#first time ive managed to pause for a lightning strike

[esotericas-sims]

[livehexmoments]

Hi sorry i havent been posting as much on here FEWFERHR

I swear im still fixated on DMG stuff (especially hex, again), ive just been busy writing stuff for it and general stuff not related to it. I am working on a fic so i’ll probably be posting it soon!

but anyway as apologies for not posting, here’s some fun facts/cheat codes from The Hex that some people might not know:

In the Hex, it is very possible to accidently get softlocked or corrupt your save data. I know that the game has had many patches but i still managed to get softlocked by complete accident. So if you ever lose your save data for whatever reason, shift + A + S unlocks the chapter select so you’re free to continue where ever you left off or just want to play a certain section

Also this game has an in-game speedrun timer. Not kidding. Doing shift + R has the timer show up and start counting. I don’t know much of the mechanics of it like how to pause it or whatnot but if you ever wanted to see how fast you can beat a section, here you go. 

So i ripped the game using asset studio and found some interesting stuff, like did you know there’s actually a clean version of the inn theme in the files? Literally the official ost does not have it nor have i ever found a yt video with it and honestly im a little upset about it cause it’s really good 

In the scene where Irving is talking to Lionel, I think there is audio of Lionel talking to him backwards but i haven’t been able to figure out how to isolate the audio and reverse it to get what exactly he’s saying. One of these days ill figure it out

ok this isnt really a fun fact more as it is a genuine question but to any Hex experts out there: Does Jeremiah wear a tophat in game? I found a sprite of it several times in the files but I can literally never recall him wearing it in game. It might just be leftover sprite from the beta (There might be more sprites like that that I’m not aware of yet) and probably was cut?? But again, I’m not 100% sure.

Update on that last point: He does wear it in the main menu if you wait for the lightning to strike and look at the attic window (thats him btw if anyone didnt know) and in the settings! It’s usually obscured in shadows and in the files, it’s completely colored in and detailed, which is super neat. Shoutouts to @theblacksheepcz for telling me in the replies!! <3

Like with Inscryption, there are some default sprites and stuff from unity leftover but it’s not as cool as the strip club being found in ACT 3. Just default emojis and the logo of Unity. 

Ok last one and its another genuine question too: When looking up the characters’ “voices”, it’s actually just one little sound and that’s it. It’s pretty funny if you listen to it for the first time. In the dialogue text files, I did see that there’s code that basically makes it so that it pitches or sounds a certain way during cutscenes and interreacting with characters/objects. If anyone who sees this and gets this far knows how that works, I would love to hear it! 

[jamesvanriemsdyk]

Best GMs and coaches in the league ACC to you?

we can start with gms because coaching is a bit more complicated. best gms in the league is easy to look at because like, who has a good team? who has had a consistently good team? whose locker room is the most cohesive, whose coaching staff is the best? who is the best at acquiring and keeping the best players, coaches, staff, etc? and you can see that in the way teams play. 

(putting this under the cut because it got long. and i mean Long.)

so, in no particular order: kyle dubas (leafs), steve yzerman (red wings, i will explain this later), don waddell (canes), julien brisebois (lightning), joe sakic (avs), and kelly mccrimmon/george mcphee (golden knights) (god i still hate that name and also will explain this later too) are the best in the league in my opinion. honorable mention to marc bergevin, who has held onto his job much longer than he arguably should have, but still has a decent team on the ice and a decent coaching staff, although the french rule does severely handicap them (i understand why it exists but it does, it just does). 

david poile (preds) is the longest tenured gm in the league (has been the preds gm since fucking 1997, thats insane, thats legit before i was born, what the fuck), and i do genuinely think he is very good at his job, and that he is very hockey smart, but oh boy have his recent decisions been suspect as hell, and that reflects in the state of his team. doug wilson (sharks), who is the second longest tenured gm in the nhl, is in the exact same boat (the karlsson deal is a nightmare, and also did he just forget that his star core was gonna get old and retire or ??).

with dubas, waddell, brisebois, sakic, and mccrimmon/mcphee all have the same basic strengths: they draft well, they have a fundamental understanding of their team structure and how to manage public perception of the team and everything that implies, and they have two fingers on the pulse of their locker room at all times. im not going to pretend to know as much about sakic and mccrimmon/mcphee as i do the eastern gms, but it doesnt take much to figure it out. look at the avs, and their locker room, the success theyve found after being dead fucking last in the league. look at the knights and their incredible success that theyve found after literally not existing before 2017. ive talked about dubas a lot on my blog, but its incredibly easy to see that waddell and brisebois do the same shit he does, and i can do a deep dive on them if asked. bergevin has moments of brilliance, like the suzuki trade and acquiring caufield and anderson, but things like kotkaniemi’s development and their entire blue line give me a massive pause, which is why he’s not in the main list. he’s a good gm. he’s just not the best.

in regards to steve yzerman: you have to understand that this is the man that built the tampa bay lightning as we know them. this man was gm of the bolts until fucking 2018. tampa bay has been a monster in the eastern conference for years, BECAUSE of the work steve yzerman put in. his team set the franchise record for wins, and he was the first and is the only lightning gm to have won gm of the year. look up the 17-18 roster. it is, essentially, the roster that won them the cup last year. make no mistake, i think brisebois is great, and hes on the list for a reason, but the biggest part of brisebois’ success was steve yzerman’s incredible hockey mind. brisebois essentially had to sell off a fourth of his roster, and the lightning are still a top team in their division and in the league, and thats why he’s there (it is so incredibly easy to fuck shit up post cup win), but the brisebois lightning would not exist without steve yzerman, plain and simple.

what steve yzerman is doing in detroit should be watched very, very closely by every single person in the hockey world. youre fucking nuts if youre not paying attention to them, not gonna lie. the mantha trade was excellent, if really sad if you know even a bit about the wings, but the amount of draft picks steve yzerman has amassed and the way he’s using the prospects and players he already has is really fucking admirable. mike babcock left the red wings organization absolutely in tatters, and i think, honestly, it was always steve yzerman’s plan to go home to detroit and rebuild. if there is anyone who is going to strike absolute gold this draft year, it is steve yzerman. watch the red wings, i am telling you, keep a beat on detroit. they are going to be good. its not an if, its a when.

(real quick on the knights situation: mcphee was the first gm of the knights, and was also president of hockey ops at the same time, and then in 2019 mcphee said he was just gonna focus on his job as president, but we all know hes still an integral part of the way the knights are run, and he and mccrimmon have kinda been building the knight together since the beginning anyway bc mccrimmon was originally mcphee’s agm. so. thats why theyre together)

as for coaches, it’s very simple. rod brind’amour (canes), sheldon keefe (leafs, yes im biased, we’ll get into it), jared bednar (avs), joel quenneville (panthers), jon cooper (lightning), barry trotz (isles), and mike sullivan (pens).

(disclaimer: obviously coaching is done as a team, and assistants and specialist coaches and staff are all very important, but the head coaches set the tone and organize the entire machine, if you will, so im going to be talking about head coaches as if theyre the entire coaching staff. its just easier this way im sorry)

im gonna just start with the easy ones: barry trotz, mike sullivan, and jon cooper have been in the league for years. cooper is the longest tenured coach in the nhl for a reason (again, just look at the tampa bay lightning. its the gm’s job to make the coach’s life easier and the coach’s job to make the gm’s life easier, and this is one of the prime examples of it in the league. its dope as hell tbh), trotz is one of the most respected coaches in the hockey world for a reason (the caps lost something when he walked. they just did. and now the isles are absolute hell to play against and that is largely the coaching of barry trotz, you legit cannot tell me im wrong), and while mike sullivan does have his faults, i think hes found a way to please both management and the crosby-and-malkin unit, which has been really really fucking hard to do. he also led the pens to back to back cups, which you can never really uh. ignore. lmao. so theres those three.

i know less about bednar, but again, another example of the coach and gm working together to make each others’ lives easier. sakic gets bednar the players and staff he needs to make the avs better, and bednar takes those players and staff and makes them into the absolute giant they are. it wouldve been really, really easy to fuck up makar’s development, or bowen byram’s, or sam girard’s, or ryan graves’s, or jost or mackinnon or rantanen’s, but he hasn’t, and he hasn’t just given up on players like burakovsky or kadri, he’s given them new life as players and made them more successful.

joel quenneville is the reason the bl/ckh/wks were a legacy team point blank period. sure they had the talent, sure the gm drafted well, but you do not get the legacy of the chicago bl/ckh/wks without joel quenneville. they fired him on a whim and it absolutely was a mistake, and the moment the cats hired him i literally out loud said ‘oh no’ because i knew exactly what that meant for the leafs and their position in the standings. the panthers are underrated generally, yes, but they would not be the powerhouse they are this season without quenneville. just look at q’s wiki stats. he’s absolutely unbeilevable. he won the jack adams in fucking 2000, before he’d even won any of the cups with the h/wks. i cant tell you what kind of a locker room coach this guy is, but i can tell you his teams win and win convincingly, and that firing him was the biggest mistake the h/wks have made in years.

whenever i talk about coaching, i talk about rod brindamour and sheldon keefe in the same breath every single time because there is no match, and i mean none, for the love inside those locker rooms. the avs, maybe, but my point stands. keefe and brindamour fucking BLEED team spirit, it is at the center of their coaching styles and their teams are good because of it specifically. marner and matthews are good, yes, and they always have been, but they have surpassed all expectation and then some with keefe. aho, teravainen, and svechnikov are good, yes, and they always have been, but they have surpassed all expectation with brindamour. brindamour and keefe have both hashtag played the game, so they Get It, and more than that, theyve grown and changed their understanding of the game as the game itself has changed, and so they can command the authority of their teams while also connecting to them on a really deep level. i should make a note here that keefe and brindamour are incredibly, deeply hockey smart, and that they are also just technically good coaches, skimming their wiki or nhl dot com articles will tell you that, but what makes them stand out to me is that their players would fucking die for them. the leafs would go through the end boards for keefe, the canes would do the same for brindamour. travis dermott said it best when keefe got promoted: boys wanna play for him. beyond that, the management skills both brindamour and keefe have are just frankly amazing (the amount of ego keefe specifically has to manage in the leafs locker room is astounding and he does it so incredibly brilliantly). the leafs and the canes are talented, yes, and would have been talented regardless of who was coaching them. but brindamour and keefe bring both of those teams from talented to exceptional, and the true mark of an amazing coach is not only how many games their team wins, but how they win them, and the leafs and canes have been winning games this year for and because of each other, and that starts with their coaches. what makes a great coach, to me, is not the talent on the team (though that certainly helps), but how the coach manages his players no matter who they are, and how he helps those players grow not just as players as people, because no matter how much pure stats people and twitter hockey dudebros wanna deny it, that shit does affect on ice play, and it does make good players better.

so theres my analysis of the best coaches and gms of the nhl, im so sorry this is so long, oh my god. also, shoutout to @bishops--knifetrick for sending me an ask about this literally a month ago that i just never answered, sorry for that, but here i hope this is good. :)

[chadillacboseman]

Blowing Off Steam Part IV

Pairing: Axe Woves x GN!Reader

A/N: This is just pure fluff, lol. Mentions of violence and injury.

Word Count: 1.6K

--

Waking up was more painful than it had been in a long time. Your head throbbed with every movement, and the area where the blaster struck you jolted like a lightning strike every time you touched it. You rose, slowly, from your bed and made your way to the bathroom to inspect the damage. A decent bruise was forming, and the cut looked angry, red, and inflamed. You sighed and washed it, gently, with warm water and a fresh towel before changing your clothes and exiting the bathroom.

Light was filtering in through the windows of your living quarters, letting you know that the sun had risen in its entirety. A cup of Spiran caf in your hands helped to ease the pain, if only a little. Your cupboards were fairly bare, but you managed to cobble together an acceptable breakfast to tide you over until you made a trip to the market.

The streets of Trask were busy, brimming with discussions of the Imperial presence from the night before. You kept a low profile as you collected your needs from the market, but the mark on your face attracted more attention than you’d like.

Plenty of prying eyes watched you as you shopped, but it wasn’t until you arrived at a booth stocked with fresh fish that someone spoke to you. It was the mon calamari from the night before, the one who was struck in the head before you. He was sporting a similar wound, and gave you a knowing look as you browsed.

When you presented your credits, he waved your hand away and passed you the fish, “On the house, bock avreet.” You mustered a smile and thanked him before departing.

You finished your shopping and headed home to restock your cupboards. The pain in your head was almost unbearable by the time you finished, and you searched your fresher cabinet for a painkiller to ease it.

You remembered your promise to Axe that you would meet him at the inn and sighed. You felt as though your head was going to explode, but you didn’t exactly shy away from the thought of a cold glass of something full of alcohol. You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of sleep on your eyelids, and decided to have a nap before the night began.

--

The cool night air hit you like a freighter and helped to lessen the pain in your head. The streets were bustling with people returning from the docks, many of them still chattering about the events of the previous night.

The smell of roasting seafood wafted on the salty air from the street market, and the gentle notes of a seven-string hallikset could be heard among the voices of the vendors and shoppers. It was good to know that the Imp presence hadn’t put a dent in the nightlife on Trask; if anything, it seemed that the populace was celebrating a little harder than usual.

The inn was surprisingly quiet compared to the rest of the city; only a few of the regular patrons were seated inside. The human bartender was nowhere to be found, but the mon calamari street vendor spotted you and raised his glass in a silent gesture.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show up,” Axe’s low voice vibrated near your ear and you jumped out of surprise.

You turned to find the Mandalorian in the doorway, a soft smile planted on his lips. Before you could stop yourself, you lunged forward and wrapped your arms around him. Axe stumbled back in surprise, but quickly returned the gesture, his chin resting on the top of your head. His armor was cold and hard against your chest, but it didn’t matter.

You pulled away and searched for the words to thank him, but they didn’t come to you. All you could do was return his smile. He led you to a small table in the far corner of the inn and signaled the bartender for a drink.

“I believe you might have dropped this the other night,” Axe produced your blaster from under the table and carefully slid it to you.

“Where did you find it?” you slipped it into your bag, taking comfort in its familiar weight.

“Trooper had it on him.” Axe said with a shrug, “Knew it wasn’t his, and I convinced him to tell me where he got it.”

You wondered for a moment what Axe’s idea of convincing was, but decided it was better not to ask. For several minutes the two of you sat in silence and enjoyed your drinks. You weren’t sure what to say- the man had just saved your life the previous night as if it was just another average event for him.

Evidently noticing your struggle for words, Axe spoke first, “How’s your head?”

You turned your face so he could see the mark and he grimaced at the sight. “Does it hurt much?”

You shrugged and finished your drink in one swallow, “Less now.”

Axe grinned and you felt your heart jump. He drained his glass as well and set it on the table before speaking again, “I’m sorry they hurt you because of me.”

His words surprised you, as did his suddenly solemn expression. “Axe I don’t blame you-” he waved his hand dismissively, “I know you don’t. But I do.” You stared at him, trying to read his expression- where was this going?

Axe reached a hand across the table and placed it on top of yours; you felt your face grow warm at his touch. He sighed and his eyes met yours, “Look, I’m not good at this-” he gestured vaguely with his free hand, “...stuff. I’m a Mandalorian. We’re warriors. I’ve been in this fight to retake our planet since I could walk.” He paused and you cocked your head, waiting for him to continue.

“That day when we walked through the city together,” his dark eyes flicked to yours, “You told me you weren’t afraid of me.” You nodded, remembering the fear on the faces of the others on the street- but you had felt safe in that moment with his arm wrapped around your shoulder.

“The night I asked you to stay with me, I didn’t think you would. In fact, I thought you’d stop coming to the bar entirely after the first time we met.”

You blushed at the memory and mustered a smile, "Why did you think that?"

Axe grinned, "Come on- I fucked you in an alleyway."

You squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment and sighed, "Yeah. That did happen."

As the two of you chuckled over the memory, there was a commotion at the door. The night's entertainment had arrived in the form of a four-piece Bith band with instruments in tow.

As the band set up, you ordered another drink and turned your attention back to Axe. "So, big, strong, Mandalorian-" he rolled his eyes, "Why all the sentimentality?"

You might have imagined it, but you could have sworn his face reddened at your words. "It's just...rare that I meet someone like you." His voice trailed off as he finished speaking.

You leaned forward to press him further, when you were interrupted by the band breaking into a slow, fanfar-laden number.

Axe's head snapped up and his face broke into a wide grin.

"What?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Dance with me." He rose from the table and held out a hand.

"You've lost your mind, Woves." You snorted.

"Come on," he was still smiling, his hand extended.

You sighed and rose to your feet, taking his hand as he led you to the empty dance floor. "I'm going to kill you." You whispered.

"I'm okay with that," Axe took your hand and wrapped his other around your waist.

You tried to hide your smile as Axe moved with you on the dance floor. You were amazed at how well he danced, despite the heavy, beskar armor.

You knew there were other patrons, but you didn't care- you laughed as he spun you, and clung to him when he pulled you close.

The whole inn seemed to disappear as you danced- lost in the background noise as Axe held you against his chest.

As the music wound down, Axe pulled you in close against him. You felt your heart flutter as his chin came to rest on the crown of your head.

For a moment, the two of you remained there on the dance floor, enraptured with each other, before Axe pulled away and led you back to the table.

You felt breathless as you sat down, still riding the high of the dance floor.

"You're lucky, Woves" you breathed as you sank into your chair.

"It was worth it," Axe grinned, as he moved to drain his drink. The two of you sat in silence for a moment, until Axe spoke up again, "Look, I know this has been weird." He paused as the bartender arrived to set another glass in front of him. "But give me a chance to start it all over."

You stared at him for a moment before replying, "Start it over?"

"Let me take you out," His eyes locked with yours as he spoke, "We'll be leaving Trask soon-"

Your heart sank at that. You had almost forgotten entirely about his words to you the first night you met.

"Let me take you somewhere that isn't a bar-" he gestured vaguely at the area around himself, "Will you let me do that?"

You stared at him, the pang of sadness building slowly in your gut. You knew how badly it would hurt when he finally left the planet, but maker did you want to spend every last moment with him.

Axe waited patiently, his eyes never leaving your face as you debated with yourself. You sighed and met his eyes with your own, and his face lit up when you smiled.

"Deal."

----

Tag list: @djxrxn @lestrange2703 @ortizshinkaroff​ @calamity-queen​

Translations:

Bock avreet is Mon Calamarian for "brave comrade"

[cdelphiki]

Hello! Could you do "I'm not leaving you here!" with Tim and Damian? Can't wait to see what all you do!

There was no time.  

Normally, Tim could form half a dozen plans, and then five more for every outcome of the first six whenever anything happened to them.  But this time—there wasn’t time.  

They had really gotten themselves into quite a pickle.

Well…

Damian had gotten them into said pickle.  

He was too brash sometimes.

Maybe if he stoped to think more often, Tim would have more time to think now.  

But instead, he found himself collapsed on the floor, trying his best to hold all his insides in where they belonged, while Damian subtly panicked by his side, similarly applying pressure to the massive gash in Tim’s abdomen.  

It’d been a lucky hit, honestly.  Tim had been distracted by trying to disarm the moron with the gun and wrongfully assumed Damian was handling the idiot with the knife.  He hadn’t been.  And that guy managed to slash out at Tim and get him, right in the side.  

At least Damian took him out immediately after.  What he’d been doing before Tim nearly lost more of his organs, he isn’t sure.  But at least he pulled through in the end…

Now, though.  Now they were royally screwed.  

They were in a room, deep inside the compound they’d infiltrated, essentially trapped.  There were two unconscious guys handcuffed to the radiator pipes, and about three hundred more outside.  

Looking for them.  

Tim could hear gunfire down the hall.  The periodic bang bang of a trained gunman, walking through rooms, and shooting at whatever he saw.  It was setting Tim on edge, because he knew they were looking for them. 

And Tim couldn’t walk.

He could do nothing to defend Robin.  To defend himself.  He’d just be a passive observer to Robin’s death.

“Robin,” he wheezed, causing Damian to look up from his wound, the whites of his lenses not revealing anything the boy was feeling, “Go.”  

There was nothing Tim could do.  He wouldn’t be able to follow Damian.  Wouldn’t be able to even make it out of this room, much less follow the complicated path they’d taken to get in this far.  And Damian most certainly couldn’t carry him.  Sure, he was strong, but Tim weighed more than him, and at this point he’d be pretty much dead weight.

“What?” he demanded, “and what, you’ll just cartwheel your way out behind me?  Don’t be ridiculous.”  

After pushing himself into a sitting position, Tim tried to shove Damian away from him, but all he succeeded in doing was groaning as his side protested at the movement.

“Drake,” Damian snapped, “do not be stupid.  You are in danger of bleeding out if we don’t staunch the blood.”  

“You,” Tim said, his breathing labored as he tried to get his body to obey him, tried to keep his strength in check, “need to leave.” 

Instead of respond, Damian pushed Tim back down into a laying position and started rifling through his pockets.  He pulled out an emergency suture kit, and Tim just reached out and grabbed his hand.  

The gunshots were getting closer, and each double tap filled Tim with more dread.  Because if they entered this room, there was absolutely nothing he could do.  He’d be helpless, just laying here.  As he calculated, he only had a few more minutes of consciousness before the blood loss got him, and then not much longer beyond of actual…. Aliveness.  And Damian would likely get himself shot trying to defend Tim, and he did not want his last minutes on this earth to be crying over the death of Robin.  

No thank you.

He’d much rather Robin leave and get away.  Go find help, maybe. It didn’t really matter what he did, as long as he had a chance.  

“No.  There isn’t time.  You have to get out of here.”  

Damian scowled and pushed Tim’s hand away from the wound, after he’d threaded the needle and stuck a flashlight in his own mouth, to point directly at the wound.  

Tim grimaced as the needle went into his skin, then clenched his teeth so hard he thought he might crack the crown in there when Damian pulled it through.  

“Damian,” he plead, between stitches, “Please.  You have to go.”

“No,” Damian snapped, pausing just long enough to hold the flashlight so he could talk, “I am not leaving you.  So shut up.” 

The gunfire paused for a moment, and Damian took it as an opportunity to get three more stitches in, each one making Tim suppress a groan.  Because, damn, Damian was not being gentle. 

“Sorry,” Damian mumbled, around the flashlight, “we’ll have to redo…”

“If you don’t get leave,” Tim whispered, just as the gunfire started up again, now more constant than before, “they’re gonna catch us.  The sutures won’t matter.”  

Scowling harder, Damian picked up the speed and put four more stitches in before finally cutting the thread.  He spat the flashlight off onto the ground and snapped, “Do you want to die?”

“I want you to not die,” Tim replied, echoing Damian’s tone.  

“Right,” he said, aggressively ripping open a clean pack of gauze before he placed it over the fresh stitches and started wrapping Tim’s entire abdomen, “Great.  I live, you die.  Just how everyone would want it, right?  Is that what you think?”

The next gunshot happened not even 30 feet away, outside the locked door they were hiding behind.  It made Damian jump, just slightly, before his scowl deepened. 

Tim closed his eyes and put a hand to his forehead. “You bought us time,” he mumbled, trying to think through the haze that had started to set in, “You can get away and go get help. Then come back for me.”  

“I’m not leaving you,” he whispered harshly.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” he shot back, succeeded this time at sitting himself up, Damian now done wrapping the wound.  It was still bleeding, ever so slightly, but it wasn’t a danger of bleeding out anytime soon.  

Kill him with infection? Sure. But that required he lived long enough for it to get infected. Either he’d be shot in about 64 seconds, or they’d escape and Alfred would fix it.  

He was kind of counting on the getting shot option.  

Damian looked around frantically and locked eyes on a pipe, laying on the ground among a pile of random repair pieces.  He grabbed it, then tip toed to the door, positioning himself just beside it, waiting for their hunter to bust in the door. 

“Damian,” Tim pleaded, whispering as loudly as he dared with someone just outside. 

“Shut up, Tim,” Damian whispered back.  

Just a second later, the door knob jiggled, and Tim sucked in a breath.  Damian gripped the pipe tighter and lifted it high, ready to bring it down on the head of whoever broke in.  

A gunshot went off, blasting the lock into a dozen tiny pieces, and then the door was kicked open, faster than a strike of lightning.  

Tim was unable to suppress the pained cry he made when he jumped, possibly tearing one of the already shitty stitches.  

At the same time, Damian swung the pipe and connected solidly with the helmet of their hunter, causing a crack to form right at the crown of it.  

“The fuck,” Jason cursed, snatching the pipe from a stunned Damian and throwing it across the room, away from both Tim and the unconscious thugs, “Watch where you’re swinging shit, brat.  You’re lucky I wear a helmet, unlike you dumbasses.”

“Hood,” Damian sighed, the relief in his voice so palpable, it made even Jason freeze.  

“Yeah, kid,” he said, awkwardly patting Damian on the head, “I’m here.”

“Was that you shooting?” Tim asked, pausing in the middle to take a breath.  His side was hurting about fifty times more, now.  With the definitely popped stitch.  

“Uh huh.”  Jason crossed the room in three long strides and knelt beside Tim.  Damian retrieved his pipe and took up position by the door, but considering how relaxed Jason was acting, Tim doubted there were anymore men outside to post threats to them.

He just hoped Jason hadn’t killed everyone in the building…

“Heard you two were infiltrating this place tonight.  You should have talked to me first, I’ve been watching this operation for months.  You were woefully unprepared.”

“Yeah,” Tim laughed, moving his hands so Jason could look at the quickly bleeding through bandages, “Figured that out.”  

“Seriously, you brats taking on an entire gang’s main operation?  By yourself?  Idiots.”  

“Tt,” Damian huffed, “We were fine until Red got himself stabbed.”

“It was your guy,” Tim protested, “Your guy stabbed me.”  

“And then he wanted me to abandon him to die,” Damian continued, completely ignoring Tim. 

Jason added another layer of gauze to the wrap, then pat Tim on the shoulder.  “I know teaming up with the demon is difficult,” he said, slipping one arm behind Tim’s back and the other under his knees, “but really, there are much better ways to be rid of him than dying. Trust me.  Been there.  Done that.  0/10 would not do again.”  

“Shut up,” Tim whined, trying his best not to cry a little as Jason jostled him.  He wrapped one arm around Jason’s neck and closed his eyes tight.  “I didn’t know you were the idiot shooting everyone.”  

“Yes,” Damian drawled, falling in step just before Jason as they began making their way out of the compound, “I was not aware you were in Gotham tonight.”  

“This idiot just saved your hide, you ungrateful little brats.  And I lied about going on a mission.  I wanted a break.  But nooooooo, you morons had to go on a suicide mission instead.”  

“Tt.  It was not-”

“Red is actively dying,” Jason interrupted, “So zip it.”  

Surprisingly, Damian did zip it.  And he kept it zipped, at least as long as Tim could remember.  Because he did eventually fall asleep, lulled there by the gentle swaying motion caused by Jason’s gait.  If Jay tried to wake him, it didn’t work, and in retrospect, Tim was glad for that.

Because the next thing he knew, he was waking up in the Batcave, his torso properly cleaned and sewn up, an IV in his hand, delivering what Tim was sure to be heavy antibiotics to stave off whatever infection the crappy field suturing probably caused.  

When he looked around, he was mildly surprised to find no Bruce sitting at his side.  Usually Bruce was all over these sorts of things.  His guilt complex awesome at making him be comforting after nearly dying.  

Honestly, there was nothing like a ‘I’m glad you didn’t die, Tim,’ hug from Bruce.  

But Bruce wasn’t there. Instead, Damian was sitting in the chair, his legs thrown up over the side as he watched something on his tablet, completely oblivious to the world.  

“Where’s Bruce?” Tim croaked, then paused to clear his throat, because wow.  He hadn’t used his voice in a while, had he?  “How long was I out?”

Damian looked at his watch and said, almost uninterested, “About 17 hours.  Pennyworth made Father go to bed a couple hours ago.”

Tim wanted to ask Damian why he was there, then, but he had the feeling doing so would just make Damian leave. And Tim didn’t really want to be alone.  He always hated being alone, trapped in the medbay in the cave.  It was dark and spooky down there, honestly.  When alone and unable to work on anything.  The screeching of the bats was just creepy.  Sometimes.  

So instead, he asked, “What are you watching?” as he sat his bed up some.  

“A documentary series I found on youtube.  It’s about royal families in Europe and how they’re all related.”  

“Uh,” Tim said, scrunching his eyebrows, “That’s interesting.”  

“Hardly,” Damian dismissed, waving a hand at Tim, as if asking him to stop talking.  

And maybe being alone down here wouldn’t be so bad, after all.  “What are you doing down here?” 

Annoyance flickered on Damian’s face before he clicked the tablet off and stood.  “If you ever,” he said darkly, taking the few steps to Tim’s bedside to point a finger at him, “ever ask me to leave you to die again, I’ll…” 

Damian paused, and narrowed his eyes.  Tim couldn’t help it, he had to ask, “You’ll what?  Kill me?”

“Tt,” Damian huffed, scowling now, “Obviously not.  That would be counterproductive.”

“Then what?”

“I’ll tell on you,” Damian decided, nodding to himself.  

“You’ll tell on me? What are we, five?” 

“Yes. I’ll tell Father and Grayson about your recklessness and—”

“I wasn’t being reckless,” Tim said, “Your guy stabbed me. Not! Reckless!”  

“Whatever,” Damian said, rolling his eyes, “Just don’t do it again.” 

Tim wanted to keep arguing. He wanted to tell Damian there was nothing he could threaten Tim with to make him value his own life above that of a literal child’s, especially when that child was kind of technically his little brother. But instead he could see the underlying anxiety forcing this entire encounter, so he couldn’t help himself saying, “Aww, you were worried about me.”  

And instead of snap back and deny it, as Tim was expecting, Damian just scowled harder and said, “Of course I was. You were trying make me let you die.”  

“Damian,” he sighed, rubbing at his face with his free hand. He was honestly so exhausted.  Which was weird, sleeping 17 hours and all. “I was just trying to save you.”  

“We’re family,” Damian said slowly, looking away from Tim as he did and crossing his arms, “I can’t….”

“Damian,” Tim interrupted, reaching out and latching onto Damian’s sleeve.

“Tim.  Don’t ask me to do that again.”  

All Tim could do was nod.  Because he was afraid if he tried to say anything, he might just cry.  Or say something stupid and ruin the entire moment.  

But Damian spoke up, holding his tablet up for Tim to see. “I have movies on this.”  

With a smile, Tim scooted over the best he could and let Damian climb up next to him. About an hour into The Incredibles, when Damian’s eyes keep drooping more and more with ever blink, and Tim was just about as close to falling back asleep, Tim whispered, “Sorry.”  

And when Damian just nodded and leaned his head against Tim’s shoulder to fully fall asleep, he took it as forgiveness.  

[molioanimatra]

Five Times met for eritvita

Five Times _______ | @eritvita | accepting

i. The wine is sharp and thick, heady and strong. He watches it as a servant pours out another cup to a guest, noting, perhaps macabrely, how alike the viscosity is to blood. What little of the food he’s eaten sits heavily in his stomach, folding in with an unease long settled in the middle of his abdomen. The city makes him uncomfortable, bedecked as it is in past tribute to slavery. Now that he’s here, deep inside the walls, he’s not sure the promise of good work is enough to compensate for it.  He frowns. The… circumstances of his employment do more to add to his discomfit than assuage it at all. His current employer is a collector of many things, mostly varied and rare and magical in nature (or so he claims), and through some strange contract with the Knight-Commander, is hosting a handful of mages to inspect and possibly verify the nature of at least some of these artifacts. Maretus knows he’s been frowning the whole time by the frequent stares of two of the younger mages, but it’s all he can do to keep himself standing still and at attention. If he didn’t know better, he would have said the magic was palpable in the air and it was making his skin crawl. For all he knows, it is. One of the younger mages catches his eye directly and holds it a while, a young man with dark eyes wiser than the smoothness of his face belies, and something in his gaze strikes Maretus, but he cannot say what it is. He shudders and clenches his teeth together, dragging his eyes away, the line of his jaw turning sharply off to the side.

ii. From everything he had heard of the place, Maretus anticipated Orlais to be worse than it turns out to be. Then again, he takes care to avoid larger cities or fortresses, keeping mostly to the countryside and smaller rural villages and towns. The money isn’t as good, he suspects, but he doesn’t quest after riches, anyhow. Just enough to keep his blades and armor in good condition, just enough to keep food in his belly and to bed down in a relatively decent inn when he’s in a town. It’s not much, and for a while life seems good. He is far south and away, and is starting to finally feel the urges to constantly look over his shoulder relinquish their hold around his chest. The town of Val Firmin is one of the larger towns he’s visited, but on the southern tip of Lake Celestine, he feels more relaxed than he had anywhere north of the Waking Sea. Beneath a pleasantly warm sun, the bustling marketplace is crowded as he weaves his way through, one hand resting absently on the pommel of his sword. Voices raise in anger–or alarm–somewhere to his left, and Maretus slows his pace, craning his head and shoulders, scanning the crowd to try and see what the commotion is. In that moment of distraction, he collides very suddenly with another person, and immediately his attention snaps to them, his mouth opening to apologize. What greets him and stops the words in his throat is a surprised dark gaze older than the face it is set in, with an unruly sweep of dark brown hair falling slightly over the younger mien before him. It is a familiar look and Maretus at once feels a twist of panic and fear deep in his stomach. Before he can react, the young mage from Kirkwall holds his gaze once again, presumably in recognition, then turns and vanishes into the crowd of people, leaving Maretus standing in the middle of the thoroughfare, chest heaving beneath his leather gambeson, everything else around him forgotten.

iii.  Leaves in the canopy whispered to one another in the wind, and tall trees creaked their boughs all around him. Sunlight dappled intermittently down through the trees, but the foliage was thick enough to cast everything in a deep, cool shade. It was the same landscape that had surrounded him for over a week now, and it all looked the same to him. All the years he’s been traveling by now, all the experience reading and marking maps and coordinating troop movements feel utterly wasted. Maretus had been so certain he was following the right paths and trails, but somehow, somewhere along the way he lost track of where he was. Now he’s falling into the old habit of rationing his supplies more and trying to find his way out of this forest. He can’t see very far in the distance, as on the plains, nor is it laid out in any kind of predetermined manner; it is a forest, after all, growing in any and all directions as it could. By midday on the–he pauses and checks a small and worn leather bound book–tenth day, Maretus has no choice but to concede that he is helplessly turned around the vastness of the forest. He exhales, frustrated, and perches on a stone, looking up at the mottled canopy as if it would show him the way out. The wind picks up again, tugging at the leaves above him and his growing hair both. To his right, a sudden and loud crashing startles him, so much so that he scrambles to his feet and his blade his half out of its sheath while he searches the underbrush. A speckled snout protrudes from a bush, large dark eyes watching him curiously. It is a hart, he realizes, and relaxes, heart pounding in his ears. The beast snorts loudly, startling him again, and he slips from the top of the stone, landing hard on his knees. Grimacing, he straightens and properly adjusts his blade back into its scabbard, only to freeze again when the hart steps into the clearing. It turns in a circle, and he expects it to bound off through the trees again, but instead it pauses, one leg raised, and looks back at him. Too surprised to do anything more than stare, the hart repeats it two more times before huffing impatiently at him. So he follows. He follows the graceful creature through the forest at a swift pace, leaping over fallen logs, ducking beneath low branches, splashing through winding streams. Always the hart seems to be intentionally leading him, pausing if he lags too far behind, choosing a relatively flat path that enables Maretus to maintain a steady speed. Eventually, Marteus loses sight of the hart, but he keeps jogging, waiting for the creature to reappear again, but instead he bursts forth from the trees, finally exiting the forest proper. Slowing to a stop and breathing heavily by now, he turns and looks back to the trees, scanning for any sign of the hart. He sees a silhouette, large and antlered, and takes a few steps back toward the forest–but then the shape moves strangely and quickly, moving closer. It upsets his stomach a little to watch, though he isn’t quite sure what he is seeing, and so Maretus blinks several times, then squints to try and find it again. Instead of the large shape he expects, however, he sees the form of a man, peering out at him through a break in the trees before turning and vanishing back into the thickness of the woods.

iv. A storm rages overtop Skyhold, dark clouds roiling and churning the air, unleashing torrential rains down the side of the mountain, illuminating the sky with lightning, and shaking what feels like the foundations themselves with the sound of thunder. People flee indoors to escape the pounding rain and danger of lightning both; the tall trees of the courtyard threaten to be ideal rods, and no one wants to be around any of them should they attract a strike. The next day when they all emerge from inside, two trees have been felled by the strong winds, and one of the tallest is split down the middle from a lightning strike and around it in a large elliptical sweep the ground was red and scorched. Maretus helps with the cleanup, putting his strength to working with four others chopping up one of the felled trees and loading up carts with the wood. By midday, they managed to get two-thirds through the first tree, each of the men working on it stripped of their shirts beneath the heat of the exertion and the summer sun in the cloudless sky. Maretus takes a break to drink from a bladder of water, and rest for a short while, taking the opportunity to walk over and inspect the struck tree and fire damage surrounding it. He spots another person walking slowly amongst the charred ground, and is about to call out when he notices their back is to him and they seemed intent on something. Narrowing his eyes a bit, slowing his own pace to soften his footfalls and watching with curiosity, Maretus sees this figure slow to a stop by a horribly burned bush and crouch by it, as in inspecting it. He’s near enough now to pick out a few more details--the person is a man, with tousled dark brown hair, and... Maretus pauses, cocks his head and looks again. Yes, there appears to be both a bird and a squirrel perched upon opposite shoulders of the man, both looking at the bush with as much intensity. Blinking in surprise, Maretus hesitates, unsure suddenly about going any nearer. Before he can decide if he wants to approach or not, the man at the bush moves in a way that he can’t quite discern from his distance, and a change swiftly overtakes the bush. Red buds push their way out of the scorched branches, giving way to bright green leaves and pastel flowers, which then give way to richer, fuller leaves. The back of the man who coaxed them out relaxes, even as Maretus’ tenses. Magic. Sweat beading along the trench of his spine, and not just from the sun or chopping wood, Maretus turns sharply on his heel and heads back to the remainder of the tree, cutting any break he might have at one time enjoyed severely short.

v. The trees are bedecked in their autumn attire, golds and reds and oranges, and the air has already turned crisp. The cool air, despite not being native to such a climate, is somewhat welcoming to Maretus. Woolen cloak draped across his shoulders, he’s found that in the last several years he can find things to appreciate in the latter parts of the year, the seasonal changes, that he never experienced while still in Tevinter. So, on a rare free day, he allows himself the luxury of simply walking through the courtyard of Skyhold, soaking in what of the sun that he could while breathing deep of the clean, autumn mountain air. It’s so cool it almost hurts his lungs, but still tastes fresh in the back of his mouth. Still, it is welcome. Leaves that already have fallen crunch beneath his boots beneath his meandering pace, and he casts a leisurely eye about, just watching--watching the trees shift in the wing, watching birds and rodents flit about preparing for the oncoming winter, watching people mill about their business and interact with others. So encompassed is he that he nearly misses the subtle figure in woodland dress also walking with no clear destination, sparrow perched upon his shoulder and giving all appearances of being deep in conversation with the bird. When he does catch sight of him, an old hitch snags in the middle of his chest--Kirkwall, Orlais, the Dales, magic--but he consciously stops, released a breath in a controlled manner, and then swallows the knee-jerk reaction within him down. He’s been through a lot these past few seasons, had some of his most deeply rooted fears and prejudices challenged and turned on their head... he can do this. Drawing in a breath, Maretus nods to himself, once, then heads over and clears his throat, getting the attention of both the other man and the bird, which flits suddenly to the other shoulder. “I... We’ve never been properly introduced.”

[scripturientsoul-s-blog]

Unforgettable

“Sweetie, who are you again?” My grandmother, Susan, asked with a blank, yet amiable expression on her wrinkled features. I smile sadly. “I’m no one important.” “I’m sure that’s not true, darling!” She exclaimed, swatting me playfully on my shoulder with impressive strength for a grandmother. “Just because you’re of no relation to me doesn’t make you unimportant.” I did not know whether to laugh or cry. “Now, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself,” Susan requested as an nurse came over to check her vitals. “Well, I’m a history major at Princeton University,” I tell her, mustering up as much enthusiasm as I could, knowing exactly how she would reply. We have had this conversation many times over, after all. “A history major!” She cried out gleefully. “Now, that brings back some memories. I was a history major myself, you know.” I knew. She had told me over and over again, day after day, year after year. “Really?” But it was not that hard to fake the surprise. For her sake. Because seeing her dull, crystalline blue eyes light up when I asked was priceless to me. “Yes, I am! My favorite thing to study is—” World War Ⅱ. “—World War Ⅱ. In fact, I may still have it. Let me check…” Susan shifted over slightly in her bed, and I became increasingly worried that the IV in her arm would fall out. Pulling out a small, red book form her tableside drawer, she wiped off the dust with quivering fingers so pale, they were almost translucent, and you could easily see the veins underneath, transporting blood from her fragile heart. “This is my brother’s diary,” She explained with pride tinting he trembling voice. “He was a soldier who fought World War Ⅱ.” She handed me the journal, and I gingerly began flipping through the pages. Even though I’ve read through it thousands upon thousands of times, I never ceased to be amazed when I saw it. My great-uncle Sherman was an pretty incredible fighter and an even more incredible peacemaker. He was the mediator of his squadron, judging by what he had written. It was regrettable that he had died before his time. “He was there on the shores of Normandy during Operation Doomsday. His plane had been shot down. There were no survivors.” She stared intently at the notebook in my hands. “It was a miracle that one of the soldiers had managed to recover that diary. A miracle.” She paused for a moment, as if contemplating something weighing heavily on her alzheimer's-diseased mind. “Why don’t you keep that book, sweetie.” This was a new twist to an normarily ordinary conservation that I’ve had every day for the past couple of years. “Are you sure about it? This sounds like it’s really important to you.” “I’m sure. You know…” Her voice trailed off, before returning with more strength than I ever heard in her since before her diagnosis. “You remind me of my granddaughter.” My breath hitched in my throat. “Her name was Jessica. Though I’ve long forgotten what she looked like,” She looked at me straight with her dull, crystalline blue eyes. “You remind me a lot about her.” That night, when I returned to my cramped apartment, I cried for the first time in a long, long time. … Susan Williams passed away the very next day, age eighty-two. I was given the small, red book by one of the nurses. I would carry it everywhere I went. I would read it all the time. I would read it during lectures; I would read it on the bus; I would read it right before I fell asleep at night, and I would read it first thing in the morning. And then, on a certain day, Inspiration would strike me like a lightning bolt sent straight from the heavens. Straight from her. Then, I would have an idea. ... I became overwhelmed by the blinding lights flashing from the audience and the question swarming around me like wasps around their hive, desperate for someone to sting. Today, that someone was me. “What are your thoughts about your main character, Sherman?” “How did you decide to write a historical fiction novel? “What are your thoughts on how your book about World War Ⅱ was name a New York Best Seller? Suddenly, I heard a question that piqued my interest. “Hold on,” I cried into the microphone. The buzzing instantly died down. I pointed to a man sitting in the front row, his receding hairline causing the lights to reflect off of his forehead in a blinding manner. “Can you please repeat your question?” Though he looked slightly startled that I had pick him out from the hundreds of reporters there, he continued on without hesitation. “You said your stories were inspired by a real person. So tell us: what were they like?” I smiled, suddenly feeling a steady yet comforting hand on my shoulder, though I would watch the press conference back later and see absolutely no one. “She was unforgettable.”