#but i think it's important to point out that... if you want to start doing comm work. you better get ready to be humbled and feel Awful | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

popcornpoppypop · 2 days ago

Text

Promises, Promises Part 3

Summary: Callie's fate is revealed and Jack finds himself wrapped around his daughter's finger already.

Warnings: Blood, Childbirth, Birth Trauma, Panic Attack, talk of death

A/N: The final part! Thank you for following along! I really liked this story and it's nice to have it out in the world finally.

Mel walked into Callie’s room, the lights dimmed and monitors softly beeping. Dana was curled in her chair, running her fingers through Callie’s hair.

“Dana?” Mel’s voice was small and fragile.

“Hey, Kid.” Dana smiled, her eyes tired and red.

“Can I sit with you?”

“Yeah, course.” Dana nodded to the chair on the opposite side of Callie. Mel sat in the chair, trying to be quiet as if she could wake Callie.

“You need to get rest too.” Dana noted.

“We all do, none of us will.” Mel sighed.

“Good point.” Dana gave a sad chuckle. They sat in silence for a while. Mel’s leg bouncing as the thoughts raced through her mind.

“She’s a good person.” Mel stated.

“Yeah. She is.”

“She’s kind. She’s funny and she takes care of us. No one else takes care of us. Not to mention her patients at the vet clinic. She’s a really good person.” Mel’s voice cracked.

“Aw, Kid. Don’t go there.”

“I just…I don’t understand. She deserves to be with her baby. She wanted that baby so much. She held her for thirty-seven seconds. I counted. I had to take her baby from her.” Mel stopped trying to hide the tears.

“There is no reason. There is no way to know why good people have bad things happen to them. But she’s strong and she’s fighting right now. We have to keep fighting for her.” Dana sighed, none of her words felt comforting enough.

“I wish I could do more.”

“You can talk to her. I think she can hear us still.” Dana smiled. Mel nodded, taking a shaky breath.

“Callie, I’m going to keep fighting for you. That means you have to too.” Her lip trembled and her face scrunched in pain. “We need people like you. I need people like you. I remember when you made me take the night off and go to your house. We watched that new romcom, I can’t remember the name, and we put on face masks. We made Dr. Abbot put one on too and he hated it.” Mel gave a wet laugh. “You taught me that taking care of myself was important. You teach me so much.” The tears stung her dry lips. “I’m taking care of them. We all are. We’re looking out for Jack and Pippa. If…if you have to go, we’ll hold them for you.” Mel sobbed.

“Oh, Mel.” Dana sobbed. She got up and went to the other side of the bed, wrapping Mel up in her arms.

“She’s too important to leave.” Mel sighed as she tried to regain her composure.

“She’s not leaving.” Dana told her with conviction. They sat with Callie, feeling her breath and life bringing some comfort. They both knew that if Callie didn’t make it, it would send the whole department into a grief-stricken whirl.

The monitors suddenly picked up their rhythm, sending Mel and Dana to their feet.

“BP is getting stronger, heart rate elevating.” Dana noted.

“Get Dr. Abbot. I think she’s trying to wake up.” Dana ran faster than she ever had. She burst into bay 7, Jack and Robby turning to her with terror in their eyes.

“I think she’s waking up.” Dana was out of breath, but they both heard her.

“Perlah-” Jack started but was cut off by the nurse taking the baby from his arms and shoving him out of the room.

They ran back to the room, the monitors signaling that she was trying to come back to them.

“Stats are improving, her breaths are stronger and she’s exhibiting purposeful movement.” Mel informed them. Jack ran over to Callie’s side, his hand smoothing her hair away from her face.

“Baby, Callie, can you hear me?” Jack’s voice was breaking again. He held her hand like it was the only thing keeping him together. “Squeeze my hand, please Honey.” He begged. He paid no attention what anyone else in the room was doing, he eyes were glued to Callie. His chest felt like it broke open when he felt her hand squeeze back. “Thank you, Baby.” He kissed her forehead.

Her eyes started fluttering as she tried to gain control of her body. Her hand clamped down firmly on Jacks, desperate for something to ground her. Her eyes finally opened and she was looking at Jack and he felt like he might collapse again.

“Hey, there you are. There’s my girl.” He sobbed. The tears fell down Callie’s temples as she gasped around the intubation tube.

“Easy, Callie. We’ll take it out, just relax for a minute.” Robby said as he grabbed his gloves. Jack could see the pain in her eyes, not just physical but the emotional. She would need time to heal, they all would.

“Okay, Callie. Take a deep breath in,” Robby took hold of the tube. “ And blow out, that’s it.” He pulled the tube from her throat, Callie coughing and hacking.

“You’re okay, you’re alright.” Jack supported her neck as she took deep breaths.

“Good to see you again, Callie.” Robby smiled as he checked her over.

“Fuck…you…” Callie rasped, sending the room laughing.

“You scared the shit out of me.” Jack sighed. Callie raised her hand to hold his face.

“Scared myself.” Callie’s lip trembled. “I’m never doing that again. One and done.” She nodded.

“Oh you’ll get no fight from me.” Jack chuckled.

“We’ll give you two some time.” Robby nodded. Callie reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Thank you. I trusted you and you fought for me.” Callie smiled.

“We’ll always fight for you.” Robby nodded.

“I think there’s someone that’s been waiting to see you.” Perlah came wheeling the warming crib into the room. Jack helped move the bed upright for Callie. “You tell us if you need anything.” She smiled and ushered everyone out of the room.

Jack picked the baby up and brought her over to Callie, placing them on her chest.

“She’s so perfect.” Callie sobbed.

“You both are.” Jack kissed her cheek as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“I can’t believe your ginger genes beat mine.” They laughed.

“It may be recessive but it’s stubborn.” He sighed, content with their peaceful moment.

“I can’t believe we get to take her home. Feels illegal.”

“Like we were supposed to get a license at some point and forgot.”

“Yeah. Oh my god. The car doesn’t have a car seat.” Callie looked up to Jack.

“Honey, you’ll be here for a while. I’ll get the car seat sorted, don’t worry about that.” He laughed.

“I need to ask you a question and you cannot laugh.” Callie adjusted herself on the bed.

“I’ll do my best.”

“It feels like there is a balloon in my uterus, is there a balloon in my uterus?”

“Yes. There is. It’ll be there for about a day.” Jack stated.

“Thought I was crazy.” She sighed. She nuzzled her cheek against her baby’s head, that sweet newborn scent sending a rush of endorphins to her brain.

Jack pulled his phone out, snapping a quick picture. It would be his screensaver on his phone, laptop and it would be hung up in his locker.

“How’s the pain?” Jack’s hand was resting on her arm, he felt the need to be touching her at all times, needing to be sure this wasn’t a dream.

“Well, not great. But it’s not like I can have pain meds.” She shrugged. Jack took a deep breath, readying to break her heart a little more.

“Honey, you had to have a lot of medications. You were out for a while. She needed to be fed.”

“But…we had a plan.” Her voice shook.

“I know, Callie. None of this went to plan. She’s going to be okay on formula. You need to rest.” Jack cupped her cheek in his hands.

“I wanted…I wanted to have that connection. I was supposed to-” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

“I know. We’re good at pivoting and improving. We can handle this. You can handle this. She is not going to love you less.”

“What if it messes her up? What if all of this does something to her?” Callie sobbed.

“She’s okay. She is doing everything she is supposed to. She’s hitting the milestones. APGAR is perfect.”

“But, like, down the line? Like, what if it causes some complication?”

“Honey, there is nothing that would suggest any complications.” Jack wiped the tears from her face.

“T-take her, my arms feel weird.” Callie sobbed.

“What do you mean?”

“Take her, Jack!” Callie was panicking.

“okay, okay.” Jack lifted the baby into his arms. “Breath, honey. You’re okay.”

“I failed her, I failed her already.” The sobs wracked Callie’s body. Jack could see the panic in her eyes. He put Pippa back in the crib, she was getting fussy with the commotion.

“Callie, you haven’t failed anyone.” Jack tried to console her, squeezing her hand.

“I did, m-my body failed her! I don’t care if it fails me, but not her! Not her!” She was delirious.

The baby started crying, the sound of Callie’s panic disturbing Pippa. Jack felt stuck between a rock and a hard place, he was starting to panic. He popped his head into the hall, spotting Princess he waved her over.

“Take the baby, she’s okay. Just keep an eye on her.” Jack pleaded as he wheeled the crib into the hallway.

“Yeah, we got her. She okay?”

“It’s all hitting her. Robby still here?” Jack looked back into the room, Callie was sobbing, her body unsteady and rocking with the effort of her cries.

“Yeah, he’s still around.” Princess looked to Callie, her face crumbled at the sight. “Just…she might need to be sedated. I don’t-I don’t fucking know.” He shook his head as he went back in.

“Callie, you need to breathe. You’re going hypoxic, you need to slow down.” Jack sat on the edge of the bed, holding her shoulders.

“I can’t do this! I can’t do this!” She sobbed.

“Yes, you can! You were going to give her your life, you would sacrifice everything for her! Callie, you’re already a great mother. Please, take a breath.” He held her head in his hands, her face red and lips purple and twitching.

“She deserves better than me.” She looked more broken than Jack had ever seen her, it made his heart drop.

“There isn’t anyone on this planet better than you. You have no idea how incredible you are. I failed you if you truly think that.” Jack shook his head, fighting the tears. “You didn’t see how many people were shattered today, the thought that you…we might lose you brought this hospital to its knees.”

“I’m so scared!”

“I know. Me too. We have so much to lose now. But we can do this together.” Jack brushed her hair from her face.

“I can’t stop this! I-I can’t…” The monitor alarms started going off.

“Callie, Callie you have to breathe. Baby! I need you to breathe!” Jack begged, her chest heaving with each panicked breath. Her eyes were distant, he couldn’t reach her anymore. She barely had the strength to be conscious let alone be rational. Jack slammed the call button.

“Callie, try to listen to me, Baby I’m right here. You are okay. Pippa is okay. I’m okay, everyone is okay.” Jack tried to reason with her primal, panicked mind.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Robby came into the room.

“I can’t get her to calm down. She’s hypoxic, her sats are going down. We-we need to sedate her.” Jack’s heart broke. He’d been there. When his mind tortured him to the point he couldn’t fight back and had to be sedated. It was a terrible feeling. One he thought he could keep from Callie.

“Princess-”

“Got it.” She said as she administered the drugs into the IV catheter in Callie’s arm.

“You’re just going to sleep, Honey. Just a little rest, okay? I’ll be right here when you wake up. Everything is okay.” Jack talked with her until her eyes finally shut and her breathing evened out. Her vitals going back to normal limits.

“Fuck.” Jack sighed.

“Princess, sit with her for a minute. Jack, let’s walk.” Robby put a hand on his shoulder.

“No, I-”

“She’ll be okay, I’m not going to leave her. Go.” Princess nodded.

“Come on. You need to get some air.” Robby pulled Jack to his feet. Jack stumbled out of the room.

“We’ll get Kiara to come see her in the morning.” Robby noted. “We’re getting a recliner sent down for you. Ideally, she’d go upstairs but ICU says there won’t be room for a while. Nothing new there. I would tell you to go home and we’ll watch them but I know better than that.” Robby chuckled.

“I keep thinking about what I should have done different. Maybe if I had put my foot down and we’d gone to Presby she’d have gotten the c-section and she wouldn’t feel like this.” Jack shook his head.

“She would still be traumatized by an emergency c-section. She’d still be laid up in bed, not able to move. We know this is, unfortunately, what happens when birth goes awry. There wasn’t any way to spare her from this, Jack. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I just can’t stand the fact that she thinks she’s a failure after all that. After how hard she fought.” Jack rubbed his eyes, they were sore and irritated.

“I know. It doesn’t make sense. But the human brain is a scary place. She’ll get through this. You all will.” Robby patted him on the back.

“Jesus, this is not how today was supposed to go.” Jack walked out the ambulance bay doors, the cool night air washing over him, offering little comfort.

“No. But did you really think you and Callie would have a normal anything? You two are constantly getting thrown curveballs.” Robby huffed.

“True. But, this was too close. Her heart stopped. I can’t stop thinking about it. I know she can’t either. I have half a mind to keep them both locked in the house and wrapped in bubble wrap.” Jack sighed.

“Oh, I think I won the bet!” Robby pumped his fist in the air. “Knew you’d say that at some point.”

“Not funny.”

“A little funny.” Robby nudged his shoulder. “Dana’s at your house getting it ready, by the way.”

“What?” Jack looked up at him confused. “When did she get a key?”

“Callie gave her one when you guys moved in. She’s making sure the fridge is stocked and all your baby equipment is prepped and ready. She didn’t feel like she could go right home but didn’t want to be in the way here. She’s grieving in her own way.” Robby nodded. “She said something about lasagna.”

“Callie loves her lasagna.” Jack let out a long-held sigh.

“Who doesn’t?” Robby smiled. The two men stood in silence for a moment. The events of the day running through their heads. Had it been anyone else, they would have been able to work through it and move on. But it was too close.

“Fuck. She almost died.” A sob ripped from Jack’s throat. “I almost lost her!” He broke, his hand grabbing Robby’s shoulder as his knees threatened to give out again. Robby held him upright.

“It’s okay.” He told him as Jack clung onto him. “She’s okay. She made it.” He reassured him.

“I’m sorry.” Jack coughed as he stood up.

“You never have to apologize to me. Especially about this. Jack, we’re family. That woman is the closet thing I have to a sister. I was feeling all of it too. We’re all going to feel this.” Robby nodded.

“Dr. Abbot, Princess says the sedation is starting to wear off.” One of the nurses shouted from the doorway.

“I can barely keep myself together. I don’t know how to keep her from breaking.”

“Then don’t. She just needs you to be there, Jack. Not solve everything.” Robby nodded. Jack gave him a slap on the arm and ran back inside.

“Dr. Abbot, she just started to wake up.” Princess stood up. “I’ll be just outside.” She left, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.

Callie’s brows furrowed as she fought the sedation. She groaned, rubbing her eyes. She looked up at Jack, her bloodshot eyes still made his heart flutter.

“Hey.” His voice quiet and soft.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what the hell that was.” Callie sighed, her cheeks blushing with embarrassment.

“You don’t have to apologize. Callie, what you’ve been through is more than enough to throw anyone for a loop. It’s going to take time to feel normal.” Jack’s thumb traced along her cheekbone.

“You went through it too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, but I don’t have the physical reminder.” He said, her hand in his as they both clung to each other for dear life.

“Where is she? I must have scared the shit out of her.” Callie sighed.

“She’s…I actually don’t know. Princess probably handed her off to one of the nurses.”

“So you’re going to look me in the eye, after I just had a panic attack so bad I needed sedation, and tell me you don’t know where my baby is right now?” Callie raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, find our child, please.” Callie chuckled. Jack scrambled out of the room and up to the nurses station.

“Hey, where is my baby?” Jack asked Princess.

“Oh, sorry! I forgot to tell you! She’s okay, Donnie brought her into the break room. It was quieter.” Princess said. Jack nodded headed into the break room. Donnie was bouncing the baby in his arms as he stirred his coffee, talking to her.

“…and then you mom made me go to brunch and tried to set me up with the waitress because I said she was hot one time. She’s a good wingman, your mom. Then there was the time she brought me sweet potato pie because I missed my grandma’s pie and she could tell how sad I was. Your mom takes care of us, she’s really good at it too.” He hummed to the baby. “I’ll tell you the really good stories when your older.” He laughed as he turned, surprised to see Jack standing in the doorway. “Geez, you scared me. We were just chatting.” Donnie nodded to the baby.

“Thank you for looking after them, Donnie. You’ve always taken good care of Callie when I couldn’t.”

“They’re family. You’re family. It’s what we do.” Donnie shrugged. “Anyway, she’s a cute baby so it’s easy to be nice to her.” He chuckled.

“Alright, let me get her back to her mom.” He smiled taking the baby into his arms.

Jack walked into Callie’s room, the baby gurgling and stretching in his arms. Callie had fallen asleep already, but they had gotten the recliner to her room for him. He made himself comfortable; the baby settled on his chest.

“We’ll be alright.” He murmured into the top of Pippa’s head, kissing the soft curls. Pippa yawned, Jack gave her his finger to hold. She held it tight. He felt like he could explode, he loved her so damn much.

Four days in the hospital, and Jack and Callie were both ready to scream. They were grateful to have so many people helping them, but there was no privacy. The ICU never had a bed open up, and Jack preferred the doctors he knew over ones he only occasionally interacted with, so it wasn’t fussed over much.

“You three ready to get the hell out of here?” Robby came in smiling.

“I never want to see this place again.” Callie gave a sarcastic smirk.

“Not sure how possible that will be. But I hope it’s only to pick up Jack and bring us donuts.” Robby handed her the discharge papers.

“Well, you won’t see me for two months, try not to burn the place down.” Jack huffed.

“I think we’ll manage.” Robby rolled his eyes. There was knock on the door that broke their attention.

“Come in.” Callie called.

“Stop letting everyone in here. We’re trying to get out of here.” Jack groaned.

“Oh, stop being so grumpy.” Callie smacked his chest.

“Hey, just wanted to see you guys before you left.” Donnie came in, a gaggle of people behind him.

“Oh please. You’re here for her and we all know it.” Callie crossed her arms.

“Yeah, but I was trying to be polite about it.” He shot her a snotty look as he went over to the crib.

“What are you going to do without all the nurses fawning over her?” Robby chuckled.

“I will miss that.” Callie sighed, her head resting on Jack’s arm.

“You call me, I’ll be over any time you need.” Perlah noted.

“Same.” Donnie smiled down at the baby.

“Alright, get the hell away from my baby before you get your nasty ER germs on her.” Jack shooed everyone away.

“Text me once you get home.” Robby put a hand on Callie’s shoulder. “Call if you need a break. I mean it, both of you.” He shot Jack a look.

“Thank you, Robby. For everything.” Callie’s eyes started to water.

“Oh stop all of that.” He wrapped her up in a tight hug. “I can’t cry in front of the med students. Get those hormones out of here.” He chuckled, rubbing his eyes.

“Let’s go home.” Jack said as he got Pippa settled in her car seat. Callie stood up, getting ready to leave before Dana came rolling in with a wheelchair.

“What do you think you’re doing? Sit the hell down!” She barked, hand on her hip.

“I can walk!”

“Can and should are two different things. Policy. Get in the chair.” She ordered.

“You care aggressively.” Callie chuckled.

“Not the first time that’s been said.” Dana patted her shoulder as she got in the chair. They finally left the room, the weight started to feel bearable.

“Now. I’ve got all the bottle ready for you. Full stock of formula ready to go for you. I made sure the fridge is stocked for the week and the freezer has plenty of food. When that runs low, call me.” Dana instructed.

“I think we can make our own food.” Jack snorted.

“You two will forget to feed yourselves the second you don’t have food in front of your face.” Dana scolded.

“Fair point.” Jack nodded.

“Thank you, Dana. You didn’t need to do all that, but it’s appreciated.” Callie smiled.

“My daughter is coming by to take care of the lawn and the garden, don’t worry about any of that. My husband is cleaning the gutters after the rain tomorrow. Don’t panic when there's a random man on a ladder in the front yard. They are under strict instructions not to ring the bell or bother you.” Dana parked the chair next to the car.

“You really don’t need to do that.” Callie knew it was a useless battle, but fought it out of politeness.

“Stop it. If you need a minute to yourself and want some adult interaction, call me. Call Robby. Call anyone. We’re here.” She smiled, her eyes glassy.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you all.” Callie sighed.

“Oh, Sweetheart.” Dana wrapped her up in hug. “We love you. God, feel nervous not having you here anymore.” She gave a breathy laugh.

“You have control issues.” Jack laughed as he came around the car to help Callie into the car.

“I’m a charge nurse, of course I have control issues.” She smacked Jack’s arm.

Jack closed the door to the passenger side. He took a deep breath.

“Got your girls all settled.” Dana smiled, seeing the nerves starting to bubble up on Jacks face. “You got this. You’ve already taken such good care of them.” She put her hand on his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Yeah, just us now though.” Jack nodded.

“Enjoy it. You’ll blink and be back here.” Dana patted his arm and shoved him toward the car. “Make sure she doesn’t overdo it! You’ll answer to me if she’s back in here.” Dana laughed as she walked off.

“Ready?” Jack got into the car, adjusting the rearview mirror so he could see the car seat.

“So ready for my own bed.” Callie chuckled. Jack chuckled as he pulled out of the parking lot. He had never driven so cautiously in his life. 30 mph felt like 70 mph. He was so relieved to be home, the driveway never looked so good as he pulled in.

“Let me get her out and then I'll help you.” Jack said as he jumped out of the car and undid the car seat. He looked up to see Callie climbing out of the car.

“I can manage some things, Jack.” She said as she limped towards the door. Jack shook his head as he followed her inside.

“My god, she cleaned the whole place.” Callie looked in shock at the now pristine home before her.

“She’s deranged. At least it’s to our advantage.” Jack laughed.

They sat on the couch, the TV playing something for the noise, the baby asleep on Jack’s chest.

“What do we do now?” Callie asked.

“Try and figure out what normal looks like now.” He shrugged. Callie looked over to him. He was rubbing soft circles on Pippa’s back, humming under his breath.

“I think I like what the new normal looks like on you.” Callie cocked an eyebrow.

“Down girl. You got six weeks before you can talk like that to me.” Jack scolded.

“Can’t help that my boyfriend is a smoking hot DILF.” She chuckled.

“You know you’re the most fertile just after having a baby, right?”

“Oh that did it. Yeah, no I’m good.” Callie shook her head.

“Thought so.” Jack laughed. “This feels right. The three of us.” He smiled. “Yeah. This was how we were supposed to be. Just the three of us. Our team is complete for sure.” Callie ran her hand through his curls. “This is perfect.”

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbot x reader #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot x oc #jack abbot x reader #dana evans #dr. robby #tw mention of death #tw birth #tw death #tw blood

172 notes · View notes

webslinger-holland · 2 days ago

Text

Being the Hero Part 2 | Bob Reynolds from Thunderbolts*

Summary: The plan to get out of the vault is growing more complicated by the minute. Now, tasked with keeping Bob safe, the reader ends up showing a side to her that she'd much rather keep in the dark.

Warning: Thunderbolts* spoiler alert, some swearing and teasing, mentions of soldiers carrying weapons, hallway fight scene that includes a lot of graphic content (read at your own risk because the reader's power is literally the ability to break bones so it gets descriptive)

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Type: Continuation of Being the Hero

Note: I wanted to expand the story to the next scene because it's just so well done in the movie. I also wanted to give you guys the opportunity to see the reader's power (osteokinesis) in action. Hope you like it!

The only exit of the vault was being heavily guarded from the outside. Blurry shapes of military vehicles and armed soldiers loomed just behind the glass doors. The lights attached to the ends of their guns shone through.

Just peering around the corner, the group of five misfits quickly realized that if they stepped out that door, they'd likely either be arrested or worse—shot down. No doubt, Valentina was just outside too and waiting to give the order to strike.

Drawing away from the corner, Y/n was quick to grab onto Bob's shirt and pull him away with her. They regrouped to brainstorm their next move.

"We need to come up with a plan," Yelena announced.

"Here's what we're gonna do," Walker stepped in to take charge.

"Oh, you're the boss now? Cute," Ava interjected with an unamused look on her face.

"Well, yeah. It's your only chance to get out of here so..." Walker claimed.

"Okay, I think I might just surrender probably," Bob spoke truthfully.

"No! You can't do that," Y/n quickly shot him down and Bob spared a timid glance in her direction. "Surrendering isn't an option for us; Valentina wants all of us dead, remember?"

“Okay, fine. Every man for themself.” Walker shrugged.

"Would you stop it?" Y/n snapped, clearly frustrated.

"Why should you be in charge? You almost killed all of us right there!” Yelena pointed out.

“Well, let’s see—been in the trenches of every war-torn country on this planet, rescued God knows how many hostages, and shook the hands of two US presidents!” Walker rambled on.

Ava, leaning against the wall, breathed out a long sigh.

"What else? Uh, oh—High school state football champions. Back to back to back. Go Bears!" Walker added the cherry on top.

“Oh, wow." Yelena began with a strong hint of sarcasm. "When I was five, I was in a peewee soccer team called the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts, sponsored by Shane’s Tire Shop. We won zero games, and one time, this girl Mindie—she did a poo midfield! Anyone else have any pointless stories to share?”

There was a short beat of silence; each of them contemplating.

"Not a lot of great memories growing up besides maybe the time I broke my childhood bully's arm when she tried to take my lunch," Y/n recalled, but she never felt bad about it.

"Grew up in a lab prison.” Ava chimed in with a raised hand.

“Meth-addicted sign twirling chicken," Bob swung his finger for emphasis. He shrugged it off. "Was a… summer job.”

Clearly, Yelena wasn't impressed with any of their stories and knew their time was starting to run out.

"Right okay. Here's the plan: We set off an explosion to bring them in," Yelena began to explain, but she was rudely interrupted.

"I don't know. Too many variables with an explosion—" Walker shook his head.

"They turn on their night vision. You handle the first wave, but you wait for me after I've blinded the remaining troops," Yelena added.

"Everyone's gonna wait for you?" Walker scoffed slightly.

"It'll only work if you wait," Yelena emphasized the importance of his role in all of this.

"It's a terrible plan," Walker shook his head.

"Ava, you find us an escape vehicle—" Yelena motioned to her right, but she turned her head, Ava was nowhere to be found. She'd already phased away, leaving the rest of them abandoned.

When Yelena looked back to Walker, he wore an unamused yet not surprised look on his face. He motioned to the empty spot like he'd just proven his point all along.

"W—What about me?" Bob asked, stepping forward with a hopeful, if slightly sheepish, smile.

"You stay with her, Bob." Yelena sighed, jerking her chin toward Y/n. Bob glanced down at her. She offered him a tight, tense smile—more reassurance than enthusiasm. "She'll keep you safe," Yelena added before moving on.

"Yeah, if anybody comes near us and I'll just break their backs to render them immobile," Y/n joked awkwardly to defuse the tension. Bob swallowed nervously.

"Let's do this."

Right before everyone went their separate ways, Bob asked if he could talk with Yelena for a brief second. The two of them dismissed themselves and regrouped in a quiet corner away from the others.

"Uh, hey. A-Are you sure this is a good idea?" Bob inquired. He fiddled with his sleeve nervously.

"I already told you, Bob—" Yelena didn't have time for this. "You stay with her and she's going to keep you safe. She's probably the strongest out of all of us."

This was meant to put him at ease, but it only made him more anxious.

"D—Doesn't that also make her the most dangerous?" Bob was almost afraid to say it.

"Yes, probably." Yelena replied without missing a beat. "But I will say—she's the least reckless out of us. Believe me, I've read her file. Her crimes? Nowhere near as bad as they could be with that kind of power.”

Glancing back over his shoulder, Bob's eyes immediately found Y/n who was pacing in anticipation. She didn't strike him as dangerous… at least, not in the way others talked about her. But also didn't want to underestimate her.

For someone supposedly so dangerous, she didn’t look it. No wild eyes. No twitchy hands. No smug confidence or cold killer edge. Just calm, grounded, and still. She was focused—but not stiff. Almost… gentle and kind.

"Great," Bob said, more trying to convince himself that he was going to be alright.

Everyone got into their respective positions. While Yelena tasked herself with killing and restarting the power, Walker stood in the shadows waiting for the first wave. In another hidden position, Y/n and Bob kept their backs pressed against a wall.

Her eyes trained the small watch on her wrist—no comms, no contact, just timing. Carefully, Bob's gaze shifted to her and spotted the small gun at her side. He wet his lips nervously.

"Maybe I should have a gun," Bob whispered the suggestion.

She looked at him briefly, then back at the watch. "Uh...no, Bob. I don't think you should handle a gun," Y/n confessed.

"W-Why not? We're going to need a fight, right?" Bob shrugged.

"Well..." she exhaled through her nose. “If everything goes to plan, we won't have to fight. In the event that this all goes to shit, then I will be the one fight. Not you."

Bob rubbed at his eye with his sleeve. "The medical trial was supposed to make me better. I don't know. I feel like...maybe I could help," Bob wanted to sound optimistic to her.

She looked at him then, a faint, warm smile touching her lips. “We don’t always need to play hero, Bob. You don’t have to prove yourself to me.”

She reached out and gently rested her hand on his arm, grounding him.

“I’ll protect you. I promise,” she said softly. “You can trust me.”

His eyes narrowed briefly. "Can I?"

Their eyes locked. The tension hung there, just for a second—then Y/n nodded firmly.

“Yeah. You can.”

Both of them waited in the darkness and silence of the hallway. Her eyes fixed on the watch, hearing the soft clicks coming from it.

Another minute passed. Then another.

Her posture shifted.

Something was wrong.

“Oh no,” Y/n muttered under her breath.

“What?” Bob’s head snapped toward her, voice tight with worry.

“The lights—they’re still off,” she said, lowering her hand slowly. “They should’ve come back on by now.”

“But… Yelena was supposed to do that. That was the plan,” Bob said, like saying it aloud might make it true.

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze stayed locked on the shadowed hallway ahead, as if she could force it to give her a better idea.

“Plans change,” she said finally, voice low and serious. “Something’s happened.”

Bob fell silent.

Y/n turned slightly. “We have to get out of here.”

Hurriedly making their way through the vast hallways, Y/n was leading the way and Bob trailed behind like a lost puppy. She came to a sudden stop and held her hand up for him to do the same. They listened for a moment only to hear...

Approaching footsteps. Then fighting. Gunfire. More orders. A few punches. Followed by silence.

Sparing a brief glance, Y/n and Bob continued making their way forward. They rounded a nearby corner, only to come face to face with the aftermath of it all.

The bodies of armed guards littered the floor in front of them; all of them having been knocked unconscious by someone who didn't even bother to stick around.

Some were slumped against walls, others sprawled across the floor. One had his helmet cracked open. Another's weapon was bent, like it had been crushed mid-fire.

Walker was nowhere in sight.

But the aftermath was unmistakable—efficient, brutal. It had to be him.

"Where is he?" Bob asked.

"He's gone," Y/n sighed. "Every man for himself, right?"

All of the sudden, another wave of soldiers came around the corner with their weapons raised high. The lights nearly blinded them. Their faces adorned with masks.

Bob threw up an arm to shield his eyes from the light, stumbling back. She didn't hesitate. She grabbed his hand hard and yanked him to the side, out of their line of fire.

Firing smoke bombs into the dark, the hallway began to fill with a thick, heavy cloud of smoke. The soldiers took cautious steps; their eyes scanning for any sign of movement. Weapons pointed ahead.

Throwing on fallen masks, the two of them kept their back pressed firmly to the wall. They breathed steadily, but still felt their hearts pounding in their chests.

"Y-You can take them out, right?" Bob asked quietly, eyes wide from fear just behind his mask. "Like—you’ve got this?"

"Uh...Now would be a really good time to tell you that I have to touch them first.” Y/n confessed with a slight wince.

Bob blinked. “Touch them?”

She nodded once, tight and grim. “I have to. No bones bend unless I can get close.”

“You mean...we’re in a shooting gallery and your powers are... close quarters only?” Bob's voice cracked even through the filter on the mask.

“Welcome to the nightmare,” Y/n muttered, already preparing to move again.

Piercing through the smoke, she hurried to take out of the first solider whose shadow loomed in front of her. She yanked his weapon out of his hands, quickly shoving a hand directly into the center of his chest. The bone of his ribs buckled instantly. He dropped.

Bob froze. Even in the dark, he could feel what she’d done.

Spinning around again, Y/n didn't hesitate to put her hand on the top of Bob's head. She forced him down, shielding him just as another burst of gunfire tore through the haze.

“Get down!” she barked.

“I can help—” Bob started, but she slammed her hands to his chest and pushed him backward until he hit the wall.

“Stay behind me,” she snapped, leaving no room for argument.

Pushing off the wall, Bob tried to get out of the way and got roughly shoved right back into the wall. She kept her arm across his chest to pin him in place.

Another soldier rushed towards them. She kicked his weapon from his hands with a sharp swing of her boot, then grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. Her fingers locked around his forearm—crack. The bone snapped like dry wood. He howled, but she silenced him with a brutal kick that sent him crashing into the wall.

Another came from the left. She pivoted, ducked under his wild swing, and gripped the back of his neck—right at the base of the skull. There was a soft pop. He slumped to the ground.

When another guy approached, she was left with no other option and slammed into him, hand locking onto his forearm. He screamed—but only for a second. His elbow snapped backward at an unnatural angle. His gun hit the floor.

One soldier came charging towards her, forcing her to redirect him directly into the wall beside her. The body broke through a glass casing which held a fire hose in case of emergencies. He collapsed like the rest of them. The hallway fell quiet for a moment.

In a brief surge of panic, Bob tried to get away from the body that fell beside him. She instinctively reached her arm to stop him and he keened over to stop himself from falling.

"That's it, you're done." Y/n announced. Reaching over, she took hold of the loose firehose and stretched it out far.

"Wait—I can help," Bob tried to reason, but Y/n was too busy wrapping the hose around his waist and her own.

Awkwardly, having lost his sense of direction, Bob spun around right when Y/n tightened the hose around the front of her waist. His hips lurched forward from the force of it tightening, colliding with her backside.

"Bob," Y/n grunted in slight frustration. "Why can't you sit still?"

"I—I'm sorry," Bob tried; his hands fumbling to find purchase on her hips. He was supposed to be against her back, not facing forward like her.

Another wave of soldiers were making their way through the hallway. Their faint shapes moving through the lingering smoke, lights flickering in the dark.

Kicking a recovering soldier, Y/n make quick work of disarming another soldier next to him. She seized his wrist and twisted it. The bone inside snapped, sharp and clean.

The hose tugged lightly at Bob's waist as he followed her through the chaos, trying not to trip as she dragged him in her wake. Another soldier swung at her, but she quickly pulled his weapon away from him. She forced him into the wall and proceeded to hand the weapon back to Bob.

"Here. Take this," Y/n instructed.

"How—How do I use it?" Bob clicked the trigger, but nothing happened.

"Just point and shoot," Y/n tried directing him. "Directly ahead."

Seeing an approaching soldier, Bob squeezed his eyes shut, switched the safety, and let the weapon fire multiple rounds. He shouted a quick apologize with his hand raised in defense.

A flashlight shone behind them and indicated that one of them was getting up. They spun around together; she quickly put her hand to the side of the soldier's head to break his jaw.

Hearing another pair of footsteps approaching, Y/n and Bob had to turn around together. He felt her hands slide over his own to help direct the gun in his hands. They fired only for the bullets to stick something metal.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" The voice shouted over the loud gunfire. They stopped firing at him.

Lowering the metal shield and yanking off his helmet, Walker was found standing right in front of them. His hands were raised in surrender and just behind him, Yelena appeared too.

"It's me—John!"

"Where were you?" Y/n yelled back, taking her mask off now that the smoke was clearing. Bob lifted his own just slightly.

Walker gestured broadly at them, exasperated. “Where were you? Off making out in some dark corner?”

Hearing this, Y/n made quick work untying the fire hose from her waist. Bob, who had been nearly glued to her back through the whole ordeal, awkwardly stepped away like he’d been caught doing something indecent.

“We were waiting for the signal,” Y/n snapped, teeth clenched.

“The explosion fried the wires,” Yelena explained, her voice clipped but not apologetic. “I didn’t have time to double back. I found Walker, and we hit the first wave together.”

“You left us?” Y/n’s voice rose, disbelief hardening into anger.

“Relax,” Walker said, glancing behind her. “Looks like you handled yourself just fine.”

"I didn't kill any of them if that's what you're thinking," Y/n grumbled.

Walker shrugged. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

She just turned away, the tension slowly easing from her shoulders. As the smoke thinned and the hallway settled into silence, her eyes found Bob who stood not far behind her.

He still hadn’t said much—helmet in his hands, chest rising and falling a little faster than usual. His expression unreadable. Not frightened exactly—but shaken. She stepped a little closer, voice lower, gentler.

“Hey,” she said softly and he looked at her unexpectedly. “Sorry you had to see all that. I know it’s... not the most pleasant thing to experience.”

Bob kept his gaze on her, but still didn't say anything.

"If it scared you—I assure you... I didn't kill any of them—" she said quickly, maybe too quickly. “I know it looked bad, but I was careful.”

Bob looked at her, eyes steady but soft. “Y/n…”

“I just didn’t want you to think I’m some kind of monster,” Y/n spoke and wrung her hands together nervously. “That’s not who I am.”

He stepped a little closer, his voice low and sincere. “I don’t.”

She looked at him, surprised.

“I was scared,” Bob admitted, “but not of you. Just… everything happening so fast. You were the only thing that felt...solid.”

She met his eyes, guilt still lingering there. She nodded appreciatively.

“And you kept your promise,” he said gently. “You protected me.”

She gave a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah… well. Guess it was my turn to be the hero.”

Bob hesitated, then smiled back—small, sincere. “You were.”

“Just don’t get used to it," Y/n threatened teasingly. She turned to walk away, following the same route as the rest of them.

He chuckled and watched her retreating figure. “No promises.”

GO BACK AND READ PART ONE HERE

149 notes · View notes

stonedeadforever · 16 hours ago

Text

Painting leather with clean long lasting results. A somewhat in-depth post

Materials used:

For painting: Scrap leather, watercolour pens, parchment paper/tracing paper, leather paints (ROC læderdækfarve is the best one I have ever tried. NO others compare to it), and small brushes (synthetic and sable)

For sewing: scissors, stitching wheel (optional), waxed thread, and leather needles

There are probably other ways to do this but this is what I came up with through trial and error over a few years and it has yet to fail me.

On the left is my reference. I traced it digitally to make a simplified mockup and added a white outline to get a feel for what it would look like on black leather. This isn’t necessary for all designs, but I’ve found that it also gives you a feel for the composition that does help when painting. I already knew that I wanted this on my belt bag so I stretched the image slightly to make the final patch fit it better.

I then inverted the colours and flipped the image. I taped a piece of parchment paper to the screen and traced the lines with a red watercolour pencil. (Shown on regular paper as my parchment paper is brown and does not show up well on camera)

the pencil being water based is important. If it isn't a watercolour pen, it will not transfer at all.

I use my ipad with procreate to create the stencil, but I used to do this on my phone with ibispaint for years, and it works the exact same. If you have access to a printer, you can skip this step and draw directly on the backside of the print if you have a lightsource behind it. Using a printer will make the tracing easier, but transferring with it might be a bit trickier.

Next I slightly wet the leather surface and press the stencil on the damp leather. This takes a lot of trial and error as different leathers need different amounts of water. Too little water and there will be no transfer, too much water and it will bleed into a blob and the stencil will be unusable. But if just the right amount of water is applied you will be left with a usable guideline for your design.

I start the painting process with watered down paint, following the guidelines I have made and referencing the mockup from before closely. After the stencil lines are painted, I wipe away all the excess red with a wet tissue. I also switch from referencing my mockup to referencing the original picture at this point.

Left: one layer. Right: two layers and cleanup

I forgot to take pictures between the guidelines and first paint layer being finished but this is like... the most straight forward part of the process. The most important thing is looking closely back and forth at the reference and comparing your painting to it every few strokes. I use a tiny brush LOADED with paint and a light hand to create pigmented lines and dots. When the first layer is dry to the touch I go in with black paint to clean up any imperfections. The black paint has a slightly different finish to the bare leather, so I do my best to avoid having to use it too much. After that I go in with a second layer of white. The white I use is fully opaque in two layers. I think I spent a total of two hours on this from start to finish.

Most leather paints take up to 48 hours to fully dry. Do not be impatient and cut out, sew, or wear the items you painted before it is fully dry, even if it feels dry to the touch. You WILL ruin your hard work.

I use a stitching wheel to mark out where I want the stitches to go. This is a totally optional step, but I like how neat it makes my stitches look. The thread I use is a thin waxed cotton thread. Don't skip out on leather needles. The type I use have a triangular point instead of a round one and slice through the leather instead of piercing it. Your joints will thank you.

Some of the many other projects I've done with this technique. I used to regularly do jacket commissions but I don’t have pictures of most of them due to changing phones. Both the sisters of mercy/paranoid jacket and the motörhead/znöwhite jacket has had about two years of daily wear and no touchups.

Some other stuff I didn't know where to add:

Your brushes matter. Different brushes are good for different techniques. Small springy synthetic brushes for lettering. Round tiny sable brushes for graphics like the one shown here. Flat eyeshadow brushes for covering large areas with no visible brush streaks.

If you are going to do something that isn't in black and white, you will need a base coat of white under any colour to get full pigment. Otherwise the colour will look dark and dull.

If your leather is a light colour, you can just do a regular transfer with tracing paper and a graphite pen.

Don't use leather that is too dry. If you drag your finger across the surface and it feels like suade, the paint will crack and flake off together with the surface of the material.

You can find scrap leather by thrifting leather clothing items and cutting them up. There are sometimes bags of leather scraps in the crafts sections of thrifts, or if you don't care for the ethical connotations of getting leather that isn’t second hand, you can often buy leather scraps by weight at fabric suppliers.

If you are gonna paint faux leather, you might want to switch from leather paint to vinyl paint.

Treat the finished product with care. As long as you don't scrub at it or keep it wet for a prolonged period, there is a good chance that it will last for years.

#my art #leatherwork #leather painting #crust punk #punk diy #diy #diy patches #onkel kånkel #motörhead #paranoid band #learherdyke #the sisters of mercy #znöwhite #speed metal #Spotify

59 notes · View notes

musette22 · 16 hours ago

Note

One common thing people who support Steve's endgame ending claim is that Steve was always miserable in the future. He never adjusted or felt at home in the future, so of course when he got the chance to go back to the past he took it.

However the only proof of this is at the start of catws (and that deleted avengers scene). Yes he was feeling lost and adrift but he didn't stay that way. He made friends with Sam and Natasha and Wanda and Thor and he got Bucky back. He found a purpose and became confident in who he was and what he believed in. Steve may have moments of feeling sad, but if you think he stayed that way for 12+ years you're not giving him enough credit.

And the claim that he was always miserable isn't true either. He joked with his friends on several occasions, and I mentioned how much better he was when he became nomad. And sorry to steggy or staron shippers, but Bucky made Steve happier than anyone else did. Look at the museum footage of them, or them looking at each other in infinity war. He was happy without Peggy.

Also I think fans forget the scene in catws where Sam asks him if he misses the past. And what does Steve say in response? He lists things he likes about the future and makes a point of not romanticising the past. It's especially important that he was talking to a black man while saying this. We rightly talk about how awful Bucky would feel about Steve leaving to live a life without him, but also imagine being Sam and hearing that your friend wants to go life in a time when someone like you had less rights than you do now.

And you know the line about shared life experience? It applies to Bucky of course but in endgame you could also apply it in a non romantic way. Because you say Steve was out of place in the future? Well in endgame he was surrounded by people in the same situation. Countless people were forced to adjust to a time they didn't know. Steve is uniquely qualified to bond with these people. And choosing to go back to the past puts him right back where he was when he first went to the future. He again has to adjust to a time he's not familiar with.

Funny how in order to justify his ending you have to ignore what his story has previously shown us.

THANK YOU! This is so very true, all of it. Completely agree, you make so many excellent points.

Of course Steve felt lost and adrift at first: he was. He was all alone in a foreign time, he lost everyone, he had ptsd because of the war he fought in and everything that had happened to him etc. etc. It would've been strange if he hadn't been depressed in those first years.

But you're right, he was already making significant steps towards being more settled in the new century by the time Bucky returned, and then when he did, I would argue he became a sort of anchor for Steve in the new time. And from that moment on, Steve really started to belong, and realize that he didn't want to go back, but forward. Like, Nomad Steve was NOT dreaming about going back to the 40s, there is no way. That man belonged right where he was, with Bucky by his side, and he knew it.

Home. And he did not mean bloody 1945.

(Gif credit @/dailystevegifs from this gifset)

Also, can I just say that Steve never seemed particularly happy or settled in the 30s/40s? Yes, he had his mother and he had Bucky, and yes, it was "his" time and Brooklyn and I'm sure he came to miss it once he couldn't go back to it anymore, but he was often sick and he was poor and he was frustrated with the world around him and his own body's limitations, and he always wanted sometimes else, something more.

And sure, one could argue that he finally found his calling once he was given the serum and became Cap (and got a healthy body that fit his spirit), but we know he was still miserable at first, as a dancing monkey. I do think the period of time after he'd rescued Bucky, when the Howling Commandos worked closely together for a few years, must've been a special time for Steve, which he will have missed later on for sure. But it was still wartime. Wartime, and being in a war zone, is miserable, and far from a dream life for Steve. So like... what exactly was he supposedly longing for in the past so much that it would've been impossible for him to ever settle in the present? The thing he most clearly missed from his past was Bucky, and he got him back.

So yeah, I think Steve was just fine where he was eventually, and he would have never, ever thrown everything he’d built, the life that had become his, and everyone he'd come to care about and who cared about him, casually out of the window in order to go back to a past he never gave any indication of actively wanting to go back to.

Funny how in order to justify his ending you have to ignore what his story previously showed us.

Exactly that. That's precisely what Endgame did: it ignored Steve's previous story and his character development over several movies in order to shoehorn in the heteronormative ending the studio execs apparently demanded. Spineless, inane bullshit, if you ask me.

#I have so many more thoughts #about how a man like steve would NEVER want to go back to live in a time where many people including his friends would have had less rights #(as you also said)#and one of them - his best and closest friend - was actively being tortured and brainwashed #or that he would simply abandon the world he'd been fighting so hard to improve for YEARS #as if he could ignore all that progress #as if he could ever be happy while living with all that knowledge #in a past he didn't belong in anymore #with a woman he'd already buried and moved on from (if there ever was much to move on from in the first place)#but anyway #I need to go to bed so I'll stop ranting now lol #steve rogers #stucky #anti endgame #minnie answers

62 notes · View notes

syndrossi · 1 day ago

Note

You know, we talk a lot about how the boys are amazing and skilled and are basically seen to be prodigies at everything, but are there things that they're bad at?

For instance, I was wondering what would happen if one of their maesters had to give Daemon the equivalent of an F report card for one of his kids, or even just requested a meeting to discuss a concern, and how Daemon (not to mention the boys themselves!) would respond to that.

This is a fun ask! At their age, given their huuuuge advantages/head-start, most things would honestly be nitpicking, but if the maesters had to...

Jon can't sing, obviously. Has no concept of a tune, except when one sounds nice while he's listening to it.

Both Jon and Rhaegar are given to tunnel-vision, but in different ways. Jon, for example, prefers to focus on things that actually matter or are interesting to him. If he's not interested, he tends not to apply himself very hard. Granted, by eight-year-old standards, he still looks like a savant. Whereas Rhaegar can go so far down a rabbit hole that only Jon can pull him back out, and the expense of keeping an eye on the broader picture.

Both children are considered overly combative/bossy, again in different ways. When Jon thinks someone is wrong, he does not hesitate to point it out very bluntly, and he tends to view himself as in the right. Rhaegar is far more diplomatic about someone being wrong, but his bossiness can be viewed as bordering on arrogance where he takes obedience/cooperation as his due (hello crown-prince-syndrome). Those are qualities that would be considered excellent in an heir; less so in a child as far down in the succession as he is. I'm sure Daemon gets blamed for those qualities in his sons lol.

Rhaegar is okay at sums for his age, but it's definitely not his strong suit. Jon tends to do better here, especially on the geometry side of things, where he's very intuitive.

Rhaegar is terrible at practical trades/crafts. Aka in modern terms, the "handyman" things someone would be able to do on their own: fixing an appliance, figuring out what's wrong with the car. In time period appropriate comparisons, I guess things like figuring out what to do if your horse's reins are damaged. Jon scores much higher here since it was kind of necessary in his line of work. (Rhaegar wasn't done any favors by having things generally taken care of / done for him.)

Jon hates doing literary analysis and is pretty bad at it. What do you mean he's supposed to intuit what the author was attempting to convey through prose/character interaction/dialogue, etc? Why can't it just be a story? Why does the story have to have meaning, why can't it just be entertaining? Whereas Rhaegar eats that shit up lol.

This isn't a "bad at," but at some point, Rhaegar will try to get Jon into drawing/art, which I think he would actually be quite good at! Rhaegar knows he's pretty mediocre at it himself, but he's quite content with singing/the harp.

Daemon would laugh himself sick if any maester approached him with "your sons are too bossy," though. His sons cannot help that they know better than men five decades their senior! Or that their hapless cousins require direction at all times! Why shouldn't people follow their lead?

Daemon also strikes me as someone who bursts with pride when his sons excel academically but as soon as their struggles are pointed out in an area would immediately flip to "that doesn't matter / isn't applicable outside of the Citadel." Like, he would try to help Rhaegar with his sums if that was what Rhaegar wanted, or work with Jon on his terrible pitch, but eh. Dragonriding and skill with arms is far more important!

#resonant asks

51 notes · View notes

pluckyredhead · 1 day ago

Note

didn’t that ship already sail before Jason died tho? With the diplomats son and really the entire Starlin 🏃‍♂️

So I'm going to answer this, but before I do, I want to note that this is kind of derailing from my original point. I don't meant this to be a gotcha or anything because I know I do it myself all the time, but my argument was that "Jason was a bad kid" stories are boring and narratively stagnant, and in that vein it...kind of doesn't matter what canon does or doesn't say? I think we take refuge in "canon says this" or "canon says that" because we want to be objectively right, whereas "bad kid Jason stories are boring" is an aesthetic assessment and therefore subjective. Maybe someone out there loves "bad kid becomes bad adult" and finds it riveting.

Ultimately, despite being a huge nerd who loves continuity, I think a good story is more important than canon accuracy. Of course, ideally you have both, but also...takes on characters shift over the decades, and I have been trying to catch myself in those moments when I push my little metaphorical glasses up my nose and say "Well actually if you look at this comic from 1987, you'll find that..." So this is me, catching myself!

That said, I am absolutely going to talk about comics from 1987 now. Anyway the short answer is: yes and no.

(God that was an annoying response. I'm so sorry I'm like this. In my defense, I've been thinking about this ask all day.)

Anyway. The thing is, the way DC writes Robin!Jason now, they really only take a very small number of stories into account. Some writers are just looking at A Death in the Family; others might also acknowledge Jason's post-Crisis origin and/or the Felipe Garzonas story. A lot of them seem to be relying solely on distant memories of those stories, or osmosis; they certainly aren't doing a close reading of the text.

There's also a game of telephone that happens: from the instant Tim first showed up, DC started writing Jason as Fundamentally Unfit To Be Robin. See, if Bruce gets a child killed and then immediately enlists another one, he's irredeemable. But if Jason's death was due to some fundamental flaw in his own nature, a flaw that Tim does not possess, then Jason's death isn't Bruce's fault, and we can keep having Robin. It's really fascinating reading early Tim comics and watching this retcon play out in real time. (And particularly interesting because Tim is so specifically designed to be Just Like You, Tween Boy Reading This!) And that idea has really metastasized over the years when it's not super present in Jason's actual appearances.

So in a way, yes, the ship has sailed, because it doesn't actually matter what Jason was really like - it matters what the people writing and editing today's comics think he was like. And this is what they're basing that characterization on.

On the other hand...this is an ongoing universe, so no ship has truly sailed. When I got into comics, the saying was that "no one stays dead in comics except Jason Todd and Bucky Barnes." You see how well that worked out. Things change.

All it takes is one really good writer looking thoughtfully at Jason's time as Robin and realizing that even Starlin didn't write Jason the way people remember him. Like, in Death in the Family? Jason is not benched because he's too violent. Bruce is mad that he's reckless, but in the opening scene he literally thinks that he'll "let Jason work his aggression out" on the guys they're fighting (who, for the record, are child pornographers, so it's not like Jason is beating up relatively harmless muggers). That is not the reaction of someone who thinks Jason is out of control. In Jason's origin, Jason is angry because Two-Face killed his father - again, a very reasonable thing to be angry about! - but even though he's extremely upset and also only 12 years old, he makes the decision not to kill Two-Face. Again, not the actions of someone who is out of control. (And for the record, how many times has Dick nearly killed Tony Zucco?) And the Felipe Garzonas story is supposed to be ambiguous. We don't know that Jason killed him! (I mean, I think he did, but technically we don't know.)

All it takes is one really good writer recognizing that this handful of stories is a very small percentage of Jason's appearances, most of which were not necessarily retconned out by Crisis except for the ones that were directly contradicted by later stories. Yes, Jason's parents being circus acrobats who were eaten by crocodiles is no longer canon, but that doesn't mean Jason wanting to be in the school play or doing extra credit for fun isn't canon.

All it takes is one really good writer recognizing that at the same time that Starlin was writing his reckless, surly Jason in Batman, Mike Barr and Alan Davis had the sweetest little bean of a boy making Batman '66-style puns and ordering milk in bars in Detective Comics.

All it takes is one really good writer recognizing that most 15-year-olds are surly and reckless, and that's not a reason to condemn them.

I don't know if we'll ever get a writer who does any of that, but there's plenty of material for them to draw from if we do. And at least it wouldn't be the same story we keep getting over and over again, which was my original complaint.

So...here's hoping!

#jason todd #robin #red hood

44 notes · View notes

frostyharbor · 2 days ago

Text

F!READER/JOHN PRICE ■ EXPLICIT ■ IN-PROGRESS

SUMMARY:

You're a junior diplomat at the American Embassy in Bucharest. Even as tensions with Russia threaten to boil over, by the very nature of your job, you're more of the "ask questions first, shoot never" type. It's too bad military men don't really follow the same creed. tags: slow-burn, canon typical violence, minor character death

CHAPTER FIVE, 6.5K

I could spend all day trying to figure this man out and wind up further from the answer than where I started. You consult the oracle (your best friend), reflect on your changing relationship with John, and have an early-morning conversation.

PREVIOUS | NEXT

MASTERPOST

READ ON AO3 or continue below.

It’s seven in the evening on a Sunday night, and you’re kneeling on your kitchen counter to reach the mixing bowls on your top shelf.

“I’m just saying, no guy is gonna go out of his way for someone he’s not interested in.”

On speakerphone, Chrissy’s voice bubbles cheerfully through the apartment. You pull the bowls down and three orphaned Tupperware lids start sliding out with them. You shove everything back into the cupboard and close the door on the avalanche waiting to pour out. Problem for later.

“You’re thinking about normal people,” you argue, hopping off the counter and shaking the ache from your knees. “These guys make every decision like they’re planning a mission. I don’t think they do anything without an ulterior motive.”

Chrissy hums. “No offense—”

“I’m sure.”

“—but you’re just an entry-level staffer. If they were after something important, aren’t there better targets than you?”

Fair point, you think, nodding to the empty room. Maybe it was arrogant to think you were being picked out specifically. But what Chrissy doesn’t know, what you hadn’t told her, is that you had been doing some meddling of your own. “Yeah, I get that, but I’m also one of the last people in our section left under the age of fifty—thanks, by the way—so the pickings are slim.”

“Only you could whine about making hot friends.”

“I do not whine.” A petulant tone creeps into your voice as you scroll through a recipe on your laptop. The days had only been getting colder, and you had been in the mood for some good comfort food. The result was a battleground of your own making, albeit on a smaller scale. The kitchen counter had been overtaken by vegetables, semolina, and seasonings while a pot simmered on the stovetop.

“Yeah, yeah. Exactly what a whiner would say.” Chrissy pauses for a moment while you chop celery. You wait out the quiet patiently, feeling like there’s more coming. “You don’t like these guys, I get it, but is it really going to kill you to give them a chance?”

It just might. Jack’s warning from before comes back to you. These people know how to get what they want.

But then you think of Ozone smoking lazily out your window, reaching out to feel for rain. Scarecrow and his family. John at sixteen, feeling like there was nowhere else to go. Still arrogant bastards, all of them, but… “I guess they’re not all that bad.”

Her voice sharpens with interest. “Oh?”

“Don’t read too much into it.” You tip the celery into the pot, knife scraping over the cutting board with a hiss.

Later that night, the glorious aroma of home-cooked food still lingers in your apartment. But lying in your bed alone, the pleasant feeling of a full stomach has soured with anxiety.

Without any busy work to keep your hands moving and your mind distracted, there’s nothing to occupy your thoughts now but John Price. You sigh into the quiet room, staring up into the shadows of your ceiling.

It would be so much easier if he were easy to dislike. It had been much easier a month earlier, when you had only known of special forces units in passing, back when they had occupied some distant corner of Constanta that you visited only when the occasion called for it. It’s harder to call upon that old disdain now that you see them every day.

They’re not faceless shadows anymore. They have spouses and families, they like candy and argue over what kind of chocolate is better. You had always known that they were more than a uniform and a weapon, but it’s another thing entirely to experience it firsthand. To be on the receiving end of fond stories of their kids and to witness the easy camaraderie shared between them.

To feel a warm leg pressed alongside your own under a table. To sit out under a tree together like friends and talk about why you’re even here at all.

Squirming, you flip your pillow over to the cool side and try to get more comfortable. It doesn't help. Wary fears of hidden motivations and professional missteps circle you like vultures instead of sheep.

If they’re only just men after all, then of course they have desires. Maybe Chrissy hadn’t been so far off the mark. If he wasn’t interested, he wouldn’t bother. But it’s difficult to ignore the nature of their work. They’re deployed as well—this isn’t some pleasure visit where they have the luxury of free time.

Please. They went hunting for wild pigs and had cookouts.

But even if they did have downtime, you suppose it doesn’t have to mean anything. You could keep up the barrier of professionalism, play the cool companion until John healed and went on his way. A man as worldly and practiced as he would certainly understand.

But the illusion of distance is becoming harder to maintain. You don’t think John would be satisfied with leaving things as they are, and he’s the exact type that Jack had warned you about. A man who gets what he wants.

And you, for whatever reason, have landed square in the middle of his crosshairs.

In the days since your discussion at the picnic table, he’s been tactile and reserved in equal measures. Guiding you into a room before him with a hand between your shoulders, touching your arm briefly in farewell. When you sit together, sometimes he sits close enough to feel the press of his thigh against yours. Other times, he keeps space between you, what anyone onlooker would call a respectful distance. You resent the touch when it’s there and long for it when it's gone.

It’s intentional, you think. He’s an angler giving you enough slack to wear yourself out while maintaining enough tension to remind you he’s still there.

You worry the inside of your cheek with your teeth. How close can you get without being caught? An —God— would you even mind if you were?

Yes, you think firmly, trying to throttle the desire before it grows teeth. Jack already questions their motives, and now he’s watching you too, since John has been dogging your footsteps. You’ve been trying to keep your time with him in neutral spaces, but in such a small area, it won’t be long before your coworkers start to chirp. And if things become too public or too messy, you’re the one with everything to lose.

Plus, you don’t even know yet if that’s the game he’s even playing. Maybe to John, it’s harmless fun; wind up the stuffy diplomat and watch her go. What difference would it make to him? In a few months’ time, he’ll probably be on the other side of the globe. And you’ll still be here, working like nothing ever happened. A cautionary tale for everyone else: don’t mix work and play.

You’re surprised by how much the mere idea already hurts.

Annoyed with your own weakness, you cut off that train of thought before you can spiral through the same argument again. What it comes to is this: play the game, or don’t. You roll to your side, yanking the covers up over your shoulders and staring into the dark corners of the room. But you’ll be pulled apart if you keep trying to play it safe.

Sleep—when it does come—is fitful, disturbed by vague dreams of dark rooms and unseen corners, the smell of smoke and the sound of distant thunder.

----------

At six in the morning, the office is dark and empty. Most will start trickling in at about half past eight, but for now, you’ve got the floor to yourself. You make the most of the temporary solitude. The overhead lights are off and you’ve traded your heels in for an old pair of slippers while you fiddle with the coffee pot. The office is bathed in the soft light of your desk lamp.

While you wait for the coffee to brew, you lean back on your elbows against the counter to take in the empty room. The desks are empty at this hour, of course, but the half-filled cardboard boxes and barren spots where filing cabinets had once stood make the place feel even lonelier than ever. A growing pile of shredder bags sits in the corner, waiting to be burned.

The smell of medium roast begins to fill the air and you let your head begin to sag, eyes going unfocused. Sleep had been elusive and it was early—it was too tempting to consider leaning your chair back and closing your eyes for the next three hours.

Head down and lost in the whir of the machine, you don’t hear John at the door until he speaks.

“Mornin’.”

You twist towards the doorway, startled. He’s standing in shadow, one hand resting on the frame. He’s relaxed, like he’d been standing there for some time. There had been no footsteps in the hall, not even the sound of the front door opening and closing. He had simply appeared out of the dark to watch you from just beyond the room.

It’s nearly the same picture as the one he had presented a week before. The roles are somewhat reversed; you might not be injured, but you do feel like the tired one now, while John is looking into the room with keen eyes. His face has mostly healed, with only a yellow bruise remaining across one cheekbone. He’d ditched the sling at some point, but the right wrist is still wrapped in a brace.

Seeing him stand there, softened by the lampglow, the decision to keep the overhead lights off feels intimate rather than cozy. You feel your cheeks grow warm, but you aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of putting you on your back foot.

For a moment, you simply stare at each other from across the open office space. This isn’t a battleground, not in the traditional sense, but if it were, John would have the advantage. The exit is behind him. At your back, the counter is solid.

Still, you lift your chin. He shifts, leaning forward to accept the challenge.

“Should I be worried?” You offer back as a greeting, raising your eyebrows at him. “Weren’t trying to snoop around before anyone could come in, were you?”

John doesn’t confirm or deny—only smiles. “If I were, you wouldn’t know.”

Behind you, the coffee machine coughs and sputters. You roll your eyes, wishing you had something cleverer to say. With sleep still sloshing around your skull, the words are slow to come. You can only watch as he steps into the room, uninvited but not unwelcome.

He takes in the scene as he approaches, from the empty desks to your slippered feet. “Cozy. If I’d known we were dressin’ down, I’d’ve left the boots.” He gestures down to his feet with his injured arm.

You turn back to the machine, crouching to fish a couple of coffee cups from the cupboard. “If you’d like to file a complaint, human resources gets in after nine.”

Keeping a cup for yourself, you pass up the other one to John and point out the water cooler beside the counter. “The water cooler dispenses hot water, too. For tea.”

“Didn’t say anythin’ about complainin’.” He takes the cup and shifts over to the water cooler, quiet for a man of his size. You drag the box of tea out of the drawer where it’s kept for the crazy Americans who prefer it to coffee. The brand name—Tetley—is foreign to you, but John looks upon it with a vaguely approving expression.

By the time you straighten up, the coffee pot has filled. “Take anything in your tea?” You slide the box down the counter so he can take one of the teabags. Even as you ask the question, you realize you have no idea what people put in their tea. Milk? Lemon?

“Nothin’, thank you.” You must make a face, because he laughs. “Somethin’ against black tea?”

The deep amber cloud swirling in his cup doesn’t look appealing in the slightest. “Just look at it. Looks like torture in a mug.”

“Builds character.”

You smirk as you fill your own cup, the robust aroma of the coffee drawing you out of your sleep-deprived haze. “You must not have grown up on it, then.”

“Tha’ right?” The brightness in his eyes belies his gruff tone, like he’s pleased you’re coming out to play.

“Tha’s right,” you mock, retreating to safety behind your desk while John mutters something about Yanks who think they’re clever.

You set your cup down to cool off. “How did you even know I was here?”

He nods towards the lamp on your desk, sitting down in the chair on the opposite side. “Light was on.”

“Could have been anyone.”

“Could have been.” He pulls out the teabag and drops it in your little trash can. It must still be scalding, but that doesn’t stop him from taking a sip. “Wasn’t.”

“Obviously.” You rub a hand over one of your eyes and stifle a yawn.

John catches it, raising an eyebrow. “Bad dreams?”

Quite the opposite. You hope that he can’t see your flushed cheeks in the lamp glow. “Something like that. What are you doing up this early?”

John rolls his neck and purposefully flexes his shoulders a bit. “I’m on military time, love. Six is late.”

Rolling your eyes again, you pick up the stack of paperwork you had neglected yesterday afternoon from your inbox tray. Sorting through it will at least give you something to do. Not urgent. Not urgent, but people will pretend it is. Actually urgent. The busy work keeps your hands moving and your eyes focused on something other than the man sitting two feet away.

Still flipping through the mail, you sit down, mindful of the coffee near the edge of your desk. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see John watching you, occasionally throwing a shadow across the floor when he raises his arm to drink his tea.

You’re nearing the end of the stack when you notice something unusual. Sandwiched between a battered manila envelope and a memo from the economics office is an elegant piece of stationary addressed to you by name in a flowing script. It has weight to it, hefty in your hand considering its modest size.

Curious. You didn’t think the U.S. government went in for expensive cardstock. At least, not for lowly peons like you.

The letter is sealed in wax with a familiar symbol—a crowned golden eagle holding scepter and sword against a blue field. The Romanian coat of arms.

There’s only one upcoming event you can think of that would require the use of such pomp, and it wasn’t one you would have anticipated being invited to.

“Go on, then.” John’s watching from his chair, the steaming cup of tea looking absurdly small in his hand. “Or did you want me to read it for you?”

You’re already reaching for your letter opener. “Trying to figure out what something like this is doing on my desk, to be honest.” The metal tip glides under the seal, prying it up with ease, and the gilded invitation slips out into your hand.

The top of the invitation is embossed with the same coat of arms as the seal, the front of it written entirely in Romanian. You catch the heading —Guvernul României, Ministerul Afacerilor Externe— before flipping it over to the English side.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Government of Romania cordially invites you to the International Winter Gala in celebration of our diplomatic partnerships and international collaborators.

Collaborators. You snort. Fancy way of saying top campaign donors.

Still engrossed in the invitation, you try to blindly replace your letter opener but miss the decorative mug where you keep your office supplies. Only a firm grip on your wrist keeps you from driving it point-down into your desk as John guides your hand to the right place.

His hand is large and rough against the thin skin of your wrist. Warm. Deliberate.

You let go of the letter opener, but John doesn’t let go of you. Not right away. He relents only after brushing his thumb against the back of your hand, the motion is so subtle you might have imagined it. John only blinks at you innocently when you pull away with an incredulous look.

“What’s it say, then?”

“Impatient,” you tut, reading down the rest of the letter and trying to ignore the searing handprint he’s left behind under your skin. “It’s an invitation to the IWG. International Winter Gala,” you add, remembering he probably isn’t familiar with the acronyms. “Fancy party for the city’s diplomats and politicians. Happens every year.”

“Ah.” John picks up his tea again from where he had set it on your desk. “Anythin’ fun?”

“Don't know—never been.” You had only been here for a few months last year when the invitations had been issued. You take in the location printed at the bottom of the announcement. “The Corinthia Grand Hotel?” You have to cover your mouth to hold back a disbelieving laugh. “But they’ve got an entire ballroom at the Parliament!”

“Romanian government doesn’t do subtlety,” John replies with an air like he’s quoting somebody else. He holds his hand out for the letter. You pass it over, still shaking your head at the government’s dedication to showboating. Anything to impress, I guess.

John looks through the invitation, skimming over the Romanian side before flipping to the back. His posture is relaxed, the hand holding the tea draped casually over the back of his chair. But he’s reading the invitation with more than just a passing interest, you think. His brow is furrowed and mouth set in a thoughtful line as his eyes move across the paper.

Catching your look and smoothing his expression over with a smile, he returns it to you. “Reckon it should be interestin’.” He gives you an once-over, obvious enough to be seen but swift enough that it doesn’t feel like a leer. “Bet you scrub up nice.”

He had made the mistake of resting his good hand within retaliating distance after handing the invitation back. You rap him across the knuckles with it. “I do. Not that it’s any of your concern.” You tap the heavy cardstock against your palm. “Doesn’t matter anyways. It’s probably a mistake.”

He cocks his head, making a show of cradling his sore knuckles with his other hand. “Think that little of yourself, do you?”

You give him a piercing look, folding the invitation closed and sliding it back into the envelope. “It’s not about thinking little of myself, I’m just being realistic.” You toss the closed letter next to your inbox. “It’s been a rough couple of months. Jack’s going to want the best with him. His most perceptive. And there are dozens of people still around who are more qualified than me.”

“Maybe it’s not about the most qualified.” John sniffs and crosses his arms, leaning back in his seat. “Maybe it’s about who he trusts.”

You snort, certain that you’re nowhere near Jack’s shortlist of trustworthy individuals these days—John’s seen to that. But you only smile and lean back, unconsciously mirroring his posture and folding your hands on your lap. “Sounds almost like flattery.” You reach for your coffee and take a bracing drink. “One would almost think you want something.”

A flicker of some emotion passes over his face, there and gone between heartbeats, before he deadpans, “Can you bring a plus one?”

His directness startles a genuine laugh out of you, and even John looks surprised at the sound, though a smug little grin quickly finds its way onto his face. You let yourself be entertained for a moment with the mental picture of John Price in a suit and tie—what did his hair even look like under that hat?—but then shake your head. “Behave,” you say, aiming for sternness but unable to smother the growing fondness in your voice. “And I just might.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. Conversation lapses into a companionable silence. While you both contemplate your cups, you let your imagination run away from you, envisioning John standing in a sea of suits and looking polished in a room of marble and glass.

Somewhere downstairs, the front door opens and slams shut. You both tense, waiting, but the footsteps bypass your office and fade further down the hall.

You glance at the little clock display in the corner of your desktop. Not even seven yet.

John follows your gaze, but can’t see the time on his side of your monitor. His eyes flick up to the wall clock instead. “What’s got you comin’ in so early?”

Ah—a question you had been hoping to avoid. Rolling your chair over to your keyboard, you put your screen between the two of you. “Work to be done, you know.” You peek at him owlishly over the top of your desktop and try to turn the conversation. “Someone’s been taking up a good piece of my time, lately.”

The deflection simply bounces off of him as he sits up taller. With him sitting at his full height, you can’t hide behind your screen from his watchful stare. “Work that brings you in three hours early?”

Scoffing, you reach for your coffee again. “Is it so hard to imagine that I might have important things to do?”

And you do have things to do. Inspired by Jack’s earlier command to get with your contacts, you had reached out days ago to a journalist you knew in the city. Doina Marinescu, a woman in her early fifties, had been in contact with the embassy since before your arrival there, and you had inherited a polite yet distant relationship with her from your predecessor. A writer for a small publication in the city, she had contacts in every sector, from the Palace of the Parliament to the streets of Ferentari.

Well worth her weight in gold, you were certain she could break through the uneasy silence in Bucharest to tell you what was really going on in the city.

The only question was how much to tell John.

Nothing was the obvious answer—you didn’t owe him anything, and this was your job. But you doubt he’ll be satisfied with a brush-off.

“Things to do? Such as?”

Clearing your throat pointedly, you turn your attention over to your computer screen and choose not to respond.

John takes the cold shoulder in stride and nettles you playfully. “They got you refillin’ the coffee and tea?”

You’re so invested in pretending to read your emails that the comment doesn’t immediately register. When it lands, you poke your head around your monitor, scowling. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? “I’m not some kind of intern, John. I do work.”

He leans forward, crossing the imaginary line between his side of the desk and yours. The blue light from your screen cuts through the soft lampglow, casting sharp-edged shadows over his face.

“So it’s work, but it’s secret.” He smiles, infuriatingly calm. “Hidin’ things from your boss?”

You feel a tightening in your gut. Maybe it’s about who he trusts, John had said. The memory of Jack’s narrowed eyes following you out of his office stings. You thought you were trustworthy. You are trustworthy. “I wouldn’t hide things from Jack.”

“But you’re hidin’ things from someone,” John deduces, elbow on your desk and chin resting on his fist. The pose is casual, but his eyes are sharp. Calculating. “Wouldn’t be me, would it?”

You open your mouth to reply, but no words come. As John sits there, still smiling and utterly unflappable, you realize how neatly you’ve been outplayed.

You can only hope he’s talking about your afternoon errands, and not about you hiding anything else.

Working your jaw, you wonder if it’s worth it to backpedal. Too late; you’ve already given yourself away. John, always watching your every movement, is no doubt just as capable of reading silences as he is words.

“It’s just a meeting with a friend,” you admit at last, squirming in your seat.

“A work friend?” John presses, raising his eyebrows.

Annoyed that you’ve been read so easily and unsure of how to sidestep his questioning, you give up the pretense of working. Smoothing a hand over your hair, your answer is begrudging. “A local contact of the embassy.”

John’s interest sharpens, shifting from the satisfaction of the cat who caught the canary to a hunter on the prowl between seconds. “A contact ? What do they tell you?”

It’s hard not to bristle at his tone. He sounds insultingly surprised, like he thought that the military were the only party good at intel-gathering. “I don’t know the specifics, obviously.” You let a small bit of waspishness seep into your voice. “That’s why we’re meeting. But,” you add at his unimpressed look, “they do help provide us information on local issues and the current…social atmosphere.”

“And what prompted this meeting?” Abandoning his casual posture, John crosses his arms again, leaning back to regard you with an inscrutable expression. The smile is gone, but his expression is contemplative rather than condemning.

“Nothing has to prompt it,” you snap back, although in this case, something certainly did. But you’re not about to admit that you’re digging into the city’s reaction to the shadowy presence of the SAS stalking their streets. Not when you’re sitting alone in a dark office with their captain. “We meet at least once a month.”

From his narrowed eyes, you think John recognizes the non-answer for what it is. He lets it slide, but what comes out of his mouth next is even more horrifying than a continued interrogation.

After he considers for a moment, he nods like something’s been settled. “Well, seein’ as how the threat level to the embassy is still high, it wouldn’t be safe to send you without an escort. And I—” he lifts his injured wrist “—am lucky enough to have the time to go.”

Oh, fuck me. You’re already shaking your head. “That’s not necessary.” More like not possible. You can’t imagine what Doina might say in front of John that might set off alarm bells. “I’ve never needed an escort to meet with them before.”

“Reckon the embassy’s never had an IED launched into it before, either,” John says, already pulling out his phone and typing away one-handed.

“Then send someone else with me.” You try to keep your voice from wavering. Your fists are clenched on the desk and you’re weighing the pros and cons of pitching your coffee at his head.

John’s smile is wolfish now, not quite reaching his eyes when he looks up. “And here I thought we were gettin’ on so well.” He slides his phone back into an inner coat pocket. “So desperate to keep me outta your business, hmm? You are hidin’ things from me, aren’t you?”

There’s an audible click in your throat when you swallow. You really need to stop giving yourself away.

Fortunately for you, he doesn’t press the issue. He only stands, tea in hand. “What time are we leavin’?”

You can’t believe that just five minutes earlier you had been fond of this man. You want to do something to defend your wounded dignity—backpedal, deny, argue. But he’s backed you into a tight corner, and there’s nothing to do but concede the round. “Three o’clock.”

“Very good.” He touches the brim of his hat in farewell. His eyes are gleaming again, and the little grin on his face tells you he knows he’s won this time. “I’ll see you in the front. We’ll take one of our vehicles.”

He turns to leave. Unable to think of anything else to say, you can only spit at his back. “Subtle.”

Laughing, John only lifts his good hand before he disappears back into the hallway. As the echoes of his mirth fade, he leaves in the same fashion as he arrived—silently. You listen for the sound of his footsteps, for the creak and slam of the main door opening and closing, but hear nothing.

Punching the keys of your keyboard harder than necessary as you go back to your emails, you silently amend the conclusion you had reached the previous evening.

Play the game, but never forget he has teeth.

----------

Hours later, you’re still simmering, perched on a low wall by the front gate.

The days are getting shorter and colder, and you’re bundled up in a heavier coat and scarf. At the gate, the local police mingle with the Army reinforcements. They inspect the stopped vehicles awaiting entry methodically, checking undercarriages with long-handled mirrors and looking through windows and opening trunks. When they’re satisfied, the guards wave the vehicle through and move on to the next.

The heightened security measures make your skin crawl with unease. In your push-and-pull game with John, it’s easy to forget about the quiet threat looming on the other side of the wall, but watching the soldiers patrol near the gate with their M4s brings the reality crashing back down.

But that’s why I’m meeting Doina. The chill bites at your throat, and you pull your scarf tighter around your neck. We’re going to figure out a way to fix this.

You check your phone. 2:55. John should be here any minute now. The mere thought of him is enough to send a fresh wave of frustration crashing over you.

You wish you could say that your aggravation came from a place of principle. That tricking someone to get answers was wrong. But that wouldn’t be true. You weren’t upset because your feelings hadn’t been hurt—you were angry because John had outmaneuvered and embarrassed you. He’d used your ego as bait, getting under your skin with his little jab about the coffee, and then picked you apart with ease.

If you could figure out his weaknesses, you might have tried to do the same. But after your conversation this morning, you don’t know if that’s even possible. He’s made a career out of this. You? You’ve been thrown in the deep end without knowing how to swim.

But I can learn. Next time, it won’t be so easy.

Right on time, you see John round the corner of the temporary barracks the SAS has claimed for themselves. He sees you sitting on the wall and waves you over to where one of their SUVs has been parked by the curb. Gathering your coat around you, you hop to your feet and cover the distance at a brisk pace, hoping that the car’s heater kicks in fast.

John greets you fondly, showing no indication of his earlier little victory in your office. You suppose he can afford to be magnanimous about it—he hadn’t been the one up against the ropes.

He’s wearing a dark fleece pullover and has traded in the floppy hat for a black beanie that fits snugly over his ears. The parts of his face not covered by hat or beard are red from the cold, and his breath puffs in little clouds. You fight the urge to be charmed by it; it’s terribly easy to forget the machinations going on behind his expression when he looks so human.

You see that he’s carrying two travel cups stacked on top of each other in one hand. He offers out the cups to you and you take the one on top. It has a message scrawled on the side in boxy black ink:

Sorry fer bein’ a right bawbag :(

It doesn’t seem like something John would write. You peek up just in time to see his lips twitching.

“Soap—tha’s MacTavish—caught me makin’ coffee. Knew it wasn’t for me and wouldn’t shut up about it. Told him I mighta ruffled your feathers a bit.”

“A bit,” you echo, voice clipped. But you take the cup anyway, immediately grateful for its warmth. John slides right back into the role he had been carving out for himself, opening the door for you and guiding you to the passenger’s seat with a hand placed lightly between your shoulders.

The nerve of this man. You climb in without protest and he closes the door behind you. As he circles around the back of the car, you scowl down at your feet—in heels now, not the slippers from this morning. Talking circles around me one minute, being nothing but polite the next. If you weren’t sitting down, the emotional whiplash would be enough to sweep you off your feet.

You study the cheeky apology dashed on your cup. How much of the sentiment was Soap’s, and not John’s? He had gone out of his way to make you coffee and acknowledged rufflin’ your feathers, but made no effort to voice any actual apology.

You probably won’t be getting one, either.

John slides in behind the wheel as you’re fussing with the heat controls. The car had already been warm when you’d gotten inside it, but part of you thaws—literally—when you spot the heated seats. John chuckles when you turn yours to the highest setting, so you max his out too, just to be petty.

He shifts into drive, pointedly turning off his seat warmer in the process, and the car glides smoothly away from the curb. The line to exit the compound isn’t as long as the one waiting to come in; the guards don’t seem overly concerned with who’s leaving.

As he drives up the lane towards the main road, John glances at you. “You’ll have to talk to me eventually, love. Need directions.”

You answer, but keep your gaze fixed on the windshield. “Turn right when you get to the Alley. It’ll turn into EIN Street after we cross into Pipera.”

John doesn’t ask for clarification, so he must have familiarized himself with the embassy’s unofficial street abbreviations since his arrival. The main road that ran past the embassy was Aleea Privighetorilor , Nightingale Alley, which most shortened to just “the Alley”. Strada Erou Iancu Nicolae , another street with a mouthful of a name, was the EIN.

The silence stretches out between you again, not nearly as companionable as the quiet interlude from earlier that day. John tries to catch your eye every now and then in the rearview mirror, but you only purse your lips, watching out the window.

He might think that it’s acceptable to slip an interrogation into casual conversation and then act like nothing’s wrong, but you aren’t going to let it go so quickly.

The traffic carries you down the Alley, through the sprawling jungle of shopping centers and housing developments. Though still a neighborhood of Bucharest, it would be easy to look at areas like Băneasa and Pipera and think that there was absolutely nothing wrong. The districts were wealthy, dotted with luxury apartments and spacious villas, and were untouched by the unrest that had sprung up deeper in the city.

You’re admiring a particularly grand villa peeking out from behind a stand of trees when John clears his throat softly. “So, who’s the contact?”

Oh, now you want to ask direct questions? Still nursing your hurt pride, the instinct to be snide nearly overpowers you. But clawing at him won’t help, and letting him rile you up was what had gotten you into this mess to begin with. “A journalist.”

“A journalist?” There’s a derisive note of judgment lurking in his tone. “Interesting.”

Tension coiling in your gut, you whip your head around to glare at him. “And what’s wrong with—”

Christ. You recognize the trap this time, biting your tongue before anger can loosen it further. Irritated at almost being caught out again, you hiss between gritted teeth. “If you want to know something, ask.”

John’s expression is devious, his mouth quirked and his eyes narrowed. His low huff of amusement is barely audible. “Clever girl.”

The compliment is as grating as it is gratifying. You let out a humorless bark of laughter and massage your temples. “God, you’re exhausting. I can’t believe—take the next right. No, not here, the next one—you thought that would work twice.”

“Dunno, it worked pretty well the first time.”

He’s laughing at you now, but it isn’t a mean sound. It’s warm and rich, and he shares a look with you like he’s bringing you into the joke; laughing with you and not at you, as they say. You stare back at him, curious and more than a little confused. Is this his way of saying sorry?

He navigates the turn you had pointed out, steering the car down a narrow road shaded by trees on both sides.

You reach for your coffee to sip at it for the first time, not really surprised that it tastes exactly how you would make it; he must have been watching you make yours this morning.

He shows up early to have tea with you and lures out your secrets. You take another drink, deeper this time, closing your eyes and letting the dappled sunlight throw shadows across your eyelids. Now, you’re in his car, drinking coffee he made. He could mock you for being so easy to fool, but he just draws you in again and…lets you win this round?

You crack one eye open to peer at him suspiciously. He’s not looking over at you for once. Just watching the road with that smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth.

John had dropped his line of questioning the moment you had caught him in the act. A learning experience? You don’t know whether to feel condescended to or relieved.

With a sigh, you shrug off the remainder of your frustration. I could spend all day trying to figure this man out and wind up further from the answer than where I started. “It’s this driveway on the left.”

The home is modest for the area but would still fetch a pretty penny on the market. All sharp angles under a red-shingled roof, it casts a long shadow over the driveway as John pulls in.

“I got a cover?” John asks, parking and pulling out his phone to shoot off a quick message. You drain the last of your coffee and replace the cup back in the cupholder. You’re not about to throw it out; it’s possible that the message is the closest thing to an apology you’ll ever get from him.

You pause, pulling your coat around you and picking up your bag from the floorboard. “You can be a new staffer at the embassy. Limited understanding of the language.”

“That mean I get a pass if I accidentally say somethin’ rude?”

The look you give him is something between amused and exasperated. “It means you get to sit there and be quiet.”

He only smiles and makes no promises.

----------

notes

There are so many long street names in Bucharest; the abbreviations are my invention.

Thank you all for reading and for your remarkable feedback. I love hearing from everyone, so even a short response with just emojis or a single sentence means so much ❤️

taglist

@enfppuff

25 notes · View notes

multiheadcanons · 1 day ago

Text

MORE SILLY LITTLE TEAM WIDE THOUGHTS I HAVE

1. all of the mercs suffer some form of memory loss from the cloning operation. the originals find that, though they are arguably as whole as they were before they went under the knife, there are some things that are missing that used to be regularly called upon knowledge. recipes, jokes, identities, lies they’ve told, lies they believed, or didn’t. certain tasks they remember they used to be good at they now can’t do, no matter how hard they try to go through the process mentally. the clones find they can’t place how they know their information. they know there was a life that was lived, but it’s almost hearsay. they hardly remember being there. the past feels fuzzy. almost fake. names are gone. unless they talk to their counterparts, they will never know the full picture. some of them take a greater advantage of this than others.

2. someone said the willis family would accept both scouts, and i agree to an extent. i also don’t think they would really see the difference between the scouts until they are in a room together. then it’s obvious. the blu scout would let the red scout take the reigns on the family. the blu scout remembers what home was like. he remembers the way he stuck out. his counterpart has the better personality for the family. in fact, they think he’s doing great! and he is. he’s doing just fine for himself. but if the willis family did find out, they absolutely would not bat an eye. they’re all adults, at this point. it’s not really another mouth to feed, except during the holidays. he just needs to bring an appetizer or some snacks.

3. the soldiers unarguably have the best relationship with each other, and when they are allowed to fight together, they are the perfect unit. the soldiers are actually how most company wide information is shared, and it’s a key element in the team realizing the company thinks they’re stupid. as they swap news with each other, they realize intel isn’t lining up. that what the blu team is being told isn’t matching what the red team is being told. the spies, when they realize these two men are gossips, also use this to feed information to teammates. both soldiers have become quite important tools for inter-team communication.

4. the pyros are both avid fans of the color pink. the red pyro will pick out blushes and baby pinks, while the blu pyro will opt for magentas. and while it’s not new to say the pyros have a penchant for the pursual of the pyre, the ways in which they like to stoke their respective sparks are different. the red pyro has a bad habit of starting grease fires. there is a reason they are banned from the kitchen. they just think its cool when they watch the food shows and the chefs throw something in the pan and it catches flame. they attempt and fail to recreate this. meanwhile the blu pyro is a large reason dell had to move his workshop off the base. they have a nasty habit of fiddling with wires that get them killed and the workshop destroyed.

5. the demomen have the worst luck. most everything they involve themselves with that are not their bombs are guaranteed to take a turn for the baffling and the worse. and they don’t even understand how it happens, but it makes the team want to take them to the casino. it’s not even that they’re getting particularly lucky, they just know if they hedge demo’s bets and double it, they can turn profits big enough to get them banned. the demomen hate when the teams do them like this, though the cuts they get from the earnings is enough to just make it annoying.

6. if you can get both heavies to get along in a kitchen, you can ask for literally anything you may have a taste for and it will be created. it will be created in bulk. between the two of them, the amount of recipes they know spans so many different cultures and styles that, if it can get made in fifteen minutes or less, they can provide you with anything you may want! once they exceed fifteen minutes, there is bound to be an argument. so its best to get what you want and let them depart before they start breaking things.

7. the engineers have the most complex relationship between each other. they also have the most complete understanding of who Dell Conagher is, and function seamlessly between each other. both dells are interacted with as though they are the real dell. and while this makes their lives quite easy, it makes their philosophical struggles harder. they are the twin neither one of them wanted. one of them just showed up. but they’ve come to rely on each other heavily, even between the teams. its not a shocking sight anymore to the teams to see two texans in their bases. they never cause any trouble, and they’re on their way just as quickly as they were spotted.

8. whenever people call for the doctors on the field, it is an audible assault to both of them. it is a noise that doesn’t leave either doctors’ ears until they at least give the call a moment of consideration. they only noticed this in the other in the heat of a difficult battle, that ended in a stalemate. they found each other after battle to discuss it. the red medic compares it to a severe case of tinnitus. grating, and annoying. he can’t hear anything over it, and his attention is almost immediately directed to the location of the call. the blu medic compares it to hearing a baby with colic. it’s almost frightening. it fills him with dread, and he is mentally urged to solve the problem. both doctors find the calls hard to ignore.

9. while both snipers are adept in the wilderness, they do have different preferences of their geographical locations of choice! the red sniper prefers desert or desert adjacent areas, with dry heat and minimal ground cover. if you ask him about it, the red of his uniform blends in better with the dirt, and he finds it easier to make successful hunts. he would also call himself a prowler. he would call the blu sniper a “climber”, and the blu sniper would agree. and its why he prefers thickly wooded areas! the blue of his uniform is close enough to the sky, so as long as its not raining, it’s a task to find him through the trees. at least, not before he finds you.

10. the spies get into regular arguments about cigarettes. the red spy swears up and down that menthols are the superior cigarette. the blu spy literally wretches at the mere mention of them. but he smokes clove cigarettes, and the red spy feels like he’s inhaling a spice cabinet. neither one of them realize that the blu sniper is selling them cigarettes that have been mixed and restuffed with weed when they buy from him, because at that point they’re too high to care. it’s the only cigarettes they agree on.

11. when i think of the teams, musically, they are both intense in different ways. i find the red team to be heavy bass, hard 808s and stuttering high hats. drum oriented, almost. synths and 8-bits. they are in your face, and function as a chaotic unit. it’s hard to keep track of them all when they are all so dynamic. it’s easy to get lost in one merc and ignore another, and its an easy way to get caught by the team. the blu team is more like the tastiest guitar riff you’ve ever heard in your life. intricate bass lines, with slower, more constant beats, and intricacies in the harmonic stackings. the beauty of the blu team comes from their ability to add to each other to create a full musical picture.

#team fortress 2 #team fortress two #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #tf2 pyro #tf2 scout #tf2 sniper #tf2 engineer #tf2 spy #tf2 soldier #tf2 demoman #tf2 demo

38 notes · View notes

peanutheaddd · 2 days ago

Note

Hi, since you've been talking about dm's death in divine liberation au lately would you mind answering some questions?

Is Petey present for dm's death/funeral? if not, what are his final moments with him, did dm ask for a final possesion before he goes or smthing like that or this that too gay for hir repressed ass? After his death do either dogman or Petey recognise that they cared for the other more than they ever admitted to anyone(including themselves)? You sometimes mention Petey "outliving" Dogman, does that mean he can die? What happenes to Demons/Angels when they die? If Dogman is in Heaven and lp is an angel wouldn't that mean that he can go see dm? Are people completeley conscious in Heaven or are they like in an absent-minded blissful state?

And last but not least, how are you doing peanut?

I Hope there weren't too many questions, sorry if there are I'm just a questioner(does that word even exist? lol) at heart.

BUH-BYE!

WOOOOWWW SO MANY QUESTIONS YAYYY YAYYY YAAAYYYYYYY THANK YOU MY GOAT HEH.. SMIRKS there can never be too many qeustions bro genuinely the more questions the better. I FUCKIGN LVOE YAPPING

i dont think hes there for the exact moment he dies. it would have been too hard for him but also bc of their soul bond . its just smth thats never been seen before. there Could be some complications if hes too nearby while dms soul is trynna ascend. they dont know that . they dont have Any basis for comparison . and this afterlife shit isnt a game 2 dm LMFAOOOO so i reckon petey respects his wishes gladly .

however he is 100% there for dms funeral . i reckon its very small. very humble. exactly how he would have wanted it . like Nothing could stop him from attending that funeral bro. i reckon he attends in his true form tho not in mortal disguise . he can make himself invisible to mortals anyway so hes kinda just there. he doesnt want to deal with the people at the funeral . so he wouldnt be in his mortal disguise. i reckon lp would go into his mortal disguise tho . just to talk to the other people abt dm . copign in diff ways yk.

ok rest under cut bc this response is long LOLLLLL

tbh i think he would ask for a final possession . hes about to die . yolo yk. hes not above doing anything at this point

when he possesses him for the last time i reckon dms body starts crying. and dm is like why arey ou crying ? and peteys like ur the one whos crying idiot . Plausibly it oculd be either of them. its their last possession and they know it .

ultimately its not clear whos the one that started crying . their soul bond has gotten to such a level such that their consciousnesses are Very hard to distinguish . whenever dms body does something its almost impossible to tell if it came from pt or dm or if that distinction even exists in the first place .

i think dm recognizes that pt was . his life partner . and that he was one of the most important people in his life . and that he made him happy . and ig thats what love is right . and he realizes allat like right before he dies.

i reckon he tells him too. but not explicitly . its more like a. thank you for being in my life. kinda thing. which is like basiclaly the same thing as saying i love you and kissing with tongue considering all the repression that lays the foundation of their relationship

again right before he dies the gates of repression holding all his feelings breaks and it all comes out basiclaly . not in a crazy flood bc theres like a even bigger even stronger repression dam holding his deeper bfeelinsg back still. but some of the more. lighter ones. he verbalizes .

as for demons dying . i think its more like demons represent certain kinds of sins . im thinking of peteys sin being smth like excessive blind loyalty. just becasue thats the sin that made him fall. and its like they die when that concept. just fails to exist. so yes they can techincally ""die naturally"" just. basiclaly doesnt happen ever. so theyre esentially immortal

demons can also just be killed . the more insignificant of a concept you represent, the easier it is to kill you (weaker + less protection from hell) and the easier it is for another demon to fill in the gaps until your replacement shows up. yk??

when they die they just cease to exist. theres no after after life or anything .

as for post dm death . dm was eligible for the highest level of heaven and he took it . which im thikning is smth like ceasing to exist or reincarnation or smth along those lines.

essentially whatever afterlife you choose is the one you get locked in. Forever. and dm is So tired. he doesnt wanna continue existing as dm anymore. hes lived long enough. hes so tired. and he knows if he chooses a lower level of heaven its smth hes gonna be stuck in and he knows hes gonna get tired .

heaven is like a fucking . society without capitalism i guess. but ig also the people in heaven have no physical needs. they just work driven by . their own motivation. vut essentialy everyone in heaven has a job . theyre all angels . they get tasks assigned to them and because these people are in heaven theyre the type to be happy to take on their assignments . its hard to describe how i think about heaven but esentially thats. kind of it ????????????? so yeah theyre conscious.

THANK YOU FOR THIS ASK!!!!! I LOVE YAPPING

#dm divine liberation au #ask

48 notes · View notes

roseate-rose · 17 hours ago

Note

Sorry, I’ll be more specific. I mean the overeating as a kink. I’m asking genuinely. I don’t get it. I’m fat and I hate myself. Like actually hate myself. I struggle to understand why someone would do it on purpose… why you’d celebrate things like your mobility getting worse…

Hey anon, thanks for explaining. Long answer ahead, because I think this warrants it:

This is a delicate thing for me. Really what I want to say is I wish you didn’t hate yourself, because you don’t deserve that, especially not for something as benign as being fat.

As for me, I really just don’t see fat that way. I mean, I went through my shame around being fat as a teenager, had my brushes with disordered and restrictive eating, etc. but at some point I figured out hey, I’m probably going to be fat for the rest of my life. Like just speaking probability-wise, this is probably just the hand I was dealt. I COULD bust my ass and lose weight, but it would require a lot of effort and time and the only way I’d keep it off is if I put in that same amount of effort. And frankly I have other things I want to do with my life that I just care more about than being skinny, goals that are more important to me and more worth my time!

So to me it was obvious at that point - I can either be fat and hate myself, or be fat and love myself. If I’m going to love myself, I have to love myself exactly as I am right now, rolls and cellulite and all. Even if I did want to lose weight, it wouldn’t happen instantly, you know? So I had to love myself fat, because fat is what I was at that moment.

Mind you a lot of this is separate from the kinky bits of it! I’ve had a kink around fat and body expansion as long as I can remember. But I faced deep and crippling shame around that side of myself during my time of hating myself for being fat. From like 12 years old I remember locking my door and stuffing my clothes with pillows and towels and chugging as many bottles of water as I could stomach, then lying in bed feeling sick and disgusted with myself. It was a really nasty headspace to be in, and it was ONLY because I finally accepted that I was fat, was going to be fat, and had to love myself with all my fat included, that I started thinking of this kink not as my most shameful secret but as a source of joy. It wasn’t instant; I had to first say “I don’t care about being fat” before I could say “I like being fat”, kind of chipping away at the layers of shame and repression.

I started my blog because I realized I didn’t want to have lovers and friends who liked me *in spite of* my body, I wanted lovers and friends who celebrated me and my body wholeheartedly. And… I found them!! And I’ve genuinely never been happier. It’s been so lovely being part of this community. I know that us folks in the feedism scene get accused of being predatory often, and I won’t pretend our community is entirely without its problems, but overall the people I meet here on tumblr are sweet and kind and we’re all just here to share in what makes us happy.

(It was actually tumblr that helped me get over the last bits of my dislike for my body — like, everyone has a few features they want to change, right? Mine were that roll I have at the top of my belly (my second boobs, as I sometimes call them lol), my arms, and the dimples on my butt. And then I started following other feedees + fat girls and I thought all of them were so pretty I might actually pass away, and you know what? A lot of them had a roll at the top of their belly, or fat arms, or a dimply butt. Some of them even had all 3! By seeing their bodies as beautiful, I learned to see my own as beautiful in turn, you feel me?)

Im aware that not everyone feels the way I do about being fat. But for me it’s less a thing I’m doing to myself, and more a natural consequence of the kind of lifestyle I want to have. I want a life that’s full of good food, where I always have a full fridge and pantry, where I never have to go to bed hungry. I want a life where I tell myself “yes” more often than “no.” I want to eat without thinking about the calories or the cost. I want to have slow, relaxing days where I lounge around in my pajamas and eat pizza and watch bad TV. Like that’s really all it is — I don’t put any huge effort into gaining, just like I never really felt like putting any effort into losing weight. I just try to eat what I want when I want, and if that makes me fatter over time then that’s cool for me because I like being fat and I think getting fatter is really hot :)

The health/mobility piece is… also complicated for me. Besides the kink piece of it, there’s the simple fact that, well, I’m already disabled. Yes, my mobility might get worse as I get heavier, but it’s not likely to get better even if I don’t, you know? I’m coming to terms with the fact that I can and should be using my wheelchair more often for my POTS, and it’s definitely got some complicated feelings around it. But for whatever reason, if I frame those completely unrelated physical limitations of mine as somehow related to feedism, they go from sources of grief and worry to sources of excitement and anticipation.

Like oh, i had to buy a shower stool so that I don’t get dizzy and pass out in the shower? Well I’m going to pretend it’s because I’m too huge to stand on my own for more than a minute or two, because that’s fun. I’m using my wheelchair a lot at work because there’s a lot of tasks that require standing relatively still? Actually I’m using my wheelchair a lot to save energy so I gain weight faster. <- This one is literally completely fictional! Honestly if anything a manual wheelchair burns more calories than walking does. But the fantasy is still fun and makes me like using my chair more, which is a good thing!

I guess I’ve probably rambled on enough about this. Other people in this community are going to have different answers to these questions, but deep down the bottom line is the same: we do this because it makes us happy.

You may never feel the same as we do about yourself or about fatness in general, anon, and that’s okay. I’m not here to tell you that you have to be fat or like being fat — what you decide to do with your body is incredibly personal, and I’m never going to pretend that my way is the only or best way for everyone. What I will say is that I hope you find the things that make you happiest in life, and I hope that you chase after them no matter what anyone else thinks of them. I hope you find so many ways and reasons to love yourself, and communities where you are loved and supported in turn, because you really do deserve them.

21 notes · View notes

ilona2nerrie · 1 day ago

Text

Wings.

A Superbat fic (: avian au.

Tagged:

@itsmeairix

What chapter are you on:

1 – leading.

Species of bird for each character?

Clark Kent: Summer Tanager

There are really amazing birds and look at that! I think it’s Clark coded. Also, the red of Clarks wings replace his cape in his hero costume, where’s Bruce cape accents him. (that’ll be an important plot point later) To add a little Kryptonian spiel to it, Clark has two sets of wings and in the right light they have an iridescent gold sheen as superman. He hides this as Clark Kent by checking the sleek feathers nearly constantly puffed up, with his extra set of wings bound and under his grey coat, that’s a little too big on him. His wings are quite large, but he hunches them slightly to make them look smaller, and the feathers are longer than most humans, but that’s kept hidden by the fact at his work, his feathers are mostly slightly puffed up. Like how his hair is curly as Clark Kent and not as superman. (new movie). Thumbs up.

Bruce Wayne: black.

Claims he has crow wings, but somethings off. And his feathers always look so stiff, not that anyone can see them from under his cape. PS: not being lazy, this will count for an important plot point later.

Also, I have a lot more Superbat stories in progress on my blog! You can find them in the pinned post under ‘my au’s.’ If you like this one, go check the other ones out! Also, if you want to be tagged in the next part of this one or in any other story, please just say in the comments! Your comments mean the world to me, and I love any participation people give me. (:. That being said, enjoy the story!

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

Bruce threaded his wings through the back of his suit, as Dick watched, holding an almost asleep toddler, Jason.

“Is this really a good idea, dad?” Dick asked, grabbing a pack and handing it to his father, tilting his head.

Bruce grabbed the pack, fastening it onto his belt with a small click. He looked up at Dick and ruffled his hair.

“It’ll be fine.” Bruce said softly. “But I need to do this. For multiple reasons, but I do have reasons. And I’ve taken multiple precautions, so everything will be fine. Just stay safe with your siblings, Alfred’s letting you eat in front of the tv tonight took a good bit of convincing.”

Dick nodded, but he really wasn’t sure about this. He knew his dad, and he knew it could get really bad if things went wrong. His dad was starting a whole team with people with superpowers. And Bruce didn’t. Dick trusted his dad, but he couldn’t help but think of worst-case scenario. And it was a scary thought that his dad could get hurt.

Dicks attention was drawn away when Jason stirred, blinking drearily against him. Dick shushed him softly and handed Bruce his cape, bouncing Jason slightly.

Bruce wrapped the cape around his shoulders, carefully clicking it into place on the collar of the suit and moving it over his wings. Best no one saw them properly at the first meeting. No chance to let them form weaknesses.

“I’ll see you all soon.” Bruce said softly, kneeling down next to Dick and patting his head. “You have my word.”

He gave Jason a quick hug and bumped foreheads with Dick, before walking to his car and hoping in, giving his kids a wave as he drove off.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Clark had been ready for this day for weeks.

He had gotten a sketchy email about joining a new team, but after a bit of sleuthing he had figured it was genuine. And by that point he had already gotten excited. See, Clark had never properly fit in. Well, anywhere. He could pretend he did, he was good at pretending. But now he was asked to go to a meeting with other superheroes. Other Meta’s. It was a surreal experience. And honestly? He was ready for it. He had even taken a day off work to get there early!

Perry wasn’t the happiest with it, but Clark did have sick days. So, he was going to use them. Even if it meant a phone call interrogation from Lois. Which was rather hard to pass, she was veeery good at detecting liars.

He had actually woken up this morning and cleaned his suit by hand, putting a cotton but in the ridges in hopes to make It cleaner. It didn’t work the best, but hey, he was excited. He was going to look good anyway. Stretching his lower set of wings was nice as well, he didn’t get to do that unless he was superman. And even then, they weren’t even out casually, just battle. But now he has got a whole day with them out, talking to others who have had the same experiences as him probably. Just… just struggling to fit in at all. It was hard.

But now he wouldn’t be alone.

If Clark was asked, he would’ve said that he kept this to the upmost secrecy. In fact, that would be a lie. The second he found out that the whole email ended up being legitimate, he called his mum and just spoke. So much. It was a lot, but he needed someone to talk to. And if concerned, she was still happy for him. She did tell him to be careful, and that it wouldn’t be unusual for this to be a threat. To which Clark responded, if it was, he would already be screwed up, seeing as he got sent the email on his work one.

His mother was very quiet after that. He had to admit his plan to comfort her may not have worked. It was a bit awkward after that. He ended the call to fix his suit after that.

Clark also took his time to properly preen his wings, something which he didn’t really do often. Sometimes if he got a chance to before he went off to fight, he did, but they have to be messy to cover the sheen that they made. It felt nice to take some care of them.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bruce sped through the city, soon driving out into the fields that lay between Gotham and others. His car sped through the passing foliage, careful to follow the map he had plotted out. Nothing flashy for a first meeting, he had just made a small, mountainside base. Definitely not flashy, (he honestly has a warped idea of flashy tbf) and very normal. Well, it was secluded. That was a plus.

He hit a button on his dashboard, opening up a small hole in the mountain, in which he sped through as it re-closed itself. He hoped his invites would be able to find this place, well, they were superhuman. If they didn’t, he’d definitely be silently judging them. Except the archer, he had a pass. He was human.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Clark hadn’t just taken off, he had wrapped a coat around himself and gotten a cab, only taking off when he was safely out of metropolis. he hid the coat behind a random bush, not the best idea but go on, and took off into the sky, his two sets of wings working in tandem to go higher and higher. He fished his phone out of his suits pocket, going back into emails and downloading the app that had been sent to him on the email. Something about it taking him to where he needed to go, and hey. If it was useful then so be it. He wasn’t one to question disembodied voices.

He clicked the link of the email, and the phone went dead. He tapped the screen, worrying he had downloaded a virus or something, until it lit up. It had an arrow on the screen, when he turned the arrow pointed to where he was supposed to go. He tried to click off it, but the phone just buzzed at him and the arrow went a deeper colour. Ok.

He followed the arrow.

He watched the landscape as he flew by, there were mostly plains out here. But he saw a town every now and then, going higher to avoid detection. Probably hard with bright red wings, but he would manage. He always did.

Clark dipped down when the phone had told him he had arrived, flying through the mountains, letting his eyes scan the terrain. He saw a small building, attached to the mountainside and sticking out quite hidden actually. That looked expensive, and fancy. Cool.

He saw a small landing platform and flew towards it, examining. He did go down when the phone dinged, and he was surprised when his phone didn’t turn back on. It said something like lockdown, then just turned off. What? He honestly didn’t have time to think about it because the landing dock opened up. Now, there was part of a platform that went down slowly. And he could’ve made it there, but he had landed on the side instead of the middle. So, when it opened up, being startled he didn’t have time to recat before he just fell into it flat on his face.

He pushed himself up, His gaze falling on someone staring at him, eyes wide and looking startled.

“You, fell…” Bruce stated bluntly, blinking at the other. “Yeah, your thing dropped me.” Clark huffed, sitting up and fluffing out his wings.

“It’s not the platforms fault your fell; you weren’t in the middle.” Bruce muttered under his breath. Clark decided not to go on about it, and just stood, eyeing the other up and down.

The two had the same thought as they stared, unmoving for the time being.

‘This guy is going to be a pain in my ass.’

#bruce wayne #clark kent #batman #superman #superbat #au #wings clark kent #wings bruce wayne #clark kent x bruce wayne #bruce wayne x clark kent #clark x bruce #bruce x clark #bruce is a snarky bitch

22 notes · View notes