#i'm all for the angst and pining

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

Gravity Falls AU where Ford comes back to his universe, and he still punches Stan and makes mistakes, and weirdmaggen still happens, and Stan still has his memory wiped.

But he gets it back, and he and Ford make up properly, the kids leave for the school year. Ford and Stan go exploring all over the world, in the Stan O' War.

Everything's the same, really, not a lot of canon divergence!

Except- next Summer, when Ford and Stan go back to the Shack to spend it with the kids. The hijinks ensue once more, but. Maybe a month or two in, Ford is sitting on the sofa and glances over.

The lamp doesn't look right.

[arttsuka]

Some past fiddlestan? (Like Ford just went through the portal. He gone now. Past. Yk?)

The mystery misery yaoi

[ghoul-foolery]

Dirty Windows | 25

Hancock x Nora - A Fallout 4 Soulmate AU

//

Fic Summary:

Hancock never thought he would find his soulmate. Once a common occurrence, soulmates turned into a bit of a rarity after the bombs dropped. It was to be expected when there was an influx of people getting shot in the face on a daily basis. So when Hancock discovered that he had a soulmate he was ecstatic; all of the people in the Commonwealth, and he was one of the lucky few.

Too bad his soulmate didn't want anything to do with him.

// TW: Mentions of sex trafficking

[ 1 ] <- [ 20 ] [ 21 ] [ 22 ] [ 23 ] [ 24 ] - [ 26 ]

//

Hunting down this piece of shit trafficker guy involved too much cloak and dagger shit, and Hancock was getting borderline sick of it. It was the waiting that got him. Every day he was forced to sit and wait was another day these fucking degenerates had the chance to hurt someone in too many terrible ways. While he wanted to tackle this thing shotgun first it would mean nothing if he couldn’t stop the shit from happening again. Cut the head off of the snake and the body would follow. 

So he’d force himself to wait around for things to fall into place. 

MacCready knocked his job and got to Nora far faster than he’d anticipated, which was a damn gift. While he wanted to head to Bunker Hill immediately, he forced himself to wait a couple days. It was a little bit of time for Nora and MacCready to get to know one another, a little time to steel his nerves and make what he hoped would be his final move against Cecil the skin trader. Nora having an expert gun at her side gave him the comfort he needed to push forward with his plan.

Two whole days after MacCready arrived at the Slog Hancock got Fahrenheit to agree to babysit Goodneighbor, and he set out for Bunker Hill. 

The Hancock clothes were swapped out for something more inconspicuous; casual, relaxed clothes layered with carefully placed pieces of armor. The tricorn hat was replaced with a threadbare ski cap. Without the fancy colonial duds, Hancock was just another ghoul. Just another ugly fucker who might go feral at any second. 

After getting to Bunker Hill, Hancock spent an hour or two milling about, observing and listening. Discretion was key, and he didn’t want to scare off his mark before he even got eyes on him. It didn’t take long to find the guy. His contact, the guy the now-dead secret seller called Gerard, was a big guy. Bear-like in stature. Big, muscly, hefty. And pretty fucking disgusting. He looked sloppy. His chest-length beard looked matted; grossly tangled. The clothes were stained, threadbare, most clothing in the Commonwealth was but Gerard’s were exceptionally so. 

At first glance he looked pretty deep in his cups. His whole upper body was slumped down at one of the tables in the settlement’s main building. It was littered with empty bottles. Hancock wondered if anyone ever assumed he was dead — when Hancock got closer, he certainly smelled dead. But when he placed a fresh bottle of beer on the table, Gerard stirred. He lifted his head, peering up at Hancock with bleary eyes.

"Mind if I have a seat, brother?"

Gerard reached for the bottle, and went to take a swig. The bottle didn't make it to his lips before the liquid was sloshing down over his chin and neck, wetting his beard and his dirty shirt. 

Hancock took a seat, taking a drink of his own beer. He considered sloshing his own drink in solidarity then decided against it. There was a silence between the two for a handful of moments before the guy grunted, "The fuck you want?"

"Gerard, right? Friend of mine said you were someone I should find if I needed help procuring something."

There was a sudden clarity in the man's eyes, a steely hardness that took Hancock off guard. It was like he flipped a switch and turned into a totally different person. There was a sudden tension in his body, an awareness that Hancock wouldn’t have thought he was capable of. If the drunken slob thing was an act, then Gerry needed a fucking award. 

Gerard’s eyes turned appraising. He surveyed Hancock as if he was a particularly interesting science experiment — and Hancock met his gaze head on. For every second Gerard surveyed Hancock, Hancock surveyed him. If he could manage it, he decided that he’d pick Gerard off at a distance. While Hancock could take a hit, he knew that Gerard would fold him like a napkin with little effort.

There was a show of rubbing his too big palms over his disgusting pants, then Gerard held out his hand. Hancock took it, and damn near regretted it. Ol’ Gerry’s grip was tight, just past the point of painful where it seemed like the bastard was deliberately trying to crush his bones. But there was something being pressed into his palm—

"Ya found me. Now get the fuck outta m'face, y'ugly piece’uh shit," he growled, then tossed Hancock's hand from his grip.

"Sure brother, sure," Hancock drawled, fingers curling around the item that had dug so securely into his palm. He stood, rapping his throbbing knuckles on the table, before he pivoted on his heel and left.

Hancock made sure that he was clear of the building before he chanced a look at what had been given him. 

It was a crumpled note, and written in faded pencil were the words: midnight - front gate. 

Hancock groused, glaring at the handwriting before wedging the note into his pocket. He was getting tired of this waiting bullshit. But without a whole lot of choices in the situation, Hancock loitered, he explored, he checked in on Nora.

When his girl wasn’t elbows deep in grease and gears, she was with MacCready. The little shit had listened to Hancock’s request and showed Nora around working a rifle — but the lessons had been brief, and more often than not, MacCready was trying to get his hands on the Pop-Boy. 

"Aw, come on. Just let me see it for a minute."

"RJ, I'm using it right now."

"Come on, I know you have at least one game on there."

"You can play with it when I am finished with it." 

"You swear?"

"Yes, RJ. I swear."

Though he could feel Nora's irritation starting to manifest itself, her voice remained calm, and gentle. The woman must have had the patience of a saint. Hancock sat and watched for several minutes, smiling to himself as he listened to them chat. Arlen would pipe in on occasion to help Nora with some of her work. They all seemed so relaxed, enjoying one another’s company.

When MacCready asked about the Pip-Boy for the millionth time, he couldn't stay quiet.

"Tell him that if he asks about it again yer gonna send him to bed without dinner."

The dregs of irritation vanished, and he felt Nora's emotions shift. A warmth flooded him, bright and welcoming. Goddamn he wanted to be at the Slog with her so fucking bad.

"John says that if you keep asking about the Pip-Boy, you will be sent to bed without dinner."

There was a scoff in response, some kind of joking comment about how Hancock wasn’t his real dad, then Nora stood from her work. She tugged the Pip-Boy from her wrist and passed it to MacCready, "You can use it until I get back."

"Finally!"

Hancock watched as she left the workshop and stepped outside. She loitered away from the Slog, not terribly far, but far enough to get a little bit of privacy. 

"You've been busy today," he said softly, still basking in that pleasant warmth that radiated from her half of the bond. Fuck, it felt like home. Like greeting the sun after a long winter. He wanted to live in it.

"Yeah, sorry. We've been working on the purifier. Almost done with it, actually."

"I'm proud of ya," he said, allowing his focus to settle on her perspective, on the fencing around the pool house, on the surrounding trees and greenery. "You're kicking ass over there."

"Thank you. I feel like I'm accomplishing something - something big, that people can benefit from, you know?"

They chatted about the purifier for a few more moments, then MacCready. Nora didn't seem to mind him, even going so far as comparing MacCready to a brother that she never wanted. 

"I know it's gotta seem like I gave you a babysitter, or maybe a babysitting gig," he started slowly, grimacing when he silently admitted to himself that that had been exactly what he did. She wouldn’t accept his help, so he sent someone in his stead.  "But hopefully after tonight-"

"Tonight? What's happening tonight?"

"I, uh, got a meeting... with our buddy, Cecil. Hopefully."

"How did you find him?"

"Everything is for sale if ya know the right person, and you got the right amount of caps," he rasped. "I... I just wanted to give you a heads up so ya don't come calling and see somethin' you don't want to be seein'."

"Is anyone going with you?" Her voice was steeped in worry, growing a little tight, a little airy. Then came the flood of emotion that took away all that magnificent warmth. It was a bitterness that coated his tongue. It was a rampant heartbeat fluttering next to his own steady calm. 

"Nah, flyin' solo on this one." The worry was immediately accompanied by hair-raising, gut-twisting anxiety. "I'll be fine." No answer, just wave after wave of emotions that almost made him feel ill. He focused his efforts on blocking that part of their bond. "Nora..."

There was a sniffle, "Promise you'll be careful..."

His heart ached. Fuck, was she crying for him? Slowly, he grasped one of his hands, giving it a gentle squeeze as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the knuckle. He hoped she felt what bit of comfort he tried to give her. "Baby, yer breakin' my heart..."

"Please promise me."

"I'll promise to be careful on one condition..."

"John-"

"I promise to be careful, Nora. But now I want you to promise me something..."

A soft sigh, a mere sliver of that anxiety lifted away. He felt smooth skin at his fingertips, felt their tickling touch on the back of his hand. It was a surreal feeling, as if he was touching and being touched. He could feel the caress at the back of his hand, feel it in every wandering digit.

"Okay..."

"I know you don't need a babysitter, and I know that you probably don't like bein' saddled with one. But... if you can keep MacCready with you for another week or two..." He tickled his own fingers over his palm, feeling the softness of her skin under his touch. He pretended that she was there with him, their hands entwined. "Let him show ya the ropes, just for a couple of weeks. Then, when he heads back this way... maybe consider coming with him. You don't have to stay, I won't keep you here but... Promise that you'll consider it."

A gentle touch to his cheek, the barest caress, had him sighing softly. He leaned in to pursue the phantom touch, finding nothing but empty air. He opened his eyes, staring at the space he imagined Nora being and he fucking ached. "In two weeks, when RJ heads back to Goodneighbor... I'll be with him."

"Don't say that unless you're sure."

"I'm sure."

//

Tags: @takottai / @a-little-pebbl  / @yamatra

[myownpersonalstar]

amangela shakespeare play au

I have so many thoughts and ideas......

[magnusbae]

I'm meant to be writing so naturally my brain went into asking the real questions— why don't we have fandom music? We have all forms of expressive art, writing, drawing, editing. The more physical forms of art, sewing outfits, forging swords, acting, even audi narrating fics. So basically all art forms in order to further explore our blobros and yet— no music? Why is it? I am genuinely curious why songwriting and music-making is the one form of art that is not present in the daily fandom life? Yes there's music video edits, even people recreating music from shows on piano etc— but that's not what I mean, I mean honest to god making a real, proper, lyric and music and singing original song for your blobro. Why don't we have that?

[tavtarnish]

I don't really go here, but where are the fics where Roach and Ghost are both pining over / obsessed with Soap??

[sonysakura]

Angsty Sonadow Drabble #11

This time written to one of my recent sketches, featuring a pretend relationship and "unrequited" mutual pining 🥺

▪▫▪

fake relationship, mutual pining

It feels methodical. The way they grab at each other both to steady themselves and as a warning not to go further. Maybe this isn’t how actual loving couples go at it... But Sonic can’t help getting lost in the kiss anyway, he can’t stop himself from enjoying that lack of space between their chests, the touch of Shadow’s lips and his teeth and the subtle bite he adds to the action.

Their ears twitch when a door closes in the distance – whoever has caught them finally leaving, and the hedgehogs separate. Only for Shadow to dive right back in, making Sonic’s heart skip a beat even as he doesn’t reciprocate. He pushes the other back despite feeling like he’s tearing a limb from his own body.

“Don’t have to pretend anymore, you know?”

“Right,” Shadow lets go of his wrists, sounding hollow, and all Sonic can feel is regret.

▪▫▪

Read the whole collection on Ao3.

[sysig]

Roleswap(?) (Patreon)

[theflyingfeeling]

I don’t know if I’m just imagining things but I feel like Olli and Aleksi are actually so close 🥺 for example I feel like they post so many pics together and I know they post with others too and it’s not a big deal but e.g. Olli has posted 5 pics with someone else this year and 3 of them are with Aleksi.. so it must mean something right?? 🥺 and I feel like they spend a lot of time together yk even ”outside the band” when they’re having a day off and they still do music (the remix) etc. together 😭

Yeah I mean I for one am so deep in the Olli/Allu delulu land that it's VERY easy for me to agree and confirm all of this 😭 they're boyfriends secret lovers special friends and it shows 🥺

Here are all the pictures of the two of them I could find on Olli's IG, for reference 💞

+ the group picture Olli posted when Aleksi first joined the band, with the caption 'so now there's six of us' 🥺

[confused-beany]

Selling the Sapphic enemies with hateful benefits agenda to my friends one drawing at a time

[television-overload]

When you're already making great progress on a 70,000 word fic and an idea for ANOTHER long fic pops in your head....

[theladycarpathia]

Empty Places chapter 2- Cold Spots

Back to chapter 1 

Creel House. Since its creation, this house has attracted bad luck, violence, and murder. A site of great evil? Or just a magnet for coincidences? We’re here to discover the truth, today on Mystery Spot!

“Did that sound cheesy?” Robin complains, twisting her head back to glare at the framed portrait of the Creels, as though they’re the ones responsible for their bad dialogue. “I think that sounded cheesy!” Billy raises an eyebrow and presses pause.

“It sounded cheesy,” he says bluntly. “You sound like an infomercial.” Robin sticks out her tongue and adjusts her beret. It slipped a little during her speech and now threatens to topple off onto the fraying carpet below.

“Fine,” she mutters. “I’ll think of something else. Even Steve’s intro sounded better than that.” Steve looks up from where he's fiddling with the ring light. He’s removed himself from this particular piece of theater as he has no design to stand near that horrible portrait or stare into Billy's eyes. Damnation all round.

“Hey,” he says, mildly offended. “You weren’t around when I was recording that!” 

“It’s an educated guess, your intros are always cheesy,” Robin says and then sighs heavily. “Okay, maybe we should come back to this. You guys want to go have a look around? There’s two more floors above this, including an attic, and I think there’s a basement too.”

Steve makes a face. “I’m not going to the basement,” he says automatically, because he does not care about being seen as a jittery coward, so long as it means he doesn’t have to go to the basement. Basements are notoriously for murder rooms, and dark tunnels, and books covered in skin. No, thank you.

“I’ll take the basement,” Billy says, in a tone that implies that he knows exactly what Steve is doing. They once found a secret room in an old house that Billy had willingly gone into. He either doesn’t believe in squatters hiding in the walls or he’s very, very stupid. “You guys can head upstairs. Meet back in fifteen?” 

Robin grabs her bag from the table, digging for her recorder. “Sounds good. Walkies on?”

“Yes,” Steve says, before Billy can scoff at the idea…again. “It’s an old house, Billy. You could fall through an old piece of floorboard and we might not find you until you’ve bled out. Turn on the damn walkie.” Billy digs out his walkie, clips it to his belt and makes an obvious show of switching it on.

“Happy?” he asks and Steve tries to not let it bother him. Billy’s just like this. Reckless, wild, immortal. Safety precautions are just a joke to him. 

“Ecstatic,” Robin says, dryly. She tucks the recorder into her pocket, along with her walkie, and dumps her bag back down. “Don’t get dead. Let’s go, Harrington.” 

Steve lingers just long enough to watch Billy wander out of the room first, heading for the basement door, before he trails after Robin. He can see by her face that he’s not subtle. 

“Lech,” she hisses, tugging on his arm. The stairs are still pretty fucking incredible, a grand sweeping staircase of some rich, dark wood, carved into delicately sculpted banisters. Steve shrugs.

“He’s a dick but he’s got a great ass,” he says practically. And he would know. He’s the sucker who gets to see the curve of his best friend’s rear in boxers every time he sleeps over, after every basketball game as teenagers, that one time Billy jumped into the lake. 

“I’d agree but my problem is that he has a dick,” Robin says, bounding up the stairs. Steve follows more carefully in her wake, mindful of how the wood creaks under her weight. “You’re on your own there.”

The second floor is pretty much the same as the first. Dusty, empty and abandoned and Steve has to resist the urge to sneeze. Robin drifts into the little girl’s room, looking at the faded pink teddies, the streaks of dust over the unicorn lamp. There’s a Barbie left on the floor, her blank plastic eyes staring judgmentally at their invasion. 

“I just keep thinking that this is just all…really sad, you know?” she says, her voice echoing through to Steve in the hall. When Steve steps through the door, he finds her gently touching another family portrait with her fingertips. “You know? Like, they left everything. All their possessions and their memories. What on Earth scared them so badly that they did that?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, but he feels it too. There’s something strange about this house, not just in the unnerving wrongness of it all, but the idea of a family just leaving and never coming back. No matter what Billy says, something had to have happened to make them leave everything in their lives behind. All they took was the kids, the dog and the car. Every family photo, every soccer trophy, every piece of artwork on the fridge. No one does that unless you’re absolutely desperate.

“If we found out why we’d be legends,” Robin continues, excitement coloring her voice. Steve tilts his head back to look at the glittery pink lampshade, faded after a decade in the sun. They probably would be - crime podcasters have helped make progress on cold cases before, and breaking the mystery of Creel House would definitely earn them some fame. Maybe enough to get him and Ro out of Family Video, which isn’t really where he thought he’d be rotting so soon after high school. Billy used to work at the local pool during the summer and recently - begrudgingly - got work at the local diner. 

“Ro, if it was bad enough that they left one night without even taking their urn of Grandma’s ashes, I doubt that we really want to know,” Steve points out, and walks back out into the hallway. Robin follows, stopping only to look at the family portrait again.

“This little girl is all grown up by now,” she says and Steve looks at the remaining doors, more rooms and lives left behind.

“I hope so,” he says, because it sounds to him that Creel House always gets its blood.

XXX

The little boy’s room has a football deflating by the door. The parents’ bedroom has dust coating over the full length hanging mirror, a dress still lying discarded on the bed. There’s more mold on the shower curtain that they care to think about so they leave quickly. 

“Didn’t you say there was an attic?” Steve asks, pivoting on his heels to see which door is left. There are two and after a shared shrug, they each step up to one.

“One?” Robin says, hand resting on the doorknob. Steve grins and does the same.

“Two,” he says, closing his hand around the metal.

“Three!” they say as one and push open their doors. Robin groans.

“Damn,” she says grumpily, dramatically leaning on the door frame. “I got the study.” 

But Steve’s door has opened to a small, narrow staircase, a spider carefully making its web in the corner of the door. He reaches out for the pull light but a few quick yanks prove that it’s long burnt out.

“I’ll go up,” he says, digging in his bag for a torch. “Follow me when you’re done?” And then he puts his foot on the bottom stairs, ducks under the spider’s intricate work, and begins to climb.

The attic is…an attic. It’s so caked in dust that Steve has to cough once he takes his first deep breath. Like everywhere else, it’s filled with relics of another time, the remnants of a normal family life. Boxes labeled BABY CLOTHES, XMAS DECS, and CONCERT T-SHIRTS. There’s even a Christmas tree, still in its box in the corner, and Steve wonders if it’s the same one the kids were sitting under in the photo downstairs. 

“Creepy,” he mutters, and that’s when the bell starts to chime.

He’s glad that no one is around to hear his squeak, as he whirls around to face the source of the noise. A large, polished grandfather clock sits at the very end of the attic, against one wall, the pendulum swinging back and forth with every chime. Swallowing his nerves, Steve inches closer. The time is all wrong, the hands set to the twelve and the two. He wonders if the clock thinks it’s early in the morning or early afternoon. 

Wait. Two o’clock. Two chimes. So why won’t it stop chiming?

Steve freezes, suddenly unnerved. It’s fine. It’s a decades old clock. It’s definitely busted. It doesn’t know the right time so there’s probably no way that it’s going to chime the right amount of times either.

No. No, wait, that’s still all wrong. It’s been well over two decades - closer to three - since the Packards left their house. Steve doesn’t know much about physics and that shit but he knows enough that stuff needs power. Electric, batteries, some kind of fuel. And like a lot of clocks, this one would need to be wound. It wouldn’t keep going for nearly thirteen years. So who wound it?

Oh shit, he’s going to regret this.

He steps forward carefully, clutching his torch like a weapon, the beam cutting across the ceiling and occasionally illuminating the pale strings of another web. The clock continues to ring, the sound taking on an unnerving tone, each one growing more distorted as the bell chimes. Up close, Steve can see the thick crack across the glass face, the smears of dust on the curves of the wood. But just as he reaches out to touch it, the dark crack split from the eight all the way up to the two begins to squirm and Steve bites back a yelp as a small black spider emerges from the clock face.

“What the fuck?” Steve mutters, retrieving his hand and carefully turning the torchlight over the clock. The spider skitters over the glass, unaware of the intruder in its midst. Steve exhales, chastising himself for being startled. It’s a broken old clock and a tiny spider has taken up residence. It’s fine. 

But then Steve sees the second spider. 

And then the third.

And then the crack froths and hundreds of the little bastards emerge from the clock face, tumbling over each other in their race to get out, turning the clear glass a squirming inky black as they spread.

Steve bolts.

He promptly smacks into Robin on the way down and only her quick reflexes stop them both careening down the small staircase.

“What the fuck, Harrington?” Robin curses, pulling herself- and him - upright by tugging firmly on the hand-rail to right them both. Steve lets go of her shirt, the fabric now seriously crumpled from his damp fingers. She continues to look annoyed, until she sees the fear on his face.

“What is it?” she asks and pushes her way past him up the remaining stairs. Steve drops down on the closet step, heart hammering in his chest. He hasn’t felt like this since they found that odd bloodstain in the living room of that empty cottage. But even peeling up the carpet to see the massive dried rust underneath doesn’t quite feel like this. 

“What?” she asks, looking baffled. She peers back down the steps towards him, her face unusually anxious. “Steve, what is it?”

Once the blood pounding in his ears fades, Steve can immediately hear what’s wrong. The chiming has stopped. 

“What?” he says, in disbelief and pushes himself up so he can climb back up the steps. Aside from Robin, and her overwhelming aura of worry, the attic is exactly as it was.

Except for one thing.

“There was a clock here,” Steve says stupidly, pointing at the now unoccupied patch of wall. He turns to look at Robin. “A big grandfather clock and it was chiming, and it had spiders coming out of it. It was right here!”

Robin stares at the wall. The now empty patch of wall. The expression on her face flickers between worry and bemusement.

“Bud, I love you,” she says, tilting her head. “But did you inhale something really old that you weren’t meant to?”

“No!” Steve howls in frustration. “There was a clock, okay? A big one and it kept chiming. Even though the clock hands were pointing to two o’ clock, it just kept chiming a lot. And who even would wind up a clock that old, okay? It’s not like the ghosts of the Creel kids are coming back to keep the old vanishing grandfather clock wound up!”

“Steve,” Robin says gently, face now turning to one of pity. “I get that you’re…having some issues. Like this house is really fucking weird and the whole Billy thing gets really obvious every time that we do a video, but can you chill?”

Steve turns and storms back downstairs.

Fucking murder house.

XXX

Steve stomps down the attic stairs, not even bothering to close the door behind him. A small petty part of him suggests that slamming the door would feel really satisfying but he pushes it down. 

He feels rattled and frustrated. Nothing about this day is going as planned and as he storms back down the main staircase he can’t help but think that maybe this is what they deserve. None of the other places they’ve explored have ever been like this, the remains of a family still waiting to be collected. It feels more like a violation than the old barns, the empty factory, the burnt out mill. Steve stops at the bottom of the staircase and drags a hand across his face.

It’s stupid. He’s letting this weird old house get to him.

Steve sighs and jams his torch back into his bag. They’ll need the lights soon, as the sun begins to set, but they’re good for now. Enough time to do a little scouting around for interesting spots, get some filming done. It’s been over a year since they started this and they have it down pat by now. Getting used to filming in the dark took some time in the beginning and they try not to do it too often for various reasons, but they decided today that filming some stuff as night fell would look really creepy.

Steve regrets that choice now. 

He heads back to the dining room, intending on waiting with the rest of their gear. Let his friends finish the walkthrough by themselves. He’s going to find Robin’s emergency chocolate and eat it in front of the Creels’ weirdo portrait.

But the dining room isn’t empty. To his surprise, Billy is standing by the wall, staring up at the picture frame. He must have finished up early, the basement taking less time than upstairs.

“I didn’t think you liked that picture,” Steve says, dumping his bag onto the table. Robin's bag is already there, as she prefers stuffing her pockets full of the tools she might need rather than carrying a large backpack around. And anything else that doesn’t fit, she makes Steve carry.

“I don’t,” Billy says shortly. “It’s a lie.”

“Okay?” Steve asks, unsure. These days he never quite knows how to handle interactions between him and Billy. He hates it because Billy’s still his best friend, having been there for nearly all of his life. He doesn’t want to not know how to talk to Billy.

But it’s become more and more inevitable as Steve’s crush grew into something unmanageable and persistent. Talking to Billy leaves him open to saying something stupid without Robin as a buffer, to Billy flirting with him, Billy making a dumb comment about the cute guy he went on a date with last week. 

“It is, though,” Billy says, gesturing up at the warm smiles of the Creels. “It’s all fake. People don’t pose for these family portraits because they’re really that happy. You have this huge fuck off painting in a room where they probably brought guests. It’s bullshit.”

“I suppose,” Steve says slowly, digging in the front pocket of Robin’s bag for a mini chocolate bar. He probably should know, as his own family have pictures just like that in their front room and they’re definitely only for show. He’s probably unable to see it in the same way that you can’t see the forest for the trees. Billy never had the kind of family that put on a front like that. No one gathered the Hargroves together for a cheesy group shot. “And they all died, in the end.”

“Hmm,” Billy murmurs and turns away from the portrait. His eyes move to the chocolate in Steve’s hand but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Did you find anything?” Billy asks curiously, the fading glow of the sunlight rippling off of his dirty blonde hair. Steve exhales, wondering in what universe it’s fair to make one man so fucking attractive.

“No,” he mutters mutinously, shoving the last of the chocolate bar into his mouth and stuffing the wrapper into his pocket. “Well, sort of. Upstairs is the same as down here. They left everything. But there was this freaky clock in the attic.”

“Okay,” Billy says, the single stud that he wears in his left ear glinting in the light as he fully turns to face Steve. “I’ll bite. Go ahead, Scooby Doo, what did you find?”

And sometimes Steve just wants to punch him in his stupidly gorgeous face. 

“I saw this weird clock,” Steve says, because it really does sound stupid now. Hey, audience, subscribe now to see Steve freak out at a clock! There’s probably a totally rational explanation but he’s going to freak the hell out about it anyway! Hell, they’d probably lose viewers. They’ve never tried a stunt like that before. Steve didn’t even have his camera rolling. 

Maybe Robin’s right. Maybe there’s like thirty year old drugs up in the attic that he breathed in.

“It was just chiming and shit,” Steve shrugs, wandering over to the freaky portrait of the Creels again. He has to admire the Packards for their bravery. If he’d just moved in and found this painting in his dining room, he’d have burned in a cleansing fire out in the backyard.

“And that’s freaky how?” Billy asks, sounding totally reasonable. 

“It vanished when Robin came up to see it,” Steve says sheepishly. “I know it sounds bullshit but I swear-”

“Hey,” Billy says and gives that brilliant smile, the one that makes moms go weak at the knees and persuades gym buffs into his bed. Steve feels his own knees go a little weak under the full power of it.

“I know you believe in all this weird, spooky shit but you’re not crazy,” Billy continues, his eyes a brilliant, impossible blue at this range. “And this house is really fucked up. Even I agree with that.”

“You do?” Steve asks, a little dumbfounded, because not once has Billy ever been creeped out by anything. They visited the old Miller barn once, where old man Miller supposedly hung each of his daughters from the rafters, and upon seeing the tattered rope hanging from the beams Billy had scoffed and said that some idiot had probably hung it up to trick gullible assholes. 

“Yeah,” Billy says simply. “I mean, you can feel it, can’t you? There’s something different about this one.”

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly. “There’s something different about this one.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for it,” Billy suggests. Steve snorts, taken aback.

“You’re kidding, right?” Steve says. “Should I get out a camera or will our ratings plummet? Billy Hargrove, born skeptic, admitting to the possibility of ghosts, ghouls and goblins?” Billy dramatically presses both hands to his chest, faking hurt.

“Ouch, Harrington,” Billy says, a teasing glitter in his eyes and something dips in Steve’s belly at that familiar challenge. High school basketball games had been hell. “That was right out of King Steve’s playbook.” Steve shrugs, turning his head away from Billy’ piercing gaze. 

“Yeah, well…” he mutters. “Just didn’t expect it.” He leans against the solid wood of the dining table, and doesn’t really think about the inevitable dust and dirt clinging to his rear until too late.

“I’m just saying,” Billy protests. “At some point the teenage investigators stumble across the genuinely haunted house.”

“No, thanks,” Steve says, because he’s seen that movie. Which is kind of every horror movie. “I do actually prefer that we stay the kids with a dog Scooby gang rather than the Sunnydale Scooby gang.” 

“Ok, but even they found actual ghosts sometimes, you know,” Billy says, and tugs up his sleeves, allowing that brief glimpse of his tanned arms, the leather cuff around one wrist. “Like, all of the movies have them find mummies and zombies and shit.”

“I may believe in this stuff,” Steve says frankly. “But I’d still prefer that we don’t stumble across the room in the basement with the chains and bathtubs full of blood. Okay?” Billy grins.

“I didn’t see much of that downstairs, I swear,” he says and then tilts his head up towards the ceiling. “Hey, where’s Robin?” Steve shrugs and looks up too. He hasn’t heard her footsteps for a while but maybe she stopped to film something. 

“Dunno,” he says, and immediately hates that apparently they can’t be alone together without needing Robin around. “What do you want to do? Wait for her?”

“We don’t have to,” Billy says, pivoting to lean against the wall across from Steve. “We could film something. It’s been a while since it was just the two of us.” 

“I guess,” Steve says vaguely, because a lot of that has been by design. He’s always been slightly worried that if he’s left alone with Billy for an unlimited amount of time he’ll do something stupid. He’s good at that, as his mother likes to remind him. He hops down from the table, intending to grab a camera. They might as well make use of the light. “I don't know why it turns out that way.”

“Well, that’s because you’re in love with me,” Billy says suddenly, like it’s obvious, and Steve stops dead.

“You…you knew?” he whispers, because oh God, Billy knew. Billy knew all of this time and he didn’t say anything. He probably just pitied poor Steve, the idiot with the crush. Everyone wants Billy. Billy could have just about anyone he wants. Steve can’t blame him for not choosing Steve. 

“Not that subtle about it, Stevie,” Billy chuckles, folding his arms across his chest. There’s something not very nice about that smile. It’s not Billy’s real smile - it’s the one he uses when he thinks the middle aged women at the pool are getting too close, too handsy. It’s the one he used to use on the courts when some asshole from the rival team used to call him a fag. It’s all teeth and venom, badly concealed disdain hidden behind Billy’s bright pearly teeth. Steve’s known Billy long enough to know when he’s faking it. 

“I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” Steve says, crushed. He feels a little bit numb inside, a little bit stupid for expecting any other outcome. Admittedly, this is worse. He thought he’d just get the ‘hey, we can still be friends, but I just don’t feel about you that way’ speech, followed by an awkward arm pat. Not whatever this is. 

“You’ve been in love with me since, what?” Billy asks, inspecting his nails like he has nothing else to do while he breaks Steve’s heart. “Freshman year? I mean, you’re not that great of an actor, Steve.”

“I…I don’t get why you’re being like this,” Steve protests, the sharp sting of tears coming to his eyes. He’s never known Billy to be so cruel and he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it. “I am in love with you and maybe you don’t feel the same way, but do you have to be such a dick?”

“You know I’m a dick,” Billy says bluntly. He’s still leaning against the wall, watching Steve with sharp blue eyes, as though this is just sport to him. “And yet you fell for me anyway. That’s the really stupid move on your part, Stevie. I’m a fuck up who’d rather screw half the basketball team rather than you and yet you love me anyway. You probably always will, which is the pathetic part. Did you honestly think that we’d stay friends?”

“We certainly won’t now!” Steve spits, taking a step back. But it’s no good because Billy follows, like a shark that has sensed blood in the water. 

“Well, maybe you should have said something years ago,” Billy retorts, sticking his fingers through his belt loops. “Broken off the friendship after that night at Robin’s. Do you remember? We watched the first three Die Hard movies right after the other until Robin fell asleep. It would have been easier then. Repressing things just isn't good for you, Steve.” But Steve barely hears his last words, staring at Billy in absolute horror.

“No, but…how did you know it was that night?” he asks, something crawling up the back of his spine. He never told anyone it was that night. Not even Robin knows. Steve remembers every second of that sleepover, the one they’d had before they’d all been shipped off to different places for Christmas. It had been the night he’d looked at his best friend and thought that he wanted something more. 

So how does Billy know?

“Steve!” The walkie barks furiously and Steve jerks his head down to the walkie still attached to his waist. The spell is broken, Billy looking startled as the voice continues to call for Steve.

Because it’s not Robin’s voice. It’s Billy’s. 

Steve whips his head back up, terror killing the words in his throat before they can reach daylight. It’s not possible. Billy is on the walkie. Billy is in front of Steve. Which one is real?

Billy sighs heavily before frowning ruefully. “Shame. I was having fun.”

“You're…you’re not…” Steve stutters and in his haste to get back from whatever this…thing is, his foot catches on the edge of the rug. He loses his footing and falls backwards, the walkie skidding away as he crashes to the ground. The Billy clone looks dispassionately at him and Steve wonders how he missed it before. There’s nothing in this Billy’s eyes.

“No, I’m not Billy,” it says, sounding amused, and Steve had been correct in his assessment that it was all just a game. He just hadn’t known that it wasn’t Billy’s game. “But I had you going, didn’t I?”

“Steve!” Billy’s voice continues to shout down the walkie like a siren song but Steve can’t make himself move to answer it. All he can do is curl his fingers into the threadbare rug and stare at the entity stalking towards him. 

“You made a mistake, coming into this house feeling like that,” the thing continues, dropping down into a crouch in front of Steve. Steve stares, open-mouthed, because every freckle, every dark lash, every curl in his hair is exactly the same. There was no way he ever could have guessed that this was merely a copy, even while this Billy spat poison at him with that cruel smile. He was expecting ghosts, see-through and wailing and rattling chains. He wasn’t expecting…this. 

“I…” Steve starts but the words stop as the thing moves its hand up to stroke his hair back from his face. Its fingers dig into Steve’s scalp and Steve holds still as it turns his face up. He can feel a warm breath on his skin but it smells strange. Old, musty, metallic. Inhuman.

“Yes,” the creature murmurs, studying every inch of Steve’s face with an unsettling amount of interest. “Yes, you’ll do.”

And then the creature is gone, leaving Steve slumped against the wall like a puppet without any strings. 

“Someone answer the fucking walkie!” Billy screeches down the receiver and Steve scrabbles to answer it. It slips from his cold, shaking fingers a few times before he can grip it properly.

“Billy?” he says, voice trembling, because he half expects this to be another trick, another Billy who will pull his heart out piece by piece, just to show him the tangled bloody mess of where Steve used to keep his love. But Billy just heaves a sigh of relief down the walkie, something ragged and familiar and human.

“Thank fuck, Steve,” he snaps, because that’s how Billy usually works. “I’ve been out of my mind. Shit’s weird down here. Are you okay?”

Steve pulls himself up and rests his back along the wall, just under the portrait. His heart is skipping in his chest, because they fucked up and ended up in the only actually fucking haunted house in America. With some shitty ghost who likes copying their faces and mocking their deepest insecurities.

But Billy doesn’t know. Billy didn’t just tell Steve that he was worthless for loving Billy. Everything is exactly the same as it was before.

“Yeah,” Steve says, hollowly. “I’m okay.”

Onto Chapter 3

@dragonflylady77 @cupc8keblonde @ihni

I genuinely can’t remember if anyone else wanted to be tagged for this specific fic so lmk!

[ghoul-foolery]

Dirty Windows | 24

Hancock x Nora - A Fallout 4 Soulmate AU

//

Fic Summary:

Hancock never thought he would find his soulmate. Once a common occurrence, soulmates turned into a bit of a rarity after the bombs dropped. It was to be expected when there was an influx of people getting shot in the face on a daily basis. So when Hancock discovered that he had a soulmate he was ecstatic; all of the people in the Commonwealth, and he was one of the lucky few.

Too bad his soulmate didn't want anything to do with him.

//

[ 1 ] <- [ 19 ] [ 20 ] [ 21 ] [ 22 ] [ 23 ] - [ 25 ]

//

Two weeks had come and gone since Nora had taken up residence at the Slog, and she was sure that if she ever had it her way she’d never leave. The people were so willing to accept her into their social circles, and that in itself was borderline mind blowing. Striking up conversation with the Sanctuary crew felt so stilted, so forced. Perhaps it was because the expectations for her in Sanctuary were so high. The ghouls in the Slog didn’t expect anything out of her, but they were more than willing to teach valuable post-war life skills and Nora was an incredibly eager student. In the midst of it all, under Arlen’s gentle guidance, Nora was learning how to build a water purifier. 

All it took was a passing complaint about Sanctuary and the water purifier debacle; about how they seemed to assume she just had that sort of mechanical knowledge, or would be able to magically procure one. It was just some idle venting as she visited with the older ghoul in his workshop; nothing more, nothing less. Arlen had hummed thoughtfully, then promptly guided her out of his workshop, telling Nora to go offer Jones and Holly some help in the garden. It was a couple hours later, as she was chopping tatos for dinner, when Arlen emerged from his workshop. He called her name, and once she reached him, he passed her a slip of ancient notebook paper. It was a schematic, a blueprint. In clean writing off to the side, he listed the required components, and what sort of machinery she could dig around to find them. 

“If you want to get the parts, we can work on it together,” he had told her. His gentle smile was so fatherly, so caring. Nora couldn’t help it, she pulled the man into a tight hug. 

It felt as if Nora had cashed in every ounce of good karma she had saved up. No one in the Slog would accept any compensation for their time, and tutelage. No one would accept caps as a thanks. It didn’t feel like it was nearly enough, but all they would take from her was her gratitude and on some days they made that seem as if it were too much. Or, Holly would just get a little fed up with all the thank yous, and would tell Nora to stop saying it…

Though Nora still experienced moments of extreme guilt when she realized how little progress she had made when it came to finding her boy, it was quickly quelled when she reminded herself that she didn’t know how to survive on her own. If she managed to find Shaun, she wouldn’t know how to take care of him, she barely knew how to take care of herself. Nora didn’t want to be the reason why her son fell ill, or went hungry. So she learned what plants were acceptable to eat. She learned how to harvest vegetables, and razor grain. She learned how they stored their meat, and how to keep it properly preserved. And with Arlen Glass’ help, she would learn how to create a source of clean drinking water. Baby steps were still steps.

After accepting the blueprint from Arlen, Nora finally ventured away from the Slog to hunt down the supplies that she needed to build the water purifier. Every morning, after helping with breakfast, Nora would set out to scrounge up whatever scraps and machinery that she could. She siphoned gasoline, she hoarded fan belts, screws, and bolts. She would haul bags of gear back to the Slog, depositing them on Arlen’s workbench before setting out again. In the evenings, after she got back, Nora would help with dinner and then take a shift at evening watch. In the midst of it all, as she worked, as she traveled, her and John got to know each other.

They would go through daily idle chatter (”How was your day, dear?”), then continue on with any number of things. They covered a vast spectrum of topics, from favorite colors and foods, to more philosophical things. John divulged childhood memories, and awkward teenage experiences, and Nora would follow suit. As the days went on, Nora found herself becoming incredibly fond of the man. He was charismatic, and he was a whole lot smarter than he gave himself credit for. He was loyal to the people he considered his, and as loyal as he was he was even more protective. Nate would have loved him. The more Nora got to know John Hancock of Goodneighbor, the more certain she was that Nate and John would have been fast friends. They were both stubborn and loyal to a fault. They were both strong, and capable men, and even though she had only known John for a short while, she knew without a doubt that both men would bend over backwards to make her happy. John had helped her with so many things. She owed him so much. 

Bit by bit, she gathered the things on Arlen’s list and, after days of meticulous searching, she had everything that they needed. She stopped her daily wandering, and took up a spot in Arlen’s workshop where, together, they started constructing the water purifier. 

“Sounds like all he wants from you is a chance,” Arlen said, passing her a pair of needle nose pliers. “When you’re ready, I think you should give that to him.”

Arlen Glass had become her best friend, her confidant. After giving her tea on her first night he had somehow become a post-apocalypse father figure. His guidance helped Nora rediscover her confidence.

“Nate would want me to be happy, but – Ouch!” she recoiled, eyeballing a small bleeding cut on her finger. Nora leaned in close to the chassis of the under-construction water purifier. She nearly stuck her head inside as she searched for what had done the damage. “But I’m… afraid, I guess?”

“Afraid of being happy, when you think you shouldn’t be allowed to?”

Nora’s eyes shot to Arlen’s in surprise. Arlen was usually a little more gentle with his advice. He would pass her the seeds, but he would let her plant and sow things on her own. He wasn’t typically so blunt, but having heard Arlen’s story, she understood where he was coming from. He’d had a family, a beautiful one; but he had sacrificed happiness for work, and then he lost everything.

“Well when you say it like that, it sounds dumb,” she grumbled almost petulantly. She turned her attention back to their project.

Arlen chuckled in that airy way of his as he said, “You smile when you talk about Nate and John, you know. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.

Nora’s gaze tore away from her project yet again. Arlen had settled back in the old chair in his workshop. It was his typical sitting place whenever he read his morning paper. Instead of reclining back in the chair he was leaning forward, knees on his elbows, with a small, knowing smile. 

“You’re a smart woman, Eleanor. You should know that you wouldn’t be betraying Nathan by finding happiness again. If he was anything like you’ve said, he would want you safe, and happy. He’d want you to love and be loved.”

There was a sudden tightness in Nora’s throat. She did her best to swallow it down, and turn her attention back to the purifier but Arlen was suddenly at her side, cupping her face in his hands. They were hearty, weathered and overly textured, but they were also warm and grounding. 

“It’s okay for you to be happy, Eleanor,” he said it slowly, deliberately. “It’s okay.”

Nora’s hands rested over Arlen’s as she warbled, dangerously close to crying, “What if I fall in love with him and—“

“Honey, I think you might have already. Even if only a little bit.” The statement was like a kick to the gut, delivered with a smile. It knocked Nora’s world off its axis. Arlen continued, “If there is anything that can be learned from loss, it’s that you need to love the people in your life as strongly, and as fiercely as you can, because we never know when those special people will be taken away. Just remember, he will never replace Nate. You have a big heart, Eleanor. There is space for John in there, too.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice tight. That’s all she said because that’s all she could muster. 

“I’m not saying that you need to hurry up and stop mourning; and I’m not saying that you need to hurry up and fall in love.” The old ghoul placed a kiss to the crown of her head before leveling his eyes with hers. “But you need to know that it’s okay when you do. Grief doesn’t have an expiration date. If you wait for it to go away naturally, you’ll be waiting for forever and a day.”

“So it never goes away? It’s… This? Forever?” The guilt for growing fond of another man, the feeling of replacing someone she loved, the lingering dredges of hurt that hung around in her chest.

Arlen withdrew, turning his eyes to the in-progress water purifier, and then the pieces of an old Giddyup Buttercup. “They say that time heals all wounds, but it doesn’t. It just makes it easier to deal with.”

“Hey, smoothskin!” It was Wiseman’s voice, calling her from the front of the pool house.

Nora closed her eyes, swallowing at the lump in her throat, “Yeah?” She called out as Arlen picked up the needle nose pliers, and took over the task at hand.

“You got a visitor!”

The frown that had been marring Nora’s features deepened. Damn near every single person she knew who would want to visit her already lived in the Slog. Unless it was Preston for some reason. Or John. She was too aware of the way her heart leapt. Slowly, she peaked out of one of the broken windows to get eyes on the visitor. From a glance, it wasn’t anyone that she recognized from Sanctuary, and it most definitely wasn’t John. Nora’s hand immediately began to drift down to the pistol holstered at her thigh. 

“Go on,” Arlen said. “I’ll finish up this bit, and we can pick it up later.”

“Arlen?” 

“Mm?” He hummed, haltingly. 

She placed a hand on his forearm, leaning in to kiss the older man’s cheek. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

He tossed his head and said again, “Go on.”

With no small amount of hesitance, she left Arlen’s shop, stepping out into the early evening air. It had been a warm day, enough so that Nora had unzipped the top half of her vault suit in favor of adorning an oversized t-shirt. The arms of the suit were tied securely around her waist, and her hair was tied back into a ponytail. Her hands were greasy, scraped, and she could make out the dark smear of oil across her nose. She wasn’t really dressed for company, but she supposed that she never would be. 

Stepping around the building, Nora cleared her throat. The newcomer turned to face her. A smoothskin, like her. He wore an old conductor styled hat, a long coat, and he had a rifle hanging off his shoulder from a makeshift sling that looked to be fastened from an old belt. As she grew closer, she noted that he was handsome. Cheekbones that she could cut herself on, a proud, straight nose. Tanned, blue eyes, and a confident smile. 

“Well,” he said at length, “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Nora held her distance, fishing an old rag from her pocket so she could start cleaning her hands. The tenuous grasp on her emotions turned steely as she stared the stranger down. No one would know that she had been on the brink of crying (ugh, again) thirty seconds ago. She eyed him warily, “Do I know you?”

His smile grew, “No. But I know you.”

The man’s eyes followed her hand as it dropped down to her side, resting casually by her pistol. Off to the side, she could see Wiseman tense and reach for her own weapon. 

Suddenly, the man laughed, “Calm down, girl! Shi-oot, I’m a friendly.” He’d almost said ‘shit’ but he had redirected. She didn’t know why, but that seemed important. She’d stow that away for later.

“You’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t believe you.”

“Why don’t you, uh…” his index finger tapped his temple. 

At this point, the Slog ghouls knew that Nora had a soulmate. It was hard to keep things secret when the space was so open, and communal. Especially when they noticed just how much she seemed to talk to herself. She couldn’t find the ability to look any of them in the eye and just insist that she was a touch crazy.

Without breaking eye contact with the stranger, Nora opened her end of the bond and reached. “John?”

The answer was immediate, ”What’s crackin’, doll fa – shit, is that MacCready? Fuck, he works fast…”

“You know him?” she asked, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. Wiseman waved his hand, catching her attention. He made a gesture, indicating that he was going to be inside. She nodded, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’.

”Yeah, I know him. He’s out that way runnin’ an errand or two for me. I didn’t expect for him to get to you for another week or so.”

“Wh-why didn’t you tell me that he was coming? I… God, I was getting freaked out.” It could have been another one of those sickos from the drive-in. It could have been someone much, more worse.

“Easy, angel,” the man known as MacCready drawled. “I told you, I’m a friendly.”

”Don’t you call her that, you little shit.”

Nora snorted, then immediately covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. She wanted to be irritated, dang it. The second he had made arrangements for someone to come meet her, she should have known about it. She composed herself, dropping her hand. “He said your name was MacCready?”

“Yep! RJ MacCready, and you must be Nora,” he held out his hand, and Nora reached to shake it. Only for her hand to be lifted, she watched with almost wide eyes as he pursed his thin lips to plant a kiss to her skin. 

”Goddammit, MacCready!”

MacCready stopped, a mere centimeter from making contact, and then he snickered, giving her hand a firm shake. He was laughing, eyes glittering with his amusement. He seemed to be banking on John seeing the interaction, and had been aiming to irritate Nora’s soulmate for fun.

”Tell that little fucker that he ain’t gettin’ paid for shit!”

It didn’t matter how much she wanted to be angry, she couldn’t even manage a bit of irritation to shoot in John’s direction. 

“He mad?” MacCready asked, his smile stretched from ear-to-ear..

Maybe it was the total relief that she felt, but Nora couldn’t help but laugh as she replied, “He seems to be a little annoyed, yeah.”

“Awesome.”

\\

Tag List: @takottai / @a-little-pebbl  / @yamatra

[superbatson]

hey

billy singing "girl crush" about freddy & anthea

okay bye

[ghost-proofbaby]

i like to remind you guys frequently that shire is the first happy fic i have ever written. genuinely. i've never had a fic in any fandom that wasn't pure angst. been out here breakin' hearts since '12, baby!