#I know that he stops sleepwalking but Spite is still there

[ntls-24722]

EDIT 2: OK FINALLY THIS POST IS NORMAL

ik squidward's nose is the song that everyone associates with DJMM but can we consider the almost-as-raunchy and even auditorily accurate (with all the record-scratching n whatnot) alternative of Baby got Back

Body horror under cut! I usually wouldn't make a warning but its also a change in character

also slight artistic nudity but its like cartoonishly censored with a little leaf

What really breaks my heart about the whole "paradiserooms" possibility of Miguel putting Cameron in an infinite wonderland is that he is never explicitly told by Miguel that there isn't a way out. She just would stay silent about the question. And for Miguel, it initially seems to work - For two whole YEARS Cameron genuinely enjoys the paradise and is really excited to experience the rooms that he believed Miguel has taken much time and care to create, and well, he has all the time in the world, doesn't he?

Years into decades. Decades into centuries. He realizes that there can't be an exit at the end when there's no end. He starts destroying every room he sees in sight. He stops sleeping, because he knows that she would invade his dreams, too. His anger dissolves. He begs her to let him out of there, to no avail. When the centuries become millenia, there is a fleeting moment in time where he craves Miguel again, out of the loneliness, for even if she did this all to him, she is all he has. But after that, he goes silent. Originally out of spite, but he realizes that as years go by like seconds to him, he may have outright forgotten how to speak. Eventually, even his mind goes silent, as he begins to forget his time in reality. He speaks nothing, thinks nothing, sees nothing, trudging through the levels for eternity, like a sleepwalker wide awake. The pic of him above shows him when he's become one billion years old.

Thank god this isn't canon, jesus

Also, for Miguel's sake I am not making it canon that she tries to recreate Cameron - Loverboy's existence is purely coincidental. This could only go badly. Miguel does not have the skills nor knowledge to even try replicating him, and because of the fact that due to her limited understanding of what's going on in there, would only lead to her making these horrible fleshy bags of organs and blood that are in agony all the time and look like her late husband, and I think that experience would straight up traumatize her into never trying to become a new universe after his passing.

...

UM. ON A LIGHTER NOTE,

Instead of ever cloning Cameron, in the new universe she has this statue, where buried below it, were some of the objects he gave to her and some of the ones he fell in love with all those eons ago. It's sparked a bunch of conspiracies since not only is it incredibly lifelike but it was also made before humans (or, maybe, in Miguel's universe, there's a whole different sophont rather than humans...) even evolved.

None of them ever come close to the truth - No, ot wasn't aliens but rather the universe itself still being a Cameron simp after all these years.

[unhingedwomandiaries]

50 Things To-Do Before I'm 50

Right, so here I am, hiding in the break room with my sad lunch, when who should come lumbering over but X, looking like he's about to impart the wisdom of the bloody ages. And what pressing matter does he need my sage advice on? Dating. Me. Dating advice. From me.

I nearly choked on my cheese and pickle.

I mean, my dating history reads like a Stephen King novel crossed with a bloody sitcom. There was the charmer who thought hitting was an acceptable form of punctuation in the relationship sentence. Then the sleepwalking fetishist who reckoned consent was more of a suggestion than a requirement. But sure, mate, I'm definitely your go-to love guru.

The kicker? He's fifteen years older than me. Gen X works in mysterious ways, apparently. While he's banging on about climbing the Andes before he turns fifty (he's 49, clock's ticking, mate), I'm sitting here thinking about Andes Mints and how I haven't had one since that time at the cinema when I found an actual human hair wrapped around the chocolate like some sort of cursed candy floss.

But you know what? His sad little bucket list got me thinking. Why shouldn't I have my own? Something proper mental, something that would make any therapist reach for the strong stuff. So here goes - fifty things to do before I'm ancient:

1. Write my will (because nothing says "living your best life" like planning for your death).

2. Master the Rubik's Cube (just to spite my Year 8 maths teacher who said I had no spatial awareness).

3. Visit Aigre, France (because it sounds like "angry" and that's a mood).

4. Go down some proper dodgy mines in Hare Hill (because clearly I have a death wish).

5. Make enough dosh to afford more than just Pot Noodles (£50k should do it).

6. Finally get that tattoo I've wanted since I was nine (sorry, Mom).

7. Try that weird olive oil and sea salt ice cream thing (because apparently I hate myself).

8. Play golf in Scotland (and probably hit someone in the head).

9. Actually finish a bloody chapstick (instead of losing it like every other time).

10. Take my Aunt's photo to Paris (because she never got to go, and ghosts need holidays too).

11. Track down x's surname and meet my half-family (because who doesn't love a bit of Jerry Springer drama?)

12. Run the London Marathon (clearly I've lost the plot).

13. Complete those hidden Tetris levels (because I'm secretly still twelve).

14. Run a mile in under 15 minutes (without dying, preferably).

15. Try some rank soda from the corner shop (because my taste buds haven't suffered enough).

16. Make Strava art (probably just draw a massive penis by accident).

17. Get a cat and name it after my Aunt (because apparently I'm not mental enough already).

18. Make a quiche that doesn't make me want to vom (impossible, but worth a shot).

19. Try that fancy French toothpaste (Opiate Dentiare - sounds like something you'd get arrested for).

20. Buy one of those posh e-readers with a pen (because apparently I'm made of money).

21. Deep-fried Mars bar (because my arteries are too clear).

22. Buy wine to drink in twenty years (assuming I make it that far).

23. Start a women's football team at work (watch us lose spectacularly).

24. Discover a new band (preferably one that doesn't sound like cats in a blender).

25. See the Yankees in London (because cricket isn't boring enough).

26. Fast for a day (ha bloody ha).

27. Order something mental at a restaurant (instead of chicken nuggets like a five-year-old).

28. Reconnect with an old friend (and remember why we stopped talking).

29. Grow back my pinky finger cuticle (because apparently that's a thing I care about now)

30. Stop dyeing my hair (and embrace my inner granny).

31. Nick some pillows from The Ritz (kidding, I'll buy them, probably).

32. Eat a hog roast at Peppa Pig World (bit dark, that).

33. Try fufu with my hands (and make a proper tit of myself).

34. Kiss the Blarney Stone (and probably catch something).

35. Find a four-leaf clover (because I need all the luck I can get).

36. Have a cider at Turf Tavern (and pretend I'm posh for five minutes).

37. Read something properly banned (probably end up on a watch list).

38. Bowl a strike (without using the kiddie bumpers).

39. Eat a Colin the Caterpillar cake on my birthday (because I'm definitely not too old for that).

40. Learn Korean (probably just end up knowing how to say "where's the loo?").

41. Become a British citizen (because I love queuing that much).

42. Eat proper insects (not the chocolate-covered cop-out kind).

43. Be Mother of the Bride/Groom for a godchild (and cry my makeup off).

44. Get that statue of John Woodcock next to Baxter Hulme's (because why the hell not).

45. Try a Korean corn dog (because regular corn dogs aren't weird enough).

46. Time travel for double New Year's (because one hangover isn't enough).

47. Watch the Changing of the Guard on 9/11's anniversary (bit dark, that).

48. Have proper carbonara (not with cream).

49. Swim in Bulgaria's Black Sea (probably get eaten by something).

50. Put a flag on my bike (because clearly I want to look like even more of a twat).

But you know what the maddest thing is? The thing that's not on the list but should be? Living longer than Dad did. Surviving past his expiry date. Now that's a proper goal, innit?

Might need to add "Find a therapist" to the list while I'm at it.

God, is it wine o'clock yet?

[dwestfieldblog]

CTHONIC ATTACK

Well, Yevgeny sleeps with the Mr Evil/Uncle Fester angels now eh? (Nice that his boys will have a safe harbour in Belorussia, delicate mercenaries need a place in which to recuperate after killing women, children, noncombatants and torturing fictitious enemies.) His people released a statement saying the crash with one wing was caused by ‘traitors of Russia’. (Can’t blame the FSB for doing what they are told, and jolly decent of them to time the explosion over some fields.) The Wagner troll factory, as ordered by the Kremlin Gremlin have already pumped out faecal nuggets that the West planted the bomb/s.

Funny just how many leaders (political or religious) of countries these days are endlessly betraying their people in the name of impure self-interest and calling it patriotism. One more time yet once again… ‘Patriotism is the last rock to which a scoundrel clings’. Comrade Trump et al. Name the shameless in your heads, East and West. Look into their eyes and see their corrupted hearts, withdraw all your energy from them and feed your lifeforce.

The ugly mug shot of the orange Reptilian one… sure he wanted to look defiant but ended up looking like a smacked and sullen child denied his wish. (The moment when an adult knows one smack won’t cut the mustard and the kid will need far more.) And usually, the cops tell you to stand straight, how was such glowering beneath a dyed fringe allowed? The petulant ex-president is using the photo as a rallying (baby man-child) cry for extra funding from morons, outside forces and traitors…as a poster, it aint exactly Che Guevara eh? And yet, so far, has got 1.7million dollars. FFS. Horrific to read how many still support his nomination, some serious mental disease over there. (Says Dave in England). Lock him and his cohorts up or get them all on a plane to St Petersburg.

���The possibility that empathy resides in parts of the brain so ancient that we share them with rats should give pause to anyone comparing politicians with those poor, underestimated creatures’. Frans de Waal. Pause or paws?

X marks the pus-filled spot…Nice endorsement for Elon from the Talibananna’s ‘Thought Leader’ Anas Haqqani who likes Twitter because of ‘the freedom of speech’. Erm…God is great isn’t he? Jesus saves but Shiva destroys. Boys…

The Edinburgh Fringe Festival, established in 1947…shows comedians mainly - the last intelligent group (other than most scientists perhaps) left speaking truth to power. However, the blind - to - irony for using the title ‘Woke’ sleepwalkers honk on about diversity and inclusivity and then refuse a platform for any who disagree with them…So, diverse and inclusive up to a point.  Graham Linehan, an excellent writer of comedy was banned from performing, among others, for calling it as it is (or very much seems to be) vis a vis the gender debate.

Left and Right pointing fingers and accusing the other side of cancelling culture when both are equally guilty of closing down free speech from any with which they disagree. That said, I will hereby admit, without shame that I also, on insanely rare occasions, have been less than innocent of the Great British double standards. E.g., taking part in the early nineties in my second demonstration, to stop Holocaust denying ‘historian’ David Irving from giving a speech. In spite of my beliefs, I would try and close him down again. When someone’s twisted rhetoric encourages a deranged and dangerous mob, they need to be shut off and right out. Hello Donald, Putin’s useful idiot.

But I digress…Back to the modern nightmare of abused language.

‘People who identify as men can, and do become pregnant and give birth, if they possess a uterus and ovaries’ Medical News Today. That’s a BIG ‘if’.

‘Having a period is not a feminine thing, and people of all genders menstruate, including non-binary people, agender people and even plenty of men! Menstruation doesn’t change anything about your body, it’s just a thing that some bodies do.’ Transhub.org. Read this a couple of times, let it all sink in. They also talk about a ‘front hole’, as presumably those members of homo ‘sapiens’ with an XX chromosome reading this blurb do not know the difficult word vagina. And in first place comes…

‘My body is not female. My menstruation is not female. It just is. My body just is.’ Wiley Reading’s Everyday Feminism. This smacks a little of denial rather than Zen acceptance. Someday, coming soon to a western country near you, the words ‘HuMAN’ and MENstruation will become Huperson and Personstruation… Is this an evolution?

Seems like another twisted circular path of time wasting while the world gratefully allows us to die en masse. However, of course I think people should certainly be allowed to choose their own sex if they are sure they have the wrong body. Just don’t start kids on hormone treatment and gender brainwashing so early. (Although the latter is always started in normal (HA) families with pink dollies, prams and action men and guns.) Many children play dress up and at puberty are confused as feelings shift around, so just let them until a definite knowledge has come. I remain suspicious of any who eagerly bid the mentally weak (either from lack of life experience or poor education) to come join their happy crowd and be just like them. As someone would say, ‘Sorry, not sorry’. The force goes into the flow…

Meanwhile, naughty muons are misbehaving (according to outdated theories in sub atomic physics) and there may very well be a fifth force of nature. (Mystics and neuronauts have spoken about this with shinning eyes for centuries but it takes a little longer for provable science to catch up.) That’s what happens when you accelerate particles at approximately 1000 times the speed of light and things wobble faster than current (ha) laws say they should. Watch this ‘g minus two (g-2)’ experimental space for further quantum details. Superconductors should be being used for limitless and clean energy. Why aren’t they?

Doctor and consultant strikes...Christ, has golf club membership gone up so much?  A good income in 2023 is recorded as being 50 thousand pounds…but a basic starter for a consultant is 93 up to 134 thousand. One yacht is never enough. A global Pharmageddon where pills are heavily prescribed by doctors mostly to keep their quotas and freebies from the companies up, rather than being essential to the patient. In 2016 an investigation asserted that drug companies hand over 40 million pounds in the UK alone to healthcare professionals. Many of these pills cause side effects which are then treated by further pills…which cause side effects. Nice money if you can get it and the guinea pig pharmers and dodgy doctors certainly can. Always worth checking the ABPI database to see who is friendly with whom. So why not stop being a hypochondriac and become more paranoid instead…there are pills for that.

Fast scan of random headlines…’Species of ancient viruses resurfacing as ice caps melt…Time travelling pathogens’. ���New Covid strain rising’…Enough.

Some family and human stuff now…my grandad used to tell granny ‘Nectar and ambrosia’ after every meal and mean it. Vanilla, lavender, peaches and cloves are the world’s favourite smells. I like warm skin with drop of fresh sweat. I love fireworks, bubbles blown and floating in the air, mown grass, dug earth, honest smiles, females and friends. But music over everything else, forever.

My ancestors for a few hundred years were all teachers, priests and medical staff, so now I am past middle aged, this black sheep is really starting to feel like the weakest link on both sides, let alone being last of our lines. Crippling sadness that I never played guitar for mum. Still finding messages written by her for me all over the house. A packet of titanium scissors in the kitchen saying ‘Guaranteed to last for 25 years’ Mum wrote next to it ‘Over to you David’.

Crushed by guilt, heart feels like a dry prune and I hardly breathe unless I need to cough. No, I’m not second hand, but pre loved and fit for the hospice charity shop. That is as far as my light entertainment/black humour goes these days.

Opportunities to do more, more of the right thing, to be gentler, more understanding, more patient. Lost, and then forever too late. Permanent. Thought I could repair and ease her into balance, to be strong enough for the operation or the end. Failed in the most important work of my life, not possible to cry enough when the memories fall and time does not heal guilt.

Only two could forgive me, one is gone and I cannot. Utterly undeserving to be redeemed. No, I don’t want to join a group on Zoom and talk about it, talking makes the mind relive and recreate the same stress chemicals on a poisoning loop. Writing and printing it out on a page has more use for me. But no forgiveness. Arguing for my own limitations again.

As a cheery sidenote, although most men (with guns who wish to kill themselves) shoot themselves in the head, women tend to shoot themselves in the heart. Fascinating. Ask your doctor if suicide is good for you, a problem focused strategy. I don’t have a gun anymore but I am drinking every night as I have been almost every night for the last 25 years. Bacchus hath drowned more men than Neptune. Here’s to me and good health, eh? Cheers…

Still sitting in the morning in what a conceited auctioneer described as a late Georgian chair to write at a turn of the century polished mahogany card table. The armchair general and couch potato pundit, hunched over the keyboard, heavy with the albatross of ego, winging it all my life. Wonderful, the mixed metaphor in the labyrinth again. Many years ago, I wrote a song called You Get What You Are. This seems scarier day by day as the layers peel away.

‘Nowadays the LSD trippers know what the magicians, the pagans and the yogis always knew: the personality is the only part of us that does not survive death.’ The mask does not continue, it cannot. Nowhere to hide in the Light.

‘The nervous system is the instrument which reads all other instruments’. ‘All perceptions are neither the observer nor the observed; they are the representations of the relation between them’. We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.’ Wilson, Crowley and Nin.

And the result of subtracting the universe from itself is… (and here/now/ nowhere, the presenter opens the envelope to wild applause as everything vanishes and reappears in total silence.) I am trying with moderate but inevitable success to subtract my Self from the universe. Follow the Love…

[sordidery]

AND WE SHALL GO AS FAR AS WE LIKE. . . the sly comment conjures up fantastic images. for a few small steps, she is all but sleepwalking, enraptured by a fantasy where the world and its wonders still inspired awe.

this expansive, carefully fabricated concept of a mystery sends her hurtling back towards the earth. suddenly engaged in a daring game of chess, mr. blythe has knocked one of her pawns away and set down an inquisitive piece of his own. his allusion to his ideas of what went on in her home gave her no reason to fret . . . but, his instinct for truth did. in his presence, lies were spotted before their images were fully constructed, and his insistence only proved that her half-truths were no less transparent. worse, in no small way, odette found herself disappointed it was only the mystery of THE MANOR he wished to discover.

his warmth sears where her flesh meets his. life teemed from him in a way that she, nor her betrothed, could ever again possess themselves. the last human to be so bold as to gain her affection had not met a pleasant end, though it was fascinating, enthralling, to have his attention. when had she last been challenged by someone who had not seen her down to her rotten core? when had she last been someone capable of being saved? 

abruptly, odette stops walking alongside him. though only a few moments stroll from the ballroom, the cacophonous sound of drunken partygoers had faded to something of a murmur. somewhere far away, katydids chirp. for a leisurely moment, she studies him brazen with the touch of her gaze where there is no one else to see it. the glint of his eyes, the pleasant curl at the end of his lips, the glimpse of uncovered skin below his jaw. he possesses a courage that is undoubtedly a serious threat, a weed that should be removed by the root. suspicions placed in the right head could topple her empire of pleasantries and glamour. the steady thrum of blood flowing through his veins awakens unwelcome instincts — something just below the surface of her skin that aimed to run free.  temptation nipped at her with a strength stronger than her own.  did the man know to what end he would chase the truth? could he possibly uncover a plot within the measly time he had to visit? surely not. he may offer a stiff opposition, but this is odette's game.

❝   i don't believe we could possibly have common troubles. especially not in any acquaintance we share. ❞  though she is firm in her tone, in the finality of her response, guilt for her dismissal of him begins to build itself a home in her chest. nothing about the inner workings of her life could be reduced into a palatable explanation — words did not exist for the type of accomplice she had found in the familiar emile eluded to. still, in spite of herself, odette wants him to know with as much sincerity as her position could allow.  ❝  there exists people who believe that adherence to the rules of the world will absolve them of their involvement in misconduct. but there are people, like myself, and i suspect like you, who do not require such rules to stay afloat. it is the confines of duty and respectability that i find burdensome. i have never wished to be considered a duck to be put in a row. . . that is all.  ❞

[666writingcafe]

MC Meets Lucifer in the Music Room

"Ah, you're here," Lucifer greets me as I step into the music room.

"Of course," I reply. "You told me to come here before class, after all."

"I know. I'm just not used to people being quite so...obedient."

"I can imagine. Your brothers don't seem to want to listen to you very much." That gets Lucifer to faintly smile.

"That's a topic for another day. Several days, as a matter of fact, I digress. There are a couple things that are more important right now. Firstly, how have you managed to make pacts with three of my brothers in such a short amount of time? You're not forcing them, are you?" I shake my head.

"Mammon did it out of spite. Levi felt like he needed to when I borrowed the vinyl from him, and he didn't allow me to stop him until it was too late. Beel's the only demon out of the three that I've wanted to make a pact with." Is this another test? I feel like it is.

"Interesting. Why Beel?"

"He seems genuinely interested in getting to know me, and in return he's shared some things with me that I don't think he's told anyone else. Mammon and Levi seem to just want to use me for their personal gain."

"I see. Thank you for the insight. Now, you never did tell me what happened the night you gave me that vinyl, which I find peculiar, because you've been very upfront with me about everything else so far." Somehow, I'm not surprised he's brought this up.

"Well, obviously no one was there to stop me from sleepwalking, so the white light was able to take me to the top of the stairs." My head begins buzzing in pain.

"Were you able to meet the person that's been calling to you in your dreams?"

"Yes." The buzzing intensifies, but it's still managable.

"Did they do anything to you?"

"Well, he--" The buzzing turns into an explosion, and the pain brings me down to my knees. Lucifer kneels down and grabs my shoulder, worry written all over his face.

Stop prying into my business! Belphie screams in my head. You've done enough damage; just leave me alone! Lucifer's mouth tightens, and I realize that the youngest brother has used me as a mouthpiece.

"Once you're able to get up, you're free to go," he tells me sternly.

[shyficwriter]

Temporary Home: Chapter 13

Guardians of the Galaxy fanfic | Reader x Guardians (With Yondu and Kraglin!) Guest starring Nick Fury and Maria Hill

Summary: Seems like that visit had quite the effect on you, enough to send you on a semi-bender. Should they step in? Should they leave it alone? Furthermore, what secret accidentally gets leaked to Yondu while this happens?

Previous Chapter here | Next Chapter Here Or click here to: Start From Beginning

Author’s Note: Thank you to @allylin05 for the scene suggestion (where Reader couldn't reach something!) And thank you to all the others who have suggested scenes they’d like to see in this series! (I’m still working them in!) As always, if you have a cute little scene you'd like to see in this story, feel free to send me a request! It might take me a bit to work certain things in, but I’ll try to add as many as I can! Also, for my records this chapter ends on day 21 of the Guardians living with reader.

Word Count: 5,635

The guardians were getting concerned.

This was different from the other times you'd get sulky and avoid the others. Ever since that night that the couple came to the house, you had barely said a word. All you did was curl up in your room, and when you weren't doing that you were drinking.

They tried a couple times to pull you out of it, to no avail.

For instance, they had decided to begin sparring practice again after Fury's last visit. Two weeks was enough of a break, and they couldn't just sit around going soft while they waited for the negotiations to finish. If they ever did. The first couple times you had refereed for them, seeing as you couldn't join in the actual sparring with your arm injured, but each time they tried asking if you'd like to ref again after the night the couple came, you had refused, not even looking at them as you lay staring at the ceiling or curled on your good side.

Mantis tried using her abilities on you, like she did to make you feel better when Fury punished you, but you barely let anyone near you, and you certainly wouldn't allow anyone to touch you. You either pulled away or sternly told the offender to leave you alone, or in Peter's case, when he got the 'brilliant' idea one morning in the kitchen that you might cheer up if he tried tickling you, a swift knee to the crotch.

Either way, Mantis knew better than to push it. She had a feeling it wouldn't work this time anyway. The effects of her abilities were only temporary, it wasn't a cure. She can ease sadness away for a little while, and if someone was just a little sad they might still feel better even after the effect wore off, but if that sadness was too deep it would only wash back in once the person was no longer subject to the effects of her abilities.

A few times you could be heard walking around the attic, and a couple of those times sounds could be heard like you were throwing things across the room. One of these times one of the gang finally got the courage to go check on you, but they found you had locked the door behind you.

It seemed the "attic is off limits" rule still applied even when you were up there.

This annoyed Rocket, who had been reminded by this recent development that he had never gotten around to sneaking up there to prove to Groot that there were no monsters up there. The fact that you had been throwing stuff around up there didn't help that matter, only convincing the little guy that the noises were in fact coming from the monsters. After a few times of this he angrily went into your room, intent on getting the key and going up there to yell at you for scaring Groot, only to be disappointed to find that the key was no longer in the drawer and annoyed with himself that he wouldn't have thought that you'd have taken it up with you.

The third day of this Gamora pulled Peter aside. They knew Fury would be coming the next day, and she didn't know if telling them would only make matters worse. Did they tell, or stay out of it? Unfortunately Peter didn't have the answer either, he only hoped that'd you'd sober up by tomorrow. He didn't know what was going on with you, but he'd hate to see you possibly get into more trouble with SHIELD because of it.

There was also a bit of a selfish concern for them as well. What if Fury decided you were unfit to look after them and keep them hidden? Would SHIELD remove them from your responsibility and need to split the team up to hide them?

Later that night you left your room and headed to the cellar to pull yet another bottle of whiskey up and take it into the kitchen. No one was in there, just as you hoped. Unfortunately that didn't last forever.

You were mindlessly scrolling tumblr on your phone when Yondu sat down in the seat next to you at the table.

"Mind if we join ya?" he asked.

You glance up to see Kraglin had also sat down, and you wordlessly scoot the bottle in their direction to indicate you didn't care and went back to scrolling and sipping from your own glass.

"So how long are ya planning on taking this bender?" Yondu asked.

You glance up with narrowed eyes and as if to spite him grabbed for the bottle again to top off your glass before putting it back.

Yondu looked displeased. "That ain't an answer." he said cooly.

"Best you're gonna get," you say, slurring a bit.

Yondu leaned back in his chair with an expression Kraglin recognized. It was the same one he used to wear when someone thought they could get away with mouthing off to him. The look of mild bemusement that usually preceded a whistle or a scolding. Only this time he didn't do either.

"Why don't ya tell us what's eating you?"

Your eyes flicked up but you didn't answer. You didn't want to talk. You were sleepy. It was none of his business anyway. What came out was an elegant, "Nothing... your face." This was followed by your also very elegant flipping of the bird before you reached for your glass again.

Yondu, seeing you were clearly past drunk, got to it first, sliding it out of your reach. "I think you've had enough, little lady."

You pout at him. "Give that back."

"No." he responded flatly.

"Dick," you mumble, lowering your head to rest on your good arm on the table.

"Yeah, sit there and pout. That's gonna help." Yondu snarked.

You didn't answer.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you, pipsqueak." Yondu scolded, sort of hoping that the childish name would get a rise out of you.

No answer.

"You think she passed out?" asked Kraglin.

Yondu reached over to grab your wrist, intent to do the whole lift and drop thing to see how out you were, but you only whined on contact and swatted him away, mumbling something about sleep.

"That answer yer question?"

Kraglin shrugged before nodding to the bottle. "I'm gonna get a glass, want one?"

Yondu nodded, not taking his eyes off you until Kraglin came back with a couple glasses and poured the two of them a drink. Something was definitely eating at you, and the way you were dealing with it just wasn't healthy. Even as a Ravager he still knew that. Sure, it hadn't stopped him from going on a few of his own benders over the years, but it didn't mean he had to just watch someone else go through one. Unfortunately he had no solution. Closest he had to one was cutting you off, which he'd already done, and getting you to talk about it, which you wouldn't, and if you were unwilling then there wasn't a whole lot more he could do.

He and Kraglin sat there for a bit, sipping their drinks and killing time with idle chit-chat. They could hear a movie playing loudly from the sitting room. Probably something from that Netflix Rocket had turned on. No matter. Didn't bother them any. Clearly wasn't disturbing you as you slept at the table.

That is, until the sounds of a crying baby sounded from the film.

Yondu noticed you groggily sit up and rub your eyes. You lightly smacked his arm and, still half asleep, mumbled out, "You fetch the baby, I'll make the bottle, ok?" With that you pat him on the shoulder as you sleepily went to stand.

Yondu's eyes widened in a mix of shock and confusion. He shared a quick look with Kraglin. He had heard it too and his face shared the same sentiments. Baby? There wasn't any baby to fetch??

Before you could stumble away to prepare a bottle he was sure didn't exist, Yondu grabbed your good arm to stop you. "Hey there, where ya think yer goin'?" he said, his eyebrows knitted together. He really hoped this was just some sort of drunken sleepwalker dream on your part, and not you acting on some instinct he was sure there'd only be one way for you to have had. He tried gently shaking you.

You blinked a few times, finally seeming to wake up enough to remember where you were and who you were with, who had hold of your arm.

You didn't see your loved one's face, as you expected. Instead you saw a blurry blue that focused just enough into Yondu. You did still, however, hear the cry of a baby; but it wasn't- you knew it couldn't-

Yondu saw how you looked up and realized the sound, and how your expression changed from sleepy and confused to downright anguished. Your lip quivered and his eyes widened. 'No no no, none of that!' he thought, realizing you were starting to tear up.

You pulled your arm away and covered your mouth, turning so you wouldn't face him as pain tore at your drunken heart.

Yondu stood and caught you by the shoulders, spinning you towards the door at the far end of the kitchen, saying, "I think it's time fer bed! Someone's had a lil' too much t'night." He tried to keep his tone light-hearted, but he shot a glance back to Kraglin as he walked you out of the room. They didn't need words to convey what they were thinking. It seemed they might have just become privy to a bit of painful information you hadn't meant to share.

Yondu guided you up the stairs to your room, all the while he could hear you sniffing.

The clumsy opening of your door startled Mantis awake. She sat up and rubbed her eyes to see Yondu guiding a teary-eyed you into the room.

"Back to sleep, Bug." Yondu said. "Nuttin' to see here. She just had a little too much whiskey.

Mantis ignored him and stood from her bed, approaching the two of you as he tried to persuade you into sitting on the bed. Of course, being drunk and upset you weren't exactly very compliant. You kept trying to walk towards the attic door, much to Yondu's dismay and annoyance as he kept trying to tell you you needed to sleep it off.

Mantis watched the scene and knew what she needed to do. Before Yondu could say anything she had already reached out to your forehead and whispered, "Sleep."

Problem was you were a couple feet away from the bed and you fell backwards into into Yondu, who's arms shot out to catch your dead weight just in time with an 'Oof!' He sighed and maneuvered your now unconscious form to your bed, saying, "Ya couldn't have waited to do that until she was closer to the bed?" He wasn't angry, but a slight annoyance still coated his words.

Mantis twiddled her fingers sheepishly. "I'm sorry."

Yondu stood, having managed to lay you flat on top of the bed. "It's fine, Bug. I know you was only tryin' to help."

"Is she going to be ok?" Mantis asked. "That's the third time I've had to do that in as many days."

Yondu raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"At night, when she doesn't think anyone can hear her, she cries. It started after that couple came and said those things to her through the door. I put her to sleep so she doesn't cry." Mantis walked over to your sleeping form and placed her hand on your forehead. Her antennae glowed and she described to Yondu what she read from you. "Her heart aches. She's angry, she's sad, but mostly she mourns."

Yondu swallows. Remembering what had just happened downstairs, another memory came to him. That night under your tree in the forest. He had said something about you maybe settling down and having a few little ankle-biters and then you... oh no. He had a suspicion that he knew what you mourned, and the thought made his heart clench. He still didn't know how that couple showing up might have triggered this pain in you, but if what he suspected from the pieces he could put together was true, then that was a hell of a loss, and it helped explain to him a little bit why you were the way you were. You were in pain.

Before Mantis could say more he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Let's let her rest now, Bug."

***

You woke up earlier in the morning than you would have liked. You could blame it on your throat being dry as sand, the dull ache in your temples, and the feeling like your bladder was in a vice. Oh, the 'joys' of the morning after a night of drinking. Not nearly as fun as the drinking itself. Though, you were sure 'fun' wasn't exactly what you had had last night, even though you couldn't quite remember it.

No matter. Time to shower and get yourself presentable. Fury would be coming today for one of his weekly-check-ins and it'd be unprofessional to greet him wearing last nights clothes and possibly still smelling of alcohol.

Today you had a chance of being told you no longer needed the sling, so you tried to at least be happy for that as you gathered a change of clothes for your shower and thanked whatever higher-being that might be listening that the bathroom was free.

***

Fury showed up about mid-morning with the same doctor as last time.

You pretended to be a good little soldier and sat patiently as the doctor examined you, said you were free to remove the strap from your brace, and adjusted the hinge on your brace for the limited range of motion he would allow your elbow to move while it was still healing. You were given some therapy exercises to do and informed you were still under a weight restriction for that arm.

The first thing you did was utilize the full range of this new, albeit limited, range of motion, stretching your fingers and wincing as you tried to work a bit of the stiffness out.

Before the doctor had begun examining, Gamora quietly asked to speak with Agent Hill alone. They left the kitchen to speak in the hall mostly unnoticed.

"She took the brace off, didn't she?" Agent Hill assumed. "Knew it. She's so damn stubborn!"

Gamora shoot her head. "No, no. That's actually not it. It's something else."

"Really?" Agent Hill looked surprised.

"Yes. She followed all of Fury's orders. It's about something that happened the other day. This couple came to the house-"

Maria looked alarmed. "Did they see any of you? If you were compromised you shouldn't have waited this long to tell us."

"No, it wasn't anything like that" Gamora said, slightly frustrated with the interruptions. She explained that you seemed to know them, how you had closed all the curtains and shut off the lights just before they arrived and pretended not to be home. She told her how they had spoken to you through the door, and that you had been upset and closed off ever since.

Maria frowned. "Do you know what they looked like? What they said?"

Gamora shook her head. "I never saw them, but they said something about how something wasn't her fault, that they forgave her? I don't know what they were talking about, she wouldn't say, but she's hardly left her room since then and we're just a bit concerned and thought we should tell somebody."

Maria nodded. "I'll speak with her."

Gamora nodded in return. She got the feeling that Maria knew the significance of the couple's arrival, but wasn't going to say, so she didn't ask.

They returned to the kitchen just as the doctor was finished. Agent Hill requested to have a word with you in private while Fury briefed the Guardians on the lack of update on their situation.

You rose an eyebrow at her, but obeyed, and the two of you made your way out to the front garden.

Maria spoke first. "How long have we worked together?"

"Almost since I first started, you helped train me. Why?"

"And we've come to know each other decently well in that time, yes?"

You look at her, confused. "Yeah? What is this about?"

"You know you can talk to me, right? If something's wrong?"

"I don't need to talk-"

Maria rolled her eyes. "Oh yes. Ms independent. Ms 'I don't need anyone.' I get it. I do. But maybe letting people in every once in awhile couldn't hurt."

"Are you going to tell me what this is about or not?" you say irritably.

"One of your charges has expressed concerns."

You looked confused and surprised. "Who? Why?"

"Doesn't matter. And they told me that you had a couple visitors the other day. My informant didn't know who they were, of course, but I have a pretty good idea, especially after I was told what they said to you."

You look off towards the road bitterly.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Maria asked.

Your gaze shifted from her to the ground and back a couple times. Finally you relented. "They said they forgave me. What am I supposed to do with that?" Your gaze was hard as you looked into her eyes.

"Accept it?" Maria said with almost a laugh, her eyebrows knitted together. "Maybe take a page out of their book and try to forgive yourself?"

"But it was my fault," you respond.

Maria can see the pain in your eyes. Her eyes soften. "It wasn't, though. It wasn't your fault. You have to understand that."

"No, you don't understand," you say, pain present in your voice. "Put yourself in my shoes. Tell me, that if it was you, that you wouldn't believe it was your fault then!"

Maria didn't answer.

"That's what I thought."

"Look, I have the ability to see reason because I'm not in your shoes. I can see that it wasn't your fault. You can't hold yourself accountable for what other people have done to you."

You give her a hard look but don't respond. After a few moments you see Fury come out the front door with the doctor and you finally say to her, "Are we done?"

She follows your gaze to see Fury before turning back to you. You can tell she wants to say no, but she settles for, "I suppose. For now."

The two of you walk back towards the front door to meet Fury. He tells you that he's pleased to see you followed orders, but to make no mistake, he still has Gamora looking out to make sure to follow through with the doctor's orders until your arm is healed, or until he can trust you no longer need that type of supervision. Whichever comes first.

You begrudgingly nod and they leave, you heading back inside.

***

You had decided to not confront them about who told Maria about the couple. If she was right, and they really were just concerned, then you decided it was better to just not make them concerned anymore. No concerned Guardians, no one getting SHIELD involved with your personal life.

You decided to not head back to your room after Fury and Agent Hill left, rightfully convinced that it had been how you more or less hid away for three days that alarmed them. Probably the drinking too, but jury was out if you'd stop that or not. What were they going to do? Stop you?

Actually... you did have a faint memory of Yondu pulling your drink away from you last night... Oh well. You were sure they wouldn't do it again, but that was a question for later. Now, you were going to go check your neglected garden.

Only, when you got there, you found it wasn't nearly as neglected-looking as it ought to be considering you hadn't visited it in over a week. You cocked your head and raised an eyebrow. Who had kept it?

On cue, Kraglin spoke up behind you. "Um, hey."

You turn to face him.

"Hope ya don't mind. Kinda kept it nice for ya, while you were- you know..."

You were taken aback. "Oh- um. Thank you. You didn't have to-"

"I know." Kraglin said, rubbing the back of his head. "Back before we- Yondu an' me- joined Pete's team we were on a lot bigger ship. Lotta crew. We had an areas for growin' food on board, helped keep fresh stuff around so people didn't get sick. Anyways- used have to shifts in those areas some when I was younger. Still remembered how to do most of it. Figured I should make myself useful when you couldn't do it- Ya know, something to do."

You glance back at the garden. "I guess, um, if you like it, I could let you help me next time, if you want, then," you reply awkwardly. "You did a nice job- thanks."

Kraglin smiled a bit. "Sure thing. Beats sitting around."

You crack a smile at that and look to the ground briefly. "Well I guess I'll find something else to do now, since this is done." With that you walked past him and back into the house.

You get back inside to a commotion in the kitchen.

Mantis is crying and panting and fanning her mouth, Gamora is yelling at Rocket, and Rocket is laughing his ass off.

"What's going on here?" you ask, brow furrowed in confusion and concern.

"Rocket tricked Mantis into eating these," she showed you the jar of jalapeños, "and now she's in pain."

You sigh and glare at Rocket, who didn't look sorry at all. You guide Mantis to sit at the table and pour her a glass of milk, instructing her to drink it slow like you had Yondu when he ate them and informing her that it would help. At least you knew she didn't react to milk the same way he did. Gamora asked to make sure Rocket hadn't fed Mantis poison, but you assured her she'd be fine. It was food, just not something any of them were used to apparently.

Kraglin re-entered the house just then and took in the scene. A teary eyed Mantis sat at the table sipping some milk, and you stood behind her, rubbing a hand up and down her back comfortingly, yours and Gamora's eyes both shooting daggers at Rocket, who was still grinning.

You begin to scold Rocket. "What's wrong with you? I know you did that on purpose."

"You don't know that, how was I supposed to know she wouldn't like them."

Kraglin's eyes narrowed. He spoke up. "Now if I'd known you was gonna use them to be mean to Mantis there, I wouldn't have told ya when you asked me which was the hot things Yondu ate. She's too sweet for you to be mean to her like that."

Rocket gave Kraglin a look of betrayal. "Come on. It was just a joke. Did you really think I was asking because I wanted to eat them."

"I thought you was asking so you wouldn't eat them," Kraglin replied, annoyed. "not so you'd make the bug girl cry."

Rocket rolled his eyes. "Lighten up."

"What's with you lately?" Gamora asked. "You're not even this bad on the ship. You behavior has definitely gotten worse since we've been here."

"Has not!" Rocket denied. "If anything you guys have lost your ability to take a joke!" He crossed his arms. "And how come nobody says anything when Star-Munch and dumbass there-" he pointed at Kraglin, "-mess around, but I always get yelled at! It's like I'm the only one not allowed to have fun here!"

You tilted your head at Rocket, contemplating a bit before saying, "Are you trying to say you're bored?"

Rocket threw up his hands. "Of course I'm freaking bored! What do you expect!? There's nothing to do! I can't blow anything up, or make any weapons, or make weapons that blow up! This place is like prison!"

You hummed and nodded your head. "I see..." You had an idea. You were normally against rewarding bad behavior, but you saw this more as an.. olive branch of sorts. Maybe if you gave him something to do he wouldn't be so restless. Wouldn't be so... rude. Give him a toy to play with, more or less. You nodded towards the back door. "Come here."

"Fat chance. Like I'd go anywhere with you." Rocket scowled, crossing his arms petulantly.

You shrugged your shoulders. "Fine by me. I won't show you the workshop then." A smile tugged at your lips but you suppressed it.

Rocket narrowed his eyes. "What workshop?"

"You already know I built you that bed. Where did you think I did that? The bathtub? It's in the shed."

Rocket eyed you, like he wasn't sure if he wanted to trust you or not. Gamora and Kraglin exchanged pleasantly surprised glances, intrigued that you were offering an olive brach of sorts to the bratty raccoon.

"Ok, but any funny stuff and I'll bite your good arm off." Rocket said, moving towards you in an almost cautious manner.

You roll your eyes. "There's no reason why there would be any 'funny stuff.'" you say. You start to turn towards the door, but stop. "Oh, one thing before we go. Apologize to Mantis."

Rocket glared at you. It was clear he didn't want to, but after a few moments he made an attempt. In a sarcastic tone he said, "Oh gee, Mantis, I'm SO sOrRy-"

You cut him off. "Like you mean it, or I don't show you the workshop."

Rocket grumbled something you couldn't hear under his breath before begrudgingly uttering a, "Sorry, Mantis."

Mantis, whose mouth was now much less burn-y than earlier, told Rocket she forgave him and you headed back outside with Rocket to see the workshop.

Kraglin and Gamora watched as you went, completely surprised that that had worked.

***

You led Rocket to the shed and unlocked it, opening the door and motioning inside. Rocket hesitated, but eventually entered after you took the first steps inside to turn on the light.

A workbench ran along the length of one side of the room. On it sat a chop-saw at one end, and a vice as well as a small cabinet of little drawers where you sorted your nails, screws, and other fastenings. Above this workbench ran a series of shelves housing various drills and tool boxes and other odd-n-ends. Under the bench laid an old forgotten and broken step-stool you had never gotten around to fixing.

A smaller workbench sat on the wall opposite side. Above that was a pegboard where you hung different wrenches and screwdrivers and hammers, and above that hung a short cupboard.

In the middle of the room stood a table saw, and behind that, at the back of the room, is what caught Rocket's eye most.

You had a welding station set up, and he immediately walked back towards it.

"I didn't know you had this in here!" Rocket exclaimed.

"You never asked," you reply, slightly grinning at his obvious interest in the welding area.

Rocket looked the area over. It was covered in a layer of dust, showing that it had been awhile since anyone had used it. "This still work?" he asked.

"It should," you say with a little uncertainty. "I haven't used it for years, but I'm sure the tank still has gas in it. We could always find out. I take it you know how to use it?"

Rocket looked back at you. "Of course I know how to use it. It's just basic fire welding, not like it's a plasma welder or anything."

You raise an eyebrow. Apparently he knew his stuff better than you thought... "Ok then. Just let me find the striker..." You looked around the welding bench, but didn't see it anywhere. "Hm... must have misplaced it... let me look."

You walk over to the small workbench, looking in the drawers, but came up empty handed. You check the drawers in the long workbench. Nothing. You looked up at the shelves. Nope, didn't see it. You walk back over to the small bench to look in the cupboard above it. No striker. "I know it's in here somewhere." you sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

Then you see it. The edge of the striker glinting from on top of the cupboard. "Damn," you say, your gaze falling to the floor before returning to the striker.

You reach up in vain, knowing you couldn't reach it from the ground, even on your tip-toes.

"Need some help, shorty?" came Rocket's teasing voice. You obviously weren't short compared to him, but it didn't matter. You could have been seven feet tall and he still would have used the jab.

You throw him a look. "Like you're one to talk! And no." You try reaching again and sigh.

"Don't you have a chair or something to stand on?" He was chuckling at you now.

"No." you admit, gesturing to the broken stool under the other workbench. "Never got around to fixing it. Normally I just-" you cut yourself off as you tried to reach up again.

"Just what?"

You sigh. "Climb. Ok? Normally I'd just climb up there, but um," you gesture with your arm in the brace, "kinda can't do that right now." You try reaching again, but you give up. That tactic was obviously never going to work. You look around. "Maybe I can find something to knock it down..."

As you look around you see from the corner of your eye Rocket make a couple jumps to get on top of the cabinet, where he then grabbed the striker and hopped back down onto the workbench and held it out to you with a cheeky grin.

You exhale out your nose as you take the striker and say, "You could have done that this whole time?"

"Yeah," Rocket admitted. "but watching you struggle was funnier."

You ignored him and headed back towards the welding area. Yelling at him never seemed to do anything but encourage him anyway.

You attached a brazing tip to the line connected to the tank, turned on the gas, and clicked the striker up to the tip. It took a couple tries, but the flame finally caught with a whoosh and you laughed in surprise. "See. It works," you say to Rocket. "And as long as you don't burn the shed down or hurt yourself, you can use whichever tools you know how to use."

Rocket eyed you as you turned off the gas, extinguishing the flame. "What's the catch?"

"I just told you. Don't burn down the shed or get hurt." After half a second's thought you added with a slight grin, "Should I add 'don't break my tools' and 'lock up when you're done'?"

Rocket scoffed. "I'm not gonna break your tools. If anyone knows how to care for tools it's me! Hell, they'll probably be in better condition after I use them."

You shook your head in amusement. "Alright." Little guy could be so dramatic. "I know there's an extra key somewhere in the house, but until then you can use mine, ok?"

Rocket nodded but then asked, "Why keep it locked?"

You look out the open door. "Force of habit, mostly... keeps kids from getting in and hurting themselves too," you say, adding, "You know, like Groot. Wouldn't want him to go playing around the tools and getting hurt."

Rocket nodded again. He knew Groot mostly knew better from being with him not to play with tools, but he didn't argue.

"Anyway," you begin again, gesturing to the neat stacks of spare wood and metal material in the corner. "Knock yourself out." you placed your key to the shed on the small workbench. "Key's here. Lockup when you're done and leave the key on the kitchen counter after, ok?"

Rocket raised his eyebrow. "You're trusting me in here by myself?" he asked, sounding more suspicious than confused as you turned to leave.

You turn back to him, slightly grinning. "You said you know what you're doing, and I've already been told you used to work on the ships, so that claim has already been vouched for, so... yeah. Unless you're gonna give me a reason not to trust you, that is."

"No, that's all pretty much right," he said, eyeing you, still seeming unsure. As if he thought it might be a trap.

"Then we're good," you reply. You to leave again when you're stopped by him asking, "What's in this for you?" You didn't know whether to sigh or laugh, so you settled for a mix of both as you turn back yet again. "I figured maybe if you had something to keep you entertained maybe you'd be less of an insufferable asshole."

Rocket looked offended and you laughed. "Now can I leave or do you have anything else to ask?"

"Nah," he replied, taking his eyes off you to now look around the workshop. "We're good. Um... thanks..."

The 'thank you' honestly surprised you, but you only turned your look of surprise away as you exited the shed and said, "Don't mention it."

Rocket watched you leave before turning back to check out the welding bench some more.

Yes. This was just what he'd been needing. He could finally repair the device he smuggled.

[arts-and-drafts]

Homesick (Hermit Tommy AU)

(TW Suicide Mention, Depression Mention)

(I don't really have a reason for writing this other than I wanted to flesh out Tommy a bit more in my AU. Mind the TWs, enjoy!)

-

Tommy doesn't want to die anymore.

But fuck, sometimes it gets so hard to wake up. Sometimes he doesn't move for hours, just waiting for the silence to take away this ache in his chest that none of the hermits can relieve.

(Still, they try. Tommy feels an appreciation for them that he will never find the words for. He likes to think they already know.)

Tommy sleepwalks, so he's been told. He knows where his body is trying to go; to the home he dreams of every time he closes his eyes, to the smiling boy in green. He never says it out loud though, just accepts the necklace of bells before bed and sleeps uncomfortably. It would be better to just lock Tommy's door at night, easier, but him and Joe both know the consequences of the war ravaged teenager waking up trapped.

The compass becomes a burden. Tommy stops wearing it, even though he knows it's safe to have it outside of his ender chest here. No matter where you are on this bitch of an earth, you'll know where your Tubbo is, Ghostbur had said, but Tommy wasn't on that earth anymore. His compass spun in confusion of being in a new realm, leaving Tommy lost and alone in this world full of friends. He puts the compass back in his ender chest and doesn't open it again.

He stares off the edge of his cobblestone castle, sometimes. It'd be so easy to just...go. Just one step. Tommy wouldn't even die forever; Hermitcraft has unlimited lives, and toughing it through the wild on your last leg is no longer a concern.

Tommy doesn't step off. Dying doesn't fix anything. His brother taught him that.

Dying is letting Dream win. If spite is one of the only things keeping him going at this point, then so be it. It's enough.

The hermits notice Tommy getting quieter, and not in a relaxed way. He's subdued and hollow, still helping if they ask, but barely does anything of his own violition now. They notice the compass he guards with his very life no longer hanging from his neck, and they notice how pale he has become from avoiding the sun.

They approach Xisuma with concerns, concerns for this poor kid who seemed like he was truly getting better with their help only to drop off. Xisuma explains recovery is not a linear slope, that the only thing they can do for Tommy is to be there for him, and reluctantly the hermits back off. Still, a thought nags in Xisuma's head, and he pulls up his admin screen.

Tommy is very private, and only Joe knows some semblance of what happened to him from wherever he came from. The hermits know he's come from war, from famine, from a place so hellish and unthinkable that it puts kids into battle before they even hit puberty. Other than that, Tommy keeps his past locked up tight, and the hermits do not press. It's not their place to know if he doesn't want them to.

But they do have a name, a name Tommy cries in his sleep when he can't keep his guard up, a name carved in the side of his compass that used to rest over his heart.

Xisuma begins to search for Tubbo, and he prays he'll finally get answers to help this prickly teenager that he loves like a son. The hermits will do anything to make their newest member happy, even if that means fighting whatever hell he had to face to bring this Tubbo person back to him.

END.

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

wow, shiratori sure got brave from the last time we met… what’s with r & having these smug evil asshole agents who deserve a good slap to the face? first r*kep*ck, now him. anyways why does he still care about what r has in mind for mc? he said they ‘hung him out to dry’ or whatever last time we spoke so why’s he still invested in what they want? if someone did that to me i’d despise them & maybe even work with or protect whoever they’re after even if it’s purely out of spite. i’m pretty sure r*kep*ck is like that too in ch 37, still going on about what r wants after what happened to her. guess they’re both too stupid too realize that r probably doesn’t give a damn about them anymore

Before I go any further, I just want to say, I have to say, I have to stop, pause, and say...that it is downright astounding to me how much my anons hate this guy now. How far the public opinion seems to have swung into negative territory when it comes to Shiratori. At least, based purely on my inbox. Granted, I am running way, way behind and gradually climbing my way through at a snail's pace, but all the same...I went back and counted no less than twenty-four Asks who all had their subject being some variation of an angry reaction at Shiratori for the most recent chapter. Again, obviously no one person could have known that so many others would send in similar thoughts, and I'm not even disagreeing or anything, trust me, but some of them even went so far as to say that they consider him to be just as bad as Rakepick...to which I say....

...Eh? (Insert a non-committal shrug here)

I dunno, Y7CH36 just...didn't do anything for me, really? It didn't make me dislike him anymore than I already did. Really, the only thing of prominence that I took from this chapter was his line about "sleepwalking through life" which could be a reference to the Sleepwalking Curse, of course, but I don't even think it's that. I think it's another hint that R has a great and terrible secret that will change everything once MC learns it, and that for whatever reason, they seem to think that, because of whatever the secret is, they'll be able to get MC to willingly join them. That's why Shiratori brought it up. That's why he flat-out offered to let MC probe his mind. While I've been one of the people hollering that MC should remember that they have this power more often, all of a sudden, doing that didn't seem like such a wise idea...because Shiratori invited them to do it, and MC and Moody probably should have guessed that he had some kind of agenda in doing so.

If anything, I wonder if all of this wasn't a ploy just to get MC into that exact situation, where they could have that private conversation within his mind and he could let them know that R's offer still stood, but that the clock was ticking. Hell, I wonder if R is even "done" with him after all, or if all of that fear and desperation to make a deal wasn't all staged. Judging by past events, like Rakepick "saving" MC from The Red Cloak in Year 4...a bit of theatre wouldn't be out of their playing field, really. So yeah, Shiratori is still a bastard, and I guess I wasn't really expecting him to be anything else. All this really means is that he's not specifically self-serving, but is still loyal to R, and I guess that doesn't really mean much to me? I didn't really have high hopes for the guy in the first place. He's just your average, generic villain to me.

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

compromise is made out of peace but history's made out of violence

Fandom: Kamen Rider Amazons Characters: Mizusawa Haruka, Izumi Nanaha, Takayama Jin / Chihiro, Nagase Hiroki / Mizusawa Mizuki, several orphanage children Song: "Sing Along," Sturgill Simpson (playlist here) Warnings: Well, this is Amazons fic, so if you've watched Amazons I'm sure you can guess, but--TW for references to cannibalism, although there is no actual violence. There is also, in the third part, a small amount of blood.

well i know you know that you’re killing me, but it’s worth it just to see you smile

.

The couch in Jin’s apartment is old and beat-up and not especiallycomfortable, but Nanaha’s draped one of her many shawls over it, and so it makes the entire room seem warm anyway. Haruka sits nearly at attention, nervous, hands half-folded on his knees, and says, again, “Thank you, Ms. Nanaha.”

She just flaps a hand at him from where she’s working in the kitchen. “It’s fine, I like to cook. And I figured having you over might keep Jin on his toes, he gets too full of himself.”

The entire apartment smells of food, rice in the cooker and vegetables and spices and sauces and chicken. Especially chicken. Haruka shuts his eyes and breathes the scent in, and it calms him so much that when he realizes how good he feels he’s shaken again. Did meat always smell so extraordinary? It was difficult to sit while she was cutting it up; he wanted to offer to help just so he could steal bites, eat it raw and feel the texture against his teeth…

He shakes himself, keeping his eyes shut, and Nanaha says, very calmly, “See, this is why I didn’t let you help. I can’t let Jin in the kitchen when I’m cooking at all.”

“I—” He flushes hot. “You can tell what I’m thinking about?”

“Not really, just an educated guess. Jin tilts his head the same way when he’s thinking about food.” Suppressed laughter audible in the back of her throat. “Among other things. Anyway, if you eat all the chicken raw then you won’t get to taste it when it’s cooked. You can help with dishes after, Jin’s terrible at that.”

He nods, eyes still shut against his own embarassment. “Yes, Ms. Nanaha.”

Another deep sniff, and it’s astonishing, how he can smell the meat in the pan, tracing the shifts in its flavor as it cooks and soaks in sauce. There’s another scent, too, underlying the cooking food, and he’s not sure what it is, but it’s intoxicating.

The floor creaks, the fridge door opening, and the strange scent moves too, and Haruka’s eyes snap open as he realizes that what he smells is Nanaha, and she smells like food.

He’s so hungry. And she’s right there. It would be so easy, she’s not even two meters away and just smelling her he can almost taste—

The apartment door opens, and a moment later Jin thumps down on the couch next to him and murmurs, cheerily, “Teeth off my girl.”

“I, I wasn’t, I don’t—”

“’course you do.” Jin slaps him on the back, almost friendly. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Don’t talk about eating me like I can’t hear you,” Nanaha says, not looking up from her cooking. “Dinner’s almost ready, anyway, you can control yourselves for two minutes.”

Haruka buries his face in his hands. “Does it ever stop, Jin? Are we always hungry?”

He can hear Jin grinning. “Always, always. It’s about self-control, Haruka. Secret is, when you get down to it, we’re all made out of meat. Me, her.” Hand on his shoulder, mouth next to his ear. “You. It’s all meat.”

Haruka shudders, and then shudders again as he realizes that he can still smell Nanaha, that she smells like she would be the best meal he’s ever had. And he can smell Jin too, different, gamey but good, and his mouth is watering.

The edge of a plate bumps his hand, and he looks up at Nanaha, who smiles down at him and says, “Here. Dinner. It’ll take the edge off.”

--

bitter air and the winds of spite

.

Chihiro has been sleeping on the floor of Hiroki’s bedroom for a week, ever since the day after he ran away from 4C, and he’s not sure he can stand it anymore.

It’s not the floor itself, the floor is fine. He’s got a few blankets. He’s got a pillow. The carpet is soft and not dirty, because as much as Hiroki tries to talk big and act rough he likes his things to be clean. The room is warm and full of life. But Hiroki is in bed, asleep, and the smell of him is overwhelming.

He tends to fall sleep on his stomach, vulnerable, the back of his neck exposed. One of his arms dangles over the edge of the bed, so close that Chihiro could reach out and grasp it. Breathing slow and even, pulse steady.

Chihiro drifts off with his mouth watering.

Later in the night he wakes, and the scent is still there, Hiroki in the bed so close by smelling like prey for the eating. Slow and sleepy, he sits up and says, “Hey, Hiroki?”

No answer but an unconscious sigh, and then Hiroki rolls over onto one side, facing the wall, his back entirely open. He’s slim, too, even in the dim light Chihiro can practically count his vertebrae, and in counting become lost in a dreamy imagining of what they might taste like when crushed between his teeth.

He's moving before he’s even really aware of it, like a sleepwalker, crawling the short distance from his nest of blankets to the edge of the bed. The closer he gets, the more the scent fills his nose until he’s certain he can taste it, the siren call of fresh meat making his mouth hang open. He leans forward and presses his face close to the back of Hiroki’s neck and breathes it in, drowsy and hungry, and oh, it would be so easy to taste, so easy to bite—

He’s scrambling backwards right as Hiroki wakes up with a startled snarl of, “What the fuck do you think you’re, Chihiro, what the fuck.”

Chihiro’s already hiding himself in his blankets again as he stammers out, “Sorry, I’m, I don’t, I mean, I think I was asleep, I think I was dreaming, I’m sorry.”

Hiroki stares at him for a long moment, looking affronted and alarmed, and then says, “Just stay off my bed and don’t be a fucking freak. Go back to sleep.”

Chihiro mumbles assent and pulls a blanket over his head. “I’m sorry,” he says again, even as he rolls the scent around his mouth, the memory of that pulse so close to his teeth, and tries to pretend that his stomach isn’t growling.

---

after the war of the words has ceased all that’s left is the deafening silence

.

The staff of the orphanage was always minimal, and with the death of the principal the others all fled, leaving Mizuki to handle everything. Her mother has somehow managed to transfer the orphanage accounts to her, so managing things isn’t especially difficult. They’re mostly self-sufficient, anyway; most of what the children eat, they grow themselves, and they’re all learning to cook together.

Tonight they’re making rice bowls. The rice is already cooking, of course. Two of the older girls are cutting up vegetables, a younger boy is mixing a sauce, and Mizuki is cutting tofu. The tofu is homemade too; she’s been consistently surprised and delighted by how good it is. She was mostly a vegetarian already before coming here, for reasons that she doesn’t ever plan on explaining to anyone here, but the food they make together has made it a pleasure.

The girls are singing a song together, cheerful and bright, and as Mizuki looks up to ask if they can teach her the words, her knife slips and opens a red gash along one finger. She yelps, dropping the knife and grabbing for a square of paper towel to keep from bleeding on the tofu.

The kitchen has gone still.

The girls are staring at the bloody knife, now on the floor next to Mizuki’s feet. The boy, Kuhi, is frozen with his whisk in the sauce, gaze fixed on her cut finger. Mizuki stares back at them, blood soaking into the paper towel, and for a moment.

For a moment.

She feels hunted.

And then the children all visibly shake themselves and she fights the feeling back and says, “Kuhi, could you go get the kitchen first aid kit, please? Natsu, please find me another knife, I’ll get this one into the sink but I don’t want to use it on the food anymore until it’s been thoroughly cleaned. Shina, I’d appreciate it if you’d check to make sure none of the tofu got blood on it, we should throw away any that’s gotten contaminated.”

They all nod, and Kuhi runs to the corner of the kitchen where the first aid kit is stored while Mizuki gets her knife into the sink and washes her hands. It’s not a bad cut when it’s cleaned, it was just the location making it look nasty.

Kuhi bumps her elbow with his head when he comes back, affectionately, and says, “Do you need me to help you bandage it?”

She nods. “That’d be very helpful, Kuhi, thank you.”

The tension doesn’t come back into the room, even when he’s wrapping gauze around her finger and taping it closed. Smiling, she reaches out and brushes hair from his face with her uninjured hand. “Thank you very much, Kuhi. I appreciate your help.”

He nods, smiling brightly at her. “Of course, Miss Mizuki.” The end of the tape goes neatly into place. “We love you.”

“I know.” She hugs him, watching Shina hesitate over the trash can before she throws away the few cubes of bloodied tofu. “I love you all too.”

[blookmallow]

hoouhgh i finally watched hereditary even though i knew it would upset me but i really, really liked midsommar and wanted to give it a shot but it Did, In Fact, Definitely Fucking Upset Me :’) im alright though im just like well! i am never watching That again 

anyway it was. really interesting but i feel like i did not understand it at all. heres me trying to untangle some thoughts 

- I don’t totally understand the significance of the dollhouse/miniature parallels. something something “a way to control her life/the things happening to her when she Can’t control them” annie is unable to express feelings, so she expresses them in her art (her miniatures) like charlie expresses through drawing 

she makes models about her trauma, it seems to be how she processes them, she has models of her mother in hospice care, her mother like an apparition at the bedroom door, and then a graphic model of charlie’s death 

- paint seems to be a significant symbol in some places. maybe... paint represents Emotion/grief? annie normally paints her models very, very delicately and carefully, cautiously controlling and keeping the strokes tiny and precise. she spills the paint before she goes to joan’s house for the first time - maybe a spilling of emotion, trauma pouring out in an uncontrolled mess, so it serves as the catalyst for her deciding she needs help (or, if you go with the “everything was predetermined” concept, she spilled the paint specifically to point her to the paper so she would call joan, i guess) 

in her sleepwalking state in the past, annie covered herself and her children with paint thinner as a flame accelerant  - something to make emotions lesser, to water them down, ultimately to destroy them?

then when she runs into joan again (another Probably Not Coincidence) it’s as she’s coming out of the craft store (possibly, buying more paint, possibly even replacing the spilled paint with something else)

- flame is an obvious important symbol too: charlie sees her grandmother engulfed in flame, her parents are constantly concerned that she’ll freeze because she sleeps in the tree house without heaters and goes out without a coat (possibly she doesn’t feel the cold because of. hell. i dont know) the seance rituals start with a candle flame, dumping water on annie stops the possession 

annie slept in the tree house surrounded in heaters, she did feel the cold and tried to protect herself from it, and she thought she was the link to whatever was terrorizing her family but instead of killing her, burning the sketchbook killed her husband instead, so i think that might be implying that annie is not in fact what’s actually causing all of this. im guessing the book burned her at first to stop her from destroying it - as charlie is really the cause, and probably needs it - and then burned the. father whose name i have forgotten instead of her out of spite or to send a “this isn’t about you, and you cannot stop me” message 

- i think the death of the pigeon may have been what awakened something in charlie, she cuts off its head and draws the severed head with a crown, both foreshadowing what is about to happen to her, and that she. i guess, is actually. hell royalty. or whatever the fuck that was 

she mentions her grandmother wanted her to be a boy, but since peter was born first, i dont understand why this... demon thing passed on to charlie, the second child, instead of the firstborn, who was a boy, which is apparently the demon’s preference. maybe something to do with the fact that annie did not want him and actively tried to miscarry him fucked up the. whatever it is that causes the rebirth

I really just don’t buy that charlie was always a hell demon and never loved anyone in her family? it seems like it took her over or awakened in her as time went on, annie mentions her mother had DID so it’s possible that charlie and. whatever the demon’s name is are in fact two different entities that both lived within charlie (most likely when the grandmother died, it moved to charlie because of the connection charlie had with her. still dont know why charlie was the one groomed into this rather than peter, though) 

- there’s a lot of passively Wanting To Die or seeing the inevitability of death; charlie wandered off, slept in the cold, didn’t bring a coat, didn’t bring her epi pen, wasn’t careful about nuts, possibly Knew or at least subconsciously knew that body, that self, was necessarily going to die, and didn’t ultimately matter. she asks her mother “who will take care of me when you die” and weirdly instead of saying something like “don’t worry, I won’t die for a long time” or something reassuring, annie just says “well, then your father will, or peter” almost implying somewhere subconsciously she knows she’s going to die too

when charlie died, annie in her grief screamed that she wanted to die too. her unconscious self tried to kill her children and herself before, and may have tried to strangle peter (it’s unclear if that actually happened or if it was the demon and peter thought it was his mother or if it was a hallucination/nightmare altogether) and she actively tried to miscarry to prevent peter from being born in the first place 

im not sure what exactly that means. could be that annie subconsciously could feel the trauma and tragedy that was, inevitably, coming for her and her family and was trying to kill them all to save them from it (but was horrified on realizing this, as she didn’t consciously know this) but her attempts always failed because the demon stopped her from denying fate 

 - it’s very odd to me that the father is never included in these incidents, though. we see almost nothing of his own emotional self or grief. the demon never affects him at all until the moment of his death and even then it feels like he was only killed to hurt annie and peter 

we see his anger, but it comes out like annoyance rather than grief, we don’t see him break down until way, way later when he’s alone in a car with his unconscious son (he makes a sudden stop, and. nothing happens, but it’s possible something in the physical act of... almost getting in an accident, almost having That Happen Again, himself, might have snapped something in him)

then they come home, and annie goes from relief that her husband in the front seat is okay, to immediate panic realizing, once again, her child is unresponsive in the back seat with a head injury (though obviously way less severe. he uh. he still had a head)

so. parallels. i lost where i was going with that thought. the demon doesn’t seem interested in the father at all and he seems to be completely emotionally disconnected from his family and his life and im not sure what purpose that serves

- on predestination: charlie’s treehouse may have always been a cult temple (then, did sleeping there affect her spiritually/mentally, or did she want to sleep there because the demon was already in her?) 

we don’t know the extent of joan’s involvement in their lives. she knew annie’s mother, so she’s been involved The Whole Goddamn Time, but we don’t know how far that influence goes. she could have had a hand in putting the nuts in the cake somehow (knew someone there, recommended the recipe, something). peter swerves because there was a dead animal in the road - joan and/or the other cultists could have put it there. joan probably was waiting for annie at the grief counseling group and could have followed her to the craft store to stage an “incidental” meet up (annie is the one who notices her and calls out to her, but she could have just been making herself visible expecting that she would probably see her - if she keeps showing up places and reaching out to her first, annie might become suspicious that she’s doing it on purpose) 

she gives annie the means to talk to her daughter’s spirit, knowing that she’s broken and desperate and will likely do it (probably knowing she’s a medium already, too), knowing that this will make contact with the demon (the incantation she gives her is probably specifically for that purpose - since annie can’t read the language, she wouldn’t know this. the moral here is don’t read weird ancient latin texts out loud) , and knowing that annie will then blame herself for what she perceives is what she’s done to her family - when really, it was the plan all along 

anyway. uh. that sure was a lot 

[manage-mischief]

Picture Prefect

Read on AO3 here. 

Author’s Note: So, I’m not really sure I ship Dramione. At least, not in an endgame type of way. But, this idea came to me while rereading Harry Potter for the umpteenth time. I think there definitely could have been more to Draco’s character than was in the books/movies. I felt like it would be interesting to understand Hermione’s relationship to him, and that there was likely a bit of romantic tension/pining that may have been behind some of Draco’s actions/motivations. You know what they say about little boys and pulling girls’ pigtails on the schoolyard. Anyways, this takes place during OoTP, before Dumbledore leaves. This is also my first FF, so I’m still learning. I’ve just always thought about writing something but have been too nervous before now. Any kindfeedback or reviews would be appreciated. Thanks in advance :)

Disclaimer: I’m not J.K. Rowling. I own nothing.

Summary: Hermione goes on evening patrol with Draco Malfoy and things progress quite differently than expected. Secrets, lies, and broom cupboards may be involved.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we,” she sighed as she descended the stairs and laid eyes upon her patrol partner for the evening.

He gave a noncommittal grunt in return. Uncharacteristically pleasant this evening, she noted. Without a word, the pair set off past the Great Hall and got to work.

When Hermione had first discovered she was going to be a prefect for Gryffindor House last summer, she had been thrilled, but not surprised. She had top marks in all of her classes, and a (mostly) clean disciplinary record. Sure, she, Harry, and Ron had had a few run-ins with the wrong side of the law. Still, there was, at least in her humble opinion, no one more qualified for the job. When she found out that Ron would have the job alongside her, she had been that much happier. During the celebration held at Grimmauld Place, she had never felt prouder. Yes, she was an intelligent girl. Yes, she had even scored a date to the Yule Ball with internationally-renowned quidditch seeker Viktor Krum (and had especially enjoyed the look of jealousy and disbelief on Pansy Parkinson’s face, she might add), but this accomplishment somehow carried more weight for her.

Being muggle-born, she knew that there were some who viewed her as unworthy of Hogwarts. Some would even go to unspeakable lengths to try and force her out of the wizarding world—as she had learned the hard way during her bout of paralysis-via-basilisk during her second year. But, here she was: the top of her class, muggle-born prefect. The prefect title meant something. Anyone in her world could understand the accomplishment, and no one could deny her the honor that the title bestowed.

Ok, maybe she was a bit over-enthusiastic about the role. It did seem that, most of the time, she was nothing more than a glorified hall-monitor. Yet, she wore her badge with honor. And, as she and Ron strode towards the Prefects Compartment on the Hogwarts Express on her first day she felt that nothing could have lowered her spirits. That is, however, until she saw him. Her new colleague, leaning against a table with his usual, haughty, I’m-better-than-you-because-I’m-pureblood air, his blond hair standing out in stark contrast with his dark robes with emerald green accents. Draco Malfoy.

And so, this is how she ended up on evening patrol on this otherwise wonderful night with a boy who was, in her opinion, one of the rottenest snakes to ever roam the halls of Hogwarts.

The first time she had met Draco had been on the Hogwarts Express during her first year. Bright-eyed and bushy-haired as ever, Hermione had hugged her parents goodbye and wandered onto the magical locomotive, anxious yet elated. She had been thrown into the magical world so fast. One minute, she had been running from bullies in the park by her house as they called her a freak. The next, she was meeting with a stern-but-kindly witch who explained to her that she was talented and special. Hermione was determined to learn as much as she could about her knew world as fast as she could, so she would be able to prove herself at school. Once she set her mind on something, nothing could stop her.

Armed with countless wizarding books and a new bank of knowledge, she confidently strutted into a train compartment and took a seat. She cheerfully introduced herself to the three other young wizards already occupying the space. The others followed suit. Two large, intimidating boys introduced themselves as Crabbe and Goyle. She was pretty sure those were last names, but had a feeling that prying for more information would be futile, seeing as they had both grunted out one-word answers to her questions and then looked away. They did not seem very bright. The third boy had brilliant blond hair and smiled in a way that made her blush slightly in spite of herself. “I’m Draco. Draco Malfoy. It’s a pleasure,” he replied with a cheeky grin.

Draco had been overly friendly to respond, and all too eager to converse with Hermione. They asked each other about their wands, their favorite shops in Diagon Alley, and the classes they were most excited to take. “I can’t wait for Transfiguration. I know it’s one of the more difficult branches of magic, but it seems quite fascinating,” Hermione blabbered on cheerfully. She had been very proud of herself for holding her own during this conversation. Her reading and preparation had paid off! Draco seemed to have no idea she hadn’t grown up in a wizarding household.

He smiled at her. “Well, I hope we’re sorted into the same house. It’ll be a shame if I can’t spend any more time with you in the future.” Hermione again blushed. She kind of liked Draco’s cockiness and confidence. “So,” he continued, “where d’you want to be sorted? I know where I’ll be…Slytherin. My family has been in Slytherin for generations,” he remarked, haughtily.

“Oh, I’m not sure I have a strong preference. Although, Gryffindor seems like it would be a good fit. Or Ravenclaw. I guess we’ll see,” Hermione said.

“Where were your parents when they were here?” Draco asked, eagerly.

“Oh…well…they didn’t go to Hogwarts,” Hermione replied. She didn’t know why she didn’t reveal that her parents were Muggles. She wasn’t the least bit ashamed. But, something about the boy’s mention of his Slytherin family heritage made her wary. Hadn’t she read somewhere that Slytherins were obsessed with blood purity? Surely that was ancient history. It couldn’t mean this boy believed that only pureblood witches and wizards were worthy of magical education, right? After all, with such a small portion of the population having magical blood, there must be hardly any purebloods left!

“Oh, so they went somewhere else? Ilvermorny? Durmstrang? My father wanted to send me there, says Hogwarts’ Headmaster is an old crackpot…”

“No, no. They didn’t go to any magical school. They’re muggles,” Hermione interrupted. Immediately, the tone of the conversation took a sharp turn. Crabbe and Goyle both stared at her as if she had grown an extra head. Draco sat up straighter in his seat, and where before there had been a playful look in his eyes, there was now only wide-eyed fear and accusing. “So, tell me, what makes you think you’re worthy to be here, talking about magic to me and my new friends, when your parents are so backward they probably can’t even tell a wand from a stick in the mud?” Draco sneered at her. His two cronies sniggered. Hermione knew she was not welcome anymore. She shot out of her seat, determined not to cry, and stormed out of the compartment. She could hear Draco’s voice in the distance as she quickly scampered away, fuming. “Well, boys, glad we got rid of her, eh?”

Of course, leaving that compartment was the for the best. She had met Neville and, not long after, her future best friends, Harry and Ron. Luckily, not all wizards were as closed-minded as Malfoy had been. She had not let him get to her, and since then, had outperformed him in every class. Still, she always found it strange to reflect back on the one pleasant conversation she had had with him and relate that cute, smiling boy to the absolute toe-rag she knew today.

Speaking of today, it was getting late, and Hermione was becoming fed up, fast. Her and Malfoy had only been patrolling for half-an-hour, yet it felt as if it had been an eternity. They walked in silence, keeping at least a foot’s distance in between them at all times. The corridor was silent. It was shaping up to be a long, dreadfully boring night.

They reached the first-floor bathrooms around 11 o’clock. “I’ll check the girls and you check the boys,” Hermione broke the silence. Malfoy rolled his eyes and sarcastically replied, “no really Granger? What an ingenious idea.” She simply shook her head and went to check for students out of bed. The bathroom was empty.

“Nothing in there.” She saw Malfoy emerge from the boys’ loo across the hall. “Same here.” On they went.

Half of their shift had now passed, and all they had seen was a sleepwalking Ravenclaw first-year, who Hermione had gently guided back to bed. They were passing by the statue of George the Smarmy when suddenly, she heard footsteps. She paused and cocked her head.

“C’mon Granger,” Malfoy sighed. “It’s probably Filtch and Mrs. Norris.”

“Hush!” Hermione hissed. It most certainly was not Filtch. The footsteps clicked, making it clear their owner was wearing high heels. They were approaching fast. She couldn’t ignore her gut feeling that something was amiss. But, what was it? Why did the footsteps sound so familiar to her? “Have you lost your marbles? Let’s go! It’s a professor or someone! Nothing we have to worry about!”

Aha. It was a professor. Of course. That’s why Hermione recognized the footsteps immediately. She could hear in them the haughty sense of purpose that made her loathe Defense Against the Darks Arts classes daily. Umbridge. Just as she could hear the toad-like professor approach their corridor, another pair of footsteps sounded in the distance. Umbridge must have been meeting someone. But who, at this hour?

She didn’t know why she did it. Perhaps it was because she was on edge from all of the secrecy surrounding the DA. Perhaps it was because of the wrenching feeling in her gut that Umbridge was up to more than she let on here at Hogwarts. But, no matter the reason, before she knew it, she was grabbing Malfoy by the front of his robes and pulling him into the nearest broom closet.

“What the bloody hell, Granger?!?” he hissed indignantly. At least he had the sense not to shout. Otherwise, their cover would have been blown. “What’re you playing at?”

“Be quiet,” she shushed him promptly. Quickly, she pulled out the pair of extendable ears she kept hidden in her pockets. As much as she hated to admit it, Fred and George had really hit the mark with their creation. She always kept a pair with her, and had found them to come in handy on many occasions. As she fiddled with the device, Malfoy continued to look at her, wide-eyed. “What the hell are those?!”

“Extendable ears, now, HUSH!” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “Extendable what?” “Ears. They let you listen in on other peoples’ conversations without getting caught. Now please kindly shut up so I can hear what’s going on!”

“…in this time of night. I wanted to do this privately. Most students use this corridor to snog without getting caught, so I thought it would do the trick.”

Umbridge’s girly voice echoed. Malfoy was still staring at her with a look of pure confusion.

A private meeting. But with who?

“Of course, Dolores. Do you have any updates?”

The second voice belonged to a man. She knew she had heard it before. But…it couldn’t be…

“Oh my god,” Malfoy whispered, now seemingly as invested in the conversation as Hermione had been. “What’s Fudge doing here?”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Fudge. The Minister of Magic. She was sure glad she had had the sense to hide in the cupboard, even if she was a little too close to Malfoy for comfort. She couldn’t have had him running away and blowing her cover.

The pair of them remained quiet, now both eager to hear what was going on.

“Well, Cornelius. I’m afraid matters at Hogwarts are far worse than we feared.”

“How so?”

“Well first of all, there’s the Potter boy. He and his little friends seem determined to undermine my authority at every turn! He has no respect for the Ministry. Always going on about You-Know-Who despite my countless warnings and punishments!”

There was heavy silence for a moment before Fudge spoke again.

“And do the other students believe him?”

“Some do. Others think he’s gone mad. Most don’t know what to think, and it has been hard for me to convince them to take our side, despite our efforts to disparage him in the Prophet.”

“Surely these students have more sense than to believe the word of a 15-year-old boy over the Ministry and the Prophet! Why are we having such difficulty keeping this under control? I thought I could trust you to handle this, Dolores.”

“I…I am doing all that can be done! But that’s the thing. It isn’t just Potter who has been proclaiming the story that You-Know-Who has returned. It’s Dumbledore, as well. It is not so easy to discredit the Headmaster in the Prophet. He is too well known and well respected. Students love him. Which is why I am proposing that we focus our efforts on a new plan.”

“Yes?”

“Removing Dumbledore from this school, and making me Headmistress.”

“That is quite easier said than done, Dolores. You said it yourself, Dumbledore has the respect of the student body, as well as most of the parents, I might add. Implicating him in illicit activity to remove him from Hogwarts will be extremely difficult.”

“We almost got Potter, this summer.”

“Yes, and the fact that those Dementors even showed up in Little Whinging was a happy accident! How can we expect something like that to happen again?  And at Hogwarts, no less?”

“Yes…a happy accident…well. I shall keep my eyes open for any ‘accidents’  that will allow us to relieve Albus from his post. In the meantime, you’d best be heading back to London. It is getting late. But I promise you this, Cornelius. Come hell or high water, I shall make sure Albus Dumbledore never sets foot in this school again. You can count on me.”

“We’ll see, Dolores. Have a good evening.”

Their footsteps echoed down the halls and disappeared into the night.

“I can’t believe it,” Hermione exclaimed. “That conniving little…”

“Blimey Granger. I thought you were intelligent!” Malfoy rolled his eyes. She glared daggers at him, daring him to continue insulting her. He sighed, “Of course the Ministry’s trying to oust Dumbledore! Fudge is scared of him. He thinks Dumbledore’s going to take his job.”

Hermione was taken aback at his words. She had known this information, of course, thanks to her months of living with the Order. Still, she was surprised that Malfoy knew this information, and that he had been so willing to admit it. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Draco couldn’t have come across this information by himself. What was his shifty father telling him?

“Like you even care,” Hermione tersely responded. “You and your father have been trying to get rid of Dumbledore since the day you arrived here! And probably before! You’d just love old Umbridge to become Headmistress and become her little pet.” Ok. Tirade over. Yelling at Malfoy, while satisfying, wasn’t going to do her any good. Hermione knew they should be continuing their patrol. Plus, she wanted to return to the Common Room and fill Harry and Ron in on the evening’s events. Hopefully they’d still be awake…

“You always think you know me, but you don’t.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione whipped her head towards him just before she was about to exit their cramped hiding spot. Had she heard correctly?

Malfoy gave a sad sort of grunt. He hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether or not he should continue. Hermione continued staring at him intently. She was mystified.

“You and your little Potter Protection Squad. You all always think you know me, know my story, know my life. ‘Oh, Malfoy hates everything good. He’s always out to ruin things for us. He’s a jerk. He’s the enemy. He’s evil,’” he mimicked her in a high-pitched voice. Hermione couldn’t speak, still baffled. He continued.

“For your information, I detest Umbridge just as much as you do. I just know how to be subtle about it. And I know my place. I know what happens to me if I don’t get on her good side. You wouldn’t understand. You’re from a muggle family.”

“You know what, Malfoy? I am absolutely sick and tired of you bringing up my parentage. I have as much of a right to be here as you! And I understand plenty, thank you very much! I am top of our class and work hard to prove myself to intolerant people like you and your family every single day! Don’t you forget you were impressed by me when we met on the Hogwarts Express first year! Impressed by more than just my knowledge of the wizarding world, I might add!” She spit back, her breath labored from the force of her outburst. She could feel her cheeks flushing. It had been an unspoken agreement between them to never mention their first encounter. She could see his face tint red as well.

He stared at her for a moment. Then, without warning, grabbed her by both of her arms and turned her so they were face to face, which was quite cramped due to their inopportune hiding place. His gesture was not threatening, however. He looked sad.

“You don’t understand. I…I sometimes envy that you’re from…well…your background.” He huffed. “I mean being a Malfoy is an honor. People envy me.” His voiced switched back to the shaky timbre it had been. “But…there’s certain…expectations. My family is one of the greatest pureblood lines in wizard history. Malfoy and Black. We have a reputation to uphold. My father reminds me of that every chance he gets.” His face darkened. “I have to hate Dumbledore. I have to be friends with people like Crabbe and Goyle. I have to suck up to Umbridge and support her for headmistress. You don’t understand what happens if I don’t.”

Hermione continued to stare at him. She blinked, trying to understand why and how Draco was capable of showing such vulnerability with her. He searched her face, almost desperately, for a reaction. Hermione softened her face. Perhaps there was more to him than she thought. Maybe he just needed someone to listen. When he realized her receptiveness, he spoke once again.

“Everyone in my family expects me to be like my father. Become a…” he stopped himself. But she knew what he would have said. “Well, become like him,” he carefully worded. “No one has ever asked me what I want to do. And I can’t tell them. I can’t tell my family to shove it…that I don’t want to be part of their circle! That I’m terrified of what’s coming and of what I’ll have to do!” Draco’s voice broke. Hermione remained silent, entranced. Without thinking, she took his hand gently. They both looked down at their hands, now touching. When he spoke again, he refused to meet her gaze.

“My parents were part of an arranged marriage. Even their lives weren’t their own. Everything…every bloody thing that’s ever happened in my life and before has been about blood purity. About money, and power, and respect. They expect me to uphold that tradition. I’ll marry a pureblood girl. I can’t object. I’ll be disowned. Banished. Burned off of the family tree for even thinking about, as they call it, ‘tainting the bloodline.’” He sighed once more. He finally brought his eyes back to meet hers. His stare was intense and a bit frantic. Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest and her cheeks growing hot. Who was this boy, and what had he done with the tosser Draco Malfoy? At least she knew how to deal with him when he was being a jerk. But this? This vulnerable Draco standing before her? Her brain could not figure him out.

His voiced softened further. “I’m sorry I’ve called you names. I know you probably won’t believe me, but I truly am.” And then, it rose once more, “But don’t you understand? I have to act this way! You terrify me, Hermione. And…that just…can’t happen. I…I don’t have a choice.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The pressure in her chest was too much to bear.

“Draco. Everyone has a choice,” she whispered, softly, her eyes still locked on his.

He swallowed. Then, he leaned forward, slowly. She could feel her own body move towards his in response. Her heart pounded and her mind went blank as she felt his strong arms wrapping around her and pulling her into a kiss. She pressed into him, her body moving with his in a passionate dance. He ran his hands through her hair. She could feel her pulse rising, heat surging through her body. The pair continued hungrily for a few more moments. Then, as if on a timer, they both regained composure and pulled back from each other, panting. Hermione smoothed out her hair. Draco fussed with his now-disheveled robes. They regarded each other once again, neither sure what to say to the other.

Hermione blinked in a vain attempt to regain focus. She couldn’t deny that had been the most passionate kiss she’d ever received, including those from Viktor—who had more than once professed his love for her. But, she thought to herself, that will never excuse his behavior. He had humiliated and degraded her, time and time again. The names he had called her were almost unforgivable. Had he changed? She couldn’t be sure. But, one late-night encounter in a broom closet was far from enough proof for Hermione. After a few moments of silence, she realized he was waiting for her to speak. To say something about what just happened. Her mind was still racing too fast to latch onto a single thought.

“I’m sorry about your family Draco. That sounds very hard.”

Oh, if she could have kicked herself in the moment! Sorry about your family?!? That sounds hard?!? She felt like a proper wanker! What an idiotic response to what had just happened!

“I wish things were different,” he replied. This shocked her.

“Are you saying you want to be with me?” She inquired.

“I’m not sure,” he answered, almost inaudibly, sheepishly running his hands through his hair.

“Draco,” she sighed. This was all too much information for Hermione to handle. “I’m not sure, either. Thank you for apologizing for calling me those awful names…but…I’m not sure that’s enough. You just said it yourself. Your family life is complicated. I’m sorry. If you ever want to change, to escape, I will be here for you. And, I may even want…this…too. But, I won’t be the girl who you degrade in public and then snog in a broom closet when no one is watching. I don’t deserve that.”

Draco simply stared back at her for a long time. She could tell he was thinking. Would he really say he wanted her? Would he really change? Would she really want to be with him, even if he did? Ugh, Harry always said girls were confusing, but she was beginning to think that boys that were really the ones who were bonkers!

Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke once again, “I’m sorry. I just…” he shook his head. He glanced towards the door. “We had better finish patrol and then head to our dorms.” Under his breath, Hermione heard him mutter, “I have a lot to think about.”

Unable to form any intelligible words, she just nodded her head. The pair emerged from their cupboard and set off back down the corridor, as silent as before. When they finally parted for their respective common rooms, they met each other’s gaze once again. Draco smiled softly, “Goodnight, Hermione.”

She gave a tentative smile in return. “Goodnight, Draco.”

As she entered the Gryffindor Common Room, she was deep in thought.

“Oi, Hermione! You’re back late,” Ron shouted to her from the table in the corner, on which Harry and him had stacked piles of books and essays. In the back of her mind, she mentally rolled her eyes. Of course, they hadn’t finished their homework.

“Was patrol with Malfoy as awful as we thought?” She gave a noncommittal sigh which Harry took for annoyance. “That bad, huh? What a git,” he shook his head. He and Ron then launched into a conversation about how much they hated Draco Malfoy. Hermione did not listen. She was still deep in thought, her thoughts swimming as if she were looking at them from the surface of a pensive: slippery and liquid and not quite fully formed.

“You alright, Hermione?” Ron asked, snapping her back to reality.

“Fine,” she answered half-heartedly. “Just dead tired. I think I’m going to head to bed.”

She climbed the stairs to the 5th year girls’ dormitory, and told herself she would tell the boys about Umbridge’s conversation in the morning. Right now, she was too preoccupied with thoughts of a certain Slytherin prefect to think about anything else. As she crawled into bed and closed the curtains of her four-poster, she found herself clinging to a small bit of naive hope. It did seem like Draco was serious when he kissed her. Maybe, just maybe, people could change for the better, even people as entrenched in the pureblood movement as Draco Malfoy.

She should have known it was silly to hope for such things.

[jesussavedevenme]

Headcanons

These are a bunch of headcanons centered mostly around Bracken.

On festival nights, Bracken makes Kendra stay in the fairy realm because he's terrified something will happen to her. Originally she had protested, saying she could handle herself and didn't want to be a burden. But one look into his eyes, shows the poorly hidden fears, and her resolve shatters into a million tiny pieces. And she definitely feels safer and sleeps sounder without the terrifying sounds, not to mention in the arms of her unicorn.

While unicorns don't need a lot of sleep, they do need some sleep. Sometimes Bracken will get caught up in his duties and neglect to sleep until he's on the verge of passing out. Kendra watches him in his uncharacteristic, drowsy state with a mixture of concern and amusement. The usually quiet unicorn talks nonstop trying to keep awake and his gracefulness, as well as flawless coordination, are replaced with, unusual clumsiness. Kendra thinks he looks adorable with his wrinkled clothes and messy hair. Her heart melts when he looks at her with clouded, sleepy, blue eyes. These moments are rare, and he usually doesn't remember them, but Kendra cherishes them.

Very rarely is Bracken truly tired, but when he is, he sleeps like a rock. No one can wake him. But no matter how tired he is his protectiveness remains. So when he truly sleeps the only thing known to jolt him out of sleep quickly, is when Kendra leaves the room.  The couple sleeps with Kendra pulled very close to him, if not on top of him, wrapped protectively in his arms. So when Kendra moves, Bracken takes notice.  No matter how tired he is, Bracken will immediately follow his princess, taking care of her before bringing them both back to the comfort of their bed. Determined not to let sleep stop him from taking care of Kendra. Because everyone knows, protective Bracken is a force to be reckoned with.

Bracken absolutely despises the prince of the fair folk, Garreth. And not just for the obvious reasons. He had met Garreth centuries before while accompanying his mother for a visit. He had quickly learned that despite his facade of smiles and innocence, he was a snooty, spiteful, stuck up, boy who did not hold women in the esteem that they should be held. He thought he could take what he wanted, when he wanted it. Saying no was nit an option. So needless to say when he found out that Garreth had taken a liking to Kendra, he was not very happy. He had found out when he found the boy trying to back Kendra into a corner and force her to be with him. At that point Bracken, no longer cared about how a prince was supposed to behave, because this was Kendra and he would not let her be mistreated. Garreth found himself thrown across the room as Bracken made a show of making sure Kendra was alright. Evening using pet names such as princess and love before kissing her head. Bracken knew no matter what he couldn't harm Garreth physically without starting a war. Luckily he didn't have to because as Garreth would soon discover, shadowcharmers are every bit as protective as unicorns, maybe more. (I may write a fic about this one because I love the idea, but please let me know if that's something you want.)

Kendra sleepwalks. When Bracken first found out he had been terrified, having no clue what was happening. Why she was walking around, bumping into things, but not answering him. it shocked him when eventually Kendra curled up on the floor and went back to sleep. He quickly rushed to wake her up so he could figure out what had happened, and she had explained to him about her sleepwalking. Fortunately Bracken was calmer and no longer freaked out over it. Unfortunately, he became a whole different level of protective. At the slightest movement from her he would be up and wondering if she needed help, there was even a time when he monitored her sleep patterns so he could know when she was going to sleepwalk to try and prevent it. Eventually Kendra talked to him about it and forced him to relax a little bit, but he still watched worried she would hurt herself.

[quinnybee-writes]

Title: Fire Meet Gasoline

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia

Rating: T+

Part: 7/?

Story Summary: A chance encounter between a villain and vigilante leads to an unwise deal made between unlikely allies; an unwise deal made between unlikely allies ends in a final stand neither would have ever dared to take on alone. Together, though, they just might have a fighting chance.

Part 7 Summary: Hizashi takes the night off to spend time with some new faces and some old mistakes.

Part 1 on  Tumblr / AO3

Part 2 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 3 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 4 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 5 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 6 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 7 on AO3

“Go-od morning, caller, what can I do for you at this early, early hour?”

It was almost three AM and his midnight coffee was wearing off fast, but Hizashi tried to keep the pep up in his voice for all the late shift workers, insomniacs, and other assorted night owls who tuned in and kept his ratings up.

“Heyo!” Hizashi held back a groan and he recognized Haru’s voice on the other end of the line. “I was hoping maybe I could pick your brain about a problem I’ve been having with a certain brother of mine.”

“I usually don’t give out advice until Friday night’s show,” Hizashi said with a meaningful sharpness, “but I’ll give it a whirl. What’s up?”

“I need some advice on how to get my brother to stop being such a mope-ass and come shittalk his ex over drinks,” Haru said brightly.

Hizashi pursed his lips, rolling his eyes. “Sounds like a real dilemma,” he intoned. “Are you sure he’s moping, or is he maybe just not interested in going out?”

“You don’t know my brother,” Haru replied, her grin obvious in her voice. Hizashi scoffed, clapping a hand over his mouth just in time to make it sound like a blip of static. “He’s usually the first one in line to get white girl schwasted and sing karaoke to get over some dipshit he’s dated, but so far every time I’ve told him he should come out with me and some friends from work he keeps ghosting me.” She paused, then added, “And it was kind of my fault he went out with this particular dipshit, so it’s on me to make up for encouraging bad life choices, y’know?”

“By encouraging other bad life choices?” Hizashi asked, raising an eyebrow even though she couldn’t see.

“By dragging him out of his rut before he fossilizes,” Haru corrected.

Hizashi rolled his eyes, grinning in spite of himself. “I mean, it sounds to me like you have the right idea. Maybe try asking one more time,” he said.

“I dunno, he can be pretty stubborn,” Haru said, fully teasing now.

“Thirteenth time’s the charm, right? The worst he can do is say no,” Hizashi said, texting Okay, okay, message received. Where and when? to Haru as he spoke.

“We’ll see. Thanks, dude. Hey, while I’ve got you on the line, can I make a quick song request?”

“Lay it on me.”

“‘Heroes’, by Bowie,” Haru said, her voice turning a little soft as she said it. Hizashi smiled to himself.

“A favorite of his?” he said.

“Yeah. I think if he’s listening it might cheer him up.”

“Sure thing, caller. I wouldn’t worry about things too much. Sounds like you know your brother pretty well.”

The family joke was that Haruko and Hizashi were actually twins, he’d just gotten lost and showed up three years late. It might as well have been true; both were tall and quick like their father and had their mother’s blond hair and sharp tongue. Haru loved Hinako with all the closeness and affection you had for someone you had shared a uterus with, but there was no denying Hizashi had been her best friend from birth. They’d been attached at the hip basically from the moment toddler Haru had been told she had a new baby brother on the way. So when Hizashi called her in a breathless whirl to say his results letter from UA High had come in the mail, Haru had dropped everything and rushed home.

Hizashi was just about the smartest person Haru had ever met, with amazing recall for the tiniest details and a near-infinite energy for learning new things. Applying that energy, however, had been his downfall from the off; all the brains and ambition in the world didn’t make up for his attention issues, Quirk mishaps, and inability to connect socially with his classmates. He’d spent most of upper elementary school floundering academically, skating by at the bare minimum level to pass in no particular direction.

Visiting Haru at UA during her first year culture festival, however, had been a revelation for him. Seeing the school and all it had to offer someone with a powerful Quirk and a brilliant mind had finally been a tangible goal Hizashi could focus on. He’d immediately buckled down, applying himself to his schoolwork in a way Haru had never seen from him before and he never looked back. He’d blazed through middle school at the top of his class, easily securing his place in the UA entrance exam. No one had any doubts he had blown the written exam out of the water, but it was the practical application exam that really counted when you wanted to be a hero.

And so now here the two of them were, sitting on Hizashi’s bedroom floor with the unopened results envelope between them. Hizashi was vibrating in place, his leg thumping under him and making the rest of him shake. Haru kept looking from him to the envelope and back again, the palpable waves of excitement and nerves rolling off of him making her just as keyed up as he was.

“Want me to do it?” Haru asked, half-teasing.

Hizashi shook his head, still bouncing. “I got it, I just…” he trailed off, the first spots of self-doubt starting to creep in around the edges of his mood. Haru decided to cut that off at the pass, picking the envelope up by one end and holding the other out to Hizashi like it was a wishbone.

“Count of three,” she said. Hizashi nodded, taking his end in both trembling hands. “Okay. One--”

There was a sharp sound of ripping paper as Hizashi jumped the gun and pulled back his end. A single sheet of UA letterhead stationery dropped onto the floor. Haru’s spirit sank as she thought of the thick sheaf of paperwork and the holo-disc acceptance message that had come for her three years ago. Her hope dwindled down to embers as Hizashi shook the letter open. His anxious excitement went out like a snuffed candle, expression falling from eager anticipation to confusion to a blank emptiness as his eyes scanned down the page. His hands were shaking again, clenched around the edges of the paper. His breathing sharpened suddenly into the quick, barking wheezes that usually heralded an asthma attack.

“Hizashi?” Haru asked tentatively, reaching out toward him. Hizashi pulled away violently, snapping to his feet. He looked down at her, breath hissing between clenched teeth. His eyes were wild and unfocused; he looked very young and very lost. “Oh god, Zash,” Haru breathed.

Before she could do anything else, Hizashi bolted from the room and out of the apartment at a breakneck sprint. Haru followed after him as fast as she could, calling after him as she heard him thundering down the building’s staircase. She finally caught him up to him as they both exploded out the building’s side door and onto the street. Hizashi staggered a few steps, barely getting his feet under himself before the next step came. He crumpled forward, back arched into a hard C shape and his shoulders heaving. Haru’s eyes went wide and she clapped her hands over her ears just before Hizashi let out a raw, ear-splitting scream loud enough to make the street jump under their feet. All of the streetlamps flickered and flared as the shockwave hit them and the evening came alive with the cacophonous sound of every car alarm in a two-block radius going off. Hizashi sucked in a hard breath that escaped him as a croaking hiccup as his legs finally gave out. He collapsed onto his knees in the middle of the street, hands buried in his hair as he let out raw, halting sobs. Haru ran to him, wrapping her arms around him and letting Hizashi cling to her and howl into her shoulder. He’d dropped the letter when he fell, and in the dim light from the resetting streetlamps Haru could just make out what it said.

Dear Mr. Hizashi Yamada,

Thank you for your interest in UA High School’s Hero Course academic program. We appreciate your diligence and dedication to completing all required steps of our application and evaluation process.

However, during the course of the practical application exam, an occurrence of your Quirk usage resulted in a one-block section of our video monitoring system being taken offline for a period of approximately 92.8 seconds. Due to a lack of additional coverage angles in this area, we are unable to validate the nine (9) exam points that were registered to you during this outage period.

Unfortunately unvalidated points are not able to be applied to your exam score, bringing your total practical exam score below our passing threshold level.

We thank you again for your interest, and wish you the best of luck in all future endeavors.

The letter was signed by Principal Nedzu and a slew of other names that Haru vaguely recognized as being on the admittance board staff.

Bastards, Haru thought savagely, pulling Hizashi even closer as she stroked his hair. They had no right to dock him that many points over their own carelessness. If that was the kind of regard they wanted to show applicants, then to hell with them anyway. It would serve them right when Hizashi applied somewhere else and became a top-ranked hero all on his own.

But Hizashi didn’t apply anywhere else. UA had been his first and only choice; it had been his dream. Now the dream was gone, taking all of Hizashi’s spark with it. He fell back into his old habits, doing the bare minimum to not fail his classes while his grades toppled around him. Any time not spent sleepwalking through his schoolwork or being nudged into the bare basics of self-care was spent shut up in his room in silence, eyes focused on nothing. Not even their parents’ offer for Hizashi to get a fresh start by moving in with their maternal grandparents and finishing his schooling in America had gotten any kind of reaction out of him. Hizashi had just shrugged, giving a hollow-eyed monosyllable of agreement before asking to be excused so that he could go pack.

The day after his middle school graduation Haru had given her brother the tightest hug she could muster and told him to call her the second he needed anything. Hizashi didn’t respond, turning and trudging listlessly away from her onto the plane.

When he’d accepted Haru’s invitation to “drinks with friends from work”, Hizashi had unfortunately forgotten that Haru had two jobs. Instead of the gaggle of yoga instructors and personal trainers he’d been expecting to meet up with, Hizashi rounded the corner to see his sister standing amid a group of her fellow pro heroes in their civilian finest. He half-recognized most of them by build or face shape, but there was no mistaking the broad frame and wild shock of blue-white hair of the man currently laughing over something on Haru’s phone: the number six pro hero and UA teacher, Loud Cloud himself. A shrill alarm of self-preservation went off in Hizashi’s brain, screaming for him to beg off and leave before things got any worse. Before he could do more than panic and stare, however, Haru spotted him and waved him over.

“Zash! You made it!” Haru said, beaming. Hizashi smiled back weakly and waved as he trudged over, trying very hard to not make eye contact with anyone but her.

“Sorry I’m late,” Hizashi muttered.

Haru waved a hand dismissively. “We only just got here,” she said. “Everyone, this my brother Hizashi. Zash, this is everyone.” She rattled off a laundry list of names that came and went before Hizashi could put them to memory. What did catch his attention, however, was the fact that his presence brought the group to an even number of people. His brilliant mess of a sister had invited him, a multi-platinum wanted criminal, on a group date with some of the most powerful and respected pro heroes in the city. Hizashi bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep in the snort of helpless laughter caught in the back of his throat.

The ploy seemed to become even more obvious as Haru shooed Hizashi down to the opposite end of the table from herself, making sure he sat down across from Loud Cloud (real name Something-Or-Other Shirakumo). Hizashi could feel a nervous sweat beginning to gather on the back of his neck as Shirakumo cheerfully poured him a drink. There was no reason for him to freak out, Hizashi reminded himself sternly. No one at this table save for Haru had any idea he dabbled on the wrong side of the tracks, and not even she knew the half of it. All he had to do was put on a good face and avoid getting “white girl schwasted”, as Haru had so eloquently put it, and he’d be fine.

“So, what do you do, Hizashi?” Shirakumo asked, making Hizashi jump.

“He’s a self-made man!” Haru piped up from the far end of the table. Hizashi rolled his eyes at her.

“Uh, radio,” Hizashi answered for himself. “I’m the operations manager over at Asahi Radio, and I run the overnight show every couple of weeks if they need something to fill the slot.”

“That’s why you sound so familiar!” Shirakumo said, snapping his fingers triumphantly. “‘Put Your Hands Up Radio’, right? We have it on all the time in the office when we have to pull graveyard shifts.”

Hizashi grinned in spite of himself, a flattered heat in his cheeks. “My sister has a way of inflicting her bad taste on other people,” he joked apologetically. Haru blew a loud raspberry at him but Shirakumo just laughed, shaking his head.

“Nah, we’ve been listening for years, even before Haru hired on. It’s a good pep-up when it’s two AM and you’re still chained to your desk.”

Hizashi couldn’t help preening a little. “Glad to be of service,” he said, bowing.

“How long have you been in radio?” Shirakumo asked.

“Uh.” Hizashi paused, trying to do math despite the ebbing panic scrambling his concentration. “Twelve years now?” he said, almost sure that was right. “I did an internship right after I graduated high school and then I ended up just kind of sticking around. They haven’t gotten rid of me yet, so I must be doing something right.”

The Hizashi that stepped back off the plane after three years in Boston wasn’t the same one who had left, but Haru was glad to see the change. Hizashi saw her waiting inside the doors to the baggage claim and ran full-tilt through the crowd to scoop her up in a tight bearhug.

“Gah! Break my ribs, why dontcha?” Haru laughed, hugging him just as tightly. Hizashi had sprouted up while he was abroad, towering over her by at least three inches even without the tall fluff of hair gelled up over his forehead. He was still the same grinning dork she remembered, though, from his chunky hipster glasses to the way he immediately pulled her into a second hug just as tight as the first.

“I missed you so much, though!” Hizashi protested. Haru grinned, squeezing him back.

“Yeah, me too,” she said. “Now go get your bags and let’s hop-to,” she added. “I’m not the only one who missed your ugly mug.”

Hizashi chattered the entire cab ride back to their parents’ apartment, barely containing his excitement at being home. Haru kept thinking back to the sallow-faced, wilted scrap of a boy she’d seen off at the airport compared to the sunny freckled giant on the seat beside her and had to scrub the corners of her eyes dry before she made a fool of herself. Hizashi made no such attempt to contain his emotions as he walked into the surprise welcome back party everyone had put together for him. They buried him in affection, glad to finally have their family whole again. The gap in their ranks had almost fallen to the back of their collective minds in his absence but having Hizashi back made his absence sharper in retrospect. Hizashi spent the night regaling them with stories about American high school life that sounded to Haru like something out of a grimdark John Hughes movie but he swore up and down weren’t exaggerations. He kept in motion as he spoke, buzzing around the room to emphasize his points with some kind of elaborating miming or clearing away dishes or just pacing the room in the flurry of enthusiasm he always had when he was entertaining an audience.

Late into a story about the hellish test of fortitude that a square dancing unit in gym class was when you were in the middle of a growth spurt, Hizashi was interrupted mid-thought by the phone ringing.

“I got it, Ma,” Hizashi said, waving for their mother to sit back down as he headed off to grab the handset in the hall. “Yah-mada residence!” Haru heard him beaming into the phone. She caught their mother’s eye and they shared a snort and knowing grin. He’d been back all of a few hours and was already running full steam ahead, Haru thought, shaking her head. She could pretend to be disapproving, but there was nothing that made her feel more relieved than knowing he knew he was finally home.

She expected him to come loping back down the hallway after a few minutes after confirming to their grandparents he was safe, but the moment of absence began to stretch out uncomfortably. Haru got up and followed him, a sudden sinking in her chest at the thought that Hizashi’s cheer had been for their sake and he’d taken the excuse to break off and be upset on his own.

“Hey, didja fall in?” Haru asked, trying to keep her voice light as she poked her head around the corner. Hizashi visibly jumped at the sound, fumbling the phone’s handset before slamming it down into the cradle.

“Sorry, what?” Hizashi asked breathlessly. He looked very pale all of a sudden and his eyes had a faraway, glassy sheen to them.

“Everything okay, Zash?” Haru asked, the clench in her chest tightening another notch.

“Huh? Oh! Oh, yeah, I’m good. Wrong number,” Hizashi said, gesturing vaguely at the phone. “Got kind of shitty when I told them. Some people, right?” He gave a slightly unsteady scoff, rolling his eyes. Haru raised an eyebrow.

“Uh...huh,” she said slowly. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Totally,” Hizashi said, brushing past her back towards the living room. “Anyway, where was I?”

The odd hiccup in Hizashi’s mood kept eating at Haru over the next few days, all the more because of how otherwise normal he was acting. He spent his days out of the apartment, nominally looking for a job now that he was settled, and his evenings scouring want ads during commercial breaks while they all watched television together. He was buoyant and excitable, especially the night he came home exclaiming that the webcast talk show he’d spent the last few years running as a hobby had landed him a paid internship at one of the downtown radio stations. Everything was smiles and normality with occasional bouts of especially good news, and that more than anything was putting her on edge.

Hizashi begged off to bed early one night, claiming he wanted to get to sleep early before his internship started the next day. Slowly the living room emptied without Hizashi’s inexhaustible energy to keep them awake. Haru dozed off on the sofa in the middle of texting one of her friends, too lazy to drag herself to bed.

She was shaken awake by the sound of her keychains clattering together as someone took them off the hook by the door. Haru peered blearily over the back of the sofa just in time to see the back of Hizashi’s head disappearing out the front door. Her heart sank as she checked the time: two-thirty AM. A tired, scared part of her wanted to believe it was just nerves keeping him up and he was going out for some air. The look on his face after the phone call at his party came to the front of her mind, though, and wouldn’t let her put it aside.

Haru followed Hizashi at tailing distance, having to quickly duck behind whatever cover she could find as he got turned around and had to retrace his steps. Another nail in the coffin for this being a quick trip out for some fresh air; between his terrible sense of direction and having been gone for three years Hizashi would know better than to wander around unfamiliar territory in the middle of the night. Unless of course, Haru thought as she crouched behind a dumpster and watched her brother knock on the employee entrance of Hanajima’s Garden Supply and Boutique Florist, he had planned to meet with someone.

She tiptoed forward as Hizashi was waved in and the heavy steel door shut behind him. Her heart rattled painfully in her throat as she did her best to peek through the slats of the vent in the door. Haru only caught a flash of Hizashi’s hair and the back of his neon blue windbreaker as he disappeared deeper into the shop. Haru chewed her lip, a fist of panic threatening to squeeze the breath out of her. She wished she’d been thinking clearly enough in the moment to grab her phone on her way out. The smart thing to do would be to go find a patrolling hero or a police station or at least a payphone nearby, but the thought of leaving Hizashi alone to fend for himself if something went wrong made her stomach seize. No one on the up-and-up had meetings in the dimly-lit backroom of a flower shop at three in the morning, that much she was sure about.

Haru shifted from foot to foot, mind racing at a hundred miles an hour but getting nowhere. Hizashi was going to have to tell her the truth now; he couldn’t keep up his facade when he’d been caught red-handed doing something this level of sketchy. She would just have to stick around and find out what the hell he was thinking and the two of them would figure out where to go from here. Haru slowly backed away from the door in case someone inside the shop was watching and crouched down with her back against the shop’s wall to watch the door and wait for Hizashi. She tried to stay calm but as the minutes stretched into decades she had more and more time to stew on the audacity of it all. She and Hizashi had been best friends since they were babies, they’d never kept secrets from one another. It was against every tennant of the unspoken code of trust the two of them held sacred. Now here he was, barely a month back from doing god knew what in America and sneaking around behind everyone’s back. Behind her back. By the time Hizashi stumbled back out the employee door, pushed over the threshold by someone inside, Haru’s temper had risen to a barely-restrained boil.

Hizashi sighed, sniffling hard and scrubbing under his nose with the back of his wrist as he turned to walk away. Haru followed him as he reached the sidewalk, a whole slew of new terrible thoughts sprouting in her mind in the wake of that gesture. Hizashi’s mind seemed thoroughly elsewhere as he walked, not reacting to the sound of Haru’s footsteps behind him until her patience snapped and she spoke.

“Funny,” Haru said, relishing the way Hizashi jumped and staggered around to face her, “this doesn’t look like being in bed by ten because you have work in the morning.” She crossed her arms and channeled her mother’s most intimidating “all right, start talking” eyebrow raise.

“H-Haru--you--what are you doing here?” Hizashi spluttered. His eyes were wide and scared and there was a dribble of blood trickling down from his nose. Concern sparked in Haru’s chest, but she did her best to push it aside for the moment. She could afford to be worried about him once she knew what she was worried about.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Haru said tartly.

“N-Nothing, it’s just. It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” Hizashi rambled, using a lot of words to say absolutely nothing. Haru bristled.

“Hizashi Yamada, I swear to god--” she began.

“Haru, seriously!” Hizashi snapped, cutting her off. His voice cracked high at the end the way it always did when he was trying to keep himself from crying. Haru realized he was shaking all over, pale and wild-eyed in a way that was horribly familiar.

“Hizashi, is this about that phone call?” Haru asked, her tone softened but no less stern. Hizashi flinched, then nodded hesitantly. He dropped his eyes away from hers, arms wrapping protectively across his chest.

“Mr. Hanajima called. He. He thought I was Dad, and.” Hizashi broke off, shaking his head. “Mom and Dad were in trouble, but I took care of it. Just forget it, okay?” His voice was shaky and pleading.

“What do you mean, they’re in trouble?” Haru asked, a cold chill running up her spine.

“Were, they were in trouble, but it’s fine now, I swear!” Hizashi said. He tried to smile reassuringly but the faltering expression just made him look more scared. “They just. They owed Mr. Hanajima some money, and they were late on payments. He said he was going to have to find a new way to enforce the deadlines if they didn’t pay it all off soon, so I told him I’d take care of it instead.”

“What? Why?” Haru asked. Her tone came out too sharp again and Hizashi flinched away from her again.

“On the phone he kept talking about how it was irresponsible to borrow so much money without a good way to pay it back,” Hizashi mumbled slowly. “And how the university board and Mom’s promoters would want to know about how reckless their employees were being. And how the hero certification board would want to think twice about hiring out someone with parents who were so financially unsound, and the medical board and the admittance committees for all the high schools in town and...and the whole stupid thing is my fault anyway, so I handled it, okay? It’s no big deal.” He pushed the last part out in one rapid, shaky breath.

Haru stared at him. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing; her parents had never mentioned anything about money problems to her, least of all the kind that required the help of some racketeering florist. “You lost me,” Haru admitted flatly. “I mean, I get why you’re worried, but. Mom and Dad are grown adults, Zash. If they felt like they were in that kind of trouble they would tell us--me especially! I literally went to school for this kind of thing. How is any of this your fault?”

“What do you think they needed a whole lot of quick money for, Haru?” Hizashi asked, a snippy tone of exasperation coming into his voice. “For their adult daughters who have their own jobs and pay their own bills? For--For the preteens who are acing every one of their classes and are gonna have the world on a string after they graduate? Or maybe it was for their fuckup middle child who decided he needed to have a breakdown over not getting something he wanted!” His voice rose to a frantic, angry shout, echoing loudly enough in the early-morning silence to rattle the glass in a nearby shop window. Hizashi clapped his hands over his mouth, shoulders heaving as he breathed.

The last flicker of anger went out of Haru as she watched him struggle against the impulse to scream. She wondered how long that had been boiling under his skin, waiting to emerge. “Zash, that wasn’t your fault either,” she said gently. “They made a stupid, bad decision and you got screwed. You’re allowed to be upset over something like that.”

Hizashi scoffed, hands dropping to wrap around himself again. “Two hundred forty million yen’s worth of upset?” he asked hollowly.

Haru’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“It costs a lot of money to raise your kid from six thousand miles away,” Hizashi said bitterly. He shook his head hard and looked back up at Haru. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said. “I already said I’d take care of it. It’ll take a while to pay off, but I’ve got plenty of time. It’s fine.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself and Haru at the same time. Neither of them were buying it if the current mood was anything to go by.

“Zash,” Haru said slowly. She tried to think of a way to phrase her objection as something softer than “don’t be stupid”. “What are you supposed to do if they decide that paying them back isn’t good enough?” she said finally. “Just keep working for them until you die?”

“I. I dunno,” Hizashi mumbled, shrugging. “I guess I’ll figure that out if it happens. Right now all that matters is making things right for Mom and Dad, and I did that.”

Haru sighed. An exhausted, selfish part of her wished it had been something more straightforwardly wrong that had them hashing things out in the early morning air. Something she could feel justified in yelling at him about, at the very least. “You aren’t going to tell them about this, are you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Hizashi shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. He hesitated, then asked, “Are you?”

Haru snorted out an exasperated laugh. “What good would it do?” she asked, throwing her hands up. “They didn’t want to tell us, what good is it going to do to let them know we know by getting them wrapped up in it all over again? I’d run your dumb ass to the cops, but at this point they’re probably in Hanajima’s pocket already.” She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Just. I want you to promise me something, okay? I’ll keep out of it for now, but you have to swear to me the millisecond that this gets too big for you to handle on your own, you let me help you, got it?”

Hizashi looked uncomfortable giving his word on something like that, but Haru didn’t relent. She set her jaw and held out her hand with the pinky extended. He hesitated a long moment, then linked his pinky with hers and they shook on it.

“I promise,” Hizashi said quietly, meeting her eye again. Haru nodded authoritatively, shaking one last time before letting go.

“Okay,” she said, letting her breath out slowly. “That internship you told us about. Is that a for-real thing, or was it a cover for this whole...thing?” Haru asked, waving a vague hand to encompass the tangled mess the night had turned into

One corner of Hizashi’s mouth quirked up and he brightened very slightly. “Yeah, it’s real. It really does start tomorrow, too. Er, today, I guess,” he corrected himself awkwardly.

Haru nodded. “We should get home, then,” she said, turning him the right direction down the sidewalk. She took his hand as they walked, relieved that his hand was shaking just as much as hers.

Haru hated feeling like she couldn’t trust Hizashi’s word that his internship was real, but that was exactly why she was in the front lobby of Asahi Radio at lunchtime the next day. The receptionist told her it would be a few minutes until the interns were free, so Haru wandered off to kill time reading the wall of award plaques they had on display.

Haru heard her brother’s cackling laughter trickling down the hallway even before she saw him. Hizashi came strolling up to the front with a whole entourage of kids around his age, arms full of boxes and in the middle of one of his many stories about living in America. He beamed as he saw her, almost dropping his boxes as he tried to wave. The interns went in a side room with their load and were dismissed by the woman overseeing the work-study. Haru grinned in a combination of relief and genuine pride as Hizashi jogged over.

“Hey, kid,” Haru said, reaching out and ruffling his hair. “Thought I’d take you out to lunch to celebrate your first day. Pick something expensive, it’s a special occasion.”

“You’re gonna regret that,” Hizashi teased brightly as they walked out the front door. Haru privately doubted that was the part of all this that she’d come to regret.

“Have you guys been having to pull a lot of all-nighters?” Hizashi asked, trying his best to make the question sound casual.

Shirakumo frowned slightly, nodding. “I wish we weren’t,” he said, “but it seems like every time we get a handle on a case we’re working on, three more complications crop up overnight.”

“Which is the boss’s nice way of saying if any of us meet Mockingbird face-to-face, we’re going to kick his teeth in,” the woman sitting on Shirakumo’s left said, jostling Shirakumo with her elbow.

It took more self-control than Hizashi thought he possessed three beers into the night to hold back a bark of laughter at that. He waited until he thought he could speak without giggling, then asked, “He’s still active? All of our news contacts are at loose ends trying to come up with anything new about him.”

“That is a whole-ass mood,” the woman said, nodding. “Hey. Haru says you’re pretty brainy,” she added, pointing speculatively at Hizashi.

“I guess so,” Hizashi said with a shrug.

“Maybe you can riddle this out for us,” the woman said. “Say you were tracking a criminal, goes by a code name that rhymes with ‘blocking herd’. The guy by definition is a lone operator, and he follows a pretty standard pattern of ebb and flow in what he does. Then one day he falls off the face of the planet. Not a peep out of him. Well, other than a couple tangents that people blame him for, but you can’t pin ‘em on him, so they don’t really count. Then right in the middle of that, suddenly there’s a whole new face who shows up and causes a scene, supposedly on the first guy’s behalf. But there’s still no sign of the guy himself in any of it. What say you?”

“I would say maybe you need to switch to water for a while, Misa,” Shirakumo said meaningfully, tugging the half-full glass of beer out of her hand and swapping it for a glass of water. Misa frowned at him, but chugged it obediently. “None of that constitutes an official statement from the agency or anyone affiliated with it, by the way,” Shirakumo added to Hizashi. He was still smiling, but there was a definite “or else” hiding in his tone.

Hizashi nodded dismissively. “Obviously. Just a hypothetical over drinks with friends,” he agreed. He took a long sip of his drink, pretending to be thinking the situation over. The fact that Aizawa was now officially implicated caused a sharp squirm of guilt in his gut, but he did his best to ignore it.

“I see what you mean about one problem being solved causing three more in the process,” he said finally with a thoughtful nod. “Assuming the new face is legitimate, that opens up a couple options. It could mean your main suspect is getting cocky and adding to his ranks, or he’s getting scared and wants some insurance that he won’t go down alone,“ he continued, ticking the options off on his fingers. “Either way, you at least have your reason for him staying quiet.”

“How so?” Shirakumo asked. He was looking more closely at Hizashi now, an impressed interest clear in his expression.

“Why would he risk showing his face if his pets are walking around doing his wet work?” Hizashi explained, wondering too late if that skirted too close to the truth. “Cockiness leads to laziness, fear leads to paranoia,” he added, weighing the words in his hands. “Either way, not great. And then you also have to consider the option that the whole thing’s a lie, and the supposed new muscle is just a contractor for a competitor or someone your guy pissed off who’s trying to get him into extra trouble by pulling stunts in his name behind his back. If so, who’s behind that?” He shrugged, very sure now that everyone was looking at him that he should have kept his mouth more full of booze and less full of words. “Sounds like a total headache. No matter what solution you’re looking at you’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

“Damn,” someone muttered from the other end of the table.

“Told you,” Haru replied, preening. Hizashi shot her a look that she cheerfully ignored.

“So, we’re hiring this dude for our analysis team, like, yesterday, right?” Misa asked Shirakumo. Hizashi laughed awkwardly, shaking his head.

“Thanks, but nah. I’m not really the hero type, I’m just a DJ with an overactive imagination. I’ll leave the crime fighting to you guys and just use the talents I was given to help wherever I can,” Hizashi said, raising his glass in a salute down the table.

Haru drummed her heel against the floor, arms crossed tight across her chest and her back against the closed door of her room. Hizashi was sitting at her desk, eyebrows tightly knit together and a hand over his mouth as he re-read the handwritten letter in front of him. Haru’s fist was clenched around the envelope it had come in so tightly she could practically feel her parent’s names written on it along with the return address of Hanajima’s Garden Supply and Boutique Florist.

“This is insane,” Hizashi said finally, his voice hollow.

“Not the word I would have used, but. Yeah,” Haru sighed. She was doing everything she could to suppress the urge to say “I told you so”, but the words kept bunching up in the back of her throat if she thought about them too long. She could only thank her lucky stars she’d been the first one to get home and check the mail today. Right at the top of the pile had been the letter from Hanajima. Haru had snatched it up and ripped it open before she even bothered to take off her shoes. Haru had already been dialing Hizashi to come home before she reached the end of the letter; all it had taken to get him moving was the word “Hanajima”. The two of them had barricaded themselves in Haru’s room, reading the letter one after the other in tense silence.

Dear Yamadas,

It has been quite some time since we last corresponded, and I wish that it could be for a better reason.

Some years ago, you were granted forgiveness on a large lump-sum loan debt to me due to outside assistance. However, it had recently come to my attention that, putting aside the forgiven amount, there was unaccounted for interest remaining on the amount registered as paid off which has in turn gathered interest in the intervening years.

Per our previous agreement, as this amount was accrued prior to your loan forgiveness, the sum total of seven hundred eighty-thousand yen remains on your account in need of repayment. I understand that you may need some time to gather such an amount. I am willing to work out an attenuated payment plan similar to your previous repayment schedule, should you need such accommodations.

I hope this letter finds you all well, and I look forward to hearing from you regarding the issue I have outlined above.

Sincerely, Keijiro Hanajima

Hizashi sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. “He’s got to know he can’t pull this over on me,” he said, thumbnail scraping irritably at the corner of his mouth. “I’m too deep in his money, I know this is wrong.”

“He was probably counting on Mom and Dad not telling us,” Haru said. “He knows they didn’t tell us about the loan, and that you still haven’t told them that you’re the one that got them off the hook.”

Hizashi’s expression clouded over even more at that. He chewed the inside of his cheek, then shook his head. “I’ll take care of it.” He said it like that was the last of the conversation, holding out a hand to Haru for her to give him the envelope as he dialed a number into his phone. He looked up at her when she didn’t hand it to him, flexing his fingers in a “dude, c’mon” sort of getsure. “Mr. Hanajima, it’s Yamada. Yessir, I’m well, how are you?” he said, glaring at Haru when she moved the envelope to her far hand.

“Put it on speaker,” Haru mouthed, signing the words as well to make sure he got the point. Hizashi widened his eyes meaningfully at her as he shook his head sharply.

“I’m handling it,” he mouthed back. “Yessir, everything’s fine, I just had something to talk to you about if you have a minute,” he said brightly into the phone. Haru replied by signing “Not leaving. Speakerphone. Now.” and crossing her arms. Hizashi gritted his teeth, grudgingly putting his phone down on the desk and turning on speakerphone. He put his middle finger to his lips, reminding her to keep quiet and flipping her the bird all in one motion. Haru rolled her eyes at him but did her best to not to exist for the moment.

“I’d say there were better times, but I’m sure you’ll get to the point,” Hanajima was saying from the other end.

“Of course. It’s about a letter that was sent to my parents today,” Hizashi said. He was keeping his voice on the lighter end of neutral, but his expression was stormy and his leg had started thumping irritably.

There was a short silence on the other end of the line, then Hanajima asked in a pointedly calm voice, “Do you make a habit of reading other peoples’ mail?”

“Only when I assume from the return address that it’s mine,” Hizashi said, coldly chirpy. “There, uh. Seems to be a discrepancy between what I was told when I signed on and what you’re telling them in this letter, sir. Something about unforeseen interest?”

“I know my own business, Yamada,” Hanajima said coolly.

Haru barely held in a snort, rolling her eyes. “What a tool,” she mouthed to Hizashi, who bit back a grin and waved for her to keep still.

“I’d never dream to imply otherwise, sir,” Hizashi said. “It’s more a question of numbers. I’ve been keeping a log of my payments and theirs for a while now, sir, for my own records. There’s nothing that would add up to the kind of money you’re asking for.”

To Haru’s surprise, Hanajima gave a sardonic, almost patronizing snort of laughter. “I’m sure that’s how it is in your records,” he said. “It would be rather inconvenient for all of you if it suddenly happened that you owed an even greater sum to me than previously thought, wouldn’t it? But unfortunately sometimes that’s just how these things go.”

“With all due respect, sir--” Hizashi began, his thinning patience beginning to show in his tone.

“Which is a lot, Yamada, and I would hope you and your parents keep that fact in mind,” Hanajima said. “You have a diligent mind, Yamada, but human error can make numbers do a remarkable amount of things, particularly when there is a conflict of interest to spurr it along. Money is owed and money will be paid. That’s just business.”

Hizashi’s jaw went rigid, hands balling into tight fists on the desk. “Of course, sir,” he said through gritted teeth. “My mistake. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Hanajima agreed. Without any kind of pleasantry or signoff he hung up, leaving Hizashi seething in his wake.

Haru let out a long, low whistle. “That went well,” she muttered in a half-hearted attempt at levity. Hizashi didn’t reply, his eyes staring hard into the middle distance. He straightened up in the chair, coming to some grim decision.

“Haru?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“I need you to do me a favor,” Hizashi said as he stood up.

“What?” Haru asked warily. Hizashi fixed her with a determined stare. She had the sudden thought of how grown up he looked now; the past five years had taken the last of the adolescent roundness out of his features and made him all sharp angles and seriousness.

“When I go out tonight, don’t follow me,” Hizashi said.

“Zash,” Haru sighed, just on the edge of wheedling. Hizashi’s expression didn’t falter. Haru frowned, nodding in grudging agreement. “Fine. But you remember that promise you made me, got it? If this goes to shit, you call me,” she said, poking him meaningfully in the chest.

Hizashi’s mouth quirked up into a very slight smile. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a tight squeeze. “I know, I will. Everything’s going to be fine, I promise.”

“Oh my god, did you guys hear about what happened with Mr. Hanajima from the flower shop?” Hoshi asked a few days later over dinner. Haru’s head jerked up at the sound of the name, heart in her throat. She shot Hizashi a glance out of the corner of her eye, but he had his eyes locked on his plate as he calmly cut his steak into increasingly smaller pieces.

“Who’s that?” Hinako’s stepson Hitoshi piped up.

“An old friend of Nan and Jii-chan,” Hinako said, motioning for him to not get distracted and finish his dinner.

“What about him?” Haru asked as Hoshi all but vibrated in their chair with the barely-restrained excitement of a teenager with hot gossip to share.

“Okay, so get this: everybody thought he was just a florist or whatever, but he’s actually been running this huge money scheme out of his shop and loansharking all these people and has all these ties to, like, yakuza and stuff,” Hoshi said.

“What’s a yakersha?” Hitoshi asked around a mouthful of vegetables.

“It’s ‘yakuza’, don’t talk with your mouth full, and never mind,” Hinako’s wife Mara said, once again turning the eight-year-old’s attention back to his plate.

“Fumiko Nakamura from the second year class says she heard from her uncle that Hanajima lost it and just spilled everything to the cops over the phone,” Hiro added, catching the spark of his twin’s infectious energy. “They got him on tape and everything.”

“He totally got arrested right in front of me and Hiro while we were walking to school today, it was crazy!” Hoshi finished, eyes bright.

“He always seemed so...legitimate. You never do know with some people I suppose,” their father said haltingly with a slightly strained laugh. Their mother reached out and squeezed his hand.

Haru stared hard at Hizashi, not so much as blinking until he finally relented and looked up at her. He met her gaze smiling calmly with nothing behind his eyes. It was disconcerting how easily he could switch himself off like that.

“How?” Haru signed to him, using the smallest motions she could.

“Don’t worry. It’s over,” Hizashi replied. Haru frowned, having had about enough of his sideways, noncommittal answers.

“You two all right down there?” their father asked before Haru could press him for details.

“I took the last popover and she needed to call me a few things she can’t say in front of the shortstack,” Hizashi said brightly, grinning over at Hitoshi.

“Language,” their father teased with a faux-stern look at Haru.

“He started it,” Haru groused, sticking her tongue out at Hizashi. Hizashi gave her a tight smile of thanks for playing along. Haru rolled her eyes but nodded back. This would just get added to the mounting pile of things about her brother she was never going to get a straight answer about, she supposed moodily.

“It was really cool to finally meet you, dude,” Shirakumo said as he and Hizashi walked down the street towards the train station. “Haru talks about you all the time, I think we were all kind of chomping at the bit to finally meet the mythical Hizashi.”

“I am pretty great,” Hizashi joked, tossing his hair over his shoulder. Shirakumo let out a loud, snorty laugh. It was really no wonder he was such a popular hero, Hizashi thought. His height and broadness gave the impression of an intense bearing when you first met him, but it was quickly balanced out by his open ultra-honest personality. Even the jagged scars that cut through his right eyebrow and down the side of his face seemed charismatic in their own way, giving him a well-traveled, swashbuckling kind of charm.

“Sorry about Misa jumping on you like that, by the way,” Shirakumo went on with a self-conscious grimace. “It’s been so long since we’ve taken a break from work that I think we’ve all kind of forgotten how to switch off and chill out.”

“No worries, I know how that goes. You should ask Haru what it’s like trying to get me to shut up when we get someone interesting in the studio for an interview,” Hizashi replied, waving the apology away. “I end up annoying myself half the time.”

Shirakumo snort-laughed again. “I dunno, that seems pretty interesting to me. Maybe we could grab something to eat sometime and you can tell me about it instead.”

He said it so smoothly that Hizashi almost agreed offhand without thinking about it. The word caught behind his teeth just in time as his brain caught up with what was actually being said. “Erm. Right,” he said instead, not having to force the awkwardness in his tone. “Haru told you I’m fresh off a breakup, didn’t she?”

Shirakumo flushed. “She...might have mentioned something about you being in kind of a funk,” he hedged.

Hizashi smiled in spite of himself. Two for two on dashing heroes who can’t lie to save their soul, he thought, amused. “I appreciate the offer, don’t get me wrong. But I, uh. I’m not sure it’s a great time for me to have something going on with someone,” he said, trying to be as gently vague as he could.

“Yeah, no, I totally get that,” Shirakumo said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to push, I just--”

“Haru made you promise to hit me up at least once tonight,” Hizashi guessed, letting him off the hook of trying to put it into nicer words. Shirakumo grinned.

“Guilty,” he admitted. He paused, then added. “I think she’s been worried about you, to be honest. I mean, Haru isn’t really the worrying type, but you can tell sometimes.”

“Yeah, she does that,” Hizashi agreed, fondness creeping into his tone. For all the shit he gave his sister about meddling and fussing over him, he couldn’t help being grateful for the concern. “It really wasn’t as big a deal as she seems to think, though. We went to coffee a couple times, for drinks, hung out at his place, nothing too intense.” Aizawa’s face flashed to the front of his mind, twisted in terrified fury as he called Hizashi nothing but a problem in his life. Hizashi shook his head. “We just realized we wanted different things out of the relationship. People are people, what are you gonna do?” he added with a breezy shrug.

“True,” Shirakumo said, nodding, as they reached the train station doors. “So, can I maybe platonically give you my number instead?” he asked with a slightly cheeky grin. “I wasn’t just hitting on you when I said it was cool hanging out with you tonight.”

Hizashi hesitated, drowning in irony with no hope of explaining why to Shirakumo. He needed to let Shirakumo down gently and walk away, but his brain seemed to want to help him precisely not at all in thinking of a way to do that. “Sure,” Hizashi said finally, unlocking his phone and handing it to Shirakumo. “I’ll text you the next time Haru threatens to muzzle me for talking her ear off about celebrity gossip.”

“Deal,” Shirakumo said, handing his phone over so that Hizashi could put his number in as well. “Don’t be a stranger!” he added as they swapped phones back and he turned to head home.

Hizashi considered doing just that most of the train ride home, staring down at the newly added “Oboro Shirakumo” in his contacts. As an extra little flourish, Shirakumo had added a fortissimo and a thundercloud emoji after his name. On the one hand, this was a terrible idea and Hizashi needed to lose Shirakumo’s number before he ended up doing something stupid. On the other hand, tempting fate by doing stupid things with heroes was practically his signature move at this point. With Aizawa freezing him out, keeping Shirakumo on deck was the only way for him to stay on brand. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? Hizashi shoved his phone into his pocket, hating the weight of preemptive dread that settled on his shoulders as he tried to preserve this small bubble of normality that had come into his life.

[howtohero]

#265 Leaping Tall Buildings in a Single Bound

Let me make this clear from the outset, the “boast” of “being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound” is probably the greatest marketing coup in superhero history. In layman’s terms it’s just “can’t fly but really trying.” And honestly I applaud that. Those flyers think they’re sooo great with their ability to soar like a bird and feel clouds. (I personally think they feel like soft marshmallowy pillows but I’ll never know for sure. {And I personally resent birds for having knowledge that I can never have!} We’ve all got our hangups about this.) But they don’t have a cool tagline to go with that. The leapers beat them to it! Now if they want to have a cool tagline they’re stuck with “able to fly over tall buildings in a single... a single swoop? Is that anything? Dammit” which isn’t catchy at all! So today, as a special Friday post, in honor of Leap Day, let’s take a moment to examine this historic phrase. 

The phrase originated back in the ‘30s and was coined by superhero marketing czar Dylan Vanderbilt. Vanderbilt had been hired by the superhero Bullet Bolt, who had become ludicrously famous for his lightning bolt shaped bullets. You see, those were the days before bullet-customization had become mainstream and everyone was making bullets that were shaped like sharks (or that were literally just tiny live-sharks) or hand-cuffs. So yeah, Bullet Bolt was a pretty big deal and so he fired his entire support-squad in order to hire a crack marketing team. This obviously was not a great idea in the long run and without the help of his guys in the chairs and combat medics he quickly died. (His bolt blaster misfired and he got a taste of his own lightning bullet medicine.) And, according to a correspondent we’ve got in the ghost community, it tasted pretty bad. Apparently he really regrets the lightning bolt bullets that made him famous. (Wait, do we know a ghost?) What? (You said we had a correspondent in the ghost community. Do we know a ghost?) I don’t remember saying that at all. (What?) ANYWAY, Bullet Bolt’s career was short but thanks to his marketing team, he will be remembered forever! Let this be a cautionary tale. Don’t fire your entire support-squad, but if you do at least use the savings to hire someone to come up with a cool tagline for you so you’re remembered forever in spite of your short lived and otherwise completely unmemorable career.

Up until that point, Vanderbilt had only ever represented superheroes who could fly. He was known for either saying “flyers have more fun” or “flyers have more funds” records are spotty but either he only worked with flyers because they had access to the coolest cloud parties, or because they paid well. I guess we’ll never really know for sure. So this guy was not going to take the meeting with Bullet Bolt, a superhero famous only for having weirdly shaped bullets. Having weirdly shaped bullets isn’t remotely anywhere near flight. Write that down. That’s important to know. But Vanderbilt ended up having to take the meeting when Bullet Bolt crashed through his office window one day while fighting a Yowie. Well it just so turned out that Dylan Vanderbilt had another, lesser know rule about taking meetings with anybody who fought a Yowie right in front of him. It didn’t get talked about a lot because it almost never came up but hey, a self-imposed rule stemming from an offhand, probably drunken comment made at a cloud party is still a rule. It’s interesting to think about all of the strange and unlikely coincidences that go into creating a historic moment isn’t it? So Vanderbilt meets with this guy and he says “All right, so I’m thinking we print up some posters that depict you soaring through the air while-” and Bullet Bold says “Hey hey hey, let me stop you right there. I can’t fly.” So Vanderbilt is floored, he’s never had a client like this before. He’s gotta throw out his usual playbook here. He’s gotta start from scratch. But that’s not big deal, you don’t become a superhero marketing czar by crumbling under pressure. There’s actually an online course you take. (If you’re reading this and thinking: “What! Guffaw! The internet??? That didn’t exist in the ‘30s!” Then sit the heck down. If you’ll recall, we’ve already established that in a world with superheroes, technology develops at an accelerated pace. Additionally, we did not specify which ‘30s we were talking about.) So this guy, this Vanderbilt fella looks Bullet Bolt right in the eyes and says “Well how are you at leaping?” And thus, history was altered forever. 

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound” is truly a rallying cry for those heroes who have powers that are almost the cool A-list ones but just don’t quite make the mark. For people who run really fast but only after building up energy on a magic treadmill. (Shout out to Flint Fast, who drove around in a van with a treadmill in the back of it in case he ever needed to build up super speed to fight crime.) For folks who can only use their super strength when they’re asleep. (Unfortunately, people with sleep strength are also disproportionately affected by sleepwalking so they tend to wake up with a lot of holes in their house.) For heroes who can teleport but it takes them the same amount of time to do so as it would to walk. (It doesn’t save them anytime but they get a lot less sweaty.) All of these heroes look to Vanderbilt’s slogan and realize that they can achieve greatness too, it’s just about how you brand yourself. 

Super leapers might never be able to reach the clouds. They might not get places the fastest. They might be useless in terms of air support. (Technically they can act as projectiles and launch themselves at airborne enemies provided that they are not flying higher than any nearby buildings.) But by golly are they memorable. These folks can be spotted in big cities jumping over skyscrapers in order to get around. (Come to think of it, might it not be quicker to simply... walk around these buildings instead of leaping over them?) They can be observed springing away from superazzi reporters who want to see them “do the thing!” They can be see in advertisements for shorts thanks to their incredible calf muscles. If you look at your window right now, you might just catch a glimpse of one bounding across the skyline. On this Leap Day, let’s take a moment to appreciate the fact that while these guys can’t fly, they can definitely leap even the tallest buildings in a single bound. (As opposed to multiple bounds? How would that even work? Once you’re in the air you’re either gonna clear the building or you’re not!) From all of here at How To Hero, Happy Leap Day!   

[briannmayy]

(Hear me out) Brian is sleep walking and starts crying and you bring him back to bed and hold him until he stops?? Ik it’s weird I just love that 6 ft tall baby

OKOKOK HERE WE ARE. SORRY, THAT TOOK ME SO LONG.

I REALLY HOPE YOU ENJOY IT

Your eyes adjusted to your dark room after a moment. Something felt wrong. Something felt off. Your heard distant footsteps heading down the hallway. Instinctively, you propped yourself up from your bed and reached an outstretched hand to Brian’s side of the bed which you found empty. He’s what was missing. You jumped from your bed, wearing his shirt as a nightgown. “Bri?” You called down the dark hallway. It’s been the fourth time this week this has happened.

You turned the corner to see your boyfriend in the kitchen with his hand on the back door knob. You called his name quietly and walked to him. “Bri...Brian, honey…” You cooed, reaching an arm out to his hand which pulled at the knob. You knew better than to keep the unlocked at night now after these last few months.

This has been happening since he’d come back from his tour, the sleepwalking that is. It only was bad whenever he got back from his tours or before a test, every night he would get up and walk around. You were scared to death that he’d hurt himself whenever he’d have these episodes. The sleepwalking would only be an issue once or twice every few weeks after whatever had been worrying him was finished until something stressful would loom upon him again. You had read in some medical book that the cause of sleepwalking can be from disturbed sleeping schedules and stress. You knew for sure that both of these factors had played a part with Brian during the tours. He hardly slept or ate, and his studying at Imperial College had put an immense amount of stress on his shoulders. He didn’t like telling you things that were bothering him but you couldn’t help but notice how his lifestyle was taking a toll on him.

He stopped pulling as soon as you put your hand on the small of his back and he jerked back, nearly falling on the floor if you hadn’t caught him. Brian’s eyes flickered open and he quickly stood himself up, apologizing left and right. His voice was raspy from exhaustion. “Brian, it’s alright, really.” You smiled tiredly. This nightly thing had kept you from sleeping, and though you tried to hide it, it was taking a toll on you as well.

“It really isn’t,” Brian said, his expression dropping into a frown. The shadows coming from the street lamps outside illuminated only parts of his face, leaving the rest of his shaded face blue.

“I mean it’s not your fault this keeps happening,” you grabbed his hand, “c’mon let’s get you back to bed.” He nodded in agreement before you turned to lead him back to your bed. “I swear, I should chain you to the bedpost or something.” You tried to joke. You could feel the intensity, it wasn’t really time to joke but you couldn’t figure out another way to lighten the mood.

Small whimpers came from behind you, causing you to turn on a heel. “Shit- look, honey. I didn’t mean it.”

You grabbed his waist and hugged him tightly. His body shook involuntarily since he tried to hold back his sobs. It didn’t really work but you admired his attempts to try and hold back because you know you wouldn’t have had the strength to. Eventually, he gave up with trying to mask his crying and he broke down in your arms. You hadn’t ever seen him like this, so it was a genuine shock to see him unraveling in front of you.

“No, it’s more than just that, Y/N, I know you’re joking.” He said, wiping under his eyes.

“Then what is it?” You rubbed his back, “you know you can talk to me…”

He let go and sat down on the bed, looking up at you. His hazel eyes were damp and red. His under eyes were darkened and his cheekbones looked incredibly gaunt. “Y/n, I’m sorry...I haven’t really been here…” He started.

You placed a hand on your hip,” Brian you-”

“I’ve been on tour, I know. I mean even when I am here, I’m at school or studying…it’s not fair to you.” His brows furrowed and he wiped under his eyes again with the back of his hand, “I don’t want to be unfair to you.”

“You’re not being unfair to me by placing yourself in front of me sometimes.” You dropped to your knees in front of him,” Bri, I support you, even if that means you see your books more than me. Whatever helps you get where you want to be.”

He nodded and sighed shakily, “I hardly think its fair still. You’re always here for me and I don’t feel like I’m here for you.” Brian looked sickly, almost.

You shrugged in response, “I mean you’re here for me in different ways. Besides, I understand that you can’t always be there for me.” it hurt when he couldn’t be here for you as constant as you were, but you knew he tried his best to be present when he could. You pressed your lips together and were reminded of the strain this had put on your relationship. Nevertheless, you knew what you wanted in spite of the issues this was causing. There was still feeling. There was still emotion.

“But y/n-”

“I know right now isn’t the best of situations for us, but you love me, right?” You said, rocking back, leaning onto your arm.

“Yes of course…” Brian said, leaning forward to you. His curls were matted around his face and his eyes were still damp.

“Then that's fine,” you said, cocking your head and smiling, “I really think that we should focus on you more on you and you know…”

“What?”

“I mean, your health…” your smile dropped.

“I’m fine, really-”

“Brian I swear, literally you almost passed out yesterday because you stood up too fast.” you jumped from your spot, “you haven’t eaten anything, or slept either. You really don’t think I haven’t noticed? Why don’t you really tell me what's bothering you?” You sat down next to him and rested a hand on his thigh.

“y/n, nothing is wrong.” Brian’s curls moved to show his face.

“If nothing were wrong, you’d be asleep right now.” you leaned your head on his shoulder, “I just want to know how to help you.”

There was deafening silence between you and Brian. You wanted to pry more, but every time you asked, he drew more into himself. You stayed where you were though, hoping he would confide in you. After what felt like hours, he finally did.

“It’s just been hard...with the band, and trying to find a balance between them and school.” He said, shaking his head. His curls bounced as he moved,” I don’t mean to be like this, I just don’t know how to deal with this.”

“Then you can talk to me about it, you know I’ll support you with whatever you do.” His hand crawled to yours and he squeezed.

“I know, I just don’t want you to worry about me.”

“You know I can’t just not worry about you.” You looked up to him.

“Of course I know.” Brian sighed, “I don’t feel like you should have to.”

“But I have to, I mean that’s how this works, I worry about you sometimes and you worry about me. It’s only fair, you know?”

“Yes.” he fell back onto the bed, “I’m sorry I’m so difficult, darling.”

You laughed and rested your head on his chest, “it’s not your fault, I can’t ever be upset with you.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: Puppy On Board (3/?) - Ao3 link

Fandom: Legends of Tomorrow Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart (currently gen)

Summary: In which life is Big, and Tough, and Extremely Frustrating - but mostly because Len is currently a goddamn puppy.

————————————————————————————–

On one hand (paw?), Len is pathetically grateful to be back with Mick once more. Just seeing his partner again, when he'd just about lost all hope, is everything he could've wanted and more.

On the other, though, does Mick really need to sleep for so long?

Clearly not.

It's unhealthy, that's what it is.

Len's doing Mick a favor when he sticks his nose into Mick's ear and slobbers on him till he wakes up.

Really.

No matter what Mick might be saying – or, more accurately, cursing.

"You want more to eat, huh?" Mick finally asks, rubbing his face.

Len totally woke Mick up out of concern for his health - but if more food is on the offer, well, you know, he’s not going to refuse...

He's a growing puppy, damnit.

"Food every two hours is apparently normal at your age," Mick said sleepily, heading to the kitchenette corner in his room. "So, I guess it ain't your fault."

Hmph. As if Len would be motivated by something so base as biology.

(Oh, but that milk is good. Hits the spot just right. God, he was so hungry.)

A satisfactory feeding later, Mick puts Len down on the ground and opens the door. "C'mon," he grunts, tossing on a robe - clearly a Legends-imposed requirement, because Mick still sleeps proudly nude as always. "I'd better get you out of here before you decide to piss."

Actually, on that subject, Len's pretty sure he saw - ah, good, there it is.

Mick's still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, which is probably why it takes him a second to catch up to what Len is doing, and on what.

"Wait, no, puppy, that's Sara's - welp, nevermind, that's a lost cause right there." Mick sighs. "I'll tell Sara she needs to get a new pack before the next mission. And maybe clean this one. She'd better not try to make me clean it, when she shouldn’t have left it hanging around where a puppy in search of revenge could get to it..."

Len gives his best "I'm an innocent puppy, really" grin.

Mick gives him a beady-eyed glare. "Don't think I'm not onto you."

Len's smile fades for a moment, then comes back at twice the strength. Mick's figured it out? Already? Thank God! Maybe they can skip ahead to figuring out a good way for Len to communicate, or maybe even to turning him back into a human so that -

"You're trouble, that's what you are," Mick announces.

...oh.

Len whines and slumps down, a process that involves just giving up on this whole standing business and splaying out on all fours like the weight of the world has come crashing down on his puppy shoulders.

"Hey, I didn't mean that," Mick said, crouching down. "It's okay, you're a good boy deep down - yes, that's right, a good boy -"

Len is not a good boy.

Len isn't even a good puppy.

And he likes it that way, damnit! He's a bad, bad man! He’s a supervillain and proud of it, except that right now he's a goddamn puppy.

Near-newborn puppies are not, despite Len’s best efforts, very intimidating.

"C'mon, back to bed."

Fine. But only for a bit, and then Len's waking Mick up again out of sheer spite!

...and possibly hunger.

"Don't know what your mom was thinking letting you wander off this young," Mick comments.

Len nips at one of his fingers, aiming to get him with one of the few milk teeth that have fully grown in so that it will sting.

Don't talk about my mom like that. Not even you, Mick.

Mick chuckles and pets his head and yawns a bit, heading back to his room, his eyes already heavy.

Len huffs, then frowns, picking up a strange scent.

He cranes his neck as far out as he can, just barely able to see around Mick.

It's the new guy - Nate.

He's not doing anything, just standing there, staring blankly down the hallway. He doesn't move or say hi or anything - Mick clearly missed his presence there entirely, and Len would have, too, if his new sense of smell wasn't so strong.

Len yips a tentative greeting, giving a vague wag of the tail, but there's no response and anyway Mick is taking Len away at speed, so there's no time to investigate.

Weird.

Whatever, Nate's sleepwalking issue isn't Len's business.

A few hours later, the Legends all gather in the med bay, which seems to Len like a weird-ass place to meet given the existing presence of a bridge designed specifically for that purpose, but their intention quickly becomes clear.

"Surely the temporal energy doesn't keep you from doing a scan at all, right, Gideon?" Zari asks.

"I can do a surface scan," she says. "And determine health, albeit superficially. For some reason, my DNA scanners can't seem to make head or tails of him."

Head or tails. Heh. Because he has a tail now.

Len finds that said tail wagging in approval entirely without his consent.

He’s going to really enjoy the dog puns.

"Well, what's your verdict, then?" Sara asks.

"He's a very healthy male puppy, with no serious diseases or other issues that I can determine. Comparing his appearance to other images I have, I would estimate an age somewhere a little over two weeks old, though I'm unsure how much older given the temporal issue."

"What breed is he?" Nate asks, giving his fingers for a lick.

Len is tempted - so many interesting smells! - but he pointedly turns his back on Nate to give Zari's fingers some attention. He's pretty sure Nate was on the pro-castration side of things, even if he didn't speak up, and anyway it makes Zari laugh in delight and Nate mutter under his breath about favoritism and it's not even Amaya...!

So, you know, there.

"He appears to be a mix of breeds," Gideon announces.

"So, a mutt," Sara says. "He fits right in already."

"But what breeds?" Nate asks. "That could impact his behavior and needs and - stuff."

"Stuff," Amaya says, amused.

"Hey, I know something about dogs. Not much, I admit, but..."

"I believe there is a significant proportion of husky," Gideon says. "Thereby accounting for the coloration, general form, and blue eyes - though those might be a puppy feature that darken as he gets older."

"Those ears aren't even slightly husky," Amaya objects.

"That's correct - some sort of spaniel, I would estimate, given the size of his ears and - ah - their proportion to his body -"

Len'll grow into them.

"He'll grow into 'em," Mick says.

Len loves Mick. Wise man.

"Hold up," Sara says, eyeing the ears. "How big is he going to get? We don't have enough space for a full-on herding dog here -"

"Huskies are working dogs, not herding dogs, I think," Ray says helpfully from where he's lurking by the door. "And Mick can take him on walks around the ship, or outside once we land."

"If we take him outside, he'll get lost," Zari objects, reaching out to rub Len under the chin.

"He can barely walk or regulate his own temperature right now," Mick grunts. "Doesn't exactly seem like an urgent issue."

"Barely walking or not, he still made his way onto the Waverider," Sara reminds him.

"Should we chip him?" Nate asks.

Len sniffs. Nate's the one who ought to be chipped, what with that sleepwalking habit.

"Not at this age," Amaya says firmly.

"Perhaps a small collar could be fashioned," Gideon suggests. "And the tracking chip placed under the nameplate."

Len sighs noisily. It's not like he hadn't been expecting to be collared eventually, given his shape.

Luckily he didn't have any bad associations with collaring, unless you count a certain period of never-to-be-spoken-of-again bad fashion choices back in the 90s...

The Legends, however, met Gideon's announcement with an almost stunned silence.

"Oh, man," Nate says, breaking it after a moment, "his name. Mick, have you named him yet, or can we help?"

"Well..." Mick said cautiously.

"No, no, please, let us help!"

"I still get veto power," Mick warns.

What about Len? Len should get veto power.

Personally, he's quite fond of "Boss" as an acceptable dog-like name -

"How about Spot?"

For shame, Nate. He doesn't even have spots! Coloration markings, yes, but not spots.

"No, no, Nate, not Spot," Ray says. "He doesn't have spots."

At least Mr. Castration-Is-Good-For-Dogs has some decent opinions.

"He's more black-and-white," Ray continues. "How about Oreo? Or Newsie, short for newspaper?"

Ugh. Positive statement retracted.

"No," Mick says. "Just - no."

"How about Joe?" Amaya suggests. "Or - Carl, maybe? Oh, I know! Rex!"

Len puts his head down and covers his head with his paws, whining pathetically.

"I think even the puppy thinks that's a no go," Sara says, snickering. "Sorry, Amaya."

"It's okay," Amaya says. "He's cute enough; I'll forgive him anything."

Len's traitorous tail gives a wag at that.

"How about something more thematic?" Zari suggests.

"Thematic?" Mick asks, sounding skeptical.

Len's not sure why; he loves things with a theme. If he has to be Heatwave's dog, then he might as well get named something appropriate. Flame or Explosion or Heatpup something -

No.

Hot Dog.

He can just see it now in a newscaster voice: “Here comes Heatwave, famed supervillain, and his trusted sidekick, Hot Dog…!”

Len sniggers, though it mostly comes off as a dry sort of huffing.

...he'd better stop that before they decide to name after Muttley or something.

(He’s far more of a Dick Dasterdly!)

“I’ve got an idea,” Zari says.

"Oh?" Sara asks. “What were you thinking?”

"Well, Mick is going to be the primary owner, right?" Zari says with a shrug. "We could match the dog to the owner."

C'mon, make the Hot Dog joke! Do it! It's right there!

"Something heat related, you mean?" Sara asks. "To match 'Heatwave'?"

"No, that's too obvious," Zari says. "I was thinking more of a contrast - Snowflake, or Snowy -"

"Oooh, Frosty!" Nate exclaims. “Cold Miser!”

"Or you could do the exact opposite of Mick's," Amaya says, "and call him 'Coldwave' -"

"No," Mick says flatly. "Nothing with Cold."

Len had been pretty much in favor of the names, no matter how dumb - he loves a good cold pun - but Mick's voice...

He's in pain.

Len whines, pulling his head out from under his paws and trying to go to Mick at once. It's his fault Mick is in such pain, his fault, he was the one who abandoned his partner like that and therefore only he can make it right. He might not be able to fix it, he's too small to do that, but he'll go and snuggle him and lick him and nip at his fingers till he feels better -

On his hurried way over to Mick, though, Len trips.

Over his own goddamn ear.

"- sensitive subject," Sara is murmuring when Len goes flying, and then she's not murmuring, she's laughing.

Everyone is laughing.

Even Mick, which is Len's sole consolation. Maybe it wasn't exactly how he was thinking of cheering Mick up, but whatever, it worked.

"Maybe we should call him Floppy," Ray says. "After his big old floppy ears -"

Len rights himself and growls at Ray.

"Awww," Sara coos. "Lil puppy don't like that."

"You named your last pet after a musician, right?" Nate asks. "Guns and Roses? What about something else like that?"

"Oh, I know!" Ray exclaims.

Oh, God, no.

"You could name him Tevye! After Fiddler on the Roof! That's your favorite musical, right?"

...okay, that one's not too bad. At least it respects Len's Judaism.

(Does Len have to be circumcised again now that he’s been reborn? He really hopes not. That was one experience he was very happy to not be aware during.)

"Maybe Fiddler would be easier?" Zari suggests. "Or Fiddlesticks? I like Fiddlesticks."

"I already know what I'm gonna call him," Mick says. "I thought of it last night."

They all look at him, even Len.

He's still hoping for 'Boss'.

"That puppy's name is Trouble."

...yeah, that's fair.

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A/N: I wish to give full credit to everyone's wonderful suggestions in the comments to chapter 2, all of which were great and very fitting, and also extremely helpful for writing this chapter :) hopefully work will go quiet again and I'll be able to write more of this soon!