#in the shows/movies and in fic

[leohtttbriar]

list of things i’ve made up about vulcan while writing a lesbian philosophical-dialogue t’pring/uhura fic, some of which has made it into the fic and some of which has not:

they have 83 subjunctive or subjunctive-adjacent moods in their language. this is down to speakers being highly aware of their own limits one hundo percent of the time. it’s considered rude or bold to use the indicative for most utterances. they added most of these subjunctive varieties a few hundred years after their little logical reformation, as the doctrine of vulcan logic really became defined. this language revolution of sorts got rid of all of their modal words.

they have a special language they use to speak to each other in their minds, which is wholly tonal in sound and not entirely translatable to material language

they have underground oceans and grasslands

they make their lyres from the tightest of woven grass found in said underground grasslands

there were several ages of post-surakian thought and cultural movement as vulcans adjusted to principles of logic--the first of these ages being called 'transition,' which, in uhura's opinion, produced the best poetry and, in spock’s opinion, produced the worst

their language has no significance assigned to stress/emphasis; or rather, their language is all exactly one stress, a philosophical expression of all things being equal as well as a result of nervous system that has to be extremely and consciously ordered

unlike in every human culture ever, they have no associated dance school with any martial art.

due to both of the above, vulcans suck at rhythm.

they are sexless, though they are not genderless. lifetime sex characteristics in their body died out a long time ago but the gender expressions remained. people are people.

there’s no distinction on vulcan between a “hard” or “soft” science. however musical study is considered the most elite subject (due to some metaphysical biases from their history)

they’re fully aware of a distinction between types of logics which is why when they are referring to their prophet/sage’s logic, they use a special case which denotes a higher plane of abstraction

the fact of their “feeling deeper than other species” comes from their heightened control over their nervous system—which was a fact of their biology before their logical reformation

touch telepathy is due to nerve endings being so concentrated near the skin and the fact that the vulcan nervous system doesn’t operate using neurotransmitters, but energy fields generated from completing a circuitry, so to speak.

mental bonds are quantum entanglement.

[qoldenskies]

i think its so funny when people take the way donnie acts at face value even though its a horrible lie because he's a horrible liar, while understanding leo is bullshitting very well despite him actually being GOOD at bullshitting. many such cases

[noodles-and-tea]

Back at it with my enchanted merthur shenanigans

[rqnarok]

MOTIVE | dark!old man!logan x fem!reader

summary: strangers-with-benefits!old man!logan punishes you out of his jealousy.

— sequel to bed chem but could be read as a standalone!

content warnings/tags: smut! mdni. porn with little plot. old man!logan. unspecified age gap. dom!logan. sub!reader. possessive & jealous logan. pet names (kid, kiddo, little girl, etc). unprotected p in v. power dynamics. cnc. heavy breeding kink. barely proofread. wc: 2,6k 

You didn’t think Logan would care—or notice, even. 

This thing between you and him has been going on for months now. He picks you up from the diner you’re working at, drives you home (his house), then fucks you stupid throughout the after-hours. 

The sex is everything you have craved for, really, “Ya’ need a real man to do this shit, huh?” A real man who does all the work and stuffs you up with his cock until you’re only speaking in high-pitched whines.

But aside from that fact, something is missing. Something your big heart always had craved, something he failed to fill.

The lack of attention and affection.

Outside intercourses, he barely talks to you. He departs from the bed after every time you fall asleep—or when he thinks that you’re already asleep. Sometimes, he takes you back to your house in the morning, sometimes he just leaves you in his vacant residence. 

All bare and worn out.

You’d rest your head on his chest in the dim room, drawing shapes on his naked skin, “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.” 

The tips of his fingers subtly stroke the crown of your head, a light touch you can barely feel, “Go t’sleep, kid.”  

It’s too unstable and lacks consistency.

That is when you start talking, well specifically, messaging, a friend of a friend, someone around your age. You are not even attracted to him but he’s nice. He gives you attention and affection you hardly even register. But hey, you just want your big heart loaded up. No one can ever blame you.

What you didn’t know is that Logan notices everything. He notices how you start to sleep more later than usual, playing with your phone for a while. How your lips curve upwards at the glowy screen when you thought that he already left the room. Making him utter a question into the cold air, “What’re you lookin’ at?” 

Strangled, your phone falls into the sheets that cover your bare form, “N-nothing, really. Just texting my girlfriends.”

And Logan knows you’re fuckin’ lying right to his face. Because he remembers you told him one time in the beginning: “Sometimes I feel lonely at night. None of my friends are a night owl like me, y’know?” He fuckin’ remembers it all. 

On a random Friday, he decided he had known enough. He drives his way to your diner and there you are. Sitting too close to his liking with some fuckin’ boy; the way those giggles left your lips makes his stomach turn. 

You didn’t know that he was sitting in his car the whole time because he never visited you on a Friday night: “Gotta do somethin’” 

But there he was, gripping the steering wheel too tightly his knuckles turned white. Muttering curse after curse under his heavy breath. Playing over the last few weeks and trying to find what went sideways. But something always went sideways with him. 

He had hoped you would understand that his aloofness was merely a product of his scars and the long life he had lived. But now, seeing you in your apron whilst smiling at another man and pouring Logan's favorite black coffee—he wished he hadn’t been so cold towards you. 

What would he do without you? What would he do if you decided that you didn’t want some old man n’picked that boy? He shakes his head lightly, no, Logan needs you. 

The thought of you leaving him makes him fucking sick and he decided to do something ‘bout it.  

By something, he means having you on his bed, naked and splayed bare in front of him as he laps up and down your dripping pussy. 

“Pussy loves me so much, huh?” Logan murmurs as he squeezes your thighs that clamped around his neck, making you hum a mhmm to the pillow beside you.

Logan’s thick fingers eagerly stroke your clit while he continues licking your folds, earning soft mewls as your head tilts back in pleasure, “Ah- ‘M so close..!” 

“Doin’ so good for your old man.” You’re moaning and gripping his greying hair while you squirm on the sheets, rolling your hips down on his face.

You were so so so close to getting your orgasm before he abruptly pulled away and stood back up on his feet. Taking you by surprise. Delaying you. 

“W-what?”  Your head is still overflowing with your high when you watch him drape his way into the nearest armchair and put on his glasses as he reaches for today’s newspaper. As if he didn’t just have his tongue deep inside you a minute ago. 

Just as you try to catch your breath, you slowly get up in a sitting position to gape at him with your flushed cheeks and aroused body. You were so close and you need him back now. 

After a minute, you begin to notice how he grips the newsprint too tensely, how his brows furrowed and his nose wrinkled, how he keeps clenching his jaw on repeat, and how he looks furious and grumpy.

Something’s up. 

“L-Logan?” You call out to him. He clenched his jaw one more time until he could not contain his anger anymore. 

He takes off his glasses in a harsh tug and stares directly at you, “Are you fuckin’ him?” 

The way he looks at you sends electricity into your core, you feel like a deer caught in a headlight, “W-wha—who are you talking about?”

When he gets up from his seat, you can see the bulge on his pants, his stare still burning into you as if a predator catching its prey, “Fuck. That fuckin’ boy from the diner. Did ya’ let him touch what’s mine?” 

Oh. 

Oh.

He’s talking about your ‘friend of a friend’. How did he find that out? You began to wonder in silence. 

You gulp as he gets closer and closer into the bed, making you push your back onto the headboard subconsciously, “Oh- no, no, he— he’s just a friend, Logan.”

He isn’t satisfied with that answer, you know this because the bed squeaks out a creaking sound when he gets his whole weight on the bed, latching and trapping you, “Ya’ thought about leaving me, kiddo?” He rumbles as he squishes your face cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, looking at you sternly as if he’s scolding a misbehaved child, “Thought about leavin’ your old man?”

“N-no!  Never!—” You’re being honest! You would never leave him…you just needed a little more. By sensing his rage that radiates the entire room, you try your best to stare back at him with your doe-eyes, a look that never fails to weaken down his knees.

Then, you build up the courage to cradle his face with your soft palms and stroke his beard, focusing on the greying parts. “Just a friend, Logan. ‘Would never leave you.” Your voice comes out as a whisper but it successfully eases him down. You can hear his breath steadying after a while. 

He closes his eyes as he lurks forward towards you, greedily locking his lips onto yours, “Was so fuckin’ mad.” As he pulls away to mumble, you keep pampering kisses on his face—to assure him that you do want him and him only. 

He pulls down his pants and lets his cock spring free to his stomach. A sight of pre-cum on his heavy tip and the grith of his fat cock makes you cry out. 

Logan trails his hands from your face down and down until he reaches your pussy. It’s still as wet as he delayed it a few moments ago. His calloused finger probes at your entrance, making you whimper into his mouth. 

“This is all f’me, little girl?” He keeps teasing your folds in one hand while pinching your peaking nipples with his other hand. All while still looking at you oh, so hungrily. 

“Y-yes! All for you. No one else—” You fail to finish your sentence when he enters one finger into your heat, placing kisses on your collarbones and mumbling mhmm onto your skin.

You can’t hold it anymore since he delayed your orgasm earlier—you’d do anything, “Pleasepleaseplease, need’a cum, please!” 

The squelching sound of his finger moving in and out, in and out of your cunt didn’t help either. You’re staring at him lust-filled and dumbfounded; you wish he could just read your mind.

“Such a pretty pussy, baby.” He removes his finger and brings it to his mouth, swirling it around his tongue to savor you, “Tastes so sweet too.” 

“Where d’ya want me?”

You whimper pathetically at his words while making grabby hands at him. “I-inside, pleasepleas—” At this point, you don’t even know what you’re begging for.

In fact, you don’t even know anything…

“Don’t got any rubber, kid. Can’t fuck you, y’know?” Logan is fucking a liar. He threw all the condoms he had into the trash bin this morning for this sole purpose. You mumbles a small ‘wha’ into his face because he delays you over and over just for him to delay you again? 

No, no, no—you gotta have him now. 

You look at him like he’s the only man - like nothing matters but him and he’s making you furrow your brows in sadness, in desperation. 

So then,

“I-it’s okay… you can- still-if you want to. I’ll let you.” 

Bingo. 

Just how Logan wants this to go. Because again, out of your awareness, this is how Logan punishes you. For making him so jealous he can barely get any sleep, for pulling away from him the entire week that he can only jerk his cock off to your pink ribboned panties (the one that you left on his house), and for making him think about you every second he’s awake because you’re his air.

He was so fucking pissed—but now, he feels that he had won already. 

“Mhm, no can do, princess. Don’t wan’ you to regret it.” Your face fell into disappointment, can’t he see how much you want this? How much you need him? “‘S alright, yeah?” He says and earns a whiny protest from you. 

Tears begin to build up in your eyes as you stutter over your words. All you’ve got is sobs because you’re so overwhelmed by everything that’s happened tonight. You can only call out his name, trying to get his attention and affection. 

“Logan.” You’re squirming on the bed, wrapping your legs around his hips, pressing his body against yours— making him pull an indifferent look to continue on his act.  

“Next time, alright, kiddo?” He kisses the tip of your nose as a decoy. 

“N-no! Now! Please, Logan. Now, please—” You move your hips upwards and make his tip kiss your wetness. He begins to lose his composure when you wrap your small fingers around his cock. Logan grunts and lurches forward because he’s just an old man who needs you. There’s little he can do.

“Wan’ you inside…” You whisper breathlessly as you move your hands up and down on him the way he loves it, “‘S okay, Dada, I promise.” Your thumb swirls around his cockhead before bringing him closer and closer to where you want him until the tip pushes inside your aching folds, “‘Just pull out, okay?” 

Logan grins at you, showing his wrinkles. Oh, he won’t pull out. He knows he won’t. 

This is the climax of his ‘punishment’. Yes, he’s a bad man, the worst kind of man. But this is his only way to keep you, don’t you see? To make sure you won’t leave him, to make sure shit like yesterday won’t happen again. 

He bumps his nose into yours and kisses your forehead, “Y’sure, baby?” 

And you just let out a ‘yes’ because you just need him so so so badly. He nudges forward, in in in, until he’s buried inside of you—then he kisses your lips again. It’s so hot because he has never fucked you like this before, so raw and deep. After feeling your velvety walls, he knows he will never let you go. 

He starts a cruel pace and jolts you; your cute tits jiggle every time he thrusts inside—he’s sure that you’re made for him, to be with him. Put on this place to be his pretty baby and to have his baby. 

“Ya’ll let that boy do this to ya? Mm?” You shake your head rapidly at his question, hoping he’ll understand. And he does. “T-Tha’ right. Pussy’s glad to see me - loves me.” 

Your eyes squeezed so tight but he can’t stop, not when you’re squelching ‘round him and gripping him as if he’d disappear, “My good little girl - fuck - fuckin’ love you.” He confessed while burying his face on your neck and the only thing he has on his mind is puttin’ a baby in you.

It’s the truth: he loves you. More than anything–more than himself. He just doesn’t know how to show it in a normal way.

He thrusts and thrusts and thrusts—your moan gets louder and louder and louder. Logan takes your hands, interlinking your fingers together and kissing your knuckles.

You make these pathetic little noises, ah ah ahs, and he knows you’re close. Now is the time to do his final act, “Y’know why it feels so good, kid? 

He touching you everywhere: pinching your nipples and holding you by your throat,  “‘S ‘cause you’re fucking a real man, baby.”

“Y-yeah! Jus’ need a man—need you—” Logan nearly cums right there and then when he sees how tears stream down your cheeks as you look up at him in pure admiration—like you worship him. Again, just the way he wanted it.

Your shaky voice as a newborn fawn reminds him what he’s here for, what his punishment is to you.

“F-fuck. Gonna pull out soon, darlin’”

What? It’s too soon for you and your vice grip somehow manages to get stronger around him. He can barely withdraw before you squeeze your walls so deliciously and wrap your legs tighter; ankles locking his hips onto yours.  

“N-no! Don’t- don’t go anywhere— Staystaysta—” Logan sighs in relief. You ate up all his acts. It’s working. 

His palms move to your waist to work himself deeper in you, hitting that gummy spot that he knows will make you sob.

“Wha’dya mean no? Logan asks, “D-don’t wanna knock you up, kiddo.” Oh, but he does! He does. He does. “Gotta pull out. You don’t want that, ‘kay?” 

“I-I do! I do.” You finally plead to him with your soft voice. “I wan’ it..” 

Logan can’t last any second longer but it’s okay because you’re so close to getting to where he wants you.

He snarls a ‘Fuck’ under his breath and, “Gonna get ya’ pregnant, sweets.” His mouth gets to your neck and starts leaving dark bruises on your silky skin, “S’that what you want? My baby, hm?” 

“Yeah.” You squeak up while meeting down his thrusts, “Yeahyeahyea—gimme a baby.” You continue your mindless babble, your brain is empty except for the thoughts of him. “Fill me up, fill me up…” It’s becoming a plea. 

“I’ll fill you up, sweet girl.”

And he’s gone. Lips latching onto yours as you both reach ecstasy. Logan fucks you through it—fucks his seed so deep in you so it fuckin’ takes.

He wished he’d feel guilty as a sick old man for ruining you and your life—but here you are, milking him for all he’s got and telling him that you love him too.

You’re gorgeously unaware that he’s punishing you the entire time; you’re too fucked up when he’s spilling warm ropes of his cum on your walls. He pulls out slowly, staring at the white strings that gush out of your wet hole before plugging himself to make sure it takes.

Logan thinks everything’s fine because he’s got his assurance:  that you’re never going to leave him—that now you’re fully his—and that he has won. 

[shellxrls]

bestfriend!jj x fem!reader and they go to the beach and jj gets a boner from seeing u in a bikini

you’re practically prancing around the chateau with your tits spilling out of your bra, fabric struggling to accommodate and letting fat slip out and crease at the corners.

jj can’t help but go love-struck everytime he sees you, eyes immediately gravitating to your tits while he grows red in the face, letting out a dry cough and blaming it on ‘dehydration’ when he catches john b eyeing him for his pervy behaviour.

“dude c’mon,” john b groans, smacking jj in the chest and redirecting his attention, “it’s like you’ll see anything with tits and you can’t even bother to put it in your spank bank for later, at least have the decency to wait until she’s gone before you bust man.”

“dude, john b, i do not know what you’re talking about, i'm just admiring a beautiful woman right now,” jj defends, holding his hands up and shrugging in surrender.

“jj, you have half a fucking chub right now.”

jj’s head snaps downward, and he rushes to cover his dick, protectively placing two hand over his crotch before staring john b down.

the brunette sighs exasperatedly, “look, bro— you might as well just go jerk one out in the toilet right now, but don’t come back until you’re ready to stop creeping on her.” with that john b turns, dropping his head in his hands and leaving jj to stand there admittedly defeated.

[helpallthenamesaretaken]

and if we don't get a girly lil montage of annabeth's makeover on circe's island with cutesy music in the background in s2, then what's the point??

like imagine. it's percy in a really tight situation rn. he's tempted by his humane insecurities, risking trusting a suspicious primordial goddess. but he's choked, because he wants to be perfect. he wants to be enough. we see a torn expression on walker's face. indecision and doom is hanging in the atmosphere.

then we cut to some pop music blaring in the background. leah's lips are touched up with lipstick a close up shot. her cheeks are brushed with powdered pink. we see her spinning around in some dresses while giggling with the servants (+reyna cameo). she's shooting star eyes at the mirror with someone gives her a grand reveal of her new gorgeous hairstyle.

oh, where were we again? oh yeah. we cut back to percys life or death situation or whatever.

[wishchip106]

crazy this guy can kill anyone with a thought

he’s just a silly billy

he don’t need to mind control me to do anything sign me up to be a child soldier get me in the field

[altcvnningham]

idk why i thought ab this but imo adler isn’t huge on pda BUTTT he is serious about silent gestures of care + affection. being cia means his head is perpetually on a swivel buttt when it comes to the mundane he is constantly in tune with what you want and need, from the superficial to the serious.

dress you did a double take at past a boutique? it’s mysteriously hanging in your closet the next time you get dressed. he hears you sigh to yourself about the leaky faucet? it’s fixed, though you never recall touching it. you start waking up every day with a crick in your neck? hm, suddenly you swear these pillows somehow feel more plush, more comfortable, different. obsessing over a certain song you keep hearing on the radio? somehow you find the whole album in your record collection.

foot rubs without question after you take off your heels you’ve worn all day; dishes washed and house cleaned even though you’re sure you’ve both been busy at work; quietly doing up a button on the back of your dress without even telling you that you’ve missed it.

he’d spoil you to heaven and back in the tiniest ways and you won’t even notice it enough to insist that you don’t deserve it. somehow, you just think life got strangely easier when adler walked into it.

[missmisnomer]

When you're recommending something you really, REALLY like to someone and being IncrediblyNormal™ doesn't work out, so you have to resort to being ALittleUnhinged™ to get the point across.

🍋💥��� @turtleinsoup

[saintshigaraki]

im just beating a dead horse but i know for a fact so many people who are vocally anti dark content do in fact in some way or another consume what they themselves would classify as dark content and that is very funny to me and also enrages me a little

[halfbaked00q]

I think we should put Bond in more "normal people" situations where like sure his spy-training social mimicry can get him by, but there's still a limit to what that can do and he will have to defer to Q to actually successfully navigate the situation due to his own lack of real-world experience and like, context with said situation.

[imasexypotato]

HEAR ME OUT! I HAVE HAD A VISION!

After watching Gladiator 2 I couldn't get these two out of my head...and suddenly! BOOM

Crossover ship!

Joel from The Last of Us

X

Eric from A Quiet Place Day One

Can you imagine the different plot ideas?!

I don't even care in no one else sees it or hates it...the ship came to my brain and I've already created a bunch of crossover scenarios and aus where they meet, fall in love and raise Ellie

Everyone is happy, NOTHING bad happening EVER (...maybe)

Can you imagine?!?!?!?

P.s: I lied before...I need someone to see the vision pleaseeeeeee!!!!&#%#^##&

[fruit-colored-ninja]

I think it’s so funny how many ninjago show fics (both au and canon compliant) have kai going through an ‘I hate this kid so fukcing much he ruins everything he SUCKS’ phase about lloyd at first and then movie fics are almost always like. Hello I’m Kai this is lloyd I met him five minutes ago and if anything happened to him I would kill everyone in the room and then myself and if you say a SINGLE bad thing about him because of his father I’ll kill you too

[kitxi-official]

Another wallpaper fanart for @bapple117's fic The Theraprist After chapter 30 released I spent about 8-10 minutes pacing around my house in excitement. To say I love this fic is an understatement

[gingernut1314]

The Rain

Summary: You've traveled with Kusuriuri but now time has stopped. It seems it will rain soon...very soon, but Kusuriuri does not want to face it.

Content: gn!reader, based off the TV show Mononoke (no plot line spoilers), slight dark themes (nothing is truly stated, everything is sort of left up to the reader's imagination, but implied murder and robbery), Kusuriuri in denial, sad Kusuriuri

Word Count: 1.9K

A/N: GUYS I LOVE THIS SHOW AND I LOVE KUSURIURI!!!! This is my first attempt at writing for this lovely man, so I hope I did okay lol. I hope you enjoy!

↞ to Mononoke Masterlist | Request Rules | Blog Navigation ↠

The day was bright yet didn’t fill the air with a stifling, sticky heat. A breeze blew through the grass you sat in, leading the clouds along through the light blue sky. A powdery blue that had you returning your gaze back to the man sitting just across from you. 

His eyes were that blue. His eyes were the sky. They were your sky whenever you gazed upon them. 

“I think it will rain.” You spoke in a voice as airy as the breeze ruffling the long strands of his ash-blond hair that hung over and around his pale face. Kusuriuri didn’t blink. Didn’t move a muscle as he watched you. 

The purple paint on his upper lip might lead one to think he was smirking mischievously at you. That he might not be moving or responding for so long to purposely tease you. 

But you knew better. 

Knew he was far from feeling his usual mischievous ways. That he hadn’t felt like that in…oh…four days?

Had it been four days?

No…maybe it had been longer. 

Seven days?

Two weeks? 

Three? 

“Go on. Ask me why I think so.” You prompted, leaning forward just a hair. Kusuriuri’s eyes tracked the movement. Eyes that hadn’t left your form in what felt like hours. 

“And why is that?” His voice was typically full of such sensual tones. A purring sound in your ears that would send a pleasant shiver down your spine. 

But not today. 

Not in…how long?

“The clouds. They are so big--so full. Almost about ready to burst at their seams with all that rain in their bellies.” You spoke, eyes drifting upwards just as a pair of clouds might drift. “Ask me when I think it will rain.” 

“When?” 

“Today…soon. Very soon.” You spoke on a near-relieved breath. Eyes cut from the sky themselves narrowed at your answer. 

A clattering of noise sounded from within the large, wooden box sitting just an arm's width away from you both. A noise you knew well. A noise that might have terrified others, but not you. Never you. 

“I disagree.” Kusuriuri remained calm. A calm hardly reflected in his eyes. No, his eyes were clouded and bristling. Eyes that cut towards the wooden crate he carried on his back like he could stop the commotion on silent threat alone. 

You knew better. 

He knew better. 

“I know you do.” A small smile pulled at the corners of your lips. “Let us talk about it.” 

“I will do no such thing, I’m afraid.” Kusuriuri simply spoke, eyes finding yours once more. 

“Hum…then we have a rather large predicament on our hands. Wouldn’t you agree?” You asked. His eyes looked so full, just as the clouds up above. So full and ready to burst. They called to the storm lurking within your chest. A storm that shook at the doors you had struggled to snap shut.

“That we do.” You nodded in agreement, letting the sound of the grass shifting fill the space between you two.

“I remember a flower.” Something sharp shot through his eyes. A sharpness you kept your features comforting for. “Golden in make with the most breathtaking detail.” 

“It was just a flower. Why protect it so dearly?” His voice strained against his question. A question that had your mind floating back to a cold day. A cold, unforgiving day that teased your will to keep the storm in your chest back. 

“It was a gift.” 

“Gifts can be replaced.” You shook your head slowly.

“You gifted it.” 

“I could have bought another. I could have bought many other things. Better things than some shiny comb--” 

“It was mine.” That storm in your chest flared. 

Something sharp punctured through your neck. Through your stomach and chest. 

Horrid warmth splashed over your skin. 

Pain flared in your nose, ribs, legs, fingers. 

Nails tore and cracked. Bone.

The storm quelled against the bits of the sky watching you. Quelled against the pale skin of the man sitting before you. Quelled as your eyes traced the red markings around his eyes and over his cheeks. Traced the red paint cutting down the sharp angle of his nose. 

He didn’t even blink at your outburst. At the horrors that flashed over your skin with it.

“It was mine yet they took it.” Your voice gave a small falter, “They took many things.” The breeze brushed over your cheeks like a mother might comfort her child. “That is the truth of the matter, yes?” 

A clicking bang shot through the grassy field. A sound echoing from that box that seemed all too far away. 

It wanted out. 

It wanted to be free. 

And you wanted to help it.

“Stop.” Kusuriuri hissed. A hiss that revealed the sharp points of his canines. 

You smiled at his beauty. Beautiful that was otherworldly. You smiled as you rose to your feet. Feet so numb you hardly felt them as you crossed the short distance between the two of you. He watched you the whole way, chin rising gradually so he could keep watching you as you came to a stop before him. 

“You know the truth…” You whispered weakly. His lips pressed tightly. So tight you thought they bit fuse together as you knelt before him. 

You pressed closer. So close his hardly audible breath brushed against your cheeks. 

Numb fingers felt over the solidness of his arm. Danced down till you grabbed hold of his hand. 

“And you know the shape.” You guided his hand to rest over your heart. His eyes fluttered on threat of close. “You know this shape better than I know it.” Warm fingers reached upwards to feel over the numb skin of your neck. “You’ve explored it inside and out. Watched it walk and dance and run. Watched it sleep and burst with pleasure.” His breath sucked inward on a shakey pull. A shakiness that was beginning to seep into his bones. “You found that shape lying there. In the dirt. Broken. Bent into a different sort of form than it had been that very morning.” 

Your mind floated back to that cold day. To the sharp feel of rock digging into flesh and dirt that had invaded your mouth. To the numbness that had seeped all too quickly into your bones. 

Numbness that had stayed with no hope of it ever leaving. 

“I--” He paused. You’d never known him to hesitate. Never. “I know your body…your shape.” 

A clicking rattled at the box. A clicking that seemed to cut through that never-relenting numbness, if only for a moment.

“Let’s go back to talking of the rain.” He breathed, fingers holding your neck just that more tightly. Fingers that pulled you even closer. 

“The rain is a fascinating bit of weather. How do the clouds keep hold of it? Why does it fall? When does it decide it is time to do so? What is its reasoning?” Kusuriuri pressed his forehead against yours. A forehead that shook once in denial of your words. 

“I don’t want to know that.” You felt disappointment hollow out your chest. 

“Please…I want you to know.” You pressed, numb fingers smoothing down his arm once more. 

“No.” He insisted, eyes squeezing shut. You let your fingers dance over his shoulder and up his neck. Let your thumb smooth over his pale cheek. Over his unpainted bottom lip. His eyes softened against such touches. Touched he leaned into. 

“Why not?” You asked.

“Because I…” He gave another hesitation you had never seen him give before today. “Please.”

“Tsk, tsk. All this over little old me?” You teased weakly, “I hold nothing over any other of my kind.” His eyes snapped wide open then. Both hands moved to grab hold of your face. Hands that only made you yearn more for freedom because you could not feel them. 

“You do. You hold not only beauty over them but kindness and comfort and laughter. You are a friend to me when I’ve gone too long without one.” He had freed you before. Freed you from the haunting horrors your father had plagued upon you. He had shone like an angel washed in golden light when he’d done it. Had gifted you freedom and hadn’t blinked an eye when you followed him all over Japan. You had been with him since that day. Had never once dreamed of leaving. Until… 

“There will be others.” You murmured, fingers messing with the ends of his silken hair. 

“No. There will not be.” You hummed in thought at his words. 

“I heard once people come back…maybe they come back with the same face but with a different name. Or the same name and a different face. Or, rarely, with the same face and name.” Kusuriuri nodded. 

“I’ve seen it.” You smiled at his confirmation.

“I wonder if I will be granted that same privilege?” Kusuriuri's short brows furrowed at your question. 

“I--that is not for me to know.” You nodded.

“How--exciting then.” He looked far from excited. Looked so--shaken by that unknown. You wished to ease that. Wished he wouldn’t worry for you. Not when he didn’t worry for any other who had shifted in much the same way you had. “If I return…you’ll find me and I swear I shall be your friend once more.” 

“You will not remember me.” You pressed your nose against his trying, trying, to feel him.

“I will. My soul knows yours. I feel it…it’s the only thing I feel. I’m certain of it.” Kusuriuri nuzzled his nose against yours. “I…I want you to know the reason…please.” His hold on your face tightened the smallest bit like he might be able to hold you forever.

“...reveal it then.” You smiled brightly at him, cupping his face between your palms and keeping his eyes at level with yours. 

“The reasoning is this: I love you.” Kusuriuri’s face crumbled in a way so foreign to you. In a way so uncharacteristic of him yet it never once took away that beauty of his. Made him more so. Painfully so. “You freed me once. You showed me kindness. You made me laugh and cry and feel things I never thought possible.” The clicking clutter rang sharply in the air the longer you spoke. Grew louder and louder as you felt your body relax further and further. 

“I fell in love with you over and over again and if I am to return one day, I will gladly do so again. And I--I held on a bit too tight to that love…didn’t I?” You chuckled, tears burning over your cheeks. 

The top of the box flew open and silence fell over the world.

The wind blew a bit sharper just as the sun began to be blotted from the sky.

“Free me…one last time?” Kusuriuri’s eyes were like pools of water. Water that threatened to spill over their confines just as yours had. 

Soft lips pressed to yours. Lips you melted into as you always did. Lips that tasted of sunshine and exotic spices and things you mourned to feel again. 

“I know the shape, the truth, and the reasoning of you, Mononoke.” He whispered against your mouth. A small, sobbed laugh sprung from your lungs. A bittersweet thing that had you pressing your lips to his one last time. “And I will free you as you wish.” 

Cold. 

That day was so cold. Full of so much pain and sorrow and regret. 

It was a day that stole not only your worldly possessions but your spiritual ones too. It leeched the very feeling from your fingertips and heart, leaving you feeling oh so hollow.

And yet, as the now stormy sky grew bright in that golden light you always adored to see, you felt it. 

You felt warmth. 

You felt peace. 

You felt the rain.

[spoilers-ahead]

okay!! now that it’s not 2am for me, i’m going to post my selkie!jason todd hc’s straight up au apparently! 

(uh. this was supposed to just be a list of hc’s but i got slightly,,,, carried away)

his selkie skin looks like an oversized red hoodie in his human form, and is just warm enough to help him survive new england winters.

when the summer heat becomes unbearable, he slings the hoodie around his waist

alternatively, he just coasts it out underwater. perks of living in a coastal city!

willis todd was a selkie. he used to tell jason stories of what it was like to swim through the big, wide ocean. of how freeing it felt. how different it is, from the smoggy, heavy air of gotham --- different, but both theirs, in their own right.

but to be honest, jason doesn’t remember much about the stories he was told, or really, anything about willis --- he had been in and out of blackgate for most of jason’s life, working for two-face to try and make ends meet, before dying. 

what jason mostly remembers, are the warnings. don’t let anybody know you’re a selkie. don’t let anybody find your skin. they will find it, and they will use it to control you. even decades later, jason would still remember those warnings. 

catherine is the one who teaches him how to swim, who helps him trial-and-error his way into putting his skin on, and learn how to make the transition seamless. 

after she dies, jason spends three months as a seal, to just... exist. forget.   

although jason technically lives on the streets, whenever he can;t find food, whenever he can’t find somewhere warm to sleep, whenever just being human becomes too unbearable, he spends the night as a seal. he ends up spending more time in the ocean, than on land.

that’s not to say he’s very good at being a seal --- he barely knows how to swim, has to learn how to fish the hard way. 

when bruce finds jason stealing his car tires, he marvels over how nice jason’s hoodie is, soft and fluffy even after all of jason’s time on the streets, especially given the condition jason is in, ribs showing from malnutrition, and the worn and raggedy shape of the rest of his stuff.

jason is skittish when he goes to live in the manor, even after a few weeks. he always adopts an expression particularly similar to a cornered wild animal around alfred in particular, alfred, who keeps on trying to take his hoodie away, purportedly to wash it.

alfred eventually gives up on trying to force jason to wash it --- he figures that as jason becomes more comfortable living at the manor, he’ll wind up telling them why he’s so protective over that hoodie, and they can work something out then. 

whenever wayne manor overwhelms jason with how big and how decadently expensive all the decor is, jason runs away, run to the ocean. 

jason doesn’t actually end up telling alfred and bruce that he’s a selkie --- bruce just has a ridiculous amount of motion alarms, which are triggered every time jason ran off. he had followed jason the third night, and saw him transform. 

bruce doesn’t tell jason that he knows, assuming that jason kept this a secret because he didn’t fully trust either of them. he would later learn that he was right in this assumption (a rare win for bruce in terms of emotional awareness)

except jason doesn’t fully trust either of them, even after a few months. bruce impulsively decides to do a few things --- a) tell jason about batman and robin and his crime-fighting secret identity, and b) tell jason he already knows about him being a selkie. 

jason is absolutely bamboozled by the fact that bruce knows, and yet hasn’t tried to take his hoodie to control him, or to stop him from playing in the ocean for a few hours. 

in fact, (under alfred’s encouragement) bruce offers to take him to the ocean during the day, so he can get “a proper night’s rest that a growing young boy such as himself would need”

jason remembers what his father told him, to never trust anyone, never let his guard down. but bruce has known about jason being a selkie for so long, and he didn’t take his hoodie or try anything. of course he can trust bruce. 

and when he tries on the robin costume for the first time, it fits perfectly. just like his hoodie, his second skin. it fits just like magic. 

oh, it’s a little loose in some places, the legacy of dick fucking grayson a little heavy sometimes, but he’ll grow into it. he’ll make himself, if he has to. 

also, jason finds the fact that even though he’s a friggin’ selkie, his callsign is a bird (a robin, no less) incredibly ironic and funny 

being a selkie is actually so useful for vigilantehood. the amount of people who talk freely, openly, and loudly about their drug smuggling plans near the ports is quite frankly, ridiculous.

honestly, towards the end of his robin years, jason remains genuinely surprised nobody catches on to him or his tactics yet. bruce is very proud.  

even though jason is safe, has been safe for three years, and trusts bruce with his life, his skin, and everything, old habits are hard to break. so he has his hoodie on when he goes to find sheila. 

and anyways, he wants to see if sheila is a selkie too. he’s taking biology right now, and they’re learning about punnett squares. jason’s never met another selkie before, other than willis who he barely remembers. there’s a possibility that sheila knows something, anything, so he has to try. 

sheila gets a glint in her eyes when jason mentions that he’s a selkie, tells him that while she’s not one herself, she’s familiar with the myth. she has long suspected that willis was a selkie, she tells him, and she’s glad to have confirmation. 

jason positively vibrates with excitement, can’t wait to ask, to pester his mother (mother!) with questions upon questions until. 

until. 

sheila doesn’t do anything after she gives him to the joker. she just smokes and smokes. and she doesn’t tell the joker about his hoodie, despite how it would have been much easier for the joker to destroy him that way. much more painful too.  

small mercies, he supposes, in between hacking coughs that brings blood bubbling up his lips. 

after he dies, his hoodie is ripped and in tatters from the crowbar, with burns along the edges from the bomb. bruce has to carefully peel it off his body. 

when jason was alive, his magic kept the hoodie in perfect condition, always. even when the rest of him was covered head-to-toe in mud, or dripping sludge from the nasty gotham sewers. 

bruce stares at the same hoodie, blood-soaked and mangled, so incredibly dissonant from how he remembered it on jason, when he was bright, whole, and alive. 

he can’t stand it. the hoodie that was so precious to jason, that was jason, at the core of him, in this state. dirty and ripped and devoid of the magic jason had exuded. 

in a moment of desperation, late at night, bruce asks alfred to teach him how to sew. he doesn’t dare to practice on jason’s beloved hoodie --- instead, he starts with the suits in his closet, grabbing the first one he sees, regardless of price. rips a hole and sews it back together over and over until he perfects his technique. 

and then he washes the fabric gently, using baby fabric cleanser and scrubbing for hours upon hours until the last traces of the deep-set brown stain from jason’s blood washes down the drain.

he painstakingly sews the scraps of fabric back together with a red thread, carefully sourced to match the hoodie to try and make it flow seamlessly like it used to. 

it doesn’t work, not exactly. despite his best efforts, the creases bruce had carefully sewn together are prominent and thick like scars, littering the  soft fabric.

so he gives up. he hangs it over the grandfather clock entrance to the cave in his study. brings it with him every time he visits jason’s grave, because he doesn’t ever want to keep jason’s hoodie away from him, but he also can’t bear for it to get ruined. 

dick visits him. a rare occurrence, these days. 

dick yells at him, as he is wont to do. 

these days, it feels like they spend more time angry at each other than not. dick says that this isn’t right. isn’t fair to anybody, not to alfred, not to himself, definitely not to jason. he rants, jason deserves to be remembered as he was in life, not frozen in death. 

perhaps he is right. bruce is not unaware of the state of violent, cutting stasis he is in, this putrefaction of his life. and he is certainly not unaware of how it is affecting the people around him. dick. alfred. the neighbor’s kid, the one who wants to be robin.   

bruce tries. not for himself, but for tim. for alfred, for dick. even for stephanie brown, who sometimes, when she smirks just right, or says something with just the right twang, he swears he can see jason in her. 

he still can’t bear to put the hoodie away, because jason deserved better than to be forgotten, so he folds it gently and places it in his closet instead. 

he also can’t bear to look at it for very long, so he forces himself to every single day. 

it’s different from the glass case that houses robin’s tattered suit in the cave --- that, is a reminder of how he failed robin. this, this is salt in a constant, stabbing, festering would, reminding him of how he failed his son. 

it was stephanie, that eventually helped him figure out what to do with the hoodie. when she was young, young enough to cry at ripped pants and skinned knees, young enough that her mother hadn’t touched the drugs yet, her mother would dry up her tears, give her a hug and a kiss on the forehead, before patching her pants up. 

what not many people know, is that before crystal brown set her mind on becoming a nurse, she wanted to be an artist, first. and so she grabs her old set of embroidery needles, and stitched little designs. dogs and cats. stars and planets. tools and gadgets. 

bruce doesn’t react, doesn’t even move, even as stephanie finishes her story. she hangs there awkwardly for a second, stares up at jason’s suit, waiting for him to respond, before shuffling towards the exit of the cave. 

thank you, spoiler, bruce manages to croak out. 

ah, yeah, she says, shrugging lightly while slouching in on herself, any time, boss. she walks out, and bruce watches her go from the reflection on the darkened computer. 

that night, he takes out jason’s hoodie, smooths it out, grabs his threads, and stitches. 

he stitches on constellations, argo navis, for jason’s namesake in the greek myths he had loved so much. a tiny seal, playing with beach balls. little books, with quotes on the sides. a robin, big and bold. 

he tries to make it as true to jason as possible, not just in death and in bruce’s memories, but as he was in life.

jason wakes up abruptly.  

he wakes up in a coffin, cold, alone, and with a gaping hole in his chest. getting dipped in the lazarus pit only made it worse, only made him all the more aware of what he was missing, all the more conscious of it. 

he doesn’t bother trying to learn how to swim with two arms and two legs, instead of two fins and a tail. it doesn’t feel the same. it only reminds him of what he’s lost. 

sometimes, on sleepless nights that happen more often than not, he wonders what would have happened if he still had a hoodie, still could swim. 

if he still was robin. 

and he doesn’t have access to the cave anymore, or to the titan’s tower, or the watchtower, and his memory of the past is still patchy and shitty in some places. 

so in a burst of impulsivity fueled by the person he no longer is, he prints out photos of robin’s costume from the internet and recreates it on his own. 

if his skin is gone, then fine. fine! he’s perfectly perfunctorily aware that nothing about this resurrection of his is natural. if he doesn’t think too much about it, he’ll be alright. his hoodie, his skin, that was something he was born with, a birthright that died with him. 

but robin, robin was something that he helped shape. robin was something that he worked for, changed himself for. 

and the makeshift robin suit --- it doesn’t fit him, not anymore. no, it feels wrong, like a child playing with their parent’s suit. or --- he realizes, perhaps more accurately, like an adult realizing they no longer fit in their favorite clothes. 

and --- and --- what was the point of it all? what was the point, of trying to make bruce proud of him, of getting dick’s approval, of trying to futilely save people over and over again from the same gallery of supervillains who keep on escaping from prison?!

and what was the point of carving out a space for himself if the joker was just going to beat him out of it, and if tim drake was going to insert himself in the hole he left behind?

and then the next thing he knows he’s in titan’s tower hitting tim drake over and over again because who let him? who let him take jason’s role as a son, as a brother, as a hero? how dare he?

but when he’s slit tim’s throat and torn the ‘R’ off his chest, jason doesn’t feel any better. the robin suit still doesn’t fit. his hoodie’s still gone. 

he’s starting to think it never will, not again. 

sometimes, when he gets tired enough to let his mind wander, he wonders what happened to his suit. 

he’s pretty sure he died with it, so either the hoodie is with the joker, batman, or... gone entirely. (it’s not like they found willis’ skin after he died. maybe selkie skins just disappear in a cloud of sea foam once they die, or some little mermaid shit like that)

it’s a cold comfort, that nobody can manipulate him now. nobody can control him --- not even batman. 

(bruce had thought about it. when he first had his suspicious regarding who the red hood was, before he knew there was any trace of the son he once had left. he thought about using the hoodie, using jason’s selkie skin to coerce him, at least to stop murdering people, to stop hurting their family.) 

(he would never go that far, in retrospect, or at least, he doesn’t think he could ever. to do that to jason, betray his trust so thoroughly and completely... but it would be a lie to say that he didn’t consider it.)

bruce reflects on this as jason reveals himself, the joker tied up at his feet with a gun pressed to his head, and venom spitting from his son’s mouth.  

but when he lifts the batarang to hit jason’s gun, or wrist, or anything that’ll force him to drop the gun, he realizes that his hands are shaking. 

and when he throws the batarang, he knows a millisecond after he’s let go, that he’s miscalculated the ricochet. 

so when jason escapes that night, bruce knows he’s fucked up. 

jason goes off the maps, completely. bruce doesn’t know where he is, if he’s safe, if he even made it out of the explosion that night. 

it takes weeks. weeks for bruce to track jason down, from meticulously documenting the dropped threads of where the red hood was pulling strings in the gotham underworld behind the scenes, to tracking security cameras with facial recognition. 

once bruce manages find where he’s staying, make sure he’s safe, he knows what he wants to do. and, he knows what he needs to do. 

jason gets a package in the mail, five weeks after his disasterous meeting with batman and the joker. unmarked, unsigned, no return address. 

when jason opens the box gingerly and carefully, he holds on to his skin for the first time in years. and then, and then, and then --- something right slots into place. his fingers brushed gently over the tiny spotted seal he knows he used to look like, the books he remembered ranting to bruce about for hours on end. 

the robin, on the top left, over his heart, big enough to have changed him, yet small enough to not define him. 

it’s not perfect. it doesn’t even fix anything, not entirely. he still fights with bruce most times he sees him, tries to punch dick in the face, steadfastly ignores tim and steph the entire time. 

but it’s something. it’s something, and the next time nightwing, batman, spoiler, and robin fight a gang on the docks, the red hood gives them a helping hand before jumping back into the ocean and swimming away.

fin!

wow this got long