#what a tinny fella!

[i01-xcl]

WIP_"coat"

[sungbeam]

𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

jung wooyoung x gn!reader

1.2k words, est. relationship au, low-key slice of life, kissing/making out, fluff, cheese :l

a/n: requests now closed! owjdkdjd i couldn't really make it suggestive cuz that wasn't the direction the fic was going, many apologies, chip !! >< hope u enjoy a slice of ur life w ur bf tho 😚

You could always pick Jung Wooyoung out of a line up. How could you not? The curtains of dual-dyed hair, the nose sculpted like marble, the smile—oh, his smile. His smile always had you tripping over your feet, faster than a crater in the sidewalk. And that smile was yours.

The bell above the door to the convenience store you worked at jingled a tinny sound and allowed the cool, night breeze to waft inside. You were stationed right beside it at the front counter, half a pair of earbuds in with a calculus textbook before you and a tub of ice cream for moral support. Your idea of a Wednesday night hadn't always been the midnight shift at the corner store, but it provided you with time needed to complete your homework since you barely experienced a rush hour.

The man in question waltzed through the door in a dark colored hoodie and a pair of old headphones draped around his neck. He sought you out immediately, beelining for the counter. "Now what's a sweet thing like you working in a dump like this?" He drawled as he leaned his side against the counter. There was a teasing glint in his eyes, something that came trademark to Wooyoung.

You offered him a spoonful of your strawberry cheesecake ice cream. "Some fella gon' done me wrong," you sighed to play along. "Just me and the ice cream." Your eyes skirted to the Lucky Cat figurine by the window, swinging around its tiny, white paw. "And the cat."

Wooyoung licked his lips as he savored the flavor of the ice cream. "Mm, that's good. Strawberry cheesecake?"

"Yup," you said, nodding. You scooped another bite for yourself. The carton was nearly as empty as the ice cream aisle was now. It always ran dry by this time of night. "That almost completes our world tour of the seventy-five flavors we sell, Woo. What's your favorite?"

Without hesitation, "You."

You choked up a laugh, your cheeks heating up beneath the fizzling fluorescent lights. Wooyoung's smile lit up the room and made the greenish tint of the store just a little warmer. He allowed you time to recover. "What? There's nothing sweeter than my baby."

He said it so easily. Your heart slammed against your ribcage and you wanted him to see it palpitate. Almost bashfully, you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and ducked your head to fidget with your calculus textbook. "You're so—why're you so cheesy!"

"Me? Cheesy?" He scoffed and placed a hand against his chest in mock offense. "How'd you know?"

You grinned; he grinned back. "You're so silly," you said, softer this time, closing your book and tearing the earbud out of your ear. According to the digital clock to your right, it was about time for you to close up.

"At least I make you laugh," he replied. As if it was the simplest thing in the world. As if his only purpose was to make you laugh, see you smile.

You were left biting your tongue, unable to string together the words to make him just as speechless. He watched you with a fond look in his eyes, the mole beneath his eye tempting you in wanting to kiss it. You began to clean everything up—dumping your trash in the bin, packing your school materials away, sweeping around the aisles. Wooyoung struck up a conversation about something San had been up to earlier today, his voice somehow carrying through the store as he emptied the trash into the alleyway dumpster for you. You both worked like two cogs in a machine, in no hurry, just desiring to be in the other's space.

When the store was cleaned up, Wooyoung grabbed your backpack for you and slung it over his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around you then, tucking you to his side as you locked the store up behind you.

The city was barren at this time of night, the streets dark and littered with circles of amber light from the streetlights. The walk to the nearby metro station was not necessarily just around the corner, so you always appreciated when Wooyoung dropped by to hang out and walk you home.

"What are you up to tonight?" You asked him, leaning your head against him slightly as you walked. You knew for sure he would probably walk you home, then head out to somewhere else with his friends. He never had short nights.

He hummed. "Mmh… think I'm meeting Joong hyung and everyone at the ring. Mingi's on tonight."

You raised a brow. "Oh, really? I thought he was taking a break to train some more."

"Nah, I think he just got impatient," Wooyoung mused. "You can still come with, baby. I could keep you safe; they're all afraid of me."

"Always the joker, aren't you?"

"Hey!" He squawked, peering over at you with his eyes alight and smile wide. "I take offense to that."

You laughed, patting his chest. "Want me to kiss it better?"

Wooyoung simpered down. "Yeah, always."

With a playful roll of your eyes, you stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk and cupped his cheeks. You met his lips with a firm, but affectionate peck. When you pulled away, he had attempted to press onwards and coax you back to him.

"I think I'm a little more offended than you think," he said, voice breathy. His arms were around your waist and anchored you to him, but left you room to still back away if you didn't want this.

You grazed your thumb over his lips and felt the bite of his teeth for a split second. "Your ego bruises like a peach, Wooyoung."

"And this peach would love for you to kiss him better."

Your heart did a somersault or two before you obliged him. He lowered his mouth over yours again, and you claimed that smile of his for yourself, as you had always done. Your fingers grasped the sides of his face to pull him impossibly close to you. Everything was so quiet; the world became yours and his. It was like he had nowhere to be and you had nowhere to go, but this moment was good, and you could have him as much as you could.

Wooyoung's tongue swiped over your bottom lip in a plea for entry, to which you granted. His fingers dug into your sides and held on for dear life. There was a crease between his brows as he kissed you, bruising both of your lips like the peach you claimed his ego to be.

And when you broke for air, his lips moved around your face to fill every crevice with him.

Your voice was hoarse, but chest light at the smattering of kisses over your face. "Is that amendment enough?" You laughed.

He smiled down at you, tongue licking his lips. "For now," he said with a wink.

Wooyoung curled his arm around your waist and the two of you started back in the direction of the metro station. Your voices echoed contently in the barren street that you had made your own:

"What do you mean 'for now?'"

"Well, you can't expect me to not pick up where we left off once we get home?"

atz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @tinkerbell460 @meosjinn @hyunjaespresent-deobi @stayarmytinyzenmoa-l @floatingpluto @gyulfriend @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @soonyoungblr @justanotherkpopstanlol @kangfication @pxppxrminty @fluorescentloves @haechansbbg @jaerisdiction @super-btstrash-posts @jundundun @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @kflixnet

[brawlite]

if i die and go to hell real soon

1.5k, peter parker/wade wilson, rated t

📞 a snapshot of the 41st loop in a time loop 📞 peter's decided he's not a fan of time loops 📞 fellas is it gay to feel feelings about your enemy friend crush casual work-adjacent acquaintance dying? 📞 something's wrong with the way deadpool is dying 📞 not friends not boyfriends but the person you call when you think you're dying for real this time 📞 ambiguous/open ending

description: Peter's real tired of time loops. He's even more tired of listening to Deadpool die over the phone, over and over again, just a tinny voice in his ear. Maybe the 41st time will be different.

excerpt: By the time Deadpool calls him, it’s late in the day. Eight thirty-three, to be exact. The first time it happened, Peter had been grocery shopping at his favorite bodega. He had been staring at a sugary breakfast cereal with marshmallows and what looked an awful lot like nerds candies. The cereal pieces were blue. They probably would taste like blue, too. Chemical and sweet. Peter had been thinking about the way the flavor would linger on his tongue for hours and, strangely, how much Deadpool would probably like it. The cereal, generally. Not the way it would --

The ringtone blares. This is the part he cannot change. This is the part he snaps back to every time, like a rubber band. Doesn’t matter where he’s standing, doesn’t matter what he’s doing. He can change the whole day and Deadpool will still call.

check it out here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57506374

[ephemeralbutterfly]

Fluffy Steve Fest Rec List: July 4: Birthday

Hello everyone! I am doing daily themed rec lists for @fluffystevefest. The fics are related (some more loosely than others) to the daily prompts. The number of fics for any given day and prompt varies, but I have at least one fic for each day. There's also a wide variety of fic types and ratings, so I hope there will be something for everyone.

The lists are vertically long, so I've put them behind a cut.

Today's fics are a grab bag.

Happy birthday, Steve!

Dancing

Captain America Finds His Fella by PR Zed (@trappingsofzed)

Rating: Teen Pairing: Stucky Summary: When she reached her eighties, Audrey though she was done with change. She thought things would continue as they always had. Instead, Steve and his friends have brought her more change than she'd gone through in the twenty years before. She gets used to one routine, and then a new one crops up. Or what happens when an elderly USO showgirl helps her super hero friend and his boyfriend. Comments: This is the third part of the Captain America Has a Fella series; I recommend reading the prior parts first. Steve isn't the one dancing here, but dancing does feature prominently.

Wishes

Against All Odds by spinawren (@wrenaspun)

Rating: Teen Pairing: Can be read as gen or as Stucky preslash Summary: Steve wakes up feeling so terrible that his first thought is that the serum somehow has worn off. His second thought, when he opens his eyes to see hard grey pavement, is that maybe he’s been sent back in time. He’d definitely spent a few nights next to trash cans in seedy alleys in the 30s, and stranger things than time travel had happened in his life so far. What was one more thing to add to the list? When he manages to wrench his head downwards enough to look at himself, though, he realises pretty quickly that he’s an idiot. And that he’s a cat. Summary: Steve wants to help Bucky. Thanks to magic, he gets that wish granted, just not in the way anyone would expect.

Little Red Button by scribblywobblytimeylimey

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Stony Summary: Sequel to 'All There in the Manual' for firelordstark: “[I]t would be interesting if roleplaying an android were an actual kink of his and not just his subconscious trying to construct a situation where Tony would be interested in him.” (What do you know? Freud was right.) Tony takes so well to Steve's suggestion he starts to wish he'd mentioned it sooner. It's easy to believe the rest of it – that he's the sex-toy android Tony built for when Steve's not around, built to please him, modded within an inch of his life to react to pressure sensors in all the right places – when Tony's even gone as far as to integrate a voice modification filter that fits like a gag but lets out every last sound, not quite in Steve's voice, but flattened a little with a tinny edge, just like he *would* sound if he *were* a robot sex toy. And that's not even all of it. One of these days, he's going to learn to never underestimate Tony Stark. Comments: Steve gets his sexy desires met in this fic. It is not necessary to read the prequel to understand what's going on. Do mind the tags.

Party

Make It Till You Fake It by AggressiveWhenStartled

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Stucky Summary: “Ned,” Peter said, like a drowning man sighting land. “Ned. Captain America and the Winter Soldier are fake dating right now and it is the most painfully awkward and obvious thing I have ever seen, all of us want to die, Ned.” Comments: Funny and lighthearted. Somehow both borderline crack and also entirely in character and believable. It's not a birthday party, but there is a party featured.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

not sure what mood you're into or what your tastes are outside of gordon lightfoot, so here are three that i've been rotating in my mind like a rotisserie chicken in one of those glass boxes in the supermarket, with little writeups for your entertainment: 1) Pulaski at Night, Andrew Bird: i love a plucked violin. it always sounds just slightly Wrong in a way that scratches my brain just right. i love the love in this song, the efforts, the beauty, the lonliness—and i love that it mentions chicago. I love a song that takes place in, well, a place, that longs for somewhere physical. This song is in my ears, but it wants to go back to Chicago! if I ever go there, I'll have to play it, to bring it with me, to bring it home. I also love when andrew bird whistles. Fate did right, naming that fella "bird." His whole discography is kind of hit after hit, for me. 2) Holy Branches, Radical Face: I think this song will make you think of Matty. The singer's voice is curious, very soft, but textured. His lyrics are remarkable to me:

There's a hole in your chest From the time that you were born One that don't get filled Cause you've always known you're nothing they want But everybody's bones are just holy branches Cast from trees to cut patterns in the world

3) Better Son/Daughter: Rilo Kiley The first time I heard this song I had to listen to it on repeat for a while. It utilizes musical shifts in a really powerful way, the way the singers voice comes in tinny at first, and then blasts, its my ultimate "button up your overcoat kid, you've got this" song. its possible none of these songs will hit for you, but thanks for reading anyway, and good luck!

God i fucken love when people tell me why they recommend a song thank you anon these SLAP

OH FUCK YES. I'm something of a Andrew Bird girlie but I haven't heard this one in a long time and it makes me want to resurrect an old fic I had set in 1930s chicago ahhhhhhhhh.

Radical Face always SO fucken good. I've never added a song to the Mattie playlist so fast fuck. that one just hits SO good. fuck.

Better Son/Daughter: Rilo Kiley..... thats a song that makes you want to get up in the morning. God there's really nothing like a good snare drum to say 'hang on, you'll get through the shit you're shoveling."

[angie-long-legs]

An unattractive snort escaped the spider as the pair fell into the rhythm of the very dance that Valentino was scrutinising. "Cuz that's what y' did at parties!" he exclaimed, the two hands that weren't postured for their waltz gesturing loudly. "An' my family went t' a lotta parties. Birthdays, weddin's, any excuse t' get t'gether an' eat an' drink an' dance. Part a' th' lifestyle," he shrugged. "Cosa nostra ain't just whackin' people off, ya know. Us fellas liked ta celebrate."

Us. Angel rarely felt like part of an us during his mafia days - it was them and him, and his dissonance from them was the subject of more mental anguish than he or his family were prepared for. Always skirting the outside of their tight-knit circle, one foot in the mob life and one hopping in and out while his head bobbed amongst the clouds, dreaming of something more, somewhere else. Somewhere that he could be himself.

His thoughts drifted as the lulling sway of the waltz rocked him gently, memories of his life as a young mafioso flashing through his mind like snapshots in a scrapbook. The man that he was versus the man he never got to be, all culminating in the man he was now. Would Val have liked that man, the one he was before? If they had known each other during life, would things have been different? If Angel had been different, might Val have been different too?

Or would they have been the same no matter the circumstances; doomed in every timeline, destined for tragedy, star-crossed and stupid and stuck with each other until the bitter, gruesome end?

Did it even matter?

Before Angel could become irreversibly lost in his own mind, the sound of a jaunty, retro tune spilling from a tinny cell phone speaker jerked him back to the present. It seemed Val had decided to change the music, opting for a song that was entirely incorrect for the type of dance they were attempting - and he knew it. Pink, pupilless eyes locked onto Angel's, mischievous rather than malicious as he attempted to match their movements to the swing of the music.

"Val!" the spider squealed as the pair immediately lost their rhythm, pulled this way and that by fumbling arms and shuffling feet. They had almost got the waltz down, too! At least, Angel thought they had. He had been somewhat preoccupied before this drastic change in tone. "This ain't waltz music!" he yelped, struggling to keep up with the new tempo. "The timin's all wrong! Yer gonna- hey!"

Abruptly, Angel was flung outwards in a dramatic spin, then twirled back into the gleeful moth's arms, dizzy from the mixture of motion and intoxication. All attempts at waltzing had evidently been abandoned, leaving Angel to follow in Valentino's footsteps as the pimp concocted his own energetic dance, all the while giggling like an overexcited child. Angel couldn't help but giggle along with him as he got a feel for this lively, light-hearted dance of theirs, Val pulling at his arms in silly, almost salsa-like motions. This was a thousand times more enjoyable than waltzing.

It took all of Angel's self control not to break into another fit of laughter as he watched Valentino strut his stuff over to the doors. Not because it was funny, it was just... fun. And he was drunk. And this was so silly! He and Val never behaved like this - even during their honeymoon period, grand displays of lavish luxury were the Overlord's preferred method of affection. But goofing around? Being playful together? That had always felt like a side of Valentino he could never quite figure out how to unlock.

And now, here he was, wasted beyond belief as his pimp grinned at him with impish delight, baring a part of his soul that Angel had never before found himself privy to, all while he attempted to stop his giggles from spilling over at just how ridiculous this whole scenario had become.

Oh, but Angel was an actor, so he kept his composure as the moth poised dramatically, his wings blooming behind him and entirely blocking the view to the ballroom through the doors. As he sidled up to his star, miming the song lyrics as he went, Angel threw on his best seductive expression, beckoning his partner over with an exaggerated finger motion. It was only when Val made the creative decision to twirl under his significantly shorter partner's arm that Angel finally succumbed to his laughter. In a moment of unfettered joy, the spider returned the motion, spinning himself all too enthusiastically in the hand of his partner... and promptly lost his footing.

With a dramatic yelp, he stumbled face-first into the moth, scrabbling against him to regain balance, still giggling childishly as he did so. Two hands had buried themselves in the soft, white fur around Valentino's neck, while his second set grabbed at his lapels, leaning heavily against him as he steadied himself. It was only then that the porn star even registered that Val had been talking to him, just moments before his second ungainly fall of the evening.

"Damn right, we are!" Angel responded between stifled splutters. "This is way better than their stupid, borin' waltz. Plus, we're like, the hottest people here. We should be dancin' an' everyone else should be takin' notes!" he announced, fuelled by the unearned confidence of liquid courage, as well as the heady rush of his giggle-fit. Chest still fluttering with chuckles as he pressed into Val, he blinked up at his pimp with a hazy, lovestruck expression.

♫... And this time I know it's real, the feelin' that I feel... I know if I put my mind to it, I know that I really can do it... ♫

It was the alcohol, Angel decided, before his mind could even attempt to entertain any other reason for the puppy-dog eyes he was giving his boss. He was drunk. It had been a weird, stressful, eventful night, and now he was... confused. The remnants of his laughter still caught in his throat, Angel allowed himself just another few seconds of this mushy gazing before pushing himself upright, hands slipping out of the fluff they had sunken into.

Maybe this time- no.

Not again.

He couldn't do this again.

Angel's eyes dropped to the ground, suddenly and pathetically embarrassed. Why did this always happen? Just when he was finally starting to pull away, Val coaxed him back with some shiny, new part of him that Angel couldn't resist. Was it intentional? Did he know what he was doing? Was it all an elaborate ploy, designed to make Angel-

"Can I ask ya somethin'?"

The words blurted from the inebriated spider's mouth before he had time to stop them. Shit. He shouldn't have said anything. He was going to ruin the moment, he should have kept his mouth shut... He shouldn't have... He...

Angel swayed on the spot, reaching out to steady himself on Val, though making out as if he was idly playing with the fur of Val's ruff. Casual. In control.

"Actually... neva' mind," he back-tracked, stumbling over his words with a short, high-pitched laugh. "It's nothin', ha! 'M just drunk an'... an' this is... agh, fugettit." Clumsily, he waved a hand in front of his face, brushing off his blunder. The situation was delicate: Angel knew that one wrong move was all it would take for Val to revert to his usual demeanour, and the moment would be lost forever.

He needed to stay in it a little longer. Just a little longer.

Didn't he deserve that, just this once?

For a split second, Angel's body tensed in preparation to be aggressively manhandled as an arm curled around his shoulder - the second wince drawn out of the spider in the past few minutes, but a standard reaction to being up close and personal with Valentino. However, the predicted ferocity of the gesture never came. Once again, the spider was only met with unexpected softness.

It had been a long time since Val had shown him physical affection like this. Be it swung fists or groping fingers, the moth's brand of touch was forceful, impassioned, ruinous. There was always an intention, always something he wanted from the encounter, and what he inevitably wanted was either to break his star, or to take what little was left of him.

Neither of these appeared to motivate the moth as he gently squeezed his date closer, rocking ever so slightly back-and-forth in an almost soothing manner. He didn't want anything from Angel, he wasn't trying to do anything to him. He was just... there. Close. Reciprocating Angel's head bump of solidarity with a tender gesture of his own.

The actor bit his lip. Between his inebriated state and the unforeseen sentimentality he was being shown, his mind was a bleary, conflicted wreck. He shouldn't get used to this. He knew that, from all the times he had made that mistake before. He couldn't.

But... he was the one who had initiated this exchange, right? He wanted to comfort the Overlord. Why shouldn't he make the most of this little sliver of fondness while it lasted? Why shouldn't he, for once, enjoy Valentino's touch?

Angel leaned into the pimp, his sigh of satisfaction masked behind an exhale of smoke. Warm from the alcohol in his blood and the moth's body heat, he allowed his eyes to shut, a curtain closing on the world that continue to spin behind it. His head rested against Valentino's shoulder, not quite on it, but close enough. This was good enough.

"Yeah, well, I ain't gettin' m' feet out in a store, Val," Angel grumbled, begrudging the smile that this oh-so-typically Valentino remark brought out of him. "I thought y' knew me!"

He did. Val really did know him. That was always what dragged him back down. Val didn't love him, he didn't even like him half of the time. He didn't listen to Angel, he didn't respect him, he didn't care when he hurt him. But he knew him. He knew what drinks he ordered, what TV shows he liked, what clothes he wore. He understood Angel's humour and his passions, his wants and desires, his failures and his faults. He knew how to build him up just to break him down, and he did it all so effortlessly, like it meant nothing to him. Like Angel was nothing to him. And then he was everything. And then he was nothing all over again.

To be known like that wasn't to be loved. Angel knew that now. But it was something. It meant something.

He needed it to mean something.

As if the porn star wasn't already at odds with his affections, then came the compliment.

As with the arm slung around him, Valentino had nothing to gain from this remark. "Beautiful" was seldom a word he used to describe Angel - "hot", "sexy", "gorgeous", sure, but beautiful? Val never regarded his looks in a manner so... dignified. Describing Angel Dust the person, not Angel Dust the porn star.

He couldn't get used to this.

"Pfft, Vaaaal," he blushed, giving the Overlord a weak and uncoordinated shove. The feeling of being flustered around Valentino like this sent him lurching back into the past, when Angel was still so fresh-faced for a dead thing and the moth had been all sugared words and sweet nothings. And Angel had eaten it up so eagerly. So willingly.

"Stoppiiiit," he groaned. "Yer embarassin' meeee."

But embarrassment was nothing compared to the sheer shock of Val's next statement.

Angel was suddenly rigid in the Overlord's soft grip, as though even the slightest movement would alert him to what he had just uttered. Did Val even notice? Was he aware he had just nonchalantly told his star that he would one day wiggle out from his iron grip? That he was already slipping away?

There was nothing Angel could say, nothing he would even attempt to come back with for fear of shattering this precarious illusion where Val seemed blissfully unaware of what he had admitted to. Any acknowledgement on Angel's part was a death sentence.

He almost felt... well, guilty.

Val wanted him to stay. Angel wanted freedom, autonomy, relief from Valentino's unrelenting cruelty.

But right now, in this moment, he had at least one of those.

Was this as close as he would come? Was this good enough?

The distraction of Val's next question was unexpected but deeply welcome. Angel could not restrain a chuckle, his body relaxing into the Overlord once more. Briefly, he lifted his head to gaze back inside at the swarm of swirling guests, elegant and refined as they danced the very dance that Val was evidently unenthused by. Discarding the remainder of his cigarette, the spider turned towards his date, lowering the arm around him so that it cradled his waist and his own mirrored arm raised to Val's shoulder.

"'Course I can. Y'think I maddit through the thirties w'thout learnin' how t'waltz?" he teased, slipping a hand into Val's to assume the position. "Though I ain't all that experienced doin' th' girl part. Might step on y' toes. Heh, betcha glad I ain't in heels now," he smirked as he guided his partner into the footwork. Leading him, despite being in the role of the follower. Soon, the pair were swaying in time with muted music from the ballroom, a pale mockery of the grace those inside it exhibited as they stumbled uncertainly, Angel barefoot and intoxicated while the inexperienced Valentino did his best to mimic his steps. Angel couldn't help but laugh - they were so not the type of guest that masquerade balls attracted. There was nothing elegant or refined about the way the pair staggered around the patio, snickering childishly at their shoddy attempt to match the decorum of their guests.

"Not bad," Angel giggled as they swayed, breathless from the swirling waltz choreography as well as the bouts of laughter.

"Keep this up and y'll be bustin' out these moves in th' club before ya know it."

[redorich]

I keep thinking about the Boatem crew falling through the void. I keep thinking about how the Boatem Hole was really just a lot of strategically applied tnt to bedrock. I keep thinking about how L'Manhole is just the Boatem Hole missing a step or two. I keep thinking about how nice it would be to have Mumbo punt Dream into the sun.

Techno sighs, halfheartedly rings his bell. The heat from the lava wafts ever near, and though it's a welcome Nether-y change from living in the tundra, his company is not nearly such a welcome change.

"Ring that bell one more time..." Dream threatens. His orange prison jumpsuit, ratty hair, and cracked mask make for a not-so-threatening picture.

Just to be a spiteful dick, which Techno feels is one of his best qualities, he hits the bell again and leaps into the most obnoxious prayer he can come up with. "O blood god, ruler and vanquisher, slaughterer and conqueror, grant unto me your divine power. Thy enemies shall fall upon my blade, and enemies mine shall be thine, and fall upon thy might."

"You sound like a sycophant," Dream says disgustedly.

Techno pretends he doesn't hear Dream, and becomes even more melodramatic in a sincere attempt to entice Dream into violence. "I entreat thee, o god of carnage and death, rain thy fury upon this my foe: Dream of origins unknown is a wicked fiend not only in flesh but in power, and I, your humble servant--"

"Shut the fuck up!"

Rolling his eyes, Techno bangs his bell again, then freezes when he hears something unusual.

A voice without form says, "Right, one moment mate, gotta take this--"

Techno blinks. "You... heard that, right?"

Dream scowls. "You're shitting me. Hear what?"

"Don't gaslight me, Dream," Techno says uneasily, "that's not very girlboss of you."

Before either prisoner can continue arguing, a fine red mist materializes in the air between them. Inky blackness like the eyes of dead men coalesces around it; in one moment there is mist and decay, the next there is a man with well-kept black hair and a crash test dummy suit, of all things.

The man looks around, goes to rub his eyes, bangs his hand against his fishbowl space helmet, then takes the helmet off.

"Oof," the man says, "'S a bit hot in here, innit?"

Casually, he shrugs off the crash test dummy suit, revealing the tailored dress suit underneath, and tugs at his collar and tie.

"Are you... the blood god?" Techno asks slowly.

"Oh, was it your prayer that brought me here?" the man says brightly. "Yes, my name is Mumbo Jumbo, my friends and I have been in the void for a bit to escape our exploding planet-- I'll just bring them here, if you don't mind."

Without waiting to see if anyone actually minds, Mumbo sticks his hand out into the air, and it simply disappears up to his shoulder. With substantial effort, he pulls a chain of people through, all holding onto each other's hands so as not to be left behind. Four more people in crash test dummy suits come clattering onto the floor of Dream's prison cell.

Mumbo dusts himself off as his friends lie in a groaning heap. "You said you needed someone smited?"

"Uh," Techno says intelligently.

"Is it this fella?" Mumbo points over his shoulder at Dream. "I already broke my kill streak with Grian, I'd really love to kill someone right about now."

"I knew your middle name was Kills-A-Lot for a reason," a man in the pile complains.

Mumbo waves his hand disinterestedly. "Hush Grian, there's murder to be had."

Techno weighs his options. "I mean, sure you can kill Dream, but I'd be able to do a lot more murdering on your behalf if you could get me out of this prison."

"How did you end up here in the first place, Technology Blade?" Mumbo says.

"I was just visiting--"

Klaxons resound throughout the prison. The intercom screeches as it blares to life, then Sam's voice pipes through it, tinny and staticky.

"Intruders, do not move. You will be dealt with momentarily."

The only woman of the group crawls her way out from the bottom of the person-pile. "We should probably get out of here, I'm guessing? I'll do it, since Grian's too jetlagged to be useful, nerd," she says, poking the man in question with her foot while he lies there like a dead fish.

The woman shuts her eyes, and a purple mask with a crescent moon on the forehead shimmers into existence on her face. Her eyes are completely covered, but the bottom of the mask rests on the bridge of her nose while the edges of her mask are far more elongated, curving downward to her collarbones like sharp teeth.

/gamemode creative PearlescentMoon

She floats into the air unnaturally, not standing on glass or gliding with elytra but truly flying. Without further ado, she simply punches a hole in the obsidian wall and frowns at the sight that greets her: even more lava.

/fill ~-8 ~-4 ~32 ~8 ~32 ~-8 air replace lava

The lava simply evaporates into nothing in a gigantic chunk, and as the woman walks forward cobblestone blocks spring into being beneath her feet as a bridge. She walks without looking back, punching holes in walls that stand in her path.

Dream looks at the Watcher. He looks at Techno, then at the blood god, then at the pile of random people in his cell. He looks back at the Watcher and the path of destruction she's left in his prison.

"Fuck this, I'm out," he says, and takes off in a sprint following the Watcher woman's path to freedom.

[worth-more-than-two-thousand]

Returning from the Dead is Easier Said than Done...

Request: Welcome, Shiny! May I request an x Reader (can be fem or gender neutral) where Echo (post-citadel) comes up to their s/o's doorstep to give them flowers and ask them on a date? A plus if the Bad Batch teases him for dressing up nicely and buying flowers. Thank you! (@handmaidenthesimp)

Author’s Note: Enjoy! If anybody wants me to repost with a gender-neutral reader, just let me know. 

Story Notes: Some swearing, not much else to warn you about. Take place in-between Season 7 of CW and The Bad Batch. No Omega this time, sorry! 

🖑 🖑 🖑 🖑 🖑

Being declared dead was uncomplicated. Your Republic file was branded with a "KIA" stamp, everyone stoically mourned, and someone just a bit shinier would step in to fill your shoes. 

Being declared undead, however, was decidedly more complicated. Oh, Echo was reassigned to Clone Force 99 easily enough. But it was the little things that seemed to get mired in red tape. Getting his few personal effects back. Re-opening his modest credit account.

Approving a rental application.

Admittedly, it wasn't that Echo really needed his own place; clones were conditioned to be accustomed to share minimalist, often-cramped quarters. And they were always on the move, so it hardly made any financial or practical sense, in the long run. 

But right now, oh, did Echo dearly wish that he was dressing up in the privacy of his own space...and not the shared cabin area of the Havoc Marauder. 

He kept his face stoic, as though readying for battle, refusing to acknowledge his teammates goggling in the background. They had returned early from their supply run. Echo had meant to be out of here an hour ago, but (somehow) hadn’t counted on just how difficult it would be to get dressed into multiple clothing pieces with a scomp link for a hand. 

So that’s how his comrades found him: trying to wrangle a neck accessory into submission by sheer will. 

Oh, if Fives could see him now. 

“You look funny,” Wrecker had declared decisively after an unbearably long silence. “What’s that thing you’ve got on?” 

“It’s a suit,” he grumbled, refusing to look any of them in the eye. “I’m going to see Y/N.”

Wrecker gasped like a fishwife. He leaned forward, and pitched his voice low. As though the others couldn’t still hear him in the tinny space.  “Your girlfriend? You mean you’re going to see her for the first time....since…” Wrecker made a muted cartoonish sound with his mouth, clenching then expanding his fingers in a gesture for ‘explosion’.

Echo stared at him for a moment disbelievingly, before nodding slowly, forcing the sarcastic response he really wanted to say back down. He couldn’t fault Wrecker for being...well, Wrecker. He had all the tact of a rampaging bantha. 

“An’ what’s that? Around your neck?” 

Echo opened his mouth, but someone cut across his response. “A bowtie,” Crosshair drolled, though his eyes glittered with amusement. Echo tensed, knowing that he wasn’t going to like what was coming next. 

“Fifty credits says he chokes, and he ends up strangling himself with it in shame." 

“No way!” Wrecker exclaimed, always the optimist. He clapped Echo on the back, who was unprepared so his knees buckled. He felt his metal joints strain. “Don’t worry, Echo,” his brother rasped in the loudest whisper known to man. “I bet she’s gonna love it!” 

“You know,” Tech piped up unhelpfully, “Your strategy may backfire. The current deviation from your usual appearance may be so jarring for your beloved that she refuses your offer out of simple self-preservation instincts.” 

Echo gritted his teeth. “Right. You have stats to back that up, I suppose?” 

Tech blinked at him owlishly. “Of course I don’t. This is an obvious possible outcome.”

“I’m trying to look nice,” he snapped, scowling. 

There was a loaded pause. “...’trying’ being the objective word here,” Crosshair smirked.  

Before Echo could wipe the look off his comrade’s face with a well-placed ARC trooper punch that would’ve made Hardcase proud, Hunter wedged his way in between them, hands up in a conciliatory gesture. 

“All right, laugh it up, fellas. Personally, I think you’re all jealous because you don’t have a girl waiting for you like Echo does.” Hunter turned to face their newest member, took the bowtie that was clenched in Echo’s fist, and smoothed it out before proceeding to tie it around his neck with surprisingly deft hands. 

Crosshair ‘hmphed’ while Wrecker verbally agreed, looking slightly put out by the undeniable truth. Tech simply nodded in neutral confirmation. The group lapsed into a somewhat awkward (but not unwelcome) silence as Hunter finished tugging at the folded ends of the bow, then double-checking to ensure it was straight. He stepped back to assess his work.

“You look good,” he said sincerely.

Echo thought he was in the clear. 

Hunter frowned. “But...it looks like you’re missing something.” 

Or not. 

“Like dignity?” Crosshair drawled from a dark corner of the ship that Echo frustratingly couldn’t glare at. 

“A sense of self-confidence,” Tech suggested. He wasn’t joking. 

“FLOWERS!” Wrecker boomed confidently. “All girls like flowers. You gotta get her some before you see her!”   

“I...fine.” Echo relented, anything to get his teammates to shut up. He shoved his way through them towards the bridge. “I’ll get her some flowers. You all stay here until I get back. I mean it, Fives!” he warned.

An uneasy silence followed him, which he didn’t register until he reached the landing ramp. 

He shot an exasperated look back at them. “What?’ 

“...Your former comrade is not here, Echo.” Tech finally spoke. His words were clinical, as always, but there was a touch of understanding underlying his tone. 

Echo froze, just for a moment, then shook off the shock of his faux pas as best as he could. 

It wasn’t the first time that had happened, after all. 

Echo descended the landing ramp, squared his shoulders, and marched into town. 

Y/N lived in a run-down but culturally distinct district of Coruscant, characterized by food stalls from species and ethnicities all over the galaxy. Children often ran through the streets, sellers in colorful robes and attire shouting their wares and art for all to peruse. It was one of the nicer markets, he thought, having come here once. He had been accompanying Y/N on her usual run for specialized ingredients that made the diner she worked at the talk of the galaxy. 

Echo elbowed his way through the crowded street, content to simply blend in with the crowd, to forget about being a soldier for a moment. 

He paused at a flower stand and was mindful not to draw too much attention to his scomp-link hand as he ordered a dozen sunflowers, which he remembered were Y/N’s favorite. When his credit chip was declined, however, he sighed and reached into his pocket to see what spare change he could muster up. Being that he was wearing a never-worn suit, however, meant that there was no change to be found, and the unimpressed florist snatched the bouquet away. 

That’s okay, Echo. Y/N doesn't need flowers. She just wants to see you.

At least, he hoped that was the case. He hadn’t exactly written to her yet, unsure that he could sufficiently explain his sudden non-death in typed words...

Surprise! I’m not dead! Hey, you know that explosion on the citadel? Well, I survived! And out of it, I got an all-expenses paid trip to  the Techno Union research facility! Why didn’t I write? Well, I was in stasis most of the time and that part’s a bit fuzzy. I also was responsible for killing my brothers by using their own battle plans against them. Oh, and you might notice that I’m missing most of my fleshy bits these days… 

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, which were more rapid these days thanks to his enhancements. He was good at compartmentalizing, though. He had to be. He was still a soldier, through and through, and no one wanted a soldier who was about two seconds away from a mental breakdown.

Yeah, a letter to Y/N wouldn’t have cut it. But he still felt like maybe he could have sent ahead some sort of...heads up? A warning? A ‘Please don’t scream when you see me because I don’t think my heart could take it?’ 

His feet finally guided him to the front entrance of the building where he knew she lived on the 14th floor. Glancing around, he spotted some blue flowers sprouting in a planter near the entrance. He yanked a fairly healthy-looking handful from the soil, shaking the roots to get most of the dirt off. He tucked the strangled roots into his fist so that they would be less obvious. 

It was time. He nodded to himself, squared his shoulders, and entered the building. 

A short elevator ride later, Echo could feed the sweat beading at his forehead and neck. At least his fight or flight response seemed to be healthy and alive, and Echo tuned out everything but the door in front of him, adorned with a purple wreath of lavender flowers. 

He stood in front of the door, and raised his hand to knock. 

He stood…

In front of the door…

...and raised his hand…

...to knock, you coward. Just fucking knock. 

His raised knuckles, however, refused to move. Echo caught a glimpse of himself in the curtained window panes on the sides of the door, and at the sight of his bloodless face, suddenly felt a whole lot less sure of himself. 

He looked ridiculous. 

He and Y/N had barely gotten to know each other before his untimely death. 

What if she was with someone new? 

This was a terrible idea. Echo should leave now, before he caused himself any more embarrassment. Crosshair might get his fifty credits, after all. 

Echo had just convinced himself to turn around and admit defeat, when the door suddenly swung open. 

Two Y/C/E eyes met his. 

There were points during Echo’s battle career where time slowed to a crawl. When an explosive grenade was thrown just a bit too close, or the comrade you had just exchanged banter with received blaster fire to the face. 

Echo was experiencing the same sensation now, but he would voluntarily stay in this moment forever, if he could. He fervently hoped his nightmares would be replaced with the sight that was etched before him. 

She was wearing her yellow work uniform, white apron pressed crisply with starch...and was as beautiful as ever. Her hair was up in a messy ‘late-for-work’ up-do, a smudge of blushed color not quite within the lines of her lips smearing her cupids’ bow where she had applied it in a rush.

He couldn’t determine whether her reaction to his sudden appearance was positive or not, and so didn’t dare speak first, breathlessly afraid that if he did, the moment would shatter. 

He saw her swallow hard, glancing at him from head to toe, gaze landing on his right hand. 

He guarded his heart. 

“Ech? Echo, is that you?” she whispered. Her eyes tore away from the scomp link hand, and began searching his face as though just as afraid he would disappear. 

He nodded. “Yeah,” he rasped, then cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s me.”

The silence stretched out, and the fight or flight response was creeping back. 

“I know I look a bit different.” He tried for a light-hearted joke, but couldn’t quite get his tone to match. “Had some work done. What do you think?” He winced slightly.

She stepped forward and he froze as Y/N lifted her fingers, hesitating briefly before gently touching one of the metal bolts by his left temple. Her eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“...do they hurt?” 

He gasped a little as he remembered to breathe again.

“No,” he reassured her, raising his undamaged hand to steady hers. “No, it doesn’t hurt.” 

“...good.” 

The wind was knocked out of him as Y/N flung her arms around him, burying her face in his neck, tardiness to her job completely forgotten. 

She began sobbing. It wasn’t neat little sobs, like in the scripted holovids, but heaving sobs that wracked her whole body, and he worried slightly that she was going to faint on him. He forgot about his scomp link for the first time as he rubbed it in circles against her back, murmuring nonsense words of comfort in her ear. 

After several minutes, she sniffled, stepping back. She rubbed her nose ungracefully where snot was leaking out, but Echo could have cared less about any of that. He only kept his arms out to steady her, in case she needed support again.

Y/N glanced down suddenly, and flushed.

“Oh. I’ve crushed them.”

Echo followed her gaze and saw that he was still holding the blue flowers from the planter in his good hand, the bouquet having been caught in between their bodies when she had thrown herself at him. They did look a little worse for wear. 

He shrugged unconcernedly. “They were free,” he said, not wanting her to feel guilty. 

She stared at him for a moment before a bubble of laughter burst from her lips. She still looked like she was about to sob at any moment, but she smiled tremulously at him through shining eyes. 

Desperate to make her feel better, he began rambling. 

“I can get you better ones! N-not right now, though,” he stuttered. “Actually, it turns out that I don’t have any credits on me at the moment. Everything’s still kind of backed up at the bank regarding my accounts. Also, this suit is new. Well. Not new. It used to belong to this woman’s father who we rescued during a mission on Bith. Long story.” His brain, which worked faster than usual these days anyways, still couldn’t seem to catch up to his mouth.

He forced himself to get back to the task at hand. “I was actually here to ask you for a date. I mean, assuming there’s no one else at the moment…oh, but you have your job to go do…bantha spit, I forgot about that...” He would have to ask Tech if it was possible for his brain to actually short-circuit.

Echo finally trailed off. Now he was the one blushing. 

The whole of Domino Squad was probably having a good laugh at his expense right about now, wherever they were. 

But Y/N was still smiling at him. And her chin had stopped wobbling. She gently took the flowers from Echo’s hand and placed them on one of the side tables in the hallway before intertwining her fingers with his and grasping his right hand without hesitation. 

“Forget about my job. Let’s go on that date. My treat. Though, if I know Dexter, he’ll give us a free meal, on the house. And the rest of the day off."

For the first time since he had joined Clone Force 99, since he had been rescued on Skako Minor, and even before the Citadel...Echo allowed a true grin of happiness to spread on his face. 

“A free meal,” he echoed. “Sounds like a plan.” 

[anyways-wonderwall]

Album of the Week #28

THE HOTTEST

(2018)

by N.Flying

Overall Rating: 7.5/10

TL;DR: Is it Kpop? Is it pop-rock? Or is it just confused

(I like that the cover is just them chilling in a garden with fun outfits, 7/10)

Oops, another EP. Blame the random number generator not me!

Overall Thoughts

I think that kpop-rock is in an interesting situation. Kpop groups are so carefully constructed of people who train for years to debut. Their songs have to pass rounds and rounds of clearance, and it has to be able to sell in fancily packaged albums. It feels like the opposite of rock, something that is often so spontaneous and about making music from the heart. Kpop rock has to balance the two and sometimes feels disjointed in what it's trying to do, both organizationally and musically.

What is fascinating though is that they are often playing all of the parts in the songs and are writing their own music, something so rare in the kpop industry, something else that makes them something that companies don’t really know what to do with. This sometimes leads them to be SEVERELY UNDERRATED LIKE ARE YOU KIDDING ME. ALL OF YOU HAVE BEEN SLEEPING ON N.FLYING.

Sorry for the outburst but these guys are great, even if they are a little confused sometimes. For example, kpop songs are known for their silly rapping that has to be in every single song (mostly so the rappers have something to do) and for some reason N.Flying sticks the silly raps into the middle of their pop rock songs. Fellas, I hate to break it to you but it doesn’t work. The singing also sometimes doesn’t match the genre as you can tell that these guys are amazing vocalists and have been trained for a long time, but that polished perfect voice sounds a bit out of place in pop rock. At points I asked myself if I was listening to a musical (especially in “Can’t Be Better”).

Honestly those are the only problems I had with the album though! In some of them the pop erases the rock aspect (“Don’t Forget This”, “I Know U Know”). But the rest are pretty dang good. “Crossroad” is a great slow jam with the loud keyboard in the song making it stand out in a great way. “Just One Day” is your standard pop rock hit from 2013 with that tinny guitar and the obligatory spoken word section. The masterpiece of this mini album is “Hot Potato”. The riff in it is absolutely perfect (my boyfriend pointed out that it sounds like “Runaway Baby” which is a complement) and drives the entire song along. The chorus is super catchy and I get it stuck in my head constantly, and it is perfectly crafted.

Final Verdict

If you like pop-rock with emphasis on the pop you’ll probably like this a lot more than I did. No matter who you are though I ask that you give “Hot Potato” a listen. It will change your life.

[dansnotavampire-art]

so i discovered that i can do a pretty uncanny replication of nikola orsinov’s voice... this is the result of that. sorry for the audio quality, these were recorded on my phone and i am very bad at audacity. 

transcription below the cut.

transcript: 

a series of audio clips, all in the voice of nikola orsinov, performed by me. 

clip one: do you think bananas feel pain like when you’re peeling them is there some kind of high frequency scream inaudible to humans crying aloud pain and scared as we strip the skin from their bodies and consume their soft insides? do you? well, i’m afraid, i’m going to have to confirm that this is indeed a thing that happens. you’re very lucky you can’t hear it! 

clip two:  According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way that a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyways. Because bees don't care what humans think is impossible. 

clip three:  Hey there buddy chum pal friend buddy pal chum bud friend fella brother amigo pal buddy friend chummy chum chum pal i don't mean to be rude my friend pal home slice bread slice dawg but i gotta warn ya if u take one more diddly darn step right there i’m going to have to diddly darn snap your neck and wowza wouldn't that be a crummy juncture, huh? do you want that? do you wish upon yourself to come into physical experience with a crummy juncture? because friend buddy chum pal friend chum pally pal chum friend if you keep this up well gosh diddly darn i just might have to get not so friendly with u my pal friendly friend friend pal friend buddy chum pally friend chum buddy pal

clip four (this one is especially tinny, for some reason): if i were dating you. well, heh, lets just say horses wouldn’t be called horses anymore 

clip five: hi everyone! remember to moisturise! you wouldn’t want all that lovely skin to go to waste, would you? 

clip six (this one is slightly fuzzier than the others): I cant shit, silly! I’m made of plastic! I don’t have organs. 

Clip seven (this one is a little bit echoey):  yeah over here we have the literal apocyalpse, the watcher's crown, and over on your left you'll see the pyre where agnes montague was born, and here in this church you'll see the giant pit of meat that never ends and is always hungry, and yeah over here i guess is the dumb apartment block that someone wants to excuse as a ritual 

[wasted-wallflower-blog]

The Long (but not really) Con

I had to write something for @gravity-what's AU. I made it a little bit shippy. Sorry.

College is nothing like Ford expects.

It’s not that it’s awful; he feels challenged for the first time in his life! And that’s great, it is. He’s even making friends in the Dungeons, Dungeons and more Dungeons club on campus, and finding out that he’s not the nerdiest person there makes him feel somewhat more comfortable with his interests (ones that Stan would have teased him about incessantly). But the sheer amount of drugs his classmates take, coupled with various scandals about who’s sleeping with who is, well, more than he can handle.

“I came here for a reason! My peers are supposed to turn science fiction into science fact, and they all just -”

“Screw each other?” Stan sounds amused. Ford lets out a sigh.

“Yeah, that.”

“You know Poindexter, gettin’ laid isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

He winces, well aware of the time he walked in on Stan and Carla making out (or at least, that’s all Ford hopes they were doing), but frustration overpowers any lingering embarrassment, “I can’t help but feel disappointed, is all.”

Stan snorts, “You would. You gotta realize that -”

“Not everyone is like me, I know,” Ford intones, dully. Stan certainly isn’t like him - prone to physical activity instead of academic pursuits - but Stan’s not at West Coast Tech. He’s in New Jersey, although what he’s doing, Ford has no idea. “What’s your latest endeavor now?”

He can practically see Stan’s grin, as his twin begins to explain his next get-rich-quick-scheme (“it’ll work this time Sixer, really!”) and despite the somewhat worrying potential for bodily harm - which Stan brushes off - he’s glad that Stan’s found something that he’s good at. He still boxes, having found a worthy opponent in his roommate (“he’s got a nice right hook, nearly knocked me on my ass last time”), and Ford is happy for him. He is.

They needed some space anyway. It’s good that they’re apart - no longer StanandFord - but once the cheerful chatter of Stan’s voice fades to the tinny click of the dial tone, Ford exhales shakily. Stan just gets him, and he’s not sure if it’s because they’re twins or due to something else - some sort of ESP that renders them on the same mental wavelength - but if it wasn’t for Fiddleford, he would have felt even more lost.

Maybe sailing around the world would have been a better plan.

“You’re talkin’ to Stanley again?” There’s a knowing undercurrent in Fidds’ tone, and Ford nods. “How’s he doin’?”

“He’s good. He, uh, came up with another scheme again.”

“What is it this time?”

“Personal computers that you can carry around. Laptops, he calls them,” Ford makes finger quotes around laptop, “Sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

Unexpectedly, Fidds doesn’t nod in agreement but instead focuses his gaze onto Ford’s own, “Ford, y’know we’re friends, right?”

“Of course!”

“Then y’know that I wouldn’t judge ya for your preferences.”

Now, Ford is confused, “Fidds, what are you talking about?”

“I mean, I’m not gonna judge ya and Stanley. For bein’ together.”

Being together? What is he - oh.

Oh no.

“Fiddleford, I think you misunderstood me. Stan and I aren’t together,” Ford stresses the word. “We’re definitely not romantically interested in each other. At all.”

Fidds cocks his head, “Ya aren’t? Since yer always talking to him whenever somethin’ happens, and ya get all excited when he calls. Always goin’ on about Stanley this and Stanley that, and you’ve got that picture of ‘im in your wallet.”

This is true. The picture of them once he had won the science fair and gotten into West Coast Tech - matching smiles, Stan’s arm swung around his shoulders, tugging him into a tight embrace - stares mockingly at him from its plastic casing. It’s this very moment that Ford realizes he never clarified the exact nature of their relationship.

“Anyway, I’m just sayin’,” Fidds continues, seemingly unaware of Ford’s impending terror, “it’s okay if yer into fellas. Sometimes it takes a while to realize the extent of your feelings.” He gives Ford another look, patting his shoulder in what is supposed to be a consoling manner.

It has the opposite effect, causing him to jerk away, and Ford mutters, “Oh god. Stan, I, um -”

“Don’t worry, Ford. Like I said, I won’t judge.”

And once he’s alone, after fleeing with a sharp I have to go, Ford runs his hands through his hair and down his face, hoping that he hallucinated that entire conversation. He pinches his arm, and if Fidds thinks he and Stan are … like that, then who else does?

“Fuck.”

It turns out that everyone thinks he and Stan are a couple. Ford has asked Susan Murphy - his organic chemistry lab partner - who confessed that his “gushing” about Stan led her to believe they were romantically involved.

“I don’t gush,” He said.

Susan gave him a funny look, “You always talk about how nice and kind Stanley is, and you have that picture of him in your wallet. The shirtless one.”

The shirtless one she referred to was from one of the boxing matches Stan won; it was taken in such a fashion that it highlighted the muscles in his arms and back, the sweat dripping down his neck, and Ford blushed at the wholly accidental eroticism of it. The homoeroticism of possessing such a picture caused him to blush harder.

“Look, I’m not going to judge. It’d be pretty hypocritical of me anyway,” Susan said dismissively.

“You’re, ah -”

“A lesbian. Yeah.”

“Oh, okay,” Ford replied, unsure of what to say. But she then instructed him to pass a bottle of concentrated salicylic acid needed for the experiment, and that was that.

Jason Lee, Ford’s partial elliptical differential equations deskmate, had said, “You and Stan? Dude, everyone knows. I know you came from a small town, but you’re in California now.”

He then asked, “What did you get for 10b?”

And his Quantum Mechanics (applications of, not introduction to) professor, Dr. Michaelson, had said, “I was gay once.”

Ford choked on his water, “I beg your pardon?”

“A long time ago, I was gay. Homosexual. Interested in men,” he sighed dreamily. “His name was Johnathan Johnson. I think he’s a high school principal in - what’s that town you’re from? Glass Beach?”

Ford can never look at Principal Johnson the same way again.

The point is: people think he’s gay, and worse, that he and Stan are together. He has done nothing to dissuade anyone of this notion - not that Ford wanted it to be a notion in the first place! - and explaining the truth wouldn’t be good. California is liberal, but not liberal enough for him to admit that who he’s supposedly dating is his twin brother.

Stan, once he hears of this, laughs so hard he cries.

“They think we’re dating,” he gasps, “Jesus Christ. You didn’t -”

“Yes, I didn’t clarify,” Ford hisses, “Stop laughing.”

“I’m trying,” Stan cackles. It takes him five minutes to calm down, and he snickers as Ford tries to figure out a way out of this mess.

“What do we do?”

“We? You’re the one that dragged me into this,” and then, Stan’s tone turns contemplative, “I say you continue it.”

“What?!”

“You can’t tell ‘em the truth, and I know your scholarship doesn’t cover everythin’.”

A sense of dread crawls up his spine. “Stanley, what are you planning?”

“Well...” Stan draws out the word, “let’s just say I have an idea.”

“Stan -” Before Ford can ask for more information, he hangs up the phone, and Ford screams into his pillow.

“Ya okay?” Fidds asks.

“I’m fine.”

Stan’s plan involves knocking on his door at an ungodly hour, one week later - cheeks bright, smile brighter, “Hey, bro.”

Ford stares and wonders if he’s hallucinating, “Stanley?”

“Yeah, Poindexter. It’s me,” And then Stan just lets himself in, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Lemme guess, you haven’t eaten.”

“No,” Ford says, horribly confused. “Stanley, why are you here?”

Stan winks, “I’ll tell you over breakfast.”

“Uh, alright.”

It’s after his fifth pancake - Ford’s third - that Stan says, “We have to get married.”

“Excuse me?” Ford sputters.

“I know you’re freakin’ out, but listen,'' Stan grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly, “The tax credits are way higher for people who are married. Plus, you’d get reduced housing for spouses, and I could help with your tuition. I’ve got it all figured out.”

“We are not getting married.”

“Not with that attitude,” and Stan rummages through the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a small, sleek black box.

Oh, God. Ford starts to get out of the booth, and it’s so like Stan to propose (fake-propose, whatever) in a diner - populated with other students that Ford knows, who are watching with rapt attention - that the sight of Stan sliding to his knees, box in hand, shouldn’t surprise him.

“Ford Pines. The light of my life, my darling,” and he’s having way too much fun with this; Ford is going to kill him, “Will you do me the honor of making me the happiest man on Earth and marry me?”

The ring glints in the light. It shines brighter than my future, Ford thinks wildly, and he can feel the eyes of everyone on him, waiting with bated breath.

“Yes,” He breathes out. Stan puts it on his ring finger, barely blinking, and stands back up, intertwining their hands - his five fingers fitting perfectly with Ford’s six.

“You heard the man!” Stan shouts, pressing a kiss to his cheek - a quick brush of lips that makes his insides twist -“We’re gettin’ married. Now,” he beams at their waitress, “don’t suppose you have a discount, do you?”

And it’s with this, Ford is engaged (to his twin), and he receives a stack of free pancakes. “On the house,” the waitress says with a wink. “You two are a lovely couple.”

“Oh, I know,” Stan says, “I know.”

Being engaged is not that different from being single, Ford realizes. Sure, Stan walks him to class, holding his books - acting chivalrous - and meets him for lunch, pulling his chair out for him, but otherwise, he leaves Ford alone for most of the day. The questions eventually peter out, and beyond a precursory glance at his hands - looking at the ring as opposed to the extra digit - things remain the same.

Mostly.

Stan insists on obtaining every discount possible with a smile and a soft, “Ma’am, I’m an engaged man.” And it works, melting hearts - even those made of stone - with a frequency that Ford finds terrifying. He’s managed to get some of Ford’s classmates to send wedding gifts in the form of cash by providing a brief (false) explanation, “Well, you see, Ford and I wanna have a romantic getaway. Yeah, just the two of us - we’re thinkin’ Paris - and anything would help.”

And that convinces people to give a little bit of money, which then convinces them to tell others about their predicament, which results in more money, which encourages Stan to go on his spiel again … it’s a never-ending cycle.

“Why are you doing this?” He groans.

“Because I want to help,” Stan offers, and at Ford’s glare, he adds, “Also, the money’s good. We were able to eat something other than ramen this week.”

“Stanley, it’s wrong!”

“You only think it’s wrong because you overthink things, Sixer.”

“We’re committing fraud,” snarls Ford, “People will start to question why things aren’t adding up. We don’t even kiss like engaged couples are supposed to.”

“Whaddya mean? I kiss you all the time!”

This cannot be Ford’s life. He resists the urge to bang his head against the wall - or better yet, to bang Stan’s head against the wall.

“I mean, you don’t kiss me on the lips.”

The expression on Stan’s face is incredulous, “Do you really think the government’s gonna come after us for being engaged and not kissing on the lips? Just say that we’re waiting for marriage.”

“To kiss?”

“Well, yeah!” Stan returns to his search for a licensed marriage officiant - his earlier suggestion of going to Vegas and hiring a part-time Elvis impersonator to marry them was immediately shut down - and the paranoia that someone will find out hits Ford in full force.

“Stan, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Now, you sound like you want me to kiss you,” Stan mutters, snark oozing from each word.

Ford tries to say something, but a strangled screech comes out instead, and Stan’s head pops up from the cover of the phone book. “That’s not what I’m saying at all!”

“Really? Since to me, it seems like you think us kissing will suddenly convince everyone that we’re engaged. Instead of focusing on the fact that, I dunno, I proposed to you.”

“You are the worst fiancé ever. Even if you wanted to kiss me, I wouldn’t let you.”

“I don’t want to kiss you!”

“Oh, sure. You’re going to marry me, but not kiss me.” It leaves Ford’s lips, sharp and harsh. Stan looks at him before standing up and striding over swiftly, and Ford can sense how angry he is, and oh no.

Ford has kissed people, but no one like Stanley. He expects it to be disgusting. Since it should be. He should be jumping back and yelling and doing something other than standing there. But Stan’s lips are hot and hungry and possessive, and he’s prying Ford’s mouth open, and he can taste the cloying sweetness of cinnamon roll icing on his tongue. His hands curl into his shoulders, trying to push him away but ultimately drawing Stan closer; Stan’s hands are in his hair, and Ford sort of melts into him as they keep kissing.

And then Stan leans back, pink-faced, “There. I kissed you.”

Ford touches his lips with shaky fingers, “You did.”

“Happy now?”

He can’t answer that. Stan can’t answer it either.

The only thing they both know is that fake marriage is the least of their problems.

[godofplumsandthunder]

Our First Date

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: None (If you feel like something should be tagged, please message)

A/N: Day 2 is here and so is chapter 2! Today’s been rough but I still decided to try to write. The song lyrics used in this chapter are a real song, from Ella Fitzgerald’s Cheek to Cheek, which you should go and listen, especially how this month is black history month. It’s such a great song and Fitzgerald played a big role in music history. Anyway, I hope you like this chapter!

“You see Peter, what Bucky here left out, was that I was also head over heels for him too. But I thought he was messing with me. Cause you got to remember, I looked a lot different.” Peter nods. 

“I know! We saw the pictures in class! You were tiny! I mean not in a mean way. I just… Wow, I don’t think this Father O’Malley guy would be too happy to know that a blooming homosexual relationship was happening feet away from his pulpit.” Bucky snorts.

“No, he wouldn’t. Especially if he knew what we got up to now!” Bucky bumps into Steve, who turns beet red. 

Peter’s oblivious as he continues to ramble on. “So you met at the chapel. Then what? Did you become friends? Go on dates? Could gay people even go on dates back then? That must have been so hard!”

Steve nods, the memories of the fear and danger of living in the ‘20s and ‘30s as a gay man all come back to him. 

“Yeah, it was hard. If we got caught, we’d go to jail if we were lucky. If we weren’t lucky, well we wouldn’t be here in front of you, Petey. But that didn’t mean we didn’t go out or have fun, we just had to hide it.”

Bucky smiles, “You know, I still remember our first date. Even when I was under, they couldn’t get rid of that memory.”

Steve smiles softly as he pulls Bucky closer to his side. For a moment they were lost in domestic bliss. The pain, struggles, and adversaries they went through to get this, a home, a family, well, Steve wouldn’t want to go through it again, but it was worth it. Their brief, private moment of domesticity was broken, by an excited Peter.

“Please tell me about your first date! Who planned it? How did it go, did you have to go undercover or did…”

“If you let Steve here get a word in edgewise, I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.” And Bucky was right. Their first date was, up until recently Steve’s favorite memory with Bucky. A moment where Steve didn’t have to be an awkward third wheel or feel judged for his size. It was the day that changed Steve’s life forever.

-----

Growing up, Steve always hated his birthday. Being born on the 4th of July meant that his birthday was never really his. Except for this year, Steve’s 18th birthday, Steve was buzzing with excitement. For weeks he’s been planning this, Bucky and his first official date. They went on many double dates, and sure, there’d be longing gazes and the quick, very subtle game of footsie. And it was okay, but it wasn’t them. Something that Steve wanted since he met Bucky. So, tonight was going to be their night. Just them. 

The morning of his 18th birthday, he was absolutely buzzing with energy. His little body couldn’t keep up. Grabbing the white sheets he’s been “borrowing” from his neighbors (it’s not stealing because he will return them) he makes the climb up the fire escape to the rooftop. Wheezing, he grabs the first sheet and starts to pin it on the clothesline. It takes him many tries before he was able to pin it on straight and neat. 

Steve finishes about 30 minutes before Bucky said he’d swing by. And thank God that not a single member of the Barnes’ family is ever on time. Somehow, they always are managing to run late. This time, it was 45 minutes late. If it was anyone else, Steve would have worried that he’d been blown off. But knowing it was Buck, it gave him time to change into his nice Sunday clothes, and slick his hair back. After all, he had to look good for his best fella.

“Stevie! Sorry, I’m late!” Bucky calls out as he climbs through Steve’s window. Even after knowing Steve and Sarah for three years, Bucky downright refuses to use the front door. Something about principals, whatever that meant.

“Yeah, sure you are Buck. Anyway, I’m… I’m glad you’re here. I, well, I have a surprise on the roof.” Heart racing, and his palms sweaty, Steve musters all the courage his little body could hold. Tonight was make it or break it. He felt like Bucky felt the same way about him, but what if Steve was just projecting? 

Climbing onto the roof, Bucky looks around. “Good hell Rogers, did you rob a sheet store?”

“Uh, not a store but our neighbors, yeah.”

Shaking his head, Bucky pulls Steve close to him, “and you wonder why you always get beaten up, one day I won’t be there to save you. But what’s with all this?”

Sneaking out of Bucky’s embrace, he grabs his small, old, and tinny radio. He sets it out on an old wooden crate. 

“This is all I want to do for my birthday, Buck. Dance with you, and only you. I don’t want to compete with some gal.” Tears start to well up in his eyes, and goddamnit, he swore he wasn’t going to cry. “You’re 19 Bucky! There’s a war brewing and soon, you’ll… You’ll leave me for some doll to start a family. We can’t be together, no matter how much I want to. I just want one day, one night. Just the two of us. Please,” Looking down to hide his tears, the please is barely a whisper. He laid his heart all out, now it’s all up to Bucky.

“Hey, you look at me,” Bucky grabs Steve’s shoulders and tipping his chin up so those blue eyes look up at him. 

“You listen to me punk, the only way you’ll lose me is if I die. And I ain’t marrying no doll. We’ll move out to the country. Just the two of us. I loved you since I first saw ya, Rogers, and nothings going to change that.” He lets go of Steve to turn on the radio, and the crackling voice of Ella Fitzgerald fills the empty night air. 

Offering his hand, Bucky smiles softly at Steve, “now, is the sweetest and most gorgeous fella here gonna dance with me? Or am I gonna have to dance by myself?” Grabbing onto Bucky’s hand, Steve pulls Bucky close to him. 

“You’re never going to be alone Buck. You’ll always have me. I’ll always be there to catch you, Buck. You’re stuck with me, jerk.” Steve curls around Bucky, standing on his shoes and letting him lead in a swing. Just the two of them, holding on, without a single care in the world. Ella Fitzgerald’s raspy, radio voice rings out in the quiet night. Singing like the song was made just for them.

“Heaven, I'm in heaven, 

And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak

And I seem to find the happiness I seek

When we're out together dancing, cheek to cheek”

[prongsisabadger]

TWP Chapter 27

The fact that the extraction team was in orbit didn't mean we would be getting out of Felucia right away. The separatist forces had blockaded the system and the fighters would have to punch a hole in it first. I would have worried about it if it hadn't been the 104th that had been sent. The pack had incredibly talented pilots, most of them reassigned to him after their former squadrons had been destroyed.

Very early on, Master Plo had decided he would take in any troopers who had lost their entire squads and needed to be reassigned. According to Ahsoka, some Masters thought it silly. Why want a battalion made up of whichever troops death hadn't claimed? None of them had worked together before, they didn't know each other's dynamics and would probably be an inefficient group of traumatized misfits.

Turns out they weren't. Scarred and burdened with survivor's guilt, the members of the Pack got very close, very fast because they had a lot in common: they all yearned for comfort, a place to belong to. That is what the Pack was. In addition to that, Master Plo's caring yet imposing nature made for an incredible leader to rally behind. That, and soldiers who survive the loss of an entire squadron are either lucky or skilled, either way they were both good things to have in battle.

So you could see why I wasn't concerned, the best pilots in the GAR were coming to break the blockade, and break the blockade they would. There were brothers to save, Generals to aid and their very own Commander to get back. I will not lie and say I thought myself unimportant to the Pack, no, I knew I could count on them to have my back whenever I needed them because they knew I would give my life to protect them too.

Still, with the two droid battalions approaching fast from the northeast, and the possibility of the divided forces in front of us overwhelming Ahsoka, I had no time to waste keeping my eye on the sky. I had the 212th to protect too. I put all my worries aside and focused on the battle at hand. It was amazing how fast I could force my mind to compartmentalize things in the heat of battle. I realized it all came crashing down on me once the adrenaline abbed away and I found myself in a safe environment once again. It made sense, in my mind, to be able to do it, I had been Plo Koon's padawan for a few years before the start of the war and most of that time I'd been training in Dorin. The only real action I ever saw was as a member of the GAR and I'd been surrounded by soldiers the entire time. It was only natural for me to learn from and adapt to my environment.

"Commander!" it took me a second to realize it was T.H. over the comm who was trying to reach me. "Commander, do you read me?"

"Yes, T.H."

"Commander, the enemy to the northeast is five minutes out. We'll be outflanked any minute." There was distress in his voice, urgency, but not fear. He believed we would get out of there no matter the cost. but it would cost.

I turned to my master and started to back away and towards T.H's position before I yelled, "Master! I'm off to reinforce the northeast, the enemy is almost here."

He nodded, never taking his gaze away from the droids marching towards us.

"Make sure the men are ready to leave at a moment's notice."

I crossed the clearing as fast as I could, jumping over ammo crates and sprinting full speed to where I could feel T.H. As I approached the like of firing troopers, I switched my saber ona and took my stance right at the front. This was going to get ugly.

"Alright, boys, the 104th is trying to break through, we better stay alive until they arrive!" I said in as light a tone as I could manage. "Whoever kills more tinnies gets free drinks!"

"You heard the Commander, Fellas" chuckled Waxer over the comms. "She's buying my drinks tonight!"

"Yeah right, you have the aim of a geonosian bug, Waxer. I'm getting those drinks!" answered another clone.

Suddenly the commlink was alive with light hearted banter and renewed morale born of healthy competition.

"If I win though, you boys are buying for me, and I'm planning on hitting Coruscant clubs hard once we head back." I chuckled, not wanting to be left out of the conversation. We were all trying not to lose our cool as we waited for the next wave of droids to arrive and it showed.

"I never thought you were the type, Commander." Teased Boil.

"I'm not, but one's 18th solar return happens only once, trooper. And I didn't have my Age of Responsibility celebration last year, the war kinda got in the way." I laughed.

The commlink went wild, and all of a sudden I had half a platoon making arrangements for when we went back to Coruscant. The battle started, but no one seemed to notice, they were all too excited planning a bar hopping route and picking who was in charge of what for each of them. Was it unprofessional? Very much so, yes. The entire situation seemed almost fictional: troopers staring death in the face while excitedly planning a celebration. But I hadn't been aiming for professionalism, I had wanted to give them something to look forward to. I wanted them to have something to fight for other than their lives, as trivial as a solar return celebration seemed at the moment.

We had little time left on the battlefield anyway. The Pack had managed to create an opening in the enemy's blockade of Felucia and now the gunships were landing all over us to get every single soldier, Jedi and Padawan off the Force forsaken planet. I almost didn't realize the clone that came up behind me and started to lay cover fire had his armour painted gray. It was only when I felt Art through the Force that I realized we were going home.

The entire force that had been guarding the north east boarded the gunships without a second's hesitation.

"Double time, Boys. We still have to make it up to the cruiser!" I encouraged them as they all moved.

Once every last man was on board I ordered the pilot to take off. After getting clear of the foliage, I made a head count and found every trooper was present and accounted for. I reported to Master Kenobi of our situation and took the liberty of asking about Ahsoka.

"Your friend is following her Master's teachings," Said Obi-Wan with what sounded like a frustrated sigh in my ear. "I hope her habit of disobeying orders isn't contagious. I'd hate to have to go through this again with you, Kriari."

I chuckled, thinking of all those stories he had told me about Anakin as a Padwan.

"Don't worry, Master, I think Master Skywalker's made your hair go gray enough."

"Careful, young one, Anakin might be offended." He retorted with a light tone. I assumed Master Skywalker was somewhere around him and listening to every word we said.

I cut the link and focused on the rising tension around me. The gunship was swerving violently from side to side as the pilots attempted to keep us all airborne and alive. I felt the need to reassure them, tell them everything was going to be okay. But I didn't want to lie. My connection to the Force was strong, but not strong enough to see the future.

"So, who's paying for drinks tonight?"

...

"And then there was this huge argument -mid flight- about who had had the most kills and who hadn't because apparently the Commander thought alcohol was the best encouragement for the 212th. And now we need to coordinate this big ass Solar Return celebration because both battalions got excited and wanted in." Explained Headfirst trying not to laugh at how ridiculous the situation had been. "I mean the pilot was trying not to get shot down and still he went 'If I get us all on board the cruiser, do I get free drinks too?'"

The entire table burst out in laughter as we had our first meal post battle. I had left both Master Kenobi and Skywalker to deal with Ahsoka and what I assumed was a major fuck up judging by how serious they all were being about it. AfterI finished my meal, I left the men to their own devices so I could get cleaned up.

It took the Pack no time to welcome me back. I got salutes, pats on the shoulder, on the back and even a few "good to have you back, Commander" as I walked down the corridors and to my quarters to shower.

Scrubbing the dirt and grime of the battlefield felt better than I had anticipated. I was sore from the explosion and the rough landing that followed, but nothing seemed to be broken. I waited for my clothes to dry after washing them with an old robe wrapped around me. I had missed my quarters aboard the ship so much. The walls had been decorated by a few of Art's creations, a mirror and a few pictures of the Pack and I after missions. The sheets had been changed from their original grey and white to more earthy tones -I had been missing the Temple quite a lot at the time- and the closet had most of my clothes in it, if not all of them. The lingering smell of incense I'd burned the last time I had been on board still stuck to the walls and sheets. This had become my home after the Temple had been flooded by force sensitive children escaping the war. And the cozyness and familiarity of it all put me more at ease than I had been in a very long time. Not that I didn't like the 212th or my quarters there, but it was definitely not the same, even if I wore their colors on the armour for my left arm.

I got re-dressed and dried and styled my hair in its usual side part before re-braiding the longer strand on the back of my neck. I -of course- put my armour back on, but not without polishing it first. A Jedi must always look their best, they are a symbol and a representation of the Republic in the war. If we were roughed up, disheveled and dirty then it didn't do any good for morale.

As I finished smoothing away my robes, someone knocked on my door, which was odd in itself. I had already given my report and spoken to the hologram of the Council before heading for the mess hall. I hadn't had the chance to speak with either Master Plo or Wolffe because they were both engaged in post-battle protocol and I hadn't wanted to disturb them. I would get to see them later anyway now that my tour with Master Kenobi had come to an end.

I opened the door to a stone faced Wolffe. His posture and demeanor only seemed to have gotten colder and rougher during the time we'd been apart, but I still could feel how uneasy and unsure he was as he stood there, proud and strong as someone of his rank and experience.

"Commander, I wasn't expecting visits, I was on my way to the bridge to greet you and Master Plo." I said with a smile and just a smidge of confusion in my tone.

Wolffe only grew more uncomfortable with each second which was very unusual of him. I knew we had been on almost friendly terms when we last saw each other so this sudden change puzzled me greatly.

"Would you like to come in?" I asked finally, a little lost on what to do at his lack of an answer.

This seemed to startle him because he rejected my offer right away, like the idea was preposterous -which it might have been but I had a mute soldier in front of my quarters so what was I to do?

"I was-" he started before clearing his throat, his cheeks tinting slightly. "I was here to deliver something to you on behalf of the 104th." he said, pulling out a sheath from behind him.

It wasn't longer than my forearm and the sheath was the exact same grey color as my utility belt and lightsaber. Unable to say anything I took the weapon and unsheathed it. It was a beautifully crafted vibroblade. I looked up at Wolffe, grateful, confused, and a little giddy. He didn't return my gaze, in fact he was purposefully avoiding it. I didn't mind, he wasn't the type to show he cared, this was very new to him.

"Thank you, Wolffe. It's beautiful," I said, securing it horizontally on my belt at the small of my back. "But to what do I owe this amazing gift?"

Wolffe's face colored even further as he steeled his resolve and turned to look me in the eyes.

"Your armour has too much orange in it. We felt a little more gray was necessary."

[kiapet2]

Aperture Sides Facility, Chapter 13: A Minor Case of Major Brain Damage

Masterpost

Chapter Summary: In which Thomas takes a trip through the past.

Chapter Warnings: Unethical Experimentation, Non-Consenting Test Subjects, Semi-Suicidal Ideation

Falling.

You don’t know for how long you’ve been falling, but it feels like far longer than a person should be able to fall, and when you look down you still can’t see the bottom. The elevator shaft is just small enough that you could probably brush your fingers on either side if you stretched your arms out, but unlike last time no plastic tubing appears to whisk you off to somewhere else Occasionally you pass an open floor, but they whizz by too quickly for you to see much of anything.

Just like your previous fall down this shaft, below you is obscured in darkness, the true depth of the shaft a mystery. You guess you’ll finally get to see what’s at the bottom, one way or another.

You close your eyes and steady your breathing for what could be seconds or minutes, trying not to think about what’s coming. Then there’s a jolt accompanied by a massive crash, and your world tilts and goes black.

Groaning, you blink your eyes open as the world gradually fades into focus. Above you, a vertical tunnel stretches into infinity, broken boards hanging off the edges from where you apparently broke through. The metal elevator shaft is not embedded in a wall or ceiling as you would expect but rather hanging down into open air; the actual ceiling of this room is so far above you, you can’t even see it. Instead, the distance above you looks hazy, almost like you’re outside on a cloudy day.

You sit up, checking yourself over and finding no visible wounds, though your body feels like one massive bruise. The Portal Gun is lying next to you and you pick it up, turning it over in your hands and finding no indication that it’s broken.

So, the good news is you’ve officially survived the fall intact. The bad news is, you’re trapped in the bowels of a facility that’s about to self-destruct, and by the look of this elevator shaft you’re not likely to find transportation back up.

The area surrounding you couldn’t be more different from the rest of the Aperture Science facility if it tried. Where the test chambers were sleek and sophisticated, this looks almost like a junkyard, all twisted metal and crumbled stone. If this place is even part of the actual facility, it hasn’t been used for a long time.

You couldn’t have picked a better place to really make you realize how truly alone you now are.

You’ve felt alone before. It can be hard to remember, now that you’ve become used to one of not many friends peering over your shoulder, giving advice and making jokes at your- or each others’- expense, but when you first woke up here it was to large, empty chambers with no company other than a distant Voice. You remember how relieved you were when you first met Logan, how worried you were every time he or the others left, terrified that this time they wouldn’t come back.

And yet, during all that time you never were as alone as you thought you were. Janus was watching you the whole time, giving his sarcastic two cents even as he tried to pretend to be distant and robotic, and the others never even considered abandoning you like you feared.

Now, you’re much too far away for Janus to see you, even if he was still in a position to be able to do so. Not that he would want anything more to do with you anyways, not after you betrayed the trust he so rarely gives in the first place. And as for the others, well. They were always going to side with Patton over you, weren’t they?

God, Patton. It’s hard to believe your optimistic, friendly companion could have become the nightmarish entity that just tried to take your freedom once again. You should have had him taken out of there at the first sign of trouble, should have done something to help him instead of just watching as your friend was subsumed by whatever malignant consciousness exists in this place. But you didn’t do anything when he needed you most, and now it’s too late. Too late for him, and too late for you.

For a moment, you’re tempted to lie back down, try to sleep and forget until the facility blows up and comes crashing down on top of you. Or, failing that, until you die of hypothermia or thirst. Why bother trying to find your way out of here, when all your previous attempts only hastened your inevitable demise? Can’t you just rest, for once in your short post-cryosleep life?

But even as you consider the thought, something in you rejects it, some deep survival instinct that refuses to let you just lay down and die. You owe it to the others, owe it to Patton, to see this through, even if the inevitable end is your death.

Sighing, you tentatively push yourself to your feet as your legs groan in protest and, not sure what else to do, begin picking your way through it, looking for a way out, or at least forward.

You make your way through the rubble, navigating your way around walls, fences and pits using carefully placed portals. The ground slopes gradually down, going deeper and deeper into the bowels of the facility, and as you continue to descend you start to pass signs, saying ominous things like Keep Out and Do Not Enter.

You probably should be at least a little concerned about that, but you can’t muster up the energy to really care. Your feet stamp out a regular rhythm on the ground, right-left-right-left, and you lose yourself in the monotony of walking as you move further downward. Eventually, you come to a metal door, similarly marked with warning stickers, and with some carefully placed portals through broken windows are able to move past it, into what's hidden behind.

Walking through the final door, you find yourself entering what appears to be some kind of waiting room, faded and decayed with age. As you watch, a large metal piece falls off a large iron sign hanging above the room, a piece you belatedly realize is the shape of the Aperture Science logo.

A voice suddenly sounds from the speakers, making you jump.

Welcome, gentlemen, to Aperture Science. Astronauts, war heroes, Olympians- you’re here because we want the best, and you are it. So: Who is ready to make some science?

The voice chuckles, and you glance around yourself, confused. It doesn’t sound like anyone you've spoken with during the time you've been awake, and has a different quality to it than the announcements you’re used to hearing- tinny and faded, like an old-timey radio announcer, but despite all that it still twinges a recognition deep within you, like this is someone you used to know.

Now, you already met one another on the limo ride over, so let me introduce myself. I’m Cave Johnson. I own the place.

There’s a thousand tests performed every day here in our enrichment spheres. I can’t personally oversee every one of them, so these pre-recorded messages’ll cover any questions you might have, and respond to any incidents that may occur in the course of your science adventure. Those of you helping us test the repulsion gel today, just follow the blue line on the floor. Those of you who brought in your pets for behavior therapy, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that they definitely won’t be chewing your shoes anymore. The bad news is it’s because they don’t really have teeth. Or mouths. Or head. Very well behaved, though! Anyways, so long for now, and happy testing!

You wait for a few more moments, but the recording- if it is actually that, and not another AI trying to trick you- seems to have stopped.

You look around again at the old waiting room surrounding you- a piece of history, Aperture Science when it was run by humans and their recorded announcements rather than the AIs who populate otherwise abandoned test chambers. You guess it makes sense that there must have been humans in this place once- the abandoned offices are proof enough of that, and Logan mentioned that he and the others were made by and from humans.

Your heart twinges, and you shove down thoughts of the others. You're on your own now, might as well make the best of it and push forwards.

The doors leading forward are high in the walls and the catwalks used to reach them have fallen away with age, but you’re able to finagle your way to them anyways by riding an elevator in the center of the room upwards and then using the momentum from jumping down the shaft to fling yourself over. It’s so weird to think that you used to be afraid of a simple one-story fall.

The old recording whirrs back to life as you enter the next chamber. Welcome to our next test on the Repulsion Gel, Cave Johnson’s voice says. Now, the boys over at Medical told me we should be giving testers regular drink breaks and not carrying out testing for more than four hours at a time. Well I think I speak for all you fine fellas when I say we’re not going to let a buncha namby-pamby whitecoat bigwigs get in the way of our science! If you pass out, we’ll send a retrieval bot to pick you up and carry you off to the nursery with the other babies. Now let’s get going!

In front of you is a test chamber. It’s older, with walls made out of metal and concrete rather than the sleek, moveable tiles that made the test chambers you’re familiar with, but still recognizable.

You start laughing, hard enough that you need to sit down. Even down here, even with no one else around, you’re still testing. Playing the good little lab rat, solving puzzles while you wait for the scientist to pull the plug. That’s all you’ve ever done here, isn’t it?

You take some big, whooping breaths, trying to calm yourself. You’re not sure how you know to do it, but you start counting breaths: in for four counts, hold for seven, out for eight. It takes a bit of time, but eventually you are able to get yourself to calm down, your aching abdomen the only sign that you lost control of your emotions.

Looking at the test chamber in front of you again, you notice that it’s astonishingly easy- jumping and then bouncing off the blue gel to get to the other side of a gap. You breathe deep again, closing your eyes and steeling yourself. You’ve done test chambers where you flung yourself across giant rooms filled with toxic sludge while turrets shot at you in the air; you can handle a few antique ones down here. Then you open your eyes and take a running jump.

Welcome to the Enrichment Center, Cave Johnson’s tired voice says. As you’ve made your way through the abandoned offices and test chambers that make up this old place, you’ve listened to his recordings become less enthusiastic, more run down, listened to him start talking about things like stolen inventions and bankruptcy and being forced to recruit new testers from the streets for practical pocket change. But you’ve never heard him sound quite like this- so raspy and worn he almost seems half-dead.

Since making test participation mandatory for all employees, the quality of our test subjects has risen dramatically. Employee retention, however, has not. He coughs, a harsh, rattling sound that sounds like it must tear at his throat. As a result, you may have heard we're gonna phase out human testing. There's still a few things left to wrap up, though. First up, conversion gel.

The bean counters told me we literally could not afford to buy seven dollars worth of moon rocks, much less seventy million. Bought 'em anyway. Ground 'em up, mixed ‘em into a gel. And guess what? Ground up moon rocks are pure poison- I am deathly ill. Great portal conductors, though. So now we're gonna see if jumping in and out of these new portals can somehow leech the lunar poison out of a man's bloodstream. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. He coughs again, harder. Let's all stay positive and do some science.

The recording clicks off, and you wince. You don’t really like Cave Johnson- he sounds like a bit of a jerk, honestly, and you can’t help but feel he’s at least indirectly responsible for the situation you’re in now- but hearing him like that, sad, hopeless, and slowly dying, is just painful. You find yourself wishing he did manage to get better, though you know that he’s likely long dead by now either way.

Focusing again on the task at hand, you make your way through the abandoned office and out a back door, coming out in old maintenance hallways, all smooth concrete walls striped with metal pipes. You come to a large, round vertical shaft, and while the walls themselves won’t hold portals, there’s enough scaffolding and smooth platforms to let you pick your way up with strategically-placed portals and the careful use of flinging.

Cave Johnson’s voice again fills the shaft when you’re about halfway up. He seems to be… ranting about lemons? And lemon-related weapons that burn people’s houses down? It’s kind of hard to follow when you’re so focused on the task at hand, though you almost find yourself wishing Remus was around- you’re pretty sure he’d get a kick out of it. Remus would enjoy a lot of the stuff down here, actually. The thought is slightly horrifying.

Johnson has collected himself by the time you reach the top, and this time you stop to listen.

The point is: If we can store music on a compact disc, why can't we store a man's intelligence and personality on one? So I have the engineers figuring that out now.

Brain Mapping. Artificial Intelligence. We should have been working on it thirty years ago.

The recording ends. You stand there for a bit, feeling like you’ve been hit over the head with a metal pipe. Artificial Intelligence. He’s talking about creating the program that made the others. Talking about using the program to download his own personality into an AI. Logan had mentioned that he and the others were developed from a human man’s personality, but you hadn’t ever stopped to think about what exactly that meant- that they are all aspects of someone who was a living, breathing person. Someone who was the head of this facility, no less.

Could you see the others in him? Remus, definitely, with his love of weird and dangerous science. Roman, maybe, in how dramatic Johnson seemed to have been, and Janus with his disregard for people he saw as beneath his notice. Logan and Patton are harder sells; Cave Johnson didn’t seem all that intelligent- rather anti-intellectual, actually- and he certainly wasn’t empathetic or kind. And he definitely wasn’t careful or restrained, either, so Virgil is right out. Maybe extracting certain parts of his brain exaggerated those aspects of his personality?

But then, if Cave Johnson’s goal was to be immortal, why split his personality into component parts in the first place? Why not just download his personality wholesale? Or did that turn out to be impossible?

By now the mystery has dug its claws into you, and you find yourself itching for more answers, more context on how exactly this came about. It’s a nice distraction, at least, from your imminent demise and the fact that none of the people you’re learning about actually want anything to do with you anymore.

And yeah, not thinking about that right now. You shake your head as if it could dispel the painful thoughts, and keep moving.

This time, when you find another stretch of abandoned offices you don’t immediately head back behind them, but instead move within the halls of the facility, using portals to traverse places that are locked or where the floor has fallen in. You move on instinct, maneuvering these hallways like you’ve done it a thousand times. You don’t consciously choose your destination, but aren’t terribly surprised when your steps take you up to an office door, the words CAVE JOHNSON, CEO engraved on a golden plaque at eye level.

The office is locked, so you smash the small office window, then shoot a portal through it to the opposite wall. The office is large but stripped almost bare, with an old computer desk and several file shelves all that remain. There are rectangles on the walls and floor, places where fancy furniture and paintings presumably used to be, and everything is covered with such a thick layer of dust you’re a little afraid if you disturb anything too much you’ll start coughing and not stop.

You move over to the computer, an old, boxy model, and start it up. Miraculously, it still works, and you’re soon greeted with an old DOS screen, black with white lettering asking you to input commands. You sift through Cave Johnson’s file cabinets, sifting through a pile of floppy disks before pulling one out with a victorious cry.

You slip the disk labeled PRE-RECORDED MESSAGES into the computer, then type in the appropriate command and start going through files.

Not having the time or patience to go through every single audio file, you scroll down to the last one and open it, intending to start from the latest created files and go back. You open it and the sound of an old audio recording once again fills the room.

Hello, sir, you wanted to see me?

Your head shoots up. That voice feels intensely familiar, in a way that tickles the back of your mind, but you can’t quite-

Thomas, my boy!

Your breath catches in your throat.

Come in, come in. Take a seat, make yourself at home. Have some tea, if you want.

No thank you, the second voice- YOUR voice- says, I’m more of a coffee person.

Probably a good idea, the last batch was exposed to radiation from Lab C and well, long story short we’re still not certain if it’ll give you bowel cancer. But enough about the unimportant things! I’ve been looking over your files, and I must say I’m impressed- you seem to be quite the renaissance man! A degree in chemical engineering, a relatively successful career in the theatrical arts, a damn near spotless record in our part-time development team, and it looks like you’ve been making quite a stir in the media department’s new short video program. What was it called, Stem? Ivy? No no, don’t tell me, I’ll get it eventually. I doubt that sort of thing will ever catch on anyways. But the point is it shows initiative, which is something I like to see in my employees!

Thank you, sir?

You are quite welcome, you’ve earned it! Now the folks in our tech department have been telling me they want someone with a well-rounded mind for the initial AI development tests, and I think you fit the bill. And you’re not a vital employee, which is good because we’re still not quite sure what being copied into a computer does to your brain. Best case scenario, you wake up from cryosleep in a few weeks with one heck of a headache, worst case scenario is brain death. But hey, chances are at least part of you will get to be immortal, so I’d say that’s a gamble worth taking!

Whoa whoa whoa, hold up. Cryosleep? Brain death?! I didn’t sign up for anything like that. I’m not even a tester!

Now, now, no one’s ever won at life by playing it safe. The AI initiative is our most high profile development right now, being selected to test it is quite the honor! And testing is mandatory for all staff as of last week, so don’t worry about being in the wrong department.

I- It’s not that I’m not honored or anything. But I really just want to go back to my desk. I’m sure you can find someone else, right? Surely someone is better suited to this than me.

I appreciate your humility, Sport, but I’m afraid it wasn’t a request. You’ll thank us eventually. Assuming that you, you know, wake up. Good luck!

Wait, wait no, let go of me! your voice screams, desperate and terrified. Please, please I don’t want this, I don’t want this, WAIT-

The recording fizzles out mid-scream. After a moment, it whirrs back to life.

Right, so you boys should probably edit some of that out in post, Cave Johnson's tired voice says. Every experiment needs initial trials, right? Like a taste tester, but for your brain. Anyways, you've got your subject, so get to work, alright? We- he breaks off into a coughing fit- we don't have much time left. Let me know when things are ready for me. Until then, this is Cave Johnson, signing out.

There’s a few more seconds of white noise, and then a click as the recording comes to a stop, leaving you in silence once more.

Your legs give out from under you and you sit down, hard. Your mind is whirling, the echoes of your own screams still sounding in your head.

How could they do that? How could they just do that? Take you away from everything you’ve ever known, without even leaving you memories of what you’d lost, and for what? So a CEO could get his immortality?

The thought that you had a life before this, that you had a family before this, had occurred to you before- how could it not?- but it always felt distant, unreal, like a dream. But it wasn’t. You had a degree, a career, a life outside of this place. What did the people from that life think when you disappeared? Did Aperture Science tell them you’d died, or just let them wonder what happened to you? Are they still out there, missing you?

You shake your head, forcibly reeling your thoughts in. You’re going to destroy yourself if you keep going like this. You need to pull yourself together.

And once your thoughts stop reeling quite so much, a new thought occurs to you. Johnson said that you were being taken for the AI program- that they were going to copy you into a machine. The Cores said they were made from a human man, and you assumed based on the previous recordings that human man had been Cave Johnson. And maybe they were- Johnson told you they were using you for preliminary testing. Wouldn’t they have moved on to him once they were done with you?

And yet, all sorts of little things are adding up in your brain, things you had noticed but never bothered to linger on- never thought to connect to each other. Singing and performing a theater song with Roman, your voices perfectly in sync. Trading silly puns with Patton. The way your heart would always leap into your throat at the exact time Virgil started giving you trouble. And most painfully, Janus’s parting words: you may act the part of an innocent little lamb, but deep down you’re every bit as devious and cutthroat as I am.

Could the others… be made from you?

Your heart pounds in your chest. You need to find out more. You need to know if this is real, or just wishful thinking. You fish through Johnson’s files, half-frantic, but can’t find anything on the subject.

Then, finally, you find in the paper files a report from the development Project JANUS. It’s short, with no information you didn’t already know, but it does include a scientist’s name and office number in the signature.

A few minutes of searching later, you’re in the scientist’s room, tearing apart their files, until you finally find a file folder labeled TOP SECRET. You flip open to the first page, heart pounding.

The top of the page reads, “Project JANUS”. It’s a diagram of a human brain, with specific sections highlighted, though you don’t know enough about the human brain to figure out their relevance. What really draws your eye, however, is what is written below the diagram.

Subject Name: Thomas Sanders.

The name rings like a bell in your head, something deep inside saying, me. Thomas Sanders. Your name is Thomas Sanders.

Your name is Thomas Sanders, and Janus was created from you.

Hastily, you flip through the next few pages of data charts and diagrams, until you come to the next blueprint, then the next, then the next, growing in speed and excitement as you go.

Project PATHOS, Subject Name: Thomas Sanders. Project LOGOS, Subject Name: Thomas Sanders. Project REMUS, Project ROMULUS, Project VIRGILIUS. Subject Name Thomas Sanders, Thomas Sanders, Thomas Sanders.

You sit down heavily in the office chair, putting your hands to your face. They’re you. All of them. God, you should have known. You think part of you did know, all along.

Part of you. That’s what they really are, isn’t it? Not you, not exactly, but parts of you. Created from different segments of your brain, different aspects of your personality.

The concept bounces around in your brain, the idea of something meaningful, some other revelation, hovering at the edge of your mind, just out of reach. Something about being parts, aspects of a person’s personality.

Aspects of a person, but not the whole. Self-preservation without the understanding that sometimes other people matter, too. Morality without the practicality to back it up. Creativity without the necessary restraints.

Oh god, you’ve been going about this all wrong. No wonder your plans didn’t work, the very premise was flawed. And wow, that was such a Logan thought, how did you not realize the connection sooner?

You need to get back to the others, right now.

After gathering the file and safely securing it in the folds of your jumpsuit, you take a quick trip back to Cave Johnson’s office with one intention in mind: his PA system. You don’t know if the announcement systems from down here will reach to where the others are, but you have to try. You press the button, ignoring the anxiety churning in your stomach, and speak.

“Hey, everyone. It’s Thomas. I know that some of you are confused and don’t know who you should be siding with right now. I know that for some of you, I have a lot to apologize for. All I ask, is if you ever trusted me at all, to come meet me at the place you introduced me to Remus. Because I have a lot I need to say to you guys, and because I’ve figured it out.”

You take a deep breath, and focus on projecting as much certainty with your voice as you can.

“I know how we can fix this. For good.”

[tanglebond-tales]

Wake Up, Lupin (pt. 1)

Most days, it doesn't matter what time Lupin casts the spell.

But today is Thursday, and therefore, it matters.

Ding a ling a ling, says the first alarm. Ugh. That means it's 6 o'clock. Two hours til work, one hour til portal time.

Lupin goes back to sleep.

Bing bong, says the second alarm. Ugh. Six thirty.

Wake up, Lupin. Now. Says the third alarm. Okay, the first two didn't actually SAY what they said, it was onomatopaiea. Sounds that they made translated into words. But this one actually talks.

"Uh. Portal day."

The alarm clock does not respond. It only knows how to say that one thing, repeatedly, in its tinny little voice.

"Wake up, Lupin. Now."

"Fine! Ugh. Fine. Okay. Get up, Lupin." She rolls out of bed. At least it's warm.

---

"Ugh. Why is it always so warm here."

Lupin draws the final stroke of chalk to complete the circle, and before she can even look up, there is a flash of light.

"Hello, Lupin. It's been a while."

"It's been a week." Her handler's enthusiasm at this time of morning was routinely offensive.

He steps forward out of the teleportation circle, places the supply chest on the sideboard, and makes a show of brushing the dust of the conjuring chalk from his otherwise immaculate coat. "It has! I do hope things are going well with you."

Lupin yawns and stretches. "Not bad. Work is fine. Y'know, hammering steel. Over and over."

"But you are getting plenty of practise with those elementals."

"Well, yeah, it's what I do like literally all day, so yes."

"I am glad. I take it they are co-operative."

Portal successfully cast on time, Lupin has retreated to the kitchen. She is making toast. "They're okay. I mean, some more than others, some of them are rude. Some of them are lazy. But most of them are nice. And some of them are really funny."

"I actually kind of envy you. The air realm boundary here is so thin. You're really getting the best of it. It's a wonderful assignment."

"Rui, I've been here for a year. It's getting pretty boring. And why do you always have to visit so early?"

Ruiprouice Frouce sighed. "I know. It is a long time. But we all do it. And, as you know I have a lot of people to visit. This is how I like to start my Thursdays."

She cracks some eggs into the pan and smiles at him over her shoulder. "You're sweet.” From nowhere, a wooden stirrer coalesces in her hand and she prods at the sizzling eggs. “Okay, look, I know. Rite of passage as a conjurer, blah blah. I get that, and I'm grateful for the chance. But, Pelor, am I ever ready to move on."

"Yes, Lupin." Closest thing Lupin ever had to an uncle, but he never used her nicknames. "Just one more week."

Lupin sighed. "Yes. Just one more week. Have you had breakfast?"

---

Felton Blacksand sighed, stroking his long beard and looking at the chrono dial. "Where, oh where, is Lupin."

"I'm here!" hollered Lupin, her attempt at sneaking into the office foiled by her big mouth and scrabbling feet. "I'm sorry."

"It's Thursday, already?"

"Sure is! So, what needs doing?" she inquires as she catches her breath, coils up her two long braids, and stuffs them into her beret.

Felton sighed. Not that he'd been paying close attention, but he knew the year was almost up. When he'd gotten the letter from the conjurers’ guild - sorry, the Guild of Conjurers and Summoners - he hadn't expected much, a bookish nerd maybe? Certainly not someone so talented in the trade as well as the craft. The thought of Lupin moving on was heavy on his mind.

"Crew two is on the Hammer, so they'll probably need you to help get them started. Third crew is in the mines, so Pelor willing they won't need much attention, but crew four is on the mechanisms so they'll definitely need your support. And crew five is,” he consults his clipboard, “smelting, so they may need some fires put out."

"Put out? Come on." She shimmies indignantly into her company-issue grease-spattered overalls. Frowning as she spots a couple of small tears, she jabs at them with a finger and they mend instantly.

"Loops. We're training your replacements. Give them some space to make mistakes."

Lupin was losing track of the number of sighs today. Plus one. "Can I at least stoke some fire tomorrow?"

"Sure, as long as they learn a lot today."

Lupin rolled her eyes. "Thanks, I guess."

"Crew one is on bucket detail, so keep an ear on them. They're not exactly fast."

"True, that. Anything else? Roll on end of shift, right?"

"Roll on. Don't forget to eat lunch."

"Thanks, boss." Lupin left.

---

It hadn't been an eventful shift. The air elementals had been compliant, mostly, but she'd had to talk down to a fairly large firey, and he almost didn't accept her bluster. She knew the protocol for that situation - contain with a magic circle, call for the water squad - but she was proud of the fact that she hadn't had to do that in a bit over six months. She could usually get them to listen to reason, which helped a lot since her physical stature would hardly be described as intimidating. Not that she didn’t have a few other tricks up her sleeve if it really came down to it.

Anyway. The shift was over, and Lupin was heading home. The viewing platform was on the way - about the closest thing this charming hamlet had to a tourist attraction - and hey, the Hammer in action was always a sight to see after walking up that big darn hill on her short gnome legs, so Lupin often stopped there.

Today was different, though. It was Wednesday; nearly a week had passed since Rui's last visit, and tomorrow was the big day. It was tradition in the guild to time the final day of casting with a visit, do a bit of a ceremony and whatnot, and that was tomorrow.

But more immediately, today there were some actual tourists.

A bunch of weirdoes, actually, thought Lupin as she approached the platform. In a good way, an interesting way, and certainly something she hadn't seen in a while. An elf lady with a fancy-looking bow strapped to her back. A tall human man with rippling muscles and a giant sword. A robed monk, a little girl, a birdman. A lizardy guy. Lizardy? No, more dragon-y. And a peculiar boy, not so much taller than Lupin, humanish but for the pointy, swept-back horns atop his head. Lupin somehow has an impulse to just run forward and hug him.

She suppressed it, barely, and instead sidled up to the group just as the dragony man was leaving. Adventurers? What were they doing here? "Hi! I'm Lupin!" She thrust her hand out in the vague direction of the boy with the horns.

---

It seemed like the boy with the horns had a lot on his mind, but that was okay, because Lupin loved talking about her work, and had been doing so incessantly. "And then, right? We put the molten slug on the anvil. And then, the hammer smashes it flat! So flat. Keeping that hammer working is basically my day job. You know, just the other day..."

Fancy bow lady interrupts her. "So, you work here, then?"

Lupin stops. Was that sarcasm? She wasn't used to that, around here.

"Yes, I do! So where are you guys from?" Funny how the fatigue of a whole shift in the steelworks could be erased with a little bit of chitchat.

---

It turned out they were new in town, just passing through really, and looking for somewhere to eat, drink and sleep. Lupin knew just the place - and what a coincidence, was going that way. Even if she weren't, she would have said she was. She'd learned some names, including the horn-headed fella, Russell. Walking next to him, she felt like he was in need of some cheering up.

"Hey, do you like animals?"

Russell immediately perks up. "Yes! I love animals."

"Oh, well." Lupin clasps her hands together, and then opens them a crack. A tiny nose peeks out, whiskers twitching as it samples the air, followed by the face and long body of a silky white ermine, which scurries up Lupin's arm and perches on her shoulder, looking intently at Russell.

"Russell, this is Snickers."

Russell is agog. "What.. how.. did you just.. summon that?"

"Her. And yes. Well, no. Well, she's always around, just not always in material form. I think she likes you."

Lupin bumps her shoulder into Russell's and Snickers scuttles across, disappearing up Russell's sleeve and, a moment later, poking her fuzzy face out of the neck of his armour.

Russell's excited grin has turned into barely contained paroxysms of laughter. "That.. tickles!!", he exclaims between gasps of air. "Oh yes indeed," says Lupin, "this is definitely her tickliest form. Sometimes she's a cat, sometimes a rat, we didn't really like her as a snake, but birds are a lot of fun. Though, not as cuddly."

Snickers has wriggled free of Russell's armour and parked herself on his shoulder, busying herself with nuzzling him incessantly. Accordingly, Russell has regained the power of speech. "She can change forms?”, he asks, returning the affection. “Like, whenever?"

"Oh, well it takes a little bit of doing. We have to cast a spell for it, which needs some fancy ingredients, so it's a bit of a special occasion when we do, you know?"

Russell is impressed. "That is so, so cool."

Lupin blushes a little. Finding a familiar is among the most basic of basic conjuration, but it’s nice that he's impressed. And it’s nice to be chatting to someone who doesn’t tower over her. "You think that's cool? You should see what I do for a living." She starts into telling him all about a day in the life of an elemental wrangler as they walk on.

---

"So, this guild has had you living here for a year, casting the same spell every day, over and over, to - set up a portal?"

Sitting around an assortment of tables, the adventurers are exercising their elbow muscles hefting tankards of excellent ale. Blacksand's Brewery is crowded, as always after the end of a shift at the 'works, with dwarves, gnomes, and humans, far too many of whom Lupin knows by name. The elder of the Blacksand brothers, Beren, tends bar, and waitstaff sashay busily amongst the tables.

"Yep, that's right. It'll facilitate travel and trade and blah blah blah. And it'll mean I've concluded this stage of my service to the Guild, so I'll be presented with a shiny new badge and make a bunch of people real proud, but best of all, I won't have to stay in this boring excuse for a town anymore."

"Oh come on, it's not so bad. This place is nice. And the hammer is really cool!"

"Yeah, so cool! So much going on here! And I get to hear the clanging all day every day from up close AND far away!" Lupin is thrilled to be using sarcasm again. She makes a show of counting on her fingers. "You've seen the Hammer, you're eating at Blacksand's, and you've met me. I think that about covers the highlights of the Praak experience."

She pauses to sip her ale. "I will not miss this place. I will miss some of the people, though." She looks around at the interior of the Brewery. "And, well, I might miss this place. But Praak generally? I don't think so. I don't exactly have a plan yet, but I'm sure looking out for an excuse to leave." A smiling waitress deposits several plates of delicious-smelling food on the table, and Lupin nods in acknowledgement, suddenly feeling a twinge of guilt for badmouthing the small town. She picks up the smallest plate, containing a boiled egg and small cubes of various cheeses, and sets it to one side. Snickers goes straight for it and gets to nibbling.

"But you have to finish this portal first, right?"

"Oh, yes, well, that's happening tomorrow."

Russell's eyebrows raise precipitously.

"Tomorrow! And you said there's going to be a ceremony?" Had she said that? She wasn't sure, but the thoughtful look on Russell's face stilled her tongue. "Do you know anyone who could transport someone between planes? That's a conjurer thing, right?"

Lupin hesitates, unsure of what is happening. "Well - that's something I'm studying towards, but yes, I suppose I do know some people. And yes," she anticipates his next question, "it is possible some of them might be here tomorrow."

"Huh," says Russell, his eyebrows returning to their typical stance as he grabs a chicken leg and leans back in his chair. "Gaalin will want to meet you."

"Who's Gaalin?", says Lupin.

[infinitevariety]

May Your Days Be Merry

Having never been able to celebrate previously, Aziraphale and Crowley decide to embrace the festive season and make the most of their first December together since the world didn’t end.

Chapter Five: Shepherd (AO3)

One of Aziraphale’s Christmas figurines looks awfully familiar to Crowley.

The day is bright and clear as Crowley makes his way towards the bookshop. He has a peppermint flavour white hot chocolate in one hand and nothing in the other, having been daring enough to order nothing for himself. His shirt is black, but just as he’d left his flat he’d thrown on an emerald green scarf.

He enters the bookshop with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step, then quickly quells them lest Aziraphale see.

“Angel?” calls Crowley when he doesn’t immediately spot Aziraphale.

There is no response. As he unwinds his scarf and throws it onto the coat stand by the door, Crowley wonders where Aziraphale is. Probably caught up in a book, oblivious to the outside world, or out buying sushi. Either way, Crowley will wait for Aziraphale to find him in his own time.

Crowley drifts over to one of the bookshelves, taking a closer look at the tacky Christmas figurines he hadn’t bothered doing anything with yesterday. There is a teddy bear with a Santa hat on and a large present between its legs. A blue car with a Christmas tree strapped to its roof. A snowman with a top hat and carrot nose. A shiny red boot overflowing with candy canes. A penguin wrapped up in a purple scarf and gloves. A robin sitting on top of a post box.

Dozens upon dozens of them, filling every nook and cranny on the shelves. No two the same, as far as Crowley has seen so far. He wonders where Aziraphale got them all.

One particular figurine catches Crowley’s eye and his brows draw together as he leans in closer. It shows a shepherd, crook in hand and a sheep at his feet. It stands out from the rest as being far more traditional and religious, but more than that—Crowley is almost sure he recognises it. He stares at the small shepherd, racking his brain for where he could’ve seen it before.

Crowley is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of humming. He follows the sound to find Aziraphale, sitting primly at his desk with a pen in his hand. The tune he’s humming is decidedly festive.

“Aziraphale,” says Crowley. “Have you been here the whole time?”

When he gets to response, Crowley approaches and taps Aziraphale on the shoulder. Aziraphale jumps slightly and pulls wires from his ears. The sound of a piano and singing can now be heard, faint and tinny, from the end of his earphones.

“Crowley, hello! How long have you been here?” Aziraphale leans back to look around Crowley, as if might have caused some kind of chaos in the shop while left unattended. Which is fair, actually.

“Not long. Got you this.” Crowley puts the candy cane flavour hot chocolate on Aziraphale’s desk. “Are you listening to Christmas music on an MP3 player?”

“Oh, thank you!” Aziraphale takes a sip of the drink and oohs delightedly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what an em pee three is, but the lovely ladies at the charity shop up the road sold me this personal cassette tape player and several cassettes, including this one called Now That’s What I Call Christmas. I don’t know, or particularly like, every song, but there are several I’m familiar with. I’m having a fantastic time listening to them while I write my Christmas cards!”

Crowley’s gaping and he struggles to find words. “Why?” he gets out.

“Well, you weren’t a big fan of the Christmas music I was playing the other day, so I wanted a way to listen to it myself, without inflicting it on you.”

“You weren’t inflicting it on me, angel. I just wasn’t prepared at the time, and then… you know, it’s fine. You can listen to Christmas music however you want, don’t mind me.” The pang Crowley feels is quickly becoming a familiar sensation and he doesn’t want to analyse why or what it means. He looks away, up at the baubles hanging above Aziraphale’s desk.

“Are you okay, my dear?” asks Aziraphale as he stands from his desk and reaches out to Crowley.

When Aziraphale’s hand touches his shoulder, Crowley snaps out of his shock.

“Shepherd,” he blurts, suddenly desperate to change the subject.

Aziraphale frowns. “Excuse me?”

“The shepherd. Over there.” Crowley motions over his shoulder towards the bookcases.

“What, er.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “What about it?”

“I’ve seen it before.”

“Well, there must be thousands of porcelain shepherds in the world. You’ve probably seen dozens of them.”

Crowley narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “No.” He turns and walks back to the figurine on the shelf. “I don’t come across a lot of these in my day-to-day. They’re kind of niche.”

“I don’t know what you mean, they’re ten a penny. I see them everywhere, especially at this time of year.”

“Yes, that’s it!” says Crowley, slapping a hand to his thigh in triumph. “I’ve seen this little fella in the small nativity scene they have set up at the fence of the church up the road.”

“I don’t think— I mean, really— I’m sure it’s just—” Aziraphale blusters.

“You stole it!” Crowley’s eyes go wide and he can’t keep the glee from his voice.

Aziraphale’s mouth clamps shut and looks at Crowley with pleading eyes.

“You did. You stole a shepherd from the church nativity display. Hang on—” Crowley closes his eyes for a moment, trying to picture the wooden box full of porcelain figures he’s passed every day since the start of December. His eyes snap open. “—You’ve moved things around in there too, haven’t you? There are sheep eating out of the manger and baby Jesus is on the floor. The wise men are standing at the back, behind the other two shepherds, animals, and the angel.”

Aziraphale huffs, then lets loose. “There were only ever two shepherds, Crowley—I know because I was there! I gave them the bloody message. But so often nativity scenes have three of them, why? To be even with the magi? They only got that number right because of the stupid gifts. And they didn’t put the baby in a manger—the animals were still eating from it! As for the wise men—they weren’t wise at all. They were late, and therefore relegated to the back. I wasn’t about to give up my spot for three idiots who got lost following a star!”

When he’s finishes, Aziraphale takes a deep breath and lets out a large, heavy sigh. Crowley bites his lip and tries not to laugh.

“And you go around fixing nativity scenes often, do you?” asks Crowley, voice singing with amusement. “Get involved in the local school’s amateur dramatics, telling five year olds where to stand and firing one of the shepherds?”

“Of course not, that would be ridiculous.”

“That would be ridiculous?” asks Crowley before pointedly turning to look at the pilfered shepherd.

“I pass that nativity scene every day on my way to that wonderful French bakery for their croissants… it bothers me.”

Crowley can’t hold back any more. He looks at Aziraphale, indignation writ across his face. He imagines him leaning over the wrought iron fence of the church yard to reach the box containing the figurines, shuffling them about and pocketing one of the shepherds. He laughs.