#second-person

[voltstone]

Back Again (F!SS x Piper Wright One-Shot)

|| Perhaps it’s your naive hope that keeps you from breaking down completely. But you know Blue will come back. She will. Blue said as much. ||

In other words, Piper Wright walked out of Diamond City with the woman written as the “View from the Vault.” Though, well, the city folk were quick to suspect that there was something else going on between them… And they weren’t wrong. So when Piper walked back into Diamond City without the woman, there was something wrong. Especially the longer she waited on the Publick Occurrences rooftop. Alcohol in her breath. Less shouting and interrogating for interviews. It was all just…wrong.

[8,547 Words] | [Last Edit: 4/15/2021] (Full One-Shot Post)

“GOD DAMMIT PIPER! I’LL FIND MY WAY, JUST GO! GO AND GET TO THE CITY!”

You still don’t know how you did it. Just left her like that.

“I’LL COME BACK AGAIN! OKAY?! OKAY?! JUST GO! GET OUT OF HERE!”

But, all there is to do is listen to Blue’s screams from when she hurled herself away, narrowly avoiding the two deathclaws that had sprung out of the horizon. Her voice drowned by the suit’s helmet. Bullets and fire igniting her face through the visor…

And then think. Listen to her voice, and then think about how you just left her with the traces of the Glowing Sea rife along the hazmat suit. Which you had to ditch after its helmet cracked from the gunfire of a few raiders—who you also ditched. In the same canal, in fact. Tied together by the ankles of the suit and just booted over the side.

Cracked helmet or not, you’re now really regretting that panicked decision. You don’t care if your haste had saved your ass because radiation is a bitch, and the last thing you need is to be caught in the building storm as it crawls from behind. Rancid thunder and lightening of spitfire—it’s all just the icing of your luck, honestly. And—

You stop short and hold out your hands to confirm that, yes, it is—in fact—raining, and absolutely, the water stings in ways you believe wasn’t a thing before the apocalypse some hundred or two years ago. That’s what Blue told you anyway…

“Shit…” you breathe tightly, forcing yourself further down the road. The echoes of gunfire and more of Blue’s voice replay themselves—the ones that melded in the distance, desperate to keep the deathclaws away from you and instead submerged within the Glowing Sea.

And it did work. Yet, that’s the one thing that keeps your jaw sewn together, and your eyes hard on the outskirts of the city. It worked, and Blue is lost in that radiated wasteland, and you’re alive, right at the foot of Diamond City. Your home. So yay, you’re alive and well. Good time as any to get struck down by the storm. With that thought, you almost just let yourself face-plant into the deteriorated asphalt and beg for the rad storm to just send a bolt right up your ass.

Almost.

You don’t really because…uh, well, to be frank, you’ve asked for similar things before, and the Commonwealth thought it would be funny to give you those scars. Hence why you’ve vowed to never ask for the impossible because—well boy howdy—turns out you would find the Children of Atom in the sewers. And yup, sure, you’d get poisoned too. Oh and let’s throw in the damn rad storm that, you know, just happened to make its presence right after your vacation in the Glowing Sea. Right. Real nice of the Commonwealth there. Quite the joker.

“Piper…” You barely acknowledge the guard before he adds to his grumble: “Paper’s been running good since you left.”

You halt in place with a groan. Who is that anyway? Johnny? Tim? Dan? You turn around and scowl, “Not a surprise. Nat’s capable.”

With his next, rather invasive, question, you know it’s Bobby from behind the mask: “So…that woman. The one from the newspaper? ‘Out of Time’ or somefink? Or 'View from the Vault?’ Y’ left with her, didn’t you?”

You narrow your eyes, working your jaw. Like you really needed the additional, constant reminder. “Yes,” you murmur, “I did… She’s capable.”

“R-Right…” You turn away and barely catch Bobby’s quiet, “Hope so.”

Oh what the hell does Bobby know? He’s just the stupid guard of the bunch. All talk and no brain. Or, well, brawn too. All talk and no double b’s. 

So forget him. How about you deal with the closed gate that most certainly closed the moment you stepped out? Arms crossed, you watch the speaker with a tight lip. And, slowly, Danny’s voice mumbles, “…uh, Piper? Is that you again? Kinda creepy just lurking in front of the door like that.”

You roll your eyes and snap, “Would you just let me in, Danny?! I may be one for the law and all that, but don’t think for a second I’m out of stuff I can stick up your—”

“Okay! Okay! Jeez, Piper! Just like— Pipe down, will you?!" You arch a brow and tap your foot. "So, uh, like…go through the guard’s door. Mayor’s not too happy. Well, I mean, he’s never happy with you, but anyway, yeah. Still wants you out, and there’s a storm and everything, so you know, protocols.”

You hum, “Uh huh. Right, Danny…”

“So, yeah! I’ll let you in secretly. Wait, no. Discreetly… Discreetly? Discreetly, yeah. That’ll look better on my referral—”

“Uh, Danny? About that storm and everything?”

He pauses. “Yeah, what’s up? It’s getting pretty gnarly, isn’t it?”

“I’M STILL OUTSIDE!” you bark.

“Shit, right! Okay! Guard door! I’ll unlock it, okay?! I-I’ll make sure nobody sees you—uh huh!”

You click the roof of your mouth irritably as you stalk over to the door, and by the time his frantic jangling of his keys and lock wrenches the thing open, you’re sopping wet in acid rain. You flick your hat roughly in your hand as you storm inside, splattering fat droplets of water against the concrete. Danny wheezes and shuts the door, muttering something about how guard duty outside wouldn’t be fun at this hour. (Lucky they got the saps like Bobby to stand watch, then…)

He haphazardly reaches your side and rushes, “You’re not just going to walk out from the front door like that, are you?! People will see—”

“Make sure he writes discreetly on your referral then, Danny,” you retort, slipping on your press hat.

Danny deflates, and as you walk down the front entryway, he grumbles, “Ma’s right… You are a bully.”

Whatever. So you’re a bully. With a lazy, though gruff, wave of your hand, you stroll down to Publick Occurrences, which right front and center to the entrance anyway. So, like, Danny doesn’t need to worry his pretty head. Not tonight, at least. Well, really not ever since you’re still a citizen, and legally you shouldn’t be kicked out every single time you try to get back in. In short, you’re protected by the law. Some laws. …a law, with a former lawyer to back you up.

Every. Single. Time. You can’t just let yourself step two strides in front of you before reminding yourself of who just just up and left. You can’t, can you?

“Piper!”

You stamp to a halt and twist around. She’s gotten taller… A smile manages to worm itself on, and you squeeze Nat’s shoulder as she hops from the newspaper stand. “Hey! How’s the paper runnin’?”

“Good,” Nat chirps with a quick, added, “Ever since Blue fixed the printer…” Her frown is slow to come, and it has the same, conflicted grace that forces your smile to dwindle. “Wait, where is—”

“Glad that it’s doing well,” you cut across, slipping away from her lingering side-embrace. “I guess I was wrong about the ol’ nuts and bolts.”

“P-Piper…? What happened?” Your hand closes around the front door’s handle, though you hesitate to open it. You hear Nat’s footsteps behind you, and she asks, “Did… Did you guys make it to the Glowing—”

Your other hand raises, and you snap, “Just—!" It hangs there for a moment, and your smile is not one at all but instead a tight, distraught glower. You don’t guide it to Nat, however. You keep it focused on the door. "Just run the paper,” you deadpan before slamming the door behind you. The front of the house spits back at you as a welcome, the metal and wood groaning against your steps as you make your way up the stairs. And at the height of them, you pause, chewing the inside of your cheek as you hold yourself.

You need something to do. A way to think. But not too much. Just enough to forget about how to remember. So you sit your ass down at the terminal because, sure, here’s an idea: while you wait, you can write about some of your adventures. Maybe you won't publish all of them, necessarily, but to write about… About Blue and… And the struggles outside the city…

You feel your lips flatten into a hard line because you damn well know you’re not going to be typing anything. Not at your terminal for any private matters, nor the typewriter that’s not far from you—for printing. None of it. You just— You know that the story isn’t over, right? There will still be tales and news and paragraphs to detail. It— It can’t just end with two deathclaws tearing after Blue and into the Glowing Sea, gunfire and clips of her voice behind you… I-It just can’t be.

How… How did you just leave her…?! How were you able to just walk all those miles within that day, and wind up back at your house? It didn’t even feel like a home anymore, despite hearing Nat’s voice, and seeing your typewriter, and feeling the terminal underneath your palms as you strangle the screen through a hissed cry.

“D-Damn it…Blue,” you whine softly, resting your head against the screen. It blips to life, but all you can think about is that Pip-Boy on your vault dweller’s wrist, and then the blue of her suit, and a starry night… Her kisses and hugs and the way she cradled you that one night.

God, why did you leave?! Why did you listen?!

It’s all you ask. It’s the only thing you ask, and come to find, you have one answer:

Because Blue told you to, and she promised that she’ll come back. And she will.

I know you will, Blue… I-I hope you do.

[+ + +]

You don’t know how long you’ve just been staring at the ceiling for. An hour? A few minutes? Equally plausible. Oh, and did you take a nap? Who knows! Probably, if you’re feeling this sluggish. With a blink and a swallow, you also determine that you’ve been drinking too. On your bed with a leg hung over the side. As you move to reach for— Oh, yup. Here’s a bottle. With a light grin, you arch a brow and crack open the lid. One of Vadim’s concoctions, you’re sure. Nuka-Cola with some vodka—though he always adds something else. An extra kick since the vodka isn’t enough for him.

And not enough for you too, it seems. Especially tonight. You drain a good chug of it before coughing yourself back across your bed, the clinks of more bottles rolling underneath the bed-frame as you do so. The Nuka-Cola mix is still tight in your hand, and you rock your jaw in thought, eyes back to the ceiling. You also wonder if Nat had checked on you within the past few hours. Or, well, during the storm that had rolled by. Did anyone inside know about it before you did? Maybe not. Mayor McDonough has always been the worst with that… It’s like he wants everyone to go all ghoulish just to be able to kick—

H-Hey! Now wait a minute! Is that why that fuckin’ synth’s always trying to lock you out?!

You stew for a moment and hiss, “Dumb, wired bastard.” Another few sips. “Gonna earn yourself another fuckin’ story for that… Piece of scrap shit…” You teethe the edge of the bottle’s neck with a thoughtful eye closed. Of course…if you did do that, you would be tossed out with another gaping hole up your ass—one that isn’t natural. And dammit, Nat would be stuck here to pick up the pieces of your mess. Damn. And he’d get away with it. You know it. He knows it. All because he looked at you in the odd, inhuman way you grew to recognize from Valentine. Of course, Nick’s nothing less than human. He’s just, well, fitted with robotic parts. But there is that look. Oh, there is that look—especially when he’s brought in front of a bowl of noodles as if it’s nothing more than just calories to gain and burn.

The mayor, however, is nothing less of a scumbag.

Which is why you're sure that he’s absolutely a sy—

“ACK!” 

You wrench upright and choke on the neck of the bottle, spraying the booze across your little nook. Holding the base of your throat, you scowl. (It’s not the first time you’ve accidentally tried to drink while laying down. It’s very embarrassing. You know you’re not three, but… Yeah. Embarrassing.) With the bottle now empty, you roll your eyes and toss it to…someplace. You aimed for the corner of the room, but you’re now watching it roll underneath your bed. There’s a brief blip of curiosity to what you’d find under there, though the list of all of your habits deter you. At this point, there might as well be a skeleton under there.

So with your hand kept on the base of your hat (for balance, you think), you teeter towards the roof door and step through. The rain has cleared by now, though the roof from its straight platform to its edges is still slicked with simmering water. You look across the main hub of Diamond City, and the steam from the acid rain wafts with the neon lights, and you can hear the sopping steps of very few of your city folk.

Up above, though, is what really draws your attention. It’s a complete and utter blanket of stars—bright pearls poked into a sheet of black, singed with purples and greens.

You trip over yourself and are nearly thrown over the edge. Lucky for you, your hand snagged the lone pipe that you’ve yet to figure out where it connects to. It fumes with heat, and sometimes it smokes, so it’s important in some whatever way. And tonight, it caught your fall. So yay.

With a light groan, you sink onto the rooftop, eyes back to the sky high above. It even looks similar to the night or two prior. Well, it should since the constellations haven’t really changed within seventy-two hours—give or take some. Or maybe forty-eight. Oh who knows and who cares? You're hammered!

You laugh quietly to no one. All alone. With those stars… 

And, to yourself, you barely whisper the name of whom you hope is able to see them. But, well, Blue probably can’t. She’s still stuck in a haze of radiation, after all. Alive, dammit. Alive with two deathclaws wrangled and beaten.

There’s a choked cry that escapes you, and you rub your eyes with your sleeve.

She has to be alive… 

[+ + +]

Because if she isn’t, then why was it just this night? How goddamn cruel does a joke from the Commonwealth have to be? After that first night, it just decides to whisk her away from you? Just like that?!

Whatever the case, cruel or not, you don’t stop yourself from revisiting it. How the two of you found a small, makeshift shack for the night—her power-armor off to the side with a hazmat suit at its feet. The two of you in its doorway, looking out into the night’s sky with a dim lantern set on a few broken shelves behind you. Tossed blankets and pillows (with curious stains, of course) scattered on the inside. You with a lit cigarette, and Blue with her share of the cram…

“Doesn’t get any calmer than this?” you muttered through an exhale.

She grinned into the can and nodded. “Yeah. Suppose not. Though there’s still a bit more excitement than when I just reclined in a chair way back in the day.”

You snorted a laugh, which forced your cheeks to burn and gaze to dart away (because what adult snorts anymore?). Even so, you remarked, “What an old timer you are…”

“An old timer slowly being roasted by the radiation…”

“Well, I mean, you do eat all of those canned food like they’re nothing,” you murmured.

Blue shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Habits die hard, I guess. It doesn’t help that the cram tastes the same.”

“That should be concerning.”

“Oh, believe me, it is.” The can was tossed backwards into the shack, her eyes outward. You inhaled more of your cigarette as she murmured, “Still… Sometimes it’s nice finding the things that are kept the same. The stars are another thing, you know.”

You hummed gently, “I’m sure it is…”

“And…you know what? With those few things, it’s easier, I guess, to get used to everything else,” she said. You watched her profile, and deep in your chest, you felt more of the fluttering that had been plaguing you for months. A nice, timid thing. Coy though persistent. …especially the latter that night, as it turned out. With another exhale, you turned away to blow it to the side, if to also collect yourself.

“What other things?”

“Hmm?”

“The stuff that stayed the same.”

She pondered for a moment, then said, “Nuka-Cola. Probably is a concern too, but I’m not complaining…” Blue thought for another minute. “Codsworth—or, at least, most of him. I think he’s lost a few bolts while I was in the vault. …uh, and I think your hat too.”

You blinked. “W-What?”

Blue chuckled—the way that always twisted your heart and burned your gut—, and she turned towards you. “Yeah… I mean, of course I doubt I’ve seen that one before. And it's…dirty.”

“Hey, I’ve tried my best,” you retorted playfully.

“I know, I know,” she snickered. “But yeah. It’s what everyone always pictured reporters and journalists to wear. So, I mean…fitting.”

You felt the brim of it with a quiet smile, then murmured, “I mean, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t inspired by the look. And lucky. Clothes that fit and match are rare, you know.”

“…yeah.”

You eyed the grey tie and under-layers of the Silver Shroud outfit, the trench coat laid on the floor behind you. “I guess costumes do well though,” you said, a bit sly.

Blue rolled her eyes and replied, “Well, it’s not so much a costume anymore.”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

You giggled (again, what kind of adult—? Never mind), and answered, “Yeah.”

“Okay…” Her voice dropped, and it peeked the…well, persistent fluttering that really had no business growing throughout your torso the way it did. “And what’s your opinion on women running around in costumes all day?”

You swallowed. Well…damn, did you have an answer. But the answer was…something. Like a big something. 

Even if you constantly get in over your head, and earning the wrong side of people is your talent, this is just— Wait, yeah. Forget even—you do get in over your head, and you do so through your talent—which is earning the wrong side of people. So what were you about to do? You didn’t know what you were doing. You’re still even surprised yourself. Maybe it was the smoke, or the booze the few hours before, or just…um, w-well, the mood of it all. Intimacy, you guess. Regardless, you leaned in after she arched a brow curiously, and the touch of her lips against yours was… It’s not like you’d never kissed anybody before—never mind had a short fling—, though this felt deeper. Like it meant something other than a drunken bump in the night.

Mainly because when you broke away at the feel of your scalding cheeks, startled by embarrassment, Blue had followed and quickly snagged you back in. She wasn’t going to let you get away with that. Not so easily, anyway. And with her leeching your timidity away, you numbly put out your cigarette with the edge of the doorframe, and she left you breathless as you flicked the rest of the stick away to somewheresville. 

You didn’t really know if you should say something—about…well, something stupid, really. Probably about how gum-like her lips were, except without the radiation. But, again, stupid, so all you could do was groan into her and allow Blue to hold you tight. Which she did. Very, very well. Enveloped you from the rest of the world so she could have you, in that shack, all to herself. It was the reporter side of you that wanted to just have everything in words, or narrated, or anything in between, but the woman side of you—which Blue was most definitely focused on—wanted everything how it was: no words. 

Retrospect is a bitch, yet you can’t help but feel that foresight was what drove the two of you that night. Keeping the words out of your mouths to not waste time. Neither of you knew that there would be two deathclaws, and then the prospect of traveling with both at your tails within the Glowing Sea… No. The most Blue probably knew was that you needed an itch to be scratched, and by her only.

And you? All you knew, and all you know now, is that you were falling… And falling… And falling…

You just don’t want to wake up. Not if it means slipping out of Blue’s arms.

[+ + +]

Well… Fucking ow.

You hiss as you strip yourself from the road of acidic mud and stare groggily into the outline you so graciously left. You can even see the rim of bubbles along the silhouette of your head that, ultimately, were the breaths which suffocated you awake. You gaze around in the midst of your stirring hangover, and everybody around you is frozen and rightly startled. Then you glance up at your roof as a bottle (maybe one that snuck out) teeters over the edge, only to clink its way down to a soft, gentle landing. 

Right. Yeah, okay. Let the flesh and bone have the fun splat and just give the glass some cushion…

Oh, and where’s your hat now? Let’s see… Oh yes. Nice. So deep in the mud, having landed underneath your chest, that you have to go wrist-deep to get it out. What the absolute, applaudable, signature prank there, Commonwealth. Real snazzy and stuff. As you thwack! the mud out of your hat to pile itself in one slopped mound, you’re quickly discovering that you could have not landed in a more soggy part of the street. Whether that was luck or misfortune, you don’t know. Humiliating luck probably. Or petty misfortune. Tato tato. 

“What happened?! Are there mole-rats—” Everyone turns to look at Nat, who stops dead to stare at you. For a moment, you seriously believe that she thought you’re a mole-rat yourself at first glance. “Oh…” she grumbles, deflating. Then there’s a frown, and Nat glances up at the roof before you again. “Did you just—?!”

“Ech…” you spit muck before getting to your feet. You stuff your hat into your coat pocket and mumble, “Imma shower…”

“What?! Don’t act like you didn’t just fall from the sky!” Nat bickers, and you groan before twisting around.

Already, before you even point towards her chest, the small crowd that had gathered is slowly stepping back into their morning routines. “What are they teaching you?! The sky isn’t the roof, Nat!”

“I— Well they taught me that that’s called a hyperbole!” She sets her hands on her hips in a way that terrifies you. It looks too much like a mirror’s reflection. You hate it. “I thought that was something you know well!”

Maybe the reflection standing right in front of you snapped something into place. Or you’re terribly, sort of, hungover. Regardless, you spit, “I know how to write the truth about what’s happening around—outside those walls and everything—whether people like it or not!”

“Well, okay,” she hisses, “you idiot. I was saying you know that 'cause you’re the writer. You actually care about that stuff!”

“Pfft.”

Her eyes bug out, and you turn your back to her and trudge towards the door. "P-Piper!“ you hear Nat snap. "Where are you going?!”

“I’m goin’ through the back!” you answer with a shove of the door. “Relax!”

“The back’s through the freakin’ roof!”

You bark through a hiccup, “L-Language! You little shit!” and stagger inside. You barely catch Nat slapping her hand across her forehead with a roll of her eyes. You’re half-way up the stairs (then down a few steps, then up again) when you hear Nat’s slam of the door.

“Piper! You just fell from the roof!” she snaps.

“I am not drunk…” you assure her, and though it’s the truth, it also feels like a lie. You can hold your drink alright, but damn, hungover doesn’t seem accurate.

Nat, too, finds a way to poke a gaping hole in your claim: “You just fell off it!”

“A-And?! I know how to get to the shower, Nat!” you retort. “Alone… It’s not the first time.” You push through the door to curl around its hugging wall, then down the staircase towards the back of the house. As you stagger across the dirt landing, you bet Nat’s really regretting her excitement to have the third door upstairs (to the roof) instead of the back like any normal place. Nevertheless, because yeah, you have indeed found your way to the shower while drunk before, she lingers at the height of the stairs with her arms folded—presumably with the familiar scowl in tact as well.

The shower is just a haphazard shack built into the side of Publick Occurrences. Enough walls to cover, though it’s all wood except for the makeshift plumbing. You sway at the clothing rack before you decide that, yes, you shall clean both yourself and your clothes all at once. And as soon as the faucet is turned, and the water garbles and spits the first wave of water out, the soaking of your clothes into your skin is, clearly, the correct choice. When it filters out into its usual stream, even more so.

You don’t, however, anticipate the soap and rag right underneath your boot, so the moment you reach to find said soap, you flip.

Har. Har. …Commonwealth.

Though you do have to give the vindictive, comedic force some credit: as it turns out, being eagle-spread, face-first into a clean pool of water is so much better than the packed, sopped mud of the street. So you just lay there, letting the water puddle around your cheeks while you inhale the metal that makes up the shower floor. The drumming of the water almost masks hurried steps from down the stairs. You can feel your sister’s dry sarcasm before you lift your head: “You know, this is a lot more sad than if I just caught you naked.”

You flop back. “Oh hush…” you muffle into the ground.

“A-Are you trying to drown yourself?!" Yes. Yes you are. So you wave your arms roughly from over your shoulder to get her away. This is a private matter, and it has nothing to do with Nat. Other than her being your sister, and you her…guardian. Of sorts. Kind of. Legally and by all accounts, yes, but sort of cause, hey, you’re a failure who always dips out, right? And oh look, you’re so much of one that she’s taking care of you; Nat, with a labored sigh, wrenches you upright by your shoulder and grumbles, "Now would you quit being stupid and take a normal shower for once?”

“Yeah, yeah…” you drawl, completely disregarding what she meant by for once… "Now git so I can…whatever.“

Nat squints at you, then mumbles, "Fine. I’ll just be selling…the newspapers…”

“Good.”

“…right.”

She does leave, though, and you’re still underneath the pattering of the shower. You can’t help but feel like it resembles the rain just the night prior a little too much. Nor can you help that, as the mud soughs off your clothes and face, you still feel so empty. Honestly, the mud might as well be all of your weight, and it’s now just going down the makeshift drain. You don’t know what to do with yourself other than just curl up and lean further against the wall. There still isn’t any tears that threaten—you’re just too dry even now—, and perhaps it’s your naive hope that keeps you from breaking down completely.

But you know Blue will come back. She will. Blue said as much.

[1 ½ Months Later]

An anomaly happened.

You were (and still are) slugged in the couch, Nuka-Cola in one hand with a cigarette in the other when, remarkably,Mister Zwicky comes in through the door to Nat’s directions for an interview. Just, like, without being prompted by you. No convincing to be had. By this point, you’re sure you reek of desperation underneath the nightly guzzling of alcohol, so maybe that had something to do with it. Or this is all a rouse and the city is plotting to throw you out through an over-arching scheme—who knows at this point?

Though the fact that it’s Mister Zwicky sitting on the other side of the couch, patient and collected as ever, is what peeked your interest. Not that you’re doing anything about it. You’re just sitting there, baffled, while trying to come up with a question. And after a minute passes, you come up with a well-articulated and definitely not pathetic, “So…um, you have something for the paper?”

“I believe so,” he hums. “Definitely something that could spruce up the news after last weeks article on…remedies for bloodbugs, was it?”

You answer, tightly, “That’s an important thing for people to know…”

“It is, it is,” Mister Zwicky says with a nod. “But…well,” he adds, “that was the most, err, striking thing you’ve written within the past few weeks.”

“…really,” you reply, blunt.

“Unless you count that…thrilling article you wrote after quite the trip to the Dugout Inn.”

You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?”

The old man shrugs and says, “Well, Piper, you could’ve only written that drunk on Vadim’s drinks.” Mister Zwicky pauses, and he briefly eyes the small, gathering pile of empty bottles at the edge of your coffee table. “Not to mention that it had your infamous zest that you get those nights.”

“Huh.” So that explains the morning you woke up on the printer. And to Nat’s confused shouting once she realized your hand was in the ink. And that the ink was out in the first place. Nevertheless, you inhale more of the cigarette and lean into the couch. “I thought that one would’ve been a good one to read.”

“…if people got through the typos and awkward syntax,” he murmurs under his breath. You stare at him with a twitch, and the schoolteacher raises his hands. “Now, now,” Mister Zwicky says, “I get it. But never mind all that… Uh, well, sort of.” He scratches the back of his neck and breathes a sigh. “I'm here because I do have something for the paper. Nothing like what you’d usually put down, but…well, hopefully something to pick it all back in order. If you’re still able, anyway.”

“I can still write,” you grumble defensively.

Mister Zwicky nods along. “Yes, I think so too. So can you? Write about some of the stuff the kids are working on. Some nice things that they could turn in for the paper.”

“Like some big group project for a grade…?” you ask lazily, through a puff of smoke.

He sways his head side-to-side as he answers, “More like a…'view from school’ sort of thing. Different perspective of the world? A new insight?”

You work your jaw in consideration. Mister Zwicky’s always known how to fluff your good side—even when you had to sit in front of his desk to hear about whatever detention Nat had that day. Speaking of, is there no school today? That or it’s one of his few break hours. “…m'okay. I’ll bite,” you drawl carefully. “What would they be talking about anyway?”

As you flick the end of your cigarette into the ashtray, Mister Zwicky replies, “Well, some of what they thing about the city, stories they’d like to share.” He pauses, and you brace for his next few words: “…what they think it’s like on the outside.”

You braced for it, and it still stings. You inhale another drag, turned away, and sigh a quiet, “…right.”

“L-Look, Piper. This isn’t you, is it? Hell, you’ve managed to get the folks around here worried.”

“Yeah, a good two if you’re up in arms with Nat,” you retort.

“There’s more!” he insists.

“By how much?!”

Mister Zwicky pauses again, this time with a slight wince. “More, I assure you… Even so, everyone’s noticed. You usually crank out a few months’ worth of articles and stories and such for the paper with each visit. About the outside. Everything you’ve investigated and the like…”

“Yeah? So?”

“You’ve gone radio silent this time, Piper.”

You tense your jaw and shake your head. With your leg folded over the other, and arms crossed, you grumble, “And what? This whole school-thing is this grandiose pity-party to get me to write a word about the Commonwealth? Well here you go! Bullshit. There. I did it.”

He watches you sadly, and dammit, how many times are you going to just take that side-glance without just hucking your bottle at a face? Okay, well, a couple more apparently because you can’t bring yourself to do it. Even so, you hate it. You hate the way his pity carves itself into the aged lines of his face, so you turn away. Mister Zwicky heaves a sigh, and he murmurs, “I should’ve known… You’ve been grieving, haven’t you?”

“Waiting. I’ve been waiting,” you correct, each word spat out.

“In this age…they’re the same thing, Piper. You know that,” he murmurs grimly. “What did it?”

For a split second, you forgot that the Nuka-Cola is just the soda you grew up with and not Moonshine. So much so you stare into the bottle in confusion before a slow, whispered, “A pair of deathclaws… Right at the Glowing Sea’s doorstep.”

He nods, hands together. “That’ll do it,” the old man grunted. “And, uh, you’re just hoping?”

“…waiting.”

Mister Zwicky thins his lips. “Yes, of course.” He turns to you again, taking his eyes off of his hands. “It’s that woman, right? The one in the blue jumpsuit— Or, well, in that Silver Shroud coat, yeah?”

“Y-Yeah,” you answer quietly.

“I see. And you think she’ll be back?”

You frown, though answer wholeheartedly, “I know, teach. She’s going to be back. I-I just know it.”

“She better…”

[+ + +]

You didn’t leave the couch hours after Mister Zwicky left, nor when Nat had trudged in, the stack of newspapers under her arm lighter than when she brought them out. Not by a lot, mind, but noticeably lighter. And then she slumps at the other end of the couch, to which you can’t help but notice how much it reminds you of yourself. If only Nat knows to never do that. Be like you. Since, well, you’re a secret-not-really alcoholic who likes to romp around the Commonwealth and get into trouble, write about said trouble, then advocate to other people about how to avoid those said troubles.

But you doubt she does, given that it seems to be her talent, parroting you.

Or sassing you, either or: “Are you dead or just lazy? You haven’t moved all day.”

“Dead,” you scowl. “How many got the paper?”

“More than last month,” Nat murmurs. “And they’re actually reading it and stuff.” Your scowl deepens. You almost ask what they do with it usually, but you figure learning about how defiled your line of work is on a regular basis is…not going to be something that will help your self-esteem. Like you have one to begin with. Regardless, even if you wanted to ask, Nat notes her own line of thought before you could: “Probably because it’s different than normal.”

You grumble a breath and finish your bottle of Nuka-Cola. “Yeah… Next week’s gonna be on the school.”

“Really?”

“Kind of.”

Nat ducks her head back and groans. “So he did ask you about that assignment.”

You hate that your knee-jerk reaction is to do the same, so you just tighten your grip on your kneecap, hunched forward with your head in your other hand. …so he did make that for a grade. Maybe a good trip down to the Dugout Inn is a good idea for tonight. “Yeah, I guess,” you finally respond, hollow, both to your internal decision and Nat’s outward comment. However, that said, Nat’s quieter than she usually is, and you turn to her passively curious. “What is it?”

She tenses before her jaw tightens in thought. “So, um… Well, it’s nothing.”

“Okay. What is it?” you press, the nosy reporter in you peering out.

Nat shifts in her seat and holds herself. “Um, so uh, why do you go with Blue so much?”

You freeze, then turn your eyes away. “Oh… Well, uh, she's…” You frown and shrug. “She’s real important, Nat. A-And I mean, I just… I—”

“If you’re about to try and say it, I already know you’re gay, Piper,” Nat deadpans.

Your words die at the base of your tongue, and you rush, “I-I’m not gay! I like men t—” You blink while she continues to stare at you, confused, and you sigh. “Never mind.” Preference for women or not, you’re definitely going to keep those few nights where some hotshot managed to find his way beside you at Vadim’s bar. Always some wanderer because the men in the city are…gross. But, you’re definitely not going to tell her because they all meant nothing other than letting off steam, which Nat wouldn’t understand anyway. You squint at her as her confusion begins to break. Well…Nat shouldn't understand.

“…ew.”

“Nat!” you snap, now wickedly flustered. You then tense your brows and ask, “Who told you that stuff?!”

“Sheng,” Nat answers bluntly.

You hiss air. “Sheng Kawolski?!”

“There’s not any other Sheng around,” Nat grumbles. “But yeah,” she adds, almost nonchalant, “he did. After he tried to kiss me again.”

You’re going to pummel a child. Over the head. With your typewriter. Maybe even sandwich his face into the printer so that he’s the next story. …but then again, that would be murder, so not exactly a good plan. Aggression towards one stupid boy aside, you slump back into the yellow couch. You don’t even know if you’re sober enough at the moment to walk out the door over to his house anyway. That, and now as you think of it, Sheng is the one who brings purified water to Diamond City. And good, purified stuff too. Better than the few who came before him, anyway. So…you guess you can’t pummel a good cause either.

“Piper?”

“Hmm?”

Nat frowns, her eyes to her lap where her hands wring together. “Why have you stayed for this long?”

You nearly choke when you ask, “W-What do you mean by that, sis?”

She watches you at the sound of your attempt to lighten it. You can practically hear it—how sis is continuously pinging around her thoughts. “I-I mean… You always leave. And I know it’s just 'cause that’s what you do. For the newspaper and stuff. And you’ve always done it 'cause…I dunno. But, like…” Her frown stitches itself tighter, and she pulls away. “You haven’t even walked out of Diamond City since you came back. Not even for some trading…”

“I, um—”

“Because Blue said?” Nat mumbles. You can’t find your words. You only manage a shrug and a meek nod. “…do you love her? Like, like that?”

It takes you a moment, though you nod again and whisper, “I-I do…yeah.”

“And that’s why you’re just waiting here? Because she said she’ll come back?”

“I know she will,” you murmur. “I know. She’s told me to run before, to this shed. Twisted my ankle before I could but I… I got to watch her.” You smile and say, “Took down this sentry bot on her own. And these things are huge, Nat. I always avoid them even when they’re off. But she did it. Ripped out its power cell and used it for her own suit.”

Nat blinks, in awe, and asks, “She has a suit…?”

“One of those military ones, yeah. Power-armor.” You hum a laugh and note, “Multiple, actually. She lugs her favorite around but leaves it outside the city.”

“Wow…” She frowns after a moment. “But…w-why did you leave?”

You shrug, drained by the sudden shift, and breathe, “Because… I don’t know. She told me to go to the city, and she never did before.” You chew the inside of your cheek and turn away from Nat’s grim sympathy. “Don’t look at me like that. I know she’s going to come back.”

“…but she told you to walk so far away. She—”

“Nat! I told you, she’s coming back!”

“I-I’m just saying! Why do you keep saying that anyway?!”

Your throat tightens, and you lean into your hand, against the arm of the couch. “Because the moment I don’t,” you whisper, “that’s when I’m going to starting thinking about it, and then I won’t stop believing she’s dead, and… Nat, she has to come back. I don't— She can’t be gone.” To your heavy chest, you feel Nat scoot over and rest into your side. It’s the closest she get’s to a hug, so it’s a nice thing. Subtle, though substantial in Nat’s own way. You swallow your whimper. “Sometimes you have to suspend the truth until your hope runs out…”

Nat shifts against your shoulder and murmurs, “Doesn’t that make you a hypocrite?”

“Or just human,” you mumble. You wrap your arm around her and rub the side of her bicep. “If or whenever you go out there for your own adventures, you’ll understand… The people here need the truth before it comes, but if it already has… I mean, let it pass in their own way.”

“…and your own way is believing that Blue’s alive?”

“She is,” you answer firmly. “She has to be.”

A long, long stretch of silence passes. And as the seconds drag by, stars pepper your thoughts again. Stars, and that shack, and Blue… You can’t stop thinking about it. You just can’t. So when Nat eventually breaks the silence, there’s nothing within you to defend against your gradual tears: “When she does come back, you’ll go outside again, right?” You hold your head weakly, and everything within the past couple months falls on you. One with Blue. The other without. But you hope that you’ll get another night again. At least one. Just one is all you as for now.

So you can’t answer your sister. You suspect she knows the answer to it, of course, but it’s never verbalized… 

[+ + +]

It doesn’t come to a surprise that the last, good night comes back to haunt you again. And you know you’re still in that measly bed of yours with beer bottles just toppled over by the legs of its frame, but holy shit, you can allow yourself just one continuous sleep thinking about it, can’t you?! Just revisiting how Blue cradled you against the wall of that makeshift shack, teeth grazing and nipping new marks along your shoulders, clothes slacked and unkempt as the two of you continued to uncoil yourselves as the night went on.

Perhaps it was the mere inkling of something separating the two of you—something like a pair of deathclaws—that did it. Had you and Blue just explore, and touch, and kiss without rest. An in between of sex and lovemaking, you supposed then and suppose now. Not that it wasn’t the latter, though you wonder how much inexperience with Blue’s body would qualify as such. Maybe it does, you still don’t know.

Regardless if it was sex, or fornicating, or lovemaking, or just screwing around for the hell of it—that all doesn’t matter, does it? Not as you hold onto one moment in particular, where you clung onto her shoulders, hips moving to the rhythm of her hand, as she whispered delicate, sweet things in your ear. Things that, really in any other instance, would sound corny and ridiculous. But shoot you for finding “You’re so soft…” and “I don’t want to let go of this" nice to hear while she’s goading hot sex out of you with that starry night high above the shack. Corny and ridiculous be damned, her way of words with the melding edge of her tone did you just right.

Oh God, how right Blue did you.

Her breaths slicked along your neck as you hissed air into her ear, uncaring of the wall flushed against your back. And once you tipped over the edge, you couldn’t have been any happier with your bumbling, spur-of-the-moment kiss at the mouth of that little shack. Blue was right there. Right with you. So when she murmured, quietly, "There we go… I got you. I got you…” you believed every word.

You still do.

Though you wish you could’ve done the same as what you did that night: give back. Roll Blue against the strewn blankets along the wooden floor and just give it your all. Send her on cloud nine. Over her own edge. Right underneath the film of stars and night, glinting through the roof of that little shelter of yours…

[+ + +]

And now?

It is certainly the time of night where those same stars glisten, though you find that you’re not as fond of them anymore. Part of that is a lie, actually, since even the thought of those stars bring about the good memories of Blue, but then again, the good memories remain to be the equivalent of burning the back of your hand with your cigarette. And you like your cigarettes. So, you know, it’s an appropriate comparison.

You laze your way upright and meander over to your desk. With Nat asleep, now’s a good time as any to hit the bar, right? With a bitter scowl, you dawn your hat and creep down the stairs. From around the stairwell, you can hear her light, dozing snores. Good, you think. She’s having a good sleep tonight. You debate lingering to watch for a moment, though that’s immediately shattered since you don’t know what you’d do if she woke up to you standing there. So, within a few minutes, you’re out the door, striding mindlessly for that hitch of beer. Maybe you’ll try to scrounge up some pastry or bite to eat for Nat later, if you’re sober enough.

If…

On a stool you slump, eyes heavy and glazed from the neon lights hung around. They carve deep shadows along all of the shapes and curves of your hands, and you breath a deep breath before folding your arms and slouching over the counter. A thought then hits you: what if, just for fun, the Commonwealth is going to decide to poison you tonight? That would be fun, right? And this time, if you try to throw it up again, people don’t do anything about it? Or they will…but because you’re a pathetic scrub. Yeah? Fun, right? The world could just piss all over your parade right now, regardless of how lonely your parade is. And alcoholic.

Damn, you really are a mess without the consistent adrenaline pumping through you, aren’t you? A sack of fermenting tatos without that sweet, sweet ringing in your ears? Or the burn of radiation after a quick, accidental dip in a lake—and you really don’t understand how Blue’s able to just swim in the stuff…

You slump further into the counter, drumming your fingers in thought as you wait for whatever disgusting beer would be served—maybe poisoned, who knows? Though, at the thought of Blue coming by to lay eyes on your body sunken in the mud, suffocated and poisoned, isn’t something you want. Not even in the midst of your bitter, sour and snide turn of events.

Where the hell was Takahashi with the beer?

Wait.

Dammit. Hold on. That pile of noodle-serving scrap doesn’t sell beer… And you’re not— Oh for the love of God, you’re not even at the bar. Stupid noodle stand.

…oh well. Where the hell was Takahashi with the noodle cup?!

You slap down a handful of bottle-caps, and immediately a bowl of noodles slide themselves across the counter and into your cheek. Disgruntled, with a noodle plastered over your nose, you glare to the side where the robot stands, washing a bowl in their mechanical hand. 

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?" Takahashi buzzes.

You chew the inside of your cheek. That sounded rude. In a soured note, you grumble, ”No, I knew where I was!“ Even so, you get back to your bowl, starting with sipping the strand of noodle off your face. As you indulge, a second bowl slides by, and it clinks against your own. You pause and turn towards the robot. "W-Wait, what?! I didn't—”

Actually, did you pay for two?

Before you can investigate the exact number of bottle-caps you’d just slammed onto the counter, you see a shadow slink up the bar, and you hear the crunch of steps. That silhouette. You swear it looks familiar.

So, albeit with hesitance, you turn around.

Even in the dim, neon lights, you know this isn’t just the Commonwealth being the cruel jester it tends to be. If it is? Well then, you just hope your next spot of beer is poisoned.

Regardless, because you know it’s not, you whisper, “B-Blue…?”

“Well…I did say I would come back, didn’t I?”

“Blue…” You laugh through a choked breath and tilt your head to the side with a quiet, if sad, smile. “You… You um…”

She blinks, then shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, well, I did just get my hair cut.”

“N-No… Your—”

Blue plucks her sleeve. “Oh yeah. Found this in some bunker. Pretty nice, isn’t it?”

Okay, well…the maroon suit is nice, but, “That scar… You…”

Caught red-handed, Blue shrugs and grins sheepishly. Three jagged lines right across her face. Deep and unruly. “I, uh, actually lost those two by popping in this parking garage—it was…way off the map. But, uh, yeah. Didn’t expect the third one…” Her words trail off as you embrace her, head nestled against her neck. There’s nothing to stop your breathless cries into her collar, and she hums a laugh as arms wrap around your waist. “So, uh, yeah,” she murmurs quietly. “The Glowing Sea’s a bitch to go through…”

“God, Blue…” you breathe.

“But I did say I’d come back. Nothing was going to stop that…”

You nod and pull away to peck her cheek with a tender, long kiss. “I know. And you did.”

A/N: She is my wife and yes, Piper has blown me up on numerous occasions. With molotovs, any other throwables, and a launcher in a very, very small room. No I won’t stop giving her throwables. Did reconsider the grenade launcher though… Hope you enjoyed! :D

[change-your-instinct]

You had been at the pool all day, enjoying the sun and the water. But you had been keeping an eye on the man you had seen earlier. He had been sitting at the edge of the pool, shirtless and wearing glasses, his eyes hidden by the reflective lenses. You had been drawn to him, feeling like he had been looking at you for the entire time you were in the pool.

Finally, you had the courage to approach him, to find out why he had been looking at you. He smiled as you approached, beckoning you to sit down. You couldn't help but admire his body, his strong features and close-cut beard, his furry chest. You caught a whiff of him, something that you wanted more of that seemed to pull you forward. You felt yourself distracted by it even as he began to talk, your responses habitual as you felt yourself speak.

You felt yourself becoming more and more entranced just by being close. You wanted more. He could see it in your eyes as they began to glaze over, becoming more and more suggestible. He brought his arm up above his head, and you couldn't look away from the dark tendrils of fur in his pit. Its aroma was both mouthwatering and intoxicating, the source of his heavenly scent.

You wanted to be engulfed in it, to be taken away by it. The world seemed to fall forward onto you as your vision became blocked by his body, your nose directly in his scent. You felt your mind slipping away, your body pulled into the scent as it completely dominated your will.

You were completely under his control, unable to tear away from his essence. Once marked you were his, for better or for worse, forever entranced by the Daddy's musk.

[arynneva]

wait do people read first person stories and think they're the ones in the story???

Saw people talking about not liking first person, which is fair, but their reasoning was like "I would not do that" and I don't understand that mindset.

First person stories are still about a character. A character making their own decisions. First person isn't about you???? At least I thought it wasn't. What am I missing? I've always seen first person as just a more in-depth look into a character's mind and stricter POV. Not as a reader stand-in.

[lazylittledragon]

can't believe we're all adults being forced into the club penguin level of censorship in 2024

[hinamie]

to moving forward

[symphonyofsilence]

Let the poor man rest.

[michael-eugene-cantrall-poetry]

The Watchers (version 2)

Possessed is what the Watchers do call it.

Demons that jump from person to person, touch by touch.

Possessed is what the Watchers do call it.

Demons that jump from person to person, touch by touch.

Only one of many ways they travel. Lo! smitten by the hidden.

And these shadows will chase the light away from those who step outside their hallowed zone.

The Watchers say it's dark light when the dark becomes the light, when the dark is their light.

They merely wait for a gate left open, and legions will be sneaking through to stay.

Where the givers and the takers wake the Watchers, and the Watchers watch whatever they choose.

Why would they leave when they can be right here, watching me and watching you? The Watchers (version 2) © Mar 2024, Michael Eugene Cantrall All images of daguerreotypes, ambrotypes, tintypes, cabinet cards, and postcards are from the author's private collection.  Photographs appearing on this writer's pages on this site are licensed. 

[problemnyatic]

when will we talk about the willful helplessness epidemic on here. So many people on this god forsaken website demand to have any and all things that exist outside their personal experiences directly, personally pre-chewed and spoonfed to them. And when you do, they'll then ask for you to swallow for them, too, because, you see, in THEIR experience..,

[valc0]

Just two perfectly respectable entrepreneurs…

[chaoticbuggybitchboy]

So done with all the defeatism nonsense. Life keeps going. My girlfriend has her first job interview later this morning. I’ve got to fold my laundry. My friends and I have a d&d session later this week. We’re still going. You’ll keep going. I’ll drag your asses into the future kicking and screaming because they want you to lay down and die. And I’ll be damned if any of us do what they want.

[everwalldigan]

Ok but Bruce’s “batglare” except it has specific stages that mean you’re in varying degrees of trouble. Allow me to elaborate:

Level 1: isn’t even really considered a glare in Bruce-speak, more of a suspicious squinting

Level 2: standard Disappointed Dad look, the most you’re gonna get is a reprimand

Level 3: resting Bitch face. Less of a glare and more of a sharp look that WILL follow you around and creep you out

Level 4: worried batglare, features aren’t as sharp as with the standard batglare. Usually smooths out when his kids/teammates stop being idiots and putting themselves in danger

Level 5: standard batglare, regular criminals are usually at the end of it, most of the kids have gotten pretty used to it

Level 6: You’ve Fucked Up. Expect a screaming match or a lecture of at least 30 minutes. Also you’re grounded

Level 7: full batglare on steroids, makes grown men piss their pants, usually reserved for the joker. Most of the kids have received it only once and that was MORE than enough for them to never want to receive it again

Level 8: Alfred.

[flikkerij]

elaborate in the tags if you like!

personally i use a mix between i, you and we depending on what i'm talking to myself for. like generally it's i, but when pushing myself to do a task it's "WE are going to get up and do the dishes", and selfcare is "YOU need to take a shower". tho none of this is consistent tbh

[aerequets]

part 2

spy x pta ORIGIN STORY???

i was interested in the pure aesthetic of loid fighting with a pta mom, but then i got way too into making a whole backstory. and of course there's twiyor but like, prpr (post reveal pre relationship) twiyor because why don't i just include everything i like while i'm at it?

anyways, as the first panel indicates, this is split into TWO PARTS because i lack restraint. i could have made one long post but i got impatient so i still have to draw the rest lmao

(everything related to this is under the 'spy x pta' tag on my account)

[titanofthedepths]

Yes you’re not fatphobic but are you capable of talking about fat people in a positive manner without saying somft/round/rotund/squishy/tumby/chumby/any other variation of the sort. Are you capable of talking about us in a positive manner without it being about beauty or attractiveness. Are you able to talk about fat people in general without being dehumanizing or infantilizing. Can you treat fat people with respect.

[bixels]

I watched Starship Troopers tonight.