#pixie stick reference sheet

[pixiestickthealicorn]

[pixiestickthealicorn]

Pixie Stick and #18

Here's her reference sheet.

So I might be putting Some Pony Sunday off for the rest of the month so I can try to work on this for all of October. I'm thinking this is the prompt I wanna go with and will do what I did last year where you can offer up one OC for a costume or I'll randomly find someone's OC to use.

Like last year, if there's a costume you want claimed, tell me the number and what OC you'll offer. For example, I would say something like "Heartistry #5" or "Winter for number 23".

Remember: Only one OC per account. I want to give those who want to participate a chance. Please put your submissions in the comments/in a reblog so others can know that you've already claimed a prompt with an OC. I will not be accepting submissions or DMs.

[toxinspired]

[ ID: A reference sheet with multiple outfits. Text at the top reads Kisa Y Smiles, butch lesbian, she/he/they, 28 y/o, and vocalist/jorōgumo. She is a fat Japanese woman with close cropped black hair, dark orange eyes, large orange gauges, and many tattoos.

The first outfit is labeled as underwear and they are wearing a grey sports bra and red plaid patterned boxers.

The second outfit is labeled as casual and he is wearing a white tee shirt with rolled sleeves that is tucked into cuffed blue jeans. He's also wearing a brown watch and brown work boots. He has silver rings on his left middle finger and right thumb.

The third outfit is labeled as formal and she is wearing a dark orange dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and an orange tie with a silver tie clip. She's also wearing a light grey vest and dark brown slacks. She has a sleek black watch, two rings on her left hand and one on her right thumb, and dark dress shoes.

The fourth outfit is labeled as spider. They now have 8 eyes with black sclera and bright orange irises. Large black and orange spider legs, like those of a golden orb weaver, extend from their back. Their nails are black as well. They're wearing an orange kimono patterned with red flames and a matching red obi. Over it they wear a teal haori. They wear dark navy sandal socks and tan geta with white straps. End ID ]

Finally finished Kisa's reference sheet!! Never let me design a character with multiple tattoos ever again. Censored version with all tattoos under the cut!

[ ID: Kisa with all of his tattoos on display. At the base of his throat, he has a teal fire tattoo. Directly underneath his breasts, there is a skull with nine swords piercing the top of it and one in it's mouth. On the left side of his ribs is a cartoonish dragon head. On his left hip is a banner with motherfucker written in red and all caps.

On her right shoulder is a tattoo of a sun with a face. Directly below it is a small moon and stars tattoo. On her right forearm is a green snake with a small star at it's tail.

On their left shoulder is a large red oni mask tattoo. Their left forearm has a blue, purple, and pink hydrangea tattoo as well as a small smiley face with it's tongue sticking out. On the inside of their left forearm is a triangle with small fire motifs.

On his right thigh, there is a hand holding up a pixie by it's wings. Under that is two cards, one displaying a spider web back and the other with a heart design. On the top of her right knee is an eye with multiple and overlapping pupils. Below the knee is a simple chainsaw design and a black cat sitting in a crescent moon.

On her left thigh is an Atlas moth holding up the earth. There is also a simple candle, a small ghost, and an even smaller paw print. Written on his knee, upside down and in all caps, is the word shit. On their calf is dagger pointing down at an anatomical heart, encircled by teeth. End ID ]

So. Many. Tattoos.

He also has a full spider back piece and yes when she manifests the spider legs, they do come from the tattoo.

[babsvibes]

One Eyed Snakes Reference Sheet

Because sometimes a wiki isn’t enough and also I wanted to headcanon some biker names lol

Club:

Horny Dave’s Favorite Jam:

Activities:

Partakes in criminal activities such as robbing, looting, cooking and selling crystal meth

Drinking and drinking contests, smoking, opening a beer bottle with boobs is considered an art

Arm wrestling

Listening to music: memorial jam is over 21 minute rock song (which seems to have strong psychedelia influence), ending credits song similar to Mama Kin by Aerosmith

Locations:

Stopped in Macon, Georgia at least once when the azaleas were in bloom

Attends bike week in Laconia, New Hampshire, which happens in June

Allies/Enemies:

Enemies with the Buzzard Kings, who throw Molotov cocktails

Allies with Easy Beavers, who appear to be majority female gang

Gives one eyed snake cards to people they owe a favor to, which must be presented in window

Patches: Critter explains patches on Horny Dave’s vest to Belcher kids in family friendly way

Tickling a c0p (likely assaulting an officer)

Not being associated with the wh!te p0wer movement (unclear of true meaning, emphasis on “not” seems to imply the opposite)

Blowing up a bunch of balloons (likely large scale property damage)

Style of Humor:

Nonchalant criminal activity

Down to earth and in tune with sensitivity/intuition

Style of Speech:

Southern dialect (Tennessee for Critter)

Biker speak (Roamin’ Bob-iday references)

While they mostly speak colloquially and with contractions, a lack of contractions and flowery/overstated language is utilized for humor (Mudflap: I do not think so, Linda . . . You started crying tears of genuine emotional sadness)

General:

History of being intolerant to other races and parents. Mostly male members but a few female bikers. Several members on LinkedIn. Nursing student sold them OxyContin and taught club infant CPR. Initiation is tough, assumed to include weeding out posers through physical violence.

Horny Dave was chapter leader until he was in a gruesome accident. Critter took over after his death. Ice Pick is now presumably acting president, as he makes decisions for the club in Wag The Hog, with Critter taking more time off to be with Sidecar and work a straight job.

Bikers:

Critter and Mudflap: See wiki

Rat Daddy: Intimidates Mort into keeping Horny Dave’s favorite jam cranked. Friends with Horny Dave. Appreciates flowers and is aware of seasonal blooms. Talks openly to kids and answers questions about drugs honestly with no filter.

Ice Pick: Stands in as club decision maker in Critter’s absence. Sensitive to other people’s state of mind, his own image, and accepting of social media. Growls at Kenny but takes a selfie with him. Capable of being persuaded and recognizing perspective.

Nasty Slim: Gets in a fist fight with Statch. Gets too drunk and needs to be carried out of the restaurant by two women who seem amused by him.

Scab: Tags onto whatever has been said. “Critter hasn’t talked to us in weeks.” “Yeah and he hardly wants any meth.” “And other races.” “And you can sell it to this square over here.”

Statch: Locks and blocks the door to fight honkies. Rides an American flag bike. Fights with Nasty Slim. Seen in heated conversation with Slim and Margo. Takes selfie with Kenny. Name is slang for Statutory.

Mutton: Stands separate with Critter and Rat Daddy in Earsy Rider. One of the first to enter Bob’s Burgers and waves everyone else inside after confirming there is beer. Has heated conversation with Ice Pick and has a barbed wire tattoo.

Ruby: Attends baby shower and plays diaper game. Doesn’t appear to stick to anyone in particular. Seemingly younger as she has no visible wrinkles and younger style of dress and hair (shaved in Earsy Rider, pixie cut in Roamin’ Bob-iday?)

Tang: Riding on the back of Mutton’s bike. Attends baby shower. Enthusiastic about winner of arm wrestling contest.

Pidge: Riding on the back of Scab’s bike. Damascus had his arm around her and they appear to be talking to each other across booths. Helps Slim when too drunk. Wears a shirt baring her midriff.

Damascus: Seen with arm around Pidge.

Margo: Helps Slim when he’s too drunk. Seemingly uncomfortable with an angry Statch. Attends baby shower.

Ol’ Wayne: Lost drinking contest to Mudflap.

[lovemesomesurveys]

Is it raining where you are? No.

Would you ever get a white phone? Yeah, I've had white phones.

What was the last board game you played? It was a trivia game.

What color is the floor in the room you’re in? Tan.

What color do you see the most of right now? I see blue and white plaid and red, white, and gray plaid-- my heated blanket being the blue one and my bedsheets being the red one.

Are you more hungry or thirsty right now? I'm kinda hungry, but it's almost 1AM and I'm trying to get back on a good sleep routine. I've also been having issues with solids lately.

Have you wasted any money lately? I bought some Easter arts and crafts and a cute little sugar cookie bunny house to decorate to give me something to. Some might see that as money wasted, but it brings me some joy then it's worth it to me.

How about lost any money? No.

What’s your favorite kind of tea? Peppermint, spearmint, and chamomile.

Would you rather go back to the 80’s and 90’s for a week? I'd love to go to the 90s and experience my childhood again. Damn, I miss those days even more than ever now.

If you could only wear one color of socks ever, what would you choose? I'd just stick with black.

What color hairties do you normally use? It's been since last summer since i cut my hair pixie cut short and needed a hairtie. It's way too short now.

Do you prefer mints or gum? Eh, I don't have either one anymore but in high school and college I pretty much always had gum.

Have you been sleeping well latly? No, and that's a big contributing factor.

Popsicles or fudgeicles? I only like the banana fudge fudgesicle.

When was the last time you made a sandwich? About a week ago.

Blush or bronzer? I don’t wear makeup anymore.

Is it more important to you to have your fingernails or toenails painted? It's been like 5 years since I've painted my nails, so clearly neither is important to me, but if I had to choose out of the two I'd pick fingernails. I never bothered with my toenails.

Would you rather your sheets be red or green? Well, like I said they're currently red, white, and gray plaid, sooo.

Have you bought any bracelets recently? Somewhat recently. This month as least.

What was the last reason you bought or recieved a card? For Valentine's Day for my mom.

How do you normally wear your hair? It's pixie cut short, so there's only like one way to style it. I normally just throw a beanie on if I'm going somewhere. Although, I have been just brushing it back lately.

Do you use a belt normally? Never.

What do you put on your hot dogs? Cheese, mustard, lots of mayo, ketchup, grilled onions, and pickles.

How about on your tacos? Beans, extra cheese, guac, and sour cream, and cilantro and onions.

Do you like watermelon? Sure. I couldn't tell ya the last time I had any, though.

What color is your favorite blanket? My white with dogs all over it heated blanket.

What day of the week is it? It's Thursday.

What’s the most adventurous thing you’ve done this week? Uh, nothing at all. I haven't even left the bed all week because I had yet another scare with the brain fog. :/

Would you prefer a brick house or a log cabin? Brick house. Having a log cabin for the winter would be nice, though.

Patio or porch? Is the porch covered? If so, porch. We’ve got a covered porch that allows me to comfortably sit outside and read even while raining, which I absolutely love to do in the summer. <<< I'd enjoy that.

Pool or trampoline? Pool. I'd just sit near it and chill.

Leggings or yoga pants? Leggings are all I ever wear now for pants when going somewhere.

Do you like b.l.t.s? Is this referring to the sandwich? If so, then no.

What was the last drink you ordered at a restaurant? Coke.

Have you went to a Burger King or McDonald’s more recently? McDonald's.

Do you remember your last dream? Nope. I like never remember my dreams.

Do you like going for car rides? I don't enjoy long car rides cause I get motion sickness.

Do you have a tree in your yard? Yes.

When was the last time you lit a candle? I don't light candles cause I'm a big scardy cat.

[soclonely]

The Clones as Halloween Shenanigans

Rex- Had his house TPed... by his own kid Echo- dresses as a character or historical figure absolutely no one knows (this is a shoutout to all of you going as Clone Troopers, but being referred to as a storm trooper) Fives- Dresses up in a sheet, steps on the edge of it and trips down a few steps Jesse- Eats all the candy he got, gets stomach ache Kix- Stuck working. He’s medical and its a full moon yall! Tup- tries to dress scary, ends up being too cute Dogma- Convinces friends to go to a graveyard, gets possessed Hardcase- TPs a house, ends up being his own house Coric- Pulls a hamstring doing the monster mash Bly- Gets so scared at a haunted house he wets himself 99- Gives out tooth brushes to the people knocking on his door. He tries guys. Cody- spooky cocktail at the halloween party was a littttlleeee too strong Waxer and Boil- Roped into taking 8 kids trick or treating Wolffe- Every Halloween kids make bets to come up to his house. they all have a contest to see who is brave enough to go and harass the old man grumpy hermit who they think is a witch Sinker and Boost- multiple people with the same costume Hunter- “who the hell put the sppoky fog machine on full blast?” Wrecker-kid the put the spooky fog machine on full blast Tech- Sugar rush off one pixie stick. will someone please get their child settled Crosshair- people compliment his costume, but he isnt wearing one he always looks like this wtf?

[little-mad]

Little Jackpot Pt. 12 (Final)

~ Last Part ~

Seven hours later, Ambry returned to her normal size. It had happened abruptly when she’d been trying to fall asleep in her now oversized bed. One minute she had been practically drowning in her sheets, and the next, everything was exactly the right size again.

“I’m back!” The once again five inch pixie exclaimed as she flew out of her house and into Sebastian’s bedroom.

The witch himself was currently passed out in his own bed, sprawled out on his stomach with his arms sticking out at odd angles. Ambry flitted over to Sebastian’s prone form, hovering a few inches above his face. “Sebastian wake uuuup.” She whined. When that elicited no response from the sleeping human, Ambry carefully lowered herself onto his exposed cheek, her bare feet forming little indents on the pale skin.

Sebastian, roused by the contact, began to stir, letting out a tired groan as he went to roll onto his back. Ambry lifted back into the air, happily waiting until his eyes popped open and took in the sight of the pixie flying above him.

At first, an annoyed look formed on Sebastian’s face. His shoulder length white hair was atypically messy, long bangs mussed across his face. He looked about ready to complain about his rude awakening when he seemed to recall recent events, namely the state he had last seen Ambry in. His eyes went wide as he quickly sat up straight in bed.

Ambry flitted backwards to make room for the rising human, an amused smile on her face as he registered her change in size. “I’m back to normal!” She cheered, giving a happy little twirl mid-air.

“I can see that.” Sebastian remarked. Rather than the dry tone he would normally take, he actually sounded pleased, there was a grin on his face and everything.

Of course Sebastian was still totally massive compared to her, but their current size difference was something she could handle. She had spent months working on acclimating to the size of the human world, she was fairly confident in her ability to interact with it comfortably. If she’d had to get used to being two inches tall...well Ambry didn’t know if her sanity would have stayed intact. After that whole experience, five inches was plenty enough for her.

Sebastian resituated himself so he sat with his back against the headboard of his bed. He pulled his knees up, creating a blanketed hill behind Ambry. She didn’t hesitate to take a seat on one of the human’s knees. Despite the excitement, she was still physically fairly tired from her lack of sleep.

It wasn’t until after she had gotten herself comfortable on her new perch that she looked back at Sebastian’s face. She was a bit startled to see the content expression had been replaced by one far more serious. “Why did you never tell me about your ability?”

Ambry didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what ability of hers he was referring to. She combed her fingers absentmindedly through her pink waves, trying to find the best way to explain the situation to a human. Sebastian may have been a witch, and one fairly well versed in the cultures of magical begins, but he was still a human. Pixie behavior didn’t always make sense with his purely logic driven mindset.

“It’s not something we feel the need to advertise.” Ambry started with a slight shrug. “It’s so rare that one of us actually uses it.” Honestly, it was something that only ever came to mind in dire situations. Otherwise it really didn’t hold a prominent place in her thoughts.

“But pixies must have purposefully kept it from humans, otherwise it would be written about in textbooks.” Sebastian pointed out, a note of frustration rising in his tone. As a scholar, he didn’t like knowledge being kept hidden for the sake of it.

Ambry sighed. “I don’t know, I guess we just figured keeping our last line of personal defense a secret was for the best.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to counter the pixie but seemed to stop himself when realization hit. Ambry assumed he must have realized that if Kole had known about her ability to reduce her size, he would have accounted for that. This would have meant that she likely wouldn’t have been able to get out of the criminal’s clutches earlier. “I suppose that makes sense.” Sebastian relented. And Ambry could tell that, while he was itching to get this new information published in the next textbook, he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to give up the pixies’ secret.

“Besides,” Ambry started, arms folded over her chest, “you can’t even say anything about withholding information when you never told me my wings are apparently so damn valuable.” She allowed a tinge of bitterness to seep into her voice.

Sebastian seemed to almost visibly wince at Ambry’s words. There was definitely some guilt there, which kind of took the wind out of her accusatory sails. “I didn’t...I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.” He admitted, his dark green eyes downcast. “I thought hardly anyone even knew about pixie wing potions anymore.”

It was impossible to ignore how genuine Sebastian sounded. It was obvious he really hadn’t thought anyone would ever try to abduct his companion to obtain her wings. Which meant it was unfortunately difficult for Ambry to be too hard on him. Yes, he should have told her, but she could see why he hadn’t.

“Tomorrow, the whole coven is coming over to help cast protection spells on the house.” Sebastian promised, lifting his gaze to meet Ambry’s. “And until Kole is caught, I think it’d be best for you to stick around me, or Adrien, or anyone in the coven.”

Ambry quirked a single eyebrow. It wasn’t overly frequent, but there were occasional instances in which Sebastian would display a somewhat overprotective side. Normally she would get outright angry with him for trying to govern her life too closely, but given recent events she couldn’t pretend there wasn’t some sense to what he was saying. There was no reason to believe Kole wouldn’t make another attempt at nabbing her, and she was not about to be so easily abducted again.

“I’ll take that into consideration.” Ambry told the white haired witch. Sebastian almost looked like he wanted to argue but seemed to think better of it and instead provided an accepting nod. Certainly a wise choice on his part. “Alright, well I’m pooped.” She announced, flying up off of Sebastian’s knee and turning back towards her house.

Ambry was about to head off when she suddenly felt a gentle but firm grip take hold of her right hand. She glanced over her shoulder to see her hand being dwarfed between two of Sebastian’s fingers. She gave the witch a questioning look.

“Maybe since the house hasn’t been protected yet, you should stay close by tonight.” He suggested. “You know, just in case.” Sebastian’s expression was calm and well schooled, but she could swear she noticed a slight bit of red color the pale skin of his cheeks.

To say that Ambry was surprised by the witch’s proposal would be an understatement. She had once teasingly asked if she could sleep next to him in bed. He had failed to pick up on her joking tone and had gone on to insist upon how ridiculous such a notion was when she had her own perfectly good bed. Ambry realized Sebastian really must have been concerned about the possibility of Kole making a reappearance if he was willing to suggest something like this.

“Are you going to get my bed out of my house or--”

“I was thinking you could just sleep on the other pillow.” Sebastian gestured to the pillow beside his own, the one that would belong to another human if they were to share a bed with him. Ambry could feel the tips of her pointed ears heating up, though she couldn’t exactly be sure why.

“Um, I guess that’s fine.” Ambry finally said after a long pause. “Hold on, let me just grab something.” Sebastian released her hand, allowing her to swiftly dart into her house, grab a blanket and fly back in a matter of moments.

After that, Ambry settled herself down on the massive pillow. It was like lying on a cloud. And the light blanket she’d grabbed was more than enough for the summer night. When she turned to her right to glance over at Sebastian, she could see that he too had settled down onto his pillow, his head turned towards her. “Goodnight.” He said quietly, his eyes already beginning to droop.

“Night night.” Ambry replied with a soft smile.

When the next morning would roll around, the pixie and witch would find they had moved around quite a bit during the night. By the time Sebastian woke up, he would find himself laying halfway on Ambry’s pillow, with the five inch pixie practically cuddling his nose in her sleep.

[qftim-dreamcatcherau]

BABTQFTIM AU

This AU is made by me and TRULY me. This includes my Ocs, Blairlana, Coco, Breeda, Chole and Angel. 5 Dreamers were in a dream world, where are trapped in dream by dream and nightmare by nightmare. They can't really escape from the looping world they are in. They'll do anything to escape the hell pit of nightmares and dreams they would encounter. Every dream would have a good ending or a nightmare would have a bad ending. The Souls of their partners, the Questers ofc, will stick by their sides to escape their troubles. They represent who the girls loved truly and most. Together, they will find a way to break out the looping curse, in order to return back to their normal lives and live freely.

This Au is based on two kpop groups, Dreamcatcher and PIXY. TWs for the AU also: Abuse, Blood, Graphic Content, Cussing, SH and SA. If you don't like that type of things in the AU, please leave and never look back. Thank you.

Reference Sheets will be coming soon! ;) Stay Tuned!

[goulets]

Heartland

Chapter: 2/8 Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson Additional Characters: Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, Tim Drake, Barbara Gordon, Alfred Pennyworth Rating: T (for now) Case Fic/Kid Fic a03 link

The first suggestion is that Jason move back into his old room, just down the hall from Bruce's which is met with an unequivocal not on your fucking life, Bruce.

“Let's get one thing clear: I am not 'moving back in',” Jason hisses, glaring around at all of them. He's whispering so as not to wake the baby, and it doesn't come off quite as intimidating as he'd like. “I just need a bed to sleep in, that's it. Don't do me any fucking favors.”

Dick says, “There's an empty bedroom next to mine, it's not that big, and the bathroom is shared, but – ”

“Sold,” Jason says, and again, the infant sleeping in his arms makes a good old-fashioned broody storm-off kind of impractical.

(jason)

The first suggestion is that Jason move back into his old room, just down the hall from Bruce's which is met with an unequivocal not on your fucking life, Bruce.

“Let's get one thing clear: I am not 'moving back in',” Jason hisses, glaring around at all of them. He's whispering so as not to wake Danielle, and it doesn't come off quite as intimidating as he'd like. “I just need a bed to sleep in, that's it. Don't do me any fucking favors.”

Dick says, “There's an empty bedroom next to mine, it's not that big, and the bathroom is shared, but – ”

“Sold,” Jason says, and again, the infant sleeping in his arms makes a good old-fashioned broody storm-off kind of impractical.

“Okay,” Dick nods. “I'll, um, just show you then.” Bruce looks impassive, and Tim looks like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself, as Dick walks past Jason and Jason follows him up the steps to the main part of the mansion.

Jason doesn't like following behind Dick. It's partly the principle of the thing, because he literally had to die and rise from the grave to get out of Dick's shadow, and even then, it's a matter of distance, and little more. He's far enough off the path of righteousness that the light that shines like a beacon onto Dick doesn't even touch him. So it feels like old news, a habit he grew out of long ago, walking behind Dick, tracing his footfalls, but it's so familiar he half expects to see those stupid fucking pixie boots on his feet when he looks down.

Then there's the other familiar part, the part he’s been struggling not to acknowledge, the awareness that’s been growing in the back of his mind since he set up camp in Gotham. Simply put, Dick is hot. His ass in spandex was the source of way too many semis popped Jason's stupid, flimsy little Robin shorts, and his ass in faded pajama pants is nothing short of miraculous either. But it's not just his body, although Jason wishes it was, not just the shape of his ass and the curve of his spine and the span of his shoulders – Dick is beautiful. He's elegant when he moves, when he laughs, when he's angry, when he's worried, when he's a fucking mess. It's impossible not to look at him, the attention he commands is probably partly due to the fact that he was raised a performer, and partly because that's just Dick.

Jason knows he's one in a long, heavily annotated list of people to fantasize about Dick Grayson. It used to keep him up at night when he was a kid, and not just in that way. There hadn't been a lot of tolerance in the streets for homosexuality – sure, it existed, Jason'd even been on the receiving end once or twice in the unlucky parts of his youth – but you didn't talk about it. So he'd suppressed it, save for those late night visits from his hand in the dark, and then he'd died. Been sprung from the grave, grew up a little, and came back to find that, surprise surprise, the world had grown up a little bit too, and not entirely for the worse. And since then, he's had encounters with men, women, couple aliens, and all that is whatever. This thing with Dick doesn't bother him on account of Dick, well, having a dick. Not anymore.

No, it bothers him because it's Dick fucking Grayson. Golden Boy, Boy Wonder, or as Jason likes to refer to him, Stupid Fucking Bastard With Stupid Fucking Sticks Who Just Won't Fucking Quit. Out of all of them, Dick's the most unchanged. Bruce is hardened, less trusting; Tim is broken; Jason is – whatever the fuck he is, beyond all hope, maybe; but Dick's never lost the spring in his step. Jason thinks he'll probably backflip right into death with a smile on his face, and he won't come back, because Dick is too damn good to be reanimated like some freakish perversion of nature. Jason calls Tim “Replacement” because it's true, Jason was replaceable, but Dick never was. Not that Jason had ever wanted to be his replacement – he hardly knows what he wanted to be to Dick then, even less what he wants to be to Dick now, but it sure as hell isn't some bullshit co-parenting gig with the whole family breathing down his neck.

Of all the fucking days he had to drag his ass down here to gossip.

Dick says, “So, this is it,” and Jason realizes they're outside his new room. The room he's staying in. The room the baby is staying in. That's all it is.

It's not small at all, of course, and the bathroom he's sharing with Dick is also not small, with a stand-up shower and a jacuzzi sized tub, because that's necessary, two sinks, and a ridiculous amount of storage space. He doesn't look at Dick's room, just takes in the furnishings of his own, a queen bed with slate-grey sheets, closet, dresser, desk, bookshelves with a good number of books already on them, and a little windowseat that for some reason makes the back of his throat feel itchy to look at.

Danielle makes a small noise in his arms, and something occurs to him. “Um, where's she supposed to sleep?” He's not an expert, but he's pretty sure babies need cradles – actually, and a lot of other shit, like diaper cream, special baby soap, pacifiers, those sling contraptions he sees people walking around with, and probably a billion other things he has no freaking clue about.

Dick says, “Huh. Good question.”

Helpful, Jason thinks. She can't sleep with him, can she? What if he rolls on top of her? What if she rolls off the bed? What if he has a nightmare and pummels her to death in his sleep? The thought makes him want to be sick, what is he thinking, trying to be some kind of fucking caregiver –

“Jason? You okay?”

Jason blinks. It dawns on him that he's been frozen in place for several seconds now, mind overloaded with the sheer volume of information he doesn't know, endless blank pages supplemented by a thoroughly sourced index of his fears. It's not like he planned for this – ever – he's pretty sure parental ineptitude runs in the family, because his mom sure as fuck never read What to Expect When You're Expecting.

He says, “Doesn't she need some kind of special baby doctor?”

Dick nods. “Bruce'll have Leslie come by and look at her soon. According to the hospital records, she missed her three-month check-in, so.”

“Dick.” Jason tries, and fails, probably, to keep the overwhelming helplessness he's feeling out of his voice. “What the fuck, man – this is crazy. I can't – I don't – where is she supposed to sleep?”

“I can answer that,” comes Alfred's clipped tone from the doorway. Jason turns to see the older man hauling an enormous, tall box into the room.

Jason says, “The hell?” at the same time that Dick rushes forward and says, “Here, let me help you,” and that about sums it up, he thinks.

“Her sleeping quarters,” Alfred says. He and Dick lay the box down, and Jason feels his stomach churn unpleasantly at the picture on the front of a smiling, drooling blonde-haired baby standing in a white wooden crib, fat little fists wrapped around the railing.

“You work fast, Alfie,” Dick comments, hauling another box into the room. This one says Changing Table on the side, and then Alfred pushes a rocking chair in, and Jason will be damned if it isn’t a whole fucking matching baby bedroom set.

“Where the hell did you even get this?” he asks, incredulous. He’s been at the manor two hours tops, hardly enough time for even Alfred to go out shopping for an entire room’s worth of furniture.

“Same-day delivery,” Alfred says smoothly. “I find that being a frequent, loyal customer expedites the process somewhat.”

“You don’t fucking say,” Jason mutters under his breath. Dick is now bringing in box after box of diapers, six huge shopping bags full of baby crap Jason would rather do just about anything than sort through, and some disassembled swing-looking contraption that promises “15 soothing melodies and nature sounds”. The room, suddenly, doesn’t seem so big anymore.

“Hmm,” Dick frowns, looking around. He must be noticing the same thing as Jason. “Honestly, I don’t see all this fitting in here. Alfie, what do you think?”

“You have the adjoining room, do you not, Master Richard?” Alfred replies. He surveys their haul, looking satisfied. Jason feels a tiny bit like he’s going to have a nervous breakdown, which is more or less where he’s been since Danielle was placed in his arms to begin with.

He’d been deadly serious when he’d told Bruce that he’d take her and protect her, but true to half-cocked form, he hadn’t even begun to parse out what that meant. Now that he’s standing in a room that looks like a Babies R’ Us blew up in it, with a human being the size of a loaf of bread snoozing and twitching in his arms, he doesn’t know what he could have possibly been thinking. What Bruce could possibly have been thinking, letting him walk away with her.

Well. Actually, Jason thinks, that about tracks for Bruce’s idea of fatherhood. In Jason’s experience, anyways.

“We’ll put the crib here, I think,” Dick says, leaning the box against the wall opposite the bed. “Changing table can go next to it, and I guess put the rocking chair in the other corner? Bottle stuff should go in the bathroom, and, hmm…” he trails off. “Yeah, we’ll just put the swing in my room. Don’t worry about it, Alfie, I’ll take care of it. You’ve done more than enough, seriously.”

“I’ll leave it to you boys, then,” Alfred says, picking up some of the discarded shopping bags and tucking them under his arm. He gives Jason a long look, like there’s something he wants to say, but seems to think better of it. Jason doesn’t know whether or not to be disappointed.

The silence that falls once Alfred leaves is awkward, bordering on oppressive. Dick doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps opening boxes and stuffing things in drawers and putting on a show of looking like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Jason knows better - can see how haphazardly he’s putting things away, how he’s moving around just to avoid being still. It’s a relief, in a way, to know that he’s not the only one completely out of his depth.

Still, he can’t deny Dick is being about a billion times more useful than him. What else is new.

“I’m just gonna stick this in the closet,” Dick says about a box containing a carseat. “We’ll figure it out later.”

Jason frowns. His car right now is a piece of crap Volvo that certainly shouldn't be hauling around anything as fragile as a baby. Not like he can take her on the bike, either. If they have to make a quick getaway, he’s looking at one-handed free running, or getting some new wheels posthaste.

Danielle grunts and yawns, stretching her tiny hands up and clawing at the material of his jacket. He pats her back, and she settles back into the crook of his arm. It tears at him, a little, watching her burrow into the leather, mouth occasionally opening and sucking, leaving little damp spots in her wake. She’s warm as hell now, practically a furnace, and he frankly wishes he had taken the damn jacket off before she got all comfortable, but he’d rather eat his own gun than put her down. It’s shocking to realize, but he wants her to be closer, wants to hold her right against his skin, against his heartbeat. He’s never felt this way about anything before, about anyone.

He clears his throat. “You seem bizarrely familiar with all this crap,” he says to Dick. “How do you - I mean, I don’t even have a clue what that thing is,” he gestures to the piece of fabric Dick is holding. It looks like the world’s longest scarf.

“It’s a wrap,” Dick says. “It’s for holding the baby. Or ‘wearing’, I think they call it. It’s nice for keeping your hands free. Roy had one for Lian, but it had a lot more buckles than this.”

Jason blinks. Roy, of course. Roy’s told him how much Dick has helped him out when he got full custody of Lian, back when she was still a baby. No wonder Dick is able to snap into action so easily. Jason’s spent a little time around Roy’s daughter, but she’s usually with her grandparents when they get together. For the best, since most of his team-ups with Roy have ended in shootouts and/or catastrophic explosions.

Just another reason he has absolutely no fucking business being anywhere near an infant.

“Hey,” Tim says from the doorway. “Um, here’s this pillow thing.” He holds out a box labeled Infant Lounger, and Jason is officially calling bullshit, there’s absolutely no way babies need this many goddamn surfaces to simply exist upon when, as far as he can tell from his one hour of baby experience, there’s no chance you’d ever want to put one down anyways. It’s all just one big racket - except for the diapers, probably.

“Thanks, Tim,” Dick sighs, opening the box and pulling out the lounger. It’s covered in a cutesy little whale pattern. “Well, that’s adorable, isn’t it?”

Tim looks skeptical. “If you say so.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “You didn’t come up here just to deliver a whale pillow, Replacement.” Dick shoots him a reproachful look, but screw him. “What’d you find out?”

Tim, to his credit, looks relieved to have an excuse to get to the real reason he’s there. “Well, we can officially rule out anyone from Intergang as a suspect. Their whole operation is a bust now. Word is Mannheim is pulling all the survivors out and regrouping, probably off-world.” He nods to Jason. “We’ve ruled the League of Assassins out, too.”

“So, who does that leave?” Dick asks. “Locals? Who are the major players in the East End?”

“There aren’t any,” Tim says. “The whole neighborhood’s been a power vacuum since...well.”

“Since me,” Jason snorts.

“It’s all small-time gangs, nobody with the firepower or the logistic capability to pull something like this off,” Tim goes on. “Which means we’re either looking at somebody new, or there’s a major territory grab that we somehow haven’t caught wind of.”

“Who patrols the East End now, anyways?” Jason asks.

“Nobody, unless Barbara sends the Birds out there. Used to be you,” Tim says mildly.

Jason works his jaw. “Last I checked, your boss is the one who wanted me out of there.”

“Last I checked, you didn’t take orders from him,” Tim replies, voice cool and even. Jason suddenly understands what an infant lounger is for - it’s a safe resting spot to hold your baby when you need both hands to throttle your aggravating family members.

“Oh, knock it off, both of you,” Dick says irritably. “Tim, are you running down leads for this?”

“I guess so,” Tim shrugs. “I was here on the Intergang expansion in the first place. Bruce and I are going to check out the bodies later this evening, get ballistics reports and see what else we can find. The paperwork is coming in pretty slow on the law enforcement side of things.”

Jason twists his mouth in disgust. “GCPD, dragging their heels? Shocking.”

“Pretty much,” Tim affirms. “They’re just happy the Intergang faction’s dealt with. I don’t think they want to look into it too closely.”

Even with a baby on the hit list, Jason thinks bitterly. It’s enough to make a person want to pick up and move altogether.

Danielle moves suddenly in his arms, stretching her tiny body and kicking one leg out against his ribs. She whines, twisting her head away, and when she turns back to look at him, her brown eyes are wide and watery.

“Shit,” he murmurs. “Dick, help. She doesn’t look happy to see me.”

Dick appears at his shoulder. Danielle whines again, flailing her limbs against Jason’s chest.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Dick coos, right in Jason’s ear. Oh, sweet Jesus, Jason did not think this one through at all. He feels his face flush, and has to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at Dick to back the fuck up.

“Look at you,” Dick goes on, oblivious. “You’re awake now, huh? You need some attention, sweetie?” His breath is warm against Jason’s neck. Jason is going to crawl out of his skin.

Danielle’s eyes flicker towards the sound of Dick’s voice. She grunts, then turns abruptly and mouths at Jason’s armpit. Jason feels like his heart is gonna jump out of his goddamn throat. It’s been - God, he doesn’t even know, months? The better part of a year? - since he was this close to another person without his helmet on. His brain is screaming at him, escape, fight, neutralize, but even louder, there’s a piece of him overriding everything, a fist deep in his chest clenched around something he thought he’d left back in the Pit.

Danielle whines louder, kicking, and the fist clenches tighter.

“I don’t - ” he starts to say. His voice comes out breathy and ragged, he stops. Swallows. Get a grip, for fuck’s sake. “Maybe you should take her, I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.”

“Just rock her,” Dick suggests. His arm comes around to Jason’s elbow, and now Jason can’t help it, he jerks away violently. The little body in his arms goes stock still for a moment, hiccups, and then the sound of wailing fills the room.

Jason swears. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, like that means a damn thing to a baby. “Shit, I’m really sorry, Danielle.” He holds her upright against his shoulder, rubbing her back like he’s seen Roy do with Lian when she’s upset. “I’m an asshole, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She hiccups again, and makes a displeased noise that sounds vaguely chastising. Fair enough, he deserves it. Anything is better than crying.

Dick is looking at him, overbright, and Jason averts his eyes. Briefly, he makes eye contact with Tim, who looks incredibly uncomfortable. Good.

“I think we’ll leave the morgue investigation to you guys,” Dick says to Tim. He seems to have realized he overstepped. “There’s a lot to do here, and I still have my regular patrol. I’m guessing you’re going to the docks this evening,” he addresses Jason.

“I want to, but.” Jason rocks Danielle pointedly. “Kinda got my hands full here.”

“You don’t think we can leave her for a few hours?”

“What the fuck, no,” Jason says, incredulous. “Even if she wasn’t being targeted by some psycho, you can’t just leave a baby, what’s wrong with you.”

“Even I knew that,” Tim says, obnoxiously.

“She wouldn’t be alone, jeez,” Dick protests. “Alfred is here.”

“I’m protecting her,” Jason reminds him darkly. “Alfred has enough shit on his plate.”

“Okay,” Dick says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “She’s pretty attached to you anyways, so you’re right, it’s probably best if we do that.”

Jason isn’t sure whether or not he’s being patronized, but flips Dick the bird just to be safe. Dick pretends not to notice.

“Drake, your input is being requested in the Cave,” Damian announces from the doorway. Christ, it’s a whole fucking family reunion, and he can’t escape. “Personally, I hadn’t even noticed your absence.”

Tim’s expression goes from vaguely aggrieved to fully constipated, which soothes some of Jason’s irritation. Bruce’s demon spawn is a complete and utter terror, but he’s so like his mother that Jason can’t help liking him. He’s not stupid enough to look down on him in a fight - he heard secondhand what Robin did to Victor Zsasz - but his heart’s just not in it when he spars with Damian. So sue him, he’s got a soft spot for kids, no matter how lethal they are.

“Keep me updated,” Jason says to Tim.

Tim nods, one hand on the doorframe as he exits. “Will do. Sure you don’t want to come along? Autopsy is daytime work.”

Jason grimaces. “Been there, done that. You guys can poke at dead people, I prefer to get my answers from ones that are breathing.”

Damian scoffs audibly. “Breathing until you finish with them, you mean?”

Jason ignores him. He turns his attention back to Danielle, who is starting to mouth at the collar of his jacket more aggressively. Shit, he probably shouldn’t let her do that. This jacket isn’t too old, at least, but he’s smoked his way through a dozen packs of cigarettes in it already, not to mention all the bad guy spatter it’s probably absorbed. Surface cleaners can only do so much.

“Perhaps you’d like to offer her this,” Damian says imperiously, holding out a bottle. “You know, children her age require feeding every three to four hours.”

“...Thanks,” Jason says, suspicious. He doesn’t think Damian would attack him when he’s holding a baby, but he looks like he’s considering it. Warily, he takes the bottle. It’s warm. “Did you make it?”

“It’s infant formula,” Damian replies bitingly. “It requires no scientific mastery.”

Alfred made it, then. Jason exchanges a look with Dick, who quirks an eyebrow almost imperceptibly.

“You don’t need to stay, Damian,” Dick says. “I’m just gonna be putting together furniture. You probably have homework to do, right?”

Damian looks affronted. “My studies aren’t so taxing, Grayson. What furniture?”

“Baby furniture, for Danielle. Nothing you need to worry about.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “You’re dismissing me because you want me to argue, so that I’ll stay and help you.”

Dick is the picture of innocence. “I really don’t need help. I assembled all the furniture in my apartment, I know what I’m doing.”

“I also know what you’re doing.” Damian walks to the box holding the crib pieces, hands on his hips. “A simpleton could do this.”

“They make it pretty user friendly.”

“I’ll get my tools.”

Dick looks quite pleased with himself as Damian rushes off. Jason can’t help but laugh.

“Nice,” he says, shaking his head at Dick’s impish grin. “Hold her for a second, I’m gonna take my jacket off.”

Danielle whines more insistently when he passes her to Dick, and doesn’t stop when he takes her back. He cradles her upright in one arm, bouncing her a little to keep her distracted, and touches the nipple of the bottle to her mouth. She latches on eagerly, and he tries and fails not to smile at her enthusiasm, the delighted kicking of her legs as she eats, her eyes trained on his face like laser beams. He feels - full, almost, like a balloon in his chest is slowly filling up, a window he’d nailed and soldered shut is being pried open again.

There are holes in Jason’s memory, things the Pit couldn’t restore, fragments of his life that were beaten out of him, or left in the ground, or atrophied and rotted away during his lost year after waking up. When he first came back to Gotham, he’d filled all those empty spaces with rage and spite, but he’d burned through it all in a few months and found there wasn’t enough left over to keep filling them, to stop him from noticing the edges of remembering in his mind, the sensation of familiarity that would abruptly fade into nothing. He’s learned to navigate around them, but there’s never been a moment that he hasn’t known they are there. They’re a constant reminder that he died Jason Todd and came back Almost Jason Todd, the same person but without all the pieces.

The feeling he has, feeding Danielle - the warm smell of her, the force of her gaze, so human and yet so alien, the clutch-and-pull of her small hands against the fabric of his shirt and the scarred skin of his hand - it’s like she’s reached right into the center of him and dragged forth the memory of being whole. He isn’t, he won’t ever be, but he can remember it, and it absolutely takes his breath away.

“You good?” Dick asks, softly.

Jason swallows. “Uh-huh,” he manages. It’s a damn good question. Jason isn’t frequently good, he’s often satisfied, often pissed off, often (less often, now) steeped so deep in madness he’s out of his mind. This is something else, he thinks. Something close to shattered, but it’s also close to good, because even though he’s in a thousand goddam pieces, the pieces, for once, are all there.

“Wow, Jay,” Dick murmurs. “You’ve really got a way with her, you know.”

Jason waits to answer until he’s sure his voice won’t betray how shaken apart he is. “She just doesn’t know any better yet,” he says. “Probably at this stage, it’s all the same to them.”

“She didn’t eat this well for me,” Dick says, and Jason can’t tear his eyes away from Danielle to look, but he can hear Dick smiling. “Face it, Jaybird, she chose you.”

“Shut up,” Jason replies, but it’s so subdued it’s practically a whisper. He can’t even deny it - she did choose him, and even if he can’t fathom why, even if it terrifies him, he can feel it all the way down to his bones. He’ll do anything for this little girl. Shit, she’s already got him shacking up in the last place he’d ever want to be. She’s got him thinking about sensible family cars, for Christ’s sake. He hasn’t even known her a full day, but she chose him, and he knows he’d die for her as instinctively as breathing.

“This had better not take long,” Damian says, reentering the room with his toolbox in hand. “I have training to finish.”

Dick laughs, but it’s a little off, somehow. Jason still doesn’t look - if he had to guess, he would say that Damian managed to surprise Dick, but that doesn’t seem very likely.

“Sure thing, Dami. The changing table is probably the easiest, if you have things to do.” Whatever Jason thought he heard, it’s not there anymore. Dick’s voice is back to being smooth and casual, pointedly so, which probably means Damian’s about to -

“In other words, you want me to assemble the crib,” Damian says flatly.

“Pretty sure I said changing table,” Dick repeats, exasperated.

“Enough with your mind games Grayson. They aren’t subtle, you’re embarrassing yourself. I’ll assemble the crib, since you seem to think it’s too challenging for you.”

“If that’s what you want,” Dick says evenly. Jason finally catches his eye, and he winks. “I’ll start working on the changing table - the way she’s eating, we’re gonna need it soon.”

Anxiety flits across Damian’s face, and he scowls hard at Jason a split second later. Jason shrugs one shoulder at him peaceably. He’d be lying if he said he had no reservations about changing diapers either, but hell, he signed up for this, didn’t he? People even more dysfunctional than him must have figured it out over the years. And considering his extracurricular activities, he can hardly be getting squeamish over a little baby poop.

Danielle, having paused her eating to look around, makes a short fussing sound and then latches onto the bottle again. Jason adjusts his hold and brings her up a little higher. She curls into him automatically, the fingers of her little hand splaying against his shirt, right over the intersection of scar tissue fanning across his chest. He’s never let anyone touch him there before. It doesn’t feel….bad. At all.

It feels like waking up after a long, disorienting dream. Like climbing down a mountain and taking the first breath of oxygen-rich air.

It feels like being home.

***

(tim)

“Here’s what we know,” Bruce says, pulling up the footage from Oracle. “One month ago, Cy Reynolds and a couple dozen henchmen took over the Eastern port for Intergang. They demo’d the warehouses the Dragons were operating out of, and the old Falcone hotel. They brought in tech, weapons, and what appears to be equipment from Apokolips to construct a boom tube.”

“Just what we need,” Tim mutters.

“Two days ago, Cy Reynolds, his wife, and their adult son all turned up dead. Each was shot twice in the head, execution style. Oracle, any update on ballistics?”

“Negative,” Barbara’s voice comes through the computer speakers. “Forensics are taking their sweet time.”

“We have sixteen other bodies, identified as Reynolds’ second tier of command within Intergang and their respective families.” Bruce pauses. “This includes three children. A fourth was targeted, identified as the child of Mitchell Howard and Linda Torres, but she somehow survived.”

“And made it all the way to St. Aden’s in Coventry,” Tim finishes. “Records say Torres lived on the edge of Little Italy.”

“Has your group seen any signs of new groups operating on the East End?” Bruce asks. “There’s a short list of suspects who could have pulled this off in two days.”

“If there are, they’re way underground,” Barbara says. “You can rule out the Golden Dragons, most of the ones left in that area joined up with Intergang. They’re focused on turf wars in Chinatown, they wouldn’t bother defending the Eastern port.”

“That fits with our intel,” Tim says, trying not to sound annoyed. This started as his op, and he’d ruled out the Dragons from the very beginning. Bruce’d had barely a passing interest until Jason got involved, and now Tim has been demoted to pinch-hitter on his own case. He’ll deal, but after the year he’s had, it’s a little hard not to take it personally.

“The killers’ modus operandi ranges from shooting to stabbing, which suggests human suspects,” Bruce says. “Targeting families suggests the mob.”

“The Falcones used to control the whole east side,” Tim says thoughtfully. He’s surprised it never occurred to him. He’d been so focused on new territory feuds, he hadn’t stopped to think that it might be an old territory feud. Maybe he deserves to be a pinch-hitter. “Any chance they’re making a comeback?”

There’s a flurry of typing on Barbara’s end. “Funny you should mention them. We had five bodies from the Falcone family turn up over the past six months. Some of these could be accidental, but I tagged it as suspicious after the third one.”

“So, a rival family,” Tim says, slowly. He racks his brain for a list of crime families in Gotham’s history. Who’d even bother going after the Falcones these days? They haven’t been truly active in Gotham for over two decades, but, Tim supposes, some rivalries never die. “The Maronis are locked up….maybe the Odessa Mob? Could they be making moves?”

“Nightwing would know if they were expanding past Bludhaven,” Bruce says. Fair enough. Wouldn’t make sense for the Russians to stage a hostile takeover when they’re barely holding ground across the harbor, anyways. “Who are the victims from the Falcones?”

“That’s the weird part. They were all straight, as far as I can tell. One shoe store manager, two housewives, a scuba instructor, a graduate student, and an entrepreneur. Barely a drug charge between them.”

“Could they be unrelated?” Tim asks, glancing through the reports..

“No,” Bruce says decisively. “It’s too much of a coincidence. These murders are all connected.”

“I agree,” Barbara says. “Based on proximity alone, but combined with the destruction of the old hotel, it’s all adding up to something.”

Tim doesn’t argue. They’re right - if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that coincidences are never just that in Gotham. The connection is there, they just need to find it.

“That hotel was Carmine Falcone’s crown jewel, back when he was in power,” Bruce says. “If the Falcone family is behind this, they could have been retaliating.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of bodies to drop just in retaliation,” Tim says doubtfully. “And to what end? If it is them, it has to be more than that.”

Barbara puts new footage on their screen. “Here’s what I pulled from last night’s traffic cams. Looks like the person who killed the baby’s parents is the same one who dropped her at the orphanage.”

Tim studies the grainy figure on the screen. They’re wearing a hood and limping slightly, but from the approximate size and shape, they appear to be -

“A female assailant,” Bruce says. “Not a pro. This person couldn’t have taken down a man like Reynolds.”

Tim stretches his arms over his head. “So, multiple killers.”

“Fits the mob angle. Give me an hour or two, and I’ll have an ID,” Barbara says. “Oracle out.”

Tim watches Bruce pull stills from the footage and run them against his video backlogs. On a separate screen, he watches Colin draw baby Danielle out of the Safe Surrender box, look around at the camera, and then hurry out of view.

“Red Robin, what exactly is going on over there?” Barbara asks quietly over the comm in his ear. She must have opened a private channel, because Bruce doesn’t show any indication he’s hearing her too.

“I’m gonna hit the training mat,” he says to Bruce. He gets no acknowledgement, which is more or less what he’s learned to expect.

“It’s been kind of a shitshow here,” he replies, once he’s out of earshot of Bruce. “What have you heard?”

“That Robin brought home a baby, and Red Hood adopted it, and now he’s moving back in to take care of it.”

“You’re pretty much caught up, then,” he says, stifling a laugh. “And Nightwing is helping, which is even weirder.”

“No shit,” she muses. “He’s helping Red Hood?”

“I guess? I was just with them, they’re kind of getting along, actually.”

“They had a decent rapport going when Nightwing took over as Big B,” Barbara says. “Robin wasn’t crazy about it. I think he wanted N all to himself.”

Tim considers this. “I always thought Robin didn’t like Hood because of his methods.”

“I’m not about to psychoanalyze Robin on a line I know he could hack if he wanted to,” Barbara says dryly. “But I’m sure that’s part of it. Hang on, B is lighting up the family line.”

Tim switches over. Bruce says, “We’re going to have to make some adjustments to patrols, while Danielle is in our care.”

“Black Bat and Batgirl are still in Florida,” Barbara says. “They should be wrapping up their case in the next day or two. I’ll put them on the South End when they get back.”

“Good,” Bruce says. “Signal should also be back in Gotham by then. Red Robin, you’ll need to put activities with the Titans on hold. I’ll have you covering the Northeast corner, including Crime Alley and the Bowery.”

“That’s my turf,” Jason snarls over the comm. “You can’t just go giving away my patrol. I gave you the East End, and look how that fucking turned out.”

“I wasn’t finished. Red Robin will cover those areas when Red Hood is otherwise occupied.”

Tim closes his eyes for a long second. Great. Now Jason will be gunning for him, again.

“Nightwing, your coverage of Bludhaven is non-negotiable. Robin will join you, temporarily, and fill in for you on the nights you need to be absent.”

“Really?” Dick sounds pleased. “Hey, Robin, did you hear that?”

“Of course I did,” Damian says. “Father, I accept this assignment.”

Unfair, Tim thinks, petulantly. He thinks Barbara’s probably right about Damian wanting Dick all to himself, but they all want Dick all to themselves. It’s complete bullshit that Jason and Damian, by far the least deserving, are the ones getting him.

“Oracle, we’ll need the Birds to fill in the gaps.”

Tim can almost hear Barbara rolling her eyes. “That’s what we’ve been doing, Batman. I’ll ask Huntress to keep her eyes on the Narrows. I’ve already got half my monitors dialed in to the East End. If anything happens there, I’ll be first to know.”

“Good,” Bruce says. “We’ll debrief again after tonight.”

There’s a long pause, and then Jason says, “Replace - Red Robin, we better talk if you’re taking my patrol tonight.”

Tim swallows. “Just so you know, I didn’t ask B to assign me.”

“No shit you didn’t. No one in their right mind would. No idea why he’s gone off the fucking deep end about this, like we haven’t dealt with way worse.” Jason sounds aggrieved. Tim can hear baby squealing noises in the background.

“Twenty bodies in one weekend isn’t nothing,” Barbara says. “This only happened because we were lax on patrol. No one was covering that area while Red Robin was gone.”

“I had informants on the ground,” Tim protests. “We were in touch.”

“It’s not your fault, Red,” Dick says immediately. “Oracle didn’t mean that. We should have been covering. It’s our bad, not yours.”

“I could have been covering,” Jason grumbles.

“Last time there were this many dead gangsters on the docks, you were covering.”

“Oh, fuck you, Boy Wonder.”

“Boys,” Oracle says, none too pleasantly. “I’m muting the family line now, so you’ll have to bicker like schoolgirls in person. Oracle out.”

Well, if he’s on the training mat anyways, he might as well get a workout in. Tim grabs his bo staff and scrolls through the training menus on his phone until he finds one that’ll thoroughly kick his ass. It’s stressful, having this many people in the manor. Tim doesn’t have a single clue how to act around a baby, much less how to act around Jason Todd with a baby.

Conner will find this hilarious, he thinks, whenever he gets back to Earth. Not the murders, obviously, but he’s always taken particular delight in Tim’s family drama. He’ll have to tell him about it next time they see each other - if they ever see each other - if Conner is even talking to him -

Tim shakes his head roughly. He’s been doing so well at not thinking about Conner, and truth be told, a hiatus from the Titans will probably do him a world of good on that front. He can’t take any more of Bart’s overcompensating, or Gar and Cassie’s whispering when they think he isn’t paying attention. At least when Bruce and Damian second-guess him, it’s not because they think he’s heartbroken, or whatever.

Because he’s not.

Probably.

The program starts, and then immediately ends when Tim takes a holographic missile to the chest. Crap. He hits the restart button, pushes everything else out of his mind. Dealing with his encyclopedia of dysfunctional relationships can wait. This, at least, he knows how to do.

***

[imtryingthisout]

I’ll cut away me Bonny hair, let no man ever think me fair

Fandom: Descendants

Ship: Fem!Harry Hook x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,415

Content: It’s a self insert fic inspired by @descendantofthesparrow check out their series and art if you like this. I’m not sure about any warnings, but there is references to British Imperialism and just The Isle of The Lost in general. Ask me to tag anything if you come across it.

———————————————————————-

It was a calm night.

The push and pull of the tides was a mighty sight, but their temperament was overall sedated. Waves of drowsy titans swaying on their feet. There were ships that lined the shore, vessels of varying shapes and sizes and degrees of being intact. Some had their ribs ripped open by thieving hands, cannibalized by their captains and left to rot tethered to their anchor. All empty husks of rot wood and former glory, that rocked like cradles in the breeze. Dipping lower and lower till their cheeks brushed the ocean, before rising upwards to repeat the cycle once more.

Pirate’s Port was a town that was seldom silent, in fact it had quite the reputation to the contrary, yet as the fog rolled in from the sea, sinking low and to the ground, reaching its long and heavy hands around the bases of driftwood shacks and other buildings, not a whisper could be heard amidst the streets. The few people who lingered in the Night Market took one good look at the creeping white mist and quickly fled into their houses. Curious children who mustered the will to stick their heads outside the window frames or from the corner of doorways were hastily ushered inside by their guardians. One young girl nursed a busted earlobe, that her Mother had yanked so fast and hard to get her to move indoors, that it now sported a dark red bruising.

A single man walked along the streets. Stumbling along the cobblestone path till he came to the end of the seaport. He stood there for a breath, as fog swirled around the old wooden pole beside the street. The remnants of a great mast, now left to crumble by the sidewalk. Old barnacles, moss and other things stuck to the sides of it poked against his back as he rested his weight beside its frame.

The clothes he wore, if they could be called that, were tattered and ragged and hung off his frame in great sheets of cloth. They might have fit a different man, once. Grains of salt stuck to his beard and hair, catching the reflection of the water like stars in a blackened and oily sky. His fingers were wrapped in stained cloth and bound with a myriad of dirty copper and golden rings.

Those fingers were wrapped around an old harmonica, silver, clean, with the likeness of twisting vines and waves etched into the frame. Hours of craftsmanship decorating its borders. His grip around it was so tight, it drew the skin around his knuckles white, as he held the instrument to his cracked lips and let out a mournful tune. His song the only echo in the darkness.

“I dreamed a dream the other night, lowlands, lowlands away, my John. I dreamed a dream the other night, lowlands, lowlands away~”

There was no moonlight on the Isle of the Lost, even now, for on the rare occasion that the moon dared show her fair face, the omnipresent storm clouds that plagued the land marred her, obscuring her smiling figure. There was no moonlight on the Isle of the Lost, nor was there starlight, or streetlamps.

Night time was an abstract shadow here, where reality seemed twisted and fearful. The only thing illuminating the dark streets and alleyways, was the light emitting from the crevices and cracks of house windows, as well as the occasional fire pit, but tonight the windows were shut, the cracks stuffed with cloth, and every barrel of flame doused with water and ash. There was no moonlight on the Isle of the Lost.

But the sea, who so loved the moon and her light, would never deny her glory, so for the lonesome ship who drifted, not by the shore, rather in the heart of the tide, their deck was basked in a pale luster. As well as the two figures who sat beside each other.

You have one hand burrowed deep into the inky black curls of Harry Hook and the other on the handle of a knife. The shine of the blade catches the silver light burning from the moon above the two of you, the silent observer whose gaze watches as you move the blade closer and closer to the flesh of the neck. A flash of heat runs down your spine as you-

“Hurry it up would ye, I’m starting to get a crick in me neck”

-slice upwards through your handful of hair. Watching absentmindedly as some rogue strands flutter down and are carried to the sea by the breeze. “This would be a lot faster if I had proper scissors” you mutter low beneath your breath. Not low enough apparently, because the next thing you hear is Harry replying “It’s not me fault I got hair growin’ thicker than tha soup at Ursula's Slop”

You angle your knife and get to work cleaning up the final few edges. “It wouldn't be so hard if ya didn’t insist on cutting it every time it gets longer than a butter knife’s blade. I swear- would it kill ya to grow it a bit longer? Let ya curls show?”

“And let people compare me more to me Da? Walking around like some great fop, nah, me name is bad enough, don’t wanna be walking around lookin’ like a pale shadow of that bloody English fool”

“Oi watch it” you say, bringing your blade playfully closer to nicking him before correcting it at the very last moment, “Don’t forget my Mother is of English blood”

“Ha! And you’ll ne’er catch a englishman claimin’ her!” Harry exclaimed, kicking a foot out to mark the punctuation” I swe’r the day that Elizabeth Swann is called a sassenach is the day the barrier breaks”

Her movement causes you to accidentally slash a bit too close to her skin, making the hair fall awkwardly. You bite your tongue to keep from scowling, and get to work correcting the cut. “Quit squirming- I still have to clean up this last bit fore’ ya can be back to moving about”

“Ughhhh- whyyy, I’ve been sittin’ he’re for ages” Harry groans, you can practically hear her pouting expression. Even so she stops, reluctantly, sullenly, she keeps her body as still as the statue, not even twiddling her thumbs.

“You know, when someone has a knife to your neck, you could stand to talk to them a bit more politely” Harriet Hook, whose name invokes such wrath that even her own father calls her Harry, turns to look at you. The grin that sails across her face is nothing short of wicked. “Of course, how rude of me to forget me manners. After all, it isn't every day one gets to rub elbows with royalty” She says, drawling out the word royalty with a flourish. You would be lying if you said that something in your heart didnt flutter at her voice, but you would be damned if you let her score an easy victory over you. You roll your eyes to the moon and back. “Oh stop that nonsense Hook'' you say, giving a stray lock of hair a quick tug. “Ain't no royalty on the Isle, no matter how The Fair Folk of Bargains Castle want to pretend otherwise”

“Aye but that's where you’re wrong Miss Swann.” You snip away the final strand. “The way I see it this ship has got not one, but two! Two whole members of royalty gracing us with their presence” Harry slides away from you like water in a strain, spinning around your waist and forcing you to turn around to follow her movement. Her voice is loud. Loud and full of delight, the very definition of boisterous. “First off we have our very own Captain- The Queen of The Sea!” she laughs with her arms extended upwards and to the sky. And something, you cannot say what, in you relaxes. Harry’s love for Uma was a familiar sight. It was a eternal spring that you could feel laced around every word that fell from her lips. Harry stands radiant in her adoration. “Oh but let’s not neglect our Dear Miss Swann, whose Mam ruled over fleets of ships- an armada! And dared to claim the Pirate King’s Crown”

Your fingers furl themselves around the hair in your hands. A part of you wants to braid it, hide it in a locket and keep it close to your heart forever. “How long must I remind you Hook, my name is free to say?”

“At least once more Miss Swann”, she says and takes your hand into hers “For I do so love it when you plead”. She bows, slowly, deeply in a way that would make your Mother’s old governess cringe at the impropriety- and kisses the back of your hand.

(Her lips are warm and rough against your skin, the chapness tickles slightly as she lingers. Looking up at you with eyes paler than riverstones and twinkling with mirth. Second stars to the left and right, stolen from the sky and embedded in her sockets.)

Your knife hits the wood with a clang and a thud, a faint part of you redisters the noise, but the whole of your head is swarming with heat and air. The goosebumps on your arms stand still and tall and you can’t say it's from the cold. Your bones feel hollow, your spirit barely tethered, you are a mind outside of your body outside of yourself and you wonder if this is what pixie dust feels like.

(Harry Hook’s lips are still pressed against your hand. Her eyes fixed onto yours. At first her expression is playful- cocky. All wiggling eyebrows and the crinkles of laughter, but as the silence stretches on it shifts. Confusion blooms with the tilt of the head. A wordless question written in the furrowing of the brow. Then, suddenly, her eyes widen and grow wild with realisation- before hardening into something else. Something more akin to victory.)

“Why Miss Swann-” Harry says moving forward, lacing both of your fingers together and closing the space between you, till you can feel the sting of her grin burn across your cheek. Her laughter rings like toll bells in your ear, sealing your fate. “Do you fancy me?”

You should take your hand back, you know you should take your hand back.

You don’t want to take your hand back.

A retort bubbles in the back of your throat, with that thought, its rough and scratching and feels just like the lock of hair curled around your fingers. You don’t want to let go. There is saltwater roaring behind your back as the sea dips the ship in a lover’s embrace. Harry’s hand grips your hand is gripped to your chest. She’s waiting. You can see it in the corner of your vision, expecting eyes that seem so blue, they shine silver in the night air.

So you answer, in the only way you possibly can. “What’s my name?”

“What?”

You run your free hand through her hair, balling a fist near the center of the scalp and pulling hard- taking her face off of yours and forcing your eyes to meet. “What’s my name Hook, I want to hear you say it” you say, it’s not a question anymore, not a plea, but a command.

And Harry Hook will always heed a command.

“Cassandra Swann” she whispers, the words fall clumsily out of her mouth and into your heart. You smile beneath her chin, using the leverage to pull yourself higher. You growl against her flesh “Again”

“Cassandra Swan”

A shrieking laugh escapes your lips, “Again!” you scream “Again! Again! Again!”

Harry loops her arms around you, killing the space between the two of you. “Cassandra” she says, “Cassandra, Cassandra, Cassanra Swann” With every reprise her words get smoother, and soon “Cassandra! Cassandra!” flies effortlessly from her mouth, as if she had always longed to say it, as if it was always meant to be there. Harry lifts your body into the air and spins the two of you around the deck all the while murmuring into your hair “Daughter of Elizabeth, Prince of Pirates, Daughter of William, Heir of The Flyin’ Dutchman”

The tips of your boots graze the floorboards as Harry’s momentum lessens and lessens, slowing to a stop near the center of the deck. Your head is pressed firmly to her chest. Here, in this place of comfort, you can hear the frantic beating of her heart, the rise and fall of her breath, the rush of blood beneath her flesh. You feel the storm that rages inside of her. And still she holds you close.

You linger there for a breath, hands clinched around the fabric of her shirt, while the two of you sway with the breeze. You’ve danced before, danced atop this very deck even, but nothing can compare to the silent watz the two of you share here and now. Just you and your love and the Moon. Harry’s touch is firm and soft and oh so gentle with you. If this were anyone else you would say it was hesitant, but that thought was absurd- Harry Hook was never hesitant, you weren’t sure she even knew the word. If she saw something she wanted, she took it. If she saw something she hated, she destroyed it. Love, rage, sorrow, desire, she bore them all proudly before the world, without shame or modesty. Harry Hook lived a life without restraint.

There is shifting under your fingernails, you are gripping her so, so tightly, as if you’re afraid she is not but a visiting dream, a girl made of moonlight and shadow, a passing specter doomed to fade away come dawn.

A strikingly strong gust of wind sends your hair flying outward and towards the sky. Waves of sun-kissed and flaxen strands twist and knot in the air, creating an arch of golden color above your head. You, with your father’s skin and days spent working out at sea, and Harry, with hair darker than the space between stars and skin so fair it put the moon to shame, the two of you were quite the contradictory pair.

Then the wind abides and Harry laughs as your hair falls in front of your face.

“Oh ha-ha hook,” you say, blowing a gust of breath up to get the threads up and out of your eyes, which only makes her chuckle louder. You do not pout, you don’t, you scowl like the very fierce pirate you are and you won’t hear any word to the contrary. “I mean really what’s so funny about--”

You are interrupted by Harry shoving a finger on top of your mouth “Sssh” she says, looking out and over her shoulder, “Do ye hear that?”

Hear what? You try to ask, however it comes out sounding something like “Hrrwat?” with Harry’s finger still covering your mouth. You strain your ears to listen, and sure enough you hear something on the wind, but the noise was far too muddled to make out anything further than a melody.

Luckily, a melody was all you needed.

“It’s a song” Harry says, her voice barely a whisper.

“It’s a shanty” you correct, and a very familiar one at that. No matter how time changes, or what variant of the lyrics become popular, you would be dead in the grave before you didn’t recognize a seafarer's lullaby, sailing along waves of wind and water and air.

You slowly raise your hand to Harry’s pale cheek, careful to give her time to see the motion and accept it. Her skin is chilled against your touch, as you pull her face away from the Isle and all its troubles. You both can feel the weight of the full moon at your backs as you begin to sing. “I dreamed a dream the other night, lowlands, lowlands away, my John~”

What it is, you could not say, but something inside of Harry relaxes when she looks at you. The crease between her eyes vanishes and a part of the frantic energy tensed into her shoulders, lessens. The heavy gaze of the moon lessens slightly.

You rarely ever see her like this. This calmer, tender side of her, that she hides away from the world. How wonderful it is to witness, to share vulnerability, how beautiful she looks when she joins the chorus, your two voices becoming one. “I dreamed a dream the other night, lowlands, lowlands away~”

Taking a step to the side, you begin to lead Harry and your bodies in a proper waltz. Well, as proper as a Pirate waltz could be, at least. You are so focused on your dancing that you almost miss Harry’s voice singing. “I dreamed my true love came all dressed in white, lowlands, lowlands, away me John, I dreamed my true love came all dressed in white, lowlands, lowlands away”

“She sat by my bed when I was asleep, lowlands, lowlands away my John, she sat by my bed when I was asleep, lowlands, lowlands away”

“That’s wrong,” Harry tells you, very seriously, you can’t help but giggle “I’ve heard this sung a thousand times, with a thousand different tongues and a thousand different ways. If the rhythm is right then what does it matter?”

Harry nods her head, “Aye, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s wrong”

“Well if that’s the case Miss Hook, then why don’t you show me how it’s really done?”

“Gladly Miss Swann” Harry grins, puffing her chest up proudly as she sings, her voice so deep and genuine it brought tears to your eyes. “She sat by me bed and did nothing but weep, lowlands, lowlands away my John, she sat by me bed and did nothing but weep, lowlands, lowlands away”

“Cold water soaked her skin so fair, lowlands, lowlands, away my John, cold water soaked her skin so fair, lowlands, lowlands away”

A warm hand runs itself through your head, racking fingers wander as Harry counters, “An’ the salt-sea weed it was in ‘er hair, lowlands, lowlands away, me John, an’ the salt-sea weed it was in ‘er hair, lowlands, lowlands away”

The wandering comes to stop on top of your ear. Her tumb is nestled under your eye, cradling the side of your face. You feel the heat of the touch, burn past your skin and set your blood a boiling. “She made no sound- nor word she said, lowlands, lowlands, away my John, she made no sound- nor word she said, lowlands lowlands away”

For a second time stood still as two souls shared the same thought. Harry moves to rest her forehead on yours, and before you could even think to give a command, your body rose up to meet her halfway.

“That’s when I knew my love was dead, lowlands, lowlands, away my John, that’s when I knew my love was dead, lowlands, lowlands away” you harmonize with each other, voices barely a whisper drowned out in each other and the beating of your hearts.

“I dreamed a dream the other day, lowlands, lowlands away, my John. I dreamed a dream the other day, lowlands, lowlands away”

Up beside the horizon, where the water meets the sky, the first blaze of sunrise streaks along the border. There is a brief moment, when the light is just right, that the entire ocean ignites in a pale blue splendor. The exact shade of your love’s eyes.

“Then I awoke to morning’s keen, lowlands, lowlands away my John, then I awoke to morning’s keen, lowlands, lowlands away”

Miles away from the ship where you and Harry Hook stand, frozen in time, the fog retreats back into the sea. Windows are unplugged, fire restarted, the air begins to be polluted with the shouting and the everyday noises of life.

Inside a small wooden shack there is a Mother, carefully applying cream onto her daughter’s ear. She does not apologize, not openly, not when she doesn’t regret causing it, but she does gather her daughter close in her arms and opens her mouth to sing her favorite lullaby. A song about a distant and beautiful land, far away and low by the sea.

And of course, beyond the two lovers and the mother and daughter, there is an old man standing by the sea, and singing. “Now I’ll never see my love again, lowlands, lowlands away, my John, now I’ll never see my love again, my lowlands, lowlands away~”

[wispyrainbow]

Kris Monroe Reference Sheet Redux

-Basics-

Name (Nickname): Kristiana “Kris” Monroe (Krissy)

Age: 27

DOB: June 30th, 1994

Gender: Female

Race: Human

List three to five most important things about your character: She never gets drunk... and if she does, she recovers very fast, Tends to be clumsy, She loves plants, Has a very low spice tolerance but loves sour food, She loves collecting anime figurines/gachapons

-Physical Details-

Build/Body Type/Physical Frame: Chubby Curvy Shape with E-Bra/Cup Size

Height: 5'5"

Weight: 191 lbs

Skin: Medium Brown

Hair: Auburn Mid-Back Length Thick Curly with Slightly Curly Bangs Parted to the Sides and A Heart-Shaped Ahoge

Eyes: Cyan

Other defining features/extra anatomy: A Heart-Shaped Face with a Small Nose, Round Eyes, Prominent Upper Canine Teeth, and Small Beauty Marks Scattered Over her Body and Face

Habits: Hums/Sings to herself, Gestures a lot whenever she speaks, Oversleeps, Can be forgetful sometimes, Bites her fingernails whenever nervous/stressed, Displays physical affection often, Has a tendency to worry

Gestures/Mannerisms: Gives off sideways glances, Twirls her hair/plays with it to amuse herself, Sticks out her tongue whenever she's thinking, Sighs to reduce her stress, Flares her nostrils when frustrated

Voice Claim: Erika Karisawa(Durarara!! and Durarara!! x2 English Dub)

Style: Has a Pretty and Playful Casual/Sporty Style with Warm/Pastel Colors

Clothing: Wears Anything but is mostly seen wearing-

A Light Pink Knot Bandana Headband

A Black Bell Choker

A Red Smocked Lace-Up Front Cold Shoulder Babydoll Top

A Pair of Black Bracelets on Both her Wrists

A Pair of Blue Jean Shorts with a First Aid Pouch Attached and a Pair of Black Leggings Underneath

A Pair of Long Pink Legwarmers

A Pair of Yellow Slip-On Shoes

-Personality-

Part One: Basic Info

Loves/Favorites: Her Pet Dog Pixie, Winter, Her friends and family, Anime and Manga, Heavy Metal and Rock Music, Baseball, Dancing, Spam Musubi, Cinnamon Buns/Malasadas, Sour Food, and Tea, Martial Arts, Video Games, Romance Novels, Her VW Bus Camper, Decorating

Hates: Cockroaches, Being anxious/depressed, Enclosed Spaces, Mess/Clutter, Being Late, Humidity, Horror Movies, Spicy Food, Paperwork, Jump Scares, Junk Mail, Cemeteries, Inactivity

Hobbies: Ballet and Dance, Cooking and Baking, Martial Arts, Video Gaming, Reading Manga, Car Fixing/Vehicle Restoration, Gardening, Rollerblading, Yoga

Talents/Skills: Self-Defense, Multitasking, First Aid, Has a Great Throwing Arm

Hopes/Dreams: A small part of her hopes to prove wrong/live up to expectations

Fears/Nightmares: She fears wasting her life and possible rejection

Best Quality: She’s extremely caring and devoted to others, empathizing with others at times as she works hard to help/improve them in any way possible

Greatest Flaw: However, she often puts everyone else’s needs and happiness over hers, often lacking self-consideration, self-worth, and self-love combined with feeling guilty for things that aren’t even remotely her fault

Character Strengths: Open-minded, Responsible, Empathetic, Caring, Adaptable, Compassionate, Dependable

And the coinciding weaknesses: Clingy, Moody, Passive-Aggressive, Overly Sensitive, Unpredictable, Indecisive, Dependent

Quirks: Tends to bite her lip when thinking or trying to remember something, Often reacts emotionally, She has a very outgoing demeanor, Drinks tea frequently, Insists on having the last word, Always wears her headscarf, Drives fast when agitated/when other drivers pass her

Part Two: In-depth Analysis

How does she show and/or handle: She is highly attuned to the whole idea of love, willing to put down her own barriers if she truly trusts somebody enough, being sensual and passionate in the process(love), Super affectionate and in tune with those she loves, she makes it clear to show people her love when they need it most(affection), Is terrible at hiding sadness and is shown to be extra sensitive, even getting very emotional and even crying when it becomes too much for her(grief), She’ll often try and pretend that everything is fine, even when feeling every bit of pain and sadness tightening her chest which can lead her to becoming physically sick(pain), Can be passive-aggressive and a tad impulsive, often sulking and becoming a bit vindictive when push comes to shove(anger), Can become debilitated and needy, and as mentioned, can become prone to physical illness and feelings of separation until she can calm herself down(sadness), Often tries her best to resolve it for others, usually by being as empathetic as possible to avoid taking things personally, making sure to reach a proper compromise to avoid any future problems(conflict), While with some bit of difficulty, she can ease her way into change and accept it as best as she can, often talking about it to convey her feelings more easily(change), Similar to sadness, she can get very emotional, often needing some human interaction from either her friends or family to help her through some tough times(loss)

Does she have a temper: While more tranquil with her fury, it comes up in stages as she keeps her emotions pent-up until it comes bursting out in a surprising manner

Polite or rude: She is generally polite, but as mentioned, when angered she can be rude, especially with emotions running high. If it's people she doesn’t know/isn’t well acquainted with, she is polite but with an air of carefulness around her, but if it's with people she knows/her friends and family, then she’s more calm, happy, and willing to talk a bit more about what’s going in her life.

What kind of ‘public’ face does she display: Her emotions are all out there as she has a hard time hiding how she really feels.

What is her sexual preference/experience/values: She is pansexual and hasn’t slept with anyone. She hasn’t been in a relationship, but she values being natural and having things thought out before fulfilling desires and cherishing every moment with her significant other

-History/Background-

Setting: NewDugWood, a small town located in New Jersey. Lives in a shared four-bedroom apartment space with Philomena, Dylan and Terry on Summerset Road

Occupation: Works Full-time as a Nurse Practitioner at NewDugWood Medical Center

Educational background/other learning experiences: College Graduate- Bachelor of Science in Nursing & Master of Science in Nursing

Intelligence Level: 130 in IQ Points

Family: Charlotte(mom), Luka(dad), Cece(younger sister), Makoa(second-youngest brother), Kai(youngest brother), Cameron(grandfather), Ace(maternal uncle), Maliyah Māhoe(paternal aunt)

Friends: Dylan Akiyama- Both Dylan and Kris' relationship has been shaped by the two of them having met as children. Both of them care deeply about one another, to the point that people often think they're dating, not helped by their flustered confusion and responses that make everyone else truly believe so. Occasionally, or pretty much all the time, the two worry about one another's safety, which usually ends up with the two often arguing about what's best, though thankfully, the two of them make up rather quickly. Terry Weber- in a similar vein, Terry and Kris' relationship started when they met as children, though a bit less awkward than as adults. While the two of them do care about each other and try to spend time together, its often conflicted by the fact that the two can't really find any common ground. Despite these struggles, the two of them both respect one another, and overtime do start to notice the little things they have in common. Philomena Hawthorne- Similar to Dylan and Terry, both Kris and Philomena's' relationship started in their childhood. To say that the two are as different as night and day would be an understatement, as both of them have different ways of thinking, saying, and doing things that often leave both equally flabbergasted on how they work. In spite of that, both of them adore one another, often confusing others on the exact status of their relationship.

-Combat-

Physical Strength: Has a high amount of stamina when it comes to fighting and will not stop until an opponent is either defeated or tired out

Coordination/Reflexes: Since she’s a bit of a dancer, she moves quickly and gracefully as best to her ability when fighting and dodging

Fighting Style: Martial Arts

Unusual Abilities/Powers: Clairvoyance, Mediumship, Empathy/Clariempathy, Empathic Healing, Psychic/Spiritual Limb Generation, Psychokinesis, Aura Detection, Dream Scrying, Medical Mastery, Video Game Mastery, Culinary/Baking Mastery, Peak Human Balance, Peak Human Flexibility, Peak Human Combat, Killing Intent, Anger Empowerment

Weapons/Other Gear: Gadget/Melee Weapons, Holy Water, Wooden Stakes and Silver Stake, Camera, First Aid Pouch, Giant Hammer

[pixiestickthealicorn]

New Pixie Stick ref just dropped. Let's go!

[creativespecialism]

Character Design Adaptation: Research and Reference Images

I’ve been very exited to start this project. I love designing and drawing characters. For this project we have to design two characters based on the story The Strange Case Of Jekyll an Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson.

At first I did think about sticking more closely to the original story. 

I was looking at the idea of duality and how it’s present in other stories like Black Swan/ Swan Lake and The Wizard Of Oz. There’s probably other examples as well as in most stories there is a general, binary concept of good and evil.

However I quickly realised that this was not going to work for me. Try as I might, I don’t really connect with classical fiction such as Sherlock Holmes and Jane Austen. Don’t get me wrong, I love reading, I just can’t pay attention to those types of books so I felt change was necessary.

I had this sudden idea. When I was younger I loved fairies. I had a few colouring books that I’d draw from and I had this one book that I absolutely loved. Now a days I love clowns and I actually collect clown dolls so I thought I would marry the two and make clown fairy for the Jekyll character and a Jester Pixie for the Hyde.

First I thought about The type of environment I was going to have my characters in. I want to kind of go with a fantasy, fairy tale toy sort of vibe and I knew I wanted to use mushrooms in some way for the circus area so I got some reference images of the different types.

I also looked into things like clown costumes and different types of clown dolls 

I really liked the mask that I was able to find in the second research sheet. I thought it could be a good face for the jester character and I just love how beautifully unique each clown doll is and looking at these and my own makes me think that one way or another, i am having a frill collar.

I really liked these vintage illustrations and took great inspiration from the various outfits. most notably the baggy two piece set with the pointed hat although I also really like all the others so after this project those will probably be alternative outfits.

I also had a look at clown couture. Just in case this was something I wanted to play with but I may just leave it for special shows in the circus as they are very lavish and extravagant. Much to complex for a stop motion puppet. 

I looked at flower fairy illustrations for references for wings and for a reference in case I wanted to make my character flower fairy esque but I realised that this style would probably work better if I was taking a 2D approach as it has that traditional medium charm. So I looked up different tv shows that I’m a fan of and have fond childhood memories of.

I think out of all of these, Andy Pandy and The Koala Brothers would be a good fit with Over the Garden Wall being a 2D alternative. Andy Pandy has that toy-like feel to it that I think could really work with my character as I plan on making them look some what like a clown doll.

[pickalilywrites]

For @thecashmerefox who wanted springlestein + momkasa ♡

Take Care of You

Springlesteinkasa. Canonverse. 

2101 words. 

Buy me a ko-fi!

Somehow, she always finds herself collecting her three drunken friends from the bar. Some poor waiter knocks at her nervously to tell her that, once again, Jean, Sasha, and Connie have drunk far more than they could handle and that she needs to return them to their quarters because they certainly couldn’t stay overnight at the bar. Mikasa has seriously considered just leaving them to rot out on the street, but she decided that it was too cruel even for her and makes her way over to the bar even though she would rather just stay in bed and sleep in the comfort of her sheets. She’s far softer than she’d ever like to admit.

“Ah, Mikasa,” says the bartender. Although he knows her name (like most bartenders do at this point), she’s never bothered to remember his. He looks relieved to see her, but he doesn’t point her out to her friends right away. Instead, he gestures her over to the bar and she grimaces because she knows there’s only one other thing he would want to talk to her about – money. He licks his lips as she comes by as if eager for the gold coins that she’ll surely drop into his hand after he tells her about the bill. “Your friends drank a little more than they could pay for tonight.”

“Put it on the captain’s tab,” she replies. She has no intention of shelling out any more money for these three idiots despite them being her friends. She already coddles them too much without paying for their drinks.

“Captain Ackerman got very upset with me the last time I suggested he pay for them,” the bar owner says, frowning as he recalls the encounter. He looks at Mikasa with pleading eyes. “I’ll go out of business if I keep on like this. I only allow them drinks because of the service they’ve done for Paradis and don’t have the heart to turn them down.”

Closing her eyes, Mikasa takes a deep breath and leans against the counter. She looks at the bartender with a steely gaze that says she’s still not budging, but she eventually tells him, “Put it on Commander Pixis’ tab then. He probably won’t notice once he’s drunk enough. Just try to collect it from him when Anka isn’t around.”

“Are you sure that will work?” the bartender asks doubtfully.

Mikasa shrugs because she doesn’t quite care at this point. She still has to return her friends to their rooms, and she doesn’t have the patience to deal with their debts as well.

“Your friends are in the corner,” the bartender finally tells her, sullen because he’s still short of the money he’s owed, but at least he’s smart enough to know that he’s more likely to get it out of Pixis than her.

“Thanks,” Mikasa says before heading off in the direction that he’s pointed her to.

Sure enough, all three of her friends are there in the back corner. Sasha and Connie are still singing songs that the Marleyan sailors had taught them – Sasha singing pretty well but Connie terribly out of tune – but Jean is face down on the table. She’d be worried if this scene weren’t so familiar to her already.

“Mikasha!” Connie cheers, not noticing that he’s mispronounced her name. He lifts his empty glass towards her in a toast and Sasha does the same. When Mikasa finally sits down across from them, taking the empty seat next to the unconscious Jean, Connie takes a big swig of nothing and frowns when he realizes that his glass is empty. He attempts to wave over a waiter to call over more drinks, but Mikasa slams his hand down.

“You don’t have enough money and you’re already drunk enough,” she tells him with a frown, but he only laughs at her.

“Only Jean’s drunk,” Sasha hiccups. She slumps over the table and reaches out a sluggish hand to pinch Jean on the nose, but Mikasa smacks her hand away. It’s easier to deal with them when they’re unconscious, so she’d rather that they not wake Jean.

“All of you are drunk. Again. And you haven’t paid your tab. Again. How are you not banned from this pub yet?” Mikasa asks.

“Oh, we’re banned from some of them,” Connie says cheerfully. He doesn’t seem at all bothered in admitting it.

Sasha tugs on Mikasa’s sleeve like a child and sticks out her tongue. “Miksa,” she says, but she looks confused when she can’t say her friend’s name properly. “Miska. Misaka. Mitksa!” She giggles harder with every new variation she comes up with. Eventually she gives up on ever getting Mikasa’s name right and refers to her as “Mika” for the rest of the night. “Mika, we were talking abouttt what we’d do in Marley once we got there, you know? Like a vacation!”

“A vacation?” Mikasa says warily. While it’s nice to see that they’re not scared about entering enemy territory, she never thought they’d regard this next mission so flippantly. “Why would you want to go on a vacation there?”

“Because Nikolo says it’s real pretty,” Connie says, speaking about the chef affectionately like he and Sasha always tend to do. He grins at Mikasa and reaches over to tap her arm. “What’d you do over there?”

“I’d eat,” Sasha says suddenly even though Connie hadn’t asked her. She sits up and looks at him, concentrating on a small spot on his forehead. “I’d eat soooo many of their things. Everything. I’d go over there and eat everything. Marleyan food is just sooooo good.” Sasha stretches her arms out as if to show them all exactly how much she plans on eating but ends up toppling over when she loses her balance. She bursts into another fit of giggles when she falls into Connie’s lap and Connie laughs with her too.

“It’s not something I’ve really thought about,” Mikasa replies flatly.

“Ohh, come on! Tell us, tell us!” Sasha begs, raising her voice so much that it attracts the attention of a few bar patrons. Thankfully, Jean doesn’t even stir.

“Don’t you ever get tired of worrying about things, Mikasa?” Connie says lazily, tracing his finger on the rim of his empty beer glass. “Just pretend it’s a vacation. A pretend vacation! Doesn’t that sound nice?”

It does sound nice. She doesn’t remember the last time she had a vacation. Was it all those years ago when they reached the beach for the first time? But even then, it was just the beginning of other troubles to come.

“I can’t afford to not worry,” Mikasa says.

It must be something in her tone because both Sasha and Connie sober up (or at least as much as they can after all they’ve drunk) and reach out to pat her awkwardly. Sasha messes up Mikasa’s hair terribly and Connie missing Mikasa entirely and petting the table instead.

“There, there, Mika,” Sasha says sympathetically. “We’ve made you worry a lot too, haven’t we? We’ll be good now. We’ll be so good. We’ll be the best.” She’s so earnest in her words that Mikasa almost smiles.

“Yeah, we’ll be good,” Connie agrees. “You want to take us home now? You want us to hold your hands? Then we won’t wander off.”

Mikasa sighs, but this time it isn’t as heavy. She gives a small smile to her friends and says, “That would be great. I need to carry Jean though since it looks like he’s out of commission.”

“Oh, just drag him along,” Sasha says with a wave of her hand and Connie laughs.

She doesn’t drag him behind her though. She ends up carrying him on her back (“Mikasa?” Jean mumbles into her hair. “You smell so good.” She’d be flattered if he weren’t so deliriously drunk.) and leading Sasha by the hand while Connie grabs Sasha’s other hand.  

“It’s like a family!” Sasha giggles. She almost drifts away from Mikasa many times, but Mikasa keeps a tight grip on her so that she and Connie don’t get lost. There wasn’t anything worse than a lost Connie and Sasha wandering around intoxicated in the city. After their drunk shenanigans, even Commander Zoe had come out to reprimand them (although even they were laughing at all the ridiculous messes they had managed to get into in a single night).

This comment manages to make Mikasa crack a smile and she thinks that even though it’s a hassle to take care of them, she wouldn’t trade this job to anyone else in the world.

She gets them into their beds (or Sasha’s bed, really) a little later than she’d like. She’d take Connie to his own room, but he collapsed onto Sasha’s bed and she figured it would be too difficult to carry both him and Jean at the same time. She could go back for him and return him to his own room, but he looked pretty comfortable cozied up next to Sasha, and she figured it wouldn’t hurt to just leave him there.

“Mika,” Sasha calls drowsily from her bed as Mikasa is about to leave the room.

“Your water is on your nightstand,” Mikasa reminds her.

“No, not that,” Sasha says, sitting up temporarily to shake her head only to fall onto her mattress once more. She holds up a hand and points at the ceiling, perhaps thinking that’s where Mikasa is. “We love you. I forgot to say it earlier, but we loveee you.”

“Love you,” Connie mumbles into the pillow.

Mikasa can’t help but laugh softly, not wanting to wake Jean who’s still sleeping on her back. “Love you guys too. Go to sleep, alright?”

She shuts the door to a chorus of “good night” and heads off to Jean’s room. She’s always surprised by how much more spacious his room is compared to hers, but it’s to be expected of a squad leader’s room. He’s come quite far from his trainee days, she thinks, but they all have.

Gently, she lets Jean off her back and rolls him into his bed. She decides it’s fine if she leaves him in his civilian clothes and only pulls off his boots so that he doesn’t dirty his sheets too much. He only stirs a little as she pulls the blankets over him and tucks him in. Of the three of her friends, she prefers sending Jean off to sleep because he’s the least likely to punch her in the face when she tucks the sheets around him. Connie, on the other hand, has hit her in the head several times.

“Mikasa?” Jean mumbles just when she gets up from his bed. He tries to sit up, but she only shushes him and pushes him back down. “How drunk am I?”

“Very,” she tells him. She pats his head, thinking that his hair has grown out quite a bit. “Just go to sleep.”

He settles back against his pillows and asks, “Did you get Sasha and Connie too.” He cracks open an eye to see her nod. “That’s good. You’re always taking care of us, Mikasa. It’s nice.”

She shrugs. Now that she thinks of it, she’s been taking care of people her entire life. It’s just become a part of her now. “It’s nothing.”

“You should let us take care of you,” Jean says.

She can’t help but scoff at this. The idea of having them taking care of them when they had just been stumbling around the bar only an hour ago seems ridiculous to her.

“I’m serious, you know,” Jean says, although he doesn’t seem offended that she’s laughed at him. Maybe he’s still too drunk and sleepy to care. “You carry on too many things by yourself. If you never need us, you should rely on us. We’ll take care of you too. It’s only fair, isn’t it?”

She wonders if it’s the alcohol that is making them say such sweet, sappy things to her tonight or if they’re always like that and she’s never noticed. She’d dismiss Jean’s words as just a drunkard’s nonsense, but she sees that he says them earnestly and she finds herself smiling again. Leaning over, she brushes his hair away from his forehead before pressing a soft kiss against it.

“Don’t worry, I will,” she tells him.

It seems he can only focus on the kiss now because he looks at her as if in a daze and wonders aloud, “Am I dreaming?”

Ah, he’s cute, Mikasa thinks with a smile. She’ll have to tell him that sometime when he’s not so drunk.

[tnp4tbowm]

THOTS & PRAYERS FOR THE BROTHERHOOD OF WHITE MEN

is what I’m gonna call this mess

since we’re the demo that does them best

if thots and prayers mean acting less

or voting against marginalized groups with minority stress… as if women at conference tables… and brown folks in dorms… need white guys subtracting more… and I know we use categories for making sense… and giving names to groups we haven’t met

but no

WHY DO YOU HATE WHITE MEN THAT’S LIKE ME SAYING I HATE FAGGOTS AND LATINAS

my brother

on the phone while I’m at an intersection

but what about flesh in the grass and women in ironworking and los trumpistas in southern california and pixie boys in kootenai county and ill-eagles fireworks on the skokomish reservation and mothers nursing children in rocking chairs at spokane international airport… and steer ropers staring in horses’ eyes… and words so strong they become actions like “guilty” and “I hereby pronounce you”

I want to say

it comes down to

while animals aim for physical victory bc they’re rewarded by evolutionary gain… my brother aims for high-volume sucker-punching bc… well same

no no no I reassure myself… I’ve prepared for this moment… covering my bedroom walls with butcher paper and definitions for agápē and wisdom and grace

the light turns green

in seattle where my boyfriend and I saw a band named “boyfriends”… consisting of three guys some with girlfriends maybe play-acting “gay”

not the faggot town I grew up in

did I say faggot town

flipped my thoughts

I live with faggots now

bc of course I moved away

from where I was raised… where ladies in subdivisions filled rusted bathtubs with dahlias… and re-arranged living room sectionals and side tables… and guys in trailer parks worked on TVs in their yards

I never smeared deer blood on my face after a kill… and neither did my brother

we never paintballed stop signs… or climbed trees to catch squirrels (the unofficial after-school workout of the wrestling team)… or nailed the bloody skins to the weight room wall… or chilled in the parking lot with the tenth-grade science teacher slash security guard

where I grew up

white trash was designated white as opposed to other dodgy colors

wonder if the cafeteria table at school still says derek smith is a fag… I see blocky letters behind my eyes… nirvana on the lawn… holding a stick next to a praying mantis… hoping she’ll crawl on

live in the same place long enough and the frogs will be gone

each year I bike a block further

find certainty in school

lay around and think about what's true

leave cleats books water bottles in the living room

train for x-country in july and august… dream of anthropology and art history in college… parents fill out FAFSA forms

unconscious

at the intersection of my privs

square jaw wide grip

I give in

I say to my brother

driving by the gaybucks

are you serious? I ask... you want to do this rn? you think I hate white men? you didn’t show much interest in my self-hatred when we were teens

we were raised to read widely on top of doing our homework for English class… stories about white men unable to find work or shelter… I stayed awake by reading one chapter in the basement of our three-story home and another chapter in the bath… and another chapter in the basement… and another in the bath

it was 1997 and everyone was wearing ck jeans and eternity cologne and disappearing into the wood paneling of their basements

not everyone wrote a 5-paragraph paper on why abortion was wrong

but I did

most people ate the pro-life sundaes at youth group

as the tin man in our high school production of “The Wizard of Oz”… I dreamed of a fabulous life in the emerald city… while listening to conservatives in the community complain about the presence of witches and pagan values in the play… a few token liberals described how the Wicked Witch’s green skin and Glinda’s button nose… equated virtue with appearance

I worked on a farm for $

hi-ho the derrrrrrrrry-o

faggot on the farm

flesh in the grass

telling stories and pulling weeds as I acknowledged “weed” was a human category… for life distinct from other forms of life… standing out in color and shape… budding out of place

when I got home I studied Zanie’s backwoods dialect in Zora Neale Hurston’s “Their Eyes Were Watching God”

four years later

ash-covered New Yorkers crossed the Brooklyn Bridge with their hands on their faces

I picked blueberries on Mount Rainier… asked if subalpine flowers should smell like dryer sheets… if lakes should be toilet tab blue

¾” threaded galvanized pipe two chain links eye bolts flag

supplies list from the guy at the rest-stop on the way home… old glory should stand up to a 96 mile trip up to 70 mph

I went to work folding taco wrappers into triangles like nothing had happened… and made food with beef that showed up in boxes marked “fit for human consumption”… staging mexi-fries under heat lamps in groups of two or three

while boy george (w.) signed the Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism act

after work I slept in self-inflicted poverty in a house full of guys who did backyard enemas and drank jars of pee and kept mushroom journals… and changed my opinion about property ownership… bc why bother storing up treasure when human possession is an illusion… and condoleeza rice has a chevron tanker named after her

we argued about earth history and theological precepts like pre-destination

but agreed

god’s complacent

should be more like the hippie guy in the volkswagen van… with Eden Before The Fall painted one side… and Eden After The Fall on the other… and a nice patch of grass growing on top

textbooks copied screens

fireplaces provided intimacy w/o heat

virtual experiences dominated references in speech

green-tongued goats on forest service roads licked antifreeze

we asked if the phone was real or surround sound prestige... did the spin instructor in the windowless gym want sixty percent on hills or ninety percent on streets… is the norway maple transplanted to the front lawn of the new house conveying a line of aristocratic family wealth

an old-growth tree

the entrepreneur in an education workshop talked about “products” metaphorically

a patriot/explorer on a mustang/bronco went on an expedition/excursion to the frontier/tundra… passing through the winnebago tribe saying

srry bout it

the kids on the makah reservation don’t want whale sandwiches

wal-mart got blue and target red

white wonder bread 

happy meals

j. christ

c.e.o.

5 lb cereal

4 brown ghosts

the speaker at the commencement ceremony joked, “what’s the difference between Pullman and a cup of yogurt?”

the cup of yogurt has more culture

zuckerberg’s hoodie went from “disregard for convention” to “purity of intention”… for someone too focused to worry about clothes… monastic gray was helping folks

now we’re here

we’re here

at the mindfulness weight loss retreat… three raisins… six almonds… the right herbal tincture… twenty minutes in the redwoods

dragging

the past in front of us bc it happened

we’re at home eating pancakes with butter and syrup and powdered sugar… but the sugar is crushed-up hydroxycut

city buildings capture sun for the 20%

hey shadows

and data-mining companies have been adding my places of employment and the mesh shorts I almost bought… and the dreams I deferred and the shows I watch… to their digital dossier of me… and I guess the gazing goes one way but not the other… like church… where predictive analytics play upon thirsts…  and hunt me down like unicorn shirts

what’s next

trees drop plastic fruits

domesticated deer eat out of troughs

stunt-double bears rent suits in parking lots

forest rangers lasso the last of the orioles and roll up the sky

no

we learn

the last time I had a long island iced was... the last time I had a long island iced tea

seeeeeeeeeeeeeee

bro

I’m doing better

you’re like me

except I’m a busybody

with no kids

wish: “pc lecture with moral authoritarian tone by urban elite who reflexively rejects critiques of globalization”… reads “fearless inventory in a world where ‘quinoa empanadas’ are a thing… and platters of deviled eggs watch the horizon”

so even as I call your baby’s bedroom view of the skyline from your island home

privilege bestowed

I call out myself

for lavender cookies and oatmeal soap

never noticing appropriation in cartoon indian smokes

white peace pipe under a red sun on a yellow box

database of ruin snapshots

you know how I spent those years teaching high school in gig harbor… what you don’t know is I had two Hispanic sisters… Maria and Paula… spend a quarter translating children’s books on sticky notes

they

smiled

yawned

bored

I was their teacher and offered “support”

(but if you need more… in 2009 I was plucking spraying spiking shaving shoving… like the guys on jersey shore… watched every episode and called it my reward… for getting through two president bushes)

the founding fathers designed our branches of government to withstand the likes of King George

(also: granted love to gather more of it, shirked a wrong but lorded over it)

psychologically spiraling… debating if I should share the video of the first lady in the blue dress staring at her feet during inaugural prayer… wondering if I’m feeling personal irritability or existential despair… if I have “compassion fatigue” from doing “emotional labor” in my newsfeed

why someone hasn’t invented a female-friendly pee trough between the knees… why menopausal sensuality gets teased… why testosterone means feeling confident about incorrect answers

have the decency to feel guilty

living off the massive retail workforce stocking big-box brick-and-mortar stores and online fulfillment centers

what did we expect

detaching personal accountability from global effects

what did you think

watching nature documentaries frame lions as villains… positing giraffes as victims… when we know aggression isn’t something “we get out of our systems”

but confessing rings wrong

I say to my brother

pulling up to my apartment home

ear hot from the phone

how’s the kid

peeing blood

good… he’s got a kitchen set with a stove and dishwasher… he cooks plastic things while he toot-toots… farts on command... he says

I hope he’s reading “Radical American Women A-Z” and “The Adventures of Toni the Tampon”… I say… and playing with the nine new ken dolls with ethnically ambiguous face-sculpts… developing new play patterns… bc brown kids asked to play with “the good doll” choose the white doll… and still grow up overly disciplined at school… by administrators analyzing “racial predictability and dis-proportionality in achievement categories”… without saying the word “racist”

I like body positive post-holiday ken his paunch

also our white immigrant ancestors got rich enslaving Blacks

(the rest of the starter kit for understanding institutional injustice can be found online @ www.google.com)

(intermediate: people of color fight against constructed realities… internally and externally… and the racial imaginary overlaps with the gay imaginary bc invisible people need some space to practice their fkn moves… but what about time and place… whose ear does the hearing… which mouth translates)

o say can I… being me… understand how corporate restructuring shows one face and sublimates others… contributes to oppression where double consciousness affects women and people of color

o say can I hear the oppressors’ voices renegotiate my thoughts decolonize space

where do I fit in? will there be room for me? how do I make room for others?

my brother suddenly has to go asks if you’ll be him on the phone

yes

it's complicated

but yes

(if you're not my brother and the request is nbd bc you've always heard the voices of white men… I invite you to continue… if you’d rather not… peace be with you… let’s hang soon… I love you)

and right there did you feel that [ [ [ [

in actual life we aren’t there yet… I hung up the phone after “faggots and Latinas”... bc my hands were shaking so hard I could barely steer

typical of you to back out of conversation before we say the hurtful things you say

before we say the hurtful things? before? I ask

1) well at least I finally have the upper hand with you thinking you can threaten broken bonds 2) I’ve never seen two belief systems more perfectly in line 3) I guess you stand for democratic values most of the time

we’ll never know what’s depraved and what's divine… I can’t read hearts and I can’t read minds

already I had escaped into the televised self-help seminar in my head… where I am the host rolling up my sleeves…  ready to hear from household cleaner huffing sisters… and visualize problems worse than mine

after the commercial break I engage the girls in patient-therapist interactions... mixing hard-hitting realism and hypersensitive dialogue… as intolerable and inauthentic as my wife’s bouffant

basically I’m dr. phil… but also… if it’s okay with you… I’d love to try being the girls… who haven’t seen their father since they were two

and later during the re-tape… the visiting expert with a new self-help book… explains the “colorization of the soul”… saying “I think it makes sense to nurture the ‘daily me’ before skimming the news… look here… on the color rubric… reds before blues”

red apples picked by farm workers with multiple SSNs

blue mechanics in overalls twirling ballpoint pens

white eggshell enamel over pink or saccharine

symbols up for grabs… by anyone… bc that’s what I was told growing up and believed… I can be anyone I wanna be

hope the same for Muslim girls wearing spandex hijabs in P.E.

our country is not exempt… when campaign rallies look like nests… but I know I’m like… eighty-two percent spoon-fed/tone-deaf

tomorrow

is a child’s flying drone-wish… where native plants have extraordinary ability visas like the biebs… germinate round-up ready soft white wheat… and facial recognition software on my self-driving truck beeps… bc I’m not wearing guyliner… and lack ethereum cryptocurrency

so I walk into a bar and borrow liquid pencil

apply it in the mirror by the urinal

remembrance of things pabst

love comes in spurts

the worst

hasn’t

hap-

pened

be around

no

thanks

I’ll be a morel mushroom full of vitamin d in the dark

an emerald city queer in the shadow of Rainier where bark is bark

mist from the Nisqually River rolls above the fast part

torrent > P2P file sharing

a robot hands me a warm towel after yoga… scans my sweat for communicable diseases

construction workers buy baguettes out of a wheelbarrow… from my kids

paid in no-nuance knockoff dramatized black lady gifs

blood on their faces hunting feral pigs

allahu akbar… on the fortieth click… means more than the first search results about jihadist battle cries… jihad… means more than the first search results about holy wars

as-salaam aleikum… peace be unto you

ah

saw-lahm

all-lay-koooooooom

while keeping an eye on the horizon

for crowd estimation software in weather balloons

across the un-crossable Puget Sound

not really

we live in western wash.

what I’m saying is… I’m not traveling down Tolkien’s path… climbing Silverstein’s precipice… crossing a toothpick pier… or boarding a balsa wood boat… for a “dialogue event”… when I see you across this metaphorical inlet

not everything overlaps… smoke + fog = smog… marionette + puppet = muppet… enchilada + burrito = enchurrito… intermingling > provinciality…but apple slices on guacamole is white people saying to Mexicans we want your food and want to “touch” it too

eww

I want the queer bar full of queers… and that’s true of any gathering place… the identity shifts with who’s there and who stays… for physical touch and feeling safe... and cultural intensification... we congregate

I could never hate feminist separatists reading sappho by lyre

agrarian nationalists and queer energy collectives disappear

cross the cascades… to north idaho… passport in hand to show agents at the skin of the bubble… preparing for my cousin the welder… who can’t get out of his trailer… and my dad who says seat belts and metric measurements are communist and has a legal pad with instructions for working the computer

the girl on the greyhound says she didn’t go to college for four years to sit on her ass and bake cookies

been awhile

a few days later I ride in the back of our uncle’s truck to the parade… where grandma reminds me to keep my beer tabs so kristy will get a party for her class… as we set up folding chairs on the sidewalk… to watch shriners on little cars… and wave at hooters girls on the make-a-wish float… the mayor… always pooping in other people’s pants… grandma says… as we find ourselves standing and clapping for the coeur d’alene tribe

after mayor and police go by

later help grandma make tater tot hot dish... wrap the pan in a bath towel she pulls from a cabinet full of towels stacked vertically like pizza boxes

small talk

fawn over the s’mores pie with graham cracker crumbs on bottom and top… especially the marshmallowy middle

oh oops

did I go there

pre-prayer

here’s the thing… the alliances we need to overcome the monster are never what we think they are… and seeing anti-american sentiment in the firmament… and indicator species’ temperaments… reminds us the world collects… and/or usurps the throne… the debt is more than we think we owe… there won’t be polite knocking or ceremonial drumming… by so-called “others” we didn’t see coming

solution… testing limits… and I don’t mean excusing myself to get the wings by the jumper cables in the trunk… walking back in and telling everyone angel gabriel is here… saying… oh I guess this isn’t… is this not the sexy jesus party with a crucifix selfie station?

omg that hoe over there

our arguments are basically light divisions… internal-only obstacles where I go back and forth debating

I know

this makes you wanna scream into the phone

well

here’s a semi-autobiographical lyric novella in the form of an epic poem

typical passive progressiveness… I can’t even talk to you face-to-face… when you wanna chill by the water tank… I communicate via popsicle stick messages in the gutter / everyone on tumblr

one thing’s for sure… we’re giving up some things... s’mores pie is on the table… but it’s not on the table… of sacrifices I’ll be making… bc I love s’mores pie

we don’t wanna give up anything but we have to try

our lives are characterized by conveniences with steep costs

like celery and bell peppers and onions already chopped

people with invisibility powers can’t be stopped

rowing outside San Diego and the Gulf

above cracked pipes and pvc

clouds of oil

grass and reeds

dragonflies and damselflies with heavy wings

on multi-generational round-trips without breaks to breathe in juniper trees

addition: we had a seed vault… a plan b food bank… to take care of us... in case a plague trapped in siberian ice destroyed our crops… but ten years went by without permafrost… and car-less urbanites with mileage plans... shrugged and said there was nothing they could do

a collapsed ice shelf is another place for cargo ships to pass through

our ecosystems depend on conversations among interlocking interdependent parts… more than mermaid toast or zombie shows… or mother nature wish-fulfillment fantasies… where we ask quail and cranes in the forest… to come out of the trees and lift us away by our shoulder pads

our second eye watches the ground… as we pace sidewalks disrupted by roots… thank inchworms for decompositions…. trace the paths of ants on the side… turn our ears like ferris wheels on the sly

inner vision attuned

wilderness survival guide

I do not have superior autobiographical memory like my faggot boyfriend does… brother… but if I remember right you beat up the guy who peed on my backpack in ninth grade… bc the next passing period… he apologized

I’m in bed rn… thinking about how I hate your muscular public practice… but needed it… srry for being confused

the word is not the thing

the menu is not the food

the plan

after I’ve figured out what I can give up

is to invite people to a park

grand theft auto fans

promote

slacktivist slash accent coach

mom in dallas… cashier cleric caregiver… competing for section 8 vouchers

developer counting kickbacks and calories... at a housing tax credit industry gathering

middle-aged man afraid to lose… leaving Buenavista for Baton Rouge… parents of dead black kids don’t know what to do… Saudi women barred from carpools… El Salvadoran sugarcane harvesters… closeted Egyptian police officers… Filipino nannies tinikling to Lil’ Wayne… trans women fighting the state… Miss Texas 1988… Harlotte O’Scara Hellen Tragedy… snake handler crab trapper… adjunct professor qualitative researcher… world’s most prolific fortune cookie writer… Bible Jim… shirtless guy next to him in briefs and “This man gave me a blowjob” sharpied on his chest

salmon in gasoline

up the bank across the street

pipeline burst on whatcom creek

hyper-empathic hatchimal colleggtor

trained to serve but not hit back

except in tennis lessons

the male coach

flips that

srry

gay hater cake maker cradle labeler

homo-plausible bi-logical

floral arranger

retain it or give it away

intellectual property is three chords

and the person with less power says you're not allowed

your brother

it’ll be the opposite of when I showed up at your house after my wife left me… and you opened the door… and I collapsed in your arms in the hallway… and bc you’re a few inches taller than me… and my knees wouldn’t work… you saw the nail marks on the walls of my subconscious

we’ll play a game… where we introduce ourselves

recall times in our lives with less repetition more repair

describing versions of ourselves adding post-scripts unaware

listing words we never use: farce, fatuous, machination, myopic, subterfuge

sorting beliefs by size date modified proof

discuss satire-less south park

duraflame start

galvanize flake n rust

behave spontaneously n not combust

help hippielandia hostel in flames

learn ancient proto-langs

repeat shit we wanna forget

like, has anyone checked on the family in the nuclear train car yet

we’ll discuss what should change… what should stay the same… believe ourselves capable of restraint… revive the practice of communal processing… where townspeople gather side by side… to watch events from the day reenacted in light

practice… on a page

like in a play

oceans and lands… dna strands… airspace… electromagnetic spectrums… gridded and privatized… but the public square

ACT I

CURTAINS OPEN ON PARK/SQUARE. TOWNSPEOPLE GATHER IN HALF-CIRCLE. MISSILE, WEATHER BALLOON, AND RED SUN HANG OVERHEAD

NICO: “I’ve been thinking about how I might convey my progressive morals in a way that sounds wholesome to my family.”

ISSA: “I’m done with that. I spend ten dollars on tampons at the store and my husband gets a bowlful of condoms every time he orders a jaeger shot. Then if I mention the disparity he blames ‘red tide.’ When I needed postnatal care to stop my fourth trimester pants-pissing, my doctor’s visit wasn’t covered. Society isn’t family friendly. I spend forty-minutes on the couch organizing housework and childcare each week, and regardless of what society says, that’s project management.”

JASLENE: “Last year my teacher gave everyone two bathroom passes and if you didn’t use them they were worth extra credit, so I left bloody circles on the chair para mostrarle que esto es lo que sucedería.”

CROWD SILENCES. BOY IN “WANNA LIFT?” SHIRT LEAVES. DARLENE STEPS TO THE MIDDLE.

DARLENE (to vacated space, then to group): “We’ll miss you… Every manifestation of good and evil has part of the answer, but also, immovable people will not be moved. We will show civil inattention by giving him the space he needs.”

MARK: “I’ll never represent my beliefs adequately since I have trouble telling the barber how I want my hair without the assistance of visual aids, but I’m here to talk anyway.”

JAMES: “We're standing on varying levels of culturally constructed oppressive frames and the only way to deconstruct the artifice as it exists is to stand on the ones that are more entrenched and take apart the ones that are less entrenched.”

SOFÍA: “I’m so confused by the fact that I’m not supposed to feel shame, except for all the things I’m supposed to feel shameful about, which aren’t the things I thought were shameful. Am I supposed to know what a ‘gender illusionist’ is? I thought liking men made my nephew gay.”

CURTAINS CLOSE

overheard in audience:

they’re not connecting… just waiting turns and expressing

let’s not underestimate the hard work of avoiding moral outrage

dismayed at the repetition of “but” while conversation disintegrates

hang on

looking up cognac insta chef’s recipe for caramel-drizzled hennessy cupcakes

unwilling to listen generously… while aiming for an ending other than intensifying favoritism is like nailing jelly to a tree

using a chainsaw to cut butter

jumping from flower to flower in a fern gulley type situation

pragmatism is a dangerous alternative to conviction

ACT II

CURTAINS OPEN. CHARACTER ‘YOU’ GAZES OUT OF HOUSE WINDOW ON AN ISLAND, STAGE LEFT. CHARACTER ‘ME’ LOOKS OUT APARTMENT WINDOW IN A CITY, STAGE RIGHT

In unison: I promise me: to fight for-profit prisons, schools, and kidney-dialysis centers. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I think I can give up me: the scholarship I got in college and give it to someone who needs it. But don’t touch the s’mores pie. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I’ve been thinking about me: what you shared with me about China building artificial land around the Spratly Islands. And how prison construction companies look at standardized test data from second grade children of color. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I believe I am owed me: a reply. Not long, but something. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I care about me: how Ryan and Jesse’s mom used to put Carl Budding lunchmeat with mayonnaise and mustard in a blender… set it on ‘mash’ for a game of Duck Hunt… scoop it into Tupperware… and smear it on white bread throughout the week. I would eat that over apples on guacamole. The real globaloney. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I hope me: we find space to show real love to kenyan baboons in garbage dumps and dioxin babies walking like spiders with red septic skin and people in apartments named after species they’ve displaced and women planning the clean-up of their suicides. you: [ [ [ [

CURTAINS CLOSE: INTERMISSION

overheard in lobby:

coming up with a formula for interacting in common space

himalayan crystals from the mystic utilikit dude

maybe we’ll see them agree… or calm down… or point towards partial truth… or connect idealism to privilege

not youth

we know old folks are idealistic

planting seeds without expecting fruits

going to target and payless shoes

ACTS III+

CURTAINS OPEN ON PARK/SQUARE. TOWNSPEOPLE HUDDLE AROUND A RADIO, AS IF IN A SNOWSTORM.

RADIO: ... let it be that great strong land of love… where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme… that any man be crushed by one above…

DARLENE: “Starting sentences with ‘I’ is a good place to begin, but feelings of belonging go deeper. Shift responses bring the attention to ourselves. Support responses ask for more. Let’s be more than cannibals with knives and forks.”

MARK: “Food metaphors. We want to think about asking better questions. ‘What place most inspires you?’ instead of ‘Where have you traveled?’ ‘What work are you passionate about?’ instead of ‘What do you do?’”

JASLENE: “What's your weightiest belief? What's your most potent fear?”

RADIO: … clutching the hope I seek… and finding only the same old stupid plan… of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak… it never was America to me…

ISSA: “The desperate search for an ethic, a specter.”

JASON: “I am willing to give up my authority but don't touch my autonomy.”

RADIO: ... say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? and who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

YOU: [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [

EPILOGUE

Before sharing my brother’s response, I want to say I wrote “Thots & Prayers” because women get fewer obituaries than men in newspapers. Because the Baltimore Orioles lost way back when they had no tree canopy in which to land. Because trauma squats in the valley and anxiety raps her knuckles on the hill. Because Taco Bell spent 10 years and $15 mill developing stretchy cheese. Because men look at other men working in daycare centers and think they’re dumb for frittering away perks that should have been theirs from birth. Because my older brother yelled about faggots and Latinas after visiting the site of the Orlando Pulse shooting.

I am not looking to be comforted or assuaged.

White men need to educate each other. It’s not anyone else's job. We need to listen to the cultural conversation, see connections, and act on behalf of people who aren't seen. We need to be friendly in crowded places, and pull each other aside and be bridges.

I hope my family understands how many things will break if we don’t accommodate fragility. I’m not a metaphysician and don’t know about quantum mechanics or particle physics, but I know the phrase “I hope” is a glimmer of light living outside my rage. “I hope” signals my privilege. I hope to understand more about “I hope” in the context of everyday life in coming days.

As a beneficiary of entrenched systems, I work for everyone to have equal voice and access. I work for what’s best in my neighborhood and nation, on this striking and stunning and astoundingly polluted planet. I avoid asteroid-bashing. I avoid the ossification of stalemate. I avoid co-opting languages of the oppressed. I save room for warmth and time for children. I learn about neuro-diversity in the workplace and nutrient density in school lunches, and communicate generously about these issues and other issues, like the shared struggle for justice.

Mantras I’m saying and acting upon.

What’s mine is yours.

We do not need all the parts of the old society to create a new one.

If you feel inspired, please comment. I’d love to hear your weightiest belief, most potent fear, frustrations, considerations, qualifications, corrections, assessments, and agreements. No presh. I get nervous sharing my feelings, and words impact and behave differently for different people. The spaces between known grains of wood make wood strong.

I wasn’t sure if my brother would be a grain or a space. He’s the first person to admit he doesn’t read much and would rather talk on the phone or hash things out in person. Before sharing this, I called him up and said, “I’m about to send you a piece of writing. You don’t have to read the whole thing. You can always ‘Ctl. F’ and look for ‘brother.’”

Here’s what he wrote:

FYI, I don't really like you writing somewhat rude things about me and my house (which I take as jabs towards my wife and kids), etc. I don't do that towards you. I know there was some nice stuff too… I am communicating by e-mail as I know email is your preferred method, but at some point you need to realize I have feelings and opinions too, and don’t share them with everyone.

Right now I’m looking at 40+ people smoking joints outside the subsidized housing across the street. Wish I had that option. I wonder if their chronic drug use is helping out the health care system – I know they're not paying into it? I was up at 4:05 a.m. today to keep working toward losing that 20 lbs. so I'm not a burden on the system in the future. Learned that from Mom and Dad. I guess sometimes I feel ripped off. Need to get back to work now as I need to pay bills.

I’m sorry about the hate stuff that one day, you know I don't feel that way.

On another note, is hydroxycut good stuff?

R

He attached a document where he continued the conversation.

I promise to… take care of my kids and not cheat on my wife.

I’ve been thinking about… how to lose 20 more lbs. so I’m not dead when my kids are 40.

I feel like I am owed… nothing. I don’t feel I’m owed anything. Everyone chooses how to spend their money.

... and gave me prompts of my own.

In unison: I’ve been busy me: working about 12 hours per day if I count commuting and working on my house. you: [

In unison: I save my money for me: the future. I think I’m responsible for taking care of my own problems instead of hoping someone will help me out if something happens. you: [

In unison: I feel I’m privileged because me: I had a good Mom, Dad, and brothers growing up. I was never given any money, but having someone in your corner is more valuable. I am in your corner if you are in a pinch, and I know Mom and Dad are too. you: [

Working for a great strong land of love,

D

COLOPHON

Published on tumblr on Thursday, Aug. 10, “Thots & Prayers” is a phone transcript, visual essay, poem, and interactive self-help manual. I edited my brother’s written response for clarity. My mom took the pictures of my brother and me. My friend Jonathan Ursin took the pictures of me kneeling on the amphitheater stage and laying in the grass with rosary beads. I took the rest. Spanish phrases were proofed by Alè Barrientos. Radio broadcast lines are excerpted from Langston Hughes’ “Let America Be America Again.” Endorsement by Seattle performer Nico Pecans (they/them) / Miss Texas 1988 (she/her) is available. Lines from “James” and “Jason” are from interviews with James and Jason. PDF with original formatting shared upon request.

[ontheperiphery]

to cure a sunspot

jung hoseok x reader, fantasy!au brief adventure and fluff word count: 2k

To look for a magical cure-all was less like finding a needle in a haystack and more like finding a pixie in the vast expanse that was the ocean.

Where?

High and low he looked, in caves and crevices, rivers and streams, dense underbrush and open meadows at yet…

Where?

A boy stumbles through the forest uncertainly, not unfamiliar with it’s twists and turns and filtered light breaking through canopy leaves, tricks of the mind that had a tendency to lead the naive astray when they forgot to stick to the faintly trodden paths. It was a small danger he was willing to traverse, had done so time and time again in search of herbs and other resources. He catches himself on a branch after tripping on a root and it reminds him of his mother’s scoldings.

Don’t forget to take breaks, Hobi, for all your fancy footwork you sure lose sight of your surroundings easily.

Reminds him of the way his heart aches, the image of her lying bedridden, unable to tend to her apothecary he helped out at. There was the slight pressure that he’d have to take over the shop one day, but the lingering thoughts that truly weighed him down was the dark feeling in the pit of his heart that told him his mother was not recovering well on her own.

And losing her scared him more than anything else.

Hoseok looked down at the bags at his waist and belt, taking brief stock of what he’d already gathered, sage, feverfew, fairy’s foot, clover drops. It was a decent variety for brewing general stock but he despairingly wanted a medicine to cure whatever ailed his mother. He’d have to stop by a few shops for advice and additional ingredients on his way home later.

A faint rustling in the bushes startled Hoseok out of his thoughts and he quickly turned to identify it’s source. Ahh, it wasn’t good to space out like that in the forest, nevermind that it was broad daylight. He was deep enough in that the canopy made everything seem a little darker and daylight didn’t matter so much in deterring the more sneaky creatures.

Cautiously stepping neither closer nor further from the location of the rustling, he hoped to get a better view, but a snarl and blurred movement sent him running a heartbeat quicker than he’d even form a coherent thought. Hoseok let a hysterical screech die in his throat and truly wanted to cry in despair, but the most important thing was to get away unscathed, without attracted more unknown creatures and focusing on the branches and roots and bushed and slopes that all seemed to conspire against him.

Where?

Where, where, where?

Was searching this deep in the forest for a fabled magic herb even worth it? Now? Fleeing the unknown with the faint hope what he had gathered wasn’t being crushed in the process.

Hoseok looked over his shoulder in fear, hoping dearly that whatever was chasing him had lost interest or at least not on his heel. But it was hard to tell when, oomf!

He lost his footing and tumbled forward, arms reflexively reaching out to catch and soften his fall, but he still slid on his shoulder roughly.

Flipping over so that he would face his pursuer, Hoseok quickly drew a dagger from his belt, poised for confrontation. All was still, silent except for Hoseok’s heavy breathing and his own heartbeat ringing in his ears. Caution still controlled his nerves, so he stood slowly, dagger still held at the ready, and stepped back carefully to lean his back against a tree.

Either his pursuer lost interest in him or still lurked nearby, ready to ambush. In most cases it was the former, but there’d be a price to pay if he assumed too quickly. Straining to hear any hint of rustling, twigs snapping, movement, but finding none, Hoseok moved quietly, slowly, keen to put more distance between him and any beast.

As Hoseok continued on in the forest he came across a faint trail and breathed a sigh of relief that he had not wandered too far in his prior escape. Leaves and dirt dusted his skin and clung to his hair and he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d a few scratches from thorns and branches either. Being lost on top of all that and Hoseok doesn’t know what he’d do. Cry probably. Apologize to his mother and pray his gut feeling was wrong and she’d recover well on her own.

If Hoseok was honest with himself though, he still could very well be lost. Forest trails were often overlapped with animal trails and with his brief run off trail, he may have wandered off to who knows where. But the possibility makes him nervous and so he keeps walking until he curiously finds a series of lanterns by a haphazardly tiled path. Huh. That was new.

“Hello?”

At that Hoseok let out a small yelp and a jump, turning to the sound of the voice.

Eyes widening, he made eye contact with you, softly giggling and holding a basket of greens, “pffff, sorry, are you okay?” You’d a sprig of bright flowers tucked in your hair and faint twinkling wisps that trailed behind you.

“I…are you Fae?”

Hoseok cursed inwardly and very much wanted to slap himself for blurting out such a question when you were only being polite. He was out of line to ask something personal and he didn’t even answer your question. “I-I mean. I’m fine, thanks.” Heated embarrassment filled him but he continued, “sorry. I’m Hoseok. Are you from around here?”

You watched the struggling boy, bemused with his flustered state. He didn’t seem to mean any harm so you humored him, “It’s alright, I’m not Fae. The forest just accepts me a little more that it does most other people.” Approaching Hoseok now that he seemed a little more calm, you gestured you the uneven tiled path, “not a lot of people venture this far in to the forest, but I live just around that bend of trees.”

He seems to still have an expression of curiosity and confusion in the furrow of his brow so you try to figure out what else you can add to answer his questions…ah. You notice his eyes following the movements of the floating wisps behind you and nod towards them, “and these are forest wisps. Not quite as substantial nor as willful as spirits but they’re harmless.”

Only able to muster a thoughtful, “huh” in response, Hoseok only nodded absently.

You giggle again at his expression, “yeah, sorry to burst your bubble but I’m not a Fae. This isn’t really their forest, if you were hoping to find them.”

It takes Hoseok another moment to gather himself and he tries to shake out the soft wonder that overtook him, if only to stop acting like a fool and properly respond to you. “No that’s alright. I was just out gathering herbs when something….spooked me and I took off running until I wound up here.” He sadly remembers his lack of success in coming any closer to medicine for his mother. “My mom’s sick and I’m worried she won’t get better.”

The softness in his voice strikes a chord in your heart and you quiet for a moment in sympathy. Patting his shoulder in comfort, you take a step towards your cottage and beckon him to follow, “hey, follow me. I’ll make some tea and maybe we can figure something out for you.”

As you approach a quaint little cottage, you slow your pace to let Hoseok take it all in, fondly remembering the intense time and effort it took to remodel and build it up to the home it was for you. Herbs grew along the edges while you had a vegetable plot to the side, a small chicken coop for the willful birds a farmer gifted you a while back, a bird bath and pond towards the back. You still wonder of its previous inhabitants and how long the cottage went unoccupied but as long as the forest allowed you, you were happy to stay.

Hoseok trails a pace behind you and as you turn back to keep an eye on him you notice he still holds a flicker of nervousness and unease, probably from the unfamiliarity of your place and concern for his mother, you think. It’s a sentiment you strongly relate to and you’ve made up your mind, determined to do what you can for him.

You sit him down at a small wooden table and draw conversation out of him while you busy yourself with refreshments. Listening intently to Hoseok’s story, you agree with him that a magical all-cure sort of herb doesn’t exist and he’d been chasing after a dream, but his situation wasn’t hopeless. His mother’s ailment sounds familiar to you and after pouring some chamomile tea for both you and Hoseok, you pull out a reference journal you copied from your mentor and had added pages to yourself.

“Aha!” you exclaim in relief. Your excitement draws Hoseok closer and you begin reading the symptoms aloud to which he then begins nodding in affirmation to.

“Yeah I think that’s all right,” Hoseok replies with a hopeful tone from beside you, “is there any mention of treatment?”

You nod and pull out a loose sheet of parchment and ink to transcribe relevant information for him. “You said your mother runs an apothecary? I can give you the directions and ingredients list and you should be able to brew it up yourself. It’s most potent fresh with minimal exposure any shaking so it would be best that way.”

Hoseok smiles at that and leans his side to touch yours to express thanks. But as you write and he reads, his bright grin soon fades into a worried frown.

Given that he’s so close, you notice quickly and bump your shoulder with his to ask what’s wrong. “I hope my writing is legible,” you try to add on lightheartedly.

“I’m grateful for these directions….it’s just that….a lot of these these are very expensive back at the town,” Hoseok says with a strain in his voice, “and very difficult to come by”. He mentally goes through the numbers and figures he’d have to go through his stash of savings and ask if any friends or neighbors would be willing to loan him a pouch of coins or so, or go through who knows how many hurdles to collect some of the ingredients himself. Crushed kirin scales? Feather dust from a clearwing moth? The only thing he had access to was dust from a common soot sprite.

You stop your scribbling for a moment and gently place a hand over Hoseok’s as a comforting gesture, hoping that you aren’t overstepping any boundaries. “Hey,” you begin softly, “it’ll be okay.” You didn’t collect odd trinkets and baubles in your little cottage for nothing. “What would you say if I had most of the hard to get a hold of stuff here? That you can have?”

Hoseok looks at you as if starstruck and you continue before he has a chance to insist coins or refusal on you, “I’m favored by the forest, remember?”

He seems in a daze the rest of his brief stay at you cottage and you finish your transcription of information he needed to know, securely bundled the ingredients you had on hand, and sent him on his way with the faint glow of the guidance of forest wisps. Hoseok tries to snap himself back to his senses as you gently usher him out and he turns to look at you sincerely, taking your hands in his and puts all his feelings into genuine thanks.

Accepting Hoseok’s thanks with a smile, you gently push him out your door so he’d make it back safely before sundown. The light catches on the faint orange-pink hues in his hair and his boots hardly tap with his careful steps down your tiled path and you firmly impressed onto the forest wisps that always followed you to protect Hoseok on his journey out.

-

Hoseok shows up at your doorstep two weeks later with a colorful arrangement of flowers and herbs and when you answer with an equally bright smile, he plucks one to tuck behind your ear, grinning with a brightness that rivaled sunshine.