring up at him. “Mama looks like she wants to bite Dada, Trey, what do you think?” He caught me, but then again, he was always perceptive. “Maybe your uncles and your auntie Laura,” I snorted at her new title, but noticed her grinning. “Could take you to play at their place while Dada and Mama have a chat.”

Laura, not Eric, stepped forward and held out her hands. I watched, no longer shocked by how easily my little one was taking to his new surroundings and the people in them, as he allowed her to take him from Negan. Of course, Negan didn’t let him go without a kiss, and Laura for her part, brought him to me so I could give him one too. And then they were gone and we were alone.

“Amara,” Negan started, but I held up a hand and took a deep breath. Where to fucking begin?

“Please, just give me a minute to catch my breath and calm my fucking heart down.” It was true, even though the tension was mostly gone, the sight of the blood and rocketed it back up. “Whose blood is that?”

“Not mine,” he offered, kneeling beside me. No shit, I raised an eyebrow. “Some asshole named Spencer.” Ah, Deanna’s surviving family member, gone. “He tried to get me to overthrow Rick for him.” I snorted, of course he did. “I made an example out of him.”

I licked my lips, they felt so dry, and my hand reached out to touch his bare face. “And the shave? What made you decide to get rid of the scruff?” I knew I sounded breathless, but I swear the man could be coated in blood and viscera and I’d want him.

He leaned into my hand, eyes still on mine as he smiled. “It felt right. I have you back and this is the face you know best.” I shook my head. “You really do like the scruff better, don’t you, princess?”

Shocking him, I leaned forward and kissed him, long and hard. Pulling back only enough to be able to speak, I grinned and told him that I loved his face no matter what. “Even with the blood of a traitor splattered over it.” And then I was in his arms, and he was sitting on the sofa with me straddling him. Tugging the jacket off his shoulders, nipping at his lips, I felt his hands sliding up my bare thighs.

“I like you better in dresses and skirts, sweetheart,” his hands were under the skirt of my dress, fingers looping into the waistband of my panties. “Easier access means-” I pulled back long enough to rip his shirt off, even as I felt him rip the side of my panties apart.

“Jeans, Negan,” I growled, as his hands cupped my bare ass. He chuckled, his mouth meeting my neck as I raised up high enough for him to use one hand to unbutton, unzip and then free himself from his pants. And then he was inside of me and I rode him, my fingers tugging at this hair, my lips finding his neck and my teeth threatening to mark him as clearly as he marked me.

It might have been seconds. It may have taken hours or days. All I know is that neither of us was completely naked. Negan had gotten rid of my panties, and try as he might the dress I’d picked wasn’t one that made baring my chest to him simple. He was bare chested, but his jeans and underwear were only lowered to his knees. And the realization that I wanted him so fucking badly that I would screw him still wearing blood from killing someone startled us both.

“Fuck, Amara,” he breathed, our sweaty foreheads pressed together as we caught our breath. “That was a better welcome home than I expected.”

I chuckled, breathless still. “Yeah, I’m not sure it’s what I planned, Negan.”

“‘Even with the blood of a traitor’, huh?” His fingertips were sliding along my thighs, and I fucking swear I could feel the urge to have him again growing by the second. “Fuck, princess, I didn’t think you’d be turned on by-”

I cut him off with my mouth on his. I didn’t think I would be either, but here we were. I laughed into his mouth as I felt him kicking off his boots and pants. Then he was carrying me to our bathroom where he showed me just how fucking hot he could be in the shower after murdering someone.

Darkness was falling when we were dried off, and sated for the moment. Negan used his walkie to let Laura know that Trey, and dinner, could be brought back. I had thrown on a pair of his boxers and one of his t-shirts, not the one still covered in Spencer and he was in a pair of sweats that reminded me of his time as Coach. A soft knock, and then Trey was toddling toward us on his own tiny feet.

“Look at you,” Negan knelt down and opened his arms for Trey to aim for, and he was smiling as he wrapped his arms around our tiny boy. “He can walk?” It was to me and I nodded with my own grin. “Damn it, I have catching up to do.”

Laura was alone and I raised my eyebrow at the lack of my best friend. “They wanted a ‘date night’,” she offered with a grin.

“Guess that means we get to have Trey all to ourselves, princess.” He told Laura to have a good night, and I wondered about dinner. “They’ll send it up, Amara.” He joined me on the sofa with Trey in his arms. “What do you normally do-”

“We normally,” I reached under the coffee table and pulled out the basket filled with toys and books. “Read and play while we wait for dinner.” Unless I was making dinner, then Eric and Steven kept him company, but they were enjoying their own alone time. “Which book, baby?”

He chose a book about trains, and I smiled as Negan took it from me and opened it up. The book was brand new with Negan reading it, providing new voices for the characters, and the faces he made, dear God. I curled up beside them and smiled as I watched my two guys entertaining one another.

#negan x ofc #The Walking Dead #Smut #alternative universe

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kuiperblog · 6 years ago

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Pokemon’s first season was carried by its soundtrack

Looking back at the first season of the Pokemon anime, it’s astounding how low-budget the animation in most episodes is. Most battles consist of Pokemon taking turns using stock footage; it’s rare for Pokemon to actually interact with each other during battles, or the environment, to make use of these stock clips:

Is this Bulbasaur battling in a gym, outdoors in a forest, or on the beach? Is it attacking an enemy on the ground, up in the air, or some subterranean foe? Doesn’t matter, all of them pull the same stock footage when Ash commands it to use razor leaf. It’s amazing how many battles that I remember fondly from my childhood basically just consist of trainers taking turns yelling things at each other interspersed with stock footage. (You know, that thing that shounen anime are always accused of.)

In the later seasons of the anime, Volt Tackle is one of Pikachu’s most iconic moves, which is great because it’s such a visually dynamic move: it uses Pikachu’s entire body, and you see Pokemon run along parts of the environment and slam into enemies when he uses it. I think there’s a good chance Ash’s Pikachu makes frequent use of Iron Tail for the same reason. It’s a good thing that Volt Tackle didn’t exist in gen 1, because there’s no way the season 1 animation budget could have handled it. I think the one battle that comes close to this is the battle against Lt. Surge, which makes a big deal out of the fact that Pikachu can’t beat Surge’s Raichu volt for volt, so it has to rely on its Agility attack to literally run circles around Raichu, something that they could spare the animation frames for since this was a gym battle.

I’m fairly certain the reason that this is such an iconic cut is that it’s one of the few moments where we see the real physicality of a Pokemon battle, rather than mostly just taking turns playing stock clips. And to be clear, it’s only for that particular battle that they actually did this; the episode consists of multiple battles, and the pre-climax battle is just Pikachu and Raichu trading stock-footage thundershocks:

I was going to say, “Outside of battle, it’s amazing how the show gets away with having so few frames,” but actually the show has very few animation frames even during gym battles when they’re not using stock footage.

It’s a pretty stark contrast going all the way back to this show directly from the currently-airing Pokemon Sun and Moon (which is, without exaggeration, one of the best-looking and best-animated shows I have ever seen).

Of course, comparing season 1 to the current season exposes more than just cheap animation. The season 1 episodes aren’t hilariously formulaic, they’re exhaustively formulaic, and it’s kind of annoying how no matter what the conflict of the episode is, we always walk away happy at the end because somewhere between “Prepare for trouble” and “Team Rocket’s blasting off again,” the problem solved itself. It’s amazing how almost every conflict can be reduced to, “beat Team Rocket,” as most of the conflicts that Ash and friends encounter in the Kanto region boil down to “this person and/or pokemon lacks self-confidence,” and the solution is always “this person and/or pokemon rose to the occasion and, through defeating Team Rocket, found their self-confidence.” (Sometimes, it’s “these two characters had a conflict, and the conflict was solved after they came together in the common goal of defeating Team Rocket.)

Without Team Rocket, no one’s problem’s would ever get solved! If one ascribes to a utilitarian philosophy, these agents of chaos might be the greatest force of good in the Pokemon universe.

So, a lot of things about the first season are bad. The characters, the storytelling, and the animation all feel really lacking. However...

The soundtrack is actually really, really good. The original video game tunes were well-composed, and the anime BGM versions of these tracks are all really good arrangements.

To be clear, I’m not talking about “To Be The Very Best,” or “2.BA Master” or “Viridian City” or any of the other lyrical bops you’d hear bookending the episodes when you watched them on TV. I’m talking about the background music that is part of every episode of Pokemon. All of them are basically a 1-minute loop that hit a single emotional note, but with the pace of the show, that’s all that’s needed, and they strike that note fast and they maintain it as long as the show needs.

And at the end of every episode, as it’s showing how every conflict got neatly tied up in a little bow and everyone is happy and the people that just met Ash and friends are now giving him a tearful goodbye, you hear this music playing under it:

youtube

And, when I’m listening to that music, I believe it. No matter how absurdly things ended, no matter how sloppy the execution is, no matter how repeatedly the show does this, every time I see Ash and friends walking into the sunset as that music plays, I go, “You know, I really do feel good about how that story ended. It’s amazing we got such an emotionally satisfying conclusion after just 20 minutes. Let’s watch one more episode.”

The soundtrack does so much heavy lifting here. (If you go back and watch any of the scenes that people cite as being particularly emotional, like “saying goodbye to Butterfree,” the music is such a big part of it. The same goes for my personal favorite season 1 moment, where Caterpie and Pikachu have a conversation and Caterpie expresses his wish to evolve some day and become a beautiful Butterfree. Looking back at it now, the animation in this clip is hard to objectively describe as anything but bad, but the music still lets it hit the right emotional note.)

There’s a good chance that roughly 90% of the time the Indigo league arc made me feel anything, whether that feeling was excitement, amusement, tension, or that touching/inspirational note it hits at the end of every episode, it was because of the music. (The other 10% are the sight-gags and Pikachu’s more visually expressive antics, such as they are -- and predictably, these get a lot better in later seasons where the show has an animation budget more befitting a billion dollar media franchise.)

(As an aside, if you ever catch me complaining about the later Pokemon movies’ use of CG, or really anything else, please link me to this post and do whatever’s the virtual equivalent of grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me while yelling, “You don’t know how good you have it! Except you do, because you grew up watching this!”)

#pokemon #music #pokemon indigo league

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whiteredrose13 · 5 years ago

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Gardenius was an odd wolf. In that he liked hares. Not to kill and eat, certainly not that, but to chase. To run along the moonlit moors in a silver-toned game that never seemed to end. They were the only animal that could rival his speed and dexterity--it would be a waste to cull them. That would be for the foxes and the hawks.

His brothers never quite understood his liking, to chase for the sake of chasing, but if he was happy then they had no quarrel. His little sister almost did. She likened it to a game of tag. Fun for all involved.

“Will you take me next time you go?” She asked, eyes big and pleading. The puppy dog eyes all werewolves were born equipped with. Dammit.

“Maybe.” He replied. “When you’ve grown into your paws.”

That night, when the moon was high and the air was cold, he slipped out the back door. A thick blanket of snow spread across the ground. Human footprints faded into wolf tracks; now, the night truly began. Gardenius steadily wound his way through the dense trees. Too fast and he’d expend the energy he needed when the game began. Besides, he liked nights like this. Cold and quiet, bathed in milky half-light. Untouched by the waking world. Private. Perfect.

Loping up the hill at the edge of the forest, he could see the vastness of the moors. Pristine white and gleaming softly. However, he had scarcely set a paw outside the treeline when he heard something to his right. Immediately, he stilled. A soft crunch in the snow. He glanced towards the noise, excitement already causing his ruff to stand on end. There, pausing on her haunches to sniff the frosty air, was a hare. Her coat was thick and silver, like starlight, a thin patch of white decorating her chest. She must have caught his scent, because her head whipped around to face him. For a moment, neither moved. Statuesque, they stared at one another.

Her nose twitched. Was that playfulness he saw? Mock challenging, daring him to just try and race her. Carefully, Gardenius edged himself towards her. The hare crouched. He stepped closer. She stood still. Once more, her nose twitched. Well then. If she wanted to race him, who was he to deny her?

Without wasting another second, Gardenius shot forward. The hare bolted away, kicking up snow as she went.

Over the hill and down to the moor they ran. Endless and looping circles through the vast white landscape. Chasing, chased. But she was clever. First, she zig-zagged across the moor. Quick, tight turns. Gardenius kept up every time. Once she saw how easily he kept pace with her, she tried something new. The hare slowed her pace. Just enough for him to close in on her. Then, just before he could overtake her, she veered to the left. Gardenius stumbled, nearly losing his balance as he twisted his body to follow.

A soft, warm sound broke through the frosty air. Was she laughing at him? Or perhaps the question should have been, why was he okay with that?

Those thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind, however. No sooner had he regained his footing was he off after her. All through the night they ran. Him chasing, her leading. Driven together by the simple thrill of haring through the snow. Flurries flew behind them. Even when he felt his paws grow numb, Gardenius couldn’t help but wish for it to continue forever.

When the game finally did come to an end, she lingered at the foot of the hill. Rising to her haunches, the hare called out:

“You make a good chasing partner, dear wolf!”

“You’re not so bad yourself, little hare.”

She twitched her nose. Not a challenge this time. Rather, she seemed proud.

“What might I call you,”the hare asked, bright pink eyes glinting in the dimness.

“Gardenius.”

She tilted her head, as if testing his name.

“Quite formal,”she said finally. “A nickname, perhaps?”

“Grady, then. And you, dear hare? Have you a name for me?”

“Rosanne.”

Without another word, she turned, and darted off into the underbrush. Gardenius was left alone. Yet, as he loped back home, he felt a lightness in his steps. Excitement, he realized. Even as he melted into his human skin, there was a buzz in his feet. Anticipation of a continuation. The continuation of a new game. Suddenly, he found himself looking forward to sunset more than usual. And many afterward.

Night after night they ran together. Night after night, until the stars began to fade and first few rays of sun painted the horizon. The only sound their footfalls and her laughter in his ears. Each time the sky darkened, he would run to see her. Rosanne would be there, waiting by the treeline every night without fail.

“Where shall you chase me tonight?” she would ask.

“Where do you wish to lead me?” he would reply.

Sometimes it would be to Lake Hazel, where they would sit and stargaze. Gardenius loved to listen to her name each constellation. (Rosanne’s favorite, by far, was Pyxis.) Sometimes it would be to the flower field to the east of the forest. She’d hide beneath the wildflowers while he would seek her. It would only last a moment before she tried to dart away, revealing her place and restarting their chasing game. Sometimes to the caves and caverns, when his winter pelt hadn’t yet shed and the night was too hot to run. They hid from the heat together. But most often it would be right back to the treeline. To lay side by side after a long night spent racing. Staring at the moon. Silent. Content.

It wasn’t long before Gardenius realized that he had grown to love her. Her laugh, her challenges and tricks, her softness. Just her. And for the first time in her presence, he was afraid. And not because of wolfish instinct. He wasn’t afraid to lose control; he took care to keep well away from her come full moon. No, it was something more than that. As far as Rosanne knew, he was a simple wolf. Unbound by shifting skin. In other words, not a werewolf. And it wasn’t exactly an easy thing to say.

Aside from that, how could it ever work? Her, a normal hare, and him, a beast of a different breed. It couldn’t. At least, that was what he thought.

It took him another year before he finally gathered the courage to tell her.

He met her at the foot of the hill just as always, the snow crunching beneath his paws. She didn't greet him; in fact, Rosanne didn't even seem to know he was there at all. Instead, she sat with her back to him, statue still.

"Rosie?"

With a gasp of surprise, Rosanne rocketed into the air. She landed on her backside in the powder. Rolling onto her side, she attempted to stand, only for the snow to swallow her up. Unable to help himself, Grady burst into laughter. For a second, he forgot his fear.

Kicking up flurries as she scrambled to her feet, Rosanne popped her head out of her ever-deepening hole.

"I'm so glad my struggling amuses you,"she droned.

"Oh, please,"Gardenius replied, stepping closer and gently enclosing his teeth around her scruff. He plucked her from her frosty imprisonment and set her down a few feet away. "How many times have you laughed at me for slipping on the ice at Lake Hazel? If you get to cackle your cottontail off then, I have a right to find you digging your own snowy burrow funny."

A chill breeze blew between them. Rosanne curled into herself, pointedly looking away from him. She hummed low in response.

Grady's ears twitched flat. His nervousness returned. Laying beside her, he nudged her side with the tip of his nose.

"I'm not making fun of you."

Rosanne sighed.

"I know,"she said, voice small. "I know. I suppose I'm just... being silly. I've gone puce."

"Puce?"

She chuckled, pink eyes glancing up to catch the uncomfortable look on her dear wolf's face. Lightness crept into her voice again.

"Bit of an ugly word, isn't it?"

"Very!" He paused, thinking. "Isn't that a color?"

"A very ugly color!" She affirmed. "I use it to describe all the ugly feelings I have that I can't name. I'm not quite angry, so I'm not red. And I'm not sad, so I'm not blue. But I'm not scared, either, so I'm not yellow."

"Now what would you have to be scared about?"

Silence. Then, barely audible:

"You."

What? When--how?--had this happened? She had been fine around him lately. Even if with it getting close to the full moon, he'd been handling it well. He thought he had, at any rate. She would have told him sooner if he'd been acting funny. Right?

"Have I been--" He searched for the right words. "Our game. Have I been too... too much?"

"No!" Rosanne flinched at the sharpness of her voice. "No, no, never! You've been perfect, Grady."

"Then what have I done to make you scared?"

She'd tell him the truth, right? If he'd done something, said something wrong, she'd tell him exactly what it was, right?

"It's not you that's the problem! It's... What I mean to say is that, it's me. How I feel around you."

Gardenius swallowed.

"How I feel and... And what I'm hiding from you."

Confusion draped itself over his features. Anxiety built in the back of his throat.

"Tell me,"he pleaded, "So I can understand. Please."

Rosanne shifted away. Tension hung in the air. Icy. Prickling.

"Can you close your eyes,"she asked. "Just for a moment. For me. And then I'll tell you everything."

Uncertainty filled every inch of his body. Shouldn't that be him asking that question? Shouldn't that be him feeling the terror in her eyes? Yet, here he was, on the other side of the conversation. He wasn't sure how to react.

"Just for a moment,"he repeated, lashes fluttering closed, "Just for you."

He heard it. The familiar sound of crackling bone. Of stretching skin. Shifting shapes. And crying. She was crying. Whether it was the pain of changing or the fear of his reaction, she was scared and hurting. He hurt, too.

"Can I look?" Grady edged towards her.

"Yes."

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Kneeling in the snow before him was a woman. Her hands covered her face, despair etched into every inch of her skin. Long hair fell over her shoulders, thick and silver. Like starlight. Except, she wasn't much like a star anymore. No, she was brighter. Fuller. Still just as captivating and yet even more. She was moonlight.

Gardenius released his breath.

"Do you hate me now?" Her voice shook, muffled by her hands.

"Never." His answer was stiff, growled out with a sureness he'd never known. "Gods, no, love."

Little by little, Rosanne uncovered her face. And she watched as, little by little, Gardenius's shape changed. Fur melted away to reveal skin. Claws and fangs remained, now smaller, easier to hide. Platinum hair poured in waves over half of his face, pushed back to reveal gentle eyes the color of mint candy.

Careful fingers wiped away her tears.

"Silly little hare,"he whispered, drawing closer. "I'm supposed to be the one crying."

Rosanne sniffed, rubbing her eyes. She placed a hand on his cheek.

"Did you mean it? When you called me love?"

Warmth wrapped around her, pulling her against his chest. He brought his forehead to hers.

"Yes. Yes, I love you." The answer was resolute, breathed just close enough to taste. "My dear hare. My moonlight. I'm yours."

"Sweet wolf. My wolf."

Soft lips brushed over his.

"Caught you."

#werewolf #rabbit shifter #pooka #ocs #Grady #Rosanne #God I love these two so much #I missed writing for them!!#ugh I'd die for them i love them #i need to write more for them they're so good #oc's #oc story #WRR13Writes #writing #okay goodnight #i sleeb now

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oh-ranpo · 6 years ago

Text

more than a pretty face.

Pairing: Ben Hardy x OC AN: I know some people prefer the “Person x Reader” style, but I wanted to try my hand at an original character. I hope you guys still like this story. It’s based loosely off the song “Annabelle” by A Rocket to the Moon. This story is to make up to my Ben stans for making the “Rewrite the Stars” story about Joe. Tags list is open. Let me know what you think! Warning: Some bad language

Hate was such a strong word. Charlie really didn’t like the thought that she felt strongly enough about anyone that she could warrant saying she hated them. However, the sound of Sophia’s voice and just being around her in general woke a sleeping beast inside of her that she could barely contain. It didn’t make it any better that Sophia was dating Ben, another person that she had strong negative feelings for, and they were both part of Charlie’s mutual friend group.

It made it hard to go out because Charlie would find herself constantly rolling her eyes or scoffing at everything Sophia or Ben said. She had always believed that Ben was a little too cocky, and it was a universal truth that Sophia was a bitch. She knew that her other friends couldn’t stand her either, but they were cordial because they cared about Ben. Charlie didn’t care about either one of them, so she never tried to hide how she felt.

It was a typical Friday night, and Charlie was out with her friends, Rami and Joe. It was almost tradition for the three of them to go out to dinner, and then spend the evening bar-hopping down the street from Joe’s apartment. It was something they had all done forever. The one thing that had changed over the past year, however, was the fact that it had gone from three people to five. Neither Joe nor Rami would admit that they had been the ones to invite Ben and Sophia along, both in fear of what Charlie might do to them if they came clean.

On this particular Friday night, Ben and Sophia were out grinding on the dancefloor while Charlie, Joe, and Rami sat at a high-top table in the corner. Charlie was sipping her beer slowly, her eyes gliding over the crowd of people to try and determine whether there was anyone present that might be worth her time. Occasionally, her eyes would graze over Ben’s blond head, and bile would rise in her throat. They look like hormonal teenagers, she thought to herself, more than a little disgusted. She would quickly turn her gaze elsewhere, fighting to get the image of the two of them out of her head.

“I just have to know,” Joe started, pulling Charlie’s attention back to the two boys sitting next to her. “is there ever going to be a time when you look at them and not get a nauseated look on your face?”

She lifted her beer back to her lips and shrugged.

“You can’t tell me that you guys enjoy having her around,” Charlie replied. Rami and Joe glanced between each other, and Joe’s eyes found hers again.

“Well, no. But Ben seems to like her, therefore we tolerate her.”

“How noble. Ben isn’t my friend, so I don’t owe him the same courtesy.” Charlie started to turn back to continue her search for a dance partner, but was brought back again, this time by Rami’s voice.

“And why do you not like Ben, again?”

Charlie sighed and set her beer down on the table. Ever since Rami and Joe had met Ben on the set of their last movie, they had been trying so hard to get the two of them to get along. It wasn’t necessarily that Ben had done anything wrong, but there was just something about him that rubbed her the wrong way.

“He’s so full of himself. He’s a pretty boy, and he knows it. It’s just annoying.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joe smirk but she chose to ignore it.

“I think if you took the time to actually get to know him, you would see how wrong you were.”

Charlie scoffed, and shook her head. She couldn’t imagine a world where her and Ben would actually get along. They were too different. Or maybe they were too similar. Either way, the two of them being friends was something that would surely end in disaster if ever given the chance.

When Charlie’s eyes turned back towards the dancefloor, she felt her stomach drop when she saw Ben was making his way back towards the table. Sophia was no longer at his side, but Charlie knew that she wasn’t lucky enough for her to be lost permanently. As he was walking up, Ben’s green eyes met Charlie’s briefly, but he quickly looked away.

While Rami and Joe held Charlie accountable for the tension and distaste between her and Ben, Ben had never done anything to warrant any kind of positive affections either. From the second they met, he had been cocky and so sure of himself, but never overly polite—the complete opposite of how all his other friends described him.

“I think Soph and I are going to head out,” Ben said as he approached the table. Regardless of how much she didn’t like him, Charlie couldn’t ignore the way his deep, smooth voice sent chills through her body. It was something that only made her hate him more.

“So soon? We just got here,” Joe complained. Ben gave some excuse over Sophia suddenly not feeling well, but Charlie chose to pretend like she wasn’t listening. That was, until her eyes landed on Sophia near the bar, her arm draped over the shoulder of a strange man she had never seen before.

“She looks alright to me.”

Charlie’s voice caught Ben’s attention and he turned so that his gaze was following hers. She could see his shoulders deflate slightly, but he quickly recovered before turning back to her with a passive look on his face.

“It’s probably just a friend. This is the neighborhood she grew up in, after all.”

Charlie shrugged off his comment, not willing to start an argument over something she cared so little about. Besides, the two of them both knew that that man was not ‘some friend’, because things like this were known to happen all the time. Not only was Sophia a bitch, but she was also horrifically disloyal.

“Ben…” Rami started when he caught on to what was happening, but Ben just waved him off.

Charlie seemed to be the only one clued in on just how horrible of a person Sophia was, because she seemed to be the only one who would ever catch her in the act. Whenever Ben wasn’t around, Sophia would fall all over the first tall, handsome man she could find until Ben returned. Sometimes, Sophia would even sneak off with one of the guys and no one would see her for over an hour, before returning looking flushed and disheveled. Charlie had tried to tell the others, but no one wanted to believe that anyone would do something like that to Ben.

“I gotta go. I’ll talk to you guys later,” Ben said dismissively, giving both Rami and Joe small waves and brushing past Charlie without saying a word.

The three of them watched as Ben approached Sophia from behind and wrapped his arm around her waist. She pretended like she was excited to see him, but the confused look on the other man’s face told them that she had failed to mention her boyfriend.

“God, he deserves so much better,” Joe mumbled, sculling back the last of his drink.

“He allows it to happen. He’s only enabling her,” Charlie cut in, earning glares from her other two friends.

“He loves her. Love is a complicated thing,” Rami murmured sympathetically, and Charlie rolled her eyes. She had been in love before- once, and a very long time ago- but she still knew that love was not allowing someone to repeatedly cheat on and emotionally abuse you.

“It’s a pathetic thing,” she chided, standing up from her seat and grabbing her empty beer bottle. “I’m going to grab another drink. Do you want anything?” Both men shook their head and Charlie turned to head towards the bar.

As she sauntered through the crowd, she became increasingly aware of how dead the bar actually was. Sure, there seemed to be quite a few people, but they were mostly couples or guys that were way too young for her. Not that it mattered, anyways. Now that Ben and Sophia were gone, Charlie knew that she would finally be able to enjoy her night with Rami and Joe. Awards season was about to start, so she knew that their time was going to become more limited.

Once she had her drink in her hand, she headed back towards the table where Rami and Joe were waiting. They had been talking animatedly about something, but when she approached, they abruptly stopped. Her eyebrow quirked as she gave them a questioning look, but neither one of them offered her an explanation.

“You guys are acting mighty suspicious. Do you have something you would like to share?”

Rami quickly shook his head.

“No, ma’am. Just guy talk, you know,” Joe replied, only causing her to be more suspicious. The boys seemed to be having more of these secret conversations lately. Ever since they had gone away to film Bohemian Rhapsody, Charlie had started to feel more and more out of the loop.

“Whatever you say,” she mumbled in response, sliding onto the barstool next to Rami.

“After Charlie is finished with her drink, what do you say we just head back to my place? We can drink and play games or something,” Joe suggested, and Rami and Charlie instantly agreed. The mood for the night had changed since Ben and Sophia left early, and all Charlie really wanted to do was relax.

“Perfect. I’ll see if Ben wants to come by.” Charlie felt her stomach drop at Joe’s suggestion, but just rolled her eyes.

“I doubt princess Sophia would let him leave her side,” Charlie muttered under her breath, not really intending for the other two to hear her. When Rami laughed, she could feel her cheeks go pink.

“We’ll see about that,” Joe replied, a hint of mischief in his voice. Joe and Rami really were up to something, and Charlie was determined to find out what.

Permanent Tag List: @dreamer821 @haileylansley @aylinnmaslow @yourealegendroger @gotnofeelgotnorhythm @justgivemethekeys @mads459 @trickster-may @taylorroger-s @mercurys-bike @ksqueenie @musiccureseverythinglove @mespetitestortues @tomhollandsquackson @secretsweetscollectionblog @jennycidesstuff @ladycataztrophe @tini-monster @hoemazzelloo @ceeeece @discodeakyy @burt-macklin-fbi @killerqueen-gunpowdergelatine @inlovewithmiddleagedcelebs @theonlyone-meeeee

Tags: @harryskillerqueen @violetpond

#ben hardy #ben hardy x oc #ben hardy story #ben hardy fic #bohemian rhapsody #slow burn fic #angst #love #story #fanfic #more than a pretty face story #mtapf #annabelle #a rocket to the moon

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themonolithicmystique · 6 years ago

Note

A Black widow and Scarlet Witch hyper hourglass and GTS growth competition piece. Taking place during the events of the Civil war airport fight?

“OK, anybody on our side hiding any fantastic and shocking abilities they’d like to disclose?”

Things may have gotten out of hand. Having been sequestered in the Avengers complex and kept out of the loop by Vision for the last few days, Wanda Maximoff wasn’t quite sure how her failure to stop Crossbones’ suicidal detonation in a non-lethal manner in Lagos led to her standing on an airport tarmac fighting a good half of the earthbound-Avengers and several other superheroes she didn’t know. That one of the heroes supporting Captain America had just grown to sixty feet in height only barely added to the strangeness of the situation. All she knew for certain was that helping Cap and his fugitive friend reach the Quinjet might clear their names and put a stop to all the madness ripping through the team. At least, she hoped that was the case - the means by which doing so would ACTUALLY help remained shaky and unclear in her head.

Still, certain or uncertain about the particularities, she had to do her part in this fight, and for now that meant defending this Scott from Iron Man’s forces. Extending her neural pathways beyond her fingertips and into the kinetic potential of her opponents, she pulled War Machine out of the sky as he made a beeline for the giant hero, sending the red-and-blue clad man dangling from his leg flying after him. Tony fired a barrage of mini-missiles at Scott’s face, so Wanda redirected them towards the ground, where they just scarcely missed the dark figure racing towards her. Unwilling to divert her focus for too long, she simply sent him rocketing thirty feet into the air, and raced to a new hiding spot. With the focus her powers required, it wasn’t wise to engage with more than one opponent at once, much less remain out in the open.

As she crouched beneath a truck (one she hoped nobody saw fit to use as a bludgeon any time soon), she ran a mental tally in her head of the heroes on Tony’s side, trying to work out if anyone DID have such hidden powers that might turn the tide of battle. Tony and Rhody she knew relied entirely on their suits, which could fit an impressive array of weaponry within their stores, but never anything exceedingly destructive for fear of harming inno... She shook her head and tried to keep the thought far from her mind. These two newcomers were almost entirely unknown to her, yet from what they demonstrated during the fight up to now they seemed to lack much more beyond enhanced strength, reflexes, and durability. One of their number had jokingly referred to the dark-suited one as “your highness,” which might mean the threat of an army arriving, but she rather doubted it, given the singlemindedness with which he assaulted Cap’s friend. Vision... they had exchanged notes on their powers and their relation to the gem within his forehead multiple times. If he had seen fit to hide any powers from her, she didn’t want to know how devastating they might be.

And as for Natasha...

Black Widow. Climbing up a series of shipping crates and making a run for Scott, currently entangled with the red-clad hero crawling over his face. Everyone else was too busy with their own scraps to have kept track of her or noticed her quick ascent. If Wanda traced her movements correctly, she was heading straight towards the component of Scott’s suit that stored whatever he adjusted to shrink and grow. If she got to that and messed with it, she might take Cap’s best asset out of the fight and turn the tide of battle to Tony’s favor.

Nobody else could help. Wanda ducked out from under the truck, aimed a burst of electrical impulses, and hurled right as Nat leapt for Scott. The two collided in midair and sent Nat flying with a high-pitched yelp... alongside a burst canister of some rapidly evaporating red liquid.

Scott froze in place upon hearing Natasha’s scream, and promptly received a sharp punch between the eyes from the man crawling over his face. With a shake of his head, he flung the other hero off, and took several hurried steps towards Black Widow’s prone body. “Oh my god, are you OK? What am I saying, you’re not OK, I am SO sorry, we’ve gotta... I gotta...” He took several deep breaths, staggered backwards, then boomed, “EVERYBODY GET CLEAR, SHE’S GONNA BLOW!!!”

Her ears ringing from the giant’s bellow, Wanda could not properly tune-in to the frequency of Iron Man’s comms, and so missed Tony’s clarifying question. She certainly heard Scott’s response, though. “..VIOLENTLY IMPLODE IF YOU’RE NOT IN A PROPERLY SEALED CONTAINER! AND THAT’S WHEN THEY’RE SET TO SHRINK AND YOU GET A LOW DOSE! SHE JUST TOOK A WHOLE VIAL OF PARTICLES SET TO GROW AND EXPANDED TO MY HEIGHT! WE’VE GOTTA MOVE, NOW!”

Utter chaos. The fight and all reasons for it forgotten, the heroes scrambled about the tarmac, uncertain whether they should follow Scott’s instructions, take advantage of his panic to get a blow in, or find some means of helping Natasha before she... did what Scott implied. Flying bodies collided with one another, personal fights paused before splintering into smaller conflicts, and the area around the fallen superspy remained clear of activity. Lurking outside her hiding place, Wanda noticed a series of dancing red energy pulses sparking and twisting about Natasha’s body. Whatever Scott used to grow, it was interfacing with the residual effects of Wanda’s powers, and could create a result far worse than Black Widow simply exploding. She couldn’t allow this to happen again, not so soon after her attempts to help led to so much death.

To a chorus of shocked voices shouting her name, Wanda raced towards Black Widow, skidded upon her knees to a halt, and began trying to disentangle the red liquid from her body. It proved difficult, for its dissipation in the atmosphere had also caused it to adhere to her cellular structure in ways she didn’t quite understand. Small bursts of energy inside a single pore felt like a nuke detonating in her face again and again and again. Every time she pulled apart one relationship, fifty more appeared across the same square inch. Worse still, Wanda felt the same sparking begin to take place within her own skin, and tried to spread her efforts across two bodies to ensure her own survival. With her attention divided, mistakes piled up, and soon she was doing more to promote an aggressive spread of the energy than contain or dissipate it.

Her eyes filling with tears at the prospect of her failure repeating, Wanda barely noticed Natasha stir, groan, and open her eyes. “Maximoff? What’s going on?”

“Do not move, do not move, please do not move...” she begged the prone spy.

“Huh?”

Nat propped herself up on her elbow, and the pair exploded.

Except... not quite in the way she expected. Everything became a blur as Wanda’s temperature shot up by what felt like several million degrees. The sounds of metal shearing and stone crumbling filled her ears, alongside the sensation of something hard yet incredibly fragile dragging across her knees. A sense of heaviness spread across her entire torso, and she fell forward onto an exceedingly soft surface from the sudden weight. It was sensory overload, far too much for even one capable of extending her senses across a miles-wide area to process. Perhaps this was what exploding felt like to her, the sense of your body impacting everything all at once before you realize you’re actually in a billion pieces...

Not so. Just as suddenly as the nightmare started, it ended, and Wanda found herself kneeling amidst the rubble of what looked like a tiny model of the tarmac. The reality of her situation flashed across her brain instantly, but she was not ready to consciously admit what happened, and so failed to consciously register it. Instead, she took several deep breaths, and found each exhalation led to a deep thudding sensation across her abdomen. A quick glance downwards revealed her chest had expanded to ludicrous proportions, spreading across her lap and straining her scarlet corset to its absolute limit. That same glance revealed the only reason her breasts weren’t touching the ground was their resting place upon Natasha’s equally strained black spandex, full of a similar amount of chest... though slightly less than Wanda’s perhaps?

She made an effort to back off, and ceased her efforts due to a combination of the crunching sound behind her, and the tactile confirmation that her backside had swollen to match her breasts.

Wanda was huge, a curvaceous bombshell well beyond anything she knew was naturally possible, and from the way Natasha’s legs dangled in the air, she matched her opponent (almost) pound-for-pound, literally. Her efforts to disable the liquid splashed across Natasha must have saved them from fatal detonation, but also led to their flesh multiplying in a downright ludicrous manner. Would they be able to live normal lives after this? Would they even be able to engage with the fight again, assuming it was still on?

The fight! Tony might have taken advantage of the chaos generated to stop Cap and imprison his friend again! She had to get back into things, and make sure everything was alright, ridiculous proportions or no! With a mighty heave, she brought herself to her feet... and finally registered that she stood three-hundred feet tall, the entire tarmac ruined beneath her growing body, her burst boots crushing two airplanes beneath their tread each. The other Avengers were mere specks to her vision, with Scott barely coming halfway up her shins. She could barely tell one from the other, much less participate in the conflict. It seemed a moot point, as they were all simply standing there, staring up at her massive form, but...

Natasha stirred once more, finally able to rise to her feet with the enormous weight of Scarlet Witch’s chest lifted. Tiny burst seams littered her suit, and her legendary control over her body’s movements seemed completely thrown off by the excess weight spread across her form. She glanced down at the ground bug-eyed, then her own chest with even wider eyes, and then into Wanda’s equally startled face. “Do you... do you want to tell me what just happened?”

“I...” Wanda started, startling herself with just how much louder her voice was than the near-deafening boom of Scott’s mere minute prior. “I attempted to stop you... and then to save your life... and now we... I am sorry...”

She reached out a hand to try and grasp Widow about her shoulder, only for a small red spark to emanate from her fingertips. The pair suddenly shot up another five feet each, and their curves surged outwards by a relative two inches.

It was getting hard to think. The air was fine, but Wanda couldn’t stop breathing in shot, violent bursts. Her outfit constrained her every inch, chest and rear practically ding to burst free of their confines. So much had happened in the last several minutes, she just couldn’t get a grip on any of it, and she couldn’t read Black Widow’s expression, or figure out where to put her feet, or tell what to do at all but stand here stunned and wait for some help, or...

Impulsively, she took a step backwards, and almost squashed Iron Man and War Machine underfoot. Black Widow, who had directed her attention to the miniature superheroes down below, determined who scattered based on their movement patterns, and made a connection in her head. “You... tried to blow me up! And then tried to get big in order to crush all of us!” Wanda blinked in confusion, sure Nat didn’t normally talk like this. “And now we’re BOTH huge! Well, I’m... I’m not going to let you step on my teammates!” No, definitely not talking like herself at all.

Wanda’s thoughts didn’t get much further, as Black Widow pounded her right across the face. Instead of making contact, though, her fist swiped across the surface, inches away from skin, and caused the two of them to grow once more. Their suffering clothing popped several more seams, and an entire relative foot of cleavage appeared across Natasha’s front. She didn’t seem to notice, though, as she swiped her leg across Wanda’s missing again and inducing even more growth. It seemed as if the pair were unable to make contact with one another without promoting the same strange interaction of Pym Particles and Wanda’s neuro-electric connection to energy that caused them to achieve such heights in the first place. Nothing so eloquent or coherent as that thought occurred to Wanda, though; she just knew Black Widow was attacking her based on some misconceived understanding of the situation, and in her addled state she decided to strike back... only to promote yet more growth.

Whether or not Captain America and Iron Man resolved their differences mattered little to the newly-birthed giantesses. As they grappled with one another and attempted to get at least one good blow in, their bodies surged upwards and outwards. In less than a minute, their clothing went from slightly strained to heavily tattered to completely shredded, leaving them one thousand feet tall, completely nude, and still growing. Their breasts hung down past their navels, juggling flesh slapping against juggling flesh and creating yet another catalyst for expansion, while their rears and hips widened to two, three, four times the breadth of their shoulders. Neither seemed willing to cease the fight, which lost any and all sense of reason faster than the conflict they so recently left behind. All that remained was a desire to hit and hit back, soon to be replaced with genuine love of the sensation of growth, and perhaps even a lust for one another...

But that’s for the sequel, innit?

#Random drabbles #clonecamando1471

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linzerj · 7 years ago

Text

should’ve, could’ve, would’ve

In an alternate version of reality, Thor aims for Thanos’s head.

(another foray into the mcu. read on AO3 here)

----

On Titan, Stephen Strange looks into the future to see all possible outcomes of this battle, and what it means for the war. There are 14,000,605 possible outcomes, and only one where they win.

But it’s how Stephen Strange defines ‘win’ that determines there only being one favorable outcome. In this version of events, everyone makes it out the other end alive. Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Thor, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, T’Challa, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, James Rhodes, Wanda Maximoff, Vision, Peter Quill, Drax, Mantis, Rocket, Groot, Gamora, Loki, and Stephen Strange himself are all alive at the end of the one, single, favorable, best-possible-outcome timeline. This is the path Stephen Strange tries to send them all down.

But after his surrender of the Time Stone on Titan, there are several ways the battle on Earth can go.

Even without the Eye of Agamotto, Stephen has been exposed to it’s energies long enough to tell that in this version of reality, the battle will go as it should for the most favorable outcome to come to fruition. Vision will fall. Thor aims for the chest. Thanos snaps, and half the world becomes ash, becomes dust.

After this, he recalls, the remaining heroes reunite, with Scott Lang and Carol Danvers arriving and playing crucial roles in setting things right. This is the sequence of events that will eventually lead to Thanos’s downfall and the restoration of the universe and the fallen, as it should be.

But in a universe just so slightly off from this one, Thor changes the outcome. In an alternate version of reality, Thor aims for Thanos’s head.

---

In this version of reality, they win too, but it’s at a higher cost.

Thanos’s body lays in the outskirts of Wakanda, bloody, lifeless, and still. Some yards away, Vision’s body lays broken, most of his head missing and mangled from when Thanos tore the Mind Stone from his head. Wanda has collapsed onto his body, sobbing.

Hundreds of Wakandan warriors also lay in the fields, having given their lives to stop Thanos. T’Challa and Okoye turn from staring at Thor and the giant purple body, and begin coordinating with the rest of the survivors to identify the fallen.

Thor remains, staring at where Stormbreaker is embedded in Thanos’s face and skull. He barely acknowledges Rocket and Groot and Steve, who are standing behind him. They’re staring too, but whether out of awe or horror is anyone’s guess at this point.

It’s Rocket who can’t stand the silence, and eventually breaks it. “So what are we gonna do with those stones now?”

“I do not know,” Thor replies slowly, trying to hide a tremor in his voice. “I…” He closes his eyes. “I should like to use the stones to restore those who Thanos has killed, but I do not know what effect this will have on the universe. And regardless, I think I would like to see if we can restore Vision, with or without the Mind Stone, before destroying any of them.

So they leave it, for now. No one can touch the Stones anyway, except Thor, unless they want to risk destroying themselves. A few Dora Milaje are stationed around the body and the Stones as Thor and the rest follow King T’Challa back to the palace to determine what happens next.

---

On Titan, Stephen’s eyes open and he drops from his meditative hover. “It’s over,” he announces, gaining the attention of their motley band. “They’ve killed Thanos on Earth. We’ve won.”

“How the heck do you know that?” Peter Quill asks. Peter Parker nods, watching the doctor, curious as well.

Stephen eyes Quill, then sighs and says, “I saw it, before, and sensed it just now.” And that’s all the explanation he gives.

Still, they all seem to believe him, for what it’s worth. Quill looks back at the rest of his group, including the blue lady, Nebula, who crashed a ship into Thanos halfway through their battle, and they all begin to head toward their ship, still somewhat shaken. Then Quill pauses, turning to watch as Stephen tries to shut Tony up and help heal the stab wound in his side with Peter Parker hovering nearby.

“Hey,” he calls, gaining their attention. “You guys want a lift back to Earth? We’ve got some medical supplies and shit too, so you can patch yourselves up on the way.”

The humans share a look, before Stark nods, turns, and says, “Thanks.”

---

When the Milano makes contact with Wakanda a day later and they get the clearance to touch down, the land around them is still littered with bodies. But these are the bodies of the Outriders, Thanos’s army; the people of Wakanda were efficient at finding their own so they could receive proper funerals.

So the ship touches down, and the Guardians emerge first. They are immediately swarmed by Rocket and Groot, Thor standing solemnly to the side with the Avengers. It’s Rocket who asks where Gamora is.

“She’s – she’s –” Quill can’t get the words out, so Nebula speaks quietly from behind.

“Thanos sacrificed her for one of the Stones. She’s gone.”

Their stunned expressions quickly melt into ones of grief. As they mourn in their little group, Tony emerges from the ship, followed by Peter and Stephen.

“So who got to kill the big purple ballsack?” Tony asks wearily, in lieu of a proper greeting. Thor turns from watching the Guardians, gripping Stormbreaker tight.

“I, but I only wish I could have killed him sooner,” Thor says. “He killed Vision, Stark. Ripped the Mind Stone right from his head.”

Tony breaks. “No,” he whispers. “God, no.”

Behind him, Stephen swallows before stepping forward. “Where’s the Gauntlet?” he asks. “Where are the Stones?”

Thor eyes Stephen, before deflating or relaxing, just a bit. “Ah, yes. You sorcerers guarded the Time Stone.” Thor sighs, turning to gesture towards the palace. “I brought it to the lab of the Princess Shuri. No one else has wanted to risk touching it. Even for me, all six stones together like that are… tempting, and volatile.”

Stephen nods, at this. “I could at least manipulate the Time Stone back into the Eye of Agamotto,” he says. “And while I did not meet Vision, if you are trying to revive him –”

“If Bruce and Shuri and Wanda aren’t already trying to get him back up and running you better bet your ass I will,” Stark cuts in, fists clenched at his side. Stephen studies him for a moment, then nods.

“Well. I can do my best to assist, both medically and magically, if you will allow it. And we should keep the Mind Stone safe, in order to revive him again.”

“Hey, magic man,” a voice cuts in, and it’s Quill, looking both lost and determined at the same time. “Nebs here –”

“I told you to never call me that.”

“– She says that the Soul Stone required a sacrifice of a soul for a soul.” Peter Quill pauses, licks his lips, before continuing. “I… we were wondering if you could take a look at the Soul Stone for us, and just – just see. If Gamora – if she’s there, somehow. Before you destroy it. Please.”

Strange blinks, and then nods. “I’ll call Wong to help,” he says, “and we will try. But I make no promises. If it truly is a soul for a soul, I would imagine you’d need another sacrifice to get her back out, if she’s even in there.”

“Just… let us know what you find, okay?” The heartbreak in Quill’s voice causes Stephen to soften, just a bit more.

“Okay.”

---

When Wong joins them, he and Stephen and Wanda are immediately asked to destroy the other three Stones – Space, Power, and Reality. Wong and Stephen debate over it with Thor, before they agree to it.

“It drastically reduces the risk of something like this happening again,” Stephen explains after it’s all said and done. The Soul and Mind Stones still rest in the Gauntlet, waiting for their turns to be examined. Vision’s body lays on one of Shuri’s medical benches behind them, almost completely repaired physically, but the neurons and coding are still a destroyed mess.

“Reduces, but doesn’t eliminate it totally?” Tony asks, crossing his arms. “I mean, you need all six to become a crazy powerful ultra-god, right?”

“Yes,” Stephen replies, “but even these three remaining Stones are powerful in their own way. Controlling the minds of others; altering time; and deciding the fate of people’s souls? Even with the other three destroyed, I can think of several beings that would look to amplify their own power with but one of the remaining Stones.”

Tony nods, thoughtful, before a light seems to go off in his head. “So your Stone – it’s Time. You could go back in time, if you wanted.”

Stephen swallows, licks his lips. He knows where this is going. “Tony, no,” he says. “I… if I could, I would. But going back in time on that big of a scale, it would cause too many ripples, contrast too sharply with natural law. It could quite honestly destroy our universe when we’re just trying to save it.”

“But…alright, but what about small scale?” Tony asks, gesturing to Vision. “Could you just – just reverse time on Vision only? Make it so he’s – he’s back?”

Stephen sighs, gripping the necklace housing the Time Stone. “Without affecting the rest of time around us? I’m good, but I’m not that good.” He breathes deeply. “The only time I’ve ever done time manipulation on a scale larger than messing around with an apple was restoring the Hong Kong Sanctum to prevent Dormammu from consuming our world. When I made a time loop to –” Stephen sucks in a breath. “– to repeat the same moment over and over and over until he went away, and left Earth in peace instead of pieces.”

Tony sighs, runs a hand down his face. “Alright. Fine.” He looks back at Stephen, then puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, anyway.”

It doesn’t feel like he’s done anything worth thanking, but Stephen forces a smile nonetheless.

---

Peter Quill is impatient and emotional, so when he finds Stephen again it takes a lot of effort to remain outwardly calm as he asks, “Any luck?”

But he takes in the expression on Stephen’s face, as well as the other sorcerer Wong, and just knows the answer even before the sorcerers speak. “It requires a soul for a soul,” Stephen says quietly. “Her soul… it exists within the Stone, in a sense, but it is impossible to–”

“I’ll sacrifice myself if I have to,” Peter cuts in, desperation lacing his words. “Just. Please. She deserves to live.”

Stephen’s heart breaks a little bit more. “I’m sorry,” he says. “We still don’t understand it fully, but from what we do understand you need to sacrifice the soul of someone you love to wield the stone. That is literally all we know.”

“It may be possible to sacrifice yourself to free her soul,” Wong says softly, “but without her body, she will just be like a ghost, or so we believe. And we would not want to risk any more lives if none of this works.”

“I’m sorry,” Stephen says again as Peter’s heart shatters. All he can do is slump into the sorcerer and sob.

---

Tony and Shuri and Bruce stare at the mess of neurons, the mess of Vision’s brain, and slump in defeat. “I should be able to do this,” Shuri says. “I was so close, before…”

Tony takes a shaky breath. “It’s alright, kid,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. Beside him, Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder. Bruce knew that Vision was important to Tony. Bruce knew that Vision was all he had left of JARVIS. Bruce knew.

Shuri, though, bless her heart, she wanted to help him too. “I’m sorry,” she says, for the fifth time today. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark – Tony.”

“I could try inserting the Mind Stone back into his body,” Stephen’s voice says, and the three whirl around to see the sorcerer standing behind him, the fading glow of sparks indicating he’s only just opened a portal into the lab. “It might jump-start some of the neural connections that were severed, but I don’t know…how efficient it would be.”

Tony swallows. Opens his mouth, then closes it, thinking. Then he says, “Alright. We… we should try it, if you think it has even the slightest chance. For Vision.”

Everyone else in the room nods in agreement.

So they try.

But it doesn’t bring Vision back.

---

So they continue on existing. Thor has lost his people, his brother. Nebula has lost her sister, Peter Quill has lost his lover, and the Guardians of the Galaxy have lost a beloved friend. Wanda Maximoff has lost her love, and Tony Stark has lost his – his – his Vision. Wakanda has lost hundreds of good soldiers.

In an alternate version of reality, Thor aims for Thanos’s head. In this reality, they win, but they also lose.

---

There are hundreds of thousands of millions of alternate realities just like that. One little act has ripples throughout space-time. There are realities where the Hulk does not hide away and changes the tide of the fights. There are realities where Peter Quill shoots Gamora before Thanos can change his blaster to bubbles. There are realities where Gamora lets Nebula suffer and refuses to give the location of the Soul Stone, and realities where Gamora is successful in killing herself before Thanos can use her. There are realities where Peter Quill does not strike Thanos, either because he recognizes that he needs to wait or because someone holds him back or because he hesitates one extra second and that’s all Peter Parker and Tony Stark need to rip the Gauntlet from Thanos’s hand. There are realities where Stephen Strange does not give up the Time Stone for Tony Stark, and runs or continues to fight or even reverses time in an effort to save his new friends, save the world. There are realities where Shuri successfully removes the Mind Stone from Vision without harm, and Wanda Maximoff destroys it long before Thanos arrives. There are realities where they destroy the Time Stone before confronting Thanos. There are millions and millions of realities. They lose in most. They are partially successful in others. It’s all a game of should’ve, could’ve, would’ve; each action has an equal and opposite reaction. Butterfly effects. All of these realities exist. Stephen Strange sees all of these realities, and remembers them all too.

But Stephen Strange sees just one reality where everyone comes out the other side alive. They have to sacrifice much to achieve that end, but that is the reality in which they exist. The odds are 14,000,605 to one, but they’ll get lucky in this universe.

In other realities, it’s should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

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mcarfield · 6 years ago

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i have accidentally committed more mcarfield fic oops

(gonna be re-posting these tumblr fics, some of you will have already seen them on main.)

but it’s not my fault, it is all the fault of andrew garfield for going around begging for kisses outside the theatre, and the fault of this lovely anon:

👀 👀 👀 👀

…..

James has one mission in life at the moment, and that’s to get through this damn play and be the best Louis Ironson he can be without losing his mind over the fact that he gets to spend half of his waking life making out with Andrew Garfield.

Only, as with all things about this goddamn monster of a play, that’s far, far harder than it looks. This is partly because Andrew is amazing and adorable and incredibly, surprisingly passionate and articulate about, well, everything. He’s passionately articulate about this play, and Prior, and the absolute vital importance of Angels in America in 2017.

And he’s passionately articulate about James — or at least about James’s acting. James knows this because of the number of times Andrew has gone into effusive rants, with or without James actually being present, about what an amazing actor he thinks James is. So, James usually goes onstage with confidence that his partner in all things believes in him, and it carries him through most nights with a buoyancy that works as a very nice countermeasure to the constant sense of emotional and physical exhaustion Louis leaves him with.

He’s tried not to obsess over the question of whether Andrew feels about him the way he feels about Andrew, and there are a hundred different reasons for that. Andrew looks at James like James is perpetually brilliant, but the problem is that Andrew also looks at everyone that way. He’s constantly trying to drink in the energy and light of everyone around him, like some kind of giddy human sunflower. It’s incredible that he doesn’t manage to set off all of James’s cynical settings, but honestly James just finds him… lovely.

James knows himself pretty well; he knows he’s on a razor’s edge when it comes to supplanting Louis’ feelings for Prior with his own feelings for Andrew. It’s impossible not to adore Andrew, just… impossible. But James would also prefer not to develop a deep, hopeless, one-sided crush on his straight (sigh) co-star, and James also knows that actors can often be hopelessly needy without returning the favor. Andrew at heart just wants everyone to love him; it’s his Achilles heel, and James has told him so often, but James also suspects the message is undermined by the fact that James likes Andrew so much.

But they’ve got a long, grueling performance road still to travel, and James has been burned plenty of times by assuming incorrectly that whatever bond he had with another actor would survive once the play was all over. So: he’s absolutely not endangering his heart by wasting time wondering whether Andrew’s beats only for him.

Or so he thinks; and then the kiss happens.

It’s Easter weekend and the crowds are out, so Andrew’s swamped signing autographs at the stage door. James has already finished — the crowds mostly flock for Andrew, and he doesn’t like to get in the way, so he tries to go outside early, sign a few autographs, and then clear out before Andrew and Russell make the rounds. Tonight, however, some of the cast is headed to Denise’s for drinks after the show.

“James, make sure you fetch Andrew and take him with you,” she orders.

“Why me?” James asks. “It’s bloody cold out, you’re a torturer.”

Denise rolls her eyes at him. “Because you’re each other’s appropriate adult,” she says. “Now go on, he’ll stay outside forever catching cold if you don’t.”

Andrew’s always immersed when James finds him outside the stage door, and tonight is no different. “Hi, love,” he says to Andrew, and he doesn’t intend for his touch to turn into a caress — god knows they’re too intimate as it is — but he slides his hand gently over Andrew’s back before he’s thought about it.

Andrew glances up.

“Some of us are heading out to—” He halts. Andrew’s looking at him expectantly, lips parted, and James’s brain actually grinds to a complete halt for a moment as the realization hits; he wants me to kiss him.

It all feels like slow motion, but can’t be more than a few milliseconds: James is tractor-beamed forward, tugged into the kiss by Andrew’s eyes and his gorgeous fucking mouth, and it’s barely a peck, but it’s Andrew and it’s themand it’s public and — Andrew just kissed him.

The thought bursts over him, right in chorus with the shrieks that erupt from the fans all around them:

Andrew likes him.

His grin is unstoppable, he can feel it splitting his face, and Andrew looks so smug and coy and James must look ridiculous but he can’t stop smiling. Andrew likes him, not just his acting, Andrew likes this, Andrew likes this thing and it’s their thing, they’re friends, and —

And James is such a fucking lost cause, honestly, who did he think he was kidding?

“You saucy minx,” he says, laughing and swatting Andrew’s arm.

“I knew you couldn’t resist me, I knew it all along,” Andrew says, clearly delighted.

James tells him he’ll wait for him in the car, and then he beats a hasty retreat so he can piece himself back together.

It’s not like they don’t kiss, they kiss all the time; performative physical intimacy on and offstage is the language of theatre, and James recognizes it for what it is — just that, a performance. But a gratuitous kiss in public, where anyone can see them…

No, ridiculous. it’s Andrew, he’s like this with everyone, James watched that Golden Globes Spideypool kiss on loop just like everyone else did, he’s only human. And actually the fact he even knows what Spideypool is should tell him just how much trouble he’s gotten himself in.

Get yourself together, lad, he orders himself. You’re here to put on a very important and prestigious play full of social commentary and trenchant political invective, you’re not here to obsess over your co-star or keep tabs on every other time Andrew Garfield has been flirty and metrosexual with someone who isn’t you.

He’s fully convinced himself of this when Andrew slides into the car next to him. “Hey, you,” he says, taking James’s hand without another thought, and James tries not to look anything like infatuated. “Thanks for waiting.”

James laughs as the car pulls out into the street. “Please, people wait on you hand and foot, the least I can do is hang out in a car for a minute or two.”

Andrew blushes. “Well, you don’t wait around for too many people,” he says. “I’m glad I get to be one of them.”

And there it is, again, the smile splitting James’s face without his conscious control.

“Look at you,” Andrew says. “God, you look so…”

James turns to him, startled by the note in Andrew’s voice. “What?”

Andrew… Andrew shivers. His gaze drops to James’s mouth.

And then his expression shifts into something hungrier; his eyes meet James’s own, and they’re dark with intent.

“If I’d known that all I needed to do to make you smile like that was to kiss you,” he says, voice going low, “I’d’ve had my mouth on you every night.”

All the breath leaves James’s body and all the air leaves the car at once.

They’re just crossing over Waterloo Bridge, and it suddenly feels to James as though he’s poised between a before and an after, between two radically different states of being and awareness.

He drags oxygen into his constricting lungs and tries to sound calm. “It’s not that I’m trying to hamper your self-expression or anything, Andrew, but is it not still the case that you’re straight?” He forces himself to meet Andrew’s eyes, which are still fastened to his, glittering and intense and unfairly earnest. “Because that’s one hell of a drug you’re offering, and I’d like to know how bad the withdrawal effects will be.”

And Andrew, because Andrew never makes anything easy for James, holds his gaze and leans in and murmurs, “Why don’t you kiss me again and find out?”

James’s mouth drops open, because he intends to put up a protest or say no, that this is a terrible, horrible, no-good dangerous idea and that Andrew’s inner Prior Walter is probably shrieking at him that he knows better, and why would Andrew toy with James’s sadly hilarious emotions when the play has already left them both feeling so vulnerable —

— but what actually happens is that he cups Andrew’s beautiful face and kisses him, deep and possessive and sure, the way he’s wanted to for months, and a delectable shudder rockets through Andrew’s entire body and he gasps and bends into James like he really is that fucking flower and James is the goddamn sun. He opens up to James and traces James’s mouth with his tongue and leans up to bite James’s ear.

“No, really not feeling very straight anymore,” he murmurs. “Really liking this new side you’re bringing out in me.”

“Oh, my god, you bloody infuriating harridan,” James rasps, pressing kisses against Andrew’s perfect throat. “I’ve wanted you for months and you’ve just been torturing me—”

“No, never,” Andrew says, suddenly tender. He pulls back and cups James’s face in his hands. “Just trying to work up the courage.” He swallows. “The courage to make this real.”

James goes breathless all over again, but this time the feeling is completely different. He wraps his arms around Andrew’s waist, wondering distantly if that’s just going to be a thing he gets to, to do now, just wrap his arms around Andrew like he has the right, like he has standing permission to touch and lay claim to Andrew’s perfect body whenever he wants?

And then he has the surreal experience of wondering, in exactly the same moment, how he’s ever going to survive it — and also how the hell he survived without it before.

“This is the realest thing I know,” he says. “But, Andrew, you and me together, it can’t be a fluke, it means too much, there’s too much at stake, I feel too much—”

“I know, I’ve told myself every day since I met you,” Andrew whispers, pressing a rough kiss against James’ mouth.”God, don’t you think I’ve been trying not to fall for you? But it’s like standing under a waterfall trying not to get wet, you are this daily deluge of, of beauty and talent and brilliance and fury and younessand all I think about is your fucking mouth and I, I can’t, James, I,” and then they’re kissing again, and Andrew hitches himself up and over James’s lap and grinds against James’s thigh like he was born for this.

“Jesus christ,” James yelps, because if Andrew is going to grind him right now they’re going to have to tip the driver a hell of a lot more and also probably skip Denise’s party altogether, and that is more than okay with James, but he needs, he needs ground rules, he needs boundaries, he needs to think.

“Hold on,” he tries, and Andrew responds by slipping his hands beneath James’s shirt and palming James’ skin. “Oh, god, nevermind, don’t hold on, terrible idea,” James murmurs, biting the underside of Andrew’s jawline.

“So I think I might be demi,” Andrew says. He’s so pliant and twisty and bendable and, okay, they are definitely skipping Denise’s party.

“If you’re demisexual,” he manages, vaguely surprised he’s this coherent with a squirming Andrew Garfield in his lap, “then that means you…you’re in—”

He freezes.

Andrew pulls back and smiles at him, a little wry, a little smug. His cheeks are flaming and his hair is completely demolished, James has dreamt about seeing him this way.

“Means I fall in love first, and the rest doesn’t matter,” he says. He grins, slow, at whatever James’s face is doing. “Don’t look so shocked, it’s all your fault.”

“I wasn’t even sure if you liked me,” James blurts. ”I wasn’t even sure if we were, the kind of friends who’d stay friends after this is all over, I didn’t want to assume you’d—”

“Baby, that’s because this isn’t friendship,” Andrew says, rubbing his hands over James’ chest. “You and me — we’ve been falling in love since the day we met.” He presses a kiss against James’s forehead, and then against his nose. “And that terrifies me,” he says, breath catching. “But not enough to make me want to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” James says, knowing he sounds plaintive, but meaning it more than he’s ever meant anything in his life. He slides his hand up over the curve of Andrew’s precious face and holds him there. “Don’t ever stop.”

“I don’t ever plan to,” Andrew replies, and he kisses James all the way home.

#mcarfield fic #mcarfield #long post

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