After the Chitauri (god, after waking up this century feeling like he didn’t get a lick of sleep) Clint Barton, Hawkeye, doesn’t look at Steve much.
He figures that’s fair.
Steve looks at himself in the mirror and twists his face one way then the other, then closes the bathroom door behind him as he steps out. If the window reflects him, he doesn’t see. He jogs out the front door of his little DC apartment, trying to remember that he, Steve Rogers, is a living thing.
Needs to breathe. Needs to eat. Needs to pace in that animal way they never managed to beat out of him.
Gotta relearn all the ropes. How his muscles flow under his skin, blood coursing through his veins. Joints rotate smoothly.
It isn’t until after SHIELD’s downfall (god, when did his life become a long string of before and after), that Steve figures out Clint’s deal.
The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, roams the world out there. Steve needs to find him like he needs air in his lungs and grey matter in his cranium. Sam’s with him because Steve’s liable to buzz right out his bones without someone tethering him to the earth.
Clint’s here because Natasha sent Steve a text. No hello, no how are you, just sending you a driver. He’s got Natasha’s measure though, because she sends a take care of him while she marches into Congress with her head held high.
“Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Clint says with a laugh. He’s all Midwestern twang and miles of freckled skin, with sunglasses sitting on his nose and a roguish grin. “Come on Cap and company, I can’t go sitting around all day for y’all.”
Steve huffs and clambers in, reaches out to clasp Clint’s shoulder. “Good to see you,” he says. Then, “Sam, this is Hawkeye.”
“Call me Clint.” He adjusts the rear view mirror, looking for that perfect angle only decipherable to a sniper. That, or just fucking with Steve. “Nat had some things to say about you.”
“Good things, I hope!”
“Awh,” Clint croons as he kicks the car into gear, “only the sweetest things you ever could hear her say.”
Steve chuckles into the wind as Clint flicks on the radio to cover Sam’s peals of laughter. He leans an arm out the rolled down window, as if to brush fingertips against the rushing hillsides, like a painter with his oils. Bucky’s out there, somewhere, dismantling HYDRA systemically and efficiently.
Maybe going back to wild, wild roots.
Trying on who he wants to be, like a worn pair of sunglasses and a Midwestern drawl. Clint’s singing off-key in the driver’s seat, slapping the roof of the car only sort of in beat. Grey hawk’s eyes flicker over at Steve every now and then, with their old and aching sorrow.
Steve flips down the shade, finding that the mirror’s exposed on the inside. There he is. Just as he was, with Sam’s tiny image moving in and out of the background as he howls along to Clint’s radio.
After this, Steve thinks, he might look into picking up a sketchbook.
In the dream she was back in Amdapor, the overgrown brick walls looming all around her. The light at the center was stark and sharp like the eye of an oubliette, ever present, yet unobtainable. Wolf felt herself reaching for it, stretching out her arms towards the freedom of the world outside, the world beyond this nightmare prison. Her fingers wrenched as they reached, her skin going gray, her knuckles withering into scabby bark, her arms branching with new growth as she pushed up and up towards freedom she would only ever taste as the wind rustled through her branches. Then she was still, and silent as all the other graying sentinels of that dead place. The mouth from which she would have screamed long grown over with its own calloused bark.
Capricious Wolf woke in the familiar softness of her favorite bunk, the warmth and comfort of the lodge a cold wash of relief as the nightmare receded back into the darkness of sleep. For a long moment she lay there, sticky with sweat, her heart hammering at her chest. Then she pushed herself to sit up, and pulled back the curtain around the bunk. No light yet crept through the shuttered windows, and the only sound in the cabin was the soft breath of her sleeping guests. A log in the hearth cracked, and she looked over to find it burned down near to ashes.
It was too early yet to be awake, and yet no part of sleep appealed to her now, with the shadow of the nightmare lingering at the back of her mind. Branches stretching towards the sky. She shook off the memory and forced herself to move, quietly creeping about the cabin as she laid another log on the fire and then retreated to her worktable. On the top of it lay the slim brown tome, its weather eaten covers gray in the dim light. For long moments she stared at it, and then finally she lit the small lamp and sat at the bench, huddling back over the book and its ragged pages.
The narrow print of the book’s main text was difficult to read, elegant and archaic, a relic of some ages past perhaps, or maybe only designed to appear as such. Wolf wasn’t sure, but the story written out on the pages was clear enough and her fingers caressed the ink on the title page reverently. The Parables of the Wanderer. Wolf knew these stories, most of them anyroad, in one form or another. Stories recited to her by her grandfather, teachings she’d taken to heart. And yet, the stories themselves weren’t what was so interesting about the tome they’d brought back from Amdapor.
With a slow hand she bent back the book’s spine and flattened the water damaged page that had been jammed into the space between the title page and the first of the parables. The looping handwriting there was much more modern, easily legible despite the damage done to the faded page it was written on.
Nights are growing long, and it’s getting colder. Perith reckons it to be about the first sennight of the sixth astral moon, but it feels later than that to me. Her man has taken ill, and his breath rattles now. Some want to venture further into the city, to see if we can find supplies, but I cannot shake the feeling that all that lies below us is death. We need to keep searching for a way through the walls if we’re to escape this prison before something in here consumes us or we die of starvation. Already the rations grow thin, though we’ve supplemented as best we can.
The bottom of the page drew out into notes about the rationing of what foodstuffs were left, but Wolf didn’t have the heart to read it again. There were dozens of notes like this one scattered throughout the book, most written on paper clearly torn from other tomes, many pages only half decipherable amid the mildew and water damage. Even so, the story they told was clear. The tree people they had met and fought in Amdapor had once been Gridaninans just like her. They’d been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not innocent perhaps, but certainly not the types of criminals that would even end up in the least of the Gridanian gaols. Yet they’d ended up here, victims of whatever it was they’d witnessed. Trapped within Amdapor’s walls as they slowly declined into starvation, and transformation. The entries Wolf had picked apart dwindled into near illegible scrawl, as if the owner had tried to keep recording their story long after their limbs had grown incompatible with the process.
Wolf flipped through the stack of pages she’d gathered, adding this one to the place where she thought it most likely fell in the timeline. As the pages slid in between the others she noticed something, a scrawl on the page below it she’d overlooked. The passage itself was an early one. The author, whoever they’d been, hadn’t described what had landed them there in detail, only that the wailers had let them past, as if familiar with those that now ordered them to look aside as they cast the small group into the ruined city. Judge and executioners. The thought of it made the sour taste of rage rise in Wolf’s belly as she stared at the mark.
Why was it so damnably familiar?
The thought dug at her as she flipped through the book of stories, her fingers ruffling the pages as she searched for any other scraps that had gotten stuck between the damaged pages. A flash of linework caught her eyes and she stopped suddenly, backtracking to find the page that had flashed by.
There it was again. The same symbol. A circular pattern of lines that trailed up to resemble a lick of flame. Wolf ran a finger down the page, squinting in the lantern light to make out the name of the parable the symbol had been paired with.
The Parable of the Wisps in the Dark.
Wolf frowned thoughtfully, her hand rubbing at her mouth as she considered the text. The story was a simple one, even among the other parables that were held in the small book. Two men were on a journey, and became lost. One sought to go it alone down the dark path and met a tragic end, while the other followed the light of the Wanderer’s wisps, which led him to friends and comfort. The story and its simple moral was a tale she’d heard before, but what connection there was between it and the words scrawled on the scrap of paper she couldn’t fathom.
Her eyes felt dry, and her mind gummy with exhaustion as she stared down at it. Her thoughts drifted, until they’d taken on the strange geometry of a half-dream as her head nodded over the table. The symbol seemed to float in front of her eyes. Clear as if carved in stone. No. Flesh. A tattoo. She’d see the tattoo before, but where? A sound from the bunks behind her roused her from her dozing, and she pushed the book away as she stood, intent to come back to it another time when perhaps the strangeness of it all would suddenly make sense.
When rewatching “A Tale of Two Stans” I simply couldn’t get over the peso in Stan’s pocket and lack of information thereof why it’s there. We already know he can speak fluent Spanish, so what on Earth was he doing in Mexico? Stan’s number one goal is stated, “to get rich” so why is he in Mexico? I have a plausible answer.
The majority of crime in Mexico, given that Gravity Falls refers to real places a lot, is assault and theft. Now, I’m a betting canine, and I’m going to guess that theft would more than likely be the reason Stan would be in the area. What could he be stealing though? Money? An artifact? Either way, he’s obviously broke once he’s back in the US and staying in New Mexico - a penny is worth much more than a single peso. So he’s not partaking in these types of crime.
If Stan was close to the border, which I have suspicions he must have been, then there is reason to believe that at one point the man was a part of a cartel; a Mexican Mafia. The majority of cartels are drug operated, and with the pun of “pug trafficking”, this makes it even more solid. Many can also include extortion, insider trading, and illegal gambling. How does any of this work to make money though?
No matter what branch Stan had done (drugs, most definitely), it had to do with money laundering. This is where money is gained by illegally-gained proceeds (dirty money) and made to appear legal, clean. Typically, it involves three steps: placement, layering, and integration. First, the illegitimate money is put into legitimate financial systems, then the money is moved around to create confusion, sometimes by wiring or transferring through numerous accounts. It will be integrated into the financial system multiple times until eventually it appears clean through additional transactions; both national and international. (Even more of those fake ids are making sense now.)
There are MANY ways to do this, but for the sake of an educated guess, I’m willing to say that Stan was in on a shelling company. Now before anyone takes this as “wow Stan is a mob boss,” he most certainly is not. He would be regarded as a Straw Man, which is someone who has no value whatsoever that criminals basically rent out to make these fake little companies to shell in the dirty money. A business that goes like this, “Hey I have wet towels for sale! Also cocaine if you wink at me a few times!” Who was making a lot of little companies during his twenties? Stanley Pines. Seems like the kind of thing he would be good at.
Networks of cartels will use ordinary people strapped for cash for this kind of work all the time, every time- housewives, students, a twenty something year old with a criminal background that’s trying to make it rich. In no means, though, was Stan ever going to make it rich. People like that, like him, are picked because they are disposable.
These little fish swimming in such a big pond usually end up murdered by actual respected members of the cartel, or arrested because they simply weren’t very good at being criminals. Well, Stanley is good at it. SO, in the scene where he’s talking about paying back “Rico’s goons” and he immediately is grabbing a bat, to me, is super dark. This can be viewed as Alex’s humor, yes, but it is actually the exact kind of move we see in serious movies about drug cartels - where the boss, or some affiliate, comes knocking on the motel/dead end flats door late one night where our anti-hero is staying.
Stanley without a doubt was a part of one of these schemes. I don’t think he was really borrowing money like the scene will have you believe without some thought and I don’t think the word “goons” is thrown in there just as Stan’s dialect. No, I think Stanley jumped ship, crossed the border, and he was holding onto what little he could when he did. There’s a reason most members of a cartel end up dead; because they know and also they owe. The money earned via shelling is never yours to keep - it’s dirty money to be put into the scheme.
The takeaway just makes me feel more sympathetic to Stanley and what he went through versus Stanford “I didn’t get my dream school” petty Pines. Both valid in their hurt, but seriously so immature.
Of course, all of this is speculation, but that postcard sure came in at a good time.
My body is changing. My mind is changing. Our home is changing. But this is a good change.
I love the way my body is transforming to be a home for a little person. I love my growing belly. Maybe you wouldn’t think it, but it’s funny how confident you can feel when your belly is the biggest it’s ever been.
I love thinking about my husband being a dad and myself being a mother. Growing up far away from my own mother and having her pass away, I feel as though I’ve always been longing for that mother daughter connection. I’ve learned I have to release those feelings in order to step into the role of becoming a mother. I will be the mother that I needed.
Everyday, little by little, we are preparing our nest. We are creating a safe spot for our baby. When the world outside is chaotic, we have our own peace within these four walls. A place where we can be together, we can make memories, and we can grow as a family. Our home may change and look different, but it will feel different too.
Change can be frightening, but we were built for change. Growth can be so beautiful, inside ourselves and outside.
[ 🌺 ] what is your muse’s relationship with their parents? are there specific things they like/dislike about them? (For Wolf!)
The stone bounced and clattered down the hill, flicking off the rough bark of a tall maple before it bounded into the underbrush and disappeared. The one that followed it flew and smacked the archery butte hanging from the low branch, and then made its own crashing path through the forest.
"Your aim's better," the elderly elezen quipped as he emerged from the treeline behind Wolf and lowered himself onto the stone beside her. His familiar voice and gentle hand on her shoulder brought all the anger she'd been burning through to a sudden collapse, and Wolf fell upon him, burying her face in his rough shirt as she sobbed.
"I thought... I though she'd take me with her this time," Wolf hiccupped through her tears as she clung to her grandfather.
"Oh, pup," he sighed, rubbing her back. "Thirteen turns is too young for that sort of work."
"Courel is just a baby and they took him," Wolf shot back, pulling away from him as hot anger rushed into her. When she looked into her grandfather's face she saw the answer she knew he wouldn't speak written in the lines of his frown.
"It's because I'm not his, isn't it? Obelisk doesn't like me," She sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve as she stared at her grandfather.
"Obelisk likes you fine, sweetheart. He just doesn't know you yet," The old elezen sighed and leaned on his knees, "But, that you're someone else's child is part of it, I'm sure." He looked out at the Archery butte, his face grim, "I told Leaf she couldn't keep showing up like this, but your mother is a stubborn woman. She loves you in her own way, or she wouldn't come back at all."
The cold comfort of her grandfather's words iced through Wolf's heart, cooling her anger and replacing it with a fragile bitterness. "I thought they were gonna leave Courel with us," she said finally, her head hanging into her lap as she broke into another round of sobs. "Like she left me. I thought we'd be t-together."
"Oh, pup," he said again, his old voice cracking like dry leaves, "I'm sorry."
Wolf was raised by her paternal great-grandfather, an elderly Elezen named Grumant Launaire. Her father died when she was only an infant, after which her mother, Ardent Leaf, dropped her off with his only surviving family in the Shroud. They were both extremely young at the time, but knowing that didn't make it easier for Wolf.
Leaf would return semi-regularly to visit her daughter, eventually bringing her new husband and their son with her on trips. As Wolf grew older she did join them on some hunting expeditions and traveled with them into the mountains of her step-father's homeland, but she was never really made part of the Hellsguard community they were from.
That's not something she's ever discussed with them, but she suspects even now that her 1/8th or whatever Elezen blood has something to do with it.
Wolf's main gripe with her family is that she's never felt like she was really part of them. Both the group in the Shroud, which were mainly Duskwight Elezen, and her Hellsguard mom and step-father. She and her half-brother, Felicitous Courel did eventually grow closer, and though he rarely passes through the shroud they both have a grand time catching up when he does. He's one of the few people that Wolf will not hesitate to confide in. Also a huge dopey nerd just like her.
[ 📢 ] what does your muse’s voice sound like? is it high-pitched, or deep? is it nasal or set in their chest? describe it in as much detail as you can.
Hfyrn had snuck into the garden several times over the last sennight, her nimble fingers plucking their way amid the thicket of brambles as she collected the silver-gray leaves that were nestled beneath the thorns. She'd learned, slowly, that most didn't appreciate her nocturnal visits, despite the fact that she always left something of equal value in the place of anything she took. She'd even stopped this time to check and see that the tight thicket of garlic she'd planted was sprouting along the edges of the ragged space.
Even so, the work she was doing was peaceful, and before long she'd found herself nibbling at the leaves as she picked them. Two making their way into her basket for every one she placed along her tongue. The faint buzzing feeling that accompanied the sweet, fragrant juices of the tender leaves leaving her awash in the mellow haze of her high.
So when a voice, deep and rough, not booming or angry but loud enough to startle her out of her reverie sounded across the garden Hfyrn froze and looked up, her eyes wide and her pupils expanded like saucers. The roegadyn that was now winding her way through the garden didn't seem angry, but Hfyrn was having a hard time making sense of what she was saying. All that she could hear was the low rumble of the woman's voice, as if she weren't so much a person as a force of nature, a roll of fallen stones on mossy ground, or the sound of oak branches swaying in a warm breeze.
"Fern, for the Wanderer's sake, stop eating my catswort and come in side," Wolf sighed as she snagged the woman's overalls and dragged her upright. "You're gonna puke all over my rug again, ain'tcha?"
Thank you for the ask @luck-and-larceny!
Wolf's voice is deep and has a rough edge to it, although I don't know it'd go so far as to be gravely. Maybe as she ages it'll get there. I would definitley describe her as 'rumbling' when she talks though!
Short story featuring Hfyrn "Fern" Lesnhy, my poor abandoned botanist menace and drug dealing miqo'te who has definitely puked on Wolf's rug more than once and who has a bad sense of when she is and isn't welcome.
[ ❌ ] is there something your muse struggles with that they might never overcome? what is it? why do they have so much trouble with it? /// [ 🧱 ] how would you describe your muses’ morality? what are their core values? (an ask for each character!)
❌
Lorh watched the woman beside her sleeping, the soft rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin covers and the heat of her leg pressed against Lorh's skin welcome evidence of life in her pallid form. The first few times Lorh had woken beside Pidgeon she'd been struck by the intense urge to check the woman's pulse.
Her gaze fell to the bandages wrapped at the woman's shoulder, clean and fresh. Beneath them she knew she'd find tidy stitching, the wounds well cared for. That Pidgeon had needed the medic's care at all stung at Lorh. She'd hoped that Pidgeon would care to stay over again of her own volition now that Lorh had recovered from her own injuries, not that they'd merely trade the roles of injured and caregiver.
The ache at seeing the woman's injuries shifted in Lorh's chest, slithering into that old familiar voice that had plagued her as long as she could remember.
She'll go. She'll go. She'll leave you eventually.
Lorh pushed it down and lay back on her pillow, careful not to disturb Pidgeon with the movement. Having the woman in her bed this last sennight had been a balm, even if half of it had been spent with her body aching and her mind fuzzy from the medic's treatments, but it was pure foolishness to think the woman would stay. It was far, far too early to be thinking that way for a woman she'd met hardly a few weeks before, and even if it wasn't Pidgeon had made her status as an eager vagabond incredibly clear.
Lorh shifted again, too restless to sleep on her back. As she repositioned she let her hand rest on Pidgeon's waist and buried her face in the woman's hair. The sweet floral smell of it was soothing, and slowly, eventually, she was able to ignore the strangling bubble of fear in her chest and drifted back to sleep.
🧱
Wolf held her breath, staring down the ridgeline at the group of Wood Wailers as they stalked slowly through the foliage. Their spears rattled along the low-hanging branches, making enough noise to scare away most of the wildlife. How they managed to be so damnably bad at their jobs baffled her, and yet she was greatful for it as she stood stock-still in the hopes they'd pass by and miss her and Gilberne.
Another few tense moments and they'd walked on down the deertrail, passing right beneath the two poachers as they waited in the brush. Finally Wolf sighed and crouched over Gilberne, her voice still a low whisper, "You think you can sit up?"
Gilberne shook tears from his eyes and pushed up, grimacing as he did so. Wolf didn't need to be a chiurgeon to know his leg was shattered. He'd be lucky if he walked without a limp ever again. His stunt had been a stupid one, but she felt awful that he'd paid such a high price for juvenile stupidity.
"You shoulda gone," he mumbled as he looked at his leg.
"Nope," Wolf grunted as she wrapped a massive arm around him and carefully picked him up. She was greatful he had the good sense to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle the groan of pain, and she settled him as comfortably against her chest as she could. He was so light, and she could feel his ribs through his filthy shirt.
"We're gonna get you back and fixed up," she said as she started to carefully pick her way down over the jagged rocks. "Don't leave folks behind here. Not like them," she jerked her head in the direction the Wood Wailers had gone. "Leastwise, I don't."
Gilberne clung to her neck and Wolf sighed. The kid was an idiot, but she'd meant every word. His voice was tiny and contrite as he clung to her, "Thanks, Caps."
Thanks for the ask @yokasaris!
Lorh has some abandonment issues for sure. She tends to cling too tightly to friends and lovers as a result. I don't know if she'll ever fully overcome it but hopefully she learns to lighten the grip at least a little. Tagging @pidgeon-sorrel for the mention.
Wolf's biggest moral code is that she doesn't leave people behind, or let them fail just because they made one bad decision. Everyone deserves safety and shelter in Wolf's eyes and she's gonna do her best to live up to that even if it's hard.
Wolf hefted the rolled tent onto her shoulder and then settled it onto the chocobo’s back, strapping it down with care before reaching up to scratch the bird’s neck. Behind her she could hear Mirelle’s breathing shift and she braced herself for the woman’s questions.
“Will you tell me where you’re going this time?” Wolf had known it was coming and still she didn’t have an answer.
“I’ll be back around in a sennight,” she couldn’t bring herself to look at the elezen, even though her words were perfectly true.
“That’s not what I asked, Wolf,” Mirelle sighed as she wrapped her arms around Wolf’s waist, running her hands across the roegadyn’s stomach. Wolf could feel Mirelle leaning her head between her shoulder blades, and with a sigh she turned around to embrace the woman properly.
“I know it ain’t,” Wolf sighed and pressed her nose into the woman’s dark hair, smelling the warmth of the sun and the sprig of lavender tucked into Mirelle’s braid.
“Why?” Mirelle pulled away from her then, enough to look her in the face. Her blue eyes were sharp with the weight of the question.
“Why do you have to know?” Wolf mumbled, “I’ll come back. You know that.” She hated these conversations. Hated the way her empty answers made every parting a battle between them. Wolf leaned forward to press her forehead against Mirelle’s hair, closing her eyes so she didn’t have to see the woman’s face as she lied to her. “I’ve just got errands to do. Nothing interesting.”
“Errands,” Mirelle’s voice was flat, and Wolf’s shoulders sagged. She’d known better than to think her lie would satisfy Mirelle’s curiosity, and yet she’d hoped just this once they could part with sweet words instead of a fight.
The chronometer chimed the seventh bell and Lorh groaned as she fumbled for it, slapping the mechanism on the chime into silence. She let her hand hang there for a moment, the subtle tapping of the minutes keeping her from truly falling back asleep. Finally she pushed the covers off of her and slid out of the tall bunk, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she set the kettle over the burner and flicked a fire shard into the small stove. As the water for her tea heated she fumbled around until she found the paper sack she'd brought home from the cafe yesterday. From within it she produced a large pastry covered in sweet cheese and rolanberry jam.
She chewed it slowly, her eyes slitted to watch the kettle as she mentally went over her plans for the day. She'd stop at the ferry booth on the way home from work. Should she buy a new jacket for the date tomorrow? What shoes would she wear?
The kettle whistled and she swore, snagging it off the heat a moment too late. While she waited for it to cool she measured out the tea leaves and set the canister back on the ledge.
Frustration nagged at her as she pulled together her outfit for the day, something somber and comfortable for the hours in the office. Then as she let the tea steep she did her makeup, balancing delicately with the roll of each wave to avoid jabbing herself in the eye with the brush as she lined her eyes with kohl.
Finally, with her makeup done and one boot pulled on she got to drink her tea, the warmth and ritual of it perking her up as she finished getting ready for another day in Limsa Lominsa.
Wolf is a terrible liar when lying to someone she cares about. Lying to the authorities or people she doesn’t respect is a little easier, but only a little. She’d prefer to lie by omission and dodge questions she doesn’t want to answer. Mirelle has shown up before here and here!
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Lorh is not a morning person, but forces herself through the motions until she's had some caffeine and been woken up by the routine of it all.
Bonus outtake photo of these nerds:
Thanks @pidgeon-sorrel both for the ask and for helping me with the screenshots! <3 Best wife.
