#will post eventually on ao3

[ryemiffie]

Guys.. Stan canonically writes fanfiction, presumably posting it to ao3.. I bet that man has got the ultimate author's curse notes

"Sorry I'm late to update guys! Got arrested by the federal government for stealing materials from them to rebuild an interdimensional portal to save my long lost twin brother! But hopefully things will be more consistent now that I'm done saving him!"

"My bad for this being so rushed, currently living through the literal apacolypse!"

"Didn't mean for this too take so long y'all, had to reread the whole fic to refresh my memory after getting my brain wiped to kill the demon who used to date my brother, y'all know how it is!"

[spacemammal]

How About Breakfast in Bed?

Masterpost

This is my fist fanfic EVER sorry if its bad lol

I basically stole the entire idea for the inciting incident from a fanfic by Renee4567. Give it a read! here's the link:

Phantom's Hope

─ ✧ ─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─ ✧ ─

Part 1: Tired

Danny was so incredibly tired. The alarm blaring in his ears was giving him a piercing headache. Why did he even have to wake up? He reached to turn the damned thing off before his head exploded. His limbs ached and felt so incredibly heavy, he didn’t want to get out of bed. What was the point when it was just going to be the same as yesterday? He turned his head to look at the same grey walls he looked at every morning. He needed to clean his room but couldn’t find the energy. There were dirty cups everywhere that he hadn’t bothered to take back down to the kitchen. His clothes were in a scattered mess on the floor along with other junk. His homework was littered across his desk and room. None of it was complete. Why even bother doing it?

“DANNY!” his mom was calling him from downstairs. 

“COME DOWN FOR BREAKFAST!” 

He didn’t want to go. He wanted to skip breakfast, skip school, skip being shoved into his locker, and skip fighting ghosts. He just wanted to stay in bed and sleep the rest of his life away. He knew he had to leave the safety and comfort of his bed eventually. No matter how badly he didn’t want to. He dragged himself out from his warm, soft blankets and rifled through one of the shirt igloos on his floor for his binder. Getting dressed was the first step to the day ahead, so he dreaded it.

He gazed into the mirror, taking his reflection in. His hair was messy and slightly overgrown. His clothes were two sizes too big with the pants fraying at the bottoms. His under eyes were dark, accurately reflecting his tiredness. He wore long sleeves under his shirt to hide the constant injuries he got from ghost fighting. He looked like a mess, but he didn’t care enough to do anything about it.

He made himself go down the stairs and sit at the table. The food in front of him looked ok. He didn’t really have much of an appetite right now, but he knew he would suffer later if he didn’t eat right now. He wanted so badly to just go back upstairs and get back in bed. Instead, he looked around the kitchen and spotted the simplest thing to grab. A bagel.

“How did you sleep sweetheart?” his mom startled him with her question. 

“I slept fine.” he mumbled the words through his bites. The bread was dry and cold, but he didn’t feel like warming it up or anything. It was a miserable meal.

“I’m still really tired though”  as he said it, he looked up to see his mom already in a full on conversation with his dad about an ‘amazing idea’ to catch Phantom that she’d had. Great. Now he’d have to deal with that too. He didn’t even know why he bothered saying anything. Since Jazz left for college, this is basically how every morning went.

It was a typical day, getting shoved in a locker by dash, getting yelled at by his teachers, saving the school from another ghost, and trying not to notice how Sam and Tucker pointedly ignored him. They liked him before, hell, the teachers liked him before, but since Phantom, his grades have been dropping, his schedule’s been full. He’s learned pretty quickly that teachers only liked him if he had good grades, and his friends only liked him when he had time to actually be their friend without putting them in harm's way. So at school, he tried his best to stay out of his own head. Most of the time, that meant being on his phone. Even outside of school he was on his phone, it helped him not think so much. There were funny things that actually made him laugh. There was news that he wasn’t directly involved in. He liked to look at what the Justice League got up to, it made him feel a bit better about his decision to help. 

He was laying in his bed like usual, this time he was looking through people’s instagram stories. They were all pretty boring until one caught his eye. It was about the Justice League. It said that they were coming to Amity? He wondered why they would come to a random county in Pennsylvania, so he looked up what it was referencing. 

What. He sat straight up reading the JL’s official statement.

“We will be visiting Amity Park to investigate ‘Phantom’ as there have been multiple reports that the creature may be a potential harm to the residents.”

They were coming to investigate Phantom. Why did they need to investigate him? They should be able to tell that he’s trying to help. Those reports saying he’s a threat aren't true. He’s a hero just like them. He’s just… trying his best to help.

Well. There’s not really much he can do. He’ll just have to hope that they see past the reports. There’s no way he can handle dealing with THE Justice League on top of everything else.

─ ✧ ─

When the Justice League came, Phantom was busy. Way more busy than normal. He’d hoped to be able to catch them. If not to convince them he’s not actually evil, then to just get to see his heroes in person, but Vlad must’ve let out a ton of ghosts in hopes he wouldn’t catch a glance. So he was stuck fighting ghosts while people were telling the Justice League how much of a menace he is. They were recounting tales of how him causing property damage, injuries, and striking fear into the hearts of the innocent. All while he was fighting ghosts and trying his best to keep their town safe. 

It wasn’t helping that he had the Ghost Investigation Ward and his parents hot on his tail trying to capture him. They shot their ecto-rays right at him, even managing to hit him every once in a while. It’s like they weren’t even trying to get the other ghosts anymore, it was just him. Luckily, he was able to get most of the ghosts fairly quickly and without major injury. He was almost done capturing them all then he’d be done. Luckily the box ghost was the only one left, and he had an easy time putting him into the thermos. As he secured the thermos’s latch, he was relieved to be done. Now he just had to return them all back to the ghost zone-

There was a sudden shooting pain in his shoulder. He fell to the ground and his vision was going spotty. He pressed his hand to where it hurt and braced himself on the ground, breathing heavily. His arm was stinging with pain and could hear his heartbeat in his head. What had happened? He pulled his hand from his arm to look at it as his vision came back. It was covered in ectoplasm. Where’d that come from? He heard people yelling behind him, but couldn’t make out their words. There was another pain, this time it was more of a knick in his calf. He looked behind him to see where this all was coming from and there was his parents. He looked back at his hand as he realized, this was his ectoplasm. He was bleeding. He was bleeding really badly. His parents were getting closer, they looked like they were ready to shoot again. His head was pounding, he had to leave quickly. He pulled himself to his feet, and started to haul ass. He was tired, so he wasn’t moving fast enough to outrun them, but he was moving. He just needed to go invisible and intangible and he could escape them.

He’d finally lost his parents, so he floated his way back into his room and collapsed. As he fell to the ground, his ghost form fell with him. He took a few breaths, clutching the fenton thermos to his chest, thankful that he hadn’t lost it when he was shot. He took another second to himself before examining his injury. His wound was deep and if he didn’t patch it up soon, he’d bleed out. When did ghost tech get so painful? He took out the med kid Jazz had made for him. She always thought ahead. When she first suggested it, he’d said no, thinking he wouldn’t need it. But in times like this, he was glad she cared enough to threaten him into listening to her advice. He couldn’t do stitches or anything, but with his ghost healing, it would be ok if he managed to hold his wound together. After disinfecting the gash on his shoulder, he pinched it together and secured it closed with band-aids. He’d been pretty sure he’d seen something like that in a doctor’s video or something? Whatever. He’d finished bandaging his worst wounds when he heard a commotion outside. He slowly peeked out his window to try and see what was happening. To his surprise, there was the Justice League. They’d been trying to interview people but it looks like it turned into a meet-and-greet of sorts. He’d thought they would’ve left by now, but they were answering questions and signing autographs. Maybe he could still talk to them. He pulled on a shirt that hid his worst injuries and headed outside, not realizing he was still holding the thermos.

─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─

This was going on far longer than it should’ve. Bruce knew it was a bad idea to all come here, let alone announce it. Now they were being swarmed by people who wanted autographs or to ask them pointless questions. It was all getting out of hand. He knew that they should’ve gone undercover. If this Phantom is a threat, why let it know they’re coming? Batman wasn’t engaging with the crowd like the others were. He was here to help people, not be a celebrity. The crowd was a mix of people, but they were all here for different reasons. Some were just gathered to meet them. Some were complaining about the ‘ghosts’ that apparently haunt this town. As he scanned the crowd, his attention caught on a teenager approaching the group. He didn’t quite hold the same energy as the rest of them. Where other teens were enthusiastic and happy, he was hesitant, almost scared. But there was a glimmer of hope there. It was a strange mix. He was a skinny kid with black hair and blue eyes. Probably around 15 years old. He was wearing a short sleeved shirt that exposed the scrapes and bandages running along his arms. He looked tired, and he had a slight limp to his walk. In his hand he was clutching what looked like a thermos. The grip was tight, but the strangely high tech object looked comfortable in his hands. The boy opened his mouth, about to say something before he was interrupted. 

“ARE YOU GOING TO CATCH PHANTOM?!” The question came from the other side of the crowd.

They hadn’t been able to gather any real information on Phantom. Most of the people here simply didn’t like the ghoul. They had no evidence that the creature had any malintent at all.

Before Batman could answer, Superman replied  to the question with a  reassuring smile, 

“We’ll do our best.”

Why would he answer without discussing it first? They were going to have to have another meeting about this.

With Superman’s reply, the crowd around them began to cheer. There was only one among them who didn’t. The beat-up teenager he’d been observing. He looked stunned, broken even. He looked like they had just killed all of his hopes and dreams.

─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─

Danny felt like he was going to barf. Superman had really just said that they would capture him? They believed he was a threat? No. No no no no he couldn’t accept this was happening. There must be some mistake. He looks at the heroes, trying to find anything. They’re joking, they have to be. They can’t seriously believe he’s bad, right? He searches their faces trying to find any hint that he had heard them wrong, that they’re faking it, anything. He’s been trying his best, they can’t think he’s evil. They can’t. He searches each of their smiling faces and he doesn’t see any sign that what they said was anything but the truth.

They want to capture him too.

Danny feels his world crumble as he loses all of the little hope he’d had. He began to give up. What was the point? Why even bother doing this? It was volunteer work that only ever left him injured and friendless. He looked down at the thermos in his hand. The smooth metal in his hand felt so familiar. He’d worked so hard to keep these ghosts from hurting people. He’d given his blood to keep this town safe. They still hated him. He was just a highschooler who was hurt and tired and just wanted to go to bed. Yet they still hunted him. How had he ended up like this? He used to do well in school and have friends and not feel like shit all the fucking time. He used to want to live. Now he was just wishing he could go back to before he half-died. He wanted his friends back, but they all hated him now. They didn’t hate him at first, but Sam got tired of making excuses for him and constantly helping him fight ghosts. Tucker was more or less the same. They’d left him. They didn’t want to fight ghosts. They’d realized what he hadn’t. The pointlessness of his mission. All that came of him ‘being a hero’ was him getting hurt. He was in so much pain he could barely move right now. So far he’d been able to avoid the GIW and his parents and Val, but… could he avoid the Justice League? 

‘We’ll do our best.’ Superman’s words were echoing in his head. If they caught him, what would they do with him? Torture him? Kill him? He could feel his emotions bubbling up in his core. He was scared, but he felt a little more free. He wasn’t going to protect a town that didn’t want him anymore. Why had he been doing it for so long? To think that he’d fought for them, bled for them.

He laughs. It’s a hollow laugh. The crowd looked at him like he was crazy. Some people started backing away in disgust. On second thought, he didn’t think it was that funny. He was in so much pain and none of them cared. He found he was still staring at the thermos he held firmly in his hand. It was the thing he’d used over and over  and over again to save the people who were now praying for his downfall. 

“I guess I’m really not wanted here.” he said it quietly, almost a whisper, but it was still heard. He could feel his fangs peeking out from under his lips and his hair start to float as he started to lose control over his form. The sky, that was just moments before sunny and clear, was now dark and stormy. He tightened his hand on the thermos and before he’d even realized it, he pressed the button to release the ghosts. They were yelling and announcing themselves until they noticed Danny, stewing in his emotions. He stared up at the ghosts puzzling them out in his brain. He was so angry, and sad, and so many things he couldn’t sort it all. 

“Oh shit” he recognized it as Ember’s voice.

“This seems like a bad time” This one was skulker. 

Soon, all the ghosts fled, citing Danny as the reason. 

He stared blankly at the now empty thermos.

“I just… tried to help” his voice breaks as he says it. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes, but they don’t fall quite yet. Something shifted in Batman as he looked at Danny, picking his every movement apart. The rain started falling and soon you could see his red blood seeping through his bandages and his shirt, exposed by the sudden water that was now soaking him. It gave his hair and clothing back the weight that it had so recently lost. Batman took a gentle step towards Danny. He looked up at Batman, searching for something that told him that the man didn’t hate him. He found nothing. His mouth was a careful, neutral expression. The rest of his face was covered by an expressionless cowl, so he found comfort in looking at the rough pavement instead. He wished so badly to not be here. He ached for the comfort of his bed. 

“I’m just so tired.” as the words fell from his lips, he began crying. He couldn’t help it, just as he couldn’t stop himself from falling to his knees and transforming into Phantom. He heard a few gasps from the crowd that had backed far enough away to stay out of danger but still watch. His wound had reopened and it was bleeding again. He hated being so exposed and vulnerable. He was a spectacle for them all to gawk at. But he didn’t have the energy to hide anymore, so he simply sat there. Slowly, Batman swooped down towards him. Danny flinched, prepared for the worst. Instead of pain, or an attack, he felt warm, strong arms around him. He looked up and Batman, the vengeance of Gotham, had taken him into his warm cape.

“You did a good job” the deep voice that came from Batman wasn’t as cold as Danny had been expecting. His voice was compassionate and gentle. Before he had even realized it himself, Danny was sobbing uncontrollably into the rough fabric of the costume.

It was a while before he lost all energy and stopped crying. 

“I can’t do this anymore.” his voice was quiet and he still clung to the cape as he said it. 

“That’s alright.” Batman’s voice was reassuring. 

“Did I…” he paused. Ancients, he was tired. “Did I really do alright?” He was looking at the cloudy sky when he said it. Wishing he could see the stars.

BEEP BEEP BEEP! He gasped for air and sat up straight as his alarm clock pulled him from his sleep. Oh. It was a dream. 

─ ✧ ─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─ ✧ ─

This is just the first chapter! I promise it will get less angsty. Trust

Edit: I forgot to mention, danny's like 17 in this, he just looks younger (being trans'll do that to ya)

[lockeswoodss]

The Crimson Glow: Chapter 1

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!MDNI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You had long given up on meeting your soulmates. At 33, you felt like you'd miss the window. Pathetic off white pink strings, that had only darkened twice, were your only claim to them. That was until you started your across-state journey from Philly to P-burgh. Feeling brash after a recent breakup you threw caution to the wind and applied for a job across your home state. To your surprise, you were hired. With the encouragement of your close friends and brother, you committed to the new experience. For once, you were excited for adventure, that was until your strings began to darken.

CW: none? I guess cursing? If you see something please let me know 💛

A/N: While this chapter does not include smut there will be some in future chapters; it's a slow burn. Smut chapters will be labeled

Taglist: @nocturnalrorobin (also the requester of this prompt ^-^)

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

It would be an understatement to say that you’ve grown pessimistic when it comes to your soulmates. I mean fuck you were in your early thirties and your soul link of red strings had only changed from a pale pink twice in your life before going back to the default light pink. Yes, strings plural. You were part of the 2% of Americans who are estimated to have more than one soulmate. Despite this occurring in 1 in 50 people, your parents were from a generation where those who had more than one soulmate were ostracized. In turn, they had trained you since you were able to talk to only refer to one string. It had been ingrained in you to the extent that even now, as an adult, you had only told less than five people outside of your family about having two soulmates. Two of which were close friends, and the other two were past long-term relationships. Fuck what you wouldn’t give for a quote of your first words, or a countdown timer. Anything other than this off-white string that had been hanging over your head since childhood.

You knew that you could only be mad at fate to a certain extent. You had chosen to be career driven and bet on sure things rather than chasing after strings that had been stagnant for almost your whole life. In a way, you wish you could be as carefree as your twin brother. Benjamin, ever the romantic, took what was supposed to be a gap year from undergrad to grad school to find his mate. He headed east to Europe and backpacked across the entire continent before finding his soulmate, now husband, in Sicily. He ended up settling in London with his soulmate, Dante, eleven years ago and never looked back. Your parents’ reaction to his “lifestyle choices” was the final nail in the coffin before you both went no contact. You were the only thing left trying him to the US. You visited him at least once a year and talked regularly. You always wished you could be as carefree as he was. Despite your own situation, you were beyond happy for your brother. If not a bit envious, which led you to now, you pulled off at a rest station off of Route 76 on the verge of a panic attack.

You had just passed Harrisburg, two hours into your journey west from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh. For the first time ever both your strings were red, overlapped and darkening as you got closer to Pittsburgh. You didn’t know what to do or how to process this new information. Your strings had been overlapped for about two years now, and you had dealt with and accepted the fact that your soulmates had most likely found each other.  No, it was the darkening that threw you for a loop. This had only happened twice, the first time the string had gone from off-white to red only to turn back light pink within a few hours. That same string, pointing east across the Atlantic, had briefly turned black to grey back to light pink. You’d never forget that day one of your soulmates had almost died. Your sting had gone black for a minute and 57 seconds.

You shook your head, dismissing that thought; you were already stressed as it was.

You don’t know how Benji and your friend, a Pittsburgh native, had convinced you to take life by the reins and be impulsive. Between your recent breakup and a job opportunity across the state, you had made the improbable choice. You quit your job and got an apartment on the other side of the state. You regret it now, dread building in your gut. You weren’t spontaneous, no, you were practical and thorough. You didn’t take these kinds of risks.

Fuck, you felt like you were going to throw up. You quickly exited your maps app. Your thumb was over your brother’s contact info when your call screen suddenly took over displaying an incoming call from him. You picked up before the first ring had ended.

“You’re okay,” Ben’s voice rang out before you even had the chance to greet him. The wails of your nephew faint in the background.

“I-” You started, voice shaky, you paused before taking a breath.

“It’s okay,” he said once again, voice level.

“They’re red Ben, like properly red, like the ones in the movies.” You responded, you somehow managed to get the words out evenly, before taking another deep breath.

“Sis, that’s a good thing,” he responded, smile clear in his voice.

“No, I don’t know what to do,” you sighed, pressing your forehead flush with the top of the steering wheel, “I always know what to do Ben.”

“It’s okay to not know what’s to come, most people don’t know what’s going to happen before they meet their soulmate. You just have to lean on fate for a bit before going back to being a know-it-all,” he joked, hoping to lighten your mood.

“Okay,” you sighed, breathing going back to normal. “But what if I’m not what they’re expecting?”

“Then they’ll be pleasantly surprised,” He responded,

“What if it’s a bad time? Or if I meet them before making it to Pittsburgh?” You ask.

“There’s no perfect time to meet your mates, and if you meet them before Pittsburgh, you’ll figure it out. Like you always do.” He said comfortingly,

“What if-what if they don’t want me?” you said, finally voicing your deepest concern.

“Sis,” he replied softly, his voice just loud enough to register on his phone’s mic.

“I’m just-Fuck, I’m a mess, I start at my new job in less than two days, my apartment isn’t set up, and I definitely needed to do a everything shower this morning, but gaslighted myself into not washing my hair.” You sighed, “Just,” you breathed, “What if I’m not good enough?” Your voice wavered.

“Hey, watch your tone, I know you’re not bad mouthing my sister. Not the one that put herself through college, a master’s program, and a licensing process to become an art therapist. Not the woman who devotes everything to her patients within boundaries. Not the one who worked pro bono at a grief summer camp because of a staffing shortage. Or on top of everything is an amazing artist. Cuz she’s an empathetic badass, who is way too smart to say any of that shit.” Ben responded.

“Ben,” you said, sniffled, eyes watering.

“You’re going to be okay. They are lucky to be blessed with your presence and happy to meet you. If not, I’ll fuck them up.”

You let out a wet laugh, a single tear escaping each of your eyes as you blinked.

“Thanks,” you sniffled, a soft smile on your lips.

“No problem. What are big brothers for?” he asked, jokingly.

“Just cuz you cut in line does not make you older.” You responded to a lifelong debate with an eyeroll he’d never see, “Sorry for falling apart on you.”

“Sis, I’m sleep training a five-month-old, who is on what I hope is the tail end of colic. You were a much-needed break.”

“Tell Atlas his auntie loves him.” You said, taking one last deep breath. The weight gone from your chest.

“I will.” You could hear the softness in his voice shift, Atlas most likely finally calming down for Dante in the other room, “If you need anything, feel free to call.”

“I will, love you,” you reply.

“Love you too,” he responded before you clicked off the call.

You took a deep breath; you plugged your phone back into its charging port and clicked on maps and cued up a hip-hop mix. You shifted from park to drive and merged back onto I-76. You took one last stop two hours in, but it just made you more tired. You white knuckled it until you got to the parking garage adjacent to your building. Your strings continued to darken, color plateaued when you drove into the city’s limits. They weren’t overlapping anymore. On was pointing up, something you’d never seen before, and the other was pointing off to the right as you face your apartment building. You texted Ben and your friend who lived in the city that you got in safely. You unloaded your backpack and a single suitcase that held all your valuables. For the first time, you found yourself liking the annoying squeaks of its broken wheel. It was something familiar.

After you locked your car, the next half hour was a blur. You signed the final paperwork at the office and got your keys. You boarded the elevator and clicked on the tenth floor.

Your breath caught in your throat as the red string that was pointing upward started to move laterally down, while the other started to point down. The above one kept moving downward until it was back to the height of your palm. Was this it? Were you about to meet your soulmate? Despite bitching about not meeting them for the better part of thirty years you felt wildly unprepared. The ding of your floor snapped you out of your daze.

Were they living on the same floor as you?

You shook your head, turning left as the building manager had directed you. You slowly made your way down the hall; your suitcase’s broken wheel squeaking was the only noise. Your head snapped down as you passed the last apartment on the right before yours. The string was bright crimson, bolder than you had ever seen before. As you walked on, the string went through you, through the wall into that apartment.

You paused. But then there was nothing? Maybe they were asleep? It was four in the afternoon, but you weren’t really one to judge; you always loved a good nap. That or maybe they worked nights? After waiting for a beat, you slowly walked down to your apartment door, keeping an eye on the door as you opened yours.

Maybe this was okay? While you were desperate to meet them, you also had just completed an over five-hour drive, and you felt and you’re sure, looked like hot garbage. You gave yourself no time to take in the apartment before crossing through the sea of reusable boxes to your bedroom. You quickly tossed your backpack on the sheetless mattress resting on a built bed frame. You pulled out the lounge wear you packed along with a towel and washcloth from one of the totes before rushing to the bathroom. If you were gonna meet them today you were gonna have clean hair god dammit. You turned on the water as you stripped, your string remaining solitary to the one spot in your neighbor’s apartment. You unpacked your toiletries onto the shower’s ledges before jumping in. Your nerves got to you again, loitering in the shower as long as you could justify. After drying off, you did your full extended post-shower routine; eyes never straying far from the solitaire string.

While you tried to start to unpack, you couldn’t help but stare at the string. Should you just go and knock on their door? Before you could scheme any further, your stomach grumbled. It was already five and you hadn’t eaten since the last rest stop. Maybe going to grab something to eat wasn’t the worst idea ever. It’d get you out of your current impasse of staring at a wall. You picked a well-rated Thai restaurant around the corner, ordering way too much for a single person. The entire trip lasted about a half-hour, but it was a nice break. You got some fresh air and were able to stretch your legs as you took in the neighborhood. When you got back to the lobby, your other string started to darken quickly, like it was speeding towards you. You debated waiting for it or going back upstairs so that you could all be together. You opted for the latter and retreated back to your apartment. The string on your floor remained still, only starting to move as you closed your door.

Your heart began to hammer in your chest as you placed the food down on your kitchen counter. You were about to check in with Ben before a loud knock sounded off. Hesitantly, you approached the door, strings bright red, almost glowing. They formed a “V” shape as you wrapped your hand around the door handle.

This was it

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

A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read! I am in the last month of my semester, so I don't have an update schedule as of now. Will hopefully be more consistent after mid-May. Hope you're doing well whenever you are 💛

[crabsnpersimmons]

New 'Do, Same You now on Ao3!!

it's here! my silly hairdresser AU that sparked from my silly page of doodles is now a fic!! i hope you'll give it a read!

In the mood for something new? Come on in for a new hairdo! Day or night, dusk or dawn, Find what you're looking for at the Shooting Star Salon!

EDIT: they're handing out coupons for the salon! 20% off all services! Not valid with other offers. Valid until end of January 2025. (some of them are drawn in crayon by Clip himself 🖍️)

[magicpiano]

Through weird experiments, Ra's grows a Tim clone from his spleen. As in the new clone grew around his spleen.

Now Tim is a pretty pro clone guy. He is relatively confident that he could work things out with his clone and, at the very least, have a neutral relationship with him. If he is lucky, maybe even a good brotherly one! So no the problem isn't that this other guy is a clone, or that Ra's made him, or even if he was brainwashed to try and kill OG Tim or anything like that. No, Tim considers these all minor or fixable.

The real issue Tim has with the new guy is that he now has his spleen. Tim had been planning to steal that back! But now he can't because it is in someone else's body!

[inkyrainstorms]

Martian Stan AU - Aftermath & Discovery

The Beginning (1), Aftermath (2) (here), The Journals (3)

Extra! (The Apology)

Ford didn’t know how long it took for him to pry himself off the floor, but it felt like hours later when he managed to trudge his way upstairs, eyes burning and throat raw. There was new blood on his knuckles, and Ford couldn’t remember if it was Stan’s or his own. He’d tried to scrub the blood off of the portal, but most of it had been too high and Ford was so tired.

He couldn’t fall asleep in the basement, he chanted to himself, again and again and again and it only occurred to him once he stood swaying at the top the of the stairs, that is didn’t actually… matter, anymore.

It didn’t matter what Bill did, or didn’t do.

The portal was broken beyond repair. His brother was dead.

The journal is gone. his mind whispered insidiously, and he couldn’t remember if he’d always been so cruel to himself, or if it was a byproduct of Bill. You got what you wanted, Sixer. How does it feel?

Ford hobbled to the bathroom as fast as he could manage, and hurled his guts out into the toilet. When all that came up was acrid bile, though, and Ford wondered idly when we he last ate. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered, Ford decided firmly, hands clenched on either side of the porcelain bowl so hard that they looked bloodless in the harsh white light. It didn’t matter what he felt, or didn’t feel.

Not anymore.

The journal was gone. That was a good thing, it meant that the portal could never be rebuilt again. Stanley made an honorable… he. He’d made an honorable sacrifi—

Ford hunched over the toilet and heaved again. Nothing came out.

Impossibly, time kept moving.

Ford was left drifting in the current, from room to room, machine to first aid kit to paper to specimen to paper to circling the door of his lab again and again like an anxious sentry. He didn’t process any of it, and eventually, the door was the only thing left in the house that felt truly real. It was the only mystery left that Ford could pay any real mind to, and most of the time he wanted nothing more than burn the whole thing to the ground.

Sitting against the door, head leaned back and staring at the ceiling, Ford searched his mind for something. Anything.

A plan, a goal, fuck, he’d take the will to actually get out of the house and get groceries despite the constant chance of being watched at this rate. There was near nothing left to eat in the cabinets that wasn’t rank with age, and Ford knew he was wasting away like this.

But there was nothing. No part of him cared.

He knew he’d always had the wildest aspirations as a kid and as a young man, that he’d never stop reaching for bigger and better heights, but the light had blinded him with its promise, and now he’d fallen. He’d fallen so far.

He’d said Icarus didn’t flap hard enough, when Fiddleford tried to warn him of his own hubris all those weeks ago. Now he was just glad he wasn’t an English major, because it had taken him all of this just to realize that Icarus had found the sun, been embraced by the promise of warmth, and burned for it.

Trust no one.

Ford traced an idle finger against the freshly bandaged burn on the underside of his hand.

And no one should ever trust you.

…

The worst part, Ford thought to himself as he brewed another pot of coffee and searched for a clean mug, was the uncertainty of it all. There was a grief in loss, of course, but not knowing could be so much worse.

Stanley could still be alive out there, among the creatures of the Nightmare Realm, all alone. He could be dying. He could be dead. He could be sitting on the other side, waiting, hoping Ford could open the portal and bring him home—

Ford slammed down the sole clean  coffee cup he had left hard enough to startle himself, and then sighed.

He’d have to go clean up the remains of the portal, eventually. Before he fell asleep and Bill…

Ford poured out the coffee and leaned heavily against the counter as he took a sharp swig. It burned the whole way down. 

What did he have left that Bill wanted? What reason did Bill have to keep him around if his research was beyond saving, if he couldn’t be threatened or tortured into complying anymore?

The next time he fell asleep…

Ford didn’t know what’d happen to him, and despite everything, damnit, Ford didn’t want to die. He couldn’t let Bill win, couldn’t become another footnote in the history of the world because he was just another one of the poor schmucks who fell for Bill Cipher’s lies.

Taking another gulp of liquid courage, Ford pulled his coat tight around himself and marched to the door of his lab before he could talk himself out of it.

Forget not sleeping in the lab. Ford couldn’t sleep at all until he found a way to sever Bill from his mind for good. Project Mentem had been a bust last he’d checked, but it was worth another shot. What else hadn’t he tried? There was something… a protection spell? A charm?

Ford contemplated his options all the way down the stairs, one hand keeping him steady on the wall while the other held his mug. 

He still wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted yet, or what his next step was, but Ford could do this. He just had to secure his mind, like he’d planned, and then get rid of the blasted portal once and for all. Nothing had changed.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing, nothing, except that Ford felt hollow where there must’ve once been something warm and vital in his chest. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel warm again. He didn’t deserve to.

Ford remembered a detail about sleep deprivation, as the elevator neared the basement level again and his heart dropped in time with the doors hissing open. Hallucinations were a common byproduct of the resulting sensory overload and exhaustion. They could take auditory or visual form, though visual hallucinations were a more common symptom by over 52%.

That was the only explanation he could conjure for the faint singing that echoed through the dark, cavernous sub-level before him. 

“It’s not real,” Ford whispered to himself, hands a vice around the coffee mug. He felt cold. “Auditory hallucinations are an expected and well documented symptom to experience in conditions less dire than these. Focus on your intellect, Stanford. Focus, focus, it is not real.”

For a long stretch of time, seconds, or perhaps minutes, Fords feet were glued to the floor of the elevator. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he said or did, the singing, or the static, remained steady and quiet. 

It wouldn’t go away unless Ford made it. 

Finally, Ford forced himself to creep into the basement, and then the control room to set his mug down on the desk. The music was louder now, more distinct here than it had been before. Had Ford left a radio on down here? Was that it?

Holding his breath, Ford crept around the trashed room, checking behind spare sheets of metal that had been propped up against the walls, kneeling to look under the control panels, and then behind them too. All the while, the music droned on, buzzing and humming and settling under his skin like an itch. 

-any- wind blows—

It got louder as he neared the very back of the room, the words filtering through the humming static and becoming clear. Ford couldn’t deny it anymore. That was a voice. He shivered hard, jolting like ice had been pressed to the back of his neck, and hurried forward. 

-really matter to me… To me. 

There was a pile of debris, in the back of the control room, farthest from the door where he’d entered. Stanley must’ve crashed into it, when Ford and him had been… when he’d…

-just killed a man —a gun against his head…

Ford slowed his pace, staring down at the dented metal plates and machinery that had fallen loose in a heap on the floor, the stray wires and screws jutting out of the mess every which way. Slowly, Ford sank to his knees and pressed his aching palms onto the cool floor beneath him.

He could hear the singing now. Warbling, staticky. Familiar.

-Life had just begun, and now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.

Ford choked on his next inhale, thin and trembly as it was, and searched through the wreckage with wide eyes. 

There. Nestled between a dented panel with half its screws undone, and a jumble of wires and smaller panels of sheet metal, was the source of the sound. 

For a long, long moment, all Ford did was stare.

Oh mama… oh ohh oh. Didn’t mean to make you cry.

If I’m not back again this time tomorrow…

Ford’s hands trembled as he reached out, carefully prying the radio out of the scrap heap and holding it up in the dim light.

Carry on, carry on…

As if nothing really matters…

The voice faded out. Static.

Ford set the radio down on his lap, gently, as it would shatter into a million pieces otherwise, and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth.

“Stanley?” Ford choked out, and it was like trying to breathe glass. But he had to know, he had to, because— because…

He sat there, dully staring down at the radio Fiddleford had cobbled together months ago, when they’d still been in the implementations stage of the data and blueprints they’d collected, when the preliminary tests had begun. A device to send and collect waves and other information from beyond this dimension without actually opening a rift.

And here it was. In Fords hands, dented and scratched and still whole despite everything. Ford had turned his sights completely to the portal before the it’s completion, since Bill had deemed the entire endeavor a waste of time and energy and an ineffective outlet for his genius.

Fiddleford must’ve completed it, back when he was still just as enthralled in the project as Ford was. He missed his old friend, but Fiddleford was likely back home by now, in California to try and reconnect with his wife and child. As bitter as Ford was, he hoped Fiddleford was successful. His old friend deserved as much and more. 

There was no reply to Ford’s question, except, Ford brought the radio to his ear and strained to listen through the faint static. Was that… humming? 

Doo- doo doo, yeah, no poindexter, I‘m done, man. That’s the last song of the evening, I’m not paid for overtime. 

Moses, wish I were getting paid for this.

Ford jumped, wincing at the sudden burst of noise loud enough to make his ears ring, then processed what Stanley, because that had to be Stanley, had said.

“Stanley! Where are you? Are you in the Nightmare Realm? You must be… what sort of method did you find to transmit your signal? Are you al—“

But Stanley continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard him. A thrill of irritation  went through him. Was Stanley ignoring him? Was this some kind of petty revenge tactic?

When’d that song come out anyway? ‘75? 

He hummed.

Sounds about right.

Ford shook the radio and bit back a growl, before he remembered that the technology in his hands was damaged and sorely in need of a repair and upgrade, and loosened his grip again. He set it down in his lap.

“Stanley, I need you to take this seriously, please, for once.”

Wow, that song was everywhere back then, wasn’t it? I remember thinkin’ Ford probably liked it when it came out, wherever he was. The nerd was probably in college.

“Stanley?” he tried again, but he wasn’t expecting a reply anymore. Stanley soldiered on, rambling about everything and nothing and Ford could almost hear the smile in his voice if it didn’t sound so tired. 

Hell, where’d I first hear it? Must’ve been over at a gas station in… eh, Kansas? Somewhere over there, the big ol’ middle states. 

We sure aren’t in Kansas anymore.

Ahh, those were the times. Me, the open sky, and so, so much dirt in my hair. Seriously, where did the dirt come from. I roll around in one haystack and suddenly i’m fishing filth out of my hair a month later.

Stanley went quiet again, before he laughed. 

Aw man, I actually like this story. Buckle in folks, and I’m taking us back to that weirdly cold summer day in Kansas, where I had to steal 5 prized chickens. For some reason.

Look man, when someone pays you a hundred bucks and tells you he wants chickens, you don’t ask questions. 

Anyways, I’d been-“

For the past few… well, it had to have been days since Stanley fell through the portal by this point, if Fords state was anything to go off of, Ford’s mind had been eerily blank. He’d been a hollowed out shell of his former self, a ghost in his home and life that held onto the living plane by only the barest threads and pure spite.

It was like a switch had flipped. Ford’s fingers drummed on the outside of the radio as he forced himself to his feet, mind whirling at a hundred miles per hour and making calculations and theories and discarding some and contemplating others, and he was nearly jittering as he walked out of the control room entirely. He’d need to find a way to secure this side of the portal from Bills influence, recollect his journals, and then, he was bringing his brother home.

He stopped just before he got into the elevator and turned around to stare down the wrecked portal that loomed overhead. The once perfect inverted triangle, now ruined and warped nearly beyond recognition.

He grinned in a way that was more just like baring his teeth.

“You may be a god, Cipher, and you may think you can control me, but never forget. I am a scientist.”

The portal stood dead as it had been, but Ford didn’t care. He whirled around and stalked into the elevator. He felt more awake than he had in days. And he had research to collect and a demon to banish.

Stanley was still talking, as the elevator began to shudder and rise, and Ford’s adrenaline shot began to ever-so-slightly wane. Something about… attack pigeons?

-And when I finally think I’m in the clear, I duck around one of the hay bales and come face to face with, and I’m not kidding here, a cow wearing heavy duty armor, like a helmet and shit the guy in ‘Nam would wear. It even had holes for the ears!

There was a strange sound then, and Ford realized with a start that it was coming from him. He was laughing. It wasn’t even than funny, really, but something about Stan delivery made Ford wheeze. 

When was the last time he’d laughed? It must’ve been before this whole thing started, when he’d been with Fiddleford or B—

The laughter died in his throat. Oblivious to Fords inner turmoil, Stan kept on jabbering.

And there I was, 5 chickens smuggled into my coat and in my bag —and if you’ve never tried to carry 5 chickens, never do, it’s hard as hell and not worth it at all— staring down ol’ Bessie. 

And then, because this fucking farm couldn’t get any weirder, the cow started moo-ing like it was setting off a tornado siren, and all the other cows in the whole place started mooing in sync too. It was fucking terrifying man.

They must’ve been calling the attack pigeons, because those suckers came back, and they started dive-bombing my sorry ass, and really, that was when I reached my limit.

I dove into the hay bale like a damn football player going for the end line, and even though it was by far the itchiest thing to ever happen to me, it saved me from death-by pecking so I’ll take take it. 

The itchiest, of course, save for my stint in Albuquerque.

Ford could almost imagine Stan shaking his head as he paused again. With a start, he realized he was still smiling.

Just. Don’t try selling pillows in Albuquerque is all I’ll say.

Stan gave an audible shudder. 

So many feathers… And itch powder. The itch powder didn’t help. 

Ford couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out of him at that.

Tags! (I’m sure I’m forgetting someone, pls tell me if you want to be on the list! Or just follow the tag that also works) @aroace-get-out-of-my-face @pleasantartisanhottea @littlelilliana15 @empressofsamoyeds @pinesfamilycatsau

Super Epic Secret Surprise!

[quietly-sleeping]

@artsarasp i've been trying to work on this for two weeks now lmao. I'm calling it done.

Sitting across from the being occupying the body of his oldest friend was a daunting experience, the memories of the “Scenario Pusher” haunted him. He could still feel it, the shattering of Xuan Su, the shattering of his soul. 

However, it wasn’t nearly as painful as the brief flash of what caused him to draw his sword, the large box with a short note. All it said was a name, but that was enough. Qi crackled through his meridians as his mind lingered on the vision of the box. The being was staring at him, it wasn’t smiling anymore. 

[Yue Qingyuan should not take any more Small Scenario Pushers.] The being was as close to frowning as Yue Qingyuan had seen it. It almost looked worried. “You have said that if we take these missions, you will restore Shen-shidi.” Yue Qingyuan nearly didn’t recognize his voice. It was flat, cold, broken.

[This system cannot allow Yue Qingyuan to continue.] The being was unnaturally still, even before Shen Qingqiu’s last major qi deviation, he was always moving, waving his fan, running his fingers along the edges of his robes. The Shen Qingqiu after the qi deviation was always moving as well, the being that wore his shidi’s face was still. 

“Why.” Yue Qingyuan just wanted this to stop, Mu Qingfang, Liu Qingge, and even Shang Qinghua had seen things because of this creature. Yue Qingyuan had never seen Mu Qingfang like that before, distraught and inconsolable, sobbing about a disaster and injuries he couldn’t heal. [This system has calculated that if Yue Qingyuan continues to take missions, he will continue to act OOC. This system cannot allow this.] 

Yue Qingyuan ignored the bite of his nails as they dug into the meat of his palms, “You’ve said this before, what does OOC mean?” Calm, he will remain calm, he will not lash out at the being holding his shidi’s body captive. [OOC is the act of a character acting outside of its setting.] The being’s face slowly returned to the unnatural smile it typically boasted. 

“Is that what we are to you? Characters in a story?” Yue Qingyuan couldn’t understand this being. [This system cannot answer that.] The being had its smile back, but the longer Yue Qingyuan stared, the more certain he was that he could see something in its face twitching. 

“Do you truly believe that we are static characters unable to change?” Yue Qingyuan barely held back the roiling fury in his body, the emotion was choking him, and his skin stung as his nails drew blood. [Characters are capable of change, however, large leaps of setting…can cause…] 

The being’s words stuttered to a stop, eyes blank as it stared at something over Yue Qingyuan’s shoulder. [Warning!] Yue Qingyuan flinched back as the being’s voice changed, so much louder and higher in pitch. [Unknown power is interfering with–] Yue Qingyuan jerked up, the being was choking on blood. 

“Call Mu Qingfang!” Yue Qingyuan yelled. Disciples were waiting outside the room and startled into action at the call of their Sect Leader, their feet thumping heavily on the ground as they rushed away. Blood was dripping from the being's mouth and eyes as it choked. Yue Qingyuan lunged around the table to reach for the being. 

But once his hand touched its robes, Yue Qingyuan’s vision stuttered. 

He wasn’t standing in the same room. Instead, he was standing in a butchered version of the bamboo house. He couldn’t recognize the materials or style the bamboo house had been combined with, it didn’t matter though, since he could see the man sitting on the bed. 

The man wore the greens and teals of Qing Jing, Yue Qingyuan lunged closer, desperate to touch and confirm it was Shen Jiu. However, as his hands landed on the man’s arms, all he could see were the differences between this man and the Shen Jiu he grew up with. His eyes, silently shedding tears as he stared down at something glowing in his lap, were brown, his lips, red and bitten, were fuller than Shen Jiu’s. 

Something jerked in Yue Qingyuan’s chest as he realized this man, the man inside Shen Jiu’s body, wasn’t the Shen Jiu Yue Qingyuan knew. This was a stranger. Yue Qingyuan’s hands flexed on his arms, fighting between the instinct to let go and the desire to shake him for information. Where was his Xiao Jiu, how long had this stranger been in his body? 

No, Yue Qingyuan knew how long, knew it with a certainty that rotted in the pits of his stomach. Yue Qingyuan’s hands tightened on the man’s arms, he didn’t know this man, this imposter wearing his shidi’s skin. However, as the man shuddered and curled over the glowing book in his lap, something in Yue Qingyuan reacted. 

It was an instinct ingrained in him since childhood since he could recognize the youth clinging to the faces covered in dirt, since he knew that the way they grew up wasn’t right. His hands curled around the man’s back, bringing this fake to lean against his chest. 

Yue Qingyuan very rarely felt revulsion when faced with people. Yet, with this man that he knew under the guise of his shidi, he couldn’t help the sickening jolt in his chest. Even as he smoothed a hand down the crying man’s back, he wished that instead of this man, it was Shen Jiu. He wished that the person they were struggling to free from the being was the man who truly owned the name Shen Qingqiu. 

“Why,” The man’s voice was rough, torn from silence the tears he’d shed. Yue Qingyuan grimaced, carefully rubbing the man’s back as hands came to lightly grip the front of his robes. “Why am I reading this endless tragedy? It makes no sense.” The man whispered. It didn’t seem like he expected Yue Qingyuan to respond, so he kept silent. 

Yue Qingyuan was staring at him, looking at the man’s vulnerable neck, it wouldn’t take much effort. Damaging the man while in his mind would deal a heavy blow. Would it be enough to allow Shen Jiu to take his body again? 

Was Shen Jiu even around? Had he left for good, like he thought Yue Qi had? Yue Qingyuan would deserve it, he’d deserve to be left behind because for months, years he had not known it wasn’t his shidi in his body. 

No. He did know, he knew this imposter took over Qing Jing Peak and his shidi’s body and said nothing. Because he was a coward, because he was selfish. He said nothing because he wanted the Shen Qingqiu who let him get close, who let him into his home without viciously digging his fingers into gaping wounds. The sect leader’s hand twitched from where it rested on the man’s back, the thought barely forming before the room around them shook.

He couldn't help the way his arms tightened around the man deliriously muttering to himself. It seems the qi deviation was getting worse, since blood was seeping through the walls, dripping steadily down them as the room shook again. Yue Qingyuan had pulled the man to his feet, keeping one arm around him as he eyed the effects of the qi deviation. 

Harming the man currently in the body of his shidi would only harm the body. Leaving the body’s cultivation unstable and potentially harming Shen Jiu’s chances of retaking his body. Hopefully, Mu-shidi has already reached them and is working to stabilize the qi deviation. Though, Yue Qingyuan thought with a grimace, he’d be thoroughly lectured on the dangers of touching a cultivator going through a qi deviation without knowing what kind it was or what caused it. 

Yue Qingyuan shuffled the man in his arms away from the bleeding walls as the room shuddered, glancing around he froze as he heard something other than the mumbles of the other man. Don’t you dare.

It hissed in his mind, the familiar tone freezing the blood in Yue Qingyuan’s veins. “Xiao Jiu?” He whispered, his eyes flicking around the room, desperate to catch a glance of the man’s silhouette. 

Don’t call me that. The voice snapped, it was him. Yue Qingyuan could feel everything in him relax for a moment. Even as the voice of his shidi hissed at him. It was fine, anything to prove Shen Jiu was still around. 

Now get out of here. Yue Qingyuan couldn’t see Shen Jiu, he could only see the blood dripping down the walls as they shuddered. “Shen-shidi,” He forced out, “Where are you?” Are you blind as well as stupid, Zhangmen-shixiong? The mocking voice slithered down his spine as he felt something grasp the back of his robes. It wasn’t the man in his arms, he was still clinging to the front of his robes with both hands. 

Yue Qingyuan went to turn, to see his shidi again after so long, but Shen Jiu’s voice stopped him dead. Don’t look. The hand tightened, and he could feel the tips of the fingers scratch against him. 

Listen to me. Shen Jiu said as if Yue Qingyuan wasn’t hanging onto every word, breathing them in almost greedily. You will leave here, and you will tell no one that it isn’t me you are trying to get back into control of this body. His voice was as close to calm as Yue Qingyuan had heard it in years. It lacked the usual undertone of mocking or derision, it made his eyes burn.

“Shen-shidi,” He wanted to complain, to beg his shidi, but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth in front of Shen Jiu. You will listen. He hissed, something heavy coming to rest on the center of Yue Qingyuan’s back. He longed to press back into the feel of his shidi’s forehead, but the man in his arms kept him still. 

I may hate this, Shen Jiu began, However, I prefer this little idiot in control of our body to the machine keeping him hostage.  Shen Jiu’s words were nearly lost to the renewed shaking of the walls around them. Yue Qingyuan kept his eyes forward, but he ached to turn around. 

“Shen-shidi,” He began again, cut off by a sound of frustration from the man behind him. Shut up. If you don’t have to explain yourself, neither do I. The weight of his forehead vanished from Yue Qingyuan’s back and suddenly he was hanging on by a thread, only the weight of the hand twisted into the back of his robes holding him together. “I-” He couldn’t speak, nothing made it out of his tightened throat.

He tightened his grip on the man in his arms, at some point he had fallen silent, quietly resting for just a moment. Ask him his name. Was the last thing Yue Qingyuan heard before everything faded out.

It was just him, floating and lost in the darkness for the barest moments before he was falling into consciousness again. He snapped awake, sitting up quickly. It took only a moment to register where he was before he got up and left the private room on Qian Cao. He felt renewed and worn down. 

He couldn’t bring himself to be furious with the imposter in Shen Jiu’s body, not even the disgust and revulsion were there anymore. He was furious instead, with the being. The System. His shidi was in there, and he wanted Yue Qingyuan to bring him back. To give him back control over the body he was in. 

Yue Qingyuan could do it, he would do it. He would drag the being out of his shidi’s body and destroy it if he had to. And once the being was gone, he could begin to look for a way to separate souls. Two souls shouldn’t have to share a body, and Yue Qingyuan was willing to dig out Tianlang-jun if he must to build another body for the imposter. 

[nyoomerr]

every day i cry a little bit about how binggeyuan has gotten popular/beloved enough that we have a zine for it.... and now that zine has opened preorders !!!

the art and fic in this zine (and the merch that comes with it!) is SO choice y'all, every contributor made an absolutely delicious meal to share with everyone! 💥💥 i worked hard too, so here's a little preview of binggeyuan being just a litttllleee intense about each other for my fic contribution 😌

preorders close on march 22nd, so order here now !! the zine is non-profit, and leftover proceeds after production/fulfillment/contributor copies will be donated to the PCRF 🕺💃

[hoomandoescosplay]

Pining For The Pines | Ford Pines x Reader x Stan Pines

Playlist

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

[queen-of-writing-bad-things]

Henry Danger Reader Insert | Captain Man x Reader: SEASON 1 Masterlist

| Status | Complete!

Captain Man never thought he'd grow old. For years, he fought to keep Swellview safe from monsters and villains, but one day, he realised he couldn't do it forever. Enter Henry Hart, a thirteen-year-old boy needing an after-school job, but he never expected an indestructible superhero to hire him as his sidekick.

Now, they blow bubbles and fight crime with (y/n), Ray's best friend of many years, keeping them in check. He swears he's not in love with her, but Henry doesn't buy it. Will they ever confess?

This story is mature in places with adult themes and language. It uses she/her pronouns for a female reader, but anyone is free to read and enjoy :)

Main masterlist

Episode 1: The Danger Begins Pt.1

Episode 2: The Danger Begins Pt.2

Episode 3: Mo' Danger, Mo' Problems 

Episode 4: The Secret Gets Out 

Episode 5: Tears of the Jolly Beetle 

Episode 6: Substitute Teacher 

Episode 7: Jasper Danger 

Episode 8: The Space Rock 

Episode 9: Birthday Girl Down 

Episode 10: Too Much Game 

Episode 11: Henry the Man-Beast 

Episode 12: Invisible Brad 

Episode 13: Spoiler Alert 

Episode 14: Let's Make a Steal 

Episode 15: Super Volcano 

Episode 16: My Phony Valentine 

Episode 17: Caved In 

Episode 18: Elevator Kiss 

Episode 19: Man of the House 

Episode 20: Dream Busters 

Episode 21: Kid Grounded 

Episode 22: Captain Jerk 

Episode 23: The Bucket Trap 

Episode 24: Henry & the Bad Girl Pt. 1 

Episode 25: Henry & the Bad Girl Pt. 2 

Episode 26: Jasper's Real Girlfriend 

[starlightvld]

Up in Smoke

(Also on AO3)

The first time Ghost rips the cigarette from Soap's mouth, drops it on the ground, and stomps on it as he passes by, Soap is too stunned to say anything for a full ten seconds. They've only been working together consistently for a couple of missions, and even as his superior officer, the audacity of the action floors him.

By the time his brain restarts, Ghost is long gone.

--

The second time Ghost steals Soap's cigarette, he bursts out in a string of Scottish curses and tackles Ghost from behind before the wanker can drop it on the ground. An impromptu sparring match ensues, fists and curses flying. 

Afterward, he doesn't feel much like a cigarette anymore — not with the split lip, anyway. Besides, the buzzing under his skin that usually drives him to smoke is just... gone.

Price catches wind of the incident, of course, and calls them into his office a few hours later. By that time Soap has calmed down enough to be... maybe not okay with it, but at least able to see the humor. 

"What's this about you muppets scuffling by the smoking area?"

"Just a little sparring to blow off steam," Soap says.

"Ghost?"

"Nothin' to worry about, Captain."

"No? I've got one soldier who looks like he just got back from a bar fight, and the other..." He squints at Ghost. "He get a hit in on you, too?"

"Yeah," Ghost replies in that deadpan tone of his. "Coupla black eyes."

It's a joke. 

Ghost is telling a joke. And it's objectively not funny. It's not. But Soap bursts into hysterical laughter all the same. 

The corners of Ghost's blacked-out eyes crinkle. 

Price rubs his temples before dropping his hand on his desk. Soap presses his lips together to contain his laughter.

"Sparring happens in the gym. I'm sure you know the place. It's where we have things like mats and gloves. I catch you two bare-knuckle fighting again, and you will regret it."

And it's enough to sober Soap up. He avoids Ghost as he ducks away to catch dinner.

--

The third time... well, no. He supposes that's really the fourth time. 

Because the actual third time, Soap had come back from a shit mission where everything went wrong. Intel was faulty, exfil was delayed, and people under his command died. It didn't happen as often in SAS as it had in the regulars — the soldiers here were well-trained and hard to kill — but that made it all the worse. 

When Ghost tried to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, Soap growled. 

"Back the fuck up, Lt. Or Price is gonna be disappointed in both of us."

Ghost paused, and their eyes met. Slowly, Ghost lowered his hand. 

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Fuck no."

"Thank God."

Soap didn't have it in him to even huff a laugh. He took a long drag and blew the smoke away from Ghost as a peace offering.

To his surprise, Ghost didn't leave. He spun around and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. They stood there together, utterly silent, as Soap let the heat and sting in his lungs soothe the beast inside that wanted to rip the world apart.

When he was done, though, he was surprised to find he didn't want another. Usually after shit missions, he'd stand there and smoke half a pack before his hands would stop shaking.

He finally met Ghost's eyes. The man quirked a barely visible brow.

"S'pose we should take it to the mats this time?"

Ghost pushed off the building and started walking. Soap followed like a lost child looking for a way home. 

--

The fourth time is in Chicago. His hands are shaking not from losing soldiers but from almost losing his own life. The cigarette trembles in his grip as he stands outside the bar, the biting wind turning his fingers and probably his lips blue. He lifts it to his mouth, inhaling deep—

And then it's gone.

The whine that bubbles up from his gut and bursts from his throat is nothing short of humiliating. But God. God. He needs it.

"Not now. Please, Ghost."

"Why?"

Ghost hasn't thrown the cigarette down. Yet. He cocks his head to the side and gives Soap a long look. Soap can only tremble from the cold and a need that goes deeper than a simple hit of nicotine.

"I just... I need it."

The cigarette drops to the ground, but Soap doesn't have time to lament the loss before that same hand is curling around Soap's neck and pulling him into a fucking massive chest. The other arm comes around Soap's shoulders and...

Ghost just stands there, holding him. And Soap can't help melting into the warmth and solidity of the man who saved his life just hours ago. He dares to curl in deeper. To raise his hands and clutch at Ghost's jacket. To let a few, silent tears escape his tight control.

Finally, his muscles relax. Ghost must feel it, because he turns and leads Soap back toward the bar.

"Why do ye even care?" Soap mumbles from his spot tucked into Ghost's side.

"Because those things'll kill ya."

Soap supposes the "I like you alive" is implied at this point.

--

Soap loses count after Chicago. He gets stretches of days when Ghost is on a solo op or out with one of the other operators when he can smoke in peace. So he does.

At first.

He's been hooked since he was a rebellious teen trying to make his mark on the world. He's tried to quit multiple times, but it never seems to stick. The first bad mission or adrenaline-filled near miss and he's back at whatever smoking spot he can find, puffing away.

He finds himself trying to cut back, though, even when Ghost is away.

Any time Ghost is on base, all bets are off. In addition to darting by and making a grab for it or sneaking up behind him and flicking it out of his hands, Ghost has gotten more creative. Sometimes Soap will pull out a cigarette only to find he's "lost" his lighter. Sometimes the cigarettes themselves go missing — he clutches his chest and mourns all that wasted money whenever a whole pack disappears. 

He supposes it's all just going up in smoke anyway, though.

He should be angry. But in truth, it's almost a relief to hand over the reins to Ghost. To let the man help him by annoying the shit out of him until he wants to give up on it entirely.

Which is definitely the point. Ghost has made that perfectly clear.

So, whenever he gets the urge to calm his racing thoughts or overactive mind with a cigarette, he finds Ghost and annoys him instead. They talk, or spar, or simply sit in silence together, doing their own thing. Ghost doesn't often touch him — their moment in Chicago is still the closest Soap's ever gotten to the elusive Ghost — but he also doesn't push Soap away when he slumps into Ghost's side after a hard day or leans over his back when he's sitting at the table in the 141's common area on base.

The urge doesn't go away, of course. And sometimes, when things get really bad, Ghost will just sit or stand with him like he did the third time. Still, he finds himself smoking less and hanging out with Ghost more.

--

The last time Ghost steals a cigarette from Soap, he simply stands beside Soap and holds out his hand. Soap immediately knows something has gone terribly wrong. Still, he's too invested in the game now to not hand the cigarette over.

He nearly keels over when Ghost pulls up his mask and takes a long, hard drag. Soap watches in fascination as his cheeks hollow, his neck muscles strain, his lips curve around the paper. It's erotic in a way he really shouldn't be thinking about in regards to his emotionally unavailable superior officer, but the knowledge hasn't stopped him yet. Since that day in Chicago — probably before if he's honest — he's only ever wanted to be closer.

Ghost coughs a little and hands the cigarette back.

"Fuck. Just as disgusting as I remember."

"Ye used to smoke, then?"

"Before I joined up, yeah. Hated it, though."

"The smell? Or—"

"Everything. The taste, the smell, the heat..." Ghost trails off, his hand rubbing over his bicep in a strangely specific way. He shakes his head and looks back at Soap. "Not your problem, Johnny. Forget about it."

Soap's hand is darting out, fingers curling into Ghost's jacket, before he's properly thought through the action. Ghost pauses before turning back. They stare in silence for a moment until—

Soap stubs out the half-burned cigarette and drops the butt in the trash. He licks his lips. Glances up at Ghost. The mask is still sitting on his nose, and Soap stares at his lips for longer than he should before pulling the pack out of his pocket and throwing it in the trash, too.

"Cannae have ye thinking I stink, can I?"

"Too late."

But Ghost's throat bobs with a hard swallow. Soap wets his lips, takes a step closer, and uncurls his fingers to slide his hand up Ghost's chest until his fingertips are resting on Ghost's shirt collar.

"I dinnae think it is."

Ghost turns and walks away. Soap closes his eyes and drops his hand, internally cursing his impulsive behavior. The scuffing of boots walking away from him is like nails on a chalk board.

Until they stop, and a gruff voice calls out, "You comin'?"

A slow smile slides across Soap's mouth. "No' yet."

A huff — exasperation? laughter? a bit of both? — before, "Better get movin' then."

And Soap has never been more glad to follow an order.

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

They need to work on their looks, unfortunately, because each one of them is a little off. Their Nightwing is too bulky, and his costume isn't made with Dick's flexibility in mind. Besides that, he's got an undercut that doesn't match the shaggy way Dick has his hair now, and his blue is too dark. And the swords. Those are different.

Their little Robin looks more like Dick, actually, Dick as he was before Jason's time, with his happy grin and his bright yellow cape. He doesn't match Damian's style at all, and Jason wonders if their intel was out of date. He tucks away his anger (the way he's used to doing, now) at these bastards roping some little kid into whatever con they're trying to pull. They can help the kid after they subdue him, and he stops trying to flip-kick people in the face.

The Red Robin outfit isn't bad, but the guy playing him is way too tall to be Tim. He doesn't use a bo staff, either, clearly preferring the armory of sharp little implements he keeps tucked away in his utility belt, including a wicked looking combat knife.

Which brings Jason to the current pain in his ass, the idiot trying to pass himself off as the Red Hood.

Yeah, they'd split off into pairs to fight. First off, for practicality's sake. Less risk of friendly fire if the only guy you're trying to punch is the one who isn't you. And secondly, it's just what you do, isn't it? Somebody gives you a set up like this, you go along with the poetic justice. No bat is immune to drama.

Jason is regretting that a bit, now. Fake Hood had taken him for a ride, leading him, he now realizes, far away from the warehouse where Nightwing and Robin had initially called in the disturbance. This other guy isn't the powerhouse that Jason is, but that doesn’t matter if Jason can't ever get in a hit. His movements are precise, deadly, and familiar in a way that makes Jason suspect League training. Jason is keeping up, but barely, and that's with the advantage of his guns. The other guy hasn't touched his, still gleaming red in his holsters, and Jason has a sneaking suspicion that they aren't filled with rubber bullets.

They're at a bit of a stalemate, standing on opposite sides of a dark rooftop, and Jason's trying to catch his breath but he can't relax, not when his gaze is locked onto his opponent, waiting for the minute twitch of muscle that will indicate his next move. He's wondering if he could get a shot off, wondering where to aim, when his comm crackles to life.

“Stand down!” Tim snaps in his ear. “Hood, Wing, the alternates aren't currently a threat. Deescalate however you can, and get back to the warehouse. We can explain this whole mess there.”

“Really?” Nightwing asks. He goes on to say something else, something about his doppleganger being incredibly threatening, thank you very much, but Jason stops listening, because there's something going on across the roof.

A mechanically distorted voice says, “What? No, I'd be able to tell. This guy isn't-” The imposter(?) cuts off suddenly, presumably listening to a response.

And then he… giggles.

“That isn't funny, Red,” he says, in contrast to the little peals of laughter making him subtly shake. “You- you get how fucked up that would be, don't you?”

Jason can't figure out what to do. Tim's intel is almost always good, but he can't get himself to stand down, not when, for some reason, that laughter is setting his teeth on fucking edge.

(He knows the reason. He'd know that cadence anywhere, he hears it in his fucking nightmares, but it isnt possible. He's in Arkham, right now, because Batman won't kill him and Jason isn't allowed to kill him and that uncomfortable truce is what got him his family back. Jason would know if he'd broken out, they wouldn't have kept that from him. They wouldn't.)

“Oh shit,” Tim says, and it makes Jason wonder how he knows, “Hood, is your alternate having some kind of fit right now?”

The sound escalates, from breathy little giggles to screeching laughter, and even with the hood's distortion, it's unmistakable.

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

And isn't this exactly some shit that Joker would pull, making a mockery of Jason's family, a twisted parody that fucks with his head? Tim's lying, he's trying to get Jason out of this situation, and Jason gets why, he does, but obviously the rest of them can't (won't) protect him from this, so if he has to take fate into his own hands, he will.

The green is creeping up, but Jason doesn't let it haze over his vision because he has to be in his right mind while he does this, not for them, for himself. As he stalks across the roof, he empties the clip from one of his guns and pulls out the live rounds, loads them into place.

He thinks Tim is calling for him, maybe the others, too, but the chatter over the comm is getting further away the closer he gets to his target. He should be smart, should take the shot, but maybe he's got more pit in his head than he wants to admit, because Joker, still laughing, pulls a knife, and Jason steps into his range to disarm him.

The strike is fast, but compared to the careful movements of before, he's practically telegraphing his actions. Jason sidesteps, and if the blade knicks him when he twists Joker's arm, he doesn't feel it. He's got the clown in a hold, now, and forces him to his knees with the gun against his temple.

If the hood is anything like his own, the bullet won't do it, not even at point blank range. Jason would like to get it off him, would like to see the life leave his eyes, but he doesn't have to. Jason moves the barrel beneath his chin, right where the armor ends. The pit rages inside of him, says this is too easy, says to make him suffer. Jason pushes it down. This is the compromise he'll make, this is what he'll do to try to maintain both his humanity and his peace of mind. The bullet will ricochet off the hood from the inside, will tear through Joker's brain at least twice, and he'll never come back from that, and Jason will finally be free.

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

“Nothing to fucking say?” Jason growls, jostling the clown in his grip, because there's always some joke, some shitty twist.

The Joker just laughs.

“Unhand him this instant!” someone snaps, and Jason's finger twitches but somehow the trigger stays still. And now what's he supposed to do, because of course fucking Nightwing- but wait, that isn't- but it is, he's right there- it's both of them, two Nightwings. Fucking fantastic. Twice the guilt trip.

“Come on, Jay,” the Nightwing who's actually Dick pleads, and hey, what the fuck, codenames? In front of the fucking Joker, Dick? “Let him go, we can explain everything.”

“I'm not doing this again!” rips itself from Jason's throat, and he'll think later about just how wrecked he sounds. “I'm not just standing here and letting him go, Wing, not when one bullet can put a stop to all this, not when I can end him.”

“Jason,” Dick says, slow with forced calm, “that's not the Joker.”

“Don't you fucking lie to me!” Jason seethes.

His hand is wrenched to the side, the barrel facing open air, and before he can make a move the unfortunately familiar feeling of a high voltage shock courses through him.

By the time he's stopped seizing, Dick is at his back, supporting him with his own body and with arms under his pits and around his chest in a weird reverse hug. Technically, Jason's hands are free, but they're empty, the gun skidded to somewhere else across the roof.

Dick is murmuring into his ear, “Sorry, Little Wing, I'm so sorry,” and, “You're okay, you're okay, you're okay,” mantras meant to soothe his brother as much as himself. Jason wants to be angry, wants to snap at him to let go and fucking cut it out, but he's feeling strangely disoriented. He only has enough brainspace to pay attention to one thing, and that's the scene playing out in front of him.

Dick had clearly hauled them back a few steps, but Jason is still uncomfortably close to the bastard version of Nightwing (who, Jason realizes in hindsight, had tazed him while he'd been distracted by his brother, not cool) and the laughing maniac he should've killed. Nightwing is holding onto Joker's shoulders, his hands bouncing as the gasping, shrieking laughter continues.

“I'm going to remove your helmet now,” Nightwing says. He has a slight accent that Jason knows he's heard before, and his tone is professional, almost clipped. And yet, somehow, Jason can tell that this is a gentled version of the man's voice, the sharpest edges sanded away. His hands move from Joker's shoulders to the back of his head, carefully inputting whatever sequence allows for safe removal of the hood. Jason hears a hydraulic hiss when some sort of catch releases, and as Nightwing starts pulling the red metal up and away Jason can't help holding his breath.

At first, he sees what he expected to see. It's the Joker's expression, after all, his laughing face pulled into a rictus grin.

But the grin isn't right, somehow. The man is pale, but his face is unpainted, and the smile stretches wide, too wide, wider than even the Joker ever managed, and after a moment Jason recognizes the red, raised scar tissue on either side of his mouth for what it is.

Then, Jason takes in the actual features of the person in front of him. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, the cheeks, the jaw, the nose.

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

The Red Hood, collapsed on his knees in front of him, scarred face bare with no hood or domino to protect him as he struggles under the weight of his own laughter, is Tim Drake.

He's crying.

Jason is suddenly glad that Dick's holding him, because he's certain that he'd be on the ground, otherwise. Then, he realizes that he can't breathe.

Jason knows, logically, that his hood has sensors and filters that keep him safer than he could ever be without it. It is only every once in a while, when something stupid happens, that he regrets that he, a man with claustrophobia, decided to stick his head into a metal bucket.

Dick can probably tell that he's hyperventilating, and doesn't fight him as Jason gets his hands on the back of his neck and pulls off his hood.

Jason gasps in polluted Gotham air, and Tim's eyes snap onto him. Nightwing says, “I'm administering the emergency dose of your medication,” and then stalls, like he's waiting for a response, but all Tim does is laugh and stare. Jason stares back. He can't look away.

Nightwing retrieves a small tubular device, almost like an epipen, and presses it against Tim's leg. That shouldn't work. Tim's wearing body armor, same as the rest of them, and there's no way a needle could pierce it, but Jason looks as Nightwing draws the device away and there's a small raised circle of hard plastic on Tim's thigh that the head of the device fits into perfectly, like it was designed for that purpose. An injection spot, built into Tim's clothing, specifically for whatever drugs fake Nightwing just pumped into him.

Immediately, there's a difference. He doesn't stop laughing, or smiling that horrible fucking smile, but the manic tension is gone. He doesn't look like he'll shatter at a touch anymore, too brittle to be handled. The curve of his spine gentles, muscles no longer pulling it to the point of snapping. Jason watches as slowly, oh so slowly, Tim gets quieter, leans more into Nightwing's hold on him, starts gasping more than laughing.

Dick is talking behind him, into his comm, it sounds like. If it's important, someone will get his attention.

Finally, Tim breaks eye contact. “T- tell him,” he says to Nightwing, struggling between gasps and giggles, “tell him what you, gave me. Jay doesn't, he doesn't like, needles.”

The strange Nightwing turns his head, and Jason gets the impression of a sharp, searching gaze behind his domino. He's nothing like Dick, not at all, but something niggles the back of Jason's mind, some sense of familiarity regardless. He tosses something, and Jason automatically reaches up to catch it.

It's the empty tube of medication, which does seem a lot like an epipen, up close. “It's a combination,” the man says. “The antidote for Joker venom, an antipsychotic, and a mild sedative.”

“What the fuck?” Jason hears from his own mouth as he looks down at the innocuous little tube.

“It's only used in emergencies,” Nightwing adds, and does not clarify any further.

Jason doesn't know what to say to that. He shakes himself out of Dick's hold and grabs an evidence bag out of his jacket. He watches Nightwing, to see if he'll object, but he doesn't. Jason slips the medicine tube inside the bag and tucks it away.

“There you are!” Dick says in a bright tone, one meant to cover his anxiety and relief.

Jason turns, and finds that their roof has gotten a little crowded. All four Robins have arrived, his brothers mingled in with their copies, copies who don't quite match in ways that are now sticking in his brain. Tim, Jason's Tim, is standing right there, pressing his mask against his face like he'd broken the seal on the adhesive, and it isn't sticking quite right. Other than that, he's normal. He's fine.

The Robin, the one in the classic colors who Jason had thought looked a bit like Dick (oh God, could that be-?) gives a little whistle. “Trust Red Hood to cause drama!” he says in a bright tone that is too too familiar (fuck, fuck he is). “Must be a universal constant.” He grins, cheeky, looking past Jason.

Jason isn't processing fast enough to be offended for his own sake, but he turns and checks on Tim, other Tim, the Tim who apparently also has a claim to the Red Hood name. Tim is propped up on Nightwing's shoulder, looking drowsy and relaxed. He's looking back at Robin, and his lips are pressed tightly closed, but he's smiling, and it reaches his eyes.

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

Jason snorts, to get the kid's attention, and rolls his eyes. “Comes with the job description,” he snarks.

The kid lights up. Jason feels distinctly weird, having that smile directed at him, but it's not… bad.

Yeah. This is fine.

-

I'm planning to add a reblog with more information on this au/fic idea, so if you're interested, watch this space.

[the-bi-space-ace]

Call When You Need Me - Part 2

Read Part 1 Here

Fandom: The Bad Batch

Relationship: Echo & Rex, Echo & Hunter

Words: 1,952

Summary: Echo wakes up in med-bay. Rex isn't very happy with him.

Soooooooo I said I would work on Part 2 for this and I may have written it in literally a day.... this is definitely getting polished up and posted to Ao3 eventually because I love this concept too much to let it go.

Warnings for some tough love, discussions of injury, and brief mention of past traumatic events. also for copious amounts of ‘dad’ coming from Rex.

Tags for people I think may want to read it: @phantom-of-the-501st @girloffourhouses @saturn-sends-hugs @spicy-tomato-sauce @writingmonet @julijuli77

When Echo woke his mouth felt dry, eyes bleary as they stared at a grey ceiling. His body ached, pain swelling in every muscle. Nothing compared to the hot white pain of his abdomen but he didn’t have the strength to move his own hand. Looking around he could spot familiarity. The makeshift med-bay of their safe house surrounded him, supplies and machines scattered around the room. The cot underneath of him was made of thin materials they scrounged together. Not the most comfortable but not terrible. His armor was stacked in neat piles in the corner, clothes laid out on one of the desks that he could likely change into when he moved on from this, and next to that was his comm. What he was mainly interested in was the captain who pulled him off of that frozen planet, tapping away at a datapad in the chair beside his bed. 

“Still working, huh?” Echo asked. Rex’s head perked up as soon as he heard his voice. He sat the datapad down, leaning forward so his elbows rested on the cot, hands clasped together. The once over he gave was an appraisal of his state, and Echo didn’t even grumble as Rex’s fingers traveled over the pulse point on his wrist or the delicate skin under his eyes, testing the area for pain. By the ache Echo assumed he was bruised from the crash even there. Looking down now he saw the purple and red marks along his arm, likely more laid under the thin gown they’d dressed him in. Echo almost asked to see the wound in his abdomen but he didn’t want to see hurt bloom on Rex’s face while he obliged. 

Confident he wasn’t going to disappear Rex sat back, hands clasped together. “What happened out there?” 

For a long moment Echo didn’t answer. The lump in his throat - one he didn’t understand - made it difficult to. Eventually he had to shrug. “I got caught, the ship was shot down, I lost some time.” Rex waited like there was more but Echo didn’t continue, just stared at him, willing the panic slowly rising from his chest to slow. 

“That’s it? Nothing else you want to talk about?” Rex asked, nothing accusatory. Just the simple question, one that Echo vehemently disregarded with a sharp shake of his head. Frustrated, Rex stood, hands on his hips as he paced. “I completed the mission.” Echo didn’t want it to sound so small but he couldn’t help it. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He followed orders, did his job, followed protocol. 

”That’s not-” Rex rubbed a hand down his face. It took him a moment to compose himself before he sat down again. His face was painfully neutral. Echo braced for the worst. “Why didn’t you call for help?”

Don’t think about the cold.

”I couldn't compromise the mission.” 

”Bullshit, Echo, that’s bullshit.” Rex sighed, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. They sat there, Rex mulling over his words and Echo refusing to speak, neither of them quite bridging the gap of understanding. Eventually he pulled his hand away from his mouth, pressing his lips together. “I’m in hyperspace, thinking this mission has gone off without a hitch, then I get a message.” 

“I didn’t mean-”

”It’s Hunter.“ Rex rolled over him, eyes piercing into his own as that anxiety crawled higher. “He asks me where you are, if I’m with you. When I say no he tells me he’s talking to you and you sound hurt. Imagine how shocked I was when I checked your tracker and you’re on a random planet midway through its winter.” Desperately he wished to be able to get up and walk away. Shame wrapped around his throat, trying not to lose his composure already. He couldn’t explain why he was so trapped in that moment, still feeling as though he’d been writhing under the metal pole trying to break free. 

With a deep breath Echo considered him. Same buzzed hair, same strength, same eyes, but Rex seemed older at this moment. Worried, frustrated. 

“My ship fell out of hyperspace, I can’t control that.” He croaked. Rex’s eyes softened but he worked overtime to keep his expression hardened otherwise. 

His eyes always did give him away. 

“You could’ve called me to help. Did you think I would just leave you there?” Rex asked. 

”No, I was…” It was his turn to feel frustrated. Lacking the words he really wanted, fighting that ball of hot discomfort that kept trying to wrestle itself free. Why couldn’t Rex just drop it? Let him stew in this feeling alone and accept his answers. “The mission is more important than me, Rex. It has to be.” 

“So you’re just willing to throw your own life away, even when you don’t have to.” Ice flooded through Echo’s veins, eyes widening at the stony neutrality on Rex’s face.

“That’s not what this is.” 

“Then tell me what’s going on with you.” Rex asked. Echo huffed, confused, cornered. As if he’d gotten the reaction he wanted Rex leaned forward, eyebrows lifting. “If what we’re doing is for the clones then that means all of us. It means you, too.”

“We know what we’re signing up for. We lose people, that's what happens.” Echo tried to talk with his hand, gesture to get his point across, but his arm broke out in pins and needles. Too early to move, then. 

”But we don’t have to. There are times that we can save each other. Mission or not.” Rex readjusted, folding his arms over his chest. “Why didn’t you call me?”  

Echo’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know.”

”Don’t lie to me. I know you better than that.” Their standoff was coming to a halt, that much Echo knew. He hadn’t been able to win one, yet, regardless of how much he tried. Rex wasn’t a captain for no reason. He fought his way there through grit and grime and made himself who he is today. Echo, while stubborn, wasn’t ever quite able to get him to back down. Maybe he should feel more grateful for that but, at this moment, all he wanted to do was throttle him. 

Echo swallowed around that pesky lump, clearing his throat to try and sound more put together. ”It was so cold. Like the chamber they kept me in on Skako. And the pain…It felt just like it did then. I couldn’t move, I was t-trapped, ugh.” He turned away as much as he could. Shame burned his face. He was meant to be over this. It was so long ago now. The gentle touch on the back of his hand made him jump but Rex’s fingers persisted, turning his hand so it was palm up. Fingertips slid across the expanse of his palm, drawing little shapes in distraction. He let a breath out through his nose. “Calling Hunter, I just wanted… needed someone and I dialed a number. The pain was so much, Rex. You were on a mission too and I just… I couldn’t risk fucking it up and sacrificing more clones. Not for me.” He found it within himself to turn back to Rex, despite how glossy and red his eyes must look, only to meet the sympathetic gaze of his captain. “I wasn’t sure if anyone had tried to follow me, but if you’d gotten away I didn’t want to risk you getting hurt, too. The network needs you, Rex.”

”It needs you, too. So do I.” Rex reassured, squeezing his hand. “I will come for you, no matter where you are. I’m not leaving you behind, I won’t make that mistake again.”  

“You didn’t do it on purpose.” Echo insisted, sniffing. The room was much less stuffy now that Rex wasn’t playing ‘bad captain’. Gaining some affection in the process was a decent plus, even if his body still felt like it had been hit by a speeder. Echo glanced down at where the rest of his body disappeared under the blanket. “How bad is it?” 

“We patched you up but you’ll be on strict orders to rest until we’re happy with your recovery.” Rex smiled when he rolled his eyes. Still somehow endeared to his whining about rest. 

“I could suggest a good spot to recuperate, if you’re in need of one, captain.” Hunter’s tired voice scared the living hell out of him, body jolting at the interruption. Whipping his head around the room he found no one else, but his eyes landed on the comm, sitting there as if it hadn’t been touched in ages. 

“Have you been there this whole time?” Echo hissed, shaking out his shoulders as best he could to rid himself of the momentary shock. 

“You told me not to hang up.” Hunter yawned. He must’ve been there for hours. However long it took them to get back here, not to mention the time in surgery, the time unconscious. All of that just to sit and wait, idly chat with Rex or Cody while they waited to figure out what would happen. There was a deep ache in his chest then, one that brought that thickness back to his throat and burned his eyes.  

“I think leave would do you some good.” Rex mentioned with a tilt of his head. 

Echo scoffed. “Great, now you’re both ganging up on me.”  

To his credit, Rex did smile, fond. “I’m not kicking you out. When you’re healed and ready again, give me a call. Instead of letting yourself bleed out in the cold.” It wasn’t an ask but Rex had a way of phrasing it like one. Making Echo think he was making the decision. He may have let the moment draw out a little, just to keep up the facade that he was in fact the one in charge here, then sigh, head swiveling towards the comm.  

“You didn’t let anyone call dibs on my bed, did you?” The gentle chuckle through the speaker drew his own smile into the light. 

“It was touch and go there for a minute but it’s safe.” Hunter’s voice was gruff, thick with exhaustion. He’d really sat there waiting, huh? The thought warmed the parts of him that were still touched by the planet’s icy storm. 

“I’ll get some of your stuff ready to go.” Rex squeezed his hand once more then let it go, stopping to smooth out some of the blankets where they’d been disturbed, brow pinched in concern. “Taking a break doesn’t mean you’re not a part of this. You always have been. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if it weren’t for you.” 

“You get on just fine but… thanks.” Echo muttered, embarrassed by the praise. Somehow Rex always managed to do that at just the right moments. Knowing he’d gotten what he wanted Rex grinned then left them alone, the door sliding shut behind him. Echo let a few seconds of silence pass before addressing Hunter again. “Looks like I’m coming to you.”

“Want me to tell them or do you want it to be a surprise?” Hunter asked. Relief peppered his voice. 

“I do like keeping them on their toes.” He could see it now. All of them shocked he’d made it there without spilling it, half mad yet letting it go because their time was always short. That made his chest hurt, thinking about how little time they always had. He’d try not to mention it this trip. Who knew how long it would take to make a full recovery. As composed as he could he cleared his throat, voice choked. “I’ve missed you. All of you.” 

Hunter let out a sigh but he sounded no less tremulous. “Then get your ass in gear.”

[angeldreamsoffanfic]

content warning: this took SUCH a turn to dom eddie munson wanting to make steve harrington just absolutely one, turn his brain off, and two- realize that his interests aren’t stupid. like it’s not… necessarily explicit on here but when this gets a bit more fleshed out… it’s gonna have to be posted on ao3 😂

-

The thing is, Steve Harrington knows hair- okay?

And he also knows that his friends completely like to tease him about it, that they think that most of the time his affinity for it is a bit narcissistic. That he shouldn’t spend as much time as he does on it and he should “let go sometimes”, but he can’t.

He can remember watching his mother years ago in the bathroom mirror teach him how to style his hair, with little spritzes of water and a just a few puffs of sweet smelling hairspray. He can fully and thoroughly recall flipping through magazines when he was younger, back when his parents had started to travel, and taking beauty tips from the pages in regards to detangling. He’d spent three days with a knot at the nape of his neck, after a few days of swim practice, and he had too much pride at the time to ask anyone for help.

But anyway, Steve Harrington knows hair- and it’s not that he thinks other people don’t… but he also knows that some people don’t care as much as he does. And that’s why watching Eddie Munson take a brush to his curls (completely dry which is painful in it of itself) is absolutely heartbreaking in the weirdest way possible.

Steve also is completely and totally aware that his face must be doing… something, because Eddie has turned around to fully face him- instead of glaring daggers at his own reflection.

“What, Harrington?”

Steve shook his head quickly, fingers drumming against his thighs as he diverted his attention to the tv again. He hadn’t had a television in his room before actually, had figured it’d be a bit too much of a distraction from trying to sleep. Steve is sure there’s some study about the light too, a study Robin had rambled to him before.

That’d been before Vecna though, before the year 1986 and all of it’s horrors that it brought along to the town Hawkins once again. In Steve’s mind? A small tv and a couple of VHS tapes was probably the least of his worries after surviving everything. The tv itself had some poorly made horror movie on, something Eddie had brought along from his government provided home, while the two waited on Robin and Nancy to make their way over.

“Stevie?” Eddie had moved closer, brows slightly furrowed as his dark eyes widened. “What’s on your mind, man? Not getting like…” Eddie mimed wiggling his fingers at the side of his own head, and Steve couldn’t hold back the laugh that made it’s way out from his throat. “Okay so Vecna is not getting his creepy hands on you… so what’s up then?”

Steve took a moment and shrugged, before he let himself card a wide-splayed hand through his own hair. The hairspray was just ever so slightly crunchy under his fingers, and Steve huffed as he shrugged again.

“It’s so stupid man, like don’t even worry about it.” Steve flapped a hand in Eddie’s direction, and Eddie was quick to click his tongue against the back of his teeth as he moved closer.

“Nuh uh, big boy.” Eddie eased himself onto the foot of the bed, and Steve forced himself to not scrunch his nose as Eddie’s dry curls swished a bit around his shoulders. “C’mon I can see it in your eyes! Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell m-”

Steve cut Eddie off with a press of a flat palm up against Eddie’s lips, and Steve tried to not think about how soft Eddie was up against Steve’s skin. Steve groaned as Eddie’s tongue swiped against his flesh, and Steve hissed as he reared backward away from the older teen.

“Fucking gross dude!”

“Usually I’m the one doing that, big boy!”

Steve and Eddie both spoke up at the same time, and the two eyed each other warily, before they split into soft laughs between the two. Eddie then shifted further up onto the bed, back pressed up against the footboard, before he knocked his leg against Steve’s.

“C’mon dude, what’s up?”

“Your hair!” Steve finally answered, before he then folded his arms over his chest. “I know it’s stupid, but watching you tear a brush through it dry is actually breaking my heart, Munson.” Steve groaned, and ran a hand over his face before he continued. “And I know it’s stupid and everyone always says it’s stupid of me to care about hair so much-”

“It’s not stupid.” Eddie’s firm tone cut Steve off, and Steve glanced back toward the man through his lashes. Eddie’s jaw is set, firm and unyielding, and Eddie let out a dry laugh. “Fuck man, what has everyone in your life done to you?”

“Huh?”

“You’re… fuck sweetheart, you’re allowed to enjoy things.” Eddie’s voice has gone saccharine sweet, soft and gooey- and the tone has an immediate effect on Steve, making his brain feel all fuzzy and soft. “So, what has everyone in your life done to you?”

Steve doesn’t answer and instead just shrugged again, and it draws a quick intake of breath from Eddie- before the man has pushed himself up and off of Steve’s bed. He’s quick and methodical in his movements, scraping his curls up and off of his neck into a low bun at his nape. Eddie then pulled his boots back on, before he checked his pockets for a moment, and then proceeded to nod to himself. Eddie then extended a hand out to Steve, and wiggled his fingers with a small grin on his face.

“C’mon then, dude. We need to go to the store.”

Steve let his hand meet Eddie’s, and is quick to ignore the flutter in his stomach at the touch. His hands, Eddie’s, are larger than his but the fingers skinnier and calloused from what Steve knows to be years of guitar playing. That, and Eddie now has a pretty decent job at the local mechanic shop, and Steve knows that Eddie enjoys the job. Knows that Eddie likes working with his hands, and Steve tried to ignore the idea of Eddie getting those hands on Steve—

“Stevie?” Eddie snapped his fingers in front of Steve’s eyes, and Steve shook himself out of his revere. Steve sent Eddie a nervous smile, and he tried to ignore the flush of heat he can feel under his cheeks at the soft coo that Eddie let out. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Mhm,” Steve bobbed his head in a quick nod, even when Eddie hummed before he moved as to grab the pair of Nikes that Steve had on earlier in the day. “Where are we uh, headed?”

“You and I-” Eddie moved back to Steve, and he curled a hand around Steve’s right ankle before he pulled- which caused Steve to unsteadily rock back, before he clamped a firm hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “I gotcha don’t ya worry baby-” Eddie murmured, soft and saccharine again, before he continued on as if Steve’s heart isn’t about to beat out of his chest. Eddie worked Steve’s Nike onto his foot, methodical in tying the laces tight, double-knotted just like Steve does. “You and me are gonna make our way out to Anderson for the afternoon.”

“But why?”

Eddie just sighed, soft and slow at Steve’s softly asked question, before he grabbed at Steve’s left foot, and set about slipping the other shoe onto it. Eddie took a moment, made sure to tie the laces of the shoe tight, before he stood back up so he could peer down slightly at Steve. Steve doesn’t move as Eddie pinched Steve’s chin soft in between his thumb and pointer, before Eddie slightly shook Steve’s face from side to side.

It’s enough that something in Steve just burns.

“Because Anderson has a nice and big hair supply shop in it, and we’re gonna go spend a little bit of government hush money there.” Eddie cooed, his voice soul-achingly sweet again, and Steve forced himself to swallow down the saliva that had been quick to pool in his mouth at Eddie’s tone. “And then when we’re done, I’ll drive us back here and you can do anything you want to my hair.”

“Anything?” Steve croaked, eyes wide as he kept his eyes on Eddie’s from under his lashes. Eddie’s smile is gleaming, and Eddie hummed quietly as he nodded himself.

“Absolutely anything, sweet thing.”

Steve Harrington knows hair, and he knows that.

And he also knows that his friends completely like to tease him about it, well, it’s seems like except for Eddie. So Steve let himself smile and nod, and he reveled in the way that Eddie grinned- a quick flash of teeth as he pinched a little firmer at the meat of Steve’s chin, before he let go.

“Atta boy.”

-

just a little sacrifice to the tumblr readmore gods

[corralinesage]

Learning you by heart (1/?)

Natasha Romanoff/ Reader Christmas romance <33

Summary: You lock eyes with a stranger in the audience of an opera, her troubled appearance piquing your interests immediately, the thought of her sticking around to haunt your mind that demands answers for her predicament. Turns out that there might be more to her than you could have ever imagined.

Rating: General audiences

A/N: Let me know what you think!

Chapter 1: Columbus Avenue

Your body was cold, your armpits clearly sticky with sweat. You felt like you couldn’t quite breathe deeply enough despite the amount of breathing exercises and vocal warm ups you had already done. You fiddled with the fabric of your costume, playing with the pearls embedded into the corset of your gown. You had already gone through it many times that week, hell, you had already been on stage that day, yet it somehow didn’t stop being as nerve racking as it had been the first time. You stood behind the curtains, eyeing the brightly lit stage apprehensively, going over lyrics in your head almost obsessively, slowly starting to whisper them to yourself to make sure your mouth was capable of moving how you wished it to. The low tenor of your coworker’s voice bellowed across the stage as he held the final note ceremoniously until his lungs would no longer allow him to continue. You took one final inhale before taking steady steps onto the stage, the strobe lights nearly enough to blind you despite how used to it you were by then. You got into character, taking one more deep breath before beginning to sing.

You knew the piece by heart, it flowed out of you on its own, requiring little to no conscious effort from you, just like it had during rehearsals and the opening night. Your body moved with the music as you acted out the lyrics you were singing, the gorgeous red gown you were wearing dragging slightly behind you. The song was a dramatic monologue. You sang to the audience, telling them your version of the events that had taken place just a few minutes prior. You could tell from your tone that you were nervous. You could tell it from the way your voice threatened to slip into vibrato when it wasn’t needed. You struggled to get a proper grip on controlling your voice. You didn’t quite know why, but you felt on edge, worn out, and unsteady. You couldn’t see the audience, their ominous dark figures seeming undeniably unresponsive to your display of emotion. You looked at them with your wide eyes, the higher notes demanding a kind of concentration that wouldn’t allow you to think about anything else. You scanned the audience, deciding to make the mass of people less intimidating by choosing an individual to focus on. You had found it to be helpful when stage fright caught you by surprise, your gaze moving down from the higher levels of the theater to the front.

There was a woman there, a woman roughly your age, her grim exterior forcing your attention on her. She looked pained, the gaze of her light eyes weighed down by something that you couldn’t decipher. Your heart suddenly beat a little louder in your chest, from the strain of the high notes or the demeanor of that woman, you couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, you couldn’t stop it, nor could you tear your eyes off her. She had red hair, messy and unkempt, which stood out to you in the mass of nobility who usually dominated the crowds. She looked like she had dirt on her face, maybe even blood, but you weren’t sure if it was simply her hair curling against her cheek. She wore black clothes, almost like a uniform. She could have passed as a security guard, almost, had her uniform not resembled one of a dystopian warrior. You briefly noted the elderly couple beside her dressed in a dress and a sharp suit, their demeanors exuding high status. She didn’t fit in.

Suddenly her eyes met yours, the intensity of her gaze nearly making you choke on your own breath. She looked unwell, tears pooling in her eyes, eyelids red rimmed and raw. Her lips were pink and swollen. She was in distress and very obviously so. You felt the sudden need to help her somehow, yet all you could do was keep singing. You held her gaze, all your energy going on keeping your voice steady. You felt the way your eyes suddenly filled with tears. It happened sometimes when you were truly in character and able to channel the pain that you were communicating to the viewers, but this wasn’t that. You felt helpless, completely captivated by her grim gaze, your powerful voice and the orchestra filling the otherwise silent theater. She wasn’t okay. She was hurt, the look in her eyes longing, pained, troubled. You couldn’t explain it. You didn’t understand.

Your tears spilled over, the final long notes demanding every ounce of focus from you, yet you couldn’t tear your eyes off the red-headed woman. Your body ached, your heart throbbing ruthlessly. She kept looking at you, eyes staring at the other without a single interruption. You allowed your arm to rise up slightly as if to give your lungs more room to produce the desired notes, your other hand finding your stomach to remind yourself to keep your core tight to avoid slipping into your head voice. The final note resonated everywhere around you, on the stage, in the audience, in your head, rising into a crescendo before reaching its end. There was a brief silence, the lights turning off and breaking your eye-contact with the mysterious woman, before booming applause erupted in the audience, filling in the silence to the fullest extent. The lights came back on, the people in the front rows standing up to show their appreciation for you and the rest of the cast that walked onto the stage to receive their praise. You looked frantically around for the red-headed woman, your eyes blurry from tears, head fuzzy from whatever you had just experienced. You couldn’t see her.

“Holy shit, Y/N”, Beatrice whispered discreetly as she came to stand beside you, gently turning you to fully face the audience as you clasped hands. You looked at your cast member, unable to really say a word. “Way to end the show.” Her tone was filled with positive astonishment, so you decided to take her statement as a compliment, hoping that your performance had been up to standard because in all honesty, the only thing you remembered from it was those pained eyes that you had now lost into the crowd. You forced a smile on your face, focusing back on the applauding audience to bow for them.

“Girl, are you okay?” Beatrice asked you once you had managed to get backstage and escape the eyes of the audience. The show was finally over.

“Yeah, why are you asking?” Your hands came to your ear to remove your earrings as you both finally reached the dressing rooms, followed by a few more cast members. You looked at the Christmas decorations that were littered in the already chaotic room filled with makeup and clothing, walking to your designated vanity.

“I don’t know. You seem off.” She let out a slight chuckle. “You really sold me with that final scene.” You gave her an amused smile.

“I’m fine. Just got a little carried away maybe.”

“It was phenomenal”, she sighed, almost as if enamored by you and your talent. She was a few years younger than you and played a much smaller part in the opera, but she was nonetheless your favorite person in the cast. She knew when and how to be quiet. She knew how to give you your space, which you appreciated greatly.

“Thank you. I guess I was feeling it a little more today”, you chuckled. “You did really well yourself.” Beatrice was practically glowing.

“Thank you.” She had a childish glint in her eyes and an intense blush on her face. You knew she admired you greatly. “Care for a cupcake?” She approached your chair with a plastic container of peppermint cupcakes in her arms, offering you the selection.

“Who are these from?” You looked at the packaging for a card of some sorts, the room slowly filling with the rest of your cast members, some chattering enthusiastically, others clearly looking forward to withdrawing socially.

“On the house. It’s a little holiday treat. They brought it over right before the show.”

“Don’t mind if I do”, you hummed, picking one out of the box for yourself. You were starving. Beatrice grabbed one for herself, sitting down beside you as you began to debrief the success of the night. You tried your best to remain present for her as you ate the cupcakes, removing your false eyelashes, jewelry, and hairpins as you talked, but you could barely keep your thoughts in check. The image of that woman returning to the forefront of your mind time and time again. Was she okay? What had happened to her? You stayed in the dressing room for hours, the rest of the people filing out to go recharge themselves for the shows of the following day, but you and Beatrice were in no rush. The lights got turned off aside from the ones on your vanity, gentle Christmas music sounding from the radio that somebody had left on by accident. It sat on a table across the room beside a box of leftover Christmas ornaments. The atmosphere was comforting, so much so that you didn’t even notice the time pass as you munched on the cupcakes that you and Beatrice might have hogged for yourselves.

Even hours later, when you had gone to a very late dinner with Beatrice, you found your mind plagued by the woman’s grim eyes and distraught face. You parted ways with Beatrice around midnight, which made your predicament even worse because she was no longer there to distract you and your compulsive mind. Who was the woman and why had she made such an impact on you? You tossed and turned in bed, unable to wipe the woman’s face from your mind, unable to shake the creeping sense of… something. You couldn’t tell what it was, but it didn’t even matter because regardless of what it had been it was clearly there to stay. You slept poorly, your dreams an odd jumble of stress from the shows you had coming your way paired with the woman and her mysterious presence.

All in all, you were able to recognize how ridiculous of you it was to fixate on such an insignificant detail in the crowd, especially a few shows later when you had caught yourself scanning the audience as if she would have attended the show twice in the span of a few weeks, let alone even the same year. It was more than likely that she would never come see that same performance again. You caught yourself staring intently into the dark crowd time and time again with the woman on the very forefront of your mind. Every time you opened your mouth and began to sing on the stage during the weeks leading up to December, a ghost of that feeling of the opening week would linger in your body. You had never been so captivated by a gaze. You had never witnessed such intensity in anyone’s eyes. You tried to look back on the most meaningful people in your life, your mother, your siblings, your best friend and roommate, your ex who you had thought to be the love of your life yet came up short. You even considered the people who had looked at you with hatred in their eyes, but it couldn’t compare to the red-headed woman.

You quickly became frustrated with the idea of her. What right did she have to look at you with such intensity, with such reverence, with such agony? Who was she to plague your mind so ruthlessly and consistently? You stared daggers ahead of you as you once again waited for your turn behind the curtains to bring the show to its finish. You fiddled with your gown until you realized you were about to rip off the pearls from anger, so you left them alone, focusing your frustration on your cuticles and bottom lip instead. You watched your coworker, Daniel, belt out his last note which functioned as a cue for you to get into character. You took a deep breath, counted to five in your head, like you often did, and headed onto the stage.

You slipped into character with familiar ease, waltzing across the stage in an emotion filled frenzy as your lips formed each of the rapidly sung words, allowing yourself to get fully immersed into your role to escape the thoughts that dominated your mind, thoughts that had been dominating your mind for most of November. You directed your rage at the audience, communicating your character’s frustration through not only the tone of your voice but your expressions and gestures. And then you nearly slipped right out of your character when your eyes found an unexpected figure a few rows off from her designated seat in the audience. You had sworn to yourself that you would stop obsessively checking the seat she had once occupied, yet the habit proved to be harder to shake than you had expected to. However, all of a sudden none of that mattered.

She was there. It had to be her. Either that or you were seeing hallucinations. Had you not been met with such an intense wave of dejavú that her gaze inflicted upon you, you could have disregarded her as someone who merely shared a resemblance with the red-headed woman, but you knew you weren’t mistaken. Your voice nearly faltered, your body stilling for a fraction of a second. It was just enough for the woman to be able to tell that your reaction was her doing. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, but that simply wasn’t an option for you when you were singing. You needed air, filling your lungs in a spastic inhale before continuing to sing, your eyes glued on the woman and her now much more serene features. She looked more put together than the first time. She looked more like she belonged in the audience, her clothing allowing her to blend in.

You felt dizzy, your eyes remaining intently on her so that you would not have the chance to lose her again. She had beautiful features, even more beautiful than you remembered. Her intense eyes held your gaze just the same, a gentle smile pushing up the corners of her mouth. You felt a pull to her, a pure sense of childish curiosity that couldn’t be explained. Holding her gaze, singing to her, felt safe, yet at the same time you felt like falling apart, like you had forgotten to put on your dress before walking onto the stage. There was something in those eyes, something that couldn’t be explained. You felt your eyes fill with tears. You didn’t know why. Once again, it wasn’t part of the act. Her smile widened, your tears spilling over. You couldn’t control it, the anger of your character fading into defeat, into helpless silence as your final note reverberated around you, bouncing from the walls of the theater.

The lights went off, panic rising to your chest. You were going to lose her again. You could barely breathe as you waited patiently for the lights to turn back on, the rest of the cast joining you on stage. You saw the woman stand up among the other people in the audience, your eyes nailed on her as the applause roared into life. You felt your hands being grabbed from either side for the bow that your cast did after every show, but all you could focus on was making sure that she didn’t have the chance to escape. The lights above the seating area turned on, illuminating the crowd better, your brows drawing into a horrified frown when you saw the woman give you a fond smile before dropping her clapping hands and turning to the side to leave the row of seats. You didn’t even realize that you immediately let go of the hands that held your own, rushing off the stage without giving it so much as a single thought. Your heels clicked against the floor as you ran behind the curtains, hurrying out of the backstage area. You nearly stumbled over your feet, but you didn’t let it hinder you, rushing down the hallways to the entrance of the Metropolitan Opera House. There were some people lounging around but since your show happened to be the last one of the night, most of the people in the building were still clapping in the theater.

You looked around frantically, scanning for even a lock of red hair among the people, your feet already carrying you toward the exit. She couldn’t have gone far. You saw that one of the front glass doors slid shut, a lone figure heading for the street. You had no idea what your intention was, why you needed to see her face again, to see more of her, nor did you stop to ponder the matter. You ran after her, pushing the glass door open, your bare arms greeted by an icy gust of wind. It was snowing outside, the large snowflakes floating down from the sky in the darkness of the night, clinging to your hair and dress, melting on your warm skin. Your heels sank into the pillowy layer of snow with each step you took. There were Christmas lights and streetlamps around you, the glistening, fresh snow illuminating your surroundings. For just a moment you felt your heart stop at the magical sight. First snow.

After recovering from your sudden experience of pure awe, you started to look around at the people on the plaza that was in front of the opera house. You scanned them frantically from head to toe in search of your mysterious woman before spotting her walking along the lit-up Lincoln Center fountain toward Broadway. You picked up your speed, your arms gathering your gorgeous gown up and out of the way after nearly falling face down in the snow on your slippery heels, but you managed to keep yourself upright somehow.

“Hey!” You didn’t know why you shouted, a few heads turning your way immediately, but none of them belonged to the person you were after. “Hey!” You wished you would have had something to call her, something specific that would attract her attention. You were getting closer to her, only a dozen feet between you when she glanced back at the sound of your footsteps. Her eyes widened in shock, but she didn’t stop, discreetly picking up her speed.

Fuck, what were you doing? Why were you coming after her? Natasha’s chest squeezed with anxiety. You weren’t supposed to- She wasn’t ready, she felt exposed. She rushed forward in the powdery snow, trying her best not to look like she was indeed running away from you. How could she be such a fool, such a wuss? She should have been able to face you just fine. You were no one. She was no one. It would have meant nothing; two strangers meeting. Except none of that was true. You were everything and meeting you would mean everything. Natasha came to the intersection of Columbus Avenue and Broadway, crossing the former street to Dante Park. She glanced back once more to see you drown momentarily into a small group of people passing by which gave her the perfect opportunity to change direction and continue to Columbus Avenue down south.

You slowed down, noting that the traffic was abnormally slow for the night as you crossed the street, trying to relocate the woman again, but with significantly less enthusiasm. You were shivering, trembling from the cold, your sudden frenzy starting to fizzle out. What were you after? You were harassing some innocent stranger without any proper justification. You yourself didn’t even know what you were after and you could no longer even see her auburn curls as you reached a large, abstract clock statue that stood in the middle of the strip of walkway between the two roads, always as hideous as ever.

The snow-covered branches of the trees of Dante Park gave Natasha enough coverage to blend into the rest of the pedestrians lounging on the street. Ten seconds later she had completely lost you. She had no doubt that you would give up on your search when the two of you shared no connection. She could have easily kept going and carried on with her night, but she couldn’t. Her heart ached so violently that she could no longer take another step. She looked at the row of snow-covered benches on her left, briefly contemplating if she should sit down for a moment. The pain was immense. It was brutal. She looked back toward the crossroad where she had last seen you, spotting you by the large, ugly clock. You brushed your hands over your bare arms, shivering very visibly. You looked around, taking a few blind, aimless steps toward her direction, but you clearly had no intention to continue your chase.

You were so close to her, Natasha’s heart beating out of rhythm as she watched you briefly glance her way again, prompting her to step behind a street map post to avoid being caught. What a loser she was. There was no point in trying. She should simply leave you alone. That’s how things were meant to go, that was your designated path. She didn’t belong there, she didn’t belong in your life. She waited for a moment to be on the safe side before peeking her head from behind the post, needing one more look at you before she would be ready to let you go. Her heart jolted. You were closer, walking her way as you rubbed your hands together violently in an attempt to warm yourself up. You and your lacking clothing received a few appalled looks from bystanders, but you paid them no attention, your focus moving back to the opera house. You brought your hands up to your mouth, huffing a warm breath over them despite how little it did to stave away the cold.

You stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street, slightly off where the crosswalk had been marked, too busy warming yourself up to look around. Every cell in Natasha’s body stung in fear when she saw the way your gown glistened under a pair of headlights that appeared from nowhere, the driver taking advantage of the unusual lack of traffic by going slightly over the speed limit. Natasha didn’t waste a single breath, charging right at you without a second thought or even half a consideration for her own safety. All she could see was a car that was seconds away from running you over, and all she could think about was not letting it happen. Her body collided roughly with your own as she pushed you off the street and out of the car’s way just as the driver hit the breaks. You didn’t scream, you didn’t let out a single sound. You couldn’t. Natasha heard shocked gasps and a few horrified shouts from the sidewalk, but they disappeared into oblivion as she looked at you lying beneath her in the powdery snow.

Your eyes were wide, staring up at Natasha in pure terror as you lay on your back, your icy hands gripping her waist over her wool coat. You couldn’t process what had even happened, but you could feel her hand beneath your head, protecting it from the roughness of the collision with snowy asphalt, her hips and thighs pinning you down to the ground. You felt the way your chest rose and fell rapidly, your corset making the process of breathing feel even more laborious, your head spinning alongside the world around you. All you could do was stare up at what you had just now discovered to be green eyes. The streetlights illuminated her red hair, giving it a gentle glow, snowflakes clinging to her curls as more snow came down from the sky. Her cheeks were a soft pink from the cold, the tip of her nose matching the color, plump lips an even deeper shade of rose. You couldn’t feel any pain, the coldness of your body preventing you from feeling anything at its full intensity, yet you felt like you could feel her.

“Are you okay, dorogaya (darling)?” A hint of inappropriately possessive worry bled into her tone as she uttered the words, the endearment slipping out by pure accident, reminding her to take some mental distance from you despite your very intimate position. You continued to stare up at her, your lips parting but nothing came out. You nodded your head, but it came off as more of a tremor.

“Y-yeah. I’m- I’m-” Your teeth started clattering. You were freezing out of your mind.

“Are- are you okay?” The voice belonged to a panicked boy on the driver’s seat. Natasha glanced back at the scene behind her, noticing that the car had done a full one-eighty on the snow and ice when hitting the brakes, a few cars piling at the scene, waiting to get past, some drivers exiting their cars to see if an ambulance was needed. Natasha could tell the boy was young and clearly an inexperienced driver, anger flashing within her, hot and ruthless.

“You could’ve killed her”, she said in a voice icier than the snow pressed up against your skin as she moved carefully off you, barely sparing the boy a single glance before her attention was back on you. She knelt in the snow, her helping hands pulling you slowly to sit upright. You looked at her, you looked at him, you looked at the car, the snowflakes above you. It all felt so surreal.

“Are you hurt? I’m so sorry. Oh my god, I’m so fucked.” He was seconds away from crying, his whiny tone getting on Natasha’s nerves. She turned to him again, her stoic face conveying every bit of disdain that she felt toward him.

“Get lost.” The boy was clearly taken aback by her hostility, but he didn’t seem to be the type to defy authority, his hand fumbling for the car key. “And learn how to fucking drive.” He nodded his head, some bystanders watching the scene unfold, a few coming closer to ask if you needed help, but they were quickly convinced that you had made it through without a single scrape. Or well, not exactly. Natasha brushed the melted snow off your bare arms and shoulders, taking notice of the irritated skin there. Parts of it had been peeled raw by the rough collision with the ground, but they were barely enough to be considered wounds.

“Thank you”, you blurted out suddenly after she had helped you back on your feet.

“You’re welcome”, she smiled softly, a hint of something, something that was driving you insane, behind that expression, her hand coming up to your face to brush aside some of your hair. You looked at her, observed her carefully, unsure of what to say to her or how to voice why you had come after her in the first place. You felt like you needed to explain yourself to her, but you didn’t have the words for such a feat. “Turn around.” You followed her instructions, feeling like your brain was a bit behind from the current moment. “You’ve got…” She brushed her hand down the back of your dress, saving whatever she could from your gorgeous apparel. “A bit of snow.” Your arms curled against your body automatically as you continued to shiver like a leaf in the wind, your lower lip trembling, teeth chattering. “Here.” You turned to look at her. She had removed her dark brown coat and was offering it for you to wear. It looked warm and comfortable, the effect amplified by the fur neckline of the coat. You shook your head immediately, noting that she was only wearing a thin, satin blouse beneath it.

“No, you’ll freeze”, you protested weakly, but Natasha simply shook her head.

“I’ll be okay. Besides, you’re practically already frozen. I’ve still got a few minutes.” You tried to chuckle at her joke, but you were far too cold to produce such sounds. She wrapped the coat tightly around you, making sure it fit you snuggly to stave off the cold.

“Thank you”, you mumbled, feeling a pleasant but weak heat bloom on your cheeks from her considerate act.

“Keep it. It looks good on you.” Natasha brushed her hand over your shoulder as if admiring the fit on you. It brought her comfort and serenity to know that you would own a piece of her.

“W-what?”

“I have to go, and you probably should too.” There it was again, that look, that look in her eyes. You felt a visceral reaction in your body for being looked at that way. You felt unbearable disappointment even if you didn’t expect a complete stranger to want to hang out with you for longer than necessary. She had only acted out of basic human decency. She noted the hesitant look on your face. “It’s okay, detka (baby), you can keep it.” It was only fair that she would get to slip in one more endearment before leaving. You couldn’t really react to her words, still trying to process the fact that you had just gone through a near death experience. “Look both ways when crossing the street. Please, for my sake and my sanity.”

“I will.” Natasha started backing away, a bitter smile on her lips.

“Wait.” You felt hurt, abandoned, but you didn’t understand why. “What’s your name?” She pursed her lips, wiping the smile off her face as she looked away as if contemplating whether your question was worth answering or not.

“Natasha.” You smiled. “Yours?” She already knew the answer.

“Y/N.”

“I’ve always loved that name. It suits you”, she hummed softly.

“Thank you and thank you for saving my life. I owe you everything.” She shook her head in mild amusement as if you didn’t quite know what her words entailed.

“You owe me nothing.” She took a few more steps back. “Take care of yourself, Y/N.” She gave you one last smile before turning around and walking away, hopefully heading somewhere away from the cold. You stared after her, feeling distraught by the intimacy of the way she has said your name, an odd shiver going down your spine. You hugged the coat tighter around you, watching her disappear into the city covered by a blanket of snow.

[sapphic-circles]

For Love

Pairing: Elphaba/Glinda Word count: 3056 Summary: A few months after Elphaba fakes her death, she sets off to reunite with Glinda.

~~~

“I know what you’re thinking about.”

Elphaba stiffened for a moment. She’d thought Fiyero would be in bed by now—and she should have been, too.

“You can’t sleep, either?” she asked, forcing her tense shoulders to relax. She didn’t turn away from her spot at the window, where she looked out over the rolling hills dimly lit by moonlight.

“No.” Fiyero sat at the window seat beside her and joined her in watching the landscape.

“So,” Elphaba said. “What am I thinking about, then? I’m dying to know.”

“You want to see her,” Fiyero answered. He didn’t have to say the name for Elphaba to know he was right.

She sighed and leaned her cheek onto her hand. She could see the sparkling lights of the city in the distance, so close that she could easily make it there within a night. She’d fantasized about it too often lately: how she’d go, how she’d disguise herself to do it.

“We left her alone,” she murmured. “And you’ve heard word as well as I have. She’s not well, Fiyero. I’m worried about her.”

“She’s not alone,” Fiyero said. “She has all of Oz at her beck and call. She’s absolutely adored by them. They’ll take care of her.”

“You know that’s not what she needs.”

“I know.”

Elphaba shook her head, her eyes still glued to the distant city lights. Yes, there were reports that the Good Witch had been under the weather lately, but not so unwell that she couldn’t perform her duties. She was still taking the country by the reins and leading it back toward the right path, just as she’d promised she would.

But Elphaba couldn’t help but worry. And, if she was being totally honest, she’d been looking for an excuse to see Glinda again. A good reason to reveal her secret to her old friend, a reason to risk everything for one more conversation. Because all of Oz thought she, the Wicked Witch of the West, was dead—which had been the plan, and it was a good thing. A necessary thing.

And yet, Elphaba couldn’t stop wishing Glinda knew the truth.

“You can’t go,” Fiyero said gently. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I know that,” Elphaba said. “But…”

“You’re gonna go anyway, aren’t you?”

Elphaba swallowed and looked down at her hands in her lap. She always kept her nails long, but she’d recently painted them a sleek black color using techniques she’d learned from Glinda, and all she could think was that she wanted to see the contrast of pale hands and powder-pink nails twined in hers again.

“I think I have to,” she said eventually.

She looked up at Fiyero, expecting him to fight her on it. They both knew she didn’t have to do anything, and that they would all be safer if she kept her nose where it belonged and continued to live with her head down…but keeping her head down had never been her strong suit.

Fiyero, rather than buckling down, offered her a sad smile. “Just be careful,” he said.

The canvas of his skin crinkled with the curve of his mouth, and Elphaba reached out to tuck in a spray of straw threatening to fall from his seams. What a dear friend he was to have stayed by her side for so long through the things they’d endured, and to still be willing to let her risk ruining it all for her own desires.

“Thank you,” she said. “I may be back by morning, or maybe tomorrow night if I’m able to stay longer. You’ll hear about it if things go wrong, I’m sure.”

“Good luck,” Fiyero said. “And tell her I said hello.”

~~~

Elphaba rode as far as the edge of the city, then continued on foot. It gave her time to think—as if she hadn’t already thought about every possible scenario a hundred times before.

She was fairly certain of which room in the tower Glinda would have picked. The window faced the side of the building, so she wouldn’t need to worry about guards at the doors seeing her sneak in, at least as long as they didn’t glimpse her skirting around to the side.

She’d retired her broom, knowing it would be too dangerous to use, so flying up wasn’t an option. She could throw rocks at the window, but that wouldn’t give her the opportunity to make sure she had the right room before waking the wrong person. Her only option was to climb.

There was a trellis, of course, but it only reached so high. There was plenty to use as a foothold on the way up, too, but the tower was much more intimidating knowing she couldn’t catch herself with her broom. And then, there was always the possibility that someone could notice a figure moving up from floor to floor.

Elphaba would never admit it, but she was scared. Months living peacefully in hiding had left her unused to the stunts she used to pull, and this climb couldn’t be described as anything less than daunting. Not to mention, she wasn’t sure how Glinda would react to her showing up out of the blue in the middle of the night. What if she wasn’t receptive? What if she’d be so angry for being tricked that she’d send Elphaba away, and they wouldn’t even get to talk?

The thought turned Elphaba’s stomach, and she forced it out of her mind. This would all be fine. Glinda would be happy to see her, and she wouldn’t be caught sneaking in. She didn’t come all this way just to turn around and go home.

So, she climbed.

By the time she reached the balcony she aimed for, her muscles ached and she wheezed to catch her breath, arms shaking as she hauled herself over the railing. She’d better be right about the room, or she’d be caught before she could manage to climb back down.

She took a deep breath and peered through the balcony door, her heart pounding with more than just exhaustion. Her pulse buzzed through her as her eyes roved the room: a bedroom cloaked in nighttime darkness, but lit well enough by a small pink lamp that Elphaba could conclude with certainty that this was Glinda’s room—even if the blonde woman herself hadn’t already been sitting awake at her desk, scrawling away at some parchment in front of her.

Elphaba’s chest tightened. It felt like it had been so long since she’d seen Glinda, and she found herself taken aback by the degree to which just the sight of her affected her emotions. Tears welled in her eyes as she drank in the blonde curls, the pink dress, the dark eyes cast down at her work.

Darker than usual.

Even from outside, Elphaba could see the circles under Glinda’s eyes. Even the light in them, usually so bright and full of spirit, seemed dim. And was it the shadows, or did she look thinner? Her hair flatter?

Glinda looked up from her writing as if on instinct, and Elphaba froze as they locked eyes.

And then the eye contact broke as Glinda looked away quickly, bringing her hand to her face as if to bite down on her knuckles. Elphaba couldn’t see much of her face anymore, but she could make out a string of tears running down Glinda’s cheek. Maybe Glinda hadn’t seen her after all?

She forgot any sense of stealth she had and surged forward to knock on the window, desperate to wipe the tears away and ask what was wrong. Maybe Glinda just had a rough day; maybe Elphaba could lend some comfort.

Glinda looked up again with the knock on the glass, and this time she didn’t look away. This time, she stared for longer than Elphaba could tell, her tears running dry. But she didn’t make any move to answer the door.

Elphaba hesitated, then knocked again before offering a nervous wave. Please let me in, she thought. Please don’t send me away. I miss you. I love you.

Glinda stood up this time and faltered as she stepped toward the door. She patted her eyes, a habit Elphaba knew she had to preserve her carefully made-up face, and crept closer. Wary, like a wild animal.

She reached the door and turned the handle slowly, letting the door drift open just a few inches before stepping back.

Elphaba caught the door and stepped inside, eyes glued to the woman she’d thought she would never see again. What was she supposed to say now? This was the part she could never quite imagine in her daydreams.

“Elphie?”

Glinda’s voice came out small and cracked, and new tears welled in her eyes as she stared back.

“Yeah,” Elphaba said. “It’s me. I’m here.”

“How?”

“A trap door,” Elphaba said simply. “I’m sorry, Glinda. I wish it didn’t have to be like that, and I understand if you’re angry, but I just—”

Elphaba’s breath caught as Glinda rushed the last few steps toward her, enveloping her in a tight embrace.

Elphaba hugged her back, burying her face in Glinda’s hair and breathing deep the scent of her familiar perfume. Her hands clutched at the frilly pink dress in an attempt to hold her even closer, her heart thundering so strongly that she was sure Glinda must be able to feel it.

“I can’t believe it,” Glinda breathed. “I can’t believe you’re here. You’re alive.” She shook her head. “I thought I was seeing things.”

“I’ve missed you,” Elphaba said. “It’s been so hard staying away. But—” She pulled out of the embrace and ran a gentle hand down Glinda’s cheek, feeling the sharp angles under her skin. “I came because there’s been word around Oz that you’re unwell. What’s wrong, darling? Are you ill?”

Glinda stared at Elphaba and shook her head. “I thought you were dead.”

“I—I know,” Elphaba said. “But if you’re sick, I can find a way to help.”

“I thought you were dead, Elphie,” Glinda repeated, and Elphaba’s heart clenched as she realized the meaning of those words.

“Oh, Glinda…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Glinda looked deep into Elphaba’s eyes, her own so tired and sad that Elphaba didn’t even know how to respond. “I would have played along. You know I wouldn’t have put you in danger. Why didn’t you trust me?”

“It’s not that I didn’t trust you,” Elphaba insisted. “I just—I thought it would better for you. Safer. If you believed it, you could just…live the life you were meant to, without worrying about where I was and what I was doing. I thought you could be happy that way.”

“Happy?” Glinda frowned. “Happy that my best friend was gone? That she wouldn’t get to live the life she deserved?” She shook her head. “I know we said goodbye. That doesn’t mean I could live with your…your death.”

“I’m sorry,” Elphaba said again. “I thought it was the right thing to do. I was wrong.”

“Yeah,” Glinda said shortly. “You were.”

Her expression softened, and she hugged Elphaba again—not as tightly this time, but gentle and so fervent that all Elphaba could do was melt into her arms.

“I’m so glad you’re not dead, though,” Glinda said with a tearful laugh. “I’ve dreamed every day that you would somehow come back, and now…”

“Me, too,” Elphaba murmured. She pressed a long kiss to the side of Glinda’s head and closed her eyed. She could stay like this forever, wrapped in her friend’s embrace. Never mind that she wanted more—this was still more than she thought she’d ever have again. “I wish I could stay,” she breathed.

Glinda’s hands tightened on her cloak. “Please don’t go yet.”

“If anyone catches me here…”

“I’ll make them mind their own business,” Glinda said. “Please, Elphie.”

“Okay,” Elphaba said. After all these years, she still couldn’t say no to Glinda. She hoped that wouldn’t bite her in the ass. “All right. I’ll stay a while longer.”

“Yes!” Glinda perked up and ran her hand down Elphaba’s arm to take her by the hand and pull her toward the bed. “Tell me everything. Where are you living? Are you doing all right?”

Elphaba sat across from Glinda on the plush mattress, close enough that they could keep holding hands. “Yes,” Elphaba said, “I’m doing fine. It’s been very…quiet.” She glanced out the window to the rolling hills that lay between the city and her little cottage. “There’s a tiny village just a little bit east of the city. Fiyero and I have a cottage at the edge of the woods beyond it.”

Glinda smiled fondly, but there was something else under it, like a hint of sadness tinting her gaze. “You’re still with Fiyero, then?”

“It’s nice having familiar company,” Elphaba said. “So, yes, we live together. But it’s not like that. It never has been.”

Glinda tilted her head. “What do you mean? He ran away to be with you.”

“To help me,” Elphaba said. “With the cause. He did feel something for me, but…” She shook her head. “I couldn’t reciprocate. I love him, but not that way.”

Glinda leaned forward, her fingers closing tighter around Elphaba’s. They were so close that Elphaba could see the patterns in Glinda’s irises, the gleam of her glossy pink lips. Her face flushed as she tried not to look at them for too long.

“You’re not seeing anyone, then?”

“No,” Elphaba said. I’ve only ever had eyes for you, she thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud. What if she was misreading the situation? Glinda had always been physically clingy. The contact and the proximity could mean nothing. Or...

“You know I’m in love with you, right?” Glinda said quietly, and Elphaba’s heart nearly stopped.

Glinda was leaving this decision in her hands. Elphaba was the one who had to leave, the one who had to hide. She was certain now that Glinda knew exactly how she felt, and now she knew Glinda felt the same.

But if she were to deny it…if she lied and said she only saw Glinda as a friend…she could leave with no strings attached. No possibility of such a forbidden romance lingering in the back of her mind as she returned to her simple village life.

Glinda would know the truth, of course, but it was about plausible deniability. One route was safe for Elphaba, and it wasn’t the one that included Glinda.

Even so, there was no way she could go back now.

Elphaba tucked a stray lock of blonde hair behind Glinda’s ear, then leaned in to kiss her.

Glinda’s hands instantly moved to the sides of Elphaba’s face, where her thumbs gently caressed the freckled green skin. Her lip gloss tasted like strawberries, a scent Elphaba had occasionally picked up but couldn’t place among Glinda’s shampoo and perfume. And as Elphaba’s hands settled on Glinda’s hips, she found herself so overcome with emotion that her tears wet Glinda’s face, too.

Glinda drew back a moment to wipe Elphaba’s cheek. “Are you okay?”

Elphaba laughed and rubbed her eyes to dry them. “I’ve never been better.”

“Good.” Glinda smiled, a playful glint in her eyes. Elphaba could tell what was coming just a moment before Glinda tackled her down onto the bed, straddling her to pepper her face with kisses.

“Hey!” Elphaba complained. She reached up to tickle Glinda’s sides, and with a squeal, Glinda fell to the other side of the bed just long enough for Elphaba to lean over her, sprawled out and tangled the way they used to lie after long study sessions at Shiz.

“No fair,” Glinda said. “You’re stronger than me!” She reached up to twine her fingers through Elphaba’s hair, pulling her head down for another kiss.

They lay like that for a long moment, kissing and giggling like schoolgirls, before Elphaba sighed and lay back, allowing Glinda to curl against her and lay her head on her chest.

“I can visit you at your cottage, right?” Glinda asked. She lazily traced shapes onto Elphaba’s collarbone with her finger. “You’re always welcome here, of course, if you can make it. But…”

“Of course you can come,” Elphaba said. “For as long as Her Goodness’s work will allow,” she joked. She ran a hand over Glinda’s silky hair. “I’m proud of you, you know. For the work you’ve done. We’re already seeing change, and it’s all thanks to you.”

“Oh, no,” Glinda said. “No, Elphie. You and I both know I would have been useless if it weren’t for you.” She laughed. “Turns out popularity isn’t everything, huh?”

“It certainly doesn’t hurt,” Elphaba said.

“Maybe one day I can use it to make Oz safe for you again.”

Elphaba laughed. “I don’t know about all that,” she said. “But in the meantime, we still have tonight.”

“And many more nights to come.” Glinda smiled and tapped the tip of Elphaba’s nose with her finger.

“Many more,” Elphaba agreed before planting another kiss on Glinda’s lips. “Let’s make the most of it, my love."