#hopefully it was worth the wait

[basicallyjaywalker]

Trying To Make Something Out of Clay

It only took me getting back at school to finish editing this! I am not kidding good grief

Anyways! At long last @cboffshore I deliver you: JAY! my specialty

Prompt: Jay, Look Who’s Inside Again by Bo Burnham, eagle, fastidious, pardon, clay, separation, earthquake, and protest

AO3 Link

Fic also under the cut!

Pottery classes wouldn’t have been Jay’s first idea for a birthday gift to himself, but he could never dodge his mother’s chipper voice in his head. 

Coupons! They’re like an excuse to do things. Always keep your eyes out for the real deals… From there, she’d go into a spiel about good versus bad deals, ones designed to make you spend money rather than save it, and eventually that would develop into discussions of unit prices and store brands and what-have-you about “mother’s know-how.” 

All that to say, when the coupon came in for “Free Pottery Lessons!” with the purchase of a starter pack, Jay knew how to calculate the value. Cost was the starter pack, lessons would cover all of the basics of pottery, he would be able to make more cool gifts for his friends and family… worth it. Plus, the studio said once he finished his lessons, he was still welcome to come back and use their equipment to mold and fire the clay. Plus plus, if he decided he didn’t like it, he could always use the clay and tools in the starter kit for another project. No matter what, there wasn’t a way to lose! His mom would be so proud. 

And that was how he ended up sitting in front of a clay-stained table, almost a month after his birthday, sculpting. Now Nya’s birthday was coming up and he was making her a seagull figurine. Unfortunately, they hadn’t gotten to the “figurine” part in his basics classes, so Jay was having to wing it with what he knew. However, what he knew seemed to be very lumpy and not very gull-like. 

He frowned, examining the vaguely bird-shaped lump of clay on the table. Its legs were short and thick, holding the uneven, bulbous body up off the table. Jay had thought he made wings, but they seemed to be lost within the sinking mass. The head was little more than a drooping oval, the end of which molded into the torso much too high up (or maybe this gull's neck was just in the middle of its spine). 

… Yeah, he couldn’t pass this off as a seagull. He could barely pass it off as a bird. Maybe he should just make Nya something else.

 Just as he reached to put his tools up, the studio door opened behind him and he spun around to see his teacher, Kat, in her clay stained apron.

“Ah, pardon me,” She smiled at him and raised her hand in a wave, it was stained reddish orange, “just grabbin’ somethin’ for my next group. Whatcha makin’?”

“Something for Nya,” Jay said, trying to shield the misshapen heap from her view. The light-up grin on Kat’s face told him he failed. 

“What a lovely turtle! I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“It’s supposed to be a seagull.”

“Oh.” 

Jay sighed. “Yeah, we’re not quite there yet.”

“Well,” she clapped her hands together, sending a few splatters of rust-colored clay flying, ”trust the process! It’ll turn out swell, I’m sure. Do you need a reference?”

“That might help,” was what he said out loud. What he thought was, I know what a seagull looks like. I don’t think looking at another one is going to help. Still, he managed to hold his tongue. As much as he liked Kat, some days, her teaching just bugged him. She always went on about “the process.” Trust the process! Everything looks bad until it’s done! Sometimes, it even looks bad after, it’s just the artist's way. 

As she left the room, Jay continued ruminating on that idea. Trust the process. He stared at the ugly lump on his table. He wasn’t sure “the process” could save this one. Still, he supposed giving it a try was better than giving up. 

Frowning, he tried to fix the head, adding some clay to make it rounder, more… sharp? Less like a turtle. A few globs there, a dab here, some shaping… hey! Now that was a seagull. The legs could use some carving, but they were sleeker now; he could actually make out the shape of wings in the blobby body, and the neck wasn’t coming out of the middle of the spine! Jay could almost envision the thing trying to steal his french fries on the beach, as long as he was squinting really, really hard. Slowly, he drew his hands away.

Immediately, the head drooped and detached from the rest of the body.

“Oh, come on!” Jay exclaimed just as Kat walked back in and interrupted what was about to be a long string of words about the clay, gravity, and the concept of seagulls in general. In her hands she cradled a majestic gull perched on a rock, caught mid-caw.

“This is from one of our old students. She left it here and never came back, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you used it as reference.”

“Thanks.” Jay took the figurine and examined it. It was a simple shape, lots of round circles, and some small details for the wings and feet. It looked easy enough to make. Looked being the keyword. 

Kat looked at the self-decapitated bird and tilted her head. “Fix-it attempt gone horribly, horribly wrong?”

He nodded, pursing his lips. 

“You’ll get it,” she said, spirited as ever, “it just takes some time to master, y’know? New skills and all that.”

He nodded again. She’d told him the same thing during his first few lessons, when the teacup he tried to make for Master Wu ended up looking more like a soup bowl made by an avant-garde artiste. He knew she was right, it was just the way learning went, but it didn’t stop the nagging irritation he felt staring at the pathetic pile of muddy material in front of him. 

“I’ve gotta get my next class started, lemme know if you need anything else.”

One last nod and Kat was gone, leaving him alone again. Jay sat down and continued to stare at the distended body. He placed his new reference next to it and felt the minute bit of confidence that sprouted from his forming gull fly away. 

Maybe he could pass his off as a seagull that went through a tsunami or earthquake. Then again, that felt a little too morbid. Maybe a mutant seagull, left alive to propagate his species after a nuclear apocalypse wiped out the rest, save for him and the perfect specimen sat beside him, a symbol of a simpler time? 

No, that was too far-fetched. 

Sighing, Jay figured his best way out was to start from scratch. He pushed the majestic reference gull out of the blast radius before slamming his fist down on his failure. The wet clay gave easily under the force, body and head merging into one flat, knuckle-imprinted puddle. Jay knew it wasn’t necessary—and rather messy—to do it this way, but it allowed him some sort of catharsis. That alone made it worth the bit of splash onto his apron and face. 

Now, he could start again. 

His hands started to shape the clay, eyes focused on the reference as he tried to imitate the product in front of him. He didn’t need the rock, just the bird. That was enough of a change to keep it from being plagiarism, right? Could you plagiarize a clay sculpture?

As he worked, his mind wandered. Initially, it was just about the concept of plagiarism and if copying the reference counted. He was pretty sure he watched a video recently on that. Could one plagiarize an artstyle the same way they plagiarized research? Then it moved to the feeling of the clay. It squished under his hands like mud, but held like a sand castle. He used to build sand castles in his yard, when he was too young to help his parents build their various projects. His mom would give him a water bottle and tell him his job was to make a palace for the nearby ants to live in. Jay took his job very seriously, working fastidiously far after his parents went inside and even when Edna tried to call him in for dinner. He never truly mastered the art, despite various attempts to mimic the grandiose castles he saw in the storybooks his father used to lull him to sleep. His castles always ended up a solid mound. No doors, no windows, and definitely no rooms where the creatures nearby could rest. 

Well, that little memory didn’t bode well for this project. 

Jay clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus on the task at hand, but still his thoughts swirled about his head like a storm. He was good at so many things, how come castles and seagulls outsmarted him? He was an inventor, for First’s sake! Sure, he fell out of practice recently, but he’d done it his whole life! Surely no one loses skills that fast, right? All his years of practice should amount to something, should translate to making a clay bird? But wires and gears and cogs were so much different than clay. They were rigid, fixed. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle and always worked as intended. They were predictable. Clay wasn’t like that. It morphed not only under the weight of its creator’s hands, but under its own. Sometimes, it held its shape perfectly, strong like a tree in a storm. Other times, as Jay experienced over his time learning to sculpt pots and cups, it drooped or flattened or folded itself over like a cloud rolling over the horizon. Capricious, that’s the word he would use to describe it. Clay was capricious.

Okay, maybe inventing wasn’t his best comparison. He rifled through his skills toolbox again. An art form would serve better as a comparison. Painting? Paints could be difficult too. When he first started learning, driven by the small pieces his father used to make of the night sky, he hated it. The paints always turned to a muddy mess on his canvases, leading him to ruin more than one still-wet attempt by throwing it into the sand. He only got the hang of it after sitting down with his dad one day, both of them looking to capture a gorgeous eagle that landed in their junkyard. It was rare to see them in the Sea of Sands, as they preferred the shores of Ninjago more, but here this one was, perched on a pile of scrap his dad pulled out for a project the day before. At first, Jay didn’t understand why his dad had a sketchbook and pencil out or why he took a picture of the bird. Instead, Jay went straight to trying to capture its glossy feathers and curved beak, only to be vexed when the browns and whites he was using merged into one murky beige. He tried to fix it, but the problem only worsened until, with a yell, he scribbled over the whole thing in black. The commotion frightened the bird away, which only served to heighten Jay’s frustration. Great. Great! The bird was gone. Now he had to remember what it looked like to try and paint it again. 

That was when his father picked up his painting, examining the mess he made. He commented on how they would have to repurpose the canvas for something else and Jay felt a hot flush of shame hit his cheeks. He apologized for his outburst, but his dad just patted his head and sat with him. He explained how painting wasn’t just about putting paint on the canvas, but how you needed a sketch to start with so you could have an idea of how to make the picture by hand, how to plan your layers so your colors wouldn’t all mix, and how to control your brush so there were no stray bumps in the smooth lines. Jay still didn’t fully get it, but this time he actually finished the painting. It was rough, looking closer to a pigeon than an eagle, but it was dry and not covered in sand. His dad hung it up in their living room. 

Maybe Jay could draw on his painting skills. Paint was finicky, often felt like it had a mind of its own. Surely, there was something within this childhood memory that could help him out now?

Splat.

The noise roused Jay from his thoughts. In his daydreaming, he’d pulled the neck of the gull out too thin and the head—which was just a little bead at the end of the spaghetti string—now drooped on the table. 

Dammit. 

Jay squished the horror noodle back into the body and checked his watch. The place closed in an hour. He’d made no progress. His deadline wasn’t imminent (Nya’s birthday wasn’t for another few weeks) but it still weighed heavy on his mind. He wanted to get something done today, before Kat asked him to clean up. There was no telling when an attack on Ninjago might drag him away from this, swallowing his time and bringing the date closer and closer until he was forced to rush the project to completion.

Change of plans. He wasn’t good at sculpting, but he wasn’t willing to switch to painting. He was going to make the most of this studio and his work so far. He was good at engineering. He stared at the clay. This gull wasn’t a sculpture, it was a… a machine! Like Zane’s Falcon. Yeah, he could work with that.

First step of the process, separate the parts. Separation was easy, since the limbs of this bird seemed intent on breaking apart. There was the head, the wings, the feet, the torso… he could break those down further! The head had eyes, a beak, feathers on top? Little hairs? Whatever. The point was, he could break it down. He could maybe get somewhere with that.

What next? He had the parts, now he had to figure out how they fit together. The bird needed a base, otherwise its feet would be too small for its body (or alternatively, to support itself its feet would need to be comically large, which must’ve been why the original had a rock base). Then, the torso rested on the feet. The wings then melded to the torso, becoming almost part of it. The head was connected by the neck, which needed to be enough to set it apart from the body, but not too long and skinny that it would fall. That’s where his issue was. The first-forsaken neck. Solve that, he solved the whole thing.

Maybe he was a genius. Maybe he’d finally cracked the code! …Okay, maybe he already knew that was the problem, but breaking it down helped! The storm in his brain calmed and he could focus his attention on the task at hand: fixing this stupid bird before Kat—

“Hey, Jay!”

Are you kidding me?

Kat bounded over, her apron, arms, and even parts of her face stained orangish brown with clay. She grinned from ear to ear as she settled back into her spot across from Jay. “How’s it going?”

“Eh, fine. I’m just trying to figure out how to make the neck work.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I can’t figure out how to make it look like a neck, y’know? Like… How do birds even function? I know their necks aren’t super complicated, but it’s like I put the head on and it all goes splat!”

“Have you been using an armature?” 

“...what?” 

Kat burst into giggles. “You’ve not been using an armature this entire time? It’s what helps the clay keep its shape. You’ve been freeballing it?”

“I didn’t know!” Jay protested. This whole time he’d been missing a key part of the body—robotic, flesh, or clay—skeleton! Muscles! That’s why the stupid bird kept self-decapitating! It had no bones! How hadn’t I realized?!

Kat leaned over, examining the bird while Jay’s face cycled through shades of red. “Well, in that case, as an act of freestanding feathered figurine formation, you haven’t done a half bad job.” She held her hand out. “And if you can come back tomorrow, I’ll show you how to make a wire armature. Then, we can get you going on this project, for real this time. Deal?”

“I’ll try to make it.” Jay sighed and held his hand out, still covered in clay. “Deal.”

After a messy handshake, Jay washed, put away his tools, gathered his things, and left. The late afternoon sun hung lazily above the horizon, not ready to dip fully out of sight, leaving the sky a brilliant, cloudless azure. The golden light reflected off the lush zelkova trees that lined the sidewalk outside, turning the leaves chartreuse. Crickets chirped quietly at their feet and in their branches, warming up for their song later in the evening. Other than that, the streets were quiet. Warm rays hit his face and he sighed. In the distance, he could smell something cooking, maybe a barbecue in the residential area a few blocks over? His stomach growled. It really was time for him to head home.

Tomorrow, he’d come back and make an armature. Then, that stupid bird would finally come into form. 

All things considered, Jay figured he made good on that coupon. Free figurine lessons! And he didn’t even have to buy a second kit. Plus, something about working, letting his thoughts roam free… Jay wasn’t sure what it was, but he was excited to go back there soon, and there wasn’t much more to say about that.

[jackdaw-and-hattrick]

Slipping

Ao3

Prev

Damien was not proud to say that, when he first heard the noise, he had been baffled at what it could be. It was beautiful, strung together and structured with all the planned grace of his favorite sword. It was not until the women started singing that he realized that what he had been listening to was music. Sure, he understood in theory what music was, had been taught the word and understood the basic principles that governed it, but he was an assassin. There was no reason for him to need music, and so like all superfluous things Damien had simply never been exposed to it. Nor had he ever sought it out. Still, he found himself being drawn forward

Before him was a stage much like those he’d seen in photos of old theater houses, the bright overhead lights casting a down in strange colors with no name. At the center of the stage was a woman. She wore odd clothing resembling a superhero costume, though without any identifiable armor, and her face was painted with swirls of black that differed from any makeup he’d ever seen. She had the look of anyone of this realm. Her skin was mottled and hair burned a phosphorus blue, eyes glowing like the Lazarus pits. Damien did not recognize the instrument in her hands, but the sound it made was… enchanting. From his place in the empty audience, Damien found himself swaying ever so slightly.

“Little boy

Why are you here?

So far from the world you hold dear

Oh kid

Quite your spying

Don’t you know you are dying?

Does your mother know

You’re playing with ghosts?

Does your father see

Your liminality?”

“So you finally got a new song?”

A soft hand hand lands on his shoulder and Damien starts. He doesn’t remember the last time someone snuck up on him like that. He looks at the person who so rudely interrupted the performance. Phantom stares at the woman on the stage with something resembling anger.

“What? You like it Babypop?”

“That’s KING Babypop to you, Ember.”

The woman, Ember, laughs. Phantom’s grip tightens and Damien hears a low growl radiating from his chest. He glances down, the worry radiating from him like heat from the noon day sun.

“Hey,” Phantom says, “you wandered off. Everything good?”

Damien stiffens; it suddenly occurred to him he may in fact have done something wrong by leaving on his own without any sort of warning to follow the ephemeral melody.

“Yes. I was merely listening to the music. She is very good, I’ve never heard anything so lovely.”

“Don’t tell her that, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.” Phantom grinned. He glanced back to Ember, clearly calculating what to say next. “Do you want to keep listening?”

Damien nodded mutely. Ember took this as her cue to begin playing again. Phantom took him by the hands and began guiding him closer to the stage.

“Do you know how to dance?”

“No”

“Would you like to learn?”

“I can’t see what possible purpose it could have.”

“Absolutely none.” He said, pulling Damien around so that they where face to face, “here, stand on my feet”

“Will that not hurt?”

“I’m a lot sturdier than I look.”

Damien followed his instructions and Phantom guided him through the basic steps of what he would later learn was called a waltz. They stayed like that, stepping and spinning to the melody for the better part of the day. Occasionally Ember would switch up the tempo, and Phantom would have to show him new steps, until finally he stepped back and began dancing on his own.

“Come on,” he encouraged, “Don’t worry about the form, just follow the melody, same as before.”

“I am not yet ready.”

Phantom smile, a sort of boundless sorrow hidden just beneath the surface.

“No one ever is.”

…………………………..…………………………..………………

To say Dick Greyson was nervous would be the understatement of the century. If asked why, Dick would probably be hard pressed to explain why the thought of meeting his second brother’s new partner was as absolutely nerve wracking as it was, although he was fairly sure it had something to do with the fact B seemed to be dead set on treating this as an interrogation. Not even the standard well meaning but ultimately misled, “explain everything about yourself and if I get so much as a hint you’re not good for him they’ll never find the body”, type interrogation. No, an actual, criminal interrogation. To be fair, given he was dating Jayling, the odds were Danny was involved in at least some sort of criminal activity, but that was to be expected. Probably not a great way of thinking for a cop, but so long as he kept out of Bludhaven; not his monkeys, not his circus.

Really, it wasn’t that Dick didn’t understand why B was acting this way. Danny was, after all, an unknown, something Dick knew his adopted father couldn’t abide in much the same way he couldn’t abide sunlight and injustice. If they could just find something, anything that told them this guy had a life prior to coming to Gotham than maybe he would feel less like a threat. As it was, even Dick had to admit he was antsy. Still, he had to respect the skill with which Danny had so far avoided their questions. He could see what Little wing saw in this guy.

That was it really. Jay bird saw something in this guy and for all his anxiety and suspicion, Dick still respected that. If anything, this proved to make him more nervous. Jas was flighty. Getting him to agree to do anything with the family was an uphill battle of mammoth proportions generally only achieved by the likes of Alfred, but he had agreed to bring Danny to dinner so they could meet him. Moreover, he had agreed to come to the manor specifically. Dick couldn’t remember the last time he’d come here without actively bleeding out. Dick wasn’t so self centered to think Jayjay was coming back just for little old him. This was because they had been harassing Danny and he wanted it to stop. Of course, if it had just been that they would have just met on a rooftop, so Jay must honestly want Danny to meet his family and see his childhood home, and wasn’t that terrifying. It felt as if Dick were walking on egg shells, knowing a single wrong step could be the end of whatever faith he had put in them.

There was another, deeper fear that they would, somehow, scare Danny away entirely. They weren’t exactly the easiest people to deal with, long term. Jas deserved people; to feel loved and wanted in a way he understood and reciprocated. He would never forgive them if they took that away from them. Moreover, Dick would never forgive himself. It boiled his blood that B was willing to put all of that at risk to calm his fears.

This is why, when the knock finally came, Dick found himself quite literally tripping over himself trying to get to the door. Luckily, his training kept him from landing all that hard, and with a quick forward motion he rolled himself back to his feet. By this time Alfie had, of course somehow beaten him to the door despite definitely being in the kitchen mere moments ago. There in the door frame, standing next to his wonderful baby bird, who looked about ready to punch someone, was the man Dick knew must be Danny. It occurred to him suddenly that he had never seen him up close before, given that all cameras seemed to be unable to get a good image of him. Besides his obvious adoption bait traits (Dick was probably going to have to have a TALK with B later), he looked… well… he looked odd, but not in a way that immediately made sense. He was thin, sure, upsettingly so and it took all the self control bestowed by his Robin training not to pick him up and take him straight to the dining room, but his skeletal frame wasn’t it, not exactly. There was something to him, to the sharpness of his teeth when he smiled, the fluid bend of his limbs and neck as if  ���unimpeded by joints or bones, the absolute depth of his eyes and the silence of his steps that seemed terribly wrong and absolutely familiar. He reminded him of Dami.

See, Dick Greyson was a lot of things; an acrobat; ex-boy wonder, current detective-extraordinaire; eldest daughter syndrome poster boy; and easily the hottest Wayne; but for all his acting, he was not an idiot. He may not be a genius on the level of, say, Tim, and he still didn't get how Cass did her whole “definitely not mind-reading” bit, but he had experience. He was bright in his own right, and he knew his family, maybe better than they knew themselves. When Dami first came to the manor, back when they were strangers and his threats meant something, he’d been… feral. Dams was still feral, but he’d improved; he’d become more human, less… whatever else he was that led him to hiss and bite and scratch with claws too sharp to be human. Whatever made the air around him so oppressive when he was angry or frightened. At first, Dick had assumed he was a meta of some kind, but a quick genetic panel (and what a thought that the idea of running and reading a genetic analysis had become so straightforward he could probably do it in his sleep) had shown that, besides the honesty concerning levels of Lazarus water in his system, there was nothing which he could see that would make him anything but a standard human. He’d asked Dami before, but he’d only said he was “the son of Batman and heir of Al Ghul, of course his steps were silent and his movements fluid,” completely ignoring the rest of his concerns. Dick hadn’t pushed. It wasn’t his place. As long as he was safe and happy, Dami could keep whatever weird-kid secrets he pleased. Then Danny hugged him, and Dick wondered if maybe this was his concern after all.

The dining room they moved into was not the private one usually used for these dinners but the great one reserved for parties. Dick rolled his eyes. Of course, B would insist on this room. Intimidation was key, apparently. Dick wondered when precisely the others were planning on arriving. Being late was not unusual in this family, much to Alfred’s eternal displeasure, but keeping Jayling and B from going for each other’s throats was becoming increasingly difficult. Having more people wouldn’t necessarily help, but it would spread out the attention. Dick wished B would kindly take a hint and back off. He didn't like something in the way Danny and Jay were acting. It felt too familiar. Too much like the way he acted when trying to keep his siblings from learning something he knew would inevitably hurt them; the dodging, misdirecting, and a look of absolute fear he had suppressed almost every day for the last ten-odd years. They knew something, and whatever it was, Dick was willing to bet his last box of cereal it was about Dami. So when he asked how exactly Jas and Danny had met, it had less to do with his own genuine curiosity and more to do with changing the subject right now.

“Ancients,” Danny started, “I’m pretty sure the first time we met was… the auto shop?”

…………………………..…………………………..………………

It was pitch black out when Jason arrived at the shop. He’d heard about it in the usual way, words whispered in dark corners amongst people with downturned eyes and who spoke in quiet voices. The building itself was unassuming, located at the very edge of Crime Alley where the city began to fall away. The worn bricks were painted with graffiti; strange and winding shapes of no recognizable language or culture. Jason couldn't help but feel that if he just stared long enough, he could read the messages left there facing the street. There was a neon green sign above the door. It read,

“ Vehicles, appliances, and more!

You break it, I can fix it!”

Something about the color reminded him unavoidably of a certain toxic pit. Jason did his best to shake that off. He needed to be here. See, the word on the street was that the sign didn’t pull any punches, that the Mechanic, as he’d come to be known, really could fix anything you could break, be it mechanical, medical, mental, or even spiritual. His next-door neighbor, Synthia, claimed he’d helped her with her “ghost problem,” fixed her stove, and saved her house plants to boot. The man on the corner selling samosas said he’d ended his nightmares, which he’d had every night for the past thirty years. One lady even claimed he cured her cancer. All of the stories had two things in common. One, there was a young man they called the Mechanic with dark hair and blue eyes. In Gotham, that wasn't exactly much to go off of, given the city’s disproportionate number of people fitting that description. The second bit was more interesting. People said that the Mechanic used a kind of barter system. You could pay cash for most things, but if you either couldn't afford it or the service was particularly unusual, he’d ask for other things. Favors, mostly, sometimes stories or promises. Even trinkets, if that was all you could afford. The general consensus seemed to be that he preferred things with strong emotional connections. Folks seemed split on whether this guy was an angel or the devil.

Even the building itself was suspicious. For all the wear and tear apparent, he had it on good authority it hadn’t existed until about three months ago. There was no paperwork for the lot, no signs of an owner, and no records for the business itself. Hell, the place didn't even show up on Google Maps. The whole deal screamed illegality. So, a building that didn’t exist, a business with no name, and an owner who was apparently a miracle man. It had been a pain in the ass to find the place. Jason didn't know how he had gotten lost in this town where he’d lived almost all of his life.

There were no hours on the door, but when he turned the knob he found it unlocked. The door creaked loudly.

“Huh, guess he can’t fix everything after all.”

“Maybe I just like it that way.”

Jason started. Maybe he was getting rusty because he had been absolutely sure the room was empty. That or the man in front of him could just walk more quietly than any Bat besides maybe Cass. He certainly fit the description of the Mechanic, however vague it may be. Messy black hair, silver-blue moon eyes. He was... Beautiful. Etherial. He looked like the kind of guy people wrote poems about. When he walked, he moved with the grace of a dancer. He didn't look like a mechanic, but his skin and clothes were stained with motor oil.

“Long time no see,” the man smiled.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Guess not,” he said. His voice was comforting, like the sound of old cartoons playing in the next room on a rainy day. The guy could make a killing as an ASMR YouTuber. “What can I do for you?”

“I,” Jason knew his story, but part of him was struggling with the feeling that he was betraying an old friend, “I wreaked my bike.”

“Ok, I can fix that.”

“What’s your price?”

“For you? Hmm...” He tapped his chin with a long clawlike nail. Jason couldn’t imagine how he kept his nails so long while working with machines. “How ‘bout... Lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“I don't have to stay around or anything, just drop off some food when you come back for your bike and we’ll call it even.”

“You realize we’re talking about a good $750 repair job at least, right? We’re not just talking about an oil change.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“I live in Crime Alley, pretty sure that means I already owe you my life.” the man’s grin widened, his eyes sparkling, “Or well, whatever it is I’m doing”

Jason snorted.

“Trust me, you don’t owe me shit.”

“Don't I get a say in that?”

“Alright, fine, be indebted if you want. Free bike repair for me. What do you want to eat?”

“As long as it’s dead by the time it gets here, I couldn't care less.”

“That’ll make two of us.”

“Three.”

The man’s eyes flashed a familiar green, and Jason braced himself for an attack but none came. Looking at him, Jason saw none of the anger he associated with that color. If anything, he looked... Sad.

“Who are you?”

“The name’s Phantom, but most folks here know me as Danny Nightengale.”

“What? Your real name say a bad word?”

“Guess you could say that.”

Jason left after that, but he came back the next day. He brought empanadas, which they ate together on the sidewalk just outside. The work on the bike was a masterpiece, especially given the time it took. Jason came back again later. And again. And again.

“My fridge’s busted and won't stop making ice.”

“There’s a mole in my gang and I’m not sure who it is.”

“My helmet broke.”

“I got shot.”

“My head hurts.”

“My heart hurts.”

His reply was always the same.

“Ok, I can fix that.”

The next time Jason came to the shop (he still didn't know the name) it was sunset, he was covered in blood, both his and not, and all he could see was green. Tear tracks cut through the red. He threw his helmet to the wayside where it sent a precarious stack of papers flying.

“Hey, Hood. Long time no see.”

Danny looked how he always did. If he noticed the blood, he didn’t show it.

“What can I do for you?”

“Please,” Jason begged, “It’s the Pits, I...”

He fell to his knees, body shaking from the force of silent sobs.

“...I just want to be ok.”

Danny dropped down next to him, cupped his face so gently as if he might just break, and did his best to wipe away his tears, with the corner of his sleeve. Jason cried harder. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone has held him so carfully. Had they ever?

“Ok”

Then Danny plunged his hand into Jason’s chest. He froze, the cold sensation of clawed hands grasping at his very soul shocking him to his core. It was unlike anything he’d felt before, and as quickly as it started it was over. Danny pulled back. Grasped in his hands was a writhing black mass, like earthworms fat from eating their kin. Then he opened his mouth, much wider than any human ever could, and Jason watched in horror as he ate it whole and struggling. Then Danny cupped his hands together, a strange green liquid that looked horribly like the Lazarus Pits, if a bit brighter and not bubbling angrily the way they should, filling them. He plunged his hands and the liquid back into Jason’s chest, though this time he could only feel a vague tingling chill.

“What the Hell?”

Jason wasn’t sure how else to react to what he had just seen.

“This,” Danny said, indicating with a nod to his hands, still very much in Jason’s chest cavity, “is pure ectoplasm. It should help clear out the last of the corruption. Think of it like dialysis; I clear out the bad stuff and replace it with something clean.”

“What corruption?”

“The corrupted ectoplasm in your system? I’m pretty sure that was clouding your head and messing with your emotions.”

“You... Got rid of the Pits. You... Ate them.”

Jason wasn’t sure how to process this.

“I guess? A rose by any name and all that.”

He withdrew his hands. Suddenly Jason felt very empty. Emotionally, he was drained, and he was pretty sure he was still in shock from what had just happened, but more than that, Jason’s head was uncharacteristically quiet. There was no rush of blood, no bubbling murmur corrupting his thoughts, no green tinting the corners of his vision. It was just... Him. A cool rag touched his face. At some point, Danny must have stood up and gotten a damp washcloth to clean the blood. When had that happened? Golden sunlight streamed in from the glass door, casting soft shadows and making a moon of Danny’s face, his pale skin glowing in the reflection of the setting sun.

“Who are you?”

“Danny Phantom, remember? You know me.”

“No,” Jason paused, “I mean, what are you?”

“What are you?”

Jason wasn’t sure how to answer that. A dead kid with daddy issues and a gun fixation? A ghost of Robins’ past? A zombie? A fucking mess? Suddenly, a blinding light haloed Danny, spreading from his middle and passing over him. When his vision finally cleared, he saw Danny, greyed skin and vibrant green eyes haloed by glowing white hair which floated as if unbound by gravity. He looked like an angel. Something untouchably beautiful and impossibly holy. He smiled, and his teeth were as long and sharp as a deep sea predator.

“I’m a halfa.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Honestly? Not much. It's sorta a slang term for someone who's both alive and dead.”

“How does that work?”

“Well sometimes I’ve got one foot in the grave, and sometimes I’ve got the other foot outta it.”

“Is that what I am?”

“Not quite. As far as I can tell, you’re a revenant.”

“And here I thought I was just a plain old zombie.”

“Oh trust me, if you were a zombie, you’d know.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“It's kinda my job.”

“I wasn’t aware a working knowledge of the undead was a requirement for mechanics.”

“What can I say? I’m just good at what I do.”

“Speaking of which,” Jason said, “any idea what I owe you for literally giving me back my sanity?”

“Ancients... I don’t know.”

“I’ve got an idea... How about...”

They both paused, Danny halting what he was doing to listen to what Jason had to say, the rag in his hand now thoroughly saturated with blood, harsh red against snow white. Jason wasn’t sure what it said about him that he found the sight of his blood on his hands so attractive, but damn. Before he had time to think about it, Jason peeled his sweat-soaked leather gloves from his fingers and took those ivory hands in his. God, they were cold. It was like holding ice. If he kissed him, would his lips freeze to his skin? Would they ever come apart, or would they stay connected forever? Jason was starting to suspect he might be a little hysterical from shock and exhaustion.

“My heart.”

“...What?”

“You gave me my head, let me give you my heart.”

Danny opened and shut his mouth, gaping like a fish seemingly at a loss for words.

“You don't have to do that.”

“No,” Jason said, “no I don't. Hell, the truth is I’m ripping you off if you accept, ‘cause I’d just be paying you something that's already yours.”

“Ok,” Danny nodded.

“Deal?”

“Yeah, deal.”

It wasn’t clear who moved first, but the two met in a kiss. Sharp teeth knicked Jason’s lips, soothed by cool saliva. Danny’s hands, so frail looking, gripped his wrists as unyielding as iron cord. Overhead, the electric light flared, popped, and burned out. The sun had long since set, and the only light was Danny’s otherworldly glow. They sat there for a long time, neither speaking. Finally, they got up and together stepped into the rest of their afterlives.

…………………………..…………………………..………………

“Oh,” Dick asked, “you work in an auto shop?”

“Well, sorta,” Danny shrugged, “It's my shop. I’ll fix up just about anything, but yeah, I get a lot of cars and bikes.”

“Babe, calling what you do “repairs” is like calling Supes a pencil sharpener.”

Danny waved his hand dismissively.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

By then, Alfred had served the salad course, making the rest of the siblings officially late. Danny eyed the salad, a rose vinaigrette with summer greens, as if expecting it to bite. Dick couldn’t help feeling personally offended on behalf of Alfie’s cooking. Finally, after poking it a couple of times with his fork, Danny seemed to decide it was in fact edible and began eating with the speed and ferocity of someone starving. Watching him, Dick couldn’t help but feel deeply uncomfortable as Danny unhinged his jaw and consumed the salad without chewing. There was something almost… predatory in it. Looking closely, he swore his tongue was split.

To his left, B watched with wrapped attention, his eyes steely and stern, building fear and distrust building behind his standard mask of stoicism. On his right, Damien seemed utterly unaffected. If anything, he seemed almost cheerful, listening to Danny talk about his job, his school work, and all the dull details which come with any life. He had a pet dog named Cujo; his older sister had just started her own psychology practice—tiny details which did nothing to explain the bone-deep discomfort permeating the air. Danny, for his part, was animated. He spoke with an effervescent energy that felt almost unreal. Jayjay sat back, occasionally throwing in a smart comment with no bite but mostly seeming content to watch. It was nice seeing his brash and bullheaded brother so comfortable. The usual anger which seemed so ever-present was absent. Dick didn't know how to cope with that. Danny was disturbing. Still, he made his beloved brothers so happy, and the contradiction ate him alive.

Throughout the meal, siblings began to filter in. Duke was the first to arrive, followed by Steph, Cass, Barbra, and finally, Tim. Each would introduce themself, take their seat, and find themselves slowly introduced to the madness that was Danny’s existence. He had this odd habit of saying the most baffling, concerning things Dick had heard in his life. Honestly, that alone was an achievement to be proud of. He watched as his siblings shared glances, seemingly trying to figure out whether this guy was for real. Duke, in particular, was staring Dick dead in the eye as if daring him to stand up and yell, ���Sike!”. The only exception seemed to be Cass, who, much like Damien and Jason, was apparently unaffected, even cheerful. It seemed like the most screwed-up members of the family were the ones most comfortable with this strange man, and it was starting to paint a harrowing picture. Dick had to ask himself, what made them different? What set those three apart from the rest of them? He thought he might know the answer, and he hoped to God he was wrong.

After all, if he was right, what would it mean that this guy seemed like catnip for the previously deceased?

Tag cultists

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[scribeoffate]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alicia Boyd & Vernon Boyd, Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd & Derek Hale Characters: Vernon Boyd, Alicia Boyd, Vernon Boyd's Mother, Vernon Boyd’s Father, Lydia Martin, Erica Reyes, Derek Hale, Laura Hale Additional Tags: Canonical Character Death, Angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Episode: s02e03 Ice Pick (Teen Wolf TV), Episode: s03e06 Motel California (Teen Wolf TV), Episode: s03e07 Currents (Teen Wolf TV), Pre-Canon Summary:

Six times Vernon Boyd misses his sister. (No plus one.)

[ancient-pokehistorian]

[ puzzle ] from bri, for pascale!

PROMPTS FOR ORDINARY THINGS THAT FEEL INTIMATE (open still, somehow) [ puzzle ] sender helps receiver solve/put together a puzzle

"I can't believe I found this when I went ruin-hunting with a friend's grad students a weeks ago." Pascale's was warm, laced with an undeniable excitement as she set the object down on the table between her and Bri.

Although she handled it like it was made of glass, the box seemed remarkably durable. Though clearly aged, there were few dents and even fewer scratches in the still vivid violet exterior. At first glance, it seemed to be a solid block of an object, but the knowing look in the ancient queen's eyes as she slid into her chair said otherwise.

"Your grandfather gave this to me shortly after I came to Kalos for my wedding. It's a puzzle box, but with nothing to push or turn. But, if you move in the right pattern..." Pascale demonstrated by running two fingers horizontally across the top of the box. Where she touched, the color darkened to black, then turned silver, but when she pulled her fingers towards her, it quickly faded back to violet.

"I remember that first step, across the top. But I never did manage to get it opened. What do you make of it?"

[robo-writing]

Okay, now I need a fic based on the session the reader and Logan has when he was slapped. Like the thought of her passing out and he still continued to fuck her? And her coming too and he’s just pumping her full of his come? Lord have mercy 😩🤤

me getting this anon while i was knee-deep in writing angst is something so funny to me, crying my eyes out then opening my inbox to see this gave me mental whiplash like you can’t believe He barely sounds human, more man than beast. The weight of him pins you into the bed, unable to move. The creaking of the bed, your weak cries, his downright animalistic grunts of pleasure as he thrusts into your tired, achy cunt—you two sound like a cheap porno, and not in a good way.

You have no one else to blame for the six foot wall of muscle that pins you to the bed, holds your hands behind your back and fucks you like he’s got something to prove. His hips meet your backside again, and again, and again—each thrust leaving your ass raw.

You don’t know how long it’s been since he’s put you on your stomach, and you don’t care to know; all you want is for him to keep going. Hell, you’re not sure Logan would stop even if you begged him.

Reduced to his animal instincts, if he’s not panting in your ear like a bitch in heat he’s mumbling the filthiest fucking words into your skin, tongue lapping at the salt that clings to it.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he groans, each word emphasized by the sound of skin slapping on skin. “My girl, mine to fuck, mine to breed.”

It genuinely hurts to breathe, but all you scratching at his arms does is spur him even further. Eventually you give up, lie back like a good little whore and let him fuck you until either you pass out or he runs out of energy.

Unsurprisingly, option A seems to happen first.

A few spots in your vision, a ringing in your ears, then nothing. An unknown time passes, and you wake up in the same spot as before, spread open and speared on Logan’s magnificent dick.

At least from what you can gather he’s a bit more put together now, still pumping himself inside your warm walls, but much less violent than he was before. You feel the familiar thrum of orgasm on the horizon, an odd sort of pleasure-pain that keeps you aware long enough to listen to your boyfriend speak.

“‘M sorry baby, fuck, just couldn’t stop,” he says, kissing up and down your spine in apology, still chasing after his own high with each word. “Feel too good, so, so good, goddamn—“

He’s stuttering, cutting himself off, unable to string together a full sentence. You chance a glance at him and fuck, he’s a goddamn mess. Sweat dripping from his brow, muscles flexing so hard you could count each vein, a rosey blush running from his face to his chest—he looks like he’s just came from hell and back. Damn near incoherent, whispering sweet nothings into your shoulder—

“Lemme come in you baby, just one more time, one more fuckin’ time—“

It’s a rhetorical question at this point; like you ever had a choice with the way his cum drips from your cunt. So full of him that each thrust pulls more out of you, only to be replaced. He’s had to have cum inside of you multiple times, the sloppy sound of it mixing with the sound of his balls slapping against your ass.

And yet, he keeps on going.

An urge to control, to keep, a need to stuff his cock inside of you and have you know exactly who it is that has your pussy creaming for him.

[councillor-roland]

Roland's choice of words had been rather deliberate. He knew Rhys fairly well by now, knew he liked to keep himself put together and that it was like a kind of armor for him. Well, if they were going to do this and Rhys was really going to hand over control, it seemed only fitting to start with a command like that. The vampire watched attentively as Rhys slowly removed his clothing, the slow striptease almost tantalizing as more skin was revealed. He noticed, of course, when Rhys seemed to hesitate and he was fairly certain it had more to do with the new nature of this particular encounter than any shyness Rhys still had about his body with him. Roland had seen and delighted in it so many times at this point that that would be absurd. He nodded just slightly, his lips quirked up in a slightly smile, encouraging Rhys in a way that had nothing to do with the game and was just the usual support he gave him. Rhys looked away and they resumed their roles again until he was bare before him. Roland raked his eyes over him slowly, drinking in the details he knew so well before he met his gaze again. "It's a start." He mused, a little haughty, and rose imperiously from the chair. He unhooked his cape as that would likely only get in the way and let it fall, leaving him still very much fully clothed but putting more of the sheer shirt he wore on display. In the blink of an eye, he was in front of Rhys, hand on his throat again yanking him towards him into a rough, bruising kiss, practically punching his mouth into Rhys'. It was more tongue and teeth than anything and he let it go on for a long searing moment before he pulled back just as abruptly as he'd started, eyeing Rhys. "Now undress me." He loosened his grip on Rhys' throat and dragged his fingers down his chest and stomach, hard enough to leave red lines but not break the skin. He let his fingers just brush over Rhys' cock, the touch suddenly light, before he removed his hand entirely and waited for the command to be obeyed.

Rhys tried not to dwell on how symbolic the command was. Keeping himself meticulously put together was a constant need for the witch; physically, mentally and emotionally. It was the only way he knew how to be these days. To be ordered to undo part of the illusion was as unnerving as it was alluring. He had mentioned wanting to give control over to someone other than himself for a moment and Roland had accepted such a responsibility very well; Rhys couldn’t fault him in the slightest. He stifled the whine that threatened to leave him as Roland’s grasp tightened around his throat and was fortunately distracted enough by the following shove to get his thoughts in order. It was always far too easy to lose himself entirely to the magnetising allure of Roland’s presence and snapping out of it was always more of a challenge than Rhys anticipated.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself a little further, Rhys obediently followed the order and slowly stripped himself of the various layers, a hint of trepidation slowing his actions as his fingers stilled over the buttons of his waistcoat. It wasn’t as if he had anything to truly be apprehensive about, not in Roland’s company — this wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence, but the new edge to such an atmosphere had Rhys feeling as if it were their first night together all over again. He held Roland’s gaze for a second before averting it once again to the wall behind him, swallowing the last of his reservations and ridding himself of the penultimate line of his physical defence. Gathering what remained of his mental strength, Rhys dragged his gaze back to meet Roland’s own once the last item of clothing was removed and aimed a small smile towards him. “There. That good enough for you?”

[seventh-district]

Making Incorrect H:SR Quotes Until I Run Out of (hopefully) Original Ideas - Pt. 4 - Nuthin' but Boothill Edition

[Pt. 1] [Pt. 2] [Pt. 3] [Pt. 5] [Pt. 6]

[demaparbat-hp]

Almost

[jojo-schmo]

[The Forgotten Land Roleswap: Chapter 2 49-50]

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[idlingmoons]

hi oc enjoyers, i now have ref sheets! in order, from top to bottom: apricot, bloodmoon, daydream, and sungrass

these guys are the ones that i have talked about the most—hopefully planning to drop new ones soon + properly host a qna maybe? in the meantime, feel free to send me asks about them :)

with all my ocs present here, i'll talk a bit about the universe that they're from! i've been calling it what's your worth (wyw), and i've been hoping to at least maybe plan a fic and sort out some details about it.

the base premise of wyw is that y/n has cut off their family and sold off any belongings related to them! after getting a trailer to get away from their family, they somehow keep attracting bots to them.

unfortunately, not every bots gets to stay with y/n, but i like to think that each one is impactful on y/n's journey, along with everyone else's. i like to think that y/n gets to kiss every bot that stays with them, and at least hug every bot that they meet. it's up in the air who stays with y/n for now, but it's sure fun to think about!

[acourtofthought]

"Gone to the mat again and again to fight for that future with Feyre"

Rhys may have stepped back and kept his distance for months when he thought Feyre would be happy with Tamlin but what Cassian said is true, Rhys did consistently show that he was willing to fight for Feyre.

Lucien fighting for his future with Elain:

Lucien breathed, "Where is he keeping her?"

"I don't know. Rhysand has a hundred places where they could be, but I doubt he'd use any of them to hide Elain, knowing that I'm aware of them." "Tell me anyway. List all of them."

"You'll die the moment you set foot in his territory." "I survived well enough when I found you."

"I need to find her."

I asked Lucien to escort me, and he'd been more than happy to do so, given that his own status of mated male made him uninterested in any sort of female company these days".

"I'm getting my mate back."

"Tell me about her - about Elain," Lucien said quietly.

"My mate is engaged to a human male." I want to see her. Just once. Just-to know." "To know what?" "If she is worth fighting for. And then I'll ask your mate how he survived it - knowing you were engaged to someone else. Sharing another male's bed."

"I would like to see them first. I know you're anxious -" "Just do it," Lucien said, bracing his forearms on the stone rail of the veranda. "Come get me when she's ready."

But Lucien was standing in the doorway. And from the devastation on his face, I knew he'd heard ever word. Seen and heard and felt the hollowness and despair radiating from her.

Lucien stiffened - not at what I'd said, I realized, but at the tone. A hostess. But he asked, "What of - Elain?" "I need to think about it," I answered plainly.

"I would never hurt her."

"She needs fresh air." "We'll judge what she needs." "Take her to the sea. Take her to some garden. But get her out of this house for an hour or two."

"I sensed no ill will, no conniving. Only concern for her. And ... sorrow. Longing."

"Let me do something. About Elain. I heard - from my room. Everything that happened just now. It wouldn't hurt to have a healer look her over. Externally and internally."

"Please tell me," Lucien said when I crossed the threshold into the foyer. "What the healer says. And if- if you need me for anything."

"I'll go." Lucien was staring at Elain as he spoke.

Lucien, haggard and bloody, panting for breath. As if he'd run from the shore. His gaze settled on Elain, and he sagged a little.

"I heard - what happened. I'm sorry for your loss. All of you."

"I heard you made the killing blow."

Lucien now stood in the sitting room, close to Elain's side.

"How is she?" "Good. But is she still..." A muscle flickered in his jaw. "Does she still mourn him?

Lucien had encountered him, I realized. Somehow, in living with Jurian and Vassa at the manor, he'd run into Elain's former betrothed. And managed to leave the human lord breathing.

"The bigger box is for you. The smaller one is for her."

Cassian's heart strained at the pain etching deep into Lucien's face as he tried to hide his disappointment and longing. "

Two years after their bond snapped "he tried to hide his disappointment and longing."

From the start of their bond snapping until where we are currently at in the series Lucien is still fighting for Elain.

Is he being pushy? No, because that's not what would best for a female who recently had a broken engagement with someone she loved.

But does he still think of her? Does he still long for her? Has he been loyal to only her?

That is the author showing us that Lucien remains committed to their bond, he is fighting for their bond.

Authors do not write loyal kings as not ending up with their HEA and Elain will always be able to take comfort in the fact that he wanted her, he waited for her, he allowed her to set the pace of things while he suffered for her.

That is how you write a real love story. Not a guy who rejected her at the first real test to their love as Graysen did, not a guy like Az who hadn't thought of a future with her beyond his sexual fantasies and proceeded to feel a spark in his chest at the thought of another female's happiness mere hours after he rejected Elain.

Lucien is loyal to Elain regardless of what he's getting out of the situation and that's exactly what we saw from both Rhys and Cassian with their mates.

[northstarscowboyhat]

I know your art (which is bedazzling, btw!) is primarily about staroba, but I gotta ask. How is my favorite “vampire”, Dalv doing in your Lucky Clover AU?

First of all, thank you so much! I know I tend to hyperfocus on the Staroba and Clover end of the AU, given my obvious bias LOL. But it was about time I designed Dalv and Martlet, so two for one special!

Dalv is in his late 30s and doing quite a bit better! He's still quite introverted, but has more of a social life in Snowdin! In the time that's passed since Clover chose to live in the Underground, he's become a very successful children's book author and illustrator and gains a ton of joy from that. Overall he's living a bit more of a quiet and peaceful life despite his past struggles, but he's quite content with that! He still in contact with Clover and the others and they visit him fairly often.

Martlet is in her early 30s, and she's just as energetic and spry as ever! She still has some scatter brained tendencies, but she's a lot more responsible and a lot more independent now. She also still lives in Snowdin, though she flies to the Oasis Valley like, daily, to see her buddy Clover LOL. She quit her job with the Royal Guard and took up carpentry, and is successfully running her own independent business! She's upbeat and cheerful, but she generally tries to keep a low profile in Snowdin. Despite it being quite a few years, there's still some rumours and talk about why a Royal Guard in Snowdin suddenly quit her position...

[melonfiend]

everyone’s favorite disney prince, eugene fitzherbert!

[silverskulltula]

so the limited run kotor master edition strategy guide is really good

[susielesbianism]

hey y’all I just bought In Stars and Time today. On a scale from 1-10 how deeply do you think will this financial investment ruin me

[bedazzled-garlic-bread]

(apology tour spoilers)

you know what? I think apology tour is actually my favorite episode of helluva boss so far.

Yes, I cried, and yes, I want my babies to be together. But I think this episode was actually a turning point- blitz is trying to get better.

And when they were talking on the couch.. blitz holding stolas in his arms, their casual banter, stolas looking at blitz to make sure it was okay for him to dance with that other guy, and blitz's little wave of approval. They fit so well together even when they're fighting.

I love this episode because it's realistic. Sometimes people need time apart to be able to make it work, and sometimes things are complicated and sad, not fluffy little gays all the time. How stolas is so lonely and just wants to be loved, blitz doesn't believe he CAN be loved, and they're both so broken yet perfect for each other. I do think that they need time apart so they can both grow and just have time to think about their relationship. Blitz is already showing signs of acknowledging his issues and wanting to change, which is good.

And it's interesting to see myself in both of them, and I know lots of other people do as well. It's nice seeing that maybe we can change, too.

This is the most invested I've been in their relationship, I think ever.