#will post to ao3 later

[starlightvld]

Allowances

For @baohanhanesel - happy holidays! Have a little hurt/comfort, MacTavish family Christmas vibes, and Simon beginning to find his place among them (and a bit of sappy romance at the end).

(Also on AO3!)

---

"Dinnae fash, Simon. They're gonna love ye."

Ghost stands perfectly still beside the car as Johnny rounds the boot to step up beside him. They make a pair, with Johnny in a new bright red cable-knit sweater, jeans, and a navy blue knit cap that brings out the blue in his eyes, while Ghost is dressed down in his usual black shirt, black hoodie, and a black medical mask. His faded blue jeans are the only spark of color, as old and worn as Johnny's are crisp and new.

If he were a better person—a better partner—he would've worn something nicer. As it is, he's a split second away from turning around and disappearing into the Scottish twilight. The only thing keeping him rooted in place is—

A warm hand slips into his hoodie pocket and curls around his balled up fist. Ghost sucks in a deep, slow breath, and as he exhales, he releases the fist to clasp Johnny's hand palm to palm.

It terrifies him, the comfort a single touch can give. He knows how easily comfort can turn into soul-wrecking pain. Yet he clings to Johnny's hand with the kind of desperation Price would no doubt find concerning for a whole host of reasons.

"We dinnae have tae go inside," Johnny murmurs. "I can call mam from here and—"

"'M not gonna melt, Johnny. Just... gimme a minute."

He's already ruined Johnny's Christmas enough by bowing out of the actual holiday. But the aching despair of the anniversary always winnows him down to his basest self. Even three days later, he feels hollowed out and cold, his sole point of warmth the callused palm and strong fingers clinging to his as they huddle closer against the chill winter air.

Johnny doesn't know the sordid details, but he knows enough about special ops life to fill in the blanks. Every operator has their demons. Simon Riley's are just a little more harrowing than most.

At least the MacTavishes like to celebrate the winter season all the way through New Year's. Or so Johnny says. Ghost suspects the post-holiday get-together might be an allowance made specially for him, but he's certainly not going to ask about it. So here they are, standing in front of Johnny's childhood home outside of Glasgow, store-bought biscuits in hand, while a multi-colored glow spills through the frost-edged glass into the rapidly darkening outside world. It beckons them inside with the promise of warmth and joy and all the other things those trite holiday cards claim for the winter season.

Ghost doesn't move.

The blinking Christmas lights taunt him through the front window. Memories loom from the dark corners of his mind and threaten to upend the one thing he desperately wants to give Johnny—time with his family.

He takes another deep breath, taking care not to let the exhale shudder on the way out.

He's only met Emma and Grant MacTavish twice in passing at Johnny's medal ceremonies for Las Almas and then for the Chunnel op. The latter medal, a Victoria Cross, was officially for exceptional heroism in the line of duty and unofficially for assisting in the dismantling of a major bomb threat and taking down Makarov with a well-aimed stab. He and Johnny weren't in a relationship then, and even if they had been, it would've been inappropriate to mention it on base. Even so, he remembers the overflow of unearned gratitude in Emma's blue eyes—exactly like Johnny's—as she wrapped both of her warm hands around his and thanked him for keeping her boy alive.

The words still ring hollow as he thinks about Johnny collapsing on the cold concrete after clipping that final wire with Price.

He almost died in Ghost's arms that day, and Ghost hasn't been the same since. For one, he kissed his subordinate in the hospital the instant he thought Johnny was coherent enough to remember it and hasn't stopped kissing him since.

Completely unprofessional.

And utterly worth it.

With a final deep inhale and slow exhale, he straightens his shoulders. He can do this. Even if it makes his stomach cramp and his palms sweat with anxiety and the Christmas decorations seem to taunt him with memories of a family forever lost to him.

For Johnny, he can do this.

"Alright," Ghost murmurs—more to himself than to Johnny—as he slides their clasped hands from his hoodie pocket and pulls him toward the door.

It opens before they can knock, flinging brilliant light, excited conversation, and upbeat music into the night air. Emma MacTavish greets her son with a wordless exclamation of joy as she throws her arms around him in a tight hug. Somehow, Johnny manages to return the hug and answer rapid-fire questions about their journey all without letting go of Ghost's hand. Cold air pricks at the exposed skin around his medical mask, but Ghost is too focused on processing and cataloging every detail to acknowledge the physical discomfort.

Johnny looks more like Emma than he does Grant, sharing those bright blue eyes, dark hair, and a brilliant smile that could melt a glacier. Peas in a pod and, according to Soap, often partners in pranking crimes. All Ghost can see is warmth and light—pouring from her, from Johnny, from the home that was never riddled with suffering and people whose lives were never cut short by an evil too insidious to anticipate.

When Emma pulls back from Johnny, she keeps her hand curled around his bicep as she turns the full power of her warm gaze on Ghost.

"And Simon—may I call ye Simon?" Emma asks.

"Yeah," Ghost replies before clearing his throat and adding, "Hello, Mrs. MacTavish."

The smile she gives him sends a shock of pain through his chest even as a flood of comfort flows in behind to sooth the ache.

It's kind. Compassionate.

Motherly.

And it's directed at him.

It gets worse—or better?—when she reaches out to gently clasp his bicep too, connecting the three of them in a circle of touch. As if he's somehow a part of this world. As if he deserves a second chance at family despite dooming his own. The connection is both suffocating and freeing, as if he's taking his first breath of fresh air in years all while a boulder crushes his chest.

She squeezes his arm, and her smile widens into something familiar. Maybe a bit teasing, too.

"Call me Emma, love. I'm so glad yer here. Both of ye. Now, come in out of the cold, will ye? My bones are already aching."

Ghost flounders as the onslaught of pain and comfort slices straight through the layers of armor he's built up through the years, exposing his soft insides.

He wants to fall into the touch.

He wants to run away.

He meets Johnny's gaze, and the softness and understanding he finds there is a balm to his spiraling emotions. Despite everything inside screaming at him to shut down, to not let anyone else into that secret part of him that Johnny breached with the ease of a demolitions expert, Ghost is helpless to do anything but follow Emma inside.

For the first time since he lost his family, he dares to let himself hope.

-

Hours later, Johnny pulls Ghost into bed with a gentle hum, guiding his head to rest on his chest. The heavy thud under Ghost's ear is like scissors to a puppet's strings, snipping the tension away and leaving him boneless and overwhelmed.

"Alright?" Johnny murmurs in his ear before pressing a gentle kiss to the side of his head.

"Not made of glass," Ghost grumbles.

Johnny knows him too well to take him seriously, even now. "Nae, yer made of sterner stuff. Gunpowder, madness, and pure spite."

"Spite can be motivatin'. Just ask any of the rookies who've had me for drills."

Johnny hums a laugh, and Ghost presses his ear harder into Johnny's chest to catch every vibration. Fingers trail through his hair, and he sighs.

"How shite was that, scale of one to ten?"

"What?" Johnny mumbles, his lips once again pressed to the side of Ghost's head.

"How bad an impression did I make?"

A hand grasps his hair to gently tip his head up. Their eyes meet, and the genuine confusion in Johnny's expression gives Ghost hope.

That he didn't fuck everything up. That Johnny's family won't try to convince him to stay away from Ghost.

"Mam was absolutely charmed, Ghost. I think she'd adopt ye on the spot if she could."

Ghost blinks. He replays the evening in his head—from the homemade dinner to the impromptu after-dinner sing-along between Johnny and his niblings to the softer conversation between the adults once the children had crashed. He can't think of anything he did to warrant such a reaction. In fact he barely talked at all, content to let Johnny answer questions for both of them and only interjecting when someone spoke to him directly, which happened rarely enough that Ghost was positive Johnny had asked them to make allowances for him. He both hated and loved it—hated that it made him feel weak, like he couldn't handle himself or his emotions, but loved that Johnny was clearly thinking about him and ensuring he would be as comfortable as possible.

He doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve Johnny at all if he's being honest with himself. The man is too good—all righteous fire and burning passion. But with that honesty comes the acknowledgment that he's far too selfish to ever give Johnny up.

At this thought, a faint memory surfaces of Emma's soft look when Ghost wrapped his arm around Johnny's shoulders as they settled on the couch. It's how they always sit when on leave because they can't risk it on base. Ghost loves the feeling of their bodies melding together, a line of heat at his side and Johnny close enough for Ghost to mumble inappropriate comments, bad jokes, and blush-inducing innuendo into Johnny's ear.

Apparently Emma MacTavish thinks it's a good thing, too.

"Well. Good then?"

Johnny hums another laugh, making Ghost's cheek buzz. "It is good, love. Very good." He tightens his arm around Ghost's shoulders. "Thank ye for coming with me."

Ghost swallows. Despite their solid relationship status, they haven't exchanged more than joking admissions of their mutual attraction. He feels the lack all the more as the worst of his holiday malaise falls away in the face of so much care and affection. Something wiggles loose in his chest, a sensation of free falling as his lips form words he hasn't said since before Roba took his family from him.

"Thought you woulda figured out by now that you've got me wrapped around that trigger finger of yours." He swallows. Takes a shaking breath. "You're the only thing alive in this world that I love."

Johnny stills under him. Even his chest is unmoving, breaths locked up with a quick inhale.

And then it all comes out in a rush.

"Simon... d'ye mean tha'?"

And though it means losing the comforting thud of Johnny's heart in his ear, Ghost answers by leaning up, gripping Johnny's chin with his fingers, and pressing a soft kiss to slack lips. When he pulls back, Johnny is staring at him, tears welling in his blue eyes and a wide grin replacing his shocked expression.

"Love ye, too, ye big bastart," Johnny whispers before diving in for another kiss.

And maybe it's not perfect in an objective sense. Maybe he still misses his family and what could have been. But in this moment—with this man and his gracious family who went out of their way to make him feel welcome—it's the closest to perfection he's ever been.

[cypreus-and-willow]

Broken Promises

Summary: Ryo makes Saki a promise. So does Shuuji. Neither are able to keep it.

In the bleak silence of afternoon, the girl wanders alone. Floramon waiting impatiently back home for her to return. But she needs this. Time. Time to think. Time to grieve.

How fundamentally changed they are. That nothing will ever be the same again. She has real friends now. That's a good thing. Ryo is gone and so is Shuuji. Ryo will never complain about being nagged by him ever again. Shuuji will never have to worry about him running off and causing trouble again. That's a good thing.

Still, she can't get the images out of her mind. Ryo, her constant companion and temporary friend, running towards the hands, pleading and crying for the safety of his mother.

Shuuji, her cowardly protector and one time partner, running away from friends, begging and crying to stop the danger of his father.

Ryo won’t have to be sad anymore. And Shuuji’s dad can’t hurt him again. That's-

Eyes close, breathe in deep. Shakily.

That's a good thing. Right?

Do the others care? Did they even know them?

"I was close to them both," said her fake. Her copy.

Those things, those monsters. They'd taken from her memories. Close? Those two weren't close to anyone. Saki might’ve been the closest they ever got to having a friend.

“What's your favourite ice cream flavour?” She’d asked, out of the blue. Testing the waters of her new found companionship. Ryo frowned in annoyance.

“Don't have one.”

“Everybody has one.”

“I dunno… vanilla.” Liar.

“Vanilla has no flavour. That's so boring.”

“Don't ask then!”

A plain, simple, uncomplicated flavour. He was a little bit like that. His attitude towards everything was simple. He either liked it or he didn't. The notes of his sadness were subtle. The uncomplicated ice cream flavour tucked away in the corner, largely ignored but always there.

“Oi, Ryo. Today’s the last day of camp. Buy me some ice cream when this is over.”

“Alright, alright. I'll get you your ice cream, brat."

The loud ring of the shop bell brings her back to the present. A person smiling at her behind the counter; his grin wide and his cap, pink. "Welcome! What can I get for you?"

"Um…" she swallows the numbness in her throat. "One scoop. Vanilla. Cone please."

Gold and pink hues sparkle over the river, sun setting in beautiful silence. The pink glow of spring, welcoming. Entreating her to remember. Never forget.

The ice cream numbs her lips.

“Shuuji-san, I don't know if I can make it.”

The sun was rising blood red over the water. The two children so unprepared for chaos as to wear plain oxfords and ballet flats. Caked in mud as they crawled their way by the river.

"You will. We're all going back."

Then Shuuji ran and left her behind. She laughs. Typical, he was actually really good at running. Always running, moving ahead, pushing her past her limits, dragging her forward until she couldn't breathe. Dragging her upriver when they should've drowned or been eaten.

So their trail would be broken. So they wouldn't be scented by the wolf thing that hunted them. So they could buy just a little more time.

And they only bought time until sunset.

He never quite shone as bright as the sun but he tried his best to light their way. Even in the dark where light couldn't reach and he needed them more than they needed him.

She looks at her surroundings, vanilla ice cream quietly melting in her hand. Subtle flavours quietly meeting their subtle end.

I'll get you your ice cream brat.

The pink river loosing its hue, now a dull grey. The sun that lights her way home is leaving and she has to go.

We're all going back.

In the end, she can only remember the good.

“Ryo, Shuuji-san. I’m home.”

[okgal21]

I can’t figure out how to do a read more on mobile, sorry! But some speculation right before the episode airs:

***

Buck was still panicking.

They had gotten Eddie out of the van, Hen out of the ambulance, Chim and their first victim into a different ambulance and on their way to the hospital, and Ravi had been fine to begin with, but they still hadn’t found Bobby.

They had even been able to get the driver that caused the collapse in the first place out, but they hadn’t found Bobby.

So suffice to say, Buck was still panicking.

Buck was working with some of the other firefighters and Athena to figure out the best plan to get everyone out, and off the rest of the bridge, when Hen called him over to where she and Eddie were, where she was trying to determine if Eddie needed to be sent to the hospital as well.

“What’s the verdict, Hen?” Buck asked.

“I’m fine, tell him I’m fine.” Eddie, who was definitely was not who Buck was talking too, replied.

Hen scoffed at him, turning to Buck and saying, “Nothing seems to be broken, but he definitely needs to be seen by a hospital. We’ll send him with the next ambulance that’s going out.”

Ignoring Eddie’s indignant face, Buck opened his mouth to reply, before he was cut off by someone yelling.

“DAD!”

All three firefighters whipped around to look at the bridge, and to Buck’s horror, spotted Chris.

“What is he doing there?” Eddie whispered in horror. “He should be home by now, shouldn’t he?”

Buck nodded “Yeah, Carla or the bus should’ve gotten him, since we’re both on shift— Wait,” he turned to Eddie in horror, “Carla is sick and the bus was cancelled today, remember? His friend’s mom was going to pick him after school.”

“And he had practice, so they would have just made it here.” Eddie finished.

Hen broke into the conversation, saying “Guys, it’ll be alright, the bridge looks stable, we just need to get him down.”

As if to spite her, they heard a rumble, and turned back to see the part of the bridge that Chris was standing on with his friend start to collapse.

Buck barely heard Eddie scream, he was sprinting away so quickly. He could make it. He could get there in time. He would brace the bridge with his body if he had to.

He didn’t make it.

He watched in horror as the bridge fell, and Chris with it. He saw Chris’s friend able to leap onto a stable part, but Chris was too far. He disappeared into the smoke near where the ambulance had crashed, so Buck changed course and started heading that way.

He barely registered anyone else around him as he made his way to the rubble. He didn’t see Chris immediately, and didn’t know whether to feel relief that he wasn’t dead on top or terror that the didn’t know where he was. He settled settled on terror.

He started moving rubble and rocks away, finding debris and survivors amongst it. He passed the survivors on to the other personnel around him, and kept digging.

After what felt like seconds and eternity, he found who he was looking for. Both of them.

“Bobby, Chris, oh thank God.” Buck said in relief.

Chris had somehow managed to get tucked under Bobby, and when Buck looked closer, he saw the evidence of Bobby’s fall, and then subsequent dragging himself over to Chris to cover him when he fell.

Chris looked a little out of it, but Bobby seemed lucid enough, if not worse for wear.

“Come on, let’s get you guys out of there, Bobby can you walk? If not, that’s fine, I can carry both of you I’m sure.” Buck started to ramble, when Bobby stopped him.

“Buck, get Chris.”

Buck looked at Bobby in confusion, he could get both of them he knew it. Bobby met his eyes and moved his head back a little to gesture towards his legs. When Buck looked at his legs he had to hold in a gasp.

They were covered in blood.

He looked at Bobby’s face again, and before he could even open his mouth to ask, Bobby answered.

“I fell wrong,” he chuckled sadly. “It looks worse than it is, don’t worry. But get Chris out of here first.”

Buck opened his mouth to protest, but Bobby beat him to it again.

“Buck no, you can get both of us with how I am, get Chris first.”

“But I can get both of you! I know I can, Cap please-“

“Buck-“

“No! I can get both of you, don’t make me leave you, I can’t, please Dad-“

This time Buck cut himself off, not wanting to continue, but not correcting himself.

Bobby softened, saying quietly “Evan, I’ll be okay. Get your kid and get out of here.”

Buck looked down at Chris, looked back at Bobby, and nodded. Leaning down, he gently grabbed Chris by his underarms, and with a warning, he pulled him out from under Bobby and into his arms.

He adjusted his grip, to hold Chris more securely, and looked back at Bobby.

“I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

Bobby just smiled at him.

“I know you will.”

Buck nodded again, and turned away from his captain, his dad and all the ways that mattered, and began to make his way back out of the rubble.

He adjusted his hold on Chris to bring his hand to his radio.

“I need medical personnel to the location of the first collapse! I have located Captain Nash, and he needs medical attention. There is a path to him. I also need medical personnel to my location, I have an injured civilian.”

Buck could do it all. He would get Chris back to Eddie safely, and he would go back and get Bobby. He could do it. He could save everyone. He ignored his heart rate, his racing thoughts, his cold sweat. He ignored the one thing that was clear:

Buck was still panicking.

[miss-americanbi]

was chatting with my brother about gravity falls (again) and i said something like “man, can you believe stan waited and worked for 30 years just for the chance to try and bring his brother back?” to which my brother responded, “yeah, it’s nuts when you think about it. i wonder if stan got trapped in the multiverse instead, if ford would do the same.” HELLO???

[livwritesstuff]

i went on a deep dive of the Steve & Hopper ao3 tag yesterday and and it got me thinking about what would happen if Chief of Police Hopper ran into Steve and Eddie while he was on patrol after pseudo-adopting Steve, and it’s been long enough that Hopper is sort of a safe-person for Steve so Steve goes into full-fledged bitch mode when Hopper tries to pull cop stuff on them, and Eddie (who knew about none of this because Steve is a chronic under-sharer) is so totally baffled.

He’d spent years watching Steve sweet-talk his way out of trouble. Even before they started hooking up it used to drive Eddie goddamn insane, because if (when) Eddie pulled any of this shit Steve gets away with, he’d be totally screwed, but all Steve has to do is flash a sheepish grin and run a hand through his hair once or twice and say, all baleful, “I really didn’t mean any trouble,” and he’s home free.

It has its perks though, or so he's learned during his last few months of hanging around with Steve, so when Steve and Eddie’s make-out session is interrupted by the tell-tale red and blue lights of a cop car pulling up behind where Steve parked the Beemer a few hundred yards down a maintenance road, Eddie’s not all that worried. In fact, he’s got a pretty good amount of faith in Steve’s ability to spin up some story to keep them out of any real trouble, and as Chief Hopper ambles over to them, Eddie prepares himself for a whole show of, “Yes Chief, sorry Chief, it won’t happen again Chief.”

So imagine Eddie's complete and utter surprise when Hopper barks, “Hey, morons! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” and Steve only rolls his eyes and says, “What’s it to you?”

Eddie feels his jaw drop.

“Steve,” he mutters through gritted teeth. He tries to elbow Steve into shutting the hell up, but he misses because Steve has already taken several steps forward to meet Hopper, his face turned up in a kind of defiance Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen on him before.

“What’s it to me?” Hopper repeats, glowering at Steve, “It’s midnight. I’m on patrol. You’ve got one of the most recognizable cars in this entire damn town parked in a restricted-access zone with this idiot–” Hopper gestures at Eddie (Eddie didn’t think the pointing or the idiot were necessary, but clearly, clearly, he’s missing something here), “–who’s been dragged into my station more times than I could count.”

“The town line, Hop, is over there,” Steve says, pointing at an indiscriminate spot over Hop’s shoulder that may or may not be part of the Hawkins town line, “We’re not even in Hawkins anymore. You’re totally out of your jurisdiction.”

“You wanna know something about jurisdiction, smart-ass?” Hopper asks, “If my report says shit happened in my jurisdiction, it happened in my jurisdiction.”

“Wow,” Steve deadpans, “Way to not sound totally corrupt. Nice work, Chief.”

Hopper’s jaw twitches for a second, and he’s clearly debating if he wants to keep arguing with Steve who, to Steve’s credit, looks like he’s got debate in him for days. Ultimately though, Hopper decides against it and stalks back over to his squad car.

“If you’re not home by one there’s gonna be hell to pay. You hear me, Harrington?” Hopper yells, “One AM. Hell to pay.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve rolls his eyes, “Totally hear you. One AM. Loud and clear or whatever.”

Steve flips the cruiser both birds as it peels away, which Hopper only flashes his high beams at a couple times before he’s gone, kicking up a bunch of dirt and mulch and leaves in his wake, and Steve is wearing an exasperated expression as he turns to face Eddie again.

“God, he’s so annoying. Let’s just go to my house.”

Eddie gapes at him.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Huh?”

“What the fuck was that?” Eddie repeated, gesturing wildly towards where Hopper’s car had just been.

“Wha– you mean with Hop?”

“Uh, yeah?!?”

Steve just brushed him off, “Whatever, just ignore him. He’s basically my dad.”

“What?”

EDIT: read the expanded fic on AO3 :)

[paintedcrows]

Some Fords! (and Martin K Blackwood is also there)

[umblrspectrum]

"smaller mass" you say

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[leet911]

It starts off small, and simple enough. Pleng writes little notes — practical ones.

I left you dinner in the fridge.

We're out of eggs.

I packed you some lunch. Enjoy your day!

She signs them “Pleng”, of course, maybe with a little smiley face for punctuation, and she doesn't think about it at first. It seems natural to her, familiar, they've done this all before. And they have phones too, so Pleng could send text messages, but this feels more personal, more private, like it's just for the two of them — a little square of paper they can both run their fingers over in turn, feeling the grooves left by the pen.

And Pleng isn't around when Wan gets those notes. That's the thing with leaving notes. So Pleng doesn't see how Wan’s heart almost stops each time she finds one. She doesn't see how Wan glances at the door each time, how she opens a dresser after reading them, just to be sure Pleng’s clothes are still there.

One time, Pleng finds the drawer where Wan keeps all the notes, and she almost cries. Every single one she had written since moving in, no matter how mundane it had been, all those little scraps of paper with her scribblings on them. And at the very bottom of that drawer, is an envelope that Pleng remembers all too well. The envelope has yellowed over the years, the stain patterns on it expanded, and Pleng knows that those are from tears.

She does not open the envelope. That would feel too much like snooping. Besides, she can still recite all the words from that letter.

But Pleng understands that day the importance of her notes, and they take on a different character.

Just stepped out to pick up dinner, I'll be right back.

I work tonight, so I won't be there when you get home.

I work late tonight, don't wait up. I'll see you in the morning.

She makes it a point to say that she'll be back, that she'll be here, that she's not leaving. And maybe it's a small thing, but it feels right to her. Sometimes, she signs them with a little heart next to her name. And maybe it's in her mind, but Wan seems to smile more after that too. Sometimes Pleng comes home to find Wan asleep on the couch with those little notes still in hand.

Pleng watches the desk drawer fill up over time. More notes get added to the pile, then the pile gets rearranged, then stacks are formed with paper clips, then envelopes and folders appear to hold the stacks. But that one yellowed envelope from thirteen years ago remains. More than once, Pleng thinks about taking it and just throwing it away, hiding her shame, seeing if Wan would notice. That letter isn't them anymore. It was so long ago.

But Pleng isn't brave enough for that. Besides that would be too much like those old times, when it seemed like Pleng made the decisions for Wan, and Pleng doesn't think that would be fair to Wan.

So she redoubles her efforts to leave more notes and bury old wounds. She writes grocery lists and song lyrics; she makes movie and TV recommendations; she writes little diary entries that she leaves lying around for Wan on the days where their schedules just don't line up and they're in and out at different times.

She writes Wan pages and pages over the months, until one day the desk drawer is emptied, and everything is gone.

“Did you throw away all the papers?” Pleng asks that evening.

Wan shakes her head. “I put them in a box. It was getting too much for the desk.”

Pleng avoids meeting her eyes. “Even the envelope?”

“Yes, I haven't opened it in a long time.”

Pleng nods. But Wan moves, sitting very close to Pleng and staring until they finally lock gazes. Wan’s eyes are intense, but they soften almost right away. There's a whirlwind of emotions that swirl through in an instant, and when she speaks, her voice is small. “Don't leave,” Wan whispers, and suddenly all her usual confidence is gone. And Pleng knows they’re not talking about today, about right now. Instead, it's like they’re seventeen again, and Wan might be dying inside, but she would never tell Pleng. She wouldn't want Pleng to worry.

“I won't.” I never wanted to leave you, but Pleng doesn't say that. She doesn't even know if that's strictly true. But they were teenagers back then, and they both did stupid things, so Pleng hopes that none of that matters anymore. “I won't run away again, not from you.” She takes Wan’s face in her hands, kisses her upper lip. It's slow, and gentle, and they have done much much more in recent months, but this is different. This is I love you and Please love me all wrapped into one. This is everything Pleng has never managed to say to Wan, every song she thought about writing but never did. This is an apology thirteen years in the making.

A lone tear rolls down Wan’s face and she goes to rub it away, but Pleng catches her hand. “I won't leave, I promise. You don't have to be perfect for me. You don't have to be strong all the time. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

And for the first time in a long time, Wan finally lets herself cry. But Pleng holds her, wraps Wan in a tight hug, and Pleng tells herself that this time, she will never let go.

Wan is going to develop some sort of PTSD about Pleng leaving notes before disappearing. Years in the future she sees a slip of paper with Pleng's handwriting and almost has a heart attack just for it to be their grocery list or something

[gothamite-rambler]

Slade lifted his face mask, leaning forward slightly as he looked Jason up and down. Stepping back, he muttered to himself.

Slade: Daisy said he was related to Batman. That guy is the same height as Batman. Does he-

He shifted his focus to Jason, pointing at him.

Slade: Do you know Petunia?

Jason sighed and lowered his gun.

Jason: It's Rose. Her name is Rose.

Slade: Oh my God, you’re Jason Todd?! You’re the one defiling my daughter?! No! No! I’d rather it be Nightwing, but you? I’m going to be sick!

Jason (scoffing): Yes, cause you, a pedophile, definitely have the right to disagree with me dating your daughter.

Slade: Dating? Where did I go wrong? All the steps I took to make her a super soldier wasted on a Robin?

Jason: Slade-

Batman having silently listened to the exchange slowly lowered his phone and turned to Jason.

Batman: Who's his daughter?

Jason froze remembering his father was teaming up with him. He avoided eye contact from his father, but this only made Batman step closer to him.

Batman: Hood, he better have another daughter named Petunia that you're with and not the one who stabbed her eye out for that creep!

Slade: Why does everyone word that like it's a bad thing that she proved her loyalty to me? Also for your information Bat jerk, I only have the one daughter... to my knowledge and that's the one your worthless son is fucking!

Jason sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Batman (worry in his voice): Red Hood tell him he's lying so we can leave.

Jason: Batman… Have I ever told you how understanding you've been and that I was dating someone?

Batman (realization dawning): Oh God, he’s telling the truth? No! NO! Rose Wilson? That man’s daughter? Why would you lay with that woman?!

Jason: Oh, like you have room to talk!

Batman: Damn it, my cases are different!

Jason: Yeah you sired a child with said actually evil woman who ignores her daddy issues by still working with her father. I'm with the woman who stopped working with her insane father.

Batman: I'm not with her anymore and don't you bring up Catwoman!

Slade: Hey, man, I get it—my daughter is an idiot, but being with him is dumb even for her.

Jason: Hey, shut your fucking mouth! You will not disrespect her in front of me!

Batman (shouting): Oh dear God, you're defending her? This isn't good. First Nightwing with Starfire and now this!

Jason: You have a son with an assassin. Have several seats! And Slade I will shoot you in your fucking kneecaps if you keep insulting Ravager who goes by Rose!

Slade: Make me, zombie man! Floral has left me disappointed before, but this transgression I will not allow! Her allegiance lies with me, not you!

Jason: Her name isn’t Floral, you're just picking random words that are related to plants! And it's not allegiance, we are a couple! How are you so awful?!

Slade: Because I strive to be the best at everything!

Batman (interrupting Jason): That doesn’t even make any sense. My son is dating Slade's daughter. My son is dating Slade's daughter. Why didn't I bring any alcohol to this?

Batman sighed, the weight of fatherhood pressing down on him, then he calmly cracked his knuckles. Jason sighed wanting to disappear.

Batman: Hood, stay here. I’m going to have a talk with Slade, father to father! Cyclops, let’s talk!

Batman strode over to Slade, while Jason stood by, watching at first. He eventually nodded and texted Rose that their fathers had discovered their secret relationship and were currently fighting.

Jason: Is he defending me, or does he just not like Slade? I’m going to say both. That's sweet of him... I'm going to have to deal with this later.

[effervescentwolf]

nothing impossible <- ao3 link

“Hey, Buck!” Eddie practices in the car as he enters LA. “Christopher’s finishing his school year so I’m—”

He gets stuck in standstill traffic. He’s gotten used to it, used to any obstacle really, driving around in Texas, kind of expects it. Before, he’d complain to Buck about every little inconvenience on the road until Buck wrestled the keys from his grip.

“If you wanted me to drive, you could’ve just asked,” Buck would say, fondness all over his face, and Eddie’s whole body would go warm.

There’s a crash up ahead so he sits there, windows down, breathes in the smell of this place. El Paso and LA smell similar in a lot of ways, but there’s a difference he can’t quite put his finger on. There’s also an ease to the way he sits here rather than there, a rigid line of tension that he can’t find anymore when he searches for it.

There’s a difference between traffic there, where it would build up inside him, where everything was building and building, and traffic here where he’s a puppet cut loose, where he can simply sit and breathe and think.

He thinks of Buck when the traffic starts moving again.

“Buck?” he imagines calling, if he used the spare key safe in his pocket, trying to figure out where Buck would be in the house when he gets there. He glances at the time, nearing 4 PM. Buck isn’t on a shift today, he reasons. He probably went to the gym in the morning, got groceries sometime after. He didn’t have anywhere to be for lunch today, and there was nothing special in his calendar. “I’m home,” Eddie says softly, trying to imagine saying it in about thirty minutes, which is how long it’ll take him to get home if his estimate is accurate.

“Missed me?” could be on the table when Buck opens the door, and Eddie will grin wide and hold his arms open for a hug he kind of desperately wants.

Or, “Is there enough for two?” because dinner might be on the stove, or in the oven, and Eddie will be able to smell it from outside the house. Buck will turn, wearing that blue apron of his, and his eyes will widen, mouth in a perfect o, and Eddie will laugh, then.

“He’s coming home,” Eddie might say first because he knows that’s on their mind. That would happen after a silent hug, after Buck takes one look at him and maybe cries as he pulls Eddie in. If Buck cries, Eddie will too, and he gets a little emotional just thinking about it, them crying together on the doorstep, holding each other, and then laughing together at how ridiculous it is.

The minutes whittle down to streets and it hits Eddie suddenly that he’s home. He’s not nervous to see Buck the way he was nervous to see his parents, wiping sweaty palms on his pants, smoothing down his hair in his rearview mirror, over and over.

No, here, he parks, walks easily up to his door, grinning already, and all the debate about what he’s going to do dissipates. He knocks on the door because Buck isn’t expecting him. He’s not sure how Buck believed Eddie’s fumble of a lie about going out today and not being able to call, but he did, though he texted him throughout the day anyway.

Eddie waits a minute. Taps his foot, turns with his arms folded and surveys the neighbor’s houses. Knocks again, and frowns this time when there’s no answer, and then he lets himself in.

It’s quiet inside. “Buck?” Eddie calls anyway, halfway through kicking off his shoes when he looks up and realizes it looks the same. Different, because it’s not his furniture, but things are where they were when he lived there. He’d suspected over FaceTime, but it feels like Buck’s been preserving a little of kernel of him, and all of a sudden it hits Eddie that he’s really home. That he belonged here, and belongs, that he’s about to see Buck, and he’s going to have his kid, and that he has it, everything he’d ever wanted.

He swallows down the lump in his throat, runs a hand over the couch as he passes, says quietly, “Can I crash here?” That’s what he’ll say first, a joke about the couch, or Buck taking over his house, when Buck gets home.

He makes his way to Christopher’s room, opens it a sliver, sees it’s empty, and then closes it, putting his forehead on the door. Buck kept him too in his own way. Kept both of them there while they were gone. He didn’t replace them.

He doesn’t bother knocking on what used to be his own bedroom door, just opens it and oh, there’s Buck.

He’s sprawled out on his back, one hand on his stomach, not even under the covers. He hasn’t shaved today, Eddie can tell, and he doesn’t really think when he comes forward and sits next to him. Over FaceTime, he couldn’t see as much as he can now. Couldn’t watch the way Buck’s chest rises and falls with every breath, the scratch on his knuckle he whined about yesterday. Eddie can see it now, a little white mark on Buck’s hand, and he thumbs over it absently, not sure why he has to touch it, only that he does.

There’s a breadth to Buck that a phone could never approximate. A realness. He’s right there, in his bed in Eddie’s room, all of him, down to his socked feet. Eddie feels oddly emotional over seeing his socks, and he’s not sure why, but he’s been feeling emotional at a bit of everything these days when it comes to coming home.

“I missed you,” Eddie says, and he’s glad those are the first words he says with intention in this house, even if Buck isn’t awake to hear them.

His hand is still resting over Buck’s. He doesn’t move for a long time, just watching Buck breathe, and breathing it all in, and then he goes off to shower.

Buck is still asleep when Eddie walks back in with wet hair, barefoot, wearing shorts and a t-shirt he scrounged from the closet. Droplets roll down the back of his neck to dampen the collar of the shirt, which feels good after the heat of outside. He’d forgotten how much he missed that particular brand of shampoo, and the way the light in his bathroom looked on him in the mirror. Even the squeaky faucet, the way the door stuck a little when Eddie pulled. It’s like discovering everything anew, and it’s also like he never left.

He rummages through the fridge, discovers leftovers, and piles up a plate that he takes back to the bedroom so he can sit next to Buck and eat, munching thoughtfully as he mentally rearranges the house.

“I was saving that,” Buck mumbles, voice rough with sleep, and Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Warn a guy, would you?” Eddie says, turning to look at him once he’s swallowed, heartbeat still a panicked pace in his chest, and then he thinks only, that’s not how it was supposed to go.

Buck yawns, blinking blearily at him, rubbing at his eyes. “Where’s—”

“Finishing the school year,” Eddie answers, easy, and then he doesn’t want to eat anymore. He just wants to look. He wants to look at Buck looking at him. “You can have the rest,” he offers, something squeezing at his chest.

Buck ignores it. “But he’s coming back?” he asks, earnest. Sincere. Eddie can't put into words how much it means that someone's right there with him.

Eddie nods, manages to put the plate on the bedside table, and then Buck is sitting up next to him and pulling him into a hug. “Oh, Eddie,” Buck says, and Eddie breathes him in and holds him tight, and he thinks, I did good. I did good.

“Proud of me?” he mumbles, like he can’t feel it in the way Buck is squeezing him.

“You smell good,” Buck says instead, and there’s a little thrill that runs up Eddie’s spine at that. “Have you been back for a while?”

“An hour, maybe,” Eddie answers, face tucked into Buck’s shoulder. “I showered.”

“Mm,” Buck says, nosing at his ear, and Eddie’s stomach swoops like nothing else.

"Buck," he complains, words soft around the edges. He doesn't mean it, and he's reminded that Buck knows him better than anyone because he doesn't move an inch, rubbing Eddie's back comfortingly, and that’s where it all catches up to him.

"Yeah?" Buck says, smile all over his voice. Eddie can hear the rumble of his chest from here, and that wasn't captured on FaceTime either, and he can hear Buck breathing right next to his ear. “I didn’t know what I was going to say to you,” he confesses into the safety of Buck's shoulder. “I was practicing in the car.”

Buck doesn't say anything for a moment. “Anything you said would’ve been good,” he offers, like it's obvious, voice warm all the way through, and there’s something different about Buck’s warmth than the sun on his skin in El Paso, something that cuts the last string keeping him there, that tames something within Eddie’s chest that has been begging to be let out.

Eddie sniffles, just a little. "Not anything," he protests weakly.

Buck's next breath is a little shaky, and it takes Eddie a moment to realize he's crying too. "Anything," he repeats, sure of it, and Eddie forgets standing on another doorstep, practicing what to say, fumbling over the words and feeling small under his own failures. Here, he has a million things to say, none of them impossible, but he only needs to reach up and squeeze the back of Buck's neck for Buck to say, everything like home, "Eddie."

[imaroyalmess]

An Apprentice’s (Unofficial) Guide to House Garments

based on @energ00n 's apprentice AU! (i'm obsessed with the concept of apprentices making up garment rules)

Wc: 2.1k

The datapad—an older model with discolored spots, showing where servos touched its framing—is the first thing Orion Pax’s optics land on as he walks into his new room. Orion snatches the datapad and tilts his helm as he reads the title over again. A peek at the contents shows that it begins with Hey newbie followed by three exclamation glyphs (an overabundance of any glyph, if you asked Orion).

Orion glances up and catches his own gaze in a mirror hanging in front of him. It’s strange, seeing two sheer fabric pieces delicately flowing over the hard metal of his arms—he’s hesitant to move his arm joints in fear of tearing it. That, as well as the jewelry occupying the space where his cog would be creates a vision that’ll take some getting used to.

He pries his optics away and down to the datapad again, dermas pinching as his processor whirrs. Prima explained to him how to care for his garment personally and what if, since the datapad looks old, the data was outdated? No, safer to follow Prima’s instructions and not confuse himself.

Orion places the datapad to the side and sets off to explore his new home.

~

Hello newbie!!!

Congratulations to you and your new position! There’s so much you need to know before you get started. If you wanna make friends, then you’ll wanna keep reading, little mech!

It’s most important that you know about your House garment. No, no, not how to wash oil stains out of it (though that’s good to know!), I’m talking about the meaning behind what you do with it.

Lucky for you, I’ve compiled a list for your easy reference! Learn them well, little mech!!

DO: Wear your House garment at all times! I’ve been told it’s respectful to the Primes. Also helpful so we can tell each other apart. Usually only an apprentice’s special somebot sees them without it! Even then, maybe not.

~

D-16 has always been a stickler for the rules. It’s structure—it’s security. He can’t afford to slip up and never lets that resolve waver. So how exactly did he let pretty blue optics lure him into a cargo hold that supposedly has a passage leading into the (highly forbidden) archives? D-16 isn’t sure.

“Orion Pax,” D-16 hisses, “you idiot, there’s no way—”

Orion hushes him with a digit to his dermas and a wink. D-16 lowers his voice. “Why did you drag me into this?”

Orion pries the cover away from the passage and lowers it to the ground, a soft clank echoing. “I need you to keep watch for me, ‘kay? It’s a tight squeeze for me so you definitely wouldn’t fit.”

D-16 frowns, a retort fully prepped in his processor, but then Orion unclips his garment and D-16’s vocalizer short circuits. For a horrifying and long nanoklik, only static emits from his voice box. “Wh–Pax, what are you doing?!”

“I told you.” Orion rolls his optics. “Barely enough room in there and I can’t risk ripping my clothes up. Prima would offline me.”

He slips the sheer fabric over his helm and presents it to D-16 with splayed servos. Primus, help him. It takes D-16 exactly 1.46 kliks to reboot and shake his helm vehemently. “No? I…you want me to—”

“It’s just my garment,” Orion states, playful but also firm in a way that says I don’t have time to argue. “I’m not asking you to do anything else. Keep it safe?”

Just my garment. If Orion’s antics don’t get him expelled, his cluelessness would. However, he’s correct about one thing, and it’s that their time is running out.

D-16 half-snatches half-cradles the garment, careful not to let the ends touch the ground. With a deep intake D-16 says, “Go. Before they spot us.”

Orion grins, scrambling his way through the crawl space, leaving D-16 to listen for passing mechs. The fabric feels smooth between his digits.

~

DON’T: touch another apprentice’s attire, especially(!) without their permission. A passing touch may be an accident but deliberately grabbing is almost like a kiss!!! Don’t kiss or put your dermas on their clothing either. That has…intimate implications I won’t discuss here.

~

Orion loves watching Megatronus Prime spar with D-16. The size difference between the two could be laughable, if it weren’t for the ferocity that overtakes D-16’s faceplate and the corrections Megatronus throws out to him. Multiple times, Orion’s systems remind him to function as he watches—his friend is a vision under his Prime’s tutelage, all gritted denta, radiating optics, and arcing gauntlets.

Once satisfied, the looming Prime kneels before his apprentice and speaks lowly to him. Orion’s audials are unable to pick up what’s said but the open and hungry way D-16 receives his feedback sates him. Megatronus returns to his full height, nods to release D-16 from his training for the day and Orion perks up at the gesture.

“D!” Orion calls. His friend pads over to what’s becoming Orion’s usual spot, a barely-there smile on his dermas.

“You been waiting long?” D-16 asks, setting his practice spear against the wall.

Orion shakes his helm. A white lie—he’s been there longer than he should’ve but it’s not his fault that watching D-16 fight is so fascinating. “What were you learning today?”

D-16 dutifully launches into the intricacies of battle strategy and close-ranged combat. Orion props his helm up with his loose fist as he listens—mostly listens, at least. That task becomes difficult as the jargon grows thick and D-16’s broad servos capture Orion’s attention as they move in small motions.

An idea pops into his processor. “Why don’t you show me?”

A pause, then D-16 scoops up his practice spear, muttering, “It’ll look stupid without an opponent.”

Orion hops over the half-wall that’s been separating them and bounces over to stand in front of his friend. “I’m right here though.”

“No,” D-16 said immediately. “It’s not safe.”

“C’mon, D,” Orion teases. “I trust you.”

D-16 cycles his optics and Orion’s lopsided grin grows. “It’s not about that. You don’t know what you’re doing and even if it’s not real, I could hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Orion states, full of confidence.

“I could,” D-16 argues. “Then Prima would offline me for harming his one and only apprentice—”

Orion begins to circle D-16, close enough to reach but far enough that he could evade it. “I know what you’re doing, Pax. It’s not going to work.”

“Is it not?” Orion teases as he keeps in D-16’s blindspot, his friend calmly trying to catch sight of him again. He takes a chance while behind him, dashing out and giving the purple fabric of D-16’s House garment a good tug.

“Pax,” D-16 chastises. Yes, it’s a sparkling-like move, Orion knows and does not quite care. He does it again, giggles erupting from his vocalizer as D-16’s calmness dissipates.

Orion manages to tug at D-16’s garment twice more before D-16’s arm snaps out, captures the joint above Orion’s servos, and crowds him against the nearby wall. The yellow of D-16’s optics blaze. Orion notices how close they are, how his friend’s weight is the only thing that keeps him upright, and he grins.

D-16 growls, “Orion.” And honestly? Orion isn’t sure what’s going through his processor when his reaction to hearing D-16 say his name is to bite down on the gathered cloth by one of the gauntlets he’d been admiring earlier.

D-16 drops him. His aft hits the ground with a rough clank and Orion cries out, “hey!”

But D-16 isn’t listening. His optics are focused on the spot where Orion’s intake fluid darkened cloth’s already deep purple. D-16’s expression is horrified.

“Oh scrap, D.” Orion scrambles to his pedes. “It should go away, right? I’ve never—D! Where are you going? Wait!”

Before Orion can say another word, D-16 runs—no, sprints—out of the practice arena, leaving Orion there alone wondering what he’d done wrong.

~

DO: keep your garment clean! It’s polite and respectful, blah blah blah, you should know this. But! What you don’t know is that leaving a mark on another apprentice’s garment, accidental or not, is a serious offense! You tear it, that’s a show of disrespect to the apprentice and their House and you might have to fight them. On the other servo, if you, say, put a small decal on the cloth, you’re effectively marking that mech as your own. Same goes for intake fluid, though that just tells everyone that you and that bot are...together in a different sense. Catch my drift? 

~

“I’m sorry, D.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know but I made you upset, didn’t I?”

“...no. You didn’t.”

~

DON’T: wear another House’s garment!!! Unless you’re ready to be conjunxes. And I’m serious! It’s saying your devotion to that mech is equivalent to your devotion to your Prime. Ask yourself, little mech. Would you swear undying fealty to them? Would you choose that mech over your Prime? No? Then don’t do this.

(Okay, I might be a little overdramatic, but seriously, don’t.)

~

What fascinates Orion is how different the textiles feel from one another. He’s read about the arts and asked on multiple occasions to speak with the bot who made his House clothes because he must know more. Orion shifts the material of D-16’s garment between his digits, reveling in the weight and watching the fabric fold as he moves.

He drapes a length of it over his arm and turns to D-16, who’s dozing in and out of a light rest cycle. “Do you think purple would suit me?”

“Hm?”

Orion nudges his friend with the bend of his arm still wrapped in material. This time, D-16 rouses, even if only a little. “Your House garment, silly. How does it look?”

“Fine,” D-16 says.

“Just fine?” Orion complains. “You’re the meanest friend ever. You won’t even let me try?”

D-16 resettles his helm. “Not mean. ‘M honest.”

Orion shoves his shoulder plate, only serving to further tangle himself. “Your honesty is mean.”

“Would you prefer a more elaborate answer?”

“Not anymore,” Orion mutters. This time, he lets D-16 rest as he lays the garment over his lap and smoothes out the wrinkles he’s made. 

~

Congrats!!! Now you’re fully equipped to take on the social terrain in the House of Primes!!

In case you didn’t read all that, basically, keep to your own business and every other bot will keep to theirs. You’re lucky you have me to help you out with this because I didn't have anyone explain it to me and I broke about every rule before an apprentice told me. I was so embarrassed!!! No need to thank me though, little mech, whoever you may be. Just have fun! Be responsible! Follow these rules!!! I promise, you’ll have a better time if you do. Byeeee ;)

~

D-16 might cease to function—if he hasn’t already. On this particular solar cycle, Orion had dragged D-16 into another one of his schemes and deemed his quarters the meeting point. The door slid open, Orion welcomed him inside, and D-16’s optics landed on a datapad that made his spark drop.

That thing isn’t supposed to exist—not physically, anyway. How did it get here? How in Primus’ glory does Orion have it?!

“D?” Orion cuts through his panic.

“Have you…” D-16 can barely force his vocaliser to say the words. “Have you read it?”

Orion raises an optical ridge. Confused but fond. “Read what?”

A digit points at the datapad, though D-16 didn’t consciously give the command for it to do so. “That.”

“Oh that?” Orion ambles over to the offending object. “It was here when I moved in. Weird right? Maybe Prima put it here in case I forgot what he told me?”

D-16’s joints creak with the effort it takes to stride over and pick up the datapad. “You don’t need it though, do you?”

Please say no, D-16’s processor screams.

Orion laughs, though his confusion melds into concern as well. “No, I guess not…did you need it? You can take it, if you do.”

And D-16 then and there wishes Orion Pax had chosen a better friend, one who he deserves. Except, D-16 is also selfish and cold in ways where Orion is warm—he doesn’t wish that, in actuality. (It feels kinder to say that he does. Orion deserves kind.)

“Thanks,” D-16 says for lack of any explanation that wouldn’t be a flat-out lie.

Then Orion smiles at him, as he always does, and pats him on the chest plate, right next to his empty cog slot, right on his garment. D-16 musters a quirk of his dermas and tucks the datapad away from Orion’s prying optics. It’s hard to feel guilty about it, when Orion seems so content and his servos make his garment so warm.

~~~

A/N: tysm for reading! i'm sorry if i got any details wrong, i read all the comics over again to make sure i got it all correct but just in case i missed something! please check out the main comic if you haven't already. the worldbuilding, writing, and art style are all stunning!

[sunnymainecoonx]

I know damn well I misunderstood the assignment but we roll, I'll understand it some day

It's killer and dust btw. If you couldn't tell. Which you probably couldn't.. forgor to say but shhh 🤫 Killers having a convo with himself..

..I kinda wanna change my url but idk to what

[greatunironic]

eddie wakes up in a strange room. this was not particularly unusual for him, historically: he’d spent most of his twenties waking up in new and interesting places (including a handful of jail cells). but after eddie, the label, and the los angeles superior court system decided it would be best if he stopped drinking and doing blow, it stopped being such a regular occurrence.

so it’s almost alarming to him, now, to be blinking up at an unfamiliar cement ceiling with the raging bitch of all headaches and generally feeling like he got hit by a truck, got whiplash in a crash with the way his neck aches. he’d think he was hungover like all those times before except for how sharp the pain is, bright.

he worries, briefly, he’s relapsed, or someone’s slipped him something. but he remembers what him and the boys had been up to, before this, and he thinks it’d’ve been a strange night indeed if someone roofied a c-list (b-list if he’s feeling charitable) musician at a fucking frozen four game.

because yeah, eddie remembers: they’d been third row, watching the wisconsin ladies clean up and cheering for jeff’s kid sister like she was about to get olympic gold. (she probably would, someday. her and that mayfield girl who played defense were looking down the barrel at a 2026 run apparently.

eddie’s been to a handful of games over the years, when touring and recording allows them to go. he’s resolutely never been a sports guy but he’ll admit, when pressed, that live hockey is pretty dope. to say nothing, of course, of how jeff would probably murder them all in their sleep if they didn’t rep the red and white for lottie.

(and also — and this is between eddie and his god alright — but lottie’s coach? standing back there in his suit, hair styled and dialed, snapping his gum, yelling at the refs? kind of doing it for him, okay. worth the price of admission, even if the tickets weren’t free.)

when he thinks harder — which hurts too — the last thing he clearly remembers was someone from the beavers scoring, bringing their lead to 5-1, and a slapshot from the other team getting out over the boards and nearly taking out some lady’s popcorn. someone behind them in the seats said, “jesus they’re getting desperate, eh?”

then shit goes dark on him, not even a fade to black, but a full on smash cut, roll credits black, and the post-credits scene is where ever the fuck eddie is at the moment. it smells like human and cold and icy hot, so obviously, he thinks, he died and went to hell like all the church ladies said he would back in hawkins, or probably just a locker room. what the fuck?

he blinks at the ceiling, at an interesting water stain on the cement texturing. he’s in the middle of wondering where the rest of his band has gone if he’s here alone, fucking abandoners, when a sweaty redhead with the bitchiest expression he’s maybe ever seen enters his field of vision.

“you’re alive,” she says.

eddie blinks again. “why do you sound so disappointed?”

“yo coach!” she shouts, already on the move away from him. “he’s alive!”

he tries to sit up, but that makes the pain in his head worse, and also draws attention to the fact that his back also hurts. he squeezes his eyes shut and makes a truly embarrassing noise of pain — if pressed, he’d call it a whimper — and a pair of big hands land on his shoulders.

“out, out ladies i got this! hey!, hey, man, don’t move just yet,” says big hands.

“yeah, no problem, i don’t want to anymore,” eddie says. he stirs up the will to open his eyes again and very nearly slams them back shut. because of course the person staring down at him is fucking coach hottie snackycakes himself. he’s even better looking in person, too, big droopy eyes, lips as pink as his bubblegum, and shiny, jesus christ. he’s still got eddie by the shoulders, hands warm through the thin cotton of his flannel and tee — because eddie’s always been more fashion than sense, wayne always said, and it’s even worse now that the paps are on him—

“oh, fuck this is gonna be all over tiktok later, isn’t it?” he moans.

“maybe not.”

“don’t lie.”

“listen, eddie — it is eddie, right?” asks coach hottie. “i’m steve. coach harrington. faughnsie — lottie, i mean — she said you’re eddie. her brother’s guitarist? what do you remember?”

“more like he’s my singer,” he says, “but sure. and not much.”

“well, you’re gonna be okay,” says coach hottie — steve. “it really wasn’t that bad, and it was probably too fast for anyone to get it, unless they already had a camera on you. you took a puck to the head when one popped up. i’d apologize but it wasn’t one of my girls who did it, so. anyway — you weren’t out for long, which robbie says is good — she’ll get a look at you in a second — but you got your bell rung pretty good. and you’re gonna have quite the shiner, trust me.”

“speaking from experience?”

“oh, yeah. closer and faster too.” he gently raps his head with his knuckles. “too many concussions too early ended my nhl days, in fact.”

“oh. oh shit, sorry, i—“

“don’t worry about it, man, it happens,” he says. “and if it hadn’t, i wouldn’t be here.”

“at the frozen four.”

“yeah, sure, that too.”

“what?”

“what?” steve waves him off. “anyway, i’m just glad to see you up, ish, and talking. looked pretty scary, from the bench.”

“i really don’t remember,” says eddie. “but i’m sure i’ll see it on tiktok later, like i said — at least, my unconscious, bleeding form.”

“i got up there pretty fast, so i doubt it,” says steve.

eddie blinks, twice. “you—?”

“you were behind my bench, and you. well,” he says with a shrug, but he’s clearly a little embarrassed, finally putting those hands away — weapons of eddie destruction, he thinks — and shoving them into his pockets of his tight slacks. “i should be getting back out there.”

“do you? you’re murdering them pretty good, unless i black out and missed them getting four more goals,” eddie says.

the corners of steve’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. eddie thinks he might just pass out again. “no, we’re still gonna cinch it, i think. looks bad, though — first time coach missing the final period so’s he can hit on the cute musician who got his clock cleaned by the biscuit.”

“oh,” he says. swallows. “uh.”

steve’s crinkly, smiley eyes go wide. “unless—“

“no less!” eddie shouts and then immediately winces. at a better, less damaging to his more than slightly concussed noggin, volume, he says, “more, actually. because pretty sure i shouldn’t be left unsupervised, and i’ve clearly been abandoned by the band, so—“

“so,” says steve.

“coach, two minutes!” someone calls.

“so, i was hoping maybe i could keep hitting on the hot hockey coach back at his?”

“i’m at the ramada inn,” he says, “and i got tape to watch for the finals.”

“i live for room service,” eddie tells him seriously. “and i’m suddenly very into wisconsin sports teams.”

“coach! go time!”

“yeah?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“COACH!”

he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “i gotta — but, uh, later?”

“pick me up in twenty?”

“probably more like half an hour, with stoppage,” he says.

someone bangs on the door. “COACH!! let’s boogie!!”

with one last look, wide eyed and smiling, steve leaves. eddie watches him go. he’d heard hockey players were caked up but lord — eddie is about to convert to a new religion, or maybe found one, over the stretch of those slacks.

“damn,” he says quietly.

“gross,” a woman says. eddie startles and looks to the side, where a lanky brunette with a bob and an undercut is staring at him, unimpressed. she’s in some get up that screams athletic trainer, and there’s a white board in her hand.

“how long have you been there?” he asks.

she raises an eyebrow. “long enough, and honestly, i don’t know if that counts as a you rule for him, or a you suck for you,” she says and does not elaborate when he asks. “also don’t look at him like that. it’s steve. he’s basically my sister.”

“yeah? any tips then?” asks eddie. “i promise i’ll only use them for good. well. mostly.”

“god,” she says with an expansive eye roll. “you’re gonna be a nightmare, aren’t you?”

a cheer goes up outside the room as the teams, presumably, take the ice again. eddie, head throbbing, concussed, embarrassed, grins. “sure hope so,” he says.

[strawbubbysugar]

The base Y/N design for my soulmate AU!!

[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.

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