realizin-g asked: hii i've been a lurking fan of your fics from afar and i was just in the hospital and could use a little happy/fluffy xcom eeac ficlet if possible? maybe you could combine Apodyopis/Gymnophoria and Basorexia/Cataglottism (pls help a girl out lmao)
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ask-manda-of-the-6 asked: Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”. (This strikes as a Central thing to say) ;)
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realizin-g asked: just gonna drop in here and send u a thing from that headcanon meme-- "urge" (for xcom preferably, but like you do you)
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Lizzie gets an unusual visitor. The neighborhood gets a new resident.
(Weir and Jane belong to ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thehonorablebat )
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Everyone does what they need to survive.
TW: There is nothing graphic here, but I’m still putting a potential CSA trigger. Sally’s underage and what she does is very much born out of desperation.
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There is one lesson every kid knows that every adult has forgotten: here there be monsters.
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John Bradford knows only this: if the powers that be exist, they are not smiling upon him today.
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She presses a kiss to his cheek, and walks out the door, bag in hand.
Away from XCOM.
Away from Washington.
Away from him.
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thegrimsqueaker asked: Abditory: a hiding, safe place to disappear
Two strangers meet five years after the Invasion.
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She knows she is pushing her luck.
Will indulges her a lot; that much has always been clear. She’s not sure how he’s going to respond to this, though.
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Some concepts haven’t survived the rise of ADVENT.
Thanks to thegrimsqueaker for pointing out the existence of the museum in Leavenworth!
“Sally,” Weir said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of all the people you could have made friends with…”
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There were many reasons she loved Currer. His energy. His loyalty. His willingness to accompany her on adventures. His complete acceptance of her need to sometimes bury her face in his fluff. The fact that he still would cover her in kisses when she inevitably surfaced.
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She freely admits the majority of her customers are unremarkable. It’s not that they’re bad --- it’s that they don’t leave an impression. They are the bread and butter of running the shop, the ones who forget an anniversary, or need to impress a date. They come by for holidays, for births and for deaths, for thank yous and I’m sorrys.
She does have her regulars, though.
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And now, her friends have decided she is not allowed to lie in the dirt.
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“This is an awful idea, you two,” she says, feeling the weight of the gun in her hands.
“Defending yourself isn’t optional,” Weir counters unphased.
(CW: brief, non-graphic suicide reference)
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All things considered, the house isn’t in bad shape. Sure, there’s a few boards on the outside that need to be repaired, and the floors need to be redone, and that step creaks, and the shutters are loose, but overall. It’s not in bad shape.
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But to give them her work, to hand over the kind of secrets she has striven to keep, is unthinkable.
(AN: I grew up in the Potter fandom and, as such, have some overly developed headcanons about how things work — complete with a slapdash of influence from Wheel of Time. That all seeps in here. If you read something and are left going ???, it’s probably from a headcanon.)
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