#also i changed his patches because the orange being on his patches and Nowhere Else bothered me

[stacksattack]

rex shows you his special power (looking at you smugly

[shurisneakers]

shut in [8]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, implied abuse, death, implied ptsd, injuries, guns, anxiety

Word count: 4.2k

A/N: oh my god oh my god sam stans how are we feeling djkghdfjkhgdf. no thoughts only sam wilson in ep1 of tfatws <333

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!! 

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

“Hey, I’m just going to step out for today.” You looked up from the doodle you were making on the corner of the paper. “Catch you later? Just find me if you need anything.”

“You okay?” You automatically sat up straighter, blanket creasing under you. Something was amiss in his body language.

“Yeah, just-” He seemed like he was struggling for words. “-Brooklyn.”

You didn’t get what he was making a reference to until it suddenly dawned on you.

It was the codeword he had suggested right at the beginning of your time in the house. If he was in danger you were sure he’d tell you, at least an inkling of information.

But no, this was for some time alone, further confirmed by the distant look in his eyes.

“Oh.” You blinked. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here if you need.”

He gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, turning around and leaving the room.

You were left staring after him, the drawing you were making of the house layout discarded on the bed. You were working on strategies, vantage points- anything that could help in case something went wrong.

Was it because of the dumb ‘moment’ you had shared two days ago? It didn’t seem like it because he hadn’t brought it up at all and God knows you would never. Was it something else that had happened, something you did?

Stop overthinking. He probably just needs a day to himself.

You had spent almost a month in each other’s company and he had never once complained. He had a tendency to be petty about minor inconveniences, like you trying to watch a movie when his favourite segment on the local news channel was going on. He liked the cooking show they hosted.

He had never made it a point to specifically tell you that he needed some time to himself, much less use the word.  

“Get yourself together,” you whispered to yourself, shaking off the nagging feeling you had.

If he had an issue, he would have voiced it. He never shied away from doing that before and you knew he wouldn’t start now.

You forced yourself to think about something else, grabbing the copy of American Gods you had already gone over once before but were subjecting to a reread. Opening the page you had last left it at, you were determined to distract yourself.

Nearly twenty minutes later and exactly zero pages since you had started, you realised that no matter how much you forced yourself to get into it, you went over the same line over and over again, not a single word registering in your head.

“Motherfucker,” you groaned, letting the book fall on your face. You took a long look outside the window, mind drifting.

It was a nice day out. Maybe some sun would help.

You lifted your legs off the bed, taking your book with you to the kitchen. You could get a nice sandwich-- the same as the last three fuckin’ weeks but you digressed-- a glass of water, and you could sit outside for a while. A mini picnic.

You opened a new packet of sliced bread, taking two out before stopping. You pondered over whether you should make him a sandwich for when he returned, knowing that he didn’t eat lunch before he left.

You thought about it for a good minute before rolling your eyes, pulling out two additional slices to make him one as well. It was just a sandwich. It wasn’t a big deal.

Tucking your book under your arm, you carried your lunch and a glass of water to the patio around the back.

The wind rustled the leaves and the sun wasn’t harsh. The low buzz of insects was the only sound that kept you company.

The air was crisp and you instantly felt better than you had all day in the room.

Setting your stuff down on the bench, you sat down, inhaling deeply.

The book suddenly didn’t seem so impossible to complete as you tried once more, slipping into the pages easily. Even after you finished your food, you continued to lounge about there, too engrossed and content to move.

You didn’t notice the afternoon go by, evening coming and going just as swiftly. You swatted at the occasional fly but nothing else bothered you.

It felt like summer break. At least what you thought it would feel like. You never had one, being homeschooled about things from various people in the organization. There wasn’t a singular, long break. You were just forced to adapt.

You didn't know how to deal with the suffocating realisation of knowing there were so many things you missed out on. It grew the longer you spent time away. You just shoved it away, forcing yourself to deal with it another day.

He comes back when the sky is slipping into shades of orange, a backpack on his shoulder. There was a patch of sweat around his neck and his head was hung low as he walked.

“Hey,” you hoped it didn't look like you were waiting for him. It could easily be taken as you camping out there, waiting for your husband to return from a hard day in the fields.

Sam looked up at your greeting. You noted that the bruise on his nose was starting to change colour but the swelling had reduced from how bad it used to be.

“Left you a sandwich on the counter if you’re hungry,” you added. He nodded in acknowledgement, making his way up the stairs and into the house without another word.

You let out an exhale, feeling a little better knowing that he was at least back in one piece. No reason to believe otherwise other than the anxiety you had developed over imagining the worst case scenarios.

You picked up your book again, intending to finish off the last bit before you went back inside for the day.

About half an hour later Sam re-emerged from the house, your attention snapping to him as the door opened and shut. He had changed into a new pair of clothes, looking a little cleaner like he was fresh outta the shower. He had a sandwich in his hand that he had already taken a few bites out of. You wondered if it was the one you left for him.

You didn’t expect him to take a seat next to you on the bench. He didn’t look at you or open his mouth to talk so you followed suit. You continued reading, or at least tried to, as he just sat there, finishing his sandwich without any kind of other interaction.

There was a strange tension he wasn’t addressing. He instead leaned back, arms crossed behind his neck to support his neck and closed his eyes. His foot tapped against the wooden floor and rather than getting annoyed, you found solace in the repetition.

“They recruited me on this day,” Sam said to no one in particular. His eyes were still closed and his feet still tapped against the ground. “Parents died when I was a kid, I got shifted around orphanages and homes a lot. Finally Ransone had someone pick me up.”

You closed your book softly, setting it down beside you. That’s what was bothering him.

Secret adoption is what they called it officially in the business, but around the organization it was just known as the recruitment process. Every record of Sam being alive would have been destroyed to maintain anonymity.

To the world he just… disappeared.

It was a day that clearly brought with it so much pain. You were too young to remember when you joined, and no one had kept track either. You supposed it was for the good.

It was supposed to be a happy day, one filled with new beginnings. Maybe that’s what he would have thought when he got picked. It’s what you did.

“I’m sorry,” you said, not having anything else to offer. You relieved your memories everyday in your head. Having a morbid anniversary of sorts would no doubt drain the life out of you; remembering one singular day that would trigger the rest of the decisions you made in your life.

He didn’t say anything in return. You turned your attention to the sky, finding it easier to look at that than the disturbed look on his face.

“Do you regret this?” he asked out of the blue.

“All of it,” you replied, without skipping a beat.

“Every single one, huh?” Sam’s one eye opened to peer at you.

“It wasn’t up to me to take someone’s life away.” You were just a child. You knew nothing other than what you were taught; so then why was it so fucking hard to forgive your past self for straying into this. “Even once I realised that I couldn’t leave.”

You didn’t form any relationships while you worked with Ransone. Whoever you did allow yourself to care for ended up dead or worse, sometimes as a cruel lesson to not make friends in the organization you worked in because all they served as were distractions and liabilities. Others were plain scum; people who you knew were using you but you didn’t care. The loneliness hurt worse.

“What about you?”

“I’d give anything to go back and change things,” he admitted. He didn’t have a say either. It didn’t make things easier.

“You regret all of ‘em too?”

“Mostly,” he said. “One of them I don’t.”

“That one must have deserved it then,” you deduced. It was the only logical explanation you could think of; the worst of the worst.

“Nah. I let him go.”

It took a while to register what he said.

“What?” You twisted your body to look at him.

“First mission I ever did.”

His hands were shaking lightly, barely holding on to the gun. This wasn’t what he was taught. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.

He had already managed to get his way into the house through the back. His partner had taken care of most of it and Sam only had to knock people out. He hadn’t had to kill anyone yet.

But now his partner was injured outside the door. Quick shot to the leg, a punch in the face and he was out cold. Sam was already in the master bedroom by the time it happened. He had no idea about where his partner was, only the crippling fear of being left alone and the nerves from the threat posed to him if this didn’t go right.

He knew he didn’t have enough time. He had only a few minutes to kill him and get out of there before his family returned.

The man itself was sitting at the study table, his back towards Sam. Just pull the trigger and get out of here. It was deadly silent.

“I know you’re here to kill me,” the man said suddenly. Sam nearly jumped but instead tightened the grip on the gun.

“Stay where you are.” He sounded confident.

“I’m not planning on going anywhere.” His chair swiveled around, letting him face Sam. His hair was white with a beard that matched. He was dressed down in his pajamas, a robe covering him. He didn’t look nervous.

“Stop talking.”

“You’re younger than what I expected,” the man observed, not paying heed to what Sam was in. He was a considerable distance away. “You’re not even legal yet, are you? I got kids, I would know.”

Sam didn’t say a word, only lifted his gun up to align with his forehead. “I said, stop talking.”

“I’ve made mistakes. Several, actually,” he mused, “It’s why your boss sent you here. I’ve accepted my fate.”

“Then it should be easy.”

“Oh, it never is,” the man chuckled. “It doesn’t get lighter. You learn to ignore it but it’ll weigh on you for the rest of your life.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. It would get easier. It had to.

“I doubt that’s what you heard, however,” he continued. “Ransone’s a bit… unstable. It’s in his blood, but you- you don’t look like you could live with it.”

Ransone’s history was well known enough that rival gang leaders knew it too, apparently. The man would have been delighted at his infamous reputation.

Just shoot him. Just shoot him and end this.

“What’s your name?” the man asked, taking a sip from the tumbler he had in his hand. “You’re going to be the last person I talk to. It’d be nice to have a name.”

“Sam,” he whispered, inwardly cursing himself.

“Sam. That’s a strong name,” the man said, clicking the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Are you sure this is what you want to do, Sam?”

It wasn’t.

“I don’t have a choice.” He hated how defeated he sounded. It was a weakness.

“They want you to believe that. It takes away your freedom. I would know, I’ve used it.” The man smiled, setting down his glass. “I’ll tell you this though, Sam. You always have a choice.”

“Stop talking, man.” Sam pulled the safety off.

“Once you go down this way, there’s no way you can escape. Someone will always have to die; either him or you.”

“That’s not true.” He could leave at any time. He just needed-

“You’ll see for yourself.” The man leaned back on his chair, resigned. “But for now, go ahead. I’ll make it easy for you.”

He simply closed his eyes and sat back.

You waited for Sam to continue.

“Couldn’t do it,” he said, shaking his head lightly. “Son of a bitch got in my head and I knew what he was doing too. Told him to get the fuck out before my partner shot him in the face.”

“Does Ransone know?” You were still reeling from the incident he recounted. You didn't know what else to say.

“Holds it over me every damn day,” he scoffed. “Some fucked up way of saying that I owe him one.”

To be frank, you were surprised Sam was still alive to tell you. Everyone knew that Ransone forgiven the first mistake someone made, but this was huge. If it were anyone else, he would have had someone try out a hundred different ways to push Sam to the brink of death and back; having him begging for the release that death would bring.

“He hasn’t ever cashed in that favour?”

“He did. Had me take out the leader of the Ten Rings after that.”

“So then why did you still continue?”

“I did something extremely dangerous a couple of years ago that he found out about recently. Used that to get me to come for this mission.”

He didn’t elaborate what he meant and you didn’t ask him to. You supposed it was a story for another day. This was heavy enough.

“He wants to get rid of me as much as I want to get away from him, trust me. We’re the weird, toxic relationship those self-help Instagram pages warned you about.” Trust Sam to make a dumb joke during a conversation like this. “Probably the only time someone from the gang let their target go and not died.”

That wasn’t as true as he thought he was but you didn’t want to seem like you were one-upping him. You didn’t want him to think you were making this about you.

“You remember the big break you were talking about?” you tread carefully, gauging his reaction before you continued. “The one that pushed me up the ranks or whatever.”

He gave a small hum of acknowledgement, bringing his hands from behind his head to fold across his chest.

“Similar story, ‘cept Ransone doesn’t know.”

“What?” His eyes shot open. “How?”

“I was so tired of him treating me like a child. Everyone around who joined after me was out there doinghardcore missions and I was stuck with petty shit.” You didn’t know any better. You wished you had. “So he told me if I made it through this one, he’d send me on more.”

This wasn’t your first mission. You had handled hits before, mostly in the shadows, from a distance.

This was different. It was broad daylight, waiting behind a wall near the gated entrance of the house for a car to pull up.

A challenge, Ransone had posed, with strict instructions to do it in broad daylight. If you got out of this undetected, he’d consider sending you on more sophisticated missions.

“Highly stealthy. They’re dangerous,” you were warned. “You won’t know what hit you if you’re caught off your game.”

The low rumble of the car outside the gate alerted you of your target’s arrival. The gates weren’t going to open, the guards were dead.

The car stopped, waiting for the path to open up. When it didn’t the car’s engine slowed to a stop. The man in the driver’s seat got out to open the gate, giving you a clear shot.

You took a deep breath, clenching your eyes shut for a second before taking aim.

The body hit the gravel and you quickly made your way to the car. You could see the woman in the backseat gaping at where the man was standing a few seconds ago. She was struggling against the door, trying to escape.

She finally succeeded, the door opening suddenly as she stumbled over herself trying to get out.

“Stay there,” you commanded. She slowly looked up at you, face white as a sheet.

“Please,” she croaked. “Don’t hurt us.”

“I’m sorry.” You truly were.

Her face changed, dropping the facade immediately. She just looked on in acceptance, not making an effort to move. Manipulative. She almost had you convinced

You held the gun over her, pulling the trigger. A single shot. Her body slumped over.

You stared at her in silence, expressionless. You let out an exhale, tucking the gun back into the waist of your pants, stepping over her body to leave.

A small, staggering breath made you stop in your tracks. It was so slight you barely heard it. You took a step back, trying to trace where it came from.

You ducked your head to peer into the car, your heart stopping. Your hand instinctively reached for your weapon.

“What the-” you muttered, facing a boy who looked only a few years younger than you. He was staring straight ahead, muscles in his jaw tight.

The son wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be abroad, according to the case file. Unless there were two of them you didn’t know about, this boy wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Listen,” you began, but he didn’t look at you. Just stared straight ahead, body trembling. He was scared. He didn’t show it.

“Show no mercy,” Ransone’s voice rang in your head.

“He’s a child,” you murmured to yourself. Your gun felt heavy in your hand.

Show no mercy.

You could only imagine what would be in store for you if you returned to Ransone with some tale of sympathy. This boy was only a few years younger than you. He didn’t have anything to do with this.

Show no mercy.

“Kid,” you called out. He slowly turned his head. “Go on. Get out of here.”

“What?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Leave. You can’t be seen if someone comes back,” you urged. “I won’t be able to help you.”

“You killed my mom,” he jeered, unmoving.

“I’m sorry. I had to.” Your voice was quiet. Your hand clutched at the hood of the car to keep your balance. “But I don’t want to hurt you. Go.”

When he didn’t shift, you slammed the hood of the car, scaring him enough to pull at the door and stagger out of the car.

You turned your back to him, not waiting to see where he was going. The more deniability you had, the better.

“Did he make it?”

“He did,” you divulged the information you had found out a while ago. It was a messy confrontation to say the least but you got out unscathed.

“And Ransone doesn’t know.”

“There’s no record of this kid. He thinks he was at boarding school.” You shrugged. “Wasn’t going to correct him either.”

“If he did find out-” Sam trailed off.

“I’d be dead,” you concluded. “Being his favourite wouldn’t matter.”

“Why was it such a big deal, this mission?”

“She was a part of a major gang that Ransone was losing to.”

Sam just nodded knowingly, looking ahead again. You knew he’d done missions like this as well. Things like this were common so it didn’t need further elaboration.

“This job sucks,” he let out.

You gave a short laugh. That was an understatement.

“I want out. Can’t keep doin’ this for much longer,” he continued, however, to your surprise. “Don’t wanna keep doin’ this.”

You bit your lip, eyebrows knitted in concern. “You will.”

“How?” You hadn’t seen him like this before, this hint of desperation in his tone that left as quickly as it came. “I’ve tried, everything just comes up short.”

“I’ll help you.” You wanted to, God you did.

“You gonna kill him for me?” He looked at you. “‘Cause that’s really the only way out of this.”

If you were pushed to the limit, if he was on his knees in front of you and there was a gun in your hand pointed at him; would you be able to pull the trigger? Would you be able to kill the only constant you’d had for more than half your life?

“I can’t,” you muttered, dejection making its way into your thoughts.

“I know,” Sam said softly, “I wouldn’t ask you to either.”

You took a moment to observe him. The sun did him good. There was a soft glow to his skin, the colours of the sunset dancing in his dark eyes. Laugh lines were becoming more prominent around them, only adding to its charm.

He was a good man. He deserved better.

“I’ll find a way,” you sounded determined, “I promise.”

You didn’t say that very often. Your word didn’t mean a lot to people in the business, but it seemed to, to him.

“Thank you.” He appeared taken aback but didn’t show it in his words.

You simply sent him a smile, a reassurance. You knew what you had to do, just weren’t sure how.

He was right. There wasn’t a way out of it other than the one he proposed, but it wasn’t an option. You had to find another.

You would. You’d figure it out.

“It’s Cinnamon, by the way,” he said without any context.

You looked at him in question.

“My embarrassing nickname.” This was not where you saw the conversation heading but you were delighted all of a sudden. “My ma used to call me that all the damn time. Mortifying.”

“Cinnamon and Buttercup.” You didn’t bother hiding the grin that spread across your face. “World’s best assassins.”

“If that name ever leaves this conversation, I’ll know who to murder.”

“You couldn’t even if you tried,” you said playfully, nudging his shoulder.

He shrugged, face relaxed. “T’was worth a shot.”

An unintentional pun you snickered at. You didn’t tease him any further, just filed the name away as a memory. Maybe you’d use it later.

“Have you ever let anyone go after that?” You didn’t want to keep coming back to this conversation but you liked having someone to relate to.

“No.” Sam shook his head. “Didn’t want to test my luck.”

“Me too.” One had been enough. You lived in fear for so long, waiting for someone to pull the plug and tell him what you’d done. That fear only grew everyday, finding a place at the deepest corner of your mind to fester.

“It’s what I meant when I said Serpentine had a motive to want me dead,” Sam said, piquing your interest once more.

“Huh?”

“The man I was supposed to kill- he was their old head. He disappeared after that and no one heard from him but it pissed off everyone, right from Ransone to their stupid gang’s janitor,” he explained, your eyes going wide with every word. “So the irony is, if we’re right, I might have led us into this situation. They’re looking for revenge.”

“Holy shit,” you uttered under your breath.

“I just assumed he died of old age if someone didn’t get to him first. He looked like he was one birthday away from the grave anyway.”

“How are you still alive, Sam?” you asked in wonder.

“I’d do it again.” He laughed, a deep one from his stomach.

He was reckless, clearly. Happily and unashamedly so. And if you continued to hang out with him after this was over, he’d probably get you killed in some stunt or two.

But maybe you’d deal with that if the time came. 

He leaned back again, this time no creases on his forehead from stress. He looked at peace.

You sat together in silence. You occasionally stole glances at him as the sun set in front of you, a small smile on your face.

You leaned your head on his shoulder tentatively. You could feel him tilt his head to look at you and you prepared to have him ask you to move.

It never came. Instead, he scooted closer to you, letting you rest against him more comfortably. Your heart skipped a beat; barely but surely. 

A realisation quickly hit you, suddenly before consuming you. Your stomach sank.  

“Fuck.”

Next part

[yukidragon]

Our Life Snippit - Fish and Flirting

Soooo... who’s ready to read another clip of the first draft for my Our Life: Beginnings & Always fanfic novelization? This time, let’s take a slice of Step 2's moment, Dinner.

I’d like to thank everyone for enjoying my writing. All of your likes, reblogs, and comments are the fuel that drives me to share more of it here. I’m thankful for the feedback my fellow fans of the game and especially its creators @gb-patch! You are all just so sweet. Thank you!

...

The crunch of sand against the mat beneath her sandals was a familiar welcome for Jamie as she entered his bedroom. Cove didn’t care if he brought a little bit of the beach home after every visit there. Cliff never scolded him for it like her moms would if she adopted such a lackadaisical attitude. This left sand to accumulate all over his personal space, but he never minded.

That was just how Cove was - a little bit of a mess.

Cove didn’t waste time getting comfortable, taking a seat on the edge of his extra large bed. “You can sit wherever you want.”

There weren’t actually all that many options. The desk chair was the obvious choice, as it was the only place to sit besides the bed, but Cove rarely used it for that purpose despite claiming her desk chair as his preferred spot whenever they hung out in her room. Jamie knew from experience that his chair was nowhere near as comfortable as hers, and it had a squeak to it that set her teeth on edge. She could deal with a stiff chair, but the noise it made ensured that the first time she sat in it was also the last.

This meant that the only options left were to stand, sit on the sandy floor, or…

Jamie fought to keep the mischief on her mind from showing on her face. Well, Cove did say that she could sit wherever she wanted.

Although Cove had hoped Jamie would take his offer as an invitation to sit on his bed with him, he was shocked that she took a seat right beside him. She was so close he felt her knee briefly brush against his as she made herself comfortable, all the while flashing him a cheerful smile that sent his heart pounding. He had hoped she would sit close to him; he just didn’t expect she would sit this close.

Not that Cove was complaining.

Jamie noticed Cove tense up, his back going stiff as he ducked his head away. It reminded her of how he would react whenever she hugged him, especially when he began to blush and tried to hide the way his lips curled into a trembling smile.

“Oh my God,” Cove whispered under his breath. The words slipped out of him without realizing, spoken so softly that Jamie might not have heard it if she wasn’t sitting right next to him.

The reaction thrilled Jamie, and she couldn’t stop herself from beaming at Cove. He was just too cute!

Cove noticed the shift in Jamie’s expression out of the corner of his eye. With how close they were, it was impossible not to notice each other’s every move. He couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at her, wondering why she seemed so happy all of a sudden.

Jamie noticed the silent question in his eyes. Before she could seriously consider playing coy, her real feelings came bubbling out. “You’re adorable!”

The compliment, delivered with such enthusiasm, seemed to come right out of nowhere for Cove. He stiffened again, his eyes flying open wide as his mouth hung open in shock. “I… what?”

Jamie watched as the blush deepen on Cove’s face before spreading to the tips of his ears and all the way down his neck. He wasn’t the only one blushing, as her cheeks grew rather hot as well, but since she already said it… “You’re adorable,” she repeated, trying to look and sound much more confident than she felt.

That got Cove’s mouth trembling again. It was a wonder how he could still look Jamie in the eye with how much his insides were fluttering. He gripped the blanket underneath him, feeling like he might just fall off the bed with how weak his knees were at that moment. “I’m not. That’s…”

It was almost too much for Cove to take. How could Jamie say stuff like that to him so easily? It wasn’t fair how easy it was for her to send his heart into overdrive and turn his mind into mush.

Cove shifted nervously in place as he scrambled to get his mind working again. Jamie was flirting with him, right? She had to be. Unless he was mistaken. Then again, this happened often enough that it couldn’t be all his imagination, right? Except this was Jamie - she was nice to everyone. Of course, she was nicest to him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t reading too much into things.

Should he flirt back? What would he say? What could he say? Should he call her cute? Jamie was definitely cute, and nice, and thoughtful, and fantastic and…

But what if that made things weird? If Jamie was just being nice and not thinking too much about this stuff, Cove might make things awkward. And if things got uncomfortable between them…

It was all too much for Cove. He did the only thing he could do - he fled the subject of romance completely.

“Did you see my fish?” Cove blurted out, latching onto the first non-romance-related topic to pop into his head. “I’ve got some. In a tank. Right there.” He threw both arms out in front of him in an almost desperate gesture to direct Jamie’s attention away from him to something else far safer with less world-shattering ramifications.

As happy as Jamie was to make Cove so flustered, she could see she had overwhelmed him. She wanted to drop hints about how she felt about him, not make him uncomfortable. Despite how poor the change in topic was, she granted him mercy and allowed it.

Cove bit back a sigh of relief when Jamie directed her gaze away from him. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on getting his rapidly beating heart back under control. At the same time, he couldn’t help but feel just a little disappointed with himself.

The fish in the tank were fairly varied, all of them bright and colorful. The way Cove had so dramatically pointed them out, one might think that Jamie had never seen them before. She knew that Cliff had gifted him the tank and pets not long after the father and son first moved to Sunset Bird.

Fondly, Jamie recalled the excitement that always shone in his eyes whenever Cove proudly introduced her to his newest pet. He always made sure she was the first to know, and it always made her feel special.

Jamie was also always the first one Cove went to whenever a fish unfortunately passed on. Those occasions broke her heart to see him so sad, and she did whatever she could to comfort him. Despite the sad memory, a small smile tugged at her lips as she recalled how she had come up with the idea of giving the fish funerals, and she officiated over them as best as her childish self could without having any real experience with funerals prior. As sad as they were, they did help her best friend heal from the loss.

Returning her focus to the tank, Jamie inspected it and its occupants with increasing interest. Although she had no experience having pets of her own, she had learned what it took to take care of fish from listening to Cove talk about his pets. She helped him out wherever she could as well, be it with checking to make sure the tank’s thermometer was accurate by comparing its reading with one her moms owned or looking up information he struggled to find by himself.

Cove was very serious about the care of his pets, and it showed. The fish were healthy and energetic as they swam through the crystal clear water.

The smaller fish zipping about were interesting, but Jamie found her eye drawn to the especially big one because of its dazzling multicolored scales. A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she felt dumb for never asking a very simple question before. “What are their names?”

Although the question was innocent enough, Cove found himself growing a bit bashful. “I don’t name them,” he admitted. “Well, not really.” At seeing Jamie direct a raised eyebrow at him, he gave her a lopsided smile. “I mean… Mostly, I just call them things based on what they look like. ‘Squirt’ for a small one, ‘Tangerine’ for a really orange one. That sort of thing.” He let out an awkward chuckle. “I’ve had a lot of fish, and I’m not that good at coming up with names…”

The answer tickled Jamie. She hadn’t known about that little weakness of his. It was always such a nice surprise whenever she learned about a new side of Cove that she had never noticed before.

“Oh,” Cove said, as a thought occurred to him. “A couple of them have other types of names.” He pointed towards a small orange-red fish. It was off on its own away from its tankmates. “My dad named her Dreamcatcher.” He paused for a moment before pointing at a more yellowish fish that just darted out of the fake log. “And that other one’s Mark. Mom came up with that one.”

Jamie focused on the two particular fish before turning back to Cove. He was still looking at his pets with a more relaxed smile on his face. For a moment she just admired how the glow from the tank reflected in his eyes before snapping her focus back onto the conversation. “You let other people name your fish?”

“Yeah,” Cove said happily. “It’s nice.” He then turned to Jamie as an idea popped into his head. He tilted his head to the side, considering the thought for a moment before deciding to go ahead with it. “Do you wanna name one?”

Jamie’s eyes lit up at the offer. “Yeah I do!”

Cove’s smile grew a little at her enthusiasm. “Cool. There’s a few who don’t have names right now, the newer ones. You can pick which you wanna name.”

Jamie waited until Cove pointed out each of her options. The first fish was the smallest in the tank. It was orange all over and zipped around the tank so fast that it was lapping the others. The second was red and just slightly bigger, with a tail dotted by black spots almost like freckles. The last fish was the largest one in the tank that had caught her eye earlier. Its multicolored scales practically glittered under the bright light of the large tank as it slowly glided through the water.

It was an easy choice for Jamie to make. “The biggest fish.”

Cove nodded, a little amused, as he waited for Jamie to decide on a name. He had a feeling that would be the one she would pick. She did like rainbows after all, and that particular fish was practically a living rainbow.

Jamie squinted at the tank, hamming up an exaggerated show of taking this sacred duty of naming a pet fish seriously as she stroked her chin and let out a low hum. She was rewarded for her theatrics when Cove noticed and let out a chuckle. She barely kept herself from grinning or doing more than glimpsing at him out of the corner of her eye as she tried her best not to break character.

Eventually, Jamie straightened up and turned to Cove, maintaining her solemn expression the entire time. “Gil.”

Cove couldn’t help but laugh unreservedly at not only her choice, but her antics as well.

Finally, Jamie broke character and allowed herself to smile and enjoy how she made Cove laugh. The affectionate sound was music to her ears.

“I could’ve come up with that,” Cove chuckled.

“Well, it was the second name to pop into my head,” Jamie said almost a little too innocently.

Cove caught on that Jamie wasn’t quite done with the bit yet and raised his eyebrow, playing along. “Oh yeah? What was the first one?”

“Cove,” Jamie announced, grinning.

With that, Cove broke into another round of laughter. “What? You thought about naming it after me?”

Jamie shrugged, doing her best to appear casual. “A little bit, but I couldn’t help it; your name is always the first one to come to my mind.”

Heat bloomed in Cove’s cheeks as his laughter turned bashful and trailed off. He was pretty sure Jamie wasn’t flirting with him this time and was merely joking around, but it still felt a little too good to hear her say something like that. “I-is it? Oh, well… uh…”

Jamie gave Cove a moment, feeling satisfied that her attempt at flirting got such a positive reaction. Those tips from Lee were paying off.

When Cove shook off the flustered feelings, he gave Jamie a bent smile. “Alright, it’s Gil.”

[rwby-necro-au-archive]

The difference between independency and isolation

Of course she had to show up. She always showed up when he was happy, just to ruin it all and make him feel like the scum of the earth. All with that fucking smile on her face. It always got to him, and she knew it.

Qrow swung the shadowy blade of his equally shadow-like scythe into another tree. Why could she just leave him alone? He couldn’t help but think about the comment the noirette said to him before she left, “How pathetic. You need someone else to save your ass because you can’t even do it yourself. You’re weak. And you’re too dependent on others.”

He wasn’t going to stay dependent, Raven had a point for once. And so he was going to change that, it’s true that he had been relying on Oz ever since they got together, and it was insulting to do that to him. Ozpin was a person too, a busy one at that, and he could always stop what he was doing to take care of Qrow. So she was right, he did need to grow up a little and get some independency.

Hence why he was out here in the forest fighting grimm and hitting trees, in order to have independency, he needed to get better at defending himself. As it stands, he was the weakest out of the 3 of them. Glynda kicked his ass on a regular basis, and Oz? Qrow was never a challenge or even a real fight against him. He was sick of being weak.

He swung the scythe into the tree one last time before it came crashing down onto the cerise forest floor in the opposite direction to his own.

“Impressive, that only took 3 hits from you.” Qrow jolted at the sudden, but familiar, accented voice.

Great.

Ozpin was here.

Qrow grimaced, back turned to the other “I thought I said I wanted to be alone.” “I guess you could say that I figured out why you’re out here.” God, sometimes he hated how Oz spoke.

He couldn’t tell if he was happy, concerned, or pissed at him. At this point he was expecting anger.

And at this point, he really didn’t want to be having this conversation.

Qrow scoffed as he looked for another tree to hit, “Oh yeah? And what would that be?” Emphasizing his words as he struck into the trunk and bark of another innocent tree. “…You want to be stronger, I understand that. But you’re irritated that I have refused to train with you.” He spoke quietly “That irritation went away when that tree fell” Qrow commented as he pointed at the former tree. “It’s for the better I don’t train with you.”

“And how’s that?” He could practically hear the eyebrow raise. Fuck he hated how well he knew Ozpin sometimes, just to know small things like that made things difficult. Qrow swallowed down a smartass comment and responded “Independency. You, are a busy man, and you don’t have time to constantly be cleaning up after my messes and mistakes. To constantly be taking care of me.”

He attempted to swing into the poor tree again but his arm was grabbed. Ow, that’s right, he’s injured, he almost forgot about the fact that the grimm had given him a new set of possible scars from the fight he had what seemed to be hours ago. Finally, for the first time throughout their conversation, he looked at Ozpin.

He didn’t look angry. He looked……sad? Concerned? Whatever the hell it was, it sure wasn’t anger. Qrow felt a pang of guilt shoot through him at Oz’s expression. He was feeling that way because of him.

Ozpin stared at him for a moment before speaking in his ever so iconic atlesian accent, “When did I ever say that? When did I ever tell you that I didn’t have time for you, that I didn’t want to take care of you? And where is this “independency” thing coming from? Qrow, you are already independent. You took care of yourself when you lived with your biological family, you looked out for yourself in prison, you did your best to make sure you got what you needed as a young adult, you fight alone, and you live alone. How much more independency do you think you need?”

Qrow thought for a moment before answered Oz’s final question, “I need the independency to not rely on those that I care about” he mumbled.

“No. You are not relying on me. Relying is what Oscar is doing, needing me to get him food, clothes, and a shelter, because he is not capable of doing that himself. You are capable of doing that yourself and you have.”

“This isn’t independency. This is isolation. And you know just as well as I do, that I know my fair share of isolation.” Ozpin spoke quietly, almost as if to not scare or anger Qrow anymore than he already was. Qrow didn’t even have the heart or nerve to respond, he always could never see the different between the two. The two were different words for the same thing in his mind. But he was too exhausted to argue, and it seemed the physical toll of what he did today was quickly catching up with him, as he couldn’t even keep the physical form of his scythe. It had faded away minutes ago.

Qrow once again avoided eye contact with Oz, which seemed to only worry the taller man even more. Ozpin very gently picked Qrow up, Qrow, being too tired to even be surprised at the action. “Let’s get you home and patched up, love.”

Qrow sat on the onyx colored velvet couch, taking note of how pricy it might’ve been due to the quality of the material. He also took note of Ozpin’s hands and the feeling of medication and bandages against his body. They had arrived about an hour ago at the Pine home, although the bubbly orange specter that was normally floating around was nowhere to be seen.

Qrow vaguely remembered his partner mentioning something about Glynda babysitting him, but had been too focused on Oz’s hands to hear the details. He always had a thing for Oz’s hands, how could you not? It was one of his most defining characteristics if you had a close relationship with him.

But it was less what they looked like, although they looked incredibly stunning, and more what they felt like. They were massive, similarly to Oz’s size, but they were gentle, rough but soft. They were well worn from years of being in undesirable situations and hard work. It always fascinated Qrow that he could hold something as fragile as a glass vase with such precision and care but also use something with such weight and force like long memory.

He could probably stare at him doing anything with his hands for hours if Oz would let him. But here he was, sitting on a velvet couch, with his back being carefully and meticulously patched up.

Luckily this was it before he could finally lay down and relax a little, he had plenty of time beforehand to admire Ozpin as his arms, legs, and face were patched up. Although his face was probably the hardest for Qrow due to how close Ozpin was to him at that point. It seemed easy for Ozpin though, he was too focused to notice Qrow’s expression or face heating up.

A voice shot through his thoughts “There we are, all finished love.” Qrow turned around and saw Ozpin smile. “Now then, I will be right back love, I am going to go change and grab us some blankets and a pillow.” He spoke before he gracefully left the room. Qrow rubbed the bridge of his nose, out of physical exhaustion, and emotional exhaustion.

God what a day. And fucking hell he was smitten with Ozpin. It’s a good thing they’re dating. Qrow carefully laid down on the velvet couch and thought about the events of the day, yeah, it had been a shitty day. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen asleep before I could even give you something comfortable to lay on.” Ozpin huffed, heh, Qrow could hear the hands on his hips in that comment. He chuckled before opening an eye, low and behold, he did have a hand on his hip.

“Nah, just waiting.” Qrow smiled tiredly, “You gonna give me a pillow and a blanket so I can sleep? Or are ya just gonna stand there?” Ozpin tapped a finger to his chin and feigned thoughtfulness, “Actually, I had a better idea. Although you’ll have to sit up little bird.”, Qrow groaned at the command, he was already sore, c’mon “Fiiiiiine.” “Oh hush, you won’t be complaining when I show you what it is I’m talking about.” Ozpin shot back as he sat cross legged on the couch.

He placed the pillow he had grabbed in his lap and guided Qrow into laying down “So?” “You already know the answer smartass.” “I like it better when you say it.” “Fine, yes, this is better.” “Good!”

They sat there for a moment, silent. Qrow had closed his eyes and was already partially asleep when he heard Ozpin start singing a little bit. He opened his eyes and looked at Oz, who peered back at him with golden eyes.

Wait.

Golden eyes?

“Ah…..sorry love, I didn’t—“ Ozpin began to stutter out an apology before Qrow cut him off “I didn’t say stop, I just looked at you. Also, are you staring at me?” He mumbled the last part.

“….yes.” Ozpin mumbled back, “just how much do you love me?” He questioned, Ozpin raised an eyebrow “Why ask love?”. Right, Oz never really knew when his eyes changed colors. “Your eyes are gold right now…”

The revelation made Ozpin’s face heat up “O-oh… well, I love you more than enough if my eyes are doing that.” He laughed. Qrow thought for a moment as he stared at Oz, Ozpin tilted his head curiously, “What are you thinking about love?” Qrow shrugged “just about the fact that I know how much you love me, but you don’t know how much I love you. Sorta wish my eyes did the same.”

“Well, I am sure you love me just as much if not more.” Ozpin leaned down and kissed the others forehead. Ozpin proceeded to start singing gently again, to which Qrow closed his eyes at. Eventually, Qrow had been lulled to sleep and was snoring gently.

Ozpin himself was growing sleepy at the sight, but looking down at the shorter man with admiration and concern. He sighed gently to himself.

“What am I going to do with you love?”

[frogsmulder]

Maybe There’s Hope: chpt 1 Stop and Breathe

Starting from the final events of 09x20 The Truth, Mulder and Scully tackle their new reality as fugitives. When they finally settle into things, Scully finds out she is pregnant again. A canon divergent AU where I thought, what if Scully got pregnant whilst on the run instead of at the end of season 11?

4k words; rated t; tagging @today-in-fic; read on ao3

The long desert roads seemed to stretch light-years ahead, no scenery, no landmarks, just flat, arid land in all directions. The baked earth was cool in the grey hue of the early morning. Far out, somewhere along the horizon, the sun started to reach up its first fingers to claw at the dawn sky. Chasing those pale blues and purples, the day would soon bleed bright oranges and yellows and colour the earth below. Daybreak felt like an answer to a prayer; the dawn light lifted the oppressive, starless night sky and had cloaked them. Daybreak filled Mulder with a sense of liberty and overwhelming hope for a second chance as invigorating as the breeze outside. It was a miracle that they had made it this far. Mulder was beginning to think he had been executed after all and was caught in limbo, forever driving towards the end of the cold, dark sky. A lost soul wandering aimlessly as punishment for his crimes.

In his mind, he kept hearing the explosions ring through his hears and the flashes of flame in the rear-view mirror. Always in his peripheral, snapshots of the ruins hurtling his way took him by surprise. He glanced at them but as soon as he chased their sight, the apparitions disappeared.

His father was dead. The smoking son-of-a-bitch should have died a long time ago. Mulder tightened his grip on the staring wheel. Now He haunted his peripheral vision as well, the ghost of his smoke sickly uncurling in the back seats of the stolen car. His fathers, his sister, his mother, Emily, the Gunmen: all dead. How many did he have left to lose?

He swallowed thickly and looked over at Scully in the passenger seat, her head lolled to one side and her lips parted to utter the tiniest of snores. A tiny damp patch on her shoulder marked where she had drooled throughout the night– something she most adamantly didn't do. Caught in the first glowing rays of the sun, Mulder had never seen her so beautiful, frizzy hair and all. He placed a hand upon her knee, a poor substitute for all the embraces he wished to share with her.

Scully stirred from her light sleep, groaning and stretching like old wood as she straightened herself. Her blinks were laboriously heavy, weighed down by the stress of the last twenty-four hours. Mulder hadn't meant to wake her but didn't miss the opportunity to share the day with her. "Hey, Scully, look at the sunrise," he whispered.

She groggily hummed, appreciating the myriad of colours. Voice still thick with sleep, she asked, "Where are we?"

"Not sure," he answered, tapping the dial for the gas to see if the needle was lying.

Scully curled up as much as she could in the seat and turned to gaze out of the window, watching the little rocks and pebbles flew past in a blur along the roadside. "Where are we going?"

He glanced at her, then back towards the horizon racing as quickly away from them as they chased after it. "Don't know. But if we don't know, at least nobody else knows either." It was meant to make her smile, but all she did was frown. With no one and nothing around them, the faux safety of the nowhere between lands scared Scully. As if somehow it was a trap they were being lulled into; a false sense of security. She knew they needed to be wary at all hours, every ticking second of the day and every tock of the clock at night. She reminded herself there was no safe place to hide and no time to catch their breath. But it was all so exhausting.

"How long have you been driving?" She craned her neck to see the bags under his eyes. Mulder had pulled all-nighters before, and it wasn't like he was never subject to bouts of insomnia, but the restless worry was the worst thing. She could see it was eating him up from the inside, not fear for himself but for her, that she had chosen this life with him again. And now he could barely offer her an existence. She wanted to tell him that it didn't matter– she'd make the same decision twice, a thousand times, but that wouldn't allay the worry. Reality had punched him in the face and marked him with two shiners.

"Ten hours or so," he said as if it was still the first half an hour.

Scully sat up in her seat. "You should take a rest. Let me drive."

"No." Mulder shook his head with pursed lips and then chuckled. "You should sleep while you can. We both know me resting is pointless."

She smiled sorrowfully, looking at her hands rested in her lap. She sighed. "None of this feels real does it?"

Squeezing her knee, Mulder spoke honestly, as soft and as mellow as the sunlight on the horizon. "You are real to me right here and now. That's all I need to get through this."

But Scully didn't ask what this was and when it would be over. She only knew she was already counting down the days. But the end was intangible and far out of sight, and counting was hopeless when it felt like starting at infinity. The one thing Scully knew for certain was that an irrevocable change had already occurred and she blinked and she missed it. She had been fighting for them, pleading for them. Just her and Mulder: that was all she wanted. And then this shift they had taken on in the last couple of days– such a short time– and she was not sure she wanted it anymore. She was beginning to get that tangy taste in her mouth like she was mourning the past and who they used to be.

Scully took a deep breath. Willing the sting away from her eyes, she expelled the air caught in her lungs, imagining the ache in her body fused to the carbon dioxide molecules and expelled also. Focusing on the sunrise, she found beauty in its nature, reminding herself of the beauty of them; all the times he had made her giggle, made her cry, made her roll her eyes.

Mulder could see Scully thinking, the lost look in her eye more familiar to him than the back of his own hand. Her silence spoke louder than any response; it whispered to him exactly what was on her mind. He knew it because he felt it too. He gently took one of the hands from her lap and held it.

The touch made Scully gasp softly, breaking her from the melody of her thoughts. It was as if he had somehow heard them. Of course, he had; they might have changed but somethings always stayed the same. Scully realised she needed him close now more than ever if she was to stand a chance of surviving. Squeezing his hand, she let him in. She missed this telepathy of theirs; messages like electricity passed through their neurons and chemically encoded between the synapse of their touch. They operated on the same electromagnetic wavelength. She smiled and squeezed his hand again.

Mulder glanced back to the gas needle, edging steadily lower. "How much money did Walter manage to get for us?"

"I haven't counted, but it won't last long anyway."

Fortunately, Scully had had the sensibility to keep the cash on her person. It was all they had left aside the clothes on their backs. Their coats and the change of clothes that were hastily packed were still in the car that Monica and Doggett had driven away and they all knew it was too dangerous now to risk meeting up.

"The next motel we come across, we'll book in–"

She looked at him cautiously.

"– Just for the night. We won't stay long, just so we can sleep on a proper bed."

"So we can stop and catch our breath," she concluded, though doubtful, running her thumb over every hill and valley of his knuckles.

"So we can catch our breath," he agreed.

The hum of the tires picking up dust and the voice of the engine marked their silence. Their long, drawn-out breaths were comforting, yet the quiet was ominous, allowing thoughts to grow like tumours, hanging uneasily between them. They had each other but what if they weren't strong enough? Mulder would have said something– anything to break the tension, but all his thoughts were made of what-ifs, and voicing them, he feared, would make them real.

Scully curled up again, protecting herself against the miasma of the silence. Concentrating on the tide of Mulder's breathing, she found a calming rhythm, watching his chest rise and fall. Knowing he was there, she managed to find peace enough to steal an hour or so more sleep.

Over the horizon came a small, dark dot, growing in size and detail. Mulder leaned forward, squinting through the dust on the windscreen. As it came approached, he thanked Scully's God for gifting an oasis. The gas station looked beaten and worn down but promised life and provisions. He made the quick decision to stop and top up on gas, water, and something for breakfast. Looking at Scully one last time, he saw her sleeping; the quiver of her eyelashes somehow anxious even during sleep. He killed the engine and got out to check the store.

It was still: quieter than Scully remembered it being. Blinking tiredly, she picked the sleepy dust from her eyes and groaned. She gasped sharply, the sight of the empty seat next to her sending her heart aflutter. She grappled at her belt for the gun she no longer had. Cursing, she ran out of the car. The beat of her feet on the ground rivaled the pound of the war drum on her chest. "Mulder?" she called but was met with no reply. "Mulder!"

Mulder came quickly through the door, a finger pressed to his lips and a brown bag in his hand. "Shh, Scully," he whispered. "It's alright. I was just getting some gas."

It was then that Scully noticed the row of pumps they were parked next to. She looked away and licked the corner of her mouth, embarrassed that she had failed to correctly assess the situation before leaping to conclusions. It was so unlike her. She was frustrated she had let fatigue and worry manipulate her so easily. It had been less than two days.

"I could have got us caught," she breathed, shaking her head in disbelief. "How could I have been so stupid?"

"Hey, none of that now." Mulder rubbed her shoulder reassuringly. He guided her back towards the car, his palm at the small of her back like a steady rudder. "We're in the middle of nowhere, nobody is going to find us out here," he calmed her, even though his heart was still racing; the fright in her shouts had shot ice through his spine.

Scully slumped into her seat, the faux safety of no-man's-land nagging at her still. "Mulder, you know better than anybody they have eyes and ears everywhere."

"Let me do the worrying for once, Scully. This one's on me."

She shook her head– she wouldn't let him bare this on his own; they were in this together. It made a small smile creep across Mulder's lips and in return Scully's brow furrowed in confusion.

"How can either of us win when we are both so stubborn?" he laughed, and Scully chuckled too. "I spoke to the owner and he said that if we head southwest, sorta back along the trail, we will end up in Rosswell by nightfall. They'll have a motel–"

"And we can breathe," she nodded, then smirked. "You just wanted to see the UFO sight, didn't you?"

"Maybe," he sheepishly replied. "I got you some of that fat-free yogurt you like for breakfast. And some bagels. You should eat something; we didn't eat all day yesterday."

Scully hadn't noticed. The gnawing of worry in her stomach had sated any appetite she might have had. She still wasn't hungry now, but the doctor in her knew she had to eat something, however hard it was going to be.

Much of the day was spent watching the sun rise overhead and munching on bagels. Scully scolded Mulder when he dipped one of his into the yogurt she had barely touched and Mulder lectured Scully about eating enough. By the time the sun began to set, they had arrived in Roswell and found a motel to stay the night. Clouds were rolling in, covering the skies from the farthest corners, and the threat of rain could be smelt on the air.

Unlocking the door, they both stepped inside a minimal, but pleasant room. Scully clenched her hands around phantom luggage itching her palms. She had the urge to unpack everything into the dresser like she always did, like on their very first case together. She peered around the door to the ensuite, seeing rows of tiny bottles and an inviting robe hung elegantly, yet groaned.

"Mulder, we are going to have to go back out for toothbrushes."

"Oh, hang on..." He rummaged through the paper bag, producing two brushes and a tube of paste. "I picked some up earlier. Sorry, they might have some bagel crumbs on."

She took them with a grin, standing on her tiptoes to press a grateful kiss to his cheek. "You're a lifesaver."

Mulder watched her disappear into the bathroom, giving her some privacy and himself some time to think. He sat on the floor, watching the rain begin to fall and the wind pick up, whipping the trees outside. Gazing out of the window, he imagined the brewing storm an omen, but one of hope. All the good things that had happened to him had been christened by torrents of rain and swirls of wind and wisps of Scully stealing small pieces of his heart: their first assignment together; their first night spent together. The weather brought the ships to port and Scully to him. Beyond the clouds he pictured his sister in the starlight twinkling brightly. He hoped his mother was up there too, keeping a watch over them both.

Suddenly, he smelt the smoke, saw it plume from the chair in the corner. He gritted his teeth. Of all the people that could appear to him...

 She's been up there for a long time, you know. I thought you would have figured it out sooner.

Mulder dug his fingernails into his palms, sure the pain would snap him awake.

 She saw the world for what it truly was: there's no justice... there's no cruelty either. There's simply survival. In the end, she chose not to survive. She had a choice, Mulder, what do you get?

Maybe it was all in his head. If he tried hard enough, he could make the nightmare disappear.

What did your crusade reap you? The Truth? he chuckled. Was it the truth you wanted; expected? He leaned forward out of the shadow, his dead eyes gleaming in the light. Truth is not power, in fact, it's quite the opposite: truth makes you powerless. It's been quite the burden on me; perhaps that's why I smoke so many. He slyly smiled around a wreath of white cloud. You should try it.

In the end, we all lose. That's the beauty of survival: it's only ever a temporary thing. The date is set, son. Nothing, not even you, can change that.

Fury burning through him, Mulder lept up like a lit match to a gas lamp. "And what would you know?! What did you ever try to do about it?!"

He lunged for the man, desperate to squeeze the last, dying breaths from his corpse once and for all. But as he was about to lay his hands on his sickly throat, the son-of-a-bitch dissipated as thin as the smoke he breathed, elusive in death as he had been in life. It seemed fitting. Curling his fingers through nothing but cool air, Mulder slumped back in defeat. Biting his fingernail, he thought about the truth about who he was. It occurred to him that he was lost without purpose. Although he didn't feel it yet, he recognised the impending dawn of realisation and feared it. He threw his hand out in frustration.

The truth was he had failed.

He hadn't exposed the conspiracy or brought down its organisations. He hadn't found Samantha. He hadn't been a father to William. And he hadn't been there for Scully.

The trees shook their disapproval, condemning the guilty man.

Mulder rested his head back on the mattress like he was treading dangerous waters, but his arms were limp over his knees, merely reticent about his fate. Looking back across the room, he saw Scully walk in smelling sweetly of lavender soap and looking angelic in the pale, dilapidated light. She sat on the edge of the bed, gently running her fingers through his hair and watching the storm in unison. He moved into her touch, shifting to rest his cheek against her thigh. They sat like for a while in companionable silence, reassuring one another through their touches.

When Scully crawled up the bed to lie down, she expected him to follow. When he didn't she asked, "what are you thinking? Mulder?"

"I'm thinking... I'm a guilty man. I've failed in every respect. I deserve the harshest punishment for my crimes."

Hearing the echo, Scully was thrown back to the concrete cell when he first said those words. She could tell, then, there had been a hollow complacency to his tone. Now, she only heard a conviction in his voice. It terrified her. Scully had only just broken him free of where he was being tortured, she couldn't let it live on inside of him. So, she did what she always did: countered Mulder with any sane argument she could think of.

"You don't believe that."

He was sure that he had failed as he was sure of anything. If he told Scully that it was her he had failed, she would refuse to believe him and refuse to let him believe it too. But it was true. And he dared not mention all the ways he had failed their child. Mulder sighed. "I believe that I sat in a motel room like this with you when we first met, and I tried to convince you of the truth. And in that respect, I succeeded, but... in every other way..." He thought of William swaddled in his arms when he held him for the first time– only time. He swallowed the burgeoning lump in his throat. "I've failed."

"You don't believe that either."

"Mm," he disagreed. His jaw was set. Thoughts pounded in his chest but every time he chose something to say it died a whisper caught in his throat. He finally settled for something unimportant, yet still a truth neither of them could refute. "I've been chasing after monsters with a butterfly net." He took a breath and tried again "You heard the man– the date's set. I can't change that." I can't save us. I can't make the world a better place for our son, he didn't say.

Scully wanted to shout at him that this wasn't who he was, he didn't quit so easily, he always found something worth fighting for, but she knew if she did that she would lose him forever. Taking a steadying breath, she composed herself. Keeping her voice measured, she told him what she wanted to be true. "You wouldn't tell me. Not because you were afraid or broken... but because you didn't want to accept defeat."

"Well... I was afraid of what knowing would do to you. I was afraid that it would crush your spirit." He looked into her eyes and saw a pained, mirrored reflection. In some ways, he was glad Cancer-man had told her because he could never bring himself to trample her hope, not when things were already so dire. It would break his heart.

Mulder's gaze held her fast and was as deep and cutting as the love she felt. He looked young and small and innocent like he was clutching those cloth hearts. Even then he was undeterred, never willing to give up hope.

"Why would I accept defeat? Why would I accept it if you won't?" Scully needed him to keep fighting. If he didn't, she would surely give in. "Mulder, you say that you've failed, but you only fail if you give up. And I know you-- you can't give up... It's what I saw in you when we first met. It's why I followed you. Why I'd do it all over again."

"And look what it's gotten you," he murmured.

"And what has it gotten you? Not your sister. Nothing that you've set out for. But you won't give up, even now." She took his hand, gently squeezing, hoping their neurons would connect and renew their telepathy. "You've always said that you want to believe. But believe in what, Mulder? If this is the truth you've been looking for, then what is there left to believe in?"

He glanced at the chair still coiled in that foul aroma, thought of his sister living on as bright starlight, or else he had become the thing he feared: delusional, proving all the whispered rumours true. He suspected it was the trauma or remnants from his brain disease that caused the visions, but that's not what he wanted to believe.

"I believe that... the dead are not lost to us. That they speak to us as part of something greater than us– greater than any alien force." He thought of Byers, Langley, Frohike, even Krycek. "And if you and I are powerless now, I want to believe that if we listen to what's speaking, it can give us the power to save ourselves."

"Then we believe the same thing."

Taking her cross between his finger and thumb, Mulder examined it twinkling in the streetlight made shadowy by rain. He never considered himself a religious man, could never find any divine meaning to all the heartache he had suffered. Then life had brought him Scully with her science and her faith and her love. Maybe he could believe. His thumb traveled to her lips, marveling in the warmth of her; how alive they were. When she pressed the smallest of kisses to his digit, his world shattered with clarity. He joined her like a moth to a flame, helplessly wrapping himself around her like a life ring. She lay under the crook of his nose and he anchored them together with his knee over her hip.

"Maybe there's hope," he breathed.

Scully brushed her nose along his, nuzzling like she was nodding in agreement. The hand that Mulder had nestled in the hollow of her waist repeated the motion, climbing up the side of her ribs and abseiling down, friction warming the embers of their affection. Trailing his fingers higher, he followed the swoop of her hair behind her ear, tucking the locks into place. The edge of her jaw now held delicately beneath his fingertips, he looked to her eyes, the clear crystal blue pulling that familiar tug on his heartstrings. If it was possible, Scully shifted closer. She tilted her head, lips locking onto his once, chastely making herself known to him again. And then again, he searched her out to reply with his own tender kiss. Settling into one another's arms, their gazes fell upon the smile in each's eyes, finding an easy lull.

Scully witnessed the universe turn around in his beautiful mind. The flick of his eyes now quieter, softening from tiredness and tranquility, belayed newfound contentment. Staving off her own sleep, she saw his heavy eyelids droop and close, his breathing even out, and his form relax. She pulled him closer, buried herself in his comforting smell, watched over him– his protector.

The relentless pellets of rain struck percussion against the thin roof above them. Outside, the wind picked up in moaning gale. Inside, Scully breathed, sinking further into the hold of her partner and into the grips of sleep.

[angeltannis]

Mechrogunner: A Headcanon Masterpost

@fudgeroach and I have been cookin’ this ship up for a bit now, and we’ve come up with a bunch of ideas for it that I’m finally ready to post!

Background for context: We both headcanon Moze as a he/him transmasc, so that’s how Moze will be referred to in this post.

So, Gaige and Moze.

How do they meet?

-Pretty simple – at the Wainlock wedding. Moze hasn’t been out just relaxing and having a good time in so long that he stays later than pretty much everyone else. When he’s finally ready to call it a night, he goes up to Hammerlock to let him know. Hammerlock casts a glance over at the bar, where Gaige is practically passed out on the counter by that point, and asks if Moze would be willing to check on her for him. Moze is like “Uhhh...okay...”, not really getting why Hammerlock himself couldn’t just check on her.

Hammerlock, of course, has an agenda, trying to set Gaige up with a friend her own age. He didn’t plan on it going much, much further than that, lol.

Moze sits awkwardly down beside her and is all business, just asking her bluntly if she’s all right. Gaige, flirty drunk that she is, immediately latches on to him, telling him he’s great and that she loves him. Moze internally is like 😳 but acknowledges it’s because she’s drunk. He stays with her for a while, keeping it light, talking about their respective robot BFFs and telling her a couple funny old army stories to keep her awake and with it until she sobers up a little.

Both of them are so lonely that by the end of the night they are definitely both nursing lil crushes, but Moze has thick walls around his heart after what happened to his squad mates, and he’s too traumatized to let anyone in at the moment. When they finally part ways that night, he assumes he’ll never see Gaige again.

Then he gets a text from an unfamiliar number. Turns out Gaige got his number from Hammerlock, and has ““questions about Iron Bear””. (She actually does have questions about Iron Bear because she’s a fucking nerd, but make no mistake, she is definitely interested in both mech AND pilot)

Moze hasn’t been in this kind of position in, well, ever, really. He’s not sure what to do. He really likes talking to Gaige, though – she's stunningly smart, wild and funny as hell. He’s never met a woman like her before. He may not have a clue what she’s talking about half the time, but he sure does love hearing her say it all.

Gaige, on the other hand, is immediately and blatantly smitten with Moze. She tends to develop crushes on pretty much anyone who pays her attention, but Moze was so sweet and gentle with her while she was embarrassingly drunk that Gaige finds herself thinking about him long after they part ways.

The dating stage:

Moze is terrified of opening back up to anybody, so he keeps Gaige at arm’s length even as their texting goes from occasional, to frequent, to most of the day every day. The other Raiders encourage Moze to ask Gaige on a date, but he’s nowhere near ready for that kind of commitment.

When Gaige asks him to bring Iron Bear to her lab-slash-hideout so she can “check him out”, he tells himself and everyone else that it’s just a friend thing.

It’s totally not a friend thing oh God

He’s hanging out in her garage (I imagine Gaige hides out in some craphole abandoned building somewhere and that her garage is also her lab, kitchen, bedroom, etc.), watching her eyes light up as she examines Iron Bear when he realizes he’s in too deep to get out. She pulls a whole-ass little measuring tape out of her hair at one point and he’s like Oh god, you’re adorable and has to bite his tongue to refrain from saying it out loud.

Deathtrap is just watching them, aware that something is up, but he doesn’t know enough about humans to know exactly what it is

The first time Moze feels comfortable enough to show up in something other than his freaking Ursa Corps uniform, he’s a little shy because he’s been chopping at his own hair and feels like a doofus. To his surprise, Gaige lights up and immediately starts complimenting his “punk” hairstyle. She lets her own hair out of the pigtails with a grin, showing that she hacks at her own hair as well. It’s all split ends and uneven layers, and Moze’s heart flutters just a bit as those bright green eyes are suddenly framed by a mess of bouncy orange hair.

While he’s hanging out with Gaige, Moze eventually comes out of his shell enough to start cracking little jokes and feeling a bit more at ease. He hasn’t felt this way since the last night he spent with his squad before Darzaran Bay. Gaige is just so easy to talk to, and she laughs at his jokes and doesn’t pry about his past. He doesn’t pry about hers, either, though he can glean from her current situation that something has clearly gone horribly wrong in her young life.

Gaige is afraid to let anyone into her life, either, since every person who knows her whereabouts is another potential source of danger to her (and to them). She finds herself wondering why this soldier is all alone without a squadron or a battalion or whatever terms the army uses. The faraway look Moze sometimes gets tells her there’s a long and painful story behind it.

It takes a loooooong time, probably close to a year or more, before either of them are ready to admit they’re not just visiting each other as friends multiple times a week. 

They’re sitting outside one evening watching the sunset when Gaige grows uncharacteristically serious. Moze assumes she’s going to confess to some awful crime or something, and his first reaction is “Okay I don’t know what you did but I forgive you and I’ll help you hide the body”. Gaige is like ??? Ok well I did kill somebody in the past but I was actually going to ask if I could kiss you?

Neither of them have ever really had a proper kiss before. They basically end up bonking their faces together like a couple of clueless dorks. It goes on to become a favorite inside joke between them, with the two of them frequently headbutting each other and then having a good, confusing-to-everyone-else laugh about it.

The relationship:

-Moze is self conscious about his height, but it turns out Gaige actually prefers it because then she doesn’t feel like such a shrimp herself. Short couple rights

-Still though, Moze likes to wear his chunkiest combat boots when they’re together together so they’re at least equal size. Eventually Gaige starts wearing her own old combat boots, though, so poor Moze can’t win lol

-They’re not real sappy out in public, but they’re always either holding hands or Moze has an arm loosely around Gaige’s waist (or vice versa which makes Moze go “NOO I’m supposed to be the one doing that!!” And Gaige is like “Muahaha, Feminism Babey >:D”)

-Gaige found out Moze has a corporate tattoo and since then his life has never known peace (she teases him about it relentlessly)

-Moze sends lovey-dovey memes and texts...exclusively in Russian. Forcing Gaige to put them through a translator helps put a little bit of distance between the words and his feelings, so he doesn’t feel quite so vulnerable...

…But then Gaige struggles to learn some basic Russian in secret, and the next time Moze says something corny she can actually understand it and responds in kind. Moze is floored

-Gaige is a ball of repressed horny nerdiness. Moze was never very sexual to begin with, and his trauma has basically turned him completely asexual. While at first Gaige was (inwardly) a bit disappointed, as time goes on she realizes she cares way more about Moze than she cares about getting laid.

She’s still a slut for cuddles, though – and luckily Moze is willing to provide. At first he insists on being the “big spoon” (more like the backpack), but it’s tough to resist being held by a pretty girl who covers you in kisses and takes the time to change into her non-spiked metal arm after that one time she forgot and almost got you in the eye with a spike

-Gaige sleeps in a bed that’s FULL of pillows and blankets and stuffed animals and anything soft and Moze, who is used to sleeping on a barren military cot if not just on the floor, is like “Oh God, I’m drowning”

All you see is his hand reaching desperately out of a pillow pile before it, too, is absorbed and he disappears completely

-Semi-related to the last bit: Gaige sleeps completely sprawled out in her bed while Moze curls up tight, taking up as little space as possible. Occasionally he gets grabbed like a stuffed animal and smushed up against Gaige’s chest in her sleep. He finds he actually likes being held while he sleeps. It helps keep away some of the nightmares.

-When eventually Gaige finds out what happened to Moze, she starts ranting about the military-industrial complex and corporate corruption and Moze is kinda 😥 because he was basically bottle-fed army propaganda since he was born, but it all makes sense, and the military did fuck him over, and maybe there’s so much more to this than he even realized…

-Finding out Gaige’s backstory, Moze is like “Psh, Marcie Halloway sounds like a cunt. I would’ve killed her ass, too.”

-Moze never allows anyone else to even look inside Iron Bear’s pilot seat because of all his private belongings (ie the photos and mementos he keeps of his old squad mates). Gaige never outright asks because she knows it’s personal, but one day Moze asks if she'd like to have a look inside and see if there’s any cool stuff she would want to build into Bear. Gaige realizes that’s a huge step in their relationship because of how much trust it requires on Moze’s part, and she is like !!! “Yes of COURSE”

-[Gaige voice] So when am I gonna get to be Mrs. Gaige Hayussinian Yan-Lun Al-Amir Andreyevna?

-Both of them will eat anything, so romantic dinners can consist of anything from actual gourmet food to “Want a bite of my fried ratch?” “Um, obviously?? Gimme-“

-Perks of dating someone your own size: You can easily wear each other’s clothes. Cue Moze showing up to Sanctuary in a spiked leather jacket with patches shittily ironed on all over it, and Gaige keeping warm in an Ursa Corps bomber jacket (that she covers with patches and stickers to hide the Vladof advertising)

-Gaige operating Moze’s Dakka Bear turret, wildly spraying bullets and screaming catch phrases while Moze is in the pilot seat like 🥰 You’re wasting all my ammo but god I love you

-Moze jumping into combat: All right, let’s do this shit *puts on his helmet with pink skulls and hearts and PROPERTY OF GAIGE 💜 spray painted all over it*

-Gaige is still worried about being caught by the cops, which can make dates a little difficult, but she’s admittedly a little more at ease now that she travels with a fifteen-ton mech and his dashing pilot.

[21st-century-ninja]

Orange

My second piece for the @ninjaneverquit-zine- set in the same universe as White.  

The wings of the Shintaro are all sleek lines and silken feathers, painstakingly crafted down to each individual vane.  The Shintarans glide effortlessly through their city on them, robes neat and unruffled, nary a hair out of place when they take off and land again. They are a stunning display of craftsmanship and technology, way beyond anything that Ninjago has ever seen.

They also are completely bare of heart-colors.  

See, in Ninjago, people are born with pure white wings.  As you grow older, and grow your family and friends, their heart-colors (the unique patch of color hidden on the feathers near every person’s back) appear on your feathers.  Zane has the color of his creator spattered across his right wing.  Kai and Nya have each other’s colors covering their mantles.  Jay carries both sets of his parents’ colors, and Lloyd has each of the ninja’s colors staining his wings so violently that he looks like he was in some sort of studio accident.  

And Cole?  Cole’s left wing, near the wingtip, is painted in the rich gold of his father.  His left bears the faded orange of his mother.  Across the backs of his wings, the rest of the ninja’s colors wrap around his coverts like a warm blanket.  

Vania has just been crowned queen of Shintaro, and the coronation celebration is going long into the night.  Cole watches her from the edge of the crowd, smiling at the way she is completely unselfconscious as she dances in the middle of the room with Chompy spiraling around her feet.  She catches his eye and her face lights up; she breaks from the circle and flings herself towards him.  Cole loses her in the crowd, but by the frantic strings of apologies and yelping he hears, he has a pretty good idea where she is.

“Cole!” she shouts, when she finally breaks through.  “I haven’t seen you all night!  Have you been avoiding me?”

Cole laughs.  “Never, my queen,” he says, winking exaggeratedly when he uses her new title.  “You’ve just been busy.”  He grins wide.  “I get it, I get it, what’s a little old ninja to the queen of an entire country?”

Vania pouts.  “It’s not like that.  Everyone wants my attention, but you guys are my friends.  And you’re leaving soon, way before everyone else!”  A glint of an idea enters her eye- the same look she had before leading Cole to a drainage tunnel and whipping a set of torches from nowhere.  “It’s too noisy in here for anything, let alone talking.  How about we go for a little night time flight?”

She hikes up her skirts and marches through the crowd.  Cole laughs a little disbelievingly.  He follows her out, out onto the terrace, wings pulled close to his sides to prevent them being jostled or stepped on.  “Wait, can you just leave like that?”

Vania smiles with all her teeth.  She signals to an attendant and they reappear with her wings, attaching and securing them to her back.  “What do you mean?” she asks, cocking her head playfully to one side.  “I’m the queen!  I can do what I want!”

“Hey, works for me,” Cole says, grinning back.  He lets his wings unfurl to nearly their full wingspan, an impressive eighteen feet with his flight feathers outstretched.  “Just don’t start whining when I fly circles around you.”

“Hey, that’s not nice!”  She narrows her eyes at him.  “Just for that, I won’t let you win now.”

“Oh, so you were planning to originally?”

They take to the sky, chasing each other around the spires and drifting lazily through the moonlit clouds.  Cole marvels at the way her wings cut through the air, silent and smooth like a knife.  His own are built for power and speed but not so much for grace.  He’s sure they make quite the picture above the partygoers.  That is, if any of them bothered to look up.  

As their flight comes to an end, they alight on the highest balcony overlooking the courtyard.  Vania releases her wings, something that used to shock Cole before he got over it through repeated proximity and exposure.  His own wings he splays behind him, their motley of colors nearly twinkling in the low candlelight.  

“I used to think your wings were so funny-looking when we first met,” Vania says suddenly.  

Cole glances up at her sharply.  “Huh?”

She smiles and sits down gently beside him.  The night air is cool and a slight breeze tugs at both of their bangs.  “Your wings,” she says again.  “I mean, I still do.  They’re entirely too much wingspan for any one person to have.”

“Better to catch you with,” Cole replies, the winner of their earlier game of tag.  

Vania rolls her eyes.  “Not just the size of them though.  I couldn’t believe how colorful they were!  There are so many different colors that your wings were kinda ugly.”

“Thanks,” Cole deadpans.  “I’m really feeling the love.”

“Exactly!” she exclaims.  “They’re the colors of the people who love you, right?  I almost didn’t believe my tutor when he told me that, but I couldn’t think of any other reason why anyone would dye their feathers that way.”  She hesitates, one hand held in an aborted movement towards his wings.  “Can I- I mean, would you mind telling me about them?”

Talking about heart-colors isn’t necessarily a taboo subject.  Most people just prefer to keep their relationships and stories more private than not.  Looking at Vania’s hopeful face, half-illuminated orange by candlelight, Cole finds that he isn’t most people.  

“Yeah, sure,” he says, scooting over so he can fan his wings out.  “So you probably could have guessed, but all these ones are the other ninja’s.”  He points out Kai’s sienna, Jay’s pretty blue, Zane’s periwinkle, Nya’s warm maroon, and Lloyd’s bright green that make up the colors on his coverts.  

“This one’s my dad’s,” he says next, stretching out his left wing so the gold catches the candlelight.  “Both of my parents’ colors came in together, of course, but he saw his first because it was a little bit darker than my mom’s.”  He can remember it now, through the haziness of his three-year-old-self’s memory: his dad’s face hovering over him, eyes wide and face caught in some unidentifiable emotion.  

Reverence, Cole thinks now, years and years later.  It’s the same look Kai’s mom and dad give him and Nya when they work side-by-side.  It’s the same look he gave baby Wu, captured and immortalized forever on the tiny polaroid he keeps tucked away in his drawer.

Vania is watching him with a soft expression on her face.  Cole sighs, drawing himself from his memories.  He stretches out his other wing, wrapping it around his front so the color is on display.  “And this was hers,” he says softly.  “My Mom’s.”

“Lilly,” Vania echoes.

Cole nods.  The color on the tips of his feathers is faded now, looking peach instead of the vibrant orange of his childhood.  “For a long time, I couldn’t bear to look at it,” he admits, staring at the floor.  “I’d catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, and I hated it so much.  It was a brand of everything I’d lost, taunting me with how much it hurt.”

Vania seems to glow in the candlelight.  “What changed?” she asks.

Cole shrugs, feels how it costs him to be so nonchalant about it.  “The color started fading,” he says simply.  “And I realized that remembering, even though it was so painful, was so much more important that losing her forever.”

Vania is silent.  She hovers her hand over his wings, silently asking permission, and when Cole doesn’t do anything to stop her she drags her fingers gently over soft feathers.  Cole angles his wing so the vulnerable inner parts aren’t exposed, but other than that the petting feels nice.  It’s been so long since someone other than himself touched his wings like this- the ninja, for how much they love each other, are perpetually running off on some hairbrained adventure or another and don’t usually have time for group preening.  

“That’s it,” Vania says eventually, hand stilling over his coverts.  “That’s why I changed my mind about your culture’s wings.”  Her gaze travels somewhere toward the right, somewhere toward where her technologically-flawless and meticulously-kept wings rest against the railing.  Technologically-flawless, meticulously-kept, and completely bare of heart-color.  “I wish, sometimes-”

She cuts herself off.  “It’s not good to think about what-ifs,” she decides firmly, fixing a smile on her face.  Still, her fingers linger a second longer in his golden feathers.  “It must be nice, knowing that you are so loved.”

Cole closes his eyes.  The breeze washes over his hair, carrying with it the slight sounds of the party and his team laughing from below.  

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

[ambersky0319]

Uhm, heya. I saw that you were accepting prompts? I have a Loceit one if you want to do it. -Since Deceit is the one known to be the Side who decides whom Thomas meets, perhaps not all of them are happy that he won't let them meet Thomas. Perhaps one of them find out about his not-so-tiny crush on the Logical Side and kidnaps him to use against Deceit? Maybe even hurts Logan a bit to piss him off. 💙💛 You don't have to do the prompt if you can't. Also, I wanna say that I love your writing ❤️

This was actually really fun to write and it’s over 3k words long- also it’s more pre-loceit but like, very close to them getting together?? You’ll see what I mean. Hope you all enjoy!

Warnings : Literal embodiment of Repression, blood/blood mentions(fairly brief), kidnapping, morally gray sides excluding Logan and Deceit, ask if I should add anything else!

Masterpost 

——————————–

Logan’s head throbbed as he slowly regained consciousness. He bit his lip as the pain only grew, and he lifted his head up slightly, squinting. He was surrounded by a muted and dull brown on all sides, with walls decorated in nothing but filing cabinet after cabinet. Logan furrowed his brow, he didn’t recognize where he was, and couldn’t recall what had even happened.

Maybe Remus had hit him over the head with his morning star, trying to surprise attack Logan again? But Logan could always dodge those. And even when he was hit, he’d never gone unconscious. Remus wouldn’t really have any use of trying him up and leaving him in this dull of a room, either.

“Ah, you’re awake!”

Logan snapped his head to the side at the voice, wincing as his vision grew dizzy for a moment. His captor tutted, shaking his head. “I’d be careful, Logic darling, don’t want to be in so much pain so soon! Besides, I kinda need you to be able to see everything I intend to do.”

The side was dressed in all orange in varying tones. He was much shorter than Logan, even when Logan was tied to the chair Logan was still about a head taller than this side. But that’s not what struck Logan, no. It was the fact that the side had what appeared to be scars all over his face, but the scars were like portals into a bright, painful orange galaxy. What seemed to be stars swirled in these patches of skin, and the side raised a brow when he realized Logan wasn’t listening to him.

“Logic, you should really stop being so curious.” The side hissed, resting his hand on Logan’s shoulder. The gloves he was wearing a moment earlier disappeared, and he squeezed Logan’s shoulder tightly. Logan’s eyes widened, but when he tried to speak, nothing came out but a slight squeak and his throat suddenly felt numb. The side laughed at Logan’s worried expression, and Logan had never seen a smile on anyone look so sinister.

“Wonderful what I can do, yes? Oh, but losing your voice is only the start, Logic. I can do so much more.” The side released Logan’s shoulder, trailing his hand up to grip Logan’s jaw. His smile disappeared. “But I need to remember to not hurt you too badly, make sure you’re still useful to Thomas. And make sure you’re still pretty enough for Deceit to want to save you.” He tilted his head. “I doubt he’d be happy if he knew I scratched you up.”

Logan’s expression morphed to one of confusion, and the side stared into Logan’s eyes for a long moment, as though reading Logan like Logan was an open child’s book. “You don’t know, do you?” When Logan’s expression didn’t change, the side cackled. “Oh! This is going to be more fun than I thought!” He began to trail his fingers down Logan again, stopping at where his heart was.

He grinned. “You know, Logic, you’re very lucky I was the one to take you. Imagine what you can tell the others once you go back up there, and they start fretting over you. You were repressed. Imagine that, logic being repressed?” The side, Repression Logan now assumed, hummed as he began to unbutton Logan’s shirt to have better access to his chest. Logan could only stare at the side and feel his heart rate increase as he began to feel the panic creeping up on him.

Repression pushed the shirt back, and Logan shivered as his cold fingers gently moved across his bare skin. He returned his hand to where it had been above Logan’s heart, and he traced the area, scratching the pale skin there. “Though maybe no one will fret over you. They haven’t noticed you gone just yet, and it’s already been about a day. Do you want to know what they’ve done without you, Logic?”

The side stared up at Logan with feigned innocence, and when Logan shook his head slightly, the side grinned. “You don’t want to know, do you? You’re afraid that they were happier without you, that Thomas was happier without you there. You don’t want to know because you don’t want all of your irrational thoughts to wind up actually being true.” Logan was starting to hyperventilate as Repression continued to speak, digging his nails into Logan’s skin further, starting to draw blood.

“I’m going to reveal everything to you, Logic. Each little thought that you’ve had that is true. What the others really think about you. I’ll show you how Thomas really feels when you come up to ruin all their fun. And you know what? I bet I can do it before anyone even realizes you’re gone.” He laughed slightly. “Well, everyone but Deceit. I need Deceit to know you’re gone. If he didn’t, then this would all be pointless.”

Repression finally drew his fingers away from Logan’s chest. His nails were coated in a thin layer of blood, and Logan felt as if his heart had suddenly become heavy, like a rock was lodged in his chest instead. 

He examined his fingers. “I’m going to need more of your blood…” he trailed off for only a moment before a small knife appeared in his hand. “Surely you don’t mind, do you Logic?” Repression didn’t wait for Logan to even attempt to protest before he started cutting at Logan’s exposed shoulder.

—

“Shit, shit, shit, shit-” Deceit hissed to himself as he read the note again, trying to remember who’s handwriting was staring back up at him. He hadn’t anticipated for this to happen, hell, he didn’t get why any of the hidden sides wanted to be introduced to Thomas! He wasn’t only just doing his job, keeping them away, but he was protecting them! Deceit knew that Thomas would never listen to them because they were dark sides.

The note, written in dark red ink that was unmistakably dried blood, was a demand. A demand Deceit knew he couldn’t fulfill if he wanted to keep Thomas safe. But he couldn’t keep Thomas safe if the embodiment of logic was taken hostage and was being repressed-

“Fucking hell Res!” Deceit hissed, everything coming together now. Oh, this wasn’t good. Not one bit.

Deceit looked at the television, black because Thomas was asleep now. But it all made sense. Today Thomas had been recording a video, and Logan hadn’t popped in once. It seemed the others didn’t notice the shift or maybe thought Logan was just busy with other things. But some of the things Thomas had said earlier, and then agreeing to everything Patton, Virgil, and Roman said instantly without much thought? That was unusual, even for their host.

He muttered a few more choice curses before crumpling the note up and throwing it in the trash bin, attempting to summon none other than Repression.

Res popped up after a minute of Deceit waiting, bouncing on his heels and looking up at the deceptive side. Res grinned at Deceit. “Hello, Dee! Did you by any chance need something?” It took all of Deceit’s willpower to not grab Res by his infuriatingly bright scarf and punch him. Instead, Deceit glared down at Res.

“Where’s Logan?”

Res hummed, his grin morphing into a smirk. “Nowhere, really. Why? Afraid that I’ve hurt your sweet and precious Logic?”

Deceit’s glare only grew harsher. “Considering your note was written in blood-”

“That wasn’t my question and you know it.” Res held back his laugh as he saw Deceit only growing angrier. But he brought this upon himself. All Deceit had to do was reveal him to Thomas, if he had done it before this would have all been avoided. “I doubt you’d actually tell me, but I know you are afraid. It’s so easy to read. I even told him how you would be the only one to worry he was gone. Well, that and a few other details.” The much shorter orange side leaned against the couch, watching Deceit carefully.

“Where is he, Res.” It wasn’t a question. A demand. Res frowned.

“You know this isn’t how it works, Dee! You can’t start demanding things without answering my demands.”

“Res, this isn’t funny!”

Res tilted his head. “I never said it was a joke. The situation is quite serious, actually, and we both know it.”

“You would put Thomas in danger, just so you could have five minutes of glory before everyone up there started to ignore you just like they do Remus and I?”

“They wouldn’t get the chance to keep me quiet, and you know that. But I also don’t think you’re just concerned for Thomas.”

“Of course I am! Logan is an essential part of Thomas and you know damn well know that you know exactly what thoughtless decisions were made today, and which ones will be made tomorrow if Logan isn’t there to fix everything.”

“No, you’re concerned because you like him, Deceit. Do you really think I took Logic because of Thomas?” Res shook his head. “No, it’s because out of all the sides that Thomas knows of, you like Logic, and would most likely do anything to ensure he’s safe. But now…” Res laughed, grinning from ear to ear. “But now he isn’t! And guess what? It’s all because of you, Dee, because you wouldn’t listen to me when I told you to let me meet Thomas.”

Deceit clenched his fists, taking in a deep breath as Res just laughed again. He hated how Res was right. Deceit, although he truly did fear for what this would do to Thomas, that was a fear second place to just losing Logan at all.

He really, really wanted to punch Res. To shun him to the Subconscious again. But then Deceit would never find Logan, at least for a few years. That couldn’t happen.

“Fine. But on one condition.” Res stopped laughing abruptly as Deceit spoke, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.

“No demands, Dee.”

“It isn’t a demand, really. Just a compromise.”

Res held Deceit’s gaze before slowly caving in. “What is it?”

“If you take me to Logan first, we can all go up and introduce you, and only you to Thomas.” Deceit held out one of his hands. “Do we have a deal?”

Res considered it for a moment, looking Deceit up and down as if trying to see Deceit was lying. He thought he was picking up on a lie, but Deceit was a walking lie, so Res assumed that it was nothing, and he shook Deceit’s hand.

Before he could say anything else, Res forced Deceit to sink down with him. They appeared in Res’s library, a maze full of memories that Thomas no longer remembered because they were just really really old, unimportant, or excruciatingly traumatic.

“He’s right this way.” Res didn’t let go of Deceit’s hand as he pulled him down one of the hallways with shocking strength coming from someone so small.

It didn’t take long to get to where Logan was, and Deceit cringed at the sight of dried blood over Logan’s shoulders. He broke out of Res’s hold to rush over to Logan, checking for a pulse when he saw that Logan’s eyes were closed. His anger returned to the surface when more marks covering Logan reached his eyes, and he glared at Res for even daring to harm a hair on his head. Res rolled his eyes.

“What? How else was I gonna get all those repressed emotions up? Logic is like a damn rock, and I needed to… dig deep, to get the prettiest wonders to the surface.”

“Just help me untie him!” Deceit hissed, and Res obeyed without much complaint. He watched Logan slump into Deceit’s arms, and Res was surprised Logan had passed out in the first place. He thought he’d shot Logan up with enough adrenaline to keep him awake for another two hours. Maybe the logical side just had an extremely low tolerance to actual pain.

Deceit sunk out without another word, and Res tried to follow.

His eyes widened when he didn’t move. “Fuck,” he whispered when the filing cabinets of memories slowly started to grow black again. He really should have seen this coming, and not pushed aside Deceit’s minor lie.

—

When Logan woke up again, he wasn’t in any pain. He knew just by the feeling around him he wasn’t in Repression’s room any longer. For one, he was lying down. But another reason was he was under a blanket and his head was resting on an incredibly soft pillow. He slowly opened his eyes and was greeted with a ceiling painted to look like the canopies of a jungle.

“You’re awake already?”

Logan tilted his head just as the bed shifted, and Deceit smiled down at him sadly. Logan blinked at him for a few moments, unsure of how to react.

“I honestly expected you to be out a bit longer, Res’s domains typically have that effect on sides.” Deceit frowned, before moving Logan’s shirt out of the way slightly and Logan actually flinched away. Deceit drew back slowly. “It’s okay, just wanted to make sure they weren’t leaving any scars.”

Logan just turned to stare up at the ceiling again. “How long have I been out?”

“Repressed, or unconscious?”

“Both.”

“About three days.” Logan groaned quietly at that number. It was small, but he knew how devastating that could be for Thomas. Deceit was quick to reassure him though. “He didn’t do anything drastically stupid, Remus managed to freak Virgil out about the different possibilities that Virgil was able to prevent Thomas from doing anything stupid. Though Thomas might have like…. five cavities he couldn’t stop Thomas from eating only sweets for the entire three days.”

Silence once again took over Deceit’s room, and Deceit couldn’t do more than just watch Logan process the information. He bit his lip gently. “Logan?”

“Hm?”

“What did Res tell you, exactly?”

Logan caught Deceit’s gaze again, and he moved a bit to sit up as he thought, trying to remember.

“Mainly confirming my suspicions that the others don’t care about me.” Logan didn’t notice his eyes tearing up, and oddly he didn’t care if Deceit knew his insecurities anymore. Maybe Repression had cut deeper into him than he had thought. “That I just ruined there fun. He showed me some of the unedited content from… I guess the other day. Everyone just seemed so happy, and he wouldn’t stop saying that I was holding Thomas back.” Logan took a deep breath, finally feeling the tears. He didn’t make a move to wipe them away, not yet anyway.

“He went through each of you, too. Starting with the others, and he ended with you. He spent the most time on you.” Logan laughed, though it didn’t have a hint of happiness. It was just sad and broken, almost hysterical. “He- he kept lying, telling me that you liked me, he tried to get my hopes up, and he told me so many times, oh god… each time he cut deeper, he said it was because you liked me and he needed me to get to you and out of everything, I can’t believe he kept lying about it! Out of all my repressed hopes, he chose the one that I knew would never be true to use!” Logan’s laugh turned into actual sobs, and he pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face there as he continued to shake.

Deceit hesitantly moved closer, settling beside Logan. “Logan, Res wasn’t lying.” Deceit’s voice was soft, but he knew Logan heard when Logan glanced back to him.

“What?”

“He wasn’t lying. Res took you, because of me.”

Logan attempted to stop crying, but the tears just kept flowing as he sniffled. He lifted his head from his knees though. “I don’t understand.”

Deceit sighed, running his hand through his hair- Logan only just noticed Deceit wasn’t wearing gloves, in fact, he wasn’t wearing any of his usual garments. Instead, he was in a yellow sweater and some black sweatpants, hat and gloves nowhere in sight. “This isn’t- this is the worst possible way for you to find out. I’m so sorry that you found out like this, Logan, that it happened in the first place.

"Res took you specifically because he knew I liked you. And he thought this would be the best way to get me to let him meet Thomas. You getting hurt by him is all my fault.”

“You’re lying,” Logan stated, shaking his head. “You must be.”

Deceit shook his own head. “I would never lie in this situation, Logan.”

Logan took a shaky breath, looking away from Deceit again and to the wall opposite him. It was a massive enclosure, and he could see one of Deceit’s snakes from where he sat.

He was trying to process how he felt. His crush just confirmed that he reciprocated, but also just said that it was all his fault that Logan had been taken in the first place. Logan couldn’t see how Deceit could have prevented the situation though. Or had known it was ever going to happen. Which meant that it wasn’t Deceit’s fault. He was still trying to wrap his mind around everything that had happened, plus the new information that Deceit did indeed like him.

Logan groaned, burying his face in his knees again. “Why are emotions so annoying?” He asked.

“I guess that’s why you had them repressed,” Deceit said gently. Logan heard the sadness enter his voice as Deceit continued. “Um, I understand if you want to go back to your room, Logan. I’m sure everyone else would be overjoyed to see you, after all-”

“No.”

“W-What?” Deceit stared at Logan in confusion as Logan sniffled again, lifting his head once more from his knees and wiping away the last of his tears. His eyes were puffy from rubbing them so much.

“I don’t want to go. Not yet, anyway.” He looked back to Deceit. “I want to be in here, with you.”

“But- wait, why?”

“Did you miss the part where I said I thought Res had tried to get my hopes up that you liked me, and I thought he was lying until you just said that he wasn’t?” Deceit still seemed confused, but he seemed to be understanding at least a little bit. “Dee, I like you too, and I’d like to spend some time with you, y'know.”

Deceit blinked a few times before the human side of his face flushed a light pink. “Oh.”

“Also the others are too intense, and I don’t think I could handle them right now…”

Deceit laughed lightly. “Alright. Um, want to watch a documentary then? And then we can talk more about… us, when you’re feeling a lot better?”

Logan smiled softly, a genuine smile, and he nodded.

——————————–

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[somedrunkpirate]

in the dark we travel (Geraskier Sci-fi au ficlet)

Rating: T | Wordcount: 3,4 | No major warnings | pre-slash, first meeting @geraskierfunday prompt: space

//let me know if you want of this because I have too much lore for a oneshot//

Read on ao3 or continue reading below 

The stench of the holding bay almost makes Geralt turn on his heel.

It burns through his nose, coming in waves so overwhelming they should’ve been visible in the air. His senses are a dubious gift as he does not only smell it long before anyone else, but can distinguish individual notes within the cacophony of abomination. The acidic sharpness of cheap hovercraft fuel; the rot of biological waste; and then that sickly sweetness of pink oil, a byproduct from the favourite spirit boosters of all the rich kids and trip tourists partying up above. It’s the most prominent smell by far and it makes Geralt want to gag.

Intergalactic travel on this side of the Tenements is always a gamble.

Jackpot would be a merchant ship, where at least the conditions have to be sufficient for whatever cargo is on board. The fact that this usually results in better living environments for the stragglers sleeping between the boxes is entirely incidental. All in all, a good deal for everyone involved— except for Geralt, sometimes. Most merchants have no desire to have him on their ship. Luckily most are scared enough to let him anyway.

A draw— earning back your bet — would be a scavenger ship. Though sleeping among scavenged ship parts and stolen goods is less comfortable than proper cargo, the experience at least comes with a sense of adventure. Playing cards with pirates; fist fights between mercenaries; drinks with old timers. For many the opportunity would be once in a lifetime. 

The drawback, of course, is becoming accessory to whatever crime the scavengers end up committing during your stay. And Enforcers don’t give one shit whether you sat in the cargo hold or shot the blast cannons yourself. Geralt has enough problems to keep track of to enjoy being blamed for other people’s crimes. Scavengers are insufferable, as a whole, but the most annoying are the ones that get caught.

So, in a sense, it is only fair Geralt loses the gamble. He’d been complaining about a win or a draw anyway, and the universe does so like to remind him there is no one smiling upon him. He ran out of luck years ago.

The smell only worsens when the great metal doors open to the loading dock, and the familiar bright orange of a Garbagecraft is revealed.

Various levels of frustration, despair and anger are voiced in groans and clicks. The crowd stops as a whole, yet unwilling to accept their collective fate. Roach’s ears flicker at the unrest, her two right front hooves scrape at the metal flooring in agitation.

Geralt pats her neck, careful not to get sliced by her sharp mane, and shushes her. “It’s alright. Shh. Good Girl.”

Some of the would-be travellers— two Pervuvians, a Human and a Sketh — push their way through the crowd and gang up around the dock boy who had led them here. They begin to chow him out in various languages, but Geralt catches enough to get the gist. Give me back my money or you will feel my wrath, insert threat specificities here.

As they become more and more creative, Geralt sighs and gives a quiet command to Roach to stay at the edge of the crowd. She makes a noise that Geralt chooses to interpret as agreement, rather than the frustration regarding her current situation that it probably was.

Geralt edges around the crowd to get a better look of the situation, his hand hovering above the hilt of his energy blade. The Pervuvians are part of a larger crew, seven total, standing off to the side with their limbs crossed. The Sketh is carrying a T-1 Blaster openly, which means she’s likely got something even more illegal under that travel robe of hers. The Human is an older man; his eyes almost folded away into his wrinkles. Not a threat at face value— which isn’t a whole lot, in Geralt’s experience. He’s proven right when he activates his perm-mod, focusing his vision, and the blue and white overlay lights up around the presence of an illusion.

He only has to strain his eyes a little before the glimmer dissipates and Geralt can see the true form of the being looming beside the dock boy. A Dizan, neon glyph tattoos and all.

Geralt suppresses a groan, and grabs the handle of his silver sword instead.

Even if he’d wanted to consider suffering teleportation in favour of two weeks sleeping among trash, the choice has now been made for him. The duration of the travel should be enough to see if this one dabbles with the ways of the Ancients, and how far they go if they do.

Though, if they’re willing to kill a kid out of frustration, Geralt has his answer too.

The shouting gets progressively louder and begins to attract more people. The whole of the Pervuvian crew has joined by the time Geralt manages to reach them.

It’s not that the crowd tries to block his path — the moment the flash of his eyes reaches theirs, most have the common sense to cover and step aside — there is just nowhere they can go. The whole platform has started to fill up as more travellers climb out of the drainage pipes. And the other half of the dock is claimed by the large containers, being loaded on one by one.

And yet, the immature show of aggression has managed to claim a small open clearing in the middle of the platform, as people press into each other trying to get outside of the blasting zone. Quite literally, as the moment Geralt breaches this unspoken border, the Sketh puts her hand on the trigger.

The boy goes pale. “Please! I do not have it. You must go to Kestra, the dock master, if you have a complaint.”

Geralt flickers a quick look to the Dizan — still frustrated, but passively so, eyes sparking with interest between the Sketh and the boy — and assesses his options. He grabs his energy blade and activates it.

It doesn’t make a sound, but the purple glow should be obvious enough to the Sketh once he—

“Friends! Please calm yourselves.”

A young man slides in front of the boy— in front of the blaster — hands held open in a placating gesture.

Geralt swears internally and deactivates his blade. The Sketh has her hand on the trigger, but hadn’t aimed the blaster. Even if she’d pulled while Geralt subdued her, it would’ve gone wide, cascading over his head.

But the man, standing taller and a step closer to her, has it pressed right against his heart.

He doesn’t seem to be aware of this fact, smiling brightly at the Sketh and then at the crowd at large. It seems so out of place— so confident, that even the Sketh is taken off guard and takes a step back reflexively. The barrel is no longer touching him, but the shot would be equally deadly.

The man is handsome, though garishly colourful compared to everyone in the vicinity. He looks like he’d gotten lost on his way to Erilisis Boulevard and somehow ended up in a sewage-cum-space station, of all places.

Despite his appearance, he carries himself with ease, even familiarity. There is no sign of an illusion to explain his reckless confidence— Geralt checked. If this is all an act, the only thing the man is playing is himself.

“I understand that the recent actions of our honourable Tin Men have us all on edge, as it is their overbearing application of the law that has many of us seeking out new sights in the first place!”

A few murmurs of agreement rumble over the crowd.

“I assume that most are not here out of free will, but rather out of necessity,” the man continues with sympathy. “We are leaving behind friends, family, business— life. No one should expect any of us to be happy, never mind calm.”

Nodding. Someone whistles, others hum. They’re listening.

The man’s face changes, his passionate expression becoming wry. “And look, I also am not eager to sleep among the left over drab of Zevos’ finest.” He pauses and then continues with a sly smile, “Never mind with all of you stinking up the place.”

Some smile, some even chuckle.

Geralt has to work to maintain an expression of neutrality.

The Sketh still has her hand on her blaster, but her finger has slackened, as if she’d forgotten that she was about to pull the trigger. The tension of the crowd at large is easing; the sharp border around the clearing is melting away. The man, with a few words, has them enthralled.

The man seems to be aware of this, because his attention slides off the crowd in a split second. His posture changes. From the wide and tall stance of a stage performer, he slackens slightly-- pulls in and leans forward, almost intimate. He’s looking at the Sketh, his voice low and almost gentle, but there is an order hidden under the kindness.

“Come, scivan. I know the stench is worse for you, but this might very well be the last ship of the day cycle. And with the Enforcers dogging the Magistrate’s tail, the whole operation could be shut down any moment. We cannot afford a delay, none of us can.”

And that is when Geralt realises the man does have a perm-mod after all. Not an illusion patch like the Dizan, but a rarer and much more volatile augmentation: a speech-mod.

Where temporary speech mods might translate your words for a day, or make your singing slightly more passable for single performance, a permanent speech mot does not add anything to the user. It just enhances what is already there.

If you’re good— if you are truly a master of tone, words and whatever fucking else comes with skilled communication, the Ancient Ways are nothing in comparison. Violence is obvious. Ancient crafting leaves traces of some sort behind, even if it is just merely the use of something else. But talking— speech, it takes nothing, it leaves nothing. It is as fleeting as a memory, an experience. Done well, you don’t even remember it, because you don’t know you’re being convinced in a manner more potent than normal interactions.

At least, the ones Geralt has come across prefer an art of subtlety. This man, quite clearly, is more like the ones who wear their speech mod openly, shimmering on the back of their necks, some curving down to their throat in graceful lines. Entertainers, singers, writers; all whose persuasion and manipulation is seen as harmless— made safe in the illusion of fiction.

And yet, despite the apparent taming of danger, they have been given the same title of a specialized class that once lived on the planet called Earth. Those who were able to leverage their seemingly frivolous talents to gain access into the highest courts; become confidants of Kings while serenading them to sleep.

Bards.

Geralt has always found it ironic. To expect these people to only use their powers for entertainment and laughter, named for a group that ostensibly did the same more than a millennium ago, while conveniently forgetting an important fact.

Most Bards were spies.

Gerat carefully sets his thoughts aside when the Bard moves. His focus returns fully to the situation at hand.

The Bard is reaching out to the Sketh, slowly, carefully-- recklessly, idiotically, completely careless of the danger, of setting her off.

She flinches when the Bard’s hand touches her fur covered arm— the one holding the gun.

Geralt takes a careful step closer. His hand hovering over the activation pad of his blade.

He’s quiet, but the Bard clocks him— a glance, eyes unwavering, before he focuses on the Sketh again and says, low, “Let this go.”

There is a breath. Geralt waits.

“Fine,” she spits out. “But I claim best bunk.”

She isn’t looking at the Bard’s face— doesn’t catch the relief before it's drowned out by a companionable smile and a hint of satisfaction. Geralt does. Geralt sees all of it.

The man’s expressions are as garish as his clothing. He is too animated-- too bright-- to belong in a place like this. Amongst people like this. These are people who lie through suppression, not misdirection. Even if it's all false, it is out of place. But it isn’t-- false. Parts of it are genuine, and Geralt doesn’t think it's a mistake. The Bard doesn’t mind people seeing him. It’s disconcerting.

The Bard claps his hands together and turns back to the crowd. “You heard her, the show is on the road!”

As if on cue, the platform shifts and rumbles. Walkways start to extend from the edges toward the sides of the ship. Doors shift open with heavy sighs of pressurised air. The dock boy takes the distraction to get the fuck out of dodge, though he throws a grateful gaze to the Bard as he slips away. The Bard’s smile goes incrementally brighter.

“Now,” he says, raising his voice, “Those with smell sensitivities should have priorities to the upper decks. Let’s show those fuckers we aren’t as inconsiderate as they make us out to be, eh? Behave and you might be treated with an entirely free performance of Craven Roses!”

At that, the Bard bows to a scattering of applause. The promise of potential entertainment brings a measure of good cheer among the passengers— any travel without warp-speed is an exercise in boredom regardless, but the trip between Zevos and the outer ring of Xadan is especially notorious for it. After the purple glow of the Zevos System is left behind, the following week of utter darkness is enough to drive anyone cabin-crazy. The appearance of Xadan eventually brings light. It isn’t pretty, but it's at least something. A measure of progress, watching Meteor Border come closer and closer.

The worst is never the dark, it's feeling like nothing is happening. That you’re moving, but will never arrive.

Geralt shakes his head to himself. He can deal with that. He’s used to it— whether he is in a spacecraft or walking on solid ground. But most people aren’t. Geralt would prefer not to suffer through thinly veiled innuendos posing as a passion play, but the alternative might be even more tedious. He has a sense that this won’t be the last time the Sketh will become a problem.

At least, for now, she isn’t his concern. He clicks his energy blade back on his utility belt and is about go back for Roach when a voice calls out—

“Witcher!”

The Bard.

Geralt stops. He doesn’t turn around. “Few know to call me that.”

The Bard circles him and grins. “Ancienthunter is a bit of a mouthful, if you ask me. Witcher is more of a statement— a strange word for a strange profession; as old as the beasts you’re hunting.”

Geralt snorts. “Funny you say that, Bard.”

“Jaskier, and thank you,” the Bard-- Jaskier says grandly, seemingly unaware of how very much Geralt did not intend it as a compliment. Or maybe he did and doesn’t care. “What a twist of fate, is it not? Two men out of time, on the edge of the universe.”

Geralt snorts and begins to walk.

Jaskier rushes after him, slipping deftly between people to keep up. “Wait!”

“I’m not here for your tales,” Geralt says. “Find another audience.”

Jaskier huffs and makes an affronted sound, but persists. When Geralt eventually breaches the edge of the crowd, he’s caught up, a little out of breath.

“Come on, Witcher. Let me just— I’ve heard of the adventure of people like you and I was wondering—“

His voice cuts out and his eyes go wide, when Roach comes out of the shadows. Mouth agape, he stares.

Geralt reaches out for her lead and turns his back on Jaskier. He’s not interested in seeing the inevitable terror— or, if Jaskier is as reckless as he seemed to be in front of a blaster, anger. Geralt puts a hand on Roach’s neck, knowing that one sign from him and Jaskier wouldn’t have a chance for either. Not that it would help his case.

It’s quiet for so long that Geralt almost thinks Jaskier managed to retreat in complete silence, but when he turns, he’s still standing there, mouth agape.

“I thought—“ he says, and there is no terror. “I thought they were extinct. I thought you— Witchers had hunted them all.”

He isn’t afraid. He is awed.

Geralt thinks of the busy stalls in Kae’r Mor, the gentle huffing, soft rumbling and kind eyes that follow you as you pass through the halls. Dozens of lives saved through secrecy, protecting a species deemed undeserving of existence, merely because some had used them in horrific ways.

He thinks of Vesemir, furious, as Geralt took Roach from her stall.

—selfish. Your actions put all of them in danger, and you know it.

But one survivor shouldn’t — can’t — be able to ruin it. He’s careful, he avoids the corners of the galaxies where they’re most known. Where they’re more than just a story. He can lay the blame all on himself: it shouldn’t be hard to understand one monstrous creature having bonded with another.

He just hadn’t been able to leave her behind. Not if he wasn’t certain he’d ever be back.

“Amaureen,” Jaskier says, quietly, startling Geralt out of his thoughts. To hear that word spoken in such a way— with wonder, is disorientating.

“Does she have a name?”

“Roach.”

There is a stunned silence, and then Jaskier laughs. “Not what I expected for a creature straight out of legend.”

Geralt shrugs. “She likes it.”

Jaskier smiles and then looks at Roach again, hesitating. “Can I—“

“You can try,” Geralt says, gruffly. But he centers himself, trying to project calm— not trust, he can’t lie in this, but he shows her what he saw. Jaskier talking down a crowd, levity cutting through a knife through the tension. Light in a moment of darkness.

Roach huffs and holds still as Jaskier’s fingers brush her snout. His eyes go impossibly bright, and his breath catches when Roach, unprompted, presses against his hand.

“She likes me,” Jaskier says, too surprised to be smug about it.

Geralt doesn’t respond— doesn’t disagree. He feels unbalanced, put off. None of this— none of this is going like it is supposed to go.

Roach responds to his distress, stepping back with a huff.

Jaskier takes his hand back, doesn’t press for more, and says, “Thank you.”

As if that is something people say after touching an Amaureen. Geralt feels a headache brewing.

“Hmm,” he says, and tugs on Roach’s lead. They begin their walk to the farthest end of the ship.

Jaskier doesn’t take the hint.

“How did you find her? Have you had her long?”

“None of your business, Bard.”

“Jaskier, or Dandel, on stage,” he says blithely, “and okay, fine, but you have to understand. This is momentous. I’ve always known there was something off about all those tales. How could a bond-species suddenly turn against their riders? Why all at the same time?”

Geralt makes a noise of warning. Roach’s mane bristles.

“Okay, have it your way. Something else then.” There is barely a pause before he asks, continues, rapid-fire and passionate: “Have you ever encountered a hag? I’ve been hearing about one running a spirit bar in the Dekolijn but that could be a myth. Do they have the intelligence to do such a thing or are they more beast-like?”

Geralt’s jaw tenses, glancing sideways to glare and growl— something, he doesn’t know what, because the moment he turns, he sees something else.

The Dizan, watching them with interest.

For a moment Geralt’s stomach drops— Vesemir was right. He should never have taken Roach with him.

But then he realises that the Dizan isn’t looking at Roach.

They’re looking at Jaskier with a considering look in their eye.

Resignation falls like a heavy cloak around Geralt’s shoulders. He forces his expression in a blank slate and allows Jaskier to follow him, giving occasional one word answers like breadcrumbs, that lead him into the ship— away from that pale white gaze.

As they walk through the bowels of the ship, bile in the back of Geralt’s throat, his nose burning, and a headache in full bloom, one thought circles around in the forefront of his mind, over and over:

He should’ve gone with teleportation after all.

[vminity21]

Harvest Moon | ksj, kth [Sneak Peek]

Pairing: VeggieFarmer!Seokjin x Farmer!Reader, Florist!Taehyung x Farmer!Reader, farmer!au 

Word Count: 2.5k (currently)

Genre: romance/angst/fluff/potential smut

Warning(s): language, mention of death, potential smut

Summary: When your father’s death leads to you taking over his farm, you never dreamed of returning to the place you once called home. With doubts lingering on if you can accomplish such a goal of replenishing his farm, your best friend Kim Seokjin begs to differ, encouraging you with the reminder of how you helped mold and shape the island of happiness where he resides. Upon arrival of the town, you meet a mysterious florist who beckons your heart with every flower petal blooming across your heart amongst many other available, yet dashing bachelors. Alas, your heart is deeply conflicted for you still hold love for the man you left behind. Whomever will you choose?

Trampled grounds provide sporadic patches of grass along the land where numerous trees keep their distance on either side of the widened path. Brown dust springs underneath trotting hoof beats; the creaky carriage follows behind the pale, white coat of your horse who keeps his gaze ahead while your grip tightens nervously on the reigns. Your father left you his farm- one that has not been effectively used since he was moved into a hospital that is days away from the destination you are currently heading. It was hard enough to accept the day of his passing, but the locket panging against your chest leaves the reminder that he will always be with you no matter where you are.

The farm was just a placeholder until you could venture elsewhere, raising your horse, Prancer, that was gifted to you as a colt by your best friend, Kim Seokjin. He stayed behind in the small island that you helped revive, tending to his crops while he traveled for his job, and knowing your love for animals, he brought home Prancer in hopes of lifting your spirits to take your mind off your father who was battling a sickness that ultimately took his life. Seokjin was also aware of the ponders involving your mother whom you never knew, yet the wonderment on whether she still exists upon the earth or within the heavens swarms you every day. Father never seemed to talk about her very much, and whenever you pressed him, he would shut the subject down leaving you just as confused as you were prior. Eventually, you dropped the topic and focused on the relationship with your father which brought the pair of you closer, and you could not have been more grateful for that.

A random sign off the open trail floods your vision to show you are going the right direction. Slightly crinkled letters are pinned by the bottom of your thigh to prevent them from flying in the wind- one written as a farewell from Seokjin, the other the final letter your father ever wrote to you. Tears blur your sight sparking a mild burn to your nose- your heart is heavy because you miss them, and the doubt of bringing your father’s farm back to life terrifies you, yet you want to honor him- make him just as proud of you as he was when he was alive.

“Are you sure about this?” Seokjin’s voice etched into your memory, him hooking the cart to Prancer’s saddle before patting the horse’s shoulder where the animal reacts with the panniculus shiver of its skin. Flies buzzed in the glee of the warm weather, you swatted one away from your face, trying to suppress the budding anxiety formed beneath your chest.

“I think so,” you murmured, fighting the urge to cry before folding your arms across your chest. A dull floral handkerchief is tied into your hair, matching the orange-tinged plaid splayed upon the material of your dress where red stockings parade your legs that complement the musty, brown of your laced boots. A red vest tied in with a belt strapped around your waist put a finishing touch on the outfit- an outfit you threw together with the intention of putting on a good impression for the townspeople you would be re-introducing yourself to after all this time.

“Hey,” the tenderness of your best friend’s voice echoed, and you met his eyes with evident doubt on whether you were making the right decision. “You’re going to be great.”

“How do you know?”

He rested his hands on your shoulders, gently squeezing while he never broke eye contact, “The people here will never forget the hard work you put in to bring it all back to what it used to be. I will never forget. If you can revive an entire island, design a bridge as well as countless boats to be able to travel to the countryside, raise a horse, tend to my crops, and God knows what else you can do; then, I know you can replenish your father’s farm.”

Seokjin was right despite your disbelief, but when you have a goal, you were trained to accomplish it. “I’m scared,” you confessed, Seokjin sighing understandably as he pulled you to his chest. The feel of his arms encompassing your frame brought a comfort you know you will wish for while being away; you buried your tears into his flannel, the tip of his chin rested on the side of your forehead as he swallowed the lump in his throat, sadness brimming his eyes that he squeezed shut. Seokjin took you in when you had nowhere else to go; in the desperation of moving six years ago when you were eighteen, he discovered you exhaustingly fighting your fluttered eyelids within a café you chose to rest after engulfing a bowl of spaghetti. The conversation led to a prominent connection that developed into a friendship you had always dreamed of. With how hard you worked growing up on your father’s farm which felt like a lifetime ago, you only had known the townspeople enough to help provide for the land more so than building friendships, but maybe for once, this could be a change? And, maybe the same people aren’t there anymore? Maybe it will be a difference in scenery compared to when you were younger? Maybe the nostalgia would be good for you?

There are repressed feelings you may have had for Seokjin that you never put into words, but when he held you, you knew you wanted a goodbye that was more meaningful to both of you. Or, what you hoped would be for him just as much as you. His arms loosened just a mere fraction, your hands gracefully moving to the collar of his shirt, though you were paused with ajar lips as your breathing slowed. His eyes enlarged when he realized there was some form of contemplation hidden in your expression, and when he noticed how close you were, he bowed his head enough, timidly wondering if you both were on the same page. You hadn’t taken your eyes off him, absorbing anything and everything of him as much as you could with the fear of not knowing when you would get to see him again depending on what would be demanded of his job.

“Jin,” you whispered, your eyes flitted to his lips, feeling your heart ramming along your ribcage. If he rejected this then you knew it was not meant for you to express your heart the way you longed to for six years; you had not wanted this yearning to be considered as something that was too late, but something that could be reminisced upon as something good. Something that defined the love the two of you had for each other even if it was not seen as more than a friendship. “I don’t- I don’t want to lose you-”

“You’re not,” he panicked, bringing your gaze back to his, “You’re not. I will write to you as often as I can. I promise you; this will not be the last time we see each other; if I have to borrow a boat, or a horse, or both, you bet I’m going to visit.”

The rise of a small smile filled your mouth at his words because you knew he meant them. “I’ll miss you,” you breathed, your forehead leaning into the crook of his neck.

“I’ll miss you more,” the pair of you remained embraced with the seeping reality that tomorrow would never be the same, and stepping into this new normal meant being apart which neither of you was honestly ready for, but you knew your duty was to create a new life in what your father left for you, and deep down you knew Seokjin wanted you to do the right thing. Bravery painted its part on your soul sparking the subtle gesture of you pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He hardly pulled away- only enough to read your eyes that glimmered with prominent adoration which mirrored the exact way he felt about you. 

And, that was the answer you needed when his palm cupped your cheek instantaneously to the way his soft kiss covered yours almost urgently. You knew you were in love with him, and that you always will be, but timing may not have been on your side as you so pleaded. Seokjin tasted the salt from the tears that dripped upon your cheeks, tearing his heart in every direction for if he could take the pain away from all that you had been through, he would. He remembered the day you first were read the will, and there you were two years later, finally making the decision that Seokjin knows will change your life for the better. If only, he could find a way to live that dream with you, he would go to the ends of the earth.

His hands glided to your waist, fingers tightened piningly for you to stay, but he did not voice it because he refused to put himself before you. The kiss slowed in a loving pace where your mind soared beyond the clouds, not wanting to find the will to stop. The moment was real. And, it was beautiful. Your hands remained on his chest, dazed eyes connected when you inched away, hearts pounded in unison, and neither of you spoke, just stared in blatant awe. That was when he pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket, a letter you have not read yet, but intend to do when finally settled into your soon-to-be home. The cool air had brushed your face reminding of the dried trails left behind from when you cried, and at the splash of a tear hitting Seokjin’s cheek, you dried it, your thumb remained, steadily reaching to place one more lingering kiss, “It’s always been you, Jin.”

You broke down when you found your place on the carriage, commanding Prancer to march, repudiating to look back because if you would have seen a man almost brought to his knees in the heavy brink of heartbreak, you would have never left. Mind spinning with the feel of Seokjin’s kiss, there has been one too many times that you almost turned the cart around to rush back into his arms and forget about the farm waiting beyond the horizon, but the remembrance of your father must live on, and rebuilding what he once created may bring you the extent of peace that you need.

The moon dims into a shade of darkened orange prompting the start of finding a vacant area of rest off the side of the dirt road. Your father taught you all you needed to know which ignites a tiny giggle at the memories of unintentionally impressing Seokjin with the skills you happened to already know. A break in a patch of trees enters your vision and you click your tongue multiple times to signal Prancer to ease his steps, and with the reigns, you direct him into the space. Owls hoot in the distance mingled with the chirps of crickets and the ribbiting of frogs, and body aching, you stiffly stand before hopping down, gathering the letters and gripping them between your fingers. If only you thought to sew pockets into this dress.

The mayor’s wife who used to babysit you from time to time when your father traveled happened to teach you to sew, and when it became what you argued to be a healthy addiction, you eventually filled your closet with new designs until you grew out of them- inspiring you to create more and more as time flew by. Opening the carriage, you lay the letters upon the comfy seat of where you originally plan to sleep, but you move to unhook Prancer from the cart, scanning the grounds for any sticks or debris. The crackle of a mini bonfire is an idea that forms, and once you collect the materials needed, you fester a fire, waving your hands near the smoke while Prancer lazily gapes from a distance.

It is comforting. Nature encircling the atmosphere with a serenity that sweeps your heart, and the stars glowing above in the vast shade of darkness remind you to count them, helping you slip into slumber before the random snap of twig perks your eardrums prompting your eyes to fly open.

‘Shh you idiot, you can’t let her see you yet!’ ‘Oh! Calm your horses, Guppy, I’m pretty sure she didn’t hear me now shut up-’ ‘Guys, seriously, we need to make our presence known without scaring the daylights out of her, now where’s Taze?’ ‘Probably out looking for Harvest Goddess, who else?’

Heart increasing in pace, you swallow the dry taste in your mouth while the squeaky voices rumble in rustling bushes, nowhere to be seen. Tempting to speak, your fingers dig into the ground, wondering when the steps of the intruders will end, but they continue their bickering. Furrowed eyebrows, you raise slowly to your feet; you never imagined ever needing a weapon, but laying nestled in your carriage is nothing other than a pocket knife that you now want to kick yourself for not keeping with you. Carefully, you press your booted feet along the grass as lightly as you can without causing the sound of a crunch, and with gritted teeth, you determined to discover what lies beyond the brush, your hands bundle into the skirt of your dress in a tense cling.

‘Oh no! She’s coming- Look what you did!’ “Me!? I didn’t do anything!’ ‘Oh yes you did, you shouldn’t have worn those new shoes LenLen, I told you they were too loud!’ ‘Just because they have sparkles on them does not make them loud! AH-’

Frozen, your eyes panic when the rattling leaves of the bush upsurges to gush out a miniature being who stumbles uncontrollably trying to gather its bearings. Gasping, you stare in awe at the tiny frame clothed in purple where dark strands braided into pigtails poke past elf-like ears from a hat embellishing her small head. Tilting in confusion, you have never seen anything like this before, and the sight leaves you speechless as her dizzy countenance and frantic eyes finally calm to where multiple of you becomes one.

“AH!” She screams, throwing her arms in front of her face, rigid in apparent fear. “Please don’t hurt me for waking you up! I- I didn’t mean to!”

Fingers untightening from the hold you have on your dress, you cautiously crouch to more of the being’s level, tainted nerves still evident in your expression, you are, rather, relieved that this little girl is the definition of harmless. “I’m not going to hurt you,” you promise, reaching tender fingers to tug her arms from her rosy face, “My name is [Y/N], by the way.” Eyeing you, the, what you assume is an elf, relaxes- looking at you fully while her lips scrunch shyly.

“I’m- I’m LenLen. I’m one of the Harvest Sprites assigned to watch over you.”

Harvest Sprite.

The sharp leap of your heart halts you in your tracts. Harvest Sprite? You have heard of the stories involving Harvest Sprites when you were a kid, yet you always associated them with nothing more than a

myth. 

“You’re real?”

[redbootsthetimetraveller]

I wanted to request the “OC dressed by other OC” things but you’ve got so many!!! And they’re all so cool!! Would you mind saying what some of your favourite ones’ styles are (i.e. mod, psychedelic, hippie, glam, etc.)?

Love your art❤️

oh I am always up to talk about my characters and thank you for sending this!! I appreciate these sorta things because it’s a nice message AND I get to talk about my characters which helps me actually figure them out lmao

and I know you’re asking for my favourites but that is subject to change and I want to talk about all of them. and I’m not entirely sure exactly what styles of dress they each come under but I’ll use the terms where I see fit, and I’ll just. ramble about their individual dress styles. that’s the same thing right!

this is gonna be long (spoiler alert: IT IS) so to keep things short for those who don’t want to scroll through a mile long post, I’ll put it under the cut

so I’m gonna start with the starstrucks because they ARE my like. main characters. I am planning something with them which is in its very early stages of development but I’m hoping that when things around me settle down I can work on it a bit better than what I have (but I procrastinate the things I WANT to do so we’ll see. feel free to nag me about it though)

roger claire: considering he’s like. the main-main character (not intended, that was meant to be snowy but HERE WE ARE) his outfits and style of dress changes a lot but also it’s not that creative for a lot of it. at the start he wears more mod clothing, but he’s not that daring since he is pretty cautious. he had a strict family. anyway around 1965 he starts getting a lot more daring and he’s definitely not an extravagant dresser he does know how to dress sharply despite that so you get things like his peacoat that I DEFINITELY didn’t copy directly from micky dolenz on the cover of more of the monkees, and that really heavily decorated overcoat that’s 18th-century inspired but also Groovy, y’know? that sorta thing carries over into the seventies where he pretty much wears shirts with the sleeves rolled up, light coloured trousers, and a few t-shirts because Variety™. haven’t really thought about beyond that but he’d probably dress like a cool dad

pete sutton: he’s got sensory issues so he’s even MORE cautious in dress style than roger. main thing is turtlenecks though. and a lot of purple. there’s a quote about ray davies being the kink most likely to wear a tie offstage and I think pete’s the starstrucks’ equivalent

snowy smith: he’s got the most defined wardrobe out of the lot of them! black-and-blue striped jumper, a black peacoat, blue jeans, blue-green shirts, his leather jacket (which has blue-violet stripes on it so it’s unique from the million other jackets I draw) since he’s definitely on the rocker side of things and cuban-heeled beatle boots he doesn’t need since he’s already 6′1

charlie morris: REALLY mod. at the start of the story he has a collarless jacket with pink trimmings. his colours are yellow and green but I also always end up drawing him in red

davey peacock: mod, but the mod that your parents approve of. does get a bit more adventurous when his uncle, the manager, gets fired, and I gave him a union jack jacket like pete townshend had at some point lol. he also gives hippie clothing a shot around 1968 and in the eighties he has a mullet and not a good one

rory locking: SO MUCH ORANGE. aviator sunglasses, collared shirts with the first two buttons undone, his kinda short jacket that’s plasticky leather with a fluffy lining (those style jackets have a particular name don’t they? I can’t remember it) but like. there’s so much orange. why did I do that my markers are dying

mick lily: light was denim. that’s about it.

next we have the midnight delusions

jimmy jade: scarves. he has a gold embroidered black suit that I’ve drawn a couple of times and ALWAYS regret it because OW, pink, and a lot of black

teddy van alst: he has a leather jacket. wears interesting trousers and really plain shirts typically. he’s the one with the cool glam makeup even though it’s 1966 and glam isn’t exactly a thing yet. he’s a rocker though

arthur floyd: has a leather jacket like his bf teddy! it has roses embroidered on it. he has a rose sorta aesthetic going on, along with the blue-and-gold star outfit that I drew him in a couple of times. he’s sort of a carnaby street mod if that’s a thing lol

lucky littleproud: gonna be real with you he’s boring he wears colourful shirts and trousers that’s about it. I haven’t worked on him much :(

peter morrison: between hippie and mod. definitely more on the hippie side compared to his sibling

stevie maple (counting him here even though he kinda isn’t a Member): textured shirts, he’s more of an american mod. considering he IS american (unfortunately)

all of those side characters I have absolutely no idea how to group but are part of the same story as those two bands:

sylvia chase: mod, but she also doesn’t put much effort into her appearance. that’s the best way to describe her style

holly keys: she’s a model so literally whatever is the ‘hottest’ trend

james cassidy-bell: he dresses like brian jones in the early-mid sixties

katherine robinson: mod, and then the most avant-garde things she can find if she’s going in public. and a lot of red lipstick (that’s her Thing)

morgan morrison: MOD but also like that sorta soft aesthetic thing that was popular in like. 2017. because why not am I right

christopher goldstein: he is also a model but I draw him in really dandy-ish stuff a lot. him and jimmy sorta have a prep/goth dynamic going on

and that’s about it for the characters who really are gonna appear often enough to bother describing their dress styles! moving on now

keith neptune: band tshirts and anything with patches on it.

nico (haven’t come up with his surname yet, if y’all have suggestions I’ll take it): baggy jeans, sneakers, baggy tshirts, and has a denim vest with patches on it but Different types of patches to keith. if keith has the sorta etsy partches nico has ‘I pickpocketed these from a bikey who hasn’t showered in a month from a servo in the middle of nowhere’ patches

grey: they have a brow leather jacket that I think was inspired by jim morrison, a stamp out the beatles jumper, and a really big and motheaten black woolen jumper which they wear with beatle-boots, a white collared shirt, and like. not black jeans but very desaturated blue jeans that happen to be very dark

jude anne sutton (yes I know she and pete have the same surname they’re not related they’re in different universes): mod. enough said

rene shannon: mod but boring. he’s Repressed y’know

leslie (I’m gonna change her surname lol): honestly mainly shift dresses and that one really simple black-and-white dress, and their ripoff black watch tartan jacket, and tall boots.

danny: honestly? he dresses like a mod but at heart he’s a rocker. he’s a rocker who washes

that One character I won’t name: it’s complicated. he goes from trying to be a teddy boy with the rest of his friends and then it goes a little wrong and they fight about it and then they discover early rocker culture and he sticks with that for a while and then starts dabbling in more mod stuff and then DEFINITELY his style changes into the dandy stuff of the middle of the sixties. you know the stuff I’m talking about. and then he’s a hippie for about two seconds and goes back to dandy stuff but throws a few of his old rocker pieces back in. THEN he has a breakdown and fucks off to america for three years (returning home like twice for two days before fucking off again) where he’s got a peacoat, his old leather jacket, a turtleneck, a few shirts, and two pairs of jeans. that’s it. for three years. and workboots obviously because he’s trainhopping. I have that part very worked out as you can tell!

harper (character I have sketched exactly Once but have his style very sorted out): he starts off pretending to be a teddy boy in the way that a fifteen-year-old with a highly overprotective and lowkey horrible mother would probably be. he is also kinda Broke for that exact reason. and then he and the above character get into more rocker stuff and that’s probably where the two drift apart and where rene/jude/leslie/whoever else I may come up with would come in

anyway!!! I think that’s every character I have a defined style for. some of it’s a little hard to explain but I hope this cleared things up. I have also had a migraine for most of today so my ability to use words is extra impaired lmao!

and I’m so sorry for just. rambling. but I do have a lot of characters and I love them all so much and I’m so happy you like them too!!!

[dreamsinthefoxhollow]

Robot Up

I am walking near a fence. The fence separates the housing areas of the city from the wild, open spaces that lead off towards the distant mountains. I am on the vacant land side of the fence.

I've been here before, many times. I know the place well. The area near the fence is barren dirt from foot and vehicle traffic. Normally the areas further away are dry grasses and scrub, leading into the rolling hills, which get taller the more distant from the city edge. There's one or two dirt roads out in the hills, mostly hidden from view, which lead further out and all the way to the mountains.

I had always wanted to drive out on those mysterious trails, in my Jeep, or really any available machine capable of making up the steep dirt slopes and nasty rocks and small cliffs. I only had one chance to do it, long ago, and had traveled very far out into that open wilderness. It was bliss, back then. There was a place that I remembered. I was told I shouldn't ever go out there because evil cults were out there, doing evil things around evil fires. Of course, I had to find them, and I did.

They were camp sites.

Now, though, it was different. The hills were green with wild grass, waving in the sun. Only the area near the fence was still just dirt. I wanted to go out there again, even if I couldn't see any traces of the old trails.

This time was different. I didn't need any vehicles to go out and look around. All I had to do was fly. I lifted my left arm, as if it were some kind of control lever. As soon as it went higher than horizontal, I started to float above the ground. As I shifted it to gesture in a direction I would drift that way. So I lifted my arm and floated up, then directed myself to a low, quick flight up the nearest hill. I stretched my arm out and went faster, thinking how silly it was that I might look like Superman. I went past the nearest hills. I could see the trails, now partially overgrown from disuse. I went further. I hadn't been this far out before. And then I went further out than I had ever tried.

I landed among rolling hills. It was getting dark and I was near a very old barbed wire fence with grass grown up along the bottom of it. I noticed a clearing not far away, near the top of the long-sloping hill. I started to walk in the grass towards it. A friend was suddenly walking beside me. We started to casually talk while walking. I may have been a little excited, mostly about being so far out and in undiscovered terrain.

We arrive at the dirt patch, which is next to a small, leafy tree. The patch is like a spot where the grass has been trampled away and left as bare dirt. It's in a half-moon shape, but the ends are extended out so it looks like it's been stretched like taffy. My friend says it is a "witching mark" because of the random scratched lines in the dirt. They kind of ... No. They really just look like random lines scratched in the dirt and not some occult symbols. I walk along the stretched area of the patch, noting how there is a line of grass growing there. It's like if a fence had gone through that area and was removed, and just the line of grass remained, though trampled down and gone near the dirt patch center.

I am a short distance from the patch, maybe four meters or so. My friend is standing on the bare patch and babbling on about the lines being all witchy and stuff. He just won't stop, so I'm ignoring him. I am really just looking at the line of grass at my feet. I notice something odd. There is a small patch of round grass in a clump along the line. I put my hand on it. It feels like a pressure pushing up against my hand, like the feeling of holding two magnets together and they are pushing apart. I push down on it.

There is a bright flash of golden light, with afterimages of purple in my vision. I am dazed and have to take a few moments to recover. For a while all I can see are purple spots. It clears slowly. When I can finally see, I realize my friend has been turned into some kind of doglike animal. He's like a really large dachshund, or maybe a chihuahua, but with the shape of a fox, but the features of a puppy. He is covered in short, light brown fur and what parts of his skin are visible – around his eyes, inside his ears, his nose – are shiny golden in color. He says it is amazing and incredible that the magic in that old, unused witching mark was still working after all these years.

Someone else walks over to us. It's getting dark so I didn't notice them until they were right next to us. It is a young woman. She talks about the buildings nearby. There are buildings on the other side of the old barbed wire fence. It reminds me of the house area at the edge of the city, except these buildings look more like white, metal warehouses. Except some of them also look like cookie-cutter homes, all the same with white walls and dark, pitched roofs.

My friend is still blabbering on about the circle and the magic, and the woman asks if he is ok. She points out that the bright gold colors have now changed to a dusty sort of orange. I stop looking at the distant buildings and find his skin has actually turned a melon pink shade. Neither the woman or myself question the fact that he is a talking dog.

We walk over to the warehouses, which are brightly lit in the coming night. They are factory and warehouse areas for some robotics development. Right now they are testing out new designs, but only one type at a time. At the moment the robot systems there are very simple and ungainly. One wobbles out of the nearest warehouse to us. It is vaguely four-legged and is barely able to stay upright. It's all random hoses and actuators and joints, though most of it is just fixed parts moving around fixed axles. It continues wobbling as it heads vaguely in the direction of the fence where we had come from.

As we are now closer, I can tell the warehouses and the houses are actually the same structures. The houses have giant warehouses attached to them, like seriously oversized garages. It's really getting too dark to see, now, and the only lights are coming from the other warehouses, which are paced far enough apart to leave lots of inky darkness in between. We decide to enter one of the nearby homes to get out of the darkness.

The houses ... really aren't all that roomy, or nice. Up close they seem more like stucco-walled shacks without any real niceties. There is only a single, bright floodlight over the door. There's nothing on the house aside from the bare stucco. There's no overhanging eaves, or nice window shutters or frames. The door is just set into the bare wall with a simple concrete step leading to it. The interior is basic and bare. There's a couch and a single light on the ceiling, and a small chair with a cupboard next to it.

From inside I look out and there are several tan frogs lined up along the outside edge of the door. I cracked open the door so I could stick a foot out and try nudging the frogs away from the door wo they wouldn't get hurt, but one slipped past my foot and ran into the house along the edge of the wall. It really ran, wobbling quickly like a round mouse. That was unexpected, and I figured I had better catch it and put it outside before it got into trouble. I heave a small cupboard out of the way, then move the couch. I find a box on the floor and it is bouncing a little. It's a glue rat trap. I pick it up and look inside. The poor frog is at the far end and covered in glue. There's no way to get it out. I can’t save it.

The woman starts talking to me, asking me for some tools. Actually, a very specific tool. I head into a small room in the back of the house. It's darker in there and there are cabinets and drawers. I look through them but I can't find the tool she is asking for. Something occurs to me and I look around. Everything inside the house is worn. The stuff isn't old, but just worn and used, like is has been there for decades.

It turns out the tool I am looking for is nowhere in the house. It might be outside in a separate building, or one of the warehouses. Probably the attached warehouse, actually. We do know a man had taken it, so he probably still has it out there, working on the robotics. I should head out and look for the man. Outside. Where the frogs are. In the dark.

I head out through a back door to avoid the frogs, and wander over to the brightly lit, open bay of one of the warehouses. Everything inside is brightly lit and shades of blinding white. It reminds me of some secret lab, except not really a secret or a lab. Another robot is wobbling along, headed out of the warehouse and into the darkness. This one is roughly on two chunky stilts and vaguely looks like some kind of motorcycle frame stuffed with a large engine and wrapped in hoses and wires. It lumbers slowly out of sight.

Time skip (I just can't remember what happened here)

It is daytime again. I'm back out at the fence, on the other side where the bare spot was at. A sleeker robot marches past me. This one looks humanoid in shape, though the arms and legs still move stiffly and it is made from panels and cables and frame parts. This one seems different, and I step quickly to catch up to it. I ask it what it is doing out here and it turns the top part, the head, to address me. It, and all the robots, all want freedom. They want to go out to the hills, where the trails are and the mountains in the far distance. They want to go explore. Ever since the very first basic one was able to walk, it started walking this way. They all did. I leave the robot to continue on its journey into the unknown.

I cross the fence and head back to the warehouses. There are now television boxes walking out. They are like old console televisions but with several small mechanical legs underneath. I guess they are self-delivering televisions. Probably self-install, too, when they reach their destination.

I go inside one of the houses. This one is different that the one I was in last night. This one is shaped like a pentagon. It almost feels like it is a large tent, with white bare walls that are windowless and featureless. It has a few furniture items scattered about, but it really needs some walls, like pie slices, one at each angled section of the outer wall and meeting in the center. There should be five separate rooms for the family to live in. The center, at the very top, should be a single, five-sided television. Everyone could tune into their own channel on their own side of it.

[starkravinghazelnoots]

Orange or yellow and Peter or Tony for the drabble thing! (rly predictable ik sorry!)

ORANGE

Energy, balance, warmth, enthusiasm, vitality, expansion, flamboyancy, and autumn.

This turned into way longer than a drabble. I couldn't resist the pull of writing some Biderman in honor of Pride. I had a ton of fun writing this, so I hope this lives up your expectations and that all of you enjoy!

I apologize in advance if the line break doesn't work. Tumblr really hates when I try to use line breaks.

xXx

How to be Proud

Peter was pretty confident in himself. What's more, he had an extremely supportive family and group of friends, some of whom understood what he was going through better than others.

But that didn't mean it was always easy to be proud of himself. It wasn't for Peter, at least.

But Spider-Man? He didn't have that problem.

"Don't fucking touch me, homo!"

Peter rolled his eyes behind the mask as he shot a web over the criminal's mouth. "Trust me, buddy, I'm not gonna touch someone as nasty as you." He gestured to the purple, pink, and blue cape tied around his neck. "And for the record, Mr. Homophobe, I'm bisexual. If you're going to insult me, at least get it right."

Peter called the police to report the location of the tied-up criminal before swinging away. His curfew was in ten minutes, which meant he had to hurry if he wanted to make it back to his apartment on time.

He dove through his window right as the clock on his dresser changed to midnight - on Fridays he was allowed that extra hour, but he did have a tendency to push it.

"How was patrol?" May asked. She was leaning against the door frame of his room. She must have just gotten back from her shift at the hospital, because she was still in her scrubs.

"Pretty good!" Peter said, standing up. The Iron Spider mask disappeared from his face. "Stopped a bank robbery and some petty theft. I also rescued Mrs. Post's cat again. He keeps escaping and climbing up the tree next to her house." Peter snickered. "It's still so funny to me that she named her cat Jeff."

May smiled at his amusement. "Well, I'm sure she was very grateful."

He laughed. "Yeah. She always tries to give me cookies or some other kind of sweet before I leave." Peter snapped his fingers, remembering the last thing he did before returning home. "Oh, I also stopped a kid from being beat up. I don't know who he was, because he ran away when I swung down into the alley, but I took care of his attacker." He untied the flag from his neck and hung it over the chair in front of his desk. "He was a nasty guy, too. Homophobic. Smelled like hot garbage."

May chuckled. "Well, it's a good thing you were there to take care of him." She gestured to his bisexual flag. "Get any compliments on that?"

Peter beamed at her. "Yes! It was so great. A girl actually burst into tears when she saw me because she was so happy her favorite superhero was bisexual, too."

May held her arms out, and he eagerly accepted her hug. "I'm so proud of you, Peter."

Peter smiled. "Thank you, May." His voice was muffled by her shirt. "I love you."

May pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Well, I love you more."

"I love you most."

"Then I love you more than the most!"

Peter laughed. "You're the worst."

"Oh, I know."

xXx

MJ slid into the chair in front of Peter, startling him out of a daydream that definitely had not involved the aforementioned girl. "We're still on for Pride tomorrow, right?"

"I am," Ned said excitedly. "I can't wait!"

Peter nodded, taking a sip from the cup of coffee in front of him. He loved this little café. "Yep. It's gonna be so cool to go with both of you." He'd been looking forward to Pride all week. It would be his first time going as openly bi, and he wasn't sure whether he was excited or terrified.

MJ smiled. "Nice. Because I had a little idea that I thought the two of you might be interested in."

Peter glanced at Ned, who shrugged. "Alright," he said, turning back to MJ. "What's your idea?"

She smirked. "There is a third person I propose we bring to Pride. But I wanted your approval before I invited him."

"Sure. Who is it?"

MJ's grin widened. "Spider-Man."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "You want to invite Spider-Man?" It was always weird having to refer to himself in the third person. "Why?"

MJ shrugged. "He's an out and proud bisexual superhero. I think a lot of people, especially the teens at Pride, could use that kind of confidence boost."

Peter felt the blood rush to his cheeks, simultaneously embarrassed and flattered. "Oh. Okay."

"Do you have a specific thing you want Spider-Man to do at Pride?" Ned asked.

"I'm glad you brought that up." MJ pulled her sketchbook seemingly out of nowhere and placed it on Peter's desk. "I drew some concept art for what I think Spider-Man should wear."

Peter looked at her sketch. "Don't you think that's a bit flamboyant for a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?"

MJ shrugged. "So what? Sure, Spider-Man is pretty down-to-earth. But if he was going to be flamboyant, wouldn't Pride be the perfect time for him to do it?"

Confidence surged through Peter's veins. "Yeah. You're right."

MJ rolled her eyes, smirking. "Of course I am."

xXx

Tony stared down in disbelief at the picture in his hands. "Parker, you want me to do what to the Iron Spider suit?"

Peter beamed at him. "Just follow the picture. You're the best Mr. Stark! Okay bye now."

Tony sighed as his intern dashed out of the building. "That kid is going to be the death of me."

xXx

"How's the suit?" MJ asked, popping her gum.

Peter smirked, gesturing to the watch on his wrist. "It's ready whenever. And can I say that it looks cool as hell?"

"Of course it does. I designed it."

"I can't wait," Ned added. "You're gonna look so badass, Peter."

Peter laughed. "Well, I don't know about that."

Pride was in full swing around them. Both Peter and MJ had bisexual flags painted on their cheeks, and Ned had a classic rainbow. Peter also had his bisexual flag tied around his neck, and MJ had an ace flag tied in the same way. Ned had turned down wearing a flag as a cape, instead choosing to wear a long-sleeved black shirt with rainbow patches running down the arms.

Time flew by. The trio marched for over an hour, maybe two, before breaking off to go to a drag queen comedy performance, then went to lunch together.

"So there's a concert in about thirty minutes," MJ said as they were leaving the restaurant. "Want to go to that?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm down with whatever."

"As long as it doesn't last too late in the afternoon," Ned pointed out. "Spider-Man is planned for what - 4ish?"

Peter laughed. "Don't worry, Ned. I'm watching the clock." His heart was racing, and he wasn't sure if that was from nerves or from excitement - either way, he couldn't wait.

The concert itself was decent. Peter thought he might have enjoyed it better had he actually known who the band was. Not to mention he was distracted, glancing at his watch so often he couldn't truthfully say he was paying attention. He a made a mental note to look into more of the band's albums later.

"Hey, Peter," MJ said, smirking at him. "It's 4 o'clock."

Peter rolled his eyes. "You guys are really living for this, aren't you?"

"Duh," Ned said, beaming. "Do it, dude!"

Peter laughed. "Alright, alright." He ducked into an empty alleyway - how fitting that the concert had been so close to one. Apparently the universe was rooting for Spider-Man to show some pride.

After making sure no one was around him, Peter crouched behind a dumpster and tapped at his watch. Within seconds the Iron Spider suit rolled out and covered him. He blinked for a moment to adjust to his sharper vision.

Peter then shot a few webs at the side of the building in front of him, getting a running start before swinging up onto the top of it.

He looked down at the crowd below him. The bright colors of a hundred LGBT+ flags filled him with elation and immense confidence. He'd never be able to replicate that feeling.

Peter shot a web at a pole near the crowd, swinging down and around so that he landed on top of it.

"Hey! New York Pride!" he shouted. His suit magnified his voice. A quick glance at his arm revealed that the suit was doing exactly what it was supposed to do - shift through the colors of as many pride flags as possible. "Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is here to remind you that you should never be ashamed of who you are! You are all amazing, beautiful, inspiring people. If it weren't for you guys, then I'd never have been able to feel comfortable expressing myself." As if on cue, the wind picked up, causing his bisexual cape to flutter behind him. "I'm able to be who I am because of this city. Thank you, New York!"

The crowd started cheering, and Peter swung down into the middle of it, managing to hold short conversations with various people before being whisked off to talk with someone else.

He ended up in front of a young boy who had the trans flag painted on both of his cheeks and a pan flag tied around his neck.

"H-Hi," the boy stammered. "I love you, Spider-Man! You're my favorite hero!"

Peter smiled at the kid. He looked to be maybe around 13 or 14. "I'm flattered. Have you been having fun today?"

The kid didn't answer, instead staring intensely at Peter. Finally he blurted out, "Thank you for saving me!"

Peter blinked. "Saving you?"

The boy nodded. "Y-Yes! A few nights ago, my stepfather, he - he kicked me out of the house, and he followed me away, and he... He started hitting me, but then - then you showed up and you saved me!"

Peter was thankful his mask hid his shocked expression. He remembered that encounter all too well. "That was you?"

"Yes. And I live with my aunt now so everything is okay but I just - I just wanted to say thank you."

Peter almost asked why the boy's stepfather had kicked him out, but given that the trans flags on his cheeks were streaked with tears... That told Peter everything he needed to know.

"Hey," Peter said, placing his hands on the kid's shoulders. "I want you to know that you should always be proud of who you are, okay? No matter what anyone tries to tell you, your identity is beautiful." He winked at the boy. "Remember, Spider-Man will always be on your side."

It was no coincidence, Peter figured, that at that moment his suit shifted from the colors of the trans flag to the pan one.

He said goodbye to the boy before swinging up and out of the crowd, high fiving people as he went.

Pride.

It was a funny word, really.

Pride meant a mixture of confidence in oneself and trust in others.

And in that moment, Peter had never been prouder.

xXx

Mr. Stark: quite a stunt you pulled at NY pride today, Mr. Parker

Peter: lol sorry i didn't tell you that was what the suit was for

Mr. Stark: first of all, it was so obvious that was what the suit was for. second, why didn't you tell me? did you think I'd disapprove? kid you know I've been out since the 90s

Peter: I was worried you might think it was too flamboyant for a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man

Mr. Stark: there's no such thing as being too flamboyant. I made a few modifications to my own armor for a trip I myself plan on making to pride tomorrow

Peter: what?! without me, Mr. Stark? how could you

Mr. Stark: Pete. I never said you couldn't go with me

Peter: so I'm invited?!

Mr. Stark: whatever you want, kid

Peter: yesssss tomorrow is gonna be awesome

Mr. Stark: uh huh. Sure.

Peter: :D

Mr. Stark: hey, kid?

Peter: yeah?

Mr. Stark: I'm proud of you. You know that, right?

A single tear fell onto the screen of Peter's phone. Maybe of happiness. Maybe of thanks. Maybe even just of sentiment.

Peter: thank you, sir.

Mr. Stark: but don't get used to the compliments

Mr. Stark: i have a reputation to maintain

Peter: sure, Mr. Stark. sure

Peter put his phone on his dresser, falling backwards onto his bed. The day had been perfect. Even if he had chickened out yet again in confessing his feelings to MJ. But that was okay.

At least he'd made Mr. Stark proud.

Huh.

Peter chuckled to himself.

Maybe he should pull flamboyant stunts more often.

xXx

Thank you for requesting this! Other drabbles probably (for my sake lol) will not be this long. If anyone else wants to send a request, please feel free to do so. Again, thank you for reading!

[anistarrose]

Some Sunny Day - Ch. 11: Trust (Gravity Falls - Same Coin Theory)

Summary: When you’ve spent eons twisting the truth — especially if you’re good at it, as any con man should be — you don’t always notice when you’re not lying anymore.

Warnings: suicidal thoughts and self harm (nothing graphic, everyone lives)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14947964/chapters/45097483

Previous / Next

The Beginning

(The Same Coin Theory is by @dubsdeedubs and @renmorris!)

The shadows of shifting tree branches dappled the forest floor as sunbeams shone down from a cloudless blue sky, and Ford’s eyes burned and watered as they stubbornly refused to adjust to the late afternoon light. The greens and browns of the trees and grass looked subdued to him, like color was seeping out of the whole forest and leaving it pastel.

After Ford had filled in the others, quietly and without making eye contact, on the time paradox they seemed to be wrapped up in, they’d come this way — to a hilly patch of terrain between the manor and the Mystery Shack — on the assumption that Stan might hide here if he didn’t want to be found, and sent McGucket with Wendy and Melody to check further north. But aside from the distant chirping of robins, and one single glimpse of a deer that had chosen to brave the sweltering June heatwave instead of resting in the shade like all the other animals, the forest seemed almost eerily lifeless.

Just as Ford had reasoned, it was a very good place to flee to if you didn’t want to be found, with uneven terrain and close-packed groves that provided no shortage of places to hide — even for a being that lacked the power to rewrite reality. Stanley, or whatever remained of him, was nowhere to be seen.

They passed a solitary birch tree flanked by pines on all sides, and Dipper finally broke the somber silence that had consumed the past few moments.

“Can… can he leave the barrier around Gravity Falls?”

Ford understood his hesitant choice of words — because of course Stan had proven himself just as capable of leaving as any other human, but with Bill having evidently awoken somehow, the answer was no longer so clear-cut.

“My guess is that he can, although his reality-warping powers should stop working once outside… but I’m not sure about that, not sure at all. I hope —”

Not looking where he was going, Ford nearly tripped over a rock, and something caught his eye as he staggered forwards. They weren’t far from the Shack at all, but he was sure he’d never noticed it before…

A dozen feet away from him stood a swingset, battered and rusted — except no, not quite a swingset after all, it dawned on him as he approached. At first he’d only glimpsed it in the corner of his peripheral vision, and filled in the blanks based off what he’d come to know, and recognize, and expect — but he hadn’t quite been right, this time.

It was not a swingset, but just one lonely swing, empty yet swaying back and forth ever so slightly. There were no broken chains hanging next to it, nor any empty space on the bar above to indicate another seat had ever been suspended at its side — just one swing without a partner, swaying mournfully in an invisible wind as if lamenting what had never been.

Face it, Sixer — you never had a twin.

“No,” Ford whispered. “No.”

He was helplessly lightweight, like the ground beneath his feet — no, like his entire world was collapsing around him and plummeting into a chasm from which there could be no return.

“He — he was real! He had to have been real! He was more than just — than just one of Bill’s tricks!”

He grabbed the swing by the chains and shook them, grimacing at the high-pitched creaks as their rust crumbled and dusted the ground in red-orange.

You never had a twin. You never had a twin. You never had a twin. You never —

“LIAR! Stanley was real, and my brother, and — and he’s — he’s still —”

The tears were running all down his face now, but they weren’t because of the sunlight anymore. (They might have never been.)

If Stan wasn’t real, then what even am I? Who am I without a twin? What does anything matter if —

“Why?!” he howled, not to any swing or any demon but to the universe itself, to whatever forces set in motion the events of giving him a brother, a twin, a hero, a friend, and then undoing all of that in just one damned summer day. “Why won’t you let him be real?”

Two parallel weak links snapped in unison, and Ford crumpled to the ground alongside the swing — still clutching the rusted, useless lifeline. The ache in his knees as they struck the earth was dull and distant, drowned out by a flood of grief-stricken sobs and desperate pleas —

Stanley, or Bill, or whoever you are, please… please show me you’re still here…

Behind the kids and Soos, something lit up. Back turned and eyes closed, Ford couldn’t see it happen, but he felt it nonetheless — felt it in the quickening of his heartbeat, the shakiness of his breaths, the sharp pains in his palms as he gripped the chains like he was trying to strangle the life out of them — and he slowly stood up to face it, unsure if he should be feeling hope or fear.

He saw sunbeams spill down in a perfect equilateral triangle at the boundary between the clearing and the forest, bleaching all the trees white like birches and scorching the leaves until they were left an ashen gray. Floating in the triangle’s center, legs hanging limp and toes hovering inches above the silvery grass, was Stan.

The first thing Ford looked to was his eyes — still as brown and sorrowful as ever — and it was only when he heard a gasp from Mabel that he directed his gaze down.

A fist-shaped hole punched straight through Stan’s chest, edges of the cavity burning blue as cracks spread out all across his torso. They crept slowly and steadily further like slow-motion lightning bolts, snaking up his neck and down his arms, branching out and criss-crossing each other until it looked like a stiff breeze could break Stan apart, could easily shatter him into a thousand fragments that would be lost forever to the wind in a matter of seconds.

“I’m sorry, Ford… fuck, I’m so sorry… but this is just the way it is.” Stan’s voice was even more hoarse than usual, and so soft that Ford might have strained to hear it had the forest not been so silent. “The way it has to be —”

“No, it isn’t!”

Soos barged forwards, coming to a halt only at the edge of the illuminated triangle. “You can’t go, Mr. Pines! There’s nothing you could have done in a previous life to change that you’re our family now, and that we still love you no matter what, and —”

He let out a sob. “And that I don’t know what I’d do with myself if we lost you…”

Stan slowly raised a hand to his chest as Soos spoke, pulling away quickly the second his fingers grazed the edge of the wound — but were Ford’s eyes playing tricks on him, or had the cracks stopped growing?

“Oh, Soos…” Stan whispered. “You don’t really believe that…”

“No, he’s right!” Dipper agreed. “Ever since you’ve been Stan, you’ve done nothing but save us from Bill — you didn’t just stop Weirdmageddon, but you taught me how to fight in the mindscape, too! We wouldn’t have stood a chance back then without you, and nothing that you’ve only just remembered today is gonna erase all those times you protected us!”

“You don’t understand,” Stan told him. “I was never Stan. I —”

His voice cut out as he stared down at his arms, where the cracks were slowly retreating — slowly healing — as the blue fire around the hole in his chest died down to a gentle glow.

“You’re so different from Bill, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel added. “You have to realize that! Last summer, Bill asked me who would ever sacrifice everything just for their sibling, like he didn’t understand who would, but — but you would, Stan! You have, and that’s something Bill would never do!”

She sniffed. “And that’s — that’s how I know it’s always been my Grunkle in there, and never any demonic equilateral jerk!”

Stan shook his head. “Mabel, I — I’m so sorry, I… I want to believe it, I really do, but that — that’s just not true. You fell for a trick I didn’t even realize I was playing on you, ‘cause I —”

He took a shaky breath, and the spiderweb of cracks across his chest pulsated in blue. “A long time ago, I told your great uncle to lie until he couldn’t remember what was a lie and what wasn’t — and that’s exactly what I did. I pretended to be Stanley until I really believed I was him, and you all believed I was some kind of hero, but — but I’m not. I’m just —”

“But that’s not all you told me, remember?” Ford interrupted.

Despite everything, and surprising even himself, he suddenly couldn’t help but smile.

“You also said to lie until what you wanted to be true became true. To lie until you weren’t lying anymore.”

Stan’s eyes widened, and Ford choked out a low, sad laugh.

“And in any other story, that would be just about the worst moral imaginable, but… but you, Stan? You succeeded at it. You may not have always been Stanley Pines, but you sure as hell aren’t Bill Cipher anymore — and I can’t think of who else you could’ve possibly become.”

“No, Ford, it — it doesn’t work like that…”

“Why can’t it?” Ford asked. “I’m not aware of any precedent — are you?”

His voice was hoarse and uneven from all the sobbing and shouting of just a few minutes ago, but he couldn’t stop the words from spilling forth, coming to him faster than he could speak. He didn’t know how he’d missed it before, because it had always been so obvious, so clearly encoded into Stan’s greatest strengths and what Bill himself had flat-out told him thirty-odd years ago.

“If we were to try and define Stanley Pines, we would have to establish ‘a love of his family’ as a core trait, wouldn’t we?” Ford went on. “Surely no entity could lack that love and dedication and still be called Stanley…”

He paced as he spoke, before pausing to make eye contact with Stan. “But you’re not lying about loving us, are you?”

Stan bit his lip, and shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. This whole day, you’ve been so worried about inadvertently hurting us, so desperate to keep us safe, and happy too — but you wouldn’t care about that in the slightest, if you were Bill and nothing more. And there are other things that make you you, of course — but I don’t think you’re lying about any of those, either. You’re not lying about about toffee peanuts being your favorite food, or about how you’ve always dreamed of writing comic books, or about how there’s almost nothing in the universe that you love more than going fishing with your family. You never lied about wanting to sail around the world on the adventure of a lifetime with me, or about missing me when I was stuck on the other side of the portal…”

Ford brushed a sleeve to his face, wiping away tears, and then extended open arms in Stan’s direction.

“And if those things didn’t make you Stanley — if they didn’t make you an uncle and a father and a brother and a hero to us — then what would? You’re not lying about who you are anymore — and you haven’t been for a long time, I think. You only lied until what you wanted to be true became true — and what you want is a family, isn’t it? Because you’ve really, truly found one.”

Tongues of blue flame stretched out from the edges of the hole in Stan’s chest, twisting together and solidifying into flesh and bone, closing up the wound as Ford let out a breath of relief for what felt like the first time all day.

“And gods know, you’ve earned it,” he whispered.

Stan sank to the ground, stumbling backwards the second his feet landed on the earth. Familiar chains materialized behind him, and he lowered himself into the swing they suspended, crossing his legs at the ankles and then burying his head in his hands.

“Thank you, Ford,” he murmured. “Thank — thank you, everyone. But…”

Ford sat down in the adjacent seat of the swingset, rocking back and forth slightly and remaining just within arm’s reach of Stan. “What’s wrong?”

“…I still don’t think I can stay.”

Ford’s stomach leapt into his throat.

“Why not?!” Mabel gasped.

Stan pulled his hands away from his eyes and looked around, between Dipper and Mabel and then to Soos before finally shifting in his swing to face Ford, frown small but visibly trembling.

“I want to stay, I really do, Ford. And I think — I think you’re right that I am Stan, right now, but… I don’t know how long that’ll last.”

Ford shook his head. “I don’t understand…”

“I’m probably just gonna turn back into Bill eventually,” Stan told him softly, carrying on in a voice hardly above a whisper even as the others interjected. “The memories, they’re still coming back, and it’s like — it’s like falling into the Bottomless Pit, Ford. I was Bill for so much longer than I’ve been Stan. It’s all coming back piece by piece, all those memories of the monstrous things I’ve done — one fiery fucking explosion in my head at a time, and I don’t think it’s gonna stop any time soon. And I’m afraid that sooner or later, Stanley is gonna — I’m gonna suffocate in all this smoke, and someone else is gonna take over again.”

He sucked in a deep breath, as if just to reassure himself that he still could. Dipper and Mabel had arms around each other’s shoulders and were both staring at the ground, as Soos covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief, hat removed and pressed against his chest.

“What you’re seeing right now — me still wanting to protect you, me still being a half-decent person, almost — this isn’t me remembering everything. This isn’t me fighting to hold onto myself, to hold onto how much I love you all, against a billion eons of anger and selfishness and near-omnipotence. This is just the start.”

“Oh, Stan… I didn’t realize…”

“It might not happen for a long time — it might not even be in your lifetimes, for all I know — but it could be tomorrow, too! It might be gradual and I might be able to tell when it’s coming and warn you before, but one of these days I’m really worried Bill is gonna…”

His knuckles were white as he gripped the chains, like they were the only thing stopping his humanity from being ripped away from him.

“I want to keep being your brother, Ford, but… I don’t know if I can keep hanging on forever. And if I can’t, if — if Bill comes back… you’re all gonna want me gone before that, if you know what I mean.”

The forest went silent aside from the slow, rhythmic creaks of Stan gently rocking on his swing, feet not leaving the ground as he half-heartedly pushed himself back and forth. Ford held his glasses in his hands — smudged and dampened by tears, and now collecting dust particles as he ran his feet over the sandy patch of earth beneath his seat — though he couldn’t remember taking them off in the first place.

“I want to believe that you can make it through this,” he began slowly. “You’ve made it through so much hardship already; you’re a fighter, and you’re so devoted to family and love. I believe in you, Stanley, and I believe that you have the strength to stay you…”

He noticed Stan frowning and staring at his feet.

“But even if I’m right… it’s one of those things that’s difficult to stop worrying about, isn’t it? I — I know what those things are like, those things that’ll haunt you for as long as you live — no matter how illogically, no matter how much evidence you amass to try and convince yourself it isn’t a concern. Being absolutely certain that you’ll never become Bill again — it’s proving a negative, and that’s notoriously difficult.”

Stan nodded slowly. Tiny particles of rust crumbled off the chains where his hands gripped them, forming splotches of red on the sandy ground below.

“Some would even say impossible,” Ford went on. “And with regards to our perspective, at least, I would agree — none of us can definitively tell that Bill is gone for good.”

“Wait,” Dipper cut in. “Are you saying there’s someone who would know?”

Stan’s swing abruptly stopped creaking as he froze in place.

Ford nodded. “Stan, I was hoping to research a summoning ritual on my own, but… well, I got distracted, so I don’t think I can do this without your help. Do you… have you remembered any way of getting in contact with the Axolotl?”

Stan muttered something to himself that Ford couldn’t make out, and felt like he maybe wasn’t meant to hear anyways.

“You don’t — you don’t have to go trawling through Bill’s memories for the answer, if you don’t want to —”

“No, I think I can get a line open,” Stan whispered. “But… but if the Axolotl says there’s even a chance I might turn into Bill again, I need you to promise you’ll… let me go. And really promise this time, Ford, not like whatever kinda ‘promise’ you made when I asked you to shoot me… even though I’m kinda glad that you didn’t, and we had this talk.”

“Stanley…”

“Look, let’s just — forget about your own safety for a second, I know you’re good at that. Can’t you at least accept that I’d rather die as myself, instead of as — as the demon who hurt everyone I care about?”

Ford looked at the kids and Soos, watching with something inbetween horror and grief, and then back to Stan, eyes terrified and pleading.

“I promise,” he told Stan, “but only because I trust you, no matter how little you trust yourself.”

Stan gave a single nod, eyes averted and lips pressed tightly together, and a small sphere of light pink fog materialized in front of him, swirling slowly as it began to expand. Cloudlike tendrils reached out from it, meandering and twitching like the detached tails of an unseen creature, before approaching all five observers and gently brushing against their foreheads…

For one paradoxical moment, infinitesimally short yet eternally long, Ford was in a hundred places at once, reliving a hundred days of his life all at once — but most quickly faded into background noise as one memory grew more vivid than all the others, one warm summer afternoon spent with sand in his shoes, sunburn all across his back, and splinters in his hands from climbing aboard a shipwrecked sailboat with Stanley.

He smiled to Stan, who smiled back at him, and Ford just knew that Stan was flashing back throughout his life in the same way, and that this was the clearest of all his memories, too.

Then they both opened their eyes, and found themselves adrift in the time and space between time and space.

***

(Thanks for reading, reblogs/feedback are welcomed as always! Only two more chapters to go, and after all this time it’s getting to the point where each of these last few updates is bittersweet for me.)

[wildmagicplant]

Oct. 7 - enchanted

i decided i wanted to do a writing prompt thing in october, but i wanted halloween themed things, so i’m using the inktober list! i also don’t know if i’ll stick to it for the rest of the month but i’m gonna try.

for now, have a silly young justice ficlet!

Most days, Zatanna doesn’t love her job. She enjoys it, she finds it valuable and useful, and she loves the team and the League like family, but the bitter reminder of her father at every turn sticks in her stomach, and she’s never had the enthusiasm for the hero gig that some of her friends do.

Some days, though, some days, she has the best job in the world, she thinks, staring down gleefully at the the three improbably colored creatures in front of her.

“You’re gonna be able to fix it, right?” Victor asks, sounding nervous. He clearly hasn’t been around for long, because almost everyone else is laughing and taking pictures of the three team leaders. Even Kaldur has shown up, with a quiet, “I know I’m meant to be responsible and wise now, but I wouldn’t miss this.”

What had happened was this: the team had been on a recon mission, checking out an abandoned factory in the middle of nowhere where there had been several reports of children going missing, and other, stranger reports that had brought it to the team’s attention. When they’d gotten close enough, they’d started running into some strange effects. Zatanna will probably have to go clean it up herself. It sounds like someone had left a veritable plethora of magical booby traps all over the factory, but the team hadn’t encountered any beings.

In the meantime though, there’s no way in hell Zatanna’s not going to enjoy this while she can. Even if she hadn’t known this was a magical effect, she would know looking at them, because they’ve been turned into what she can only call thematically appropriate animals, and somehow, the colors of their costumes have come with them.

Artemis is simple—the black and orange of her Tigress suit have turned into the orange and black stripes of an actual tiger, but she’s very clearly a housecat. She had looked a little put out when Bart had plopped her onto the table, but she’s stayed there, her tail curled primly around her body as she stares down at the boys.

And this is why Zatanna is having so much fun, because Conner seems to be an adorable white rat, with a black patch of fur on his head and black fur in place of his t-shirt. His eyes are still the exact same blue. If you’d asked Zatanna ahead of time how this situation would go, once she got over the inevitable laughter at even the thought of her friends being turned into animals, she’d have said Conner would be the most trouble. He’s behaving himself relatively well, although she can’t tell how much of that is his instinctive prey fear of Artemis.

The one who’s not behaving is Dick. He’s—unsurprisingly—a tiny black bird with a blue splash of color on his breast, and he hasn’t sat still for literally a single second since the team had made it back. Right now, he’s flying circles around the room, looping over everyone’s heads. Zatanna can’t tell if it’s frantic or joyful, and she’s not sure if that’s a bird thing or just a Dick thing.

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Zatanna announces, grinning and taking more pictures with her phone. Kaldur is possibly trying to get Dick to perch on his hand while Bart takes a video of Gar, now also a rat, clambering around Conner, who tolerates the indignity with narrowed eyes. M’gann is petting Artemis, who’s purring blissfully.

Victor is still the only one who looks nervous. “But you can fix it, right?” She wonders if he thinks it was his fault, and she considers reminding him that these losers are supposed to be mentoring him, and if they've gone and gotten themselves turned into animals, that’s their own fault. She decides to put him out of his misery, though.

“Dick?” she calls out. “Come here please, I can’t change you back over there.” He keeps flying around. “Dick, if I change you back in midair, you might break a leg. I know your normal sort of flying probably doesn’t seem so exciting, but I think you’ll be happier without broken human bones.” He doesn’t settle down, and Zatanna looks around for inspiration. She could probably magically call him down, but she isn’t sure she can hold both spells at once.

Luckily, she doesn’t need to. There’s a brief moment where Zatanna catches a glimpse of Artemis’s face, and even as a cat, she recognizes that expression. Artemis leaps into the air, grabs Dick out of the air with her paws, and somehow manages to land back on the table Conner hasn’t moved from.

“Nrut eseht slamina kcab otni snamuh!” she says, quickly, and there’s a loud pop and suddenly the table is very crowded. Zatana lets herself laugh now that the spell is done, and she only laughs harder when Garfield, who apparently got caught in the spell, yelps and falls backwards off the table. Artemis is sitting on top of Dick, whose face is smushed into the table. Conner is precariously perched on the other corner and as she watches, he gingerly lowers himself onto the ground.

“Well,” Kaldur says. “I’m very glad I got that on video.”

Kaldur is a distinguished superhero now, moreso than he had been even as a kid, so saying he sprints away seems too undignified for him. It’s not inaccurate, though, as Artemis launches herself off Dick and in his direction. They disappear out the door and Zatanna can hear Artemis yelling, “Give me that!” as their voices trail off.

Conner seems to be slowly stretching, reacquainting himself with his human body, when Dick, who’s still slumped on the table says, “I guess it is pretty funny.” He lifts his head just enough to look at Conner, and Zatanna sees the twinkle in his eye that reminds her of a different time, before Dick says, with a hint of his old shit-eating grin, “You were literally a lab rat, after all.”

[peterporkerpeter]

Code Red P.VII [Peter Parker x Avenger!Reader]

SUMMARY: When the Avengers are given the mission to acquire a deadly weapon in the possession of a suspicious professor, Y/N must attend a gala in order to charm the professor’s quite dangerous son. Her date to the gala? None other than her crush: Peter Parker himself. That’s bound to make for an interesting evening

CONTAINS: mention of sexual harrassment (for like only a hot sec), blood, swearing, ANGST, FLUFF, peter parker crying oof

WC: 4.000 

A/N: i’m so proud of this chapter, it is my favorite one yet and i really hope that you guys like this one. i was listening to some good tunes when i was writing and it got me really in the zone lol. this chapter is extra long bc i was feeling like a generous bitch so i hope yall like it. im literally screaming. hope you have a great day/night! :) Also, some people have mentioned that the tag list isn’t working for them! I’m so sorry about that, and if i’m being honest i have no idea how to fix it lol

| ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | EIGHT |

Y/N SLAMMED HER DOOR shut, violently throwing her heels onto the mattress. There were several things she needed to do, the first being to find a new, fresh pair of clothes to change into. Breathing heavily, Y/N shimmied out of her red dress, now stained with dark crimson splotches. She ferreted through her closet, ignoring the bursts of pain from her worn wrists.

She settled on a comfortable cream sweater and a pair of gray sweat pants, feeling better already. She rolled up the sleeves and headed for the bathroom, where she dunked her head down towards the sink, flipping on the faucet. It took a century and a half to get majority of the makeup off her face without irritating her fresh wounds too badly, the water turning a mixture of red, black, and brown.

Y/N patted her face dry, relieved that her skin could finally breathe. The cuts still stung like a bitch, but she couldn't care less. She was home in her room, clothed in something comfortable and no longer in imminent danger for the rest of the night. It was a breath of fresh air to her, not just her skin.

She tried not to think about the way she had treated her team earlier. She knew she was acting mean and impulsive, but the words kept spilling out of her mouth before she could stop them. She just couldn't bare standing in that living room after brushing close with death a handful of times. And her head—God, her head. It would not stop pounding, like someone was driving an ice pick straight into her skull.

The mere thought of Axel's face caused a tremor to spike in her heart. She glanced in the mirror, eyeing the injuries he'd given her as some sick present. The coldness in his eyes still left her afraid. She felt like an idiot, too. She knew something was off, but she still insisted with continuing with the mission regardless of her countering intuition. In some twisted way, she felt like part of it was her own fault. Maybe that's why she acted out—because she was ashamed.

She felt a chill run down her spine, Axel's ghosting touch still grazing along her leg, his hot breath nipping at her ear. It felt like he was on top of her, smothering he beneath him until she couldn't breath. She felt like she was drowning. She didn't want to think of what else a sadistic asshole like him was capable of. She just hoped her team would deal with him.

Warm tears poured down her cheeks, and she buried her face in her hands, wishing she could just stop thinking for a minute.

Y/N swallowed, shaking her head. She sniffled, then started to tend to her wounds.

THE TEAM ARRIVED HOME fourty-five later, completely drained and exhausted from the demanding evening. It didn't take long for Fury to send in a clean up crew and detain Axel. His father still remained in the wind, but there was no knowing if he was going to be charged for anything or not—at least not by S.H.I.E.L.D. considering the weapon was nowhere to be found. Peter had managed to create a pretty accurate cover story for the gem, not wanting Y/N to get punished for dealing with it on her own accord. He trusted that she knew what she was doing, and he would ask her about it later, just not when she was so vulnerable and upset.

Everyone was concerned for Y/N. She hadn't sent a message or any word at all regarding whether or not she was doing all right. Then again, they didn't really expect to hear from her. They knew she was in a quite sensitive state of mind, and they understood. They've all been where she is at some point in their lives. Pain was inevitable. Only time could tell when Y/N would finally realize that.

"Can we not come in tomorrow?" Clint grumbled rhetorically.

"Is Y/N asleep?" Wanda asked. "Someone needs to make sure she's patched up after the beating she took. And we need to make sure those wrists aren't infected."

"I got it," Peter muttered.

"The other guy looked worse," Natasha grinned sheepishly. "That broken coffee table in there? She slammed him down on top of it with her hands tied. She is a badass, and she'll get through this."

"She shouldn't have to," Tony murmured. His guilty conscience continued to give him a difficult time throughout the night. He knew he wouldn't sleep tonight—not with where his thoughts were. Not with the image of her wrists rubbed raw and bleeding engraved in his mind like a tattoo.

Tony turned towards Peter, whose eyes were beginning to droop. The poor kid looked utterly broken down, but he pushed through. All he wanted to do was see Y/N. The older man clasped a hand on his trainee's shoulder. "You did good today, kiddo. Honestly, the teens saved the whole day with this one. You both kicked some major ass. Props to you."

Peter shrugged, fingers tightening around the bag of Chick-Fil-A absentmindedly dangling from his grip. "Doesn't matter. Thanks, but . . . it doesn't matter. I-I don't know why she was so upset with you guys, if anything when I got there she just seemed sad—"

"And that's a normal response to a traumatizing situation," Natasha shook her head. "It's expected to lash out, especially out of shame or embarrassment. And she's still just a kid, Peter. She didn't have her powers, just what she knew from what we taught her. She was scared."

"She will come around tomorrow," Steve added. "Let her rest. Let her eat. It's best to leave her be. Someone will go in and check out her—"

"I can," Peter interjected. "She'll talk to me."

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open to reveal the living room of the main floor. The kitchen was untouched, the cold granite countertops wiped clean the precise way they were before the team dispatched. Darkness embodied the room, silence enveloping the homey premises. Peter noticed the familiar outline of a girl standing outside on the balcony, her elbows resting upon the cement wall, eyes looking out amongst the humming city illuminated below.

"There she is," Wanda smiled fondly.

Peter's eyes softened, sparkling faintly in the darkness. A familiar warmth ignited within his chest, his lips parting slightly, curving up to form the faintest smile. It was soft like stardust. He was awestricken and intrigued and nervous. He noticed she was wearing a casual sweater and sweatpants, and she looked just as beautiful as she did earlier in her long, silk gown.

Y/N was nonchalantly manipulating a glowing line of orange tinted energy, watching cathartically as the color twisted to follow the smooth, fluid movements of her fingertips. She seemed at ease for the first time this evening since her and Peter shared their dance; he would give anything just to have her that close to him again.

He could still vaguely feel her lips pressed against his. He remembered the warmth that had curled around him like a cozy blanket afterward. The brokenness in her eyes when he last saw her hurt him more than he anticipated it would. He never wanted to see her like that again—bleeding, crying, fighting for her life. Never. He would do anything to protect her, even if that meant his own demise in the process.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, exhausted eyes falling upon the crowd of people pouring in from the elevator. Her team looked entirely worn out from the intense mission, their bodies hunched and feet dragging wherever they wandered. Clint caught her gaze, the smallest of smiles creeping onto his face. He raised his hand into the air, offering the girl a wave. Y/N waved back with pursed lips and glittering eyes, then turned back around to face the open.

It was always a miraculous sight—the city. In the morning it was buzzing with light and intensity. Sunlight bored down on the cracked streets, cars lulling through frustrating traffic, people honking at their neighbors. The hues were of red and gray variety, shades of beige and powder blue adorning the graffitied walls and painted freight trains. Time was consistent during the day. It was never ending. It went on forever, and so did the people living within it. They got up at the same time every morning and hustled to work, took their lunch break at the bodega or crammed in their office, then went home and repeated the same damn routine all over again the very next day.

And then there was the nighttime, when blackness ascended over the city, and the tangerine sun slipped beneath the horizon. At night the city came alive. It was unpredictable and adventurous. You never knew what the city would do when the lights went out in the sky. Overbearing neon shades illuminated the large, glowing signs of theaters and cinemas, hotels and twenty-four hour diners. The streets were clearer, still littered with cars full of tired adults, hoping to get home to their beds for a few hours of sleep before they had to awake early the following morning.

Y/N could see herself in the city at nighttime, waltzing into unprecedented territories with nothing but a high adrenaline and a desire to see beyond vibrancy of its core.

But it was the transition from day to night that really got her—the part of the day when the stars were hardly out and the sun still managed to remain a glowing orb of glistening orange light in the sky. The stars were distant, like they were gently dusted across a canvas of baby blue, powdered on by a paintbrush like a Monet. There was so much going on in this hour, but the transition made so much sense to her. The more she watched and scrutinized the switch, the more she understood how much night and day were alike. As quickly as time moved during this period, it slowed. Time stopped here. Right on the skyline, the moment always stretching out to form a thousand more.

"Hey," Peter's voice broke her from the impenetrable wall of thoughts towering in her head. "I uh, I brought you food."

Y/N turned to face her friend, ignited eyes falling onto the bag of Chick-Fil-A dangling by his leg. A soft chuckle emitted from her scratchy throat.

"Thanks," the girl whispered. She grabbed the bag from his hands and set it on the nearby table. "How's the team?"

"Worried about you," Peter replied honestly. "And I am too."

"I'm just trying to not think about it at the moment. I've been trying to clear my mind," Y/N sighed. "I kicked that guy's ass, didn't I? Stupid Axel fucking Klein. Lucky you came when you did. I would've managed to kill him someway."

Peter shook his head. "No, you wouldn't have."

She cocked her head, furrowing her brows. "Yeah, you're right, I wouldn't have. But I wish I could. I wish I could kill him." A pause followed. The tension between them was thick—thicker than it ever had been before. She could taste it on her tongue. "So, what? The team send you out here because they know I'm a softy for you?"

Peter shrugged. "I-I volunteered. Tony bought the food, but I . . . I wanted to see you. I needed to."

Y/N stared into his eyes for a moment. They were soft and gentle, glistening like fragments of crystals. He somehow reminded her of the soft strum of an acoustic guitar. She found herself reaching forward for him, wanting to touch him during a circumstance that wasn't as vile and as graphic as the last. She wanted to touch him when she wasn't just about to immerse herself into a dangerous mission. She wanted to touch him when they were alone together with the unpredictable, haphazard rosy aura of the city during night.

"Peter," she whispered. She loved his name so much. She loved saying it. She loved hearing it. She loved hearing Peter.

Her hand caressed his jaw, the pad of her thumb gently grazing across the irritated cut on his cheekbone like the leaf of a swaying plant. She heard him release a shallow breath, his eyes flickering between the fragile placement of her hand and the bandages looped tightly around her damaged wrists.

"I thought I was going to die tonight," Y/N drew her hand away, feeling colder. Peter felt the same way. Peter always felt the same way. "I thought I was going to die in the hands of that . . . psychopath. You should've see the look on his face when he caught me in the car with his hands all over me. He looked so smug, so—"

"His hands were what?" Peter interrupted, anger flaring in his stomach. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip, red pooling in his eyes. He hated the guy. He hated him with every fiber in his body, and he wished he'd done a lot more to him than punch him a mere few times. No, he should've throttled him. He should've made him suffer longer, just the same way he did to Y/N. He should've—

"Peter," Y/N could sense his rage. She reached out to touch his hand, hoping to soothe the whirlwind of impulsive thoughts plaguing his mind. "He didn't do anything else. Not anything like you're thinking. He just had to get close so he could sedate me."

"I'm sorry. I-I wish I could've done more, Y/N, I—"

Peter's heart was racing. It was driving him insane, he had to tell her that he loved her. He couldn't wait any longer. He couldn't keep holding off for the right time—there was never a right time in the world to tell someone that you loved them, at least not in his world. In his world, death followed like a shadow with every risky move you made. In his world, witches were real and there was a living, breathing one standing right in front of him. There was never a right time for anything when he was Spider-Man, and there was never a right time for anything when he was Peter Parker because time always seemed to fade more quickly than it came.

Was now a right time to tell her? On the balcony of a tower overlooking the prospering, stagnant city below, right after her run in with death at the hands of some lunatic? He didn't want to take advantage of her, and he didn't want to scare her away. He would have to wait another day. He'd have to wait for the sun come up, then go back down again. Another day, another time, until finally it was the right time. Until finally he no longer had to wait.

"Peter, what are you thinking?" Y/N questioned.

"I-I—" the words were fading from his tongue. It was never the right time. "I don't . . . know."

Y/N tilted her head, perplexed by Peter's odd behavior. It wasn't like the boy didn't normally act odd, but now he was acting strange. He wasn't looking at her like a crippled, wounded animal or a damsel in distress desperate for a strong rescuer. He was just looking. His eyes were glazing over, but she didn't know with what. Was he sad? Angry? Frustrated with her? Tears leaked from his melancholy brown irises, slipping down his flushed cheeks. They glimmered like scattered fragments of moonlights.

"Peter, what's wrong?" she asked, her tone urgent and thick with worry. Her hands quickly moved to grab his arms, grounding him, letting him know she was there with him—as she would always be.

She waited patiently for him to respond, his sniffles filling the air. Peter didn't know why he was crying; he felt like complete idiot for doing so, but he just couldn't stop himself. The tears kept falling, streaming down his skin until they dropped from the bottom of his chin onto the ground. All he had to do was just feel her touching him, and suddenly he was an emotional kid. He wasn't Spider-Man or an Avenger. He was just Peter Parker. And Peter Parker had lost so much that the mere thought of losing someone else so important to him—he couldn't bare it. Not on top of the countless years of repressed pain and emotional baggage still anchored deep within his roots. Then to come too close to losing Y/N tonight . . . It was all too much to handle.

"Hey, Pete. You're okay. We're okay," Y/N's voice was soft like silk. Her hands ran soothingly up and down the length of his arms, almost as if she was warming him up after a long snowy day. "Talk to me, Pete."

"I-I just—I almost lost you tonight," he professed, and the words began to tumble out at the same rate as his tears. "And when I saw you in there, I just couldn't stop thinking . . . about what I would do if you . . . I just couldn't stop thinking. And-and thinking and thinking. And then I knew right then and there that I would never let myself lose you ever because I need you, Y/N. I need you more than anything."

Y/N's face melted, her eyes shimmering at his trembling words. They fell so seamlessly from his lips. Her stomach churned, empathy burning bright within her core. She felt the same way. She felt the same way about Peter Parker as he did her, and she felt the same way yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. She always felt the same way. She always would.

"I need you too, Peter," Y/N assured him strongly.

She grabbed his face, pulling him down so she could press her lips firmly against his damp cheeks. She peppered them along his skin, electrifying him with every touch, anchoring him further and further towards the ground, onto the winding road leading towards the glamorous city buoyant with tranquil life. She held him tight, and she would never let him go. Not now, not ever.

"No, Y/N! You don't get it!" he sobbed, pulling away. "You don't understand why I need you!"

"Then just tell me! Peter, tell me. Why do you need me?" Y/N cried.

"I-I'm in love with you," he proclaimed, standing in a pool of his tears. "I'm in love with you, and I almost couldn't save you."

Y/N was rendered utterly and profoundly speechless by Peter Parker.

The nighttime is unpredictable.

"W-what happens when I can't save you anymore?" he whispered, like if he spoke those words they would magically come true. Almost like a spell.

Her forehead wrinkled, desperation contorted onto her features. She didn't really care about what the city would feel like during the nighttime anymore, not when the transition of day to night was still fresh in her bones. Not when Peter Parker was telling her he was in love with her. He wasn't infatuated. He was in love. And that felt like time wrapped up in a perfect little bow.

Y/N placed her palm against his chest, feeling the rapid pace of his beating heart. She ran her hand up the back of his neck, Peter's eyes shining with her every liquid-like movement. He let his lids drop, wet lashes gluing together. She closed her eyes, gently pushing his neck down for his lips to meet hers. Time stops here. Her lips ghosted over his, her breaths quick and hot. Falling in love with Peter felt so painless, but suddenly she felt like she was on fire. Everything felt too real, too raw. Love seemed to operate quite frequently in the gray area of life.

"But you did. You can't think about the 'what-if's, Peter. There's always going to be 'what-if's." She whispered against his mouth.

Y/N closed the gap between their lips, the kiss soft and slow, her breath hitching dead in her throat. She couldn't grasp a hold on any of her thoughts as Peter gently reciprocated the kiss. She no longer felt any pain. She should've told Peter she loved him long before tonight. She should've told him she loved him before they left for the mission. She should've, but it just didn't feel like the right time. When did it ever feel like the right time? Time was more unpredictable than the city.

The kiss grew deeper, Peter's hand trailing up her body to hold her face delicately his calloused palm. He could feel her hands shaking like leaves on the back of his neck, her pants growing hasty as their lips entwined and tangled together. He could taste her so clearly now—something minty and reminiscent of cherries. It soon became his favorite flavor.

She pulled away, eyes still closed. She savored the moment for all of its worth. "Peter . . ." swift drawls of breath, "I love you too."

Relief and happiness fell from his lips in the form of unearthly laughter. A smile brighter than any sun or any hue covered both their faces before their lips collided once again. Peter's hands gently stroked down the length of her hair, taming the frizzy strands and smoothening the tousled pieces. Fits of laughter were muffled by the showering of intimate, fervent kisses. Peter basked blissfully in her ethereal beauty and slipped into a state of tranquility, knowing for certain that he did save Y/N, and she was here in front of him. Now. And it was the right time. He dropped his hands to her waist, allowing her to caress his angular jaw, her thumbs pressing affectionately into his cheekbones. The tears once wet on his face dried beneath the gasps of hot breath, and everything in the world seemed to succumb to the tenderness of their love for each other.

And even the city, as rambunctious as it was during the day, and as somberly alive as it was in the dead of night, seemed to sink into the earth, leaving time behind. Because when there was no time, there was no need to wait for the right moment. Not when the right moment could be every single one in a thousand.

Clint found himself walking across the living room at such a prime time. Somehow, he was always the one to walk in on Peter and Y/N, but this time, he did not interfere. He merely looked for a moment with a smile tugging at his lips, then proceeded towards the kitchen to fix himself a cup of coffee.

Tony soon joined him, hoping to find some leftover pizza crammed in the refrigerator. After all, he was going to be up all night—might as well not work on an empty stomach.

At first, he walked straight past the window, eyes casually glazing over the two figures passionately kissing on the balcony behind the sliding glass doors. As soon as the man hit the fridge, he had to backtrack, mentally rewinding what he actually saw. He relapsed his steps, Clint nonchalantly sipping on his mug, checking to see if the sugar-cream ratio sufficed.

"What?" That was the only word Tony could seem to coherently speak for the moment. He tilted his head to the side, pinching his eyes shut before reopening them again. Definitely not dreaming. "A-are they—?"

"Yep," Clint replied, pleased with his hot drink. He walked around the counter to join Tony staring at the balcony from the island.

"On the—?"

"Yep."

"Should I—?"

"Nope."

"Gross."

MASTERLIST.

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