#and i always get buyer's guilt even if it's something small so i just think. i have to learn letting go and things not being perfect is ok

[todayisafridaynight]

seonhee and sawashiro both being associated with purple's the most evil shit in the world now who the fuck am i supposed to put in my purple card holder

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “Room Service.”

“How is he?’

“As good as he can be given the situation.”

“And how good is that?”

….

…

“Not good. No good at all.”

Ramirez, Dr. katie and krill peered in through the doorway, trying to be discreet so the figure inside might not notice their presence. He stood alone on the bridge, in the dimmed light of the late hour rimmed only by the glowing neon of the console lights.

“Someone should talk to him.” “Not me, I am defective in human emotions.” Krill announced 

“I talked to him last time.” Katie said, turning to look pointedly at Ramirez.

Ramirez nodded, gathered himself up, and then stepped onto the bridge, his boots quiet on the floor as he moved across the intervening space.

Gently, he reached out a hand and placed it on the other man’s shoulder, “Adam… it's getting kind of late.”

Adam didn’t even bother to look over at him. Though the dim lighting did much to hide his gaunt appearance, it was still evident through his sunken eyes, scruffy hair, and weak old facial growth that he was not himself.

“Tell Dr. Katie and krill that they can stop spying on me and head to bed.”

Ramirez paused before continuing with some measure of guilt, “They are just worried about you, you’ve hardly slept, barely eaten and-”

“One month Ramirez, Shs been gone ONE month and only God knows what they are doing to her.” He shivered, his single, haunted green eye welling with moisture in the light of the console.

The tears did not fall.

“Somewhere out there some BASTARDS are cutting her to pieces. And I… I can’t find her Ramirez.”

He took a deep tortured breath, one arm around his chest, the other hand cupping his chin, running a thumb over the scruffy growth on his face and chin.

Ramirez kept a hand on his shoulder opened his mouth and then closed it again. What should he say what ‘could’ he say to something like this.

He turned his head looking Ramirez in the eye for the first time that night, and in the sharper light his appearance only grew worse, like a man who hadn’t gotten out of bed in a month…. Or in this case…. A man who hadn’t gone to bed in a month.

“I… I love her Ramirez…. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.”

The revelation didn’t surprise Ramirez, not in the slightest.

He squeezed Adam’s shoulder, “I know…. I know.”

***

Sunny lay on the floor of her ‘cage’ listening to the sound of a circular saw. Something that had only grown more and more common in her life over the past month…. Or at latest she thought it might have been a month. Then again to her, it felt like a year.

She didn’t even bother to lift her head, and she was too weak anyway, the drugs had that effect. If they really wanted, they probably could have left her unchained: she wouldn't have been able to lift her head, much less move.

One of her captors grunted and as he did there came a sort of crunching squelching noise as he pulled the Rest of the Drev’s carapace from his deceased corpse. The body rocked and then stayed limp against the ground. The man dropped the carapace to the side with a grunt.

“What did I say about damaging the goods.”

“We are just going to grind it up anyway so don’t even give me that.” The man paused as he looked over his handiwork, wiping orange gore from his hands and onto his pants, “never had this much of it at once.”

“Yeah and now we gotta ration it so as not to lower our prices.”

The second man looked over at the remaining Drev with narrowed eyes, “Guess this means you scarabs get  break for a little while, now isn’t that nic.”

Sunny shivered feeling the cold of her skin on the bare floor. Aside from that chip taken from her shoulder, they had begun their real rituals on the forearm of her lower left, slowly stripping the carapace away in small chunks the perfect size to be bottled. A good portion of her forearm was raw and sensitive to the cold in the room. It made her sick to look at, and angry, but threw as nothing she could do. She had been continually sedated for the past month, and if she wasn’t she had been enclosed inside that steel box before being gassed.

All in all, there was no avenue of escape, and if there had been, she certainly would have tried.

Darkness shrouded her vision and she spent her last moments of consciousness staring idly at the other Drev lying prone in the darkness.

***

Adam jolted upright in his chair not having realised he had fallen asleep. He wasn’t sure what had woken him at first, until the soft sounds of feet registered to him from across the room.

He turned in his seat, only to see a large huling shape approach him from the doorway. Blue light glowed over the red carapace and Adam stood. Cannon, the only other person he trusted to understand what he was feeling. Golden eyes flashed at him from the darkness blazing with as much anger as he felt.

“Something wrong Cannon.”

“I just got a call.”

He hurried forward eager to hear, “What.”

“Some old friends back on Noctopolis was offered a vile of green liquid from a buyer. He claimed it had all natural contents, and could be used for a variety of ailments and beauty regimes. The bottle alone cost over 100,000 dollars.”

Adam gritted his teeth hands clenching into fists, “Does he know where to find this “Buyer”?”

Cannan nodded his large head, “He says he knows where he is staying, but is just a lead…. And…. well I… I was planning on looking into it myself. Conventional methods  aren’t working, and I’m tired of sitting around as I know you are too.”

Adam’s knuckles grew white, “Where is this lead?”

***

Toni sat in his hotel room resting on the bed and switching rather mechanically through the channels. He ha two pillows behind his back and wore nothing but a shirt and boxer shorts. He had always thought that alien TV was sort of weird, and personally didn’t like the creatures himself, but it was lucrative business, and he was willing to deal with a few bug-like creeps if it meant getting paid exorbitant amounts of money. Even taking a ten percent for each sail, and making a sail only once a month, that was 10,000 dollars a pop beside his other gigs, which made him a very, very wealthy man.

A very wealthy man who definitely could have chosen better lodgings, but somehow still liked the aesthetic of back alley seedy motels. There was just something about the distantly loud music and the couples fighting in the next room that reminded him of home, not his own home, for his childhood and been surprisingly normal, but his home back on earth in his little apparent in the understreets of New York.

He glanced over at the side table, where his last vial was sitting, glittering in the overhead light., a bright electric blue.he bet he could sell it for a markup without the boss knowing, and maybe squeeze a little more cash out of the sail without anyone being the weiser. Besides, its not like anyone was going to miss money the didn’t expect to have.

The thought made him smile. 

He sighed deeply and leaned back in the pillows, closing his eyes halfway as he prepared to fade into a sort of fitful sleep.

And that is when the loud knocking came on the door.

He jolted upright cursing and sat up.

The knocking came again and he cursed violently throwing his feet over the side of the bed, “Coming!”

Feet sticking slightly against the rather tacky carpet, he walked up to the door and peered through the peep-hole. outside , he saw a man standing with a stack of towels and growled. He didn’t remember ordering more towels.

Still, he tugged the door open, “Wha-”

His voice died on his lips. The man who stood before him raised his head, scruffy unkempt and with murder in his eyes, and right behind him, outside of view of the peephole, was a massive Red drev.

“Room service.” The man said, holding up a stack of towels, and before Toni could react, the man used the towels to cushion the sound of his punch, a punch that was so powerful it sent Tony reeling backwards onto the sticky carpet.

Both man and Drev stepped into the room letting the door snap shut behind them.

It was only then that Toni noticed what the man was wearing.

A metal exoskeleton of shiny silver metal and whirring actuators.

He knew what tat was.

Iron eye armor.

He had sold one on the black market not so many months ago.

Which meant he knew what it could do. 

He crawled back across te floor hands over his face, “please don’t… I y-you got the wrong guy I… I don’t-”

The man reached down with both hands and hauled him into the air as if he were a kitten. The suit he wore hissing and spitting below him like a dragon, “I think the fuck not.” His human eye rolled wildly in his head, but Teri culdnt help but notice the mechanical eye fixated upon him at that moment, the appriture zeroed in on him like a targeting system, which it might well have been. He knew Tesraki work when he saw it.

“Adam.’

The man paused and turned just in time or the two of them to see the Drev pick the blue vile up from the bedside table. In that moment of horrible silence, Teri knew what was coming next.

He heard the appriture of the mechanical snap shut zeroing in on him, and then an explosion of pain through his back and body as he was slammed into the floor.

“WHERE DID YOU GET THIS!” the man screamed 

He gasped and choked even as he was slammed into the floor again.

“I SAID WHERE DID YOU GET IT!”

The big Drev was holding up the vile now, holding it up like a conviction. A sword held over his head.

The green eyed man was so mad with rage that he feared he would die before he could even answer.

But he calmed down just enough, to allow him a breather and to choke out he words.

“A….an old f-friend told me to sell… it.” He choked out his voice high and squeaking past his rapidly crushed airway.

“Where are they!” The man snarled, teeth barred little drops of spittle flying from his mouth and reflected in the seedy dim light above. His pale skin was so red with pure rage that he wouldn’t have been surprised if the man burst a blood vessel.”

He thought about the money of course.

Thought about how much he would lose if he told this man.

Thought about losing a good seller and buyer.

Thought about all the money he had in the bank right now.

And quickly determined that he had rough to buy a small moon to retire.

“Ok ok! I don’t know where he is exactly!>” The man’s face screwed up into a look of rage and he stammered slightly, “W-woah I said i don’t know ‘exactly’ but I know ‘approximately’. They tend to orbit A136 because of its hub connections with other planets and its central place within the smuggling ring.”

“What class ship do they own.”

“One of those luxury cruisers…. Big thing, fo like civilian transport or some shit, but they use it for cargo. I…. l look man I have no idea what they did to you, but I’m just the fence. I had nothing to do with the actual operation, hell I don’t even know where they get the damned stuff.” For a moment he was pretty sure that he was going to die. More sure than he had ever been about anything.

But then with a light whirring the man stop. 

He was breathing hard, his face was slick with sweat and his hands trembled, but at least he seemed to have decided not to murder him.

The Drev on the other hand, still holding the bottle, looked at him with such malicious intent that his life flashed before his eyes a second time. He closed them not willing to see his death if it was coming. He didn’t need to know anything and didn’t want to see it.

And he waited 

And waited 

And waited

The next time he opened his eyes, the room around him was empty, the vile was gone and he was left alone with a few cracked ribs and a determination to retire from his life of crime.

Whoever those people were, he never wanted to see them again.

Besides it was as good enough a reason as any to retire early.

***

Sunny awoke to the door opening with a hiss; she was feeling a little better today, if not a bit groggy and disoriented. Her arm didn’t hurt so much, which meant the missing carapace was already healing over. Still, the cold felt strange and unwanted against her skin, and she held the arm close to her body where it was warmer, and the air didn’t seem so strange.

The voices grew louder, and she was surprised to hear a woman’s voice joining in with the man, “Lady, Bennett, I… admit we are surprised to see you here. We assure you, our supply chain is still functioning perfectly.”

The woman’s sharp voice pierced the air like a blade, cutting into Sunny’s very soul, “I did not come here to discuss the function of your supply chain. I came here to discuss the product you sold me.”

There was a pause, “Are you… dissatisfied with the outcome ma’am.”

“No, I enjoy the product, but I wish to purchase in another color. None of your buyers have anything other than this…. green color, which is nice for in the winter when I am missing the spring, but I want something more cheerful for summer. My daughters and I, that is, which means I would be willing to pay for at least three of your bottles if you have any.”

The men paused and glanced between each other, “well…. The process is not… something that someone like yourself…”

“Show me the stock, boy or you lose my business.”

The men paused and then agreed, and the slow footsteps came up the hallway.

She heard the sound as the people passed into the room and slowly lifted her head.

Her two captors, and a older, but still elegant woman stepped into the room, and despite the gruesome scene before her, she did not flinch, staring around at the captive Drev in various stages of drug induced sleep or drug induced exhaustion.

Sunny d her best not to ganer to much attention, but as soon as the woman’s eyes fell on her, she knew the fight was lost.

The elegant woman made a b-line across the room and straight to her cage, “This one, this small blue one.” I like her coloring.

She paused, “Open the cage.”

The two men did as told with no argument and sunny felt the breeze of the cage door as it swung open. The woman squatted down on her impossibly tall heels and grabbed Sunny under the chin, forcing her to look up. She tapped one of her nails against Sunny’s carapace. It made a sort of hard clattering sound, Sunny jerked her head away in the only symbol of defiance she could muster.

The woman smiled, the grin spreading impossibly wide across her face, “A very beautiful color…. My decision has been made.”

Sunny felt her heart sink down in her chest plummeting into her stomach where it was likely to remain.

The two men grabbed the chains and hauled down on them, lifting her from the cage and into a standing position.

“You may not want to watch this Ma’am.” 

“I think I will be just fine.” She said, the smile never leaving hre face.”

[masterjedilenawrites]

The Helmeted Hunter: Chapter 23

Boba Fett x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Fluffity romanceness

AO3 Link (In case you like it better over there, it’s okay, no judgement)

< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >

Chapter 23: The Other Buyer

You could've stayed in that moment forever.

Your lips moving along with his, slowly and carefully. Your fingers skimming gently over the folds of the tunic bunched at his neck, finding purchase in his soft curls. His breath tickling your chin as he continued to sigh in satisfaction.

But each kiss seemed to waken you just a little more, stirring your weary spirit and sending pleasant but restless waves through your battered body. You suppose that energy could've led you to turn those kisses into something more; there was certainly a growing warmth in your core that would've welcomed it. But instead, it was your mind that took over. It was pulling forth memories of your stay in the Crimson Dawn cell, and the ideas you'd formed there.

You pulled back from Boba as your mind raced through those ideas again, confirming they still made any sense.

"That bad, huh?"

He was trying to sound playful, but it was clear he really was self-conscious. You imagined he probably didn't have much experience, and you suddenly breaking away didn't exactly help his confidence.

"No," you were quick to say, squeezing your hands slightly along his shoulders. "No, I... I...."

You didn't know where to begin. But you had to start somewhere. After all the things he'd said to you, you had to let him know what you wanted now.

"I can't go back to my old life," you said, putting care behind each word. "But I also can't start a new one. Not yet, not without ending this mess once and for all. I would love nothing more than to run off with you, and maybe we can someday soon, but you have to understand why that's just not possible right now."

If Boba was hurt, he hid it well, keeping his features in their usual, neutral state as you spoke. Since he wasn't giving you a reaction yet, you continued.

"No one is going to simply forget about this bounty on my head. They will keep hunting me, no matter where we go. That's no way to live."

Boba sighed, though not in the satisfied way he had before. He lifted his hands up to wrap around your wrists, moving his calloused fingers along the bandaging while he looked at you with a sad smile.

"Of course I understand," he murmured. "We can keep searching."

You tried to take comfort in the soothing motions of his hands on yours, a sign that he hadn't pulled away or grown upset yet. However, you doubted he'd like what you had to say next. You steadied your nerves with a deep breath.

"We don't need to search, because I know where to go."

His eyebrows raised, curious. "You do?"

You brought your hands down from his shoulders, grasping his own firmly in the space between your laps. "Think about it. Think about how off this whole thing has been, right from the beginning. We've been looking for answers to questions like where and why. But what about how? How is it that these portals are meant to be random, taking random people from random planets at random times... and yet, someone knew exactly when and where I would be going through one, far enough in advance to get you to wait for me."

The words spilled from your mouth, eager to finally be heard. The thoughts had been eating at you while in Crimson Dawn's cell. It felt good, freeing even, to share them with another.

"Right," Boba said flatly. "So this guy planned it. Or just predicted it."

You shook your head. "He isn't the only one with a bounty on my head. They weren't the only ones who knew I was coming."

"The Empire."

No sooner had he breathed the name did you resume your rambling.

"A personal photo of me was hung up on posters in distant planets just days after I went through the portal, by people who now own my planet. That can't be a coincidence. And their price for my capture may not be as high, but it's still significant. Maybe they want me for the same reasons as this other guy. Maybe they were able to predict or plan my trip through the portal, too. At the very least, they know something."

Boba had closed his eyes and was rubbing the bridge of his nose. It occurred to you he was tired as well, and you briefly wondered how long he had gone without sleep while you were apart.

"So..." He opened his eyes but kept them scrunched in thought. "What, are you going to knock on the Emperor's door and ask him what's going on?"

"Yes," you said firmly. Obviously there'd be a better way to do it, but that was beside the point. "If anyone has answers, anyone that we can go to right away without all this clue hunting, it's the Empire."

He grasped your wrists again, holding them up to you. "And you'd risk going through something like this again?"

"I'll do whatever it takes to be done with this."

You meant it. Despite your attention being brought back to your wounds and the dull ache that had settled in them. Despite the spike of energy your mind had given you now fading back into fatigue. Despite all the suffering and confusion and fear you'd just gone through. You really were prepared to go through it all again if it meant you could then be freed from it. If you could finally move on.

Boba was frowning. "Well I can't risk you getting hurt again," he said, revealing just how much guilt he truly had over what'd happened to you. You were touched, but also defeated. If he wasn't willing to help you, or was actually going to stop you....

But then he spoke again, his tone kinder. "So we'll need a plan. Several plans. Nothing gets left to chance. We'll get you answers, but more important is you getting the chance at a new life."

You smiled. "Thank you," you whispered.

"And we'll do it after you rest," he said, getting up from the bunk and starting to clean up the supplies he'd left on the counter. "You need to heal."

Exhaustion was making its way back into your mind and you couldn't agree more. You were also suddenly conscious of the fact you'd soiled the linens on his bed with the filth you'd acquired on your clothes. You'd also need to get clean.

"Deal," you said, standing up yourself. You were about to ask for some things to help you freshen up first, when a vaguely familiar melody reached your ears. It seemed to be coming from above in the cockpit.

"Is that music?" you asked, tilting your head to hear better. As you caught more of the tune, you realized why it was familiar. "My music."

"Oh, yeah." Boba seemed to have forgotten he'd had it playing. You both had been too caught up in your discussion, and intimacy, to have noticed until now. "Your device wasn't broken, it just needed a new power source. So I integrated it with the ship."

You couldn't help but cringe a little as you remembered some of the songs that would surely be on there. "Well please don't judge me. I haven't always had the best taste in music."

He chuckled softly. "There's some... odd songs on there. But they aren't all bad." He paused, also cocking his head slightly. "I like this one. Reminds me of you."

You both had a shy smile, not quite used to sharing such things with each other. But you were glad he was starting to open up more, showing you the little pieces of his heart and soul that he'd kept hidden for so long.

* * *

You managed to clean up well without a shower. You took your time, not wanting to strain yourself from the effort but needing to get as much dirt and blood off you as possible. It seemed like ages ago that'd you last had a shower and you wanted to get that feeling back as best you could. Boba had also given you your old clothes, cleaned and with creases from having been folded for so long. You couldn't fathom when he'd had the time to get them cleaned.

Once you felt satisfied, you emerged from the lavatory to find Boba waiting for you. He wanted to quickly patch up the cut on your cheek before you went off to bed. You let him, leaning against the counter as he worked a few stitches through it, taking the time to admire him. You still considered his features quite ordinary, but there was now a familiarity to them that gave you a different sort of fondness. You realized that while you'd seen him upset and frustrated, and in some cases angry, you'd never seen his face display the kind of rage or cruelty that people like Dryden Vos had. There was always a thoughtfulness to him, a sense of control and awareness.

The songs from your music player had continued to change, the volume low so you were only occasionally aware of it. The one that had just started now brought a small smile to your face - and a quick instruction from Boba to keep still.

"This one sounds like you," you whispered. He hesitated before smirking back, and then repeating that you really needed to be still because he was almost done.

Were you really saying these things to Boba Fett? Feeling these things for him? He wasn't different than when you first knew him, there was simply more to him now. In your current, sleep-deprived state of mind, you were having a hard time wrapping your head around how quickly he'd grown on you. How easy it was for you to look at him with affection. How badly you wanted to test all the ways you could make him blush and smile....

He eventually stopped his work and tried ushering you to bed. You were already drifting off, but a small part of you still wanted to cling to him. It may have been slightly manipulative on your part, but you couldn't help but mumble out don't leave me just to see if he'd lie down with you.

With a resigned huff, he crawled into the bunk next to you, taking up most of the narrow space with his body. But you were already curling into his side, head in the crook of his arm, and a bandaged wrist across his chest. No sooner had you made yourself comfortable did you immediately succumb to sleep, letting yourself drift off to the sound of his heartbeat.

[bytheangell]

Give It a Chance

(Read on AO3) Alec is no stranger to working out. That isn’t why he’s cringing as he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and slips his feet into socks and sneakers at the crack of dawn on a Monday morning. He’s questioning why he ever agreed to do this because he isn’t on his way to an actual workout: he’s on his way to Zumba.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he grumbles at Isabelle, shuffling into the living room of the apartment they share with Jace. Jace, who is sleeping peacefully because he somehow managed to not get himself subjected to their sister’s guilt-trip after Clary cancels at the last minute due to some rescheduled meeting with a potential buyer from out of town. Who even wants to look at art before 9 am?!

“I don’t want to go alone and you’re already awake! Plus you love to work out.”

“I do. And if we were going to work out, I’d be ecstatic. Instead, we’re going to… I don’t even know what to call it, because it isn’t even dancing. Which I guess is good, since I hate dancing. But it isn’t working out, either.”

“You’re only saying that because you’ve never tried it before. Just wait.” Izzy grabs her water bottle off of the kitchen counter, filling it as she talks. “Magnus’ class is the most difficult class to get into in the city. It wouldn’t be this popular if it wasn’t amazing, just give it a chance.”

“It’s a fad. And if it’s so popular you should’ve been able to give this spot away to anyone. The way you talk about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some Zumba Black Market you could’ve auctioned it off on.” He follows suit, filling his own water bottle before turning back to his sister. “Let’s just get this over with.”

---

They get there early. Much earlier than Alec thinks should be necessary, but it ends up not being early enough - there’s already a line at the door and the class doesn’t even start for another 20 minutes. With pre-signed up spots, though Izzy assures him that they still want to be early enough to not get stuck in the back corner. Alec disagrees and is seriously considering going that way when the doors open anyway.

“This is ridiculous,” he starts but stops when his almost-rant earns him an elbow to the side from Izzy.

“Just shush until it’s over. Then if you still think it doesn’t live up to the hype you can bash it as much as you want.”

There’s something in the way her eyes seem to twinkle with the offer, like she knows something he doesn’t, gives him a moment of pause. “Promise?” “Promise.”

That’s a deal Alec can stick to. A few minutes of silent judgment in return for what he’s certain he can stretch into hours of commentary later.

“Deal.” Alec leans back against the wall while they wait, arms crossed over his chest. He sees a few other guys in the line, one or two of them looking about as thrilled as he is to be there, but for the most part there’s an eager chatter among the growing crowd waiting for the doors to open. Maybe he is missing something here…

Izzy’s already striking up a conversation with the girl in front of her and Alec allows himself to zone out until the doors swing open and Izzy tugs on his t-shirt to get his attention when the line starts to file into the large group classroom.

And oh.

Oh.

“Sorry about the delay, I was having some trouble with the sound system but we should be all set!” The apology comes from a man in tight black… leggings? Workout tights? Alec isn’t positive about what they are because he’s only ever seen guys working out in shorts or sweatpants around his usual gym, but he certainly isn’t complaining. They have neon orange accents that match the tank-top he’s wearing, which is ripped for style down the sides. It’s a racerback that shows off some impressive arm and shoulder muscles, and--

“I can see you won’t have any problem watching the instructor, at least.”

Izzy’s voice is light with barely-concealed amusement, a smirk spread wide on her features.

“What?” Alec asks, half to stall and half because he wasn’t entirely paying attention to what his sister was actually saying, though the tone and the look on her face filled in the blanks easily enough.

“Try not to trip over your jaw on the floor on the way in,” she teases, having the good grace to lower her voice as they get closer to the door, which also brings them closer to the gorgeous man standing next to it. He’s taking the time to welcome each person who comes in, greeting some by name, others with casual nods.

Alec is trying to pick up speed through the doorway to avoid any direct interaction but he isn’t fast enough.

“I haven’t seen you two around before,” the instructor - Magnus, Alec remembers his sister mentioning- says, glancing from Izzy to Alec. “I’m certain I’d remember if you were.”

“This is our first class,” Izzy confirms. “I’m sure you know how difficult it is to get into.”

“I’m very glad you could make it. You and your...?” Magnus trails off very clearly fishing for information. Alec, who is still trying very intently to focus on anything other than the way the light catches Magnus’ eyes and gives them hints of gold among the brown, misses the cue entirely.

“Brother,” Izzy is quick to supply. “Alec. And I’m Isabelle.”

“Brother…” Magnus repeats softly, eyes falling on Alec but not dwelling too long, aware of the rest of the line behind the siblings. “Right. Well, Alec and Isabelle, I’d love to hear what you think after the class. Grab a spot and I’ll see you in there.”

“Thanks,” Izzy says, and Alec realizes he hasn’t said anything the entire exchange, as he pushes slightly past Isabelle to go in first.

Once they’re inside he waits for her to pick their spot, knowing better than to think he’s getting away with hiding in the back corner he instinctively wants to gravitate towards.

“Anywhere but the very front,” he tells her the moment her eyes drift towards that half of the room.

“Oh, so you can speak. I was starting to wonder if you’d gone mute back there.” He can hear the smile behind her words even as she walks away from him towards the right-middle of the room.

“I was just keeping quiet like I promised. Unless you wanted me to tell Magnus all about how I’m only here because you forced me to come, and don’t actually care how popular his class is?”

“Uh-huh,” Izzy says, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t have time to harp on it when the last of the line files in and Magnus makes his way to the front of the room adjusting the headset that indents the top of his hair.

“Testing, testing.” His voice is too soft to be heard over the music that starts up, an uptempo beat that’s energetic but not too fast for a good warm-up. Magnus fidgets with the volume for a few more seconds before striking the perfect balance. “There we go. Alright everybody, grab your spots and make sure you have enough space to move!”

Izzy moves a few steps forward but keeps them near the middle of the room, and off to the side. “You’re lucky I know how annoying it would be for you to stand in the middle and block everyone’s line of sight,” she tells him. “Otherwise I’d drag us right behind Magnus.”

Alec rolls his eyes but silently says a prayer to the genetics that graced him with his impressive height.

He’s about to say something heavily laced in sarcasm when Magnus’ voice drowns out any clever comeback he might have.

“Welcome! Y’all ready? We’re going to have a lot of fun with this one, right?”

Several people give a cheer, a few others clap, and Alec is at a loss to find who is this enthusiastic this early in the morning about a dance class.

Perhaps he would’ve cheered if he anticipated the show he’s about to get.

Magnus moves in a way that makes it very clear that he has a dancing background of some sort. The instructions start off easy enough to follow, but even when he misses a verbal cue it isn’t as if Alec has any issue with keeping a studious gaze on the instructor.

When Magnus starts a song with heavy salsa influences, all hips and fluid arm movements, Alec isn’t sure if he’s being rewarded or cursed by the universe.

Alec has to admit that this is a lot more difficult than it looks. It still isn’t his first, or second, or anywhere near his top choices for a workout, but there’s a sheen of sweat on his face by the 4th or 5th song... which is probably because he’s only just starting to follow actively along without getting lost in the left-and-rights. Up until now, he’s been tripping over his own feet too often to get into any consistent flow.

Magnus facing them now, somehow managing to mirror the steps for them to follow with impressive ease even facing this way. His eyes scan the group, giving tips here and there to people he sees struggling and cracking a few jokes with people who Alec can only assume are regulars.

“See, Thea, I told you you’d get that grapevine down after a few tries,” he says before his eyes fall on Alec.

And Alec, foolish enough to make eye contact, loses all train of thought and forgets to step right with everyone else, leaving the poor girl to his left nearly colliding into him. Magnus’ light chuckle of amusement is barely audible over the thump of the bass in the song and Alec is glad the red on his face could be attributed to the exercise and not the blush it definitely is as he scrambles to the side, ignoring the steps entirely.

With the extra eyes on him, Alec returns all his focus to the movements, forcing his eyes to look back down at Magnus’ feet instead of his face. He still can’t seem to get his own feet to remember which steps forward first, starting off backwards almost every time and eventually stopping entirely in flustered frustration.

“Don’t worry so much about doing it perfectly! First times with the routines are always a rough run-through, just keep going until there’s a good spot to fix it, like this.” Alec watches as Magnus intentionally gets off-step, going left instead of right. And then, at the start of another repetition, does a small hop to switch feet in a half-step to get back onto the right one. Alec nods to himself and waits for another rotation to do the same, looking far too pleased with himself when it works and he’s back on step.

When Alec looks up Magnus is grinning, too, and nods at him with a smile before turning his attention back to the room at large.

The rest of the class passes by much too fast now that he’s found a rhythm and is, though he’ll never admit it to Isabelle, actually starting to enjoy himself, and when the cooldown comes he’s surprised at how disappointed he feels.

“Great class, everyone! See you back here Friday!” Magnus says, cutting the stereo off. The sudden lack of music is jarring but the room quickly dissolves into chatter to fill the silence.

“So?” Izzy asks him before taking a long drink from her water bottle. “And don’t think you can lie to me - I saw you having fun.” “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be,” Alec admits grudgingly, wiping at the sweat about to drip into his eyes with a corner of his t-shirt.

A sudden voice behind him makes him jump.

“What a ringing endorsement.” Alec recognizes the voice immediately - how could he not, after hearing it for the past hour straight. “Perhaps after the next class I can reach ‘moderately tolerable’ status.”

Alec grimaces. “I-”

“Perhaps you could give me a few pointers on what could bring up my rating. Maybe… over coffee?” Magnus continues, not giving a chance for Alec to backtrack his original statement.

Alec takes a second to make sure he heard that right.

“Coffee?” Alec repeats, stalling because he’s honestly caught too off-guard to answer.

“Or smoothies, or proper drinks. It’s only 10 am but I don’t judge, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere,” Magnus adds with a wink.

Yet another comment Alec isn’t expecting. “You mean right now? Like this?” These aren’t even Alec’s best sweatpants, ignoring the fact that they’re sweatpants in the first place, and the sides of his hair stick to the side of his face from sweat.

“Are you saying there’s something wrong with the way I look?” Magnus asks.

The panic that crosses Alec’s face has Izzy laughing beside him. Magnus looks offended - but it’s exaggerated enough that Alec thinks he’s faking it just to be dramatic. Right?

“You look great,” Alec manages. “I, on the other hand…”

“Also look great,” Magnus supplies, not missing a beat. “Is that a yes?”

Alec hesitates, but a not-so-subtle nudge from Izzy’s elbow into the small of his back has him nodding.

“Yes. Yeah, sure. Coffee sounds great.”

“Coffee it is. Let me just wrap up here and I’ll meet you outside. I know a wonderful shop just a couple blocks down.

The second Magnus walks away Isabelle’s in front of him, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“While I’m thrilled you have a date, if you actually tell him what you hate and he changes his classes, I will murder you,” she says pointedly.

“You’re in luck,” Alec says. “I didn’t actually hate any of it. It was really fun.”

“I knew it!” Isabelle nearly shouts, and Alec motions for her to quiet down when a few eyes, Magnus’ included, turn their way at her exclamation.

“Ready to go, Alec?” Magnus asks, coming up beside them. “Sorry for stealing your brother away,” he adds. “I’m not interrupting any plans am I?”

“None at all,” Isabelle is quick to reassure him. “Please, steal away. In fact, you’re more than welcome to keep him.”

Alec rolls his eyes. “Iz, please,” he half-whines. It’s just coffee, just an impulsive date. Magnus doesn’t even know him. In fact, if they make it through a whole cup of coffee without Alec boring him to death he’ll consider it a win.

“I guess we’ll have to see how amenable Alec is to being kept,” Magnus says, and Alec wonders how he’s that smooth, just like, all of the time.

As it turns out, after two cups of coffee, then lunch, then an afternoon walking around the park and talking and dinner after realizing how late it was, Alec is very amenable to being kept.

[keeloca]

Ok I am expecting you to be drunk when you answer these and if you're not drunk when you get them you better get re-drunk to answer! Only drunk answers today!!

1) What are we drinking?

2) So I know you are concerned about your carbon footprint, do you ever feel that it is somewhat pointless for you, an individual, to make small changes to reduce your carbon consumption when massive corporations and billionaires intent on space travel are using more carbon in a day than you could use in a lifetime? Or do you believe that what you are doing is really going to make a difference?

3) I think that everyone has a 'trash' genre of fiction. Fiction they read for comfort, and they will read almost anything in that genre without concern for it being well written, if they are just in the mood to read a whatever book. What is your trash genre?

Toot toot! Enjoy your champagne later! 🥂

Aaaah, my dear dancer of the dread dream! Champagne has been had, sobriety forgone, our question time is ON!

1. Nikka whisky from the barrel. (For smooth whiskys I lean Japanese; the smoky stuff is all Scottish single malt.)

2. Uh-huh, so first you say only drunk answers, then you hit me with ethical considerations and carbon emission? Playing dirty, eh, girl? I approve. You'll get the simple and short version, though, 'cause ain't nobody drunk got brain cells for this.

It's paradoxial because obviously the choices of one tiny little person doesn't matter, but if a bunch of us tiny persons make the same choice, it will make a difference, so... you make it in good faith, hoping that others will do it too? Hm. Should there be a carbon footprint union? In the spirit of don't despair; organize? And while whatever difference we make will pale in comparision to big company actions, you shouldn't underestimate its normative effects: voter behavior influences politics and politics is probably what we need to make a real impact. (And buyer behavior influences company behavior.)

Also, I'm not reallyconcerned about my carbon footprint in the sense that I feel any anxiety or guilt over it; I just believe in taking responsibility.

3. This question has utterly stumped me, because while I am all for trash genres (I'm a librarian; I believe everyone should read what they want!) I can't really think of my trash genre in particular? Like, if I want to read something available but engaging because my brain needs a rest I might pick up a murder mystery or a LGBT+ YA or (very occasionally) an edgy feel good, but... I do still very much care for it being well written and none of these are genres I read a lot of; they're certainly not genres I will read almost anythingin.

It's the same with fantasy, really, which is my preferred genre. I still always want it to be good? If it's not well written I'll not hesitate to put it down, and I'm generally very picky about what I pick up.

So, sorry, sweetness, I can't properly give you a trash genre. However, I might give you trash tropes that I will wade through a lot of bad prose for? If you say canonical OT3+ or foe yay I am very interested, and if we're talking fanfiction I tend to eschew a lot of my standards and preferences for some nice impact play (in the sense that I will read it, even if I eventually end up squicked a lot of the time).

And there we have it, our ruthless Ryt of the revels! All answers out in the open and my whisky almost gone, as night beckons. Thank you for organizing this time of sweet self-indulgence; I hope you're having a lovely evening. <3

[adrianasunderworld]

More gym leader headcanons

Allister

Is Beas baby cousin. Shes like a big sister to him and is one of the few people he will take his mask off around.

Used to be bullied in school. Some kids a couple grades up called him creepy and a weirdo. He eventually broke down and told Bea about it. The bullies didn't bother him anymore after that.

He likes to play tea party with his mom and pokemon. Hes a perfect gentleman and always pulls out the chair for her.

His parents want to keep their lives outside the gym as private as possible. So they aren't in the public eye often. Most people picture Allisters parents as an Addams family type couple. But in reality they're pretty chipper and normal. His dad runs a martial arts studio with his brother, Beas dad. His mom is a librarian. She has pink glasses so her and her clefairy can match. 

All the gym leaders are very nice to him, so he isn't as shy around them as he once was. He definitely thinks Piers is the coolest one because of his punk style. One time Piers saw how Allister stared at his spikey jewelry and gave him one of his wrist bands. Allister wore it for two weeks straight.

He definitely thinks Leon and Raihan are cool too. So confident and themselves, he wants to be more like that when he grows up. He still isn't quite used to crowds and the noise though. So if Bea isn't at an event he'll latch onto one of them. After all they're two of the strongest trainers in the region,if anyone can protect him, its them. They don't mind, it's rather cute.

Melony is friends with his parents, and is the resident Leauge Mom. If something is overwhelming Allister, she the first to comfort and hug him.

Marnie

Marnie really likes clothes. Spikemuth doesn't have much in terms of shopping, and any money for clothes that weren't second hand is a recent thing for her. So the first thing Marnie did when she went to Motostoke was to visit as many boutiques as possible.

The first thing she fell in love with and bought were her boots. They were so cool, and shiny, and new. She almost felt guilty for splurging in them, but she loved them so much that it outweighed the buyer's guilt.

Marnie can belt out heavy metal like nothing. Shes like Aggretsuko, turn it off and on like nothing. 

Loves Hello Skitty. Has a small collection of merch back home. 

After becoming gym leader, she hit it off really well with Nessa. Nessa found out how much Marnie liked clothes and let her go through her closet and let her keep what she wanted. (Nessa has a lot of stuff she got to keep from shoots or brands sent to her,)

If you see any gym leaders wearing black and pink nail polish: Marnie did it. No one is safe from her puppy dog eyes. 

Marnie grew up going to her brothers shows. All the crew and Piers band members recognize her and treat her like an honorary sister. She always has a VIP backstage pass wherever Piers goes. If you're good enough friends with her, you can be her plus one.

She really likes desserts with fruit in them. Especially strawberries. 

She likes to watch doll repaints.

Gordie

Best hype man you could ever ask for. Always cheering for his friends.

Used to help his mom bake all the time for special occasions. He still enjoys it, and always makes his little siblings cakes for their birthdays. He's contemplating trying to do the great Galar bake off when the gym challenge is over.

His sister is going to do the challenge next year. She doesn't know how to tell their mom she doesn't want to be an ice trainer either. She wants to experiment with electric and fairy. Gordie told her he'll help her train and catch her pokemon, he'll deal with mom when she decides to tell her.

Is good with kids. He's very charismatic and takes care of his siblings all the time. Though that doesn't mean he enjoys being treated like a walking daycare by his moms friends and relatives.

Has a bad habit of staying up late. You think those glasses are to look cool? Nope. Covering the dark circles under his eyes.

His hair is his pride and joy and puts in a great deal of effort and products to maintain it.

Milo

Sensitive skin. Why do you think his hat is so big? He could be outside for ten minutes and already pink. Sunscreen is his constant companion.

Was a bit shy and easily pushed around as a kid. Nessa came to his defense once and have been friends ever since. She proclaimed herself his rival, so he always has someone to encourage him to be stronger.

His family's farm goes back at least four generations. He's very proud of his family's business. They raised the best wooloo in Galar, you won't find softer wool anywhere else.

Is a granny's boy. His Nana always bakes something and knits him sweaters. And Milo is always happy to visit her and lend her pokemon to keep her company.

I oblivious to anyone's advances. He always sees the good in everyone and always assumes someone is just being friendly. So he sucks at realizing hes being flirted with. He and Leon form the 'What is a hint?' Squad.

Hug life is Milo life. Hes a big ball of love and everyone gets a hug when they see him. 

His house is very cozy. Warm homemade blankets, soft pokemon plushes on the couch, a fire in the evening. Milo loves having company and company love chilling in Milos house. There's wooloo and yampers everywhere. You'll never want to leave.

Melony

Melony is a very loving mother. Shes just very stubborn, and will take a great deal to convince her when she has already set her mind to something. Hence the falling  out with Gordie.

Has always been a flirt. She never means any harm though. 

Is a widow. Her spouse passed a couple years ago. Shes healed for the most part but still wears her ring for sentimental reasons.

Used to figure skate competitively as a teenager. She quit to become gym leader. But still took the very strict coaching methods her skating instructors used and applied it to battles.

The gym is used as an ice skating rink when not being used for battles. They give lessons for skating and ice hockey. It's a popular afterschool place for the kids of Circhester.

Many people have a crush on Melony and shes very aware of it. She just chooses not to comment. Though it does help her flirt to get her way. 

Flattering will get you no where with her. Shes heard every line and can tell when you want something. Melony may be able to flirt to get her way, but dont think for a moment that shes that easily swayed.

[bookworm555]

*Reuploaded FOR THE THIRD TIME because I realized that this never showed up in any of this fandom’s tags the first two times I posted it :/ Now I am trying this as a text post with images instead of a typical art post because nothing is freaking working and I am so frustrated.

Because read-mores apparently make my post glitchy, I apologize in advance for the length of this post, and hopefully, it doesn’t clog your dashes/the tags too badly.*

Another CatCF/WWatCF sketchdump~

The top drawing is the characters from the 1971 adaptation ten years later (which was an excuse to draw 80′s fashion, haha).

Ten years later doodles (from left to right) Top row: Violet and Veruca Second row: Mike, Charlie, and Augustus

(I think Violet turned out to be the best of these doodles!)

Some headcanons for the ten years later drawings (this would have been the section under the read-more, if it worked :/ ):

I always headcanoned the characters in the ‘71 version to be thirteen, minus Mike, who I saw as eleven. So basically everyone in the drawing is twenty-three except for Mike, who is twenty-one.

Violet: For years after the nightmare that was the factory tour, Violet struggled with major body image issues, especially about her blue skin. (And is homeschooled because of this.) However, eventually, her mindset basically became ‘Wonka thought this was a punishment? Fuck that; I’m going to embrace it’, so she became more confident.

Once this confidence hits during her late teens, she uses her unusual appearance to her advantage (especially when it comes to attracting visitors/potential buyers to her dad’s car dealership).

She doesn’t go to college; instead, she works at her dad’s place, and basically learns how to be a mechanic.

She hasn’t chewed gum since the factory tour.

When Charlie contacts her and the others, she is hesitant to respond back, but ultimately does (to sass him, at the very least). During the group’s future meetups, she’s basically the glue that keeps them together.

Veruca: Unlike Violet, Veruca carries a lot of guilt about what happened during the factory tour, since her father was punished along with her. He fell wrong, and as a result, was paralyzed from the waist down, and is now in a wheelchair. Veruca was lucky; aside from a broken ankle, she did not suffer any worse injuries.

Because of this, Veruca becomes mute (her mouthing off and constantly asking for things is what led to her–pun not intended–downfall, so she decides that it would be for the best if she stops talking altogether.)

Despite the Salts being wealthy, Wonka paid all of their medical bills. Even though it would have made sense for them to take him to trial, they decided not to (Henry did not want anyone to see him in his new state, and Veruca’s anxiety spiked even thinking about the factory).

When Charlie contacts the four ‘rejects’ ten years after the tour, Violet starts to bring Veruca out of her shell. Though it is ultimately Augustus who helps her feel comfortable speaking again, due to his soft-spoken personality.)

Mike: Like the others, Mike was very traumatized by what happened to him during the tour. (Especially since he was younger than the rest of them.)

While Violet embraced her altered state, and Veruca withdrew from the world, Mike became bitter. Very bitter. Because, while sure, Wonka and co. were able to get him back to about normal size [after stretching him waaaay too tall and thin the first time; his mother fainted, then had plenty of choice words for everyone involved when she came to], the process was incredibly painful, and involved basically rubber-fying his bones and muscles temporarily (yeah, he still had no idea why Wonka would even create a candy that did that).

Because of that, he has scars all over his body–the most on his arms, legs, and torso–so he always wears long-sleeved shirts or jackets, and long pants.

He is pissed that his life was ruined at age eleven; sure, he was obnoxious, but he was a KID. Now he’s stuck with chronic pain, not to mention the occasional breakdown because he has no idea if he’s actually HIM, or just a copy that was beamed through Wonka’s television room that managed to keep his soul. (Yeah, he doesn’t like to dwell on that; he prefers to think that that would be impossible.) [A/N: That part comes from the fact that Wonka stated that the chocolate that appeared in the TV screen was a copy of the much larger chocolate bar that was beamed through the air, and not the original bar itself]

When Charlie contacts him, he almost sends a nasty letter back, but something in him pauses, and he ends up sending a civilized response. It wasn’t Charlie’s fault all this happened to him; Charlie was the nice one, and, though he would never admit it to anyone, on the tour, he thought Charlie was cool. Goody-two-shoes, but in the ‘Lovable TV Protagonist’ sort of way.

As the five of them start meeting/corresponding through letters, he lets Charlie past all the walls he put up, and is definitely the closest to him in the group.

Charlie: Happily becomes Wonka’s protege after the tour. He is ecstatic that he not only gets to live and learn to work in this magical place, but he and his family are finally out of poverty!

He goes to school during the day, then learns the tricks of the candy trade in the afternoons and evenings.

However, about ten years after winning the tour, Wonka just…vanishes. And that’s when Charlie finds the videos showcasing what happened to the other four Golden Ticket winners after their mishaps.

Charlie is appalled; looking back, they were all so young. Of course, they were bratty; that’s how kids ARE. (Sure, some of them were worse than others, but they didn’t deserve their fates! Essentially, the four ‘losers’, plus Mr. Salt, were toyed with and tortured, and their parents could not help them.) Mike’s was especially horrible, to him; it was the only tape he couldn’t finish.

This makes Charlie feel a little guilty; he got off easy, even though he also disobeyed the rules.

He is also torn; on the one hand, Wonka was a great mentor, and he was fond of the man–he made a good father-figure, for him. But on the other hand, this was a man who thought the way to get rid of a kid’s bad habits was to torture them.

Before he could think otherwise, Charlie writes letters to the other Golden Ticket winners. He doesn’t expect anything nice back, but is surprised to find that they are all willing to talk to him.

He is relieved; he wants to right the wrongs done to them.

Augustus: The poor guy falls into a deep depression after the tour. Sure, he was thinner, but he had no problem with how he looked before. Not to mention, even the smell of chocolate and other sugary sweets makes him very nauseous. Oh, and there’s the not-so-small fear of drowning that he picked up, as well as severe claustrophobia.

He felt like a part of him was lost, since he could no longer enjoy his favorite foods. Or food in general. He ate to not starve, but that was it.

He was already quiet, but after the tour, he withdrew into himself even more, preferring to spend time with the neighborhood cats rather than people. (Yes, he is definitely a cat person.)

But he still has his kind heart, so when Charlie Bucket sends him a letter, he responds right away (and is the first one to do so).

When they start writing more letters to each other, and eventually meeting, he helps the others through their trauma, while ignoring his own. He thinks he’ll always be stuck this way.

Veruca disagrees.

And in terms of schooling, only Augustus went to college. As for high school, Violet and Mike were homeschooled, Veruca went to an exclusive, posh academy, Charlie stuck with public school, and Augustus went to a private school.

-

Now, if anyone was interested, these are the outfits that inspired the ones I drew (though, obviously, I took artistic liberties with some of them). I wanted to give them each a different style: Violet’s is the outlandish fashion the 80s are famous for, Veruca’s is demure and preppy, Mike’s is pretty unassuming, but with a slight edge, Charlie’s is comfortable/casual, and Augustus’s is comfortable/slightly formal.

Left to right: Violet, Veruca, Mike, Charlie, Augustus

(And I imagine the back of Mike’s jacket looking like this, aka with a vent, which is why the back of the jacket isn’t visible in the gap of his legs):

WOW, that got so long (oops…), but those were just my ideas for how these characters would interact and act ten years later. Hopefully someone enjoys this, XD

[stusbunker]

What Lingers Within: Six

A Supernatural Fan-fiction Mini Series

Featuring: Past Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Written for: @thisismysecrethappyplace​

Prompt: Amnesia

Word Count: 2396

Beta’d by the amazing @itmighthavebeenintentional​

Aesthetic by @thoughtslikeaminefield​

A/N: Set in season 11. Flashbacks are still in italics. No new warnings for this chapter.

Series Masterlist

^*^*^*^

     The neighborhood Dean found a motel in did little to settle your raw nerves. The sleek car earned a few stares and a solitary whistle when it pulled into the crumbling parking lot well into the dark of night. You noticed both Dean and Sam flashed their weapons, which were kept at the smalls of their backs, before Dean headed into the office to set you all up for the night. Those loitering in the stairwell and among the other cars had eyes on you and Michelle all the while, until he returned for you and their bags. 

     Lord knew what you looked like as Dean and Sam escorted you and Michelle into the pay-by-the-hour room. You didn’t know why you were so bothered by it, being a murderer was worse than being a prostitute.

     That damning truth had barely registered before you caught on that Dean had been waiting for your answer to an unheard question.

     “I’m sorry, what?” You scrunched your eyes closed in an attempt to focus.

      Your vision slowly unclouded around Dean’s insistent face. “You okay? Here, have some water.”

      Suddenly a cold plastic bottle was slipped into your hand; they kept a cooler at the ready in the backseat you had noticed when they took you for breakfast. Always prepared, like boy scouts or doomsday preppers.

      You took the water and realized all three of them were watching you.

      “What?” You wiped a trickle from your chin and waited for the conversation to resume.

      “First thing, you need a change of clothes and we all could stand to eat,” Dean went from looking at you to pointing at Sam.

       “Why don’t I take Michelle to Y/N’s place? Grab her a few things?” Sam offered, and you couldn’t help notice the blush on your cousin’s face.

       “But I still need to grab my truck. Drop me off and I’ll handle Y/N’s essentials. That way you can grab food and we can all meet back here,” Michelle smiled brightly. If you weren’t still in some state of shock you would have groaned at her.

       “You sure? They might expect her home, tried it there the first time,” Dean bowed his head, but stopped just short of pursing his lips at Michelle. 

       “I’ll be fine, in and out. No one will know what I am up to until I am already out the door,” she reassured him, her stare held enough tenacity to choke a pitbull.

        Dean smirked and rolled his eyes in jest. “Fine! Stubbornness runs in your family too?”

       “You could say that,” Michelle sighed before pulling you in, hip-to-hip. “Just keep an eye on her while I’m gone?”

        It was your turn to roll your eyes, but the warm strength in her grip was sorely needed. You squeezed her waist and tipped your head onto her shoulder for the briefest moment of reprieve.

       “I got her,” Dean promised, pulling you into his arms by way of your drooping water bottle. You fell forward against him, awkwardly bumbling until he locked his arm over your shoulder, pulling you to stand, almost mirroring the position you and Michelle had shared.

       “Right,” Sam sighed. “Ready?”

        “Lead the way, handsome,” Michelle giggled as she waggled her fingers over her shoulder.

        Once the door latched behind them, your stance became increasingly unnecessary and you broke away from Dean’s sturdy side to guzzle more water. It was impossibly hot in the dingy room.

        “Why don’t you take a shower? I’ll check and see if the police have anything, or at least anything we need to worry about.” Dean dropped eye contact to the laptop on the small breakfast table. He seemed almost apologetic.

        “Can I get a shirt? I don’t think Michelle is gonna make it back with my stuff before I’m out,” you clarified.

        “Let me guess, not just any shirt, you want a flannel?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

        “T-shirts just show off all the wet patches,” you mumbled as Dean went to dig through his duffle. He sniffed a navy one before balling it up and tossing it to you. You caught it, high on your chest.

       “Thanks,” you grew quiet as you turned to the yellow light of the small bathroom, slipping your fingertips over the downy fabric.

       “Anytime,” Dean murmured to your back, too low for you to catch.

^*^*^

    “Hey, anything?” Sam asked, walking in with two bags of burgers and a six pack. 

    “Nothing, so far. Michelle make it to Y/N’s place okay?” Dean asked, knowing Sam wouldn’t just drop her off. He made room at the table, but didn’t take his eyes from the screen long.

    “Yeah, seemed to, I clocked her until I reached the turn off,” Sam rushed out before taking a big bite from his burger.

    “Oh man, that smells amazing,” Dean whined, digging into the bag for his own. The men ate in silence, possibilities weighing on both their minds.

    “You think she’ll be good to go once Michelle gets back?” Sam asked, testing the waters.

    “Don’t have much of a choice, our cover’s blown and she’s got blood on her hands. I don’t trust these cops to follow innocent until proven guilty; she doesn’t have the pockets Katelyn does. Did.” Dean breathed deeply, trying to focus back on the momentary indulgence of his food.

“So, we take her with us? Set her up at the bunker?” Sam considered aloud.

    Dean coughed, nearly spitting out his food. Sam let his brother work through his dramatics with a pointed mouth.

    “She’s not cut out for this, Sam. She shouldn’t have to live under the radar,” Dean muttered, the guilt and regret lacing every word. 

    “No one should have to live like this, but we do it. And she can too.” Sam cocked his head.

    Dean shook his head, his tired eyes begging his brother to stop pushing. “We’ll, uh, we’ll get a hold of Jody, see if she has room.”

    “Who’s Jody?” Her voice broke into their conversation, the steam wafted from the bathroom bringing with it the scent of generic soap which mixed awkwardly with the grease of their dinner.

    She stunned Dean into silence, between her bare legs and his shirt hugging her, and the hole he was digging himself into, he was frozen. Sam simply sighed before he dove into explanations.

^*^*^

    Cedar and chamomile merged with lemon oil and teak, the dark wood floors of the house they were being shown seemed to expand in all directions. Dean had no idea how long this process would take, but as a car guy, he knew to check the guts of the house first and move outward. New furnace, updated electrical, refurbished crown molding, original floors and only five years on the roof, it seemed too good to be true.

    But then he thought about mortgage payments and realized that was the dose of reality he was expecting to find in the plumbing or an air duct.

    She had the realtor wrapped around her finger, which he appreciated because his bullshitting skills had staled a bit over the months out of the game. He wandered as they discussed the window sills or the light fixtures or the backsplash for the thirteenth time since arriving. Private showings were easiest, less pressure than an open house and more wiggle room. Dean liked the freedom to roam and to peak in the hidden corners for rot or signs of spirits.

    Buying a house was a big step, Bobby had warned him, like Dean needed it. But the look she gave him as he eyed the first hot water heater had sold him on the idea. They weren’t just looking for a house in a buyer’s market, they were building a life together.

    With a real home to start out in.

    Was this the one? Would he ever be certain? He knew he wanted to keep her happy and safe, but could any house be the end all? 

    He’d never thought one woman would be, maybe he’d just keep going through the motions and see what stuck.

^*^*^

    The enormity of what had happened seeped into every thought; each moment held a new revelation or decision. 

     You were a fugitive; your life would no longer be simple, boring or safe. 

      Somehow, you were now dependent on an ex you didn’t know and his brother. Who were monster hunters that lived off of fake credit cards. You were waiting to wake up, because this nightmare just wouldn’t end.

      Michelle had been gone for two hours and even Sam had become rattled by her delay.

      “She should have at least called by now,” you had been insisting on looking for Michelle for nearly an hour. If not one of the brothers, you’d threatened to go yourself.

       “No, something doesn’t feel right. It could be a trap.” Dean was firm, but the exhaustion was fraying his patience all the same.

        “It’s still ringing through to voicemail,” Sam sighed, as you watched him take the phone from his ear once again. He gave you a grim, tight lipped smile and you flopped down on the bed by Dean’s feet.

         You tugged the bottom of the flannel down so you didn’t flash your underwear, neither of their pants could fit over your hips so you waited for your once grimy pair of leggings to drip dry.

        This was all your fault and if something happened to Michelle on top of it, you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself. Just as another info-mercial started playing on the outdated television set, a hurried knocking ricocheted through the room.

         Dean and Sam were up and armed in the blink of an eye, Dean stood himself between you and the door as Sam slinked to the entryway, ducked to the peep hole before he tossed the door wide open. Michelle burst in, terrified, face drawn and hands freezing as she pulled you into a tight squeeze.

          “What happened?!” Dean broke the confused silence.

           “The cops are looking for you, or at least they are camped outside your apartment. I got stopped on my way in. Told them I was expecting you soon. They warned me to be careful, to let them know if I see you, because they had some follow up questions. Questions, my ass. After twenty minutes, I snuck out by the alley. I walked, that’s why it took me so long. Sorry.” Michelle explained.

           “No, that’s good.” Sam gave Michelle his best reassuring face before grimacing over her head to Dean.

           “Were you followed? And why didn’t you call?” Dean nearly barked and you and Michelle both recoiled at his tone.

            “I left my phone in my truck. I wasn’t expecting to have to dodge the cops,” Michelle snapped back as she pulled the canvas bag off her shoulder and shoved it at you. “This is a week’s worth of clothes, go get some pants on.”

           You didn’t miss the challenging glare she shot Dean and Sam. Sam had the common sense to look sheepish. You got redressed in a rush, keeping the flannel as an outer layer over a faded concert tshirt and your favorite pair of jeans. By the time you got your hair to cooperate; you were almost feeling like yourself again. You needed to be ready for whatever came next.

           Michelle was okay, but this was far from over.

           When you exited the bathroom, three pairs of eyes zoned in on you, the tension in the air was palpable.

          “What?” You shifted and dropped the bag by the table, Sam had already repacked his laptop.

           “Ready to go?” Dean asked you while looking at Sam.

           “Go? Go where?” Your gaze locked on to the space between the brothers.

           “Don’t know yet, but Michelle is gonna file a missing persons for you. When she does that, we should be at least a state away,” Sam patted your cousin’s back, but quickly removed his hand. She was not happy they were taking you away. You couldn’t blame her, but at the same time, you had no choice. Prison was the last place you wanted to figure your life out.

          “You okay with this?” You asked Michelle, ignoring Dean’s impatience as he grabbed your bag in one hand and the rest of the burgers in the other.

          “Are you certain that you are safe with them?” Michelle pressed.

          “Yes, I don’t know how to explain it, but they aren’t going to hurt me. They get nothing by helping me with this, Chelle. They’re just doing it because they can.” You shrugged, looking at Sam as he eased his stuff off the table beside you and followed Dean to the car.

          “You call me as soon as you stop. Then again at the next place,” Michelle warned.

          “I’ll call, but I can’t leave messages. They’ll be tracking your calls.” You explained apologetically.

          “Right, God, I don’t know how you know to think of all this stuff,” Michelle nodded in agreement.

          “Same way you knew to haul ass across town on foot, too many crime shows and sheer gut instinct.” You teased before opening your arms for one last hug.

          She smelled like the city at nighttime, crisp and gritty at the same time. 

          “Be safe,” Michelle warned as you headed out the door.

          “You too.” You stopped. “Thanks, for everything.”

          “Don’t worry about it, go, before they leave you behind.” Michelle insisted and in that moment you knew without a doubt, that would be a fate worse than prison after all.

           You crawled into the backseat of the massive black car and settled yourself in the dead center of the backseat. Dean cocked his eyebrows at you in the rearview and you exhaled.

          “So, where we headin’?” You asked whoever would answer.

          “South Dakota,” Dean answered.

          “Kansas,” Sam corrected.

          “Okay, I’ll let you figure it out, but I gotta pass out. Sam, remind me to call and hang up on Michelle when we stop,” you bunched up Dean’s flannel and curled up on the cold leather seat.

          “Can do,” Sam tossed back at you. They grumbled between themselves, but you didn’t bother trying to listen in. You had made your bed, the least you could do was actually get some rest before you had to lie in it.

^*^*^*^

Series tags: @tiggytaylor​ @vicmc624​ @kalesrebellion​

General SPN tags: @flamencodiva​ @dolphincliffs​ @dontshootmespence​ @thoughtslikeaminefield​  @fangirlxwritesx67 @dawnie1988​ @cosicas-cuquis​ @foxyjwls007​ @tumbler-tidbits​ @defenderrosetyler​ @ericaprice2008​ @princessofthefandomrealm​ @wingedcatninja​  @mrswhozeewhatsis​

^*^*^

Read On: Chapter Seven

[smolbeandrabbles]

Houston, We Got A Problem - Modern!Payne x Reader (Slow West)

@mandy23b​ @wltz-bby​ @happyskywhale​ #MendoTagSquad

Author’s Note: Right. Basically. I was inspired to do this due to pic I saw. And then I had to find a song and a plot that could make this modern and it all kinda worked out-! About 3 or so months after I originally went “this thing will get written-!”  (And then I started in in April and didn’t finish it until August!)

Anyway - I think if I have a checklist of things I can weave in here I got nearly all of them..! 😉😉😉

Disclaimer: AU, obviously / I think he’s as close to in-character as I could have got him but also understand he’s a little OOC (but had to for the context, I guess!) / Slow West & all associated characters not mine / my usual disclaimers-!

Premise: Offered a once in a lifetime opportunity in Houston, Texas - Payne is torn up about leaving you in Colorado. You know it’s a dream he’s been chasing, but you aren’t about to let him leave without reminding him what he has to return to...

Words: 4722

Warnings: AU / Swearing / Drinking / Sexual Connotations / Slight OOC-ness, maybe? He’s a little softer I think than he aught to be but I’ll let you all decide this for yourself-!

________

This is my kinda town, this is my kinda place I wouldn't mind hangin' 'round For more than just a couple days I got a twelfth floor room with a killer view of the empty Astrodome A tab at the bar downstairs, but all I can think about is home

You should've seen 19th Street, you should've seen the midnight rodeo The way them saloon doors swing, when they line dance to "Copperhead Road" Something ‘bout the air down here, that'll make you feel the way all them cowboys do I wish I was an outlaw, But all I can think about is you I got new boots covered in red dirt A "Don't Mess With Texas" T-shirt And a Lonestar postcard postmarked with missin' you It's got the biggest sky you've ever seen, the coldest beer you'd ever drink But I still feel like I landed on the moon 'Cause it ain't got you Houston, we got a problem

---

Undisclosed Location, Colorado

 You could see the truck before you could hear it; stirring up clouds of dust from the dirt roads leading down to the ranch. You were standing out on the front porch, not eager to get caught up in the hot mid-afternoon Colorado sunshine. You were watching Payne, Silas and Marimacho down in the corral with the horses; but that dust made your eyes raise to the horizon. You weren’t due any visitors, and everyone meant to be working here was already in situ. You knew that ad hoc visits sometimes happened; but usually they would call ahead. Cell reception wasn’t great out here, but the landlines worked just fine.

For now the guys were taking a well-earned cigarette break, keeping their sharp eyes on the horse they were training. When the truck was more visible; sun glancing off the paintwork and the hum of the engine filled the quiet air, Payne hopped up to straddle the fence for a closer look. There were no logos to indicate what it might be for, and he was sure that you would have told him if anyone was expected, or had called. He took a drag of his cigarette and squinted at it suspiciously as it continued to wind its way towards the house - you were already outside and could deal with it for now, but he had to admit he was curious. Silas and María joined him on the fencing; equally suspicious. “What’s up there?” Payne raised an eyebrow “Hope it’s good whatever it is...” He watched you point him out.  “Guess they’re looking for you, Payne.” “Ah shit, well, I’ll report back..! You two got this one, right?” Maria scoffed “Course we do-!” “If we don’t you’re not doing your job well.” Payne shoved Silas at that, who laughed, and jumpped down, putting out his cigarette he wandered over to you.

You stepped out to the front of the porch to greet them. Both men whose clothes and build said they were probably also in this profession. So they weren’t lost. Trainers or buyers? That was the question. “Good afternoon, m’am-!” They both sidled up to the porch, tipping their hats - ah-! The old-fashioned kind. “Afternoon gentleman. What can we help you with?” “We’re looking for a man by the name of Payne? Heard he’s the best in the business and that this is his ranch.” That irked you just a little, this was your ranch and your parents before you. And it had collectively become “yours” over time. True he had the reputation, and he’d built it into what it was... but it was not Payne’s. He used to work for your father; Payne had a gift for breaking and training horses, and had put this place on the map beyond your father’s wildest dreams. You weren’t about to argue that point now, instead you gave a small smile and pointed back to where they’d just driven from. “The man you’re looking for is out there working, gentleman...” Although he was watching you, the other two now at his side, and as soon as you indicated to him, Payne cleared the fence and began wandering over. “Oh-! Thank you m’am!” They both turned, not giving you the opportunity to ask what this was about. But you knew Payne; he wouldn’t have them speak without you in the know.

  By the time he reached the truck, the men had already started towards him; “Gentlemen-!” “Ah! You must be Payne!” “Correct,” He nodded to you, “I see you’ve already met my partner in crime, Ms.Y/N.” You mouthed him a ‘thank you’ - at least he always made sure you were recognised. Payne gave you a wink, before turning back to them; “What can we help you with?” “We hear you are the man to come to - for Horse Whispering, or for breaking horses.” Payne folded him arms across his chest and tipped his head, “That’s kind of you to say, suppose the proof can only be in the success - you need horses breaking, or otherwise?” “Yes. We have the horses, but we wanted someone with your expertise for this particular job.” Payne nodded; “Whereabouts are you from?” “Houston, Texas.” Both of you suddenly froze in place. That was Midnight Rodeo territory. There was a lot that could be done in Texas to do with horses. Payne wasn’t beyond being a full-on cowboy at times, if the need called for it. He swallowed hard, “Well, then maybe we should take this inside... that’s... quite a way to come for just me.” They looked to each other, then back to him with massive grins, “Well, Payne, you ain’t just anyone - you’re the best of the best. And hopefully we can have a good discussion. We haven’t looked at anyone else; you’re the man we wanna hire.” Your eyebrows shot up at that - this wasn’t an opportunity your man would want to miss, you knew that.  Payne turned back to his friends to whistle that he’d be a while, and then ushered the men inside - this was likely to be a long discussion; but an exciting prospect at that.

 ***

 By the time they left the sun was low in the sky, and Silas and Marimacho had already packed up ready for the morning – leaving the horses out to graze. You were both sitting on the front porch watching them and discussing the offer, his head in your lap. “It’s a good job, it’s a big job. But you’re gonna be here alone.” You smiled, he was right – it would be unprecedented for Payne to get something good going on in Texas, especially with such draws at the Midnight Rodeo, and to bolster his reputation and his name; yes, you’ve heard of him – now here’s the proof that what they say is true. You certainly weren’t about to let him pass that up, even if it would mean being here alone for a few weeks. You knew he wouldn’t want to go alone; he’d need the whole team – after all Payne always said it was a team effort. You ran your hand through his tangle of curls; “Baby, don’t worry about me, you should do this thing. It’s gonna be real good for you.” He sighed, folding his arms; “I dunno, Y/N… I just…” “You can leave me alone, I’ll be fine.” His eyes met yours and doubt was written all over his face. Payne had a point it wasn’t usual for you to be apart, and you’d suggest going with him but you’d be needed to hold the fort here – and he’d only trust you to do that. “Well, yeah, I’ll miss you. Of course I will, but…” You bent your body over his, “you need this, and you want it. And I won’t let you say no because of me.” and kissed him gently. “But there’s so many other factors-!” Payne looked back to the horses again – “I mean, you by yourself out here? What if you need help-!? I mean, do I leave someone with you here or-!?” “Shhhh…” You rubbed his shoulder affectionately, “Stop thinking so much and make a gut decision.” He scoffed, “If I even knew what that was.” You shook your head and kissed his cheek gently, shifting him off your lap; “Well – maybe it’d be better for you to have an inner dialogue…” He sat back on his hands as you stood, brushing yourself down, “I’m gonna make dinner-!” Payne replaced his hat and raised an eyebrow, reaching out to take your hand “What would you do, if they wanted you?” “I mean I doubt they ever would, I’m hardly the same calibre,” His fingertips danced over your skin, causing you to smile more, “but I would go. If it’s what I wanted.” “And you wouldn’t feel guilty?” You sighed, “I hope you don’t think I would guilt you about it anyway.” You bent to kiss him again, “No. I wouldn’t.” You swept back to the front door, “And don’t you dare try to guilt trip yourself out of it!” He laughed, “I still gotta decide if I wanna go-!” But you knew, deep down, his decision was already made. Dinner was eaten in relative silence, mostly because you felt every time you opened your mouth he might think a little too much on staying for you – you hated to think that a man who wasn’t really one to be tied to any one place, would skip out on Texas for you. Payne had never been homebody and he’d left you here before – you supposed it was the longevity of it. And perhaps how far away he would be. He helped you clear the table before leaving you with a kiss on the cheek and heading outside again. You sighed gently, watching him go. You were worried; how could you not be? But his fretting over this was for nothing; after all it wouldn’t be forever, Payne would still return to you. And if he needed you to make that decision for him, then you certainly would. You gave him another hour or so alone whilst you set out everything that needed to be done the following day, and chalked up everyone’s schedule. After which you got the house in order for the evening, and, thinking that he’d now had enough time to think, joined Payne back on the porch. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes; he was lying back again, one arm behind his head, smoking a cigar. The glass and bottle next to him filled with a suspicious looking green liquid that you knew he shouldn’t be trusted with. ‘If it’s bad enough for Absinthe, I guess it really IS bad.’ You strolled over, shaking your head slowly; “Boy. Don’t make me decide for you!” He was silent for a moment, blowing smoke into the late evening air; “Wish you could.” You leant against the porch frame, one hand on your hip; “I’ll help you get ready…” Your eyes flicked to him; “I’ve been alone before. I mean I love ya, but I think I can survive.” He shot you a look, “I just don’t think sitting out here with absinthe is really gonna help you think with any clarity!” You grinned, “I have a solution, though.” He sat up again, taking another drag, “Oh yeah?” You gave him a smirk, “Yeah… But you’re gonna have to promise me you’re going to go.” “I could just as easily go back on it.” His head tipped, daring you to do something about that proposal. “Well,” You sauntered around him, dragging your fingertips across his shoulders, “if you don’t want me…” He let out a soft groan, “You know I’ll do it.” “You shouldn’t do it because I think you should either…” You paused, picking up the glass and finishing it for him. Regretting it about 5 seconds later and shuddering; you’d nearly always hated the taste – especially neat. “You should do it because it’s all you’ve ever talked about. Because you dream about it. All I’m trying to encourage you to do is chase your dreams.” Payne tipped his head back, blue eyes searching yours; “You’re still gonna be here right?” “You think I’d leave you? I think you’re much more likely to find someone new in Texas.” He growled, “Are you fucking kidding me-!?” “Just checking!” Though the grin on your face was teasing. He stubbed out the cigar and rolled over onto his front, eyes narrowed; “Is that what you think of me?” You took a step back, with a smirk; “Why don’t you prove to me you won’t?” Payne jumped to his feet and pretty soon had you backed against the front door, hands in your hair and lips on yours; “How dare you suggest such a thing-!?” You simply smiled; “I just wanted to check there was someone to wait for, and tell me all about what happened when he lived his dream…” He shook his head, bringing your lips to his again, before moving his hands to the hem of your shirt; “Well – Let me just prove to you, that there’s something worth waiting for.” ***

Houston, Texas

Payne hated to admit how much this was hurting him. He was living it here in Houston, this was the ‘I made it!’ dream.

He’d been here almost a month now, and the entire crew has flown down with him. He was supposed to be having the time of his life, and he was having the time of his life. These were some of the most gorgeous horses he’d ever been given the opportunity to work with and break. And watching them go from fairly wild to seeing them get calmer, and some of them eventually in the rodeos themselves or out working, was breath-taking, and everyone was impressed. Especially the gentlemen who had hired him. He was getting a lot of exposure; his whole crew were. This felt a lot more like play than work, and Payne didn’t think he’d ever seen them all so happy.

But all he could think about was home; all he could think about was you. Even when he was run off his feet, you were still in the back of his head. He called you every day, and if you didn’t pick up then he’d leave a message - but no matter if he got through to you or not, Payne always ended with “I miss you.” Because he did - and he and you had travelled before, it wasn’t like you weren’t used to this but it felt bigger, it felt longer... it was longer. And there wasn’t a real end in sight. But Payne knew he wanted to go home; even realising his dream wouldn’t stop that feeling - he was a Colorado boy, and the ranch and you would always be home.

Payne knew what was coming, from the way everyone was so delighted at his team’s progress, he knew that they would offer him a job. It was always in the air but never said; it was going to be asked as soon as he was on the brink of leaving, Payne knew. It would be him, and he would say no ‘not without the crew’ then it would be all of them asked, and he would still say ‘no, not without her’, and then they would say it would be fine to move everyone’s families too. But you’d refuse; it was a ranch handed down through generations - back to when the West was first being settled. When outlaws and bounty hunters ruled the land. You weren’t leaving - you’d probably rather leave him than you would that house. And Payne had spent way too long crushing on you, then wooing you, and now being with you to let that happen.

This might be his dream but he was comfortable with you. And all Payne had ever wanted was to be comfortable.

 Tonight was another night at the midnight rodeo, but for the first time since he’d arrived here Payne was skipping out. His phone had vibrated a couple of times when he knew it was due to start but they’d left him alone since then. Instead he was sitting at the desk in his hotel room, looking out over the city. There was a glass of whiskey sitting next to him (absinthe wouldn’t have tasted the same away from home either and it wasn’t exactly a wide spread sold alcohol), yet Payne was a little too absorbed in what he was doing to pay real attention to that either. Calling you was all well and good, but Payne didn’t have a fantastically verbal love language. He didn’t think of things to say in the moment that could express his feelings to you adequately; but he could write it. He could ponder what words sounded right, he could change them all around and make sure that it all flowed. Everything that he somehow couldn’t say out loud, Payne was at least glad that you could read it. It might only have been a postcard, not a real love letter, but it would have to do for now. He could still say everything that he wanted to; and Payne would still end those letters in the same way as he did his calls:

‘I miss you.’

 **

You knew what it was as soon as you opened the mailbox, and dropped everything else inside before sitting up on the paddock fence, yours and his horse grazing in the field behind you, you sat and read. You inhaled - knowing that he would have sprayed it with his cologne, in the same way when on occasion you wrote to him you would cover your notes in perfume - and for a second it felt like he was here, with his arms around you.

At first you were smiling; he was such a sweetheart in the way that he wrote. You knew Payne wasn’t good with words, romantic words, but this was always where he told you he loved you. Letters happened even when he was home, you’d find them all over the house and they would always make you beam; you kept them in a little box and sometimes you’d sit and read them back. It always amazed you how what he wrote may have been different the longer you were together but, what he said stayed the same. He still loved you the same, and you loved him just as much. So soon enough, as you continued to read his postcard, you weren’t just smiling, your heart began to ache and tears threatened to spill. You sniffed and rubbed your eyes, not allowing any to fall, as you did so his horse nudged against your arm and you patted his muzzle with a half-laugh-half-upset exhale; “I know... I know... I miss him too.”

 Payne knew the question was coming. You were going to ask it eventually. You knew he had to work but sometimes too long was too long. And you knew what this meant to him, and that you’d persuaded him to chase it across the country, but you missed him. There was no end date: it wasn’t like he’d be back at the end of the month; the truth was he didn’t know when it would be over. “When are you coming home?” He didn’t want to tell you he didn’t know, but he didn’t. Payne could hear it in your voice though, that you couldn’t take much more uncertainty. And neither could he; it wasn’t about wanting to go home anymore, but needing to. “Baby, I... you know what they’re going to say, they’re gonna wanna keep me on.” “Well they can’t have you.” Your answer was curt. He chuckled “Feisty. I wasn’t gonna leave, I know where my place is.” Your voice was amused though, “Damn right-!” “As you know good work is never done when horses go in and out all the time. I guess the specific group I’ve been working with are nearly fully trained. So, I’ll be home soon. I promise you that, I’m comin’ home-!” “Don’t make me hold you to that-!” He grinned “Ha-! Oh, I won’t-!”  

**

It was a harder conversation than he’d expected. But Payne wasn’t one for giving up, nor negotiating when he wanted something. He very much had a ‘my way or the highway’ attitude, and he wasn’t about to be forced into staying when his work was over. The money he was offered was good – brilliant even – he couldn’t deny that. Yet, Payne knew where home was, and it wasn’t here – even with how much he was loving his time here. He kept firm, and made sure they knew he wasn’t about to be pushed around. The one thing Payne worried about was his reputation; after all he didn’t want this relationship to turn sour. Once he’d left they could use anything to turn the rumour mill: ‘aw, the boy couldn’t hack it.’ That just wasn’t true. But Payne didn’t really trust anyone outside his friends and you; and was always that little bit suspicious. You’d always called it out as an odd trait; especially as he seemed pretty open and friendly towards most people. ‘How else am I supposed to get business and get paid, Y/N!?’ ‘AHHH! So it is for your own ends!?’ Yeah, you probably had it right, but he wasn’t admitting that. Though there was always a reason he kept a decent revolver around. What he did promise was that he could come back periodically for a few days, maybe a few weeks, and continue to work for them. But Payne wouldn’t be contracted here, and he explained as such – he’d built up his, and the ranches, name in Colorado and there he would stay. He had a lot waiting back home – and this would never be home. Even if he could miraculously get you to agree to move. Not that he gave them much of a choice, but they saw the logic in his decision and accepted his offer. He’d really have to talk it out with you first; but Payne was sure you’d not mind too much. Weren’t you always calling him a drifter anyway? The ranch was just a home base. That suggestive way you’d look at him, voice sultry to match your blink and say; “If the sex wasn’t so good you probably wouldn’t even stay, huh, babe?” Payne shook away that thought with a deep exhale, you weren’t the only thing he was missing right now. By the time he got back to his crew from the final meeting and tidy up, they were all already packed away. Everyone had the same notion, they were ready to go, ready to get back to families of their own. Still, Payne knew how much they had loved it here; and far be it from him to hold any of them back. “Before we do all get on a flight tomorrow morning back home, I do wanna say to you how proud I am of how hard you’ve worked. We’ve always been like a little gang of outlaws, and hell if we haven’t shown these Texas rangers a thing or two!” There were plenty of laughs and cheers at that, and Payne grinned, “But, I’m going to give you the choice, and no hard feelings. You can stay if you wanna stay, if you think this is better for you…” He turned to take in his surroundings, “I’m not gonna stop ya.” There was silence amongst them for a minute, and as Payne’s eyes settled back on them he had a horrible feeling they were all about to walk away. Skelly was the first one to scoff; “Payne, ya gotta be kiddin’ man! We ain’t leavin’!” Silas joined in immediately; “Hell yeah, you’re a good man and a good boss and we’re sticking with you the whole way! Fuck these guys, it’s all or nothing with us-! Hell, you’re the one that damn near had us make a pact.” Payne chuckled at that; “Yeah, we were kids back then Silas.” “Well, it still means a lot to us!” Marimacho folded her arms with a smile; “You stick by us and our families. If we ever need anything you and Y/N are there, and if there’s ever something troubling us you’re lenient and understanding. Side note too, but your gal is awesome… We’d miss her too much! No-one gets left behind Payne, you’ve always been about that.” “Here, here!” Kid and Gull followed suit on the other three. He blinked a couple of times, humbled – glad that they wouldn’t turn their backs on something good. Still, he smirked, Payne could count on their loyalty – they were a motley crew for sure, but all great friends. He was glad they’d still take some stupid lines said as teenagers so seriously. He nodded, looking at each of them in turn; “You’re right. No-one gets left behind.” His smirk turned back to a small smile; “So, lets get back to the ones who are waiting for us.” *** He had called you the evening before to say he was leaving. You thought it seemed very sudden, but you supposed Payne would rather make sure, and head home than promise you something and find out he couldn’t keep it. He’d also let you know they were getting on the plane, and now you knew he was on his way back you couldn’t have been more excited. So, as soon as you heard his truck, you couldn’t help grinning. It was an all too familiar sound; and not just to you. Seemingly every horse in the stables knew too; his and yours racing to the top end of the paddock, and the dogs were also in chorus. You chuckled to yourself; “Daddy’s home.” Washing and wiping your hands quickly on a towel from where you’d been working, you ran to the door as you heard his truck pull up. By the time you’d opened it and run onto the porch, he’d already leapt from the vehicle and was walking over. Payne stood at the bottom step, presenting himself, grinning at he looked up at you; “Honey, I’m home!” You shook your head at him but, too overcome with joy to care about him being cheesy, you leapt off the porch and into his arms. “God, I missed you so much… I missed you so, so much!!” You cried blissfully as he held you tight to his chest. Payne understood that notion all too well; he’d spend the entire flight thinking about how he couldn’t wait to hold and kiss you again. And now here he was, and you were in his embrace; “I know…” He kissed your hair, before you shifted to capture his lips, arms tangling around his neck. It was a hard kiss, and long, very nearly taking both your breaths away. You smiled, stealing another, “You’ll have to tell me everything.” “Didn’t I already?” He smirked, not letting you leave his lips – oh, you knew exactly how the rest of this day was gonna go. “Uhm, I think I said when you came back, you had to tell me all about how you lived your dreams!” “Ahhh… You won’t even give me 2 seconds to say hello to my lady?” “I think you made your intentions for your lady perfectly clear…” You grazed your lips to his once again, “I may say she has done the same.” You tipped your head, with a raised eyebrow, “Mayhaps she has, but who are you gonna listen to first – the kids are whining.” You didn’t need to point that out, he could already hear that the animals were glad he was back. He pulled you in closer, voice lowering, “The kids can hush, mom and dad are talking…” smirking whilst kissing you again, “How well can they have been looked after, if they’re cryin’ for me?” “Of excitement, actually. They just missed you as much me!” “Uh huh, how about my coat, you look after that?” You laughed, “No-one is wearing a coat like that in this weather.” He made a face, “Okay, ‘cept you. Crazy man.” “Ha!” This time it was Payne laughing hard, and his hands ran down your body. You smirked running your hands from behind his neck across his broad shoulders to study his shirt, before chuckling. Emblazoned on the front were six photographs of form fitting jeans, with the caption ‘A Cowboys Best Assets’. The shirt itself hugged close to his chest and left your partner easy on the eye; not that he wasn’t already, of course. “Well, damn. That shirt’s not wrong… I like it.” Besides he was wearing a pair of those jeans himself right now. “Oh really? Thought you might.” “Mhm…” You tangled your fingers in it, and pulled him into yet another kiss. “But I’d like it and your best assets on the floor of our bedroom right now.” You removed his hat from his head and placed it on your own, with a wink. He didn’t need telling twice, hoisting you from the floor as you wound your legs around his waist; “Oh, yes m’am.” Payne took the porch steps quickly, and didn’t stop until he had you tangled in bedsheets.

---

is this from a Tumblr post? I feel like it is... Might need to find it out there and credit back

Thank you for reading my lovelies! 😘😘😘  You know I love this enough to continue it, right? 😉

[mostfacinorous]

Whumptober 10th

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9]

Whumptober 10th: Unconscious

They hadn’t parted ways on the best of terms, and while Aziraphale knew that was partially his own fault for reacting as he had-- how else did Crowley suppose he would react?

So little could properly kill him, and yet he wanted a lethal dose of the first, most dangerous thing that came to mind, to keep on his person-- or near his person-- just in case?

In case of what exactly? 

Boredom? A spell of ennui?

And he completely failed to consider what it would be like to be Aziraphale, if he did use it,  knowing he had been the instrument of that final death. 

No, he knew he’d been in the right to deny the demon. But, as the days stretched on with no word from him… he regretted leaving like that. They should have talked it out. Crowley was clearly concerned about something, something was bothering him enough for him to ask in the first place… And Aziraphale had failed him by not learning what it was, by not working to allay those fears. 

Poor Crowley-- whatever it was, he must be beside himself now, driven to distraction with fear and, worst of all from Aziraphale’s point of view-- Crowley must think himself utterly alone in this matter, after how Aziraphale had disavowed their friendship. 

The guilt settled in his chest and gained weight with every breath, until he was actually selling books, he was so distraught. 

He decided an apology was well overdue at this point, and closed up shop early-- a habit he had anyway, and one which vexed attempted buyers to no end, so he considered it no real hardship. But he simply could not wait another minute more to make things right. 

He made his way toward the general direction of Crowley’s flat. He’d never been, of course, but he knew roughly where it was-- Mayfair wasn’t so large a place, after all, and once he got close enough, he would just follow the pull of infernal power. He’d all but been made to do so, even if She likely hadn’t imagined he’d do it to apologize and offer consolation, rather than for the purpose of smiting. 

Still, it led him to a normal, if somewhat upscale looking building, and he managed to talk his way past the doorman and into the foyer. 

From there, he took the elevator and ran his fingers over the buttons, feeling for which floor Crowley would be on. 

The fourth floor button bore the unmistakable traces of Crowley’s touch, and so the fourth floor it was. 

The hallway, when he emerged into it, was long and warm, well lit, the carpets plush-- and none of it was something that he would expect to appeal to Crowley. 

But as he passed a door, he had to stop, then double back. This, surely, must be his.

Aziraphale knocked, and could feel the solid wood of the door all but vibrating with demonic energy. Silence stretched on, devoid of an answer, and Aziraphale worried for a moment that he could not possibly make it through such a doorway without suffering for it.

But, when he tried the knob, it turned with only the slightest miraculous nudge, and he stepped through into darkness.

He let it close behind him, initially believing that Crowley wasn’t even there. Everything was too still, too quiet, and as he stepped further in, it all felt too empty. 

Had Crowley-- left? Moved away without so much as a goodbye? 

Aziraphale’s heart sank and it became even harder to breathe once he laid eyes on the plants, which, without their master’s care, had already begun to wither and droop. 

“There now--” Aziraphale said softly, casting about until he found the pulls for the curtains, unblocking the windows and allowing the poor dears some light. “I don’t know much of your needs but-- light and water, yes? We’ll get you cared for, only just hold on…” He located the watering can nearby, a beautiful, elegant little thing, small enough that it would need to be filled several times to water all of these, and wasn’t that so like Crowley-- inconvenienced for the style of it, and putting in all that extra work out of care. 

For all that Aziraphale knew he’d object to the latter, if it was ever spoken around him. And so he wouldn’t. Assuming, of course, that he was ever given the chance again. 

Six trips back and forth to the miraculously still running sink, Aziraphale thought he’d gotten all of them, and had calmed down a little bit. 

Crowley clearly took great care and pride in these plants; surely he’d come back for them, if not for anything else. 

(If not for Aziraphale himself. Which… he’d always come back before, but… he’d never asked for anything before. Aziraphale had never denied him like that before.)

Still, the plants seen to, Aziraphale wandered deeper into the flat, just in case there were any more of them, or anything else he could take care of, and maybe some stationary to leave a note apologizing for coming, explaining all that he’d done, and… not apologizing for refusing him the holy water, but… something suitable, wishing him well, perhaps. 

Instead, Aziraphale came across a bedroom. Crowley’s bedroom. 

It took him a moment to notice that Crowley was in it, and when he did, he gasped.

Crowley, however, didn’t so much as stir. 

“Heavens.” Aziraphale whispered, and then, louder, “Crowley?” 

Crowely made no sound, no move, no sign of having heard him. He was so bundled in blankets that Aziraphale couldn’t actually see if he was breathing, not that he needed it, but he knew it was a habit they’d both been making for years, and thus a fairly good sign that he was actually in his body. 

It was all the justification he needed to sneak forward, then to reach out. 

He held his fingers in front of Crowley’s lips, not touching, though he had an incredible urge to do so. But there it was, the soft huff of an exhale through his nose, the air warm against his hand. 

So. Crowley was there, but unconscious. Sleeping, maybe-- or in some sort of suspended state. 

It was, he realized, impossible to know whether this had been Crowley’s choice or Hell’s doing. Though, the state of the bedclothes and the fact that Crowley’s sunglasses were neatly folded on the table beside him rather suggested the former. 

“Oh, you selfish thing!” Aziraphale whispered sharply, not entirely sure why he was being quiet now that he knew he wouldn’t wake him. 

“I thought you’d been taken by Hell, or hurt, or had left because you hate me, but here you are just-- just-- taking a nap out of sheer petulance!” 

He supposed Crowley might still hate him, but the relief and anger were an unfortunate combination that Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what to do with. 

So instead, he let the anger burn out, and found himself turning sad. 

“You’ve left me alone, you know.” He spoke softly now, no longer quite a whisper. “You left your precious plants to die. But I’ll come back. I’ll water them and look in on you. And maybe when you wake up you won’t be quite so angry. Maybe we can…” 

Options sprang to mind, lunches and dinners and concerts and plays… but those, he daren’t put to word, for some reason. 

“I’ll miss talking to you-- or, I suppose I can still do that, can’t I?” 

Aziraphale found his eyes tracing across the edges of Crowley’s face, half hoping he’d stir, or answer. 

“I’ll miss hearing your voice.” He finally decided on, quieter still. 

He miracled up a chair and sat there for, oh, who knew how long. Eventually though, with a sigh, he stood. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow, once I’ve had a chance to learn a little more about your plants. I hope you’re having good dreams, Crowley.” 

He turned to walk away and then, remembering himself, snapped his fingers and made sure it was so. 

It was all he could do, really.

[blancheludis]

Tagging: @tokky231

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Characters: Tony Stark/Steve Rogers, James Rhodes, Pepper Potts, Bruce Barton, Steve Rogers Chapters: 5/?, Words: 31.049

Summary: Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate’s arm before they threw him back out into the streets.

---

Steve does not know what to do. Normally, the way forward would be clear. Someone gave them information that Tony Stark himself is the reason Stark weaponry ends up in the wrong hands. Now, they have information indicating otherwise. They need to confirm which version is right, then deal with the problem accordingly. Like they do.

Feelings do not really filter in there anywhere, and Steve does not think of himself as an emotional person. They can rarely afford that.

Hearing his words had been – wonderful is not the right word. The situation they were in does not allow for it. The absolute feeling spreading through him, on the other hand, is nothing like Steve has ever experienced. It is as if he is just now feeling complete for the first time in his life.

Well, complete but already lacking an important part of him. He understands why. If he were Tony, he would have left too.

He is staring at the USB drive they took off Tony. It is supposed to contain weapon blueprints and engineering specs mostly, and they should have already delivered it to the buyer. Steve cannot help but think that it might also contain some of the information they need to decide whether his soulmate is one of the bad guys.

He does not want to know. At the same time, he needs to.

“Nat,” he calls as he grabs the drive and walks out of his room.

They mostly operate out of Washington, but they do have a base of operation in New York. This one is spacier, but considering that they are rarely here, it is unfamiliar, unused almost. That does not help with Steve feeling lost.

Natasha and Clint sit together at the kitchen table, one dark look away from turning this into a conspiratorial meeting. Those two always hold their own council, and it would not surprise him if they took off some day, never to be heard of again. Depending on how good a job he is doing until then, they might not even leave a knife in his back as a parting gift.

Steve is as sure as he can be that Natasha is on his side in this matter. She has grown up with violence and uses it readily as a tool whenever it is needed, but her violence always serves a purpose more than personal satisfaction. She did not stop Clint from beating up Tony, but Steve likes to think that she does not approve of it either.

Clint is more impulsive, making his decisions on a whim but then sticking to it. He has not shut up for a single minute since they snatched Tony off the street. It has all been angry rants and colourful insults. Steve trusts him, but Clint does not deal well with being wrong, holding onto his own concept of the truth until the bitter end. Steve will have to deal with that sooner or later. For now, Natasha will keep him in check.

“I need you to look into this,” Steve says and puts the USB drive on the table next to her. He keeps his finger on it, unwilling to let go of this last piece of Tony just yet.

It is ridiculous and he hates that his objectivity is clouded like this. At the same time, he craves the way his heartbeat picks up whenever he thinks of Tony. If he cannot trust his soulmate, can he trust anyone?

“I know you’re old-fashioned,” Clint drawls, leaning forward as if he is anticipating another fight, “but I’m sure even you can stick this into a computer and click on the folder that pops up.”

Thanks to years of practice, Steve ignores him easily but keeps looking at Natasha. Giving Clint the satisfaction of falling into another argument will not get them anywhere.

“It’ll be protected,” she says and makes no move to take it.

Next to her, Clint straightens further. “Stark must have a lot to hide.”

The phone they took off Tony was already useless by the time Steve dared to take a closer look to it. Bruce had taken it with him when he left them at the warehouse but gave it back later, once he felt he could stand to see Steve again without falling right back into a rage. All the data appeared to be deleted. When Steve called the number anyway, riding on a last sliver of hope, Tony had picked up, clearly having dealt with the matter already. There have to be advantages to building a phone for himself.  

The short exchange had meant a lot. Hearing Tony’s voice, no matter how angry, had made warmth spread through Steve’s chest that seems to linger still. It does not exactly chase away the memory of the sheer betrayal on Tony’s face outside of the warehouse when he said Steve’s words, but it gives Steve hope that this is something they can overcome. They are fated to be, after all.

People make mistakes. This was a big one, but he stopped Clint and Bucky from doing further damage. He stopped going down this road when Tony told him he is not responsible for those weapon deals. He is ready to make amends. The first step of that has to be ensuring Tony’s safety.

“Will you do it?” Steve questions quietly. If she refuses, he will have to ask Pietro, who is not bad but usually too impatient to do a good job.

“Of course,” Natasha huffs and pulls the drive right out from under Steve’s finger, pocketing it with the kind of business-like carelessness that has Steve itching to take it back from her.

“We’ll have to prove somehow that you’ve lost your mind,” Clint mutters but looks Steve straight in the eye.

Steve could argue, he wants to. He realizes that a lot of what he is feeling is due to the soul bond, though. This was not love on first sight. There is no rationality involved. He could be wrong about Tony, so he is not going to endanger the trust of his men by fighting for something he is not absolutely sure about. Natasha will find out what is on the USB drive and go after any leads she finds. She is good at what she does.

“Thank you,” Steve intones firmly, adding a glare at Clint, who does not back down in the least.

Considering that matter dealt with, Steve strides out, intent to find his best friend. Bucky has been quieter than usual. This whole business with Stark Industries had not sat right with him from the very beginning. Now that brief taste of vengeance has turned bitter on his tongue too. If it turns out that Tony is really not responsible, Steve can imagine that Bucky’s guilt will be even greater than his own. Bucky is not the type for outright vengeance, and likes being turned into another’s tool even less.

Someone obviously has it out for Tony. No matter the expected protest, Steve might just make it their next job to find out who that is and deal with them accordingly.

He finds Bucky in his room, sitting on the bed and looking at something only he can see. His hands are in his lap and he cradles the bruised knuckles of his right hand with his prosthesis. Misery is written across his face, a more visceral kind than the one Steve carries inside him.

“Are you all right?” Bucky asks when Steve hovers in the doorway, unsure whether he is welcome to enter. Life was easier when they were children. They could afford to be careless back then, did not have to navigate topics neither of them really wants to talk about.  

The sudden intensity of Bucky’s eyes on him, has Steve feeling worse. “I think I should be the one asking you that,” he counters, registering the dark rings under Bucky’s eyes. Neither of them has slept well for the past days, probably not even Clint, even though he would never admit that.

“I’m not the one who found his soulmate in the middle of a job,” Bucky replies without missing a beat as if he has waited for an opportunity to bring up this topic. “Hell, I didn’t find out my soulmate was the job.”

True enough, Steve has blocked all of his friends’ attempts to talk about this with him. Once he had regained his senses after Bruce’s act of insubordination, letting Tony go before they were done dealing with the matter, Steve had cut them all out, barking orders to not follow after Tony but to work on finding their employer instead, and disappeared out into the night to go running until his lungs burned hard enough to make him think his childhood asthma was back.

Morning was dawning by the time he returned and, Bruce’s warning notwithstanding, he went back to their base to lock himself in his room. Staying inside the shower forever, in the hopes of washing his conflicting feelings away, sounded never more appealing. Bruce had knocked at his door at some point, probably to make sure he was not doing anything stupid, and Bucky had brought him some food later, but Steve sent them all away.

Even now, he has not managed to regain any kind of inner peace again. It has never been a problem before, separating work and personal matters. They make a habit of going against the people who deserve it, who do wrong without fearing repercussions. Steve never had to feel bad about taking any of those men down.

As Steve sits down on the bed, a small sigh escapes him, weary in a way he usually does not like to show. “I’m dealing with it.”

“You aren’t,” Bucky says dryly, seeing right through Steve’s lie. Expression crumbling, he asks, “What if Stark told the truth? What if he –”

“Don’t you dare blame yourself for what happened,” Steve cuts Bucky off. Nothing is as effective in dragging him out of his misery as Bucky needing his help. A lot of things went wrong with this job, but none of that has been Bucky’s fault.

Looking up, Bucky is obviously of a different opinion. His eyes are dark and they weigh heavily on Steve. “He was on the ground,” he says tonelessly, “and I just kept kicking him.”

The reminder is definitely not needed. Every time Steve closes his eyes, he sees the ruined mess of Tony’s face after they were through with him, remembers the careful way he moved. Broken ribs, Bruce had reported later, and dozens of bruises, possible internal damage too.

“And I let you do it,” Steve answers, letting the new wave of guilt wash over him. Why could they not have run into each other on the street like other couples do? Why does life always have to make things complicated for Steve?

Bucky chuckles dryly. “You fancy yourself our leader, but you’re not responsible for what we do.” He shrugs, conveying so much helplessness that Steve wants to reach out and shield his best friend from further harm. “This is not who I want to be.”

“And you aren’t,” Steve says, putting all the conviction he can muster into these words. “I promise you, you aren’t”

For a brief moment, Steve wishes their information was right, that Tony is the one they are looking for. He hates himself immediately for the thought, but he does not want Bucky to feel miserable about something they cannot change anymore. They have been through a lot together, through everything important in their lives. Despite the way he is feeling right now, alive and full of longing and warm in places that were hollow for so long, Steve knows he would choose Bucky even over his own soulmate.

He shakes his head. These are thoughts he will leave for another day. If he gets lucky, there will not be any need to choose. He will just have to keep working to prove that.

 ---

When all the lights go out without warning, Steve knows it is Tony’s doing even before he hears Natasha’s cursing and rushes off to find her in front of a computer, glaring at the screen.

He remembers Natasha’s warning about what Tony can do with his hands, and the sharpness beneath Tony’s offended glare when Steve bound his hands again. He seemed to regard the rope as a mere inconvenience, not an actual hindrance. Considering that, they are probably lucky that Bruce let Tony go before Tony could turn his genius against them.

“Well,” Steve says as he is helplessly looking at whatever Natasha is doing on the computer. It still has power, even while the lights are out. “You knew Tony would have protected that thing.”

Without looking up, Natasha hisses, “Get out, Steve. You don’t understand anything about this.”

Steve would never pretend to. His friends would not believe him anyway. He likes to think his expertise lies elsewhere and lets other people deal with the wonders of modern technology.

“I’m sure you’ll –”

“I can’t talk to you right now,” Natasha cuts him off entirely unapologetic. “I need to make sure that Stark didn’t leave any other traps or even a backdoor into our system.”

Knowing when to back off, Steve walks off to the kitchen, which is close enough for him to be in hearing range should Natasha need him after all – no matter that he would not be of much help unless she needed someone to smash the computer. She would definitely be capable of that herself, although she usually shows more restraint.  

They have a bigger problem than Tony playing havoc with their systems, though. If he is talented enough to booby-trap one USB drive enough to manipulate the electronics in their base, how can they ever trust a piece of electronic evidence concerning him? Surely, Tony knows how to tamper with that too. Life has just gotten a lot more complicated.

Despite himself, he is also hopeful. If there is a backdoor, whatever that means, they have a connection to Tony. In his understanding, doors work both ways. Still, he decides not to mention this thought until Natasha has emerged from her invisible battle with Tony’s USB drive. He does not want to be skewered by a thrown pair of scissors or whatever else she has in her immediate vicinity.

“What happened?” Bruce comes into the room, looking the kind of irritated that means he was interrupted while he was working. “Why did the lights go out?”

“Natasha tried to open Tony’s USB drive,” Steve offers helplessly. That is hardly an explanation the way he sees it, but it is the best he can do.

Bruce, on the other hand, nods as if that makes sense and sets off again. He stops shortly before he is out of the door. “Is it just the lights?”

Shrugging, Steve tries to listen for the familiar noises of the fridge. He is not equipped to deal with things like this.

“Find out whether the coffee machine works,” Bruce orders, “And then keep us supplied.”

Steve does not dare to ask more about the matter or to protest. He knows to stay out of Bruce’s way when he looks like this, ready to throw himself into work, to tackle a problem and not come up for air until he has found a solution.

For over two hours, he migrates from the kitchen to their office and back, balancing cups with fresh coffee while he walks as quietly as possible. He listens to Bruce and Natasha talk in clipped sentences and does not understand a word of it.

“That’s it,” Bruce says, an eternity later, ripping Steve out of his thoughts, “We’re done.”

Instantly alert, Steve walks over to them and looks at the screens. To him, nothing is any different, apart from the fact that the lights are on again. “So, no damage done?” he asks.

“I can’t be completely sure,” Natasha answers, frowning at the screen, “but I can’t find anything. He’s good, but not that good.”

Next to her, Bruce stays suspiciously silent. His face is carefully neutral. There is no reason to suspect he knows more than Natasha, but he has been pouring over Tony’s published papers again since they bodged up the job, so he might just have more insight into Tony’s capabilities than anyone else. Steve does not push him, though, not with how fragile Bruce’s hold on his temper is at the moment, especially when it comes to Steve.

“Just – keep a lookout.” He knows this was the wrong thing to say even before the words are completely over his lips.

“No, Steve,” Natasha drawls, glaring at him with the kind of heat that makes him duck his head. “I was going to ignore the fact that simply putting Stark’s USB drive into our computer caused a partial blackout.”

Keeping his expression apologetic, Steve nods. “That’s fair. All right,” he adds, ready to make his escape. “I’ll leave you to it.”

When Natasha speaks up again, her voice is gentler. “I’ll look through the data I could save and tell you what I find.”

The data, of course. That is the very thing they targeted Tony for in the first place, before personal feelings took over, and Steve has almost forgotten about it over the short drama. He is curious. More than that. It is a glimpse at Tony and his work that he will likely not get otherwise. The drive could be full of weapon designs and perhaps even evidence for the dealing, but Steve pins all his hopes on there being more, something good about his soulmate.

Steve is going to have a look at the data himself at some point, but he is happy to let Natasha sort through it first. She is going to be more professional about it. To himself, Steve can admit that he also does not want to be disappointed by what they will find.

Right now, he needs to get out of here, away from his team’s lingering judgement and his own doubts. New York has always had something soothing with its mass of people constantly moving somewhere. Out here, time almost seems to stand still even while it is obvious how relentlessly it ticks forwards.

Steve walks and walks. He does not have a destination in mind and just wants to clear his head a little. In the end, though, he is not surprised by where he arrives. He could blame it on the tower being the tallest building in New York. Inside the safety of his own mind, though, he can admit that he is drawn here by the metaphorical compass lurking underneath the skin of his arm. Fate is relentless like that.

 ---

Progress is made slowly. So slowly that it feels like Tony is not getting anywhere at all. They do not yet have found any evidence or even substantial clue who is selling Tony’s weapons. Instead, they now know that one of Stark Industries’ board members has a gambling habit, and another is versed in tax evasion.

Some irregularities have been brought to light, and Pepper is doing the best she can, but the need to go to work and abandon all subtlety is growing with every day. Tony has always been impatient where it comes to his own mistakes.

He is distracting himself the best he can. Between too much sleep and mostly regular meals – courtesy of the combined efforts of Rhodey, Pepper and JARVIS – he also goes through all the data he can get his hands on without outright hacking his own company. In between that, he builds.

“Sir,” JARVIS speaks up, causing Tony to immediately abandon his work. He is constantly waiting for news. “Mr. Rogers is standing outside the tower.”

This is so far from what he expected – and hoped – to hear that the words do not even register with Tony at first. Instead of having found his lost weapons or whoever is trying to get rid of him, he just gets more problems heaped onto him.

“He is what?”

A video feed comes up on the screen nearest to him, showing the unmistakeable form of Steve Rogers lurking on the other side of the street. He is wearing normal clothes now, a bit outdated but formfitting. His face is clearly recognizable in the midday sun. His arm, Tony hates to notice, is covered, but Tony imagines it burns as much as his own.

It feels like Tony’s insides are being pulled towards his soulmate, like meeting him has left him with a hook sticking in his gut.

He is torn. On one hand, he is furious. How dare Steve come here, basically laying siege to Tony’s home? On the other hand, this gives Tony an opportunity to watch him. The video feed does not have the highest resolution but Tony’s mind fills out everything he cannot see clearly.

In the light of day, Steve appears both taller and not as intimidating. He is human, just like that. The sun makes his hair glow like a halo around his head. If he were smiling, he would look downright beautiful. As it is, he appears worried, staring up the tower as if he contemplates to either scale it or to burn it to the ground. Tony is not sure how he factors into that or whether he truly wants to find out.

“He has been standing there for approximately ten minutes,” JARVIS says when Tony does not do anything but look at the screen.

His soulmate has been this close to him for ten minutes. He tries to think back whether he has felt any differently during this time, whether the bond has announced Steve’s relative proximity.

Clearing his throat, Tony tries to regain control over his thoughts. “Why haven’t you said anything earlier?”

“He made no attempt to enter,” JARVIS answers dutifully. Something in his tone promises that this would not have ended well for Steve.

“What about his goons?” Tony asks, looking at the people moving around Steve. “Are they around too?”

Without being able to give a reason why, he does not think so. The way Steve just stands there, he looks lost, not like he is on a mission. In a way, that makes his presence worse because it means he is here for Tony. Not to finish the job, not for the missing weapons, not to get more information. He is searching for something, perhaps the same thing Tony is. Inner peace, a solution to this mess, a way to satisfy the bond without giving into it.

“No one else appears to accompany him,” JARVIS says.

The thing is, with former spies on the team, the Avengers surely know how to stay hidden from cameras, especially if JARVIS sticks to only the tower’s security surveillance instead of hacking into the city’s. No matter what his eyes tell Tony, he can never be sure that it is the truth.

“So he’s just standing there?” Tony mutters mostly to himself, hating that his entire life is not making sense anymore. “Call him.”

The order is over his lips before he is entirely sure what he is doing. Surely, talking to Steve will not make his inner turmoil any easier to deal with.

“Sir?” JARVIS asks, obviously thinking this is a bad idea. Paradoxically, that only helps Tony to make up his mind.

“You heard me right,” he says, ruthlessly pushing down his own doubts. “Let’s get this over with.”

When the dial tone rings in the air of the penthouse, Tony watches on the screen how Steve flinches, caught off guard perhaps by the ringing of his phone. For a moment, it looks like he will not get it out, unwilling to talk to anyone. The part of Tony that is not relieved at that thought is irrationally irritated at the prospect of being ignored.

Steve then gets his phone out, after all, and, after realizing that it is Tony who is calling, hurries to accept the call so much that he almost lets the phone fall.

“Tony.” Steve’s voice fills the penthouse. It is at once warm and frantic, shaping Tony’s name like it is something precious but foreign. “I was worried about you.”

“Why?” Tony snaps, bristling at Steve’s daring. “I haven’t been kidnapped since I left your tender care. Curious how that works.”

Steve looks stricken, but Tony will not fall for him that easily. Not again. Regret and an actual desire to do better in the future are not the same thing.

“You know that I could have you arrested very easily right now,” Tony adds before Steve has a chance to say anything.

It would be easy. The tower’s security guards are mere feet away from Steve. One call from Tony and they would be on the move. He tells himself it would not be smart to do so. He might be able to talk to Steve in much safer surroundings than last time, but it would turn the rest of the Avengers into a wild card. Without their leader holding them back, there is no telling what they would do, whether they would come after Tony again.

“But you won’t do that,” Steve says, right in time to shatter Tony’s conviction to go about this strategically.

Steve is not as cocky as he has been in the warehouse, but he still sounds convinced that he does not have anything to fear from Tony, that they can just ignore what happened.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” Tony barks, despite not being interested in reasons. In a way, he regrets not having set Rhodey on the Avengers. Then, at least, he would not have to deal with this.

On the screen, right beneath the camera feed, JARVIS writes, Initiate countermeasures?

An involuntary smile flickers over Tony’s face. The AI has turned out far more efficient than Tony had thought possible, and far more loyal than he could have hoped for. All these years he spent trying to build himself a friend under the guise of a lab assistant. He could not have invested that time any better way.

With some hesitation, Tony shakes his head no, knowing JARVIS will understand. He regrets that only moments later when Steve opens his mouth again.

“We’re soulmates.”

Steve’s eyes fall on the nearest security camera as if he knows it is there. That means, on the screen, he is looking directly at Tony. In response, Tony shivers, but not all of that is because he is uncomfortable.

There is no forgetting the fact that they are bonded. It has only been days, and Tony still hopes that the force of the soul bond will fade with time. For now, every step he takes seems to want to drag him closer to Steve. Every thought has an aftertaste that reminds him of that warehouse and that first time their eyes met.

Nothing romantic can be found in that, nothing desirable. Yet, logic has barely a chance to touch the matter.

“That doesn’t mean anything, as you’ve clearly already proven,” Tony argues nonetheless, with all the harshness he can muster.

He is feeling much better by now. The swelling around his eye has gone down, allowing him to see more clearly again. His head still hurts and he has taped his ribs to make it easier for him to move. His skin is still miscoloured and he still does not sleep well. He is better, though. Or on his way there.

It helps that he is at home where he has DUM-E and JARVIS making life easy for him, and Pepper who has meals delivered and shows up several times a day despite her busy schedule to make sure he takes care of himself.  

Steve’s eyes leave the camera and wander up the tower again, perhaps trying to find Tony from down there. “I didn’t –”

“Know, yes,” Tony cuts him off impatiently. “You said that. We know now, although I wish we didn’t.” He does not blame Steve for allowing him to be beat up because they are soulmates, but because he is a human being. Who they are – and especially who they are to each other – has no impact on the fact that what the Avengers did was wrong. “Now leave.”

Tony is not surprised when Steve does not show any sign of heeding Tony’s order. His shoulders are squared in a way that shows easily he is not leaving before he has said his part.

“We still need to find out who sent us after you,” Steve says. The fact that the we is rolling so naturally off his lips tears at Tony.

“One might think that you’d take better care with who you take money from,” Tony sneers.

He thinks there is not so much difference between them. They both do not have their business under control enough to know everything that is happening. Someone is putting Tony’s weapons into the wrong hands, and – perhaps the same – someone caused the Avengers’ fists to lay into the wrong person. Tony knows better than to mention that. No matter his anger and justification, Steve is still a dangerous enemy to have.

“It’s not that simple,” Steve argues, taking a deep breath as if he has a whole speech prepared.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tony cuts him off, feeling his headache getting worse again. “We’re done.”

Tony watches as Steve takes an abrupt step forward. It happens hundreds of feet beneath him, and yet he finds himself stiffening, and is irritated with himself for that reaction.

“We’re not done,” Steve says with the unshakeable conviction of someone who is not used to being defied. It is too bad for him that Tony has never reacted well to being ordered around.

“Listen, Rogers,” Tony snaps, surprising himself with the growl in his voice. He emphasizes Steve’s surname, making it clear that he is not completely blind anymore but has researched them as best as he could. “I don’t know whether you think we’ve come to some sort of understanding to let bygones be bygones upon finding out we’re soulmates, but I clearly was in no state of mind to make any major decision.” He still is not, if he is honest with himself, but he is practised in rationalizing. “Also, everything I said was under threat of further bodily harm. I wouldn’t even need a lawyer to argue that case.”

Tony is pretty sure there will never be a case. This is a matter best dealt with quietly. It would not do any good to advertise the fact that he has a soulmate like this or how they broke apart before they could ever get together.

“I know that you’re upset right now,” Steve says with some reluctance but otherwise still adamant that he knows the best way forward, “but we can still help each other.”

A laugh breaks over Tony’s lips, contorted into something ugly by the sheer incredulity he feels. Upset is not the word he would have used. If he were merely upset, they could solve this with a clear-cut discussion.

He is devastated, thrown by the way his life has been completely upended over the course of one particularly unfortunate night.  

“I’d say have a good life, but frankly I don’t care,” he scoffs, wishing Steve could feel the weight of his glare. “Don’t call me again. And stop lurking about outside my home or I will have you arrested.”

Tony has JARVIS end the call with a sharp gesture. His eyes are still fixed on the screen, unable to turn away just yet. This is how he sees the frown appearing on Steve’s face, the displeasure pulling his lips down. He keeps the phone up, talks into it as if Tony is going to answer after all. In a way, he looks frustrated more than angry, but Tony has no desire to decipher that, does not want to know what that means for them.

With some effort, Tony turns away from the screen and orders JARVIS, “Tell me the moment he or any of his little friends come back.”

“Noted, sir,” JARVIS answers. “Colonel Rhodes has also requested again that I send him all the information I have about the Avengers.”

Tony stops short, squinting suspiciously at the nearest camera. He trusts JARVIS not to go against his orders if they are not in a definite life-or-death situation. Rhodey can be persistent, though, and he might just persuade JARVIS to bend the rules a bit if not outright break them.

“You did not give him that name, yes?” he asks. Curiously enough, he is prepared to call Steve back right away and – warn him? Between Rhodey and Steve, Tony knows exactly who is on his side. He had better keep the situation from escalating to the point where he needs to make any decisions like that.

“No, I did not,” JARVIS says, sounding like he very much wants to, though.

“Good,” Tony nods, although he does not feel satisfied with this solution at all. “Keep it that way.”

He cannot solve all of his messes at once. If he is honest with himself, he is glad to push Steve down to the very end of his list. The problems he always liked the least to deal with involved emotions.

[the-canary]

Languages of Saints - C.R (4/10)

Summary: A deal isn’t supposed to involve feelings, right? (Reader/Carter Baizen). 

Prompt: “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

Masterlist

A/N: I am kinda of surprised by the amount of people enjoying the story, but thank you for the support. 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 

Feedback is always appreciated.

After reading the little message left for you, you end up napping through the rest of the weekend. It isn’t until Monday that you really get any solid food in your stomach, as you try to slowly go through all the messages and emails left for you, and while most of them were congratulations and well wishes, you just wanted to hurl your computer out the window. You hadn’t been lying to Carter Baizen when saying that the office team was one of the best, hell Nick had saved the former CEO countless times over with his maths skills, but now that you thought about it -- not all of them had the best personalities, sometimes you hated Harold and there were times you wanted to stick a pen down Marcy’s throat.

You weren’t sure if the suffering you were going to be going through now was worth them still going on and treating each other --and by extension you-- like they did. You were having buyer’s remorse over helping them, and you couldn't help the mixture of anger and guilt that bother you for the rest of the day.

It isn’t until Wednesday that you finally hear from Rocio, as she is standing in front of your apartment door with a short pixie cut and dressed in pure Dior which obviously cost more than everything in your small apartment. She has a bottle of wine with her, but you can smell that she has already started drinking long before that, but you welcome her in anyways as you end up ordering some of your favorite Salvadorian food from down the block and proceed to tell Rocio about everything that she has missed during her mysterious hiatus.

“ Fuck him ,” is all she says after you done and you can’t help but choke on your food.

“W-What?” you cough out before taking a sip of the bottle water from the coffee table.

“I don’t mean it in that way, silly,” she lets out a bubbly laugh from her place on the loveseat, as you shake your head. Rocio always had a way with words.

“I’ve known you long enough to know that you only ever mean it in that way,” you state, reminiscing of all the advice Rocio had ever given you and knowing by now that it usually ended up one way.

“Well, whatever. What I mean is: fuck over that white boy,” she says with a predatory grin as she gets up, making a speech out of it like Robespierre in front of the Jacobin Club, “Show him you ain’t going to break just because he thinks you’re his new plaything, or because you might be scared of what he can do -- that isn’t the you I know.”     

“And how am I going to do that?” you question, as she looks down on you with her bright green eyes. In her element, Rocio could remind anyone of her father as she came up with plans and dealt out sweet words to close the deal.  

“The Cinderella Effect, my dear,” she explains, as she goes back to sitting down, but not before grabbing another pupusa, “Rich people always think poor people want handout, that’s why they’re all Republicans, but you’re gonna work your ass off and show him who’s the boss.”

“And once that happens?” you asks, ignoring the faults and obvious signs that she hadn’t really worked a day in her life either.  

“Let’s take it one step at a time, sweetheart,” she finishes before taking another gulp of her drink, “But, first new wardrobe.”

“I don’t want you paying for anything,” you remark as she frowns. Even after ten plus years of friendship, it felt weird using Rocio’s money that way and she knew that, though there was always little loopholes she found, like that dress back at the party.  

“I know , we’ll go somewhere cheap like Macy’s or TJMaxx ,” she lets out those vile words with a roll of her eyes. 

“Are you sure this is gonna work?” you can’t help but doubt her, something always went wrong in the long run, she was a big picture sort of gal.

“Have I ever steered you wrong before?” she smiles and the answer automatically falls from your lips.

“Yeah, Montreal.”

“We don’t talk about Montreal,” she quips, waving her hand back and forth as if trying to dispel a bad memory, “And I was talking about more recently, you don’t always have to be stuck in the past, doll.” 

“Part of my butt is still stuck on that frozen street, Roci,” you mumble in annoyance, as she doubles over remembering what had happened all those years ago.

“I know, I know,” she says after controlling her laughing fit, as she gives your that soft grin that you can’t help but return -- if only Rocio had the hindsight to know exactly how well her plan would work.

 A couple of days, three shopping sprees, and a nearly maxed out credit card later you and Rocio were a little proud of the wardrobe you had put together and once Monday rolled in you were healthier and in a nicely fitted navy blue blazer and pants ensemble. A little new makes you feel like you can take on the day, as you banter with Nick once more in the elevator.

Everything is fine until you hit your office and see the large pile of paperwork piled on top of your desk. You open the door and almost let out a groan at the handwritten letter on top of it all.

Welcome back. Have these ready by the end of the day. -- CB.      

“He’s gonna be a real slave driver, that one,” Nick says with a shake of his head before giving you a sympathetic smile and leaving.

“That’s the least he could be,” you whisper into your empty office and roll back your shoulders before starting the work day, which you know it going to be a long one.

It’s half way through the first month of working for Carter Baizen, filled with a lack of sleep and dreaming about numbers, that he calls near the end of the work day -- that he needs you in his office. And for the first time since he took over Wyman, you’re standing there in front of his desk as he puts on his jacket. You raise an eyebrow, as he simply motions you to follow him.

“As much as I would follow blindly the next person, you need to tell me where we’re going, Mr. Baizen,” you exclaims as blue eyes look at you with amusement, “Just to let someone know if I end up in the Hudson.”

“You can only be paranoid of someone for so long,” he states with a crooked smile.

“Still paranoid of you,” is all you say on the matter, though it makes him laugh.

“It’s a charity event for the company, nothing but donors,” he explains as you nod and follow. A black car waiting near the entrance of the building takes you near the Rockefeller Center. You keep eyeing him suspiciously, as you enter a large but empty ballroom. You turn to look at him, as he smiles.

“And the event?” you question.

“In a month’s time, so you have plenty of time to figure it all out,” he declares, as you turn to look at him with surprise written all over your face. It almost makes him laugh right then and there.

“That isn’t part of my job description,” you counter weakly.

“Well, I’m the boss and for now on it is,” he laughs a little towards the end before pushing all the paper in your hands.

This was going to be a long month.

 Some nights are filled with sleepless nights while others you can sleep a little better with everything you had done for the day, between playing different events on top of your data work you barely see Rocio -- barely have time to for a social life. However, you don’t break -- you refuse to cry and quit (because you know that’s the underlying motive to his cruelty) a job that you loved so much. Every other night you signed off another pile of work on his desk or send him pictures of another well done step towards the big charity event for the now-Baizen/Wyman Co., immaculate and with a smile.   

His face never shows his true feelings, but you hope it bothers him deep down.

“ Fuck him ,” like Rocio had declared the last time you saw her.

On the night of the event, you are wearing a simple white blouse and black skirt combo. You aren’t here to enjoy the night, but rather to make sure that everything is going well -- running around with smiles and making sure that everyone is having a good time. It feels like your first job out of college, pleasing everyone was the curse of retail. The night is a rush for you that you don’t notice someone watching you the whole night.

‘Thanks to all of you we have exceeded our goals for the 3rd year in a row,” Carter Baizen declares from the stage upfront, turning up that deadly charm of his in his dark Giorgio Armani suit, as the rest of the guests clap -- patting themselves on the back. Blue eyes roaming and taking a secret glee in seeing the old men praising his “philanthropy” were the ones that once used to laugh and sneer behind his back.

However, his eyes stop near the back for a single moment, as he watches you talking to some staff with a tired smile on your face and your hair in slight disarray but everything else is on point, and if Carter didn’t know any better, simply by the aura --confident and exact-- he could automatically tell who was running this event. As much as he hates to admit, you had gone above and beyond all his expectations in the past two months.

In the moment, he doesn’t why he does it.

“However, none of this would have been possible without my wonderful employee ,” he points to you as the spotlight finds you immediately, “In the back!”

Everyone turns to look, unsure of what to do but clap, as he grins though unsure if it is out of arrogance or something else. You blink for a moment, confused as to what is going for a moment before giving a bright, red lipstick matted smile to the crowd and taking a small bow. Your eyes meet his and you keep smiling, tired but proud, and something gets stuck in the middle of his throat.

And in that moment, Carter Baizen was fucked all right.  

Part 5

[greencapitation-blog]

It had all started on a recent mission for Gumbaldia.

Green Knight had been dutifully escorting and protecting uncle Gumbald on their path to a man who had advertised himself as the kind to sell large quantities of metals, the kind that could hopefully be used to build something of the giant likes of a battle automaton.

“We will do unto her, as she has never done unto us! Because she never had the ambition!” Gumbald lectured, clenching a fist raised to his chest at the thought of triumph.

…Green Knight had had not made peace with the thoughts of killing PB.  For once in a long time, he actually had some doubts about killing someone. However,  he chose to suppress those doubts under the knowledge that he now had other people in his life, people that cared about him, unlike PB, or Jake, or anyone else in Ooo.  So if uncle G hated her and wanted her dead, he wasn’t going to be voicing any objections. 

In fact, he wasn’t going to voice anything at all. Instead, he let Gumbald continue his megalomaniacal rant as they approached a large heap of metals in the middle of the grasslands.

 In front of the pile was a small kiosk, with a sign made of (obviously) metal, with he words “Montheloos’ metal empire” rusted into it.

Gumbald had ceased with his ranting, and Green Knight felt a tug on the side of his left arm. He looked down at Gumbald, helmet expressionless.

“Now, for the second part of our genius plan.” Gumbald beckoned Green Knight to lean over so he could whisper those sweet somethings into his non-existent ear.

“You let me do all the talking. When I give the word, you kill him. We cannot have anyone know of my future plans until they are set into motion.” Uncle G explained.

Green Knight nodded once with almost too much enthusiasm.

And just as the plan had been brought into light, a clang of metal could be heard; the source of the sound was none other than a disgruntled looking wizard appearing. He was clad in clothes that were obviously composed of cheap metal scraps, complete with a scrappy wizard hat and a rusty bowtie made out of the top of some cans. Plus a terrible moustache and goatie to complete the look.

….Green Knight didn’t know what he was expecting. Wizards always had stupid senses of fashion. But this guy was even worse than usual. Montheloos looked like he had a serious case of businessman.

While he remained still as a disconcerting statue, Green Knight was silently judging this wizard so hard. 

“Hey hey hey! I heard you were the rising monarch that wanted in on the montheloos’ metal deals!” The wizard cheerfully jabbered, climbing over the stall to be face to face with his buyers.

“Yes,” Gumbald’s voice had clear distain in it. “I have come to obtain your highest grade of metals. It’s for my….Important family business.”

Family business was an understatement, and the scrappy wizard most likely knew that.“Sounds fine to me! So, what’re you really interested in?  Remember-You’re not getting any discounts! Ask for one of those, and I’d probably have to kill you and usurp your kingdom!” The wizard joked, jabbing a finger at Gumbald. 

Gumbald took a step back, and Green Knight stepped forward in his defense.

“Heyyy, who’s this guy? I thought I told you, no body guards, no families, no hot ladies! You’re breaching some serious customer security levels right now.” The wizard growled, conjuring up a spinning razor blade with a great deal of effort.  Green Knight raised his sword arm in response, ready to chop those hands right off the wizard if he had to.

The wizard looked up at the sword, and gasped, offended.  “If you don’t wanna make any deals, you can just get your gummy butt out of here!”

“No no no, this is all a..Misunderstanding! This, this man isn’t my body guard! We just so happen to be...Friends, that’s all.” Gumbald raised both hands, trying to act like a force of calm despite his malicious intentions. He looked up at Green knight-and scolded him. “Fern, put your weapon down.” At Gumbald’s command, Green Knight lowered his arm, looking pretty disheartened. He specifically remembered uncle G saying they were going to kill this guy and steal his loot. What happened to that?

“Well ah, okay. If it’s just some big misunderstanding.” Straightening his terrible bowtie, the wizard tightly closed his eyes for a moment, and made the blades evaporate. 

“But I still got my eyes on you, Mr-silent-rowdy-green-man.” This was the second time in his existence that Green Knight had been called a “mister” of something. He silently wondered if that had anything to do with how tall he was now.

“Oh, don’t you worry about him.” Now Gumbald was blatantly lying through his teeth.

“Nah, nah, I’m not, I got special magic against the likes of him if he tries anything funny,” The wizard paused, looking to his side. “Oh, hey, you interested in buying any pumpkins? They’re not like, metal stuff, but a wizards gotta have other thing to do their magics on. I’ve been working on this farm for awhile, trying to get it off the ground..” With his back turned, the wizard walked away from his stall and bent down over one of the pumpkins strewn across the ground, lightly stroking it. Green Knight continued to stare at the man, an unseen expression of distaste upon his face. The wizard was getting just a little too handsy with some vegetables, in his opinion.

Gumbald however, seemed to have no problem with it. He had been waiting for the perfect moment to set his knight after the wizard.

“Now! Sneak attack!”

Finally!

At Gumbald’s cue, Green Knight rushed over to the wizard, bringing down his sword on to the wizards head-Oh no wait that was a pumpkin.

The wizard had jumped over the pumpkin, and held it up as fodder as he tore off his own metal bowtie, chucking it at the Green Knight.

“Hah! High velocity bowtie!”

Green Knight took a step back, regaining his balance after slicing through the pumpkin with ease and hitting thin air. The wizard’s attack had grazed off one of the spikes on his shoulder, causing Green Knight to wince, looking at where the bowtie had sliced him.  In that time, the wizard had taken off his hat, and tapped it with his hand before flinging it at Green Knight. This time, the knight had dodged the attack, and the hat sailed past him, flying off into the distance.

“Nice going.” Green Knight mocked him, closing in on the wizard.  Before the other had the opportunity to attack, the knight’s sword had cross sectioned them. The wizard’s remains had turned into two halves of a safe, probably through last second transfiguration to save himself. Green Knight was satisfied to know that he managed to beat a wizard to the punch.

“Excellent job. Now go grab some metal before we get out of here.”

Green Knight smiled behind his mask, now doubly satisfied with the approval of uncle Gumbald.

If Green Knight had been any faster, he would have dodged the wizard’s hat, which had returned like some sort of tacky boomerang, slicing clean through Green Knight’s neck in its course back to its now-dead-owner.

Reflexively, Green Knight raised both of his hands to where his head had been a moment ago, feeling the air. He knew he could just put the head back on, and he would be fine. But the sudden and unsolicited decapitation had him shocked for a moment.

Being in front of uncle Gumbald, Green knight tried to recover quickly, and stepped forward to get his head back. As obviously uncle G had no plans on doing so for him, the man was off to the side, attempting at tugging a large sheet of metal from the pile.

Green knight reached for his head, when a spark flew off the hat, the head, which was just an extension of him, gasped. The spark had landed, and it had ignited Green Knight’s head. He recoiled in both pain and fear. He could still see everything from the perspective of his head, and felt as the flames ravaged through it. If his face wasn’t currently being on fire, he would have screamed in pain.

Green Knight bent down with heavy effort, and forced himself to try and pat out the fire, but when he touched the flames, his hand had began to burn too. Quickly, he pulled his hand away from the fire, waving the flames off.

The last thing he needed was all of him to burn. But the whole situation seemed hopeless now. There was no way his head would be recovering, he felt it slowly becoming ashes.

That’s when uncle Gumbald had finally looked towards Green Knight. Perhaps he had smelled the burning grass. Or the cry of pain from his supposed champion. Whatever the reason, uncle Gumbald had abandoned the pile of metal for the time being. He strode over to the fire, and stamped it out with his boot. Another action the Green Knight had physically felt, though it was hardly as bad as the sensation of his face being burnt.

“What were you thinking?” uncle Gumbald raised both hands in the air, heavily disappointed in Green Knight for failing to stop the late wizard’s final attack. “You wasted precious time on what, being in pain? Where is your head, boy?”

But Green Knight could not see uncle Gumbald’s expression, and could only vaguely hear what was being said. Green Knight felt like an apology was due. Not that he could say anything. Instead he pointed at the ash and grass beneath uncle Gumbald’s boot.

“We have plans to carry out, I don’t have time to grow you a new head, you know. That could take weeks! And I need you now.”

Clenching his fist in shame, Green Knight could not help but feel an incredibly amount of guilt in the face of the situation. Uncle Gumbald was right, he had all the opportunities to move, but he didn’t! He thought he was better than this now! But no matter what, he was always finding a way to mess everything up! The failure to have stopped himself from losing overshadowed his utter victory against the wizard. It was all he could focus on now. If he still had a head, which he did not, Green Knight would have been staring at the ground, avoiding eye contact.

Meanwhile, uncle Gumbald had walked off from the Green Knight.  He had taken notice of the many pumpkins around the field. It had given him an idea.

Uncle Gumbald picked up a particularly round pumpkin, holding it close to his own face.

“Hmm.” If the Green Knight was plant matter, and so were these, it would only take a small amount of genetic manipulation to use one as a sort of portable chamber that could hasten the process of healing. It would take no effort on his behalf, and while he wanted to, now was not the right time to ditch the Green Knight. He was still a useful asset in the upcoming war.

With a malicious grin on his face and a pumpkin in hand, Gumbald returned to his weakened warrior. 

“Pick up your remains. I have an idea.”

[worldsandcenturiesfunposting]

There's a rather popular post (at about 48 thousand notes at the moment) going around Tumblr that in all irony is about how artists shouldn't be upset that their original work isn't getting popular on tumblr, especially in comparison to fan art, and that artists should appreciate every like/reblog/follower rather than going after just reblogs.

The post itself is incredibly poorly made and seems to exist for no other reason than to guilt trip artists for being upset that their hard work leads to nothing. After all, as the great philosopher Luigi once said: “Have you ever experienced a time where no matter how hard you tried, you failed, and the time you spent trying felt wasted?”

But this isn't going to be a point by point refutation of that post. Instead I would much rather just give my thoughts on this whole issue in of itself. Being an artist on Tumblr and not being one of the really popular (or even sort of popular) guys is difficult to say the least because it seems like everything is stacked against you. Only 4 or 5 of the tags you put in will actually be used in the search results, there's  a new algorithm in which people's dashboards will be sorted by popularity rather than chronological posts, and in order to get popular you need to rely on people going out of their way to host your art on their own blogs.

There's a lot Tumblr doesn't make at all clear about that only confuses things more. As shit as that post I mentioned was, it did teach me one big thing. Likes aren't entirely the “thoughts and prayers” button for this horrid natural disaster of a website but actually do influence how soon and often your posts show up in search results. Now a really popular artist would of course get tons more likes and their art would be featured far more as a result, but at least the feature is more than a shittier version of Deviantart's favorites feature.

Suffice to say if you're someone who's looking to get an audience, it's difficult. I think this is a point a lot of people don't understand. They think that people who are upset at all of this are upset that they're not popular, and that's the end of it. No nuance to it. They want to be popular for the sake of being popular.

Why do people post this stuff online? Why post a picture online? Why not keep it on your desktop until the sun burns out? Maybe because being online gives it more longevity and reduces the risk of it being lost if your computer breaks? Sure, but why not post it in your drafts where no one but you is able to see it?

Why do people post stuff online? Because they want other people to see it. So trying to demonize people for being upset over not having their art seen by many people or spread around is silly because one of the biggest points about posting it online is specifically so people can see it. Just like when you make a blog post, you do so because you want people to read it or when you post a video to Youtube, it's because you want people to watch it.

In order for people to see that art, it will need to get exposed to them and the best way to do that is through reblogs which is why so many artists, myself included, get incredibly salty over the subject. When someone reblogs something, ideally that picture would be presented to everyone who follows the reblogger. One person reblogs a picture and 5 or 20 or even 300 people would see the same picture and some of them might like it or reblog it themselves. That very fact that it only takes one person to cause that snowball effect makes the whole situation all the more infuriating.

Now can people's art can also be exposed through the search tags? Sure. After all, if you're starting off on the website and have no prior set ups or accounts to lead people from, that is where you're going to start. But not only are the amount of tags that can be used limited, but depending on what you tag it as, it can be swamped pretty hard. The shitty post said that fan art gets popular and that it's dumb to complain that original art isn't as popular as fan art. However, even completely pandering to the most popular things isn't an assured success. If you post something in a tag for a popular and active fanbase, that runs the risk of your picture barely being seen because of how active those tags would be.

If I post a picture in the Steven Universe tag and I'm only able to get maybe 2 likes on the art, it's not going to be seen on the popular setting which is what most people are going to look at because I don't have enough active followers reblogging or even liking the picture enough for those likes to make a difference with the search results. On the newest setting, it might be completely swamped by dozens of other new pictures (of varying quality) and especially easy to skim over by the much smaller crowd of people who visit that setting.

Is it any wonder why so many artists are desperate for reblogs?

What the artists want varies. Some want to be the biggest most popular artists around and sit among the gods. Me on the other hand, I'm more interested in a smaller but more active/dedicated following and you can't really get that unless you have a ton of people following you since statistically, a large portion of followers in general aren't going to be very active but the more followers you have, the more likely it is that some of them will be.

For example, for the longest time (and what I ultimately gave up on because it simply would not work) I was trying to set something up where people could ask me questions for the webcomic. They'd ask something about some alien species and I'd answer it through a comic. It's something I thought would be good fun and that I'd really enjoy. The amount of people who need to ask questions isn't the hundreds or even dozens. If I got like 3 or 4 questions a month, that would be pretty good for me. How would I ensure I'd get people to partake in that? Only if my art is exposed to people who (whether they knew it or not) would be interested in such a thing. How would that happen? One way is that it gets spread around just enough that it eventually crosses paths with those kinds of people.

There could be a whole niche that's exactly the sort of people an artist's work would appeal to and they might never see that art because it simply never crosses their path.

Another big thing is that everyone has a different standard of success. I know I'm not a big artist on Tumblr. My standard of success is getting 10 notes on a picture. Most of the time I can barely break 5. Take note that on my art account, I have 355 followers. Some might be following tons of people and thus will always miss my art. Some followed me for different reasons than the sort of picture I most recently posted. Some might have logged off of Tumblr, forgotten their password, and their blog is effectively dead. But out of 355, you'd think that I'd manage to get 10 rinky dink notes but no.

When someone popular does reblog my art, it can often break 50 notes which is above and beyond. This tells me that it's not even necessarily the quality of the art but simply a gamble as to if someone would be willing to take that leap and press the reblog button or not. Tumblr, contrary to what some people might think concerning artist popularity, is NOT a meritocracy. It is more luck than Vegas itself.

So contrary to what some might assume, not only is everyone salty about this not demanding the world, but even getting a small success requires art to be spread around as much as possible.

Now obviously no one owes you success or popularity. Some people are only around to browse. Some people's blogs wouldn't be fitting of the sorts of art that I post. And of course there's the fact that they just might not like the particular picture in general. I think if the success to failure ratio was much more even or better, it would be much easer to accept that some pictures are just duds and move on to the next.

But at the end of the day when you put something out there that you worked hard on and think is good and it gets nowhere, it kind of sucks. When the same thing happens over and over again, it is honestly demotivating. The fact you're putting this out online, for among other reasons people to see, it sort of says that what you post isn't good or worth seeing. Of course that's not what goes on in the mind of the people who only like the art or look at it and scroll by, but it is something that gets internalized.

Or maybe it is just me. I'm writing this because I know a lot of people get really salty about this stuff and I want to try and explain it as clear, calmly, and rationally as I can, but a lot of this stuff is also strictly my personal feelings and opinions too.

I think it's also sort of magnified by the fact that popular art becomes popular (or is just spread around a lot) mainly because people go out of their way to reblog it. There's that additional extra personal step to it that isn't quite present on Deviantart or Youtube where it's more based on algorithms. If you can't get popular on Youtube, well that's because Youtube's coding is a shit. You can't get popular on Tumblr, well that's because no one wants to spread your work.

Now for other people and not myself, they try to make a living off of their art. In that case, being dismissive is even worse. Saying “Just appreciate every like/follower you get and be happy with what you post” doesn't work because that doesn't buy food or pay bills. This may be a small population of artists on Tumblr but one of the examples used in that horrid shitpost was someone who's tags in their post was complaining about just that and the person who made the shitpost not only didn't address that, but likely didn't think a thing about it.

If people's art isn't getting spread around where it could meet the eyes of potential buyers, quite simply, they aren't going to be able to sell their art. It's not because their art is bad, it's just that it hasn't been exposed to enough people to really take off. Not everyone selling art has art worth selling but what that person posts gets only a few likes and is seen by relatively no one, that's not exactly a call you can make at the moment.

If there were ways to tell how many people have viewed a post outside of notes numbers, it would be a completely different situation. If 300 people looks at a picture and that picture only gets 2 likes, that would change the situation completely to which the artist could actually confidently say that what they're putting out genuinely doesn't interest people. Unfortunately no such feature exists. Even the stats/activity page is based entirely off of notes.

As I said before, this is a subject that gets a lot of artists salty. You might come across a post by an artist ranting and raving about how little likes help and how you should reblog their work. They may seem like an asshole but really, they're just extremely frustrated with how much things seem to be stacked against them on this website. It's no fun working on things and feeling as if the effort was wasted. They're certainly not self entitled.

If you do follow an art blog, I'd recommend reblogging something they do every so often to help them grow and move forward as an artist. Or if you find someone's art on Tumblr that you really like, reblog that too. The great thing about reblogs on Tumblr is that if you reblog something and then someone reblogs it from you and you delete that reblog, it remains on that other person's blog and exposed to their followers. You never know who will see the picture as a result of your reblogging.

Anyways I think I rambled on enough about this. It's a very touchy subject and difficult to get into words but I think I explained the situation well enough.

Tl'dr: Tumblr just isn't a good website for artists which is ironic because it advertises itself as a platform for creative people and is a place where a lot of artists post their work. Because of its poor design, it's very difficult for new artists or even just small art blogs in general to gain any traction and just leads to frustration.

[bookworm555]

Another CatCF/WWatCF sketchdump~

The top drawing is the characters from the 1971 adaptation ten years later (which was an excuse to draw 80′s fashion, haha), while underneath it are cartoony/chibi-esque portraits of the 2005 characters.

Ten years later doodles (from left to right) Top row: Violet and Veruca Second row: Mike, Charlie, and Augustus

Bonus ten years later Violet (if she wasn’t blue)–A request from @ironbiohazard03​:

Some headcanons for the ten years later drawings under the cut:

I always headcanoned the characters in the ‘71 version to be thirteen, minus Mike, who I saw as eleven. So basically everyone in the drawing is twenty-three except for Mike, who is twenty-one.

Violet: For years after the nightmare that was the factory tour, Violet struggled with major body image issues, especially about her blue skin. (And is homeschooled because of this.) However, eventually, her mindset basically became ‘Wonka thought this was a punishment? Fuck that; I’m going to embrace it’, so she became more confident. 

Once this confidence hits during her late teens, she uses her unusual appearance to her advantage (especially when it comes to attracting visitors/potential buyers to her dad’s car dealership). 

She doesn’t go to college; instead, she works at her dad’s place, and basically learns how to be a mechanic. 

She hasn’t chewed gum since the factory tour.

When Charlie contacts her and the others, she is hesitant to respond back, but ultimately does (to sass him, at the very least). During the group’s future meetups, she’s basically the glue that keeps them together.

Veruca: Unlike Violet, Veruca carries a lot of guilt about what happened during the factory tour, since her father was punished along with her. He fell wrong, and as a result, was paralyzed from the waist down, and is now in a wheelchair. Veruca was lucky; aside from a broken ankle, she did not suffer any worse injuries.

Because of this, Veruca becomes mute (her mouthing off and constantly asking for things is what led to her–pun not intended–downfall, so she decides that it would be for the best if she stops talking altogether.)

Despite being wealthy, Wonka paid all of the Salts’ medical bills. Even though it would have made sense for them to take him to trial, they decided not to (Henry did not want anyone to see him in his new state, and Veruca’s anxiety spiked even thinking about the factory).

When Charlie contacts the four ‘rejects’ ten years after the tour, Violet starts to bring Veruca out of her shell. Though it is ultimately Augustus who helps her feel comfortable speaking again, due to his soft-spoken personality.)

Mike: Like the others, Mike was very traumatized by what happened to him during the tour. (Especially since he was younger than the rest of them.) 

While Violet embraced her altered state, and Veruca withdrew from the world, Mike became bitter. Very bitter. Because, while sure, Wonka and co. were able to get him back to about normal size [after stretching him waaaay too tall and thin the first time; his mother fainted, then had plenty of choice words for everyone involved when she came to], the process was incredibly painful, and involved basically rubber-fying his bones and muscles temporarily (yeah, he still had no idea why Wonka would even create a candy that did that).

Because of that, he has scars all over his body–the most on his arms, legs, and torso–so he always wears long-sleeved shirts or jackets, and long pants.

He is pissed that his life was ruined at age eleven; sure, he was obnoxious, but he was a KID. Now he’s stuck with chronic pain, not to mention the occasional breakdown because he has no idea if he’s actually HIM, or just a copy that was beamed through Wonka’s television room that managed to keep his soul. (Yeah, he doesn’t like to dwell on that; he prefers to think that that would be impossible.)

When Charlie contacts him, he almost sends a nasty letter back, but something in him pauses, and he ends up sending a civilized response. It wasn’t Charlie’s fault all this happened to him; Charlie was the nice one, and, though he would never admit it to anyone, on the tour, he thought Charlie was cool. Goody-two-shoes, but in the ‘Lovable TV Protagonist’ sort of way.

As the five of them start meeting/corresponding through letters, he lets Charlie past all the walls he put up, and is definitely the closest to him in the group.

Charlie: Happily becomes Wonka’s protege after the tour. He is ecstatic that he not only gets to live and learn to work in this magical place, but he and his family are finally out of poverty!

He goes to school during the day, then learns the tricks of the candy trade in the afternoons and evenings.

However, about ten years after winning the tour, Wonka just…vanishes. And that’s when Charlie finds the videos showcasing what happened to the other four Golden Ticket winners after their mishaps.

Charlie is appalled; looking back, they were all so young. Of course, they were bratty; that’s how kids ARE. (Sure, some of them were worse than others, but they didn’t deserve their fates! Essentially, the four ‘losers’, plus Mr. Salt, were toyed with and tortured, and their parents could not help them.) Mike’s was especially horrible, to him; it was the only tape he couldn’t finish.

This makes Charlie feel a little guilty; he got off easy, even though he also disobeyed the rules. 

He is also torn; on the one hand, Wonka was a great mentor, and he was fond of the man–he made a good father-figure, for him. But on the other hand, this was a man who thought the way to get rid of a kid’s bad habits was to torture them.

Before he could think otherwise, Charlie writes letters to the other Golden Ticket winners. He doesn’t expect anything nice back, but is surprised to find that they are all willing to talk to him.

He is relieved; he wants to right the wrongs done to them.

Augustus: The poor guy falls into a deep depression after the tour. Sure, he was thinner, but he had no problem with how he looked before. Not to mention, even the smell of chocolate and other sugary sweets makes him very nauseous. Oh, and there’s the not-so-small fear of drowning that he picked up, as well as severe claustrophobia. 

He felt like a part of him was lost, since he could no longer enjoy his favorite foods. Or food in general. He ate to not starve, but that was it.

He was already quiet, but after the tour, he withdrew into himself even more, preferring to spend time with the neighborhood cats rather than people. (Yes, he is definitely a cat person.)

But he still has his kind heart, so when Charlie Bucket sends him a letter, he responds right away (and is the first one to do so).

When they start writing more letters to each other, and eventually meeting, he helps the others through their trauma, while ignoring his own. He thinks he’ll always be stuck this way. 

Veruca disagrees.

WOW, that got so long, but those were just my ideas for how these characters would interact and act ten years later. Hopefully someone enjoys this, XD

[veliseraptor]

I know you want to write Bucky's pov now in the Loki diesAU. I know. So do it! Please?

well I mean I’m not saying I don’t want to write it (oh my god you guys look what you’ve done)

previous installments of this verse: original, tony pov, tony & thor, clint pov

Well,he was alive. Which was about all he could say for this shitshow of a week.

The Wakandan doctors had given himsomething that numbed the nerves all the way down his left side, which at leastmeant he didn’t feel the throbbing pain where Tony fucking Starkhad blown his arm off. The reason he was grounded, sending Steve off on his ownto get everyone out of the hole Ross’d thrown them into.

Where Loki was, and Bucky couldn’tpretend that wasn’t most of what concerned him. Sam would be fine. He didn’thave much connection with the rest of them - Loki might like the Maximoff girlbut she freaked him out some. Loki, though…Ross would want him dead. He wastoo unpredictable, too powerful, and too dangerous to leave alive.

Maybe Stark was right and Rosswouldn’t kill Loki out of fear of Thor. Maybe.

Didn’t seem like Stark had beenright about much lately.

But there was a lot he could do,not with one arm gone and drugged half numb, not when as soon as he popped hisown head up he was going to get it chopped off. So the best thing he could dowas sit here and wait and pray.

Like praying had ever gotten him,or anyone, very far.

It sure didn’t this time.

**

Sam came and found him in theinfirmary looking like he was going to start steaming. Bucky straightened,tensing. He looked in one piece, at least. Tired, a little beat up, but notlike he’d been pistol-whipped, or water-boarded, or any of the other awful butnon-fatal things that happened in an extrajudicial prison.

“What happened?” He asked. “Where’sSteve?”

“Steve is…” Sam trailed off, andBucky’s stomach plunged. He started trying to shove himself up.

“Steve’s what?”

“Don’t jump out of bed and fall onyour face,” Sam said, more pissed off than worried. “He’s fine. Physically,anyway.” Sam looked over his shoulder, jaw flexing, and then turned back likehe was making up his mind on something. “Loki’s dead.”

It took him a long second toprocess the words.

“Ross had him killed,” Sam said,when he didn’t say anything.

Bucky swallowed twice before hesaid, “are you sure?”

“Am I - yes, I’m sure. Iwatched the video. They tied him down and gassed him and took his body away.”His voice was harsh. “Who the fuck knows where.” He stopped, checked himself,and said more moderately, “what happened to your arm?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said harshly.“They took his body?” He struggled upright, trying to balance,compensating for the missing weight on his left side. “Where’s Steve,” he saidagain, less of a question this time.

“And what are you going to do?” Samasked. “Fall on your face halfway there? Don’t. Steve doesn’t need anythingelse to go wrong.”

Bucky wanted to argue but he didfeel shaky. Sick. He shouldn’t have run. Should have known Loki’d hit the endof his nine lives and wouldn’t get another chance. That Ross wouldn’t riskleaving him alive.

Tied him down and gassed him. If they’d used inert gases to do it at least there wouldn’t havebeen much pain, but they might’ve gone for something toxic instead just to besure. That was always ugly. And painful. For Loki it’d probably taken a longtime, too, since they wouldn’t have any way of calculating dose-

“I’m going to kill him,” Buckyheard himself say. It barely even sounded like his own voice.

“Who?” Sam asked. “Ross, or Stark?”

“Do I have to pick one?” He hadthat feeling now, the one he’d described to Loki: like a switch flipping. Hewas watching himself, seeing everything from a distance.

“Right now? I’d say neither,” Samsaid. His voice was still hard and angry, angrier than Bucky had heard him.“Steve’s going to need all of us to keep him from folding.”

He remembered how Loki had kissedSteve before running, hard and almost desperate. He’d known,Bucky thought. Even if he hadn’t said, he’d known.

Stupid fucking selfish bastard, he thought, suddenly furious. You saw this coming and you decided to do it anyway, decided it wasworth ditching Steve-

That wasn’t fair. He’d done it tosave Steve. To save him.

And wasn’t that just the fucking pits.

**

Steve came to see Bucky. He lookedwrecked, like he hadn’t slept in a week. He stopped in the doorway. “I guessyou already know,” he said, voice dull.

“Sam told me.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said. Buckystared at him.

“You’re sorry? What thefuck for?”

Steve rubbed his eyes. “I don’tknow.”

“Probably because there’s nothingto apologize for.”

“Your arm…”

“I’ll live.” Maybe now was a badtime to use that particular phrase. Steve twitched and Bucky sucked in abreath. “This is all so fucked.”

“I shouldn’t have left.” Steve’svoice was small, barely audible. “I shouldn’t have left him there.”

“We shouldn’t have,”Bucky said harshly. “But either way, Steve, you’re not the one who killed him.”

“Just the one who let him die,”Steve said. His voice wobbled a little.

Maybe he’s still alive, Bucky thought wildly. Maybehe faked it, or they did, or he just survived somehow and is slaughtering hisway out now, it’d serve them fucking right, but he didn’t really buy it. He shunted his thoughts away from Loki,slammed the door hard, and focused on Steve. Steve’s going to need all of us to keep him from folding.

Looking at Steve now, he had thetroubling feeling that train had already left the station.

**

They were losing him.

Steve tried to play it otherwise(of course he did; Steve had never learned how to lean on anyone else) butanyone with eyes could see that he was floundering, and neither he nor Sam noranyone else seemed able to penetrate through the wall of guilt he’d put up.

Maybe the old Bucky would’ve knownhow to get through it, but he didn’t.

Some days Bucky was pissed at Lokifor doing this to Steve. Mostly, though, he knew who he blamed. Ross and Starkwere at the top of that list.

**

Steve was gone. He left a note: don’t worry about me. It’s better for me to keepmy distance right now. Asshole.Bucky was surrounded by selfless, selfish, assholes. He wanted to go runningafter Steve, grab him and shake him, youreally think you’re protecting us, who are you protecting, or maybe grab him and hug him, you’re allowed to hurt, you’re allowed to beangry, you should be angry, it’d be better than chewing yourself tobits feeling guilty.

“No,” Sam said, when Bucky startedto say it. “Leave him alone.”

“You know something I don’t?” Buckyasked. “What makes you think he’s not going out there to get himself killed?”

Sam shook his head. “Not his style.Or at least…” He let out a humorless sound. “He’ll want to talk to Thor first.”

A few days later Sam tracked himdown with a look on his face like he’d bitten into an unripe lemon. Buckystopped beating the punching bag - it was doing nothing for him, anyway.“What?”

“Guess who just called,” he said.

Bucky’s voice turned into a growl. “Ross?”

“No,” Sam said. “Tony. Asking aboutSteve. Guess he’s having a case of buyer’s remorse.” Sam scowled at the wall.Bucky held very still, breathing carefully.

“Just bet he is,” he said.

“Yeah,” Sam said after a second,“you were probably the wrong person to bring this to, weren’t you.”

“It’s fine.” Bucky flexed his lefthand, the metal one. Fresh and shiny vibranium, nice and fancy. The first thinghe’d thought when it was back on was, for a half a second, better try it out sparring with, but he had a better memory than that.

He wanted to punch something.Someone. Punching bags couldn’t (try to) hit back.

“Yeah,” Sam said after another longpause. “Looks fine.”

Bucky made himself relax and turnedtoward Sam. “Does he know? About Loki?”

“He knows.” Sam exhaled and groundthe heels of his hands into his eyes. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

“You’re the leader here, aren’tyou?” Bucky asked. “You figure it out.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Leader of what’sleft of the Avengers, except we’re not Avengers anymore.” Sam scoffed. “Luckyme.” He tapped his foot on the floor and pressed his lips together. “You goingto leave too?”

“Planning on it, yeah.” Sam justlooked at him, and Bucky shrugged. “You guys are superheroes. I’m an assassin.”

A muscle jumped in Sam’s jaw. “Ican’t just let you go off and murder someone.”

“Like they murdered Loki?” Buckysaid. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to let me do anything.You’d have a hell of a time stopping me.”

“Barnes…”

“It’s not up to you,” Bucky saidflatly. He and Sam stared at each other. He liked Wilson. Trusted him.

That didn’t mean Bucky was going tolet him stop him.

“This what you think Steve wouldwant you to do?” Sam asked.

“Dunno. He’s not here to ask, ishe?”

“How’d that whole revenge trip gofor you last time?”

Bucky’s stomach clenched. “Prettywell, actually.”

“Bucky…”

“Don’t,” Bucky said. “Don’t lectureme. Loki’s gone. Steve’s gone. How long do you think it takes before Ross comesafter the rest of you? I’m not a goodperson. Loki knew that. If hewere here, if Ross had killed one of us…I guarantee you he wouldn’t still bealive.”

He shoved past Sam and out, walkingfast. Halfway down the hall he realized he was holding a switchblade open inhis hand. He stopped and looked at it.

The blade shimmered strangely andhe could see markings etched on the side. He brought it up to his eye to lookmore closely.

“For protection,” Loki said, greenthreads etching the metal. “For accuracy. For power.” And he grinned, lookingproud of himself. “Not that you need more of any, James. But it never hurts tobe ready.”

Click. He flipped the knife closed.

Target acquired.

**

Bucky left Wakanda with a plane andthe magic knife. The latter was his. The former wasstolen.

He ditched it in the ocean off thecoast of Labrador and snuck over the Canadian border. This was what he’d beengood at, for years, and it was easy to remember all of it. Easier thanremembering his own history, sometimes.

He knew where Ross lived, and whilehis wasn’t the only name on Bucky’s list he was definitely a good place tostart. Divorced, lived alone. Complement of Diplomatic Security agents andstate-of-the-art security.

Easy.

No collateral damage. In and outlike a knife in the gut. Won’t even know what’s hit him.

Except Bucky definitely wanted Rossto know who’d hit him.

So he wasn’t wearing a mask when hepinned him to the floor with a gun to his head and said, “this is for Loki.”

Ross opened his mouth, but Buckyshot out the back of his head before he could say a word.

He waited to feel something.Anything. Satisfaction, or guilt, or something.

He dropped the gun on the groundand walked out the front door.