#Why is fibonacci against me

[magic-shop-stories]

Can you make a Namjoon version of the pregnancy yoongi headcannon please?

💌 Reply:

Ahhh, thank you for this request! 🥹 Translating Yoongi’s blueprint into Namjoon’s universe was such a joy... and kinda healing to write tbh. If it’s too abstract, blame Joon... you know he’d turn parenthood into a TED Talk on existential botany. Hope this hits right for you, and that the brainrot is mutual (?) Let me know if you need tweaks! 💜 – c –

Kim Namjoon (RM) Pregnancy Headcanons x Reader

Warning: added a short mention of complication/ loss during pregnancy; brief mention of emotional vulnerability/complex feelings

🗿 How He Finds Out

you take the test alone first

needing quiet to process the enormity

the second line appears, you pace the bedroom

fingers brushing over his poetry books, his half-finished clay vase on the shelf...

Namjoon knocks softly after 15 minutes

"Love? You okay? You missed the Monstera’s watering time."

tries to jiggle the stuck door handle (his DIY fix last week)

fumbles with a paperclip

muttering

"Why do I always overtighten things…"

finally nudges the door open

finds you holding the test against your chest

glasses slide down his nose

he freezes

first words whispered like a haiku

"Are we... growing a universe?"

voice tender/ steady

=the way he reads letters at fan events

kneels carefully

avoiding the creaky floorboard

cradles your wrists

test between your joined hands

presses his lips to your temple

"However this goes... we’ll learn from it together."

🌿 Initial Reaction

Panic

spends the first night cross-referencing parenting books with peer-reviewed studies

highlighter in hand

scribbling notes in the margins of "The Hidden Life of Trees"

at 2 a.m. muttering about "epigenetic influences" and "sustainable bamboo diapers"

"Wait, prenatal sound exposure... should we play Debussy or traditional gugak?"

knocks over his bonsai while pacing

frets about "fetal stress responses"

creates a shared Google Drive titled "Project Sprout" before sunrise

Hidden Excitement

find him sketching a willow tree in his journal the next morning

branch roots morphing into tiny hands in the margins

you peek?

he slams it shut, cheeks pink

"Just... analyzing Fibonacci sequences in lotus pods."

later catches himself buying a single onesie

"For... a friend’s cousin!"

pattern: Van Gogh’s Starry Night with embroidered honeybees

you find the receipt tucked in his Walden pocket edition

"Fine. It’s… symbolic. Growth, y’know? Like haewon."

�� Worries

Fatherhood Fears

confesses at 2 a.m. over barley tea

steam curling like his restless thoughts

voice quiet

quoting Rilke: 

“Sometimes a man stands up during supper…”

trails off

fingers tracing the rim of his chipped moon-phase mug

“What if I… overwater them? Like my first bonsai.”

you find his journal open to a sketch of a tree split down the middle

one side labeled “Logic/Structure”

the other “Love/Chaos”

underlined in his blocky handwriting: 

“Can I be both roots and sunlight?”

finds him rereading Braiding Sweetgrass at dawn

circled passage:

“Parenting is an act of reciprocity with the future.”

Idol Life Stress

creates a Venn diagram titled “Cosmic Balance” during a flight

= Group Promotions | Prenatal Yoga | UNESCO Speech Drafts

mutters to his manager

“Can we route the Europe tour through Denmark?

Their parental leave policies could optimize…”

stares too long at ultrasound photos during Soundcheck

Jin catches him whispering to the grainy image

“Appa’s figuring it out. Like… how galaxies parent stars.”

forgets lyrics to Moonchild mid-concert

= first time ever

writes emails about “hologram tech for bedtime stories”

🌾 What He Does (Early Days)

Spoiling You

builds a custom "nest" in the sunniest corner of the house (and in his studio if you hang there)

hand-knotted hammock

handpicked field guides

"For our future botanist"

stocks the pantry with your cravings

hides your newfound aversions behind his kombucha SCOBY jars

leaves Post-its on the bathroom mirror:

"Remember: You’re already somebody’s ecosystem."

Overprepared

creates a bullet journal titled "Project Sprout: Phase One"

pages include: pressed gingko leaf tabs marking OB-GYN FAQs

also a graph comparing prenatal yoga studios

doodles of the baby

syncs a shared calendar called "Root Systems"

includes alerts like: ”3 PM: Hydrate (Y/N) + Water Ferns”*, ”7 PM: Debate Middle Names - Plato vs. Haneul?”, ”9:30 PM: Mandatory ‘The Martian’ Rewatch (Stress Relief)”

Hidden Romanticism

catches him playing "uhgood" on a tiny danso flute to your belly

"Early auditory exposure to heritage is… scientifically valid."

secretly starts a lullaby playlist titled "For When the Universe Feels Heavy" 

= curated mix of BTS instrumentals, rain sounds, and Maya Angelou recitations

forges a crib mobile from recycled mic parts and Hanji paper

each star inscribed with lines from his unpublished poems/lyrics:

"You, who will outlive all my words / Forgive me if I borrow the moon to explain your fingers."

🌌 Telling BTS

waits until the 12-week mark

citing "cosmic alignment"

hosts a "philosophy night" dinner

under the guise of discussing "existential metaphors in post-modern art"

sets the table with pressed flowers from his hikes and a centerpiece of his half-sculpted clay "symbol of life" (it’s a lopsided orb)

hides ultrasound printouts

inside Rilke poetry books

passes them out as "thought-provoking reading material"

Jungkook squints at the grainy image tucked between "Letters to a Young Poet"

"Hyung, is this… ? I see a baby... holding a galaxy?"

clears his throat

adjusting his glasses like a professor

"Actually, we’re… collaborating on a new project."

plays the heartbeat recording layered over his "SoundCloud experiment" 

mix of bamboo flute harmonies and his whispered sijo poem:

"Even the moon was once small / cupped in the sky’s dark palms..."

Reactions:

Jin

spills his makgeolli

laughing through half-tears

"Kim Namjoon, father?! Aigoo, the diapers’ll have PhDs!"

instantly Googles "baby-safe kimchi recipes"

"Important they respect fermentation science early."

Jungkook

silent for three full seconds

then leaps up, shaking Namjoon’s shoulders

"HYUNG. I’LL TEACH THEM HOW TO RIDE BIKES AND WRITE SONNETS!"

pauses, panicked

"Wait..which comes first?!"

Yoongi

nods slowly

eyes glinting

"Took you long enough."

slides a USB across the table

labeled "MixTape: Lullabies for Future Anarchists"

he already knew somehow, but kept silent

later, texts Namjoon

"You’ll suck less than you think."

Jimin

cradles your face

tearfully stern

"Uncle privileges include weekly dance lessons. Prenatal starts now."

demonstrates a "womb-friendly" body roll to Butter

Taehyung

holds the ultrasound to the lamplight

absolutely awed

"It’s abstract… like a Banksy!"

starts crooning Winter Bear to your belly

Hobi

immediately FaceTimes his mom for "emergency parenting tips" (as if it's his baby)

restructures your living room into a "positive vibes zone" with feng shui precision

jokes, lots of jokes

"First word has to be ‘J-Hooooope!’ Right? Right?"

Namjoon

tries to quote Kierkegaard on "the leap of faith"

voice cracks

collapses into silent tears when Jin speaks:

"Our leader’s leading a new squad."

later whispers to your belly

"You’ll have seven hearts before you even breathe."

Bonus

Group Chat Name: "The Epigenetics Committee"

Jin changes it to "Tiny Supreme Leader Support Squad"

Yoongi’s Gift

onesie printed with "I Survived Daechwita and All I Got Was This Sleep Deprivation"

Namjoon’s Realization

finds Jungkook asleep on your couch

he's asking you questions about pregnancy

Najoon cries again

posts on Weverse: "Love is a circular equation."

🌳 Telling His Family

visits Ilsan with a hand-painted onesie reading “Future Curator of Nature”

stuffed into a tote bag alongside his childhood pressed-flower collection

his sister answers the door

eyes darting to your bump

“Oppa. You didn’t… Oh my god.”

crushes you both in a hug

then sprints inside yelling (irony)

“Eomma! Appa! Namjoon finally did something cool!”

His Mom

emerges with a wooden spoon

freezes mid-scold about his “city-dust aura”

clasps her hands over her mouth

“Aigoo, my little mundungi…”

ushers you to the ondol floor

already reheating miyeok-guk

“You’re glowing! But Joon-ah...” 

pokes his bicep

“Are you meditating enough? Stress wrinkles age the baby’s aura.”

His Dad

nods stoically over tea

adjusts his reading glasses to study the ultrasound

clears his throat

presses a worn copy of Walden into Namjoon’s hands

margins filled with his own fatherly notes from ’93/94:

“Page 72: Joon cried here. Ask why.”

His Sister

drags you to his childhood bedroom

walls still plastered with dinosaur charts

“Here’s where he cried because T-rexes couldn’t hug properly.”

he was four

slides you a secret USB

“Namjoon’s 2008 Poetry... So Emo It’s Art, also blackmail material for when he’s being too philosopher-dad.”

Hidden Detail

in his old desk, finds a 3rd-grade “Nature Journal”

scribbled theories on “Why Rainbows Belong to Snails”

tucked between pages: a cicada shell labeled “First Heartbreak”

slips it into his bag

later placing it in the nursery

“Proof even confusion can molt into something beautiful.”

The Drive Home

his mom chases the car with a crate of homegrown ssuk and perilla leaves

“Boil the roots! It’ll make the baby’s cry less!”

sister texts: [Attachment: Namjoon age 7, sobbing into a melted ice cream]

🌿 Daily Life

Routine & Rituals

6:03 AM

wakes before dawn to simmer doenjang-jjigae with organic soybeans and kale (he's really trying, and it's not ending in a catastrophe)

leaves notes in calligraphy

“Nourishment is resistance — eat or I’ll recite Hegelian dialectics at you.”

adds doodles of scowling Brussels sprouts and a tiny Plato holding a fork

Post-Lunch Meditation

guides you through “forest bath” visualizations in your living room jungle

“Imagine your lungs as maple seeds… no, gently, you menace.”

his palms are warm and steady

pressing into your shoulders

“The iliac crest isn’t a metaphor, but today? Let’s pretend it is.”

Idol-Life Adjustments

converts his studio bookshelf into a “Zen Den”

matcha packets, lavender sachets, vintage Newton’s cradle for “stress diffusion”

texts PDogg:

“Postpone the feature... I’m optimizing circadian rhythms for two.”

secretly puts a prenatal Pilates ball in his studio

Chores

Laundry Wars

debates Jungkook over eco-detergent pH levels in the group chat

“Lavender is a neurotoxin to fetuses! Cite: Environmental Health Perspectives, 2019!”

Jungkook retaliates

“Hyung, your armpits are the real neurotoxin.”

(tho forget abpout this, I read about Dysfunction of the ABCCII gene, means asian sweat doesn't smell - god, I wish)

Culinary Experiments

attempts kimchi-jjigae

burns the first batch

blames “overzealous thermodynamic exchange”

his mom texts you her recipe with a note to Joon

“Stop intellectualizing the soup.”

Idol Life Impact

skips award show after-parties to chart the moon phases on your belly

writes lullabies sampling Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” over Moonchild instrumentals

practices babywearing with a handwoven hemp sling

“Ergonomic and a statement against fast fashion.”

Quiet Moments

4:33 AM Playlist Crafting

curates “Symbiosis: A Prelude” 

= blend of bird migration recordings

RM’s trivia: love ad-libs + Yoongi’s��Seesaw humming

hidden track: a poem he whispers to your belly nightly

“You are the first universe that ever knew me from the inside.”

Voice Memos

records The Alchemist chapters in English and Korean

apologizes to the bump after mispronouncing

“Forgive me... Appa’s still learning how to hold multiple worlds at once.”

Hidden Clumsiness

knocks over your Himalayan salt lamp (again)

while demonstrating “kangaroo care”

uses the debris to create a mosaic titled “Fragmented Enlightenment”

you find it later in the nursery

labeled “Lesson One: Beauty in Imperfection”

🌏 Public Announcement

Lead-Up

Media Lockdown

hires an eco-conscious cybersecurity firm to "reforest your digital footprint"

code name: "Project Photosynthesis" 

after Taehyung’s slip: "They’re our little sapling!"

convinces Big Hit to issue a statement about "protecting nascent ecosystems"

ARMY thinks it’s climate activism

ARMY Hints

wears a hand-carved gat (traditional hat) during a live

etched with "세상에서 가장 작은 별" (The World’s Tiniest Star)

ARMY deciphers it as a reference to his lyrics

trends #TinyConstellation

he “accidentally” leaves his journal open during a live

revealing a sketch of a tree root cradling a star

Reveal

three months postpartum

posts a watercolor painting on Weverse

his hand holding a seedling

roots entwined with his veins

caption: 

"ARMY, you taught me that growth is a dialogue between light and shadow. Now, I’ve been entrusted with a new dialect; the first breath of a forest I’ll never fully understand. Walk softly with us as we learn to whisper."

attaches a voice memo

= rain sounds, his spoken-word poem

"Dear Meteors Who Choose to Root"

ends with the baby’s coo harmonizing with a nightingale recording (Ilsan, 4:33 AM)

Aftermath

ARMY Reactions

trends #RootedInRM for 94 hours

ARMY plants 814,000 trees globally via "Kim Namjoon Forest Initiative"

donates $1.2M to UNESCO literacy programs "for futures untranslated"

Paparazzi Countermeasures

collaborates with a law firm to draft South Korea’s first "Right to Grow" digital privacy act

releases an anonymous ambient track

"Lens Crack Symphony" 

= field recordings of shuttering cameras dissolving into wind chimes

hosts a guerilla art exhibit

= blurred baby photos pixelated into Van Gogh’s Starry Night

titled "The Distance Between Love and Light"

Hidden Details

Journal Leak

later reveals the seedling painting used persimmon dye from his mom’s garden

Voice Memo Easter Egg

the nightingale recording is from his childhood Ilsan backyard

Law Impact

tabloid stalker photos drop 92%

paparazzi begin calling him "The Unphotographable"

🌱 When You Panic

Trigger

overhears a podcast debating "Nature vs. Nurture in Epigenetic Trauma" while sculpting clay in his studio

phrase like "generational echoes" lodges in his ribs like a splinter

clay cracks under his grip

shattering into jagged moons

Calm Facade, Storm Inside

finds you trembling after a nightmare

your hands clutching a parenting forum thread

cups your face

thumbs tracing the arc of your cheekbones like comet trails

voice steady but eyes galaxies-wide

"Even the oldest trees survived their first lightning strike. We’ll be the soil that grounds the burn."

Secret Meltdowns

sneaks to the balcony at 3 AM

recording a voice memo choked with static

"What if I… overcompensate? Love them too fiercely? Turn into Icarus’ sun?"

sends it to his therapist

texts you:

"Found this study on parental resilience . Want to co-author a rebuttal?"

Acts of Service

brews yuzu tea in his chipped moon-phase mug

one from your first museum date

"Emergency aesthetic intervention required."

dumps two baby socks on your lap

one printed with Kant’s Categorical Imperative

the other with "Ask Me About My Carbon Footprint".

"Which one says ‘I’m fiscally responsible but fun at parties’?"

Idol-Life Impact

skips a UN panel on sustainability

citing "an urgent planetary realignment."

spends the day building a "sensory sanctuary" 

hanging felt clouds, wind chimes tuned to Spring Day’s key

writes a 12-page letter to the baby instead of his keynote speech

"You’ll inherit a world I’ve criticized but still believe in. Forgive me for both."

Hidden Resilience

you find his studio desk littered with failed haiku

"My love is a net / Too many holes, too much sky / Catch nothing but light."

beside it, a single completed verse pinned under a geode

"You will know me / Not by the scars I hid / But the bridges I couldn’t stop building."

🌧️ If Something Goes Wrong (+ Loss)

Hospital Vigils

stands sentinel by your bed

reciting Mary Oliver poems to your IV drip

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious...” 

his voice fractures

bathes your wrists with rosewater from his mother’s garden

hands shaking

“In another universe, we’re still whole. Let’s… let’s borrow from there tonight.”

Guilt/Aftermath

spirals into annotating every parenting book with “Where did I fail?” in crimson ink

you find him at dawn

knee-deep in the backyard pond

he's planting lotus seeds “for unbloomed futures”

studio becomes a shrine of half-scribbled equations

Grief = (Regret x Time) ÷ Unsaid Words

“(Unsung Verse)”

composed at 4:33 AM on a detuned hotel piano during monsoon season

no lyrics

just the hum of rain against glass

single sustained G minor

files it under “Metamorphosis_Data”

encrypts it with a password even he forgets

Post Loss

cancels his Bottega collab/shoot

citing “a necessary erosion”

ARMY trends #StandWithRM

funding a forest reserve in Ilsan named “Seeds Grove.”

he visits

hangs a wind chime from a persimmon tree

“You would’ve loved the sound of rain here.”

Support System

Jin drags him to a pottery studio

slams clay onto a wheel

“Sculpt something that can’t be quantified.”

they sit until dawn

molding silent vases for flowers that never arrive

Jungkook leaves a bonsai sapling on your porch

“It’s okay if it wilts. We’ll grow it again.”

Namjoon keeps it alive

“See? We’re still learning.”

Yoongi mails a USB labeled “For When Words Are Too Loud” 

ambient tracks layered with Namjoon’s old laugh from 2014

Bonus

five years later, during his TED Talk on “The Ecology of Loss”

soft G minor chord seeps into his mic

his toddler "Haewon" toddles backstage

he freezes

“Apologies. My heart’s just… recalibrating its orbit.”

🌌 Gender Reveal

Reaction

ultrasound tech smiles

“Looks like a girl!”

Namjoon’s breath hitches

eyes pooling with constellations

“A daughter… She’ll rewrite every star.”

buys a sapling from the DMZ forest to plant in her name

“So she’ll always know where resilience grows.”

tech corrects

“Wait, no! ...it’s a boy!”

freezes

then grins like he’s solved the universe’s riddle

“A son? Then we’ll learn gravity anew.”

orders a hand-bound journal titled “Hypotheses on Joy” to fill with their future questions

Late-Night Promises

whispers to your belly while sketching the moon’s craters

“You’ll carve your own orbit. Be sculptor or storm. I’ll be your compass, never your cage.”

plays a mixtape of rainfall

“Rhythm isn’t in blood; it’s in the spaces between heartbeats.”

Hidden Rebellion

declines all gender-reveal sponsorships

donates the offers to a nonbinary youth arts fund

tweets a snippet of Audre Lorde’s “There is no hierarchy of oppression”

caption:

“Hierarchies are human-made. My child is a natural phenomenon.”

🌱 Labor & Delivery

Prep

packs a hospital bag weeks early

includes: hand-knit hemp blanket

worn copy of “The Prophet” for whispered readings

portable mini bonsai

“For biophilic stress reduction”

memorizes your birth plan like a thesis defense

color-coded tabs

debates delayed cord clamping using Harvard studies

defers when you snap mid-contraction

“Trust the forest to know its roots.”

During Labor

channels his lyrics count breaths

“Inhale… four… seven… exhale...”

fidgets in his pocket

reciting Rumi under his breath

when contractions peak, he presses his forehead to yours

voice cracking

“You’re the Big Bang happening again. Let it… let it supernova.”

white-knuckles the bedrail

snaps it twice 

First Hold

cuts the cord with tears in his eyes

hands steady but soul trembling

cradles the baby like a relic

awe-struck

speechless (for once)

“You… you’re the poem I could never finish.”

Jungkook finds him at dawn

sketching the baby’s hand in his journal

“Proof that softness can reshape calluses.”

Hidden Moments

Panic Peak

flees to the hospital garden

sobbing into his sleeves

returns with acorn seeds to plant in the baby’s name

BTS Support

Taehyung paints a watercolor of the birth chart stars

Jimin choreographs a “welcome dance” with hospital socks

Lockscreen Lore

photo of the baby

captioned “My First Co-Author”

🌍 Idol Life Challenges

Touring Adjustments

negotiates "modular tour schedules"

two-week blocks with carbon-neutral travel offsets

publishes a Weverse series: "Parenthood in 7 Languages" 

= from hotel lobbies, baby strapped to his chest in a hanbok-style sling

FaceTimes you whenever he isn't there

"Tell them Appa’s dismantling patriarchal systems and mastering bottle sterilization."

Backstage Innovations

designs a "Portable Ecosystem" bassinet

= soundproof, air-purified, with a mini-library of global folktales

staff catch him debating naptime schedules with his manager

"Melatonin cycles vs. timezone optimization… we need a third axis for emotional bandwidth."

producers receive track notes like:

"Bridge too jarring... Babys stress spiked during playback. Revise."

Privacy Protocols (after birth)

codename: "Project Metamorphosis" (BTS group chat) + "Symbiosis" (public filings)

threatens paparazzi with "a TED Talk on the ethics of voyeurism" instead of diss tracks

updates IG bio: "Curator of small wonders." 

archives old posts

replacing them with abstract clay sculptures titled "The Weight of New Gravity."

BTS Support System

Jin’s Uncle Duties

hosts Kimchi nights

teaches the baby to grip cabbage while lecturing on Kantian ethics

"Ethics are like fermentation... both require patience and good bacteria."

Hobi’s Playdates

creates "Microbeat Workshops"

tiny tambourines

sock-covered maracas

films a tutorial

"Dancing Through Sleep Deprivation: A 7-Step Guide to Joyful Survival."

Yoongi’s Stealth Care

slides a USB into Namjoon’s studio

"Parenting Lo-fi: 24/7 Lullaby Beats to Overthink To."

secretly buys noise-cancelling headphones sized for infants

"For when Bangtan’s chaos is too iconic."

Taehyung’s Art Therapy

paints the nursery ceiling like the Van Gogh Museum

replaces stars with ARMY bombs

"Aesthetic and culturally relevant. Teach them young."

Jungkook’s Training

leaves a mini "Future Golden Maknae" workout plan

"0-3 mos: Grip strength (finger holds) 4-6 mos: Core stability (tummy time to Dynamite BPM)"

Hidden Stress Tells

over-researches "infant sleep regression in multilingual households" at 3 AM (as if their was a serious coreelation)

wears mismatched socks during diaper crises

quotes Thoreau during meltdowns

"Simplify, simplify… but how, Henry?!

🌿 Bonus Headcanons

family dog in 3...2...1...

Nicknames/Nonsense

calls the baby “Haewon” (sun and garden) as a placeholder

“It’s just… phonetically efficient!”

secretly tests names via Scrabble tiles

arranging letters into constellations

when they cling to his leg during a Live, he dubs them

“For their relentless grip on my existential crises.”

Late Nights

falls asleep annotating “The Art of Parenting in a Climate Crisis” 

margin notes: 

“How to explain melting glaciers to a toddler? Start with snow cones.”

bookmarks tabs: “Raising Anti-Capitalist Kids in a Late-Stage World” and “Is My Guilt Biodegradable?”

First Studio Visit

lets them “remix” his track by banging a wooden spoon on his awards

samples the chaos into an interlude called “Symbiosis: Noise & Nuance.”

plays it during a UNICEF speech

“This is the sound of hope refusing to be tempo-locked.”

Hidden Sentimentality

writes their milestones in the margins of his Walden copy

”First steps: 10/7. Proof that wilderness walks are innate.”

teaches them to say “Annyeonghaseyo” to his bonsai collection

“Respect all roots, human or not.”

secretly saves their crayon scribbles as NFT art titled “Post-Human Abstract Expressionism.”

note [06/05/25] : he wouldn't, I was not aware of the environmental impact of NFT's when writing this. I have to thank the person asking me about this in this NFT REQUEST

[damn this took me soooo long, but can I borrow him? for a week? pls... bc my so called father is buying milk since 2002]

[xsommeee]

BEAST SKK HEAD CANON~~

Dazai's room is an exact replica of what Mori had in his. Nothing touched everso slightly, he rarely sleeps at night, sits glued to a chair in the corner and states in the dark. Talking to himself at various moments, arguing passionately against tall red drapes. In a Victorian era styled rooms with bedded pillars and purple soft carpet floors. Multiple grim artworks hung on the walls with heavy embellished frames.

If you asked Dazai what the model number written under the gun of a goon who walked past him this morning, he'd tell you with absolute certainty. However he had no idea about the bedding in his room, or the couch, he didn't even know the curtains were red. He simply never looked at them, he only saw the high void like ceiling.

“Comment était votre petit voyage?” Dazai remarked without moving. The room was completely silent before this, a normal person will say there wasn't a person there either.

“Il n’y a jamais de voyage.”

“Then where were you this whole week? Trying on better dog collars?” Dazai says glaring at the other. There was light illuminating a scowling slime face.

Chuuya Nakahara was missing from the Port Mafia quarters, the second in command had performed none of his duties for over two weeks “I need to talk to you, with sincerity” Chuuya breathes in “You- you delivered a box filled with over 200 hearts to the place I was in today.” Chuuya crosses his arms, visibly uncomfortable.

“Two hundred and thirty three for the fourteenth day of you not coming back. The Fibonacci sequence you know, I recognise your love for math and physics.” A horrific grin plastered on Dazai. Chuuya opens his mouth but falls short of words only to get interrupted.

“You wanted to avoid this outcome? I had warned you, Chuuya. You could have filed a leave application instead of disappearing, why didn't you? Did you really think I was bluffing?” “Bastard!” Chuuya grits, “you knew where I was!”

“Yes, and that doesn't excuse your absence.” Dark eyes cut into crystal blue ones. There's a surge of pain in the latter.

“Dazai,” Chuuya walks towards him half bowed with a desperation and uncomeliness he'd never felt. Wildly gesticulating every word and eyes blown wide. He screams, abuses and cries all through the same words and speaks without breathing. “I’ve had nothing, nothing to do for more than six months. I know batshit about whatever you're doing, hell that white hair kid who's been here two days knows more than I. A shitty goon with no use but to die first is more useful than me. Hell Dazai I’d fucking go out there not use my powers and fight like that recruit. But all, all that I do is come to this goddamn building and sit in an office she used to sit in. Watching people I used to know and respect deride me. Spit on me for the traitor I am! You wanted revenge over me not supporting your accession.”

Chuuya fists Dazai’s shirts shaking him with his own trembling body, “You’ve had it. I don't think you could have more. I'd say whatever you want, do whatever you say. Just- just let me peace, some peace. Stop torturing me like this. Like you’re unaware, behaving like this is alright, I’m tired. I’m sick. I’m already crazy! There's nothing left, nothing, nothing, nothing!”

Dazai had gotten up during this tirade, holding the hand fisted in his shirt, rubbing Chuuya's back soothingly with the other. By the end of it a heavy silence ensued. Dazai stared at his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

He started speaking calmly as if Chuuya was upset after seeing a rat get run over by a car. “Shh, don't be like this. Walls have ears, if someone heard chibi right now, you want something to do that's all? If that's it, I want you as my bodyguard. I had proposed it multiple times. You don't need to go anywhere, not the office or meetings, just stay.”

“Stay with you?” Chuuya murmurs under his breath. Dazai moves in closer, pushing Chuuya into his chest, trapping him with his arms. A dark room with two figures towered inward, they're two worlds colliding, obliterating each other.

From an outsider's perspective the Port Mafia's boss and his second in command are such dynamically different people. A different species altogether Osamu Dazai with his cold antipathic gaze, he can scare people with his mere presence in a room silent, still and unfeeling. There is anger in him too, unlike what appearance states, but it is reasonable and calculated, a white freezing fire. Chuuya Nakahara on the other hand is scalding hot, even to Dazai, burning himself from within like an amber ignited orange and red. He is simplehearted and straightforward to most, nevertheless complexities lay buried deep within him, in their presence he begins to think of everything as an act, a heinous disgusting lie. Dazai pokes that part of him, a place where they align the most perfectly in his eyes.

Dazai smashes his lips over Chuuya's, holding his nape in his hand to bend him up. The energy that possesses him while doing this however leaves him instantly, he backs just a little but their lips still touch, feeling each other's breaths fan over.

A few tense moments pass like that. Dazai stirs first, he knows the reason why Chuuya wants to leave. He moves backwards with such slowness as if moving away is excruciatingly painful. Chuuya doesn't let him move too much though, kissing Dazai full and tender, breaking it at times to look into his dilated eyes as if to read some unknown secret. Dazai holds him tighter than a drowning man stuck in a storm with only a log to float.

Read the rest here? Idk I really like this fic, like really I hope people read it, I'd write like one chapter more :

[aprocessionofthoughts]

To Sleep

whumptober24 day 8- sleep deprivation fandom- batman tw- Dick mentions the rain which is a reference to the Tarantula incident, nothing about the incident is mentioned but stay safe my darlings summary- Dick can't sleep

masterlist ao3

It’s raining, and Dick can’t sleep. He’s in the manor. He should be fine. It’s been years.

He should be fine.

He turns again in bed, throws the sheets off, then pulls them back on a few seconds later. He lays on his back and stares at his dark ceiling, then twists to lay on his side, then his stomach, then his side again. He fluffs his pillow, then tries laying down without it, then with two pillows.

He can’t sleep.

He presses a pillow against his face. He wants to scream into it, but in a family of vigilantes even a muffled scream won’t go unnoticed.

He tries doing the fibonacci sequence in his head but only makes it to 10946 before his mind wanders off. Counting sheep has never worked because his mind has always taken it as a challenge to see how far he can go.

He rolls over and grabs his phone, hoping soothing music will help.

He’s still restless. He gets up, goes to the bathroom and takes a drink of water from the cup on his bedside table. He sits on the edge of the bed and tries some mindful breathing and thought clearing exercises.

He can’t stop thinking about everything bad that’s happened, about all his mistakes.

He shakes his head hoping to dispel the negative thoughts, he whispers ‘shut up, shut up, shut up’ to himself in the darkness. Why won’t his mind shut up? 

He’s tired. He wants to sleep. Why can’t he sleep?

He flops back into bed, pulls the sheets up, tosses them off. He groans as he immediately feels chilled and has to pull the sheets back on.

Why can’t he–

His door creaks open and he freezes, holding his breath.

“–go of me, Todd! I will gouge out your eyes and shove them down your throat!’ 

Dick starts to sit up, because what is happening–

Then a body falls on top of him, and Dick can’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around the person on top of him. Damian. It’s Damian that Jason seems to have dropped on top of him.

“Wha–” he starts to say, but Jason interrupts.

“Could hear you tossing and turning from my room.”

Dick feels embarrassment heat his cheeks. “Sorry, I–”

“Shut it.” Jason says.

Damian is surprisingly quiet. Dick shifts, he tries to let go of Damian, but his arms won’t listen. “Sorry, Dami, you don’t have to stay.”

“Tt.” Damian squirms on top of him, and Dick’s heart rate spikes thinking he’ll leave him. But Damian settles again so he’s only half laying on Dick. “I do not mind.” he says. “Afterall, you have to sleep so that you can have the energy to keep up with me on tomorrow’s patrol.”

Dick’s eyes water slightly, and he squeezes Damian tighter.

“Well, now that my good deed of the week is done…” Jason says, and Dick’s eyes dart to him.

He manages to extract an arm from where it’s curled around Damian. He extends his hand to his little brother. Jason hesitates, and Dick pulls up his best puppy dog eyes until Jason relents.

“Fine.” Jason lays down on the very edge of the bed, but Dick extends an arm, wraps it around Jason and pulls him closer.

This is nice. Dick’s got two of his brothers here with him. He closes his eyes.

He still hasn’t fallen asleep yet when he hears his door creak open again. He cracks his eyes open to see two faces peak in. Dick smiles gently and extends a hand toward Tim and Steph. They slink in quietly crawling onto the bed, and Dick’s only regret is that he doesn't have enough arms to hug them all at the same time.

He feels himself sinking deeper into rest when the door creaks open again. This time Cass comes in dragging Duke behind her. She smiles gently at him before they’re both climbing onto the bed as well.

Dick’s heart could burst from joy. All his siblings, here together with him.

Like this, he can rest.

He feels sleep pulling at him. His door creaks open again, but he’s too tired to open his eyes. He feels a hand run fingers through his hair, scratching soothingly at his scalp. Bruce presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Love you, chum.” 

Dick feels him pull away and darts out a hand to grab his wrist.

He hears a soft chuckle, but then the bed dips, and the hand returns to his hair.

“Go to sleep.” his dad whispers.

And here, surrounded by his family, Dick finally does.

[1141520851813892291920]

This is very tricky to type this without it just giving me errors each time it tries to send.

So we'll start somewhere.. mundane?

Do you remember the first time you had a headache? The first time you met a beloved pet? The first time you had your favorite food?

Some of these moments impact people differently, but it's not all that unusual to forget. Let's go deeper.

Do remember the first time you felt loved? The first time you felt grief? Do you remember the eyes of the one you lost? The shape of their smile?

Upsetting, but the only constant in life is change. It is natural to lose these ephemeral details, time will erode everything one day. My memory falls like sand through my fingers some days.

Let's go a bit lighter.

Do you remember the first time you studied a subject you liked in school?

This memory does not elude me, as many others do. In a small class for "gifted" kids, I learned the many ways patterns show themselves in nature. The Fibonacci sequence, golden ratios, fractals that trace paths into dizzying infinite shapes.

Snail shells, pinecones, flower petals, tree branches, intricate shapes and patterns, entire living organisms built upon eachother, which we pick apart to base numbers in hope of finding meaning.

I find myself losing track of my thoughts lately, and yet the first time I traced the many spirals of a pinecone sears itself into my mind with a giddy joy and wonder. The memory is a positive one, but why do I get to keep it and not the memory of the one who taught me?

I never know when I am going to lose the memory of a moment I cherish to a combination of colors- the shape of a tree trunk- chaos and order- always, always spirals

In my dreams I hear nonsense music and fly through fractals of fear and elation. My art doesn't look the same as it used to, the colors still bring me joy but the shapes never come out how I wish they could. Does it look strange to you?

There is nothing chasing me, no monster under the bed, it's just me. I've always known my mind may fall apart on me, my family doesn't have a great track record for sanity, but I never thought it would feel like this. Funnily enough, I can't remember what I thought it would feel like at all. It doesn't feel very funny.

If I find a way to send my story outside of jumbled thoughts, I will do my best to do so, but trying to get more specific seems to glitch everything, and getting it out in a coherent way at all is.. difficult.

Fingers crossed it works this time.

The dizzying colors of T̶h̴e̴ ̵P̵l̸a̶c̸e̴ ̷B̶e̸y̷o̴n̸d̴ ̴T̷h̵e̸ ̸D̶o̴o̸r̸ cut at your brain like a million stinging barbs, plucking the strings of your synapses until light becomes sound becomes the̷ ̷u̴n̴d̷u̵l̷a̶t̷i̴n̵g̶,̵ ̷a̴r̷r̸h̸y̴t̷h̵m̴i̸c̸ ̵u̴n̴h̷a̵r̸m̵o̸n̸i̴e̶s̷ ̵t̵hat strangle your eye stem in a migraine.

Reality is melting, sliding through your fingers like so many grains of sand that grates against you until you are smooth and without boundaries, b̴l̸e̵e̵d̶i̶n̴g̴ ̴i̷n̷t̶o̴ ̸t̵h̶e̸ ̶s̸p̶a̴c̵e̸ ̷o̵u̸t̵s̷i̷d̶e̴ ̷o̸f̶ ̴y̴o̵u̵r̴ ̴o̴u̴t̷l̸i̷n̷e̸,̷ ̷o̷n̵t̸o̷ ̷t̸h̸e̸ ̸c̶a̸n̷v̴a̵s̵ ̷o̸f̵ ̵t̶h̷e̴ ̷u̶n̸i̸v̷e̶r̶s̸e̸ ̴a̴n̶d̴ ̷y̵o̴u̴,̷ ̵y̵o̴u̸ ̷c̷a̷n̵n̶o̵t̸ ̵s̶t̶o̴p̸ ̴t̸h̴e̴ ̸s̵p̴i̶r̶a̷l̶i̷n̶g̵ ̶p̵a̷t̷t̸e̷r̷n̵s̴ ̸y̸o̷u̵ ̷b̷e̵g̶i̵n̶ ̵t̵o̵ ̷p̸a̵i̴n̴t you paint the sound of the hideous laughter that tastes of over saturated primary colors.

You are the ink of the words in the books lost behind shelves, the rustle of pages in an empty library, the heat of the eclipsed moon. You have unbecome and are becoming this almost being of empty space occupied but unaccompanied.

T̶h̸e̶ ̶o̶n̶l̶y̶ ̵w̸a̸y̴ ̸o̴u̶t̴ ̷i̶s̵ ̵i̵n̶ ̸t̵h̷e̸ ̵w̸r̴o̸n̴g̴ ̴d̷i̶r̶e̷c̴t̷i̷o̸n̶.̸ ̵

[asherlockstudy]

HEY FRIENDS

Literally one year ago I made a vague post and a few people asked me what I meant, but I felt a little drained at the time and never explained but as GME3 is fast approaching, I am re-emerging with the questionable decision to write my thoughts on GME2. 

Bear in mind that some of the points might be negative as I have explained my conflicted feelings about this show before however don't let that discourage you from reading it because there's more to it than the negative points, trust me. Also, the post is GIF heavy so I put the rest of it under the cut.

GME2 thoughts: 

Rhett and Link can’t tell the difference between an evening show and a soft Only Fans account. I didn’t mind anything in the show (except for that sex doll with the fucked up eyes that creep me out),  I just...don’t understand completely: who came up with this project, how genuinely RandL like it and how it relates to their occasional irritation against shippers. 

In other words, for people who proclaim they don’t understand why people ship them, acting out explicit fanfics is a bold decision to say the least.

Like, the whole concept of the show is for them to drink so their boundaries go down and then when somebody goes a bit off the rails, everyone is like “oh no” and facepalming. What’s up with that? Either embrace the concept of your show or don’t do it at all. I mean, nothing was truly much except for the fanfic enactment which was a bit much, if you ask me, perhaps mostly because I can’t tell how comfortable they are with it. Sometimes, especially Rhett just doesn’t look totally okay with it. So why do it? For the extra fee? Really? Wow. As an example, neither Rhett nor Link felt okay with sucking Chase’s toes and, guess what, Chase didn’t want it either. Who’s the mastermind behind all that... And has Chase gotten his raise yet?

Let’s go to Rhett. I might be wrong but I have noticed that for his size, Rhett is kinda a lightweight. One beer and his eyes are glassy, his cheeks round and red. In the last GME, he had refrained from drinking because he wanted to handle the situation in case Link lost it. This time, 7 shots and a few more drinks during the show weren’t enough to make him drunk, or as drunk as Link, or make him lose himself into the moment and have fun. Conclusion: Rhett is not very comfortable with this project. Rhett is afraid of Link being unhinged. Why is he afraid of an unhinged Link? What can Link say or do that Stevie wouldn’t be able to handle and he would have to step in? It’s plain throughout the show that Rhett is constantly concerned about what Link might say next. What on earth can a Southern ex-hardcore Evangelist married at 20 say that is giving Rhett nightmares?

 Rhett confirming that Link does the fibonacci when he shaves his face lol Do they often talk about fibonacci shaving? Does he remember it from 20 years ago? How often does Link shave in the creative house? Questions, questions, questions...

Rhett fully knowing that Link had a story about hurting his dick. Link clarifying he meant one when he was alone. Rhett warning him “I am just looking out for you”. Thus, Rhett knowing Link hurt his dick when he was with somebody else and considered it a story that Link would regret revealing. So, is Rhett having nightmares because Link hurt his dick when he was with Christy and if so, why? No??? Notice Rhett getting lowkey tortured until Link finally wraps up his silly harmless story. He lost five years of life there. 

Link saying he wishes his Christy buttcheek tattoo faded away... because “this would symbolise the long time they have been together”. Okay... all right.

 Rhett confirmed as an ass man besides a vagina man. Like, just as he was saying he was always so fascinated by vaginas he almost gave them supernatural qualities, he now pretty much said the asshole is divine design! Link bumped Rhett’s shoulder at the mention of anal preference, pointing at him, once more giving Rhett a scare. (BTW the truth is Rhett is an #anything_goes man let’s be real XD)

Link non-verbally proclaimed them both “team ass” but not with Rhett’s consent. 

Link said at two points in the aftershow that Rhett made him uncomfortable but I can’t for the life of me understand what he was talking about and it seems Rhett did neither. There was probably something that flew over my head entirely...

That’s just funny but Link in the end saying “After fucking all these years, we’re still surprising your ass”. This is not even a Freudian slip, this is a Freudian syntax! Next level shit XD Meanwhile Rhett: 

#When ten drinks are not enough to save you from Link's syntax

And now let’s go to the sequence I was referring to in the previous (one year old) vague post:

The Bean daddy fic enactment was initially a thing of cuteness, indeed, but I have the suspicion there was more going on. Let’s see it step by step.

The cute thing started because Link somehow played the role of tentative Link shyly revealing his deeper feelings with exceptional skill. It was also cute when Rhett, while still impersonating fic!Rhett basically implored Link to not drop chocolate syrup on his clothes, hair and beard. He was having fun with it and he was being flirtatious and affectionate towards Link, though, again he was still supposedly imitating his fic version.

Link received passively Rhett’s flirty show, with moderate amusement. However, it is very important to note that he was nodding affirmatively throughout Rhett’s flirty request. He had a face saying “okay, I understand, I am not gonna drop the chocolate all over you”. That's important to keep in mind.

Notice how Rhett asks Link to take care how he'll pour the syrup in character while Link is amused but also nods affirmatively that he does not intent to screw Rhett's outfit.

As soon as Rhett trusts Link won’t screw him like that, he drops his head back and opens his mouth waiting for the chocolate syrup. Then Link tells him seriously to hold on, he immediately changes to a sexy imitation of Rhett’s open mouth, saying something like “I just want to acknowledge…” Rhett raises his head, “Yess???”, still in the flirty silly mood, probably believing Link is improvising within the fic’s context. But Link says: “Don’t assume the position just yet, because I would like to respond to that”. At this point, clearly Link doesn't follow the script. Rhett waits but he is still in the flirty amused mode. Link does this characteristic hand motion which means something very clear “All jokes aside, I want to talk about something serious now”. Rhett takes note of Link’s hand gesture but he still doesn’t drop his flirty persona. Link announces to Rhett: “This is a test.” Rhett is clearly too far gone enjoying the fic enactment. He nods without clearly understanding. “This is a test…”, he agrees, nodding, until finally his brain catches up. “………of whaaaaat?”, he asks half-fic like, half-suspicious.

Notice Link's serious gesture and Rhett becoming suspicious literally mid-sentence after Link says "this is a test".

Link starts to mouth something but immediately changes it and says slowly and cautiously: “Of my ability to be your true friend”. Rhett’s amusement is gone. He dismisses Link hastily, mumbling “I believe it” and assumes the position again. Link insists though, inching closer. “Because…”, he starts. Rhett immediately closes his mouth and turns to face Link alarmed. It seemed to me he felt vulnerable to wait there with an open mouth and Link so close.

Notice Rhett dismissing Link and how quickly he closes his mouth once Link gets closer.

Link continued slowly, trying to fill the lack of words with facial expressions translatable only to Rhett and not us. “Because… the most entertaining thing to do… would be…”. “No, no it actually wouldn’t be”, Rhett countered quickly and still somewhat softly but there was fear and panic in his eyes in that moment. My assumption is that he was still being soft in order to not rile up the mildly inebriated Link too much. Rhett continued: "It would be the opposite of what you're actually thinking".

Link tries to communicate with faces (including puckered lips) instead of fully formed sentences but Rhett understands. He's neither flirty nor amused anymore. He asserts what Link thought to do - the test, "the abilty of being his true friend", would have the exact opposite result from entertainement.

Link doesn't drop it just yet. He asks Rhett if he really knows what Link is thinking about. Rhett hums affirmatively. But Link says: "Cause I was thinking about being the hero by just putting it in your mouth and not getting it all over you. But now you are just telling me to get it all over you." Of course this is a lie. Rhett spent so much time making it clear he does not want syrup all over himself. Link nodded so many times, making it clear he understood and agreed. He made the gesture meaning "I am gonna talk about something different and more important". So, the test that he wanted to acknowledge that this whole skit was about was something different. But in the end he saw how negative Rhett was to the idea and quickly twisted his statements, now saying it was all about whether he would drop the chocolate on his...true friend or not, which makes no sense whatsoever as statements go and it is redundant, since it was established and agreed upon literally seconds before that he would not do it.. Rhett says something I can't catch, like "no, I know what you were thinking" or "no, you won't do what you're thinking" or something similar. Link then repeats in his twist of words that Rhett essentially urges him to drop the chocolate all over him and he has that rabid look he sometimes has near Rhett. Rhett then, again with his mouth open, says: "Okay, it's time. We've milked this moment enough". Rhett clearly tries to bring Link to his senses and avoid this moment lingering too much in people's memory.

Link is bummed at Rhett's refusal however not "wounded type" of bummed. I guess it was more like, tipsy Link threw an idea out there, Rhett reacted poorly to it and Link was done like "okay it's on you that this test won't happen" but then got on with everything without more drama.

What was that test?

Well, repeating Link's words:

I would just like to acknowledge... This is a test. Of my ability to be your true friend. The most entertaining thing to do... would be...

Does anyone know whether there was more in this fic? Perhaps something more in it that Link wanted to acknowledge but Rhett didn't want enacted?

Maybe what Link wanted to test as "potentially the most entertaining thng to do" was his initiative alone? And it would be proof of Link being Rhett's true... friend. And Rhett knew what Link had in mind but he was adamant that it would have the exact opposite effect on the audience than what Link expected.

Hmm. I leave you to your thoughts and your mental preparation for GME3.

[bitemedotmp3]

🌀 !

50. — punctual

Uzi's got an internal clock. Humans should be so lucky. Or maybe they should be more considerate. They were trading favors, so the least this guy could do is show up on time.

She pulls out her phone again, 8:52. The show's at 9 PM, and if she ends up missing it because someone can't be bothered to-

"Hey, sorry I'm late," says Yuri, emerging from the other end of the alley. "Place is kind of a maze."

"Thought you came down here a lot," says Uzi, pocketing her phone. "You need a map next time?"

"Hah, maybe. Or a guide, I don't know why we couldn't meet up somewhere a bit easier to find."

There's a few reasons, like the fact that she doesn't really like spending time with humans, or the fact that she hadn't thought about it, but they're not super important. "Maybe I just need to lower my expectations next time. And look, I love small-talk, but did you bring them?"

"You and Rita would get along great. Or at least be too busy at each others' throats to bother me," says Yuri, reaching into his own pockets. He pulls out two small slips of glossy paper, waving them between his fingers. "Two tickets to tonight's show at Brass Tacks. And me, your chaperone."

"Ew, don't say it like that!" she hisses. "But a deal's a deal. Here."

Uzi pulls a smartphone from her hoodie pocket, handing it to Yuri. "Complete admin access. Do whatever the heck you want with it. And here, a manual in case you have any questions," she says, adding a few sheets of folded-up paper.

"You think with a name like 'jailbreaking,' it'd look a little fancier," says Yuri, tucking it all away safely.

"It's all software-side stuff. Now c'mon, show starts soon, and I don't wanna miss it." Uzi waves him to follow as she leaves the alleyway and emerges into one of Fibonacci's lower levels. They're not too far from the surface; the rumble of people living above is still audible here, but you won't find a dive like Brass Tacks in the upper levels. The bar is a few blocks away from their meeting place, just far enough that Uzi starts sweating when her internal clock ticks past 9 PM, but not so far that she needs to berate Yuri for making her miss the show. Yet.

When the place finally comes into sight, the two stop, and Uzi looks up. "Okay, phase two. You ready, Yuri?"

"Born ready, not that this is a particularly tough one. Gotta admit, I might just be here to see if this backfires."

"Shut up, bite me. Alright, gotta get into character..." mutters Uzi, trying to get into the right headspace. "You know what to do, right?"

"I didn't forget," he hums. Taking the lead, the pair cross the street to the bar's front door, and Yuri holds his tickets out to the bouncer. "Hey, I'm here for the Scrapyard Gods show? That's tonight, right?"

"Barely made it," says the burly man, taking the tickets. "Doors close at 9:15."

"Nothing wrong with being fashionably late. Anyways, wasn't sure if she needed one too, but I figure she's taking up space, so..." he says, gesturing to Uzi. To her credit, she holds her tongue, simply standing stock-still, a neutral expression on her face.

The bouncer grunts, uninterested. "ID?" He squints at Yuri, then shrugs. "Good enough. But I need to see that thing's, too."

"Oh, sorry, guess I wasn't clear enough. She's one of those helper models. Isn't that right, Uzi?"

Here it comes. Uzi's time to shine. She stares straight ahead, trying to modulate her voice to be as flat as possible, and tries to give an amazing performance.

"Affirmative."

Nailed it.

"Yeah?" says the bouncer, cocking a brow. "Whaddya need help with?"

"That's pretty personal."

"Fair. If it's one of those helper models, though, why's it got clothes? And I don't remember them makin' them that short..."

"You rather she just be walking around naked?"

The bouncer seems to weigh his options against his pay, and shakes his head. "Whatever. Just get in there."

"Thought you'd never ask. Come on, Uzi," says Yuri, gently guiding her by the shoulder.

"Beep boop, or whatever," says Uzi. Once she's sure they're out of the bouncer's sight, she flips the bird in his direction, sticking out her tongue.

"Can you believe that?" she mutters. "Why does he have clothes? Why does anyone? Frickin' humiliating..."

"This whole thing was your idea, kid," says Yuri. "C'mon, show's already started, don't wanna miss it."

As soon as they step into the actual bar, the sound of heavy metal blasts across them. Uzi can see Yuri wincing, but her eyes light up, because this frickin' rules. The band is rocking, the crowd is pumping, and-

Everyone is so much taller than her. Not again.

"Can't... Can't frickin' see anything..." she grumbles.

"You say something?" says Yuri, voice raised.

"Can't frickin' see! I'm too short!"

"Yeah? Here, I'll toss this in for free." Uzi feels Yuri's hands around her waist, but when he lifts, she only goes a few inches off the ground. "Holy- You're heavy as hell!"

She rolls her eyes. "I'm made of metal, dude. Don't strain yourself."

"Nah, I got this, I got this. Just wasn't expecting it. Oh, wait. Here." Shrugging, Yuri grabs a chair from a nearby table and slides it over. "That should be enough, right?"

Uzi hops up, and... "Yeah, it'll do," she shrugs. It's not perfect, but better than nothing. And now that she's at the venue and can actually see it, it's time to enjoy the show.

"Didn't have concerts like this back on Copper 9!" she shouts to Yuri, sticking up the horns with each of her hands.

"Yeah? Not enough robot rock?"

"Not enough space! But you should see my human skull collection! It's frickin' sick!"

"Your... You know what? Not my business."

She can't tell if he's enjoying himself, but he promised he'd stick around until the end so she doesn't get kicked out. Reliable, if nothing else. More humans should try to be like that.

[isleofair]

Twenty Questions for Fic Writers!

I was tagged by @nicoroni (and I am also tagging them back 💙) (Trust us, it works. )

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

12 as of a couple of days ago! 🥰 2 are from last year and 10 are my progress so far in the 2023 - Year of the OTP Challenge (my beloved 💖)

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

212,706 (that's about a Moby Dick's worth of words! 😦)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Just Tiger & Bunny, and just FireSky as a pairing, at that! (Who knows if I'll ever branch out... for now I'm very happy in my little corner of the fanfic world 🥰)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

The best cure for free fall (3,295 words) Kudos: 87

Stereoscopy (The Hero's Shoulders) (72,000 words) Kudos: 74

Three Dates (8,854 words) Kudos: 40

Snowdrift (3,050 words) Kudos: 37

Love, Counted along the Fibonacci Sequence (7,123 words) Kudos: 28

(These numbers may not look like much, and perhaps they are not, but considering I write a side ship in a small fandom, I am honestly incredibly grateful for literally every single one of these 🙏💕)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I probably respond too much to comments, if anything 😅 I cherish them immensely, so I tend to get a little carried away, and I try to answer every single thing that people say in them 🥺💙

6. What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oh. Uhm. I only really do happy endings, so... let me think.

Technically, the story that leaves the most angst still on the table by the end is Stereoscopy (The Hero's Shoulders), because there are some not-totally-solved things left in the background.

The one where the angst lingers closest to the end as a feeling, though, possibly enough to leave a tiny taste-memory of it in your mouth, might be To a Steadfast Heart, or possibly Second Song.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Oh, gosh. I suppose it depends on how you define happiest...

The most triumphant and satisfying ending I've done plot-wise, in my opinion, is hands-down Intertidal's.

If you're going more by something like "how much pink glitter and marshmallows is the final scene conjuring in my brain", though, it might be Love, Counted along the Fibonacci Sequence, or maybe An Honest Mistake, or Asterism (I write a lot of pink-glitter-and-marshmallows endings, sorry.)

8. Do you get hate on fics?

The haters would have to know little old me exists for me to get hate, lol. But more seriously, no, I get nothing but sweetness and I'm so grateful 💖💖💖

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Welll... I never quite mean to, but sometimes the story (and characters) ends up asking for it/needing it, and I'm so bad at saying no 😅

As for what kind... the kind that can have a 10k, E-rated chapter solely dedicated to the characters having sex, without me ever having to pick a word for "dick", lol (No, there's no trashy euphemisms, either; it's just me, my deep embarrassment, Keith Goodman's Very Polite POV, and synecdoche, my beloved, against the world 😂)

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I haven't, and I don't think I'm terribly interested in trying (never say never, of course, but for now I can't think of any that I'd want to write). AUs and/or fusions, on the other hand, are very interesting and I'm farily sure at some point I'll end up writing one.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Again, they'd have to notice the fic to steal it 😅 (Of course, it might have happened without my knowledge, but I don't see why anyone would steal unpopular fics. And besides, it would have to either be posted on a website I don't look at, or modified to be other characters, because "my" ship tag on ao3 is far too small to hide anything in there, lol)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No. (I'd make a joke about them being translated from the Italian in my head to the English on the page, but I think them up in English in the first place, so it wouldn't really apply 😅)

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, but I've "co-written" a lot of concepts/headcanons in chats and I always have an absolute blast doing that! (I'm not entirely sure I could ever co-write a fic, honestly, because I'm a bit of a control freak about my creations, and I'd probably get insufferable during the process)

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

The only one I write, lol: FireSky!!! ❤️💜 AKA Keith Goodman/Nathan Seymour, or Sky High/Fire Emblem from Tiger & Bunny (... their hero names ship name looks like a pretty crazy crossover, lol)

15. What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Ooof. I only have two real wips on my hands; the one I have more doubts about ever finishing is the one I was trying to write for the September leg of the 2023 YOTP Challenge (for which I ended up writing a different story altogether). It has very unconvincing logistics, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to fix that to my satisfaction.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Mmmh. I've gotten a fair bit of compliments about my characterization, so that's one, I suppose. I've also been very good so far at only writing one fic at once and actually finishing almost all of them (which is not nothing!) I also really like my metaphors/similes/analogies/symbolism a lot, especially in dream sequences, but I don't know if that's objectively a strength or just something I do well (mostly) only to my personal satisfaction.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I used to be good at not having run-on sentences, but I've gotten so much worse about it lately?!? I really need to check myself on that. And I think I'm not very good at coming up with complex plots (one initial premise to kick things off, and then following the flow from there? Doable. Several significant events actually shaping the story from more than one side? SAVE ME.)

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Well, if the characters were speaking another language for some reason I suppose I might, but I'm only fluent in two languages, so unless I could find someone who could help me, I would probably try to avoid the issue altogether somehow.

I also think it's not an easy thing to handle, because if the reader is not supposed to understand, a few words and phrases here and there, that maybe get explained/translated in-story at the moment or later, are okay; but huge chunks that the reader can't understand would just be annoying, and if they're supposed to understand, you need to fit a translation in along with the foreign dialogue, and it might not always be easy to do so in an efficient / not cumbersome manner.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Mh. If we want to be really precise about this, I think somewhere in my parents' house is a tiny notebook with a lilac (or possibly pale pink) cover, where a strange, short scene set after the Season 1 finale of Smallville is written in pencil. But that was a one-off thing.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

Stereoscopy (The Hero's Shoulders) will always and forever be my baby; it's the one I poured the most time and soul and effort into, and the one that I consider, in a way, the definitive fic I could write for that pairing.

I do feel like I have to mention Intertidal, as well, though: it's by far my favorite of the rest my fics, and I think it has a lot to offer.

This was a lot of fun! 😃 My dear fellow writers, if you see this and you want to do it, too, I am officially tagging you! 💚

[rebl0g4myfics]

MEETING TWEENER + P.I IS A GO

Two weeks had passed since your unwanted reunion with both your brothers, and somehow Fox River was starting to develop a routine—a twisted, dangerous routine, but a routine nonetheless. The promised transfer to a women's facility remained mysteriously delayed, with vague explanations about "paperwork" and "administrative reviews" that fooled no one.

Michael, meanwhile, had been busy. You'd learned through your brief interactions during meals—which were now somehow permitted despite being against every protocol you could imagine—that he had successfully gotten into Prison Industries, or "P.I." as everyone called it.

P.I. was a prison labor program managed by John Abruzzi, a mob boss with significant influence inside Fox River. To gain access to P.I., Michael had leveraged his knowledge of Otto Fibonacci, the informant whose testimony led to Abruzzi's incarceration. By subtly indicating that he knew Fibonacci's whereabouts—through gestures like leaving an origami crane—Michael had persuaded Abruzzi to include him in the P.I. crew.

The original P.I. crew now consisted of Michael, Abruzzi himself, Sucre, an older inmate named Charles Westmoreland who was rumored to be the infamous D.B. Cooper, T-Bag (who had apparently forced his way in), and Lincoln.

Michael had explained all this during your last brief conversation, along with his plan to get you involved as well.

"You need to be in P.I.," Michael had whispered. "That's where we're digging the escape route. I've managed to get access to some of the prison's structural weaknesses, but we need more hands and more time."

"And how exactly am I supposed to join a prison work detail?" you'd asked skeptically.

Michael's eyes had that calculating look that meant gears were turning. "Leave that to me."

Today, you'd learned what his plan was—and how it had failed. You were sitting in the visitation room with Veronica, who was officially your legal counsel now as well as Lincoln's.

"Michael tried to get his work site expanded," Veronica explained quietly. "He thought if he could convince the guards that P.I. needed to work in areas near your cell block, he could bring you in somehow."

"Let me guess," you said. "It didn't work."

Veronica shook her head. "Captain Bellick shut it down immediately. Said they couldn't have 'a little girl with a bunch of men alone.' But according to Michael, Bellick doesn't actually care about your safety—he just doesn't like Michael and will oppose anything he suggests."

You'd never met Bellick, but from what you'd heard, he was the kind of guard who thrived on the power his position gave him over inmates.

"So now what?" you asked.

"Michael says to be patient. He'll figure something out." Veronica hesitated. "In the meantime, there's something else you should know. Your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—Jason? He's been asking questions about you."

Your stomach clenched at the mention of his name. "What kind of questions?"

"About your location. Your case. Whether you've been talking to the authorities." Veronica's eyes were sharp with concern. "Y/N, is there something you're not telling me about him?"

You looked down at your hands, noticing how you'd instinctively started rubbing your wrist—where Jason had once grabbed you so hard it left bruises.

"He's not a good person," you said finally. "And if he's looking for me, it's not because he's worried about my welfare."

Veronica nodded slowly. "I thought as much. Don't worry—legally, he has no right to any information about you. I've made sure of that."

The rest of the visit was spent discussing your case—the slim possibility of getting your charges reduced, the ongoing mystery of why you were still in Fox River, and the latest developments in Lincoln's appeal.

When the guard announced that visitation time was over, Veronica stood and squeezed your hand briefly. "Stay strong, Y/N. And stay close to Michael."

---

After visitation, you were escorted back to your cell where you spent most of your time reading the few books available in the prison library. But today, the guard had a different idea.

"Warden's orders," he said, gesturing for you to follow him out of the cell block. "You're getting some rec time."

"Where's Michael?" you asked as you walked through corridors you hadn't seen before.

"P.I. is working over in A-Wing today," the guard replied disinterestedly. "Won't see him till dinner."

You felt a flutter of unease. Michael had become your safety net in this place, and Sucre, by extension, had appointed himself your unofficial protector. Without them around...

The guard led you to a small recreation room that you hadn't been in before. Unlike the main common areas, this one was nearly empty, with just a few scattered inmates playing cards or watching the ancient TV mounted in the corner.

"Stay here till I come get you," the guard instructed. "Hour and a half."

As the door closed behind him, you scanned the room cautiously. None of the faces were familiar, which could be either good or bad. On one hand, no T-Bag. On the other, no allies either.

You selected a chair in the corner with your back to the wall—a survival instinct you'd picked up quickly—and tried to look both uninterested and unapproachable.

It didn't work.

"Well, hello there, snowflake."

A young man had detached himself from a group by the TV and was approaching with a confident swagger. He couldn't have been much older than you—maybe 21 or 22—with boyish features that seemed out of place in Fox River. His hair was cut short but not shaved, and he had the kind of smile that probably charmed teachers into giving him extensions on assignments.

"The name's Tweener," he said, dropping into the chair across from you uninvited. "David Apolskis, but everyone calls me Tweener."

You raised an eyebrow but didn't respond.

"Not the talking type, huh?" He grinned, undeterred. "That's cool, mama. I can talk enough for both of us."

"Mama?" you repeated, unable to keep the incredulity from your voice.

His grin widened. "She speaks! And yeah, mama. Suits you."

"Does that line actually work?" you asked, surprising yourself with the hint of amusement in your tone. There was something almost refreshing about his straightforward approach after weeks of navigating the complex, dangerous currents of prison politics.

"Sometimes," Tweener admitted with a shrug. "Worth a shot, right? Not many pretty girls in Fox River, you know."

Despite yourself, a reluctant giggle escaped. It felt strange on your lips—when was the last time you'd laughed?

"So, snowflake, what's your story? How's a fine thing like you end up in this dump?" Tweener leaned back in his chair, giving you space while maintaining an air of casual interest. "And more importantly, how do you know Scofield?"

Your guard went back up instantly. "Why do you want to know about Michael?"

Tweener held up his hands. "Hey, no offense intended. Just curious. Guy walks around like he owns the place, got Abruzzi wrapped around his finger somehow, and now I hear he's got a sister in Fox River? That's some wild coincidence, know what I'm saying?"

You studied him warily. "It's not a coincidence," you said finally, testing the waters. "But it's also not your business."

"Fair enough," Tweener conceded easily. "I respect that. So what should I call you, since you don't seem to dig 'mama' or 'snowflake'?"

"Y/N," you replied, still cautious but finding his direct approach somewhat disarming.

"Y/N," he repeated, as if trying out the sound of it. "I like it. Short and sweet, like you."

You rolled your eyes. "Do you flirt with everyone, or am I just special?"

"Oh, you're definitely special," Tweener said, leaning forward with that confident grin again. "Not everyone can say they got both Scofield and Burrows watching their back. That's some serious protection you got there."

So that was it—he was trying to figure out if you were connected, if you could offer him some advantage in the prison hierarchy.

"I can take care of myself," you said coolly.

Tweener's eyes traveled over you, not in the predatory way T-Bag's had, but with an appraising look. "Yeah, I bet you can. But still nice to have family in here, right?"

You didn't answer that. Family was a complicated subject, especially when your brothers were plotting what was probably the most ambitious prison break in history.

Tweener seemed to sense your reluctance and switched tactics. "So, you got someone waiting for you on the outside? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?"

The question caught you off guard. "I have a boyfriend," you found yourself saying automatically, the lie slipping out before you could stop it. No, not a lie exactly—Jason might still consider himself your boyfriend, even if you'd mentally removed him from that role the moment he'd been arrested.

Tweener shrugged, unfazed. "I don't care, mama. Some guys out there don't know how to appreciate what they got."

"He doesn't," you admitted before you could stop yourself.

Something flickered in Tweener's eyes—recognition, perhaps. "Sounds like a real prince," he said, his tone softer. "His loss, though. When I get outta here, I'd treat a girl like you right."

Despite the cheesy line, there was something almost genuine in his voice that made you smile slightly. "Is that so?"

"Absolutely," Tweener confirmed with enthusiasm. "Dinner, movies, the whole nine yards. None of that disrespectful shit."

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to imagine a life where things were that simple—where a cute boy asking you out was your biggest concern, not whether you'd live to see your next birthday outside prison walls.

Before you could respond, the door to the rec room opened, and Michael appeared, escorted by a guard. His eyes scanned the room, immediately finding you, and his expression darkened when he saw Tweener sitting with you.

"Rec time's up, Scofield," the guard was saying. "Boss says you can have fifteen minutes with your sister before you go back to P.I."

Michael nodded, his eyes never leaving you as he approached.

Tweener stood up, that easy confidence never wavering. "Catch you later, Y/N," he said with a wink before sauntering away, giving Michael a respectful nod as they passed each other.

Michael took the seat Tweener had vacated, leaning in close. "Stay away from Apolskis," he said without preamble.

"Hello to you too," you replied, annoyed at his tone. "Last I checked, you weren't in charge of who I talk to."

Michael sighed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I'm just trying to keep you safe, Y/N. Tweener is a car thief who got caught passing stolen goods. He's trying to fit in with any group that will have him, and he'll sell out anyone if it helps his position."

"Sounds familiar," you muttered. "Isn't that exactly what you're doing with Abruzzi?"

"That's different," Michael insisted. "I have leverage with Abruzzi. I have control."

You studied your brother's face—the calculated calm, the careful analysis behind his eyes. Sometimes it was hard to reconcile this Michael with the brother who had helped you with your homework and made you pancakes on Saturday mornings.

"Did you really come here just to police who I talk to?" you asked finally.

Michael glanced around, making sure no one was within earshot. "No. I came to tell you that I have a new plan. Bellick won't let you work with P.I. directly, but there's another way. The infirmary."

"The infirmary?" you repeated.

Michael nodded. "I've been going there regularly. The doctor, Sara Tancredi, she's the governor's daughter. She oversees my insulin shots."

"Insulin?" you interrupted, alarmed. "Since when are you diabetic?"

"I'm not," Michael said calmly. "It's part of the plan. I needed regular access to the infirmary."

You stared at him, trying to process the lengths he had gone to for this escape. "So what's the infirmary got to do with me?"

"Dr. Tancredi needs help—filing, basic administrative work. I suggested you. She's considering it."

"And this helps the escape how?"

Michael lowered his voice even further. "The infirmary is key to our route out. Having you in there would give us another set of eyes, another person who could gather information and supplies."

The conversation about his plan continued, but your mind kept drifting back to that brief moment with Tweener—the simple interaction that had made you feel, just for a second, like a normal twenty-year-old rather than a prisoner caught in a conspiracy larger than you could comprehend.

As Michael kissed your forehead before leaving—"Stay safe while I'm gone, I'll figure this out"—you found yourself wondering what normal would feel like if you ever experienced it again.

And whether a boy with an easy smile and bad pickup lines might be part of that normal someday, in a world beyond Fox River's walls.

[uthuze]

𝐎𝐃𝐘𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐒 of 𝘍𝘈𝘛𝘌 𝘎𝘙𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘖𝘙𝘋𝘌𝘙.

a study of ❲ . . . ❳ the hero's journey. the scars of battle. defying the gods. the rage of the oceans against the hopes of mankind. grief and death. returning home. overcoming impossible odds.

app ₁ saint graph ₂ meta analysis ₃ thread tracker ₄ plotter call ₅

affiliated with isolaradiale. ranked ⎛ dwarf ❲ 3/8/25 ❳ ⎠ housed ⎛ fibonacci, house 116 ⎠

hi its me percival and i needed a second sad sailor to add to my muse list ⎛ the first one's balduran ⎠ anyway! i prioritize group members but i will write with indie blogs. if you need to know about odysseus, here is something ...

big yikes besties.

for those of you who are not familiar with the typemoon franchise and wonder why the heck every other post here will be about epic the musical, the concept of a heroic spirit in fate is literally "the history / mythology that we know" + "the perceptions of the people who summon them",

do not ask me about the atlantis and olympus lostbelts and why they are like the high tech apocalypse. but understand that under all of that, odysseus is still the dude who killed like 13 trojans in their sleep and stole their horses and all the other very ... unhinged things he did in times of war. the same guy who wanted to throw hands with gods. our favorite(?) wifeguy.

expect me to talk about the odyssey (non-fate type) when given the opportunity, because i have had greek and roman mythology as my special interest under all my other special interests since i was like 10.

i also write seofon and malchior. and balduran but i mentioned him already. i am 31+ and use he/him pronouns :)

i'll be doing art for this blog for my icons- please don't take them! otherwise, it's official art from fate grand order.

[jonathankatwhatever]

It’s 9 Mar 2024. Here’s how I concoct belief. I take a hit, something which makes me believe I must be wrong identifying you. It makes me shudder, like when I hit the ground and something in my leg breaks loose, and I feel the pain quivering through the structure. Like that except in the mind. An instantaneous downward spiral. A sudden spurt of if you are going to deny this, then this is how. But when I type words like commitment to a role, they feel fake, and I don’t know where to go.

That is, when the idea appeared, meaning it filled in, a 0-1-0 insertion, I assumed it was true because it was the obvious generation of my identification of you. This is the only way this keeps going. But if I say it, then it sounds a hollow justification. That’s because the justification is in 0Space and the rationale is in 1Space. That is, if you construct based on 0Space versus 1Space, you’re constructing events from and with a perspective. That’s been the core component of identification all along. So I keep identifying you from the 1Space perspective until I somehow cannot. I’ve been through this so many times and I finally understand the process.

It’s now 11 Mar 2024. I stopped typing on the 9th because I had no connection to the work, which is something I associate with you being in the air. The connection returned but not in a way conducive to typing. In fact, it was against typing, preferring instead to understand the idea of a Julia set, and the case of the Mandelbrot set, in gs terms. That is going well. The Mandelbrot set is the continuous creation of converging gs, mapped to trace each complex number which converges, and then with the color detail expressing the edge of convergence, with the color changing to express how long it takes to recognize it diverges instead of converge, meaning they look one way, share that path, and then diverge.

The Julia set is a fixed complex number iterated. So that’s an overlay, given how we construct gs, with the compression of szK and xyK into imaginary and real axes. That’s why all those number sequences appear in the Mandelbrot set.

It really is pretty cool to see this. You get each number in a bulb with an antenna. The Fibonacci sequence emerges as layers. The rationals prove the entire point about CR generating all of these results. These literally emerge out of what diverges.

It’s so cool that ⅓ is a bulb, not 2/6. The linkage is obvious. It all generates out of what we called Incomprehensible. That means, I think, we can take indiscernible and use that to define Incomprehensible. Jumping branches of bulbs is an example. I think I have this.

Need to take a break because I’m genuinely excited.

[mood-report]

Market Comment: Bitcoin

Just as the SPX B-wave thesis is running on fumes, so too is bitcoin's B-wave thesis as postulated here in December.

SPX is fast approaching its 5,179.57 127% Fib extension, and bitcoin has blown through both its 48,547 61.8% and its 57,542 78.6% retracement levels and sold off against its 63,646 90% retracement today, crashing 5,775* points in a matter of minutes.

The "reason why" is irrelevant (Coinbase "outage"...zzzzz).

The point is, bitcoin respects Fibonacci. Bitcoin has retraced ~80% from highs several times since inception, and today's reaction was its second sell off from a Fib level during the current rally. January's sell off from its 61.8% retracement was nearly 3,000 points. Today's was even better, both in points and timing.

The next level of note, besides bitcoin's all-time high, would be the 127% Fib expansion at 83.562.88.

December's post also noted bitcoin's shifting correlations.

Bitcoin, while benefitting from a possibly too-much-anticipated ETF and institutional boom, has morphed from having a 90% correlation to tech stocks during the 2020-2021 rally to currently having an 88% correlation to bonds and the US dollar.

Notably, bitcoin's correlation has shifted once again. No longer tech, no longer rates & USD, it's now 78% correlated with the Baltic Dry Index ETF (BDRY).

This is interesting because BDRY was the first off the low last year, giving bullish divergence as the SPX made a new low while BDRY did not.

With any luck, BDRY will do so again if we are to see a top at some point, or, importantly, it could remain the leader and thus signal continuation.

It's also important to note that back in 2007 the actual Baltic Dry Index gave a beautiful non-confirmation vs SPX, giving those of us who watch such things an extra dose of bearish conviction.

Right now, these dueling bitcoin and BDRY liquidity gauges are telling me to look long and hard at copper, palladium, and platinum and other slumping commodities such as nat gas, corn, soybeans, and wheat, as well as the Bloomberg Commodity Futures Index.

It's also telling me to be on guard for lingering inflation which could throw a wrench in the Goldilocks equities narrative.

Update: I'd be very interested in re-loading crude related products should crude roll over and reflect any interim slowdown in the economy. Ideally below $60. I know, sounds crazy.

###

*Global Digital Asset Exchange (GDAX) data

[soldier-lodbrok]

Ifalna didn't ridicule him for his worries. Even if they seemed so stupid in the face of what she had gone through. Glenn was just supposed to do the right thing now, after he had done wrong before. She had suffered from all that... and yet he needed her at his side in this moment.

Smiling slightly, he nodded. Aerith wouldn't be alone for long and they could see the windows from the phone cell. It would only take a bit...

"Alright..."

Glenn got up too, slowly collecting the discarded armour. Though he didn't put it back on again. he just laid it atop of the small cupboard by the door. He would have to get rid of it. But not here, not now. They couldn't leave even more traces. Instead he put on his red coat, that would be his new go-to now.

Going outside, Glenn waited at the end of the small staircase for Ifalna. It felt strange, to go out now. As if not even he was supposed to be here. And Glenn could tell his palms already were a little sweaty. What the fuck would he have to say...

It was so quiet outside. Already into the night, just distant voices or very few vehicles. The light around the cell was faint - and it was actually small. Too small for Glenn and Ifalna to fit in there at the same time. So Glenn just kept the door open, picking up the phone maybe a bit too roughly. As if he tried to play down his bubbling nervousness with roughness.

"Okay, okay... they're out together today. With a little luck I get both at once..."

So he didn't have to make the same awkward call twice.

Taking a deep breath, Glenn closed his eyes for a moment. He usually just did things. Why was this so damn hard? He... was leaping into another life. One he didn't know. With this call there was no taking back anything. No going into hiding. So far he could have just vanished back to Shinra... but with this...? No.

Punching the number in, Glenn pressed the phone against his ear and gave Ifalna a small sideglance.

She was no liar. She was no terrorist. She... was the truth he had been so blind to.

When Matt's voice answered with a sudden "Yes?", for a moment Glenn was just... silent. Staring at the stupid commercials plastered over the wall of the cell, he gulped hard. He could see his own distorted mirror image there.

"Matt."

"... Glenn? Where the- okay. Where do we have to pick you up?"

That almost would have made him grin, scoff a little. But this time Glenn couldn't laugh at it. He knew Matt's voice was loud enough even through the speaker in this quiet night, that Ifalna could hear him.

"Is Lucia with you?" "... she is. Why? You need to get out of something? Damn, Glenn."

Glenn scrunched his nose a little offended. Was he so unreliable? He looked like an idiot in front of Ifalna.

"Matt, you need to listen. And you need to tell Lucia. But no one else. Promise me, okay?"

There was another beat of silence, this time coming from Matt. Glenn could almost hear his friend's brain starting to count his beloved Fibonacci number, like he always did when nervous.

Glenn's free hand sought to busy itself, seemingly. Scratching along the phone panel, the door frame.

"Okay... I promise. What is it?"

Wetting his lips, Glenn looked to Ifalna again, as if she would tell him word for word what to tell his own friends.

"I can't return to work next week. I... you can't either. You have to come to Kalm, okay? I'm in Kalm. We need to meet up. Before sunrise. At that stupid bench we practically spent our last weekend trip on. Bring all you need on a longer trip."

"... Glenn. What is going on? Are you in trouble?"

"No! I mean... no. Not really. A little, maybe.", Glenn cringed at his own statement. Oh fuck, why was it so hard to just say the right shit? "Just come!"

The exhausted sigh on the other end of the connection told Glenn that Matt was giving in. Even if he didn't understand.

"... okay, okay. Calm down. We... we'll be there. You know it. Geez, you better have a good explanation."

Ifalna's smile spread, though she had the restraint to not move while he worked. Her own laugh was an exhaled breath of amusement. "You haven't met me when I'm beastly, all tired eyes and mumbled grunts instead of speech."

Though her smile quickly sobered again when Glenn insisted Shinra was the real problem. She hummed vaguely, an acknowledgement and an agreement.

She watched him with that softened posture. He glanced to something behind her, though she had a pretty good guess of what that was. Then he met her eyes and she offered a reassuring smile. Shinra was the source of her misery, a company he worked for until some minutes ago when he shed his remaining association with them.

But she didn't blame him for what happened to her. He wasn't the one who pointed a gun at her and Aerith seven years ago, who forced her and her baby against their will from freedom into a deranged captivity. That had been another faceless security officer, in an ocean of faceless others who simply followed orders.

Glenn had looked where it was uncomfortable. He hadn't brushed it aside or turned a blind eye, he was deeply troubled when he learned the secrets Shinra was capable of harboring. And while she didn't know his past within the company... she could only hope that he wouldn't have been someone to point his weapon so easily at a mother and child. That didn't suit him. That didn't sound like him at all.

He stepped around indecisively. He seemed lost, about what he should do and where he should be. His plate was piled high, and he asked her something in such a quiet tone she almost had to lean forward to catch it.

"Of course I will." Ifalna quickly agreed, even if it flared her own anxiety. She kept it well hidden — though they wouldn't be gone for long, and the phone wasn't all that far away, she didn't like the idea of Aerith being completely alone... "I'll tell my little bed bug that we'll be outside the window if she needs anything, I... don't want her to knock a hole through the wall in the short time we'd be unable to hear her."

It was a mother's natural worry. That their child would need them in the few moments they weren't there.

She carefully picked up her dress from the floor. It almost felt lighter now, as she slipped back into the long, flowing layers. Glenn must have felt a lot lighter too, with his heavier armour strewn on the floor.

[balefulaleka]

I'm sooooo done with art school, I'm tired I just want to eat burritos and paint portraits of vampires with long hair and such proportions that all my drawings give the impression of having the anatomical precision of Da Vinci, am I asking too much?

[thicc-astronaut]

Great Wave off Kanagawa is the only artwork I’ve seen where I understand the golden spiral overlay. Everything else feels like I’m being trolled.

[ceeceetumbles]

(y/d/n) will be (your dad’s first name) and (y/m/n) will be (your mom’s first name) and (y/l/n) will be, u know, (your last name). <3

the request was for headcanons but I usually write fics not headcanons so this kinda ended up just a fic with bullet points instead of paragraph breaks so YEAH i hope u still like it ahaha

tw/cw: themes of racism/prejudice in the form of anti-mutant sentiments (if you’ve read my earlier fic “sunday morning at the grocery store,” this is set in that same type of world. “half-bloods” (mutants) have been technically, officially accepted into society; but personal opinion tends to vary.)

note: here is the post with some background for the story! and here is the link for the raph version!

/////////////

rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles fanfiction ~ Donatello x female reader

/////////////

Donnie

(note: please see @chubs-deuce for the human donnie design that you should be picturing ahaha. link 1 and link 2 and link 3)

In the weeks leading up to the trip, he notices that something seems off about you.

So he corners you in his lab and asks what’s been going on. He taps his feet on the ground and his fingers on the edge of the table, and narrows his eyes at you until you talk.

“It’s… it’s about my parents,” you say, and stare at your fingers, and he leans back and waits for you to say some more.

“I haven’t told them… what you are. My dad won’t like… what you are.”

“Oh,” Donnie says.

“Yeah,” you say.

He sits down and thinks for a moment. You sit down too, dangling your feet off of the edge of the table.

“That’s his problem,” he says, narrowing his eyes, his eyebrows drawing together on his purple forehead. “The world is changing, yeah? He’s just going to have to accept half-bloods, at some point. Accept us, at some point.”

But you see his fingers tapping. He’s nervous. And you don’t blame him.

You rack your brain for a moment, peering in all of the corners, overturning neurons, thinking, thinking --

“What about the cloaking brooch?” you say, suddenly, feeling like a lightbulb has ignited triumphantly above your head.

“Hmm?”

“The cloaking brooch,” you say. “I mean, it’s okay if we hide… hide your… your turtleiness from them, right? We can warm my dad up to you before showing him, right? So why not try the cloaking brooch? Pretend to be human for a weekend?”

His eyes get big. Wild and big.

“Oh my Fibonacci,” he coos. “Brilliant.”

So you get your hands on a cloaking brooch and secure it to Donnie. The brooch adjusts to his thoughts; he sets his look.

“Well? Well?? How is it? How do I look??”

He’s in the bathroom, admiring himself in the mirror, flexing, turning, patting his hair, straightening his goggles.

“How do I look??” he demands, again, grinning wildly, and you don’t reply -- you’re too busy blushing -- so he answers for you.

“I look AWESOME,” he hisses.

Donnie loves his cloaking brooch persona. He’s very confident in it. Which is good. Because he’s going to meet your parents with it.

You take the brooch away from him. He protests.

“If anything happens to this,” you tell him, “my life will be over. It wasn’t easy to get this, babe.”

/////////////

You give it back to him when you slide into the car, starting your drive to your parents’ house.

You know that he means it when he says he’ll keep the brooch safe. He loves that thing.

He puts it on as soon as his door is closed. He’s grinning from ear to ear, flexing his ten fingers on the steering wheel, pressing his flat back against the car seat.

“This body is so normal to you!” he marvels. “But so foreign to me! The smooth, hairy skin! The thousands of fingers! The tiny torso! This is so weird!”

You giggle.

“Eyes on the road, Dee,” you remind him.

He focuses his eyes on the road dutifully.

He’s so happy with the cloaking brooch. So happy. But it makes you uncomfortable.

Why? Why is he so happy with the cloaking brooch? He’s happy because it takes himself away, isn’t he? Because it lets him exist as a “normal human,” pretend that he’s a “normal human”?

You don’t want him to think like that. You want him to be himself. You want him to be happy being himself.

You reach over and slide your hand over his. His long, warm fingers wrap around your own.

Five smooth human fingers. It isn’t your Donnie’s hand.

You squeeze tighter.

/////////////

You pull into your parents’ driveway after a little-too-many-hours spent driving. The silhouette of the house is familiar. The front yard looks like childhood.

Donnie stops the car. You step out. He pops the trunk.

The front door opens. You look over. It’s your mom.

Her hands are pressed together nervously, and she’s wearing her slippers. She hops down the porch steps and holds out her arms as she hurries over to you.

You hug. Big, long, squishy hug.

You haven’t been home in just over a year. You haven’t hugged either of your parents in just over a year.

You hear her heart beating. She’s nervous.

You suddenly remember that you forgot to tell her that your boyfriend was going to be… disguised.

He’s taking your suitcases out of the trunk. You gesture at him, through the hug.

“Mom,” you say, “this is Donnie. He’s, um, dressed up right now.”

Donnie grabs your mom’s hand delicately.

“Charmed,” he hums, and presses it to his lips.

She smiles distantly at him and then stares at you.

You sigh. She’ll want an explanation.

“See that brooch? It’s called a cloaking brooch. It keeps him looking… human. You know. For Dad’s sake.”

She nods slowly.

You sigh through your nose and try to press the brooch, but Donnie grabs your hands to keep them off of it.

“If I’m going to be human for the weekend,” he whispers, “I want to be human for the weekend.”

“Please? Just once? She… she won’t stop wondering --”

“Just show her a picture or something. Now. Let’s go inside. Human Donnie has a Dad to meet.”

/////////////

Your dad doesn’t like Donnie.

He doesn’t know he’s a half-blood, but it probably wouldn’t make much of a difference. He just. Doesn’t like Donnie. As an individual.

Donnie walks into the house and sees your dad and immediately starts talking too loud.

“Oh hello!! You must be the man of the house! Y/n’s dad! It is an honor to meet you, sir! Lovely human dad for my lovely human girlfriend! And I bet it is so exciting to meet her lovely human boyfriend, huh?? Are you a man of science, (Y/d/n)? Have you heard of quantum physics? String theories?? I am a man of science, yes I am! Would you like to hear about my latest inventions?? Ah, I’ll tell you anyway. You see --”

You know that all of this means that Donnie is nervous. He’s trying to impress your dad. But your dad is staring at you over Donnie’s shoulder, arching his eyebrows, as Donnie hunches his shoulders and rubs his arms and laughs and rambles, so you put one hand on Donnie’s shoulder and he immediately reaches up to grab it with his own.

“Donnie,” you say. “Let’s take our stuff inside, okay?”

“Okay!!” he says, quickly, and you walk out the front door together while your dad arches his eyebrows even sharper at you. You shrug nervously and follow Donnie.

“How was that?” Donnie is saying, as you wrap your shaking fingers around the handle of your suitcase. “Do you think he likes me?”

“Maybe let him talk more?” you suggest.

“Let him talk more?? Sure! Okay! Anything for Mr. Your Dad, right??”

He laughs loudly. You see the fear in his eyes.

It’s weird -- it’s not your Donnie, not quite. His skin is brown and warm, there’s hair coiling out of his scalp, and he’s… he’s human. Completely human. But he moves like Donnie, and holds his hands the same way, and he has his eyes. And every time he smiles you feel the same familiar butterflies in your stomach.

“You’ll win him over,” you assure Donnie -- you hope, verbally, at Donnie. Will he be able to win over your dad? You hope, you hope, you hope.

Your mom is working on dinner in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup; she switches out with your dad, and hurries you and Donnie to your rooms.

“Sorry about (Y/d/n),” she whispers to Donnie. “He can… take a little while to warm up.”

She goes back to the kitchen and you and Donnie stand together in your childhood bedroom for a moment.

“We gotta thaw out your dad,” Donnie says, rubbing his hands together, an unpleasant glint shining in his eye.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t. Whatever you’re planning. Just. Don’t. We just have to get civilly through this weekend without him discovering you’re a --” (you drop your voice, mouth it) “-- half-blood and without him hating you. That’s all. No tech, no tricks. Don’t try to impress him. He can tell when you’re trying to impress him. Just… just be yourself.”

Donnie doesn’t look like he’s listening to you.

You snap your fingers in front of his face. “Donnie. Donnie. Earth to Donatello.”

He blinks at you, twice, unfocused, and you can still see him Thinking behind those wild eyes.

“Donnie. What did I just say?”

“Um.” He blanks. “Uh --”

“Don’t try to impress my dad. He won’t like it.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me that before we got here?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t think to! I haven’t brought that many boys around to meet my parents, I’m not really used with the procedure, and --”

Your mom pops her head into the room. You’re suddenly, awkwardly aware of how loudly you and Donnie were talking.

“Dinner is ready!” she says, quickly.

You and Donnie follow her to the dining room, your arms folded uncomfortably.

Dinner doesn’t go much better.

You start kicking Donnie under the table every time you decide he’s talking too much or trying too hard to impress your dad -- a.k.a. every time your dad moves his eyes off of Donnie’s face and stares directly into your soul.

Eventually Donnie takes a deep breath and grabs your hand under the table and holds it tight and eats his soup and just stops talking.

You’re at the house for the long weekend. There’s a full day and a half of tension between Donnie and your dad. They don’t really talk to each other; they barely acknowledge each other; and you can’t forget that this is without him knowing that Donnie is a half-blood. this is without him knowing that Donnie is a half-blood.

/////////////

You’re putting a tray of muffins in the oven when Donnie walks in, leaning against the counter, watching you straighten up and dust the flour off of your hands.

“I think your dad hates me,” he whispers.

“Donnie,” you say, but you’ve been thinking it too.

You watch him rub his arms.

“I don’t want your dad to hate me,” he says, his voice getting louder with each word.

You motion at him. Quieter. He drops his tone.

“I’m trying so hard to impress him! So hard! And nothing I do works. He just… keeps hating me. I’m trying my best! Why won’t he like me??”

“Look, Donnie, I don’t know --”

“Ask him,” Donnie urges.

“But --”

“Please.” His arms are folded, and his face is foreign, and his voice sounds more like home than this place ever did.

“Okay,” you say.

So you ask your dad.

/////////////

It’s around 3 o’clock, and Donnie lurks in the kitchen, and your dad is reading in the living room. His reading glasses are on the end of his nose, and his book is worn and dog-eared, and you sit down on the ottoman in front of his chair. Just like when you were little. It accepts you immediately, your crossed legs sinking into the plush material.

“Hey, Dad,” you say.

“Hey, baby girl,” he says, flipping the page.

“Can we talk?”

He sighs through his nose and folds down the edge of his book and sets it aside. He takes off his glasses, and folds them, and puts them on top of the book. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. He looks at you. You have his full, complete attention. You dad has always been Intense. If he’s mad, it’s very distressing; but when you want to talk, it can be comforting. There will be nothing else on his mind right now except you, and what you have to say.

“I’m listening,” he says.

“It’s about Donnie.”

He sighs, through his mouth this time.

“Donnie,” he repeats.

“Yes. Donnie.” You stare at his elbows. “Dad, why don’t you… why don’t you like him?”

He sighs, harder. “Honey --”

“Dad, please. Seriously. I want to know. He… he wants to know. He really really wants you to like him, Dad. He’s really trying to impress you. He just wants you to like him. I just want you to like him.”

“That’s it. That’s it right there. He’s really, really trying to impress me. And it’s, well, it��s not working.” He switches his tone to something nasally that you think is trying to imitate Donnie’s voice. Your cheeks burn. “‘Well, hello, Mr. Dad. Are you interested in my twelve Nobel prizes? Are you interested in all of my confusing vocabulary no one understands but me? Why don’t you like me? Oh, don’t bother to answer that, just look at my weird robots.’ He’s so… self-centered. And so desperate. He’s trying to make up for something. But I don’t know what. And he wears those… those weird goggle things? And he uses weird words that no one should ever say? And --”

“Dad -- yeah. I don’t really have a case for the goggle or the made-up words. That’s just who he is. That’s just Donnie. But… but he’s just trying to impress you. He’s so confident, believe me, but when he gets insecure he gets insecure. And it’s very easy for him to go overboard. And also he just, never shuts up, ever. Even when he’s not trying to impress someone. Which is never, actually. He’s always trying to impress someone. When I think about it.”

Your dad raises an eyebrow. “You’re not really helping his case, honey.”

“Ugh! I know! But, Dad, I really really really like him.” You lean forwards, dropping your voice, finally forcing your eyes to meet his own. “I love him. I’m in love with that man. And I want to marry him, so badly. No matter what you think. But still -- I love you, and I love him, and I just want you to be able to get along.”

Your dad looks at you, at your pathetic pleading face, and his forehead softens a bit.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll try to give him a chance, okay? But if you get married -- don’t expect me to be excited about seeing him, okay? Ever? Stay away from our family reunions.”

You pale a bit.

“That was a joke. You can come to the family reunions. (I guess.) But… but yeah. I’ll try my best to get along with him for the rest of the weekend, okay?”

All of the tension comes whooshing out of your body. Your shoulders finally relax, and your chest compresses.

“Thank you,” you breathe. “Thank you thank you thank you, Dad, thank you, oh my gosh thank you. Oh my gosh.”

He waves a hand at you. “Calm down. It’s not that big a deal. Every dad has to go through this with their prospective son-in-laws. It’s a requirement to be a dad.”

You bounce up and down on the plush ottoman.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou,” you gush, and then you stand up and curtsy for some reason and hurry out of the room before you start crying.

/////////////

Why do you want to cry?? Why is your jaw aching??

You peek into the kitchen and see that Donnie isn’t there (he’s playing billiards with your mom in the basement, actually) so you just slink down the hall to your childhood bedroom, and the celebrity crush posters on the wall just make you feel worse. You curl up on top of your covers and bite at your blanket and let yourself choke and sob.

You grab your phone and text Donnie.

“please come see me in my room when u have a min thxx”

and he knocks on the door almost instantly.

“Darling?”

You don’t want to get up but when you try to yell at him to open the door, your throat is too tight.

But he opens the door, slowly, and sees you sobbing on your mattress.

“Darling? Y/n?”

His body is so weird and human but his voice is his own and his eyes blink at you from that foreign, foreign face.

You hold out your hands to him and he sits next to you on the mattress, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close to him, resting his chin on top of your head. You slap the cloaking brooch. You blubber into his plastron.

“You okay?” he whispers into the top of your head. “Everything alright?” And he rubs your back.

Are you okay? Is everything alright? Your emotions are tangled up in a knot in the middle of your stomach, and you can’t find the loose ends to even start to try to unravel it.

Deep breaths. In. Out. Donnie is rubbing your back and you’re gasping shakily into his plastron and your temples are starting to pound with the pressure building up in your head.

Why are you crying? Why are you crying?

And then Donnie presses his lips to the top of your head and hugs you a little tighter and you realize.

You realize that you’re crying because you’re in love with him, and your dad hasn’t liked him, and your dad is giving him a chance now, hopefully, and you’re in love with him, and if your parents like him, that’s one step closer to being able to spend the rest of your life with him. You want to spend the rest of your life with him.

You tighten your fingers around his skin.

Your throat finally loosens a bit, lets you talk.

“My dad’s going to try,” you say, your voice muffled by his chest. “He’s going to try to give you a chance. He’ll probably take you fishing tomorrow. Okay?”

“Fishing? Okay.”

(He doesn’t want to go fishing. At all. But for you? For your dad? Anything. Anything at all.)

“Thanks,” you mutter into his chest.

“Of course,” he says.

/////////////

Donnie and your dad don’t magically get along, of course, but your dad does try his best. For you.

He talks to you before you and Donnie leave to go back home.

“Your boyfriend is weird,” he says, immediately.

“Thanks.”

“But he loves you.”

“Yeah.”

“Does he… does he treat you good?”

“He treats me the best.”

And your dad takes your hands in his own.

“You’re my baby girl,” he tells you. “You’re the most important thing in my life, you know that, right? (Don’t tell your mom I said that.) And… and to be completely honest with you, I don’t completely like the boy. He… he just gets on my nerves. He does. But? If you like him? If you love him? And he loves you? And he treats you well? Then I have nothing bad to say about it. I will accept him however you want me to accept him. Okay?”

“Okay,” you try to say, but the relief is flooding into your chest, and so you just nod.

You were scared your dad would forbid it. You were scared he’d put his foot down and you’d have to never talk to him again if you wanted to be with Donnie.

And the relief fills your body and you bite at your tongue to keep from giggling deliriously.

But then you remember. Half-blood. He’s a half-blood.

That’s an entirely DIFFERENT hurdle to take care of.

You hug your dad, and tell him thank you, and then you find Donnie and press your forehead against his.

“Whatever you said on that fishing trip really worked,” you hum.

Donnie smiles at you and nuzzles your nose with his own.

(They talked on the fishing trip. They talked about Donnie, and about you. And your dad listened to how Donnie talked about you, how softly and gently, full of love and protection. He listened to the firm determination in his voice. Saw the way he held his hands when he said your name. And he decided that, no matter how much he didn’t care for Donnie himself, he cared for you, and you cared for him, and so he would accept Donnie into his family if needed. He wouldn’t try to keep you two apart in any way. He would let you be happy.)

“Of course he likes me,” he says with a grin. “Never doubted it.”

“Donnie --” You roll your eyes, and laugh.

He has his hands on both sides of your face, and he tugs your mouth closer to his; but you turn away. You can’t kiss that face. It doesn’t feel right.

“(Y/n)?”

“Sorry. It’s… it’s your face.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s right.” And you hear him remember that he is not his usual self. And you hear him remember that your dad will definitely have quite a few things to say about you spending your life with a half-blood.

“It can wait,” you whisper. “This trip we got him used to you, yourself, your personality. We can handle the half-blood stuff another time.”

“But it doesn’t feel right to keep it from him. He’s starting to trust me. I don’t want to have to break all of that trust in a few months.”

“Donnie --”

And he kisses your forehead and strokes your cheeks with his thumbs and then he takes off. You hear him calling for your dad.

DONNIE. What the HECK is he doing, that stupid dum-dum.

/////////////

Your dad is in the living room, reading; and Donnie kind of stands in the entryway for a moment. He knocks lightly on the doorframe.

“Knockity knock,” he says, and rushes in.

Your dad looks up.

“Hi, Donatello,” he says.

“Hey, Y/d/n,” Donnie says. What am I doing? What. Am. I. Doing?? Do I really want to destroy all of the fragile scaffolding we’ve built up over the past couple of days? But then he remembers you, turning your face away, and the lack of light behind your eyes when you smile at him. This isn’t him, this face, this body. He feels so confident and so secure in it -- but that’s because it’s not his. His body is a half-blood one. Not a human one. He doesn’t get to be a human -- and that’s okay. That’s okay.

Your dad deserves to know who he really is.

So Donnie sighs and whispers, “Goodbye, beautiful body,” and your dad arches an eyebrow, and Donnie presses his fingers against the cloaking brooch.

The brooch’s energy swirls around him, and then he is standing in front of your dad, as naked and exposed and vulnerable as he’s ever felt. He takes a deep breath and looks at your dad. He hasn’t rehearsed anything to say. The words propel themselves out of his mouth.

“I am a half-blood!” he announces, like it isn’t obvious. He balls his fists at his sides and lifts his head slightly, baring his chest to your dad. “I am a half-blood. Your daughter has informed me of how you feel about my kind -- and yes! I tricked you! I disguised myself for this trip. But only because I love her so much! And I didn’t want you to cast me away. So I hope that now -- now that we have gotten to know each other a little bit -- you will accept me for who I really am. I am the same man you spoke with on that fishing trip, Mr. (Y/l/n) -- only my body has changed. So yes, yes, yes I am a half-blood. But I love your daughter more than anything else in this world! And I didn’t want to keep my true self hidden from you any longer and break your trust any more than I had to. So. Kill me if you must. Banish me if you must. But I love your daughter.” He lifts his chin, dramatically. “I love your daughter.”

Your dad is staring at him. Three minutes ago, he was peacefully reading Great Expectations in the living room. Now there is a half-blood dating his daughter and standing in his living room.

“Y/n?” he calls, voice choked.

You poke your head into the living room. “...Yeah?”

“He’s a… a half-blood.”

You feel your stomach twisting, your heart pounding; you nod quietly and step into the living room, taking your place next to Donnie. “Yeah.”

“You knew?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been dating a half-blood, all this time?”

You reach for Donnie’s hand, taking his large cold green fingers in your warm ones. “Yes. Yes, I am. And I love him --”

“Baby girl. He’s… he’s not human.”

“Dad --”

“He’s not human.”

“Dad! Please, please just calm down for a second --”

“I am calm. I am remarkably calm. And you know it. You know how calm I’m being. For your sake.”

You squeeze Donnie’s hand, tight.

“Can I get a moment alone with my daughter? Please?” your dad says to Donnie, through tight teeth.

He glances at you for direction. You squeeze his fingers and nod.

He goes.

You face your dad, and take your seat on the ottoman, and stare at your hands.

“Baby girl,” he says.

“Dad.”

He sighs. “(Y/n), you know I’m not comfortable with --”

“Dad.” You feel your cheeks burning. “You told me that you--”

“That was before I knew --” he lowers his voice “--before I knew what he was.”

“DAD. What difference does it make?? He’s EXACTLY the same, he just --”

“Baby girl. Baby girl. Hey, don’t look at me like that --”

“I love him,” you hiss at him. “I love him, and I love you, but please don’t --”

“I love you too,” your dad says, leaning forward, his eyebrows drawn together and his eyes very earnest. “I love you too, baby girl, but --”

“-- don’t you dare --”

“-- I can’t let you stay with that man,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I can’t. I can’t, in good conscience, let you --”

“-- Dad --”

“-- I won’t be able to sleep. I won’t be able to sleep because of you, Y/n, I’ll just be so worried --”

“-- he’s not dangerous. He’s not dangerous. He’s just green. He’s the most brilliant man I’ve ever met and I’m so genuinely in love with him and --”

“-- have you seen the news?? Have you seen what they do? They have animal blood coursing in their veins. At any moment they could snap!! He could snap! And if anything happens to you --”

“-- he’s not going to snap, Dad, he’s not a monster, he’s not some animal, he’s as human as you and me! He’s just --”

“-- I love you, Y/n. I love you so much, and --”

“-- this is why he wore that brooch,” you snap, “this is why I haven’t shown you pictures this is why I’ve hid him from you. This is why he came in disguise. Because you were fine with him as a human, remember?? But the second you see that he’s --”

“-- I love you!” your dad argues back. “I love you!! When I thought he was human, he was good! He was safe! But now there’s danger, and --”

“-- I love him,” you say, “I love him, I love him, I love him. If you make me choose between you and him, I will choose him. I love him. I want to spend my life with him. I --”

And the voices get louder and louder, until you and your dad are both standing up in the living room, screaming, and your dad is red in the face and you’re choking down sobs and finally you just leave. You just leave.

You storm out of the house and buckle yourself into the car and slam the car door -- hard -- and you put your head down on the dashboard and feel your breaths hot in your skull.

/////////////

Donnie is still in the house, standing with your mother; they were in the kitchen the whole time, listening uncomfortably as you and your father argued.

“I think we should go,” Donnie mumbles, rubbing his arms nervously.

“Probably,” your mom mumbles back. “I’ll talk to him, okay? I’ll try to calm him down.”

“Okay. Thank you, (Y/m/n).” He smiles at her and takes a deep breath and presses the cloaking brooch again. (He’s hoping that seeing him as a human instead of a half-blood will help soothe your dad’s nerves a bit.) “I’ve had a great time with you this weekend.”

“Me too,” says your mom. “I’m so sorry about (Y/d/n). He’s just… yeah. I’m so sorry. You make Y/n so happy, believe me; and I’m so happy for the both of you. Just… yeah. I’ll talk to him.”

Donnie smiles at her again.

The suitcases are already in the car, so he doesn’t have anything to bring outside. But he hovers in the living room entrance for a moment -- should he say anything to your dad? Is it worth the risk? Will it burn any bridges if he doesn’t?

“We both want what’s best for her,” he says, in the doorway of the living room, and your dad doesn’t look up. “We both love her. We have that in common. Um. Goodbye. Thank you for letting us stay here.”

And he leaves, speed-walking to the car, getting into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition.

“You okay?” he asks, softly. Your head is still against the dashboard.

“I love my parents,” you say. “I love my dad. But he… he… Ugh. Could you hear it? What he said?”

“Yeah,” Donnie says.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really not okay. He’s just… the world has changed around him, and he hasn’t managed to change with it. And he fights against that change. And -- and yeah. Yeah. But don’t worry, okay? I’m not going to leave you. You’re stuck with me. No matter what. Okay?”

He presses his cloaking brooch again and reaches his cold green hand out toward you. You grab it and rub the back of his hand, firmly, trying to make sure he can feel your love in the pressure of your fingers.

He sighs.

You sigh.

“Let’s just go home,” you whisper. “Let’s just go home.”

And he shifts the car into reverse and takes his foot off of the brake, and your mom waves from the porch, and you realize you didn’t even hug her goodbye, and you’ve felt like throwing up for the past three days, and you bite your tongue and raise one hand to wave at her. She blows a kiss. You make a heart with your hands.

You drive in complete silence -- except for the hum of the engine and the rumble of the road and Donnie’s dubstep thumping quietly -- for about half an hour. Donnie taps his fingers on the steering wheel. You sob and wipe your tears away with the hem of your t-shirt.

He clears his throat. “So. Um. How many half-bloods have you brought home, huh?”

It sounds almost like a joke, but a very bad joke. You rub at your eyes again.

“Uh. Just the one.”

“Cool. How… how would you rate my performance as a potential son-in-law? Satisfactory? Beyond satisfactory? Very --”

Data collection calms him down. His eyes are nervous, his fingers tapping. You reach out for his hand, and he grabs it immediately. You let him squeeze and press and play with your fingers, waiting for the tension to go out of his hands.

“I did my best,” he mumbles.

“You did.”

“I don’t think I like your dad that much.”

“Yeah. Understandable.”

“(Y/n)?”

“Yeah?”

“You know how you told your dad that you want to spend the rest of your life with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you… did you really mean that?”

“Oh, of course I really meant that. I would love nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you.” You squeeze his hand tight.

He squeezes back. “Oh. Interesting.”

“Yeah. Interesting. I love you. You know that, right? I love you, always.”

“Yes. Of course. I love you too.”

You bring his hand to your lips, kiss each knuckle individually. He shudders and starts to cry.

“Donnie --”

“I’m so sorry,” he wails. “It’s just been a weirdly emotional weekend for me.”

“It’s been a weirdly emotional weekend for all of us, believe me --”

“I’ll do it,” he says, firmly. “I’ll marry you. I’ll do whatever you want. You want to travel the world? Done. You want a suburban life? Done. I’ll give you kids, I’ll be a malewife, I’ll buy you whatever you need -- see, I just want you to be happy, I --”

You laugh, blushing, embarrassed, in love.

“Donnie, I’ll be happy no matter what as long as I can be with you.”

“That’s HORRIBLY cheesy.”

“I know.” You kiss his hand again. “I’m horribly cheesy for you.”

[blankticket]

The cross is laid down. Wolfwood downs a vial and closes distance, causing fear to wash over the devil's heart. Every second that ticks by lends itself to the next revelation, deepening his heartache. Now he knew why Wolfwood had been so resigned this entire time, why he hadn't trusted Vash that day the dead had swarmed Fibonacci.

Their last conversation had been so tumultuous and hostile, but it's clearly been put aside in the face of this trial Vash has been forced to undertake. His guide smells of sun, sand, brush, sweat; his clothes are torn… How far had Wolfwood travelled to be here, just to be sure that Vash wouldn't face the end alone?

Vash remembers the taste of those vials from a memory that wasn't his; now, the trace of the lethal dose returns to his tongue. He understood at once what that gesture meant. A bitter toast to the end of his life. A purposeful vow, that the undertaker would survive. This is dedication without the pretense of a contract signed in blood. It's Wolfwood's will alone. He's chosen to do this. For me.

Every step brings the fallen angel closer to the abyss, the destination sought after so desperately from the start of today, yet he can't stop staring at the man guiding him there. They're so close, but now more than ever Vash regrets it—taking the experience of holding his hand for granted. Teary eyes behind purple lenses try to communicate back to him: I forgive you, could you forgive me? I'm so happy that it's you.

"Wolfwood. Thank you, for everything."

Without either word or warning, Vash collapses.

The impact itself doesn't hurt that bad, with how numbed his body feels now. The cube is safe, protected by allowing his lost-tech arm to thud against the ground instead. It takes Vash a moment to gauge any damage incurred; before too long, he's bracing his forearm against the ground, pulling himself forward.

Wolfwood can't help him up. They both know it.

Please, stay there. Please, watch over me. All Vash needs from Wolfwood is for him to let him go; using his leaving strength to crawl forward to the edge of Point Zero. The dead branches of his wing shiver, then still, the weight of it dragged along with him.

When he sees the state of Vash, he stops dead in his tracks himself.

As everything else had. Vacated cars, vehicles stopped dead on the highways surrounding Point Zero. At least people had started coming to their damn senses, and got away before anything else could go wrong.

Unlike JuLai. He could feel his own heart stop at seeing the wing. The state of Vash. That he had been forced to tear through Archimedes.

(He was scared, too, of course. For Vash. In some part, of Vash. It'd be dishonest and unfair to them both if he didn't recognize sheer potential of power. Of what destruction could be wrought, no matter how unintentional. But more than that right now, he sees the honest emotion on Vash's face and he's gotta set that shit aside.)

He takes the first wordless step forward himself.

When he'd been running through the Mistwood, tearing up the usually eerily quiet place with his own strength, not allowing a branch or root to stop him, he noticed that any scratches had healed. Clothes torn, but no injuries present.

He hadn't thought much of it at the time.

But as he feels strength sapped, and then restore, and then sapped, he understands that without it, he'd be sure as dead. Feeling a knee buckle slightly, he puts a hand up before Vash could flash him that look. Taking out a vial of glowing blue liquid (grabbed before he left, he remembers both wanting to be sure they weren't messed with, but also he was pissed), he pops off the glass cap, downing it and feeling his body heat up as his own regeneration kicks into overdrive. The only noise between the two of them was the tink of the small glass vial hitting the pavement.

Still, that thing was strong.

He closes the distance between them, setting the Punisher aside against the empty bus.

They're close enough, more than half the length of the bus separating them now, that he can clearly see that damn look on Vash's face. He's spent, done. Can't even pretend anymore. Wolfwood is in hardly any state to pretend himself, brow knotted in concern.

But, he doesn't take his eyes off Vash.

A cock of his head, wordlessly he gestures in the direction Vash had already been walking. He can feel the heat radiating from his body with an intensity only experienced with gunshots, the next vial already in hand.

Let's get going then. The gesture says. Together. He'll walk Vash the rest of the way there.

And he won't let someone else die in front of Vash today.