#nova's tags →

[starpirateee]

Hi!! Could you write one of the Curtwen prompts I made, yet didn’t cut it? I love your writing style!!

Honestly there was a bit of deliberation here because you put some really good ideas out there on the form, but I did say I'd write em myself, and by all means, I'll still do it! So, I decided to go for this prompt:

Would you take a modern au from me? Can I do that?

I mean, I'm going to anyway, because I have a dire need to call Curt and Owen husbands (and also for wider Starkid lore), but i just thought I'd warn you beforehand!

"Agent Carvour, have you found anything yet?"

Owen leaned back away from his research. He'd been looking at the same page now for a while, trying to make some sense of it. Redacted government files were hard to get hold of, but even harder to make ends of. His system had been trying to translate it, but not even he had the software for that.

"Quite possibly, sir. I have a few sources, at least."

"What have you got?"

With an air of something that was almost excitement and almost elation, Owen pulled up a series of documents and started the walk through them. "Well, sir, the easiest source was from a few years ago. There's a company in Michigan that's been trying to conduct various temporal experiments under their parent company— some kind of analyst company, I think. They're surprisingly ordinary. Anyway, apparently the experiments just… Stopped. They never drew a conclusion on whether or not their research was connected to what was on the other side."

This had all started when Chimera had dug up a series of centuries old reports about people claiming to have looked into the eyes of old gods. None of the people had known each other, but all of the reports showed some form of consistency, and all told of great, unknowable power.

So, they had decided to look into it, to see if there had been anyone else who'd dared to brave the process of trying to find an answer. Owen was one of those lucky enough to find himself with the resources to start a thorough investigation.

"They didn't finish?"

"No, I don't know what happened, but the reports just stopped one day."

"Is there anything else?"

"An american government report, but it's as hard as you can imagine to decipher. Most of it is redacted…"

"Anything worth noting?"

Owen nodded, carefully turning back and switching the tabs. This felt a little like he was giving a presentation that he hadn't prepared for, and he hadn't felt like this in quite some time. He took a breath, trying to slow down the rampage that was going on in his head. "They started in the early noughts. 2005, to be precide. That's the earliest I'd gotten without looking at those old reports from the pioneers. A branch of the military tried to build a gateway to the other side, to investigate what existed outside of our plane. I don't know names, only one. The name of the man who performed the experiment."

"They got this gateway open?"

"Yes, sir. And they sent someone through. I think there's a good reason why his is the only name they disclosed."

"Why?"

"Because he was declared dead, sir."

His screen still displayed the document, and the man's name sat among the black markouts, clear enough to see. Cross, W.D. Apparently, he'd ventured into the portal, and nobody heard from him or saw him after the date of the experiment. They gave up the search after a month, and after that, Colonel Cross was indeed declared dead.

"So, another dead end?"

"Maybe not. I'll do what I can to uncover this with what I've got available, but it was scanned, so…. It might take some time." Owen was normally confident in his abilities, and uncovering government documents was a difficult yet necessary part of the job. There was something almost genuinely enthralling about scraping off the parts that the world's governments wanted to keep secret. It felt like giving people a small yet surprisingly effective slice of justice every time.

"Keep looking, Carvour. We need to know if this is viable, or even worth our time…"

If Owen had any kind of normal life— if he and his husband didn't both do the dirty work for secret operation services— he would have a blast trying to decide how to describe the intricacies of what he'd been researching lately. The throws of domestic life confounded him to no end, which was why it was so funny when he and Curt tried to imitate that.

The otherwise simple question of "how was your day" turned into a battle of who could craft the most believable lie that better concealed what they'd actually done. Neither wanted to jeopardise their jobs, and Curt had always been brilliant at crafting stories, so it was never dull.

He started to think about what today's excuse would be. Something about pioneers, or the Oregon trail, or perhaps he could bring up that old, dead colonel somehow, that would be interesting to add to the pile.

--

"You know what I'm gonna ask already…"

By the time he got home, Curt was already waiting for him, and the mid-spring sun was starting to set. For anyone else, it was a day at the office, but the trails he had begun to uncover had really put all other days at the office to shame.

He laughed softly, having prepared this answer a number of hours before, and took up a position on the couch. "No, love, you first. I insist."

"Fine, okay," Curt answered with a chuckle. "It was nothing really, just your standard… But, the bear returned, and in about a month, I'm gonna get really rich and run off to central Europe, with a really pretty lady and a dollar store box of magic tricks."

"The same bear from last month?"

"Yeah. Bastard won't leave me alone."

"Sounds wild. Are you coming back after your plans to run off with this really pretty lady?"

"Plan is to cut myself off after three weeks, but at this rate, I might not make it two."

"Not good enough?"

"Owen, I'm a bit too gay for that." To sell his point, he flashed his wedding band, and Owen laughed harder. "Besides," he added, covering his own bout of laughter. "Who needs a fake wife when I've got my own right here?"

Owen shot him a faux-offended glance. "How dare you!"

"You might fool the guys at work, O, but you couldn't pretend you don't think about it…"

Or that he hadn't been experimenting in that part of himself in little segments since he was seventeen. Turns out he suited long hair better, and he wouldn't hesitate to admit that he both looked and felt rather good with the occasional flourish.

"You know me well..."

"I should hope so! Anyway, what're you keeping from me? How was your day?"

"Office, just like you. I've had a conversation with a pioneer, and tried to erase marker pen over the body of a dead soldier. Oh, and I tried to teach myself statistical analysis."

"Jeez, that was— that was a whole rollercoaster there, huh?"

"Mhm, I've been busy."

"You can say that again, god… So, a pioneer? Like those guys that travelled to Oregon?"

"Yeah. Quite interesting people, if a little paranoid." Something other than their oxen might be watching them would've been a perfect addition to the statement, but Owen felt that was a little too close to the line to pass, so he decided not to add it.

The important part was, apart from the knowledge that Curt was on an assignment in a month's time, both of them were none the wiser. Curt didn't need to know that he had started the deep dive into a pack of eldritch gods and was even slightly nervous about the outcome.

He didn't sleep well that night. He knew that he had right to believe that this was all one great hoax, that there was something in the water that made the pioneers mass hallucinate this supposed watcher. They all travelled on the same trail, it was entirely plausible that all of them found the same hallucinogenic and envisioned a thousand eyes watching them and their familes. It was less of a coincidence when two subsidaries of larger companies started describing details of experiments that led them to discovering other beings beyond just the watcher, of course, but he still wasn't sure whether he was privy to believing any of it.

There was something about redacted government files, though, that were meant to be believed. There was a reason they hid information from the public, and that was often because they had found something worth disclosing in the first place. That meant huge news, large press cover ups… The whole works… And that was the last thing any self-respecting government with something to hide would want. Owen imagined the size of the initial press conferences for dealings like Roswell, how many people must've shown up to that conference, under the impression that they were going to get answers, only for the press to redact the next day and claim that it was no more than a weather balloon.

He felt like he was dealing with a weather balloon of his own right now. This was something that this branch of the military clearly didn't want people knowing. The only reason they'd had to disclose any information at all was because one of their own had died looking for this information, and they had to provide the closure for whatever family he had left. Part of him wondered what they'd said, how they'd tried to cover up this man's imminent demise at the hands of another dimension. What did his family know? Was he ever given a sendoff?

When Owen tried to sleep that night, plagued with the thoughts of how much his research was worth, and what really happened on the other side, he couldn't get his head in the right place to take a suitable rest for long enough. Flashes of colour— brighter than anything he'd ever seen— danced behind his eyelids, chasing each other in sequence. Blue. Purple. Yellow. Pink. Green. White. Blue…. He didn't have much of the capacity to think, not when those colours started consuming his subconscious thought, but he spared a moment to the hope that he may get answers of his own if he stuck around long enough.

"He thinks he's brave… He thinks we don't know about him…"

Whatever dream he had been having was taken over by blurred edges and violent pangs of pain that he was sure he could feel outside of this existence. Everything faded out, leving only ruin in it's wake. Broken pieces, scrambled signals… Owen didn't even try and make sense of it, he already understood the futility of trying. There was nothing left in his mind but those colours and those voices— for he was sure there was more than one. A sickening chorus, holding perfect time with each other.

"He's foolish, if he thinks he can go further without us finding out."

"Owennnn…"

"We know what you're doing, Owen…. It's not going to last."

He'd thought about meeting his maker before. He'd thought about the possibility of death, the idea that he may not live to see another day eventually. It was hard to deliberate something so serious in his early thirties, but his line of work called for it. He knew that he had a dangerous job, and that there were few who would be able to save him if something happened.

But, he'd never considered the possibility of his own demise to this extent before. In the formless remains of his dream, where he was forced into hearing these voices talk about his death and how soon it would be to coming, he had pause for deliberation. And it wasn't good.

He had to strain to take control of his own voice, in this space that was once his own. Once so sacred, now scarce and left entirely to the whim of whatever was taking residence in his mind. This was a bad idea. All of this research was a bad idea, and he was suddenly more aware of that than he was anything else. Never before had he had such a violent urge to overturn everything he'd worked on for the sake of something this seemingly trivial.

"There's nothing you can do. It's already started. This is bigger than me…"

"We know that. You're not the only one we have heard trying to work your way into what is ours… Choose your next step carefully, Owen. I'm sure we would delight in taking you in the same direction as the others…"

Before he could really ask what that meant, he was left entirely alone. The ruin of his dream still stood strong, which was strange enough given that the voices had left him alone, but he had the strangest feeling that there was more to this landscape than just what he was being shown. He started to wander, to look around in an attempt to find the real end to all of this. His mind was a wasteland, taken over by the lack of colour and the apparently deafening absence of those voices that had only appeared a moment before. He felt empty without them, although he knew nothing more than the sequence of colours that paraded through his vision.

Blue… Purple…. Yellow…

The pattern was familiar, like he'd seen it before somewhere. And while he wasn't resting easy, he couldn't force himself to wake up, either. No matter how hard he tried, he was just left stuck, wandering the expanse until he found what he was apparently looking for.

Pink…. Green…. White… Blue…

The expanses of his mind stretched out into a road, occupied by nothing but empty space. He supposed that was mostly his own fault; he had known for years that his imagination was never one to be put on par with anything else. He couldn't so vividly picture that which others could, and he'd never really had much of a capacity to dream, either.

So, this warning was strange. Seeing such vivid, bright colours in the back of his mind, knowing that he couldn't have conjured them himself…

He started to walk the road, curious enough to want to know where it went.

"Owen?"

That voice wasn't like the ones who had left moments before. That voice had a personality, and a person to go with. It was warm, though scared. Human all the same. And Owen knew the shape of it.

"Owen?"

Owen let his instinct lead him down the road, through it's many curves and winds. Eventually, the road gave way to what could only possibly be a stage. There was a set of stairs to one side, that he let himself climb before he could think to wonder where they led, and then the familiar voice gave way to a man in the wings, staring at him with desperate, fear-lined eyes. Of course he knew the voice, and of course he had never tried to doubt himself on the matter.

He tried to advance towards Curt, but he took a hasty step back, shaking his head.

"Curt?"

"Prove you're Owen."

"I'm sorry?"

Curt hesitated, and then slowly emerged from the wings. Even though he stood on the light of the stage, it still looked like he was carefully enveloped in shadow, like the darkness was a comfort to him. Owen looked around, wondering what had made him so cautious, and whether it was still around. Had Curt seen what he'd seen? What had those things whispered to him?

"I'm not falling for it again. Tell me you're actually Owen…"

Owen frowned, not wanting to dwell too much on why Curt was so afraid to reach out to him and realise that all of this was as real as they could get it. "Curt, love, I don't know what you want me to say…" There was a certain desperation about him too. Improvisation had never been his strong suit, but he wass confident that, given the right prompt, he would be able to convince his husband that he was who he said he was, to quell any discrepancy that it may have been otherwise.

"Don't. Show me… What happened on your 25th birthday."

The pieces fit into place, and Owen nodded dutifully. He had been out in the field that day, a strikingly hot day in the middle of June. The two of them had barely ended up with three hours together by the end of it, and they'd gone out drinking to celebrate what little time was left of his birthday. He'd never been particularly big on celebrating, but Curt had insisted. They were newly married then, and getting used to the idea of sharing a life with someone else. That was one of the first nights following their wedding when Owen truly came to realise that he'd made entirely the right decision, and that there was nobody he'd rather share his life with than Curt Mega.

"My 25th… That was a home ground mission. I was in the state."

"What happened to you?"

Owen smiled, somewhere between fondness and a need to hide the melancholic air that hung about that question. He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, and huffed a weary breath of laughter. "I was trying to make my exit, but the suit jacket caught on a fence. Here…" With his sleeve rolled to just the right length, Owen held out his arm and pointed out a pale flash just below his elbow— a jagged scratch that had never quite healed right. "That's what happened after the fabric tore. Is that enough?"

Curt had known about the scar. He'd also known about the story. He was pretty sure that nobody else knew, though, so in his head, that had always been his fallback option in the event that he was ever sure Owen needed to prove himself. Those stories lined up perfectly, and while Owen had missed out on some of the details, in the grander scheme of things, he'd gotten it exactly right. He shifted, letting a knowing smile cross his face through the fear that still gripped him.

"It's really you…"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

Curt's approach was still careful, premeditated. Even though he knew the truth now, there was still something about him that screamed a lack of trust directly into his ear, and it made actually reaching out for Owen so much harder. "You… You were trying to kill me."

"What now?"

"I know what I saw…"

"I don't doubt you, but I would never… I swear it on my life."

"I know, that's why it was strange… I— What the hell's happening?" This stage was the only thing connecting the two of them to reality. There was nothing beyond it but the end of the road that Owen had travelled down, and nothing behind it but black, empty space.

Owen let his instinct take over. If the two of them were going to face the unknown, whatever and wherever this was, then they were going to do it together. They always had, and they always would. That was the way things worked, especially for the two of them, because their lives were built so heavily on the idea of distrust that any semblance of the opposite they could get, they would cling to. Normally that was exclusively each other, and so the world wasn't usually much larger than the two of them.

Their hands connected in the middle of the emptiness. Owen pulled Curt Closer to him, and the two of them stood side, performers to an unknown audience, marionettes for something larger than themselves. They exchanged a glance, and Owen registered the warm, homely spark residing in Curt's eyes.

"I think we're trapped in a nightmare, crazy as it sounds," he tried to respond, but he wasn't entirely sure where this was going to go. "I can't wake up, but I remember falling asleep last night."

"Me too. I fell asleep before you did, you were still reading."

"Right, and now there's this. Whatever this is. did you, by chance, see those colours too?"

Curt nodded. "They came before you did, before the- other you. Blue, and purple, and yellow…"

"…Pink, and green, and white..?"

"And then blue again."

Owen heaved a sigh. "Curt, there's something I have to confess. It's safe to do so now, there's little that could get in the way of what I have to admit, but this is one of those things I wouldn't be able to tell you awake, you understand?"

There was a moment's pause, in which Curt tried to work around Owen's phrasing. Both of them felt the incredibly revealing sense that they were being watched, so Curt understood that Owen had gone into the professional mindset— switching off his senses for the sake of making as much sense of something as possible. It was always how he rationalised his way through situations, and it hadn't failed him yet.

Eventually, Curt nodded again, as the words started to sink in and he started to get a sense of what was being said. "This about what you told me this evening?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid there's a little more to it than what I told you, but I suppose that was rather obvious."

A nervous breath of laughter left Curt, only partially voluntary. "I thought there'd be a bit more to it than erasing marker pen over the body of a dead soldier…. What the hell kinda explanation was that, anyway?"

"One I spent a good hour crafting, thank you very much. I thought it was clever."

"Better than a pretty lady and a box of tricks?"

"And a bear, yes."

"… And the bear. Right. Well, what's that mean? erasing marker pen over the body of a dead soldier, what're you saying there?"

"I've…" This is not going to get you done for. Those documents were already top secret before you saw them. And if it gets you out of this nightmare prison, then surely it has to be worth it. "I've been uncovering sealed military case files that might explain what's happening to us right now."

Curt's eyes went wide. "Fucking what?!"

"It's all part of the job. I can't… I can't elaborate. Know only what everyone else knows: that the only reason any part of this is disclosed at all is because someone died during one of the experiments."

"What's that got to do with what's happening here?"

"That's what they were researching."

That seemed to click to some degree. At least, Curt seemed to understand a few of the larger pieces, perhaps the more obvious ones. "The colours?" In his head, there was an experiment, someone tried to make sense of whatever that was in their shared mindscape. Someone— a soldier, presumably, had died in the middle of these experiments, and now Owen had gotten tangled in this mess through his agency, and the two of them had been dropped into the same nightmare.

Owen nodded. "The colours."

At the moment he said that, a loud rumble disrupted their moment and forced their attention out into the expanse of nothing. Laughter— multiple sources with varying shrieks and gasps that couldn't be placed to a single source— burst from behind the wings, and from in front of them, and from the endless expanse of black that surrounded them. A loud crack followed, and Curt swore as the stage splintered beneath his feet. For a split second, his grip loosensed, and the next time the ground rumbled, they were torn apart by the growing crack in the stage. He staggered back, and the two of them ended on opposite sides of the stage, the crack between them growing and delving deeper into the unknown.

"Owen!" He called, trying to regain his footing but falling back.

"Curt! Hold on!" Owen yelled through the growing laughter, scrambling back to reach out for the pulley system backstage. He needed a foothold on something, a way to sturdy himself so he could regroup and think. It was too loud, he couldn't think in this kind of heat, with this kind of mess, and Curt, and-

Another crack. The stage was starting to fall away from itself, split not quite perfectly in two. Owen's breath ran short. In the swirls of colour and mayhem and possibilities, he saw a way out. One chance to get this right, and to make sure that they both survived the fall while they were still stuck here. He gripped the rope tight, levering himself further towards the crack, and looked to Curt. "You're gonna have to jump it!" He called, desperation winning over any attempts to stay sane. "Don't worry! You know I'll never let you down!"

"Are you crazy?!" Curt managed, staring into the gap. "I can't jump that, it's too far!"

"Curt, before the whole place splits in half, you have to get over here!"

"What if I don't make it?"

"Trust me! Please!"

Curt backed off a few paces. Owen stood ready, one hand gripping the rope wrapped around his wrist, and the other reaching out as far as he could, waiting for a move to be made. After a singular preparatory breath, he sprinted for the gap, and pushed off from the splintered wood at the edge.

He reached out.

Owen reached out.

Their fingertips connected briefly in the space, and then Curt slipped away beneath his grasp.

Owen threw himself forward, feeling the rope worming itself free and burning his wrist in the process. He'd promised. He wasn't going to let Curt fall. And he was nothing if not a man of his word.

Curt's eyes squeezed shut, preparing for an endless fall through the ineviatble. Something laced around his wrist and he felt himself stop moving. Exerting all the caution he knew to exert, he looked up, and caught a familiar whiskey brown staring back at him.

"I've got you!" Owen breathed, and Curt fought to angle himself so that he could get a better chance to grab the broken stage floor. When Owen started hauling backwards, Curt managed to get a hold of the edge of the stage, and made it a joint effort to haul him to his feet. "You're alright… You're okay…"

Curt essentially fell into Owen's arms. Owen held on tight, like he could lose his partner at any second to the swirls and the crevice. He stared out into the emptiness, ignoring the very real pain that he could feel at his wrist but cherishing the very reel feeling of Curt's shirt underneath his hands. The very air seemed to shift. Owen wasn't previously aware that colours could get angry, but this green that flooded the space behind his eyes was pissed. He could feel it.

So was he. Pissed, and way more desperate than a man ought to be.

"Alright," he muttered once, and Curt drew back ever so slightly. He noticed Owen was staring off into the greater expanse, and hoped for all it was worth that he couldn't see something out there.

"Alright!" His voice got louder, and he tried to mask his utter despair in an authorative tone. "I get it. You hear me? I get it!"

Everything fell eerily silent. The only sound that remained was the pounding of Owen's heart in his ears. He took a breath, strangely certain of himself. Glanced at Curt. Spared his attention on the void again.

"That soldier… Wilbur Cross? That was your fault, wasn't it? There's a good reason nobody can get very far into digs like these, and it's because you strive to kill them before they do. Nobody ought to know what's on the other side, and that's why nobody does…"

"Owen, what're you doing?" Curt whispered, but to no response and little avail. Owen was lost in whatever he was about to say.

"… But, I've heard talk of bargains being made here, so how about it?"

"Your desperation speaks for itself."

Owen had to pretend that that— the voice from the middle of nowhere or what it had said to him— didn't bother him in the slightest. He steeled himself, not sure where to direct his attention but knowing he'd probably have it right no matter what he chose. "What do you say, am I allowed to make a deal?"

The air shifted. Owen didn't receive a direct answer, but he knew that he'd been allowed to continue. "If I don't continue— if I go back, and tell my people that it's an impossibility, that it can't be done— would you let him go?" Another quick glance at Curt, as if the green something needed clarification, or as if he knew what he was signing himself up for.

Curt was frozen in place, his eyes wide. He'd heard every word as it echoed in the void, and he hated what it was implying. His gaze was fixed on Owen, fear blazing through his face. "No, Owen—" his voice came out weak. As far as literal interpretations go, that was not a good one. He didn't understand what was happening, but it terrified him to know that Owen was being so calm about this, while he could be selling his life away with nothing more than a few choice words.

Owen frowned, and muttered an apology he was sure only Curt would catch. The green grew angrier, setting a violent fire behind his eyes and forcing him onto his knees as the pain flooded his body.

"You better not be fucking with me."

"No! I— I wouldn't! I'm serious! I'll call it off, I swear on my life, just… He has nothing to do with any of this. It's not his fault."

The thing considered, holding Owen firmly in place while he deliberated. Curt couldn't move— he didn't dare, lest something happen to Owen that put him in more danger than he was already in. All he could do was force himself into keeping his breath steady, and not thinking about what a single wrong move could do to either of them. His eyes landed on the friction burn winding neatly around Owen's wrist, and he decided to focus on that for a while; the only other colour in a void of blackness and green.

"Very well."

That was the last thing Owen heard. Some part of his mind just shut down, and he collapsed to the floor of the stage. He didn't hear the way Curt screamed his name, or the return of the chorus of laughter. His eyes closed, and the next thing he knew, he was waking up with a start, underneath the sheets of his own bed, gasping for breath. He sturdied himself out, and once he was sure that he was real, and definitely in a familiar space, he looked over to Curt, and found him still asleep.

"Curt?" His voice was soft, but his mind was a knife point of tension. If that had gone wrong, then why was he the one to live through it ant not Curt? He tried again, biting his lip. "Curt..?"

Curt groaned. His eyes opened slowly. The relief that Owen felt hit him like a tidal wave.

For some reason, Curt was entirely surprised to see that Owen had made it through to the other side. He managed a weary smile, and tried to get his vision into focus. That was one of those decisions that he immediately came to regret. As soon as he brought himself a little more into the real worls, he noticed that the brown in Owen's eyes was stained with something else, and it made him feel sick to his stomach. Dripping down his irises was a flash of toxic, unsettlingly bright green.

[novalizinpeace]

random cartoon sketch for all ya

[pocketgalaxies]

C1E60 || C3E88

[kujokomi]

please stop associating the term neurodivergent with JUST autism and adhd. like please. there are so many ways to be neurodivergent and it’s not fair to assume that it’s just about autism adhd.

[what-is-love-babey-dont-hurt-me]

⭐️ NOVA: A variable star that tremendously increases its output of light before returning to its original luminosity after a period of time--often a result of the star undergoing a cataclysmic eruption.

"You are a poor excuse for a knight- NOVA"

Fanart for @gotogull's comic Gardom. The art is so good it had me inspired :)

[pinku-hoshii]

THIS TOOK SO LONG TO FINISH

A bunch of prompts from @paintpanic's awful Kirby theories generator!

This bottom text is in loving memory of the 'Grill isn't real' and 'Queen Sectonia has been dead for years' prompts that I loved but had to scrap from this

[theriverbeyond]

Salutations to the House of the Ninth, and blessings upon its tombs, its peaceful dread, and its manifold mysteries. His Celestial Kindliness, the First Reborn, begs this house to honour its love for the Creator, as set in the contract of tenderness made on the day of the Resurrection, and humbly asks for the first fruits of your household GIDEON NOVEMSOTIRIA and HARROW NOVA

RD Gideon @theriverbeyond / Nova: @trickstercheshi / Photo: @/Lowkeymuse

[filez34]

body swap idea, they SCATTER

also sunflowawa

@/venomous-qwille

[starpirateee]

Hey! Inspired by that previous request could I suggest Curt having a panic attack and Owen helping him through it? Bonus points if it's because he thinks his mom knows you-know-what.

Oooooo, of course you can! I am nothing if not a nervous gay wreck, and I will take some of that projection!

Rule number 1 was never talk to Curt Mega about past missions. Owen was familiar with the rule. It was the one thing he'd kept reminding himself of over and over. Not everything was in the bad books, but there were enough things that Curt could recall in surprisingly vivid detail that sent him into nervous spirals, and they didn't seem to have a pattern to them, so Owen had just learned to avoid the subject unless he was certain it was a good bet.

Presently, he could hear near enough everything outside of the door to his hotel room. Groups of people walking the corridors, going about their lives... The occasional housekeeping call from the staff... Even down to someone's frantic footsteps seemingly running down the hall, followed by an almost drastic intake of breath, and then a knock.

On his door.

Two short, three long.

Owen was at the door before the call could finish. That code belonged to one man, who was currently residing two floors up and had presumably run all that way.

"Curt?"

He stepped aside immediately, before his partner could even give an explanation, and Curt hesitated for a fraction of a second before he took himself up on the offer and brought himself inside. Owen scoped the corridor briefly to make sure that the problem wasn't that he was being pursued, and then turned towards Curt as he closed the door. "What's going on, Curt?"

It wasn't easy to ignore the wild, manic something that had gripped Curt's nervous system, forcing his eyes to go wide and his breath to run short. There was little in the way of explanation, but he could tell what was happening without needing it.

Owen offered Curt the chair, and chose to lean against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. "Is this okay?"

Long ago, the two of them had devised something of an elaborate code to get close to each other in the wake of a dangerous or public-facing circumstance. It was their way of signalling when there was a problem, and how urgently they needed to do something about it.

When Curt had admitted that he was prone to panicking, that had been added to the code as a means to decipher, simply because finding the right words wasn't always the easiest of tasks.

Curt shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable, and then nodded stiffly. Owen inclined his head and hummed, waiting on elaboration before he could try and figure anything out. Eventually, Curt took a breath, kneading one hand repeatedly over the fabric of his trousers. "There's... There's a problem," he muttered. "Hadta find you." His gaze was fixed on a point on the ground, and even from his slight distance, Owen could see him shaking.

"What kind of problem?" He wasn't exactly known for having the patience of a saint, but he could make a lot of exceptions for Curt, and extending his virtue to account for as much patience as he could physically muster was one of them.

"... Cold case."

As Curt drew a folder from his pocket, Owen's face fell. A cold case— not necessarily something pulled from an archive, but something that had been pulled directly from their past. Something that had come back to haunt him. Maybe something mentioned in the file, or a name involved with one of the cases they weren't supposed to talk about...

"How cold?" Owen asked cautiously, wandering over and taking a seat on the ground to look it over. Curt's hand dropped from his trousers and he reached out, half expectant. Owen absently took his awaiting hand in his own, and started running gentle circles into the back with his thumb.

"Five months."

Of course he knew. There was probably an approximation of something more specific in his head— perhaps down to the exact date— but Owen wasn't expecting to hear that in any capacity. With his free hand, he flipped open the file and read the first page. He was looking for something that rang as familiar to him, but he couldn't find anything worth noticing, or anything he recognised.

Curt was sincerely hoping that Owen was able to work it out, because he strictly wasn't allowed to say a lot on the matter. It was just about ready to haunt him, and he knew this mission wouldn't be easy if he had to deal with it on his own. His thoughts were currently incapable of presenting themselves in any way other than the scrambled mess that had occured as soon as he'd registered the weight of the debrief.

Again and again, Owen's eyes passed over the document, and his brow furrowed with each failed attempt to make something of it. Then, something made him stop in his tracks. There was a name listed in among the other words, plain as day now that he'd noticed it, and quite difficult to ignore. That was something not only familiar to Curt, but to him as well.

"Oh, God."

Curt watched Owen's expression change, grow the slight of recognition that was all too familiar to him. The fact that he was concerned about it too meant that he remembered. And that was about all the comfort he could've asked for in the moment.

"January...."

Curt just nodded in response to that, as Owen seemed to bring himself back to his senses for long enough to close the file. January. The last time Curt had gotten caught. It wasn't a pleasant experience for either of them, but least of all for Curt, who afterwards elected to not shave for six weeks, to hide the deep scar that ran down from his chin until it looked vaguely less horrific.

The constant, repeating feeling of Owen's thumb against his hand was bringing him back into some semblance of reality, but he knew that they were both aware of how bad a situation this was.

"I... See why I'm here now." Owen managed. This case was one assigned to both of them, and initially it hadn't made sense, but now— seeing that name and knowing the face of the bastard it belonged to— the pieces were starting to fit into place. And the picture didn't look good.

He looked up, his free hand moving up towards Curt's cheek until Curt leaned in and met him halfway. Their eyes met. The base of Owen's palm was resting up against the scar. It made it feel strangely tight, but for some reason, Curt found it better that way; it was better if he could try and attribute it to something else, anyway.

Owen seemed to notice his positioning and attempted to shift his hand a little, but Curt took his wrist in his free hand and shook its head. "... 'S fine."

"You sure?"

A nod. Owen sighed, relaxing his hand again. "Listen, Curt... You don't have to go in there alone, okay? You're not alone, and you never have been. I'll have your back, right?"

Another nod. He was quite sure that Owen could be trusted to have his back, especially when his head was this much of a mess. He never had been very good at the past... "I tr- I trust you."

Owen managed a slight smile. "Good. Then trust me that that bastard Michael Jenner won't be able to lay so much as a fucking finger on you while I'm around. Did you know this case was going to be like this?"

"No..."

"Frankly, you're doing more than you accounted for just by being here, then... Give yourself some credit, Curt, you've gotten this far..."

"What if I- I can't face him?"

"Then you don't have to. This mission is split for a reason, I'm more than obliged to pick up on your lead, should you be willing to do mine."

"Right... Right, yeah..." He gave Owen's wrist an awkwardly angled squeeze, just to really cement that this was happening right now, that he'd actually made it to his hotel room, and they were actually talking about this now. "Thanks, Owen." I love you. I don't deserve you.

"Don't mention it, Curt. It'd be my pleasure to knock some sense into that tosser." I love you too. Don't you dare forget it.

[novalizinpeace]

I kinda curious about the mini toys. What are they, why are they harmless with the critters? How many of them were childrens while the others are the workers of play Co? How do they obtain food with their small size?

This question need to be answer the big way, so prepare yourself

Time to learn about the hierarchy of the heretics

As i said, the second big group in the factory are those against the Prototype, but WHY are they against him? That a curious question, that sadly i can't answer YET, but lets say that, just like in a cult, he really believe his way is the correct way.

The first one that was against him was Alba (also a reason she's know as the traitor by catnap, 'cause she was onces in the prototype side), and even when she was a ''little'' big body, she was supported by one of the biggest in the place: Mommy. That why the heretics make it after all those year, because they have ''the body'' and ''the mind'' in charge of everything.

Nothing run without those two knowing it, and they both respect each other autority, but while Mommy is a hard boss that treat everybody like brats when they don't listen, Alba tend to be more soft with those around her, something that Mommy as told her ''make the dog walk over her''.

And talking about the dog...

4 members of the gang are part of ''the killer team'', a team that was create to make sure the heretics could stay safe anytime is needed, since Mommy can't be everywhere. Basically, all 4 of them stop feeling remorse when killing others, so they're the one to go when things like attacks from the prototype's cult happen. Nell is the ''brain'' in this team, usually making a plan that, most of the time, work, but sometime those plan end up walking over some rules that Alba had make (rules that she made to keep everybody safe), and that when shit like the christmas special (with everybody but Alba been trapped by catnap) happen.

Alba has tried to work this with Nell, but the man had been stubborn even since before become a experiment, so there's no way with him.

now, the next team

Nicole came with the name as a joke, but Samina andBetty (the catbee) like it, so it stay. They're the ones responsable of the food and the recollections of anything that could work as food, Nicole's bag is full of books about herbs, insect, mold, and anything that you would need to track the stuff they found growing in the factory (thanks the playcare for having a big library in it school, Nico and Alba had been practically eating those books for years), Samina used to teach children how to make simple meals, but now had become a complete chef with ''peculiar'' ingredients. And then we have Betty, that have a really good sense of smell, so she and Nico (with someone from the killer team) tend to go around the factory looking for ingredients for Samina.

Those two have their own category, 'cause Alba can't find a work that keep them busy for long enough time. Wallaby (the one-eyed) is the troublemaker, but his younger sister Jackie is also as adventurous as him. They learned that they with another 8 Bunzos were all siblings thanks to Alba (had you see those case of a lot of children coming from one disfuncional household? That the case with them, Play.co took 10 children in one hit and decided to try the same toy in all of them), but only those two decided to stay with the heretics, so they know their other sibling are probably out there, if the prototype hadn't use them already.

There's 18 of them, and weren't created using children, but dogs (here Play.co first trying with rat, then with more smart animals, and then with humans). So they are good at following simple rules, but of course can't think like a normal person so the fall in a different social category. Amara have one of them (the pink one) as a pet and teached him how to bite someone head off.

Now the last part

This is the saddest part of the experiments. 'cause how could Play.co insert a brain in such little body? Easy, if said brain was from a little creature, like a baby.

Alba doesn't understand how they created Poppy (she never found her files) but she know all the lil' ones were tests to see if they could make fully funcional little ''big'' bodies, but since if was hard to introduce a adult/teenager mind inside such bigger body without loosing some braincell (like what happen with the employee that was turned into a Bron), they worked with babies and toodlers, everything around 7 months to 2 years was useful, and there were around 500 of this experiments (maybe even more, but Alba decided to stop counting), but now there's only around 80, all in the heretics and under Bebe's care.

How does the lil' one eat? Easy, they never were think to eat in the normal way, since they don't have funcional organs (or even mouth in some case), they were just made to see if a brain could survive using just the poppy serum and a body. So, they stay alive using the same serum.

Bebe put the plush one in a poppy serum bath ones a month, and the plastic one he recharge them everytime they need it ('cause yeah, the plastic one work with battery, doesn't ask me how).

They don't act like babies (not anymore, some of them are even probably in their 20's), but they can't speak, so they usually communicate with charades or morse code.

[keulixeutin]

Lovelorn & Laughable

a/n: tried something more casual and shorter.

summary: it’s laughable that your friends think that bakugou, of all people, is dangerous to you. bakugou x gn!reader.

cw: fluff. established relationship. mentions of drunkenness and alcohol. mentions of friends being afraid that reader is in an abusive relationship (they're not).  gender neutral pronouns used.

wc: 986.

You’ve been dating Bakugou for eight months, and your relationship with the infamous explosive hero is a confusing case among your friends.

However, you don’t know how confused they are until Uraraka pulls you aside one day to ask if you’re okay—read: to ask if you’re safe.

You almost laugh in her face, but you’re able to keep it together in front of her honest expression.  It’s surprising how little they know, and it’s hilarious how wrong they are (which is wild to you, because aren’t they close with Midoriya who considers him one of his closest friends?).

It’s laughable that they think Bakugou, of all people, is dangerous to you.

Bakugou, who gives you his credit card three months into the relationship.

Bakugou, who changes his phone background weekly because he can’t decide on one favorite picture of you.

Bakugou, who searches for your hand to hold even in his sleep, who jerks awake whenever he feels you shift too far away in bed, whose frantic fingers search the sheets for you in his half-sleep.

That Bakugou.  Right.

Though you have enough self control to not laugh, you do let out a wicked snort.  You tell her to watch carefully next time you’re all together, and even when she tries to tell you that she has been, you shake your head and repeat it—watch carefully.

At the next group outing at a pop-up carnival, you arrive arm-in-arm with Ashido, Bakugou following close behind.  Midoriya’s the only one who eagerly greets your boyfriend, though you wouldn’t say the others give an unkind welcome.  You grin at the ones you know are worried—Asui, Iida, and Uraraka—though they don’t find this as funny as you do.

Watch close, you mouth to them.

And they do.

At first, they think you’ve got some mild form of Stockholm Syndrome; they think that you must be used to trauma and that you can’t tell your relationship is a bomb ready to go off.  All they can see are his scowls and shouts.  All they can see is the angry child who grew bigger, stronger, and more powerful than he was a decade ago, a man who must be utilizing all of his strength and anger to keep you trapped.

Watch, you tell them again when they try to pull at you for a quick intervention.

They’re still doubtful, but for you, they try again. 

This time, they see things—they see Bakugou, maybe not the way you do, but different than how they used to.

They see how his shoulders always touch yours when he’s seated, how he accompanies you to the food stall so he can pull his wallet out, how he always glances back to see where you’re at as you linger at each stand.  They see him scowl with cheeks colored pink as you fix his hair in the whipping wind.  They see him lean into your ear and whisper something that makes you laugh as he points to an ugly pig plush prize.  They seem him pull you away from the group and sneak off into the crowd when he thinks no one’s watching.

Still not fully convinced, they finally approach Ashido about your relationship, about whether or not you’re truly safe and loved.  She’s first taken aback because she thinks they’re making a dumb joke.  Then, when she sees that they’re genuinely concerned, she doubles over in laughter, cackling so hard and so loud that there are hot tears in her eyes and painful cramps in her stomach.  She gasps out in between giggling and snorting about how incredible it is that they could believe something so obviously impossible, ignoring their expressions of irritation and shame.

Well, Bakugou doesn’t drink around you guys, so that’d probably help, huh, she says when she’s finally calmed down, wiping at her eyes.  At their confusion, she explains that he’s needy when he’s drunk.  I’ll give you a sneak peek, she smiles conspiratorially.

Pulling out her phone, she opens up the folder created specifically for sentimental Bakugou photos.  Ashido shows them a picture of him passed out on the couch, face resting against your lap with a firm grip on your calf (This was last week when he was plastered after four drinks!), another of him with you up on his shoulders in the pool, fiery smirks on both your faces (They beat me and Denki in Chicken, ugh!), and finally, a picture of him kissing you around a corner, which was immediately followed by a blurry photo of Bakugou swinging at the camera  (I don’t remember this one, actually, but this happens pretty frequently!).

Perhaps they hadn’t been watching closely after all, they think.

Ashido shows them several more photos, each with Bakugou sappier than the last, and she ends it by cooing about how cute the both of you are.  She says she’s surprised that neither you nor Midoriya have shown them anything, and Midoriya stammers out something about privacy, and they mention that they hadn’t expressed their horror in full until recently.

Horror, Ashido repeats, and then it turns into another full-blown cackle in public.

When you and Bakugou make it back to the group, you take one look at your friends and grin, seemingly aware of their newfound understanding.  They look back at you, abashed, but you’re too preoccupied with your bag of souvenirs and the ugly pig plush in your arms to be mad about their misconceptions.  Anyways, the pig was bought, not won, and you’re excited to share the story with the others.  Bakugou is on his phone again, subtly leaning against you; when Uraraka passes by behind him, she sees that he’s not scrolling through his apps but deciding a new background photo, stuck between one of you throwing the camera a kiss or laughing in the sunlight.  She watches him pick one and then favorite the other one.

[pocketgalaxies]

We want to destroy my mother. (insp by @dadrielle)

[marciaillust]

some The Clockmaster character iterations! I've been doodling rough character pages as a reference for myself :)

[noirrelite]

my take on a halolz.com meme, inspired by a similar Houseki no Kuni edit 🥹 also full version below the cut:

[arcadekitten]

Where's my invite? Open the doors and they're turning on all the lights Make my paradise! Roses are red and I'll get what I fantasize!

[mysterystarz]

just keep falling for

pairing: kuroo tetsurou x g!n reader

genre: fluff, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, boatload of an oblivious but perceptive reader, kuroo really doesn’t know how to get the obvious out and reader cannot really tell him they know what he means

notes: rewatching hq and i literally fell in love w everyone again — dedicated to all kuroo fans, not proofread at all

also i haven’t written in so long so my style is all over the place so pls critique me and also my hand slipped

reblogs and opinions are appreciated <3

kuroo was taking an awfully long time in the locker room.

standing in the gym, you watched as the first years helped with deconstructing the volleyball nets for the day. while you offered your help, they politely declined, suggesting you wait to accompany their captain out to advertise their great work.

normally, kuroo was quick. any jokes that happened inside the locker room were quick to reach your ears, and you knew how much he tried to include you in everything.

you leaned against the wall, watching the clock tick for a whole minute before opting to pace around the gym.

little did you know, kuroo was having a meltdown inside the locker room.

“kuroo!” yaku yelled, brandishing his towel. “you need to get a grip. stop freaking out. you’re supposed to be the composed one!”

“seriously kuroo,” kenma agreed, “why are you acting so surprised. it’s not like this is new news.”

“guys,” kuroo began, raking a finger through his hair, “this messes up everything.”

“is this about y/n?” lev asked, finally entering the locker room. “did kuroo finally do something about that crush?”

“enough!” kuroo sighed, sitting down at one of the benches. in the span of the last ten minutes, kuroo had one of the most dramatic realizations of his life.

he liked you.

you, his best friend and his other half. you, who cheered for him at every game and even lended him cool analogies to use in captains speeches. you, who stole his jacket and ran away from him, leaving him to chase you as far as the two of you could run.

he wasn’t sure what had changed. somehow, you’d entered his head, and with every pump of his heart, you sunk deeper and deeper into his bloodstream.

“did you seriously not know?” yaku asked gently, “because if you ask us, it was obvious from the very start. you hold them in such high regard.”

“i didn’t,” he admitted, turning to meet yaku’s eyes. “i didn’t know and now, i don’t know what to do. we’ve been friends for ages….i don’t even think they see me that way.”

“just tell them kuroo,” kenma said, not looking up from his console. “they like you a lot, they’re not going to say no.”

the team voiced their agreement, and began to file out of the locker room at last.

“sorry to keep you waiting,” he smiled, meeting your gaze as he walked out of the locker room.

“no problem,” you said, returning a grin of your own. “was there something going on in there?”

“nahhhhh,” he laughed, “someone was just having a meltdown about how to do a proper confession.”

“confession?” you rose a brow, and kuroo silently cursed himself for letting such a specific detail slip.

for a moment, you were stunned. as you walked, you considered all the possibilities.

you knew lev had been racking up quite the fanbase through his games, and you also knew how yaku was starting to branch out a bit more. if kenma had a prospective partner, you would’ve already heard of it by now.

unless…unless it was kuroo having the meltdown.

you pondered this detail as you walked out of the school doors, holding them open for your lanky best friend.

“hey dork,” you began, “who are you planning on confessing to? it was your meltdown, right?”

kuroo felt his heart drop in his chest. curse you and your quick connections.

“what makes you think the meltdown was mine?”

“because i would’ve known about everyone else,” you smiled confidently. “you would’ve told me.”

kuroo simply looked at you, distracted by your smile and the way it lit up your eyes. if only he could put it into words.

you had a way of making him nervous.

“i’d tell you details if you stopped smiling at me like that. too bright — it’s hurting my eyes.” he teased.

what he didn’t expect was for you to laugh and immediately drop your smile, transitioning to a serious face.

“tell me now,” you huffed, “i deserve to know who’s on your mind these days.”

he sighed.

if there was one thing worse than your uncanny ability to read his mind, it was the lack of that ability to tell that you were the only person he ever thought about.

kuroo got home, resting his bag on the floor of his room and immediately dialing kenma. he picked up in an instant, and kuroo couldn’t help but be thankful for his setter.

“kenma,” he sighed, “this is like one of your games. impossible.”

“let me guess. y/n didn’t catch a hint?”

“they know it’s me” he groaned, “they know i had the meltdown. they know there’s someone in my head. they keep trying to ask me who it is, but i can’t just say ‘it’s you’ can i?”

“being direct is actually a good idea.” kenma suggested, “go retry that level kuroo. maybe you’ll have some luck this time.”

with that, kenma hung up, leaving kuroo frenzied with an emotion that felt a lot like hope.

sitting and staring out the window, you wondered if now was a good time to acknowledge your growing crush on nekoma’s middle blocker.

he was everything you could ever ask for. thoughtful, sweet, laughably charming, and with a nerdy twist that made him a dork and undeniably your other half.

it didn’t help how handsome he’d become over the years either. he’d gotten taller and taller, his eyes golden and his hair endearingly messy. he was solid from all the days spent practicing, and after every embrace, you were left craving more.

as much as you didn’t want to admit your discomfort, the sensation hovered over you like a fog.

the idea of kuroo having feelings for someone else was bittersweet. you adored him — you really did, and his happiness was yours.

but….you couldn’t help but wish that you could both be happy. that he’d see you the way you’d always seen him.

someone to just keep falling for.

the next morning, kuroo came to grab you from your house for the daily walk to school. he’d made an effort to make sure his tie was on incorrectly in the hopes that you’d fix it for him.

you greeted him at the door, breaking into a grin upon seeing his disheveled state.

“come inside,” you sighed, dragging him by the hand into the foyer. he stood patiently as you reached for his tie, straightening out the edges and meticulously smoothing out the wrinkles of his shirt.

“it’s almost like we’re married.” he teased, happy at the flustered expression that shot onto your features. “what? cat got your tongue?”

“shut up tetsu.”

“i don’t want to.” he said, looking into your eyes. he hoped that there was something conveyed in the silent space between you. the tenseness was all but palpable.

“oh.” you whispered, cupping his cheek. “so this is your confession? a messy tie and a lot of cheek.”

“of course,” he smirked, “you’re the only person i’d do that for.”

©mysterystarz all rights reserved, please do not plagiarize, translate, or modify my fics in any way even if credited