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mindshelter · 2 years

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for your consideration: kon sleep-floats—and not only does he take the whole damn blanket with him, but it's often laid over his entire body like a corpse found at the scene of a tragic accident. only his feet are sticking out (he's very tall).

more than once, tim has woken up—shivering, rubbing away the goosebumps on his arms. kon's missing from his usual spot to tim's left; he looks around the room, but finds nothing. that's odd, tim thinks. kon's no night owl; he rises with the sun, and is dead as a rock until then.

tim looks up.

and there he is. kon isn't totally still—he's a wraith, tucked where the wall meets the ceiling. the blanket covers his face, torso and legs while the rest spills over the sides, fluttering with the slight sway of kon's body. he's midair, rocking lightly like the tides move with the moon.

"kon," tim says. "you look like you're possessed."

no response.

"kon," he says, louder, "they announced a wendy reboot."

no response.

"it's horrible. that's me as a werewolf?" tim says, casting bait.

if kon were awake, he'd perk up immediately, clear his throat, and finish the line: i'm so evil, and skanky... and i think i'm kinda gay.

"i still can't believe that's how you decided to come out to me," he mutters. kon had looked so serious that day, asking tim if they could speak privately, too. "get down, jackass. i'm cold."

the winds outside get more forceful, easing its way through the half-opened window. the breeze rustles the bedsheet, and the dim light that limns the folds of the fabric and kon's silhouette shift, white migrating over blue-grey. tim's fingers feel like ice.

"ignoring me? are you dead?" dead as a rock. dead as a corpse. dead as his dad, or something. "booster gold made a soundcloud. his first track is, um... get your boost on? parenthesis, let me show y'all how it's done, parenthesis. it's rap."

no response. he might as well be sleeping through the end of the world.

tim throws benny beluga at him (his boyfriend won it for him during a strength tester game at a date to the fair). benny hits what might be kon's butt, and tim's head a moment later. kon does not stir. tim rubs his arms again.

tim would had worn more clothes to sleep, but had figured a t-shirt and boxers would have been enough. kon runs warm, after all—heat always radiates from his hands, his sternum, and the crook of his neck where he lets tim bury himself. sometimes it's the only indication he's alive; during daylight hours, kon's chest rises and falls with what is both a steady, natural rhythm and completely fabricated—but he's unnervingly still while asleep, forgoing all the extra adjustments he normally makes to blend in and make the people around him more comfortable. tim sometimes checks his pulse just to be sure kon is fine. it's slow, but the ten-beats-per-minute he counts by placing a finger under kon's jaw is enough for tim to be sure kon is just resting.

the mattress springs creak and whine as tim stands, grabbing the blanket on either side. it's an exercise in futility; tim pulls—with all his might, mind you, but kon remains lodged in the corner above him. tim is faintly reminded of aerial silks when he lets his feet lift off the bed, holding himself midair with fabric wrapped around his elbows.

up this close, tim can more clearly see kon's arms dangling underneath the sheet.

when he drops back down to his feet, tim extends his own to find it again, pawing clumsily until his fingers brush what must be kon's wrist. a forceful tug does not get tim any closer to bringing kon down, but if tim is anything at all, he's a problem solver.

the next option—lacing their fingers together, and giving kon's hand a firm squeeze before tim pulls—brings him down a few inches. for a moment, tim stares at where their joined hands are hidden underneath the bedsheet, and gets on his toes to brush his lips against kon's knuckles.

he pulls again, and kon sinks another few inches. the scoff tim lets out is incredulous. you big baby.

another press of the lips against the knuckles, then the wrist. then the lower half of kon's bicep. with kon following tim's touches in his sleep, tim nudges his body until he's hovering just above his usual half of their bed, and finally uncovers kon's face.

you gigantic baby, tim thinks, brushing his fingers against kon's cheek. kon turns to it. "what are you dreaming about, you weirdo?"

kon leans into tim's cold fingers. he rolls his eyes before leaning down to leave a soft, lingering kiss against kon's lips.

and just like that—the mattress creases under kon's full weight. he still doesn't stir.

tim breathes a sigh of relief when he gets back under the blanket—his teeth stop chattering, and he tucks his legs further inward to leach off kon's body heat.

the fabric over them rustles again, the tiny adjustments tucking tim in more snugly as kon shifts closer, an arm sliding between tim's arm and ribs, sliding down to his lower back to settle—

"kon," tim says, because there's no way this fucker isn't awake, right? "that's my butt."

no response.

he sighs—kon is nearby, keeping the cold at bay, and he can feel himself sink rapidly back into sleep. interrogation tomorrow.

tim closes his eyes.

#timkon #my writing #dc #um. idk. have this thing i wrote on mobile in an hour

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vacantgodling · 6 months

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::::::::::::::::: CAGE ::::::::::::::::::

read the full fic on ao3!

CHAPTER 1. REDEMPTION

Sometime closer to dusk when the number of airplanes he could make out crossing the horizon was fewer and fewer, and the lights of Gibraltar’s closest neighboring city La Linea began to kiss the night with her bright lights, Lena came to find him.

Cassidy knew something was wrong by her approach; he barely knew it was her until she was standing right beside him. He always had trouble placing Lena’s footsteps; it was like listening to a dance. Usually he’d hear a step or two, then a smell of electricity indicating a blink forward, then a few more steps after that. He likened it to a horse making jumps and Lena giggled profusely the first time he mentioned it, making it a point to neigh at him whenever she went past—an inside joke between old friends. But hearing each muted step against the cold steel of the walkway he’d perched himself up on for the evening startled him out of his distracted haze, and a frown parked itself on his face before he could look up.

“Cole,” She said softly, and he turned his head, regarding her. She wasn’t wringing her hands, but she may as well have been; they fidgeted at her sides, and her attempts to look unperturbed were valiant. What got her shaken up? Or was it just nerves about how he’d take whatever news she had to bring? Whatever the case, she cleared her throat lightly, then continued.

“I’m not sure you were looking at your comm. But, we’re having a meeting now.” Cassidy shuffled around in his pocket for the communicator, that now that she mentioned it he did feel buzzing a few minutes ago, or was it hours? He always lost track of time up here.

“Shoot, I didn’t mean to keep y’all waiting.” He stood and the communicator tumbled from his pocket and down into the abyss of the inky black night below. With zero hesitation, Lena scrambled over the railing of the walkway and jumped, catching the comm before it hit the ground and rewinding herself in time back to standing next to him. She wiggled the communicator in her hand with a small smile.

“Wouldn’t want to lose that, would you?”

“Lena, you damn near gave me a heart attack!” Cassidy chuckled despite the fear that rabbitted his heart. That was something he had to get used to about being back here; people taking unnecessary risks for the sake of being a helping hand. He shook his head and pocketed the comm, resigning himself to his fate of being the only person with common sense around—perhaps the only one plus Angela. He could see how the light in the good doctor’s eyes had dimmed as of late, not the fault of anyone’s own, but due to the world around them, and the jade of age. Cassidy felt the same when he looked into the mirror and stared at his own demons after every restless night where sleep eluded him.

This morning, even, was no different. He didn’t remember falling asleep the night before, but he didn’t try. Remembering anything at all these days didn’t do anything but dredge up all the old demons that he drank to forget. He couldn’t even say he got a restful sleep, however, it was something, and certainly better than nothing at all. He sat up when the rapping he thought was just in his dream continued and bled into his slowly rising consciousness, and he ran a hand down his face, scratching idly at his bed-beard.

“Jee-sus I’m comin’! Give a man time to open his eyes!” He yelled at the door. The rapping thankfully stopped, but he could almost feel the person’s judgment seeping through the door by the time he managed to find a shirt and amble over to it.

“What, you tha wake up patrol?” He deadpanned, staring into the unnervingly awake face of Fareeha Amari. She gave him a smile, a knowing one that was all too similar to her mother’s for Cassidy’s sleep deprived brain for his liking. She promptly informed him that breakfast would be over in an hour, and he better get a move on if he wanted any of Reinhardt’s sausages. He’d joked with her lightly for a few more moments, before finally shutting the door behind her and letting out a sigh of relief to be alone in darkness once more.

In the present, he just smiled. Lena probably knew it was a bit forced.

“Lead on then, time cadet.” Lena giggled at his joke, but still didn’t blink as they made their way towards the conference room, and that worried him most of all.

A long wave of silence crashed over the meeting room once Winston finished his speech. The second Cassidy stepped in, it felt too close like one foot in the tomb everyone was so damn silent and no one was making eye contact. Said speech was a lot of words, and a lot of guff, but sufficient to say, what he was saying was—

“You mean to tell me,” Cassidy ground out first, his voice like daggers. “That you’re bringing a fucking kinslayer into our midst. And we’re just supposed ta what? Accept that?” The thunderclap of his accusation jolted the room, the tension palpable. For nothing better to say, Winston only coughed and adjusted his glasses, setting them back on his wide nose.

Surprising everyone—especially Cassidy—Genji was the one who answered. His voice was even, if strained, a hiss of synthetics on metal and the whole damn reason Cassidy was near shaking out of his skin with barely contained—if contained at all—rage. “I asked Hanzo to come. He—“

“You asked him?!” Cassidy leapt out of his seat, a full on growl on his lips and his expression twisted up into a sneer. “After what that sunuvabitch did to you?! You invited him to come here like it’s a fucking tea party for Chrissake?!”

“He is seeking redemption.” Genji said tersely. His hands clenched and unclenched on the table. Cassidy had no doubts that if the ninja was holding anything, he would’ve snapped it in half. “What better place than here?”

“Oh redemption.” Cassidy crooned mockingly. “He can have his little mosey with redemption so long as it ain’t within fifty fucking miles of ya! Who’s ta say he won’t finish the damn job?”

It spoke volumes that no one in the room told Cassidy to calm down, or to stop. Not a single person in the room said a damn word. If Genji tried to catch anyone’s eyes for support, for backup, they all turned their gazes away; downcast to the table or out of the windows. Even Winston didn’t really meet Genji’s face plate; but for the sake of his position, the gorilla took in a breath and tried. “Cassidy—“

“Don’t ya damn well tell me ta calm down Winston, ya know we’re all thinking it!” He felt like he was spitting coals down on an open fire and Genji was dancing on them. He hopped to his next foot, his next point.

“So you mean to tell me, that if Reyes showed up here today,” Genji’s synth was crawling with venom and agitation, and something violent seized in Cassidy’s chest so much that he wouldn’t be surprised if he had a stroke. “Asking to redeem himself that you yourself would push him away?”

“I’d shoot that sun’bitch myself.” Cassidy heaved, ragged, animalistic. “‘Cuz I ain’t that fucking deluded to put none of y’all in danger.”

“If you are so concerned about danger.” Genji spit. “Then the only one here who is in any sort of danger is me.”

“And why tha hell should we let ya—“

“I accept that danger willingly.” Genji’s synth finally grated on its edges; not dissimilar to how it used to whenever Cole got on his nerves back in Blackwatch, and hell, them spitting fire at one another like this was not an unusual sight back then. But Cassidy hadn’t yelled at Genji like this since the time the man almost got himself blown up on account of his own bitter, misguided pride—no, death wish, to go out in a blaze of unwarranted glory. Cassidy had grabbed Genji by his wires that day and shook him senseless, hollering at him until his voice went hoarse and he was near purple in the face.

They never argued again after that.

At least, not until now. And Cassidy swore himself then that he would never go back to how things were, yet it’d only been a month and he was shouting down his closest friend like he was a child with no sense. Hard to convince himself that he wasn’t.

“Well I’ll be tha first one ta tell ya, that one false move and I’m shootin’ the fucker.”

“Maybe that is why I have decided to bring him here.” Genji hissed. “So that if you are truly correct and he does still want me dead that I will not have to face him alone.”

More silence shuddered through the room, a whistling, eerie silence like wind in barren trees. Cassidy looked towards Angela, and her jaw was hard set and looking out towards the door. There was no way Genji got this cleared with her, he knew it. Maybe that was the source of the dark look in her eyes for the past few days. It was like Genji was taking all the sun and shine and joy they had begun to bring back to this old ruin and shut it out with rain.

Seeming to have nothing else to say, Genji left for the door. He didn’t bother to close it behind it, just left it hanging and forlorn. If Cassidy looked closer at the knob, he saw how tightly Genji had gripped it, so much so that the metal was bent.

None of them bothered to go after him.

Fareeha finally spoke up.

“I still think this is a rash decision.” Her voice was authoritative, and fierce; the wisdom of her mother shining in her eyes just like it had the morning before, like it had since he first saw her when he came to find her after the recall. “We cannot be sure where his loyalties lie. We’re a small enough team as it is; one traitor could break us.”

“I told Genji that this is a trial run.” Winston reluctantly said. Cassidy was still standing, itching for a smoke, a beer, to punch a good hole in the wall, hell, something. Anything to take the edge off of the coals of white hot anger burning underneath his skin. “You’re right Fareeha. We are a small team. We need all the help that we can get. We could be picky.” Winston paused for affect—or to collect himself. Cassidy couldn’t tell. “But if we don’t take a chance—“

“A chance!” Cole barked, a startled, disbelieving laugh.

“Cassidy.” Lena chided, gently. “Winston’s spent a lot of time thinking about this. Who knows?” She said softly. “Maybe he’ll be different than we thought…?”

“You don’t sound too sure o’ that neither.” But he did quiet down. He didn’t sit though. Winston went on to explain that Hanzo Shimada, Genji’s fucking murderer, would be arriving on base within the next 48 hours. He was currently en route; refusing to disclose how he would be making it to Gibraltar, just that he would. And that alone already set alarm sirens wailing in Cole’s mind but he bit down on his cigar so hard he broke the filter just to keep from making more of a scene. Winston told them all to be respectful. Not friendly; but respectful as you would be with a coworker since Hanzo was. Would be. Then, he dismissed them.

No one tried to follow after him when he stormed off. No one tried to reason with him. They knew that since the bull was riled up they’d have to give him time to cool. He’d cool off. He ain’t never been good at being professional so he reasoned with himself he would just avoid the elder Shimada—at least until he caught the bastard slipping. Then he’d off him, and fuck whatever Genji had to say about it.

He swore it on the rosary beads he kept stashed in the back of his nightstand. He wasn’t religious (never was and couldn’t be after all the hellfire and brimstone he’d been through), but they were all he had left of his mama and he swore on them when just a promise wasn’t strong enough.

He wasn’t going to lose anyone else to something he could prevent.

Never again.

#ff: cage #ren writing #overwatch #yeehan #cole cassidy #hanzo shimada #fanfiction #overwatch 2 #canon divergent #sorry there ain’t much in the way of worldbuilding for the uninitiated but even if you give this a peruse thanks

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goayda · 2 months

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Not My Place to Say - Part 2

Second part of a Stizzy fic. First part can be found here I think:

(As usual, set some time after 2x07, Ed is happy being a fisherman somewhere and there was no Zheng fight and no Prince Ricky attack. As usual too, no warnings needed.)

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When Izzy got to the Revenge he found most of the crew still sleeping on deck, curled up together as usual. The surprising part was finding Bonnet already awake at the helm. He was looking at the horizon, but still Izzy could notice the tense stance and the frown on his face.

“Captain,” Izzy greeted him and only then Bonnet turned slowly to look at him, as if he hadn’t heard his footsteps as Izzy had boarded the ship.

“What? Oh, Izzy, you’re back,” Bonnet said with an affected disinterest.

“Everything all right, Captain?” Izzy asked, confused by the man’s attitude.

“Yes, of course,” Bonnet replied nonchalantly. “I was simply waiting for the men to take over the morning watch, nothing else, so Mr… Boodhari, it is your watch, isn’t it?” he asked to the pile of sleeping crewmates.

“Yes, yes, I’m up…” Oluwande slurred as he was kicked unceremoniously by Jim.

He sleepily stood up and headed towards the helm as Bonnet walked down to his cabin with a frown on his face and his lips closed in a tight, unhappy grimace.

The moment Bonnet closed the door behind him, the crew let out a chorus of groans.

“Finally,” Jim grumbled.

“Now the Captain can stop sulking and let us sleep,” Wee John agreed as he turned around to find a more comfortable position.

“What happened to the Captain?” Izzy asked bewildered.

“He was upset and kept pacing the deck for hours,” Frenchie replied sleepily. “There’s no way to sleep like that…”

“I thought we agreed he was jealous, not upset,” Archie objected from under a blanket.

“He was upset because he was jealous, you know, of-,” Fang tried to explain.

“Guys! We talked about this, let them figure things out themselves,” Lucius cut them immediately.

“Enough!” Jim growled. “It’s taking them ages, Lucius! You either tell him and they let us sleep or I’ll start stabbing people!”

“All right, all right, jesus,” Lucius said as he disentangled himself from a surprisingly still snoring Pete.

The young man wrapped himself up in a blanket and walked slowly towards Izzy with a big smile.

“Heeey, Izzy,” he started with an unnervingly soft tone. “Why don’t we go to the galley and grab something for breakfast?”

Izzy felt the urge to punch him just on principle because of the condescending tone, but he had the feeling the young man could explain what the hell was going on so he restrained himself and followed him quietly.

A bleary-eyes Roach was just finishing making some tea for Bonnet and he put the kettle and some pastries on a tray for them.

“We’ll bring this to the Captain, thank you, Roach,” Lucius said as Izzy took the tray and Roach barely grunted a thank you before disappearing under the table, already half asleep.

They walked slowly towards the captain cabin and Lucius started talking right away.

“Ahem, well, I’ve always thought people should have time to think about their feelings and that way get a more deep understanding-“

“For fuck’s sake, Spriggs, to the point!” Izzy growled. “What’s up with Bonnet?”

Lucius sighed dramatically and tried again.

“The Captain got upset when he saw you leaving with the hot blonde guy…” Lucius paused as if waiting for Izzy to have an epiphany, but when Izzy only stared at him blankly, he rolled his eyes and added “He was jealous, Izzy. Jealous, all right?”

“Was Bonnet interested in him?” Izzy asked hesitantly, still refusing to acknowledge the other obvious possibility.

“Oh, jesus fuckin-“ Lucius cursed loudly. “The Captain has been up the whole night waiting for you to come back! What do you think?”

Izzy tried to come up with something to say, but they had already reached the door to the captain’s cabin and Lucius turned around to leave.

“Before you go in, though, I have to ask you something,” the young man added. “Why did you pick that guy? Did he remind you of someone, by any chance?”

“Don’t be absurd, Spriggs,” Izzy replied too quickly. “He was just… a guy.”

“Are you sure about that?” Lucius said looking seriously at him. “You’re not stupid, Izzy. Just… think about it, ok?”

Then Lucius winked at him and walked away and Izzy found himself taking a deep breath before knocking on the door. After a few moments, Bonnet himself opened it and he stared at Izzy with a surprised expression on his face.

Izzy looked at him and noticed his silken shirt, his colorful jacket and the blonde hair framing the, yes, the stupidly handsome face and he finally had an epiphany.

“Oh, fuck,” Izzy muttered to himself.

(more to come soon)

#izzy hands #stede bonnet #ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd #stizzy #gentlehands #fanfic #they are both so dumb #but I love them your honor #and they love each other very much #they just can't see it yet #(they will get there eventually)#ofmd fic

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vittoriaisfuckingpathetic · 5 months

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take my hand (don't fear the reaper) chapter II

rated M | read it on ao3 | prev chapter | next chapter

John reflects on his tumultuous relationship with Dutch, his interpersonal relationships, and fatherhood in general leading up to the final train robbery.

The morning everything fell apart, the atmosphere in camp was tense.

Of course, this was no different than it had been the gang’s entire stay at Beaver Hollow. Everyone was uncomfortable, and moreover, everyone was greatly aware of how dire the situation was.

The gang was fracturing into pieces; they all knew it, but nobody dared to say a word — leaving things to be, put simply, dicey.

Dutch always kept himself situated at his tent by the mouth of the cave. Always watching. Always paranoid.

“What’re you doin’, Johnny boy?”

“Went for a piss, now I’m gettin’ a smoke,” John replied defensively. He had always prickled against being questioned, but especially by Dutch (even moreso as of late). “That okay?” he snarked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“It’s quite late,” Dutch replied, sounding almost bored. Making John wonder what the man’s angle was.

“And yet here you are awake, too,” John replied venemously. Dutch rarely slept, especially when he’d go through one of his ‘phases’, as Hosea had once called it. There were periods when Dutch would be very high-energy, coming up with wild (even by Dutch’s usual standard), unrealistic ideas, and sleeping even less than usual.

The elder man clicked his tongue. “Enough of the attitude, John. I raised you better than that.” Even after all of these years, Dutch could still make him squirm with just a look.

“There somethin’ you needin’ from me?” John asked, knowing fully well that there was no such thing as having a civil conversation with Dutch. Not anymore, anyway. It was easier to just get it over with than play along with the man’s inane mind games.

“Not at all. Have a good night,” Dutch smiled affably. “...After all, I’m sure you need to get back to conspiring against me with Abigail ‘n Arthur,” he added, his voice unnervingly calm. “You know, if you needed a smoke, you could’ve just asked me. I always have a pack somewhere in my tent.”

John swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling extremely dry. “I… I wasn’t—” he wasn’t even aware Dutch had seen them talking. Or had been close enough to hear some of their conversation. How much had he heard? Had Dutch even heard any of it, or had he just seen him smoking?

Fuck.

Dutch had simply chuckled humorlessly. “You’re still a terrible liar, John. Thought I raised you better than that, too.”

John had barely slept a wink all night. When he had gotten back to the tent, he laid on the bedroll (not wanting to wake up Abigail and Jack, who looked perfectly cozy on his cot) and stared at the tent’s ceiling for hours.

What felt like almost as soon as he had fallen asleep, Jack was in John’s face, having sat himself on his father’s chest, prattling on excitedly.

The four-year-old was clearly more energetic than his lethargic parents had been in years. “G’morning, Pa! Why’d you sleep on the floor? I was actually on the floor, but then I got cold. When did you get on the floor?” Jack spoke at a rapid-fire pace that John’s tired brain could hardly keep up with.

It wasn’t Jack’s fault. John had never been a morning person.

“I… just give me a second, okay? And try to be a little quieter or you’ll wake your ma.”

“Don’t bother. I’m already up,” Abigail sighed, swinging her legs over the cot.

The family got dressed in silence, the tent feeling so much smaller with three people up and about, getting ready for their day.

And yet, something about the sheer normalcy of it, of behaving like a normal family, was comforting. The only peace John got during the day were these quiet moments just as the sun was bathing the Earth in a golden glow.

“Can I go bring my drawing over to Aunt Tilly?” Jack asked urgently, practically dancing in place as he awaited an answer. The boy had scribbled something for Tilly the prior evening, but he’d been too tuckered out by the time he finished to deliver it.

Hence his urgency that morning. A part of John was almost envious in a way — he wished his biggest problems were about paper.

“Sure,” John answered at the same time Abigail replied, “Only if you put your shoes on first,”

The little boy shoved his feet into his boots, not bothering to ask for help tying his shoes. The laces went ignored as Jack raced outside. He left one of the flaps open, morning sunshine pouring inside the tent.

Abigail was quiet for a moment, observing John.

“Hey,” Abigail greeted, placing her palm on his back.

“Hey,” he parroted back after making sure his suspender button was secured to his pants. Now officially dressed and ready to face whatever shitshow would greet him outside the tent.

“You okay?” she questioned.

John merely shrugged in response, uncertain as to how to answer.

“Somethin’ happen last night?” She asked, astute as ever.

“Sort of. Dutch was bein’ creepy. Think he’s onto us.”

“Creepy how?” Abigail pressed.

“I don’t— I dunno.” He shrugged again, having difficulty finding the right words. “He was threatenin’ me, I think. I guess. I dunno.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“I— he basically said what I just told you.”

She crossed her arms, “Why’re you bein’ like this?”

“I ain’t ‘being like’ anythin’.” He responded somewhat defensively.

“ Fine .” She huffed, turning on her heel.

“I— Abi, wait, come back,” He grabbed her by the wrist, a risky move (one that could’ve easily gotten him slapped). “I weren’t tryin’ to be short with you, I just…” he sighed.

She raised an eyebrow, silently urging him to continue.

“You know I ain’t no good with words. ‘Specially when I feel like…” he trailed off, gesturing helplessly with his free hand. It was difficult for him to verbalize his feelings, and it had always been like that. It was easier to internalize those negative thoughts and emotions than open up.

It was Abigail’s turn to sigh and nod. “Okay. Okay. Is this somethin’ that’s needin’ to be dealt with now? Do we have to move up our plans?” She asked, leaving out most details in case of prying ears nearby.

“I don’t know if it changes anythin’. Dutch has been treatin’ us all suspicious-like ever since Shady Belle.”

Abigail pursed her lips. “Maybe, but it feels more… pressin’, now.”

“Agreed. Look, I’ll talk to Arthur 'n see if he has any ideas.” It was the only solution he really had, even though he knew he should have some sort of plan B in place. Hell, plan A was barely set in stone.

Abigail looked as though she was about to say something else, but she stopped herself. Shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Listen, I’m gonna go get some coffee… maybe you could go talk to Jack? See how he’s doin’? He was cryin’ the other day and he didn’t know why.”

John nodded. “I’ll… I’ll see what I can do. Dunno if he’ll wanna open up to me,” he replied self-deprecatingly.

“You won’t know if you don’t try,” Abigail responded. She let go of his hand and left the tent, giving him one last look.

It was different than the usual looks she threw at him. Softer.

After a somewhat unsatisfying breakfast of canned beans, the first thing John was greeted with upon leaving his tent was Miss Grimshaw. Her voice was a little too loud for that time in the morning. “Mister Marston!”

“Mornin’, Miss Grimshaw,” John greeted, tipping the brim of his hat.

“Did you know Mister Pearson up and left?” Susan asked, incredulous.

“I did not.” John lied, avoiding her shrewd gaze, fully aware she could see right through him. She always had been able to sniff out when he was lying.

“ And, do you know what he told me? He told me I should get out, too, and ‘save myself’.” she said, using air quotes.

He hummed, unsure what exactly to say in response. He didn’t want to oust himself as being the one who saw Pearson off and made no attempt to stop him.

“Well,” he finally said, outstretching his arms. “I can’t say I’m too surprised. Folk been cuttin’ and runnin’ left and right.” John was careful to keep his stance diplomatic, trying to gauge Susan’s reaction.

Grimshaw crossed her arms. “I don’t understand it,”

“Yeah,” John replied somewhat uncomfortably. It seemed to effectively kill the conversation, and Susan walked away.

He sighed for what felt like the millionth time that day, and decided to finally find Jack.

“How are you, Jack?” John asked, sitting next to him.

“Fine,” the little boy answered breezily, continuing to play with his toy horse. “D’you wanna play with me? You gotta pretend this rock is another horse, ‘kay?” Jack chattered excitedly, placing said rock in John’s palm.

John examined the stone in his palm with a furrowed brow. He didn’t quite understand how it was supposed to be a horse or look horse shaped in any remote way, but he supposed he just didn’t have the level of imagination that his four-year-old had.

Then again, John had never been particularly imaginative. He never quite had the freedom to just play when he was little.

“Just fine? You don’t want to… talk about anything?”

“Like what?”

Slightly alarmed by his son’s seemingly remarkable ability to compartmentalize at such a young age, John tried to approach the subject gently. “I dunno. You’ve been through a lot lately.”

“D’you wanna talk about horses? When I grow up, I want one jus’ like Grandpa Hosea’s.” With his toy horse, he nudged John’s rock which was supposed to be another “horse”. “When’s he comin’ back?”

It then occurred to John that he didn’t really know what Abigail had told the boy had happened with the botched bank robbery. After all, he’d been in prison. “I wish I knew, Jack. I wish I knew.” It was simpler than explaining the intricacies of death to a four-year-old, even if Jack had already been around far too much death.

Perhaps it was more that John didn’t want to verbally acknowledge Hosea’s death. He’d seen it with his own eyes, had lived it, but it still didn’t feel real.

“I miss him,”

He sighed deeply. “Me too. I miss him a lot.” In an effort to not dwell on his own feelings that he hadn’t quite sorted regarding Hosea, he decided to change the subject. “So, how do you play?”

“We’re playing horses, and they’re gonna race,” Jack explained as if it was clear as day.

John nodded, pretending to fully understand. “Right, and then what?”

Jack blinked at him. “What d’you mean? We’re s’posda race. It’s easy, you jus’ gotta pretend.”

“But I gotta rock, and you got an actual horse. Rocks ain’t got legs.”

Jack sighed dramatically. “You’re s’posed to pretend it’s a horse.”

He was either stupid, or slow, and he couldn’t decide which. “I know, but—”

Dutch interrupted John, stomping angrily toward the pair. “You think I don’t know what you’re sayin’ to people?!”

“Jack, go find your ma,” John said, ushering the little boy in the direction of the tents. He sighed deeply. “What’re you hollerin’ at me for now, Dutch? Especially in front of my kid?”

“Oh, please, don’t you start with that doting father act now. It ain’t foolin’ no one, especially me.” Dutch stepped closer. “I know you, John. I know what you are .”

He tried to ignore the chill that went down his spine. “You’re talkin’ crazy again, Dutch. I just don’t know why we’re doin’ any of this.”

“Why? Why ?” Dutch asked incredulously. “Because I say so! I am done explaining myself to you.” he turned his heel to leave, but almost as if being puffed up with a new air of anger, he stopped himself. “You wanna be the general? You don’t have the grit!” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth.

Did Dutch really have the nerve to call getting them all hunted down and killed grit ? Surely the man was missing a few screws. He stepped backward in an attempt to get more personal space. “Grit? That what you call this?”

“How did the Pinkertons know about the bank job in Saint Denis, John? You wanna tell me that?!” Dutch demanded, his voice cracking as it did when he was well and truly angry.

John had really been becoming tired of being accused of being the rat; especially when he had given Dutch nothing but (lately unearned) loyalty the last thirteen years of his life. It was past the point of hurting, instead, it just made him angry. From John’s perspective, Dutch was truly past the point of delusional. There was no use arguing back or screaming, the way Dutch was.

“If you really think that, you are gone in the head.”

“I raised you as a son! You goddamn snake !” Dutch yelled, his words echoing throughout the camp. He stormed off to the mouth of the cave, still yelling nonsensically.

John tossed the rock he was still holding (for some reason) onto the ground with a scoff. Dutch and his delusions were getting more elaborate and dangerous as the days went on.

He needed to get his family out, and fast.

The rest of the morning dragged on slowly. The simmering tension in the camp continued to build.

John had been leaning against a tree for the better part of an hour, nursing a cigarette or two. He was still stewing from his earlier argument with Dutch.

Besides, he needed time alone to think. If there was one good thing to be said about the overarching strain in the camp, it was the fact that people were keeping to themselves more.

And in this case, it was good. John always processed his thoughts better when people weren’t pestering him.

He took a slow, contemplative drag of his cigarette, hoping it would clear his mind.

He turned his gaze to Dutch’s tent. The man was standing close to Micah, the two in deep conversation.

It was always fucking Micah. Always in Dutch’s ear, making the man even more paranoid.

His train of thought was interrupted by Arthur passing by.

“How you holdin’ up?” John asked, even if he knew that there probably wasn't a comforting answer awaiting him.

“Been better,” Arthur said simply.

“We ain’t always seen eye-to-eye, you and me.” John started, opening the conversation up for more. There was so much he wanted to say to the man.

“I guess I thought that… things always came too easy to you.” He shrugged. “But, here we are.”

“What are we going to do about this? About Dutch?”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “Maybe we can stop things from going too far.”

John glanced over his shoulder, where Micah, Joe, and Cleet sat at the table just outside of Dutch’s tent. “Still. Things’re gonna end bad.” he stated. It wasn’t a question of if, it was a statement of when.

“They surely will,” Arthur answered, sounding resigned to that fate.

There was a pregnant pause where neither of them said a word.

“You watch yourself.” John finally said, mentally scolding himself for not saying more. He walked away, unsure how to keep the conversation going with prying ears nearby.

“I’ll catch you later, then,”

“Javier,” John greeted, sitting down at the campfire. The autumnal chill in the air was growing more apparent with every passing day.

In response, Javier merely grunted, rolling his eyes.

“Why you acting like this? I thought we had to stick together?”

“Oh, I am. We are… loyalty. It’s you.” Javier sniffed. He’d been acting real odd ever since John had gotten back from Sisika, but John couldn’t figure out exactly why.

“Me? You saved me once… more than once.” he briefly faltered. “I’ve saved you… now what?”

“I’m sticking to my family,” Javier said as if it was so simple, and then he went back to sharpening his knife.

“These people ain’t your family… who are they?”

He holstered his knife. “You know what? You’re an arrogant son of a bitch, John.”

“No.” John looked down, gaze focused on the campfire. Maybe Javier’s accusation was correct in the past, but not now. “I won’t let my child die because of Dutch… I can’t. This is gettin’ crazy, and you know it.”

Javier scoffed, getting up from his chair. “Get your head straight, John.” he spat. And that was that. John didn’t acknowledge anyone else when they came to sit down at the fire, preferring to stew in his own thoughts.

It was ironic that he was sitting next to people he barely trusted anymore. Mere months ago, he would’ve trusted anyone in camp (sans Micah) with his life.

But now?

“We have work to do, my friends, let’s go. Come on, we are gonna borrow a little money from Old Uncle Sam…” Dutch had that crazed look in his eye yet again. “And be out of his hair, once and for all.”

He always said things like that. But he never meant them. Who was to say that the train job be any different?

Still, as the gang mounted up, John let himself foolishly hope.

A little bit of hope couldn’t hurt, he supposed.

Abigail caught up to him just before he was about to get Old Boy moving.

“John,” she said, coming up to the horse’s left side. “I…” She was worried, that much was clear, and he didn’t blame her.

He was worried, too. In fact, he couldn't recall a time in recent memory when he wasn't worried.

He reached down and grasped her hand, squeezing it gently. “It‘s one last job, Abigail. It’ll be easy. One more job and then I’m — then we’re done,” he wondered if his words sounded as empty to her as they did to him.

There was always one more job. One more score. It was never truly over.

“Do you really believe that?”

“...No,” He admitted with a shake of his head. “I’ll be back before you can say ‘spaghetti’.”

Abigail let go of his hand reluctantly, saying nothing else. John spurred Old Boy up into a canter to catch up to the others.

a/n: i feel like this chapter might not be the best it can be but i was determined to get it out the day i posted it to ao3. i hope you guys understand and i promise i’ll be at the top of my game next update.

#red dead redemption fanfic #rdr fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr #johnigail #john marston x abigail roberts #john marston #abigail roberts #arthur morgan #john marston fanfic #jack marston #rdr fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfiction #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #vittoria.doc #take my hand (don't fear the reaper)

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fawnandshadows · 1 year

Text

How You Get The Girl

Chapter 12

Chapter 11

AO3

Warnings: Language

“Do they give you any jewelry to keep?” Mor asked excitedly, her brown eyes taking in her surroundings excitedly.

It was really the first time Mor was on her detail since they’ve been back from the tour, and her approach was vastly different from Lucien’s. Lucien was more stand-quietly and observe — glowering at anyone who approached her, and Mor was as friendly as could be. Always making conversation with Elain and disarming anyone that approached them with a smile, but Elain knew what Mor was capable of. She was just as lethal as any other bodyguard, and a threat at ease was easier to neutralize.

“Sometimes,” Elain said, careful not to move her lips as her makeup artist applied her lipstick with a brush. “As a gift.”

Mor nodded as if understanding Elain perfectly.

It was a closed set, and security had already vetted everyone prior to the shoot, but by the way Mor kept looking around Elain could tell she was amping up her excitement to hide the way she surveyed her surroundings. Nothing had ever happened on set before, but Elain still appreciated the effort.

Mor made conversation with the girl applying Elain’s makeup, and Elain stared straight ahead in the mirror. Her silk robe covering the champagne slip dress she was wearing and her hair was done in romantic, voluptuous curls that were coated in layers upon layers of hairspray but still managed to have bounce and movement. And her makeup was light, natural, ethereal.

She was so happy — Elain hated the more avant garde looks that so many favored. And some models looked great with them, but they looked so jarring on her.

“Just about done,” Her make-up artist said, applying one last swipe of the rosy colored lipstick. “And there! Perfection, you’re good to go.”

People started swarming her, taking her robe and talking to her all at one. Elain simply nodded along, not absorbing a single word they said, and let herself be guided to the set.

“Darling!” Elain heard the director's voice call out to her, accompanied by the rapid clicking of heels. “You’re even more stunning than usual.”

Elain turned to see the blonde head of Aelin heading her way and let a smile form on her face.

“It’s great to see you, Aelin,” Elain held out her hands and the pair gave each other air kisses on the cheek. “How was Venice?”

“Everytime I’m there I wonder why the fuck I’m living in the states,” Aelin shrugged dramatically. “And then I remember that people like you are here and I have bills to pay.”

“One day we can do a shoot in Italy. Maybe along the riviera?” Elain leaned in conspiratorially.

“Don’t tease me,” Aelin squeezed her hands. “But I do have some exciting news. Word on the street is that Cartier is looking for a new brand ambassador, so if this goes well…” She trailed off, waggling her eyebrows slightly. “And I may or may not, but definitely did, have thought of something absolutely brilliant for today’s shoot and called in reinforcements.”

“Reinforcements? That’s how you refer to me?” A deep, amused voice interrupted them.

She watched as Aelin rolled her bright blue eyes and took a step away, exposing a body Elain had only seen on magazines and television.

“Fenrys,” Elain said gently, giving him a friendly smile. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

He flashed an unnervingly sensual smile at her.

“So you’ve heard of me.”

— —

“Did you know he was going to be there?” Elain asked, settling into the passenger seat as Mor started the car.

“No fucking clue,” Mor huffed, furrowing her brows. “I can’t believe Aelin would do this to us, after all the times you’ve worked with her.”

Elain sighed, “Yeah, I’ll tell her not to do it again, even though she already knows. But how do you think the pictures will turn out?”

Mor gave her a mischievous look before pulling out.

“You’re two of the hottest people on the planet, even if Fenrys gives me the ick, and you were drowning in fine jewelry while looking hopelessly devoted to each other. It’s a guaranteed success. Beauty. Sex. Romance. And Diamonds.”

“Sex?” Elain squealed, her cheeks blushing, especially since Mor caught Azriel’s head between her thighs just a few days ago. “In what world? We held hands and looked into each others eyes.”

“Eye-fucking is a thing,” Mor replied. “And you should know. You and Azriel do it all the damn time.” Her tone was carefully neutral, but Elain was smart enough to recognize it as a trap.

“Azriel’s hot,” Elain said simply, her fingers digging into her leather seat. “I’m sure lots of people eye-fuck him. And I’m sure security knows exactly how people objectify me,” Elain’s face screwed as she thought of all the disturbing letters she’s gotten over the years, and she didn’t envy security for having to dig through all of them. “So I can only imagine that people eye-fuck me when they see me”

“Please,” Mor said incredulously and flipped her blonde curls over her shoulder. “First of all, I saw the vigor with which he ate you out,” She quickly glanced at Elain with a scolding look. “Second of all, even after you promised me it was a one time thing, every time you are in the same room together it looks like you’re one second away from ripping each other's clothes off and going at it like animals. Fuck,” Mor slapped her hands against the steering wheel. “All I did was make it hotter for you. Everyone knows that forbidden sex is the hottest sex.”

Elain couldn’t help the amusement dancing on her lips and causing them to upturn.

“Nothing has happened.” Elain reassured her.

And it was the truth.

There was copious amounts of texting, and if it was anyone else, then Elain would have been freaking out thinking that she was bothering them. The filter between her brain and fingers seemed nonexistent because she couldn’t resist texting Azriel every little thought that popped into her mind, but he always responded in a way that was thoughtful. Like he cared about what she was thinking. And he texted her as often as he could. Whenever he was quiet for an extended amount of time Elain knew he was on duty.

It was absurdly nice, having someone to talk to. To look at her phone with anticipation and have a little zip of lightning flutter through her when she sees his name on her screen.

It was just so nice.

Having something to look forward to. And having that something be Azriel…well…oxygen felt thinner when she thought about that for too long.

And their flirting had become significantly tamer. Neither of them brought up the fact that Azriel went down on her, or that Elain told him she wanted to see his dick, piercing and all.

“Yet,” Mor said, casting her one more look. “Nothing else has happened yet. And you’re lucky I found him and not Rhys.”

Elain sighed.

“Cassian wouldn’t have cared if he walked in on us.” Elain said, crossing her arms and noting that Mor turned into their street.

An amused choke lodged in Mor’s throat.

“Cassian would have asked to join in.”

“That’s not true,” Elain said as Mor entered their parking garage. “He’s hung up on Nesta.”

Mor tilted her head in agreement.

“True,” She said, finding their assigned spot. “But the three of them all shared in the past.”

“Excuse me?” Elain asked, blinking as she stared at Mor, feeling like she had just been struck by thunder. And not in a good way.

Mor stilled for a second before turning the car off and pivoting to Elain.

“Cassian, Azriel, and Rhysand,” Mor said carefully, her face cringing at the thought. “Believe me I wish I didn’t know, and as soon as Feyre and Rhysand got together my cousin never even looked at another woman. Um, I can’t say the same for Cassian and Azriel though.”

Elain stared at her bodyguard.

“And Azriel and Cassian, do they — do they still — share?”

“Every once in a while, but nothing recently. I think. I try to ignore their bedroom habits, honestly, but it’s a bit hard since we all live together.”

Elain nodded.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Mor agreed, taking a deep breath. “Don’t get me wrong, Azriel could totally do the long-term, monogamous thing with the right girl. But he comes with a hefty amount of baggage.”

“So do I.” Elain said, gripping her seat.

“It’s not the same, sweetie,” Mor looked at her, tilting her head in sympathy. “And Azriel is the type of guy to choose the woman he loves over the woman he’s supposed to protect, and that would kill him because he loves Feyre. You don’t want that for him, do you? Look, I already promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, and even if you guys do choose to be together I want you to know what you’re agreeing to. And we haven’t even touched on his family yet,” Mor cut herself off with a deep breath. “Look, Azriel will love you and love you good, but if you guys are together, then I don’t want to know about it.”

Elain just gave a small nod in response.

Mor shook her head, as if erasing the last few minutes from existence and smiled.

“Now, are you ready for family movie night?”

-------

tagging: @123moiaussi @fuckmelifesucks @thefangirlofhp@sakurakittypeach @nikethestatue @tswaney17 @impossiblescissorspeachpaper @feyredarlinq@duskwhisperer @nyxreads @rinadragomir @secretpuppyflower@captainbrucebanner @ultadverb @irisesforelain @shedoessoshedoes @magnolia-blossom87 @sheenabeene @nivem565 @casuallivi @rhysiedarling@elain99-blog @athena-85 @swankii-art-teacher @reverie-tales @jujugirlfrombookstore @shadowflorecita@shy-violet-soul @thisloveseternal

#elriel #elain x azriel #elain archeron #pro elriel #azriel #elriel fanfiction #elriel fanfic #fawnandshadows writing

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foxofsunholt · 1 year

Note

If it isn't inappropriate for me to ask how would the RO's react to the MC getting hurt because of something the RO's did?

Not inappropriate at all! I think I’ve answered something like this before but anyway, I’ll DO IT AGAIN. This is with the scenario that the RO did something reckless in the heat of battle that caused the MC to be so injured, they’ve lost consciousness. Also this is all of the ROs pre-time skip and pre-confession to the MC.

ADELAIDE — Silence spreads across the barren field as plumes of dust rise from the now-still bodies of monsters. Adelaide’s eyes are transfixed on you; on the blood pooling at the base of your skull and your closed eyes, deceptively peaceful. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think you were just asleep. But she does. Her sword falls to the ground, summoning another cloud of dust as she rushes to you, falling to her knees. “No, no, no,” she repeats over and over again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says this too, but gains no response. She cries and Camille rushes in, knowing that healing magic isn’t her forte but she is the only one capable of it. Adelaide scoops you into her arms. The verdict comes through: you’re alive but you’re not okay. Adelaide stays by your side as you heal; she orders the team to stop in the nearest town, she gets doctors (the best), a room for you (the biggest one) and she sleeps in the chair by your bed. She rests her head against your chest sometimes, sobbing softly every time she hears a beat that comes too late. She holds your hand. She whispers her apologies in-between cries. She stops eating. Her quivering hands refuse to touch another blade.

When you wake, you find a woman with messy hair and sunken cheeks. She stares at you with tired green eyes. Wordlessly, she stumbles into your arms and sobs. The apologies come again but this time they are met with your comfort. On a quest to save the world, there is little time to stop for therapy, of all things. But there is a dangerous reluctance whenever Adelaide wields her sword again. Mars feels for her; he explains to you that Adelaide has never really been in combat, not with real people at least. Adelaide realizes she’s not fit to lead a war, she’s far from ready to change anything. You seek her out; you notice this change and want to do your part in helping her through it, but she won’t speak about what happened. She’ll talk about the birds, the sky, how lovely you’re looking and how nicely you’ve healed.

“It’ll just leave a tiny scar!” She tells you about the wound on your head. “Isn’t that great? It’s like your body is moving on.” But she is not. You try again and her hand snaps up, tracing your wound. Then it reaches down, cupping your face. “Being gentle means you can’t fight,” she says softly, “that’s what Mars’s father is always telling him. Usually they argue about it. It’s so loud I can hear it from my window.” She laughs, but there’s no humour to her words. “He’s not wrong though, is he?” Her hand falls away. “What kind of person hurts someone they care about?” You try to tell her it was an accident but you watch as her fingers knead at the scar across her neck and you feel that there’s more she isn’t saying.

The mission halts again at another town and Adelaide goes off. When she returns, there’s a dullness in her eyes and cruelty in her swings. She doesn’t hesitate anymore.

CAMILLE — The forest flickers with flames; branches snap and crackle and trees groan with the effort it takes not to collapse. You are on the floor, pinned under a trunk, the last thing you see are the birds flying away in flocks. Camille stares, her face is expressionless. Her steps are steady and careful as she comes to your side; her fingers are clinical as they check your pulse. Alive, she deduces. The rest of the prognosis comes through with the help of magic. The team scream at her; they have to leave! The fire will consume them! They haven’t noticed you yet. Camille remains still, unnervingly calm. Her ceremonial knife pops free from where she keeps it strapped to her waist. She slashes across her palm, blood magic bubbling inside of her. The trunk comes up and then you, carried in the air by dark magic tethered to Camille. She emerges from the fiery brush, blood dripping from her palm. Silence falls over the others, magic is one thing, blood magic is another. Yet, no one can point a finger of accusation against her, not with you hovering in the air.

Adelaide orders a stop in the nearest city. You get a room and a fancy doctor and Camille’s presence by your door, not that you’re aware of any of it. She watches you from a distance, only coming closer to check your pulse and verify the readings from the doctor. When you wake, you nearly scream, finding a set of yellow eyes staring at you from the darkness. They quickly vanish and you’re alone. Days pass, Camille says nothing to you as the rest of the team fuses over your well-being whilst also ignoring her. Something has happened, you can tell, but no one will speak on what. As usual, it’s up to you to seek Camille out and you find her easily enough, in her usual spot out in some glade. You have figured that she had accidentally hurt you in the crossfire of a spell, and you wanted to tell her that it was okay. She says nothing for a moment but as you go on, she snaps. She turns around to face you and finally you see sunken eyes and her skin turned dull. You notice the knots in her hair and the lack of the makeup she carefully magics on to her face every morning.

“Okay?!” She hisses as she repeats you, your words are like venom on her tongue. “What kind of a Sorcerer can not control their power? Who do you think I am?” No answer you give is satisfactory. She storms past you. “It will not happen again,” she says, then she turns to face you and a softness sits in her tired eyes. “I am sorry,” she mumbles, “I think I might be…” She closes her eyes. “Do you know what it would be like to let all that power free?” They open again. “What if I just…” her hand reaches across, softly, gently, she holds your throat in her bandaged palm. Then she squeezes, not enough to hurt but enough for you to feel your muscles tense under her. Her hand falls away, trailing down your arm. “I think I might have liked it.”

For the first time since you have known her, there is fear in her eyes.

FAITH — An arrow gone the wrong way. It’s not uncommon; in the heat of battle, archers have it the worst trying to aim around their constantly moving front-line fighters. But Faith isn’t the sort of archer who sits up in a tree and waits. She’s there too, by your side, dancing around and letting arrows from her crossbow go free at close range. She’s flashy. This time, she’s done too much. At first, you don’t feel it. What you see is Faith’s eyes grow wide, her crossbow clatter to the ground and crack against the stonework below, and then your own body seemingly turned to liquid as it refuses to stay up right. You fall into her ready arms and try to speak. This is all you remember. Faith remembers a lot more.

It was her arrow. She watches as your eyes close and she shakes you, trying to get you to wake up — you make never do it again if you go to sleep now. She cries out in the middle of battle, swords still clinking behind her. The team rallies together, they abandon the fight to get you to safety. It’s a patchwork job in some alley, Camille casts magic she’s not really skilled at and Faith uses her years of living on the edge of life to put you back together. There’s still a piece of wood lodged in you when they’re done, but it’s better than nothing and you are, thankfully, alive. They take you back to the inn you’re all staying at and Adelaide hires the best doctor around. Faith paces up and down your room. She’s bit down her nails into bloody, jagged edges and she’s replaced breakfast, lunch and dinner with beer, wine and whiskey. There’s nothing to do but wait, and Faith has never been patient. She doesn’t want to go too far. But she can’t stay too close. Most days, she stands outside your room with her hand frozen above the door knob. Sometimes she’s at your window, watching. She thinks you’d probably call her a creep if you could and desperately she wishes you would. When you wake, you find her asleep on your floor, having worn herself into sleep with all of her pacing. She bounces to her feet at the smallest sound of your voice.

“Thank the seven,” she mumbles. In another moment, she’s got you in her arms. She reeks of bad liquor and you smell like someone who’s been in bed for days. Neither of you care. “I’m so sorry,” she pulls away, cupping your face. “I’m so sorry.” She cries, you feel your own eyes get wet. It’s okay, you tell her. She kisses your forehead and then down your cheeks and across your shoulder. Her head lingers there, pressed into your skin. “I don’t know what I would have done if…” she doesn’t finish the thought. She pulls her head back, intoxicated with relief. Her eyes dart to your lips and she bites down on hers as she pulls away, straightening out her ruffled clothing.

“Next round of mead we get is on me,” she smilles, “maybe for the rest of my life; it’s all on me.” She smiles even wider. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” You nod.

But you never do. In fact, you never see her again.

MARS — Mars has hurt people before; good people, bad people, people he didn’t know, people he was told to hurt. He’s a knight, his duty is violence puppeteered by his King. He has fought on streets. He has battled in fields and through uneven terrain. He has not fought in the snow before. His heavy boots struggle to find balance over the icy ground. His blade has never made contact with someone he cares about before. The thought had once plagued one of his many nightmares but it was dissuaded by Camille, who told him quite callously that friendly blows were rare among knights and when would he ever be fighting a friend anyway? She did not tell him that your footsteps are silent in the snow. She did not tell him that it would happen anyway, even if he didn’t want it to. He’s a knight and he’s got a knight’s instincts. His blade cuts through the air before he realizes who it’s pointed at.

Mars has a habit of hesitating before every killing blow; his father hates him for it. This time, it’s saved you from losing your head. He lifts his blade out of your shoulder, throwing it aside and spraying blood where it swings. His gauntlets fall off next, to be lost to the snow, and his hands move swiftly, holding your body together. “I didn’t…” he stutters, gulping. “I didn’t hear you.” Adelaide rushes over next and the rest is a blur of red and black.

Mars stands watch outside your door. Adelaide has gotten a room at the tavern of the mountain town nearby, and she’s called over the only doctor in the area to look after you, with Camille and Yoon’s help. But Mars stands watch, protecting your door as if something might come in to hurt you. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t eat. When you wake up to an empty room, your crash the door against his armour and he stumbles in the hall. The two of you stare at each other, wordless.

It’s Mars who breaks the silence. “I’m sorry,” he says first. He’s still at attention, with his hand on the hilt of his blade and his back stiffly straight. He looks so much more like the man you met at the start of this journey than the one you had come to know. “It was my fault,” he says plainly. He bows to you like you’re Adelaide, like you’re his charge, and marches away before you can say anything.

He does this for days; he stands watch; treats you with formality; bows after every interaction you have. He guards your tent when you travel again. He cuts down your monsters before you get the chance to try. Drunk, Sidney remarks that Mars has become your knight now. The team laughs. But you don’t want a knight, you want Mars.

One night, you find him stationed outside your tent and you try to talk. The conversation is long and goes nowhere, at the end, you are both tired. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, “I have to atone.” You open your mouth to explain that your whole point was just that: he doesn’t have to. But he’s kneeling in front of you, one hand over is heart. “I swear myself to your servitude; I’ve already asked Adelaide for leave of my position to her.” But you don’t want servitude, you want Mars.

SID — When fights get crowded, it’s hard to tell where one body stops and another starts. Fists fly wildly. The sun has gone down and the best light you get is the reflection off the bandits’ blades. Sid is getting frustrated; they just keep pouring in through the trees. Camp ambushes are not entirely uncommon, but usually they’re over before Sid even realizes they’re happening — the heavy sleeper that he is. He charges with rare angers across the bodies, he brings them down one after the other after the other. You try to stop him; the bandits are running away now and he doesn’t need to keep fighting. But his fist flies out, wiping you across the face and cracking your nose along the way. You fall to the floor and welcome the darkness that follows.

Sidney carries you himself; down into the city and right into a room Adelaide is hastily paying for. She’s paid for a doctor too, but he comes much too late for Sidney’s liking. He gets Camille and Yoon together and the three of them cobble together makeshift care until the doctor does finally arrive to deliver the underwhelming news that your recovery will simply be a matter of time. Yoon has to hold Sid back from bashing the doctor’s head in. Adelaide gives him a few extra coins for the trouble. He sits by your bed, nervously tapping his foot. He cooks you dinner and leaves it on your nightstand, hoping you’ll wake up and want to eat. He starts doing this for every meal, lovingly cooked for someone who can’t eat it. He takes them all down and throws them out when they go cold. When you do wake, it’s to the scent of a steak dinner. Your head feels like it’s been split in two and Sidney feeds you patiently, tiny bite by tiny bite, until you’re full. He wipes your mouth; he holds your hand.

“I’m an idiot, alright?” He smiles at you. Smiling hurts but you smile back anyway. “I’ll give you one free punch one my face.” When you tell him that you don’t want to punch him, he laughs. The sound is free and loud and rumbling and you’ve missed it. “I’ve punched a lot of my mates before,” Sid says, “mostly they’ve deserved it; you get a lot of drunk sailors together and suddenly everyone’s insulting each other’s mums. But you…” he untangles his hand from yours. “You didn’t deserve it. I was stupid and I hurt you and I promise it won’t happen again. Not like this.”

But it does. And when his fist meets your face again, it’s because your dagger is sticking out of his stomach.

YOON — Calculated, strategic, always watchful and always ready, Yoon is not one to misstep. It’s a series of bad choices that gets the guy that should have been going after Yoon, to come get you instead. It’s not Yoon’s fists that meet your face, but it might as well have been, for all Yoon cares. He picks up the bloody pulp of your body and holds you close to him, rocking back and forth and combing through your blood-sticky hair. He’s checked your pulse already and he’s called for Camille who does her best with the little healing magic she knows. Yoon tries too, with salves and potions and Fey magic. In the end, you’re still bloody, still bent, and not any more awake. Adelaide wants to get you a human doctor, she’s already paid for a nice room for you to recover in. But Yoon doesn’t trust a human to care for you the right way. He steals you from the room Adelaide got and sets you up someplace deep in the nearby Fey community. There, you are cared for not by one, but many. As one applies salves to your head, the other’s bandage your legs. As Yoon watches, three more are praying for your speedy recovery. They do not know you, but it doesn’t matter.

When you wake, you see a dozen strange faces all attending to you. One asks if you’d like water, a few are already readying a bath. Yoon smiles. “Why, hello, sleeping beauty,” he grins wide as he steps closer, kneeling by your bedside. “Quite a nap you took, wasn’t it?” You nod but you don’t really remember. For days, you recover in the care of people you come to know. Yoon stays with you, tells you stories as you fall asleep, holds your hand as the salves burn your flesh. In the end, the truth comes out: “It was me,” he says. “I did…I did this. It should have been me in that bed.” But it doesn’t matter now; maybe it never mattered at all. He says he’s sorry over and over again, but it doesn’t matter.

When the two of you return, it’s to the vicious worry of everyone else. Adelaide is the most furious you’ve ever seen her. Even Sid is upset. But Yoon turns to you and winks. From now on, Yoon doesn’t make a decision if you’re not by his side.

So when you’re gone, he stops making them.

THE SEVENTH RO — Blood stains the grass below. You look up as more bubbles out from your mouth. The knife twisted into your gut is held by a hand adorned in worn leathers. The owner of that hand grins. They lean in to your face. “Finally,” they snarl, sending their hot breath down the collar of your shirt. “I’ve got you, fox.”

#asks #idk if the formatting on this is okay I am MOBILE #also I don’t even think I answered the question but uhhhhhh

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smoments · 7 months

Text

(part 2) memories of a stranger // a satosugu reincarnation au

❝ let's meet again, for the first time. ❞

╰┈➤ in which 19-year-old gojo satoru happens upon a supposed stranger on a rare coffee shop trip who feels like anything but that, and who makes him question everything he's ever known about soulmates.

➽ chapter 2: the return visit

“So, you called me all the way here to tell me that you had an epiphany about some guy you saw at a coffee shop?”

Shoko is seated across from Satoru, sipping a latte and perfecting the art of exuding energy that is equally skeptical and unbothered. He could point out that they’re a breath away from campus and she usually walks in this direction anyways, but instead he sighs dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest.

“He wasn’t ‘some guy’! I knew him!” He protests, his voice laced with indignace. Shoko stares into the slot of the lid on her paper cup, shutting one eye and holding it up to her face like a telescope, and then shakes her head as though she just caught a glimpse into Satoru’s potentially troubling future and not at the last dregs of her coffee.

“Satoru, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I felt it, Shoko! It was, like, a soul connection!” He insists, his palm flat against his heart for emphasis that she appears to miss- if her derisive snort is anything to go by.

“Oh, really? What, you think you knew him in another life? That you were reincarnated just so you could see him again?”

Satoru doesn’t like the way this sounds, nor the way it resonates deep in his chest, and he contorts his face into one of mild disgust.

“No way, i’m not some loser.” A tense silence hangs in the air between them as they maintain eye contact, Shoko’s gaze steady and almost unnervingly impassive- as though she’s used to staring people down. Unfortunately for Satoru, not only is he less experienced with such matters, but his objectively gorgeous eyes are sensitive to the sun; which is why he relents after a few beats, breathing a sigh of exasperation.

“Yes.”

Shoko’s face softens ever so slightly, but in the way that one’s might upon realizing they are face to face with a mentally ill psychiatric patient. Satoru had been hoping for something a little more compassionate.

“You really have lost it.” She murmurs almost to herself, her tone sympathetic.

“What?!” Satoru’s head snaps towards her, and with the slight narrow of his eyes and the way his lips are clearly seconds away from a pout, she thinks that he looks vaguely like a petulant toddler and has to stifle her laughter.

“Nothing. Anyways, Satoru, I don’t see what the big deal is. Why don’t you just go back there and talk to him?” She suggests with a casual flick of her hand, which absolutely baffles Satoru.

Despite the apparent ease with which he approaches most things- people, school, work- he is not above caring, and, contrary to popular belief, never has been. However, he has learned throughout the course of his 19 years that the excess of emotional vulnerability with which most people happily traipse around is not for him, and so he chooses to embrace the fact that his life is out of his control rather than objecting to it and getting hurt in the process. Some might call it frivolous, but he thinks they’re just jealous.

Either way, given that Shoko has grown rather accustomed to his behavior, it probably shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that she expects him to remain loyal to his tried-and-true ways in the case of this mysterious stranger- but for Satoru, it feels like a different realm entirely; something that he’ll have to reshape his mind around.

Shoko notices that his expression is unusually thoughtful and lifts an quizzical eyebrow, waiting for some sort of explanation, so he lifts his hands to the back of his head in a languid stretch, trying to summon some of his usual cockiness.

“Hm… yeah, I think I will.” he says, forcing confidence into his voice in an attempt to alleviate his uncharacteristic worry.

Shoko nods approvingly. “You do that.” She glances down at the empty cup in her hand, her expression somewhat absent, and Satoru finally notices the dark half-circles carved out beneath her eyes. Blinking in surprise, he traces her movements inconspicuously and picks out a touch of sluggishness in the way she lifts a hand to her bangs to brush them out of her face- but he thinks better of commenting on either for lack of anything he can do to help. Even if he’d been going solely off of the size of the medical textbooks Shoko carried around, or from the sleepless nights she’d spend studying for her exams, he could have preached to any unfortunate soul he knew about how draining the path to becoming a doctor was.

“I’ve got a research paper to write for bio, so i’ll talk to you later.” Shoko eases herself into a standing position, swinging her bag over her shoulder, and turns on her heel to leave before hesitating briefly. Her fingers tighten around the paper cup in her hand, and the thin walls give ever so slightly.

“Good luck, Satoru.” Her tone holds an undercurrent of sincerity, and Satoru can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips as he waves her off.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about me.” He replies in his breezy fashion, leaning back in his seat and watching as she visibly resists the urge to roll her eyes before striding towards her dorm. Once Shoko is out of sight, Satoru stands, briefly stretching against the table to hype himself up, and attempts to gather his thoughts.

As has become commonplace in the days since he first encountered Suguru, his mind returns to that soft gaze.

To the unnervingly familiar way he’d said his name.

Frustration rising within him, his hand goes to the crown of his head, grazing a stray lock of hair as he tries to figure out just where he could have seen that man before.

And he may be Gojo Satoru, intelligent beyond common understanding and talented beyond belief, but the thought that Shoko’s dismissive words held even a fragment of truth in them does not cross his mind for a second.

Satoru is back. His hands tucked loosely into the pockets of the tan coat he wore during his last visit, he stares up at the sign in front of the coffee shop, wondering why they chose such large, intimidating letters to represent a drink establishment. The words loom down on him, just foreboding enough to annoy him- to spite him into yanking a hand out of his pocket and clasping it around the silver metal handle of the door, cool against his fingers. He pulls it open and steps inside, realizing a little too late that the chances of Suguru being here are slim; after all, he probably doesn’t work a full-time job if he’s a college student, the way Satoru hopes.

He silently resigns himself to another hot chocolate and a return trip, simultaneously not wanting to get his hopes up too much and annoyed at the fact that it should affect him at all.

However, when his eyes go to the menu, the familiar and not entirely unpleasant scent of coffee and pastries wafting over him, the glint of a black earring pulls his gaze downwards, and he’s met with the same lovely juxtaposition of features- that sharp face and its impossibly gentle aura- that affected him so greatly the last time he stepped foot into this shop. Suguru is wiping down a display case with a damp cloth, his movements somehow smooth and methodical even in the simple act.

Satoru’s breath catches, but this time, he quickly shakes himself off and advances to the counter, thanking his luck that the shop is considerably quieter at this time of day. He wouldn’t be too bothered at a few dirty looks, but it’s hardly his preference to be glared by hungry customers on their too-short lunch breaks while attempting to strike up a conversation with a barista.

His nails dig into his palm as he clenches his fist, leaving crescent-shaped indents in his skin that are hidden by the lining of his pockets, but he barely notices the pain.

When Satoru stops in front of the counter, the sound of his shoes padding against the hardwood floor alerts Suguru, who turns toward him, tossing the cloth over his aproned shoulder. His eyes light up in pleasant, but not necessarily surprised, recognition.

“Satoru, right?”

He’d thought he was prepared for the smoothness of his voice, but he’s not sure how anybody could be. Satoru swallows, nodding haltingly.

“You remember me?” he asks without thinking, and instantly regrets it when amusement flits across Suguru’s features.

“Well, you have a rather striking appearance.”

“…Oh.” Satoru disguises his disappointment, wondering briefly what he wanted Suguru to recognize him by. His odd behavior? His glowing personality? In all fairness, he’s not convinced the latter came through in their last interaction, so perhaps his beauty isn’t too bad a place to start.

“What can I get for you today?” Suguru steadies his hands against the edge of the counter, his thumbs tapping gently against the surface in a slow, soft rhythm that is music to Satoru’s ears. His hands are pretty, too, he thinks, artful in their roughness- almost unfairly so. He forces his gaze to Suguru’s face. The question he’s been wanting to ask finally escapes his parted lips, shattering at his feet like a final wall of security that he has just destroyed with his forthrightness- but then again, he was never one for security.

“…When do you get off?”

Suguru’s features open up in surprise, his eyebrows lifting and lips parting silently in a way that feels particularly genuine to Satoru, the expression wholly unfiltered.

“Me…? At three.”

“Great. Do you like coffee at all?”

“No, that’s why I work in a cafe.” Suguru’s lips twitch into a semblance of a teasing smile, and Satoru lets out an involuntary laugh, his shoulders relaxing as some of the tension drains from his body. A smirk lingers on his face when he speaks again.

“Well, assuming you remember anything about me besides my face, I came to return a favor.” Words come easier with his newfound calm, and so he informs Suguru of his intentions nonchalantly, opening his palms in an ‘it-can’t-be-helped’ kind of gesture that makes the other smile.

“Favor? …Oh, I see.” Suguru doesn’t acknowledge his snide remark, though the upward tilt of his lips doesn’t correct itself either. He brushes his hands together to dust them off as he speaks, a hint of curiosity on his face. “There’s no need, really, but if you insist.”

“Ha! I do, actually. Ten minutes to three, right? Can I get one hot chocolate and one of whatever your favorite is? Also-“

He’s about to add on two slices of strawberry shortcake, but something gives him pause, an inkling of an idea that jumps out at him from the back of his mind. He can’t quite discern what it’s telling him, but nevertheless, it’s enough that he decides against the dessert.

“Never mind. I’ll be waiting, Suguru.”

#satosugu #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen au #gojo satoru #geto suguru #satoru x suguru #crying screaming throwing up #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #archive of our own #alternate universe #coffee shop au #reincarnation

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thisfairytalegonebad · 8 months

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Safety Net (Whumptober 2023 day 1)

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Character: Gladiolus Amicitia Rating: M for descriptions of injuries Warnings: Description of a heavily bleeding wound, near-death experience Read below the cut or on AO3 here!

Every King has a Shield. Such is the tradition, born with the very first King of Lucis ago and carried on for centuries.

Gladio was taught from a very young age what it means to be Shield to the King. He doesn’t remember a time when he hasn’t been fully aware of his duties, of his purpose.

It’s a heavy burden to bear, but it’s one he bears with pride. Not everyone understands it - most people don’t. If Gladio weren’t born into the role, into the family, then maybe he wouldn’t understand it either, but as it is, he cannot regard it as anything else than an honour.

That, of course, is not what he thinks about when he takes the hit for Noct. He doesn’t consider what he is to Noct, doesn’t consider that this is his duty, doesn’t resent Noct or the Lucis Caelum line or the Amicitia name. No, he doesn’t think at all, years and years of training and pure instinct propelling him straight into the path of the Aramusha’s blade, mere moments away from piercing through Noct’s chest.

“Gladio!” Noct yells, but he sounds far away all of a sudden, like Gladio is hearing him through a fog.

For a moment, all he can do is stare at the shining blade sticking through his abdomen. He blinks once, twice, trying to understand what’s happening. Then, the blade moves, and Gladio watches in morbid fascination as it is pulled free from his flesh, dripping with blood - his blood.

That, apparently, is all his brain needed to catch up with reality, and suddenly it hurts, gods, why does it hurt so much?

He gasps like he’s drowning, collapsing to his knees. His hands scramble uselessly across his torso, trying and failing to stop the blood from spilling out, but he can already feel himself fade.

“Gladio!” he hears again, and he shakes his head, trying to get rid of the dark spots that litter his vision. Noct. Noct is calling for him, still needs him, the Aramusha’s still standing and Gladio can’t die yet.

The crystalline sound of Noct warping startles him as it appears right next to him without warning, and then there are warm hands on his back, steadying him.

“Gladio, hey, stay with me, yeah?” Noct babbles, frantic, hand trembling as it comes up to rip away what remains of Gladio’s shirt.

“N-noct-“ Gladio chokes out, sounding like a drowning man. Maybe that’s not even such a bad comparison - breathing is unnervingly difficult and everything around him is hazy and slow, as if he were underwater.

Noct pushes a potion into his hand and helps him crush it, but it barely does anything. Gladio’s still bleeding, he can feel the blood spurting out of the wound, but it’s marginally easier to breathe.

Still, he struggles to sit up, ignoring Noct’s protests. He can’t just lie here uselessly, he has to get up, keep fighting-

“Gladio, stay still!” Noct snaps, and if Gladio weren’t so out of it, he would’ve heard the concern in his voice, but as it is, it barely registers.

What does register, suddenly, is Prompto who positions himself between them and the Aramusha. The twitchy, anxious kid people usually clock him as is nowhere to be seen. Instead, he stands like a seasoned Crownsguard, hands steady as he puts a round of bullets into the Aramusha’s rotting body.

It shrieks, enraged, and it’s the last thing Gladio hears before he passes out.

----

When he comes to, they’re still in the mine and Noct is still frantically talking to him, and he can still hear the Aramusha’s blade slicing through the air, so he can’t have been out for more than a few moments.

His body burns with the aftereffects of a phoenix down, and oh. He didn’t realise he was quite this bad off.

He sits up, this time with Noct’s permission and support. The two of them are still being shielded by Prompto standing over them, keeping the Aramusha away from them with well-placed shots.

“Noct, help me up, I need to-“ Gladio starts, but before he can finish his sentence, Ignis appears behind the Aramusha out of nowhere, plunging his daggers into its back with deadly accuracy. He pulls them free, dances out of the way when the daemon whirls around to retaliate, and slices one dagger across its neck.

That’s enough to finish it off. It gurgles and melts into the ground with a hiss, and then the only proof that remains of its existence is a puddle of black sludge on the ground.

Noct says something to him, but Gladio is fixated on Prompto and Ignis, breathless and unkempt from the fight as they hurry over to them.

That’s right, he thinks, he isn’t alone. He bears the burden of being Noct’s Shield, yes, but he’s far from Noct’s only protector. They’re there too - they’re his safety net, a failsafe, and after today, he swears he won’t let himself forget.

It’s a heavy burden to bear, being the King’s Shield, but at least it isn’t one he bears alone.

----

Read all of my Whumptober prompt fills here.

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #safety net #ffxv #final fantasy xv #fic #blood tw #gladiolus amicitia #thisfairytalegonebad's writing

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lesliesknopes · 1 year

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We can be heroes just for one day

aka what if Chimney was struck by lightning.

maddie/chimney | rated t | chapter 2/2 | 10k words

Chimney was well acquainted with the knowledge of freak accidents. It was hard not to when his (hopefully) soon to be brother in law had a habit of turning into a walking encyclopaedia of useless knowledge whenever Chimney went near.

The odds of having a vending machine fall on you and inevitably crush you to death were 1 in 112 million.

The odds of being killed by a meteorite were 1 in 250 thousand.

The odds of being struck by lightning were 1 in 10 million however, as Buck made sure to add the jury was still out on that one and many people have disputed the statistic.

Usually Chimney took comfort in these statistics because the chances of these accidents ever happening to him were so slim that spending your life worrying about them would ultimately turn out to be a waste of time.

Especially if you were to look at the odds of being born - 1 in 400 trillion (again, thank you Buck). Why would you waste your life worrying about dying when it could almost be considered a miracle that you were born in the first place. No scrap that it was a miracle that you were born and Chimney had been witness to many miracles in his time.

That thought paired with the knowledge that ninety percent of people survive getting struck by lightning made it even more comforting.

So, earlier that morning when he and Hen squashed together on the couch, flicking through the channels on the TV, they settled on the news channel to watch the weather. They purposely made sure to stay clear of Channel 8 (the last time they had it on Buck had walked into the loft, stared dead ahead at the TV where she was presenting and promptly walked out without saying a single word).

Anyway on the news channels they had chosen, which wasn’t channel 8, the presenter was a blonde woman with crumpled shoulder length hair and she wore a purple floral dress with a skirt that bounced with every step that she took which was a lot. He had never seen someone so incredibly impassioned over the weather and constantly moving from the left of the screen to the right.

She must be new. Must be.

He was so distracted by her exaggerated hand movements and body language he managed to miss half of what she was saying and only managed to catch the ending. Something about how there was a big storm forecasted to hit the city later that evening and all citizens were to be advised to be extra cautious.

Not that he was worried about missing the rest because he could just quiz Hen on it when the report finished.

Her massive, and beginning to become overwhelming smile never left her face as she continued to communicate the dangers of the storm. Saying the words destruction and harm with the worlds biggest smile on her face caused for Chimney to shuffle unnervingly in his seat and he wondered for a good second if her face was just stuck like that, like she was part of one of those childhood stories adults told their children to stop them from pulling funny faces.

If you keep pulling that face you will get stuck like that.

read more on ao3

#hannah writes #i had a war with my wifi and the formatting with this one.#madney #madney fic #maddie buckley #chimney han #911 fic #911 #911 fox #6x10 fic

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amyisherenowitsokay · 1 year

Note

so tumblr wouldn't let me ask w/o an account so here i am-

so. hi. listen. i need to know. because i read re:mhny and a BEAUTIFUL Chekhov's gun stared me in the face just waiting to be fired??i think??- please tell me the control brains will have a role in re:mhny 3/4??? bc you're the only person i'd trust to do the concept justice and i understand if it's too late in your planning to play with but like, idk pls take my poor ideas perhaps you could be inspired-

wouldn't the control brains imply that irkens are a slave race? imagine Gaz having the AUDACITY of saying this to the Tallest, or Dib of all people not only learns of those specific dark facts (brains as overseers, irkens are grown not bred, pak holds so much more than gear, their minds, memories, abilities etc), comes to the realization, and it rips a chunk out of his view on irkens? or he looks at Zim with pity? in horror?

or something more interesting. The Control Brains use Zim's PAK against him. Zim doesn't realize, because he isn't the ''system administrator''. Maybe he's controlled, or thoughts/memories edited? Dib notices the subtle quirks, the loss in personality, Gaz notices the unnervingly nonsapient differences? Until Zim removes it for maintenance. Imagine the slowly dawning visceral terror as it hits him that he's much more aware, awake, alert without it drugging him? but- disconnection pens the 10 minute death warrant. I doubt he could constantly dis/reconnect, either.

oh yeah, first idea that hit me and i had to tell you- The Control Brains calculated the danger of Zim coming anywhere near the position of the Tallest. It's an objective fact such an outcome must be prevented. (if the irken race is slavery sanitized, perfection via calculating precision-free will is an illusion-, then leaders are knowingly produced. How else would the status quo be kept?) The Tallest know this. Zim knows this. Thus, not only the Tallest, but the Control Brains, must be removed. How, if murdering Zim where he stands is the automatic consequence for the thought? Easy, til the end. Deactivate the kill-switch. Pull the literal plug. Ten minutes to win.

Alternatively, with less 'me-editing-while-i-type-these-ideas-out-to-sound-coherent/add-more/sales-pitching-you':

Gaz stands where Zim once stood, staring at the irregularly sized and scattered crimson lenses of the Control Brains. There's a clarity that she's lost track of the remaining minutes.

Oho! Oho ho! Delighted! So delighted at fan theories ohoho!

I'm still MAD hungover from a lovely thanksgiving but I've long since honed the ability to type and not look at a screen so here we gooo.

SPOILERS/TEASERS UNDER THE CUT

First off, just to get it out of the way, I don't have any intention of trying to make a 4th Re:MHNY addition, mostly because of how my initial attempt at the 4th addition was so heavily entrenched in peer pressure and other ick. I won't go into it, but essentially, the series is going to stay a trilogy. We stan a trilogy.

The Control Brains are not going to rear their lil bulbous heads anytime soon, but I can confirm they're going to be in Re:MHNY3, as are the Tallest. I am most excited to redo the relationship between the Tallest and Zim.

The Irken Armada in fics as a whole is usually treated as a stepping stool for Zim to be King of the Hill, or for his Hero's Journey Redemption Arc. Which, don't get me wrong, some of my favorite fics have Zim end as a Tallest or Zim end as hero of Earth, but I personally HC something else that's going to be gently established as the story continues. I am still warring with the final cleanup, but I DO know some of it.

For your initial question, yes, absolutely. I think it might be canon (?) that the Irkens are a slave race, but don't quote me on that, brain is dehydrated and crispy. Regardless, for me, yes, I do think of the Irkens as enslaved, but heavily propagandized not to notice. According to them, they're not slaves, they're soldiers, when in fact they're both.

Gaz's 'audacity' in particular is a theme I'm looking forward to writing, and have actively already brainstormed. I do intend for Gaz to end up meeting the Tallest again, but unlike the original MHNY, you'll note that the Tallest are far less favorable to Zim at the end of the first story. They don't look at him with awe and admiration as they did in the original. They don't even know he has a mate, and that information is deliberately kept from them. They treat him with disdain, and Gaz notices and loathes it. They're not besties, they're dictators speaking to a subordinate they'd prefer was dead, and since he's been disillusioned, Zim knows that. The really fun thing about Re:MHNY is Zim doesn't have to imagine what Gaz does when face-to-face with someone with as much Absolute Authority(tm) as a Tallest. He's already seen it. Have a blurb from Re: 3!

It's not a question of "can you imagine how they'd react?" because Zim already knows. He's counting on it and accounting for it. And that's going to be the fun part!

Now onto Dib! I can't say too much without actually spoiling Re:2 actually, but I can say that Dib IS going to find out more about Irken culture than Zim ever wanted to him to know. He brought up multiple time to Gaz in Re:MHNY how much he really doesn't want Dib to understand or know Irken business the way she does. The curtain being pulled back for Gaz doesn't mean the offer extends to her sibling, but Dib's never been one to know when to keep himself out of other people's business. How he does so is where I'll let the mystery sit.

Regarding Zim being beaten up by a CB, or in some way ctrl + alt + deleted, I borrow a lot of my lore from unpublished episodes too, including The Trial. It's therefore my HC that the Control Brains themselves can't touch Zim, and have in fact been infected to view him favorably. I'll go more into what happened in Re:3, and what attempts were made to fix any errors Zim caused, but the events of that unpublished episode are important enough to keep in mind when I get around to writing it. At this point though, the Armada has become afraid to try to destroy Zim without the CB's on their side. It's best for everyone if Zim is dead, but they'll settle for keeping him as far away from Irk and their leaders as possible, and keep humoring him to make sure he doesn't want to leave, which is where the end of MHNY: Re lands.

Brain is now slushie but I hope that tickles your fancy. Tysm for making a whole account just to share your enthusiasm about the direction of Re's future installments with me. I love and cherish every single one of my ao3/ff comments, but tumblr let's me go on monologues like this/gives me a place to upload teasers/art whenever I want to satisfy my readers during fic update gaps. Your username made me laugh audibly, but before you delete your account, I'd recommend perusing through my blog here if you're looking for more teasers.

#archive of our own #ao3 #fanfiction #amyisherenowansweringyou #ravenfollower13 #iz #invader zim #iz headcanons #ty for making me roll out of bed to grab my laptop homie #it made me grab water on my way back to bed #must recover for black friday deals #lmao #i hope this was coherent enough and that i answered your questions suitably #my attempts to reread everything made me cross-eyed rip #re:mhny3 #spoilers #re:mhny series

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vacantgodling · 2 months

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::::::::::::::::: CAGE ::::::::::::::::::

read the full fic on ao3!

CHAPTER 3. NIGHT VISION

The ride to Eichenwalde was somber.

A few hours after what he would be dubbing the “cake incident,” Cassidy was formally introduced to Hanzo by Genji. At his brother’s side, the unnerving brashness that Hanzo greeted himself and Lena with seemed to have flown the coop and instead they were met with a man that seemed more like how Genji described: his eyes didn’t hold that same venomous spark, they only looked like murky pond water, and his brow was furrowed just enough to pronounce the years dug frown and wrinkle lines on his face.

He didn’t even make a noise when Genji went through the roster. Not one facial muscle twitched as Winston briefed them on the mission for the umpteenth time. Even Hanzo’s footsteps, encased in metal boots, didn’t make a sound as they all piled into the ORCA and Lena set a course for Germany.

Usually jovial Reinhardt was quieter than Cassidy ever heard him; he gazed out of the ORCA’s windows with a resounding resignation, a feeling all of them knew all too well. Angela sat next to him, with one hand on his arm, scrolling through files on her holopad with her free hand. She seemed absorbed, but Cassidy knew her better than that by now, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she was scrolling through articles on how to console loved ones through grief in her worry. Lena, obviously, was up in the cockpit, flying this damn contraption, and Genji was with her, probably to escape the dour mood that settled in the back of the craft, and to give Hanzo some space.

With little else in the way of seating as this was a smaller model than Cassidy was used to in the “glory days”, it left himself and Hanzo alone and face to face with their toes almost touching in the narrowest portion of the hull. Hanzo, unnervingly, wasn’t doing anything to distract from the long flight. His fingers kept drumming a rhythm on his bouncing leg, consumed with a particular sort of restlessness that he just couldn’t seem to shake, yet his expression was transfixed ahead of him��seeing but unseeing. Cassidy was convinced he could wave a hand in front of his face and the man wouldn’t move… but after what happened before their departure, Cassidy could even buy that he was doing this to fuck with him. Not that Cassidy was expecting Hanzo to have a sense of humor; no, absolutely not. Especially not one where he felt comfortable joking with people who hated his guts. Despite this, Cassidy still found this odd; he seemed fine enough to shoot his mouth off at him before. Why shouldn’t he now?

At some point he stopped trying to discern what Hanzo was and wasn’t doing to piss him off. Instead, he took to staring right back at him from underneath the brim of his hat.

Cassidy sized the elder Shimada up.

Aside from his gruff voice, and now frosting-less goatee, Hanzo was a man shaped by severity. He had a sharp dip to his brow and his lips were bowed; like a Cupid, or however the saying went. A slim, steel ball piercing broke through the bridge of his nose, making the bump at his dorsal seem even harsher. Cassidy let his eyes drift further from his direct face and to his ears and eventually they caught sight of more steel. The kinslayer seemed to have about 11 piercings total between each ear; close enough to his body to be practical, but there nonetheless like nettles or a warning of some kind. During this examination, Hanzo caught his gaze, red-handed with his eyes trailing lower over the planes of his plush chest, and he made a particularly nasty scowl in his direction, but said nothing about it to draw attention to it.

Cassidy wouldn’t be the one to break the silence. Hanzo didn’t seem keen on doing so either. So the two men spent the entire flight staring at each other until Cassidy’s eyes started to burn.

This was going to be a long damn flight.

The ORCA touched down deep within the black forest on the outskirts of Eichenwalde’s ruined castle defenses. Night had already begun to settle like a thick, velvety blanket, enclosing them in the shadows of the city’s former glory, the moon obscured by clouds. The hangar doors opened to nothing but pitch, and with a press to one of the tiny buttons on the comm hooked to his ear, a holovisor slotted itself over Cassidy’s eyes. It filled the forest with the tinny, green hue of basic, bog standard night vision. He hated the visors, but it was better to see something rather than nothing and he’d already been doing more complaining lately than he liked to peg himself capable of.

Now that he could see the ground in front of him, he followed Reinhardt out of the hull and into the woods, trampling pine cones and dying bits of forlorn grass underfoot, the only sound in this wretched darkness. The rest of the crew filed out after the two of them, and they stopped in a semicircle around the down ramp, utilizing the last bits of light that the inner hull could provide to at least see one another. Each of them had their visors on, with the exception of Genji who had built in night vision in his suit.

The other exception was Hanzo.

“Our mission shouldn’t require us to utilize our weapons.” Angela began. Her hands were white knuckled on her caduceus and her lips were pulled into a tight line. “We are here on a diplomacy mission and nothing more.”

“So, some kids are just sneakin’ in and causin’ a ruckus?” Cassidy asked. He looked down at the bags at their feet. “Seems like mighty serious artillery for just a diplomacy mission.”

“Not quite.” She replied. “We are here to ensure that Talon does not breach the castle by fortifying some of its remaining defenses.”

“Talon’s been here?” Cassidy asked, incredulous. Winston hadn’t mentioned that in his report. Lena also looked equally perplexed. “What would Talon want that’s here? … No offense, love.” Reinhardt shook his head, a small, weary smile coming to his face. Angela, de facto leader of this mission, pressed her lips into a thin line.

“I’m still not quite sure myself—”

“Is the Crusader’s armor unique?” Hanzo’s voice cut like a knife through whatever it was she was going to say, and like it or not, Cassidy found himself turning towards his voice, glare already intact.

“Ang was speaking.”

“Patience love,“ Lena’s hand on his arm was immediately shrugged off. He didn’t feel like being touched right now, not when he felt the irritation begin to rise into anger underneath his skin. “Rude ta interrupt, kinslayer.”

“I was not speaking to you cow boy.” If Hanzo wasn’t staring directly at Reinhardt, Cassidy was sure he would’ve upturned his stupid pierced nose like earlier when he was sitting on the ORCA’s wing. “I was asking Reinhardt-san.”

“So he’s Reinhardt-san and I’m just ‘cowboy’?”

“I do not see any other honorable warriors in our midst.”

“You son of a—”

Genji swung a metallic arm against his chest, hard, nearly knocking the wind out of him, and stopping him from reaching for Peacekeeper all in one fell swoop. Lena pressed closer to his side, and standing on her toes she said in his ear: “I don’t like it either love, but he’s a teammate. We can’t just off him. Genji would be so upset.”

“And why not?” Cassidy hissed back. He stopped paying attention to whatever the hell Reinhardt was saying in response to Hanzo’s question. “He ain’t seem ta have no issue makin’ snap judgments on Genji.”

“You do not know the situation.” Genji’s metallic voice cut in, tight with agitation. “I appreciate your care Cassidy but I can take care of myself.”

“He fucking killed you Genj.”

“And Dr. Ziegler saved me.”

“And ya think she wants him here either?”

“If you three are quite done,” Angela snapped, drawing all of them back to attention. Hanzo and Reinhardt had stepped a little ways away from the rest of them, in deep conversation— Cassidy had never heard the big guy speak so softly, in fact, his usual booming voice barely registered through the soft lull of the lazy breeze between the pines. “We are going to head to the castle.” Angela narrowed her eyes at Cassidy, just like she did whenever he smoked in the hospital room when she specifically told him not to. He felt his neck burn hot even though the forest was cold.

“No. Distractions.”

The trek through the broken city, despite everything, was surprisingly amiable. Reinhardt’s spirits were still down, no doubt from being here, but he did his best to entertain the questions no one asked for his own sake. Lena and Genji played along after a minute or two, asking him about the local bakery they passed, or the history of the homes they saw with battered brick walls and holes through the roofs, and he complied. As there were no immediate threats, they didn’t have much to worry about.

This didn’t stop Hanzo from taking to the roofs to be cautious, scrabbling up the side of the first tall building he saw and disappearing into the blackness of the night.

“Are you sure it’s alright to let him go alone like that?” Lena directed the question at Genji and his vents whirred softly as he thought for a moment. “I do not like it.” He finally settled on. “But I know my brother does not trust easily.”

“Tha feelin’s mutual.” Cassidy grumbled.

Genji didn’t acknowledge that, instead, put a hand on Lena’s shoulder companionably. “So as long as we have a way to communicate with him, it will be alright.”

Angela stayed oddly silent throughout the conversation, and Cassidy noticed it—there was something she knew that she wasn’t saying, but he knew prodding the doctor would only make her more tight-lipped. He resolved to keep an eye on her, falling in step by her side. She still didn’t say anything, but allowed the companionship, sticking close as they made their way through the winding, cobbled streets.

Eichenwalde Castle was bigger than Cassidy thought it would be—he knew it was a castle, sure, but it didn’t occur to him that the doors would be nearly triple the size of Reinhardt’s hulking frame. Hanzo was still nowhere to be seen, but Cassidy brushed off any lingering concern; he was a kinslayer for one, and for two, this place was as good as a ghost town. The only threats they could come upon them would be the ones Hanzo brought himself.

Reinhardt set his great hammer to the side and tried pushing at the heavy doors with his big hands. They didn’t budge. “I can set my bomb on it!” Lena supplied helpfully, but Angela shook her head. “No, we need these doors to be able to close again. We wouldn’t have the manpower to repair them if we blew a hole through the wood.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully, staring up at the great doors. “Right…” Lena zipped to the side, sitting cross-legged on a mountain of rubble. Cassidy switched his cigarillo to the other side of his mouth. “Well then, what do ya suggest we do, Ang?”

“Is there a locking mechanism?” Genji asked. In a quick flash of movement, shuriken appeared between Genji’s metal fingers. “I can disable it.”

“The door is locked from the other side.” Reinhardt boomed, setting his hands on his hips. “There is no other way into the castle.”

“If there ain’t no way into it, why tha hell do we need to come out here to fortify it? Seems mighty sturdy ta me.” Cassidy peered up at the door through his holovisor. He could make out grooves and dips in the old oak wood, but as far as he could see with what limited depth perception the night vision gave him, there was no way in or out of this castle. They were at an impasse.

The small group lingered, unable to decide what to do. Genji suggested climbing around the castle to look for alternative entrances, but one look at the great ravine and cliff side around as well as underneath the castle and her bridge made Angela ex that idea swiftly. Reinhardt suggested he continue pushing at the doors until the wood gave, but Lena chimed that if they went that route, then it would just be easier to bomb it open, which was already vetoed by Angela.

Growing frustrated, Cassidy bit down so hard on his cigarillo that he felt the filter pop once again. He needed to stop doing that these were expensive, but, desperate times—and all that.

“If ya veto everything that we suggest then how tha hell are we supposed to get in to do tha damn job?”

“Do not raise your voice at me, Cole Cassidy.” Angela snapped. She snatched the cigarillo out his mouth. “I told you to stop smoking these.” And there it sailed, down into the inky abyss below. Fucking. Swell. Cassidy grit his teeth to keep from bitching more and Angela continued on. “I have contacted Winston to see how he would like for us to proceed. Until then, we wait.”

“We’re sittin’ ducks.” Cassidy groaned. He flopped down on the ground next to Lena, who was looking less and less cheerful with every passing second. When their eyes met, she gave him a brave smile. “Not to worry, Cole!” She said. “Winston will get back to us lickety split!” Then turning to the rest of the group, she said; “Cheer up, lads! We’ll get this done in no time!”

By the time the second hour rolled around, Genji had taken to chucking shuriken at a poorly etched out dartboard on the oak doors. Reinhardt had still not given up, and whenever Genji stopped to collect the few he was using in his makeshift darts, he would square his shoulders and push at the door again. Still nothing.

The moon was high in the sky now, shaking off the cloud cover to shine directly onto the bridge where they lingered, and the sudden light was messing with the green hue of the holovisor’s night vision. Cursing, Cassidy finally turned the damn thing off and with a small zip the visor slid out of view, leaving his eyes to feast on the blessed cool tones of the night. He let out a large sigh, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He wished he had a smoke; the one Angela threw was the only one he brought with him. And speaking of the good doctor, she was still hunched over checking the holopad she’d received with the mission details every few moments and he could tell she was growing more and more frustrated by the minute, since her languid pacing had turned into outright agitated stomping back and forth on cobblestone bridge. Cassidy peered up at the oak doors again. Now that he didn’t have that damn visor to contend with, and the moon was shining just right, there seemed to be a part of the door at the top darker than the rest. It was hard to make out the full details; the shadow of the great door's frame hung over and shielded the top portion of it from full moonlit exposure— but if he was seeing correctly...

“Genj?” Genji stopped mid-shuriken throw, allowing Reinhardt to step in front of the doors once more and heave against them. Still nothing.

“Look up there. Can ya see if tha’s a hole?”

“A hole?” Genji tilted his head up and Lena’s head also turned to squint up at the doors. “In the door?” Cassidy nodded. Genji pondered for a moment, then said: “If I could get closer, I may be able to tell.”

“There is no need.”

Like a ghost out of a nightmare, Hanzo’s voice sounded through the night and with it being too dark to tell where he was, Cassidy rocketed to his feet, his hand already on Peacekeeper. Lena also jumped, and Reinhardt made a grab for his hammer. Only Genji seemed unalarmed, and with a purposeful motion he touched a hand to his ear. “Hanzo?” Despite himself, Cassidy also pressed the button on their comms to open the channel but was greeted with nothing but static.

“Hanzo?” Genji asked into the comm again. Once the tinny echo of Genji’s voice in his ears passed, static once again remained.

“Dr. Ziegler, what channel is my brother assigned to?” Genji asked, turning his body slightly to face her.

“There is no need to ask.” Hanzo’s voice cut through the night again before Angela could respond. “You need the doors open, so I will open them.”

“But where are you?” Genji seemed exasperated, his vents hissed loudly as punctuation. “You could not open these doors by yourself.”

“Look up!” Lena suddenly called, pointing up towards the top of the doors. Damn it all, the clouds slid over the light of the moon once more, forcing Cassidy to tap his comm again to activate night vision. Once the holovisor settled over his eyes, if he squinted, he could see a shadowy figure standing in the same blackness he’d noticed before and thought was some sort of opening.

Well whaddya know. Cassidy thought sarcastically. There is a damn hole.

Genji insistently pressed at his comm again. “Aniki?” Lena did the same this time, and made a face when she also heard static. “Maybe he’s not using his comm?”

“Then what, ya think he’s just yellin’ into the open night to talk to us?” Cassidy put one hand on his hip, the other still resting on Peacekeeper. “How tha hell did he get up there anyway? We woulda seen him if he went up tha front.”

“Hanzo!” Reinhardt boomed. “How do you suggest we breach the doors?”

“Yer askin’ him for help?” Cassidy asked, exasperatedly and Reinhardt looked at him, a little oddly, but said nothing. Cassidy shrugged. “Ya trust him mighty easily.” He grumbled, trying and failing for an explanation.

“Wait, where’s he going?” Lena called, drawing everyone’s attention back to the doors. He squinted up at the hole again and Hanzo was gone.

“Is he not using a comm??” Lena zipped from the doors, to the rubble, to in front of Angela, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I— Perhaps not.” Was all Angela could weakly reply.

“I just checked the log,” When Cassidy looked at Genji, his face plate was fading from the information screen’s blue to its usual green. His head was tilted towards Angela, body language near unreadable. “Why does my brother not have a channel?”

Everyone was stopped in their pondering when something on the other side of the doors clicked, a sound loud enough due to what sounded like chain screeching against metal, then dropping to solid ground. As if on cue, Reinhardt stepped forward once more and heaved against the doors. This time, the force exerted was met with reward: they swung open, creaking loudly on their old hinges.

Standing in the doorway was Hanzo, illuminated dimly in the slowly receding moonlight, as clouds moved to cover her once more. His silhouette was marked by a large compound bow that Cassidy was startled to see. He hadn’t been briefed on what weapon the elder Shimada would use after that disastrous announcement meeting, and somehow this made the elder Shimada even more ridiculous than Genji. A bow? What was this, the dark ages? Cassidy frowned, at the whole situation, really, but followed in after Lena who went zipping by him and onward into the hallowed halls, cheerfully thanking Hanzo as she passed him.

#ff: cage #ren writing #yeehan #cole cassidy x hanzo shimada #fanfiction #overwatch 2 #ovw

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awellboiledicicle · 1 year

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Another fun thing about the archives gang knowing April to different extents before becoming said archives gang is that only like. Sasha and Martin are going to have met them before The Twisting.

So Tim and Jon just think this weirdo from the Archives is wandering the institute leaving ppl cookies and asking questions, then smiling a little unnervingly while listening to your answer. Friendly enough, but never really feels easy to be around.

Sasha is more of a passing friend, but one that enjoys April occasionally getting assigned the ‘homework’ to study something in artifact storage. She noticed them gain a sudden and inadvisable affinity with certain artifacts that always left her feeling queasy. Then, after a few weeks, almost a disdain for them. Still friendly though.

MEANWHILE, SMASH CUT TO MARTIN

Martin, who’s been working in the library for like several years by the time of the twisting. Martin, who has made friends enough that he’s slept over at their apartment on the whole 1 single time he snapped at his mother and stayed out overnight instead of coming home. Martin, who April let crash at their apartment after his mother goes into the home and he got drunk and they were the only one he knew that would haul him somewhere he could pass out safely. Martin hears they’ll be going on a trip with Gertrude. They meet up and he promises to check in on their cat while they’re gone, make sure Gerry hasn’t abandoned her in a fit of ‘spooky traveling’ or something. [he wouldn’t but still].

So they go on the trip. And time passes. And Gertrude comes back, but April does not.

No one in the archives will say a goddamn word. Well, not strictly true--Michael is very insistent that it’s fine, everything’s fine, they’ll pop up like normal and it’ll be fine. Eric is just deathly silent when asked about it and Martin doesn’t press entirely from his expression. Sarah--before she stops coming to work, too--seems like she WANTS to say something, but only really gets out that they’re gone. Emma, well, you don’t ask Emma things. She asks you, or you don’t speak. Gertrude is seemingly out of the office most of the time, not that he feels he has any particular claim to demanding a department head give him answers because he misses his friend.

He goes to their apartment and only finds Gerry, who seems to be in one of his ‘paint eyes and throw shit at them in the back garden’ moods. He plays the last voicemail they left for him. Something about being on a boat, that Gertrude didn’t know they were calling, and that they wouldn’t be coming back. That they were sorry, it was a surprise to them too. Martin wants to call the police. He wants to do something. He doesn’t know why he believes Gerry when he says everything possible has already been done. He pets the cat for a bit before leaving.

Cut to him nearly having a heart attack when he rounds a corner and sees April being rather forcefully ushered away from the archives elevator and toward the front door by Elias of all people.

Once the excitement calms, he turns up at their apartment and instead of the April he last spoke to, he gets... April, a little unspooled. They sway a little and tilt their head a bit more than usual. Smile a little too wide. Their stare, while as unnerving as ever, feels... odd. Like it’s looking at something very specific at all times, but that thing is always changing. He doesn’t know that they’re fighting tooth an nail to keep a hold on the them that they are at the moment, or that they had been for a few days at that point. Nor that it’ll continue for a week or two before their them is settled back in again. All he knows is his friend is alive and apparently missed him.

He once again pets the cat with relief.

#eldritch bingo au

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