#im sooooooo normal guys

[illegiblehandwriting1]

man's SHOOK

In case it’s unclear, Legend was singing the Ballad of the Windfish!

(If you look closely, Legend and Wind are not the only Links here)

Part one here!

[karamazovanon]

you are my way of life

(i think verkhovensky would really like frank sinatra)

[canarydarity]

(desert duo titanic (1997) au be upon ye. 4330 words. ao3) ((check tags for content warnings))

The most attractive part of the idea, Grian had thought, was that nobody would know what had happened to him. Not his mother, not his fiance, not a single socialite on this godforsaken boat—and then they’d wake up to find their lives would go on business as usual regardless. There would still be teas and luncheons to attend, they’d still dress for dinner—though in customary mourning black for at least a few months, if only to keep up appearances—and have the same dozen mindless conversations about things that would never really matter, and better yet, Grian wouldn’t have to be there for any of it. 

The air was nice up here, chilling but in a pleasant way. That was a good thought. It soothed the rush he’d felt on his way over, the panic of needing to get away fast and the train of thought that kept saying do it now before they follow. 

He didn’t remember the last time he was allowed to just take a breath; he didn’t remember the last time he was allowed to do anything without threat of penalization. 

Even this, he knew, was a punishable offense. He could certainly never expect freedom nor even an inch of space to spare if he failed. And if his mother’s god was to be believed, success, too, was a crime befitting discipline. Grian had since decided he’d rather take his chances on an eternity in hell than a lifetime in his family house.

Unlike the air, the ice-cold bone-piercing sting that was the metal railing sticking to his skin was the kind of cold that was so intense it, ironically, burned, and it did wonders to keep him firmly in his brain. It connected to each of his palms like a stubborn leech, like it was, in some roundabout way, telling him to not let go. But what were leeches good for if not bloodletting, and Grian had long since been bled dry—disconnect the only thing left to do. 

He peeled each of his hands off the railing one at a time, slowly, wincing at the pull of his skin and the carpet-burn like feeling of its breaking free. But he only opened and closed the palm of each hand a few times to restore feeling and heat before wrapping around the railing once more. 

He looked down. You know, he almost couldn't see the water at all. 

The darkness of night in the middle of the ocean bore nothing to reflect off of the water's surface, and the promise of emptiness for miles and miles and miles below was all too clear. He could only find where sky and sea met if he were really trying hard, and he’d found he didn't much care to do that. Grian kind of liked the idea of a vast black expanse stretching out before him, imagined himself letting go and not falling quickly down but just floating off into that tricky void. 

He leaned forward, letting his arms pull taut, forming some weird triangle between where they connected to the railing, the socket of his shoulder, and where his feet were planted on the small lip of the ship's deck. He could do it—he could. He could let go. 

He could.

Slowly, the skin of his hands worked to refreeze, fusing him once more to the boat's railing. Oddly, he focused in on the toe of his left shoe where he seems to have scuffed it against something in his haste to get here fast. He thought about how Mumbo was going to have to buff that out later and then re-shine them all over again, even though he did it before he dressed Grian for dinner and also sometime last night, joking about how Grian probably stubbed his toe on purpose just to spite him, and Grian had giggled and promised he’d be more careful to spare Mumbo’s poor hands. And then his mind recoiled, immediately, intensely, at the thought.

There would be no shoes for Mumbo to buff and shine. 

On instinct, his arms reeled him if only slightly back in, his right eye involuntarily tightened into a cringe. Grian shook his head, firm, trying to work back to worse thoughts, something else, something more fitting. No Mumbo—for where Grian currently was, Mumbo was firmly off limits. 

When that didn’t work, he shut his eyes tight and let out a harsh, determined deep breath; felt his brow furrow in concentration, his lips set into a thin stern line. He forced his arms to let him lean fully back out, more of his body over open water than ship. 

And then, from behind, someone called, “don’t do it.”

Grian startled, looked back over his shoulder at the stranger ready to shout something like well then don’t startle me the next time, what is wrong with you, but found instead on instinct what came out was, “Get away from me. Do not come any closer—don’t.” 

The man, who’d been nearly within arms length, hand reaching out like he’d been ready to grab for Grian’s wrist, paused immediately. 

He didn’t know what the man was taking from Grian’s expression—if the look on his face was more anger and annoyance, disbelief at his interruption, or alarm and a frantic sort of unease. He was certainly getting nothing of the stranger besides prolonged eye contact and the sense that calculations were being run. 

Whatever conclusion was come to, after a moment the stranger shook his head a little and jostled the hand he hadn’t pulled back towards him, almost like he was reaffirming its placement (as if either of them could forget). 

“Just give me your hand, it’ll be alright, promise. I’ll pull you back over!”

Grian tried to shuffle to the side but there was really nowhere to go; the skin of his hands was once again firmly cemented to the cold metal, and to his right at the very center of the ship's stern was a flagpole. 

“No,” he hissed, “I told you to back off. Stay back or I’ll—” Grian looked away from the stranger, felt in his throat that he must’ve been shouting to drown out the sound of the water coming back together after having been split by the large steamer, the propellers that were somewhere under the surface. He swallowed but the air had dried all the spit from his mouth, doing nothing to soothe the ache. “I’ll let go.” 

But the proposition was slipping from him, his peaceful nothing getting further away like it’d jumped a few minutes ago and was bobbing somewhere in the boat's wake, Grian failing to follow. The more time passed, the more Grian felt like he’d missed his chance—and the more urgent he felt to prove this was what he’d really wanted after all, even as uncertainty over the fact grew.

“No you won’t.”

Grian’s head snapped up, blinking in surprise, the need to process the audacity in the statement delaying the understanding of what had been said. He turned his head, glaring over his shoulder at the stranger, who, for his part, looked entirely too sure of himself and relaxed, hands in his pockets now and shoulders paused in a shrug. 

“What do you mean no I won’t—you don’t know me. Don’t you try to tell me what I will or won’t do!” 

Usually that was a sure fire way to convince Grian to do whatever it was he’d been instructed against. Mumbo knew that well, quick to follow up instructions with a don’t even think about it and reasoning why whatever he was considering was probably a terrible awful idea. But none of the usual fire infected him—spite at the statement had grown just fine, but follow through was different here than in situations of the usual kind. The stranger seemed to understand that. Grian frowned at him harder, teeth grinding together. 

“I just think that if you were going to, you would’ve done it already.” 

“Well you’re distracting me.” 

“That’s kind of the point.” 

The stranger's lips made the kind of smirk that turned down instead of up, a gentle tease that was so out of place for the location and the night and the situation as a whole. Grian’s own mouth hung open a little in shock of it all, his brain failing to produce whatever response was supposed to be offered. Under it all somewhere, he felt embarrassed, and that offense fueled the frustration. 

“Go away,” he said, not opening his mouth enough to separate his teeth, head trying to turn away, needing to focus his attention elsewhere, desperate for the feeling that he’d followed all the way to the ship's stern to come back, losing hope that it would. 

“No can do, unfortunately.” Hands in his pockets, the stranger waltzed a step or two forward, and Grian tried his best to lean away despite no move being made towards him and distance kept; all he did was bend at the waist, peek over the railing into the cold deep blackness. “Well, looks like if I can’t get you to come back over, I’m just going to have to join you.” 

“What?!” His breath puffed out ahead of him with the shriek, clouding his view momentarily, and Grian closed his eyes and shook his head like that’d restore his vision, or maybe jog some sense into the scene. “Are you insane!?”

The man was studying the railings, the slight curvature to the metal as it wound along the backside of the boat, his hand on his chin like there was a required technique other than stepping over one leg at a time. He stood up straight and rubbed his hands together, brought them to his mouth and breathed some warm air into them; then, inexplicably, he stopped to shrug off his coat. 

His coat tossed in a heap on the deck, he hoisted up onto the bottom rung of the railing and threw one leg over the top, hands clinging to what he could, and at that Grian could watch no longer. 

“No, stop—stop.” 

Their eyes met, and, to the strangers credit, he looked remarkably calm. The eye contact said more what’s the holdup than oh, thank god; his eyebrows were raised, his face paused waiting for whatever Grian was going to say next—all the composure of circumstances much more normal, situations where the consequences were far less severe. It would’ve worried Grian badly had he not also seen the way the stranger gripped the railing tightly, fingers turning colorless by use of force; the way his posture had gotten less lax by the second, casual hard to maintain. 

Something about it put things into perspective—Grian’s own breath picked up, his eyes growing wider by the second and the urge to not blink a bunch, rapidly, like in some odd number he’d find himself elsewhere, safer, getting harder to ignore. The dreadful realization of what have I done was familiar, but so was the stubborn pride that said bury it now before someone else finds out. 

In more comfortable circumstances, Grian would be willing to buckle down and insist that whatever it was was precisely what he meant to do—no matter how ridiculous. He didn’t have to break eye contact and remind himself of the view to know that wasn’t an option here—not unless he meant it, not unless he was going over. 

His torso began to tremble a little; the upper half, his chest, his shoulders. He couldn’t tell if it was the cold or the fear. 

“What are you doing?” It came out quieter than he meant it to. 

“Gotta be prepared to go in after you if you’re really doing it, don’t I?” 

“You’ll be killed.” 

“You don’t know that,” one of his shoulders went up in an approximation of a shrug—or as much of one as he could do considering his position and the need to not let go. “Besides, I'm a good swimmer!” 

Grian did actually, that was sort of the point of him being here. He couldn't tell if the stranger was grossly underestimating the danger or betting it all on the biggest bluff he’d ever heard—some combination of both. 

“Though, personally, I could do without the cold—I am not looking forward to that water. But it’s no matter! I am a gentleman, afterall.”

Carefully, he returned to movement, began the motion of swinging his second leg over the top rail, but Grian risked the removal of one hand to reach out and stop him, the skin of his palm delicate and raw ripping once again from the cold metal, the sound of its separation sickly as it permeated the air. 

The burn of it felt good, the feel of it like a kind of tether—another thing tying him to the deck and making sure he stayed there. 

He was supposed to say something, his hand gripping the thin cotton of the shirt on a stranger’s arm, its material rough against his already irritated palm, but, even here, Grian didn’t know how to give in and go back. 

The stranger spoke instead, unphased enough Grian could almost believe he hadn’t jumped in to save Grian from failing to do so himself—could choose to believe it, if he wanted. 

“I guess I’m sort of hoping you’ll let me off the hook.” 

It was hard to look elsewhere; like Grian’s hand on the railing—like his hand on the stranger—the eye contact was just another lifeline, something else that was doing what it could to hold him firmly in place. Of course, besides that fact, there was nothing else to look at; the sky and the sea were black black black. It was the stranger or nothing, and Grian was surprised and frightened to discover where his allegiance was seeming to lie. 

Because Grian could never just lose—not even when he didn’t want to win—he said, “you’re crazy,” a half-formed deflection that was mostly stolen by the wind, quieter than he should’ve said it to ensure he was heard over the commotion. 

The stranger leaned towards him, his face in some sort of wishy-washy wince, like he knew he was about to push his luck but couldn’t quite help himself anyway. “Says the guy hanging off the back of a ship. With all due respect, of course,” he tacked on at the end, taking in Grian’s stature, his clothes and altogether demeanor. 

Grian tried to swallow again and found his throat still dry as a bone. He choked at his first attempt of saying, “You first, I’ll follow.” 

The stranger nodded and made quick work of throwing his leg back over the railing, pausing only for a pointed glance at Grian’s hand, where he realized he’d have to let go of the stranger’s shirt for him to be able to complete the action. With nowhere else to put it, Grian wrapped it once again around the railing, finding himself much more frightened about the prospect of doing so than he’d been when he climbed over, the inch or so of metal not nearly enough to make him feel secure anymore. 

Grian’s eyes trailed over his shoulder, tried to keep the stranger in his sights and tried not to panic when he couldn’t. The darkness had gone from comforting to alarming, the nothingness from welcoming to just that—nothing, and at the sea Grian could no longer look. The urgency was beginning to return, but in a manner unexpected. He needed suddenly more than anything to be back on the deck, his feet firmly planted on the wood, that man-made and temporary replacement for land. 

Though unseen, the sound of the collision of water upon the ship persisted, almost enough to cover that of the stranger shuffling behind him, and on top of the lack of a sightline Grian’s nerves latched onto the idea that he could just be gone; leave Grian there to suffer the consequences of his actions, give him just enough sense to realize this idea was idiotic before sending him over regardless—rich bastard probably deserved it. What did Grian have to be miserable about, anyway? 

But like a life preserver on a line, that hand, the same one as before, reached out to him once more, coming back into Grian’s focus from his peripheral. It was like they’d started the whole scene started over, like a director had made them take things from the top. His hand trembling, trepidation in every part of the movement, Grian brought his right arm across his body and around to meet the stranger’s, the warmth of it scalding against Grian’s white-cold palm. Slowly, and not without help, he was turned back around. 

The stranger’s eyes were green.

“What’s your name?”

A chill racked Grian’s spine, the wind off the water beating against his back somehow worse than when he’d been facing it, the sight of the whole ship ahead of him—definitive proof that he was the person furthest to the stern out of anyone, passengers and crew and all—horrifying; he couldn’t imagine anything worse than if he went now, not falling into the black but falling away from the ship, nothing to do but watch it leave him behind. He was definitely passing his chill to the stranger, sharing the tremor between the two of them like splitting a piece of cake for dessert. 

Grian wanted to ask why it mattered. He said, “Grian,” instead. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Scar.”

Stripped of any excuse to hide it at this point and worn thin by the fear that’d been eating away at him by his own hand and without his knowledge, he near breathlessly whined, “just get me out of here, please.”

The stranger nodded and squeezed his hands. “Can do.”

Grian would never give control to an entity such as fate by believing in it, so he wouldn’t say that he’d tempted it by hanging where he was for so long, but he’d clearly tempted something—the darkness itself, perhaps—or at the very least pushed his luck to some limit, enough that he’d used it all up in his climbing over the first time and however long he’d stalled on the railing, enough so that, when it came time to reverse the action and climb back to safety, his dress shoe, slick against the metal, moist from the sea air, failed to find purchase and caused him to slip. 

He was falling—and then he wasn’t; with nothing beneath it to catch on, Grian’s foot was pulled down towards the sea by the strongarm of gravity, and where one went the other quickly followed, but a shout had barely ripped free from Grian’s throat before a mean tug upwards from his shoulder contested the force heading down. 

Scar, one hand still in Grian’s, the other wrapped tightly enough around his forearm that it hurt, stood with his middle braced against the railing. His green eyes were wide. His shoes shrieked against the deck where he tried to lean backwards to gain better leverage, take any small step away and pull with all his might, but he got little to nowhere. 

“Grian!” He shouted, “Grian, you’re going to have to pull yourself up!” 

His shouting was distant, the frantic look on his face—the gritted teeth and strewn from effort bunch to his cheeks—came from Grian’s vision to his brain separated, scattered; like he’d looked at them through frosted, mosaic glass. The hand that wasn’t being held half-heartedly reached to find the railing closest—the second rung from the bottom—but rather than grip it with force he could do nothing but get his fingers to curl around it. 

There was a part of him that would rather let go than risk failure in trying to pull himself up—that would rather die by his own choice than by something as stupid and ridiculous as hubris taking it upon itself to finish a suicide attempt he’d come to his senses in time to abandon. But, stubbornly prideful as Grian was, he hated giving up more than he hated to lose. 

He forced his mind to come back to himself—if not because he had to do something, then because Scar had not stopped doing something; seconds had passed with Grian as good as deadweight off the back of the ship, nearly unresponsive, and Scar had not ceased in trying to pull him up, even as his calls went unanswered. 

“C’mon, Grian,” Scar grit out, to himself more than to Grian it sounded, and Grian felt his hand tighten around the railing. He gave one small, experimental tug. His eyes met Scar’s.

“I’ve got you,” Scar said, as much of a nod as he could give without forgoing concentration. The confidence he’d worn the entire conversation hadn’t gone anywhere, the situation growing from concerning to dire doing nothing to damper his surety that he had this, and Grian wanted badly to believe that he did. “I’ve got you—I’m not going to let you go. Pull yourself up, that’s it.”

It took more strength than he’d ever really had the need to use to heave himself up enough to risk the jump to the next bar, and the entirety of his arm burned with the effort, the strain from the tugging on his shoulder from above only compiling. But where he did it once, he convinced himself he could do it again—needed himself to do it again, and with something between a grunt and some kind of yell he managed to leap another railing higher, climbing the back of the ship like some sort of pirate of legend. 

His feet re-found purchase on the deck, then the bottom-most rail as, finally within better reach, Scar let go of his forearm and wrapped his arm around Grian’s back, and between Grian’s crazed flurry of stepping up and up again and Scar’s lifting and leaning backwards, they reached a point where they were both more over boat than open water, and then tipped even further passed that until they collapsed backwards onto the deck. 

The first of safety Grian saw was the stars. There were more stars over the ocean than there were in the city. 

The sky looked a lot less empty now that Grian was looking up and not out, his back against something solid. He wondered if they’d been there the whole time and he just hadn’t looked for them. For the first time since he’d boarded the ship, he took a minute just to stare. 

His throat burned with each time it sucked air into his lungs and it burned as he hurled it back out, overexertion and adrenaline both fighting for some kind of control within him. 

The hand under him stretched and wiggled its fingers, pulled itself free, and Grian immediately lurched the other way himself, turning to look at Scar on instinct but making sure to avert his eyes. 

The stranger named Scar had a smile on his face that threatened laughter, but Grian couldn’t imagine that anything was funny. He pulled at the collar of his thin cotton shirt, but it fell back to where it’d began after, the fabric nowhere near expensive nor stiff enough to listen to his direction, and the suspenders over it were frayed and the elastic of them showing signs of having been stretched out, but he had the look of a storybook hero about him regardless; never a doubt the dragon would end up slain and the damsel recused. The confidence that had been reassuring when he’d needed it to be grated against Grian now, reeking instead of an I told you so. 

But Scar turned his smile on Grian and leaned towards him like he was gonna bop their shoulders together without actually completing the movement. And all he said was, “Let’s not do that again.” 

Grian frowned at him and stood up, making a fruitless effort to soothe the wrinkles on his dinner tails. He sighed when it wasn’t working and dropped his hand, trying not to look directly at Scar, still smiling up at him from where he lounged on the deck. 

The click of a door opening pierced the—until this moment—blessed anonymity of the entire scene, and Grian stood up straighter and looked at it on instinct only to find Mumbo. That meant dinner was over, everyone heading back to the suite—Mumbo must’ve been sent to find him. He relaxed immediately and then winced as he remembered why he was there to begin with. Grian weighed his battles and then turned back to Scar, on purpose this time, hoping any shame Mumbo might’ve caught on his face would be attributed to this and nothing else. 

“Let’s not,” Grian agreed, and then his mouth stuck open against his permission on the idea of adding a thank you. It wasn’t lost on him that Scar had saved his life; it also wasn’t lost on him that he was the reason that Scar had had to do so at all—he wasn’t sure where that left them. He wasn’t sure a thank you was appropriate; he wasn’t sure what else could be. 

Scar sat up more but stayed sitting on the deck, drawing his knees half the way to his chest and dangling his arms off of them. Whatever weird glamor of generosity and sincerity that had befallen Grian, it seemed Scar remained immune, his cool still intact. 

Where Grian continued to falter, Scar said, “It was nice to meet you, Grian.” 

It made another time Scar had caught Grian out and chosen to cover for him rather than call the point. They’d only known each other for a few minutes, but Grian felt like he’d racked up quite an amount of debt. With nothing conceivably to do about it at the moment—with Mumbo to his back and his family expecting his return and a newfound and unusual weight to every breath that he took—Grian returned indoors. After so long outside, the bright lights of the ship's interior were blinding. 

[kiyocuck]

*testing the waters* can i post persona here guys...

[miekasa]

a gojo wedding would either be the biggest event ever or you’ll get married in secret and wait for the others to figure it out

(Okay... I have many, many, many thoughts about a huge, over the top wedding with Satoru but it’ll take another ask to unpack because I’ve got my own analysis as to why he’d do that even though he knows he doesn’t have to, but thinks he should anyway—IN SHORT: yes, extravagant wedding can totally be a thing with him, but some element of intimacy is retained, likely in the form of your guest list. It could be a destination wedding, with a 10-course dress rehearsal dinner on a yacht, private helicopter rides, and enough flowers to fill a small island, but there’ll be, at most, fifteen people involved, and we can talk about it later BECAUSE FOR ONCE I have thoughts about existing in the jjk verse LMFAO)

Now, secrecy seems the most plausible for a canonverse au. There’s precisely four people who know you and Satoru are married: Nanami, because he served as your witness, best man, and maid of honor all in one; Shoko, because Satoru asked her if she thought you’d even say yes (she told him he was crazy, and that you’d be crazier to say yes; when she finds out to two are wed, she offers you a celebratory cigarette and a warning that obstetrics was one of the curricula she’d grazed past when cheating); Megumi, who was angry when he found out because he found out after the fact and his pre-teen heart was a little hurt that his new guardians wouldn’t include him in such a thing—though he never voices any of this out loud (he is happy, when his emotions settle down, happiness is what he feels; he hopes that, hopefully under different circumstances, he too, can have that); and, Yuuta, who Satoru entrusts this information to after finding out about his situation with Rika, in an attempt to gain his trust and following to Jujutsu High.  

It’s easy to hide because nobody expects it—a fact that serves as a safety blanket, but, truthfully, makes Satoru a little sad. He knows he doesn’t deserve to feel that kind of remorse; nobody should expect him to be married, to find someone to want to be with him—and he’s built a façade and a career with the intention of swaying suspicion—but there’s a part of him that wishes that people saw him as someone that somebody would want. Not for his strength or power or position or influence; just, to have.

So, it’s nice, when occasionally Nanami comes over for dinner; when Shoko lures you into sharing one of her cigarettes and Satoru scolds you both; when Megumi will ask for you, will call you when he needs you; when Yuuta asks to meet you, because he wants to understand the love you two have for each other. It’s nice, and Satoru is reminded that he is not singularly alone in this world, that there is you, and your friends, and a small community of people who would not be in complete disbelief to remember that he is human, after all.

[vanivanvanilla]

bacon and his guard dog (closeup + og drawing under cut)

never posted the og drawing bc i never finish it el oh el

also didnt feel like drawing their gg outfits , my bad ! ive had this idea for months though , thought of it when mapicc was sticking around gg base on guard while bacon was trading w someone lol

[philsdrivinglicence]

Me watching every upload twice in a row then scrolling the phan tag for 2 hours pausing only to go back and watch sections of the same video again:

I am mentally unwell but I am stable, I am mentally unwell, but I am stable. I AM MENTALLY UNWELL BUT... I am stable.

[brown-little-robin]

WAIT. In the last week I have talked to human beings in person for less than half an hour total, I've left the house 60% less than usual, I've been up til 1am four days in a row, AND I haven't touched a human being for over a month.

so that's why I'm going insane

[dubacheryking]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA <-thinking about Richie tozier again

[ryescapades]

just got back from kn8 116 … been fed well today i’m gonna sleep So soundly later goodnight chat

[fruityumbrella]

most days its so nothing but some days when im reminded of the fact that some people out there can both write AND draw AND its so fucking good i feel like i am being driven insane

[carcarrot]

OLD MEN WERE TEMPTING ME...........

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

Ooh if you're still taking prompts I'm submitting one for Parkner (can't wait for the last chapter of a peach like you btw!) I liked the idea of a combo of #8 and #46 or just #28 because werewolves!

Heeelllloooooo dear darling anon. Do you remember me? Do you still read parkner? You sent this prompt in April of 2022 and Congratulations!! I'm finally filling it over a year later 😬 sorryyy

These prompts are from this prompt list. I was tempted by 28.) werewolf au. both of them are werewolves, which was surprising bc I've been exhausted on werewolves (and vampires) for a while now, but I thought it would be fun if it was human Ned's POV scrambling to keep Peter's big hairy secret from their new roommate, Harley, that they found on craiglist, only to come home one day after months of scrambling to cover claw marks and sweep up tufts of fur to find not one but two werewolves sacked out on the couch, one blond and one brunet, and realize he'd been cleaning up after both of them and they need to have a serious conversation once they're all on two legs again.

BUT I decided not to go that route because a combo of 8 and 46 was just too alluring.

8.) every single kiss so far has been a disaster but it’s really funny + 46.) don’t have a one night stand with your coworker on the spaceship

Is your memory refreshed dear anon? Is this at all familiar? Regardless! I wrote the thing and per the norm I took it too far so here's a snippet of the beginning and a link to ao3 where you can read the other 8k assuming you still read parkner 🫠

adventures with hair dye and feelings — In Space!

or 5 times Harley and Peter don’t kiss + 1 time they do (in space!)

A light breeze stirs the early morning fog that crowds the Avengers compound and whites out the world to none but their research team of four. Tony, their self-appointed leader, clears his throat and looks down his nose at them. Since he’s the shortest this is only possible thanks to the incline of the spaceship’s docking ramp and his position at the head of it.

He pitches his voice to carry. “Before we embark on this scientific expedition I’m going to lay down some very strict rules.”

On Peter’s right, Bruce shifts and huffs impatiently.

“Hey, this is serious, Jolly Green. Listen up.” Tony holds up five fingers. “Rule number five, anybody that messes with my music gets thrown out the airlock, no exceptions.”

On Peter’s left, Harley snorts.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you, Johnny Cash. Mitts off or you’re as good as freeze dried and vacuum sealed. Rule number four, no fragrances. That means no body spray, no candles, and no air fresheners. If I catch so much as a whiff of an artificial scent, I’ll make the owner eat it. Rule number three…”

He begins to pace across the width of the ramp.

“No sticky business. Sorry kid but we’re not chancing a heart attack in space because you get the itch to pace the ceiling and scare poor Brucie into thinking he's in Alien. Which brings us to rule number two, don’t set off the green rage monster.”

“Tony—,”

“That one’s for me,” he says over Bruce. “I can be fair and include myself in the rules.” He stops pacing and looms over them. “The last rule is the most important so I need your undivided attention. Are you listening?”

He looks unmistakably from Peter to Harley then back to Peter. Peter nods.

“Get on with it, old man.” Harley shifts his one allotted bag higher on his shoulder. “Some of us would like to breach atmo before the heat death of the universe.”

Tony eyeballs him but doesn’t rise to his bait like he usually does. His gaze shifts and Peter finds himself drawing up to his full height under his unlaughing stare.

“Rule number one, do not have a one-night stand with your coworker on the spaceship.”

A sliver of Peter’s soul slaws off and dies.

Keep reading on ao3

[themyscirah]

Wait omg..... Jessica Cruz probably did rifle... my specialized sports knowledge coming in CLUTCH

Okay so I barely practiced and made it to regionals like once so im NOT the expert here but uh headcanoning that Jess did air rifle when she was a teen. Like idk if it would be as part of a team like with a high school (what I'm familiar with) vs like an individual thing vs like a travel/competitive team (it depends on the sitch in her area growing up) but she definitely went to some national matches (probably including JOs/JO quals like i think she was GOOD). I think she probably would have quit competitively following a bad shot at nationals (relatable) along with anxiety about competition (ALSO relatable) but still kept up with shooting casually for fun and relaxation and to hang out with friends etc.

She definitely would have shot smallbore competitively too but I never did that bc I was lazy so idk to much abt it competitively

[selcouth-vast-poet]

JULIEK OCTAVIA JUELEIK OCTAVIA JULIEK OCTAVIA AUEGEGRGHEYEGGEEHGE AURRGGRRGRRGHGFGGGHH

[nightshadowhawk]

boymisery and girlhate