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lewkwoodnco · 5 months

Note

omg hi you said you were opening requests for lockwood in general and not just songfics so i was wondering if you could write one where lockwood gets hurt in a mission trying to protect reader (they’re dating) and when they get back to portland row she gets mad at him and they have a really bad argument that ends up with the reader saying she doesn’t love him anymore (shes lying) and wants to leave lockwood and co !! (if it’s possible for you to end it on a happy note it would be amazing but if it’s hard to write there’s no pressure)

only love can hurt like this - Lockwood x Reader

Psst I now have a taglist! yippee!

A/N: okay SO I know the title is from a song but it’s nottt a song fic and gosh this made me realise what a crutch music has been in my writing 😭 if any of y’all have more non-songfic requests I would rlly appreciate it 🙏the beginning's a lil fluffy hehe, inspired by this post! P.S. condolences for shadow and bone </3, wc 4.7k She was in the kitchen when George and Lockwood returned from their case, dusty and exhausted, and fixed up some tea for them. George took his tea up to his room with a mumbled thanks and Lockwood pressed a distracted kiss to her temple as he pulled out the biscuit tin. She made a calculatedly casual remark about going down to the basement to help Lucy sort out their storage, at which he rolled his eyes and pulled her into the chair next to his.

But that was about an hour ago, and now she could hear the tired flipping of pages and stacking of files from the library, where he was buckling down to fight the growing pile of paperwork on his desk. He's facing away from her when she steps in, and from the looks of it, the paperwork seems to be winning.

"I know you wouldn't want to make a fuss..."

He stiffens, and when he turns there's an incredulous tilt to his eyebrows and the ghost of a smile tugging on his lips. She keeps a hand over the candle's flame as she walks in balancing a card and cupcake on her palm.

"How did you find out?"

"I badgered Barnes for your birth certificate. Took me months."

"That can't be legal."

"Don't think he minded much in the end. Anyway, the card was like a pound and the cupcake is a gift from Arif so you can't refuse either of them."

He smiles despite himself, glancing through the card with a bemused interest, red glitter coating his fingertips.

"Well, I didn't know I was your 'precious sweetheart.'"

"Oh, shut up. It was that or a condolences card."

"Hmm, this card really is the gift that keeps giving. 'To my dearest darling...'"

"Maybe I should have had a look through."

"...blah blah blah 'perfect day for my adorable sweetheart -'"

"What on earth kind of a shop is Arif keeping?"

"'Happy birthday handsome'?"

"I think we're done with the card!" She snatches it from him and stuffs it under the large stack of papers on his desk, face burning, but it still takes him a while to laugh it out of the system. It's an endearing sight to see him so carefree, if exhausted, and even after months of dating she watches him shyly through her eyelashes. His haggard face makes it easy to see him as far more than only a year older, but for now it's enough that he's laughing and alive.

"First and last time I trust Arif's judgement on birthday cards."

That sets him off again, though he has the decency to try and choke it down, but even his suppressed amusement is infectious enough to make her lips twitch. She hadn't realised what a stirring experience it would be to watch him celebrate another year alive. He looks like he wants to say something, but she's not sure she can bear it.

"Y/-"

"Shh, just blow the candle out. Wait! You have to make a wish."

He sighs dramatically, but acquiesces, briefly muttering invisible words under his breath with closed eyes before blowing out the candle. She tries to match the fluttering of his lips to words but nothing quite fits, and she half wonders if he's spouting incomprehensible gibberish just to appease her. It isn't until he pulls out the candle and jabs her with it that she realises she was staring.

"You want to know what I wished for?"

"It's killing me."

"I -"

"No! You can't tell me or it won't come true."

"Y/N, it's a candle in a cupcake."

"I'm not putting up with any of your cynicism on your birthday." She thinks about the overly zealous card, and the crumbling cupcake that would be gone in a few minutes. "Should have gotten you a gift. At least a small one."

"This is perfect. Really."

"Still. Could have scrounged up a keychain, or a mug."

"What, from the kitchen? My kitchen?"

"You know me so well."

"Well," he leans back in his chair, almost superficially nonchalant. "I suppose there is one gift you could give me."

"Anything."

"What's it going to take for you to read the card out loud?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That day had a sluggish quality which made it feel like years had passed by the time they set out for their job at sprawling, if ancient, mansion on the outskirts of London. Looking up at the giant house that nearly completely blocked out the setting sun, relief over knowing where the haunting was centralised washed over her; she wasn't quite in the mood to be running up and down impractically ornate flights of stairs.

The neighbours had reported seeing a ghostly figure drifting aimlessly in one of the open-air courtyards, and occasionally it would appear on the balcony directly above the courtyard, climbing over the railing before vanishing into thin air. Lockwood and George were stationed at the courtyard, Lucy at the stairs, and she on the balcony.

She stepped onto the balcony hesitantly, eyeing a thin, jagged crack running through the stone. The house was too cavernous to be considered flimsy but some of the crumbling walls made her feel as though one good thump would bring the whole place crashing down. She started to unzip her duffel bag when an ear-splitting scream ran through the courtyard.

She jumped, her ear prickling unpleasantly. It was as though the visitor had been standing right next to her, but as her heart rate came down, she realised she wasn't even feeling chilly. She peered down, where George was squinting up at her, Lockwood already with one foot out of their chains. She shook her head, trying to muster a thumbs-up with her fumbling hands, but he was already walking towards the stairs briskly.

She wasn't sure how long it took him to reach her, but it definitely felt longer than it should have. The adrenaline from the scream had made her especially nervy, with a sickly fog of paranoia settling over her mind. Those trees seemed too lush, too dense, dark green leaves quivering under the whims of some invisible wind. She tried to think about the cupcake, and Lockwood's face when he first saw it, and it was enough to stop the balcony from dissolving under her fingertips.

But when he reached her, hair tousled, his grip on her shoulder just a little too strong to be entirely comfortable, she saw a very different version of Lockwood. His lips were moving but there was something rampant in his eyes, something that gave her pause. She glanced at the monstrous night sky, which seemed to threaten to swallow them whole, and then at the inky black heat in Lockwood’s eyes, and she suddenly felt overwhelmed by them both.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Wha - hm?"

"Are you hurt?"

“No, I’m fine. You didn't need to come up here."

His hand slipped from her shoulder, sliding down to her hand, which he stared at as if he couldn't quite understand it.

"Are you okay?"

He looked up, the furrow in his brows dissolving, though he didn't seem ready to let go of her hand yet. “Hm? Oh, yes, I'm fine. It's just...I...I could have sworn..."

“Breathe, Lockwood. You look like you’re stretched thin.”

"I'm fine," he repeated, but it's somehow more hollow than the last. Part of him turned to leave, but something made him stop. He opened his mouth, then closed it again as if he thought better of whatever he was about to say. The burning in her chest grew.

"You feel it too, don't you?"

He exhaled wearily. "He's playing tricks on us. Maybe Luce should join you here -"

"No, it's best she stay halfway. It'll be fine; we can see each other."

He nodded stiffly, before finally walking away with considerable effort. The balcony somehow felt more alive as Lockwood left, the trees rustling louder than they should as the air around her seemed to contract. It unsettled her.

Eventually the visitor made his appearance, and though her Sight wasn't the best it helped calm her nerves to have something solid to watch out for. He was in the courtyard, dodging Lockwood's salt bombs while trying to fly at George, who was desperately looking for the source. There was only so much help she could give as any flares she threw from her height were only going to hit George or Lockwood rather than the visitor, so she focused on hunting for loose panels or hidden latches in the balcony and the walls of the house from which it protruded.

When she walked back to the railing, she felt a stab of panic at the blanket of grey mist that obscured her vision of the courtyard. She gripped the railing, trying to calm down. She could still hear them, but given what Lockwood had said about the visitor playing tricks, she wasn't sure how much faith she could place in any of her senses. A crash sounded, as if one of the weaker walls had caved in, making her wince. She put her hand on her rapier, steeling herself to make the trip downstairs.

Another crash sounded, but this one seemed to resonate through the mansion's skeleton. There was an awful grinding sound and she felt the floor beneath her feet tilt. She clutched what she could reach of the balcony's doorframe, hanging on by her fingertips, not daring to even breathe as she desperately tried to plant her slippery soles onto the marble floor. Her palms were sweating, and her grip was slipping. She closed her eyes, fed up with the hallucinations, and braced herself for the fall.

Instead of the swooping sensation of falling, she feels strong fingers closing around her wrist. She opened her eyes to the sight of Lockwood pulling her to the safety with a badly scratched cheek, but otherwise unhurt. It makes her want to sob with relief, but she settles for scrabbling for his palm with numb fingers. She leans against the doorframe, reveling in the solid wall pressing against her back, though her relief was short-lived.

The visitor shrieked much closer now, startling her as she turned to watch it hurtling towards them, obsessively staring at the chalice in Lockwood's hand. The growing pit in her stomach swells as she rifles through her belt with increasing agitation, panic stabbing her in the eye with every empty pocket. Lockwood twisted his hand out of her relaxed grip, and in that split second she realised what he was about to do. He took a final step onto what was left of the balcony, and the whole structure came crashing down.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Among the roar of the rubble, she picked out what she thought was the sickening crunch of bones, and it took everything in her to fly down the stairs instead of jumping after him. Lucy was already there with George talking on a phone nearby, and their faces paled when they only saw her coming down the stairs. The three of them frantically started shifting through the rubble, yanking at the larger pieces together. She couldn't see the visitor as the dust settled, which saved her the trouble of ripping it to shreds, limb by limb.

She heard a familiar cough coming from under one of the pieces, and with strength she hadn't known that she possessed, she pulls the piece away to reveal a dusty, battered Lockwood. George and Lucy aren't far behind, quickly freeing him from the mountain of debris. This time she does cry out in relief, pressing her fingers into the skull behind his ears insistently, shaking from the blessing that it was to see him alive and breathing. He winces, and her grip on his head tightens reflexively.

"What? What hurts?"

"Your screaming, right now."

As the DEPRAC vans pulled up, George filled out the necessary paperwork on behalf of Lockwood, who was impatiently letting the paramedics check only for broken bones. As the relief of finding him alive faded, all that was left was a smarting irritation. Lockwood would forever and always remain addicted to playing the hero, she knew that, but it didn't piss her off any less, especially when he put his life on the line for it.

Once Lockwood finally managed to shrug off the last exceptionally persistent paramedic, the four of them trudged over to one of the cabs DEPRAC had flagged down for them.

"Hang on - what about the source?"

George turned and she followed his gaze to the team of DEPRAC officers delicately draping an iron net over the rubble.

"Given that it was the balcony itself, I think it's been taken care of."

As they settle into the cab, Lockwood carefully scans her face which is still as inscrutable as it was ten minutes ago. She relents, but only a little, giving his hand a light squeeze. She closes her eyes and leans her head on his shoulder, whispering quietly.

"I wish you'd let them look over you properly."

"M'alright. I can deal with a few scrapes myself. Fractures, not so much."

George's tired voice floats from the front seat.

"You better not have a concussion, idiot."

She feels him still next to her, and suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Why couldn't he let the paramedics do their job properly? Why did he have to be so stubborn?

She thinks about a night from long ago, before they were dating and before she learnt how to bully him into taking care of himself. They had just come home from a case, and he was sitting in his room in a curious manner: staring at the wall without even realising his door was ajar, or that he was still fully clothed. The patches of skin peeking out from under his clothes were littered with scratches and cuts, but nothing major enough to warrant first aid, save for the bruise on the side of his face. She paused at his door, watching him, and wondered if he knew she was even there.

“No library?”

“Not tonight.”

She didn’t like the way he was speaking. The response wasn’t immediate, as if it had taken him a while to detangle himself from his absorbing thoughts. The tone of his voice was as cordial as always, but there was some kind of agency missing, as if he were in a trance, and it unnerved her. And yet, something tethered her to him, some desire to protect him from some violence brewing close at hand.

“You should really get some ointment on that.”

“I know.”

But he made no movement to do so, and she felt awkward leaving him alone. That was how she ended up sitting next to Lockwood on his bed as the sun started to peek in. There was a misty tinge to the first strains of light, and Lockwood looked so pale she wondered if he was fully solid. She had watched his fragile and ambivalent spirit restlessly pace in the room for the past few hours, while his corporeal form withered lifelessly, but she didn’t understand him any better.

She slipped her fingers in his own, mildly frowning, as if trying to hold on to an increasingly amorphous Lockwood. His fingers reflexively tightened around hers before relaxing just as quickly, his first movement in hours, though his face remained impasssive. His hand remained relaxed, but when she didn't pull her hand away, he allowed his thumb to rest on hers. She had felt some kind of tension then, between the part of him that wanted to drift away and the part of her holding onto him for dear life. But now, the Lockwood sitting opposite her at the kitchen table was slipping through her fingers like sand.

"Y/N, about those conflicting jobs in Hackney - do you want to split up or should I cancel?"

"I don't know, Luce. Why don't you ask Lockwood? Since he seems to always know best."

Lockwood frowns, briefly looking away from the torch George was shining into his eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She ignores him, muttering under her breath.

"God forbid someone ask him to try to stay alive."

"Will you cut it out?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, which one of us has a head injury again?"

"I'm fine."

"How dare you lie to my face?"

George clicks the torch off, hastily moving to another corner of the kitchen, while Lucy's weary drifting slows down. Lockwood still looks peeved, but there's a hint of bewilderment on his face. She sighs irritably, pressing her eyelids.

"What I mean is...you don't look fine."

"It's only a bump. Not even a concussion - George checked."

"At least let me ice it for a bit."

"Don't fuss. I'm fine. Just sit and have your tea."

I’m begging you to let me help you, she wants to say. But she doesn't, because she's tired and angry and still very much scared, so she's in no mood for tea. He glances at her face when she continued to stand, and his jaw set when he sees she's in the mood to pick a fight.

"It's like you don't even think you did anything wrong." Do you know how much that terrifies me?

"I was only doing my job as your...employer, landlord, boyfriend...one of them."

"Why must everything be so complicated with you?”

"Fine. I'm sorry I didn't want to watch you break your neck."

And I didn't want to watch the life leave your eyes. "Oh, but yours is fair game?"

He doesn't respond, and it's almost as though she can see the invisible barriers he's putting up between them. She feels a brief stab of panic that she mistakes for anger.

Don't shut me out. "And now the silent treatment! God, you're such a child."

He stops drinking his tea entirely, and it doesn't give her the satisfaction she thought it would. Between the exhaustion from the case and the frustration over the brick wall that was Lockwood, her tongue gets the better of her and she sees red.

"Sometimes I wonder how I ever loved you."

The activity in the kitchen grinds to a halt for a few, terribly long seconds, before George walks out, Lucy not-so-subtlely following him with their tea. The anger on Lockwood's face evaporates, leaving an irritatingly smooth expression of mild surprise. She Silence suspends on the precariously thin string connecting them. He waits, but she doesn't backtrack. She turns away, unable to bear the look on his face.

"I'm...I'm sorry you feel that way."

"I've been thinking about leaving for a while."

"...leave...Portland Row? And go where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere's better than here." Anywhere I don't have to see you make stupid, reckless decisions because of me. Anywhere I don't have to look at you nursing fractures in barely-healed bones. Anywhere I don't have to watch you dither for peace you can never quite seem to reach.

He doesn't say anything, and she's not sure if there's anything he could say. She leaves the kitchen, dragging her feet up to their shared room. She empties the contents of her drawers and closet into a bag as if on autopilot, as she hid in some dark corner of her mind, waiting, begging for some force of God to tell her to stop. Her bags get packed, she gets undressed, and it is only after she turns out the light that she lets herself grieve the life she's leaving behind.

She's looking out of the window when the door swings open, warm light from the hallway spilling into the dark, illuminating her barren nightstand. He pauses at the threshold but she remains completely still, and after a moment or two he steps in, closing the door behind him. He shuffles about, getting ready for bed in the dark, and doesn't look at her face even when climbing into bed. She wants to tell him to try to get some sleep, but she isn't sure if it's her place, so the words remain unsaid.

He was so close she could just...extend her arm...brush her fingers on his back...clumsily soothe the unfettered demons which came out at night. There's a heady oppressiveness to the dark which weighs her down, not as cool and fluid as it normally is, waxing and waning around their shifting bodies and burning skin. The moonlight reflected on the pale patch of skin above the collar of his t-shirt, skin which looked like liquid glass. Close. She was so close to this delicate, temporal force which wrought a religious kind of faith from her hopelessly melancholic soul.

What a misery it was to love.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She wakes up to the sun streaming over the rumpled sheets of the empty bed. She sits up, the house significantly quieter than it usually is at this time of morning. In the kitchen, George is standing by the toaster and Lucy's pulling out the sugar bowl, making tea. Lockwood's sitting stiffly in his chair, and he looks much more whole in the daylight, though oddly fragile with the protection of his suit stripped away. Their eyes instinctively meet when she walks in, after which they avoid each other's gaze until much later.

She gently takes her mug from Lucy, brushing off her protests with a distracted pat on her hand. The emptiness from last night hasn't faded, and she puts together a cup of tea and collects 2 pieces of toast mechanically.

Without thinking, she swaps the mug Lucy's placed in front of Lockwood with her own, only realising what she's done when she feels three pairs of eyes on her, her own eyes fixed on the mug in front of him. She clears her throat awkwardly.

"Lockwood doesn't take sugar with his tea."

Lucy probably mumbles an apology, but she isn't entirely sure given how all she can think about is how close his fingers are to hers. She wills her hand to let go of the mug, and it takes a moment to reluctantly cooperate.

"Thank you."

Lucy takes advantage of her pause to place her mug next to his, so she hesitantly takes her seat next to him. She picks up a piece of toast and starts buttering it while Lockwood talks in an unfamiliar voice.

"So...any plans on where you're going?"

"I've got an aunt in Brixton. Might stay there for a while, until I sort out something more permanent."

He gives a half-nod, as if he hasn't bothered to listen to her words too closely. "Well, you're more than welcome to...stay, at least for a while. If you'd like."

"I...don't think that's a good idea."

"I see."

She can't bear the way his face falls before he attempts an unconvincing smile. It makes her heart ache. Even though they're sitting close enough to have their knees occasionally brush, here in this grimly-lit, transparent kitchen, she's never felt more disconnected from Lockwood. She wants to reach out, slip her fingers in his, btu all of a sudden she's paralysed by doubt and she doesn't know how. She slips the buttered toast into his plate. His lips quirk into a faint cursory smile, but it's gone as soon as he turns back to his plate, a vaguely miserable twist to his pallid lips. They eat in silence, and it's the hardest breakfast she's had to endure at Portland Row.

In another life I’m easier to love. I’m less complicated, less convoluted, less given to bursts of self-destructive/violent tendencies.

Afterwards, she gets dressed, but she cant bring herself to leave just yet, so she sits on the bed vacantly, looking up when he . He pauses at the door, looking at where his fingers delicately rest on the doorframe, the same way they always rested on her shoulder when he wanted to dip his head to whisper something into her ear, as if compelled by some unrecognised desire to hold her close. She steels her face but her eyes desperately drink him in, all of his rough edges and limp shadows, the hazy outline of his body. He holds out an envelope.

"What's this?"

"Your paycheck. The last one." He adds in the later bit almost as an afterthought, and it's almost enough to make her stay. She slips it into her bag, choosing not to point out how he had just given out their most recent paychecks just last week.

"I know I can't change your mind, so...thank you for...everything."

He glances at the birthday card on his nightstand, and any regret she had over buying the card instantly evaporates. At least she managed to somehow get out how she felt once upon a time.

"You'll get another next year."

"Don't think George shares my love for cheesy birthday cards quite like you do."

"Do you think I'm making a horrible mistake?"

"Y/N..."

She wants to feel the comforting weight of his hand in hers, wants to lean against him weakly and have him tell her everything would be alright. But her bags were packed, her dresser as bare as her heart, and she can't help but feel as though she would never be happy again.

"Humour me. Please."

He sighs, but relents.

"Up till yesterday I thought George didn't love me quite like you did, so, frankly...I don't know what to think."

"So...you want me to leave?"

"I didn't say that."

"So you want me to stay?"

"I didn't say that either."

"You make me…so scared, Lockwood. And...sometimes...I don’t think you realise it.”

He moves from where he's leaning against the doorway to sit next to her. She leans her head against his shoulder. He lets her.

"You and I both know I won't be around for long. I just want to keep you safe while I'm still here."

"You don't honestly believe that. Right?"

"It's...hard to say. Some days I feel normal. Mostly. Some days I feel like no amount of candles, eyelashes or wishbones can keep me from an early grave. I don't want you around to see it. I put you through so much, Y/N. I can't say you won't be better off without me."

"What about you?"

He smiles bittersweetly. "You're too...kind to see it now, but one day you'll realise that...it's what I deserve."

A silence fills the room, until she breaks it by violently chucking the envelope at his face.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He gasps and splutters incoherently, still in shock from her attemoted assault.

"It's 'what you deserve'? What you deserve is a good knock on the head!"

"Fine, I'm sorry!"

"Don't ever let me catch you thinking like that again!"

"I won't!"

"What's it going to take to get it into your thick skull? I love you!"

"Okay!"

"I mean it!"

"I get it."

"And don't you forget it!"

"I won't." He wraps his arms around her, and she squeezes his torso aggressively, muttering increasingly extreme threats darkly under her breath. It's a sobering moment to hold each other as a new day blooms outside their window. "I won't."

They pull apart, but she still leans against him, and in that moment it's a dream to be sitting there, pressed impossibly close together, listening to each other breathe.

"I want to take evening walks with you. I want to watch you iron your ties on sleepy Sunday afternoons. I want to lose to you in chess. I want to manhandle you into celebrating your birthdays. I want to rub away the crease between your eyebrows whenever you’re thinking too hard."

Her hand drops from his waist to his wrist.

"Damn it, Lockwood. I want to hold your hand. I want to love you."

He interlocks his fings into hers, distractedly running his thumb over hers.

“Let me help you. Please.”

”I don’t think I know how.”

She tightens her arms around him again, overwhelmed by the burdens stretching out in front of them. Nothing was easy, not even this. Not even him.

"Just...hold on."

"I'm holding on. I'm holding on...to you. I'm holding on...for you."

TAGLIST: @mitskiswift99 @dangelnleif

#fanfiction #lockwood & co #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co netflix #anthony lockwood imagine #anthony lockwood x you #fanfic #lockwood x y/n #requested

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bcdrawsandwrites · 4 days

Text

(Please reblog if you want to, do not repost! Do not post to Pinterest!)

[ID: A Team Fortress 2 fanfic cover featuring a render of Pyro and Spy standing back-to-back in profile, with Pyro facing left and Spy facing right, standing against a dark purple background. Spy is smoking. Both characters have a yellow/orange rim lighting. Above them is the title of the fic, Flickering, glowing the same glowing yellow/orange. /end ID]

Fandom: Team Fortress 2

Rating: K+

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship

Characters: Spy, Pyro, all the other mercs, and Miss Pauling (primarily Spy and Pyro, but everyone else has important moments too)

Warnings: TF2-typical violence, PTSD, panic attacks, trauma in general (none of these guys are okay)

Description: After the events of the comics, the mercs try to go back to how things were, but it's never that easy.

Spy can see his teammates going through their own struggles… but something seems to be very, very wrong with Pyro in particular.

And since no one else seems to be doing anything about this, Spy makes it his mission to get to the bottom of what is troubling Pyro. For no particular reason.

Beta Readers: @mechmolar, @gonturan0, @junuve (Teeth (mechmolar) also did the render for the cover!)

Notes: This fic is legit like around 80% complete already because it takes me forever to actually post anything these days. I'll be posting new chapters as I feel like it. It'll be around 10 chapters in total. Also, Pyro is nonhuman and uses it/its pronouns in this fic. Okay? Okay.

---

Prologue

They were pretty sure they knew what awaited them when they got to Gray Mann's base. Or, Spy was sure, anyway. Mann was after the same Australium they were, and they'd be interrogated for what little they knew. And he wasn’t going to get that information out of them easily.

Spy’s tongue nudged one of his fake teeth. The time would come for that eventually.

His suspicions were confirmed when Demo, still distraught from the loss of Sniper, was dragged out by a couple of the enemy mercs, who snickered over the ways they could "make him talk."

That left him, Miss Pauling, Soldier, Zhanna, and Pyro, all of them chained up in a tiny room, waiting out their fate.

Well, until that thing entered.

It was the other team's pyro. Their Pyro perked up with an interested hum when it saw the other, only to jump—as much as it could with its feet chained to the floor—when the enemy pyro removed its face.

Spy had, admittedly, been caught off-guard, but rolled his eyes immediately after. This was not like their Pyro. This one was a human—a woman, her face scarred with old burns and one eye missing, her hair pepper gray with half her scalp scarred over. The fact that she was human had startled him more than any disfigurement could have.

Of course, he had to remind himself that his team was the exception, as always. They'd become so accustomed to the incredibly strange nature of their comrade that it felt eerie to actually see a human behind a similar mask.

Pyro must have felt the same, with the way it tilted its head with a hum of consternation.

The woman stared at it in turn. "Hm. This one seems promising."

Miss Pauling's head shot up, but Spy nudged her and subtly shook his head.

Unfortunately, Soldier was not on their wavelength. "That one? HAH! If you need a building burned to the ground, maybe! But Pyro doesn't talk!"

One of the woman's eyebrows raised in interest. "Really."

Spy shut his eyes, imagining himself flipping open his butterfly knife and driving it through Soldier's throat.

"Nope! It's completely incomprehensible! It can’t tell you anything! The rest of us won’t, either—we will not yield under torture, especially not me. Though I'd love to see you try!"

"Soldier, no!" Zhanna cried. "I must be tortured first!"

But the enemy pyro did not respond to them—likely still staring at their Pyro. "It doesn't, eh?" she said, putting a heavy emphasis on the pronoun. "Good. I like a challenge."

Seconds later, several robots filed into the room, immediately heading for Pyro and unlocking its shackles from the floor. Pyro mumbled something at them.

"Wait, no!" Soldier cried. "Pick me, pick me! I'm a good challenge!"

But the robots paid them no mind as they escorted Pyro out, and Spy cracked an eye open to see it showed no signs of worrying about what was about to happen. The door slammed shut, and he let out a sigh, tipping his head back. "Soldier, you are going to get us all killed."

"We're gonna die anyway!" Soldier protested. "We can at least go down fighting!"

"We are not going to go down fighting, you imbecile. We are—" He stopped himself there, deciding he didn't particularly want to reflect on their fates with someone who wasn't going to care anyway.

"Poor Pyro," Miss Pauling murmured. "What are they going to do to it?"

Spy shrugged. "Better it than us." He lowered his voice. "With luck, they'll waste several hours trying to get information out of it before they realize Soldier, idiot that he is, was more-or-less telling the truth. That may buy us some time."

"You think we can still get out of this?" she whispered, hope edging into her voice.

"Not likely. We're probably delaying the inevitable." His tongue nudged one of his molars.

"We'll have to hope.” Miss Pauling sighed, staring at the door. "I guess Demo or Pyro could break out."

Spy barely resisted the urge to snort. "The drunkard? Not likely. Pyro? Who knows."

"I still can't imagine what they would do to it."

Spy tipped his head back to regard the ceiling for a moment. "Who can say? Waterboarding, perhaps?” A random guess, and he snorted at the absurdity of it. “Though I struggle to imagine what could break that creature."

"Neither could the Administrator. That's one of the reasons she recruited it." Miss Pauling shook her head. "If that's the case, maybe it'll find a way to break out. And break us out of here."

"Unless it decides to burn down the whole base with us inside. Regardless, resisting torture and breaking free are two different things. But we shall see."

Soldier groaned. "But when's it gonna be my turn to get tortured for information?"

"Will be our turn soon," Zhanna reassured him.

Spy heaved a sigh, and Miss Pauling shut her eyes.

They sat in uncomfortable silence (save for Soldier and Zhanna's chatter) for some time, Spy keeping an eye on the door while Miss Pauling stared at the floor, lost in her own thoughts.

The minutes ticked on. For how long, Spy was uncertain—he couldn't reach his watch to read it, and the feeling of dread in the air was not helping with their perception of time. Next to him, Miss Pauling occasionally muttered to herself, and every so often he could pick up phrases.

"...and we could go back to Australia, and..."

"...if Scout or Heavy are still out there..."

"...and Sniper could... wait, no..."

Sighing, he almost considered tuning her out, but it was a good distraction from his nicotine cravings, at least.

At some point, she raised her head. "Where is it?"

Spy raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"

"Pyro. They've been keeping it for a long time."

"Yes. Demo has been gone for some time, too."

"Yeah, but... they can get information out of him." She turned to face him again, and an unspoken question hung in the air.

Spy returned her gaze. "Miss Pauling, if you are under the impression that we are in the hands of anyone other than violent sadists, I do not know what to tell you."

Before she could react, the door burst open.

“I VOLUNTEER!” Soldier cried, straining against his manacles.

But instead of their captors, Pyro stumbled into the room.

Spy would have hoped that it had indeed broken loose and come to rescue them had it not been for the fact that its hands were shackled behind its back.

The robots escorted Pyro to the end of the bench, where they shackled its feet to the floor. Meanwhile, the enemy pyro stepped into the room.

"Finally!" Soldier exclaimed. "You've had your turn, Pyro. Now it's mine!"

"Our turn," Zhanna corrected.

With an unfriendly smile, the woman turned to face them. "If you insist."

While the robots got to work escorting the two least intelligent people out of the room, Spy and Miss Pauling looked over their recently-returned companion. "Pyro?" Miss Pauling whispered. "You okay, buddy?"

Pyro said nothing, sitting still on the bench and facing forward.

"...Well, it looks okay, anyway." Miss Pauling shrugged. "Guess the Administrator was right."

"Hm." Spy's eyes narrowed as he continued to look Pyro over. While it was true that it looked more-or-less uninjured—the suit was a little roughed up, but that was it—he couldn't be too sure that it was unharmed. The enemy wouldn't have just done nothing with it, and the way Pyro did not answer them, nor even respond to its surroundings, was not encouraging.

Nor was the fact that it was trembling.

But before he could analyze Pyro's behavior any further, the doors burst open again, and this time a barely-coherent Demo was practically dragged into the room.

In the whirlwind of events that followed, the torture that their fellow mercs had endured was nearly all but forgotten.

But it would not stay that way.

#tf2 spy #tf2 pyro #miss pauling #tf2 soldier #team fortress 2 #my art #my writing #fanfic #art collab #FINALLY I AM STARTING TO POST THIS #also yes I am still planning on posting the 20-some-odd complete Psychonauts fics I have on my computer #maybe I'll post one of them tomorrow or something

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randybutternubber · 3 months

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Heyyyyyyy do you have any funny head canons on the children :-9 if they squabble and stuff in your opinion. Give me the sillies !!!!! (I do too but I wanna hear urs)

YOU HAVE OPENED THE GATES OF HELL PREPARE FOR MY BORDERLINE SEVEN PAGE ESSAY ON THESE RANDOM FUCKING CHILDREN

I decided to do the ones that get less attention in general, especially since I have the most thoughts on them

HCs under cut because I may have gone overboard with the length

Ghost kid

Best friends with a batmin ball that had a very poorly drawn face on it from the age of six to eight.

Sebbo (spoon girl) buried the batmin ball using a spoon as a shovel after it got neutered by the barber (he thought it was a bug and shat his pants)

Not a native of the nowhere and was taken to the nowhere on Halloween, hence the ghost costume

Lost their arm pretty quickly after being taken to the Nowhere. he’s quite a friendly child and is very compassionate towards animals, but unfortunately, this has its downsides as not all animals in the Nowhere want help.

Friends with Sebbo

Has been squatting in houses since day 1 of living in the Nowhere and has no plans to stop

Would go CRAZY for squishmallows

Doesn’t have well formed empathy/sympathy for humans but is super compassionate towards animals

Zero concept of gender and doesn’t care what you call them, he just want to pet your dog

Nonverbal but has very expressive body language

Spoon girl

Her name is sebbo (based off of game files)

She sneezes like a middle aged divorced golf dad and due to her nose bleed these sneezes are NOT victimless

LEGENDARY rage tantrums

Literally only wants to watch gen 1 my little pony, Formula One, or a very specific documentary about some random Swedish sheep wool factory

Swedish

If you compare her to pippy longstockings you will end up needing to go to urgent care for a rabies shot

Calls ghost kid Ande (sounds like Andeh) which means spirit in Swedish. (His file name is actually spöke for anyone wondering, which also means ghost/spirit in Swedish. The only reason I’m not giving him the Sebbo naming treatment is that spöke absolutely does not sound like it’s spelled (sounds like Spurkeh) and Ande actually sounds like a name. I’m a quarter swedish and have a very Swedish family on my white side so I got the most incomprehensible Swedish lessons in the car ever, so please don’t roast me in the reblogs if I got this wrong, I remember like five words and this is one of them, same thing with Korean😭

Living embodiment of “ANDE WE’RE 10 NOW, WE SAY CRAP, NOT POOP”

Broke one of her legs at some point in the Nowhere and ended up in the hospital (HC based off of concept art where she was in a wheelchair and using crutches)

Has severe trauma revolving around doctors and medical stuff

Has never seen another ginger in her entire life but will fight to be the alpha

Warrior cats kid

Expert at digging and climbing out of holes, THE CHILDREN YEARN FOR THE MINES!!!

Rusty

Has a cleft lip

This isn’t a HC but something that not a lot of people realize; he has a lisp

Only reason I’m not drawing him as ginger because of his name is because I also designed Noone as ginger and he lost in a 1v1 to a rabid cabbage patch kid. He’s been through enough

He’s around 14

Very lithe

Despite being a trapeze and tightrope performer, he is TERRIFIED of heights, making his experience at the circus even worse

The dummy has been malding over Rusty for a ridiculously long period of timeand bro had no fucking idea and nobody even knows the reason why 💀

Also a warrior cats kid but kept in on the downlow. Yes he did name himself Rusty after firestar but if you tell anyone he will cry

Noone

A nice kid but will deadass ask some of the most insensitive questions and has NO idea. Also verbally cooked a middle aged man and spent like a whole episode sassing him so she can definitely be mean if she wants to

Also has really severe medical trauma along with trauma from being paraded around on TV because she was the first person to be cured of whatever the shit water sickness is

Her real name was Ruth, but once she started forgetting her parents (they basically ditched her anyways 😭) she started just using Noone as her real name

Master of inappropriately prolonged periods of intense eye contact

Really dislikes/is afraid of dolls/dummies because of what happened to Rusty/in JuJubee’s toyshop

Very untrusting of people post Nowhere abduction because of how Otto treated her and because of the ferryman. Plus basically every kid she met in TSON was met with a terrible fate (Goo kid is probably alive but she doesn’t know that)

Autism (all these children got some sort of neurodivergence though, I mean just look at them)

WORST BACKSEAT DRIVER EVER (ASKED TO LEAVE THE ROWBOAT)

Has a few scars on her face from her right before she had a seizure when getting clockwork oranged. She tried to take the mri suction thingies off her head but she ended up scratching up her face in her panic

#little nightmares #little nightmares 2 #little nightmares comics #little nightmares 3 #Rusty TSON #noone the sounds of nightmares #tson noone #noone tson #ghost kid little nightmares #the spoon girl little nightmares #sebbo little nightmares #I also just don’t want to name ghost kid after a part of a bike #ghost little nightmares

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randomfoggytiger · 4 months

Text

Eight Nights of Mulder: Day 6, Dreidel

Perhaps a Part II to "Something Approaching a Normal Life".

*****

“Yes, Mom, yes, I will-- what? You… what? Yes, yes I-- yes, Mom, I got it. Yes, I’ll tell him. Mom, Mulder’s here I have to go--”

Mulder wandered in, sun-tanned and healthy and wonderfully free of an earful of Maggie Scully itinerary. “How’s your mom doing?”

“Planning a surprise for you.”

His eyebrows flew up-- for me? she interpreted-- and he shook his head, incredulous and disbelieving.

“For me?” Bingo.

“She said she wants to celebrate us getting the files back.”

“But that was months ago.”

“I know-- and apparently, she’s been planning this for months. Though what she’s planned is beyond me.” Scully sighed, decided against pinching her nose, crossed her arms instead. “The party’s at five next week.”

She looked up and had to bite down a grin: Mulder was flummoxed-- there was no other word for it. His mouth flapped once, twice; his eyes widened; and his eyebrows still migrated north. Finally, he lifted a hesitant hand to scrunch then smooth down the back of his hair.

“I… tell her thanks. From me.”

*****

Scully, for all her impeccable punctuality, arrived late: snow and traffic she excused to herself, ignoring her nervous breaths and shaky hands. Mulder’s car was already pulled up on the curb-- and Bill’s, she acknowledged with (what she was horrified to realize was) a shudder. Now thoroughly riled up at her cowardice, she slammed the door and crunched across the white lawn with as much dignity as her expensive boots would allow.

Of all people, her partner answered the door.

“Happy Hanukkah!” he crowed, grin positively Grinchy while watching Scully’s world grind to a halt.

“Oh, there you are, honey-- welcome home!” Maggie swept under Mulder’s arm with a benevolent hug, an upbeat, infectious party sprite undeterred by her daughter's ramrod posture. “Happy Hanukkah!”

“Mom, I didn’t know you celebrated.…” Scully began, eyes darting between both of them as they shooed her through the hall to the coat rack.

“Don’t be silly, Dana, you know we’re Catholic.”

Mulder clucked his tongue rebukingly.

“Then what’s this about?” Whirling around, hat suddenly gone and coat pulled half off, Scully clutched at Maggie’s arm-- or Mulder’s-- and held on, demanding answers.

“We’re celebrating Hanukkah, Scully. You almost didn’t make it in time for the light show.”

And Mulder-- this incomprehensible, insensible version of him, anyway-- gave her a good-hearted nudge towards the living room.

“I… you’re Jewish?” Though Scully tried not to let it, the fact that Mulder had told her mother about this part of himself before her… stung. “If I had known--”

“Oh, I’m not. Or I might be. Hard to say.” Mulder vague-speak: an outright challenge. And he had the cheek to look endearingly smug about it.

She, as always, rose to the bait.

“Mulder.”

To her surprise, it was Maggie who coughed up an answer: “Dana, leave the poor man alone. I had a dream about him a few months back.”

Another grinding halt: immediately pivoting, she locked eyes with her mother, aghast. “Mo--”

“I know you don’t believe in them, but it was real and it happened. Since then, I’ve been planning out this event for the both of you-- and I won’t hear any arguments.” And she scuttled off to the beeping oven before Scully could get a word in edgewise.

Mulder was having much too fun snacking on fried foods and peeking between her and the decorative menorah resting on a nearby side table. It would almost be amusing if it weren’t so tragic.

“Mulder, I’m sorry. Mom meant well--”

“Scully, it’s okay-- I’m having a great time. Your mom’s been teaching me all the customs and proper words; and I, I even met a few of your relatives who knew more about Hanukkah than I did.” He chuckled, really pleased.

Wonder of wonders.

“Mulder, are you really Jewish?”

She watched him tilt his head mid-chew, watched his jaw grind back and forth between ideas. “I don’t really know, Scully. I think my mother was. Culturally, if not religiously. I have a few memories of her mother, fewer of her father; but… but, yeah, they served these potato pancakes--” he waved one of his snacks for emphasis “--when we dropped in for morning cartoons. Sam and I were always more interested in reruns than talking with ‘the old people’.”

In the stretch of silence that followed, lengthened, she watched regret bloom behind his eyes. “And maybe that was wrong of us. If I’d known…” we’d lose touch filled the gap, unspoken, “then I think I would have wanted to know more about them. We stopped going right… before. I guess we got so used to being Mulders we forgot how to be Kuipers.”

Scully nodded, grabbed a potato. Decided to join Mulder in whatever this was for him.

*****

It wouldn’t pass for the laxest definition of Hanukkah-- all eight nights crammed into one, Maggie and Mulder repeating phrases and rituals back to each other, a nameless relative handing out dreidels and no one caring in the least they were for children's games-- but the celebration was, in its own way, a success. Though the crowd was small (not a lot of stricter family members wanted to attend) and the food a little hit or miss, everyone was determined to have a good time; and that determination carried the night.

Maggie sent her guests home with leftovers and a little party bag of chocolate coins-- “Gelt!” she repeated, over and over, while Mulder licked tasty smears from his eager fingers-- but whisked the cleaned menorah and dreidels away to her holiday storage, before anyone had even left (cleanliness and promptness still wound tight into her military wife gears.)

The tromp back through the snow was peaceful. Scully took advantage of the moment to slow their walk, gaze fixed on the white winter moon. They paused in front of her car, his enthusiasm and her absorption meeting somewhere in the middle.

“Well, Mulder? Do you feel celebrated?”

He nodded, tossed another gelt into his cavernous mouth, smacked twice, loudly, then cleared his throat. “I’ve been to two of your mom’s parties now, Scully, and I think they get better and better.”

“That’s only because Bill wasn’t there,” she teased, watching him shift his left boot in the snowdrift. He’d made a little angel, unawares.

“Yes, he was.”

What? “What? No, he couldn’t have been.”

“Scully, his car’s just over there.”

In a flash, she remembered-- yes, Bill’s car was there, had been there before she’d even arrived. “But… but I didn’t even notice him.”

Mulder snorted. “That’s because your mother kept him hopped up on fried food. He was happy as a clam and didn’t want to come over and bother me.”

“Mulder, of course he wanted to bother you. He probably didn’t think it would look good to bully the Jewish boy on his special day.”

Her partner shrugged; and the silence pushed her more upright to study him closely.

“Sometimes I… I can’t help but wonder if I’m misremembering things, Scully. Mom never spoke Yiddish, or practiced cultural holidays, or mentioned Temple; but it didn’t… she doesn’t seem to be avoiding her roots out of shame. And maybe she doesn’t tie herself to being Jewish. Or maybe… what if I made it up in my head, only recalled bits and pieces of my childhood rationalizations and blew them up into a separate identity out of another sense of having been wronged? I’m a Mulder, but….”

But in light of his mother’s denial and rebuke and slap, being a Mulder was shaky ground at present; and escape with a new or reclaimed sense of identity would seem a beautiful salvation to a man scrabbling for any purchase from sheer desperation.

Scully never weighed in on his family matters-- he hadn’t wanted her too-- but the pieces only fit one way, logically. Rationally nothing else made sense. But as easily as she dismissed the more insidious insinuations of old Spender’s relationship with the Mulders, she also sympathized with her partner’s continual doubts on the subject. Confused by yet another topic Tena complicated by her silence, Mulder was left to drift, clinging to her support and her unflinching, scientific reasoning for reassurance.

And my family’s open arms and toddled-out traditions.

“Mulder, at some point a part of us will be lost to time. No one can trace their lineage without it cracking apart under the faults and frailties of common humanity; but more importantly, the common element in all of us is what binds us beyond who we are and what we have chosen to define ourselves by. In one generation, identity can change completely, be it biological or environmental factors. Human wars upend lives and redefine boundaries; and, when a few more wrongs are made right, those lines dividing people collapse, leaving whoever is left to face each other with more in common than not.”

He was nodding along, mulling over her words. Time to narrow the scope by throwing in a personal illustration.

“Although my family prides itself on its Irish roots, only the very old ones can speak Gaelic; and I’ve learned more about Irish myths and traditions from working with you than I have from an Aunt Olive or a second cousin Seymour. I and my brothers and Melissa were raised Catholic, but only Bill and I chose to remain in the faith. Charlie’s children will turn into different men than Bill’s son, and all three will continue that cycle as they grow up and move out and start families of their own.

“In short, Mulder,” she said, winding back the spool of her thoughts with a self-deprecating grin, “you’re you. And if that means you enjoy celebrating Hanukkah in the Scully family style, then….”

She slowed and stopped, puzzled, as he nudged a chocolate from his coin stash at her. “What?”

“A gelt for your thoughts. I figured you more than earned it.” The expression in his eyes-- starstruck humility and gentle persistence-- undercut Mulder’s flippancy; and brooked no argument. I owe you everything and you owe me nothing, they reminded. It’s the least I can do, they insisted.

If eating a piece of candy was what Mulder needed from her, then Scully was determined to do it and do it right. She ripped the foil off, popped it in her mouth, and chewed and swished vigorously until every last bite was gone. I do it all for you, Mulder, she thought, this proof and my words and even who I have become.

Scully watched his eyes twinkle, thankful, before he turned, parting ways after a promise to compare leftovers on Monday.

*****

She was back in the car, back on the road, almost to her apartment, this time clutching the gelt wrapper like a talisman, swishing her thumb back and forth across the crinkles during the long red lights.

Scully made a mental note to thank her mother. Whatever tonight was, Mulder had needed it.

*****

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

(Tagging @today-in-fic~)

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