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galaxy-parker · 6 years ago

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I’ll Love You (Till All My Love’s Run Out)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones

Summary: she’s beautiful and he’s indisposed

Warnings: europe doesn’t actually always have small doors i swear

Word Count: 2.1k A/N: wowowow that trailer fucked me up!!! and i am very excited to write about it!!! i am such a slut!!! this is a great time!!! enjoy! ~

Michelle’s dress is colored blue and painted with pretty flowers, red and yellow and green and Peter feels his heart freeze when she looks at him. He feels his feet freeze too. She smiles, tight lipped and short lived but she smiles at him all the same. His heart beats painfully in his chest.

‘Peter,’ Ned pushes against his back, trying to squeeze through the tiny doorway (really tiny doorway. When he’d first seen them Peter thought it was just their specific hotel that didn’t know how to make normal sized aperture’s, then he saw the rest of the city and, well, Europe just has really weird doors)

Ned’s finger jabs between Peter’s shoulder blades. ‘Hey,’ He calls out, turning to glare at the boy.

‘You’re holding up the line, dickhead,’ Flash’s voice echoes from farther behind and Peter rolls his eyes, stepping out of the frame and directly to the side.

Somehow through the chaos of booking a hotel, he and Ned had gotten stuck with Flash as a roommate, making the usual slur of insults from his mouth become a never ending spewing waterfall.

Peter’s eyes flit to MJ again, she’s smiling- brighter this time- but not at him. Betty stands in front of her, whispering something hushed and so obviously secret that he turns to Ned and begins running his mouth about quantum physics as not to let his very advanced hearing pick up the words, but not before he hears ‘Peter,’ and something about ‘like him,’

He’s trying to get better at eavesdropping. Or rather not eavesdropping.

‘Woah, calm down,’ Ned quirks an eyebrow, moving past him to let Flash stumble through the door.

‘It’s about time,’ He mumbles.

‘What about subatomic particles?’ Ned ignores Flash’s interference and scratches the back of his hair, trying to catch on to his friends ramblings. Peter only shakes his head.

‘Never mind,’ He says, watching MJ stroll far enough out of earshot that even he’d have difficulty listening in on her conversations. Not that he wants to.

Ned follows his gaze, then smirks when his eyes land on the girl, still nodding along to whatever Betty is saying. MJ glances at him and the slightest hint of pink begins to rise to her cheeks, he’s sure his own face is a bright red by now. Ned shoves his shoulder.

‘Dude,’ He laughs as Peter stumbles, rubbing his sleeve with a wince.

‘Dude,’

‘Dude,’ Ned says again. Peter only shrugs.

‘What?’

Ned furrows his brows and begins to gawk in a way that makes Peter think of a fish out of water. Actually a fish out of water. ‘Seriously?’ He says. Peter shrugs again. ‘She’s totally into you.’

A scoff rips from his lips as Mr. Harrington calls the class to follow him through the door and towards the theater they’re visiting. Peter straightens the collar of his shirt and shakes his head. ‘Whatever,’ He says. And then- ‘You think so?’

‘Uh, yeah?’ Ned scoffs out the words and Peter’s cheeks heat up just a little more.

‘I just wanna spend time with her,’ He mumbles, feet beginning to follow the rest of his peers through the creaking hotel doors. Ned’s eyes glint with mischief.

‘That can be arranged,’ He says and Peter shoots him a baffled smile, glancing up at the sky and the stars speckled through it. The night is chilly but not cold and he breathes in the fresh air, relishing the feel of it.

‘Ned!’ Betty’s voice rings out a few paces in front of them and Peter’s eyes land on the blonde girl for half a second before flying to Michelle whose own eyes are already stuck to his figure. She looks him up and down.

‘Duty calls,’ Ned shoots him a two fingered salute and Peter barely has time to nod in return before he’s skipping to catch up with Betty and MJ is falling back to give the pair space. She falls into step next to him and his heart begins to race and race and race in his chest. He swallows hard.

‘Hey,’ He squeaks.

‘Hey,’ She says and the word sounds strange, different than how she’d usually speak it. Less indifferent somehow. It only makes his hands grow damp and his neck grow hot. Ned and Betty whisper ahead of them, glancing back every so often. MJ shakes her head. ‘They’re up to something.’

Peter laughs. ‘No kidding,’ He says and she turns to look at him, head cocked to the side just enough so that the lock of hair always concealing her eyes falls away and for just a moment, barely one, he sees her eyes glint with something nervous. He swallows hard and looks away, eyes focusing on the pair in front of them again.

MJ does the same and they watch as the couple no longer giggles and whispers about them no doubt, and instead as Ned takes Betty’s hand and squeezes it tight. Peter grins and then begins to laugh and Michelle glances at him curiously, a matching smile on her lips.

‘What?’ She says.

‘Nothing,’ He replies. ‘Ned’s just been pining after Betty for god knows how long.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s about time he did something about it.’

‘Betty’s had a crush on him since the sixth grade,’ She scoffs and raises her chin, leaning towards Peter, close enough so that he can smell her perfume. It’s light and warm and sweet and it might just be the only he thing he wants to smell for the rest of his life. ‘Betty’s the one who took his hand by the way.’ She almost whispers it and Peter expression twists in surprise.

‘What? No, I just saw it,’ He says, eyeing the pair again. MJ shakes her head.

‘She’s been working up to this for weeks, I’m telling you.’

Peter hikes his backpack higher over his shoulder his tongue darting out to wet his lips. ‘Alright.’

MJ arches a brow. ‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I do,’ He rushes out with a breathless laugh. ‘No, I do.’

She shakes her head, a smile pulling at her lips and lifts her eyes to the sky. The pale moonlight dances across her skin, pulling at her features so that she almost begins to glow- but then again, he thinks she might’ve done that before.

He watches her watch the stars, hoping he doesn’t trip and land on his face from the sheer distraction of her. Has her hair always looked so soft?

‘Why’re you staring at me?’ Her voice cuts through the parading thoughts of her her her in his mind and his head snaps forward, eyes almost cutting through the stone pavement in front of him.

‘I’m not,’ He says, but he was. He knows that she knows he was. A bought of red rushes to his cheeks. Idiot.

She hums and then stops walking. Peter barrels straight into Flash’s back.

‘Watch it,’ He snaps, shoving Peter back.

‘Sorry,’ Peter mumbles, not ignoring how MJ’s jaw begins to twitch at the encounter.

It’s no secret that Flash isn’t the most loved among the class, no matter how much he tries to convince everyone otherwise, but despite how much Peter dislikes him he’s almost sure MJ takes her hatred for the boy to an entirely new level. He’s not surprised really, when he thinks about the offensive things known to leave the bully’s mouth.

Mr. Harrington holds up his hand to grab the attention and MJ scoots away again as Ned inserts himself beside him. ‘You okay?’ He asks. Mr. Harrington begins to explain the show that they’re going to see and the rules surely to come with it, but his voice gets lost between the whispers of students, still talking despite his inquiry.

Peter rolls his lips together and puffs out his cheeks. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m good,’ Then he grins, wide and teasing. ‘Are you?’

Ned bumps his shoulder, his grin equally large. ‘Yeah,’ He breathes. ‘I’m good.’

The show ends with flashing lights and and jarring notes, echoing through the theatre over and over until they become whispers in the wings. Peter turns to glance at MJ sitting beside him.

Her eyes are wide and cheeks dusted pink but there’s something in her expression speaking volumes more than awe. Almost like bewilderment and reverence combined. She watches the curtain close, watches the crowds begin to cheer from their seats. She blinks slowly and turns to him.

He barely realizes he’s staring until she waves a hand in front of his eyes.

He jolts upright before offering her a sheepish smile and an apology. She doesn’t speak, only turns back to stare at the stage almost longingly, like it’s a tragedy that the show would end and he watches her again. He studies her in the dim light, trying to find if the wet under her eyes is a trick of his own.

Ned stands from his other side and taps his shoulder, he almost missed the rest of the audience already beginning to file outside. ‘Come on,’ He says. Peter nods, pushing up from his chair and glancing at MJ again, who follows without looking away from the podium.

Ned pats his shoulder and winks. Peter shoves him down the aisle and slings his bag across his back. But he waits by the last seat, watching Ned and Betty race through the curtains, dividing the showing room from the rest of the building, to catch up with the rest of their peers. He turns to look at MJ just as she pulls her gaze from the set at last, seemingly breaking out of a daze.

She jerks her chin at him and he starts to climb the short length of steps leading to the exit, waiting for her again at the very top of them and turning on his heel to stroll outside when she finally meets him there. But she stops, not following any further and he finds that he’s stopping too, feet already backtracking to make up for the distance. She’s staring at the stage again, and again he is staring at her.

And then her name leaves his mouth before he can stop it. ‘MJ?’ It’s almost a question, and in his ears almost a request to leave but he doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to.

She glances at him. ‘There is a voice that doesn’t use words,’ She says. ‘Listen.’

Somewhere he knows he’s heard those words before, and somewhere he knows they were stapled together by some big shot poet full of bullshit quotes leading nowhere but it’s MJ saying those words now and somehow they sound reborn. They sound important.

‘I think this may be one of the purest forms of art,’ Her voice is soft and he listens and listens and listens and he thinks maybe she’s one of the purest forms of art, because art she is. She has to be.

‘You’re an artist,’ He says. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

She looks at him then with confusion and maybe just a little bit of pride and his own heart swells at it. ‘I’m not an artist.’

He laughs, soft and breathless and adjusts his bag over his shoulder. ‘Are you kidding?’ He says. ‘You’re the best artist I know.’

She looks down, the edges of her mouth curling upwards, cheeks turning just a little more pink. He cards his fingers through his hair and the words fly from his tongue before he has the chance to weigh them down. But she’s standing next to him and she’s so beautiful and his head feels light and his stomach feels flippy and-

‘You look really pretty,’ He nods while he says it because yeah, she does, and grips the strap of his backpack again.

She glances at him from the corner of her eye, something glinting within it and she raises her eyebrows, her shoulders turning towards him slightly. Her arms cross deliberately. ‘And therefore I have value?’ She asks.

Peter’s heart drops into his stomach. ‘N-no,’ He breathes out a panicked chuckle, leaning towards her. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

And then suddenly her stoic demeanor melts away as quickly as it had appeared and she smiles, taking a step back and turning to him fully. ‘I’m messing with you,’ She laughs.

‘Oh,’ He chuckles, relief coursing through his veins and MJ shifts on her feet, eyes never leaving his.

‘You look pretty too,’ She says in something near a deadpan. She cocks her head and smiles a little wider. He blushes a little harder.

‘Thanks,’ He says.

She thinks I’m pretty, he thinks.

She nods again, glancing down the stairs one last time before strolling past him and through the curtains without another word, leaving him reeling with a stomach full of butterflies and a heartbeat picking up an electric speed.

She thinks I’m pretty. He thinks again with a giddy smile. She thinks I’m pretty.

Taglist:

@minnie-marvel @celestialparker @lokis-sunflower-anna @magic-marvel@quxntumvandyne @highlady-ofthe-summercourt @secondsineternity @lokiisragnarok @sadicallyrad @laurfangirl424 @hedwigthelegend @spiderdudeparker @hazzyhollander @dontpanc @signed-potato @propertyofmarvel @awkwardnesshabitat @spideyboipete @thelivvylovegood @yoinksholland @moonkissedtom @astral-parker @anxieteandbiscuits @ukulele-tea-and-ocean

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sirkkasnow · 5 years ago

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04 Advance Planning Is For Sissies

Ao3 link

07/07/13 Sunday

Clary finally started to bust the bicycle out on a regular basis after the excitement of the Fourth. Stan and Dipper helped her swap out the nubby mountain tires for hybrid slicks. She cut a trim, handsome figure in close-fitted shorts, jersey, bandana and helmet when she cruised into town to explore. Stan had overheard Ford giving her a stern albeit somewhat edited lecture on the hazards of Gravity Falls’ woodland trails, and she hadn’t risked the forest yet, which was probably wise.

The bits of conversation he picked up while running his own errands indicated that she was plenty busy as it was, hitting up every farmstand, the museum and Greasy’s within a couple of days. She was already ‘that tourist staying with the Pines’ and the object of bored midsummer curiosity in town.

A tiny aluminum bike trailer had been unearthed from the Fairlane’s wayback. Clary used that to haul all manner of cargo, mostly provisions, as they were mowing through eggs and everything else at a terrifying pace. She’d brought back some odd bits and pieces of costume jewelry and scarves from the thrift store, too, and had promised Mabel a run to the swap meet the next weekend.

Soos had in fact dug the ‘midnight mink’ and was happily working up a new display - ‘Dreaming Denizens,’ or ‘Northwest Nightmares,’ or something else alliterative. Sketches laying out one of the exhibit spaces as a blackout room were scattered across the desk in the office. Stan admitted to himself that it might be fun. Technology had come a long way since the days of glow-in-the-dark paint and twinkle lights.

But what that meant was a new assortment of oddities, and that meant assembly work, and that meant parts, of which the Shack had next to nothing at this point. Stan walked the showroom in late afternoon, taking mental note of what could be repurposed and what they’d need to patch in.

For that matter, he needed parts of another sort for Clary’s station wagon.

“Am I interrupting something important between you and the Goosurkey?” Clary padded up alongside him, hands in pockets. Today’s kerchief was songbirds on pale blue.

“Nope, just thinkin’ ahead. Soos is on a bit of a tear as I’m sure you know.”

“He offered me a job...in case I get stranded here for good. Imaginating Consultant and Staff Accountant.”

Stan half choked before he laughed full-throated. “Thought he had more faith in my repair skills than that.”

“I’m sure he does. He wanted to make sure I felt welcome, that’s all. What are you up to this afternoon? I find myself at loose ends if you could use a spare pair of hands.”

He thought that one over, assessing her through the corner of one eye, piecing together the beginnings of a plan. “…I’ve got a couple errands t’run. You wanna tag along?”

“Depends on what kind of errands you have in mind.”

“The usual weeknight stops. I need a getaway driver and the kids aren’t legal.”

It was her turn to splutter through a laugh. “As if you’d let me lay hands on your precious classic wheels!”

“I don’t know, kid, haven’t you already proven that you’ve got a steady touch?” Watching her go pink with pique was an absolute pleasure. Yeah, this had the potential to be both entertaining and useful. “I’m headin’ out around end of day. Wear black – somethin’ you don’t mind gettin’ dirty.”

To her credit Clary squinted at him with instant suspicion. “You want me to bring extra bobby pins while I’m at it?”

“I’ve got that covered, don’t sweat it.” He winked cheerfully and left her in his wake, mentally plotting out the night’s route.

He’d gathered up all the kit he’d need by the time daylight was winding down into dusk. Stan stepped out onto the porch and nearly tripped over Clary, perched on the top step, tapping who-knew-what into her phone. He yelped, she yelped back and jerked out of the way, and he looked her over critically as he regained his balance. Somewhere in that duffel bag she’d managed to rummage up black jeans, long sleeves and sensible running shoes. The scarves snug at her throat and sleeking back her pinned-up hair were mismatched shades of navy blue, but close enough.

“Wasn’t sure you’d be coming,” he said, though really he’d been pretty sure.

“Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a private late-night tour of Gravity Falls with local legend Mr. Mystery? I can’t pass that up.” Clary rose, toggling the phone to silent and slipping it into her back pocket. “What’s on the itinerary?”

“You’ll see.” She rolled eyes at him but tagged along amiably enough, dropping into the passenger side of the El Diablo and draping a lazy arm along the top edge of the seat while he tossed the backpack of tools and a few other oddments into the trunk. They cruised out into the gathering dark with bad 80s pop for a soundtrack and a mutually-appraising silence.

She pointed an idle thumb down towards Gravity Falls proper as they passed the turnoff. “Not a grocery run.”

“Nope.”

“How far out?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe.”

Her laugh was low and brief as she studied him. “All right. Hobbies?”

“Really?” Stan smiled a little as he drove, his eyes cutting to hers in the mirror.

“I could start singing, but hair metal is really not my bag. I’ll trade mine for yours.”

“Yours‘re probably boring.”

“Ouch. The least you can do is give me a chance to prove otherwise. Besides, didn’t you bring me along to interrogate me in private?”

He did chuckle at that. “Maybe. So, yeah, I make one-of-a-kind art pieces - “ The fingers at the steering wheel’s edge went up in sketchy air quotes. “Fishin’. Monster huntin’ and general explorin’ with Ford, though that’s more the day job these days, I guess.” The quiet weight of her regard didn’t lift and he shifted in his seat. “Boxin’, long time ago. You?”

“Thought you must have been in some kind of sport as a kid. Me, you’ve seen the bike. I read a lot. Thrift store diving, I like vintage stuff. Museums.” One splayed hand obscured her smile as she turned to look out the windshield at the darkening green blur of rural scenery. “Dance, sometimes. Haven’t had much time the last couple of years.”

The likely reasons for that were fairly obvious so he didn’t pry. “There’s not a ton to do out here in the off-season, y’know, so now and then I used t’host somethin’ for the locals. I’ve been gettin’ pestered for a dance party since I got back. You want in?”

“Absolutely. Let me know if I can help out.”

“Maybe we take a turn in the ring while we’re at it. Dipper asked me to show him a few things, might as well teach you too. You’re tall enough to be a decent sparrin’ partner.” Stan spun the wheel easily with one hand, heading down a familiar long gravel drive. “With Dipper I’ve practically got to be on my knees. And I am not that flexible these days.”

There was a hesitation before she responded. “Sure. Though I’m pretty sure I’m better with my feet than my fists.”

The El Diablo eventually pulled up in a little clearing populated by battered sheds, a well-worn pickup and a trailer home that he knew hadn’t budged in decades. Clary took a wary look around, mouth drawing tight in doubt.

“Supplies,” he rumbled, setting the car in park and unbuckling. “Since it looks like Soos is determined to do an overhaul while he’s got me around to help out. Make yourself comfortable. Won’t be long.” He chuckled at her open apprehension. “Relax, kid. Nothin’s gonna pop out of the woods t’drag you screamin’ out of the car. That only happens on new moon and that’s tomorrow.” Stan tapped his chin in mock rumination. “I think.”

“Very funny.”

“You’ll be fine, promise, I’ll be right back.” He was still laughing under his breath as he headed up to the front door.

It was a quick exchange - he’d called ahead and so there was a boxload of stuff waiting for him, cash for critter bits, easy enough. Stan struggled a bit with the driver’s side back door and Clary tucked legs under to kneel on the seat, reaching clear across to pop the door latch. She grabbed the edge of the box once it hit the seat and tugged it over into the middle, peering in at the contents under the wan illumination of the dome light. “Ooh. New skulls!”

“Soos is gonna need a few more mink things, yeah. What is it with you and weasels?”

“Professional courtesy.”

He snorted softly as the car rolled along. “Just how many of those do you know?”

“All of them.” His glance of disbelief was met with her mild smile. “All right, here’s the thing, we tax types are well known as the most humorless beings on the planet. Intimate acquaintance with the IRS, unhealthy obsession with spreadsheets, all that. I figured out pretty early on that people made assumptions. I read up a little. I got to know some of the other folks on the professional circuit in Baltimore...which is a company town, believe me, everyone there is either in government, education or crime….”

“Go on.” He had an inkling where this was going, a slow smile starting to curl.

“I thought I might as well leverage those assumptions.”

“You conned your fellow ambulance chasers.”

“Hey. I am no ambulance chaser and don’t you forget it.” She levelled a fierce glare and an accusing index finger his way. “All I did was win an occasional bar bet by outlasting every loudmouth who thought I was a pushover. If I felt merciful I’d order a glass of the best brandy in the joint and nurse it all night. If I felt less merciful….” Her shoulders rolled in a careless shrug. “There was enough turnover every couple of years that I always had marks.”

“So y’think I can’t keep up?”

“I know for a fact that you’re starting to run out of stuff you can crack in front of the kids.”

Which was true. He coughed into his knuckles as she arched an amused brow at him. “Well,” he said slowly. “Kids aren’t here.”

“Bring it, Pines.”

They batted terrible jokes back and forth for nearly ten minutes as he piloted along the highway to the next destination, dipping into blacker and blacker humor as they went.

“What can a goose do, a duck can’t, and a lawyer should?”

“Stick his bill up his ass. What’s the difference between a lawyer and a rooster?”

“When a rooster wakes up in the mornin’, his primal urge is to cluck defiance! Why do they bury lawyers under twenty feet of dirt?”

“Because deep down, they’re really good people. You know the problem with lawyer jokes?”

This one was so open-ended as to give no clue at all, and Stan cocked his head at her in question.

“Lawyers don’t think they’re funny, and no one else thinks they’re jokes.”

Clary’s smile was a little wry, and he felt an embarrassed flush creep up his neck. “Time for a change of subject, huh?”

“Tell me the best one you’ve got that has nothing to do with lawyers.”

“Oh ho, that’s easy.”

Once they were past the competitive call-and-response - she had definitely won that one, he’d been right on the verge of running dry, but like hell was he admitting to that - they both unspooled longer, loopier jokes, and Stan took real pleasure in coaxing a good laugh out of her. She had a nice laugh, he decided, deep and fearless, growing a little huskier as the drive wore on and she kept talking.

They cruised down one of the more remote county roads, driving nearly on autopilot until they reached the right turnoff. She was still chuckling over his last crack when he pulled over onto the shoulder and killed the engine. Clary frowned over at the tree-screened porch light up the hill. “Wow, okay, this is the middle of nowhere. More parts?”

“Not quite.” Stan drew breath, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he tried to frame what he wanted to say.

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Ah. Is this the morally questionable portion of tonight’s program?”

“Yeah, that’s about the size of it. Listen for a minute?”

Clary settled back, attentive, mouth smoothing into a sober line.

“So I’m a collector. I’ve got a thing. For art.” She nodded and he went on. “This jackass up here nabbed a Gustav Klouneng out from under me at auction, he’s rejected all my completely reasonable offers for the thing, and he’s been rubbin’ my nose in it for years now. Pure spite. I’m out here to, ah.” Stan held out both hands palm up, miming the balancing of scales.

“Steal it.”

“Pretty much. I’ve been waitin’ on him to leave town for months.”

She mulled it over, then nodded and cracked her door open. “All right. Show me how it’s done.”

Stan felt a corner of his mouth twitch up. “You sure? You can wait here, if you wanna.”

“I knew we’d be getting into trouble the minute you said ‘wear black’, so let’s get into some trouble.”

They both slid out of the car, Stan chuckling to himself, heading back around to the trunk. He reached in to fish out the gear they’d need, then tossed the spare set of gloves at Clary. She caught them against her chest and tugged them on, wriggling fingers in approval. “You’re pretty light-footed, so just point the light where I need it and stay close, got it?”

“Got it.”

There was no way in hell they were going to make it up to the house in complete silence and the place was unoccupied anyway, so Stan led her the long way around through underbrush to the basement door at a brisk walk. Clary accepted the heavy little black flashlight and aimed it as directed, leaning in to watch the delicate process of coaxing the lock open.

Having an audience was new, but the lock was child’s play. Stan nudged the door open and ushered her in with a flourish. She quirked him a half-impressed grin as she passed, angling the light into a dusty storage room.

“Wait ‘til you see this,” he murmured, deftly picking the lock on the next door under the light’s beam. Clary stepped in after him, silent on the thick carpet, and he cautiously flicked up the switches.

Stan had been here in person with time to look around only once, on what he thought of sourly as the ‘I’ve got all these great paintings and you don’t, sucker’ tour, but the impact was still the same. Perfect lighting, perfect framing, walls and drapery and paneling fit for a professional gallery. The owner might have been a colossal jerk but he had taste. He took a moment to soak it in with a low sigh of enjoyment, then checked on Clary.

She had an arm folded across her midsection, flashlight loose in her fingers, one hand at her chin, expression neutral save for a faint crease of the brow as her eyes flicked from painting to painting.

“Can you believe this hillbilly chump has a collection like this?”

Her head shook fractionally. “No.”

“Overwhelmed, huh. C’mon, lemme show you the one we’re here to get.” Stan chuckled to himself, padding softly down towards their objective.

Clary’s arms relaxed once she’d taken it all in and she came along after him, voice low. “I will say that these are, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the best clown paintings I have ever seen. This is a very carefully curated collection.”

“One day these’ll all be mine, but this’s what we came for.” He dragged a fingertip along the edge of the carved frame, grinning up into the mournful eyes of his Klouneng, all slate blues and velvet blacks and white splashed red. “What d’you think?”

“This is the best one here,” she said without hesitation, stepping in alongside him. “Brave use of color, intelligent framing. Lovely brushwork. The shapes and lighting are pared down into something elegant and stark, which is nice, sort of playing on the underlying theme of life on the edge of the spotlight...this is an artist on a mission.” Her expression finally eased into a faint, thoughtful smile. “Though I wonder why he’s so sad.”

“Y’really do like it?”

“Not sure I’d be brave enough to hang it over my bed, but I can respect anything created with such passion.”

“Afraid of clowns?” he tossed off in her general direction as he reached up behind the canvas to find the wall anchor.

“Of course not. I’m just a sucker for landscapes.”

Stan worked quickly, coaxing the canvas out of its bulky frame and setting it delicately against the wall. Clary had wandered off to take a closer look at the rest; she’d found the closest thing to a landscape in the place, a shadowed Paris alley with a dejected mime slumped against the wall. She didn’t seem afraid, but he crept up as softly as he could and leaned in close to her ear, hands hovering a moment before seizing her shoulders.

“Boo.”

Clary made a strangled, startled noise that wasn’t quite a shout, twisted out of his grip and latched onto his forearm with a downward yank that threw him well off balance. He staggered, she jerked back, then grabbed at him for support as she teetered.

“Stanley, what the hell - “

“Cripes, lady, you tryin’ t’dump me on the floor here - “

They were still trying to disentangle themselves, Clary reddening as she finally let go of his arm and shoved free, when a soft creak from overhead made them both freeze.

Shit, thought Stan, then I know damn well he’s out of town, then time to go. Clary stared at him for a flat second of naked betrayal. They both jolted into motion, Clary flipping down the light switches with a single swipe of her palm, Stan snatching up the Klouneng.

“Who’s down there?”

Yeah, he maybe might’ve miscalculated on the ‘out of town’ bit.

“Pines, if that’s you, I swear to God I’m really gonna shoot you this time.”

The door at the top of the inside stairs slowly swung open, casting a shadow - bathrobe, slippers and a rifle, damn it all - along the wall. Clary’s eyes were saucer-wide as she edged towards the still-ajar gallery door. Stan nudged her out into the dusty basement, half stumbling in haste as he followed. As cautious steps turned into a slapping, hurried stampede downstairs, punctuated by curses, Stan set himself up and at just the right moment kicked the inside door to make hard contact with the owner’s face.

Clary’s fingers hooked into his and she dragged him up the basement steps and outside. They both bolted for the relative shelter of the woods. “Head for the car,” she hissed as they hit the treeline.

Suddenly his hand was free and she took off like a panicked gazelle, dodging shrubs, leaping over roots, waving the flashlight around and generally making an attractive nuisance of herself as she angled off roughly towards the road. She was fast. Apparently all that time on the bike had paid off. Stan bulled straight on through, crashing over a stand of huckleberry. He had the painting jammed protectively under one arm and kept half an eye on the trajectory of the light.

When the gunshot went off Stan nearly went ass-over-teakettle through another clump of underbrush. It wasn’t aimed at him, he could tell that much, but his heart was a lump of ice in his chest as he frantically scanned over in Clary’s general direction. She’d stopped – then he heard a distant hngh! of effort and saw the flashlight go up in a long arc, spinning, the beam slicing at tree trunks until a thwack and an infuriated shout of “Damn you, Pines!” indicated that she’d hit her target.

Clary got there first, silhouette matte black against the vague midnight glint of the El Diablo, diving right through the open passenger window to skid across the front seat and slap the driver’s door open. Stan shoved the painting at her, she pivoted to stash it in the back, and gravel was spitting out from under the tires before she’d even turned around again.

They whipped through a three-point turn that tapped the back bumper against a juvenile pine, setting off a rustle in the forest canopy. Stan nearly floored it all the way back to the county road. Clary was curled up at the far edge of the bench seat, both hands over her face. For a long few minutes there was nothing to listen to but the low drone of the radio and the slowly steadying rhythm of both their breathing.

“Fuck,” she finally gritted through bared teeth, and Stan had to bite his lip near to bleeding not to crack up.

“You all right over there?” By the time he dared to check over to her side of the car she’d uncoiled a little, dragging the seatbelt down and shoving the buckle home with a heavy click.

“Peachy. So, thanks, Stan, that was educational, but I must say my estimation of you as some kind of backwoods Oregon criminal mastermind has taken a total nosedive.” Clary settled back against the seat and draped an arm along the window ledge, eyes half closed. “Holy hell. Never again.”

Stan tried, but this time the laughter won out. He tossed his head back and cackled with glee. She reached across to swat at his shoulder, but her lips were pinched against a grudging smile. “You’d better really love that painting.”

“After all that I swear it’s gonna be the eternal jewel of my collection.”

There wasn’t much to say as the adrenaline slowly ebbed. Stan finally took a moment to latch his own seatbelt as he guided the car back in the general direction of town, humming absently under his breath. The minutes ticked past in companionable silence and occasional, wary checks of the rearview mirror.

Clary’s brows rose as they took the turnoff towards Gleeful’s dealership. “What, we’re not done yet? That wasn’t enough excitement for one night?”

“One last errand...this’s a little one, promise, just need to collect some odds and ends for your vintage rattletrap.”

“You be nice to that car. It was more or less in mint condition before it got intimate with your tourist trap.”

“And it’ll be nice again once we figure out the bodywork, but in the meantime the engine needs help.” Stan pulled up on the roadside forty yards or so down from the dealership, cars and mylar fringe glinting and still under the lot’s lights. He levered himself up and out, stretching muscles that twanged in protest. Clary unfolded herself from the far side and half stumbled, supporting herself on the El Diablo’s hood as she came around to join him.

“I’ve never run that hard in my life. My knees are still jelly.”

“Nice afterburners on you, kid. Nice grip, too.” Stan fished the trimmed end of his most recent cigar out of his breast pocket and raised brows at her in question as she settled against the fender; she nodded and he struck a match, taking his time to wake the tobacco up to a slow burn. Ten minutes left on this one, maybe.

“I had incentive. What’re we here for?” Clary folded arms and looked up to the star-dense sky, her dark figure limned in subtle silver and the sodium gold of the dealership lamps. Stan studied her sharp profile at the edge of his vision.

“Drive belt. Spark plugs. Other bits not worth explainin’.”

“I can pay for the parts, Stan.”

He huffed out a chuckle, angling the smoke away. “Yeah, about that. Gleeful an’ I don’t exactly get along, y’see, he’ll tell you to stuff it purely ‘cause you’re under my roof right now.”

Pfft, she went, eyes closing for a pensive moment. “Nothing else local I imagine.”

“Nope. Portland’s a full day round trip. Bud’s got a nice little assortment of older stuff back there he’s never gonna sell, we nip in, snag what you need, nip out. No one’s even gonna notice. Hour, hour and a half tops. All you’ve gotta do is kill the main power at the office. Fuse box, big switch, cake.” He tipped a thumb over at the cinderblock-and-plate-glass structure that anchored the lot, tucked inside the fence.

“You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

“Been hearin’ it all my life.”

He let her think it over while he worked his way through the last bit of his cigar, smoke dissipating peacefully on the warm night air. Maybe she’d bite, maybe she wouldn’t. Eventually he ground the stub out at his feet and went around to the trunk to retrieve his kit bag. Clary followed, extending a hand, and he dropped a set of pliers into her gloved palm.

“Fine. Your turf, your people, your judgment call. I trust you.” He flinched in surprise at the phrase, covering with the low thunk of the trunk’s closure. “Prove me right.”

The urge to catch her arm and suggest the day trip to Portland instead was sudden and strong - hell, she was decent company and she’d be good for the gas - but it was already too late as she pivoted and jogged off down along the lot line, choosing a badly-lit spot near the office and scaling the fence with scrabbling feet. Less than a minute later the lights went out with a distant clunk.

Stan shouldered his tools and headed in, tamping down vague apprehension as his eyes adjusted to the faint ambient light. He didn’t bring out the spare flashlight until heavy shadow made it risky to go further. The lot was a maze of gleaming hulks, the footing treacherous on thin, irregular gravel. Clary he eventually picked out by the soft crunch of her cautious steps and an occasional ow as she bumped into one car or another, slowly homing in.

“Gonna take this up as a sideline? You got decent instincts for a glorified accountant.”

Clary snorted softly. “Not on your life. I usually deal with a different caliber of crime.”

Stan grinned to himself. “See anythin’ the same make as yours before you killed the lights?”

“There’s a Fairlane sedan at the back. Not in spectacular shape, but it looked like the right vintage.”

“That’ll work. Here y’go, lead on.” He passed off the flashlight. She kept her head and the light’s beam low, creeping along with complete focus, so serious and so careful that the urge to indulge in a cheap startle eventually became irresistible.

Stan caught up with two silent strides and reached out to clasp her low on the ribs. “Gotcha.”

She didn’t even make a sound this time, convulsing in his grip, the flashlight hitting the ground right about as her elbow caught him smack in the face. Stan tucked and hit the dirt more or less completely on reflex, half stunned - there’d been some real force behind that - and she was almost a carlength away before he could even see straight.

The dim fringe of the light gave him just enough of a read on her expression, flickering through fear to fury and finally settling on horrified contrition as he lifted a hand and found himself stemming a tidal rush of blood from his bruised nose. “Holy smokes, kid.”

“Shit.” She hustled back, dropping to her knees beside him, hands hovering uselessly as he rummaged up a handkerchief and jammed it in place to stanch the flow. “I am so sorry.” A pause. “Please never do that again.”

“Not a chance. I want to keep my head on, thanks.” Stan tipped his chin up, sniffling faintly as he waited for the broken blood vessel to calm the hell down. “Quit lookin’ at me like that, I deserved to end up flat on my ass. Nice solid hit, for a girl, with a desk job.” Budding indignation was definitely an improvement over the guilt and concern twisting her features - he didn’t much want to deal with either of those. “I really could show you how t’do somethin’ with that, y’know.”

Clary seemed reassured that he wasn’t going to die on the spot, at least, as she turned and stretched way out to retrieve the flashlight. “Only if next week is a lot more boring than this one has been. You sure you’re all right.”

He pinched his nose with the hanky, wincing as he tested the bridge, then dabbed with a clean corner which stayed clean. “Not broken. I’ve gotten worse beatings than that, believe me.”

The flicker of concern came and went again, but she kept her mouth shut and stood gracefully, extending a hand down to him. “We’d better wrap up.” Clary leaned back to counterbalance his greater weight and pulled him easily to his feet; Stan snagged the backpack and refrained from any further shenanigans as they came up on the car she’d picked out.

It wasn’t pretty - the color some kind of faded bronze that she called “Sauterne Gold” in passing disgust, chrome pitted along the bumper’s lower edge - but the hood came up quietly. The internals were mostly familiar and more importantly intact.

“Hold the flashlight steady for me an’ keep an eye out.” Stan unzipped his pack, the sound muffled by a liberal coating of beeswax on the teeth, and reached in to feel for the right tools in their flannel wraps. Clary bent for a fleeting moment to squint in and hummed in amusement as she straightened up.

“Pink bunnies?”

“Old PJs of Mabel’s, cut me some slack already. Pliers?” She passed them over, propped her elbow to keep the light roughly aligned, and kept her attention on the road while he set to work. Nothing too complicated. The drive belt was the worst of it, the spark plugs were easy. Clary glanced down at him every now and then as he became absorbed in the process.

He had dumped the tools and miscellaneous bits into the pack and was softly latching the hood when the light cut out and she hissed a warning, dropping into the shelter of the fender as a distant, watery beam raked the lot.

And, inevitably, zeroed in on him. “Hey, what’s going on over there? That you, Bud?”

Blubs. “Pete’s sake,” he spat under his breath, and nudged the backpack with one foot towards Clary’s hiding spot. “Zip that, run for it, toss it over the fence.” Her hand darted out to catch a strap as he half turned. “Uh, yeah?”

“Pines? What the heck happened to your face? And what’re you doin’ here at - Hey, are you stealing parts again?”

“....No?” Clary was inching away deeper into the shadows of the lot. He couldn’t even make her out, but started strolling towards Blubs to cover up the faint crunch of her steps, hands turned out and empty. “You know we got a guest with a busted car, right? Bud an’ I still aren’t speakin’ politely, so I’m here lookin’ for somethin’ trustworthy she can use ‘til she’s fixed.”

“After one in the morning?” Blubs was one to talk; Stan could make out the perpetual sunglasses over the regulation flashlight’s beam.

“D’you really want me crossin’ paths with Bud again?” Somewhere behind him there was a distant rustle of branches, good, then Durland’s voice, far enough off to sound tinny.

“Hey! Where you going, burglar? Yer under arrest - for burglary!”

There was a scuffle, and a sharp, high yelp like a rabbit snatched by an ambitious owl. “Hey!” Stan spun on one heel, and made it about three lengthening steps in the right direction before Blubs full-out tackled him by the knees. One of the car alarms went off, squeep squeep squeep, as he crashed into a door on the way down. “Ah, c’mon, Blubs, I saved the town from an interdimensional demon, gimme a break!”

“Sorry, Stan, we got a job to do.”

Durland herded Clary past him, her back straight, wrists cuffed, expressionless. She caught his eyes for the barest moment - she was pale, a smudge on her cheek, but seemed to be in one piece. Stan let Blubs slap the cuffs on him with an internal groan of resignation. They made a sad little parade out towards the street, the sheriff and his deputy arguing quietly.

“....aw, shoot, Durland, we don’t have the cruiser. Me and my ideas for romantic midnight strolls!”

“Well, why don’t we just commander Stan’s car?”

“Do you mean commandeer?”

“I dunno!”

“Edwin Durland, you are an absolute delight, and I cherish having you as my life partner.”

At least someone was having a good night. Blubs rummaged the car keys out of Stan’s pocket and stuffed him in behind the driver’s seat. Clary ended up on the passenger side, wedged in next to the box of pelts and bones. The Klouneng stayed precariously jammed between his knee and hers. Stan gritted his teeth as Blubs fiddled with the seat back and finally got the El Diablo going.

She stared out into the night the whole way. He could all but hear the mental gears spinning over there and was loathe to interrupt, but finally spoke up, quiet. “You okay, Clary?”

“I’m fine, Stan.” It was the first unambiguous lie she’d told him, smooth as glass. Stan left it at that, letting his temple rest against the window’s chilly surface while he tried to figure a way out of this one.

The station was a bit of a blur as he trudged in, head down, watching Clary’s feet ahead of him. They ended up uncuffed and unceremoniously dumped in one of the cells together. The door closed with a familiar, heavy clang. “You two better get comfortable. We’ll get your prints in the morning.” Blubs really did do a decent job of being intimidating when you didn’t know him.

Stan flopped onto one of the cots. Clary folded her arms, settling against the wall near the bars, angling herself so that she had half a bead on Durland and Blubs talking at the end of the hall. “How do we get out of here?” she whispered after a minute or two.

“Don’t think we can, kid.” Stan settled back onto the thin mattress with a sigh, propping up a knee. “I think I can convince ‘em that you got hypnotized into comin’ along with me or somethin’. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they’ve heard this year or hell even this summer.”

Her mouth twitched faintly. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“I don’t have to tell you that you don’t wanna get in trouble with the law. This isn’t my first night in jail, not by a long shot.” He rolled his head a little, the better to catch her eye. “I’ve been in an’ out of this one so many times the cot’s got a dent to fit my butt.” No laugh, but at least she ducked her head to hide the ghost of a smile. “I’ve done time in worse places than this. Whatever they come up with to throw at me, this’s a cakewalk.”

Her fingers were tapping a soft rhythm against her sleeve. “And if we can get past the lock?”

“Then we slip out a window and they forget this ever happened, most likely.”

Clary’s features went carefully neutral as she fished something out of her back pocket, then leaned against the bars, hands hanging just through. “Excuse me, fellas?” Her voice smoothed out into a warm dark-caramel register that wouldn’t do a damned thing for the sheriff or the deputy but struck a pleasant thrum in Stan’s chest. “You dropped your car keys.”

Durland wandered back after a minute, squinting. “Where’d you get my keepsake key fob? I’ve been lookin’ for that.”

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t even realize I’d picked it up. Thought they were my keys in the dark.”

“Thank you kindly, miss.” She handed the fob off to the deputy, endured a long, scrutinizing stare, then settled back against the wall. Stan stared at the ceiling and listened to the slow retreat of Durland’s feet, settling in for an uncomfortable night.

“Hsst.”

“What.”

He could practically hear her eyes rolling. “Hst,” again, softer, and he turned his head to look over. Clary had one palm tilted towards him, a glint carefully contained by silencing fingers - the cell keys, how the fuck - expression equal measures smug and profoundly ashamed. Her hands were shaking.

Stan bounced upright in pure shock, feet hitting the floor with a thud. He slapped a hand over his mouth in time to muffle an involuntary laugh. “Holy - you sure you don’t have experience with this kinda thing?”

“Shh,” Clary hissed. She pressed her brow to the bars for a better angle on the hallway, both hands cradling the keys as though they’d evaporate any second. Her trembling fingers set off tiny clinks as she tried them in succession until one finally clicked. The bolt slid back with a faint thunk that made both of them flinch. Stan hovered at her side as she pulled one shuddering breath, two, then carefully, carefully opened the door.

They slipped out into the hall and crept down to the station office. Blubs snored peacefully, sprawled across the front desk. Clary leaned over and pulled a neat little switch, plucking up the Stanleymobile keys and leaving the cell keys in their place.

“Hold on,” Stan whispered as she inched towards the outside door. She held in place and watched in outraged astonishment as he sidestepped into what passed for the evidence room, then reemerged with the precious Klouneng tucked under one arm.

The El Diablo was right out front. Stan matter-of-factly unlocked the passenger side, opened it for Clary, handed her the painting - she pivoted and stashed it in the back again - then slid into his own seat, adjusted it to the proper position, and pulled out smoothly down the road.

Both of them were all but holding their breath for the better part of ten minutes. Flashing lights and sirens failed to materialize behind them.

“You know where the pack went down?”

“Yes. I counted fenceposts.”

“Let’s grab that, then, don’t know how we can get into more trouble tonight.”

Clary knocked on the dashboard in lieu of anything actually wooden. “Please don’t tempt fate any further.”

Stan pulled into the former Tent of Telepathy lot next to Gleeful’s and angled the headlamps in the general direction Clary indicated, since they were officially out of flashlights. She hopped out and delved into the underbrush. His fingertips were drumming impatiently on the steering wheel’s edge by the time she reemerged, pack slung over one shoulder.

He picked a circuitous route out of town for no real reason other than his own peace of mind.

Clary tucked herself against the passenger door, arms defensively folded. Her expression gradually wound tighter and tighter into a frown. “You know, he got it wrong, that wasn’t even burglary. At least he didn’t know we’d already done that bit.”

“Pffft.” It wasn’t even that funny, but all the same Stan propped his head in one hand, fingers splayed so he could see, and started to laugh quietly. She joined him after a few moments. There was a hysterical edge to her staccato giggles but it was better than dead silence.

“I cannot believe I did that.”

“Oh, you did, kid. Pretty professional too.” It was damned near three in the morning and exhaustion weighed down his limbs. The drive home was mercifully uneventful, the Shack dark and silent under a moonless sky. He scooped up the painting and she collected the backpack from where she’d dumped it in the footwell. Stan didn’t bother to flick on any lights until they made it to the kitchen, feet dragging, and they both had to squeeze dark-adapted eyes shut against the sudden glare of the overhead lamp.

Stan propped the Klouneng up on the table and sank heavily into a kitchen chair. Clary paced the floor, hands to hips, the mental gears spinning again. "That was a wild night. Let's see. Breaking and entering, burglary, trespassing, petty larceny, escaping custody. How much do Klounengs go for?" Stan winced; she blinked, lips parting in dismay, and burst into a fresh round of low incredulous laughter. "Grand larceny."

"He's not gonna report anythin'," Stan said, a little wounded. "Half of what he has on the walls down there is already stolen. There's, ah, kind of a runnin' rivalry among collectors of these things."

"Lost any of yours?" She padded over to the sink, turning the tap and waiting on the water to warm up.

"Hell, no, I have mine better hidden than that. None of ‘em are dumb enough to mess with the Shack."

"So that leaves a couple hundred in car parts, and we didn't leave any real traces there. Except, you know, being in physical custody for under an hour. They didn't even book us." Clary drew a long breath through her cupped hands, then let it go slowly. "Screw it," she murmured. "We got out alive. The rest is just details."

She tucked her gloves into a back pocket and scrubbed both hands and face while Stan glared at his interlaced fingers and stewed. This night had not gone as planned and really, none of that was on her.

“Want a drink?” Clary reached up into a cupboard.

“Water, sure.” She set a glass in front of him, then paused to study him carefully before pacing back to the sink. “You did good, y’know. Nerves of steel for a rookie.”

“Baltimore being Baltimore, you develop those nerves or you move someplace a lot more peaceful.” Clary returned with a damp paper towel and an air of quiet determination. “Your face is still kind of a mess. Hold still a moment, let me clean you up and then I’ll get an ice pack.”

“Don’t need ice, I can take a couple aspirin - “ She tilted her head at him a little, brows rising, and Stan heaved a resigned sigh.

Clary rested a cool palm along his jaw and tipped him up until he was looking into her eyes. She wasn’t looking into his. Instead her focus was tight and worried as she swabbed along his upper lip. “Cannot believe I tagged you this hard. I am so damned sorry.” Tiny corkscrew tendrils of her hair escaped the bandana, ash brown washed out to silvered threads by the light bulb’s corona. “You sure you feel all right?”

“’m fine.” There was a flush rising along his neck and it wasn’t embarrassment this time. Stan couldn’t tear his gaze away. He’d seen that shade of grey in her troubled eyes before, somewhere. Maybe in the glint of a tern’s wing or the glimmer of the sea at the edge of dawn. “Like I said, I deserved that one.”

"I hit you, Stan, that is not okay." With one last pass of the paper towel along the edge of his lower lip she stepped back to survey her handiwork. The grey eyes flicked up to meet his, and she seemed at last to realize how close she’d been as she withdrew. “You don’t deserve that. Just - no more grabbing me from behind, clear?”

“Crystal.”

She wrapped a familiar bag of frozen peas in a dishtowel and handed it off. A moment’s rifling through a drawer turned up a bottle of ibuprofen, which she opened and set on the table. “Anything else before I go collapse? You guys are wearing me out so completely that I’m sleeping better than I have in years.”

“Why’d you come along?”

He hadn’t meant to ask that - it slipped out unbidden. Stan pressed the improvised icepack to his forehead, peering out at her from under daisy-patterned terrycloth. She looked as surprised as he felt. “I mean - you knew it’d be trouble.”

“I made a promise,” Clary said after a wary pause, “that I’d take some real chances this year. Stick my neck out for other people.”

“How’s that workin’ out for you so far?”

A tiny smile warmed her weary features. “Mixed bag. Right now, from where I’m standing, I think things might be looking up.” Her palm pressed his shoulder in brief reassurance. “Good night, Stan.”

“G’night, Clary.” She shot him a last oblique glance as she headed out into the hall.

Stan washed down three ibuprofen with water, settled back in the chair and let his eyes slip half closed for a thoughtful while, listening to the distant song of crickets.

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She hovers uselessly at your side, wide eyes flicking between your bleeding nose and the backpack you dropped. “I am so sorry.”

Want to learn how to really hit?

Play for sympathy.

Get indignant.

#Gravity Falls #gfdatingsim #DDtMMW #Swooning Over Stans #Stanley Pines #OClicious #fanfic

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nashilayladragneel · 6 years ago

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Saw Far From Home trailer and my in-denial ass wrote out a fic-let. Hope you enjoy!

You'll be alright

"Am I the only one freaked out that Penis Parker is Spider man?"

Happy shot a glare at Flash. He wasn't feeling very generous towards the brat while he had to deal with a seventeen year old kid having a panic attack.

"You'll be alright kid" he tried to reassure Peter. The kid is was pale and shaking and Happy didn't know what he was suppose to do.

"I can't do this Happy. I'm not Iron Man, I'm just me!"

"And what's so wrong with that."

The voice was unexpected, something they thought they would never hear again. They turned towards the monitor in disbelief. Peter swear he heard Ned give out a brief squeak.

"Is that Tony Stark?! Is this before he died?" Flash asked astonished.

"Yes Mr Thompson, this is a video from the past talking to you about stuff in the future that I should have no idea about." Tony deadpanned

Peter couldn't believe his eyes. He had seen the man snap his finger, seen him take his last breath to save the universe and now here he was completely unharmed.

..Well not completely. Peter could see that Tony right hand looked fully burned and unmoving. The right side of his face has less scars than after the fight, that can be seen if you look closely.

"Mr Stark? Are you real?"

"As real as ever." Tony smiled and then his face turned apologetic. "Sorry we couldn't tell you earlier but we didn't want to give you false hope. Apparently the stones think I have sacrificed enough, whatever that means. I was in a coma for a while and Strange helped heal me."

"Who else knows?" Peter turned to Happy as he asked this question. To anyone else Happy might have looked annoyed but Peter knew just by his expression that he was relieved and almost to tears.

"Besides you guys? Pepper, Morgan, Wong and Strange. I'm gonna call Rhodney and Harley after this." He shrugged as if coming back from the dead was just another trip to the Bahamas.

"Listen kid. Happy was right when he said you're on your own. Just because I'm back doesn't mean I can be Iron Man. I might not even tell the world I'm still alive. Fury had the right idea, faking his death. Less people come expecting things. But that does not mean that you're alone. You have you're friends there, right? They'll help you out. Isn't that right. Mr Leeds?"

Ned looked shocked that Tony Stark was actually addressing him. If this was any other moment Peter was sure he would be totally fangirling about this. "Yes sir! Absolutely!"

"Good. And when its all done, you and I'll have a talk. How about it, kid?" Tony's face looked hopeful but totally accepting as if saying that he would understand if he didn't want to talk to him.

"...I think I'll like that Mr Stark" Tony smiled and then the monitor went dark. Peter had a dark thought that maybe it was a recording. Maybe Tony HAD known what would happen.

He shook his head, getting rid of that ridiculous thought.

"You alright loser?" Peter turned towards MJ and thought about the feeling of loneliness, the feeling that he was all alone in this and then the overwhelming relief he felt now when he found out that Tony was alive.

"I will be" And he knew that it was true. He wasn't alright but he will be.

He'll be alright.

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

I also posted this on wattpad but I don't know how to post link so can someone teach me how *puppy eyes*

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vizhi0n · 7 years ago

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Sawney - Part 45 (End)

YOOO so lol. I combined the last two chapters because I felt like the finale really needed to just be one long thing, because so much happens. I’m also an OCD little fucker and the thought of this fic being 46 chapters long as opposed to an even 45 legit bothers the fuck out of me. Anywho, thank you guys so so so much for this - I think this is my longest TWD fic I’ve ever written, and one of my favorites. I had such a fun time creating Desa and exploring her relationship with Negan, and everyone else. I’m super stoked with how the end turned out (I actually rewrote the finale sooo many times because I couldn’t figure out the right way to end it, but I’m glad this is what I decided on.) I’ll tag everyone in the masterlist once it’s complete so if anyone hasn’t caught up, they’ll have all the chapters in one place.

Anywho, thank you guys so much for following this fic. Enjoy!

Chapter Masterlist

@orchiddingme @i-am-negan-trash @jeffreydeanneganstrash @toxic-ink @negans-network @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @kellyn1604 @lovingzombiechaos @heartfulloffandoms @hannibalssweaters @strangersangel9 @my-achilles–heel @mypapawinchester @jasoncrouse @crzcorgi @collette04 @genevievedarcygranger @superprincesspea @kijilinn @ladylorelitanyfanfiction @nycktmcginn @imjustmakingsuffupagain @neganswinchesters @originalwinchestervamp @castielwinchester22 @deviousginga @darkangel66a @gremlinfuck @curlyhairedblueeyedangel @gay-for-negan @romeomontvgue @chiwawha @doyouhaveavacancy @fatedwisp @melodicdolls @mcnegan @rapsity @jessiellong1987 @moonypetyr @embracetheapocalypsewithme @backseat-negan @vinylmadwoman @itstotalyblue

Warnings: just gore. Lol. (also, I’m not sure if any of you might be triggered by graphic depictions of childbirth so I’ll just say that it happens somewhere in this chapter.)

They stumbled back into Alexandria, Negan hanging towards the back. The injured were carried away, while those that remained worked on securing the gate. It was Dwight who greeted him first, looking Negan up and down and snarling, “He let you fight after all, huh?”

Gary came to Negan’s defense immediately, towering over Dwight, but Negan raised his hand to stop him. The two men sized each other up, Dwight’s eyes lingering on the bag Negan had slung over his shoulder, which held the remnants of Lucille. Before he could speak, Rick approached to stand by Dwight’s side.

“Desa is here. She came with Maggie and the others. The Whisperer’s attacked the Hilltop, burned half of it to the ground,” Rick’s eyes were hollow. “She’s in the infirmary—”

Rick only had time to point at one of the buildings, before Negan was darting towards it. He wasted no time opening the door, eyes scanning the area, which had become packed with the injured, until his eyes fell over Desa in a nearby corner, lying on a cot. She was dirty, oversized clothes covered in a thin layer of ash. She smelled of smoke and blood. As Negan approached, he scanned her body for bite marks and found none. Her hair clung to her sweat-soaked forehead, one hand clutching her belly as she gave a low groan of what Negan assumed to be pain.

“Negan?”

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Negan knelt, reaching for her free hand. “The baby—”

“He’s fine. More than fine, actually. He’s ready, I think,” Desa chuckled. “Harlan said that if the contractions continue, it’ll be time. I’m not going anywhere, Negan. Trust me.”

Negan sighed, nodding his head. He leaned over and pressed a kiss against her forehead, squeezing her hand. In a soft voice, he said, “Good. Fucking good. We just have to get through today, okay?”

“I’m not worried. Well, I am, but not to the extend I’d thought I’d be,” Desa swallowed, staring up at the ceiling. “I just have to have hope. More than ever. And I do. So, so much of it, “ Desa’s eyes slowly fell on the bag around Negan’s shoulder. A jagged shard of wood poked from the top, and her face fell. In a soft voice, she said, “Oh, no.”

“Don’t fucking worry about it. She went out like a fucking champ,” Negan sighed. “You got your wish. She’s gone. I…I don’t feel anything. She fucking fell apart in my hands and I don’t feel shit—”

“You loved Lucille. Not the bat. Her,” Desa said. “I know that you still do. You don’t need a baseball bat to prove that. You never did.”

“Fuck. Shit. I guess you’re fucking right.”

Negan kissed her again on the forehead, then once on the mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he caught someone staring, and he pulled away, eyes flickering over to a familiar face.

“Take a fucking picture, it’ll last longer.”

Daryl snorted. In a gruff voice, he said, “Rick want’s ya’. Over by the gate.”

“Be there in a fucking second.”

“Now.”

Negan rolled his eyes, and Desa lightly touched his shoulder. “Go,” she murmured. “I’ll be fine.”

“Shit. Okay. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Once again, Negan had to tear himself away from her. It was agony. Anger flared as he wondered what the fuck Rick could possibly want him for now.

He followed Daryl, picking his way through the injured. He was aware of the various caustic glances shot his way, and he welcomed them. As long as these people weren’t hostile towards Desa, he could have cared less what they thought of him. The moment he and Daryl emerged outside, Negan froze.

“Holy shit.”

Negan could see them through the bars of the main gate. The undead were hobbling towards Alexandria, led by an unseen desire for…well, whatever. Up on one of the watch towers, Dwight was waving his arms and pointing.

During a momentary strike of pettiness, Negan prayed that Dwight would trip and just fall face first into the oncoming herd. Of course, his wish didn’t come true, and Dwight began climbing down the tower, a sour look on his scarred face.

“How many?” Daryl grunted, hefting his crossbow over his shoulder.

“Thousands,” Dwight’s face paled, and he shot a worried glance at Rick, who was approaching hastily. He said, “Will this gate hold, Rick?”

“Positive,” Rick replied. “We have time to come up with a plan—”

“I can call my guys, have them rig up a truck full of stereos,” Negan said hastily. There was a tremendous crash, and the wall vibrated as thousands of bodies began pressing up against its metal surface. Over the noise, Negan shouted, “Those deadheads will follow fucking anything.”

Another crash. The gate slowly began tilting forward, but held.

Rick nodded in a agreement, but Negan could see the twinge of fear in his eyes. Grimes was scared. And Negan was, too.

“It’s a plan,” Rick said.

Father Gabriel visited Desa with a bucket of water, a towel, and a sponge. The infirmary had settled down, and those that felt able had left, leaving it less crowded. This gave Gabriel some leg room, and he pulled up a chair, sitting next to Desa’s cot.

“I thought you might want some help getting the ash off your skin.”

“I am rather incapacitated at the moment,” Desa smirked, trying to sit up. She slouched back with a sigh, unable to fully pull her body into a sitting position. Gabriel steadied her.

“I’ll just do your arms and legs.”

“Thank you,” Desa huffed. She sighed as Gabriel began washing the ash and dirt from her skin, murmuring, “You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“My faith requires good acts. Besides, I have nothing personal against you,” Gabriel murmured. He fell silent for a moment, before saying softly, “When I was trapped in that trailer with your husband…he told me about you. You were his reason for keeping me alive. He needed my help so he could get back to you.”

“Even after everything he did to your people, you trusted him?”

“‘Trust’ is a strong word. I understood. And understanding does not equal approval.”

“I barely went to church before all this. My mother…she would make it a family event. She’d have us all get dressed up…she believed. I dabbled in it, but found that it wasn’t for me,” Desa sighed. “I skipped out later on. Now it’s hard to see why I ever went in the first place. Even if all of this was planned, the end of the world, everything, I’m still going to hell.”

Gabriel raised his eyebrows, unfurling the towel and wiping the water from Desa’s skin. He said, “Why is that?”

“I’m trying to make up for what I did by bringing peace, trying to fix everything,” Desa ignored him and continued, too caught up in her own ramblings. “I know it’s useless, but I have to try. At least so I can prove to myself that I’m not the animal Alpha says that I am, and so that my child and Negan can have a good life.”

Gabriel nodded. He laced his fingers together, leaning forward. There was a warm, sincere look on his face as he said, “No matter what you are going through, the Lord is there. I turn to him in my time of need, and if you feel comfortable, I’d like to take your confession. I did the same for your husband. It’s why I was led to him, and why I believe I’ve been led to you.”

Desa raised her eyebrows. “I have things to confess. You might think less of me if I tell you of them.”

“I won’t think less of you,” Gabriel said. “I couldn’t. It would be hypocritical of me to judge you. I have my own transgressions.”

“Okay,” Desa sighed. She closed her eyes, trying to regulate her rapid breathing. A sharp contraction caused her to suck in a breath, and shakily, she said, “I…I shot my brother after he’d been lobotomized. I killed so many people out of fear…I ate human flesh. Like an animal. And I did it all without thinking, without flinching or pulling away. I did it all because I felt like I had no choice.”

“You are absolved.”

Gabriel’s face was stoic, and very slowly, he reached out to grasp Desa’s hand. In a soft voice, he added, “You and your child will be welcomed here. After all of this is over, no more will you live in fear. I promise you. You are not a hateful person. I see it in your eyes.”

“Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers all wrongs,” Desa squeezed her eyes shut, before opening them. At Gabriel’s surprised look, she said, “My mother used to tell us that. My sister and brother and I. I forgot what that meant, for a while.”

“Your mother would be proud of who you’ve become.”

Desa smiled. He glanced away, and Desa followed his gaze to where Carl was picking his way through the room. He stopped at the edge of the cot, surveying Desa’s condition before nodding and asking, “Do you think you could make it from here to my house?”

“What?”

“This cot is too small. We need somewhere bigger for you to have the baby,” Carl placed a hand on Desa’s shoulder while Gabriel excused himself, grabbing the bucket and towel and moving out of Carl’s way. The boy said, “I mean, if you want too—”

“I’ll see if I can,” it took every muscle in Desa’s body to keep her upright. The minute her bare feet touched the cold floor she cringed, allowing Carl to drape an arm around her for support. The moment she stood upright, gravity took effect and she could feel the smallest trickle of blood slide down from between her legs. She ignored it, placing one hand on her belly and slowly, with Carl’s help, began hobbling towards the door.

“I’m sorry I’m so heavy,” Desa breathed, a bead of sweat dripping from between her eyes. They reached Rick’s house, and Desa let out a cry of pain as her insides contracted. She slouched against the stairs, slapping a hand against the railing.

“You’re pale,” Carl placed a palm against her clammy forehead. When he pulled away, he said,” Desa…”

“Just get me inside.”

Carl hoisted her up, and they entered Rick’s home. The place was empty, and Carl gently helped Desa lay against the soft carpet before retrieving a pillow and some blankets. As he draped them over her, he removed his hat and tossed it onto the couch.

A sharp, stabbing pain, worse than the others, caused Desa’s entire body to shake. She let out a hellish cry, toes curling as she lifted her knees towards the sky. Carl was next to her in a heartbeat, concern etched all over his face. Very, very slowly he lifted the blankets down by Desa’s legs, face flushed as he peered between them.

“Uh…uh…”

“Do I need to get Carson?”

“No,” Desa gasped, hand shooting out to grab Carl by the arm. “No. Don’t.”

“Negan?”

“No—”

More pain, like a ring of fire. Desa slammed her head against the pillow, teeth clenching, face wrinkled into a grimace as she did the only thing that felt right. She pushed.

“Oh, okay — oh my God,” Carl yelped.

“Carl, lift the blankets again. Keep them up and just…make sure you tell me when you see a head.”

“Wait, you’re having this baby now?” Carl’s face turned even redder, and he began to fidget. “Oh, shit—”

“Watch your language,” Desa grunted. She groaned again, the ring of fire returning. Once again, pushing brought relief — if only for a moment. It was a vicious cycle, made worse by the burning pain of the bandaged wound on hand. She caught Carl glancing at it, but the fact that she was pushing out a baby pulled him away. He looked incredibly uncomfortable, and the expression didn’t go away. It made it difficultly for Desa to tell the time — when they’d begun, how long she’d been pushing, and so on. Sweat trickled down her face, moist enough that it made her hair stick to her skin.

“There’s blood, Desa,” Carl said frantically.”Uh—and I see a head. Keep going. You’re doing good.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Is the blood supposed to be there?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Desa tried to steady her breathing, and calm her hammering heart. She pushed, hard, and the relief came. She repeated the process, again and again and again —

“Desa—”

Crying.

There was a baby crying, voice choked and high-pitched. Through teary eyes, Desa saw Carl’s figure as he swathed the little newborn in one of the nearby blankets. He, too, was breathing heavily.

“Did you get a workout, kid?”

“Hey, I’ve never delivered a baby before,” Carl met her gaze and smiled. “I did pretty good for my first time, huh?”

“You did,” Desa wheezed. She couldn’t lift her head — all the strength in her body had left her. There was still pain, copious amounts of pain, but it didn’t matter.

It was over.

For him, it’s just starting.

“Carl,” Desa murmured. She lifted her injured hand, and bandages fell away, revealing the crescent shaped bite mark that was red, raw and inflamed.

“I have another job for you,” Desa breathed. Her child howled, and she couldn’t help but smile. “One last job.”

“These walls won’t hold,” Negan shouted over the roar of the undead. He and Rick backed away, each drawing their guns as the support beams began to shudder. The wall was tipping forward, like a fallen pie crust. Negan lifted his walkie to his lips, yelling, “Eugene! You’d better have those fucking stereos ready!”

“On it, boss,” Eugene’s voice crackled. “We’re locked and ready to go. We’ve split the subsequent herd into two groups. Ezekiel and his people are leading one away while we take on the other.”

“Good. See you on the other fucking side,” Negan shoved the walkie into his back pocket, glancing over at Rick.

“Carl took Desa over to my house,” Rick said. “She’ll be safe there. Just focus on what’s in front of you.”

“I can multitask, Grimes,” Negan turned his attention to the biters. With a final sigh, the wall caved in. A sea of the undead began storming into Alexandria, met with ferocious gunfire from both the Saviors, and Rick’s people. “Shit. That’s a lot of fucking biters—”

“Keep firing!” Rick bellow. Body after body toppled, forming heaps, corpses strewn across the grass.

Still, they didn’t stand a chance. There were too many. Their fate was entirely in the hands of Eugene and Ezekiel’s people.

We’re so dead.

“Get back!”

They were split up — Rick and his people began to retreat while Negan, was forced to dart into a nearby house. Biters flooded the streets, and Negan barely had time to slam the door shut behind him. He scrambled through the empty house, towards the back and up the flight of stairs. He yanked open the first window he saw, sliding through it and onto the rooftop.

From here, he had a pretty good view of Alexandria’s expanse. He pinpointed Rick’s home, and, to his horror, saw a massive man swathed in biter skins weaving his way towards the house.

So, Negan ran and jumped. His feet hit the rooftop of the adjacent house, and he barely had time to regain his footing before he was sprinting once more, flinging himself towards the next house. And then the next. His lungs burned, and his ankles felt shattered — but he kept going until he slammed, hard, against the roof of Rick’s home. With a grunt, he hoisted himself up, fingers scrambling against the shingles. He began kicking in the upstairs window, until he was able to burst through and fall, hard, against the carpet.

Shit.

He heard nothing — no talking, no recognizable voices. The silence stretched on, prompting Negan to stand and slowly draw his handgun.

Then, he heard it.

The high-pitched wail of a baby, the sound muffled as if it were coming from behind a thick door. Negan froze, halfway down the steps leading to the living room.

“Desa?” Negan hissed.

No reply.

“Desa? Carl? Where the fuck are you two,” Negan’s voice hitched as he reached the bottom of the steps, moving slowly and methodically. A shape caught his attention, over near the sofa. He took a step forward, before the baby wailed again — the noise came from one of the closets, over near the master bedroom.

“What are you looking for?”

Negan spun, discharging his gun at Beta’s torso as the huge man swung his fist. The blow caught Negan in the face, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, before reaching for his gun, only to realize that it had fallen and landed somewhere by the couch.

“Shit,” Negan cursed, pulling himself into a sitting position. Beta was clutching the oozing hole right above his hip, snarling. The wound didn’t seem to deter him, and he smiled. Not missing a beat, Negan half-pleaded, half-screamed, “Where’s Desa?”

The child cried again. Maybe it was instinct that caused the puzzle pieces in his mind to click together, one by one. He’d heard children cry before, many, many times, but this one was different.

Negan’s tongue felt huge in his mouth.

Oh, no, no, no—

Beta glanced towards the source of the noise, lips pressed into a thin line. He towered over Negan, before slowly drawing a pair of knives, one in each hand, from his belt.

“The boy and the child die next,” Beta said simply.

Enraged, Negan lunged. He wasn’t as big or as strong as Beta, but his momentum carried him into Beta, knocking the man off balance. They slammed, hard, against the wall — the impact shook the house and sent paintings crashing from their moorings.

A blade pierced Negan’s shoulder, but he ignored it. His anger was like a drug, shielding him from the lacerations made by Beta’s knives. When the man broke free, he delivered a hard kick to Negan’s gut. Then another that sent Negan sprawling once more. He could only gape and gasp like a fish out of water, the wind knocked completely out of his body.

The infant howled louder, and Beta spun and snarled in annoyance. Negan scrambled for his gun, only to find it missing. He crawled in front of the couch — the space was empty, the white carpet stained with patches of crimson. The blotches were wet to the touch. Beta turned the corner, knives raised and ready to deliver the final blow before Negan had a chance to retaliate.

A hole the size of a quarter was blown through Beta’s head. The bullet entered from behind, and through his eye. Chunks of hair and flesh and brain flew, and Beta toppled to one knee, mouth agape in surprise. He swung his knife, missing Negan by an inch, as he tried to hang on.

“Fuck you, asshole.”

Another gunshot. Blood burst from Beta’s neck, and he fell forward. Negan pulled himself away as Desa, skin pallid and drenched in sweat, bent over Beta and pressed the muzzle of Negan’s gun against the back of his head.

She fired for a third time, the noise muffled. Blood seeped from beneath Beta, soaking into the carpet.

Desa took a step forward, the gun slipping from her fingers. Then she collapsed, right into Negan’s arms. She went limp, barely able to keep her head up.

“Desa,” Negan squeezed her. He pressed a kiss against her damp head, and for a moment, his world seemed right. She was in his arms. Beta was dead. And very slowly, Carl was poking his head out of the closet, before emerging with an infant, swathed in cloth, in his arms. Judith followed close behind, a fearful expression on her cherub face.

Carl’s eyes were red rimmed as he slowly bypassed the couch, standing before Negan. After glancing at Beta’s corpse, he gulped, but remained silent.

“Negan,” Desa murmured. She mustered the strength to pull away, still slouched against Negan’s body. She lifted her hand, palm facing inward. “I’m sorry.”

“Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers all wrong,” Negan stared blankly at the cross before him. Well, two crosses. One belonged to Jack, the other belonged to Desa. She’d wanted to be buried by her sibling. It was right.

“There are so many things we didn’t get to do. So much that we didn’t get to fucking experience together. I’m sorry. I didn’t keep you safe. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that I fucking failed you while you were fucking alive. I won’t be who I was before. I swear on my fucking life. You made me such a better fucking man. I didn’t deserve someone like you. And now that you’re gone, and even though it’ll heal, it fucking hurts. So, so much. My heart fucking hurts. I love you, okay? I fucking love you more than anything. You’re my other fucking half, and that won’t ever change. I’m grateful for the time we had together…Jack will know how fucking brave and strong his mother was. He’ll be like his mother. I swear.”

Negan pressed a final stone against the little cluster at the foot of the wooden cross, marking her grave. He closed his eyes and breathed in the cool air.

“Don’t you dare cry, Negan,” Desa wheezed. Her uninjured palm pressed against his stubbled cheek and she caressed the skin. Negan felt as if he were in a dream, or some sort of drug trip. He wasn’t sure how present he really was.

His body felt numb.

“I’m sorry. I…Beta came in before I could…” Carl began. Desa cut him off.

“It’s okay, Carl. I told you to hide. You, Jack, and Judith are safe. That’s all that matters.”

“My son,” Negan breathed. He stared at the child in Carl’s arms, mouth opening and closing. He finally managed to croak, “That’s our son…”

“Yeah,” Desa said wistfully. “He’s beautiful.”

“You can’t leave me,” Negan said. “You can’t. You can’t leave. I can’t…you can’t—”

“Negan—”

“Desa, baby,” Negan’s voice slipped from stoic, to pleading. Maybe if he prayed and begged the wound on her hand would disappear. “Don’t. Stay with me. Fucking please—”

“Negan, you have to let me go.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. I’m not scared,” Desa whispered. “Death is a part of life. It’s a journey. Sometimes it’s long, sometimes it’s short, but death is a journey. You’re still traveling. We’ll meet at the end. We will. I love you so much, Negan.”

Desa was already reaching for the gun. Her fingers curled around the weapon, and with what small amount of strength she had left, she lifted it to her temple.

Negan stopped her.

“Let me do it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m strong enough, now. I couldn’t do it for Lucille, but I’m strong enough. I have to.”

“Always the gentlemen.”

Negan gave a teary eyed laugh. When he kissed her, he tasted her own salty tears as well. When he pulled away, she was wiping her eyes. She took Negan’s hand in her own.

“Thank you,” Negan murmured. Desa met his gaze. “Thank you for loving me. For saving me. You’re the fucking love of my life, Desa.”

“You’re one hell of a man yourself.”

“We should head back. It’s getting dark.”

Negan opened his eyes. Carl was standing behind him, Jack asleep in his arms. Negan stood, retrieving the infant from the boy. He took one last lingering glance at Desa’s grave, knowing that he’d be back, most likely to bring flowers. Then he and Carl headed to the car, taking the time to strap Jack into his car seat in the back.

You made peace with her. Learn to let go.

“Are you doing okay?” Carl asked.

“I’m doing fine, kid. Just fucking fine. Your dad is going to be pissed for coming with me,” Negan smirked, sliding into the jeep. Carl sat in the passengers seat, removing his hat and letting it rest against his lap. “I’m still ‘that douchebag that lives in a factory’ to him.”

“I won’t tell him. I just…I thought you needed the moral support. You know how I feel about you, but…Desa asked me to keep an eye out. Make sure you don’t make any stupid decisions.”

“She would say that,” Negan rolled his eyes. “Don’t fucking worry about me, kid. We have plenty of shit on our plate already. Biter cleanup from the herd, fixing up some of our defenses…”

“Save it. I’m still watching you.”

“Okay, yeah, fine, whatever,” From the back, Jack yawned. He made a few noises of contentment, and Negan chuckled. “We’ll be home soon, buddy. Hang in there. And please…for the love of God…please don’t puke.”

#vizhi0nw #negans thirst squad

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pigeonisindia-blog · 5 years ago

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Explore Travel Photography With Pigeon

I am going on a journey and taking: the cameraWhen it is winter, you have the time to organize your photo collection. Yet many are eagerly looking forward to the summer. Finally time for long journeys and unlimited photography.

Depression

One of the Mondays at the beginning of the year is nicknamed "Blue Monday". According to a formula by British psychologist Cliff Arnall, the day when people feel the least happy.

Good intentions prove to be unsuccessful, the days are short and gray, the holiday far away. It is not without reason that a travel organization commissioned the preparation of the debris formula. During this period, holiday companies like chickens to overload potential travelers with freshly printed catalogs and sunny mailings.

Travel photography popular

A hobby photographer, of course, records family holidays thoroughly from start to finish. Travel photography, therefore, seems like a large, open door. Simply cutting all the sights and activities seems the motto. Yet on one photo night, everyone is on the edge of the chair, while on another, the pretzels are already finished after ten plates. Snapshots from distant places have an edge in the first place. The more unknown the subject, the more fascinating the viewer. With a good hobby photographer, the after-view is still itchy; it could be so much nicer. Going back is not an option in many cases. Good preparation can prevent you from coming home with a "half" photo. If you wanna know about aerial photography then you must visit Aerial Photography in India.

Photography equipment

Assembling the equipment is the tricky point. Under the guise of "you never know" many photo amateurs drag along kilos of material. It often results in painful shoulders and a tired back. An honest hobbyist, first of all, dares to wonder whether he has the right camera for the upcoming journey. The relatively new system camera offers broadly the same functionality as a large SLR, at a considerably lower weight and smaller construction.

Compact camera

Also in a compact camera with a large zoom range is a practical, lightweight photo camera. In any case, don't bet on one memory card for storage. Instead, make sure you have some large USB sticks or extra SD cards to back up the precious plates on the road - with the help of a computer.

Mirror reflex camera lenses

Many consumers opt for an SLR camera with a substantial zoom, for example, 18-200 mm. Ideal for traveling, because it covers the most common shooting situations. However, more wide-angle is desirable for striking photos of a city trip. If, on the other hand, you are mainly going to photograph grizzly bears, you will (hopefully) need a longer focal length. Individual lenses offer higher image quality and more extreme viewing angles but quickly cost as much as a small folding trailer. Kamera Express (kamera-express.nl), Calumet (calumetphoto.nl) and Pixto-F (pix to-f.eu) rent out lenses that exceed the purse of an average amateur, certainly for one trip.

Good preparation

Shooting a good photo takes time. A travel plate is no exception. Even though it is vacation, a travel plate is often cut in a hurry. A serious hobby photographer, therefore, spends extra time preparing; think of which sights should not be missed on the memory card. Professionals often already know before they board the plane which images they want to shoot. View via internet forums or Google Earth where the best photo opportunities are in a large nature park. In the absence of inspiration, cast a cursory glance at postcards from the local kiosk or tourist office. They show in a nutshell what the region has to offer. You can find 360 Virtual Tour Photography in Mumbai India.

Morning and evening light

The most beautiful travel plates are created in the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening. Getting up early is not popular, but it gives a lot of photographic satisfaction. A forest in the Veluwe is dull and monotonous during the day. But shortly after dawn, misty veils and soft, creamy-yellow sunlight make it a mystical place. After most day-trippers leave the beach, linger a little longer. The colors become deeper, the shadows give image elements more relief.

The most beautiful photos of famous rocks in Bryce Canyon park in Utah were taken just after sunrise or before its demise. During the day, the pale, pale pink rocks appeal much less. Take this into account when booking excursions. A self-planned tour offers excellent photo opportunities; if possible, store the camp near-photographic highlights. If an evening has not brought the desired photo result, then the next morning offers a wonderful retake.

Photo bag

Sensitive photo equipment requires a reliable photo bag. Start the search on time, because the assortment is extensive. Try for yourself if the bag is large enough. The pride of the travel photographer (wide-angle lens with a lens hood or bright telephoto zoom) is often much larger than the reference models of bag makers. Do not be too careful in terms of format; walking around for a vacation with a tight bag is frustrating.

Sling

The standard shoulder bag offers quick access to equipment, but winds back and forth dangerously during a brisk walking and climbing trip. A photo backpack can handle such an adventure well but is more difficult to access. The so-called sling combines the best of both worlds; a kind of backpack with only one shoulder strap, which does not have to be finished to access the stuff.

https://pigeonisblog.wordpress.com/2020/03/09/determine-which-features-your-ideal-drone-has/

#Aerial Photography in India #drone photography company in India #Drone Repair services in India #Solar Panel inspection in India #360 Virtual Tour Photography in Mumbai India

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chocobroobsession · 7 years ago

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The Red String - Chapter 10

Author’s Note: The next chapter in my soulmate AU fic about Ignis x fem!OC. This chapter heavily features Prompto. I am super excited about Episode Prompto coming out! I can’t wait to find out more about his time in Niflheim (I wrote this before all the trailers came out). I didn’t really take any liberties with that aspect of his story here, but his background is mentioned. Trigger Warning: mention of self-harm, talk of depression and suicide. Side note: If you find yourself struggling with depression/suicide/etc, and you need someone to talk to, I’m always here to listen. As someone who has struggled with depression and suicide, I try to be a good listener. I won’t know exactly what you’re going through, but I probably have an idea at least. *hugs* Word count: 2118

Chapter Masterlist

Chandra figured Ignis had gone back to the guys’ room to hang out. Either that or he went out for Ebony. She noticed he drank it all the time. It explained the scent she picked up on his jacket before. She contemplated the future laid out before her. The guys knew where to find another boat to head towards Lestallum. Prompto had invited her to continue to tag along, but she was unsure.

When they first arrived in Altissia, she had a strong sense of déjà vu. Though it was dark and the city had been torn apart by Leviathan, she could see the beautiful buildings and stand in awe at its grandeur. “My dream definitely took place here,” she had mumbled to herself. She had guessed that she had glimpsed the Hydraean and based on the guys’ stories, she knew they had been in Altissia before they came to Gralea. They had been traveling with that Prince Noctis guy until he was absorbed into that crystal that the Empire had stolen from Lucis. They had explained their journey to her, though they left out specific details, refusing to elaborate on certain events, such as their run-ins with the Empire and Chancellor Ardyn Izunia. “Yep, they definitely took part in the battle here. Did I really witness what happened to Ignis during the fight? And did I somehow intervene?” she wondered.

She rose from the bed and checked the bandages on her wrist. If she had roomed with the others, she would have had to sleep in a long-sleeved shirt, which was always too hot and uncomfortable to her. The only good thing about Ignis’s handicap was that he wouldn’t see the bandage and ask about what was there or what happened like the others ultimately would have.

She pulled the bandages off to survey the damage. Crusted blood covered the barcode, but the red lines made it less legible. She’d have to cut it some more to make a lasting impression, however. She went to the sink and scrubbed off the caked on blood. Just as she turned around to grab a towel, a knock came at the door and Prompto immediately burst in.

“Good morning, Chandra! Iggy’s back at the room so I thought I’d just see how you—holy shit what’s on your wrist?!” He noticed her barcode midsentence and couldn’t tear his eyes away. He had caught her off guard and she hadn’t had the time to react.

“It’s nothing! Nothing! You didn’t even give me the chance to respond! You just came bursting through the door! Shit, just forget it, okay!” She blushed and hid her wrist behind her back as she glared into the floor.

Prompto shut the door and made his way over to her. She backed into the sink, refusing to look at him. His voice came out soft, filled with understanding. “Chandra. It’s alright. You don’t have to hide it. I know what it is. I have one too.”

Her head shot up, and her eyes widened. “What?”

He pulled off the black band that encased his right wrist and he held it up to her face. She recognized the barcode and grimaced. For a second, she thought maybe he had been a scientist too who managed to escape, but his past was much worse than hers. She’d been caught red-handed, so she figured she may as well fess up. Prompto seemed to be the most understanding of the group, and now she knew why.

“Prom…it’s not exactly the same. Here, take a look.” She lifted her wrist and he gasped, taking in all of the cuts which crisscrossed over the thick black lines.

“Wow. I mean, I just cover mine, but you’re trying to mutilate yours.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Look at the lettering.”

Prompto grasped her hand and studied the tattoo. “See how the barcode starts with ‘SCI’? That’s short for ‘scientist’,” she explained.

Prompto dropped her hand as though it was on fire and suddenly glared into her eyes. “Scientist!? But…but you said you were a doctor! You lied to us? Even after I stuck up for you? How could you? I trusted you, and all this time you were one of the people who…who would have turned me into a mindless killing machine if given the chance?!” Prompto’s freckled face reddened as he turned to exit the room. Chandra lunged after him, grabbing onto his wrist. He tried to shake her off, but her grip tightened.

“Wait, Prompto! Please let me explain! I swear I’ll tell you the truth! Just please believe me!” Tears started streaking down her pale cheeks as she held onto the blonde.

Prompto sighed and turned towards her. He always tried to see the best in people, and he couldn’t help but want to give her another chance despite the feeling of betrayal. “Fine, but seriously, don’t lie to me again.”

“Okay,” Chandra whispered. “Truth is, I’m not actually from Niflheim. I’m from Tenebrae. I was essentially kidnapped and brought to Niflheim to be part of their science program. I didn’t want any of that, but I had no choice. I don’t exactly want to go into detail, but let’s just say they made good on their threats, and so I was forced to work in those labs. I really did want to become a doctor, but I guess my fate lied elsewhere. It was either work in the lab or suffer the consequences.” The tears were forming rivers down her red cheeks as she confessed to the man.

“You really had no other choice?”

All of her fears and insecurities were rearing their ugly heads. If someone like Prompto, who was sweet and friendly, couldn’t see past what she had done, then how could anyone else? She couldn’t help but allow herself to be swallowed in all of her depressing thoughts as she answered. “I didn’t. Plus I had nowhere else to go. I had no one left in Tenebrae. I mean, I guess I could have just killed myself, but I was selfish enough to not really want to die. I did at first, but I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it. Maybe I would have been better off dead.”

Prompto felt guilty. “Don’t say that!” He turned to her and wrapped her up in a hug. She stiffened initially, but allowed herself to hold him back and cry into his shoulder.

“I know what it’s like to be depressed and suicidal. Believe me, I know better than you’d think. No matter what though, it’s never worth it to kill yourself,” he assured her, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m glad you didn’t kill yourself, actually. I don’t know what your purpose is in life, but there must be a reason you’re still here. I mean, you didn’t take pleasure in what you did there in Zegnautus Keep, did you?”

“It was the absolute worst,” Chandra sobbed. “I can’t even describe the things I saw there. I still have nightmares to this day. You don’t understand just how horrid Niflheim can be.”

“I believe you. I don’t know exactly how I managed to escape my fate, but I was supposed to become an MT,” Prompto quietly admitted.

Chandra pulled out of the embrace and held onto Prompto’s tattooed wrist. “I recognize your barcode. You’re right; you were born to be an MT. I’m glad you got out. Maybe there were more of you who didn’t have to go through that.” She smiled slightly, though the sentiment didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sorry I lied to all of you. I was afraid of you hating me. I really like you all, even Gladio, and if this doesn’t change anything, I would like to continue on with you, if that’s okay.”

Prompto smiled. “Of course it’s okay. We’d love for you to stick with us. I’m sorry I lost my cool with you. I’m still coming to terms with what I am. I literally just escaped torture at Zegnautus Keep, so you can see why the subject is a little painful for me.”

Chandra hurt for him, but didn’t want to press him into talking about it. “I’m so sorry, Prompto. Believe me, I never wanted any of this to happen to anybody. I’ve done monstrous things that I’m not proud of, but I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to the rest of humanity. Niflheim does not own me anymore. I don’t want to be the reason for other’s nightmares.”

Prompto patted Chandra’s back and started to bid her goodbye so she could clean up and pack, but he couldn’t help himself from asking what had been on his mind the whole trip. “Changing the subject, can I ask you something?”

“What?” she sniffled.

“Why are you so drawn to Ignis? I can’t help but notice that you stare at him a lot and you gravitate towards him. Do you have a crush on him or something?”

That was not what she had expected him to ask. She briefly considered lying by omission, but she decided that Prompto deserved nothing but the truth from her from then on.

“Can you keep a secret?” she whispered.

He chuckled. “I’ve keep secrets from even my best friends my whole life up until now. Pretty sure I can take yours to the grave if I have to.”

Chandra grinned. “I just had to make sure.”

“So, what, you like him?”

“Well, it’s more complicated than that…” She went on to explain the dream to him. He stood wide-eyed, staring off beside her as she spoke. When she got to the part about the blast, his gaze shifted over to her eyes.

“So that’s how Iggy lost his sight!”

“Well, I’m not sure, entirely. I didn’t actually see him after I turned to run away too. We’re making assumptions here. Besides, I wasn’t actually there, was I? I mean, he said he didn’t recognize my voice. It couldn’t have been real.” She tried to reason.

“I dunno. It seems like you were there. How else would you have known him? Gladio did find him in the area you described. Maybe you weren’t physically there. Maybe it was just your…spirit or something? Yeah, you were able to like, project yourself to him.” Prompto suggested.

“And here I thought I sounded crazy,” Chandra grinned. “You’re trying to justify this! It’s absurd! I don’t know how or why I am involved with him, but I am. I’m drawn to him like a moth to flame and I can’t explain it. I guess you could say I am developing a crush on him, I suppose.”

Prompto debated on whether or not to tell her about finding her. He decided it could do no harm at this point. “Wanna know how we really found you in the snow?”

“How?” she raised an eyebrow at him.

He went on to explain how Ignis suddenly made them stop and how he miraculously navigated through the storm to find her and have them dig her out and drag her back to the train. She sat there in awe.

“So he feels drawn to me too?” she timidly asked.

“Yeah, I guess so. Now I don’t know if he has a crush on you exactly. I hadn’t asked. But I can if you want me to?” Prompto smirked.

“No! Don’t! Besides, didn’t you say he doesn’t remember Altissia? Maybe I really did just coincidentally dream about the event. It would be one thing if he recalled seeing me, but he doesn’t remember anything about his accident. How about we just not tell him about any of this, hmm? It can be our secret. We can just go on and act like nothing happened.”

“Well, we don’t have to tell him anything yet, but I still feel like there’s something big going on between the two of you. I feel like if you want to get close to him, you will have to tell him these things. You can’t keep secrets like that from someone you love.” Prompto explained.

“I never said I loved him!” Chandra blushed. “I just…I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on here, okay?”

“Fine. I just wonder what the Astrals have in store for the two of you next,” Prompto mused. “Now hurry up and get ready. We have quite the trip ahead of us!” With that, Prompto marched out the door.

The Astrals? What? Chandra was lost in thought when the story of the red string of fate hit her. Was Prompto hinting that maybe Ignis was tied to her like a soulmate?

#ffxv #final fantasy xv #ffxv fanfiction #soulmate AU #ignis scientia #ignis stupeo scientia #ignis x oc #prompto argentum #the red string #my writing

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