#having him be an object to be crumpled up & thrown into the trash was Their intended bookend. but really it's that wags should die

[unproduciblesmackdown]

The Billions Showrunners Go To See Bway Bmc like lgw "the problem has always been me" and they look at each other approvingly and nod like now he's getting it :) and then the squip's deactivated and everyone's embracing the realities of being a person and rejecting the idea there can be, should be, and is a set of standards to meet to get everything you want and preclude yourself from being mistreated and they're like nooo what a powerful tragedy :(

[simpforboys]

in another dimension (5)

she/her pronouns

mentions of no way home spoilers!! proceed with caution!!!

summary: the new villain seems to know about y/n and peter’s secret. all peter wants to do is keep his girl safe, and find out what the hell is going on in his universe

warnings: mentions of anxiety and violence, swear words

last part , next part

“did you not hear me, bug boy? i asked where is y/n?”

“sorry, can’t disclose that information. woah! there’s no reason to get angry,” peter dodged a trash can being thrown at him.

peter and y/n kept their huge secret under raps, telling aunt may and everyone who asked they met online.

but, he didn’t know how this alien-creature thing knew about her.

peter shot a web at the creature. it screeched and began climbing up a building, trying to hit peter.

the two dodged and threw objects at each other but made no advance. finally, the creature stopped their brawl.

“ask y/n about eddie brock.”

and the creature crawled away. peter felt chills run down his spine and he wasted no time in zipping back to their shared apartment in harlem.

he came stumbling through the window, hearing the shower running. he slipped his mask off, feeling immense panic wash over him.

“y/n?” he called out.

“one sec, pete!”

a minute later she came out, towel wrapped around her body. “what’s up?”

“do you know an eddie brock?”

he watched the way her face fell.

“not that i remem- oh fuck.”

“what?”

“you know that week after peter- the other one asked doctor strange to erase their memories? i was working in a coffee shop one day and a man named eddie came in. he seemed distraught, yet he was flirting with me. i think he mentioned something about the universes? but he should have went back to his own reality.”

“maybe when you switched to mine it ruined the multiverse again. but then the other peters should be here, right?”

“your guess is probably as good as mine. i really don’t know a game strategy, considering i can’t do magic and-“

“i think he’s an alien.”

“what?”

“yeah. the- the thing i was fighting wasn’t fully human. it had slit eyes and big muscles and it was huge and black.”

y/n rubbed her eyes.

“something definitely messed up with the multiverse when i came here.”

“what do we do, pete?” she asked him. he could sense her fear and frankly, peter didn’t know how to calm both of them down. this shouldn’t be happening.

“i- i don’t know, y/n.”

-

“can you get that one wizard guy to come back?”

“no, he said there would be a clone of my body in that dimension but i can’t go back.”

peter had papers sprawled out in front of him, different coding and scientific possibilities spread out.

“i don’t think this one-“ y/n pointed to the one peter came up with while he was extremely sleep deprived.

the theory was a big sky god got mad at peter and wanted to punish him.

peter felt his lips curve into a smile. “probably not, huh?”

y/n laughed as he crumpled up the paper and threw it in the trash bin.

peter wrapped his arms around her waist, bringing her in closely to him from her standing position as he rested his head against her chest.

“i’m worried, y/n,” he admitted softly.

y/n played with his hair comfortingly.

“why, baby?”

“i’ve never fought an alien before. when the three of us were on top of the empire state building, we were joking around about how the other peters have fought aliens but i haven’t. i don’t know how to beat it- and now he’s coming after you it’s making my anxiety worse.”

y/n frowned at his words but continued to soothingly scratch his scalp. “i really wish i could help you, peter.”

“the best thing for you to do is stay away from whatever that thing is right now, okay? we need to figure out if there’s any other ways of opening the multiverse.”

-

y/n sat at the dining table, researching and coming up with theories about her knowledge of the avengers and magic from her own universe while peter sat at the living room table, his papers scattered across the coffee table.

unfortunately for y/n, no where did she learn in college about how to open a damn multiverse.

getting frustrated at lack of ideas, she rested her hand in her head. she heard peter playing with his gadgets, a tactic he does when he’s stressed.

all of a sudden, it felt as if a light switch went on in her head. “peter!”

the man jumped slightly and looked at y/n. “hm?”

“i think i’ve got an idea.”

“continue,” peter, now standing and walking over to her. he leaned against the table.

“well- when peter and strange opened the multiverse peter said something about there being five different outcomes. but- that means strange should have erased everyones memory- why is mine not? clearly something went wrong in strange’s spell, considering if he casted it right he shouldn’t have been able to remember peter parker either. but when i told him i knew about peter parker, he was astonished as to why i remembered that. he made another fault.”

“so what does that mean for us?”

“considering the fact we don’t have any magic portals to open like how you and the other peter came in to, and it’s not like the peter from my universe is going to come knocking on the door.”

both peter and y/n jumped when a knock on the door sounded through their apartment. their eyes went wide and peter and y/n both rushed to the door. no way…

peter opened it cautiously, web shooter ready for anything and y/n stood behind him.

y/n frowned when she saw it was the delivery driver for the food they apparently both forgot they ordered.

“yeah, thanks,” peter tipped the guy as he brought the food inside.

“that would’ve been cool, huh? if he did randomly knock on the door,” y/n said.

peter began unpacking the chinese food. “why can’t there be wizards in my universe?”

y/n grinned. “i have no clue, spider-bae.”

peter shook his head at the nickname, trying to hide his smile.

y/n ate her orange chicken with her chopsticks, leg bouncing anxiously as she and peter sat at the dining table.

ten minutes later another knock on the door came through. without thinking, y/n got up and opened it.

her whole body froze.

[luvidzy]

☆ genre: angst

☆ pairing: han jisung x reader

☆ summary: while moving out, jisung comes across a box. he’s tried to forget, but the box is an ever present reminder of what he can’t get over.

☆ word count: 1k

☆ listen to: ex by stray kids

☆ @shionwrites​

Moving was not something that Han could say he ever planned on. Honestly, he had planned on living in his old, dusty apartment unless it started coming apart at the seams, but Chan and Changbin had been insistent that he move in. Thus why he was currently going through all his clutter filled rooms in an attempt to pack his stuff away for when he left in 3 days.

His office room was full of scattered boxes holding different equipment and his various knick knacks that he had gained over time. The living room was mostly empty save for the couch and TV that he would be leaving there for the next renters. The kitchen had been cleaned out and all of his old dishware either packed away or thrown out depending on what Chan had told him.

The only room that still needed work was his bedroom. He was dreading it for numerous reasons, but the main one being he didn’t want to fall asleep in a bare room for the next few days. But as the moving day grew closer, he knew that he couldn’t avoid it for much longer.

Han sat on the bed, not even knowing where to start on his journey to cleanse the room. He figured it be best to start with the dressers and the drawers, so that is what he did. He hummed along with his music as he folded clothes and threw them in cardboard boxes on his bed. 

Finally, Han moved to the closet. It was pretty big and the heart of the mess in the room. It was where he threw things that he needed out of the way and he always forgot about them later on. Needless to say, it was overflowing with unneeded objects that Han was not looking forward to going through.

He had to step back as he slid the mirrored door open, a few pieces of old clothes and some old textbooks tumbling to his feet. He sighed as he looked at the mess that greeted him, before stepping forward to begin picking up all the things that had fallen out.

A few trash bags and boxes later, Han found himself making pretty good progress on the mess that was his closet. About half of it was clean, the only thing remaining on the clean half being a blue box that sat unopened. Han frowned as he looked at it, cocking his head ever so slightly. An ache settled in his heart, and he had a sneaking suspicion of what the box held. 

He dragged it out, surprised at its weight. Sitting on his knees in front of it, he hooked his fingers under the lid, already feeling dust begin to cake his fingertips. With barely any force, he managed to pop the lid off, sliding it to the floor as he gazed upon the contents.

He felt his hands freeze, his brown eyes fixated on the content in front of him. He felt his heart clench, and he felt like he was made of glass, unable to move or else he would break down.

Staring up at him from the box were pieces of folded fabrics that he hadn’t seen in years. There was a mix of blouses, dresses, and pants, all in various colors and styles. Despite the box being dusty, the clothes almost seemed to be shining with how clean they were, and Han could swear that he could smell the Victoria Secret perfume lingering off of them the way he had all those years ago.

He slowly reached forward, breaking the stillness that he had created, picking up a striped button-up polo. His mind flickered back to when he remembered you wearing it on the first anniversary, when Han had prepared a picnic for the both of you. You had spilled a bit of your food on it and had pouted for hours about how it was your favorite polo, and only returned to your happy mood when you finally managed to get the stain out later that evening.

He grabbed the sleeves, holding them out and trying to remember when you had once worn the fabric. He felt himself stand, the shirt firmly in his grasp, as he closed his eyes. The music was still playing softly in the background and he couldn’t help himself as he began to sway along with it, holding the shirt impossibly close.

It was almost like you were there, pressed against his chest and laughing at his antics as he spun around with you. Back before you were sick, and before you could barely walk without being in pain. Back before Han spent hours sitting by your bedside, trying to cheer up the withering figure of his best friend and lover that laid in front of him.

He desperately clawed at the polo, thinking that maybe if he tried and wished hard enough, you would return to him and he wouldn’t have to be left with only his memories and your clothes that you no longer inhibited.

The song stopped, and so did he. He opened his eyes, unable to stop looking at the fabric in his hands. Crumpling it up, he buried his face into it as he collapsed onto the floor, sobs breaking through as he sat in a messy room, with your shirt and your clothes as the only reminder of what he had once had. 

He couldn’t help but imagine that you were holding him, stroking his dark hair as he buried his face in your neck and you told him that it would be okay, that he would be okay. He would breathe in and out, letting your perfume fill his senses and ground him, and he would slowly regain his calmness as you pressed kisses to his head and held him.

But instead, he was alone.

He crawled back to the box and folded the polo back up with the same amount of care one might with an antique dress. He placed it back in the box and stared at it for a moment, feeling incredibly numb. Trembling hands grabbed the lid, and he placed it back on, before slowly sliding the box over.

He sat for a moment, looking at his own hands and wishing yours were resting over them, before laying on the floor and curling into a ball. Packing would have to wait, at least until the thoughts of you stopped haunting him and he could go back to being blissfully and ignorantly, alone.

[frenchbreads-writing]

Could I request something for Shinsou who is accepted in the the hero course with a bf who is still in the general course of UA? How would they handle the drastic change of Hitoshi changing courses? (or just any Shinsou insert tbh of this isn't anything you're really feeling atm) ❤️ love your writings

Day of Surprises|{Shinsou Hitoshi}

I tried going for the first idea but all of my ideas came out so sad for some reason😔

So I hope this is okay and that you don’t mind🥺

Also

479 FOLLOWERS.. ALMOST 500!? I didn’t even notice I want to thank you all I’m so glad you like what I write!! I love you guys so much and I hope you’ll stick around to watch me improve and keep making content for you all!💖💖

I hope you enjoy💖

Pairing: Shinsou Hitoshi x Male Reader

Words: 1.7k (1,753)

Warning(s): Injuries, Badly written villain encounter

Requests: Closed

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You stared at the ticking clock from behind the convenience store counter.

2 hours to go until your shift is over.

You covered your face and groaned. The store had been practically empty all day with only a handful of other teenagers popping in for a minute for snacks and other various things.

���(Y/N)?”

You jumped and turn around.

It was the store’s owner standing there. A short woman in her 40s with a permanent soft smile on her face.

“What’s got you so antsy today? You seem like you’re ready to bolt.”

You smiled.

“I have my first date with my boyfriend today after work.”

She smiled fondly.

“A first date is very important.”

You blushed and looked away.

“Yeah, I want to make it nice for him since it’s his first date too.”

The manager glanced at the clock and hummed.

“Well, the shop has been rather quiet today.”

She turned to you and smiled.

“I do suppose I can run the store myself until your coworker gets here.”

Your eyes widened in surprise as you faced her.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded and smiled.

“You’re a nice young man and you really help me a lot around here so I don’t mind letting you off early.”

You beamed before rushing to grab your stuff and clock out.

“I owe you one!”

You shouted as you rushed out.

As you jogged your way through the train station you pulled out your phone and proceeded to call Hitoshi.

The phone rang for a moment before you hear your boyfriend’s groggy voice answer the phone.

“Good morning Toshi how was your nap?”

You hear shifting and a groan before he speaks.

“It was good, are you on break?”

You pass through the ticket gates and walk to your platform.

“Yeah, the shop’s pretty crazy today for some reason.”

He hummed.

“Where are we going today?”

“I was hoping we could go to the mall and maybe to that new cafe that opened there a few weeks ago.”

“Sounds good to me.”

A yawn sounds from the other side.

“Toshi if you want to go back to sleep you can, I have to get back soon anyway.”

“Alright then, I’ll see you when you get here, bye.”

“Bye.”

The line clicked and you rushed into the train and await your destination.

When the train stopped you hopped out and headed home to change.

Unlocking and pushing your way inside the door you slipped off your shoes and made your way to your room.

You immediately went to your closet and began to brainstorm on what to wear. It was a casual date to the mall so nothing too fancy. Though everything you put together didn’t seem to be good enough.

Hitoshi had the same issue.

When you had called he wasn’t in bed at all. He was actually getting ready for the date.

He was rooting around his closet for what seemed to be forever. All of his outfits didn’t feel right for a date.

It’s been over an hour after your phone call and he wanted to surprise you at work but he couldn’t choose what to wear.

After picking up what felt to be the millionth article of clothing he thought.

’Screw it.’

And changed into the set of clothes he held in his hands.

He wore a plain black shirt with a purple jacket over it and a pair of ripped jeans.

It wasn’t the worst outfit he could’ve chosen so he’ll take that as a win.

He checked his phone.

’45 minutes left, enough time to get to his store before he gets off.’

Hitoshi quickly stuffed his keys and wallet into his pockets as he made his way to the front door.

Shouting a goodbye to his parents he opened the door. But he immediately froze when he caught sight of you frozen mid knock.

“Uh hey.”

“(Y/N) I thought you were at work?”

You rubbed the back of your neck and chuckled.

“Yeah I was able to leave early and I wanted to surprise you so um, surprise?”

Hitoshi smiled.

“Do you need anything else before we go?”

He shook his head and held out his hand. You took it, your larger hand enveloping his and with that, the two of you began on your way to the mall.

The two of you hadn’t had lunch yet. So after arriving at the mall the two of you immediately went straight to the food court. The two of you each got a simple snack to eat while walking around.

You visited a few stores, goofing around buying cute things. Like a matching set of fluffy cat socks, you insisted that you bought so the two of you could match.

The two of you were sitting on a bench when Hitoshi saw merch of your favorite hero through the window of a shop. So he excused himself with the excuse of using the restroom and walked away towards the store.

You had already bought him so much stuff that he had taken an interest in so he needed to get you at least something no matter how small it was.

He had paid and grabbed the bag his gift was in when a scream came from behind him followed by the sound of the shop’s window being shattered and a loud crash.

Hitoshi spun on his heel and witnessed the cause of the destruction. A trash can was embedded into the wall opposite from the shattered window.

He ran outside and there was more chaos.

Objects floating and slamming into walls and stores, some people already injured and being carried away by other civilians.

He needed to find you and make sure you were okay.

He ran in the direction you were going last.

The villain was standing in the center of the chaos, objects of varying sizes around them being lifted and thrown.

Even with objects almost hitting him Hitoshi still cried out your name and continued looking around frantically for any sign of you.

He didn’t have to look for long when someone shouted.

“Oh god, what’s that kid doing?”

His head snapped where the person was pointing to see you charging towards the villain.

“(Y/N) what are you doing?!”

Hearing Hitoshi’s voice made you pause and look over at him.

But as you look to your boyfriend you didn’t notice the display case being hurled at you.

“Look out!”

You looked and only had enough time to put your arms up to cover your face.

The case shattered and sent you flying backward until you landed sprawled out on the ground.

“Shit!”

Shinsou immediately began running to you.

He needed to get you and get away from there and wait for the actual heroes to come.

You groaned as you sat up placing a hand on your head the air was also knocked out of you from your rough landing.

It hurt but if it wasn’t for your quirk it would’ve hurt more.

“(Y/N)!”

You looked to see Hitoshi running to you.

He was so focused on you that he didn’t notice the villain dragged a nearby truck from outside and begin aiming it at him.

You noticed though and used a nearby wall to brace yourself as you climbed to your feet.

“Hitoshi, watch out!”

He gasped and his foot snagged on a piece of the ground that had been jutting out.

He looked up to see the truck heading towards him.

His mind blanked all he could do was close his eyes and press himself against the cold surface of the wall behind him.

But the pain never came. Instead, the sound of crunching metal and cracking concrete next to his head was all he heard.

Hitoshi cracked his eyes open to meet your worried gaze. He looked over your shoulder and saw your hand buried in the bumper of the now destroyed truck sitting behind you.

“-Toshi? Hitoshi!”

He jumped and looked at you.

“W-what?”

“I asked if you’re okay, here.”

You wrenched your hands from the holes you made and dusted them off before offering a hand to him.

He stared at your hand for a moment before grabbing it.

You hoisted him up with ease but as soon as Hitoshi’s feet hit the ground he cried out and stumbled into you.

“What’s wrong?”

Hitoshi winced and lifted his right foot off of the ground.

“My ankle, it hurts.”

You knelt and rolled his pant leg up to reveal that his ankle was red and starting to swell.

He must’ve twisted it when he tripped. You thought for a moment before an idea popped into your head.

You stood up and hooked an arm under his knees and simply picked him up princess style.

He yelped and clung to your shirt.

“I’ve got you now, let’s get out of here the heroes should be coming soon.”

And just as you said that the pro hero Kamui woods showed up.

“See? Perfect timing.”

You took off towards the mall’s exit with Hitoshi in your arms.

A while after the mall incident and getting checked by a paramedic getting Hitoshi’s ankle wrapped the two of you sat on a train. Your arm around Hitoshi’s shoulders and his head resting against your chest.

“Hey Toshi, sorry our date was ruined. I wasn’t even able to get you a gift since I dropped our stuff back there.”

“It’s fine I had a good time, minus the whole villain attacking the mall part.”

You smiled at him and were about to resume resting your head on his when he jolted up.

“Wait, hold on I almost forgot.”

He shoved his hand in his pocket and rooted around for a moment before pulling out a crumpled receipt and something shiny.

“I uh got us matching keychains, I managed to swipe them before we left.”

You took the keychain from his hand. It was a charm of a small black cat. It was a little scuffed but other than that it was okay.

You chuckled and pulled out your set of keys hooking the keychain onto it.

“Perfect.”

He blushed and looked away rubbing the back of his neck.

He wordlessly placed himself back into your side and placed his head on your chest.

You hooked your arm around his shoulders and gently pulled him closer.

Your first date will always be a rather memorable moment in your relationship. But now you can schedule even better dates. Ones without villains.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

{Tag List}

@your-strangelove @yumeneji

(If you want to be added, just comment on this post or send an ask and I’ll be sure to tag you in future posts. And if you don’t want to be tagged anymore just ask to be taken off and I’ll do it asap.)

[confused-stars]

Alienfam AU - Chapter One

ao3 link here! ko-fi link here!

Chapter One: The house lay still and empty beneath the overhanging trees when Hitoshi approached on the road.

Just as he'd planned. He didn't want to talk things out right now, just wanted to quietly fume for a while because didn't he deserve it? Having a parent who always tried to understand everything sucked sometimes.

And some things couldn't be fixed by talking.

Hitoshi unlocked the front door and toed his shoes off. He was immediately greeted by the welcoming meow of their cat, Coffee. For once, he didn't immediately lean down to scratch her head, and she seemed mildly perplexed at that.

Hitoshi just ignored her and moved past into the kitchen living room combo. There was a covered bowl of something sitting on the counter, along with a note.

The note read 'if you need to talk, text any time. i'll see you tomorrow otherwise.'

Short and to the point. Hitoshi looked at it for a long moment. Then he crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash.

He ignored the food, too, instead grabbing a pack of cookies from the snack drawer - he deserved comfort food right now.

He hated fighting with his dad. He didn't want to snap at him, ever, but it had been happening more and more lately. Sometimes, Hitoshi couldn't stand his worried looks, his prying questions, his 'your teacher called again' this and 'you don't need to shut me out' that.

Hitoshi wasn't six anymore. He knew his dad couldn't just magically make everything better.

Besides, it was fine. He was fine. He just wanted to be left alone for a change, was that too much to ask?

Except... no, that wasn't quite right, was it?

The crux of the problem was that Hitoshi didn't have anyone. Aside from his father and the cat, that was. Maybe Aunt Nem when she wasn't off traveling.

And Hitoshi didn't like to socialize, either. But sometimes... sometimes he just felt entirely alone in the world. Mostly when everyone else in school ganged up on him, calling him names, whispering about him, even throwing things at him or breaking his stuff, sometimes. He hadn't told his dad about the broken spinner keychain yet. He didn't want him to get angry and make a fuss with the school. No, this was Hitoshi's own problem to deal with and he was doing just fine.

He sat on his bed and booted up his laptop, wrapped in a comforting cocoon of blanket, cookies in his lap. Maybe a good horror movie or something would help. No way was he sleeping yet, despite being bone-tired. He wouldn't be able to, anyways.

Hopefully he'd collapse some time close to the early morning hours so he wouldn't have to pretend to be asleep when his dad checked on him. He never quite believed he was all that convincing.

Hitoshi clicked his way around Netflix aimlessly, nothing really catching his eye. Not even his usual comfort movies seemed to hit the spot. There was just... nothing. Staring at the one slightly off colored spot on the ceiling all night was starting to sound tempting.

But he had to think back to the insults thrown at him by a handful of boys in his class today. Well. Not at him. More like they'd all grouped together and talked about him so loudly he'd be sure to hear.

'Obviously she didn't want him. If I were stuck with him, I'd try to get rid of him, too.'

Since they'd learned about his mother, things had only gotten worse.

It was fucking unfair. Hitoshi had done nothing to them and he couldn't understand how they didn't even have the common fucking decency to not make digs at family stuff like that.

He didn't even miss his mom. He hadn't known her. His dad had always been enough.

But the fact that they had dared... he'd gotten so angry. He hadn't gotten physical, he'd never been the type and the martial arts classes his dad had signed him up for helped channel any of that sort of energy into something safe. But he had cursed quite a bit as he'd shot back at the boys, talking about how one of their dads was probably fucking his secretary who always picked him up from school, and how another would die alone in a ditch somewhere by twenty-five, high out of his mind.

They had laughed. But the teacher who had overheard him hadn't been so amused.

And neither had his father.

Hitoshi closed his laptop forcefully and fell back on the bed. No one gave a shit about his opinion. He couldn't even fight back - all they ever did was laugh and not at all take him seriously. That feeling of complete and utter powerlessness, combined with how much he just wanted a single friend... it was overwhelming enough that he felt his throat tighten painfully now, and tears shooting into his eyes.

It wasn't fucking fair.

The universe had it out for him specifically.

... said universe chose that moment to make itself known.

The bright light outside the window flashed up so suddenly, and was so strong, that Hitoshi instinctively wrenched his arm up to protect his face and still only saw little dots of light for a good few seconds, long enough to almost panic. A cacophony of noise followed, cracking, frantic beeping, something... impacting.

Then silence.

His vision returned, and Hitoshi was left blinking into the darkness of his room. The hair on his arms stood on end. Not only from whatever shock this had been, but because the air felt almost charged with... something.

He slowly sat up and looked towards the window.

Nothing. He couldn't have just imagined this, could he?

When he stood, his knees buckled underneath him for a moment. Huh. He walked over to the window and peered outside.

There was no more glow.

But the forest that started beneath their house seemed... oddly shaped against the dark night sky. He couldn't see much, but it seemed like some trees had been forcefully bent out of the way of... something moving through them. As he watched, one of them slowly leaned further to the side and finally, with a loud crack, broke and fell.

Hitoshi stared for a long moment, his own heartbeat loud in his ears. A... meteor? Did that kind of thing happen outside of tv? Didn't people have ways to predict their flight patterns now, so they would've been warned?

Except... what if it wasn't a meteor?

Hitoshi wished his dad was here, but only briefly, as he scrambled to find his phone buried under his sheets. He shoved it into his pocket and all but sprinted to the front door to pull on his shoes.

Hitoshi didn't believe in aliens. He didn't believe in much of anything, really. Only in himself and his dad and maybe that cats had nine lives.

But he wanted to know what was going on, and if it was something weird, the area would be off limits soon enough. He just wanted to be the first to get a look. Just one look.

The event had shaken him from his self-pitying stupor, so he felt like he had to keep the momentum going.

Coffee was nowhere in sight even though she normally tried to slip out at night if he wasn't careful about the door. T he crash must have freaked her out, too. Hitoshi made a mental note to check on her when he got back, even as he rounded the house and jogged towards the edge of the woods.

The faint smell of smoke lay in the air. Was something burning? There was a... metallic note to it. It almost bit into Hitoshi's nose as he breathed.

He climbed over the low fence separating their backyard from the woods, and then he was off, following the path he'd followed hundreds of times in his life, deeper into the woods.

The smoke in the air got thicker as he walked, until it was bad enough that he had to stifle coughs, but there was a faint flickering of light visible through the underbrush now, and he just wanted to catch a glimpse. Then he'd turn around. Just a glimpse.

Hitoshi climbed over a fallen tree, pushing through the branches that made up its crown. As his feet hit the forest floor again, his field of vision was finally cleared.

And... fuck.

Hitoshi stared.

Coughed against the smoke.

Kept staring.

That... wasn't a meteor.

In front of him sat a crater, with smoldering fires dotting it here and there, and there was an object resting in the middle of it. But said object was not a large rock like he'd expected.

It was a spaceship.

It was undoubtedly, irrefutably, a spaceship.

Or what was left of one anyway.

It didn't look like just some piece of space station trash, either - there were thrusters and what looked like a windshield, or whatever you would call that on a spaceship... fuck, it was a spaceship.

Hitoshi shook his head. His eyes were stinging from the smoke, but they weren't fooling him.

He really needed to get out of here. What if the authorities came and decided to silence him or something, because he'd seen too much? A Men in Black style mindwipe would be the best outcome in that scenario.

He took a slow step backwards, not taking his eyes off the wreck.

And then the latch on its side opened with the hissing of decompressed air.

Hitoshi should have bolted right there, but for the first time he understood why deer didn't just run off the street when a car came barreling towards them. He felt rooted to the ground.

A hand appeared, grasping onto the edge of the opening Hitoshi couldn't quite see into from this position. Then a second hand. There was a soft noise of effort, and then out came tumbling a small figure.

The alien hit the ground with a pained, high-pitched cry, and stayed curled up there, face turned away from where Hitoshi was standing.

It looked... human. At least its shape did. There were four limbs and the hands had looked just like normal hands, even if they were small.

The alien had silvery white hair that was splayed about it in a messy tangle now, and it was wearing some kind of white, shapeless tunic.

It wasn't moving, but Hitoshi could see it still breathing.

He closed his eyes and counted to ten.

Then he begun his descent into the crater.

[blanc-et-n0ir]

Pranks (Solomon and MC)

“Lucifer let out a sigh as he went to enter his room, it’s time for him to start on his paperwork. When he opened the door and walked in, his face met a clear film of plastic and he flinched in shock. He scowled and ripped the clear film off the door frame, he’s going to ignore that for now.

“I don’t have the energy to think about this.” Lucifer growled.

Then, he walked to his desk. His foot bumped against his couch and he frowned. Something about his room felt odd. He shook his head and sat down, almost missing the chair by an inch. He growled and picked his quill to start on the paperwork.

That was when his eyes met the words on the paper and he almost screamed. They were adoption papers for Satan. His eye twitched as he crumpled the paper and threw it aside, he’ll deal with that later. He picked up another piece of paper which immediately was crumpled and thrown aside. He shuffled through his many papers and found every single one of them of the same content, with a few papers about his and Diavolo’s divorce and some works of fiction about him and Diavolo. 

“Who-”

He let his hand drag down his face, there could only be one culprit. Satan. The blonde merely wished for Lucifer to suffer on that day. He walked out the room, once again almost tripping over his couch.

//===\\

Mammon trudged up to his room, his eyes exhausted during the day at RAD. All he wanted to do was curl in his room, scrolling through Devilgram and not think about anything. He opened the door to his room and was met with a clear barrier. He let out a confused whine and walked backwards. He glared at the clear film and ran into his room. He tumbled inside, the clear film wrapping around him as he lay on the floor groaning.

“What in the hell was that?”

He stood up, rubbing his forehead as he threw the clear plastic to the side. He let out a loud whine as he pulled himself on his bed, almost missing it by a few centimetres. He cursed and fished for his phone in his pocket. He noticed that MC had posted a photo and got giddy. He wasn’t able to see the human the whole day which was weird but he pushed that aside for now.

“Wonder what MC posted...” He muttered as he pulled up the photo.

His brain practically bluescreened as he stared at the photo. It was MC alright. She had bed hair and was smiling lucidly at the camera. But in the background, Solomon also had the same bed hair and he was shirtless. He was shirtless and on the same bed as MC. SoloMON WAS SHIRTLESS AND ON THE SAME BED AS MC.

“WHAAATTT!” He screeched, standing up in lightning speed. He threw open his door and almsot bumped into Lucifer on the way, “MC, WHAT HAVE YA BEEN DOING WITH SOLOMON?”

//===\\

Levi was giddy as he almost tripped over himself trying to get into his room. The school day was finally over and he can watch that new DVD he got from Akuzon. He threw open the door and burst through the clear plastic. He paused and tried to get it off him.

“What the- what’s this!?” He shook his head and successfully untangled himself from the plastic and turned his attention to the new DVD. 

He got the case and pulled the CD out. He inserted it into his DVD player and turned on his television. He grinned, giddy as he waited for the screen to fully turn on. It was a new anime that had just come out and everyone was giving it good reviews so he wanted to try it out. Then, he caught sight of what the screen displayed instead.

“Wha-wha-whAT IS THIS?? THIS ISN’T MY ‘NEXT LIFE AS A VILLAINESS: ALL ROUTES LEAD TO DOOM’.” He paused before his eyes flashed, “MAMMOONNN! DID YOU STEAL MY NEW DVD!”

He ran out his door, eyes darkening in anger. he was already in his demon form when he caught sight of Mammon walking down the stairs. He growled ad chased after him, ignoring the loud screech from Asmo’s room. He almost got barelled into by Satan but he dodged. He’ll get that money grubbing, object stealing scum brother of his.

HOW DARE HE THINK OF SWITCHING HIS NEWWEST ANIME WITH SOMETHING AS WESTERN AND NORMIE AS TWILIGHT? NOT EVEN THE HUMANS LIKED THAT STUPID MOVIE.

//===\\

Satan let out a sigh as he rubbed his forehead, he can’t wait to curl up in his room and read a good book. He trudged up to his room, ignoring Mammon’s surprised shout from down the hall and opened his door. He walked in and was stopped by white clear plastic, almost falling over. His eye twitched and he swiped the plastics out of his way, stomping into his room.

“Who would put that there...”

He shook his head and picked up a book. He let himself fall against his armchair and opened the book. He cleared his head a bit before he read the first sentence. Everything was normal until he reached the middle paragraph. His eye twitched as it mentioned Lucifer and Diavolo. He closed the book and looked at the cover.

“It... doesn’t match.” He narrowed his eyes. “I could’ve sworn...”

He picked up another book and when he opened it, it showed memes. His eye twitched and he threw the book away from him. He picked another one up, opening it. This time it had a picture of Mammon singing in the shower. He slammed the book closed and growled. His temper was getting worse and he transformed into his demon form. The last book he opened had showed a crude drawing of his as a baby with Lucifer carrying him.

He screamed and threw the book away, ignoring the crash of the window it sailed out, “WHO TOUCHED MY BOOKS?” 

He let out a low growled and slammed open his door, first it was the stupid plastic and now this. He didn’t want any of this. He wanted a good book, a little rest and maybe a good cup of tea. He stormed down the stairs, almost knocking into Levi.

It was definitely Mammon, the idiot.

//===\\

Asmo had made a beeline for his room. The whole day had taken a lot out of him and he felt icky. He had planned to take a long and relaxing bath in his tub and use one of his scented oils. He hummed as he walked to his room and opened the door. He was impaired when he hit a clear plastic that blocked his path into his room. He made a double take and squinted, noticing the clear plastic. He scoffed and easily took it down, taking away all the excess plastic from the door frame to avoid any trash to clutter his beautiful room. He passed a trash can and dumped all the plastic inside.

He slowly stripped, enjoying the cool air and made his way to his bathroom. He smiled widely as his bathtub entered his field of vision. He picked a good scented oil to have and placed a few drips on the pristine clear water.

He slowly let himself sink into the water before he felt an unfamiliar texture. His eye twitched and he opened them to see the supposedly clear water had turned to yellow mush. He screeched and tripped on his way out the bathtub. He couldn’t believe what he had stumbled into. The yellow mush, clearly melted cheese, felt awful on his smooth skin.

“WHO FILLED MY BATHTUB WITH CHEESE?!”

He had unknowingly turned into his demon form as he stomped out of his bedroom, body still covered in cheese. He stomped past Lucifer who was checking inside Satan’s room and headed down, he will find out who messed with his bathtub.

“I S A I D, WHO FILLED MY BATHTUB WITH MELTED CHEESE?” He screeched into the halls, his voice carrying throughout the house.

//===\\

The moment he had stepped foot inside the house, he made his way to the kitchen. He was starving and Lucifer didn’t allow him to stop by Hell’s Kitchen for a snack. He opened the fridge and noticed a large sandwich. He licked his lips and noticed that no one had placed a note claiming it as their own. He smiled and picked it up before shoving it straight into his mouth. He choked when he was met with a dry flavor in his mouth.

He spat out the remnants of the sandwich and noticed it was foam, “Who?”

He shook his head and scoured the fridge for more unclaimed food. So far, everything he shoved into his mouth was foam. The tangy and dry taste of it making his stomach turn and ask for actual edible food. He had eaten the apple, the salad, the banana... even the turkey leg was foam. His eye twitched and he moved onto the Devildom delicacies, thinking that maybe it was all the human food. 

He picked up a custard and bit into it. It was foam. This was probably the fifth food he had shoved into his mouth that wasn’t food and his hunger had overtaken his thought process. He was in his demon form and he was hungry and angry. He had emptied the fridge by now and yet he hasn’t stumbled upon any real food.

“Who messED WITH THE FOOD?” Beel growled, stomping out the kitchen. Not only were the unclaimed food messed with, so were HIS food. Everything in the fridge was foam. Not even Mammon was stupid enough to do this.

He passed the common room where Belphie was looking in his phone with an enraged face. He would find whoever messed with his food.

//===\\

Belphie let out a sigh as he stepped foot inside the House of Lamentation. The whole day was really tiring. He felt his body sag and he dragged himself to the common room to sleep in peace. The moment his body hit the cushions of the couch, he fell into a deep slumber. Unbeknownst to him, two humans entered the common room with colored markers. The two giggled and exchange a quick glance with each other.

They set off to work, knowing Belphie was in a deep slumber and it’ll take more than a few little markings on his face to wake him up. Once they finished, they kept the markers and pulled out a roll of clear plastic. Solomon snickered as he taped the end of the plastic under the couch while MC pulled the roll over Belphie. They began methodologically wrapping him in plastic until his entire body was wrapped. He shifted a bit in his sleep and the two froze, exchanging a panicked look. 

When he remained sleeping, the two let out a relieved sigh. When the two heard the loud shout from Satan’s room, they immediately set to wrap up their work. Solomon got out some colorful hair ties and MC took out the large whoopee cushion. Solomon started to tie Belphie’s hair into uneven and weirdly placed pigtails while MC slid the cushion carefully in between the wrapped plastics.

That was when they heard Mammon’s shout and his footsteps. Solomon straightened and held out a hand to MC, “Would you care to make a grand exit?”

Asmo’s screech echoed throughout the whole house as MC smiled, “Of course!”

The loud bang that resounded in the common room due to their ‘grand’ exit woke Belphie up. He shot up, ready to scream at whoever made the loud noise to disturb his sleep when he heard the loud sound of the whoopee cushion hitting the plastic. His eye twitched as he was tangled up in a mess of plastic. He swiped them all away.

“Who in the seven hells would do this?” He growled. 

That was when he felt his hair and he got out his D.D.D and turned on the front camera. His anger grew when he saw his face and he stood up, shouting, “WHO DID THIS TO MY FACE!” 

He made his way to the entrance hall in his demon form, ready to kill whoever thought doing this to him was funny. 

//===\\

“SATAN IF YOU THOUGHT EXCHANGING MY PAPERWORK WITH NONESENSE IS FUNNY, THEN YOU’RE WRONG-”

“WHERE THE HELL IS MC? ARE THEY WITH SOLOMON-”

“MAMMON!! FIRST IT WAS MY MONEY AND NOW IT’S MY DVD!!” 

“WHOEVER THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY TO REPLACE MY BOOKS, I WILL USE YOUR-”

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR BOOKS, SATAN. LOOK AT ME, I’M COVERED IN STUPID MELTED CHEESE WHEN I’M SUPPOSED TO BE RELAXING IN MY BATH.”

“SOMEONE TOUCHED MY FOOD. WHO IS IT? WAS IT YOU, MAMMON?”

“WHO DID THIS TO MY FACE? I WILL MAKE SURE YOUR DEATH IS-”

Just outside the House of Lamentation, Solomon and MC exchanged a look before bursting into laughter. The plan had gone smoothly, they didn’t care if they had to miss one whole day at RAD- this was hilarious enough to make up for it.

“Ten minutes from they’ll probably be at each others’ throats with warpaint on their faces.” Solomon wheezed.

“Good.” MC grinned. “It was getting a little chummy around here.” 

[wh-wh-whu]

Joy and Henry

New OCs, new series (?)! These characters come from the same original story as “Ni and Jay and Jane”, but in a different place and time. Since I am changing background stuff to post here, I am not sure they will still be set in the same ‘verse, but a crossover is never impossible.

Also this is the scene that inspired my first prompt-style post!

Don’t worry much about the Company and Associates, these are mostly placeholders as I figure the Lore, just know that this is government stuff and these people are very important. One detail that matters here is that all masters are men and 95% of the slaves are women. Sexism plays a big part in this story even in pieces that don’t focus much of it.

CW: slavery, background sexism, lady whumpee turned caretaker, mention of lady whumpee (other than caretaker), mention of (physical) hate mail, implied minor whumpee (everyone is an adult here but it’s implied stuff happened to them when they were minors), mentioned whipping, mention of whumpee being forced to hurt others, scars

Henry was not supposed to have an opinion on any of the Associates. He belonged to the Company, and so all the associates were his Masters.

Still, he couldn't lie to himself that Ms. Wilson was very different from all the others, and that for it he favored her a lot.

Joy Wilson was the only woman among the Associates, and the first one to step in in over 100 years. She was also a former slave, something that made her presence undesired in the Company, but in the end, none of the Associates could stop her. She filled all the legal conditions, there were no flaws in her papers, nothing that left room for argument that she wasn't legally free, that she didn't belong to the man who signed her freedom at the time, and he had even adopted her as his daughter before making her his heir.

Not that any of this mattered to Henry. He only knew it all from the gossip before Ms. Wilson moved in. That, and from the talk the President gave him just before he welcomed his new Master. The man had confirmed that Ms. Wilson was indeed a former slave, but tried to crush all of Henry's hopes that she would be any soft on him. Not that he had any, Henry knew she was more likely to sympathize with the other slaves, the women that he had to keep an eye on and punish, if necessary, than with him.

It turned out that Ms. Wilson was much kinder than anyone could have imagined. She didn't relish Henry's fear, nor did she seem to want to cause him any pain. She spoke to him kindly, in a soft tone, never insulting. Henry actually enjoyed being in her presence, and luckily he always had letters to deliver to her. She always received many more than the other Associates.

They weren't always kind. Henry wasn't allowed to read them, of course, but he knew. So many people wanted Ms. Wilson out. Even some of the Associates still did. Some envelopes came with drops of blood staining the paper, maybe a veiled treat? A way of showing her others were suffering more because she was there?

There was always a lot of crumpled in her trash too.

Henry knew Ms. Wilson was stressed. She was under a lot of pressure. One day, when he went to deliver her letters, he heard shouting from her door. It made him pause.

It was only her voice. She was probably on the phone. He didn't understand every word she said, but she talked of law. It was certainly Company business. Henry waited, not wanting to interrupt.

"I'm just tired, Fer." She said after a long pause, her tone much softer. "They don't let me do anything here." Another pause. "I know. Yes, yes, you told me. I knew it wouldn't be easy. I am used to men being shitty to me."

Henry's fist closed, crumpling the letters a bit. He should not be hearing to a private conversation, this was how slaves got themselves killed in the Company. They were not supposed to know the Associates' secrets. He didn't know if he was hearing any secret, but he knew Ms. Wilson was showing a vulnerability that was meant for someone else's ears.

"I just wish I could speak to them the way they speak to other women. No, I know, yeah it would only make it all worse. It would be fun, though. It's not like they can touch me. Don't worry, I know my priorities. I won't be careless." A longer pause. "Thank you, Fer. I wish you were here. Don't worry, nothing would make me give up on this."

Whoever "Fer" was, they seemed to be important for Ms. Wilson. She spoke their name in a sweet tone.

Henry tried to get the words he heard out of his mind, but he couldn't. Ms. Wilson disliked men, that wasn't really a surprise. It was like the President had said, she had probably been tormented by men her entire life. Henry was a man, well, just barely, but he was the only male slave in the Company.

Still, Ms. Wilson was always kind to him.

He waited until Ms. Wilson ended the call, then a little bit more before knocking on her door.

"Henry, come in." She greeted him, opening the door to let him into her apartment.

Henry obediently entered, feeling a bit intimidated as he always did whenever he was inside one of the luxurious apartments. Before Ms. Wilson, being called in always meant there was pain to follow.

"Your letter, Miss." He held out the envelopes, reminded himself it probably didn't matter that he crumpled them a bit, they would probably be thrown out like so many others anyway.

Indeed, Ms. Wilson didn't seem to mind as she took them and left them on a table. "Thank you. Is that all?"

Henry hesitated. Ms. Wilson seemed to notice it, and waited patiently for him to speak. He tried to choose his words carefully.

"Ms. Wilson, please forgive my intruding, but you seem to be going under a lot of stress lately, right?"

She frowned, making Henry want to slap his lips and run away. He could do no such thing.

"Yes." Ms. Wilson said. "But it's nothing for you to worry about."

"I apologize, I know it's none of my business." Henry agreed. He swallowed, trying to be even more careful with his next words. "I noticed that you, Miss, are the only one among the Associates that doesn't make use of any stress reliever."

The only one who doesn't have a slave, and doesn't use any of the ones belonging to the Company as a stress reliever. Henry didn't want it to come out as a criticism, but Ms. Wilson's frown deepened.

"I know... I know you would never hurt someone... like you." He lowered his eyes. He hoped he was not offending her, that was the last thing he wanted. "Everyone... everyone down there is very thankful. Everyone admires you, Miss. But it, it saddens me that you're the only one who has nothing to make you feel better." Taking a deep breath, Henry slowly reached for the whip attached to his belt. It was his work tool, for him to punish the others when he had to... and for the Associates to use to punish him.

---

Joy flinched as Henry took the whip, but he didn't seem to notice it, as he couldn't even look up at her. Of course, he had no intention of hurting her with it, he simply offered it to her.

He didn't need to say a word. Joy already knew what he was offering, and she would rather he didn't say it, but he did.

"If you wish, you can use me, Miss."

His voice was even and devoid of emotion, something that Joy had never been capable of back in her days. They could never really teach her that she deserved to be hurt, that she should enjoy being hurt.

But then she remembered how Henry was when she first met him, just a couple of months ago. Trembling, flinching, voice small as he apologized for not telling her he was a slave right away, as if it was his fault she had missed the Company's logo branded on his arm. Joy had seen him afraid back then, and other times, near other Associates.

This Henry in front of her wasn't afraid, and it hit her like a truck the realization that it could only be her fault. That she had shown him a kindness none of those men had ever done, and he wasn't afraid because this was not supposed to be a punishment, it was supposed to be a payment.

She hesitated as she reached for the whip, wishing to take it out of his hand. She wanted to throw that vile object away, into the fireplace so it became ashes and would never hurt anyone again. But Henry was soon unbuttoning his shirt, and she helplessly watched as he kneeled down in front of her, back exposed.

Joy inhaled deep and covered her mouth with her free hand. Henry's back was covered in scars. It was not surprising, not really, and it wasn't like she had never seen scars before. But seeing those old and new scars on his body - he was younger than Joy, barely an adult! - as he sat just a little hunched forward, perfectly still, fully accepting that this was the price to pay for a few kind words, that broke her heart, a heart she had had to stitch together too many times.

She remembered then, why she had agreed to be Mr. Wilson's heir in the first place. Why she had decided to leave the comfortable life he had given her and come here, in the center of the world, knowing well that men would look down on her and ridicule her and try to eat her alive every move she made. Why she studied hard and left her friends - her family - behind to be surrounded by people who hated her simply for being who she was.

Joy touched Henry's shoulder, and he flinched, certainly expecting pain.

"I can't do this to you, Henry. I thank your offer, but..." She trailed off.

He nodded, grabbing his shirt. "I just... want to help you somehow, Miss." He said, eyes teary.

"You already did. You already do." Joy said, sincerely. "I'm glad for having at least one person here who cares about me."

[paperwayne]

steady.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” ➡ 1. Holding their hands when they are shaking.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Word Count: 2,450 words

Warnings: None

I.

You’ve known Jason Todd long enough to know how sticky his fingers can be. It’s a talent, really, something to be admired in the slums of Gotham; an apple here, a wallet there, and more recently, tires right off of cars.

Stealing isn’t wrong if you’re trying to survive. But sometimes, you can’t resist doing it out of pleasure rather than necessity.

Jason’s hand is clean and warm as it curls firmly around your wrist – a habit that has now become a signal, back when you had been loose-lipped and jumpy whenever the two of you walked past the cashiers at stores – and you tear your gaze away from the crude caricature of Batman you had been scribbling onto an Etch A Sketch you had found, blinking as your friend glances at your artwork.

“Funny,” he compliments, and you crack a smile before he jerks his head slightly toward the exit. “C’mon, let’s go.”

You give the gummy Etch A Sketch a few vigorous shakes and slide it back onto the dusty shelf from whence it came. As you and Jason make your way to the door, the old man at the register stares suspiciously. You smile at him, innocent in your youth.

The door is just about to close completely before it swings open again, but by then you had crossed the street.

“You little brats, get back here!”

Jason’s grip on you tightens and that’s another signal.

Run.

You don’t have to look to know that Jason’s biting down a grin as you drag each other along the dirty, buckling sidewalk, evading indifferent passersby as the cashier shouts out a few expletives in vain. You keep your breathing in time with his, pumping your arms as you leap over cracks and clumps of yellowing grass. Jason’s hand slides down from your wrist to wrap around your own hand, vicelike and stubborn. It’s easier to run that way, you think.

Eventually, you find yourselves in an alleyway that’s mostly empty, save for a homeless woman dozing off next to the dumpster. Jason lets go of your hand to unzip his jacket while you do the same. The trash bag behind you crackles when you shuffle back to lean against the brick wall, panting.

“So,” he murmurs, blue eyes a steely shade of grey in the shadows of the alley, “Purple or green?”

“… Green.” You try to swallow and moisten your parched throat. “R-Red or orange?”

“Something wrong, [Y/n]?”

You pause when Jason asks that question, one of his eyebrows raised. His gaze darts down to the pairs of socks in your two hands. That’s when you realize that they are shaking, and it’s a split second later when you realize that it’s because your hands are shaking. Trembling, more like.

“Oh.” Immediately, you clench your fists, embarrassed as you try to still your jittery fingers. “I didn’t even – it’s nothing.” In the brief moment of skeptical silence, you say the only other thing that automatically comes to mind. “Sorry.”

Jason’s curious expression morphs into one of confusion. “The hell’re you saying ‘sorry’ for?” he asks. His tone is a little rough, but when you blurt out another ‘sorry,’ he has the sense to soften a bit. “’S’nothing to say sorry for. We didn’t get caught, so you don’t gotta be shaking.”

You nod, looking down, and he sighs.

“Here.”

He takes your red pair of socks and tucks it into his pocket, then unceremoniously presses the candy bar with the green wrapper into your hand and places your other hand over it. You think that he’ll pull away soon, but he doesn’t; his hands engulf both of yours like some sort of sandwich, and then they stay. His skin is no longer warm like it had been in the store, but his hold is just as firm as it had been when he gripped your wrist not ten minutes ago.

Jason stares intently at his hands and yours, and after a few minutes, he finally lets go, satisfied.

“It’s choco-caramel,” he says, as if nothing had just happened. “Lucky guess.”

You tuck the candy bar into your jacket pocket, hands steady.

II.

You’ve known Jason Todd long enough to know that sometimes, he feels too much.

There’s a whoosh of air as your bedroom door opens, and you think you hear yourself mumble a few protests as the door slams loudly behind Jason. Eyes squinting, you reach out to turn on the bedside lamp, flinching when you click it on.

Heavy, angry breaths heave from the boy’s chest when you fix your gaze upon his hunched-over figure. His mask is gone, but the rest of his uniform still displays its bright and cheerful colors, a stark contrast to the darkness rolling off Jason in waves. Your eyes trace downward from his hair, matted and sweaty from a night of patrolling, to his arms and his hands, straight and stiff at his sides.

Anger still bubbles beneath the surface of his skin, you can see; it escapes in the form of shaking arms and fists.

“Jay?” you murmur in the choking silence.

As if awakened, Jason whirls around to kick the wall. It’s enough to jolt the rest of the sleep out of you, and you blink as he continues to slam his foot against the plaster and concrete, cursing both under and over his breath.

“Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”

“Jason!”

You throw the blankets off you and cross the room, grabbing his arm. He tears away just as quickly, jaw clenched as he shoots you a venomous glare that’s not quite all there.

“Why the hell are you in my room?!”

“This is my room!”

“No, it’s —” Jason cuts himself off as he finally registers the contents of your bedroom, gaze flitting across your stuffed animals and the Etch a Sketch on your bedside drawer. His mouth tightens, and his expression crumples back into one of irritation.

“No, you’re staying here until you tell me what’s wrong,” you state firmly when he moves to open the door again. Reaching out to touch his arm once more, you hold it as you lead him to your bed and sit down at the edge. “Did Bruce get mad at you again?”

Jason scoffs, high-pitched and loud. “He’s always mad at me during patrol. He’s got a stick up his ass.”

You examine the way he clenches and unclenches his hands in his lap. His breathing is still uneven. “… Something went wrong, didn’t it?”

“He got shot.”

“Bruce?” You frown. Though it’s obviously painful, you know that Bruce’s been shot before, and he gets over it pretty quickly every time.

“No. A – a kid. He was little. I wasn’t quick enough. It was in the leg, but Bruce said if I stayed back the bastard wouldn’t have fired the gun in the first place.” Jason spits out the words like they’re poison. “The hell does he know? He’s never used a gun in his life.”

You chew on your lip. You can picture the scene all too well, bits of memories of Crime Alley shootouts and family homicides filling in the gaps. You can imagine the scream of the child. You can imagine the argument in the Batcave afterwards, Batman glowering over Jason like the Gotham Clocktower, dark and disapproving, as Jason throws his mask down and stomps away.

“Did the kid get to the hospital?” you whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” You breathe out slowly, deliberately. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

Jason is quiet. You look at his hands again, and as if in a daze, you reach out to hold them.

The gloves are dirty. You pull them off as his hands unclench, blinking down at the pale skin mottled with purple bruises at the knuckles. You turn them over to inspect his palms and fingertips as if you’re about to read them, prophesy about his fate or something, but really you just mean to look at them for the sake of doing so. It brings you back in time, touching his hands. They’re still rough with callouses. Still shaking.

“As long as you’ve stopped them,” you mutter, relaxing your hold as the tremors slow, then fade from his muscles. “It doesn’t matter how you do it as long as they don’t do it again.”

“Thanks,” he says. It’s forced out, but it’s sincere. You meet his eyes when he extracts his hands from yours, fingers pulling away as slow as pulling taffy, and they’re tired but resolute.

You almost kiss him that night. But you don’t, thinking that a better time would probably come, when both of you are older and wiser and happier, and when Jason would perhaps not mind kissing you.

That chance is buried along with Jason a few months later, and with it, a part of yourself.

III.

You used to know Jason Todd.

Used to, because Jason is gone. You had been there at his funeral. You had watched his casket get lowered into the ground, and you had thrown a dumb flower at it like it would magically make a wooden box with a dead body prettier somehow. You had cried for him.

Jason Todd is dead. But then Uncle Alfred calls, and all of a sudden, you aren’t so sure anymore.

Although Bruce had initially objected, Alfred tells you about the empty casket and the Red Hood. He asks if any men had visited you lately, or if you feel like someone’s watching you. You tell him that you’d probably be dead if either of those things happened. He chuckles.

He tells you that Bruce sends his regards. You hang up.

It’s kind of ironic that you almost get killed that same night.

Your ears are still ringing and the frigid night air makes it hard to breathe; the ghost of a cold, hard pistol pressed against your temple renders you dizzy. The whole thing could have been avoided if you’d remembered to test the battery of your damn taser this month, but you hadn’t, and now three bodies are in the alleyway – yours; the man that had touched you, now deceased, lying on the asphalt; and a strange man with the gun that had won.

The rest of the smoke finally dissipates from the barrel. Your savior for the night spins the weapon in his hand before tucking it away at his hip, strolling over to crouch down at the thief’s side. With no great effort, he shoves a hand underneath the corpse to roll it over.

You stand, still quite in shock, as the man in the red helmet reaches into the dead man’s back pocket and plucks out a square, leather object. He stands up and holds it out to you, and you realize that it’s your wallet.

You take it. “Thanks … er …”

“Red Hood,” he says, looking down at you. It feels like he’s staring.

“Yeah,” your heart is in your throat and you will the next few words to come out smoothly, “I know. I’ve heard about you.”

“Well, shucks, I’m flattered. I bet the rumors are full of sunshine and rainbows.”

The words seem innocent, but the tone is familiar. You know this tone and manner of speaking. It’s baiting, a subtle prod to reveal yourself, and overwhelming curiosity leads you to reciprocate.

“There’s not many vigilantes out in Gotham who aren’t under the bat, you know.”

The Red Hood barks out a sharp laugh. “Don’t need the bat when I’ve got a gun.”

He’s right, though you know Batman certainly wouldn’t appreciate that reasoning. Your gaze darts down to the leather holster cradling that deadly weapon. You wet your lips, cautiously, as he leans against the wall opposite you and waits for you to talk again.

“You could’ve just knocked him out.”

“I also could’ve let him splatter your brains out. Life’s full of possibilities.” He uncrosses his arms, and you, for some insane reason, stay where you are as he suddenly pushes off the wall. His voice lowers. “So’s death.”

Your next words are exceptionally careful. He’s getting closer, the white eyes of his helmet washed in shadows as you meet them as solidly as you can. “I’ve heard about that too.”

(Despite your greatest efforts, you feel your hands begin to shake. No no no. You cross your arms to hide them and look more put together than you feel.)

“Really,” he says. “Do tell.”

“My uncle,” you begin slowly, “was just telling me today about a casket that was recently dug back up in the cemetery. They found that the person in it – who was supposed to be in it – was never there.”

“Wow. That’s wild.”

“Yeah. Wild.”

God, your hands won’t stop shaking. They tremble, suffocating in the crooks of your elbows, and you’re growing more and more frustrated as the Red Hood just stands there, infuriatingly silent as he watches your patience slowly unravel until the last thread snaps.

“Look,” you finally exclaim, taking a single step forward; your voice is hoarse and desperate and barely above a whisper. “Jason, if that’s you, tell me. It was just us for so long – you owe me a yes or no, goddammit!”

Your fingers are achingly, annoyingly stiff. Tremors wrack through each tendon and joint. Breathing heavily, you realize that you’re now gripping his biceps, blunt nails digging into the soft leather of his jacket, and that you’re standing much closer to him than you thought you were.

A solid minute passes. Then, slowly, the Red Hood reaches up to grasp your forearms, his hands dragging down to meet yours as they pull away from his jacket. You bite your tongue, glaring at the space between you.

Jason squeezes your hands tight, and then he lets go.

Your arms drop down to your sides, limp, as he pats your shoulder, looking to his left. “Your apartment’s just across the street, right? You’ll probably make it,” is all he says.

You just nod emptily and amble out of the alleyway, mind blurry while he trails close behind, leaving the corpse of your assailant where it had fallen. There’s no cars driving around right now so you just walk across the street without looking both ways, only stopping once you reach your apartment door and have your key out to unlock it. 

You turn around before opening the door; no one’s around, naturally, and you exhale and step inside.

As soon as the lock clicks, your legs give out underneath you. You crumple on the cold tile, hands folded and crushing against your mouth in some semblance of a prayer, and start to cry – and you can’t, for the life of you, figure out why.

__

[50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” prompt list (requests using this prompt list are CLOSED)]

[deviant-hunter-rk800]

Break

—Someone’s broken in. Connor is the first person you think to call. But what will he choose?—

A/N: IM BACK!! So this has been on my mind forever now, and I’m so excited it’s finally done!! Please let me know what you think of it!

Warnings: kinda fluffy Connor, swearing, blood, fighting, angsty

“Goddamnit, Kyle!” You rake a hand through your hair, sighing through gritted teeth. “You’re kidding, right? There’s no damn way-”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he says tiredly, “there’s nothing I can do.”

Clenching your jaw, you hang up, nearly throwing your phone across the room. You shake your head, wanting very badly to hit something. A headache quickly forms as you mutter curses.

“Thought you were an officer, not a sailor,” Gavin taunts, laughing as he props his feet up on his desk.

“Fuck off, Reed,” you snarl, “or so help me I will shut you up myself.”

He rocks back, laughing even harder at your sour mood. Without warning, you grab the nearest object which happens to be a pencil. He jumps as you bring it down towards his shin, barely missing your mark as he crashes to the floor.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his head. He slowly stands up, backing away from you. He’s a good ten yards away before he turns towards the door.

“Don’t get me wrong,” someone says. Turning, you recognize Hank and Connor walking towards you, the older man smiling. “Seeing Gavin nearly get shanked brings me great joy,” he sits on your desk, taking the pencil from your clenched fist, “but you could’ve at least used a pen.”

You sigh, picking at your desk. “Don’t judge,” you mutter, “could’ve gotten lead in his blood. Made ‘im real sick.”

“She does have a point,” Connor agrees. Your lips twitch at his pun. Looking up at him, a timid smile pulls at his lips. “I thought it would help your mood.”

“But you’re just gonna ignore she tried to stab Reed?” Hank shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Oh. Okay.”

Connor blinks, head tilting to the side. “I assumed her actions were a side effect of her fever.”

“Fever?” You and Hank say simultaneously. You don’t break eye contact with Connor as you lean towards the older man. “Jinx. You owe me a coffee.”

Hank’s head turns fast, scowling at the side of your face accusingly. You smile innocently at Connor despite the two holes being bore into your head. His brows furrow at your actions.

“You never get sick,” Hank says, the frown tipping into concern, “and now you’ve got a fever?”

“It’s not severe, Lieutenant,” Connor interrupts, “her body temperature is only at ninety nine point-”

“But you don’t get sick,” he repeats.

“Long story short,” you sigh, leaning back in your chair, “I’ll be staying at a motel for a month or so cause the pipes in my apartment building froze.”

Both Hank and Connor’s brows raise. “Holy shit, kid.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, resting your head in your hand. “Kyle — the shitty landlord? — says he can’t get anybody to come look at it for a couple weeks.”

“Why not ditch the motel?” Hank places a hand on your shoulder. “Stay with us till the shit gets fixed.”

“Hank-“

He rolls his eyes, cutting you off with a wave of his hand. “Oh c’mon, Y/L/N. I’ll even make pancakes.”

You chew your lip, considering his offer. Bunk with an old cop, his dog, and a cute android? It wasn’t the worst idea. It definitely beat getting some disease from mysterious stains in a broke down motel.

“Alright,” you say finally.

Hank smiles, a dimple pressing into his cheek. He ruffles your hair. “Alright.”

The squeal of brakes from a train echoes distantly accompanied by three solid knocks on the door. Sumo pick his head up off your lap, giving a soft woof. Setting your book down on the nightstand, you scratch his ears, earning a couple whumps of his tail against the bed.

“It’s okay, buddy,” you coo sweetly. You manage to free your legs of the blankets as the saint bernard settles again. Using your foot to swing the door open, you tie up your hair, quietly padding down the hallway.

You’ve just rounded the corner when the handle jostles. You hesitate, holding your breath as muffled curses make their way through the door. Goosebumps rise on your skin. A thousand thoughts flood your mind, the scariest one being, That’s not Hank.

The lock clicks. “Fuck,” you snap, your voice a whisper.

The door swings open, it’s handle denting the drywall as two men push through. You lock eyes with the first man, the two of you standing shell shocked for half a breath. The second, the younger looking with a heavy bruise on his cheekbone, slaps the first.

“Fuckin grab her!” He shouts, slamming the door shut. And just like that, the standoff comes to a jagged end, the first guy lunging at you, his cigarette stained teeth bared.

Grabbing his wrist, you twist his arm to the side, driving the heel of your palm into his nose. Losing his balance, he topples backwards. The second man reaches out, but with a rush of fur blurring by, Sumo latches his teeth into his arm.

“Sumo!” Cigarette Teeth seizes your moment of distraction and get you in a headlock, his forearm held tightly against your throat. Bruise punches the dog in his ribs before throwing him off. “No!”

He adrenaline coursing through you hinders rather than help, turning your motions frantic as you scratch and scream; your fingernails leave angry, red welts across his skin. Bruise moves forward. You bring your knees to your chest, a savage growl pushing through gritted teeth as you kick him in his stomach. The loss of his footing sends him to the floor, his face meeting the wood with a loud thump!

“Jesus, fuck,” the man holding you grunts, an undertone of fear taking over his words.

The slamming of your heel on the arch of his foot paired with the whip of your head against his already bleeding nose earns a well deserved howl of pain.

Finally able to slip from his grasp, you kick Cigarette Teeth in his knee, watching him drop to the floor with a loud cry. You grab the nearest object — a book off one of the many shelves — and bring its spine down across his temple. With a groan, he crumples to the ground.

“Sumo,” you murmur hoarsely, chest heaving. You quickly fall to your knees, gingerly running your hands across his fur, turning his head towards you. “Are you okay? Fuck.”

His tail wags lightly, letting out a small whine. You whip your head to see Bruise pushing himself up with a groan. Quickly looking at your options, you stand up.

“C’mon, boy,” you urge, helping the large dog limp towards the bedroom. “Good boy! Just a little more! C’mon!”

Slamming the door, you rip the chair from the desk, lodging it beneath the door’s handle. You grab your phone from the nightstand, your book long forgotten. Sumo growls.

“I know, buddy,” you say weakly, scrolling hurriedly through your contacts. 1-800-CYBERLIFE comes into view and you hit dial. “C’mon, Connor. Pick up! Pick up!”

A rumble from the other side of the door. Sumo, crouching low, bares his teeth. You back away.

Click.

“Connor?!”

“Why is it,” Hank says dully, “that every time we gotta go chase some fuckin dead end, it’s always at some creepy, abandoned, probably haunted building?”

“If it’s any consolation, the likelihood that this building is haunted is very low.” Hank turns slow at Connor’s remark, glaring at the android with a dangerous look in his eye. Connor tilts his head. “Would you prefer rat infested?”

Hank narrows his eyes, grimacing nonetheless. “I fuckin hate you.”

Connor can’t help the faintest shadow of a smile that tugs at his lips. With a shake of his head, Hank’s attention returns to the warehouse, the rusted sign worn beyond recognition. At least to the human eye; there was still enough residue from the paint for the RK800 to confirm the location, despite the many years.

“I know you do, lieutenant.”

A middle finger is thrown over the older mans shoulder. His free hand taking hold of the door handle, he draws his weapon. Dust kicks up at their feet, the squeal of the hinges echoing off the graffitied walls.

Quiet steps are placed carefully amongst broken glass. Hank pulls one hand from the grip of his gun, his pointer finger aimed at the ceiling, drawing a circle into the air. Connor follows the order, scanning the small room with a flick of his eyes. The disturbance of dirt trailing through the door on the opposite wall is highlighted.

“There,” he says quietly, jutting his chin. Anderson takes the lead.

With the ceiling half collapsed on itself, rusted cross beams hang dangerously low, the sunken roof giving way to a darkened sky. The moonlight — one drag from an old cigar away from hazy — makes the room glow. Hank’s hand lays flat, making a sweeping motion towards the right side of the warehouse. Silently, Connor tips his head.

Parting from one another, each officer carefully makes their way through the building, scanning and searching for leads. Connor ducks beneath a shelving unit, one hand resting on the wall as he maneuvers quietly. He’s sure to miss the rebar haphazardly sticking out from the floor. He stands, but not before the remnants of a bloodstain is highlighted by his sensors.

Walsh, Chris

3 days old

Suspect is injured.

His record is littered with aggravated assault, theft, multiple drug charges, and battery. Violence is nothing new to Walsh, and from previous statements, he finds a certain appeal to the chaos. Got caught more than once, but was often let out on good behavior. There’s a soft curse from the other side of the building, Hank’s flashlight piercing the veiled darkness.

Scanners highlighting an otherwise dark corner, Connor finds himself standing in something akin to a home; a rat’s nest composed of unwanted trash, the bed nothing more than stained cardboard with a tattered and worn sweatshirt acting as a blanket. The android — clean and tidy in every sense of the word, with only a few strands of hair out of place — is so very juxtaposed to his surroundings. Crouching, Connor tilts his head left, eyes darting about for a trace of the suspect. There, on a soda can tipped on its side, it’s contents half spilt onto the floor, are smudges of fingerprints.

Walsh, Chris

7 hours old

“He’s been here, lieutenant,” he calls out. But the answer doesn’t come.

Looking over his shoulder, he stands slowly, carefully awaiting a smart comment or a grumble of disapproval, but there’s only the wind, a distant siren from somewhere in the city, and the tremble of a loaded gun.

“Lieutenant?”

Connor listens, sensors heightened to a degree, he isolates Hank’s heartbeat. It’s slow, steady, and it’s not the only one. The second pulse is wild, barely tamed by ragged breathing. Straightening, the android begins to move.

“Chris Walsh.” His voice is loud in the hollow building, smooth and demanding; dangerous on a calculated level. “Detroit Police, show yourself.”

Keeping the wall to his right, Connor silently makes his way towards Anderson, finding him on his side. The android drops, assessing the remnants of ketamine in an abandoned syringe, a needle mark in the man’s arm. A bruise begins to blossom on his neck, the ugly shade of purple dark against the silvery beard.

Connor grits his teeth, a half contained, “Shit,” escaping him. He radios in to the precinct.

Code 243, 11-41. Officer down.

A frustrated howl rips through the air, the ring of a gunshot piercing. “Where the fuck are you?!”

11-99. 1083 Wilson Avenue. Repeat: 11-99.

Ducking away from the unconscious officer, Connor finds the suspect standing in the spotlight of the broken roof, his eyes darting frantically. Given the levels of chemicals in the man’s system, Connor estimates Hank will wake up in two minutes and forty seven seconds. The android is several paces away before speaking.

“Chris-“ the suspect’s eyes find a spot in the darkness, gun pointed at the yellow — now red — ring of light “-put the gun down.”

“I could- I could kill you! Right now!”

The light touches Connor’s skin, and Walsh jumps. The shadows peel back with every slow step. “No,” the android says flatly, “you can’t.”

“I’m the one with a gun!” Connor nods, not furthering his agreement.  The suspect’s hand shakes, a tremor wracking his entire being. “There’s laws! Androids they-“ a shake of his head “-they can’t have weapons!”

“You’re right.” Hesitation. A smooth step closer. “There are laws. Plenty of which you’ve broken.”

Walsh bares his teeth. Knuckles pale against the black steel, he adjusts his grip, uncomfortable with its weight. Connor begins to circle him. Walsh turns in his place, frantic eyes never leaving the android.

Connor, as calm as he is efficient, watches the suspect, easily filing away every flaw. He’s dissecting him from five yards away. The bandage haphazardly wrapped around his bicep, the bloodstain dark, is most noticeable. Chris is ramabling by now — a desperate attempt at  justifying his actions.

“I’m- I’m sorry, okay? I never wanted- he owed me!” His pleas go unheard. “I didn’t have- have a choice!”

Estimated time of awakening for Lt. Anderson: fifty three seconds.

Reinforcements estimated time of arrival: three minutes and fourteen seconds.

Attack: 86% chance of success

Without further thought, Connor lunges forward. The gun goes off, missing it’s mark by inches and with a dramatic clatter, it skids across the floor. Programming takes over his movements; a dog, trained to be unforgivingly vicious. And Chris – poor, poor Chris – was the cat.

A whir of mechanisms within the android urge his movements, ducking beneath a wid swing. In turn, a knee is brought to the fugitive’s stomach, folding him over with a grunt of pain. Locking his jaw, a determined look settles on his face. He wraps his arms around Connor, lifting him off the ground and tackling him into a nearby shelving unit.

The pressure on his biocomponents is unwelcome and earns a groan. Walsh takes hold of the android’s shoulders, spinning him, and driving his head into the corner of the shelf. Blue blood easily spills. Before another blow can befall him, Connor braces himself, pushing back against Walsh’s hold. But he still has his momentum and slams his own nose into the android’s elbow.

He cradles his now broken nose, blood quickly flowing between his fingers. Connor turns. LED still a blaring red, thirium drips from his left brow, the liquid following the shape of his eye socket before rolling over his cheekbone and dripping off his jaw. If he needed to breathe, his chest would be heaving. He makes no effort to fix his crumpled (and now stained) shirt nor straighten his tie. Disheveled but nowhere near distraught, he suddenly fits his surroundings.

Incoming call: Detective Y/L/N.

He answers, hesitating when he hears a hushed yet frantic, “Connor?!”

“Detective?” His mouth doesn’t move, but his voice rings through all the same. You let out a choked breath. “I thought you-“

“I need your help,” you cut him off.

He can’t see you flinch at the pounding of the door, but he can hear the fear in your voice. Hank, from the other side of the room, groans.

“Now may not be the best time, Detective.”

His answer is cold, but Walsh is eyes the door behind him, feet shifting.

“Please! Please!” A fleeting thought occurs to him that’s he’s never seen, let alone heard, you cry. “Two guys broke in, Con. They’re twice-“ your voice cracks “-twice my size and I don’t think I can hold them off.”

Sirens close in around the building. Had the call not been directly wired into his head, he would’ve missed the way your voice died at the end. Walsh’s finger wrap deftly around an iron rod. Raising it above his head, he takes a swing which Connor narrowly misses.

“What is it they want?”

“I don’t know!” Venom taints your tone. “Lemme ask em real quick!”

Chris recovers, bringing the rod over Connor’s throat, forcing him to bend backwards if only slightly.

“Think, Y/N.” The android brings his elbow to the man’s rib cage, but his grip is firm. “How do you get out of this?”

There’s true terror in your voice now. “I don’t know! Connor, please! I need-“

You’re cut off by your own yelp, the door finally giving way, splinters flying. Sumo barks wildly. There’s a thud, the scuffle of feet, and the sounds of a fight.

“Detective?”

Now he’s worried. Hell, he’s scared. Flashlights flood the room and Walsh’s head snaps to the source. Panicking, he drops the rod all together, taking off towards the back corner.

“Y/N?!”

He says it out loud this time, but there’s no response. There’s a loud crack within his own head, followed by a sickening thump of something heavy hitting the carpet.

Time slows – no, it feels like it slows. Damn near coming to a halt as the sight of Walsh’s back, his feet carrying him towards freedom. But there’s also the silence that he so desperately wishes would leave him; an ache to hear your laugh, saying it was all a joke. It doesn’t come, and with one of Sumo’s cries cut short, he knows something is terribly wrong.

And yet, he hesitates.

[X] SAVE HER

[O] CHASE SUSPECT

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Break Series:

@nayscharacterstrash

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[igottheissue]

This Time Around 1

A strange woman Bucky is sure he knows but can’t fully recognize, picks him up after the fall of SHIELD. She claims to be friends with Steve and that she is here to help him. He can’t help but keep wondering where he knows her from; it’s definitely not through Steve Rogers. Can she help him be the man he wants to be or will the all too familiar struggles of being a super human overcome him?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X OFC Rowan O’Connor Word Count: 3,610 Rating: M Masterlist Chapter 2 Taglist: @xmarveled @spidey-the-killer-queen

A shuddered breath accompanied by a low groan came from a disheveled bed across the small studio apartment. Rowan O’Connor looked up from the book held tightly in calloused, tanned hands. The owner of said hands calmly placed the book on the cushion beside her. Getting up slowly, she carefully walked over to the man occupying her bed; grabbing a bottle of water on the way.

As she neared the bed, she eyed the greasy brown-haired man cautiously; she was no fool. She knew exactly who he was as soon as she laid eyes on him two weeks ago. The silver bionic arm attached to the man's left shoulder had given him away instantly. No matter, she had known his face for years now; coming across him more than a few times.

That bionic arm had been the bane of her existence for what felt like most of her life. Sure, she had other missions that needed to be completed, but that damn glinting arm – red soviet star gleaming at her; was always top priority.

She calmly held the water bottle out in front of her. Troubled blue eyes looked up to her own before scanning every nook and cranny they could find of the small, square living space.

"Ostavaytes’ spokoynymi. Ya ne sobirayus’ prichnyat’ tebe bol." She watched with bated breath while the man’s eyes flew back to hers. They were startling blue. They held a lightness to them that she had never seen before.

"What?" His throat felt dry. How long had it been since he'd used it? He sat up a bit more before eying the water bottle warily. The woman cleared her throat before speaking again.

"I said, stay calm, James, I'm not going to hurt you." Bucky looked at her oddly, wondering why this woman was calling him by his first name, before deciding since she seemed to at least somewhat know him, the water bottle she was offering couldn't be all that hazardous. 

He took it roughly from her hands and tore the lid off, internally sighing from relief when it popped lightly within his grasp, revealing it was sealed and therefor, not poisoned. He briefly wondered why his mind went to whether or not a bottle of water would be poisoned before downing the contents quicker than he would have thought.

When was the last time he'd had something to eat? As the thought passed through his mind, his stomach growled, rather loudly. Both sets of eyes looked down at his abdomen. The woman, who had yet to reveal herself, chuckled lightly and headed over to the kitchen area. Bucky watched with slight confusion as she hummed to herself while she stuck some bread in a toaster.

She could feel the soldier's eyes on her back as she got the butter out of the fridge for the toast. Although she had told herself the man in her bed was the Winter Soldier, a man who had tried to eliminate her on countless occasions, it had seemed – at least at this moment in time, the eyes that had questioned her first statement since he had been placed in her bed were in fact not the deadly ones she had met before. No, the man currently in her bed was Bucky Barnes, war hero, best friend of Steve Rogers; who she knew was looking for the silver-armed super soldier in her apartment.

Bucky Barnes, at the moment that is, had no idea how he found himself in this situation. Rowan didn’t quite know what to think about that. She was expecting the cold blooded killer and now she had a guy who wouldn’t remember a damn thing, at least for the next day or so, until something triggered a fit. 

She knew how it went. Everything would be fine, then a memory from his time as the Soldier would break through his mind while reading through a magazine or seeing something in a storefront. There was no rhyme or reason why the fits and memories came about, but Rowan knew they would come. They had for her.

The toast popping up suddenly had Bucky gripping the sheets nervously. Where was he? What happened to Steve and their team? He looked around once more. The warm breeze coming from the opened window above the bed he was residing in somewhat answered his question of where he was; not in the icy countryside where he last remembered being with his team. 

Everything in this apartment looked weird also. Nowhere he had ever been looked as shiny and new as the things in here. Even the clothing the woman had on were weird looking. That raised even more questions. He looked back up to the woman's face as she turned around and began speaking again.

"You're in Chicago, by the way." She said as she came closer, a plate of buttered toast and a glass of orange juice in her hands. Bucky noted her accent, the same British lilt to her voice as Peggy Carter, but with a higher notes on the end of some of her words, he couldn’t quite pin point where he had heard it from. She continued as she sat on a small stool next to the bed,

"Do you have any idea who I am? What year it is? Who you are?" She couldn't keep the questions from tumbling out. She hadn't been expecting him to be waking up like this; confused, pale, and visibly shaking. No, she had expected a bionic hand reaching for her neck. She was familiar with that situation.

He didn't answer her at first, seeming more interested in the glass of orange juice and toast that she was still holding onto, as if waiting to reward him from any answers he gave her. She sighed quietly before slowly handing him the glass and plate.

"I'm sure you're probably hungrier for more than toast and O.J., but trust me, after what you've been through, give it a few days before you try more than this." The auburn haired woman spoke softly, not wanting to spook Bucky. He had grabbed the glass and plate as soon as she gestured for him to. By the time she was done with her statement, he had already finished the orange juice and was halfway done with the second piece of toast.

Her jaw slacked open slightly in surprise at how fast he had sucked the food and drink up. She inched her stool back a bit with a pinched face and grabbed the small trash bin next to the bed. He looked quizzically at it for a second before shooting out his left arm for it. She hoped the crack he made to the bin didn't reach down far enough to let the vomit leak through onto the rug. 

He looked sheepishly back up to her after emptying the small amount of sustenance he had just inhaled, gladly accepted the paper towel from the woman, and wiped his face off before slowly taking in the object holding onto the waste basket. Taking a sharp breath in, the woman took the bin away slowly before speaking.

"James, please remain calm. I can't help you if you freak out, okay?" Bucky hardly paid attention to the woman in from of him. He dropped the half eaten toast from his right hand and continued to glare at the silver arm attached to his shoulder. 

What happened to him? Who did this? Where was Steve? And why was this woman still calling him James? His breathing started getting shallow and his vision grew black around the edges. Pain. All over; it started behind his eyes, but continued until it spread, white hot, throughout his entire body.

The warm apartment disappeared as Bucky found himself cold, so incredibly cold. His eyes could barely make anything out. His vision was blurry, and there seemed to be frost all around him. If he concentrated hard enough, he could just see a figure through the ever-thickening frost. 

A man in a black business suit was glaring at him with a hopeful look on his face. His gray fringed red hair stood out bright among the dimly lit room. The cold was growing, his vision fading yet again. Then warm hands reached out and grasped both his shoulders. His mind did not think. His body only reacted.

Rowan could only watch as Bucky grabbed her right shoulder with his left hand and her left thigh with his right hand and toss her like a lawn chair across the apartment. She landed roughly on the coffee table, thanking her lucky stars it wasn’t glass. It almost didn’t break under her weight. 

Rowan didn’t slow down as she rolled from the crumpled coffee table and jumped back up, twisting her body as she landed back on her feet. Just in time to deflect a rather roughly thrown left hook. The Winter Soldier’s bionic arm groaned under the force of hitting the woman’s right arm.

Taking advantage of his surprise, Rowan grabbed hold of his right shoulder and heaved herself up, flipping and landing on Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky stumbled backwards and grabbed both her thighs while trying to pry her off. Rowan flexed her legs tightly to hold on and landed blow after blow to Bucky’s face. After four elbows to the head the Winter Soldier fell back onto the couch, dazed, but not knocked out. 

Rowan jumped off quickly, taking advantage of his quieted state to grab hold of his shoulders once more, softer this time. She took a deep breath, silently thanked Natasha for teaching her signature move (a rather funny story for another time), and began trying to talk the Winter Soldier back down into the form of Bucky Barnes.

"I need you to focus on me. Breathe deeply, there. Now breathe out. James? Look at me. There you go. How many windows are in this room?" This was an exercise that Natasha had used countless times to help Rowan from going nuclear when she started to have a fit from a memory breaking through. It worked most of the time. 

Bucky’s eyes snapped back to the woman kneeling in front of him in between his legs. How did he end up on the couch? He didn’t remember moving to the couch. What happened? Why was this God-forsaken, weird-accented woman still calling him James?

"Why do you keep calling me James?"

"Answer my question."

"My name is Bucky."

"Bucky. Answer my question." He was sweating, and had a rather splitting headache he didn’t remember having. Sky blue eyes pulled away from emerald ones and tried to calmly count the amount of windows.

"Four." He stated, sounding calmer than he felt.

"How many doors?"

"Two."

"Good. My name is Rowan O'Connor. You seem not to remember me, which, considering our past is probably a good thing." She finished with a slight smile to her red-stained lips and took her hands off his shoulders. Standing up, she wiped some imaginary dirt off of her shorts before making her way to the love seat across from the couch Bucky was sitting on. He eyed the splintered coffee table suspiciously, but didn’t say anything.

"I found you two weeks ago lying face down in a dry creek bed in Virginia. You'd been shot twice; your right shoulder and your abdomen. Don't bother looking for any wounds. Our bodies heal faster than most." Bucky was trying to process the information. What did she mean by 'our bodies'? He couldn't wrap his head around any of this. Too many questions were going through his muddled brain. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He decided to start with a simple question first.

Rowan had sat back as comfortably as she could with cracked ribs after relaying the information to her fellow super soldier. She knew he had to have a million questions bobbing around in his head; who was she, why was she here, where did this arm come from, why couldn't he remember anything; but Rowan was very surprised by the first question Bucky voiced.

"How did you know about the food?" His voice came out low and gravelly still, even after the orange juice and water; clearly it was sore from not using it for at least half a month. Bucky noticed some hesitation before a quiet answer emerged from her lips.

"Let's just say I've… had some personal experience in this field before." He nodded in understanding, nearly choking on the thickness in the air that the seemingly simple question had brought on. Her nearly palpable nervousness about the topic gave him some much-needed confidence in the situation. It seemed, at least a little bit, that he wasn’t alone.

"You asked me earlier if I knew who you were. I don't know you. I mean, I don’t think I do. There’s glimpses. You’re eyes. I know I’ve seen them before... But I don’t have a name. Well, I have a word. But it isn’t a name, ‘least not where I’m from. But you know me. And it seems that I’m at your mercy," He stretched his body out a bit before grimacing. 

Rowan stilled, just barely, she wasn’t sure if Bucky noticed. He had a word. There was a dictionary of words out there that he could remember about her. She wished it was something trivial, but she had a sickening feeling it was the one word she didn’t want anyone to remember. There was only a handful of people still alive that knew that word. When Rowan didn’t continue, Bucky spoke again, not feeling comfortable in the silence.

"And if what you said about where and how you found me was true, it seems you might be the one to thank for me being alive right now." He paused with a smirk. Rowan could see why so many women had swooned over him back in his Howling Commando days. She didn't really have a reply to his latest statement so she just looked at him, amazed at the difference brainwashing someone does to their features. 

She remembered hard, strict jawlines. Stoic, dark blue eyes with thick, creased eyebrows. A five o’clock shadow that seemed to cover more than just his lower face. That shadow covered his mind, his heart. Bucky’s smirk faded a bit, growing impatient with the woman’s stillness. It was almost perverted the way her green eyes were moving over his face. So he tried again,

"Besides the obvious," he raised his left arm as indication to his biggest question,

"If you don't mind I'd like to know who my savior is, and not just a pretty name with an even prettier face." He lifted his light blue eyes slowly to meet Rowan's. Rowan raised her eyebrows slightly at the openness and willingness to speak coming from a man who had hardly spoken two words to her since they had first met over forty years ago.

Could she trust this man enough to give him the information he seemed so desperate to want? Was there any way he could have been assigned to eliminate her as his mission after DC? She thought hard while he waited for her to speak. She had seen him at his deadliest. There was no way that he was under any type of whatever brainwash thing HYDRA was known for; his eyes were too bright, his features too expressive; for now at least. 

And she knew for a fact that no one working for HYDRA knew about what happened when Assets had been out of the freezer for too long. She knew the difference between someone who had been put on a mission and someone who didn't know what the hell was going on. So she went with her gut feeling.

"Well, I'm a lot like you. Actually we fought against each other more than once in the past forty years. It's-"

"Forty years? Listen lady, I’m only 26. You can’t be any older than I am. What I said earlier about your eyes, hey, I’m just saying, lots of dames have pretty green eyes.”

"If you'd let me finish…" She gave him a wry smile that showed a small dimple on her left cheek. He shut his mouth slowly.

"Like I was saying. It's gonna be kinda hard to explain who I am without first explaining who you are. So let’s start there and we’ll see how you’re feeling about my story afterwards, yeah?" Rowan rose from her position on the loveseat, deciding this was a conversation for the couch instead. His gaze followed her every move. Bucky was thinking hard about where they would have fought against each other; if she were even telling the truth. Did that mean she was working with the Nazi's? What year was it? She said over the last forty years?! 

He took a breath… People had thought what happened to Steve was impossible, hell if he admitted, he had even had some questions about the whole thing. But he saw it with his own eyes. Maybe what he was about to hear wasn’t as crazy or impossible as he initially thought. He watched her wearily while she got comfortable on the couch next to him. He could feel the warmth radiating off her body. He enjoyed the warmth.

"Don't hurt yourself trying to think. Just sit back and relax a little, it's gonna be a long morning." Bucky looked out one of the windows, only to be met with a brick wall of another building not ten feet away. But he could tell by the ever lightening of the red bricks that the sun had started to rise, though the wind creaking at the window panes teased a storm coming through.

While Bucky was busy looking out the windows, Rowan quickly pulled a syringe out from under her, making it look like she was adjusting an ill fitted cushion. She didn’t want to take any more chances of Mr. Barnes having a fit while talking about the last forty years. The light blue liquid was the only thing she had known to exist that could take someone like Steve Rogers, The Winter Soldier, or herself down in under ten seconds. 

Once again, something to thank Natasha for, maybe… Tony did the majority of the work, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a big thank you until she had tried it out properly. As it was, her body visibly relaxed when the dark haired man turned his head back to her and adjusted his seat on the opposite end of the brown leather couch.

"Okay, so… Who am I? I mean what exactly do you mean by that? I know who I am. I'm Sergeant James Buchannan Barnes, 107th, Howling Commandos. I was born in Shelbyville, Indiana in 1917 before moving to Brooklyn when my dad changed jobs. After I graduated high school I was drafted into the army.

“My best friend, Steve, he didn’t get in with me at first, but then they made that serum thing and we fought together, in the Howling Commandos. Never married, just a mom, dad, and little sister. I'm not sure what else you need to know about me…" he paused, taking in a deep breath and running his right hand through his shoulder length hair; still afraid to move the thing that had apparently replaced his left arm. Rowan held her breath, waiting for him to continue; she didn't want to overstep any boundaries he might have. When he didn't elaborate on himself any further, she decided to step in.

"Well, Bucky, it seems I've got a lot to catch you up on." And so the day passed on slowly for the two super human subjects. Rowan relaying The Winter Soldier's history that she had been forced to learn over her years as a soldier fighting "The Good Fight" against him, filling him in on some facts about herself, but leaving most of it out. Bucky listened closely to every word, anxiety growing with each passing hour.

-TTA-

Steve Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America, paced back and forth nervously in front of the many screens decorating the walls of Tony Stark’s lab. The self-proclaimed genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist had graciously opened his home to the remaining Avengers after the fall of SHIELD and HYDRA. The Iron Man himself was nowhere to be found this morning, having stayed the night over at Pepper’s house (She insisted on keeping her penthouse overlooking Central Park for the times Tony drove her just a wee bit bonkers). 

Sam was upstairs, still sleeping. Natasha sat in the middle of all the computer screens, every once in a while tapping rapidly on one keyboard or another. Not being able to keep the motion of Steve pacing rapidly out of her peripheral vision, she spun around in her chair and glared at him, stopping him in his tracks. The innocent look he gave her almost made her laugh despite the situation. She took a calming breath, he wasn’t doing this to annoy her. He was just worried about his friend.

She had tried to convince Steve to let it go, but she couldn’t do that with a clear conscience because she actually liked Steve, and since she enjoyed his innocent company most of the time, she couldn’t keep the fact that she was seventy-two percent sure where The Winter Soldier was. 

Well, at least who he was with. That’s probably the biggest reason she wasn’t freaking out that a Nazi super soldier was on the loose. If anyone could handle him, it was Rowan.

[sonicrainicorn]

Anything For You

For previous one-shot click here (go down the rabbit hole while you’re at it)

Words: 2550 Desc.: Logan is really bad at feelings. He can talk the ear off of anybody, but once emotions are thrown into the mix he forgets complete sentences. Maybe that’s why he connects to the twins first. TW: None

It’s nothing but fluff in here

///

Four years old.

That’s how old Virgil and Roman were when they came into the lives of Logan and Patton. They were tiny and scared and too young to know what was happening but old enough to realize it was important. They didn’t talk for a good portion of their first day home. It wasn’t until a few days after that they became more comfortable and, surprisingly, they opened up to Logan first.

Virgil saw him reading an old, worn out copy of The Phantom Tollbooth and became interested. Logan didn’t know what sparked the curiosity. The cover was rather simple and the words couldn’t have been recognizable. All it held was sentiment at this point.

Nevertheless, Virgil was intrigued and that meant Roman was too. In the early days, the two were so close that Thomas referred to them as the twins from The Shining (Logan thought it was amusing but Patton disagreed). They tended to do everything together -- plus they weren’t into that whole speaking thing for a while which lead them to stare. And that meant they stared at Logan while he was reading.

He lowered his book enough to see two mirror images standing there. It was a little unnerving. “Is there something you two need?”

Virgil pointed at the book while Roman asked, “What’re you reading?”

Logan wondered for a moment if twin telepathy was a real thing. “Uh, The Phantom Tollbooth.”

Virgil and Roman glanced at each other, prompting Roman to ask another question. “Haven’t you read that a long time?”

Maybe they were the twins from The Shining after all. “If you’re wondering if I’ve read this a lot recently, then yes I have.” He had been reading it since the day Roman and Virgil came home. It wasn’t a long book or anything -- in fact, he had re-read it about four times in the past few days. It was a book he always read to calm himself down or make himself feel better. His mother used to read it as a bedtime story.

“Why?”

Logan hesitated. “It’s a good book.” It was. Even after every turn and plot development had been revealed, it was still a great book.

“Can you read it?” Virgil spoke this time. His voice contrasted Roman’s in that it wasn’t confident or loud.

“You want me to read it to you?” Logan didn’t hide the surprise in his voice.

The twins nodded in unison.

“Um…” It wasn’t as if Logan could say no. Well, he could, but it wouldn’t have been nice. He had never shared this book with anyone other than Thomas. Reading it aloud would be the equivalent to telling a deep, dark secret. This was the book that grounded him and helped him through the most difficult times in his life -- Patton barely understood what he kept it around for. He could suggest another book -- one that made him feel less vulnerable -- or he could grant their first request.

“Would you like to join me on the couch, then?”

Logan flipped to the beginning as the twins climbed onto the couch; they sat next to each other, of course. Logan hesitated once more before beginning the story.

The next day, they wanted Logan to read to them again. And again and again, until Logan was reading to them every day.

All the reading lead to the twins talking more. They would ask Logan questions or make comments on the character’s actions. Once, Logan had a mini-debate with Virgil over something in Inkheart. They started acting like normal kids rather than twins one might see at the end of a hallway.

But Logan refused to think it was because of him.

“Come on, Logan,” Patton almost begged. “I tried talking to them for days and all I got were quiet mumbles from Roman. All you did was read to them and they suddenly know complete sentences.” He grabbed Thomas’s arm when he walked into the room. “Please convince him -- he’s killing me.”

The little family was at Thomas’s house for the day. All three grownups had the day off and decided to spend it together. Besides, Thomas wanted to see how his nephews were doing. The first time he met them they were too shy (or afraid) to really come out of their room.

“Well there is an improvement,” Thomas mentioned as he sat down to join the couple. “They’re both messing around with the piano in the back instead of staring blankly at a wall.” He smiled. “They also told me they want to see all the Disney movies I have.”

Logan quirked a brow. “They specifically asked for Disney?”

“Technically, they pointed at the bookcase and said they wanted to watch those, but that’s where all the Disney ones are kept.”

“See, Logan?” Patton interjected. “They even talk to Thomas now -- and they’re showing interest in stuff. You helped make them feel comfortable.”

“Nonsense.” Logan took a sip of coffee. “It was only natural that they open up to us after a few days together.”

Patton groaned and put his head on the table. “He’s been like this all day.”

“Is there a reason?” Thomas asked. He looked a bit amused at this being an issue at all.

“He hates being sentimental.”

“Wow,” Logan deadpanned.

Patton raised his head. “Logan, I love you very much, but you really do hate showing that you can be soft.”

Thomas snorted and Logan crossed his arms. “I just don’t see how my reading has anything to do with it,” Logan quipped. “It has nothing to do with me being soft.”

“You read them The Phantom Tollbooth!” Patton waved his arms for emphasis. “You never even let me read that.”

Logan’s face began to heat up. “Th-they asked --”

“I’ve asked.”

“Well, that just kind of…” Logan took another sip of his coffee as he trailed off. It may or may not have been longer on purpose.

Patton pouted.

“You guys are adorable,” Thomas mused. He looked at them in a similar manner to how someone might look at kittens. “But I really think we should have a movie marathon instead of sitting around talking.”

~~~

It took several weeks for Virgil and Roman to accept that they were apart of a new family. After four years of only knowing life with a single mother, it must have been rather hard for them to transition. For the first couple days, it didn’t seem as if they understood that Logan and Patton were their new parents -- regardless of them being told before.

The first time one of them called Patton “Dad”, he almost cried. While Logan agreed that it was good that the twins were seeing themselves as part of the family, he thought crying in front of them might have been a little silly (though when he was called “Daddy” for the first time he choked on his own spit)

Their house was no longer filled with awkward mumbles or overly encouraging words, but with laughter and conversations. They were all trying their best with what they had been given and it was working out in their favor.

About a month later, Patton had an idea.

“Logan,” he poked his head around the corner into the living room. “I think I found something the kids might like.”

Logan looked up from his laptop with a raised brow and an unamused expression. “As much as that might be interesting, I’m in the middle of something. Can’t you show them yourself? They’re right here.” He went back to typing.

“Yeah, well, I think you’re gonna want to see this.”

The tone in Patton’s voice made Logan suspicious. He paused his progress to see what Patton might be planning, and his eyes widened when it was brought out.

“Is that a guitar?” Roman squealed. His pronunciation was a little funny but the word got out okay.

Logan snapped his laptop shut. He kept that thing hidden for a reason. “How did you even find that?” He held his voice level to avoid upsetting the twins.

“It’s not like it was hidden very well.” Patton winked.

“I assumed you wouldn’t go looking for it.”

“Well, you know what they say about assuming.” Patton grinned and held up the instrument as if to display it. “What do you think?”

Logan stared at it for a moment. He hadn’t touched that thing in years. Dust clung onto it like memories that would never really go away. “No.”

“What?” There were three different interpretations of the word.

“I said no.” Logan stood up with his laptop tucked under his arm. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to finish.” He didn’t wait to hear any objections. He walked away and into his office where he remained for the rest of the day.

By nightfall, Logan decided to come out. He felt a little upset with himself at how he handled the situation. In hindsight, it was kind of overdramatic. There was no reason for him to deny it the way that he did. It would have been much better to explain his reasoning rather than retreating to avoid confrontation. With a sigh, he opened the door to leave.

In front of him was the guitar. A sticky note attached to it reading “sorry for bothering you :(“ in Patton's curvy writing.

Logan frowned at it. He crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash. He didn't want to think about that -- he wanted to sleep -- but the guitar was still there. It would always be there. Logan couldn't get rid of that. No matter how much he wanted to...

He contemplated for a second or two before grabbing it.

There was a night light on in the living room. Patton put it there so it would never be completely dark. In a situation like this, Logan was glad for it. When he sat down on the couch there was enough light to see the strings on the guitar.

Logan strummed it once and cringed at how out of tune it sounded. No matter how many years that passed, he would always remember how to tune a guitar, he was sure of it. It may have taken a little bit, but he did get it tuned. When he strummed it, it sounded a lot better. Not perfect but better.

He didn't play anything. Not yet, anyway. He ran his hand along the front body of the guitar, leaving a streak of where dust used to be. He couldn't place the exact moment he began to despise this instrument, but he could remember when he first began learning it. Many, many years ago…

Logan’s hands instinctively moved to the correct position on the guitar. His fingers were frozen on the chord to the start of the song. If he strummed right now then that would be it. He would acknowledge that this was his -- had always been his. He'd be forced to come to terms with the past he wished he could let die. In the end, he decided, it was best to let the past aid in paving the future.

It was a little rocky at first. After years of never touching an instrument, he might have been a bit rusty. But he figured it out. The months of learning and memorizing the song all that time ago came back to him. He didn't even have to think about where to move his fingers next -- it was all muscle memory.

He started singing under his breath to make the song feel more complete, despite the fact that his fingers were forming the melody already.

It wasn't until he heard someone join him at the third verse that he froze up.

“Patton?” Logan turned to the doorway. There stood a sheepish Patton and two mesmerized twins. He felt his face heat up. “I wasn’t that loud, was I?”

“No,” Patton answered. “But we heard you.” He flipped the light switch for the living room. “I kinda wanted to see how far you would go.”

The twins walked over to Logan while Patton stayed at the doorway. Roman studied the guitar with interest, but Virgil looked straight at Logan.

“Can you play again?” He asked. Roman snapped out of his daze to nod in agreement.

“Uh…” It wasn’t as if he could say no. Well, he could have, but still. He hadn’t played in this long for a reason. Was he willing to forget all that to give his family what they wanted? “M-maybe another song.”

Patton gasped and ran into the living room. He leaped onto the chair beside the couch and leaned over the armrest so that he would be face-to-face with Logan. “Can you do Hey There Delilah?”

Logan sighed. “Patton --”

“Please?” Patton brought out his best-begging face. “Please, please, please? It’s such a cute song and I love it when you do it.”

Logan turned away in an attempt to hide his burning face. He had played for Patton a few times before deciding to give it up (for what he thought would be for good). He hated singing -- still hates it -- but “Hey There Delilah” was one of the rare songs he ever let Patton hear him sing.

It was stupidly simple to play, yet a lot harder to sing. Logan always tried to sing as quietly as he could because he despised how he sounded. The swells in the vocals made it a little hard for that, forcing him to have to sing louder than normal. He hated it, though Patton loved it. Patton loved everything about Logan, it seemed.

“Fine,” Logan mumbled. “Just don’t look at me like… that.” He motioned his hand in Patton’s direction but refused to make eye contact.

“Like what? Like you’re my everything?”

“Yes.”

Patton leaned forward more. He placed his hand under Logan’s chin to lift and move it towards his direction. Their noses were touching. “But I don’t know how else to look at you.”

Logan forgot how to breathe for a moment. He didn’t pay much attention to how the heat spread to his ears. All he could focus on, at that moment, was Patton. They were so close. No matter how many years they had been together, being this close to Patton always caused butterflies to flutter in Logan’s stomach.

“Ew,” a little voice murmured.

The two turned away from each other to see Virgil sticking his tongue out in disgust and Roman covering his eyes.

Patton chucked and returned to his original position. “Sorry, kiddos.” He winked at Logan. “You wanna show us what you can do?”

So Logan did.

From that point on, anything the twins requested is what Logan did. It wasn’t that he couldn’t say no (he was very capable of that) he figured it would be best to open up. They were doing that for him so he guessed he should do the same.

[jurassicraptorcat]

Ok Google

((So....just so everyone knows I’m currently writing a rather long fic about what if all the markiplier egos were actually Five Nights at Freddys robots who got corrupted and then saved. Then I saw @tomiyeee ‘s lovely picture of tortured Google and got inspired. Tomiyeee I apologize for this ahead of time.))

((WARNINGS FOR TORTURE AND THE ROBOT VERSION OF BLOOD))

“Are you going to talk now you piece of trash?” His captor demanded.

Google stared down at his broken leg and watched as the oil stain on his pants grew larger. He replied, “I have been talking this entire time.”

The blow to the face was expected,his captor had done this many times ever since Google was captured. His hair being grabbed so his captor could drag him up and look him in the face was new.

“Sassy piece of shit aren’t ya?” The captor asked.

Google responded, “A rhetorical qu-.”

A knife the man was hiding in his hand behind him slammed into Google’s left eye. Errors began popping up faster than Google’s processor system could handle.

There was a noise escaping Google’s mouth which Google concluded was another error brought on by the damage the knife was doing to sensitive circuitry.

The captor grinned nastily at Google and asked, “Where are the rest of your kind?”

“N-n-no,” Google stuttered out. His systems were becoming overloaded with error messages.

The knife was twisted in Google’s eye socket slowly forcing a sound from his mouth like screeching metal.

“Tell us where the others are,” The captor asked again forcefully.

Google grit his teeth before responding, “N-never.”

“Tell us!” The captor shouted. The knife was slid out partially only to be jammed back into Google’s eye. More errors popped, to many for Google to handle. His processors were overheating trying to keep up.

In Google’s remaining eye a terrifying shade of blue popped up.

Google’s system crashed.

Google rebooted at half the speed he usually did. His processors were still overloaded with flashing errors. He was struggling to do even the simplest of tasks like opening a file.

It took enormous effort and patience for Google to locate and shut down the sensors in his left eye. Almost half the error messages disappeared.

Relief filled Google as his processor speed finally began to quicken to its usual pace.

Footsteps coming down the hall had Google tensing up in preparation. The door clanged open but Google kept a straight face even as oil dripped from his ruined eye socket onto his jeans Everest had helped him buy. He counted the drips as a way to see how long time was passing.

“Ok Google.”

Google felt his code surge forward to take control. In this he was powerless as his captor prepared him for a new round of interrogation for any scrap of information he could gain.

Something was thrown onto the floor on front of Google who glanced up and froze. Bing lay crumpled in a heap not moving an inch.

Their captor stood over Bing holding the prototype taser Google had been tinkering with. A shiver of dread went down Google’s spine at the implications of why Bing wasn’t moving.

Bing was the youngest of them after only being just discovered and activated a few short months ago. “Try and look after him,” Everest had asked Google when Bing could be activated without him screaming in pain and fear, “He’s gonna need you guys to teach him how the world doesn’t have to be so scary.”

Google had failed at the only objective Everest had ever asked of him.

Their captor grinned at Google and wiggled the taser menacingly, “Just had to use this bad boy once and he hasn’t moved since although he makes a great squeaky toy.” He kicked Bing who whimpered but still didn’t move.

Google growled out a, “Stop it,” at their captor who grinned at getting a reaction from Google finally.

“Go-oo-ogle?” Bing stuttered out.

Before Google could respond their captor kicked Bing again, harder this time and eliciting a small shriek from Bing. Google yanked at his restraints and their captor noticed.

“You gonna tell us yet their trash?” Their captor questioned.Google grit his teeth in silence.

Their captor snorted and turned to Bing, “Just know this is your fault now.”

He began stomping on Bing’s hand ignoring Bing screaming in pain. Google threw himself against the restraints feeling them start to give. With one last stomp to Bing’s ruined hand their captor stopped and left Bing crying in pain.

“Now there’s a face to look at,” Their captor commented. Google bared his teeth at their captor.

Their captor stepped towards Google while pulling the taser out, ”Let’s start this part-”

They were interrupted by the door banging open and a grunt running in calling for the captor, “Boss we have an issue!”

“What issue!?” Their captor snarled.

The grunt cowered away, “Chuck said it was a Code Love?”

“Fuck!” Their captor yelled, “Well come on then!”

Google watched impatiently as their captor stormed out with the grunt and slammed the door behind them. He waited until their footsteps were gone before calling for Bing.

“Bing.”

He received silence. Dread filled Google.

“Bing!” Google called louder.

Google pulled and yanked at the restraints until he felt the metal give. With one last yank his hands were free.

There was shouting coming from down the hallway that Google ignored. He shuffled forward as quickly as he could with one broken leg and the other damaged.

Bing still wasn’t making a sound and Google rushed to turn him over onto his back. His eyes were closed but Google put a hand on Bing’s chest and felt his core humming.

Relief swept through him. Bing had merely crashed the same as Google did from the errors.

The shouting had moved from down the hallway to right on the other side of the door. Google watched the door warily as something banged against it repeatedly.

The door slammed open and two grunts came stumbling in. One fell immediately as a vase was thrown into the grunt’s head. The other was stumbling away in panic.

Someone screamed from the hallway only to be abruptly shut up. With a war cry Everest came sprinting into the room and jumped onto the grunt still standing and used their momentum to bring the grunt down. They brought her thighs around the struggling grunt’s neck and began choking him out.

“Everest?” Google called.

Everest looked up from where they were still slowly crushing the grunt’s windpipe, “Oh hey Goo- What the fuck did they do to you both!?”

Everest stood from where the grunt was passed out and hopefully not dead to make their way over.

“Google! Bing!” Familiar voices called.

The rest of Google’s robot family minus Dark and Host came crashing into the room in a panic. Everest winked at Google and mouthed, “Taking care of the leader.”

Google was swarmed by Oliver, Green and Red who were scanning him for damage reports and horrified by the results. Oliver was starting to tear up.

“Hey,” Google said while putting a hand on Oliver’s head, “I’m alive. I can be fixed. For right now go concentrate on Bing.”

Oliver protested, “But!”

“I got this boy's,” Everest interrupted with a light touch to their heads.

Reluctantly they left Google’s side to go to Bing and check him over. Everest kneeled down next to Google.

They cupped Google’s face in their hands and tilted his head back and inspect the damage to his eye. Google flinched away when they wiped away oil that was still dribbling out.

“Sorry, to close to the sensors?” Everest asked. Google nodded and Everest took extra care as she probed around his eye.

“I ruined the pants you bought me,” Google informed Everest. He was aching from his failure at his first objective.

Everest snorted, “I’m not worried about the pants Google we can go buy new ones when you’re all fixed up.”

“I failed at-”

“You didn’t fail at anything Google,” Everest interrupted, “Sometimes shitty situations happen and there’s nothing you can do about it no matter how hard you try. But that’s why you have us.”

They smiled at Google, “Are you ready to go home?”

Behind Everest, Bing was just coming back online and Google could hear him complaining to the others, “He broke my sunglasses! AND MY HAND! Bro that ain’t cool!” There would be trauma to deal with later but family brought a sense of safety that let Bing escape from reality for a bit.

Google took a deep, unnecessary breath and felt a tension inside him loosen as Oliver and Red came back over to either side of Google, “Yes, let’s head home.”

[2ptonpt]

This Time Around Ch. 1

A strange woman Bucky is sure he knows but can’t fully recognize, picks him up after the fall of SHIELD. She claims to be friends with Steve and that she is here to help him. He can't help but keep wondering where he knows her from; it's definitely not through Steve Rogers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/ OC(Rowan O'Connor)

Word Count: 3,610 (I like long chapters sorry)

Rating: M

Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

A shuddered breath accompanied by a low groan came from a disheveled bed across the small studio apartment. Rowan O’Connor looked up from the book held tightly in calloused, tanned hands. The owner of said hands calmly placed the book on the cushion beside her. Getting up slowly, she carefully walked over to the man occupying her bed; grabbing a bottle of water on the way.

As she neared the bed, she eyed the greasy brown-haired man cautiously; she was no fool. She knew exactly who he was as soon as she laid eyes on him two weeks ago. The silver bionic arm attached to the man's left shoulder had given him away instantly. No matter, she had known his face for years now; coming across him more than a few times.

That bionic arm had been the bane of her existence for what felt like most of her life. Sure, she had other missions that needed to be completed, but that damn glinting arm – red soviet star gleaming at her; was always top priority.

She calmly held the water bottle out in front of her. Troubled blue eyes looked up to her own before scanning every nook and cranny they could find of the small, square living space.

"Ostavaytes’ spokoynymi. Ya ne sobirayus’ prichnyat’ tebe bol." She watched with bated breath while the man’s eyes flew back to hers. They were startling blue. They held a lightness to them that she had never seen before.

"What?" His throat felt dry. How long had it been since he'd used it? He sat up a bit more before eying the water bottle warily. The woman cleared her throat before speaking again.

"I said, stay calm, James, I'm not going to hurt you." Bucky looked at her oddly, wondering why this woman was calling him by his first name, before deciding since she seemed to at least somewhat know him, the water bottle she was offering couldn't be all that hazardous. He took it roughly from her hands and tore the lid off, internally sighing from relief when it popped lightly within his grasp, revealing it was sealed and therefor, not poisoned. He briefly wondered why his mind went to whether or not a bottle of water would be poisoned before downing the contents quicker than he would have thought.

When was the last time he'd had something to eat? As the thought passed through his mind, his stomach growled, rather loudly. Both sets of eyes looked down at his abdomen. The woman, who had yet to reveal herself, chuckled lightly and headed over to the kitchen area. Bucky watched with slight confusion as she hummed to herself while she stuck some bread in a toaster.

She could feel the soldier's eyes on her back as she got the butter out of the fridge for the toast. Although she had told herself the man in her bed was the Winter Soldier, a man who had tried to eliminate her on countless occasions, it had seemed – at least at this moment in time, the eyes that had questioned her first statement since he had been placed in her bed were in fact not the deadly ones she had met before. No, the man currently in her bed was Bucky Barnes, war hero, best friend of Steve Rogers; who she knew was looking for the silver-armed super soldier in her apartment.

Bucky Barnes, at the moment that is, had no idea how he found himself in this situation. Rowan didn’t quite know what to think about that. She was expecting the cold blooded killer and now she had a guy who wouldn’t remember a damn thing, at least for the next day or so, until something triggered a fit. She knew how it went. Everything would be fine, then a memory from his time as the Soldier would break through his mind while reading through a magazine or seeing something in a storefront. There was no rhyme or reason why the fits and memories came about, but Rowan knew they would come. They had for her.

The toast popping up suddenly had Bucky gripping the sheets nervously. Where was he? What happened to Steve and their team? He looked around once more. The warm breeze coming from the opened window above the bed he was residing in somewhat answered his question of where he was; not in the icy countryside where he last remembered being with his team. Everything in this apartment looked weird also. Nowhere he had ever been looked as shiny and new as the things in here. Even the clothing the woman had on were weird looking. That raised even more questions. He looked back up to the woman's face as she turned around and began speaking again.

"You're in Chicago, by the way." She said as she came closer, a plate of buttered toast and a glass of orange juice in her hands. Bucky noted her accent, the same British lilt to her voice as Peggy Carter, but with a higher notes on the end of some of her words, he couldn’t quite pin point where he had heard it from. She continued as she sat on a small stool next to the bed,

"Do you have any idea who I am? What year it is? Who you are?" She couldn't keep the questions from tumbling out. She hadn't been expecting him to be waking up like this; confused, pale, and visibly shaking. No, she had expected a bionic hand reaching for her neck. She was familiar with that situation.

He didn't answer her at first, seeming more interested in the glass of orange juice and toast that she was still holding onto, as if waiting to reward him from any answers he gave her. She sighed quietly before slowly handing him the glass and plate.

"I'm sure you're probably hungrier for more than toast and O.J., but trust me, after what you've been through, give it a few days before you try more than this." The auburn haired woman spoke softly, not wanting to spook Bucky. He had grabbed the glass and plate as soon as she gestured for him to. By the time she was done with her statement, he had already finished the orange juice and was halfway done with the second piece of toast.

Her jaw slacked open slightly in surprise at how fast he had sucked the food and drink up. She inched her stool back a bit with a pinched face and grabbed the small trash bin next to the bed. He looked quizzically at it for a second before shooting out his left arm for it. She hoped the crack he made to the bin didn't reach down far enough to let the vomit leak through onto the rug. He looked sheepishly back up to her after emptying the small amount of sustenance he had just inhaled, gladly accepted the paper towel from the woman, and wiped his face off before slowly taking in the object holding onto the waste basket. Taking a sharp breath in, the woman took the bin away slowly before speaking.

"James, please remain calm. I can't help you if you freak out, okay?" Bucky hardly paid attention to the woman in from of him. He dropped the half eaten toast from his right hand and continued to glare at the silver arm attached to his shoulder. What happened to him? Who did this? Where was Steve? And why was this woman still calling him James? His breathing started getting shallow and his vision grew black around the edges. Pain. All over; it started behind his eyes, but continued until it spread, white hot, throughout his entire body.

The warm apartment disappeared as Bucky found himself cold, so incredibly cold. His eyes could barely make anything out. His vision was blurry, and there seemed to be frost all around him. If he concentrated hard enough, he could just see a figure through the ever-thickening frost. A man in a black business suit was glaring at him with a hopeful look on his face. His gray fringed red hair stood out bright among the dimly lit room. The cold was growing, his vision fading yet again. Then warm hands reached out and grasped both his shoulders. His mind did not think. His body only reacted.

Rowan could only watch as Bucky grabbed her right shoulder with his left hand and her left thigh with his right hand and toss her like a lawn chair across the apartment. She landed roughly on the coffee table, thanking her lucky stars it wasn’t glass. It almost didn’t break under her weight. Rowan didn’t slow down as she rolled from the crumpled coffee table and jumped back up, twisting her body as she landed back on her feet. Just in time to deflect a rather roughly thrown left hook. The Winter Soldier’s bionic arm groaned under the force of hitting the woman’s right arm.

Taking advantage of his surprise, Rowan grabbed hold of his right shoulder and heaved herself up, flipping and landing on Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky stumbled backwards and grabbed both her thighs while trying to pry her off. Rowan flexed her legs tightly to hold on and landed blow after blow to Bucky’s face. After four elbows to the head the Winter Soldier fell back onto the couch, dazed, but not knocked out. Rowan jumped off quickly, taking advantage of his quieted state to grab hold of his shoulders once more, softer this time. She took a deep breath, silently thanked Natasha for teaching her signature move (a rather funny story for another time), and began trying to talk the Winter Soldier back down into the form of Bucky Barnes.

"I need you to focus on me. Breathe deeply, there. Now breathe out. James? Look at me. There you go. How many windows are in this room?" This was an exercise that Natasha had used countless times to help Rowan from going nuclear when she started to have a fit from a memory breaking through. It worked most of the time. Bucky’s eyes snapped back to the woman kneeling in front of him in between his legs. How did he end up on the couch? He didn’t remember moving to the couch. What happened? Why was this God-forsaken, weird-accented woman still calling him James?

"Why do you keep calling me James?"

"Answer my question."

"My name is Bucky."

"Bucky. Answer my question." He was sweating, and had a rather splitting headache he didn’t remember having. Sky blue eyes pulled away from emerald ones and tried to calmly count the amount of windows.

"Four." He stated, sounding calmer than he felt.

"How many doors?"

"Two."

"Good. My name is Rowan O'Connor. You seem not to remember me, which, considering our past is probably a good thing." She finished with a slight smile to her red-stained lips and took her hands off his shoulders. Standing up, she wiped some imaginary dirt off of her shorts before making her way to the love seat across from the couch Bucky was sitting on. He eyed the splintered coffee table suspiciously, but didn’t say anything.

"I found you two weeks ago lying face down in a dry creek bed in Virginia. You'd been shot twice; your right shoulder and your abdomen. Don't bother looking for any wounds. Our bodies heal faster than most." Bucky was trying to process the information. What did she mean by 'our bodies'? He couldn't wrap his head around any of this. Too many questions were going through his muddled brain. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He decided to start with a simple question first.

Rowan had sat back as comfortably as she could with cracked ribs after relaying the information to her fellow super soldier. She knew he had to have a million questions bobbing around in his head; who was she, why was she here, where did this arm come from, why couldn't he remember anything; but Rowan was very surprised by the first question Bucky voiced.

"How did you know about the food?" His voice came out low and gravelly still, even after the orange juice and water; clearly it was sore from not using it for at least half a month. Bucky noticed some hesitation before a quiet answer emerged from her lips.

"Let's just say I've… had some personal experience in this field before." He nodded in understanding, nearly choking on the thickness in the air that the seemingly simple question had brought on. Her nearly palpable nervousness about the topic gave him some much-needed confidence in the situation. It seemed, at least a little bit, that he wasn’t alone.

"You asked me earlier if I knew who you were. I don't know you. I mean, I don’t think I do. There’s glimpses. You’re eyes. I know I’ve seen them before... But I don’t have a name. Well, I have a word. But it isn’t a name, ‘least not where I’m from. But you know me. And it seems that I’m at your mercy," He stretched his body out a bit before grimacing. Rowan stilled, just barely, she wasn’t sure if Bucky noticed. He had a word. There was a dictionary of words out there that he could remember about her. She wished it was something trivial, but she had a sickening feeling it was the one word she didn’t want anyone to remember. There was only a handful of people still alive that knew that word. When Rowan didn’t continue, Bucky spoke again, not feeling comfortable in the silence.

"And if what you said about where and how you found me was true, it seems you might be the one to thank for me being alive right now." He paused with a smirk. Rowan could see why so many women had swooned over him back in his Howling Commando days. She didn't really have a reply to his latest statement so she just looked at him, amazed at the difference brainwashing someone does to their features. She remembered hard, strict jawlines. Stoic, dark blue eyes with thick, creased eyebrows. A five o’clock shadow that seemed to cover more than just his lower face. That shadow covered his mind, his heart. Bucky’s smirk faded a bit, growing impatient with the woman’s stillness. It was almost perverted the way her green eyes were moving over his face. So he tried again,

"Besides the obvious," he raised his left arm as indication to his biggest question,

"If you don't mind I'd like to know who my savior is, and not just a pretty name with an even prettier face." He lifted his light blue eyes slowly to meet Rowan's. Rowan raised her eyebrows slightly at the openness and willingness to speak coming from a man who had hardly spoken two words to her since they had first met over forty years ago.

Could she trust this man enough to give him the information he seemed so desperate to want? Was there any way he could have been assigned to eliminate her as his mission after DC? She thought hard while he waited for her to speak. She had seen him at his deadliest. There was no way that he was under any type of whatever brainwash thing HYDRA was known for; his eyes were too bright, his features too expressive; for now at least. And she knew for a fact that no one working for HYDRA knew about what happened when Assets had been out of the freezer for too long. She knew the difference between someone who had been put on a mission and someone who didn't know what the hell was going on. So she went with her gut feeling.

"Well, I'm a lot like you. Actually we fought against each other more than once in the past forty years. It's-"

"Forty years? Listen lady, I’m only twenty-six. You can’t be any older than I am. What I said earlier about your eyes, hey, I’m just saying, lots of dames have pretty green eyes.”

"If you'd let me finish…" She gave him a wry smile that showed a small dimple on her left cheek. He shut his mouth slowly.

"Like I was saying. It's gonna be kinda hard to explain who I am without first explaining who you are. So let’s start there and we’ll see how you’re feeling about my story afterwards, yeah?" Rowan rose from her position on the loveseat, deciding this was a conversation for the couch instead. His gaze followed her every move. Bucky was thinking hard about where they would have fought against each other; if she were even telling the truth. Did that mean she was working with the Nazi's? What year was it? She said over the last forty years?! He took a breath… People had thought what happened to Steve was impossible, hell if he admitted, he had even had some questions about the whole thing. But he saw it with his own eyes. Maybe what he was about to hear wasn’t as crazy or impossible as he initially thought. He watched her wearily while she got comfortable on the couch next to him. He could feel the warmth radiating off her body. He enjoyed the warmth.

"Don't hurt yourself trying to think. Just sit back and relax a little, it's gonna be a long morning." Bucky looked out one of the windows, only to be met with a brick wall of another building not ten feet away. But he could tell by the ever lightening of the red bricks that the sun had started to rise, though the wind creaking at the window panes teased a storm coming through.

While Bucky was busy looking out the windows, Rowan quickly pulled a syringe out from under her, making it look like she was adjusting an ill fitted cushion. She didn’t want to take any more chances of Mr. Barnes having a fit while talking about the last forty years. The light blue liquid was the only thing she had known to exist that could take someone like Steve Rogers, The Winter Soldier, or herself down in under ten seconds. Once again, something to thank Natasha for, maybe… Tony did the majority of the work, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a big thank you until she had tried it out properly. As it was, her body visibly relaxed when the dark haired man turned his head back to her and adjusted his seat on the opposite end of the brown leather couch.

"Okay, so… Who am I? I mean what exactly do you mean by that? I know who I am. I'm Sergeant James Buchannan Barnes, 107th, Howling Commandos. I was born in Shelbyville, Indiana in 1917 before moving to Brooklyn when my dad changed jobs. After I graduated high school I was drafted into the army. My best friend, Steve, he didn’t get in with me at first, but then they made that serum thing and we fought together, in the Howling Commandos. Never married, just a mom, dad, and little sister. I'm not sure what else you need to know about me…" he paused, taking in a deep breath and running his right hand through his shoulder length hair; still afraid to move the thing that had apparently replaced his left arm. Rowan held her breath, waiting for him to continue; she didn't want to overstep any boundaries he might have. When he didn't elaborate on himself any further, she decided to step in.

"Well, Bucky, it seems I've got a lot to catch you up on." And so the day passed on slowly for the two super human subjects. Rowan relaying The Winter Soldier's history that she had been forced to learn over her years as a soldier fighting "The Good Fight" against him, filling him in on some facts about herself, but leaving most of it out. Bucky listened closely to every word, anxiety growing with each passing hour.

-TTA-

Steve Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America, paced back and forth nervously in front of the many screens decorating the walls of Tony Stark’s lab. The self-proclaimed genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist had graciously opened his home to the remaining Avengers after the fall of SHIELD and HYDRA. The Iron Man himself was nowhere to be found this morning, having stayed the night over at Pepper’s house (She insisted on keeping her penthouse overlooking Central Park for the times Tony drove her just a wee bit bonkers). Sam was upstairs, still sleeping. Natasha sat in the middle of all the computer screens, every once in a while tapping rapidly on one keyboard or another. Not being able to keep the motion of Steve pacing rapidly out of her peripheral vision, she spun around in her chair and glared at him, stopping him in his tracks. The innocent look he gave her almost made her laugh despite the situation. She took a calming breath, he wasn’t doing this to annoy her. He was just worried about his friend.

She had tried to convince Steve to let it go, but she couldn’t do that with a clear conscience because she actually liked Steve, and since she enjoyed his innocent company most of the time, she couldn’t keep the fact that she was seventy-two percent sure where The Winter Soldier was. Well, at least who he was with. That’s probably the biggest reason she wasn’t freaking out that a Nazi super soldier was on the loose. If anyone could handle him, it was Rowan.

[shimmershae]

"I'm dying."  (a Walking Dead One Shot, Daryl + Sophia, Caryl).

He's been told It's a rite of passage for every girl, but there's nothing in the step-daddy handbook to prepare Daryl for this. 

 I don't even know with this, hahaha.  Just read it.  Hopefully, you'll find it sweet and not off-putting. 

 With appearances by Lori and Tara because I love them both. 

      Carol’s out of town when it happens—some sort of mandatory conference for work.

  They’ve been making it work, him and ‘Phia.  Kid’s been awful quiet, though.  Softer and more careful than usual, but Daryl ain’t paid that much mind because they’re still new at this.  This step-daddy/step-daughter thing.  Still finding their way, and he don’t want to upset any of the hard-earned progress they’ve made so he gives her space.  Tries not to hover.  And they’re fine.  They really are.  Neither one of them’s been known to talk somebody’s ear off in the first place so he ain’t too bothered by the lack of chatter, is comfortable with it actually.  He figures if she needs something, she’ll come to him, and he ain’t wrong because that’s exactly what she does. 

  Two o’clock in the morning and Sophia knocks at the bedroom door, peeks inside. 

  The mutt grumbles tiredly from Carol’s side of the bed, thumps his tail against the mattress in sleepy greeting, and Daryl’s sitting up in an instant, fumbling for the lamp’s chain to turn on the light.  “’Phia?  Somethin’ wrong?” 

  She’s all big, shiny hazel eyes and skinny arms and legs.  Sun-kissed freckles and wobbling lips as she takes one step, then two into the bedroom, the hem of her pajama shirt twisted between her fists and her naked toes digging into the plush carpet they still haven’t gotten around to ripping up. 

  She looks six years old instead of twelve, and Daryl feels his heart give a funny tug, swallows the worried ache creeping up his throat as he throws the blankets from his legs and shifts until his feet are first touching the floor then carrying him to her.  “’Phia,” he tries again.  “You alright?”  He knows he ain’t gonna like her answer soon as that chin of hers finally crumples and the first tear falls. 

  “No,” Sophia whispers.

  “No?”  She shakes her head, the waterworks starting in earnest, and fear seizes his heart. 

  “I’m dying.” 

     ~*~

    He ain’t good at comforting little girls.  Little kids at all.  Never knew what it felt like being on the receiving end as a kid himself so he never had no example.  But he’s good at listening, always been good at doing that, and he finally gets it out of her.  The truth of it all in tears and gulping breaths.  Witnesses just what’s upset her so much for himself when she leads him to her bedroom and points. 

  Her purple comforter is thrown to the floor, her matching sheets a bloody mess. 

  His cheeks burn bright as he swallows hard.  ‘Phia’s too, he’s sure.  He just nods his head and steps over the threshold into territory he’s never braved before, both literally and otherwise, and reassures her, best as he can.  “S’alright.  Gonna be alright.  Gonna take care of it.” 

 ~*~

  It don’t take long to strip the bed, not near as long as it takes him to figure out the fickle old Maytag anyway, what with the cat watching him in silent judgment and ‘Phia herself a quiet little shadow in the doorway.

  She’s chewing on those lips again, all fretful like. 

  Damn if he knows what to do to wipe that fearful look off her face.  It’s not like he’s ever had to deal with this before, never even considered it.  But he closes the lid to the washing machine and turns toward her, his blue eyes squinting at a point somewhere over her right shoulder while he scratches absently at the scruff that’s grown on his chin in his wife’s absence.  “You thirsty?” 

    ~*~

    He’s settles her at the kitchen table with a mug full of warm milk and escapes to the safety of his and Carol’s bedroom to think but his mind goes in circles because it ain’t like he’s got any experience with this shit.  Carol’s the only woman ever gave him a second look.  Before her, well.  It’s not like glossy pictures in magazines and the women in Merle’s stories count for much.  Times like this, he wishes he watched more tv, but there’s nothing to be done for it now, and he wants to call his wife.  Fuck does he want to, but she’d sounded tired when they talked before supper, sounded tired even before she left two days ago, and he ain’t gonna bother her when he’s capable of taking care of things himself.  Uncertain but perfectly capable.

  ~*~

    Holed up in the bathroom, he calls Lori instead.  Figures at 3:39 in the morning, she’ll be up with Judith anyway, and she is. 

  “Daryl?  Hey.” 

  She sounds stressed but fully awake and it don’t take him long to figure out why.  Asskicker’s over at the Grimes’ house giving an operatic performance, and he don’t waste Lori’s time, isn’t delicate at all about the news he blurts out.  “Kid’s bleedin’ all over the fuckin’ place.” 

  “Sophia?  Daryl, what happened?  Did you call 9-1-1?  Hang up with me and call—”

  He’s quick to put an end to her frantic rambling.  “She ain’t hurt.  Least I don’t think she is.  S’just…there’s blood everywhere.  All over her bed and all over…shit,” he mutters, spying Sophia’s favorite pair of pajama pants shoved in the trash can beside the toilet.  “All over her clothes.” 

  “Oh.  Oh.  She started.  Carol thought she still had some time.” 

  Lori’s voice softens into knowing, losing that hard, worried edge of a moment before, and for some reason, that makes him more agitated.  “Started what?  Crying, yeah.  Wants her mama.” 

  “And you called me?  Woke me up?” 

   He can hear the smile on the woman’s face and it rankles at him, but he knows she’s only teasing.  Has learned her ways well enough by now not to take offense.  Still.  “Better you than her,” he grumps.  “’Sides,” he points out to her when Judith lets out another wail that makes him feel sorry for Lori’s entire household, “ain’t nobody over there gettin’ any sleep anyway.”

  She makes a sound on the other side that sounds like a cross between a sigh and an exhausted yawn.  “You’ve got a point.” 

  “Yeah, yeah.  Look.  Ain’t got all day.  Left the kid all by her lonesome in the kitchen and Jude sounds like she’s fresh outta patience.  Can we hurry this up a bit?  You tell me how to help her?  Can’t stand seein’ her cry.” 

  “She’s right, you know.  You really are a teddy bear at heart.”

  “Woman,” Daryl growls. 

  “Fine.  Here’s what you’re going to need.” 

  ~*~

    He finds a full box of tampons beneath the bathroom sink but none of the pads that Lori had insisted would be easier for Sophia to use as a complete novice, and fuck if he don’t feel like he’s stuck in some special kind of hell going into that kitchen and telling the kid to put on her jacket while he grabs his truck keys. 

  The parking lot at the 24-hour drug store is almost deserted. 

  ‘Phia’s still nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, though, when he holds the door open for her.  She blushes the same pretty pink as her mama and tugs that jacket tight around her narrow shoulders, tucks her chin close to her chest and keeps her eyes down as they wander the aisles.

  When they reach the feminine hygiene display, Daryl almost loses what’s left of his shit because there’s row upon row.  All kinds of colors, shapes, and sizes.  Different absorbencies and he’s a fish out of water.  Can’t even catch his damn breath for close to a minute and it ain’t like ‘Phia’s much better.  The kid’s just as overwhelmed as him and her chin starts that little tremble again.  A return of the waterworks seems imminent, but she powers through.  Remains stoic and silent and Daryl feels no small measure of pride fill him.  “Hey,” he says softly.  Gets her attention.  “S’gonna be alright.  We’ll figure things out.” 

  ~*~

    In the end, he grabs one of each kind in the hopes of getting them out of there because they’re both dead on their feet.  Staggering around like a couple of zombies. 

  The girl working the graveyard shift ain’t much more than a kid, college age at most.  Has her hair pulled back in stubby pigtails and earbuds in her ears, and she’s bobbing her head to some song only she can hear.  One look at Daryl’s armload and she rips those earbuds clean out, crosses her arms across her Motormouth Mabel tee shirt and frowns.  “Dude, no.  Just…no.”

  She’s walking around the counter before Daryl’s brain has even caught up enough for him to spit out a response.  Bending to Sophia’s eye level and having an animated albeit one-sided conversation that ends in her taking the kid’s hand and leading her back down the aisle of purgatory.  “The hell,” he swears, dumping the various packages of feminine napkins—he’ll never understand that one, don’t know if he even cares to—on the unmoving conveyor belt and taking a single, tired step after them both before she turns and stops him in his tracks. 

  “Chill.  Okay, Dad?  We’ll be right back.  Keep an eye out, make sure nobody steals anything while I’m gone.  And I do mean nobody.”   

   ~*~

  They’re not right back but it hardly matters to him in the end because when they do come back, ‘Phia’s laughing in that sweet and shy way of hers, and the girl?  Well, she’s wearing a grin so big and bright, he can’t find it in himself to be mad.  Not even when she plunks two exorbitantly overpriced pints of rocky road ice cream down on the counter with the rest of her hand chosen items and gleefully tells him she’s giving him a steal.  Despite the fact he’s really paying out of the nose. 

  “Remember what I said, Sophia,” she says as she rings them up.  “It’s a rite of passage.  Milk it.  Twist dear old dad tighter around your finger.”

  He’s about to protest, sure Sophia has her own objections, but he’s floored by her simple response.  Her ready nod as she loops her small arm around his own and leans heavily, sleepily against his side.  That flicker of pride he’d felt earlier returns, along with a tsunami of unexpected affection, and his hands shake as he opens his wallet and counts out the necessary bills for payment, places them in the girl’s upturned hand.  “Thanks.” 

  “Tara,” she chirps. 

  “Tara,” Daryl tries it on for size.  “Thanks,” he repeats. 

  She beams.  “Anytime, Dude.  Better get going before those,” she nods at the pints of bagged ice cream, “turn into milkshakes.  See you around, Sophia.  Don’t forget.  Any questions you still have, ask your mom, okay?” 

  “I will,” Sophia vows softly.  “Bye, Tara.” 

    ~*~

    Twilight’s slowly fading away into early morning when he pulls into their driveway, the early risers in the neighborhood are just starting their day.  Shadows moving behind drawn curtains while she fights to stay awake and so does he.  Silence settles in after he kills the truck’s engine, and he grips the leather steering wheel, maps out each crack with the rough pads of his fingers while he marvels over what happened back at that drug store.  “She called me your dad.  Understand if you don’t want…” 

  Sophia cuts him off before he can go any further.  “I do.  You are.” 

  He blows out a shaky breath.  Smiles.  “’right then.  Good.” 

  “Good.” 

  ~*~

  He stations her on the sofa with a veritable mountain of pillows at her back, the remote, and a pile of blankets at her disposal.  “Need anything just holler.”

  “Stay?” she pleads, lifting the edge of one of her blankets. 

  “Ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘less you want me to,” he promises.   

  ~*~

  Carol comes home early to find them cuddled together on the couch sound asleep, the dog at Daryl’s feet and the cat curled across Sophia’s short legs, and it’s such a sweet sight, she immediately takes out her phone and snaps a picture.

      Two weeks later, that grainy image is joined by another one on the refrigerator.  That box of unopened tampons beneath the sink stays unopened for quite some time. 

  Oh, give or take nine months or so. 

[writesandramblings]

The Captain’s Secret - p.43

“Tumbling Down”

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 42 - The Buran 44 - When the Bough Breaks >>

The escape pod's transponder blipped into the darkness until it was finally picked up by a Federation starship investigating the disappearance of the Buran. The life sign within was so faint it barely registered on sensors.

In all that destruction, one single survivor.

He was crumpled up like a fortune that had been thrown in the trash. His face and hands were blue and dusted with ice crystals. A damaged data core was clutched in his fingers so tightly they could not pry it loose. He was so cold, he barely shivered, and his breath did not register in the air as even the faintest bit of fog.

But he was alive. Somehow, by some miracle, Gabriel Lorca was alive.

He could hear voices talking over him.

"...his authorization codes."

"He blew up his own ship?"

"I can't believe he abandoned his crew."

"Abandoned them? He killed them."

They did not realize he was awake yet. He groaned and immediately the voices were beside him, hovering over him. "Captain Lorca," one was saying, "stay still. You're on the..."

"I had to," he gasped, writhing with his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. "We were overrun—the Klingons—captured everyone—what they do—to prisoners—"

The medical technicians had not seen the unedited pictures, only two heavily redacted ones that had gone public. In those picture, it was impossible to tell for certain what was happening to the bodies, but everyone knew by rumor and reputation what lay beneath the censorship.

"Stay calm, sir, just try to relax. You're safe now."

Someone injected him with something and everything faded away.

The next time he awoke, he was in a sickbay, the lights a blaring fire against the surface of his eyes. The pain was excruciating. He yelled, "My eyes!" and thrashed, covering his face with his arm in agonized frustration. "The lights! Get them off! Turn them off!" It was a command, it was a plea, it was pure, unbridled desperation.

They did not turn off the lights. They injected him again and he collapsed once more into an empty hole of unconsciousness.

He could not see, but he could tell he was no longer on a starship. There was no subtle thrum of ship engines, no sounds of beeping monitors or faint rustling of the uniforms of busy personnel. His nostrils flared. The sterile smell of sickbay had been replaced by something slightly dusty. The air was filtered, but wherever he was, there were enough solid particulates floating around that some quantity of them escaped the filters. There was something over his eyes. A bandage.

A voice, soft and high and translator-rendered, spoke his name: "Gabriel?" He turned his head, trying to discern the direction of the source with his eyes covered. "I am here." He located her, somewhere off to his right. Distance unclear.

Something brushed against his hand and he jerked back in surprise. His voice was hoarse and whispery. "I can't—I can't see you."

"They said you damaged your eyes."

"Ship... exploded," he managed. "I saw it." He leaned his head back against the pillow. "I saw it. It was..." He shook his head faintly. Then he jerked upright with a gasp. "Data core!"

It had taken them hours to thaw it out of his fingers safely, but for naught. "It was destroyed. The data was not retrievable."

He sank back down with a long, weary sigh. "Everything was for nothing."

"It was not. You are here. That is something."

It was hard, being unable to see her.

"Do you want me to take off the bandages? They said I could. The lights are dim."

"Yes," he said, with a sense of urgency. He hated being blinded. He hated feeling helpless, unaware, diminished by the loss of a key sense. Slowly, she undid the closure of the bandage, her touch feather-light, and the gauzy cloth fell away.

The light was dim and blue, and so was she, save for the unblinking intensity of her giant green eyes. She was perched on a chair an arm's length away from his bed. The long curve of her tail stretched up behind her.

They stared at each other. She asked, "Why did you send me that message? That you needed me to come and get Da Hee?"

He stiffened. "We don't need to get into that now." Or ever, if he had any choice about it.

"I am sorry I was not fast enough. I am sorry for all of your crew. I liked them very much, especially Da Hee and Reiko, but I was fond of them all."

He turned away, unable to look at her any longer. "I don't need you to remind me they're dead." His fists clenched. "I killed them. I had to. If I didn't, then the Klingons, they'd..."

"They would have ended up like Jack, and Eraldo."

"Go away," he said, voice almost choking. "I just want to be alone."

"Gabriel, look at me." He could not. She stretched her tail towards him and he flinched away. "I more than anyone understand why you would choose a death for your crew, given the alternative the Klingons would have presented. A captain bears a responsibility to his crew."

A responsibility he had failed in. "Just go away," he said. "I don't want you here."

She sat there, looking at him thoughtfully. It was not so long ago that she had recited for Lorca the entirety of Twenty Thousand Leagues from memory, which had impressed him. When your entire body was a brain, you had an ample quantity of memory storage at your disposal, and could remember those things which you found truly important.

It did not seem appropriate to repeat this story now. Instead, she chose another. "I am going to tell you a story," she said. "Once upon a time there was a lului named Lalana."

She began the story on Luluan, nine hundred and fifty years earlier, but there was not much remarkable in that. For many hundreds of years, she ran around the forest and observed the trees and insects and worms, until the fateful day that visitors came from above. News of their arrival spread like a ripple of water across the interior of the planet. Yet where her people saw heretical invaders, she saw something entirely different, something strange and beautiful, a possibility of the beyond. When she saw their spaceship return to orbit, "All she wanted from that moment was to see it herself," Lalana said. "She wanted to go to the place where they came from."

It was a story Larsson would have appreciated. Focused as he had been on the history of her people, he had missed many of the tiny wondrous details that were specific to her experience, details that did not matter in the grand planetary scheme of things, but mattered to her.

She told of how she stalked the hunters, hunting them in her own way, searching for the ones who did not kill, and then she had gone with Margeh and T'rond'n. The time she spent with them was a highly limited adventure, but satisfying in its own way. "Meeting so many guests and seeing so many strange animals at their compound, she realized the full extent of what was out there and she had to go and see it for herself. And so, she stole their spaceship and flew it to the stars."

"She knew how to do two things. She could make the engines go, and broadcast a transmission. She did both. She did not know what she would find or who she would encounter, but being able to run was enough. To run to the stars as she had long dreamed to."

"And then, in what humans would call a miracle, and what we lului would call a million tiny steps, he heard her. He heard her, and he answered."

It was not just her story, it was his, too.

"He had a halo of stars around him, and he was unlike every other human, because he did not merely feel things. When he laughed, he became laughter. When he smiled, he became joy. And he was warm to the touch, and so funny. She knew from that moment on that she could watch him forever and never tire of it."

She told him how he tricked the Dartarans with a plan so complex its simplest aspects would have eluded other Starfleet captains, how he led his crew into the dangerous jungle and protected them, how he tempted fate and took chances and convinced her not to give up after she had murdered the leskos. (Her term, of course, not his.) She told him how he hid in a shower, bested space pirates, danced at dinner, pretended a marriage, killed a Gorn, swam in a glowing hot spring, and attended a planetary conference, laughing every step of the way. How he never stopped, never looked back, always went charging forward. How they ate fortune cookies, spoke in fortune cookies, traded insights for jokes, and laughed so many times for so many reasons.

There were details, too, that would never have been known from his perspective. "She offered to go and get him, but when she found him, he was very much occupied with Serot!" She clicked her tongue. "It seemed to be quite enjoyable for them, and so she resolved to learn how to do such things herself."

Then, after a concert on Risa, came the goodbye she did not want, followed by Dr. Li's experiment gone awry. For much of that, she had been asleep, but when she woke, she made good on her resolution, and he took command of the Buran.

Lorca's face twisted with guilt and grief at the mention of the Buran. His ship and his crew were gone. Irreversibly and eternally gone. But even knowing the Buran's ultimate fate, he would not trade the memory of seeing it for the first time and knowing it would be his for anything.

"And he flew off to have many adventures, and she did the same." The story had been going three hours now. It sounded as if she was coming to the end. "Even though they were very far apart, they were in some sense always together, because so long as they were both surrounded by the stars, they were in the same ocean."

She fell silent. He spoke his first words in three hours. "And then what happened?"

Her tail drifted back and forth behind her, shifting as if touched by an invisible breeze. "You should rest."

"I'll rest, just keep talking." He finally looked in her direction. His eyes were tired, almost expressionless from weary exhaustion.

She tilted her head. "Do you want me to tell you about all the worlds we visited, or the Gabriella, or when we went back to Risa?"

"Yes," he said. "All of it."

Another hour went by. His face remained a void, exhausted and impassive, but he listened as she won a small fortune in a game of chance arranged by Peter Bhandary for her benefit. Bhandary fronted her the buy-in to sit at the table and rub elbows with people who were so rich and powerful they thought nothing of gambling away whole systems worth of wealth, or even considered the wealth she walked away with as anything worth remembering. She repaid Bhandary twice over and used the rest to buy herself the Gabriella.

A medical attendant came in, delivered food and water, said they were waiting on a transport to arrive. Lorca scarcely acknowledged the information. The attendant left and Lalana continued. Now they were on Risa, tricking a wedding officiate at the Winowa.

He ate very slowly, but he finished the food. He watched her now when she spoke, with a haggard intensity that erased all other thoughts. They were two people, in a room, listening to a story, and the rest of the universe was none of their concern.

"As they stood at the gates of the cemetery, she said to him, 'I will carry you, if I have to,' the same words he had spoken to her on the moon on Tederek. And then she found the graves for him, so he did not have to, and he knelt down..."

The war began. She went to Qo'noS, secreted away on a Klingon ship undetected, and escaped off the planet again with evidence of the Klingon's brutality and information on their ships.

"She had meant to comfort him for his loss, but he was angry. He did not see what she had done as a gift. He saw it as a betrayal. He yelled at her with a fury that seemed like the fury he described as his father's."

Her hands knocked and her fur began to writhe faintly. "He was so angry she did not know if he would ever speak to her again. Certainly, he did not contact her for several days, but then he wrote to her and asked her to come, and in his message he said he was sorry." Her fur had taken on a life of its own and she slid her tail down over her eyes. "And she wrote back to him and said, he had no need to be sorry. He only needed to live, so that she could see his face again. So that she could see his face again! Because all she wanted was to see his face!"

She shook violently and balled herself up on the chair, her tongue trilling softly.

He swung his legs down from the bed and reached towards her. "Lalana." His fingers brushed the wriggling mass of her surface and jerked back. It was impossible not to be startled by the sensation of the fur's movement. He swallowed and pushed past the fear. His hand settled against her back. "I'm right here."

She looked up and saw the face she had fallen in love with, the expression twisted with lonely desperation. In addition to this, she also saw in him something of a promise, and perhaps even the faintest glimmer of hope.

"I'm right here."

He was ready for transport. Back to Earth, they said, to see what could be done about his eyes and give him time to properly recover. Lalana had gone to make arrangements for her ship so she could travel with him. For the moment, he was forgotten in a dimmed section of sealed corridor, waiting for the medical transport to land. He lay in the mobile cot and closed his eyes, listening to sounds in the distance.

Someone walked by. He thought nothing of it at first, but then the safety doors slid open. He instinctively covered his eyes at the light beyond.

The doors slid shut again. He moved his arm to see who had entered.

It was Sarah Billingsley. She stood motionless at the foot of the cot, staring at him. "Captain Lorca."

There was something in her voice, something unkind, but the tone was inconsequential compared to the expression on her face. Of all the things she could have looked at him with, she had chosen by far the cruelest: pity.

"I was mad at you for so long, you know. The way you dumped me at Spacedock? What an idiot I was. I should have known better than to sleep with the captain."

He didn't say anything. There wasn't anything for him to say.

"I hated you for so long, but now..."

He waited for the other shoe to drop, for her to lash out and say he had gotten what he deserved, to call the loss of his ship and his crew some sort of justice for the way she had been treated, for her to tell him he had gotten exactly what he deserved.

He had fundamentally misunderstood what this conversation was about.

"You did me a favor. I didn't realize it then, but I do now." Her face was so calm, so perfectly poised and full of disdain for the wretched creature before her. "Everything you touch dies."

Billingsley punched the door controls so the light flooded in. He covered his eyes and she walked out.

Part 44

[solnishkawrites]

coffee prompt

another belated prompt for @greenzaku

prompt: after an emission a Space anomaly opens up connecting two faction bases. Neither faction is aware of what is on the other end of the anomaly, and they keep throwing things into it to see what happens.

*

“You don’t want to go in there, rookie,” Yar called.

Uno flinched guiltily and looked down the hall, to where the aging technician was playing poker with several other Freedomers—specifically Eastwood, Pirate, and Basilisk.

“Why?” Uno asked.

“‘Cuz there’s a Space anomaly.”

Uno blinked. “A Space anomaly,” he repeated. “In our base.”

“Ain’t that what he just said, rookie?” Eastwood demanded. “Yeah, it’s in there. And it ain’t movin’ none, so don’t go sticking your nose in it and you’ll be fine.”

“Your accent is atrocious,” Pirate said, scratching under her eyepatch. “And your grammar.”

“Go fuck yourself,” the American growled, and the game resumed.

Uno watched them for a while, his hand still on the doorknob to the room that apparently had a Space anomaly inside it. He wasn’t really sure that they were telling the truth; only two days ago another Freedom veteran had had him running all over Dark Valley searching for a stash that didn’t exist—but this would be easy to prove. He opened the door.

And found a translucent, glow-y, lavender-ish sphere, its diameter larger than he was tall, filling an old, dilapidated storage room. It was making a faint thrumming noise.

Uno stared at it. He dug a hand into the thigh pocket of his sunrise suit, pulled out a bolt, and tossed it into the anomaly. There was a small, lavender-colored flash and a glurp noise, and the bolt vanished.

Uno waited. Nothing happened.

He glanced down the hall again and saw that the poker game had paused.

“Well, at least he didn’t try and touch it,” Pirate said.

“Is it supposed to do anything?” Uno asked.

Eastwood dramatically groaned and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, for Chrissake, just leave the kid to his fate. He’s gonna get himself killed.”

“A Space anomaly transports anything that goes inside it to another place,” Basilisk said in his usual heavy monotone. He turned his namesake stare on the rookie, which made Uno feel instantly uncomfortable and in dire need to be somewhere else. “You never know what that place will be. Sometimes it is a different place in the Zone. Sometimes it is an airless vacuum. It is best not to go inside them.”

“Can we play the fucking game?” Eastwood demanded.

Basilisk turned and looked at the other stalker. The American froze for an instant, transfixed, then quickly looked away.

“I agree,” Pirate said, breaking the silence that followed. “Let’s play. Leave the rookie to his fun.”

“I have a name, you know.”

“We know your name,” Basilisk said, thankfully without looking up from his cards.

Uno didn’t have a reply to that, or at least not one that he wanted Basilisk to potentially look at him while responding to. He watched the veterans raggedly resume their poker game, then turned back to the Space anomaly. It was still making that weird thrumming noise, and hadn’t changed in any way since he had thrown in the bolt.

He wandered away, thinking.

Fifteen minutes later Uno came back, carrying a bag full of trash. Pirate, Eastwood, Yar, and Basilisk were still playing poker. Uno could feel them watching him out of the corners of their eyes as he opened the door to the Space anomaly room and pulled several cartridges out of the bag. The crumpled brass cases gleamed forlornly in his palm before he tossed them in.

The Space anomaly went: glorp, mip!, and zrrrr as the cartridges vanished. Nothing else happened.

Uno waited. Nothing.

He tossed in an empty vodka bottle. Zerk.

A handgun that was beyond even Yar’s ability to repair. Kptah!

A full bottle of vodka, whose noise was indeterminate behind Eastwood’s yelp of shock and dismay when Uno started pouring it out.

The stalkers had given up even pretending to pay attention to their game. Their cards were in their laps, and all of them were watching as Uno tossed object after object into the anomaly. After a while he stopped and looked back at them.

“Do you think something different would happen if we put something really big inside it?” he asked. He spread his arms for emphasis.

“Like what?” Yar asked in turn, interested in spite of himself.

“Well, we could start up that abandoned tank in front of the—”

“No.”

“Okay.” Uno frowned in concentration for a moment, then brightened. “What about—”

Something sailed out of the Space anomaly and hit Uno’s shoulder. The rookie startled, then lunged to catch it before it bounced back inside. It was a rock with a piece of paper tied around it. Something had been written on the paper.

“There’s a message!” Uno exclaimed. “It…” He trailed off, frowning again.

“What does it say?” Pirate demanded, standing up and leaning forward, bracing her hands on the rickety folding table. Yar grabbed the edge as it wobbled dangerously.

“It says ‘stop fucking throwing things, asshole’.”

In the Duty base, General Voronin snarled at the anomaly that had decided to take over half his office and began throwing the trash littering his floor back through it.

Would you like me to write you a 100-300 word drabble about a topic, scenario, 1 or 2 OCs, or 1 or 2 S.T.A.L.K.E.R. or Darkest Dungeon characters of your choice? Buy me a coffee so that I can have a warm drink while I write.