#Maybe seem a little grateful or like you actually have a dream job?

[daughters-of-liberty]

What happened to fashion shows? Why does everyone look stoned out of their minds? What happened to the class of old school models?

Even just in this collage, you can see a delineation from models who wore their personalities on their faces, to dead-eyed dress-up dolls. Something happened in the 80s and 90s haute couture landscape that began begging their models to become little more than living, breathing mannequins, staring vapidly at the audience and camera as if they had no souls. Can we bring back smiling models once more?

[jasntodds]

Penance [1]

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Powered!Reader

Words: 7,340

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, angst, mentions of death, mentions of injuries, a little blood, a little bit of violence

Summary: ❝Thesus: Stop. Give me your hand. I am your friend. Herakles: I fear to stain your clothes with blood. Thesus: Stain them. I don’t care.❞

It’s been a month and a half since Crane’s reign of terror was stopped, leaving Gotham to finally return to normal. But, what is normal? After everything Jason and you have been through, it seems normal might be some unobtainable dream state. But that’s not going to stop either of you from trying and maybe, you’ll get lucky in the end. At the end of it, the two of you have suffered enough, right?

Right?

A/N: It's finally the last book!! I'm honestly so excited lol You don't have to read the previous books to read this one but if you want context, feel free to ask!! You can add yourself to the tag list below, ask me to be tagged, or you can follow my library blog @jasntoddslibrary  and turn on notifications if you prefer that!! I love feedback, I swear it keeps me posting on a weekly basis 😭

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Everything is different. Somehow, everything has changed so much over the last month and a half everything that happened before almost feels like some sort of sick fever dream. It's all very real and all of it happened but everything is different today. At least, to Jason it feels different.

Gotham itself is pretty much the same. Bruce has been back and doing his whole Batman thing. The only difference is he doesn't have a Robin now but his methods remain the same, it's the same routine for him, same big bads. It's the same for him. The businesses that were boarded up during Crane's reign are up and running, everything looking to be the same just as it was before. The air around the city is still smoggy and the rain is still cold and wet. The streets sound the same just as they always did and the gargoyle keeps Jason company just as it did before. So much is the same but he feels like everything is different.

Instead of him and Bruce butting heads over him being Robin, they're butting heads over his methods. Bruce has no issue with Red Hood but he does have a problem with the killing part of it. And Jason won't budge. He swears he's not bitter about what happened but he is firm in his belief that change needs to happen. It stops with him and Bruce can either fight him or get on board. They are trying to come to some sort of agreement which is significantly better than how it would have went before. Bruce keeps the Robin suit in the case. He won't tell Jason why.

Their relationship is different now. Jason thinks it might be for the better.

He hopes it's for the better.

His living situation is different than it was before. He has his own place, the main safe house he used while Crane ran the city. It's not anything too special yet and Jason doesn't have too many things that are his but it's coming along. And that is his. It almost feels like it did when he was on the streets but this time, it is his choice. It is his choice to be alone here. And he owns it. No one can come and kick him out, no one can come and arrest him for trespassing and breaking and entering, it is his. It might feel lonely sometimes after living with Bruce and the Titans for so long but it is his and it brings him some sort of pride in a way.

He works with Barbara mostly now. Whenever something a bit more dicey pops up or Bruce is busy, she calls Jason. It's his literal job now and he would be lying if he said he didn't like it. Him and Babs get along better now. Actually, him and the Titans get along better now. There's still plenty of work to be done but his relationship with them has been on the mend, something he is eternally grateful for. He still owes them.

Then there's you.

Things are different with you.

"I will be back as soon as the threat is taken care of." Bruce states as he grabs a few things from the Batcave. "Are you sure you can handle this?" Bruce asks, not because of his lack of confidence in Jason's abilities but rather his general mental health.

"I got it, man." Jason brushes him off. "Nothing I haven't done before. You've gone with the Justice League plenty of times." Jason holds back his snippy attitude, trying his best to level with Bruce and not let his anger get the best of him.

"Before you were..." Bruce trails off in a way that makes Jason shift his weight off his bad leg. "Robin." He nods once, sternly and hard. "That was before."

"I'm fine." Jason nearly whines, desperate to not get into that. They don't talk about it. "I got it." He gestures his arms out casually.

"Okay." Bruce states with a sigh. "Do not blow anything or anyone up again." Bruce warns.

The touch of a smirk pulls at his lips. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

There may have been an explosion near Harbor last week with some gun runners inside. Jason may or may not have been in the area patrolling. And that group may or may not have been the group Jason had been tracking over the last few days. Jason does think the explosion really helped though. They got all the guns and all the people involved in one sweep. Seemed efficient.

"I know it was you." Bruce states easily.

"Nope." Jason shakes his head but the grin is tugging at his lips, knowing damn well he's guilty.

Bruce lets out a sigh, not bothering to argue with him over it. "Just...keep it down, Jason." Bruce states and he's gone out of town a hundred times but something about this being the first time since Jason died and has been brought back almost makes him nervous.

Jason can handle himself. He's been doing it. This is only his second time in the Batcave over the last month and a half and only his third time back at the manor. He's doing well on his own, all things considered, but he is Bruce's son and Bruce does worry even if he doesn't show it.

"It'll be fine, just go. I got it all handled. Pick up your job you're working, almost got the one from Babs and..." Jason pauses feeling his mouth run dry. "Molly said y/n's got a few she's working."

Bruce eyes him, knowing very little but knowing enough about the situation between the two of you. "You should call her." Bruce tries to say it casually.

"No." Jason states simply. "And you're not allowed to give me advice here. The one that got away? Seriously, man?" Jason lets out a scoff.

Of all people, Jason does not want relationship advice from Bruce. Bruce had a solid chance with Selina and apparently, he's still hung up on her and is doing nothing about it. He could have had something great with Talia, too but that didn't end well. Jason is not looking to take advice from Bruce and he's thinking he shouldn't be taking much relationship advice from anyone he knows. No one seems to be getting that department together anytime soon. The way he sees it, this is fine.

It's fine.

"How did Tim know that?" Bruce questions Jason plainly.

"He stalks us." Jason nearly chortles.

"Well, that is all my advice. Call her, Jason." Bruce nods once at him.

"I'm good." Jason shakes his head. "Now go before Clark shows up and drags you back with him."

Bruce lets out a sigh, making his way through the living room. Bruce offered to let him stay at the manor which Jason declined. He's on his own. He can't come back here. If he's even being honest, he's only thinking Bruce called him to "look out over his jurisdictions" just to check up on him, make sure he feels useful as if Jason doesn't have his own work he's doing. Somewhere in his chest he wants to be mad and fight back over it, swear it's because Bruce doesn't think he can handle it so he's setting him up to prove a point to get him back. But Jason bites it all back, deciding to tell his mind to shut up for fucking once and let this just play out.

He sees Leslie once a week and that helps. He thinks he'll just tell her about it.

Jason finds himself back at the place he's calling home, enabling the alarms once he's safe inside. It's messy and somewhere in the back of his head, he can hear the echo of your voice telling him he should clean because he's not busy now. And he looks at the stuff on the floor, almost willing himself to listen, and then he heads upstairs anyway.

If Jason Todd is good at anything, it's being alone. He's been alone almost his whole life. Even when his dad was around, he was drunk or mean...so he was alone. Even when his mom was alive, she was usually high. She wasn't really with him very much. He adapted to what it's like to be alone. To fend for himself always and somewhere deep in his broken heart, he wishes it weren't this way but he's good at it. He has always pushed until he was alone. He is a natural disaster ripping through the hearts of people who love him so maybe being alone has always been better for him. At least the only thing left to destroy is himself.

Even if being lonely is some of the worst kind of hurt. But this is his penance.

One day, he swears, it won't be like this. That's the point of talking to Leslie and getting along with Bruce and being himself today. One day it won't be like this. A day will come when he won't have to punish himself for all the hurt he's caused. He won't have to punish himself for all the scars he bears at the hands of others and himself. One day he won't have to punish himself for the person he could have been. It just has to be like this today. So, Jason goes up to his room where he keeps his training equipment and monitors and he starts to work on the cipher until it's time for patrol.

The city is warm tonight. Cars are crowding the streets while people walk home from their Saturday night out and a smile pulls at your lips from under your mask as you watch the people below you. Patrol has just started and you're mostly waiting and listening, knowing something is going to happen because it always does on Saturday nights. But, you'd be lying if you said you don't like the view from where you are. Something about Gotham always being pretty at night.

The smog isn't visible, it doesn't look dreary as it usually does during the day. It's just street lights and busy people walking about. A part of you can't believe just a few months ago you were terrified of heights and now you actually enjoy the view.

Things have changed a lot since then.

You live with Molly now, probably how it always should have been. You share a small apartment, this one has better locks on the doors and windows. And every night you teach Molly some self-defense, just in case. If you've learned one thing, it's that you cannot save everyone but you can help them. At least if Molly is somewhat prepared, she has a chance though you could tell by how she moved and certain things she already knew that Jason had taught her a few things before San Francisco. Living with her is nice though. She understands you and there is no judgment. You aren't alone.

Gar and Tim talk to you every single day, updating you with whatever is going on. At first, it was fun stuff on the road trip like sightseeing and museums and bowling. Now, it's the hell Metropolis is currently under. You've never been so happy you stayed behind. You do not want to fight a demon. You'll never admit it, but you wouldn't stand a single chance against Rachel let alone Mother Mayhem and Brother Blood. Though, you are disappointed you missed the whole zombie situation. You're just glad the boys keep you up to date with everything and you talk to Dick and Kory all the time, too. That doesn't feel too different. It feels almost like it did when you first came back to Gotham and you like it this way.

And then there's Jason.

Things are different with Jason.

"Robbery in progress in the East End, convenience store." Molly says through the comms.

"Got it, send the address." You grin wildly behind your mask before you use your grappling hook to lower yourself down the backside of the building.

Molly helping out has been new. You aren't too happy about that part but...Molly was insistent and to tell her no would make you a hypocrite. Molly stays back and is youe eyes in the skies kind of deal which has been very helpful when it comes to patrol. At least that's nice.

You take the bike and head to the address Molly sent you. Patrolling is different now, too. You've always patrolled with Bruce or Jason or the Titans. Even when Jason died, you weren't patrolling. You had set targets and that's who you went out to grab. This is patrol. This is different. You're alone with Molly in your ear. You thought maybe you wouldn't like it, Iike maybe you'd actually be really bad at it being alone. But, if you were being honest, you're really enjoying it this way. You're good at it. And it's fun and you don't have to worry about anyone else. It's just you. Your life. That's it. And you like the thrill a little bit.

Jason shoves the last of four men to the ground, his hands zip-tied behind his back and the man lets out a groan. He glares up at Jason with blood streaming down his nose, his friends all a bit battered but have learned to keep quiet. This one is annoying.

"You broke my fucking nose!" He screams up at Jason.

Jason never quite understood why people committing crimes who get caught, like in this instance for example, are confused by their injuries. They showed up to rob a local small business and expected to get away with it. They're here to possibly ruin something that someone has earned and worked very hard for just because they can. A broken nose seems to be a pretty good deal.

He's not even a stranger to robbery but these guys walked in there armed and prepared to shoot anyone who wanted to get in the way. Jason was also a teenager and desperate. These four men don't seem to be in the same boat and the way Jason sees it, there was no reason to hold a gun to someone's face for a hundred dollars in a cash register. These are not master criminals.

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood or your nose would be the last of your worries." Jason says casually through the modulator.

"Good mood?!" The man yells back as if he's the real victim in this situation.

"Yeah, good mood." Jason echoes back about to make another smart comment until he hears the sound of a motorcycle pulling up.

Jason turns around just in time to see it stop and he'd recognize the bike anywhere because it's the same one as his. He'd recognize the blue and black suit anywhere because it's yours.

You pop the helmet off and Jason swears his very heart just burst into flames into his chest and it might just burn through his ribcage. The corner of his lips starts to tug into a shielded smile at the sight of you and his only thought is that he misses you. He asks about you to your friends, not too often but...often enough for them to know. All of them say the same things, you're doing okay but they're worried. You're working with Barbara, too, running different jobs for the PD and you check in on Tim's parents every single day.

Molly always says the least about you.

Every single bone in his body feels hollowed seeing you. But when you lock eyes with him and you don't look happy, the guilt comes back baring its teeth and digging them right into his jugular.

It has been a month and a half and he is trying his best. It hasn't been easy and some days he doesn't try but generally, he's trying. It's hard whenever every breath he takes is haunted by the day he took his last. It's hard trying to figure out his footing. Jason Todd is Red Hood. He knows that. He is Red Hood. Red Hood protects innocent people and uses any means necessary to make sure they stay safe. But he is not a hero. He is doing what must be done and that is all. Jason Todd is Red Hood but outside of that, he doesn't know yet. Instead, he wraps himself in a straightjacket of guilt and remorse and agony and hopes that'll be enough to repay his debts to misery and happiness.

You eye him and it's like you're being exposed to the entire city in an instant. It's as if your suit and mask have been ripped from your body and every scar and insecurity and vulnerability is being displayed in some sort of sick museum as you see him. You have separate sections of the city. You, him, and Bruce. This is Bruce's section but he's out of town with the Justice League. It would have been Jason's to pick up but you didn't even question it when Molly mentioned it.

You wish you would have questioned it.

It is almost a relief he wears a full-face helmet because you aren't entirely sure what you would do if you saw his face, saw his expression. Would he be happy to see you? Disappointed? Mad? Would there be anything left at all or would he just look at you like he would any other vigilante showing up a little too late to help? You aren't sure which of those would be easier to swallow.

Something builds in the space between you, something hard and damaged, sucking the air out from between you. It snarls back at you both almost daring you to go ahead and try to move. Try to make the space less and see just how badly the teeth of grief will hurt this time. Go ahead and tempt death for old time's sake and guilt. Go ahead and try to mend this and pretend it's some sort of coincidence, as if fate has any hand in this. It bites and gnaws at you both as water brims in your eyes, every emotion bubbling over to the surface and grief screams out to you both.

Go ahead and try again, see just how badly this will all end again. It will only end in bloody hands and shredded agony. Guilt laughs in your faces, a devious crackle as if you are not worth the other. The both of you do not deserve forgiveness for the torture you've caused the other. Walk away. You both can hear it over and over again, guilt and grief and resentment and loneliness, walk away.

So, you do.

You pop the helmet back on your head just as Jason turns back to the robbers.

"Where are you going?" Molly asks through the comms as she watches the tracker on her screen start moving.

"You can see him here." You seethe. "I know you can see him, too."

Molly has all of your locations. She shares them with Bruce. It was part of an agreement with her doing this eyes in the skies thing and you being able to keep patrolling. It's how you all keep your sections of the city. Molly knows Jason is here.

"He wasn't when I sent you, I swear." Molly defends softly. It's not a lie, she just didn't mention when Jason happened to be moving towards the robbery. "He showed up but you were already on your way—"

"So you didn't tell me?!" You yell. "Seriously?"

Somewhere in the last month and a half, grief has metastasized into something resembling resentment. It's not him. You know that. But, seeing him just now brings back too many feelings you've yet to deal with properly, you're trying but you haven't gotten that far yet.

Grief bubbles back and transforms into something like resentment because you should be together. You should fucking happy and you aren't. You are, generally, but there is this void echoing in your chest. A burning pain right on your heart where his name was stitched. It sucks to be blind-sided into seeing him even if the resentment is towards yourself. You just would have liked some fucking warning about it.

You need to be prepared if you're going to see him and you aren't entirely sure you're ready. There's still a lot of shame even if missing him makes you feel like Atlas. Half the damn time it takes everything in you not to call him. Something will happen and he is still the first person you want to tell. But, you're not talking. Instead, you get updates about him through Molly and Gar and Tim. All of them have said he seems okay while sounding worried about him. It's hard not to worry about him. He's Jason. You think that's your only relief, knowing he's at least doing okay.

You just wish you had it in yourself to check in but he said space and you said space. You agreed and guilt and shame suck the very air out of your lungs to the point where you think this is your way of punishing yourself for everything you've done to him. Forcing yourself to not contact him first and check-in. You're punishing yourself but keeping to what you know and staying away from him. Maybe it was him who was always better off.

Molly sighs. "You have to talk to him eventually." Molly rolls her eyes on the other end and decides to drop it. She can hear the engine of the bike roaring louder than usual. This conversation is not one to have at the moment. "Mugging two blocks from you, take a right."

She is thankful the two of you have not put her in the middle. The most that happens is you both asking about each other. Other than that, you don't ask. You don't mention each other. It's as if you only know of each other through your mutual friends. Molly thinks that might actually be worse sometimes.

Jason gets back to his safe house and strips from the Red Hood gear. He heads right for the shower. Seeing you tonight, it feels like a lot. He never tried to kill you but somehow, you're the person he betrayed the most and dealing with that has been a lot harder than most of the rest of it. Your dedication and loyalty to him he thinks has made it so hard. To have someone so loyal and love him the way you did, sends his head fuzzy with regret knowing the pain he caused you.

At first, Jason thought it'd be a week or two. You'd both cave and talk again and then one thing would lead to another. Maybe it wouldn't be the healthiest way to deal with your shit, but you'd be together and you'd figure it out. But then a week or two turned into three and then four and then six. The more time that passes, the harder it gets to pick up the phone. Maybe that's why he asks Gar and Tim and Molly about you. They all say you're good but they're worried about you. They're always worried about you. But at least you've been good and Jason is grateful for that. He just wishes he had it in himself to suck it up and just call you. But, he doesn't so he showers away the thoughts of you and drowns himself in his guilt and regret.

By the time he's out of the shower, his phone is ringing and he's drying his hair with a towel, the white streak staring back at him in the mirror and he's still mad Dick didn't get the same thing he did.

"Yeah?" Jason answers the phone.

"I need your help." Dick states on the other end.

Jason pulls the phone from his head, looking at the caller ID before he puts the phone back to his ear. "With?"

"Training Tim." Dick states.

Jason almost laughs at the very statement. It's not that Dick is asking for help in the training department, he has before. That's fine. It's that Tim is supposed to be Robin out there and Jason knows they are actively fighting demons and zombies. Tim should absolutely be getting trained in between all of that.

"You haven't trained him yet?" Jason scoffs in surprise before he walks out of the en suite and into his bedroom.

"We've been busy." Dick scoffs back knowing damn well Jason knows what's been happening. Dick has mentioned it and Gar gives Dick updates about Jason meaning Gar talks to him plenty. "Between everything that's been going on since we got to Metropolis, we haven't had time."

Jason chuckles softly on the other end. "Yeah, uh, Gar was telling about me about the zombie shit. Fucking Deathstroke? Glad I wasn't there." Jason laughs softly and he can't see it but there might even be a faint smile on Dick's lips. He sounds good.

"Yeah," Dick huffs, running a hand through his hair. "You gonna be able to help?" Dick asks.

"Yeah, I owe you anyway." Jason agrees. "Not gonna go easy on him though. I'm gonna make sure he's ready when he comes back."

It doesn't take Jason long to have his decision. There's something...weird with someone replacing him in a way, as Robin. But, if someone is going to be Robin, they have to be prepared, more prepared than he was. Jason doesn't want someone else to end up like him and he knows Tim, kind of. He owes Dick for everything Jason has put him through and Jason did always like helping with the training. It's not a difficult decision.

"Good, that's what I expect." Dick nearly chuckles. "If he's going to be Robin, he needs a good teacher."

"Wouldn't go that far, man." Jason shakes his head, still getting used to Dick being nice.

"You trained y/n and look at what she can do. That is mostly on you. Do the same for Tim. I'll have him in Gotham tomorrow."

"You just gonna send him to me?" Jason's brows pull together as he puts a hand on his hip.

"No, I'm going to send him on a mission that is all just a ruse to get him there. You'll find him and go from there. Don't tell him." Dick explains simply as if Jason should have known Dick would have a...ruse?

"So, you're gonna send him here on a fake mission with no training as Robin?" Jason lets out a laugh. That's ridiculous and somehow Jason finds himself not entirely surprised. "Why not just fucking tell him, man?"

"I want to instill confidence in him." Dick states, almost defensively. He's trying his best and he also knows that Tim is very confident and maybe he needs to see he needs the help. "Should have done it with you guys. Not making the mistake again."

Jason clears his through. "Yeah, okay, deserved that." Jason shakes his head. "Alright, just let me know when he's on his way and where I need to be. I'll get him ready to actually be Robin."

"Thanks, Jason." Dick's voice is sincere.

"Yeah, don't mention it." Jason lets out a sigh before he hangs up.

He plops onto his bed, his eyes falling onto the helmet resting on the dresser on the opposite side of the room. Right after leaving the manor from talking to Bruce, this is not where he saw Red Hood being. Being a vigilante is now something Jason feels like he has to do, he likes it but he is trained to do it. He's trained to help people and if no one else is going to help them, Jason might as well. It's taken a little getting used to, rebranding Red Hood in a way. Red Hood is not a murderer. He kills really horrible people for the greater good. He targets people like Black Mask and Penguin by working his own circle to steal their business. He sabotages their work and steals their shipments. That part is always a bit fun. Red Hood patrols Crime Alley. He helps them. He is not a murderer.

He's still getting used to it but it's better than it was. Even if the blood on his hands burns from time to time.

This is kind of nice though, the ability to train Tim. He does miss that part a bit, training with someone. Training alone only does so much sometimes. Jason liked helping train the other younger Titans. It made him feel important and now he gets to train Tim. He'll never tell Dick, but it means a lot for him to ask for help here even if it's just because the Titans have been busy.

This is the last one for the night. You've been tracking this group of people who work for a pretty bad pimp in the city. You've gotten a couple of the women to turn and Barbara has put them into protective custody, immunity from any and all charges. It's not them they want anyway. It's the pimp and his right hand but when women stopped showing up, he got wind and went into hiding. So, did most of his men and women. Until tonight when Molly grabbed one of them on a camera in Gotham Heights. You wasted no time in trailing him.

The second this guy sees you, he takes off like a bat out of hell and the only thing you can do is roll your eyes and go after him. They always run. It's like they really think running is going to work for them. Between the cardio and the grappling hook and the bike, why do they think they'll actually get away? They always run.

The guy thinks he's smarter and quicker. Well, maybe he's quicker but he is not smarter. Molly is tracking him through every traffic camera he hits while you stay a good distance behind him until the opportunity comes for you to get onto a rooftop and continue the chase that way. He's heading somwhere, it won't be toward his boss. There's no way he's that stupid but he is heading into the perfect spot for you to grab him.

You turn off and then jump a few more buildings before ducking down into an alley. You walk to the very end and then wait a few seconds for the running footsteps to come closer. You grab a knife from your belt and then just as he goes to run past, you grab him, spinning him and pinning him against the alley wall.

You hold the knife to his neck and press it into his skin, not enough to cause serious damage, just enough to let him bleed. Blood gets people talking quicker and you're tired and hungry.

"Where is he?" You demand.

The man gulps and the blade presses into his neck further, his breathing heavy and shallow. "I don't know who you're—"

"Your boss. Yes, you do. You're all in hiding but you came out and for what? Where he is?" You question again, not in the mood to even let him think for a second he's smarter than you.

He looks at you with terror. Somehow, he wishes it were The Bat that grabbed him and yet he finds himself thankful it's not The Red Hood. The Bat won't kill him but Red Hood would make sure his death was painful if he really wanted to. You're not one to be messed with either. But his boss? That's just signing his death certificate.

You pull the knife away, kneeing him in the stomach before you land a punch to his face. You don't want to kill him. You read his record. Wrong crowd at sixteen. He was probably manipulated into this, too. He's a victim, too. But, he needs to give up his boss.

The man groans, sliding down the wall as he holds his jaw. "Fuck!"

"Tell me." You grit your teeth.

"He'll fucking kill me! I'd rather you just send me to Arkham or Blackgate! I'm not a fuckin' rat." The guy seethes but there's a quiver in his voice.

You roll your eyes. "Yes, I'm aware he'll kill you."

"What the fu—"

"So tell me and give me a reason to make sure he doesn't." You offer. "You think I'm here to kill you? If I wanted you dead, I'd kill you myself. Tell me and we'll protect you." The offer is genuine even if it comes out snippy.

"I don't believe a damn thing you say." The man gives you a weak scoff and diverts his eyes to the street.

"That's a you problem then. I'm trying to help you while you help me." You offer. "It's a real offer."

"Immunity then." The man fires back without even thinking.

You scoff. Does he not realize that the whole vigilante thing is still a crime? You can't promise that. "No. And I don't have the ability to promise that anyway. Work out with the DA. I can get you into protective custody though if you give him up."

Barbara has you working this case involving some sort of ring with sex workers. It's definitely more than just some guy calling the shots and dividing up money. Missing women, bodies turning up, drugs, it all seems to lead back to him. Your argument was that half the people working under this guy are victims, too. Some of those people are given the opportunity to flip and if they do, they're given protection. Barbara said the DA isn't too happy about it and some of the civilians will probably be pissed but you don't care. Not all of them have to go down with the ship.

"Look, he's going to find out you were with me and he's going to think you flipped or you're thinking about it. You're a dead man the second you walk out of this alley if you don't help me and we both know it."

The man lets out a sigh. "Crime Alley." He finally caves. "I don't know exactly where. I heard there are only a few women who know and then his right hand, that's it."

You nod accepting the response. It's way better than nothing. "Thank you."

"You're really gonna help?"

"Yeah, of course." You get to your feet.

"Why?"

You shrug. "You're not the big problem here." You answer casually. "My advice though, take whatever punishment is dealt to you and serve it and then get out. There's a program. The commissioner will give you information about it if they decide to try you."

"Thank you." The guy nods.

"Mhm." You hum, pulling out your own zip ties before you zip tie his hands together but before you get Molly to call Barbara, Molly comes in through the comms.

"Hey, I've got Dick on the other line, you wanna take it?" Molly asks.

"Yeah, actually, I'm done here. Let the commissioner know he flipped and I got info on him so he's good." You answer.

"Got it." Molly answers before she patches Dick in.

"I need your help with something." Dick starts without wasting a single second.

Your brows pull together. "Uh, hello to you, too?" You question as you get back to your feet. "The fuck do you need my help with? I do not want to go to Metropolis." You let out a chuckle before you look out onto the street and then back back into the alley.

"Superman?!" The guy on the ground yells.

"No, Nightwing." You scoff. "Shut up. You're done talking."

"Are you on a job right now?" Dick almost yells and at this point, he expects nothing less.

"Oh, yeah, just wrapping up." Your voice is almost cheery on the other end.

"Okay..." Dick holds the bridge of his nose, not even wanting to unpack that. "I need you to help train Tim."

You cackle on the other end. "Okay, hold on, let me wrap this up. This shit needs my attention." You laugh looking back to the guy. "Alright they'll be here in a few to arrest you but I gotta head out so...sorry about this." You pull your fist back, punching the guy and knocking him unconscious. "Anyway," You start before you shoot your grappling hook at the roof and start your jumping and walking to your bike. "You need me to do what now?"

"I need you to help train Tim to be Robin." Dick repeats.

"Is that not your job?" You quip back with a laugh.

Dick sighs, seeing as he is clearly going to have the same conversation twice. "We've been busy."

"Yeah, Gar and Tim said something about Zombie Deathstroke. Sounds fucking insane. Glad I'm not there." You laugh before jumping onto a neighboring rooftop. "Wait, okay hold on." You shake your head. "You're gonna send Tim here?"

"Yes. On a fake mission to build confidence." Since he's already had this conversation, Dick knows exactly what to cut out and include in his response to get this conversation over quickly.

"Uh-huh." You nod, getting the feeling there's a bit more to this than Dick is leading on. "Right, yeah, got it. Fair enough, I guess. And why are you asking me?" You ask knowing Jason is right there in Gotham City as well.

"You're good at this, you're the newest member besides Conner but well..."

"Superboy." You finish. "Unfair fight."

"Exactly. You also have your combat clairvoyance. Jason always said you were a good sparring partner because you fit." Dick's voice is casual and simple, you know there's something he is not telling you. He's nicer than he was before. The stick is no longer up his ass, but he's being too nice.

"Yeah, he did." You roll your shoulders before jumping to the next rooftop. "And uh, why are you not asking Jason?" You ask before it goes completely silent. And you know immediately. "Oh, you did." You state.

"I did." Dick answers simply.

Of course, Dick asked Jason first. You aren't offended or hurt by it. Asking Jason to train Tim is smart. But, not immediately telling you means one of two things. Either Jason said yes and Dick is setting you both up which makes you want to jump off this rooftop or Jason said no and Dick just wasn't going to tell you. Unfortunately, you're betting on the first option just because you know Jason wouldn't send Tim to the wolves.

"And he said yes, didn't he?" Your voice is a little snippy this time.

"He did." Dick keeps his voice level, unsure if you're going to start yelling or not.

"Okay so you're asking me to help Jason train Tim but Jason doesn't know you're asking me and you weren't going to tell me but because I asked you were obligated not to lie to me in fear I'd be pissed off enough to walk out and so would Jason?"

"When you put it that way." Dick states. "Look, I know it's complicated right now." Dick tries to reason with you.

"We're not fucking talking, Dick like..." You let out a breath. "He probably doesn't want to see me, ya know?" You nearly whine at the thought because you really believe it.

You hurt him.

"I know but this is for Tim." Dick urges.

You might be giving Dick a hard time but you both know you'll agree. Not only is Dick asking for a favor but it's also Tim. You would never not help Tim especially with everything that's happened. You owe Dick and Tim for everything. But, that doesn't make the situation any easier for you.

"Jason is gonna be pissed if he finds out, ya know?" You ask.

"Yeah." Dick answers. "Tim will get the best training from the both of you though."

"Yeah." You roll your eyes. "Fine. Yeah, I'll help and I won't tell Jason. Just when and where?"

"Tomorrow, I'll text you the rest." Dick answers. "Thank you."

"Mhm." You hum.

Dick feels bad for you and Jason. You've both been through a lot individually and together. It's two of the things that brought you together in the first place. You two always seemed to make each other happy and you actually seemed really good for each other. Dick knows first hand it's not easy and it is always complicated. It's always going to be painful trying to work out the romance department while being a vigilante. It's why it didn't work with him and Barbara. It's why it didn't work with him and Dawn. It's not easy. But, he feels bad for you both. It feels like you weren't given a chance.

"Talk to him." Dick states carefully.

You groan as you look to the sky. "You're not giving me a fucking choice are you, Dickolas?"

"You know what I mean." Dick says right back.

While you appreciate the sentiment, you are not taking dating advice from Dick Grayson. As far as you know, Dick's been in love with Kory for almost a year, at least and he has not said a single word to her about it. At least you told Jason. The way you see it, Dick should be taking dating advice from you.

"You tell Kory how you feel about her and I'll have a conversation with Jason." You offer in a higher-pitched voice, offering a bit of bite in your words.

"Okay no—"

"Yes." You quip back. "Don't give me advice if you're not going to take the same advice." You jump to the last rooftop. "She feels the same way anyway." You mutter softly.

"Alright, thank you." Dick cuts you off. "Talk to him. Tim won't know you're helping him."

"Gathered. Just let me know. I know to keep my mouth shut. I got it." You assure him.

"Thank you."

"You owe me." You laugh softly on the other end before ending the call.

After the run-in earlier tonight, you weren't sure when you'd want to see Jason again. At first, you thought about it all the time. Maybe you'd run into each other just as you did earlier and he'd make some quip about you being in his territory and you'd make fun of him for needing your help. Something would click and you'd be back to normal and it would feel good. The void in your chest will fill again and it would be normal. But that's not what happened because more time passed and you think about how maybe he's mad at you. He should be mad at you still. The more time that passed, the more you convinced yourself it was what you deserved. So, you keep your distance on purpose from him. Maybe that's your penance.

But now, you have to face him.

So, you head back to the apartment to mentally prepare. Jason Todd is still the Jason you always loved and you have to act like you're fine. You have to act like it is not eating you away inside to think about him. Everything has been going okay and you're finding yourself in this city. You think your feet are starting to land on solid ground for once. But, the thought of seeing Jason makes you feel like the earth is being pulled from under your feet. It's the one thing you have deliberately not dealt with. So, you know you have to act like it's all normal. If you're going to be able to do this with him, it has to feel normal. You have to feel normal otherwise it'll be sad and awkward and painful. Maybe he won't want your help anyway.

In no way did you expect your first time speaking to Jason again would be because Dick asked for help. But, it looks like that's exactly what's going to happen. And maybe your bones are starting to vibrate with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. You might feel guilty and you might be worried but you miss seeing him. You miss the way his voice sounds. You miss him more than words could ever describe.

Maybe you hope he misses you, too even if you don't deserve it.

Maybe as the night goes on and you get ready for bed and tell Molly about it, maybe you can't wait to see him.

next chapter

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[midnightechoes]

So this week is going to go down as maybe the most sapphic week in animation history. It’s going to have a great case, there are so many sapphic shows or shows with prominent sapphic couples airing this week.

Don’t know what I’m talking about? Here’s a quick rundown:

Yuri Is My Job!

Premiering on Crunchyroll on April 6th.

Yuri is My Job! is based on a yuri manga of the same name. It follows high schooler Hime, who cares deeply about her image as sweet and helpful, even though she’s actually selfish. She accidentally injures the manager of a cafe, and agrees to work there to make up for it. But this is no ordinary cafe, it’s like a cafe dinner theater where all the waitresses play characters from a fictional high school and act out skits for the patrons. Hime’s character is supposed to be in love with one of the other waitresses’ character, but she starts actually falling for the girl. Only problem is, behind the scenes the other waitress seems to hate her.

Yeah, that sounds kind of bonkers! I can already see the story now, Hime starting out playing a role, and eventually having to legitimately earn the love of Mitsuki.

Birdie Wing: Golf Girls’ Story

Season 2 premiering on Crunchyroll on Friday, April 7th

Ah Birdie Wing. If you saw season one, you know just how delightful wacky this show is. It follows the stories of Eve, a golfer that plays in illegal underground golf matches for the mob, and Aoi, a golf prodigy and the new sensation of the golf world. Their lives crash into each other and the chemistry is overwhelming and immediate.

Technically Eve and Aoi aren’t canon as of the end of s1, but it’s hard to imagine that the show isn’t heading in that direction. It makes no effort to hide the fact that these two are into each other.

I’m so excited to see what season 2 has in store for these two. Birdie Wing is just a delightfully weird little show.

Princess Principal: Crown Handler Chapter 3

Premieres in theaters in Japan on Friday, April 7th

Alright, so this won’t be useful to a lot of people reading this, as this is only premiering in Japan this weekend. But I wanted to mention it because (a) it’ll come over to the US sometime this year, and (b) Princess Principal is awesome and I want to promote it when I can.

Princess Principal was a 12 episode series that aired in 2017, and Crown Handler is a six-part sequel OVA series.

In a nutshell, Princess Principal is a steampunk spy thriller set in an alternate universe European kingdom that has been divided by a wall, Berlin-style. It follows a team of spies, masquerading as high school girls, as they try to prevent the two sides from going to war.

I know, “why is this on a list of gay shit?” Well, because it is. Two of the main characters, Ange and Princess Charlotte, are big-time into each other and while the original series does the anime thing of “we’re only allowed to go so far with this”, the OG series has a lot of intimate scenes between the two and does end *SPOILERS* with the two of them sitting on the beach together while holding hands.

And perhaps Crown Handler, being made years later, can finally take their relationship farther.

RWBY Volume 9

Volume 9 episode 8 airing on Crunchyroll on Saturday, April 8th

RWBY has been ongoing, and the current volume has been airing since February, but there’ll be another episode this Saturday. Right now RWBY is in the middle of dealing with a lot of trauma, BUT, the bees are canon and dating so every episode of RWBY is now officially gay. So says me.

The Owl House: Watching and Dreaming

 Series finale airing on the Disney Channel on Saturday, April 8th

I’M NOT READY TO LOSE THIS SHOW! 😭

*ahem* The third and final season 3 special airs on Saturday, and promises to be mega emotional and super gay.

I’m grateful that this show had a chance to finish its story, something a lot of sapphic media doesn’t get to do. But I am still pissed about it getting cancelled in the first place simply because it didn’t fit their “brand” (read: this show is too gay for Disney).

But I just know that Dana and her team put together a sensational finale.

Mobile Suit Gundam: the Witch From Mercury

Season 2 premiering on Crunchyroll on Sunday, April 9th.

Affectionately called G-Witch, season 1 of this show was a revelation in the fall. It follows the story of Suletta Mercury, precious cinnamon roll and the most talented mobile suit pilot around, and Miorine Rembran, daughter of the president of the Benerit Group, a mega-corporation that has massive political power.

The show revolves around a school that’s mostly full of the children of powerful people. And then there’s Suletta, a nobody that just wants to be a normal girl and have a normal school life but through a series of events ends up in a mobile suit duel that she easily wins, earning her the title of Holder, which makes her Miroine’s groom.

At first, the two treat the arrangement as a business arrangement, both seeing practical value in this arranged engagement. But it’s obvious that Miorine is actually pretty into Suletta from the start, and we see Suletta slowly falling for Miorine too.

G-Witch is incredible. Part awesome mecha fights, part political intrigue, part romance between two useless girls who’d rather die that admit their actual feelings.

I am SO EXCITED for season 2!

LGBTQ media hasn’t had it great as of late, with a ton of frustrating cancellations and it almost feeling like Hollywood is going backwards in terms of its commitment to giving us space to tell our stories.

But animation, both in the US and in Japan, seems to be making great strides, being our light in the dark.

All five of these shows are airing episodes this week, and Crown Handler will be in theaters this week and on streaming/blu-ray later this year. RWBY has been airing for weeks and its been the gayest volume yet. the Magical Revolution of the Reincarnated Princess and the Genius Young Lady just finished airing and was wonderfully sapphic. I’m In Love With the Villainess is scheduled to air sometimes this year. And just maybe we might get Arcane season 2 before the end of the year.

I’m excited for how sapphic and yuri animation is progressing, I hope it keeps going forward.

[avelera]

So I wrote 7,800 words of an entirely new Dreamling fic yesterday pretty much out of NOWHERE based on a what-if headcanon chat that got ENTIRELY out of hand.

Basically, I’ve always found it weird that Hob is, well, WEIRD for an immortal. And I adore it! There’s basically no other immortals in fiction, or very few, who consistently have a day job, don’t become superheroes of enlightened morality in a couple lifetimes, or otherwise leave normal mortal life behind. Except Hob.

But there’s other weird stuff Hob gets up to in the comics especially. Namely: nothing. He sees a Sea Serpent in Hob’s Leviathan and just sort of… shrugs it off. He supposedly ran into a vampire coven while hanging out with a Constantine and they killed Constantine and kinda left him alone. He seemed otherwise pretty unphased. Between 1689-1889, unless he’s with Dream, very little happens to him. He just seems prosperous in both meetings.

But while Dream is gone, during the Blitz, his wife Peggy dies in his arms. That’s pretty dramatic. That’s main character tragedy.

So what if… Dream subconsciously pigeonholes Hob as not a fellow immortal of increasing antiquity, now over half a millennia old, but… just a guy. Just the guy he met in 1389? That certainly seems to be part of why he reacts so poorly to being called lonely in 1889. He can’t fathom that the human mudpuppy he met in a tavern that was basically a hovel could suddenly have INSIGHT into one such as him. But Hob was over 500 years old at that point! And Dream respects other eldritch creatures like fae and demigods, even if they are younger than him. So what gives that he doesn’t see the 500+ year old immortal human as maybe capable of insight into the life of a fellow eldritch being?

Because Dream doesn’t think of Hob that way.

And Dream IS the human subconscious.

Things get really meta from there because right you’ve got all these Doylist reasons that Hob is Just A Guy who seems allergic to getting involved with any of the grand stories of Sandman except as a bit part. A minor character even in his own story. But since it’s a story about stories, you can make it Watsonian too.

Maybe because Dream doesn’t think HE has a story (he says, in the comic which is ABOUT his story, thus undermining his point with a 4th wall break) and Hob is the only person in his life who is basically a normal friend and not a subject or family member or eldritch colleague… does he mentally pigeonhole Hob as not having a story either but just being witness to other people’s stories, like Jim?

It’s kind of weird isn’t it how in Hob’s Leviathan he spends the whole thing WONDERING what secrets lie beneath the surface of the ocean but when the sea serpent bursts forth he just sort of… shrugs?

It’s a bit weird too, in the show, even though I adore how unexpected the beat is, that after 34 years’ delay, Dream shows up and Hob barely reacts except to quip that he’s late. Though I’m sure Dream was very grateful. 

… so I kinda wanted to do a one-shot about how this is actually an eldritch effect Dream accidentally cast on Hob. He sees Hob as just his normal friend despite being immortal. So Hob is Normal. Aggressively normal. He has a day job despite being 600+ years old. He exhibits none of the typical behavior one would expect out of a man who loves life so much he refused to die. And Dream realizes this when he learns that Hob’s 20th century was INSANE, filled with adventures and high drama and lost love and passion. A century where Hob was the protagonist in his own life story again. And it all abruptly stopped and he went back to having a normal human job the second Dream was free.

Anyway, Dream is gutted by the realization. The rest is them figuring out how the fuck this HAPPENED and if it can be fixed.

[blitz0hno]

This got long so TL;DR: Mikoto acts on autopilot ~%90 of the time, but I believe he planned (most of) his crimes. He has straightforward reasons that align with his actions, but appears purely unreasonable because of his mental state. Kotoko is very deliberate, but acts her most violent out of raw emotion. She appears calculating, but feels completely out-of-control despite her strong "heroic" front.

y'know it SEEMS cliche that John screams like a madman every time he fronts but gee horror tropes aside has Es considered that switching can HURT?? like a lot???? Like idk maybe feeling your body flood with adrenaline and being made to handle that shit the moment someone "pisses him off" is a little bit agonizing? Maybe having no idea what's going on until he can process the emotional flooding adds fear which really doesn't help???

Fuck mannnnn when you read between the lines, John and Mikoto are a REALLY good deconstruction.

... especially since he is contrasted mainly with Kotoko. I say this because I was just struck with an idea.

ESSAY TIME LITERALLY A WHOLE ESSAY CAME OF THIS RANDOM THOUGHT no sources tho pure opinion~

So KOTOKO, despite saving the girl being her primary objective, kicked her victim to death out of anger. At her core, despite all her ideals, she was not acting out of reason or necessity, however reasonable the actual action seems.

Given that prisoner pairs are meant to starkly contrast, that gives me my best reasoning as to why I defend Mikoto's innocent vote while also praying John DOESN'T disappear:

Despite how unreasonable and irrational John acts at first, there's a reason he reacts the way he does. And deep down, somewhere in his mind, MIKOTO knows the reason he did what he did. His motives are real, even if he doesn't remember carrying out such a "dream." This leads me to believe there were REALLY big reasons, and likely good reasons, for killing who he did.

A deliberate, maybe even carefully premeditated act would undeniably lead to the death sentence. His brain knows this even if Mikoto himself isn't consciously thinking of it. But a defense of randomly "losing control?" MAYBE he can keep surviving. Because all he was doing was surviving.

I believe that when one protects themselves, they protect others as well. Perhaps I am biased, but no, abusive people should not go unaddressed and uninterrupted. It's very very very implied that John and Mikoto went after people he felt endangered by. I went over this in my first "Double" analysis, but TL;DR I think the red herring John gave (which is funny cuz that phrase comes from tactics to throw DOGS off their trail) goes SO much farther thematically than I've seen talk about.

John has reasons that he does what he does, as does Mikoto. Systems are wired for survival. The lucky ones do well in academics and even many job environments because they are ALWAYS processing what to do next. Burnout is SEVERE because the brain is basically always "on alert," even when we're checked out. I can find clinically documented sources for this claim and I will if I make a video or something about this, but yeah it sure is an EXPERIENCE when it all comes crashing down. Trying to end a cycle.

As for Kotoko? She is literally portrayed to have a one-track mind. Her ideals and justice. But ironically? She killed out of raw anger and emotion, which is what the wolf at the end of Deep Cover represents. Despite having a very "normal" life overall, SHE is the one who truly loses all control of herself. SHE beats up the people who annoy her. Because it's grating, as she said in Deep Cover, to face the ugliness of humanity and NOT be able to escape your brain's response to it. SHE cannot "disappear" and forget her rage at injustice like Mikoto can. She is at the mercy of this uncontrolled rage and the resulting violence she allows herself to perpetrate. Repeating a cycle.

it's so brilliant. It's SO brilliant. They are the same. They couldn't be more different. Neither is a hero nor a monster. But they are heroes in SOMEONE'S, or arguably MANY people's eyes. And yet in both 009 and 010's cases, when we see their truest and most raw colors, we question EVERYTHING we assumed before.

Mikoto is not telling the whole truth when he says he doesn't get angry or remember anything. John straight-up lied to cover Mikoto's motives for doing so, and possibly out of his own genuine confusion. He is acting on instinct drilled in by traumatic events that the brain is using as reference; however, with how DID works, John is not going to know that. It's not his "job," the protection role he plays in the system , to know that. Yet there are reasons all the same. His BIG reason, which he calls out to Mikoto in "Double," over and over, was to SAVE Mikoto. Meanwhile, Mikoto is afraid of his actions, but presumably carried them out in order to stay alive. Whatever his "dream," he still wishes he could be seen as a good man despite what he presumably felt he had to do to survive. DID is the "sink or swim" disorder; it's literally about saving yourself and being protected from the emotions that come with it. Whether or not his reasons truly make sense is yet to be seen, but either way, Mikoto feels he cannot trust himself. He is cut off from emotions that would make him believe his reasons were "bad enough" to ACTUALLY warrant murder. That is why he split; to forget how bad it truly got. He has NO idea how protected he truly is.

Kotoko firmly believes that she is COMPLETELY honest about what she wants and what she wishes to do about it. She believes her anger is justified completely, and thus her actions must be justified as well. This reasoning allows her to be completely convinced that she is aware of and comfortable with her every choice. Her reaction to her own anger, leaving Lucky behind in that rage, and her reaction to the wolf in "Deep Cover" revealed her awareness and comfort to be a self-imposed illusion of strength. Her ideals are real and she fights for them, yet she's crossed so many lines that she's actually very afraid of what she's become. It's right behind her, isn't it? Something she cannot run from before it swallows her. And having picked apart every other person there? She is alone; but this fear isn't "strong," so she hides it away for the extraction machine to reveal to us as the audience.

Both are driven by larger-than-life emotions that can only come from raw existential anguish; emotions repressed until they explode. Neither are anywhere near what they seem to be on the surface. Both are unknowingly dishonest. Neither knows what to do about it.

I wanna say there's hope for them but you know. Superhell.

[obsidiancreates]

Taishen's Guide On Being The Best Uncle You Can Be

(Somehow I hit exactly 1,400 words for this. I just wanted to say that because that is a damn satisfying wordcount.)

It takes just about a year after traveling with Gricko and Frost for Gideon to start being called "Uncle Gideon" whenever Gricko mentions him to Hootsie.

"He sure warmed up to us quick," Kremy had said one night, sitting by the campfire and keeping an eye on his roux. "Callin' us family already seems a little much, don't it, Gid?"

"Yeah, but he's a fuckin' weird little guy. Not really surprisin'."

"True."

Truth be told, Gideon doesn't mind it. He thinks Kremy doesn't mind the "Uncle Kremy" title either, because there's always just enough room in the budget to buy Hootsie a trinket, or snack, or new little hat. And sometimes Gideon decides not to go back for thirds of whatever Kremy cooks so Hootsie can have seconds, and sometimes Gideon doesn't even need to hold back because Kremy sets aside extra just for her.

The first time Gideon accepts it aloud, though, is when they're staying in a little inn, and Hootsie is dancing just for fun in the tavern area, and someone throws a tankard at her and calls for the "wild beast" to be thrown out.

The man finds himself thrown out, his throwing arm broken, and the shout of "That's my fuckin' niece, asshole!" haunting his drunken dreams.

"That was very violent, Gideon," Gricko says later as they're all prepping the single room they could get. Hootsie is curled up in the corner, a little rattled still, but Gricko already has his pack set out and is making up a little bed for both of them where she lays. Gricko's tone is scolding, but he mouths "Good job," when he knows Hootsie can't see it.

"People shouldn't be throwin' things at her," Gideon says with a shrug, fluffing up his thin-as-paper pillow as much as he can. "She's just a baby."

"Your little baby niece," Gricko says with a wide grin. "Isn't that right, Hootsie? You've got big strong Uncle Gideon to protect you!"

Hootsie looks up at Gideon with those giant round eyes and hoots. Maybe Gideon's starting to catch some of Gricko's strange brand of cookoo-bananas, but Gideon could swear she looks and sounds grateful.

"Yeah yeah, I'm Uncle Gideon, we all heard me say it." Gideon gets into the bigger bed in the room as Kremy and Frost play a game of cards to determine who gets the other one (card counting versus slight-of-hand cheating, mind-reading versus shadow magic, it's tough to know who'll win) and shuts his eyes. The sounds of shuffling cards, Gricko telling Hootsie a bedtime story, and the bed likely splintering beneath Gideon's own weight lull him to sleep.

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

Gideon walks into a tea shop. He doesn't really drink tea, that's more Frost's thing, but he's here anyway.

He doesn't question it, as is the nature of dreams.

"Finally!" an excited voice rings out in the empty shop as Gideon finds himself sat down at a counter. The golden dragonborn on the other side grins brightly at him as he pushes a cup of fresh tea forward. "I've been waiting so long for you to finally realize you're an uncle!"

"Uh... what?" Gideon takes a sip of the tea. It's actually not bad. He didn't know tea could be spicy.

"That little owlbear has a lot of support, but that doesn't mean you can take being her uncle any less seriously." The dragonborn gestures at an ink painting hanging on the wall, of himself and a younger dragonborn girl. "Mei Li taught me just how important this role truly is, and I'm going to help you be the best possible uncle you can be."

"Hey man, listen. I appreciate the fuckin' thought and all, but, I don't know who the hell you are!"

"You won't remember once you wake up anyway," the dragonborn says, pouring himself a cup of tea and pulling a stool over to his side of the counter. "We've talked a few times, actually. But those were usually extremely upsetting times, and now we finally have something to celebrate!"

"Celebrate with tea?"

"I know you prefer alcohol, but if I can get Skrimm to enjoy tea I can get you to enjoy it as well."

"Well, I dunno why I'd need any advice on bein' an uncle, 'cause it seems pretty fuckin' easy t'me." Gideon knocks the rest of his tea back. The cup is full when he sets it down. "Give her treats, buy her stuff when she wants it, and punch guys who're fuckin' dicks to her."

"Those are all part of it," the dragonborn agrees, "But there's more to it than just spoiling her and protecting her. You have to nurture her as well!"

"I mean, Gricko's her dad, he's the one who's doin' all the raisin' and stuff."

"If you all lived in a town, that might work out just fine. But you're always on the move! You're the only four constants in this young girl's life, so you're all very influential on her as she grows!"

"Aw, man. I gotta be a good fuckin' influence now? I just got outta havin' to watch my every fuckin' move all the time, man."

The dragonborn seems to deflate, suddenly growing weary and ancient. "I'm... very aware. But I promise it's nothing like that. I just mean that Hootsie is an impressionable little girl right now, and it's a good idea to teach her important, valuable lessons."

"... Like... if somebody's bein' a fuckin' dick, she can bite their fingers off?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd encourage it to be that extreme, but self-defense is a good lesson, yes! And self-respect, it's much easier to defend yourself when you respect yourself and your value."

"Okay... I think I get it. And uh... knowin' when somebody's talkin' a load of bullshit."

"Exactly! Not to insult anyone but, you and I both know that Gricko can be... quite gullible. I mean, I understand him, I was very much the same way for most of my life, and can still be now. Oh, I remember Skrimm told me that a certain gesture was a universal greeting-"

"Which one? This one?" Gideon flips him off.

"That's the one! He always managed to find me when no-one else was around and pull pranks on me like that." The dragonborn laughs a little, fond. "Oh-ho, when it was a matter of life or death I was truly distressed, but now it's easy to look back and laugh."

"Alright, so, make sure she knows she can bite people, make sure she knows when she's bein' tricked, and I guess... make sure she knows how to get outta tough situations!"

"That's another great idea!"

"Man, I knew this whole uncle thing'd be easy." Gideon knocks the tea back again and looks around the shop. There's lots of ink paintings like the one he saw before, with these two dragonborn enjoying life. One catches his eye, of the man who sits across from him letting the young girl ride around on his shoulders.

"That'll be easy too," Gideon says, gesturing at the painting with cup in hand and sloshing spicy tea all over the floor- or would, if it ever hit the floor, but the tea just ceases to exist before it makes an impact. "Fuckin' piggyback rides and life lessons, easy as hell."

"And best of all, rewarding. It's an incredible joy to care for a child, as much as it is a serious responsibility." The dragonborn looks around. "And if you see Yorgrim when you leave here, let him know about the piggyback rides you plan to give. I think he'll appreciate a little warning."

"Who?"

"You're right, I'll tell him. I think you're waking up now anyway."

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

Gideon picks Hootsie up and plops her onto his shoulders as the group exits the inn and gets going. Hootsie gives a startled hoot at first, and then looks down. Her face lights up, eyes ghetting as big as possible, and she gives another, more excited hoot as he leans over to watch everything from her new height!

Taishen sighs happily as he watches, and looks up at Yorgrim. "Does that help soothe some of your old wounds?"

Yorgrim huffs a little. "It's... bittersweet."

Taishen reaches up and pats Yorgrim's arm. "I understand. ... Tea?"

Yorgrim is quiet for a moment before sighing and holding his hand out. "Thank you."

"Of course, my friend."

[sushistyless]

mist.

Rain can be a hassle to Harry especially because he’s always late. But when dark and stormy nights lead to finding someone a bit special, he has to admit, he’s forever grateful for the dark clouds.

(writer harry, fluffy & rainy stuff, 6k+)

my masterlist.

————

Harry always had a bit of a problem with being on time.

Usually, it was his day dreaming tendencies that conveniently forced the clock to tick out of his head, drowning the noise of the outside world and opting for the vivid, lively & observant fashion he lived with in books. The entirety of each minute spent in those worlds, being in some way or another -- a moment he would dream about later.

Most of his life was filled within his own thoughts & feelings, a curiosity stemming in the depths of his mind. And ever since he could remember, he'd been this way.

Much of his teenage life and childhood was spent in the city, the daily ways of hustle bustle following each moment. He loved staying there and is grateful for the opportunities he got — don't get him wrong! — but... he craved to have a life where things weren't as overwhelming. He wouldn't say he's shy, but he liked being in his own company, an affinity to observe the intricacies of the world and the different realms of literature rather than soaking up the role of the main character on centre stage.

He always preferred the quiet, and leaned towards the introverted, solitary life. And his job as a writer suited him pretty well, he'd say. Working from home, he didn't really have any events he could formally be late to, which is why it wasn't the biggest concern to him. With a ton of pent up creativity, he found writing (and painting too, sometimes) to be a wonderful medium for him to pour out all that jazz.

His first 'inspiration' for a lifestyle that 'called out' to him was when he was quite young. He remembers his mum taking him to a small village near the hills, and how his seven year old self was utterly enthralled by the beauty and charm of the place.

"Mum! Look!" he had said, scampering around in the fields while running behind a yellow butterfly, committing each curve of its wings to his memory, with pure ecstasy fluttering through the soreness of his cheeks as a result of a smile grown so wide. His mum was amused to see the joy that radiated off him– an amount she'd never seen before.

Later that night, after he'd finally (and very reluctantly) agreed to leave the fields, she'd tucked him into bed, warmth coursing through his veins under the cuddly comforter. She whispered, telling him to never lose that spark in him. He merely responded in a soft, dreamy tone, giving her a lazy smile when met with a kiss on his forehead, "I-it's just, everything's so pretty here! Don't y'think? Jus' wanna stay here forever.''

"Yes, Harry," she laughed, in awe of her son with a gleaming sparkle in his eyes, "And maybe one day you can live some place like this, alright? But for now, sleep, sweetheart."

And he had eagerly nodded his head.

Now, it was only fitting that Harry had bought a cottage in the countryside near the foothills of a little town a few miles away from the city. And suffice to say, he lived a happy life, with inspiration seeping into each flower that grew out in the garden in front of his little cottage, blooming with vibrantly coloured flowers, and in the sunset that came each evening. Dusk, in-fact, was the most pretty sight he'd seen in his entire life he thinks. No complaints, he said when having literal cumulus clouds floating around with rays of sunshine peeking through them, almost making the scene seem scrapped right out of a renaissance painting — the only lost elements being the angels hiding behind them (and, yes, he had actually painted that too).

Love also manifested from his creative side often resulting in tons of hand drawn pictures of different varieties of butterflies and plants pinned to the walls inside his home.

Harry's life was his muse, so each time he sat to write, the words just spilled right out his heart onto the parchment, staining it in perfect handwriting.

(—Or, in a less 'aesthetic' way, mostly his hands typing away rather fast on the keys of his laptop, periodically pushing his glasses from sliding down his nose, but hey, same effect!—.)

He eventually did start writing books and many collections of poetry, so he did struggle with deadlines from time to time, but it wasn't that bad. It wasn't very bad because it didn't require his presence, he thinks, but it still required some time management. And he promises he's getting better at it.

But... we can still say that Harry had a bit of a problem with being on time.

He'd been standing in a little library located farther down the trail from his house (he still grins like an idiot at the thought of having his very own house), that stood on a street lined with shops and cafés. The scent of old books swilled in the air, vintage posters and dark rows of shelves matching the aesthetic of wooden floors and rustic trinkets hung up on the dusky-coloured walls. His fingers picked at the edges of the pages of the book, his third time reading magic through the eyes of The Little Prince.

He'd gotten only a little bit lost in it, his ring clad hand absently lifting the cup of matcha he had previously ordered on-the-go, bringing it to his lips and titling it forward, only to taste just a single drop of flavoured residue and realise that it was empty from the periodic sips he had taken with each flick and turn of a page.

Oh, he thought to himself and frowned. He hadn't realised that he finished it that fast. With a finger wedged between the closed book so as to not lose the page and cup squashed in the same arm, he fiddled to reach out to the vintage field bag slinging over his shoulder.

Finally, through the dishevelled strands of hair obstructing his vision, he managed to open the bag and get a hold of his phone from inside it. Switching it on, he pondered. It couldn't have been that long. Alas, when the screen lit up showing highlighted numbers of 7:28 pm, well, he was shocked (and glad there wasn't any matcha in his mouth, for he would have most definitely spit it out).

And, it hit him that he was late.

It wasn't much of a surprise that he would overstay past his intended time here in the library. But today was an important day.

He had ordered a record player a few months back and he was fluttering on the inside with a little spark. He'd counted down the days until it would arrive, smiling wide as he crossed down each day approaching it, and promised himself early this morning that he'd come and read only for a little bit, then easily go home before 7 pm so he would be there when the precious package was delivered.

Music was a big part of his life, of course. It helped him write, helped him imagine. Helped to dream a little more. And maybe he could even go as far as to say it was like fuel to him. The idea of his suited songs played on the vinyl was enough to excite him.

With widened eyes, he quickly shoved the phone back in, then flustered, taking steps towards the door. He was excited– sure, but he couldn't help and felt a little more doubtful and wary of the delicate player being properly delivered than gently held in his safe arms. It was expensive to say the least (top of the line and yada yada) and although it wasn't his yet, he already deemed it to be his precious possession.

On a normal day, warm, slanted rays of the sun would reflect on his face through the glass windows as he stepped from behind the cover of the thick shelves– but today was gloomy. A thick, dark blanket of clouds was spread across the sky, leaving no place for sunlight to pass through.

With having completed the satisfaction of saying a goodbye! to the store owner — Miss Akane, a kind and eccentric old woman who Harry had gotten quite close to after tasting a lot of her homemade sweets — he strode towards the door, skillfully pushing it open against the windy, mildly chilly air.

And that was when Harry realised that he really needed to hurry.

It was true when he thought today was going to be a rainy day. It'd be only a matter of a few seconds before the scent of wet mud would linger in the air. He walked quickly on the trail towards the mountain side, relaying one last glance to the line of shops. Harry usually caught sight of a few people walking down the street but it seems as though everyone knows that the weather is going to be stormy. He'd grown accustomed to the view by now, having moved to the countryside just a few years prior.

The fitted burgundy coloured chequered pants covering his legs, flared and shifted tightly against his calves, while his torso carried a very lovely sage-green vest, all bundled along with his bookbag tucked underneath his overcoat, effectively shielding him and his possessions from the heavy breeze and potential rain.

As he saw the soil being gradually dotted with raindrops and the plants around him weighing down with the trickling water, he knew it was even more important to reach home fast.

——-

Harry's footsteps become more sunken, the trail having become mucky and threateningly prone to little puddles as he nears his cottage. The rain races with increased velocity, the sound of it hitting the ground and rumbles of thunder providing a soundtrack to the activities and errands of his current life.

Harry reaches close to home, and he had initially thought he would rush in and worry himself, examining the much awaited wet box, because the past few deliveries he had got weren't very considerately delivered. He thought it would be sitting out, left in the harsh rain.

But really, he's confused.

He brings up his hand, the tip of his finger swiping out a drop of rain that clung to his eyelash, already squinted eyes straining even more as if to make sure what he saw through the rain was reality.

Instead of seeing a drenched parcel, he finds someone sitting on his partially covered porch, her hazy gaze fixed on the entwined hands in her lap. The light, pastel amethyst coloured shirt she's wearing grows the slightest bit transparent — not entirely soaking through, but sleeves wet enough to loosely cling onto her body — the expanse covering her torso accentuating her collarbone region. Her hair sticks to the side of her forehead, cheekbones glistening under the influence of the rain. Eyelashes frame her profile from the view he's provided with, cheeks seeming hollow like she bites down on them. A coat is draped over some large box on the right, evidently wanting to keep whatever it was dry.

She certainly doesn't seem like a delivery person, the lack of a uniform making it clear that a courier was not what she was, only adding to Harry's confusion.

Hm?

The little shade up front does little to barricade the rain as it slants towards her, the entire scene looking like her mere presence was magnetic to the forces of nature.

The ideas of why she was here and what his reply would be start noting through his head like pieces of paper being crumpled with each possibility that came up, clearly hesitant in the conversation that he already started in his head. Licking his lips, he readies himself to speak. What should he say?— the lack of socialising with new people peeking through the flurry of jumbled words projecting in his mind.

He gulps, moving closer until he's at a good distance from her, pace slowing down distinctively as his heels dig into the soft ground below. Finally, he musters up the courage to speak, inhaling and exhaling before flicking off a chocolate coloured curl that weighed onto his face, curtaining his vision. "H-hi."

The girl's figure immediately perks up, a sharp intake of breath drawn past her lips, clearly taken by surprise as her face snaps up to him. Her irises have a wild essence in them, widening as they meet his own & flickering around, taking in his features before spewing words of her own, "Oh! Hi."

She clears her throat, posture now becoming straighter, her right hand comes up to toy with a crystal pendant adorning her neck. "Uh," she flustered innocently, confused while forming her question, "Do you live here?" Her body turns completely towards her right, eyes effectively focused on the door of the cottage, giving Harry an obvious reference. Her voice is low & fragile, with woven delicacy as if she's afraid that if she gets louder, it might break glass. Harry's sure that if it was any softer, it would've been completely muted out by the echoing roars of the colliding clouds.

Harry's eyes follow her line of sight, nodding his head at her questioning, "I... I do, yes. Can I help y'with something?" He adds on in the end with sincerity & curiosity edging his tone, still comprehending her sweet voice and sudden presence. He hardly got guests, and if he did, they were mostly his family flying out on occasions to see him. But they too dropped in once in a blue moon. He was, let's just say, deep within an area of solitude. So he was more than shocked when he found someone he'd never known quite literally sitting at his doorstep.

There's a moment of silence in their conversation, giving Harry's gaze enough time to wander off & examine the object placed beside her. The jacket had ridden up at the side, a tiny sliver of the picture plastered over the box making his eyebrows knit the slightest bit.

The girl, whose eyes are mostly just fixated on Harry, immediately notices and clicks out of the dazed dream as she fumbles through the blurry rain, "Oh, right!"

Harry observes as she peeps out, standing to her height, hands already beginning to unveil the surprise under the full of her jacket, which's outer surface is glistening with the water, while the inner remains dry.

"I think... this is yours?" Her voice tilts in pitch nearing the end of her sentence, questioning him with unknown facts once Harry's eyes land on a package with a familiar picture stamped on.

He remembers the same photograph that was displayed on the online site he ordered his turntable from, a light beige colour coating the artistic marvel. With the stickered details of his address pinned up top, the edges of the box had become a little moist and worn out, but overall in good condition.

His features contort to realisation, "Oh— oh, yeah! Thank you s'much." He says with a heart full of gratitude & sudden confusion, stepping closer to finally land on the wooden shaft of the porch and scurry beside her.

She sheepishly nods at the acknowledgement, busying herself to pick it up, the box seeming entirely too large for her arms to hold. Harry quickly swoops in while giving her a soft, grateful look, enough to not evade her personal bubble, but assist her as he quickly supports it from the other side. Her lips tug slightly at the edges, the moment giving her time to take in the ringlets of hair that stick to his forehead and making her smile subconsciously grow the tiniest bit wider as he retrieves it completely.

"I was actually just passing by here when the delivery guy happened to catch me, and assumed that I lived here. I tried to tell him— really — but he was in a rush and he... just kept it and left," she rambles, managing to sneak a quiet smile in there, the cold shaft of wind making her shudder for a moment.

There's a moment of hesitancy, the slightest second of silence wallowing in the air as she collects her words and gathers to deliver him information that might ease his apparent confusion.

"I didn't want to leave it like that 'cause it seemed pretty important. I knocked again but nobody answered, so I only stayed to make sure it was alright until someone came by." Her voice decreases in amplitude as her sentence progresses, speaking shyly as her irises stutter on Harry's frame for a second too long. Explaining the entire situation to the best of her abilities while still tripping over her sentences, Harry offers no response because, well...

What the fuck?

Harry is... at a loss for words, to put it simply.

She did all that? For a simple parcel? For him?

Initially, he'd thought she was waiting there for some help she might need. Then again, everything that had happened was all a jumbled mess in his head — the thoughts in his mind unclear to himself. He didn't know what he was expecting when he arrived and saw her in the first place.

But, she was just so sweet. The entire thought was so incredibly kind, and— it just swelled his heart with so much joy and gratitude. A lot of people have helped him throughout his life, but nobody has ever been this sweet or innocently considerate. He's just on cloud nine with the idea of being worthy of all that, with no part of his brain telling him how to react.

He thinks that among the pouring rain and rumbling chaos, he had the honour of encountering a literal angel.

When he doesn't respond immediately, worry quickly fills her eyes, "I-I'm sorry if it's not what I should've done, I just thought..."

"No, no! Not at all! I jus—" He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, dissipating her worries as she visibly releases a breath. Adoration swimming through his irises, a butterfly induced feeling fills his tummy when he catches her wistful gaze drifting into the window of his soul.

The rain danced like spray, buzzing off the wooden roof & echoing through his ears, the sound of some drops sharper than the other- growing clearer and heavier by the second like the rhythm of his heart. The wind murmured to the trees, a whirring accompanying the puddles that began to plink with the hammering intensity of the rain, almost pleading him to say something— anything.

"That's just s'sweet of you. Thank you so much. You didn't have to do that, but y'did. And 'm so, so sorry I made y'wait out here..."

He is filled with gratitude but he also feels terribly guilty. It was because of him that she had to wait out for so long. It was chilly out and to be sitting out for that long under the icy weather, a sniffle would surely rift into a full blown cold. It's now that he notices the goosebumps trailed along her skin as she crosses both her arms in front of her chest in an effort to keep warm.

"No, don't worry! It's– it's okay. Really." She spares maybe a second of full eye contact with him, giving him a soft smile on catching the praises before casting off her gaze, focusing on the mucky shoes covering her feet as the droplets trickling off it caught the light. "The rain's quite pretty anyway."

Harry offers her an easy (but still regretful) smile at that. It was nice of her to try and console him even through small sentences.

"And... you like vinyls?" she converses curiously once her hands are free again, standing still with her fingers intertwined in her front once again. Harry can't help but wonder if it's a nervous tick she has, and he also can't help but smile a little at the thought, cherishing how he does the same sometimes.

"Yeah, jus' have some kind of charm, y'know?" The words just slip through his mouth like he's talking to himself, stifling his beam as his face drops to face the ground for a second, the faintest dimples indenting the apple of his cheeks and a simmer of warmth reaching them as he gives it his best to not crack into a fit of smiles. "Do y'like 'em?" He looks back at her.

The attempt at making his excitement subdued instils a kind of joy across her face, a honey swept tone coating her words as she replies, "Oh, yeah! Been wanting to get one for myself actually, but they're pretty expensive. Promise I wasn't stealing yours though." She chuckles a little easier now, knuckling at her eyes as a drop of water seems to latch onto her eyelid.

"I believe you. And trus' me, I've been saving up for it for months now, so y'not alone." He reciprocates her laugh, keeping it casual, but his mind internally goes through a shot of excitement.

"It's no–" she starts, a loud streak of thunder rumbling much too loud, cutting off the conversation as her widened eyes flit off to wander in the distance. Harry mimics her actions, the noise enough to demand anyone's attention. Her lips part at the loud sound, teeth digging into the plushy lower one, while the thinnest crease of worry lines her forehead. "But, um, I think I should probably head back now. The rain is only getting worse..."

It's now Harry's turn to worry, concerned because the last thing he could ever want for anyone is to walk back during a growling, full-blown thunderstorm. "Are y'sure? You're most welcome to come in..." he trails off, feet trudging against the cold floorboard as he shuffles towards the door, "It looks pretty bad out there. Y'can wait here until it calms down— only if you're comfortable, of course." He adds the last part quickly, speaks with sincerity- a genuine request on his part. And honestly, it's the least he can do. He knows that it was after all, her choice to wait here, but he still feels shitty knowing that he could have reached earlier and avoided her from all this trouble.

Her gaze is still downcast, an expression emulating the ghost of a smile, seeming like she's mulling over the options in her head, while her hands work to wriggle the coat back on her shoulders. "Oh no, it's fine! I love looking at the interior of houses —" she looks back at him with a breathy smile and a bit of hope arises in Harry, wishing she'd say yes so he would have some company- even if it was only for some time. She continues, "— But I really don't mean to intrude. Thank you though," she continues with a soft gaze, an apologetic undertone lacing her words.

His heart deflates when she declines his offer, the slight tug of his lips dulling only the slightest bit, yet understanding that it was her choice based on what she felt would be safe for her, but he hates to think that she'd feel like a burden if she were to stay.

"Please, you won't be intruding in the slightest. Honestly, s'the least I can do. Please feel free to come in, it's no trouble at all. Again, I'm so, so sorry." All he really hoped was that he could spend even a little time with her because he knew there was a possibility that he would likely never meet her again. But, if she felt it was safer to go her own way, he would respect that, of course, and just continue to think back to the small conversation they once had.

She laughs a little louder now, surprisingly to Harry as if enthralled by the amount of gratefulness and (un)necessary apologies he smothers her with, "Hey," she whispers, "I waited here voluntarily, so you really don't need to apologise."

His internal sorrow evades a bit when she makes an effort to lighten his mood, the tiniest blush threatening to creep up his cheeks.

"I know, 'm sorry—"

"Oops, there you go again."

"—Shit. I promise, I didn't mean to. I'm so so—"

"Sorry?" She completes for him, grinning like Harry's done the cutest thing and in fact– giggles. Proper giggles.

Can you believe that?

And if Harry couldn't take his mind off her presence, he surely can't now, wondering what he's done to have the honour of hearing the sound bless his ears. It's pouring, raining like cats and dogs, but this conversation takes him to a place of happiness where he imagines the sun would shine with the warmest, most yellow & buttery orange tinged glow. He just met her for stars' sake— he doesn't even know her name! But... he knows that he likes being the reason she laughs. He likes making people laugh in general, some kind of satisfaction hiding deep in his own smile when they break into laughter, but he reckons she was just much sweeter to witness.

Agh. He's such a sap, he knows... but he still means every word. Besides, it's in the safety of his mind, it's okay.

"Yeah... that." He bites his lip, hoping she wouldn't catch him avoiding her gaze. "Y'sure you'll be okay?"

"I'll be okay," she hums low, words drowning in the sound of the thunder as it penetrates through the grey clouds once again. Buttoning up the most part of her coat and descending down the porch, she shoots him a smile, a small 'bye!' accompanying her actions of waving at him.

"Bye! Please be careful!" he adds on. It felt strange. He didn't want to say goodbye. The conversation hadn't for a minute felt forced and it's... something he hasn't experienced in a long time. He wished it would last longer.

"I will, thank you! It was really nice meeting you!" He watches as her figure teeters down the clearing that led to his house, looking back at him from over her shoulders.

"You too," Harry mutters, a smile taunting his lips at the sight of her doing the same all while prancing about in the rain. But as she leaves his line of sight, he wonders. Would they ever even meet again? A sigh escapes through his mouth, the slopes of his shoulders softening with a pout that stretches across his face. And oh, he even forgot to ask her her name. It was too late to do that now. It'd just be plain weird if he ran out in the rain and startled her for a silly question.

So he's a bit bummed. Still, he's glad that he even had the chance to encounter her.

Turning around with bitten lips after successfully manoeuvring the package so he could hold it comfortably in one arm, he shuffled to reach for his key, pulling it out and swiftly unlocking the door. As soon as he steps in, his senses are waded through by the pillowy warmth of his house, lofting with the homely smell of cinnamon and vanilla. It's nice to be able to come to such a lovely home everyday, and he's so grateful for that. Water drops drip down his clothes, pit-pattering against the wooden floors. A thud noise resonates through the room as he shuts the door, the cold ruffles of wind effectively shut out while keeping the toasty atmosphere inside undisturbed. A little fireplace decorates the corner of the generously sized living room, green plants sitting across the window panes that are curated with occasional flowers here and there. The sheer curtains don't do much to cover the view of the rustic French windows, earthly tears trickling down the glass as he gazes through the fluid stillness upon the field outside– the one that's usually bright and green but now runs dark & deep with water, the attire of raindrops looking like serrations of lines cutting through the wind.

He's quick to discard his drenched coat, opting to hang it on the hook beside the dark ocher coloured console that stands in the foyer-like entryway, carefully placing the box on the cabinet. Littered throughout the pastel coloured walls were various delicately framed paintings– most of which he had made, and some being his versions of the works of Van Gogh (big fan he was)-- all very special, having given him some kind of inspiration to write in the past.

Running a heavy hand through his hair, he shook his head, the rebellious drops of water splattering into the air. Stumbling to the middle of the room, he all but threw himself on the feathery hold of his couch. Melting into the softness instantly, his posture relaxes, as the brown of his bag- a stark contrast to the beige of the couch lands with a splat beside him. Eyes closing ceremoniously once his head rests on the top of the couch, the pad of his fingers rub the inner corners of his eyelids. Realising he has contacts on, he frowns and stops, also thanking his past self for wearing contacts– the rain would've just fogged up his glasses and he preferred to know where he was walking. Plus, he would've not seen her very properly and that indeed would've been a pity.

Deciding that the itchiness was probably a sign for him to remove his contacts, he lifts himself off the couch and makes his way towards the bathroom.

It's just as Harry's removed his first lens that he jolts at the sound of the doorbell. With half blurry vision, all the more confusion sparkling through his veins and messier-than-ever-hair, his lips part. A second later he scurries to the front door. Opening it up the slightest, he swears his heart drops to his stomach. He can't see all that well but when the familiar voice calls out to him again, he can't help but smile at the knowledge of who it is.

"Is that offer of yours still up?"

Harry's never been happier for having a problem with time, and greeting a kind girl at his front door through blurry vision and unruly hair.

————

"Have you really made all of these paintings? They're... beautiful." It makes Harry's heart hurt at the enthusiasm Y/N shows for something he does. That's another he's learned, the sweet girl's name is Y/N. It suits her really well, he realises.

"Yeah, s'all me," he shyly smiles, setting the mug of chamomile tea down on the centre table in front of her. She's sat on his couch, a blanket wrapped around her form to keep extra toasty although she'd declined the offer in favour of the room already being warm enough. But Harry had insisted and pulled out his favourite, fluffiest blanket.

"More than beautiful actually, they're just— you're really talented." She gushes, shifting her gaze from the acrylic pieces hung on the wall to the tea now placed in front of her, accompanied with a soft whisper of an oh, thank you.

"'M glad you think so." His stifled smile stretches wider on his cheeks, little indents beginning to form a dip in them, "I think, art is just so fun to do. Being able to express yourself in paintings, music, film, and of course, writing. Words are so incredible." His voice considerably lowers as he progresses, realising how he's started to rant a bit.

"Oh," Y/N gazed at him fondly, amusement tinting her eyes, "So, I've somehow managed to stumble in the home of a young, mysterious artist - in the middle of the fields - while there's a beautiful storm raging outside, then?"

"You make me sound way cooler than I am," he  laughs silently, fiddling with his rings, "that is a cute idea for a novel though."

"It is cool. Maybe I'll become a writer one day just to write about this."

"I'll join you. Co-writers we'll be," he gleamed at her, the hidden knowledge that he could very well begin plotting a novel at this very moment shucked to the back of his head.

"That would be perfect."

—————

The storm brewed the entire night but eased off by early morning, the night spent with soft words exchanged, and conversations that flowed like the streams of rivers outside. Harry swears he felt genuinely the happiest he had felt in a while.

He also would admit that he quite enjoyed when just before Y/N left, he revealed he was a writer himself. She blushed, jaw dropped because she had been prattling on and expanding on the 'Mysterious Artist in The Mountains' arc, in a pretty... amateur way she had said.

"Well," she giggled, trying to hold a serious face, "Mr. Styles, I shall take your leave. Now that I am presented with the information that you are a wonderful writer by profession, I expect thy to write some poetry about me the next time we meet."

"You should certainly expect it," he played along, bowing to her slightly.

"God, no, I'm joking," she laughed back, "but it really was nice to meet you, Harry. Thank you for everything." Gathering her belongings in one arm, she moved to stand at the threshold of the front door, Harry's presence following behind her.

She was just so sweet, Harry thought. Her smile bought with it something so honey like, a warm ray of light engulfing the room— and the sparkle in her eyes, kindness. She was beautiful too. The kind of beauty that wasn’t so conventional, more so the beauty that came with love that you simply had to have grown in with each second spent together.

"T'was a pleasure meeting you too, m'lady." He continued, a sweet smile still coating his face as he guided her out. (And although she was joking about the poetry, Harry had begun thinking of the same idea before she even proposed it.) Y/N simply reciprocated his expression, silence between them while the birds chirped in the back now that the rain had cleared out.

"Hope to meet you again… soon." She added quickly in the end and looked up to him with a glee in her eyes, speaking softly, “Bye, Harry."

A sense of déjà vu took over as he remembered the scene similar to the one he experienced a few hours back.

"Take care, love," he said, beaming when he saw her walk down the porch and look over her shoulder, excited for when they’d plan to spend more time together.

Except this time, he would happily declare that he knew her name too.

————

SOO, here is writer harry!! honestly, I started out with this piece like months ago and only finished it recently lmsiehdsjhs and I wasn’t sure if I should post it, but here we gooo :(( very soft vibes, I think. writer h is just like that.

thank you ever so much for reading :(( I really really hope you enjoyed!! <333

read more of my work on my masterlist! see you on the other side ;)

[moosemonstrous]

I never write in the second person, but it seemed to fit, so 🤷

Ghost Rider Pacific Rim AU - Yegor Ivanov's edition

Say, you're in charge of security on a large, well-appointed quasi-military base housing twenty thousand people - mostly J-techs and their families, but also a sizeable assortment of soldiers, scientists, medical staff, relief workers and support crew. It's the most stable job you've ever had. The general populace is just so grateful for the giant robots you deploy to fight the ever-nastier demons crawling out of The Breach, you barely have to pay any attention to actual security part of it. Your subordinates haven't reported a single issue they couldn't deal with themselves in years. The eggheads fight between each other to secure your approval. You have the respect of the international leaders for keeping Hong-Kong off of their priority list. Somehow, in this beautiful, messed up world you managed to carve yourself out an existence most people can only dream of.

And you got there by making a hard decision once, ten years ago. Eli Morrow was a dangerous psychopath and once his usefulness ran its course, it was your responsibility to put him down. Sometimes, one man has to pull the trigger for the good of the many, and that day you pulled the trigger. Figuratively. It was a regrettable situation, but you don't really regret it, because you gave Eli every chance under the sun to pull himself together.

You said it broke your heart, to see what he did to his brother, but secretly you were relieved. You've done many terrible things together, before the monsters stopped being just men in a different uniform. You had a good handle on Eli for so long, you almost forgot that rabid dogs will bite their master's hand given half a chance. If it hadn't been poor Alberto, it would've been you.

You didn't believe for a second Beto's kids turned up on base purely by accident. Call it fate, or karma, or whatever you want, you can't pretend seeing a mirror image of a young Eli in your own damn hangar doesn't strike a chord deep in your chest. It's not a pleasant sensation.

You have no idea what their mother told them - she was smart enough to get out before all hell came loose, so maybe she was also smart enough to keep her mouth shut. The younger one is a non-issue, at least. You forgot he had the--the whatsit, some condition the medical was working on, the hook you had on the Reyeses to keep them on base. You should dig into the files, see if the same hook will work on the older one.

And you need all the hooks you can think of, because you fucked up. You panicked and figured, well, he doesn't know his old man's jaeger is a goddamn death trap kept only because it would be more expensive to take it apart. He doesn't know it killed every recruit to ever step a foot in it. And he's as sentimental as his father was, all wide-eyed at the sight of the machine making up a good portion of your nightmares.

Only Robbie Reyes is a little too much like his uncle, too, because he doesn't. Fucking. Die.

The whole K-Sci department is very excited, of course. The techs aren't. You should've timed yourself better, made sure Canelo and the rest of the old guard were off-shift when you brought Robbie to The Charger. Now they're watching your hands and lowering their voices whenever you step into the hangar. You can't make the problem disappear without someone starting to ask questions. You need to be smarter than that.

If you can't get rid of him, you must learn to control him. He's no Eli Morrow - and you kept a lid on that can of worms for nearly a decade, from boot camp through black ops to TJP. One scowling teenager is nothing. He needs a strong hand and a little misdirection, that's all.

He watches you too, though. Like he already knows. He can't--can he? How? Who would've told him?

That broken eye of his is tripping you up, that's all. A strong hand, and a promise of medical support for the younger one - you will have him asking 'how high' before the next demon is due.

Besides, piloting jaegers is such a dangerous job. Anything could happen out in the sea. You can live through another regrettable loss. You don't think you can live through whatever Robbie Reyes is planning when he looks at you like that.

[halsteadlover]

Just a little rant here about my personal life so feel free to skip lol

I know nobody is gonna read this and I’ll probably delete this when I’ll come to my senses but right now I feel so depressed I just need to get this out of my chest. I always felt tumblr like a safe space so here I am.

I don’t know if you remember the times where I took some time off because of anxiety and my mental health.

Lately it feels like it’s getting worse and I really don’t know what to do, I don’t know if many of you will relate (I really hope not) but it’s just like I don’t know how to be happy and I really hate it here man. I’m so tired of feeling like this, always worrying and having anxiety about something I don’t even know about. I feel so crazy sometimes you know? Like there’s nothing wrong with me, I’m honestly so grateful for the things god gave me. I’m healthy, I have a loving family (even if sometimes they’re overbearing to the point of crazy), I get to study for my dream job, I have a bf that puts up with my ass, friends even if few of them, there’s nothing wrong there are so many worse things people go through and I don’t even have to right to rant about any of this. So why do I feel like I don’t deserve any of this?

I have such deep trust issues it’s ruining my life and relationships, I don’t know why. I hate myself and I sometimes think I don’t deserve to be loved, I’m not that speciale and I’m so damn insecure that every good thing that happens in my life I can’t help but think it’s gonna fade in a minute, that something bad might happen, that I’m so easily replaceable.

Sometimes I truly think that if I disappeared no one would notice or miss me, I thought about doing it but I’m so damn scared. I don’t know where this is coming from, maybe the bullying had something with it I don’t honestly know but I’m so tired of feeling like this.

Why can’t I just love me? Why can’t I enjoy a single good thing that happens to me? Why do I keep sabotage myself by thinking I don’t deserve any happiness and it’ll soon fade away?

For example, these last two days I took three different exams and even though I’m relieved I can’t help but think I’m such a failure, that my parents are so disappointed in me for taking so long to finish a degree I was supposed to finish years ago.

I had an anxiety attack yesterday morning while I was with my bf and I sobbed for hours while he held me but if you ask me what triggered it I wouldn’t know how to answer you.

Why am I like this? Why am I not normal?

It’s just a bit of everything and I honestly don’t know what to do.

But please don’t judge me. I’m aware these “problems” are nowhere serious like some others and I’m so sorry for being so dramatic it’s just… I don’t know guys, I just want to be happy, to feel loved without actually thinking about the worst.

Am I soo pretentious? Do I sound so ungrateful? Complaining about these things when I have everything some people unfortunately dream of? I don’t want to sound like that and I feel so guilty about having these thoughts.

I know you’ll think I’m an attention seeker, fishing for compliments or things like that, I’ve been told that before here and I’m so sorry if it seems that way but trust me it’s the opposite of that. I’m telling this here because I guess it’s easier behind the screen, when no one knows you and can really judge you, but I also thing you’ll judge me anyway but at least it was good for me to let this out.

If someone reads this I hope you won’t think of me any less, and if you’re feeling something like this too I’m so sorry and if you want to talk my inbox and DMs are ALWAYS open for you guys, I’m here even if it takes me some time to answer.

Sorry if something doesn’t make any sense, I didn’t even read this back I’m just cried my eyes out while writing this post and now I have a headache. At least I hope the sleeping will be good lmao.

But tomorrow will be better, I’m sure of this.

[bazaarwords]

Warrior nun prompt where Ava and Beatrice spar and Ava accidentally goes too hard and hurts Beatrice?

this one is actually a combination of this ask and another one: "the halo reacting to beatrice" — thank you both, anons!

-

Ava never wants to take her life for granted. Never wants to forget the feeling—well, maybe that’s it. The feeling of everything. Physically, of course, but even though she’d lain with her thoughts and her emotions and they’d once been her whole world, there’s something new about the way things feel now.

The problem with gratefulness is that there’s so much going on now that she never really has the time to sit with her new normal.

Now—as she dodges a punch that could probably break anywhere between one and ten of her bones—doesn’t seem like the best time to be contemplating.

“Woah!” She laughs, trying to keep her defenses intact. “I like all of my bones in my body!”

Beatrice just shakes her head, but Ava knows she’s won—maybe not the war, but the battle—there’s a smile there that’s almost impossible to notice. Ava notices.

“You’ll heal,” Beatrice says, and Ava’s just glad she’s entertaining her. “Focus, Ava.”

She is focusing. Mostly. Kind of.

They’ve been at this for the better half of the morning, but there’s a beautiful view to contend with (two, if Ava is as honest with herself as she should be,) and the clear water is tempting her. She’s so fucking sweaty. If she could just get a little break, maybe she could convince Bea to hop in too. The idea winds itself around her limbs, tries to drag her in.

Come into the water, the thought wafts around her head like she’s in a cartoon. “Can we go swimming after this? Just for a tiny little bit?”

Beatrice doesn’t answer the question, just tells Ava to focus again.

Ava doesn’t have the option to be distracted for a moment longer, because Bea is suddenly in her space, hooking a leg around her knee with a speed that wouldn’t make sense if it was anyone else. As she does this, it’s as if time slows down. Bea’s face is maybe an inch away. She’s got Ava’s leg in a position that would compromise her footing, but—Ava’s more concerned with their proximity, how she can feel the flex and release of the muscles in Bea’s thigh—

They’ve been at this for hours. Why now? Why is her body choosing to react right now—

It is an embarrassing combination of emotions that does it. The closeness, the way Beatrice moves, the thought of dragging her into the water—all of it gathers at the point between her shoulder blades, and the Halo does the rest.

The pulse is strong enough to send Bea reeling, and Ava can neither measure nor mitigate the damage. They go flying in opposite directions, Ava directly into the water she’s been dreaming of. Not—obviously—like this.

Ava sputters, coughing up pond water in the shallows. “Bea?” When she sees her, in a pile at the bottom of a tree, Ava’s never moved faster. “Beatrice?”

There’s a long, gnarly gash along Bea’s arm, and she’s knocked out and fuck fuck what the fuck, Ava?

“Bea!” She’s got her hands on Bea now, gently shaking her. Nothing—“Fuck. Beatrice. Come on, come on.”

This is the work of someone too stupid to be allowed in the presence of others. This is the kind of shit Bea’s been trying to train out of her, and here she is, trying to shake awake the badass who’s only job is to help her and she can’t get her shit together for five minutes—

“Ow.”

“Bea!” Again, stupid, Ava gathers Beatrice up like a sack of injured flour and squeezes her until she thinks better. “Shit. Sorry, sorry. God, Bea, I’m so sorry I—your arm.”

She’s on the verge of tears now, willing to perform any kind of penitence for quite possibly the first time in her life. Hail Mary’s, flagellation—anything.

“I’ve certainly had worse,” Beatrice says through a wince, trying to sit up against the tree. She sucks in a sharp breath as she leans against the trunk. “Although–I may have broken something.”

“Oh my God. I am so, so sorry, I—“ she doesn’t even know what to say.

While she’s at a loss, however, going through the motions as Beatrice remains intelligent and competent and asks for her help staving off the bleeding on her arm, the Halo seems to know exactly what to do. Its glow is so powerful that it bathes them both in light that eclipses even the noonday sun. This one, however, keeps them right where they are.

When she blinks away the brightness, Beatrice’s arm is… totally fine.

“Strange,” Bea says, a little wistful, turning her arm back and forth. She gets up, nowhere near as careful as she’d just been. She moves around, unhindered. “You healed me.”

“Yeah, but. I also smashed you against a tree.”

Beatrice looks between Ava and her arm with the kind of sharp focus that would make Ava a little weak in the knees if she wasn’t already sitting. She offers a hand and helps Ava up, which, if she hadn’t just accidentally managed to heal all of Beatrice’s wounds, would make her feel completely useless. She’d wounded her in the first place, so. Six and one-half dozen. She still doesn’t feel great.

“We should look into this. If we can hone it—Ava, this could turn the tide in our favor.” Ava agrees, completely, wholeheartedly. But right now? She feels like she’s just run an emotional marathon. Beatrice, to her everlasting credit, seems to pick up on this. “Before that, how about a break?”

“A break—I don’t think the Halo healed your concussion. You want to take a—“

“Swimming?” Beatrice suggests, making off for the shore.

Maybe she’s been run over by an imaginary steamroller, but even now, even as she’s watching Beatrice toe her sneakers off and hop into the lake in her workout clothes, she’s feeling. The earth under her feet, the uncomfortable press of her wet shirt on her back, the relief at Bea’s state, and something else, something soft and gentle.

So she slogs right in after Bea, and she feels every moment of it.

[baalzebufo]

A short piece of writing, from the perspective of Chip Revvington. A diary entry about dreams and fears.

---

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ENTRY DATE: [REDACTED]

FILE ACCESS RESTRICTED. USER ACCESS REQUEST: [REVVINGTON, CHIP.]

.

ACCESS GRANTED.

.

LOADING [dreamdiary.txt]

---

So.

This all started when I was talking to Misty. She mentioned these 'dreams' she's been having, and I asked her about it. Said I think I'd been having them myself. She got all excited about that. Told me it might help me to write them down. To remember, or something. I don't see her that excited very often. So I figure I could at least humor her suggestion.

Who knows, maybe it’ll help. I’ll try anything at this point.

...

It starts outside the office. It's quiet, kind of overcast- the sort of day I’d usually love but I just have this feeling in my circuits that something isn't right. I walk in, past the secretary- doesn’t even look at me, but she never does- the elevator is down. Of course. I take the stairs. 

It's the longer, irritating route to my office, and it means passing through the other cubicles. Actually seeing the other suits who work here. And everyone there seems so jumpy. I know they're scared of me, but… it feels different. Worse than usual. It starts grating on me. A few flights up, I get frustrated. What’s gotten into them? So I ask some Yesman cowering by the oil cooler what the big deal is.

He looks right through me. Doesn't even hear me. Nobody does. I move up the stairs, try a few other offices. It's like… I'm some kind of ghost. Nobody sees or hears me.

It's… the dread sets in, then. Panic, a little. I run up more flights of stairs than they ever built in that office to get to mine. Burst the door down to get to the bottom of all this.

I'm sat in my chair.

Well… it's not me. I'm me. But a second me is sat there, working. Writing out pink slips methodically. Doesn't even glance up when I shout at him. I walk up, I'm yelling then- I don’t remember what I said. Something cruel, probably. I shove the papers off the desk. He looks up.

Have you ever… do you know what it's like? Looking into your own face like that? Knowing it's not really you? It's…

He stands up, and we're eye to eye. I feel like I can't move. He speaks in my voice.

'We don't need you anymore.' 

It's not my voice. Well, it is… But it's hollow. Something's missing. I know what I should sound like, and that... isn't it. It’s hard to describe how I know, but I just... something deep inside me knows. He reaches out. Grabs my neck.

It's only a second of hesitation and I'm against the desk and he's over me, and I can see his eyes are blank. There's nothing behind them. Nobody. And I…

I'm scared. I'm honestly scared for my life. Like... like I haven’t been for years. His blade's whirring and it's close enough to see my reflection in it- the real me, I mean. Wide-eyed and terrified.

'They want me, not you.'

And he just leans closer.

'They never wanted you.'

I… I know what he means. And I realize he's not some imposter or clone or… whatever, made to mess with me. He is me. He's the part of me they brought out on purpose. Just to fix their damn sinking profits. The me they stripped all of me out of. All the things I used to like doing… my friends, my hobbies, even little things I did on the job. Not necessary. Not efficient enough.

It's the empty version of me. The one they want. Just the Chainsaw Consultant.

I think I pass out then, sometime before his blade strikes mine. I don't think he kills me, or anything. Why would he? If he was there, then… he'd already won.

Wouldn’t make sense to kill a ghost.

I guess I wonder, if that happened… would there still be a version of me in there, somewhere? Wandering around like a dream and watching behind my own eyes. Not able to stop it. Not able to scream.

I wonder then, if that would be the real me. Or if that would even matter anymore.

…

Misty was wrong. I don't think writing it down helped at all. All it did was make me remember more. But it's not like I could forget it, even if I tried.

After all, I see that monster in the mirror every day.

[rriavian]

@aisalynn reblogged a post that led to an idea, which led to this, which is now almost 3200 words and almost done. The full fic fits other prompts too but I won't spoil.

Please take this as my 'sorry I'm keeping you waiting for Courting the King I hope this helps tide you over' fic. My brain is fried this evening so no cat Dream, but this didn't need any additions, just an edit. Though tbh I'll probably tweak it a little more. Hope you enjoy!

So - 1/5 times circumstance rendered Dream or the Corinthian nearly unconscious.

-

Dream punishes him.

And by the time it’s over the Corinthian can’t even remember what he’d done. 

It must have been bad—the king’s really done a number on him, really put some effort in—has his body singing in all the right ways. Nightmare or not he still has one, not defined by flesh, yet a body still for all a human would call it merely concept. The Corinthian realises he’s on his side, cheek against a hard, stone floor, spends a moment memorising the texture as it grates against his skin. It’s nice, should be remembered, should be enjoyed, and once it is the Corinthian rolls lazily onto his back. The limbs don’t quite work, as far as motion goes it’s rather inelegant actually, but who cares about that.

The Corinthian feels raw.

Dream has knelt down next to him, hand reaching for his shoulder, and when fingers touch him the Corinthian flinches with a moan, looks up with a smirk. Fuck but he’s pretty. The Corinthian is dazzled by blinding white light, drawls—

“Heya darlin’”

It sounds more like a slur.

Dream stands, smiles. “Such spirit.”

The sentiment is familiar. Or maybe it’s the tone. The Corinthian squints a little, flesh shivering over teeth, tries to keep Dream’s face in focus so he can puzzle it out. Eventually he gives up—needs time to heal, to calm—his nerves the grit of sand, so very inhuman and yet dazed like one. How annoying. It must have taken some time for Dream to satisfy his ire, if it even is satisfied at all, because though the Corinthian thinks he remembers saying sorry it’s hazy, unclear.

In any case he’s not saying it again.  

Instead he sighs, smirks and knows it looks more than a little pleased, a satisfaction all his own. He’ll probably feel embarrassed about this later; so boneless after punishment, hating them because of it, but the Corinthian is currently far too blissed out to care. He doesn’t think he’s supposed to feel like this though, what with the way Dream’s looking at him, doesn’t think he was made to.

But if the Corinthian wasn’t made to enjoy it then that means this is treason.

So maybe it’s ok.

“Can’t break a nightmare with what I do as a day job beautiful.” The Corinthian’s still slurring, loose lipped, is definitely earning himself further punishment with how he’s leering. He adds a wink just to make sure, to tip the scales, to seal the deal. “Damn good foreplay though. Really needed that.”

“I suppose pleasure is as good a way as any to keep you in line.” Dream says dryly. 

There’s intrigue in his eyes.

The Corinthian snorts, yawns, is surprised enough by it to pause. He blinks, grins and then says. “Fuck I’d love to shove my cock down your throat.”

It’s probably not what Dream usually hears after a punishment.

The Corinthian has already earned himself another.

May as well keep going.

“Yup.” He adds, speaks as if Dream has agreed, closes his eyes a moment to shiver with the gall of that, can’t help it, teeth yearning as he opens them. “Think you’d look hot on your knees. On your back too. Or sitting on my lap while I bounce you on my cock.”

Dream laughs; softly, disbelief and amusement, seems to be delighted rather than offended by his nerve. “Really.”

“Mhm.” The Corinthian tries to sit up, sways, braces himself against Dream’s knee so he doesn’t crumple back to the floor. It’s good knee, solid—more so than he is right now, which isn’t really hard—he curls towards it, sighs and then sags, lets it support his weight. “You’d look so fucking pretty.”

He twists his torso a little more, shuffles closer, and ok now his head is resting closer to Dream’s thigh than to his knee but oh well.

It’s a good thigh too.

Beneath Dream’s soft silk robe and even softer skin—under the rope of tendons, of muscle, underneath all of that—the Corinthian knows that he’ll find bone. He feels it under his hand, wants to rip it out, wants to break it, will tenderly carve nerves and tendons away until he finds it white amongst the blood. The Corinthian sighs, smirks, nuzzles happily at Dream’s thigh as he imagines it, embraces blasphemy, thinks it bold and bright.

A hand drifts down to his hair.

It doesn’t do anything, no curl of fingers reaching back, just rests motionless on his head. And that’s probably a warning but if so then good. 

The Corinthian loves warnings.

Or, more specifically, he loves ignoring them.

“Promise you’ll like it.” He mumbles; cheek pressed against soft fabric, no sharp grit here to match that of the floor, something worth memorising all the same. “Eventually. After I’ve hurt you a little. Maybe a lot.”

Dream is dangerously gentle when he pulls the Corinthian’s head back.

He still can’t really even feel the grip on his hair and he knows that’s dangerous because it means this is a prelude. It’s build up. A stoop to what’s unnecessary; Dream doesn’t need to build suspense, not for this, doesn’t entertain while he punishes. That’s saved for special occasions, special affronts.

Not everyone gets it.

Dream’s expression is rather severe—always is really, such a pretty thing, even set in this permanent pout—features cut from stone, from glass. It’s set there like calibration. As always the ozone burn of his fading wrath is terrible to behold, the desolation following a fire far surpassing the ache felt while it’s burning, no adrenaline fuelled destruction found in a silent field of bones.

Oh, the Corinthian thinks in a daze, grinning giddily. 

He must be really mad. 

(Or really pleased)

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 4: It's Not the End of the World

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter

Summary of chapter: A new normal comes into play for the two Akatsuki and their associate, though changes are on the horizon- for better or for worse.

Please regard the notes and warnings of chapter 1 if you have not read it already. The song for this chapter is It's Not the End of the World (Even As We Know It) by Faded Paper Figures as both breaks and in-universe, lyrics not entirely complete or in order.

While I'm not a huge fan of the "only girl in the group" trope, I also have eyes that can see, and Konan in her own is a wonderful character with lots of depth.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Yeah, it's hard but it's not the end of the world

Even as we know it

Yeah, it's so hard but it's not the end of the world

Even as we know it

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

What kind of life is this to lead?

For now, it’s one worth having. The traveler has a roof, job security (?), and a reason to live. She got the gig at the bar, the one in the new village closest to the house she found in the woods, though it’s quite the hike. She resides there now, along with those two guys, sometimes. “As long as our objectives are within range,” the masked one explained to her, “We’ll return.” When inquired about what will happen when it’s not, if she’ll go with them, he shrugged.

���Dunno. We’ll see.”

Hence the more dubious status of her job security.

But! While she has this...it’s going ok. There’s stability in making a routine: The day is her own, which is to say, she quickly had to find out how to not be bored. The fear of losing her livelihood and getting on Kakuzu’s bad side is enough motivation to fill it with practice. Wielding her old musical skills is like sharpening a rusty sword; she’s not sure if it’s actually up to par, but as long as it doesn’t need to go up against a real blade-- an actual performer showing up-- it seems to impress just enough. It was only ever a hobby before, but...she’d be lying if in some way this wasn’t her dreams come true.

Minus the serial killers, or whatever they are. They won’t really tell her. But she can make that work!

Besides practice, there’s the matter of meals. Kakuzu goes against his word (probably figured it’d save him the headache) and gives an allowance. It’s less her choice, though, and more “here is exactly the cost of these things I pre-selected for you at this storefront.” But! She won’t starve again. For that, she’s grateful.

Hidan rolls his eyes sometimes and throws either a bag, container, or the food itself that he probably stole right at her, making sure every single time it is in front of Kakuzu. The traveler doesn’t need much intuition to sense a bit of spite or competition, so she simply thanks Hidan and says little to question how the arrangement should be; let them argue between themselves. She’s not super interested in getting in the middle.

Boy can they argue, though.

That’s the next part of the routine, really, when they arrive-- typically before sunset or just after dusk. They’re as different as different can be. Practical vs spiritual. Pragmatic vs excessive. Money vs prayer. The only thing they can agree on, apparently, is that things are taking way too fucking long and that is the fault of the other. Threats to kill and end it all happen often- especially on Kakuzu’s end, which surprises her based on how Hidan’s religion is literally, explicitly about killing, and she learns to be wary of the silence just as much-- the pressure building before someone throws a punch. She learns to either shut her ears and pretend to be busy or simply arrange that she’ll be in her “room” when they walk through the door. Maybe she’s over thinking it, though; if they’ve hit each other, it’s not been in front of her.

The sight of conflict bothers her more than the violence itself, to be honest.

Even in the world the traveler had before, the name of the game was to make herself as little of a nuisance as possible. This new unfamiliarity and constant impending doom? It’s compounding that aspect of her like a voice in a megaphone. And here she thought she had made progress! The fact that Kakuzu stated the house was perfect because “it’s free, private, and easy to surveillance” puts a weight on her shoulders whenever she leaves on her own for meals. She nearly gave herself a heart attack making eye contact with someone watering her flowers. She swallowed, pretended she is simply going about her day, and as soon as they looked away, she circled back and left. Her caretakers are bounty hunters, at minimum; what happens to her if some asshole is pissed at THEM and sees HER in association? But she knows the answer to her situation already. If you don’t like it, just leave.

But she prefers a devil she knows.

There’s another good side, though-- Hidan is never short of conversation. She isn’t entirely sure his expectations of her and what he’s going to get out of it, but clearly he aches for a listening ear, talking on and on as any seasoned scholar could (with the mouth of a sailor drunk in a ditch). The corner of his lips even seems to twitch up, on occasion, as his follower engages the scripture. He’s disciplined only in his religion, yes, but he’s not half-assing that, praying most any time he’s not speaking with the pendant to his face. What an enigma Hidan is to her, multitudes of thoughts and attitudes and ideals somehow making one man so sure about the universe. It tampers down the fact he prods her about when she wants to “go out for some heathen slaughter again.”

Does she know he’ll defend that attentiveness to bloodshed? Not yet.

When night falls is when she earns her keep, slinging a guitar over her back and being escorted by the two Akatsuki in a beeline to her corner of the low-lit business. It’s as chill as a performance job can be, and she’s content whether or not she’s acknowledged. Once or twice a night, someone will approach her. If it’s just talk, she’ll light up like the sun. If it’s more, she’s experienced that if she can get them to accept a polite denial, that’s better than her bouncers getting to them. It doesn’t help that Hidan is always RIGHT there, same spot every time, just as the first. Sometimes he’ll watch at her, but most of the time he looks bored, dangling his glass from his fingertips, either closing his eyes or looking angry he can’t fall asleep. But it’s a sin to mistake his disinterest for laziness, that tongue of his a dagger if someone bothers her just a little too long or gets a little too close. Kakuzu, however, always stays distant, perhaps judging how well this is working out, if she warrants this much of his time for a couple of bills. Neither belong with this scene, so they typically don’t engage anyone on their own volition. She begins to thank them for their time, but neither like being accused of kindness, so it’s a habit not kept.

At the end of each shift as it’s time to close the bar, the performer always wave politely to the staff and tells them to be safe heading home. They say “you too”, eventually. Her management is more dangerous than any bump in the night, boogeyman in the shadows. Is she safe when she gets home? There’s always a bit too much hesitance before she assures yes.

Some of the weight their red clouds carry starts to stick in her brain, after a couple of worried murmurs and frantic shouts about them. Kind of dampers the gig that someone more or less walked in, demanded a job for her, and she got it based on their own merit. But no one has made a big deal of it yet, the Akatsuki themselves even brushing it off somehow. The locals start to have more ease, but she’ll never be rid of the visitors passing through that try to pull the metaphorical fire alarm.

Ah well. The motto the traveler abides by, even long before this, was that to be embarrassed is to be known. To be known is to be embarrassed. If she’s anxious all the time, regardless of what she does, might as well try to be authentic.

There she finds relief in her “gimmick”-- the traveler from a strange, distant land. No, not even just from Hoshigakure-- that’s her actual cover story if it’s time to get serious-- but being exactly from where she really is from with enough vague words to escape being too specific. When she puts on her little show, she’s not just an out-of-place weirdo anymore. In the moment, she’s THE weirdo and she’s THRIVING for it, just as she always wanted and never thought possible. This “cover” is kept up eagerly, innocently, performative, in such a way that everyone really eats it up, finds it endearing-- adorable even. The woman sings of fairy tales and regrets with a smile on her face. Who would ever accuse her of telling the truth?

That’s why she dares to keep her few original affects, no matter how overly colorful. At first Kakuzu questioned them but depriving the performer of them left her so goddamn self-conscious to have it pointed out that he begrudgingly allowed it. When it rains and the two Akatsuki wear their hats, she brings out her own from her messenger bag, to match. It’s a light straw with pink ribbon tied in a bow with long tails. Her bag is even in theme, too, shaped like a folded love letter with a heart seal on the back. There’s no doubt that, sincerely, the two men are the only way no one messes with her since she is so purposefully demure and strange, unless of course the mistake is made of not recognizing their cloaks. It’s rare to see them, but there’s even a pair of literal rose tinted glasses in that strapped envelope. Is she a mockery of something? If so...what? While both men wonder, neither care to ask.

Indeed, whimsy is down to her bones, floating in curled strands of hair and in the way she sticks her boots far out to emphasize each step. Each individual leaf is capable of captivating her, every silky thread of the spider and every flower that can hug its petals around her nose. Her eyes glitter with wonder until the second you remind her she exists in front of other people.

Indeed, over time, life somehow becomes good. It takes a while, but eventually she accidentally bargains up on those trips for lunch. “Sure, you’re a regular patron now! How about some bread to go with your soup?”

The woman with the garden will tell her hello now and she’ll say it back. She can even take a smile on the street, faces becoming recognizable in the transition of vulnerable nights to guarded days. Her stomach is fuller and so are hopes. After all, she always wanted to be a storyteller. Always tried to convey to people in her life what certain words other wrote really can mean. No writer, teller. That’s all she’s doing, trying to pass feelings along in the music that’s kept her alive. Emotion is what she has, not elegance. This is the one strength she will admit to.

In turn, the “weirder” music must be kept under wraps, no matter the pang of their memory, only picking songs she finds either innocuous or passable enough to what she perceives these people to know here. Entirely relatable subjects-- even if one has to stretch-- with the foreign concept here and there explained away as world-building. She saves the fun ones for when she practices, when she thinks herself alone; she’s seen Hidan give her a “what the fuck” face hard enough to shame her into not doing it in front of them again. Of course the shinobi catch it anyways, Kakuzu thinking it’s just more of these odd fantasies while Hidan furrows his brow till it hurts.

“The hell is she singing about?”

“Nonsense. That’s what they all are anyway,” Kakuzu convinces himself. Hidan grunts.

“Jashin make sense of this for me,” he half prays.

So she begins to be a little more bold in her personal life, but not by much. Still a small mouse, at worst a kitten hissing in fear, but getting better. Persona on or off, it’s hard to take her seriously unless you actually LISTEN to her. One side of her is apologetic to even breathe. The other side in rose-tinted glasses is more interested in hearing your interpretation, your expression change, rather than what she may actually be saying for herself.

She loves questions. She loves reactions. Who cares what’s true or not? Who cares if tomorrow isn’t a guarantee? This is what existence is.

That’s been decided by the night a spellbinding set of orange eyes sit across the table.

“Takara...” That’s the name Kakuzu gave her, after the performer waffled to pick her own.

The songbird raises her head, having not introduced herself to this woman yet. Idly, she plays some chords on the piano, filling the silence as she holds back her voice. The stranger doesn’t smile, pulling a strand of periwinkle hair behind her ear.

“I’ve heard of you.”

The piano player gives more time to slide her gaze over and evaluate this person; no, she’s not familiar. “Takara’s” face brightens. “R-really?” She’s never been recognized beyond the usual patrons before. The woman neither nods nor affirms with her voice, just tilts her head forward and to the side with hooded eyes.

“You’re from a place of legends,” the patron recalls, emotionless. “Somewhere with no proof of it besides your songs.”

The performer bobs her head side to side in a bit of a playful confirmation. “Seems to be the case...Haven’t found another person from there,” she adds with an undercurrent of somberness.

“What’s it like there?”

As rehearsed, the player breathes in and out, and she sort of tells the truth. “It’s hard to describe your whole universe. There’s a bit of everything. Of course there is! But...I can say what there’s a bit more or less of, compared to here. There’s more noise. There’s more light-- so much we say it pollutes the night sky.” Though indoors, a wistful gaze becomes fixed upward. Hoshigakure...that’s supposed to be the village hidden in the stars. How can there be more than the ones she already gets to see now?

“We know so much about the heavens, but the layperson hardly gets to see it-- as it really is. A select few are chosen and trained to go beyond the clouds and pollution to see it firsthand. We’ve had a handful of people walk on the moon!”

Semi-consciously, she drifts into playing the Nocturn op.9. No.2 by Chopin. The patron can’t help but find it befitting, sweetness drifting into something in memory, an old mirror foggy with stardust. It’s getting late; the barkeep is cleaning the glasses, trying unsuccessfully to listen to a conversation.

“THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE!?”

Kakuzu eyes glare, glittering like daggers in the moonlit rain as he and a figure stand some meters away towards the outskirts of the forest. This means nothing to Hidan, of course, who folds his arms as he sits on the steps outside the bar. The newcomer smiles with half a face, the other half not moving as the white one’s lips move.

“Simply curious.” White Zetsu’s voice is nearly saccharine; Hidan loathes it. The mouth somehow keeps still while a deeper voice speaks. “This assignment has gone long past the expected perimeters.”

While Hidan is irreverent, Kakuzu is obedient-- but childish he is not and will not take scolding lying down. “Supplementing income,” he returns, not asking for forgiveness.

“I have a hard time believing you,” Black Zetsu retorts. Kakuzu doesn’t flinch.

“The books are there to prove it.”

“...She does sing very nicely…” the softer voice defends, though the other won’t back down. “We must think critically about this,” he instructs. The Akatsuki’s treasurer exhales.

“If the command is to abandon this—”

Before his partner can go batshit over Kakuzu relenting- rolling over so EASILY like a dog- the mouthless voice continues.

“That's not the issue." Then gentler voice returns, tongue slick with mischief. "What if she’s telling the truth?”

A simple question met with baffled reactions, a shocked pause in between.

“...Will you get the hell out of here already?” Hidan’s arm sweeps in front of him in a grand “shoo”ing motion. Silently, Kakuzu can’t help but agree; at this point Zetsu is clearly just fucking around, bouncing childish ideas back at them in jest. But from past experience, just after the punchline is when the plant-man would take his leave. Indeed, it’s even more unnerving that now he doesn’t move an inch.

“I’d like to make a request.”

By this point, the angel has made it to the front row, leg folded over her thigh with full, unflinching attention on the homemade musician. Takara can’t ignore how it makes her heart race, the high of controlling the narrative and of being in the graces of someone so gorgeous. As such, she smiles and nods eagerly to the proposal. The intent of Konan’s statements will become starkly clear later: the precision of it, the delicacy.

“Play for me...a song I will never understand.”

The meaning of this is obvious, in a way; they had spent the last half hour in a hyperbolic game of ping-pong in this conversation, a back and forth about what being foreign really means. The execution, however, is the real problem. Days and weeks of mulling over the appropriateness of lyrics has made it apparent how thin the line is, how gray the concept of being incomprehensible. Everything will have a twinge of relatability. What’s so different between here and there?

Takara bites the inside of her lip. Perhaps she should think of the reasons why she left.

The humming comes first, as she often does, while she spins upon her seat to pick up her second instrument; this one is going to be a bit strange to relay only on the acoustic guitar, as its so percussion-heavy in her memory. She rolls her shoulders a couple of times and then drifts into the inexplicable absurdity of Americana, consumerism, and chaos.

Glass ceilings falling on you

Like the blessings of a choice when it's the only way

Last night I thought I saw you

With a drink, and friends, you said you go there everyday

Then I hear you say

There’s a depth to it, a brevity she didn’t allow before. If it was her watching herself, she’d call it being a theater kid.

Wicked television screen, Rockefeller energy

Politician guarantee, stupid corporate synergy

MSNBC jerks, messing with the young Turks

Yogi hippiography, sell us immortality

Democratic fail safe

Money gets you in the game

Money gets you in the game

Money gets you in the game

It’s a rompous way to end the shift, letting loose and feeling her grief seep out her pores like sweat until her fingertips hurt on the grit of the strings. This nonsense doesn’t exist for her anymore! She’s never been normal, no one WILL ever be normal. She’ll never again need to pretend normal is real while the world burns around her. She finally gets to scream it out.

Yeah, it's so hard but it's not the end of the world

Even as we know it

Unapologetic about the truth, even though no one here will get what it means without living it. It might make up for the social awkwardness of all this jargon, all these buzz words that she doesn’t need to know anymore.

Kiss and tell apocalypse, psycho-pharmacologists

Target demographic lies, revolution improvised

Artificial bleeding heart, superficial work of art

Conjure up the word of God, complicated voter fraud

Buddha-heads will save the day, calculate the DNA

Mindless droning, human rights

Shoppers camping overnight

The world's a business power-play

Money gets you in the game

Money gets you in the game

MONEY GETS YOU IN THE GAME

In a weird way, she got exactly what she wanted when she died, but that part will stay a secret to even herself, let alone anyone in this dreamland. This lady doesn’t need to know; Hidan and Kakuzu don’t need to know.

...But it’s getting late, now. Where are those two, anyway? The barkeep points to the exit, and so she goes, politely excusing herself as orange eyes bore into the back of her skull.

The atmosphere is thicker than fog. Teeth clench in Hidan’s jaw, and Kakuzu’s glance no longer goes through her but stops right where she stands. An amalgamation of two men and a venus flytrap envelopes her attention; she could swear he barely licked his lips as she walked in.

“There you are,” a dreadful voice speaks seemingly from thin air. A shadow falls on Takara’s shoulder as the patron walks by wordlessly to the creature.

“Wait, Konan, how did we not see you-?!” Hidan sputters. Takara blinks.

“...Hold on. You guys know each other?”

Kakuzu won’t even indulge the question, so the blue-haired lady answers herself, approaching Zetsu and retrieving her cloak from his hands, a matching set of black and red clouds just as he drapes around himself.

Oh.

...Shit.

Her eyes can’t keep off of the one as black and white as the piano, but no one explains anything about him. He’s just a fact of reality, an everyday occurrence for these people. He is as pleasant-- and normal-- as any other gentleman. As Konan mutely joins the stance of four Akatsuki looking down one girl, Zetsu greets her with a smile that looks like fangs sanded back down.

“Our leader wishes to speak with you.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Good gods abandoning you

Like a pain that fades when it's no longer in your way

No collective dreams to guide you

Have another drink, I think you'll be here everyday

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

One can only wonder how long a watchful eye had followed along if it lives in the trees. The plant-man sinks in and out of bark like a bend in reality itself, reappearing only after the long, pained walk where Konan guided their path. There’s no more joy in the performer anymore. She wants to hold someone’s hand, but she’s left alone, folding and unfolding her own in anxiety until she’s worried they might rub raw. An illusion breaks as Konan approaches an over-sized oak and apparates an arch of pure darkness, causing Takara to fall backwards and shriek. Hidan ends up catching her. While a chiding is expected, she instead receives a whisper.

“Listen," he murmurs into her ear, "Fuckers are all talk. Don’t let ‘em get to ya, okay?”

How serious he’s being scares her more than anything else.

She’s helpless but to look over her shoulder as Konan escorts her inside the black hole. Hidan is helpless but to look on as he’s dictated by Zetsu to stay and Kakuzu to obey. The Jashinist frowns at the empty space where she was.

Why is he upset? That’s what Kakuzu asks. If anything, it’s him that should be, the fate of her income uncertain. Hidan doesn’t know the answer to that, so he spits in the opposite direction and tells him to shut up.

Inside this tree, there he sits, the king with a wood knot for a throne. Though his hair is the color of fire, it’s the eyes that rule her attention, circles upon a purple like the depths of space. He too wears the cloak. Her blood turns to ice and she freezes in place, but there’s little to fear-- at least right now. No, the leader has planned this out. Honey will suit this one better than water. It isn’t a matter of breaking this one open; there’s a precision, a delicacy that’s necessary. She’s more like...a puzzle that needs to be coaxed into revealing all its pieces. The possibilities- or even more so, the unimaginable- leave too much at stake.

“We are the Akatsuki.” The man’s voice is as regal as his presence. He sits above her, distantly...but not necessarily unkindly. “Under my command are the most elite of shinobi, those who have defected their station in light of the truth. The truth…” he repeats, spirals narrowing. “We’ve observed the truth about you.”

“But...that’s just—”

Konan watches silently in the corner of her eye as the man moves an index over his lips, urging Takara hush. The performer knows now that her patron was evaluating just how convincing her outlandishness was.

“You’ve hid in plain sight,” the leader continues. “Made due with what you had. All I ask now is…”

Her breath hitches, and abruptly she’s convinced this is somehow the end. But as her eyes squeeze shut, a death-cold hand holds her cheek, and they open just as soon. The man with many piercings seems to look upon her as one does an injured animal.

“...Share your suffering with us. Among comrades who don’t belong.”

His ring-wearing hand retracts, leaving her speechless. Pain allows the air to stagnate with her confusion before he elaborates, now on her level.

“We misfits who will bring the world to peace. Shinobi or otherwise, a power beyond infinite knowledge sent you here. I want to help you. I want your help.”

“I’m beseeching you: explain how you got here.”

She remembers the sound of the ocean and the sand under her palms. The man’s confidant sends a silent warning with her expression as she sees the girl begin to slip to the edge of composure, tears threatening to fall. The leader exhales softly.

“I’m expanding the tasks that my members took liberty upon. You will remain with us. Vulnerability should be no sin.”

The two Akatsuki wait in patience, their offer like God reaching down from heaven. But she doesn’t believe in God anymore. This benevolence surrounds an exchange, and the traveler is too afraid to ask what she must give. Briefly, she imagines continuing this life as she has, just without the two bounty hunters. She tries to focus on how fun and kind and fulfilling it can be, but those target eyes pin her in place as she imagines familiar faces twisting into sneers, jeers, and nightmares as soon as she has to stand on her own two feet. Then she feels hunger. Cold. And being alone again.

The answer to the proposal can only be a yes. Her head dips in submission, and she shouldn’t be surprised when he raises it again. His fingers are like ice. “Everything will be as it should.”

A threat and a promise.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Unfortunately, life goes on

However bent and badly drawn

Unfortunately, life goes on

However bent and badly

Bent and badly

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[dangraccoon]

Oyuba'din - Chapter 23: Contact

Summary: Jaine struggles with her desire to earn Tech's trust back; Tech has an odd encounter with a stranger.

Warnings: being contacted in a dream, brotherly teasing, mention of failure based punishment/decommissioning

Author's Note: okay so this chapter has been written for actual weeks and I just haven't had the time (or energy, but mostly time) to edit and post it, but it's here now! Given that we're headed into Seasonal Affective Disorder time, I can't guarantee that I'll be posting as often as I used to, but I'm kinda hoping that I can update this fic for you guys and maybe a few others that have been brewing in my brain

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Jaine had been up to her neck in overdue reports and inventories from the Batch’s “extended leave” and now that they’d be starting missions again, she was beginning to feel overwhelmed. 

Her eyes felt like they were beginning to burn from how long she’d been staring at the screen of her data pad, so she set it down on the table with a clunk, sighing as she pressed her palms into eyes. 

“Getting tired, mesh’la?” Hunter chuckled as he entered the room. She jumped a little, not expecting him. 

“Hunter,” she groaned. 

“You’ve been away from the action too long,” Hunter teased, picking up the data pad to read the half finished report. “Statistical analysis? Thought this was Tech’s job?”

“Yeah,” Jaine shrugged, glancing up at the sergeant with an almost unreadable expression. Almost. 

Hunter watched her for a moment. He didn’t need his enhanced senses to feel the stress radiating off of her, the guilt. 

“Jaine,” he chided gently, sitting down next to her. “You need to give him time. He’ll come back around.”

She sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder, grateful that he hadn’t gotten into his armor yet. “I just feel so horrible. I’m worried that if there’s some kind of situation in the field, he won’t be able to trust me.”

Hunter barely heard her quiet admissions of fear and guilt over the sound of his own heart threatening to beat out of his chest. She’d never been this close to him before. Crosshair, of course, and maybe Wrecker, but never him. 

A part of him swelled with pride; she felt close enough to him to lean on him and tell him what was bothering her. All he wanted was to hold her and tell her that it was going to be alright. 

But then a few small ripples of guilt began to tap at him. She wasn’t his to hold; she was Crosshair’s cyare, not his. He shouldn’t be thinking about her like this. Beyond the trouble it could cause between him and his brother, he was her squad leader. Even if she did rank higher than him, it was still wrong. 

Hunter cleared his throat a little, shifting uncomfortably in his seat until she picked up her head to look up at him. 

“Excuse me,” he muttered, getting up from the seat and walking away as quickly as he could, brushing past Echo. 

“What’s with him?” Echo questioned, watching the sergeant as he disappeared into the ship’s cargo hold. He looked back to her, an expression of mixed emotions on her face as she frowned down at the data pad. Jaine shrugged, her shoulders falling back down with a sigh.

“Do you ever feel like you’re messing everything up?” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

Echo’s heart sank. “Yeah,” he whispered, taking a seat next to her. He chuckled at the incredulous look he was met with when she looked up at him. “I think it’s just part of being alive.”

Jaine hummed, the pair falling into a peaceful silence. 

-

Tech wasn’t sure where he was. Some type of forest it seemed, but he couldn’t recall landing on a planet with such terrain in this latest string of missions. 

He tapped a button on his vambrace. “Hunter? Come in,” he called, but was met with no response. “Hunter? Crosshair?”

He took in his surroundings; he was in a small patch of clover in what seemed to be a large forest of coniferous trees. There were no signs of any fauna or even other sentient beings. A sun hung low in the clear sky, casting the forest with the soft colors of the first hints of twilight. 

“Hello?” he called, eyes still scanning the forest. 

“Hello,” a soothing, feminine voice answered, but he couldn’t tell where it came from. 

“Where are you?” he asked. “Who are you?”

“I am sure you have many questions, mird’ika,” the voice seemed to chuckle. “You always have.”

“Do I- have we met?”

“I know you, but you have yet to meet me.”

Tech felt his heartbeat and breath become faster, less steady, as a small ball of light hovered in front of him, the voice emanating from it.

“Do not worry, mird’ika, I present no threat to you.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” 

“There are no proper translations in your Galactic Basic or Mando’a for the Qoljaki nicknames she has given the five of you.”

“Qoljaki? Do you mean Jaine?” 

“Yes; my child is quite fond of you.”

Tech felt his cheeks start to warm at the thought, but quickly chastised himself; don’t think of her that way.

The light giggled. “Why should you not? She cares deeply for you.”

“Can you-”

“Hear your thoughts?” the voice smiled. “Only when you are in my domain.” 

“What ‘domain’ is this?” he asked, continuing to inspect the forest around him. 

“It is difficult to explain in a language you would understand. Perhaps think of it like a dream.”

Tech’s head was spinning. “Who are you?” 

“A very long time ago, I had many names from all those who believed, but only one remains. I am what my child calls a ‘Chromira’.”

“One of the Qoljaki gods?”

The Chromira hummed noncommittally. “That is what those of that moon believed. We used to be blessed with many children. But eventually they all moved on. Some stopped believing in us, others died out. The people of Qoljak were the last of our children.”

“Why am I here?”

“You’re always looking for answers, mird’ika,'' the Chromira chuckled. “It seems this time in your search, you found me.”

“I believe I have many further questions now,” Tech scowled, pulling another laugh from the Chromira. 

“I would expect no less,” she said, the smile evident in her voice. “Where should you like to begin?”

-

“‘Messing everything up’?” Crosshair repeated, the confused scowl unmoving from his face. “What could she possibly be messing up?”

“I’m not sure,” Echo frowned. “She and Hunter were talking and he rushed out of the room when I got there.”

“I swear if that di’kut upset her again-”

“Easy, Cross,” Echo said, his hand finding Crosshair’s shoulder. “You should just talk to her.”

Crosshair sighed. “Yeah, you’re right.”

A wild grin spread across Echo’s face. “Wait, say that again?” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Crosshair groaned, elbowing Echo’s ribcage lightly.

“No, it was something else; I think you said that I’m right. Don’t worry, baby brother, I won’t tell anyone else!”

-

As Hunter sat on the edge of his bunk, he was happy to see that Tech was actually asleep, and deep enough that he would occasionally twitch or mumble. It didn’t seem like an unpleasant dream, so Hunter left him alone. He was feeling guilty for basically running away from Jaine earlier, but figured she’d probably been swept up into his brother’s arms by this point, so he didn’t dare go back to the galley where he’d left her. No, he’d stay here for a while, maybe attempt to doze off.

But he couldn’t be that lucky, he discovered as Wrecker came into the bunk rooms, plopping down onto his bunk with a heavy sigh. 

“What’s with you?” Hunter asked, not bothering to open his eyes to peek at his brother.

“I was trying to talk to Jainey but then Cross came in and took her away,” Wrecker replied, almost in a whine.

Hunter opened one eye. “Really?” 

“Yeah! He came in and whispered to her and then dragged her into the medbay. I just wanted to ask if she was okay. She looked sad.”

The sergeant couldn’t help the way his heart lurched at the idea. The twist of guilt in his gut pained him. “Did you talk to her?” 

“No, Cross came in before I could say anything.”

“Shouldn’t be surprised,” Tech mumbled from his bunk, his words slurred with sleep.

Wrecker scowled. “Huh?” 

“What do you mean?” Hunter grunted, barely opening his eyes to peek at his brother.

“He’s always been strongly protective of that which he believes is his.”

“Jainey isn’t his,” Wrecker chuckled nervously. “Is she?”

Hunter all but growled. “A person can't belong to anyone.”

“I believe in a social context, ‘belonging’ to someone refers to being in an intimate and or romantic relationship with that being,” Tech explained, ignoring the groan from Wrecker. “Therefore, the question is whether or not Jaine is in an intimate and or romantic relationship with Crosshair.”

-

“Talk to me, cyare,” Crosshair, hummed, his arms wrapping around her from behind.

Jaine sighed, the words teetering at the tip of her tongue. He pressed a gentle kiss on her temple, before turning her to face him.

“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” he whispered. His gaze was piercing.

“I’m…worried,” she began delicately, pulling herself out of his arms to busy herself with putting away some bandages. “I’m worried that…this may be causing problems within the squad.”

Crosshair scowled a little, moving to stand at her side, leaning against the counter. “Cyare, Echo told me about what you’d said to him earlier. Is that what’s worrying you? That you’re ‘messing everything up’?”

Jaine’s motions slowed for a moment to heave a deep sigh. “It just feels like I’ve been causing problems for all of you since I was assigned here.” Her voice became a little erratic as she began to shift her weight back and forth between her legs nervously. “Kenobi said that this is where I am meant to be, but how can it be? Not only have I been hurting you all since I stepped into your barracks, I’ve caused you all to step away from your duties.”

“That’s not-”

“Crosshair,” she interrupted, her voice faltering a little and slipping into a harsh whisper. “I know what happens to clones who can’t keep up with their assignments.”

The fear behind her voice struck him silent. Her hands fidgeted at her sides and Crosshair could see the tiny hints of red sparks forming in her palms. Her eyes searched the space in front of her, as though she were reading invisible holoscreens. 

“Jaine, please don’t even think about leaving us again,” he whispered, ignoring the way she winced and turned away from him, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Kenobi is right. This is where you belong; here, with us. They need you here. I need you here.”

She turned and gave him a half-hearted smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Cross,” she mumbled, grabbing her datapad and heading out of the room.

Thanks for reading! - River

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[meanscarletdeceiver]

Sodor Work History: James Edition

Ugh, it seems to have vanished?? But I had an anon request a James equivalent to my Edward work history post. Of course now that I'm done writing I can't find the ask… #ThanksTumblr… Anyway here goes:

I'd like to! But James is tricky...

The thing with James is, we seem to have a bunch of data points throughout the books on his doings. But there's so much we don't know about the main line working and how many "unseen" engines share the work with our main characters. Like, all the branch line characters are easier to at least assemble pieces into a rough border because there are more constraints there. The main line has too many unknowns. There is a similar problem to sketching out Henry's timetables, but at least with Henry—like with all the other MCs—we know of at least one thing that he is known to do regularly. We don't have a touchstone for James.

Broadly, though, here are a few things I notice (and/or just streeeeeetch to conclude in a fever dream) about James's Sodor career:

He spent a little while there as the closest damn thing Tidmouth had to a station pilot. I feel like this gets completely overlooked. After the bootlace incident he's benched from passenger work, of course, but in addition to goods work he is doing a lot of coach-fetching at the big station. Troublesome Engines says that he continued being the "odd jobs" fellow for a while until he started to rebel. He would never have been full-time—unlike, say, Thomas. Thomas, I'm sure, would have been transferred to Tidmouth when HQ moved and continued there if not for his branch line assignment. But, unlike Thomas, James is trusted to take trains out of the station. But in between those trains he was largely stuck with the shunting. (In "Troublesome Trucks" his tricky goods train appears to go as far as Maron or Cronk? Not traversing the whole line, not yet.) Troublesome Engines says of course that Gordon and Henry had to step up, and also that Edward helped when he was available, but I think it's pretty obvious who was a) actually a Tidmouth engine and b) the newest Tidmouth engine and c) the smallest Tidmouth engine. (To add to this brief period in James's life, I note that the train that pushes him down the hill at the end of TTTE might well be—da dum da dum!—the same train that Thomas lost control of in the previous story. How's that for literary repetition, eh? Anyway, point being, James might have been expected to fill in Thomas's old role on the NWR from the very start.)

During Thomas and Bertie's chase, James is seen in an illustration with a goods train on Thomas's line! Now you can explain away one random illustration if you want, but it does make a lot of sense that in 1948 Thomas might need help running goods on his line—this would have been after the useful working lives of the Coffee Pots, but before Toby (and way before Percy) join the line. So yeah, until Toby's arrival James might have pitched in on Thomas's line fairly often. It's a nice detail. It might have gone all the way back to the '20s or whatever. Certainly James would have been grateful to Thomas for rescuing him so he was probably happy to do it... at least for a while...

Let's talk main line stopping trains. I have a bit of a headcanon here, though it's built on the slenderest of canonical reeds which is why I'm not calling this bit an analysis. We see James with a lot of these stopping trains but in my personal canon I've decided that all such trains we see him on in this era ("Dirty Objects," "Old Iron," "A Close Shave," and maybe "Henry's Sneeze") are 'the Limited,' which I take it is a semi-fast that stops only at major stations (places like Knapford, Wellsworth, Cronk—maybe Crovan's Gate though that seems to leave CG, like, absurdly well-served). No all-stops for James, thank you! Well, occasionally he gets stuck with one but usually that's beneath him.

Sadly for him, throughout most of the '50s goods are clearly not beneath him. If I am right that in passenger work he specializes on the semi-fast, he has no such luck in goods work. "Dirty Objects" has that wonderful description making it clear how much James hates slow good trains but I suspect those are his bread and butter for years to come. Certainly he's in the midst of another such assignment a year later in "Old Iron"—and in that story it is also made clear that, not only does he have to stop at each station to pick up or drop off trucks, at most of these stops he has to do his own shunting. This sounds like it probably takes most of his damn day. The day described in "Dirty Objects" of one morning passenger service followed by one of these endless slogs is probably pretty typical for James in this era.

In the early '50s at least, this routine gets broken up—occasionally—only when there is a need to cover the Express. The '50s were a good decade for it, as, in addition to Gordon's regular need for "rest" or maintenance, James also gets to score big with Gordon's unplanned trip to London and Gordon's lengthy punishment following the Ditch Incident. Jackpot, baby!

[Time-Sensitive Alert: There Is A Tram Engine Blocking Your Line]

I assume all James's appearances at the junction with the narrow-gauge gang are when he's taking an Express. Or maybe some sort of Limited? But it's... fairly consistent that Tidmouth engines are not just randomly on the eastern end of the line unless they're taking some sort of major train—I presume that any of the humdrum 'Locals' on the eastern side are taken care of by Vicarstown engines.

The '50s are when we get the most complete picture of James's working days. I reckon it changed, however, towards the end of the decade. Along with the other 'eight,' our boy's fame is on the rise throughout the decade and I think James effectively parlayed this into doing more passenger work, taking advantage of what was surely a rise in tourism to the island. At some point James is merely picking up the slack when it comes to heavy goods—and then. Then! Donald arrives. Bringing a twin with him! I tend to think at this point James was pretty much relieved from the goods work he had hated for so long completely... for, like, a month or two. Then Donald had to be repaired after his totally-accidental signalbox adventure and TFC observes ruefully that "James will have to help with the goods work... he won't like that!" Surely not, but I think the thing was, when TFC got an unexpected 2-for-1, James was immediately released from that stuff. God, no wonder that by the final story he was so keen for both twins to stay on! For that matter, I also reckon that James was usually tapped for snow-removal duty during winters before the Caledonians came. Really they were a godsend to him in his effort to rise above his station. Ye're welcome, laddie.

Seriously. For the rest of the Wilbert Awdry books, I can't find another instance of James doing goods work. *shrugs casually* Now, Awdry was also giving James far less screen time at this point so you can say definitely say there's not enough data to draw meaningful conclusions. I however prefer to think it was no coincidence but rather a logical effect of recruiting Duck, the Caledonians, and the diesels of the '60s. It makes sense. Heavy goods would have only been getting heavier. Not that it was impossible for James to keep up, but if you have some modern diesels and two Scottish goods engines who love to work together as much as possible then, you know. Why keep forcing James into that role?

I admit that Christopher Awdry fucks up this trajectory. Sigh. Sometimes he is soooo thoughtful about his timetable choices but other times I think he just defaults to some of the most obvious franchise tropes the same way a TVS writer would. It's maddening.

Anyway yeah, I concede that as soon as we see James again in '84 he's taking goods. He's also complaining about having to shunt his train, saying that this should be Donald or Douglas's kind of work, but the twins were both called away to help on Edward's branch line on that particular day so the field is open for James to have his karmic story ("Crossed Lines"). Now you could make a plausible case that what James says when he's grumbling is not to be trusted as gospel truth and that he's exaggerating the degree to which this is now true but I'm inclined to take it at face value.

At any rate, for all the rest of the series, James is seen (when he is seen) taking passenger trains, including at least one turn on the Express in '92/'93, except on a few occasions:

1. Filling in while Henry is in overhaul on the Flying Kipper

2. Working some sort of special job repairing rails along with Donald and Douglas in the final book. Notably he expresses on the last day (well, the "last" day, or so they all thought) that he's looking forward to it being done so he can hopefully go back to passenger trains, but he is remarkably chill throughout the whole story and causes zero (0) drama at all. And you thought Gordon was supposed to be the only RWS character to show growth. Mwahaha!

In short, I suppose when you add in the Christopher Awdry era (you know. if we want to) then it's no longer clear whether James is really doing goods work and odd jobs significantly less or whether he's just bitching about it less. I'm inclined to think Both, however: He's called upon for it less often than in the pre-Caledonian invasion days and therefore he doesn't chafe and bitch nearly about it as much when he is.

Much like we let TVS confirm/fill in the gist of Edward's latter-day career, I feel like we can take similar cues for James. I'm thinking here mostly of the Brenner era, especially *drumroll please* "SOMEBODY HAS TO BE THE FAAAAVOURITE!" vibes. Well, I'm not so sure James is really going around singing his smokebox off (... though it's cute ngl...) but I do think it's true that he is, in general, picking up a steady enough supply of "good" jobs that his ego is pretty well fed. Which is honestly a much better way to manage James than to try desperately to teach him humility, if you ask me.

I'm not sure how useful a proposed timeline will be but it seemed to be some people's favorite part of the last such post I did so I'll give it a try.

1925 — goods trial, first day cow-field crash

1925 — overhaul

1925 — passenger trial, bootlace incident

1925 — station pilot and local goods (western end of line only)

1925 — allowed back on passenger trains, also western end of line only

1928 (or whatever year you allow for the strike and Percy's arrival, which is somewhere between '25-'35) — shifts to a longstanding pattern of morning stopping passenger train (I proposed the Limited, to Cronk and back to Tidmouth) and then has a slow heavy goods out of Tidmouth (this requires stopping and shunting at many stations and takes the better part of the day), probably tacks on an evening passenger service too

1939-1946 — I do think wartime disrupted James's schedule. Ironically I tend to think he got a lot of passenger services, including regular charge of the Express to free Gordon on heavy coal and war materiel trains, but the work was all non-stop hell and Vicarstown certainly and probably Tidmouth also got blitzed so it's not like he got to enjoy it. Troop trains were also probably a James specialty.

1960 — James transitions out of heavy goods work and his longstanding timetable of Limited + slow goods + evening commuter service is changed, probably to something featuring more passenger trains than previously. Fitted goods are definitely an option to replace his hated slow goods assignment.

2010-11 — James picks up a months-long assignment helping with some sort of line repair. Notably it seems to be during the late winter/early spring "off season," so my guess is that he took his usual commuter services but that during the summer and holidays James is also taking frequent specials. It's during that chunk of his "busy season" timetables that he is pulled for stuff like this in the off-season—no need to find coverage for him.

You'll notice the 1920s were suuuuuuper eventful but also only a blip in James's life.

Which is the exact sort of thing that I think we so often forget. They've all lived so much more life than their little highlight stories that we're privy to.

[linagram]

[meet the prisoners! (t2 edition) ] prisoner 006: yoshioka eiko

wow another prisoner that was so hard to draw it's eiko's turn!! btw i just realized that there's four profiles left soooo yeah i'm excited to start posting their vds after that! :D though i will most likely manage to post only one or two this month. girl help summer is going to end so soon..

General info.

T1 Verdict. Eiko was voted innocent and she found it a bit surprising at first, but accepted it very quickly. Of course, she teased Eiji a lot and said things like "Oh, you did it to make me like you more, didn't you?" and "Hehe, I knew you like me". Thanks to her verdict, she got a new outfit and she also has a different hairstyle now. She isn't as happy about being forgiven as Shun, but she also isn't asking for a guilty verdict, she's just okay with it. She just finds it interesting how she was forgiven, but a 16 year old boy and a girl who was.. uh.. "apparently stalked" weren't. Heh, the guards sure have their favorites. Though to be honest, she kinda had a feeling that she will end up being voted innocent even though her crime sounds so unreasonably cruel. Maybe the guards think there must be more to it?.. Hm, well, if that's the case, she will give them all the truth that they want.

T2 Personality: It's hard to describe Eiko's T2 version, because it's like.. at first it seems like she hasn't really changed, but her personality still feels very different. She's still her usual self, she's still chilling, she doesn't care about what happens to her, but it's like she's more.. curious about this place now? She doesn't ask the guards anything though, simply because she knows they don't have any answers either. They've got way too much power in their hands and don't know what to do with it. She doesn't really try to investigate anything either, she just keeps all of her questions inside her head. Trying to uncover the secrets of this place is Reina's job anyway. But hey, she's grateful to Eiji and Miki for "saving" her! She even came up with a very.. "fun" way to thank Eiji specifically. But more about that in her VD. Interestingly, I can't say that she's more "manipulative" now or anything like that, because Eiko claims that Shun is acting like that not because of her, but only because he's that happy that he was forgiven. When it comes to her relationship with Kei though.. Haha, that's not her becoming more "evil" or anything, that's just her being her.

T2 Relationship dynamics.

No, she doesn't actually care about Shun that much. Even his looks are not helping anymore, which is funny to think about, since she was the one who cut his hair for him. But it's fun to have a tall and surprisingly strong guy follow you around everywhere, being ready to do anything for you while also claiming that he's the more dominant one in this relationship. Eh, she'll just let him dream for now. Also having him around is very useful, since he's basically her bodyguard in a way and even though most prisoners like or at least tolerate Eiko, she still wants to be careful. Yurika's actions in particular worry her a little. What? No, no, it's not like she's afraid of being killed by her, the guards won't let that happen. If Yurika does anything to her hair, nails or clothes though, Eiji will have to try his best to stop Eiko from trying to kill her right there.

Fine, yes, the way she treats Kei is.. not good, so what? Didn't the guards vote him guilty? Doesn't he deserve it? Call her the third guard, she's helping them do their job. It may sound weird or out of character for her, but considering that this is the girl who killed a guy for "lying to her".. Yeah, maybe her morals are stronger than they seem. And again, she doesn't have any serious feelings for him at all, she doesn't love him, but she also doesn't hate him. And Kei knows why she's doing all of this to him and it's not like he tried to say no to her, so.. Yay! She also helps him leave his cell and walk around, so he should be grateful to her, right?

Her relationship with Eiji has changed a little bit, but mostly on her side. If in season 1 she just teased him, complimented him and all of that stuff, now she's actually kind of.. protective over him? It's very subtle, sure, but it's still there. She makes sure he doesn't overwork himself and there even was a time when she asked for a new pillow since hers "wasn't soft enough" and then she gave it to Eiji because "he looked so tired, she thought he's not getting enough sleep". Eiji getting annoyed and tired more easily actually does worry her a little, especially because this guy loves Milgram so much and it's like.. a "safe space" to him, if it's even possible to call it that. If even this prison's biggest fan is not doing good, there's no chance for anyone to find happiness in this place.

Music info.

Milgram cover: Okay, so here's a fun little story: so Eiko was supposed to be voted guilty canonically and I really did think that she will get voted guilty even though I had some ideas for her "Innocent" version and I already had her "Guilty" version profile prepared AND THEN I GOT HIT WITH HER GETTING 81.8% INNOCENT. I'M STILL NOT OVER IT. So. Uh. Y-yeah, I had to go and change some stuff quickly. Anyway, she gets Umbilical as her Innocent cover, because there's.. not really that many songs that fit her Innocent version and yay, if we're counting her T1 cover, she's officially a Yuno kinnie now! (Though they feel very different to me) But seriously, the lyrics actually do fit her (and her relationship with her victim) a lot, especially now that I'm looking at her T2 VD. Ah, and the reason why I've mentioned her Guilty version is because she was supposed to get MeMe in that case. S-so, uh, have fun with that information &lt;;3 We all know who gets MeMe this time though, don't we.

DECO*27 cover: She gets Status Effect: Girlfriend! I think even the title fits her, haha.

Different Vocaloid producer cover: She gets Runway no Fantasista by Tokotoko! I think the vibe is very Eikocore and some lyrics actually hint to what kind of person she was like before meeting her victim ("Of course, love and romance isn't my everything, but getting intoxicated once in a while isn't that bad", "Don't worry about being lonely, the successful ones are always alone")

Her T2 Trailer Voicelines:

"Hiiii~ Oh, I've missed you two so much! Especially you, Eiji-kun~ Yes, yes, I know, it's only been a day, but you two are just so nice to me! So, this is gonna be the second trial, right? I see, I see.. Well, don't push yourself too hard, okay? And just a reminder that I will answer any questions you have- Hm? Eiji-kun, is it just me, or you look like you're about to pass out?"

"Wow, you look better than I expected! Haha, come on, darling, don't be shy~ Hm? What do I mean by that? Oh.. It's just that I had expected to find you in a hospital, covered in bandages and looking like you're going to die at any second."

Her T2 Song Trailer Voiceline:

"I feel like I just knew that you will forgive me."

Trivia.

She wasn't going to change her hairstyle at first, but then she got inspired after giving Shun a haircut, though she didn't want to cut her own hair and changed it only a little bit. She prefers her hair to be long actually.

She also never asked for a new outfit and Miki got it for her because.. uh.. she thought Eiko probably feels too cold in her prison uniform, considering how much skin it's showing. Eiko actually found it cute and thanked her. (Though it didn't help much and her outfit is still pretty revealing.. Eiko is totally okay with that though.)

She's still okay with any decision the guards are going to make, since she still believes she's innocent and they can't do anything to change her opinion, so there's no point in her arguing with them.