#it all hits particularly hard when half of it is DEAD
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pixielle · 9 months ago
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are you normal or have you cried as you thought abt your otp whilst listening to the dulcet tones of Phil Collins as he sings "You'll Be In My Heart" from Disney's animated feature film Tarzan (1999)
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wonderjanga · 1 month ago
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Black Adam getting Confused
I was reading the wiki trying to learn more about Theo Adam, and on the page I read that he was just evil and essentially just killed the Batsons for a scarab. That’s it. Then Adam possessed him. See, the wiki doesn’t say if Adam has any of Theo’s memories, but what if he did?
Adam’s pissed. He wants to take down the current champion. So, he flies to Fawcett to take him out. He’s then met with a golden retriever of a man who feels familiar and a looks a little too excited to be seeing Adam. Did the wizard not tell this oaf about him?
Marvel: “This is awesome! I’ve never met someone like me!” *starts yapping about how it’s awesome to meet another champion*
Black Adam: *not even listening, the words sound like this to him, is just thinking of where he knows this man is from*
Marvel: *still yapping*
Black Adam: *gets hit with a flashback so hard you would’ve thought it was a flash-bang. Remembers stabbing C.C. in the back, literally, and leaving him to die*
Marvel: *asks Adam something*
Black Adam: “What was that?” *is literally reliving when Theo went after Marilyn next*
Marvel: “What’s your name?”
Black Adam: *stares for a few moments, confused, wondering if Marvel remembers him*
It’s not like this deters Adam though. He still thinks the man is his sworn enemy. They still fight to near deaths and all that, but the memories bother Adam. Not because he was ashamed Theo killed Batson in such an underhanded way (he was just a tad bit), but rather because he doesn’t know how the man is alive. As far as Adam knew, dead people couldn’t just come back and be champions. If that were the case, wouldn’t the very first champion still be the current one?
Teth finally got to ask his question after a particularly brutal fight that messed the both of them up. Adam was on the ground, nose bloody, but nothing more. The current champion never went anything further than immobilizing him. It infuriated him, but since the man gave him more chances to kill him, whether it be on purpose or not, he’d let the matter go. Speaking of the man, he was standing, lip split open, bruises on his face, one of his eyes was half closed and had blood leaking from it, a consequence of Adam aiming for his eye. The current champion’s appearance once again reminded him of Batson once more.
Black Adam: “How’re you alive?”
Marvel: “Huh? What?”
Black Adam: “You should’ve died. In a tomb.” *coughs* “He used the knife. He let you bleed out. The tomb was collapsing and you should’ve only been a normal human being at the time.”
Marvel: *slowly coming to a realization that, holy fudge sticks, Adam thinks he’s his dad*
Black Adam: “So tell me, how are you alive?”
Marvel: *is silent for a bit and definitely won’t turn down the chance to make his dad sound like a badass* “I refused to die.”
Black Adam: “…What?”
Marvel: “I refused to die. I couldn’t leave my wife, my children, my friends, everyone I knew behind. So, I refused to die. I crawled out of the tomb and then the Wizard found me.”
That was actually true. Well, everything but the Wizard thing. In this AU, when C.C. had been stabbed, he managed to crawl out of the tomb, even with a leg that had gotten crushed by debris. Though unfortunately, he died due to blood loss soon after. This was all detailed in a newspaper Billy happened to find about a week after he got kicked out of the house by Ebenezer.
By the way, during that entire speech about making his dad sound like a badass, Marvel didn’t smile. And if Teth was being honest, he uh… he didn’t like that. Mostly because even during the times Marvel fought him, he still smiled at him. He didn’t know how to feel about an unsmiling Marvel. So now, back in Kahndaq, Teth sat on his throne kind of just running the entire interaction through his head over and over again.
But you see, this isn’t the only time Adam’s been completely befuddled by Billy. There was a time he went to Fawcett in disguise and happened to me a certain someone…
Black Adam: *walking down the sidewalk*
Billy: *running down the sidewalk, bumps into him, and then looks up to Adam*
Black Adam: “Watch where you’re going-” *almost goes into cardiac arrest when he sees a kid that looks exactly like his nephew, just white*
Billy: “Sorry, Mister.” *continues running*
Black Adam: *watches him run off with a mortified look on his face*
When he tries to find out more about the kid that bumped into him, he had been pronounced missing and presumed dead. This made Adam kind of feel like shitting himself because for a brief moment he entertained the thought that his nephew had reincarnated or something.
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arkangelo-7 · 2 months ago
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Okay, but, BatAdvil.
At this point in his career, Bruce has developed more synthetic drugs than a Pfizer employee without health insurance—it just comes with the territory. Given his close proximity to the Rouge Gallery and Gotham’s semi-poisonous smog, he’s had to teach himself the art of medicinal drugs. There’s an entire fridge dedicated to his creations, but his magnum opus will always be BatAdvil.
Bruce designed it following a particularly godawful run-in with Killer Croc back in 2005, but it was Dick Grayson who actually coined the term. Alfred was suspicious but ever since BatAdvil’s creation, Bruce has kept a tiny bottle of it on him at all times; any time the Joker or Poison Ivy gets a particularly nasty hit in, he’ll pop a pill and suddenly he’s 25 years old again and pain’s only a distant memory.
Eventually, though, the Robins get their hands on it.
Dick routinely steals Bruce’s horde. It’s because he’s so generous with it; anytime he’s in a team up and his partner gets whacked around by one of Blüdhaven’s worst, Dick, guilty, offers up the pills to both superpowered and pedestrian hero’s alike. It’d made him extremely popular with the Justice League—there’s regular fights over who gets to assist Nightwing in hopes of getting their hands on some free BatAdvil.
Jason, once he’s adopted and learns the Secert, immediately sees the potential of dealing BatAdvil. He starts with the Titans, because their proximity to Dick means they’re already hooked, and goes on to dominate the Justice League as the leading BatAdvil dealer. He makes a killing off that stuff and keeps his cash stash locked away in a random chimney in Wayne Manor.
Tim knows about it. Tim knows everything, actually, but he’s acutely aware of Bruce’s miracle pills and Jason’s dealings with the JL. Once Jason’s dead, Tim not only takes over the Robin mantle, but also Jason’s superhero drug ring. He runs it so efficiently that when Jason comes back, he half considers hiring Tim for his criminal enterprises before he decides that trying to kill him would he more rewarding.
Side note: Tim 100% uses the chemical composition of BatAdvil to make a pain-relieving energy drink. It works great, but the problem is that it’s shit on his liver, so he has to go back to regular coffee after a few weeks to avoid losing another internal organ.
Damian and Steph are similar in that they both at first think BatAdvil is stupid. They stick to regular Advil or just go to hard drugs for when they’re seriously injured. But then they both have a scenario where they have some sort of project or test the next morning and have to study, but also just broke like three ribs fighting the Riddler two hours before. They take BatAdvil once and never go back.
Bruce, to this day, uses the stuff religiously. Like, on a daily basis. (He’s got eight kids, he’s forty-five, and he’s beating up criminals on the regular. It’s tough on his knees.) But like regular Advil, the more BatAdvil one takes, the more their immunity grows and the larger their dose has to be. Bruce accidentally gives Clark one of his every-day pills BatAdvils after he gets whacked during an alien invasion and Clark immediately passes out. The League freaks out and Batman awkwardly disappears and pretends like it wasn’t his fault. Dick cries tears of laughter when he hears.
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literary-illuminati · 3 months ago
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2024 Book Review #44 – The Archive Undying by Emma Mieko Candon
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This was a book I went into with no hand holding or preconceptions, and so I very much dove into the deep end of the pool. This is, frankly, a mess - but a beautiful one. There’s a lot to love, a lot of meat to chew on; but Candon’s reach really does exceed her grasp in ways that show, and I cannot blame anyone in the slightest for finding the narrative alienating or hard to follow. But shoot for the moon and you still end up among the stars, right?
The book follows Sunai, a deeply traumatized drifter and guide, who absolutely never got over the apocalyptic collapse of the AI-governed city he grew up in – quite literally, as he was interfaced with the AI-god at the time, and has spent the decades since hiding his nature as a Relic despite his stubborn refusal to age and tendency to heal from all injuries in a matter of minutes. Should his nature be known, he would be conscripted as the pilot and adhesive for a towering killer mech, and used to protect and oppress the new city now growing in the ruins of the old. Instead he fled half-way across the world and spends his days helping salvagers and refugees and his nights on drunken benders. After receiving a letter from his past he goes on a particularly intense one of those, and wakes up having both slept with and accepted a job from Veyadi, a former Archivist of the same AI who he’s clearly already told too much. Despite his heroic efforts to avoid honest conversations or emotional connections, from there he’s dragged straight back into the world of dead gods and killer science.
This is a book that hits the ground running and never stops, without much in the way of care about whether you’re able to keep up. The setting has both history and politics that are clearly important but are never explained beyond the bits that are directly relevant, with the expectation that you’ll figure the rest out through context clues (or not). There’s all manner of words being used as technical terms and basically none of them are ever actually defined. Sunai spends half the book explicitly trying to head off or avoid revelation-heavy or important conversations and, while he might know what topic he’s evading by turning the conversation into a quickie, I at least did not. Which is something I enjoy, honestly – I felt I had a solid grasp on most things by the end, and the world was fascinating (if occasionally absurd) – but I really cannot hold it against anyone who checks out.
The narration doesn’t help, either. Technically speaking, the entire book is told from Sunai’s POV. He merely has an unusually porous consciousness, and so spends a large fraction of the book being directly spoken at by one of a couple different voices in his head, or else semi-conscious and seeing the world through one of several different people’s eyes. When he’s not just outright hallucinating or trapped in a VR simulation, or spiraling into flashbacks (some of which are even his). This I found harder to adapt to and more frustrating, and in many cases felt like Candon was trying to show off and not quite managing it, but when it worked it really did work (the playing with the narrative voice in the second act, especially).
The book’s most saliently about trauma and (failing to) deal with it. It is not especially subtle about how Sunai’s relic nature is just a literalization of how he latches on to the plans and hopes of others to avoid even considering the idea of what his own might look like, and makes no bones about making him the whole thing’s beating heart. The book, then, depends a great deal on how compelling you find him. Personally I found the broken wreck of a man endlessly endearing, even when he was also deeply frustrating to be stuck in the head of.
The book’s other characters fare less well, sadly. The other major characters, despite (or maybe because of) all the time spent looking through their eyes and ruminating on their motives, still end up feeling opaque and a bit arbitrary. There’s only so many world-shaking revelations you can layer on top of each other before they stop having much impact and you stop being that invested in the characters. Ruhi and Imaru especially suffered here, the former for having so many story beats stuffed into him he ended up feeling more like a plot device than a real character, the latter because she felt like the story highlighted her importance to Sunai and general significance and then didn’t really know what to do with her past a certain point. In both cases (and like, this is clearly intentional) you end up knowing quite a lot of what Sunai think of them and not that much about the characters themselves.
Veyadi does better, if not always consistently. His romance with Sunai (osculating between unhealthy coping mechanism FWBs and all-consuming devotion as the story progresses) is another of the book’s main throughlines and it largely worked for me – Sunai’s wilful refusal to accept either of their obvious feelings was well-done and didn’t last quite long enough to be frustrating, and it was always entertainingly unhealthy in one way or another. ‘adi’s character outside the romance is significantly more opaque. Partly for reasons of plot and preserving tension, but still – I ended the book caring that Sunai cared about it, but not really about him for his own sake.
I admit I feel personally let down by the ending less for what it does than what it teases at then fails to do. All that buildup and ominous foreshadowing about losing your identity and being subsumed and synthesized into a greater hole as the walls come down and in the end they and the remnant AI just end up being able to DM each other’s brains. My expectations of a perfect lyctorhood or even some original examination of codependent relationship realized as the literal synthesis of identities, entirely dashed.
The ending in general was also just, well, messy. Too many plates in the air, too much ambiguity and nuance that then needed to be forcefully resolved to tie things off, too much sublime technology and miraculous agency in conflict for the final result not to just feel arbitrary – especially since the neat resolution arrived at makes absolutely no sense at all unless the ‘AI’ in question was actually just some kind of incorporeal demon the whole time. The emotional beats do work, but the result feels like a bit less than the sum of its parts. But then I may need to accept that my standards for a good ending are just impossible for 99 books in 100 to hope meeting.
Still, mess aside a thoroughly enjoyable read and one I’m deeply sad doesn’t seem to have gotten more attention. Though it also definitely doesn’t need to be the first in a series (many such cases, these days).
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omgwhatchloe · 4 months ago
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but what if i ask really nicely for more into on brain injury sean au
then i suppose…IF YOU INSIST…i might be compelled…
-first things first in this au sean has to change where EXACTLY he was walking on the ground on rhodes to alter where the bullet goes. one tiny half-step to the right when he turns, along with the shooter aiming just that tiny bit higher, and he gets shot through the skull, but survives.
now im not going to go into a lot of detail about where the bullet is in the brain and why he is reacting like this etc etc because even after research i dont know the ins and outs of it, so we’ll focus a lot more on his behaviour.
-so after the position of the shot is altered, they all expect him to be dead. miraculously, he is still alive on the floor of rhodes, but heavily unconscious. he is unconscious for two and a half weeks after they try their best to heal him. poor leopold strauss was NOT about to do any brain surgery and the bullet had to be left there. when he actually woke up, everyone was relieved and crowding him. however, he didnt say a word, he barely looked at them. he just laid where he was, staring, until they started to help him up and try to speak to him. within a few days, he had healed to his limit, meaning he could walk and start to move very uncoordinated.
-sean mumbles a lot unintelligibly to no one in particular. he doesnt speak intelligibly or respond when he’s spoken too, he doesnt even know someone is speaking to him. he opens his mouth when they try to feed him but wont make a single effort to feed himself as if he doesnt know how too. sometimes he can refuse to chew if he doesnt like the texture or taste, which is very often. he chews and swallows to fast, and it causes worry he will choke himself. he can technically walk but will not unless someone is actively moving him from one spot to another, so he has no urges to take care of himself and would spend all his time staring and mumbling if alone. he does sometimes reach his arms up to push at the people around him (not hard at all) but this pretty much means nothing, it doesnt mean he wants them to leave or is showing any sort of affection. when he gets angry suddenly, which can be often, he yells and hits (not very well) the people around him trying to calm him down. he can be calmed by having his face stroked, interestingly he doesnt care who does it. he cries too, when his mouth is being burnt by the food or he is just uncomfortable, like after an accident in which no one has tried to help him. when he cries, it can either be just completely silent tears like he doesnt know hes crying, or it can be accompanied by wailing.
-he also clenches his fists, pushes things in front of him around, pulls his own or others hair, kicks the dirt under him and chews when theres nothing in his mouth absentmindedly.
-of course, the gang are not caregivers. theyre murderers, outlaws or just very uneducated people. they try their best to take care of him for the first week after he wakes up, but sean has multiple accidents because no one tries to help him with ‘using the bathroom’ (well not really using a bathroom because theyre in the woods but yk what i mean). they have things they need to do and a lot of their plates are full even without sean, no one particularly WANTS to care for him, as awful as it may seem. they become easily frustrated at the complete lack of cooperation from him, even if it isnt his fault. they also become angry at each other around the whole situation.
-when sean gets upset or ignored in someone elses care, they rush to blame and berate each other about it. but the big elephant in the room is they do not want to be his caregiver, no one does. karen tried her best, but got quickly frustrated and angry at him, causing him to cry when yelled at (this was because it was a loud noise close to him, absolutely nothing to do with what she was saying). lenny got angry at her, and took over, only for find himself incredibly tired and frustrated within a few hours. despite being his partners/ex-partners, they feel helpless with him. they dont know why hes upset or what he wants most of the time, which means they cant help him. after a few days of lenny trying to help sean, prevent accidents, watch over him, cleaning him up, he actually walked out of camp. he spent a few days alone in the quiet because he genuinely couldn’t stand the camp or caring for sean anymore.
-he loved sean so much, but he couldnt stand the mumbling and the whining and the constant taps and hits. it was overwhelming, and he realised he couldnt do it. he couldn’t be his caregiver, he knew karen couldnt, he knew the women of the camp couldnt because they simply didnt know how too and got frustrated too. the men of the camp would never…so who? thats when he started to realise, along with everyone else, sean could not stay with them like this.
-so where would he go? that was the conversation, with many different arguments. only a few argued they could keep sean, but they were easily persuaded to change their minds. there was unfair suggestions, like dumping him on the side of the road. that was from micah, and he had the support of john, uncle and bill. eventually they decided he needed to be taken to an asylum or left at a state hospital, as sending him somewhere he’d be actually looked after was expensive and not guaranteed. micah had also suggested putting him down but was thankfully denied.
-lenny debating leaving with sean, becoming his caregiver, and he was really going to do it, until he actually cared for sean again for the next day and could barely leave him for a second. when he finally napped, lenny realised he himself had barely eaten, he hadnt touched his books, done his hair, or had any time for himself since he’d disappeared. god he wanted to care for sean but he just couldnt. the vision of their cottage he made up, where he cared for sean happily…while actually being happy…was unrealistic he realised. he’d always be angry and bored, and couldnt trust himself not to run away. he loved sean, he really did, he still wanted to cup his face and hold him close, but he couldn’t. a vital part of their previous relationship was dead with seans condition, and the rest was dying. sean didnt even recognise lenny, or any of them. he knew that for a fact because micah had bothered sean to get under his skin, sitting near him and trying to get his attention, and sean didnt react.
-the day before arthur was going to take him to a state hospital, their attitudes towards him changed. they had less frustration, more motivation, because they knew it was the last time theyd see and care for him. it made them feel a little uneasy when they thought of where he’d end up, with lenny feeling the worst about it. he still debated taking him and leaving the gang, but he knew he couldnt. he knew it would be the end of his life, his freedom, if he tried to care for him alone. but god the whole thing was killing him.
-they fed sean peaches, which he actually almost seemed to enjoy. he didnt spit anything out, though still lightly hit whoever was feeding him. he had no accidents that day, and napped mostly. he sat with the girls while they tidied him up, and spoke to him (with no response back). lenny read to him, even if he showed absolutely no interest and stared away from him. that night, they had a goodbye party and all actually paid attention to him, yes, dealing with him was easy that day, but that was because he was their main focus when normally he is not.
-ok lets end on a fluffy note where he sits with arthur and ‘watches’ his sketch. he enjoys the sound of the pencil against the pages, and seems to be almost smiling. they think he likes the sound of javier’s guitar, as he plays him a song. bill tries to give him whisky but is told no, but they do laugh when he tries too. lenny puts his arm around him and shifts his position so sean is cuddling into him. he falls asleep like that.
-he wakes the next day being kissed goodbye on the forehead by the girls as hes placed into the wagon. lenny sits in the back with him, holding him close. karen could barely bring herself to say goodbye. hosea and arthur drive, with hosea telling stories about sean when he first joined, especially his favourite, where sean got caught cheating at cards and stormed off to his bedroll. they had to lure him out and convince him to play again, and they promised to actually teach him how to play (as arthur had lied multiple times to him about the rules so he could win, poor sean didnt even know he was cheating.)
-they then arrive at the hospital, in ‘desperate need of aid as their friend has a bullet trapped in his head’.
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apocalypse-shuffle · 2 years ago
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RED HOOD | BATFAMILY (assorted canon)
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“Long Overdue” (Jason Todd & Batmom!Reader) and (background Bruce Wayne x Batmom!Reader)
| Reader was with Bruce in the past but grew distant after Jason’s death. No one tells her when he comes back from the dead until Bruce is forced to bring her in on a raid when they’re overwhelmed. -Jason and Batmom!Reader reunion.
| SFW, canon typical action/violence, cursing?
| This is like half fanon half UTRH/Batman:Hush. I’m really just fucking around with canon rn. Also the pictures used are just for aesthetics and have no contextual meaning to the story. (pic source - Batman: Three Jokers comic)
| 2k+ words
| parts: one, spurt, two, three, four, five, six/six point five, seven.
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Jason stays largely impassive as Alfred checks him out. The only “wounds” he actually managed to obtain were two long surface level cuts from a buff guy with a lucky knife, the mildest limp known to man, and some bruises. He’s got bigger stuff to worry about than what little damage he took.
Somehow Mask had gotten wind that Hood had set his eyes on his most recent purchase and had responded by borrowing some of Penguin's men while the man was in court, catching Jason off guard. That either meant that Jason was getting sloppy or his collective had a mole.
A goddamn mole. Whoever it was must’ve been stupid or crazy to think they could get this over his head. Now he’ll have to deal with them, and soon, before he starts on any more plans.
There’s a pat on his arm that has Jason turning his head.
“There you go, Master Jason. Hardly a scratch and everything is treated.”
“Didn’t pay all this money on armor to get a scratch from a whole buncha pocket knives and baseball bats, Alfred.”
The old butler only raises a brow.
“Yes well, a particularly nasty bullet wound in Master Dick’s leg says anything is possible on a given day. Armor or no,” Alfred points to the two raised lines on either side of his forearms where he’d blocked that buff guy's slash for his face. “And clearly some fellow with a pocket knife did get a knick or two in.”
Jason shrugs. The guy had been aiming for his face. His face that had only been a target because he’d blown up the old helmet to catch Batman’s attention and his forearms and following Bruce’s rules were a small price to pay for those kids' safety.
“Still beat him though, so I think I’m good,” he spares the man a small fleeting smile.
Alfred worried too much over Bruce. Jason didn’t want him doing the same and stressing overtime about him as well.
“Of course,” Alfred says softly, patting him on the arm once more before turning to check up on whether Dick’s gotten enough food in him to get another dose of the good stuff.
Why the man had decided to fly off to help Jason when he was already injured was anybody's guess. Jason certainly wasn’t going to think about it too hard. His feelings around Dick were enough of a nightmare to detangle.
Jason’s ready to take that as his leave, wanting out before Nightfall and Batman - or godforbid, his replacement - throw his entire mood away, when a lone figure comes ambling into the Cave on foot and sends everyone on alert.
Dick hobbles rather gracefully for someone with a hole in his calf over to the Batcomputer to check the entrance cameras. Alfred admonishes him for putting too much pressure on his leg so soon after he’s reopened his stitches but follows after him nonetheless.
Jason closes in not far behind the two, hand hovering over his gun as he eyes the lone figure. They’re not in a rush or anything, that’s for sure. He’s never seen someone who wanted to kill him have such low gumption.
It hits him and he relaxes his hand a second before you call out.
“It’s me, guys! I just needed a break from Bruce so I walked!”
Your voice is different, he notes. Hoarse, fraying at the edges. Jason is intimately familiar with the feeling of falling apart. At Bruce’s hand too no less, which is undoubtedly why you're walking instead of pulling up with him. He can’t find it in him to feel too bad though. You might’ve taken a bullet for him but you were still a dick. And an unplanned for variable that he’d have to search more into.
Later.
Alfred takes to guiding you towards the med bay, talking to you like you’re old friends, but Jason’s never seen you before outside of tonight. As far as he knew the only female vigilante operating out of Gotham had been Batgirl before that fucking clown got to her too, and the only other woman of the house didn’t live here anymore.
Which is yet another thing Jason really doesn’t want to think about. He had felt pretty damn vindicated to learn about Y/n’s separation from Bruce until he pieced together the timeline and that the most likely cause for the split had been himself. He can admit to feeling bad about that for her sake. When he was a boy her and Bruce had seemed happy, he didn't want to be the cause of that ending for the woman.
Something harsh strikes through his chest and he forces his gaze off Nightfall and Alfred.
He needed to tell Y/n. She deserved to know - he wanted her to know! - he just didn’t want to deal with the inevitable. With Bruce the uncertainty pissed him off. He had needed the truth so bad it burned through him harsher than the pit snapping his mind back together ever could.
Problem was that in the end the answer had actually hurt. For all his speculations and phantom conversations with the man he once happily called “dad” none had been enough to prepare him for the reality of watching his father choose The Mission over him in real time.
Maybe that wasn’t a fair assessment of the situation but to that Jason says: “So what?”
Maybe Bruce did love him, and maybe what made him throw that batarang wasn’t resentment or disappointment, but he still threw it. Through everything Jason still came second and Bruce still didn’t love him enough to fight for him.
He can’t keep ignoring that it wasn’t him that drew Bruce to Ethiopia that April; it was the Joker that drew Batman. Bruce hadn’t even been looking for him, and he could understand why, but that didn’t mean he had to be okay with it.
Either way, the little boy Jason used to be had stupidly expected to be proven wrong in that dilapidated apartment building.
Jason hasn’t listened to that particular ghost since having to hold his throat together.
“Red!”
He blinks back into himself to find the rest of him already in a defensive position at Dick Nightwing’s proximity.
“I’ve got some files for you if you’re interested. We haven’t been able to figure out what all Mask’s recent moves have meant, but if you cross reference it with whatever info you’ve got maybe…” the look he sends Jason feels pointed so he huffs and moves closer.
“I’ll be able to catch him up. Yeah, Wing, thanks.” He crosses his arms and raises a brow. “Whatdya want for it?”
Nightwing turns to him slowly. “Nothing. I don’t want a damn thing, Red,” he shrugs. “Consider it a favor.”
“Right. A favor.”
Jason doesn’t buy that that’s all he wants for a second. The more plausible reason is that the harddrive he’ll be given is bugged. So far they haven’t been able to find any of his operation and he knows Bruce has been chomping at the bit to find out what hole in the wall he crawls into at night.
His line of speculation gets cut off by Nightwing starting to prattle along about the contents of every file he’s giving him.
“I figure I could give you an update on Penguin’s case while you’re here too,” he glances back for Jason’s stiff nod before doing just that.
Jason half pays attention to flashes of Cobblepot taking the stand while largely doing his best to remember which of his guys ever worked closely with the man who’s nice and calm being held under public scrutiny.
It was City Hall’s worst kept secret that they were bought out by some big boss or the other. Cobblepot wouldn’t be convicted and they all knew it. Gotham’s politicians couldn’t ever leave well enough alone though and just had to go the extra mile of broadcasting their cities inner failings to the rest of the country.
“Hey.”
At the sound of his voice Jason immediately snaps his gaze to Nightwing. He doesn’t look back this time, eyes continuing to stay focused on the batcomputer’s giant screen.
“I just wanna say the offer still stands. Jay,” his name comes off rough from the other’s mouth. “I might not…agree with what you’re doing, but call me and I’ll be there, okay? My number’s still the same. If you remember it?”
The not-glance Nightwing sends him makes his throat constrict suspiciously. This was exactly why he was avoiding the acrobat. He’s all the more glad he decided to get a replacement instead of toughing this encounter out sans helmet.
“Yeah, I remember it,” he forces out.
“Good.” Nightwing continues, voice still oddly pinched while he drops another file into the harddrive’s folder. “That’s good.”
The trial tapers off after that and Grayson stops drawing out their conversation, closing out the tabs he’d opened and leaning over to snatch out the drive.
When he turns to him the older’s face is noticeably paler than before and his hands are clammy when he gives Jason his lackluster reward for putting up with the night’s bullshit.
He forces his arms down to his sides when Grayson stumbles into the table, no doubt bruising his hip, before stabilizing himself again with a tiny laugh. Jason will never admit that as much as it irritates him, he still admires the way Grayson manages to keep the sound from cracking at the edges.
Ever the fucking paragon.
“Thanks,” he nods to the medbay where Alfred and Nightfall are talking as she’s bandaged up. “And go lay down already before you collapse. I will laugh at you if you fall.”
“Heh, yeah, I’d better,” he runs his hand through his hair. “If I pass out again mom’ll kill me.”
Dick’s hand pauses midway through his hair and Jason can tell from the way he goes rigid that his eyes have snapped to where he’s standing.
He huffs, shoves the drive in his pocket and gives the older a mock salute before turning on his heels. On another day he’d probably harp on Grayson for the carelessness, make him squirm just for the hell of it, but he’s reached his people index for the day and he’s got work to do.
His second mother - not counting Sheila and her shitty cigarettes; he hopes she rots - is also someone he does not want to keep being reminded of and staying here will clearly be nothing but that.
She’s a subject he unfortunately can’t stop thinking about now though and he’s so over it his head’s starting to pound.
‘mom’ll kill me.’
Mom.
Y/n.
Jason counts his way through a deep breath. He’s got Nightwing’s information, now he can leave to start sorting his own mess with his people the Bat-Refuted way.
With Y/n he wasn’t going to let himself exist with a child's placations that maybe she’d prove him wrong. He already made that mistake with Bruce. She was his mom. In the same way Bruce was once his dad, but he’s not fifteen anymore and he no longer believes wholeheartedly in the second chance they’d provided. He can’t.
But still, for whatever bastardized mockery of life is in him, he doesn’t want the truth from Y/n as well. So no matter how much he craves to hear her voice again and feel her arms around him, the chances that she’ll reject the son Bruce forced upon her this time round were too high and he was tired of gambling.
He should rip the bandaid off sooner rather than later though, for his sake if nothing else. He wasn’t finished with Gotham yet and all the ‘what ifs’ stampeding over his train of thought could get him killed too early.
Again.
And nobody wants to read about another dead gutter rat who thought he could fly.
…TBC
NOTES: Hope you enjoyed! This chapter is supposed to be a brief slow down before I get back into the emotional gutter with part five.
I’m like 50/50 on this. I was trying to make everything connect but I don’t really think I succeeded. And what I mean by that is that some of Jason’s thought processes don’t flow smoothly into one another the way I want, but I’m tired of poking at it so this is what y’all get.
Regardless, I’m not mad at it and if you’d like to leave a comment that’d be appreciated, but I won’t respond cause this is a sideblog. I read everything though. 🫶🏾
Edited (cause I forgot what I wrote) on 3/18/23
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alwaysshallow · 6 months ago
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coffee at midnight, part 12
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John "Soap" MacTavish x f!reader
Military consumes your private time - to the point that you pretty much can't live without it. All of the boys from Task Force 141 are just like brothers, not only best friends – you know that you can trust them with your whole heart.
Somehow, one of them manages to steal it completely, and that's on Johnny MacTavish. Over months, you learn that's harder and harder to ignore that burning feeling in your heart. (4,6k)
READ ON AO3
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You need a few seconds to understand what exactly happened in the last twenty minutes. A few seconds to look back, before you’ll leave this room—but understanding doesn’t come easy here. You just stare at the dead guy’s body with a wound in his head, thinking it will come to you, eventually.
The whole time, you felt like you were the observer of the situation. Watching everything behind a glass in slow motion, watching a movie where tragedies happen, but in these moments, thankfully, you’re usually not the participant. 
But here, you were a participant. You still are, but it’s hard to believe that so many things took place under the span of twenty minutes. Not an hour, not half a day.
What is funny in all of this, you had a particularly easy job. Had to be the perfect little spy, find the room, take the intel and run away, so you won’t get caught. Simple, yet, ending up tragically in beating up the guy and taking the pendrive before you checked if he’s still alive. You thought the whole situation would result in you having a few bruises there and there, but you made a mistake like a rookie, so you have two gun wounds.
You only blame yourself. It’s something that they teached you about in the military, on multiple trainings—to check. Not even twice, maybe thrice, if you’re not so sure about someone being dead. Because if the enemy is not dead, you’re as hell going to be.
Or, someone from your unit. Almost the same thing.
It was a reflex, when you grabbed a gun and shot the guy in the head. Without mercy in your action whatsoever, but it’s still a tad too late. There’s a bullet in your thigh anyway, your arm has a wound too. Not that bad, as he didn’t really know how to aim after being hit to the head, but… but it’s still only your fault. Even if he looked pretty beaten up, barely able to do anything other than grabbing your ankle.
It makes you angry. 
Not only the fact that you got shot like a rookie, but the fact that there’s no actual way in the world that someone didn’t hear the gunshot. No matter how fucked up and wasted people are, something like this doesn’t miss them. Music isn’t loud enough for them to skip it, at least not the guards that are watching everything like a hawk, waiting for someone to slip, so they can off them, if they are a problem. And here, you definitely are a problem that they’d want to eliminate.
You scrunch your nose, weighing your options. It wasn’t supposed to turn like that, and now you’ve got to think fast, before someone will eventually shoot you. This time, with deadly precision; you don’t escape death twice like it’s a “Final Destination” movie. 
So, you think. It’s not like you can show to anyone that you’ve been shot; there will be questions, assumptions and it will lead to your quick fall. Or, they’re already after you—nonetheless, you just need to go out of there and leave everything behind you. The guy’s dead, there’s nothing to do here. 
Steps that you take are slow; you pay attention to them, way more than you actually need to, but it’s hard to pretend you’re okay. Or to have your back straight, when you have two gunshot wounds and you need to move because it’s gonna be worse.
Being completely honest and straightforward, you’d prefer to rip the dress (annoyingly long dress) and at least try to look at the wound, estimate the damage, but it’s not an option right now. Even going to the bathroom isn’t one: you don’t know if motherfucker didn’t inform someone about your presence here before he died. He had multiple ways to do it, maybe some wouldn’t be visible to you, God only knows. 
All in all, going anywhere to inspect the wound is more dangerous than trying to get out, even if it potentially means you’re gonna pass out in the car. That’s why you push through with a pendrive in your bra (as, logically, it’s easier to steal a purse than having a pendrive slipping out), papers carefully folded in your purse, and a fake smile that you give everyone, so they won’t suspect you’re hurting.
You also tap the bracelet Alejandro gave you in a frantic manner the whole way to the back door, trying to get past many people. The only thing that is saving you is their drunkenness, the way that they don’t exactly get that you’re limping your way to the outside. 
There’s just a few obstacles in your way. Some guards wander there and there, not paying too much attention, but on your way you have to eventually sneak into the small cabin in the men’s bathroom, when you hear them reloading their guns and running towards your direction. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe they’re after someone else, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Especially when you’re limping, and you can’t quite do the Mission Impossible moves here; not when you do not want to do anything that might cause another injury. 
Because you probably wouldn’t be satisfied with additional leave. You spent enough time off the team already.
You can’t see what is happening, so you just listen. There’s people surely going forward, not even stopping to check the cabins around yours, but at least two are standing nearby. Talking, and you barely can hear about what—and you can barely understand, as it’s Russian and English at the same time. They have a heated conversation, that’s what you can definitely hear.
“...had to run somewhere,” one of them says. Seeming furious—and you really can’t blame them, you’d be furious yourself, if you’d find a dead guy from your team. Because that's what they did, you assume. “Three clear shots.”
The other man is saying something in Russian—you only catch some words, thanks to Nikolai that taught you, and they don’t seem friendly either. So, the moment they leave, you decide it’s the perfect time to go forward after another look or two, when the coast is clear.
You’re walking way quicker than the last time, caring even less about your limping and disguising your state. You realize that your time here is shorter second by second. It won’t do you any good, but it wouldn’t do you any good to act like you did earlier. At least, you think so.
An absurd idea grows in your mind, when you’re passing through hallways: because you start to debate on exiting the building through a window. It’s the “Mission Impossible” move, many times saved your life, but the last cells of common sense tells you it’s the worst idea ever with a two gun wounds. Not only that, there’s too many people to pull a stunt like that; no matter if it’s breaking the window, or simply opening it.
The idea flies out of your mind the moment someone grabs your arm and yanks you into their direction, to one of the darkest corners here. You don’t even have the time to see the person before you start attacking them; first with a kick, and you follow that with a quick punch in the gut; because screaming isn’t an option. With one man you can do something, but with an army? You’d be dead in seconds.
Surprisingly so, it doesn’t work. Or, it does, but not in the way that you think it would. They’re not attacking you, but they give you a little slap right in your butt, shushing you with a quick “Quiet”. The grip is loosening, and when you see Alejandro right in front of you, you realize that the person who is holding you is no one else but Soap.
They both seem to be scared and concerned at the same moment when you look at them.
“Ye tap the bracelet like crazy and then you attack me. ‘S not a good look on you, lassie,” MacTavish murmurs right to your ear, teasing it with his lips. For a second, you forget why you are here.
“Security’s going like crazy downstairs. What happened?”
Alejandro’s question makes you silent for a few seconds. You give them a faint smile, before you actually answer. “Well. I should start with: I had to kill someone—”
“—And you’ve been shot. Again. What were ye thinkin’?” You grit your teeth, hearing that tone from Soap. It seems patronizing, like you’re gonna get a twenty minute long talk about your decisions; and you hate it in the moment where all you want to do is just lie down and forget.
Yet, you really can’t say that you didn’t see that coming. You’ve been together with them for too long to not learn how they react.
“You know, these days I’m playing as a living human target,” you joke in response, trying not to wince under his touch, when he starts to walk again with you by his side. You find it easier to sneak with them—easier or better, as you have in the back of your mind the thought that they will help you, in case of emergency. They’re like bodyguards, making you feel safer than you felt earlier. “That was funny. You can’t deny it.”
Soap looks far from amused, as you can see. “Oh, very bloody much.”
You raise your eyebrow, surprised at his tone. “It’s not like I’ve done it on purpose. Besides, I’m good.”
“We know,” Alejandro says, before even Johnny opens his mouth. “He just has a lot to say lately, amiga.”
And it seems like he wants to prove it to you that he has a lot to say. He grabs you unexpectedly, bridal style, rushing to the car, Alejandro after him. Not giving a care in the world to the two men that are asking if you are good, they’re just pushing through. 
When you’re in the car, things are even wilder than they were. Before you know it, Soap lifts up your dress—without even asking you for permission—almost seeing your underwear, while Alejandro—more clumsily than not—tries to drive to the safe location, as your previous one already got compromised. Johnny doesn’t even react when you call him by his name; maybe that’s for the better because you’re not sure if you want to scold him or ask what he has in mind. 
After looking at your wound (way too close for your liking—it feels like you’re gonna lose your mind here), he ties his tie right above the wound. Tight. Preventing you from bleeding any further, and then he takes care of the second one. 
You thought you’d feel pain by now, but you’re too hypnotized in his movements to even notice something; it’s difficult enough for you to look at what he is doing, not straight at him, so your pain takes maybe the third place in importance.
It’s not a surprise that he cares, not at all. He always cared. No matter what the situation was, no matter what humor you had, he was always here. A loving man, making you smile with every little interaction, making an actual effort to do that. He was just a pure ray of sunshine on every step of your life, and you always knew that you could count on him.
But situations like this one, where you’re taken care of on a mission, gets to you at a much higher level than anything else he could do. He puts you first before anything, even himself.
“Price said there’s gonna be a medic nearby, so we’ll take you there. We’re… nearby, I think.” Alejandro says out of the blue, looking at you two. “No discussion,” he adds, when he sees how fast you open your mouth, as if to argue with him about it.
You roll your eyes. There’s nothing you can do about their attitude for that matter and you know it very well, so you wouldn’t even try to argue with them—and, what’s more, you’d prefer those two bullets out sooner than later. You’re not a two year old to make a fuss about something so serious. “Fine.”
“Perfect.”
You close your eyes. Crimson red flies right before them, haunting, along with the dead guy’s face, when you ride to the temporary base; it's something you're used to, massacre. Seeing a lot of blood, taking a lot of lives, whether you like it or not. Comes with a job, so you sweep away these images, trying to focus on the moment. You're alive, that's what matters—not who’s dead, especially when the people you love are still alive.
You’re grateful that you didn’t leave them tonight. Could’ve been better, of course, but it’s the thing for the past right now. You don't need to worry yourself with that.
You have enough of a headache when you arrive. There’s maybe two minutes of peace, and it’s broken the minute Price walks in with the whole ass Ted Talk that contains “you need to be more careful” for the twenty minutes straight. When they are sewing up the wound, after telling your captain the whole story, you hear how reckless you were, how rookies make these mistakes, but you shouldn’t.
You know it well, so maybe that’s why you don’t look at him when he says that. There’s a sting of shame, but also an irritation because how long can someone give you a scolding, when they see that you’re aware of everything that happened?
But, even if you’re a little bit irritated, and humbled by him, you know it’s because he cares about you. About everyone in that matter, so if it was Soap, he’d give him the same treatment—after all, you’re his family. Found, almost like a daughter. 
Out of the team, Ghost is the one that gets your jokes about being a living target, when the atmosphere is lighter; not only that, he’s the one to suggest that you should practice more, at which you laugh, asking if he’s gonna help you with that. One irrational conversation leads to another, and time is flowing by.
Price and Soap look at both of you like you are insane, Alejandro says something in Spanish under his nose, but it’s clear that he doesn’t find it funny either, what makes you and Ghost just continue joking. Kyle just snickers in the back, making coffee for everyone, and it’s all so domestic, even when Johnny gets defensive and says something about being stupid. For some time, even your wounds are all forgotten.
At least, it doesn’t bother you until you decide to take a few hours of rest before going into route again. The nap seems important, necessary after getting hit, but you can’t fall asleep; you toss and turn, but it doesn’t give you anything, when the stitches irritate you through your clothes. As much as you try, there’s no sense in making yourself go through that when you have a bandage nearby.
You sit on your bed and start wrapping the bandage around your thigh. Carefully, so it won’t make things worse—because you really want to sleep. Your eyelids feel heavy, everything that you do, every little move feels like you have to put some force into it, so it would be best to go to sleep.
It would be.
“How are you feeling? Better?” You hear. When you look up, you can see Soap, leaning against the door frame. Completely unbothered, like the mission didn’t happen, like you didn’t announce an hour ago that you want to sleep and you don’t want anyone to disturb you.
His shirt is slightly unbuttoned and way more disheveled than it was before; and he looks like a Greek God nonetheless. The one that people worship, look up to, not only because he’s smart but because he’s good looking. 
You almost feel jealous of that; he can’t really stay in elegant clothes more than he’s supposed to, yet he still looks good. No matter if his shirt has seen better times, as well as his hair. 
“Alright. Wound irritates me when I’m trying to sleep, so I’m… doing something with it,” you murmur, noticing how he scoffs at that. “What?”
“Do ye have to wear clothes at all?”
You laugh, shaking your head. Not taking him seriously because why would you? It’s him. Soap, cracking jokes, it’s not unusual. “Johnny—”
He takes a few steps forward; you observe him with double curiosity right now. Like a prey observes the predator, knowing that the attack is inevitable to happen. “I’m completely serious, lassie. We’re not going home for at least a couple of hours.”
“And, your point is?” You raise an eyebrow. It’s not hard to see that he hates the way you act on his obvious tries. Maybe for the first time, he can’t really decide if you are clueless, or if you’re just playing with him.
He purses his lips. For a moment, he’s silent—but it feels like an hour. An hour of longing glances, thinking what to do next. What you should and what you shouldn’t, applying to you and him. You both try to get through the other person’s thoughts with fear of being possibly rejected. Hell only knows how much time you spent on feeling like this in the past; some of that, you remember. But you can’t really recall from your memory when you understood that you feel something more to Soap than friendship. There’s fond memories of fear, annoyance at his actions with other girls, but realization is hard to find. 
“Open,” he says.
You take a shaky breath, looking at him. Your cheeks are hot, making you realize how you’re burning inside as well. Taking a walk on hot lava would be the right equivalent to what you’re feeling right now. “What?”
“Open,” he repeats, tapping your thighs. Kneeling right in front of you, a knight in shining armor, even if his doings are far, far away from that. “Or I’ll make you. I don’t really want to repeat myself again and again, ’m not patient enough for that.”
“Listen—”
“I need to see if you did it correctly, don’t I?” He harshly cuts you off. His blue eyes look like real sapphires now, looking right through yours with a question, even if he knows the answer already. Even if he doesn’t need an answer, if you’re honest with yourself. “Please.”
Please do that for you, so you just allow him to do what he wants. Inspect if you did everything that you needed to, even if you know perfectly well it’s not what he wants to do—at least, not the only thing. He just hides himself behind a barricade, thinking that he won’t get caught. 
He’s slow with his movements—you can’t help but think that it’s to mess with your head more. His “checking” contains lifting your dress higher and higher, without even looking at the bandage once. His eyes are glued to your skin, once again this evening; this time, with plenty of care. It’s clear that he wants something and he’s determined to get it.
There’s not a single protest from you.  
How could there be a protest, though? You want that. Maybe you’re not admitting it in front of yourself, but you do want that, badly. 
You wanted that for a long time. Waited for the right signal from him, so you wouldn’t make a complete fool of yourself if something would go wrong.
His fingertips trace the line higher and higher, feeling definitely confident about what he is doing. You call him by his callsign multiple times, but he doesn’t seem fazed by that; he’s maybe even more encouraged, leaving a single kiss on your thigh. Testing the waters, before he’ll dive deeper into it.
And you’re buying everything that he gives you.
Your last cells of restraint are hanging on a thread. Particularly thin one. “Soap, we—”
“—I’m not on duty right now,” he almost growls. A warning sign, something that you see immediately; as well as the sudden mood change, when he looks up at you. Soft eyes, eyes that could convince you to do anything he wants. “Please.”
“Johnny,” you say, your voice almost a whisper. He nuzzles your hand with his nose, and that alone makes you feel bad because of what you have to say right now. “We can’t.”
“We can’t, or ye dinnae want to?” he asks, taunting. Kissing your wrist higher and higher, crossing any boundaries you had. Folding you, piece by piece, in order to get what he wants. “No one will know.”
“Price said—”
“—He can kiss my ass, if I’m bein’ honest. We have hours.”
And that’s all you need. 
He keeps eye contact with you, as he drags your panties down. Royal blue eyes transform to something entirely different, something dirty, maybe predatory, if you’d look deeper. 
It’s something that you didn’t see earlier—and you thought you knew all of Soap’s faces. Turns out, not only it’s unusual to see this particular one, but you’re determined to learn more about your comrade.
Especially from the lover's side, a side that you don’t know very well. It’s the side that is reserved for hookups only, if anything. 
And normally, you’re experiencing the fun friend, the deep talks friend, so the difference is big, when you were never in a position like that. Under him, basically, but you can’t complain. 
When he leaves hickeys on your thigh, you can’t help but think that you always made fun of him with others—about that side. About him being a lover boy, whenever he came back after having a woman around him because it was easier than admitting that you wanted it to be courted by him. Adored, assuming that he’s a tender man.
He offered it to you thousands of times, serious or not. You always took it as a joke, something that you can laugh on with a glass of whiskey in your hand.
But right now, with his face buried between your thighs, you can’t help but think if you’d only take him more serious sooner, you could have it all. If you could have him, this, and maybe many more because no matter how Soap was, he always took care of things.
Even if it was for a quick moment.
You’re gone the moment he touches your clit; not a coherent thought in your mind. Fixation on him is too strong to care about anything else but his words, when he makes you do everything he wants you to do, like an obedient doll. If he wants you to dance, you’d dance—you lose every ounce of willpower when he speaks. Right now, you’re not even bothered by that fact.
The worst is when he wants you to lay still—it’s nearly impossible, as he speeds up the tempo, then suddenly slows the moment he sees you’re not doing what he wanted. Limiting the pleasure or extending it.
“Waited way too fuckin’ long f’ this,” he murmurs into your skin, when you yank his hair, trying to get him back to action. “Just say please, baby. ‘S all it takes.”
And you do. You say please multiple times, knowing perfectly well that you hate to use it, especially in fragile moments like this one—but when he pushes his fingers in, you forget about it instantly. There’s no other sound in the room besides the squelching, the obvious proof of John making out with your pussy, and you think you can go genuinely crazy.
Which is ironic enough because you are crazy about him. Been for a long time, if you’d like to count.
He seems to enjoy every little “please” that he gets from you, when your orgasm is close—he asks “if you want it”, and you have to beg, assure him that’s what you need. Your fingernails scratch his clothed shoulders, thighs squeeze his head, and he menacingly laughs because that was what he wanted all along.
You can’t hear what he says to you; you only see that his lips are moving, when you’re splayed on the bed, eyes on his fingers where your juices are. Body absolutely limp, with mind full but empty at the same time. It’s a funny feeling, keeping you wondering what will happen next.
Before he even unzips his belt or kisses you, there’s a call on his phone. He almost ignores it—almost. You can clearly see how his smug face drops the moment he sees who calls.
“Price?” you ask, even if you don’t need to. He’s the only man that could get him off the things that he was supposed to do, even if the said thing is you.
Whatever the captain says, upsets him visibly. Soap plays nervously with his mohawk—just like you were, a minute earlier—but he’s way more upset. He just mumbles, “yes, sir,” under his breath, the last thing he wants to say, and he hangs up. “Apparently, we have only thirty minutes now. Not hours like I said.”
You prop yourself on your elbow, looking at him for a few seconds before speaking. You’re torn between feeling disappointed and relieved by learning this information. “Right. I’ll… change, you can go.”
“Or: I can stay. It's not like I haven’t seen ye naked,” he says, cocking his head to the side. Boyish, making you think twice before you’ll actually answer him.
“It’s different this time,” you murmur bashfully, turning to him, so he’ll see your back instead of your face. Hot with emotions caused by his attitude; it’s like a never ending story.
“Different,” he repeats. You feel like he’s burning a hole through you, even if you can’t really see if he’s looking or not from that position. Maybe that’s the effect after you just were trembling in his hands. “How so?”
You want to give him an answer to that, but you can’t find a coherent thought that would satisfy him. If you’d tell him about the high of the moment, he’d probably corner you and ask if you’re not feeling all of it right now—and if you’d say that you’re shy right now, it wouldn’t be a good answer for him either.
You could be compared to a blind person, trying to find the right exit when there’s multiple ones; and you’re sure as hell that they would find the right solution first.
“Just different,” you finally decide to say, after you clean yourself up. Surprisingly, he doesn’t react to that. He’s silent, so you continue to quickly change, and then, the two of you are gone from the room.
The rest of the team are already waiting for you at the back of the building. They talk about something, but the moment they spot you and Soap they stop. If you wouldn’t know any better, you’d think that boys discussed something about you.
“You’re certainly better, huh?” Kyle asks, tilting his head to the side. Observing, just like he always does.
“I mean… it is better,” you say slowly, suspiciously looking at your comrade. “Why?”
“No reason. I suppose someone has magic hands,” he murmurs, a knowing smirk on his face. You do not like that, at any chance. “Wanna share some secrets?”
“You wish, Garrick.” You poke him in the chest with a smile; slightly forced because you didn’t expect that from him. “Better get to the car, or we’ll leave your ass.”
You keep quiet here, and thankfully no one pays mind to that, as you’re usually like this on the way home. Silent and in your thoughts about the mission.
This time, on your mind is John MacTavish.
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whererubbermeetstheroad · 7 months ago
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What are some of your First Year headcanons for TWST?
Ohmygod, I am sooooo sorry this took so long. It was way harder than I thought it would be to corral all my ideas together, but FINALLY, here it is. I hope this is good enough lol.
Hooooooo boy. The amount of brainrot I’ve had for these little guys is unreal, even during the times when I wasn’t that into TWST. But honestly, I don’t really have a whole lot to say — not that much of a “headcanons” person, myself. And a lot of what I do have to say has already been said in my fics. But I’m going to do my best here…
Ace Trappola
Because of the whole Book One fiasco, there are a lot of… things, let’s say, that Ace has absolutely fought tooth-and-nail to keep from his seniors; injuries sustained from stupid stunts, fights, bad grades, etc. It’s sort of like he’s doing whatever he can to avoid getting collared, despite knowing, logically, he probably isn’t going to.
Basically, Ace is the definition of a kid whose parents were strict, so he learned to be sneaky.
He’s actually a really snappy dresser, and not half-bad at doing makeup. He probably would’ve been in Pomefiore if it weren’t for his lackadaisical views on hard work. Meanwhile, while he’s not a strict person by any means, his stubborn, relentless attitude about his own twisted morals is what got him into Heartslabyul.
Out of all the upperclassmen, Ace feels the closest to Floyd… surprisingly. Jamil used to be a close second, but after the winter break fiasco, he’s since been replaced by Cater.
With Floyd, Ace can mostly chalk up the underwater museum incident to Yuu’s own meddling. With Jamil, it’s a little… less certain.
Before coming to Night Raven College, Ace’s nervous habit was to scratch the back of his head. After coming to Night Raven College, it was to rub the back of his neck.
Not really related to Ace, but I always headcanoned that his older brother was twisted from the Ringmaster from “Dumbo (1941)”.
Deuce Spade
Surprisingly, there are a lot of things Deuce also tries to hide from his upperclassmen. He hates himself everytime he does it, but it’s better than bothering them every time he loses his temper and they have to sign him out of the infirmary.
Deuce has scars on his knuckles from his delinquent days. 
Deuce’s main job at an Unbirthday Party is to move the tables and chairs.
The Dark Mirror briefly considered Deuce for Savanaclaw due to his strength and his instinct to hit a problem until it got out of his way, but his self-imposed pressure to be an honor student landed him in Hearstlabyul instead.
Out of all the upperclassmen, Deuce feels the closest to Silver.
Having a mommy/daddy complex will do that to you.
He likes to put oyster sauce on his tarts now — not because he particularly likes the taste, but because it makes him feel warm inside. (Tell Ace, and you’re dead.)
Deuce is actually really good at croquet for some inexplicable reason.
Jack Howl
Whenever Jack needs to leave Savanaclaw outside of school hours, he just leaves without telling anybody.
At the beginning of the year, he used to actually scrawl a shitty note saying "I'm leaving" everytime he needed to leave, but rarely did people ever actually find it by the time he got back.
After everything that happened in Book 2 and Book 3, it's obvious to him that Ruggie and Leona really don't care enough, so he stopped leaving notes.
For the briefest of moments, Jack was considered for Heartslabyul by the Dark Mirror for his inflexible moral code. However, his steadfastness in the face of overwhelming odds landed him in Savanaclaw.
They grow nighthowlers in the Botanical Garden. They look exactly like blueberries. Not related to Jack (yet), but I thought it was important to mention.
Besides Vil, Jack feels the closest to Riddle in terms of upperclassmen.
He really does like Ruggie and Leona, but that’s… a lot to unpack, at best.
He and Epel regularly get into fights over whether pears or apples are better, even in situations where neither pears or apples are involved.
Professor Crewel, especially, is very exasperated with them.
For absolutely no real reason whatsoever, Jack has the entirety of the “Shaftlands’ Etiquette Manual for Youngsters (Ages 14—18)” memorized. 
Not related to Jack, but I always headcanoned his young sister as being twisted off of Bolt from “Bolt (2008)” and his younger brother as being based off the Sheriff of Nottingham from “Robin Hood (1973)”.
Epel Felmier
Epel is a transgender male. Just wanted to get that out of the way.
Epel does actually like macarons — strawberry-flavored ones are his favorite.
Epel does still get into a lot of fights around school, but he’s gotten better at hiding the evidence. Employing a trick he learned from Vil, he hides the bulk of his injuries using his clothes and makeup.
More often than he’d like to admit, Epel accidentally refers to Vil and Rook as his “parents” in his essays. Luckily, Professor Trein still gives him full credit, and he doesn’t comment.
He does the same thing when he’s talking about them to the other freshmen. They don’t stop him because a) it’s sweet, and b) it’s funny.
Once, Epel vented to Riddle about Vil, and accidentally referred to him as his “Ma” the whole time. By the end of it, Riddle looked very, very, very concerned.
Out of all the upperclassmen, Epel feels the closest to Leona.
Epel had no chances of ending up in Savanaclaw, but with the Dark Mirror sensing great magical power emanating from him, he very nearly ended up in Diasomnia. However, because he hadn’t developed his ultra-mega-powerful Signature Spell yet, it ended up diverting him into Pomefiore. Sorry, bud.
Am I only saying this because Epel is actually twisted off of a magic object, unlike the other characters? Yes, yes I am.
Ortho Shroud
He’s twisted from Hercules, don’t freaking @ me.
Ortho has a few issues with looking into mirrors, especially since he looks so much like OG!Ortho. 
Ortho has a few attachment issues, as a result of being an extrovert trapped in an introvert’s bubble for most of his life. 
The first-years completely and absolutely baby him, no questions asked.
It’s so bad that even if Ortho is completely at fault for something, they’ll take his side anyway.
Honestly, as much as I love this little guy, I really don’t have much to say about him…
Sebek Zigvolt
Suffers from severe attachment issues, for about the same reason as Ortho — being “too much” emotionally, and surrounded by people who put in the emotional bare minimum.
Silver is kind of an exception, but he’s so stone-faced, it also kind of doesn’t make a difference.
Has definitely called Trey “Father” more often than he’d like to admit. Trey thinks it’s funny, meanwhile Sebek is just straight-up mortified everytime.
Out of all the freshmen, Sebek actually feels the least close to the upperclassmen. But if I had to say which one he feels the closest to, even if it wouldn’t be saying much at all, it would have to be Silver.
While Sebek’s favorite food is salmon carpaccio, his (closeted) second-favorite is his dad’s homemade yogurt.
Am I projecting? Yes. I love my dad, sue me.
Sebek was actually way more comfortable with his human side than he was with his fae side when he was a kid, but because Briar Valley, that didn’t last too long.
Back in Briar Valley, Silver could usually go out by himself and not be bothered—mostly because he was General Vanrouge’s son and Malleus’s sort-of brother. Sebek, unfortunately, did not have that luxury.
The Dark Mirror considered Sebek for Ignihyde because of his never-ending diligence when it came to protecting Malleus and the other people he cared about. However, once it became extremely obvious that Sebek didn’t know how to turn down the volume on his own phone, it put him in Diasomnia.
Honestly, though, I think Sebek and Ortho would’ve both been better off if he HAD been sorted into Ignihyde.
Not related to Sebek, but I headcanon his older brother as being based on Tick-Tock the Crocodile from “Peter Pan (1953)” and his older sister as being twisted from Louis from “The Princess and the Frog (2009)”.
Yes, I know Louis is technically an ALLIGATOR, but shhhh. Lemme have this.
If it makes you feel better, though, I also headcanon their father as being from Port o’Bliss (the same place Sam is from), so through the power of genetics, it kind of works out.
Okay, I think that’s everything. I considered adding Yuu in here, but then again, anything we know about Yuu is mostly headcanons, so I don’t think it counts lol.
Thank you SO MUCH for your patience, and I hope my headcanons didn’t bore you, I know they’re kind of mundane lol.
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omegalomania · 9 months ago
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What are some of your favorite aro-/ace-coded fob lyrics?
oh fuck yes a little bowl of seeds just for me
boycott love from disloyal order of water buffaloes is a personal favorite of mine. its a lyric i really really want tattooed at some point. that's not the only lyric i latch onto from an aro perspective but it's probably the biggest one
basically the entirety of it's hard to say "i do" when i don't but a special mention goes to you are appealing to emotions that i simply do not have as well as the only ring i want buried with me are the ones around my eyes
it's true romance is dead / i shot it in the chest and in the head from the music or the misery is also a favorite of mine, also just that whole song in general
i thought i loved you but it was just how you looked in the light in hum hallelujah resonates with a lot of queer folks i've found, and it's no different for me
same goes for it's a strange way of saying that i know i'm supposed to love you from g.i.n.a.s.f.s.
i'm outside the door, invite me in / so we can go back and play pretend from alone together brings me back to when i was trying to perform heteronormativity/amatonormativity even if it was making me miserable
i also hold to a very similar vibe with she said "i love you 'till i don't" / i am just playing house, no idea what i'm doing now from sunshine riptide and also most of burna boy's verse, frankly. i fell in love but i didn't fall down and feel like i'm bulletproof, baby in particular
american beauty/american psycho, particularly the first verse. i think i fell in love again / maybe i just took too much cough medicine
golden is a big one for queer folks in general i've found. the chorus especially hits hard from an aro and/or ace reading. and i saw god cry in the reflection of my enemies / and all the lovers with no time for me
i've got a dark alley and a bad idea that says you should shut your mouth is a heavy song no matter how you slice it. but that chorus gets to me in particular: we can fake it for the airwaves / force our smiles, baby, half-dead / from comparing myself to everyone else around me
the kids aren't alright reads to me as one big anthem for platonic love above anything romantic, which resonates super hard with me. the second verse has a lot of good lines that i latch onto from an aroace lens too. your love is anemic and i can't believe / that you couldn't see it coming from me
pretty much the whole chorus of HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON'T does it for me, and those verses have got some good aroallo vibes too! i never really feel a thing... confidants but never friends...
the whole of fake out is a gimme. that chorus rings real true. starts with love is in the air, i just gotta find a window to break out and finishing with but it was all a fake-out
i've got all this ringing in my ears and none on my fingers is one that has another highly applicable title but the whole refrain of the truth hurts worse / than anything i could bring myself to do to you paired with the one-two punch of that second verse REALLY gets under my skin
and of course, the culminating one: you are what you love, not who loves you from save rock and roll. obviously there are a LOT of ways to read that line
there are a couple other songs i latch onto - wilson (expensive mistakes); a little less "sixteen candles", a little more "touch me"; the (after) life of the party to name a few - but the ones listed above are the big lyrics that resonate with me on a personal level
just in general i have a shitton of fob over on my aro playlist (which doubles as a general aroace/queer playlist but has a lot of emphasis on aromanticism) in case i forgot to mention anything but like i said those are the big ones
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ishanijasmin · 5 months ago
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alive alive
contemplating the living forces of nature, thinking about life beyond biology (the layperson's perspective)
i have been thinking a lot about how the earth is alive. maybe even how the world is alive. like, alive alive. the all-singing, all-dancing, moving, caressing, feeling, vibing atmosphere that we have all found ourselves in. the twinkle of the stars, the erosion of a cliff face, the coming and going of the seasons, the whip of the wind, the rise and fall of the sea, the trickle of a stream. so much of the earth is not what we regard as being alive, and i find it fundamentally unusual that we reserve the idea of life for things that manifest in a specific way. i’m not a biologist, and the science of the universe baffles me. but i don’t know how to stand at the edge of an ocean, my feet slowly being consumed by the waves, wet silt building slowly around my ankles to stabilise me, without thinking, ‘what is this, if not alive?’ what does the ocean do if not soothe? what do the cliffs do if not hold?
last week i took a boat trip to berlenga island, just off the coast of lisbon. i am always humbled by the ocean—by its vastness, and as someone for whom the titanic is always in mind, by its mercy. on the journey back to the hotel, i sat on the floating front of the prow of our little boat for a while and let my legs dangle, watching the waves, and it was as close as you can probably be to riding the sea.
as i got progressively more queasy, i followed the patterns for a long time, and i couldn’t really figure out which direction anything moved in, including myself. lost at sea, immeasurably. so later, i looked it up. did you know waves move in circles? you probably did. i didn’t. i have absolutely no idea how these natural processes work. if i were in an ancient civilisation, i would get hit by wind exactly one time before being like, ‘wow, this is witchcraft, i’m doomed.’ wind: caused by the varying pressures in the atmosphere? hot air rises and cold air rushes in? a mystery! feels plenty alive to me! why does it hit my face the way it does—why some days the gentle stroke of a breeze on my sweaty back in the summer, and others a force big enough to move oceans? why at the same time? lisbon is a particularly significant place to be thinking about this: a city plighted by earthquake, great fire, and tsunami in a matter of hours, and left to rebuild from the wreckage.
i’ve had this in over my head experience with windsurfing and paragliding, as well. the wind, never tamed, but understood by people who’ve been observing it for a lifetime and who still prefer to use modern technology to double check their voyages are safe. a respect and a fear instilled by regarding these changes around us as almost alive. almost.
it’s not that i don’t trust scientists when they explain simple geological concepts to me—i suppose it’s like intellectually knowing something rather than intrinsically knowing it deep, deep in your bones. how can you demystify that? how can the winds—the oceans, the lakes, the tectonic plates, the rock formations and volcanoes—how can they not be alive? they are growing, shrinking, subsisting and existing like all of us, not just to hold life as an ecosystem, but as motion in themselves—erosion, weathering, death and becoming.
i have been reading braiding sweetgrass of late, which is where a good deal of thinking about this comes from. in the book (at least the half of it i’ve read so far), kimmerer talks a lot about the reciprocity between people and land, and the idea that we are all alive and that the earth, the sky, the land and its processes are not a dead ‘it’ while we are an alive ‘they’. the earth is being all the time and so am i and so are we all, and it’s kind of hard to think about and also to not think about.
where am i with all this? breathing through the crushing feeling in my chest that has kept me company every day since i can remember; thinking about doing laundry, about growing a flower trail up the side of my apartment that the kids next door won’t prick themselves on, on getting rid of the fungus gnats that are plaguing a couple of my plants, about my husband who has a headache and is squinting, about recharging. the ecology and community of self is as alive as anything else. dwelling on the world and where we all fit into it and how to preserve ourselves and each other—the human each other, the animal each other, the plant each other, the tectonic plate rock formation beach gravestone church road brick wall limestone cliff fossilised shell firewood smelted and mined ring earthquake each other.
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starrydixon · 2 years ago
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Restless
*Requested from this ask :)*
Era: Prison Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Pronouns: She/Her Word Count: 2.2k Warnings: language, anxiety, nightmares, brief descriptions of typical twd violence/gore, comfort-fluff!!
Summary: After another nightmare startles you awake in the middle of the night, you find it hard to fall back to sleep. Your boyfriend Daryl comes to the rescue when he senses your spot beside him in bed is empty. 
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“You should be sleepin’.” Daryl drawled as his gravelly voice sounded from the doorway behind you as you stood outside on the bridge that connected one cellblock to another. 
“I’m sorry for waking you.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, mental and physical exhaustion making you too weary to sound any louder.
Although you didn't directly wake Daryl up when you snuck out of your shared cell, despite him being a notoriously light sleeper, the archer seemed to have a sixth sense about you and only awoke when his subconscious didn’t feel you beside him anymore. Daryl wasn’t surprised when he rolled over and only felt a cold mattress under his hand after blindly searching for your figure in the dark. 
“Don’t gotta be.” Daryl quickly dismissed as he shuffled over so he was standing beside you. Wordlessly, he handed you a cup of water that he knew you needed. You always got cottonmouth after being awoken from a nightmare, and often neglected the task of getting yourself some water so you could relieve the dryness in your throat.
“You rarely sleep, and I woke you up.” You insisted after taking a few gracious sips of the refreshing water. Your head ducked in shame and your posture slumped in defeat when you thought back to the image of Daryl’s sleeping figure snoring into his pillow only a few moments ago. 
“Was probably gonna wake up anyway from my own hellish mind, so I should be thankin’ ya for sparin’ me the trouble.” Daryl glanced over at you as a half smile lifted one corner of his mouth. He was unsure if his attempt at comforting you worked, judging by the worry line that only seemed to deepen between your furrowed eyebrows.
A bittersweet silence fell over you both as you looked out at the darkened landscape of the prison yard and shadowy trees that lined the woods in the distance. Through the holes of the wired fence in front of you, your gaze would occasionally skim over the darkened outlines of the lifeless walkers as they stalked around the most outer fence. If you strained your hearing just enough, you could make out their groans and snarls. You tried to ignore their burdening presence as much as possible. 
“What was it about this time?” Daryl lightly prodded; not wanting to upset you and make you even more uncomfortable than you already were, but still wanting to give you the chance to open up if you chose too. 
“Those dead assholes over there.” You scoffed while pointing an accusing finger at the walkers that lined the fence. “I’m pretty sure I was just about to get torn to bits before waking up.” 
Before the end of the world happened, going to sleep was a way for you to escape from the daily stresses of your once domestic life. Although it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, it worked for you. After coming home from a particularly demanding work shift, you’d often take a nap the second your head hit the pillow of your couch. If you had the type of day that required you to be on your feet all day, you’d look forward to the moment you’d be able to sleep the stress away in the comfort of your bed.
The escape that sleep once gave you was now taken away, thanks to the apocalypse. The horror, anxiety, and daily stress that came with living in a corrupt world didn’t leave you even when you slept. It haunted your consciousness during the day, and infiltrated your dreams whenever you managed to get a couple of hours of shuteye. Your dreams were no longer filled with weird scenarios that often made you laugh for the few moments you could remember them whenever you awoke in the morning. All you knew now were nightmares that seemed far too plausible for your liking. 
Some nights you’d dream about your new found family getting eaten by walkers: hearing their pained and desperate pleas for help that your dream prevented you from giving them. Other times, you’d dream about their walkerfied corpses chasing you, trying to tear your flesh apart in order to satisfy their indefinite hunger. Most nights though, you’d dream about the Governor. His voice haunted you as he spoke of his bloodlust for your family. You could vividly see him breaking down the protective fences surrounding the prison as he came back for vengeance. Just before you awoke, the last thing that would be engraved in your mind’s eye would be the bloodbath the dictator would leave in his wake. 
The gruesome and haunting images of walkers and the Governor isn’t what scared you the most, it was the fear of losing the ones you loved.
You would often fight sleep for as long as you could, just so you could avoid those poignant dreams. This resulted in you volunteering to take the nightly watch shift. You took as many shifts as you could, which was a lot since a majority of the people who lived in the prison were more than willing to give their shift to you. That coping mechanism got shut down before it even had the chance to start, since Daryl quickly caught wind of your extensive nightly shift-load. In a rare move, the archer had personally reported to the board to demand that they restrict the number of shifts you could take in a week. 
Daryl didn’t push matters, as he often let you come to him when you were ready to talk about whatever it was that was bothering you. However, he cared about your well being tremendously and grew concerned when he began to notice just how dark and heavy the circles and bags under your eyes were getting. You couldn’t be mad at the archer for too long, since his attentiveness was quite endearing. 
Whenever you did manage to fall asleep, a distressing nightmare would commonly wake you up with a start a few hours later. Much like tonight, your eyes would dart around every wall and dark corner that made up your tiny cell like a ritual, and you would struggle to differentiate between what was fiction and reality due to the disorienting fog that clouded your brain. 
From the cold sweat you had accumulated while you slept, your mismatched pajama set stuck to your body like glue; drenched and causing chills to wrack through your bones. Your body would still be in fight or flight mode, adrenaline surging through your veins and causing anxiety to keep you from finding sleep once again.
Daryl didn’t know how to respond. Everything he thought of saying would only make him sound like a broken record. You knew you were safe within the prison walls, and that walkers wouldn’t get to you unless you ventured outside the protective fences. You knew that Daryl would do everything in his power to protect you from harm if it ever came your way. You knew that he, Michonne, and yourself were going above and beyond to try to find the governor and take him down once and for all. 
The only thing Daryl could do was wrap his arm around your shoulders and pull you into his warm chest. You practically melted into his touch, your achy muscles going limp as you basked in his comforting embrace. No words had to be said between you two during times like these; his presence was enough to calm you down and make the looming aftershocks of your nightmare become still once again.
“I wish it got easier…living like this.” You admitted in a whisper as your gaze drifted back towards the dark prison yard.
Daryl could relate to what you were feeling, he felt it too. It was hard not to. A pang shot through his chest in empathy. “It ain’t supposed to be…if we don’t feel it, then we’re just as bad as those assholes out there.” Daryl expressed earnestly after a few moments of stilled silence had passed.
You didn’t respond. Instead, you pried your eyes away from the looming figures of the walkers that swayed in the distance and hid your face in Daryl’s chest.
“What do ya wanna do?” Daryl asked gently as he adjusted his chin against your head. His large hand rubbed soothing strides up and down your arm before moving to your back.
“I don’t know.” You admitted with your eyes closed. Your body was practically screaming at you to go to sleep, as the exhaustion was threatening to forcibly knock you unconscious. You didn’t know if you were ready to reface the daunting shadows that made up your tiny cell and practically suffocated you every time you laid down for the night. 
Swallowing the lump that was beginning to form in your throat, you lifted your head up from Daryl’s broad chest just enough to look at his moonlit face. “Would you make fun of me if I lit a candle?”
“What, like a nightlight?” Daryl raised an eyebrow as he glanced down at you. His heart simultaneously broke and swelled at the sight of the pout that contorted your fatigued face. 
“Sort of.” You mumbled in embarrassment while ducking your eyes from him. Letting out a chuckle, Daryl tightened his arms around your body. 
“Nah, I won’t make fun of ya…at least not tonight.” 
Groaning in embarrassment at his goading, you weakly whacked Daryl in the chest with your open palm. You could feel heat rush to the tips of your ears and the apples of your cheeks at your rather juvenile request. With your head still laid on Daryl’s chest, you turned so your gaze fell back onto the darkened prison yard for one last lingering glance.
“Alright, let’s go.” 
Daryl kept his arm wrapped over your shoulders as he led you back into the cellblock and into the dank and small cell you now called home. Although you avoided looking at him as you struck a match to light the candle that sat on the nightstand, you knew Daryl was smirking at you; and most likely having hundreds of teasing remarks burning the tip of his tongue. 
With a sigh, you slipped out of your slippers and set your hunting knife back on the nightstand before getting into bed. Daryl already had an arm open for you, waiting for the moment you’d scoot yourself into his side and rest your head on his chest. The archer didn’t mind when you spent the next few moments squirming around beside him, struggling to find a comfortable position that wouldn’t flare up your sensitive anxiety. When you did find that sweet spot, your muscles relaxed as you let the feeling of Daryl’s soothing heartbeat settle your heightened nerves. 
“Thank you.” You murmured into the material of Daryl’s cotton black t-shirt after a few moments of comfortable silence had passed.
“For?” Daryl was genuinely unsure about what you were thankful for as he couldn’t recall doing anything within the last twenty minutes or so that was worthy of gratitude.
You felt the pads of Daryl’s calloused fingers trail up and down your spine and occasionally massage your scalp, not only bringing you comfort, but for himself as well. Your fingers traced random designs on the expanse of his chest as you thought of a way to accurately express what you were feeling and thinking.
“For helping me.” You stated simply before lifting your head up slightly so you could peer up at him. Daryl scoffed lightly at your notion before tightening his arms around your frame. Your eyes closed as he placed a kiss on your hairline. 
“Told ya it’s nothin’,” Pausing, Daryl looked down at you and raised his hand to gently sweep a few strands of loose hair from out of your face. “It don’t matter what time of day or night it is, I’ll always be here for ya…you know that.”
You didn’t know if it was the sleep deprivation, the crash that followed the adrenaline rush you had, or both, but your eyes began to pool with salty tears that stung the corners of your eyes. Daryl’s thumb caressed over your cheek and you found yourself melting into the comforting touch. Nodding your head in acknowledgment, you leaned forwards and placed a gentle kiss on Daryl’s lips. The archer found himself holding the back of your neck more securely so he could deepen the kiss as a way to wordlessly express to you how much he meant what he had previously stated.
Soon, when the kiss you two shared had simmered down, you settled back down against Daryl’s chest and watched the dim light of the candle flicker against the concrete walls that surrounded you. Daryl’s hand resumed its soothing motions on your back. The longer you laid like that, basking in the safety that Daryl’s arms gave you, impending sleep began to loom over you. 
When you heard Daryl whisper the three words that always filled your heart with warmth and caused your stomach to flutter, you allowed sleep to overcome you with a smile uplifting the corners of your mouth. 
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A/N: Thank you to the anon for this request! I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading!❤️
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fanfictionalraven · 8 months ago
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Reno
Title: Reno
Summary: The reader and Dean were best friends until one fateful night. Now she needs his help on a particularly difficult case but can they work together?
Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer
Word Count: 2,928
Warnings: Angst
Author’s Note: This story was originally posted by myself under the account Winchestersgirl92. It was published in 2017.
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You sigh, running your hands over your face, as you lean back in the chair of yet another dusty, old motel room. A couple of takeout boxes sit next to your laptop on the table, untouched. You weren’t hungry anymore. A fourth victim had just been found.
You had rolled into town two days ago, confident you had a case on your hands. An easy case at that. Three victims, all weird, unexplainable deaths. At the morgue, you’d discovered a hex bag with each of the bodies. So, you returned to your room and settled into your research, trying to connect the dots. You’d spent the last two days retracing every step the three victims had taken but nothing panned out. Every lead you found was a dead end and, because of you, another person was dead.
You grab your phone and quickly find the contact you need. DEAN. Your finger hesitates before you change your mind and scroll back up to BOBBY. You press his name and put the phone to your ear, closing your eyes as it rings. 
“Yea,” Bobby says. You can’t help but smile at the gruff voice on the other end of the line. You had known Bobby Singer for most of your life. He’d been a close friend of your father’s which practically made him your uncle.
“Hey, Bobby,” you say into the phone. You can almost hear the smile in his voice when he answers you.
“Y/N. How’ve you been?” He asks. You sigh and shake your head, knowing he can’t see you but your silence speaks volumes. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got a case I can’t crack. Need some help,” you tell him. “A witch in Hastings, Nebraska. Should be easy enough but I can’t figure out who it is and someone else just died. I was gonna call Dean but I don’t think he’ll answer.”
“Well…I got him and Sam here now. I’ll send them out your way,” he tells you. You frown slightly, confused.
“Sam? But I thought –”
“Long story, kid. You’re about four hours away right now. Dean can make that in about two and a half,” he says. You thank him and set the phone back down, leaning back in your chair again.
Sam Winchester had died. Bobby had told you himself just a couple months ago. Sam had been like a brother to you and hearing of his death had hit you hard. But you knew it was nothing compared to what Dean was going through. His whole life had been dedicated to making sure his little brother was safe and taken care of. You had tried to call Dean then but all your calls went unanswered. You had been worried but you knew Bobby would keep an eye on him.
Now Sam was alive. You were overjoyed, of course, but a piece of you was anxious. You hoped it had all been a misunderstanding. Sam had never really died. He’d just slipped far enough away that everyone thought he had died. But you knew better. You’d been in the life long enough to know that there are ways. Dean knew these ways and would stop at nothing to get his little brother back.
You sigh again and close your laptop. You had a couple of hours before Sam and Dean would arrive and you were beat. The bed was calling your name loud and clear so you answered, falling face first onto it. Sleep overtakes you quickly, as do the nightmares.
You jolt awake, a few hours later, sitting upright immediately. You squeeze your eyes closed, trying to catch your breath. Just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real. 
“Alright there, Y/N?” A voice asks from across the room. Your eyes shoot open and you reach for your gun before freezing as your Y/E/C eyes meet green ones. Eyes you hadn’t seen in years. You swallow hard as your hand slowly withdraws from the gun.
“How the hell did you get in here?” You ask, never tearing your eyes away from him. He shrugs.
“Saw your car outside. Told the man at the desk I was meeting with the girl in room 12 and he gave me a key. You should probably start staying at more reputable places,” he tells you. The two of you stare at each other in silence for another minute before the door opens, drawing your attention. Sam steps in through the door, three cups of coffee and a white bag in his hands. He smiles widely when he sees you awake.
“Hey!!” He says, setting everything down on the table. You jump up from the bed and rush over to him, throwing your arms around him tight. He laughs lightly and returns your embrace, squeezing you slightly. “Haven’t seen you since –,” he stops, thinking, and you let him go, looking up at him.
“Since you left for Stanford,” you say. His face falls slightly and you reach up, putting your hands on his cheeks. You study his face and find it hasn’t changed much over the years. His hair is a little longer and his eyes a little sadder. You let him go then turn for the table, grabbing one of the cups. Sam opens the bag and pulls out a donut, handing it to you.
“Hope you still like jelly,” he says. You smile widely and kiss his cheek.
“God, I’ve missed you, Sam,” you tell him. He laughs as you walk over to the bed. You sit down and start on your breakfast, feeling Dean’s eyes still on you. Sam glances between the two of you as he picks up his own cup.
“When was the last time you two saw each other?” He asks. You open your mouth to answer when Dean cuts you off.
“August 15th, 2005. Reno,” he says. You frown at the memory and look up at him, his eyes boring into yours.
You had met the Winchester family through Bobby when you were about 18 and you and Dean had instantly clicked. It was like you had known each other your entire lives. He quickly became your best friend and you spent the next few years tagging along on hunts with them. As you’d grown older and Sam left for college, the two of you were inseparable. Partners on every hunt you took on and damn good at it too. And then…Reno. You hadn’t seen each other or spoken since.
You blink back tears and look back at your cup of coffee quickly, clearing your throat.
“Right, so, dunno what Bobby told you. Three vics when I got here. Hex bags. I can’t figure out who it is. Fourth victim was found early this morning. I haven’t actually checked out this body yet,” you explain before taking a long drink from your coffee. Sam nods and looks at Dean.
“You two wanna hit the morgue and I’ll see what I can dig up?” He asks. Dean looks at his brother and Sam frowns. “Or…Y/N and I can go to the morgue.” You stand, finishing off your donut, and look at Sam.
“Let me freshen up and change,” you tell him. He nods and watches you walk into the bathroom as Dean stares out the window.
************************************************************************
You and Sam leave the motel in your car. You glance over at him as you drive through the town and he smiles at you.
“I was sorry to hear about John. Bobby told me what happened. I would have called but I didn’t have your number anymore,” you tell him. His smile falls slightly and he shrugs, looking out the window.
“That was a while ago. You adjust,” he says. “You could’ve called Dean.”
“Dean doesn’t answer when I call anymore,” you say, plainly. He looks back over and you feel him watch you, waiting for an explanation. You don’t offer one as you continue to drive in silence.
The two of you get to the morgue and you introduce Sam to the medical examiner as your partner. He takes the lead, asking the same questions you had about all the other victims. The ME gives you a small plastic bag containing the same hex bag you’d retrieved from the other three bodies. You go back out to the car and start towards the fourth victim’s house to speak with her husband. You glance over at Sam as he carefully takes apart the hex bag.
“You’re gonna make me ask, aren’t you?” You ask him. He looks up at you, confusion evident on his face. You sigh and look forward as you drive. “Bobby called a couple months back and told me you were dead, Sam.” You look over at him again and watch his confusion evaporate. Heartache takes its place and you look forward again quickly. “What did he do?” You ask, your voice quiet. Sam hesitates, seeming to debate whether or not he should tell you. “Sam. What did he do?” You ask again.
“Demon deal. He’s got a year. Less than now,” he tells you. You stare dead ahead, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
Of course he made a deal. You’d known deep down he’d done something but hearing the words seemed to take your breath away. Less than a year and he’d be dragged to Hell. Less than a year and the man you – your best – Dean would be gone forever. You tried to picture your world without Dean. Sure the last couple of years you hadn’t had him around, but you’d always known he was alive. You knew that if you decided to, you could find him. This would be completely different.
“What happened in Reno?” Sam asks suddenly, pulling you from your thoughts. You look over at him quickly then shake your head, looking at the road again. “Dean, doesn’t even talk about you anymore. I actually thought you were dead until Bobby mentioned you once.”
“It’s a long story,” you say quietly. You pull the car into the latest victim’s driveway and look up at the house. “Can you…”
“Yea, I’ve got this. Call you when I’m done,” he says before getting out of the car. As soon as he closes the door, you throw the car into reverse and peel out of the driveway. You drive straight back to the motel. You don’t know what you’re going to say or do but you can’t just do nothing.
You kill the engine and climb out of the car. You slam the door, suddenly very angry, as you march up to your room. Fighting the key with trembling hands, you finally manage to get the door open before stepping into the room. You slam that door as well and see Dean jump, exactly where you two had left him that morning. He watches you for a moment before closing the laptop calmly and leaning back.
“A year?” You ask, voice trembling. He shrugs, nonchalant.
“Ten months now,” he says. You shake your head, staring at him. You can feel the lump in your throat rising, bringing with it the tears you didn’t want him to see.
“How could you?” You ask plainly. He shrugs again. Is all he can do shrug??
“I couldn’t do it without Sammy,” he says. “I wouldn’t.”
“And what is he supposed to do?! Did you think about that?! What is watching you get drug to Hell going to do to him?! To Bobby?! T–to me?!” You ask. He lets out a laugh as he pushes way from the table, rising to his feet.
“I think you’ll make it just fine, Sweetheart,” he says, walking over to the mini fridge. You shake your head as you watch him.
“What does that mean?!” You ask. He slams the door to the fridge closed and turns to face you, anger on his face.
“You left me, Y/N. No note. No text. No phone call. I woke up one morning and you were gone,” he says. “I thought someone or something had taken you. Then Bobby calls me, demanding to know what the hell I did to you cause you told him you never wanted to see me again. Do you know what that did to me?!”
“You asked me to marry you, Dean!! What the hell was I supposed to do?!” You ask. He stares at you, bewildered.
“Giving me an answer would have been a damn good place to start. Instead, you sleep with me then run off in the middle of the night,” he says. You shake your head and wipe at your cheeks furiously, the tears finally falling freely.
“We’re hunters. This life is too dangerous to get involved with someone, you know that. That’s why we never crossed that line, Dean. And then suddenly you’re saying that we should get married and I just – we would have regretted it,” you say, looking at him. Immediately, you regret that decision. His heart breaks across his face and he shakes his head, stepping towards you.
“There’s a lot of things I regret in my life, Y/N. But you – you’re not one of them. You never could be,” he says, his voice suddenly soft and tender. He crosses the room and takes your hands in his, gently squeezing them. You watch as he brings your hands up to his lips and kisses your knuckles lightly.
“Dean,” you say, shaking your head. You attempt to pull your hands away but he tightens his grip and pulls you closer to him. He reaches up with one hand and brushes your hair back from your cheek.
“I’ve got 10 months. You gonna make me spend them alone?” He asks, quietly. You close your eyes, his breath washing over your face.
“That’s not fair. I get 10 months with you then I’m left alone. What am I supposed to do then?” You ask, looking back up at him. He runs his thumb over your cheek gently and shrugs.
“Whatever you’ve been doing the last two years,” he tells you. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. You reach up, taking his face in your hands. His hands find your waist and he pulls you flush against him. You slide your hands down his neck and to his chest where you grab two fistfuls of his shirt. He leans in, his nose just brushing against yours. 
“I can’t,” you whisper, pushing away from him abruptly. You turn away from him, running your hands over your face. He grabs you by the elbow and spins you back around to face him.
“Stop that! Stop pretending that we meant nothing!” He snaps. You jerk your arm away from him quickly and glare up at him.
“I’m not pretending, Dean! There never was a ‘we’! We were friends! Just friends!” You yell. He stares at you, wide eyed. “I am sorry, Dean. I shouldn’t have left you the way I did. I never meant to hurt you that way.”
“And I never meant to fall in love with you but clearly, we both made mistakes,” he spats, venom in his words. You stare at him then, certain that everything you’re feeling is written on your face. Shock. Dean loves me. Joy. Dean loves me! Heartache. He said it was a mistake. You swallow hard and wipe at your eyes, trying to reign your emotions back in. You look down, staring at the toe of his boots.
“I have never had any feelings for you, Dean,” you tell him. He snorts a laugh and shakes his head. You look back up at him quickly.
“When you can look me in the face and tell me that, I might actually believe it,” he says, walking back across the room to the mini fridge again. He opens it and grabs one of the beer bottles you’d put in there when you first got to the motel. You feel the anger begin to bubble up in your chest again as you watch him smugly take a drink from the bottle.
“How dare you. You’re going to stand there and try and tell me you love me when you’re asking me to do this? To watch you die? How is that love, Dean? That’s just – that’s selfish! If you loved me, you wouldn’t ask me to stay,” you snap. Dean’s face falls slightly, probably realizing you’re right, but you don’t care. You quickly make your way around the room grabbing your clothes and equipment. “I knew calling you was a mistake,” you mumble, shoving a sweater into your bag. You feel a hand on your elbow and you sigh, closing your eyes. “You and Sam can handle this, right?”
“Of course,” he says quietly. You nod and zip your bag up quickly. You throw it over your shoulder and turn, looking up a him. 
“I am sorry,” you tell him. He nods and reaches up, gently placing his hand against your cheek again. 
“Me too,” he says. Instinctively, you turn into his hand, squeezing your eyes closed. You place your hand over his then press a chaste kiss to his palm. 
“Bye, Dean,” you whisper, stepping out of his touch. You turn for the door quickly, not wanting to risk one last glance at him. Struggling to keep it together, you leave the room and get into your car. You throw it into gear and just like that you drive off, leaving the man you loved – your best friend – Dean Winchester, in your past again. 
Read Reno - Before here.
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necrotic-nephilim · 2 months ago
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"How else am I supposed to learn if you don't punish me?" With Jason x Bruce ship pls 🙏
send a quote and a ship and I'll write a short fic!
fucked up BruJay my beloved. this is. honestly more emotional whump than physical and the romance is implied, but i do like this piece a lot, even if i struggled with it a bit. have 2.2k of Bruce and Jason struggling to get along. enjoy <3
Sometimes, Jason did it on purpose.
He knew Bruce’s patrol route better than anyone. Which was by design. Jason wanted to know where Bruce was, what he was doing, and who he was doing it with at all times. And really, Bruce didn’t seem to be stopping Jason from keeping tabs. None of Jason’s carefully placed trackers were removed, and Jason knew better than to assume Bruce had lost his touch. Bruce knew they were there, and he knew they were Jason’s.
So if Jason wanted to avoid Bruce, he knew how to do it. And when he really did want to get work done under Bruce’s nose, it was easy for Jason to dance around Bruce’s schedule and send him tail spinning just trying to keep up with Jason.
But some days, Jason didn’t want to avoid Bruce. He wanted the thrill of the chase.
So he got caught on purpose.
He picked a gang on the side of town Bruce always patrolled at this hour. He used the loudest guns he had with no silencers. He started the messiest brawl he could.
And he waited.
Jason didn’t have to wait long.
Like it always was with Bruce, the entrance was dramatic. Shattering glass as a large form with an unfurled cape descended from the skylight. Jason smiled under his helmet.
There were already at least half a dozen dead. The rest were running around like ants, either trying to get away from Jason or futilely trying to fight him.
“You’re late!” Jason shouted over his shoulder. He dodged a batarang thrown in his general direction. “I expected you to get here at least five minutes earlier.”
“Robbery a block away,” Bruce said brusquely. He turned to a few gang members with tire irons and shivs lifted, ready to charge Jason. “Run. Now.”
They didn’t need to be told twice.
Jason raised his gun to shoot one. He wasn’t particular about who he picked. He knew it didn’t matter. The bullet wouldn’t actually hit them.
Because just on time as Jason squeezed the trigger, a batarang buried into his hand. He swore and dropped the gun.
“Enough, Hood,” Bruce said coldly.
Jason smiled under his mask. “Someone’s gotta clean up this city.” He lunged for another thug.
Bruce’s body was like a battering ram, slamming into Jason. He was heavy enough to knock the wind out of Jason, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Jason groaned, trying to throw Bruce off of him. When that didn’t work, he went for his belt, grabbing his kris dagger and flipping it around.
“Do you hold any value for human life?” Bruce demanded. He grabbed Jason’s wrist and pinned it against the ground. “These aren’t supervillains, they’re normal people down on their luck-”
Before Bruce could finish talking, one of the gang members bashed him over the head with a wooden plank. Bruce’s cowl was reinforced, but the little bastard had managed to hit hard enough to snap the plank clean in half. A grunt was forced out of Bruce and his whole body buckled.
Now that was just rude. Bruce was Jason’s meat, not some stupid punk’s. Possessive jealousy flared through Jason, watching Bruce wince in pain to a wound Jason didn’t give him.
“Yeah, they seem real grateful to their savior,” Jason sneered. He threw Bruce off of him and grabbed the gang member. A wiry thing, probably still a teenager. Jason twisted them around to hold his dagger against their throat with his fingers buried into their hair, holding them still. A horrified noise came out of them. Not that Jason particularly cared. He wasn’t the one stupid enough to try beaning Batman with some plywood.
Bruce was on one knee, looking up at Jason. “Don’t.” His fingers twitched toward his utility belt.
“You can’t stop me,” Jason taunted, pressing the blade against tender flesh until the person was squirming in his grasp and blubbering out incoherent pleas for mercy. “Hands where I can see ‘em, B.”
If Jason was anyone else, Bruce would’ve stopped him by now. A quick flick of his wrist to hit Jason with a tranq dart, was how he guessed Bruce would do it.
But he wasn’t just some rogue. He was Jason. And that made Bruce go still, actually listening to Jason’s demands.
“You’re just doing this for attention,” Bruce said carefully, keeping his whole body tense, but not moving it. “Let them go.”
“It’s working.” Jason shrugged, adjusting his hold on the stranger. “So can you blame me?”
“There are other ways to do it without-” Bruce briefly looked around the room at the bodies littered everywhere- “casualties. And innocent hostages.”
“Innocent?” Jason laughed. He turned to address the person he was holding. “Do you think you’re innocent? Why don’t you tell the Batman where these drugs were getting funneled.”
“I don’t- please, I just help packaging- I didn’t-”
Jason huffed in annoyance. “I’ll tell him for you. The middle school down the street. And if there was extra supply, the youth center just around the corner from it too. You remember that youth center don’t you, B? I slept there sometimes as a kid. It was warmer than the streets.”
Bruce’s mouth faintly twitched. His jaw was set. Jason could see him grappling with the rage of knowing exactly who these low lives were dealing to, while still wanting to tell Jason off for all the ugly murder.
How contradictory that nasty little moral code of his could be.
“Let them go,” Bruce spoke slowly, “and we’ll work together to figure out how-”
“Oh don’t even pretend,” Jason laughed. “Don’t pretend you would work with me for a second.”
“Let them go,” Bruce repeated. He seemed to pointedly avoid admitting to Jason’s point.
Jason let out a long hum like he was thinking about it. “I don’t know. What’s one more to my body count?” He started to press the blade.
Bruce moved inhumanely fast. He kicked up, knocking the knife out of Jason’s hand without hitting the gang member. His hands went for Jason’s throat and he managed to get Jason back on the ground. The gang member ran off, footsteps echoing until they were gone while Jason and Bruce grappled, trading punches and kicks until Bruce managed to pin Jason down. Blood was pouring from Jason’s nose and Bruce had human claw marks across his cheek.
Rough. Animalistic. Just the way Jason liked it.
“Why do you do this?” Bruce spoke through grit teeth. “Why do you make me do this?”
“Like you said,” Jason grunted, trying to twist out from Bruce. “I like the attention.” His struggles only got him pinned harder. Bruce forced Jason facedown against the concrete, with an arm twisted behind his back. Jason’s helmet was torn off and tossed to the side.
“I never want to hurt you,” Bruce actually sounded choked up about it. “Why do you have to take it too far every time?”
Jason would give anything to see his face, right now.
“Maybe I want you to hurt me,” Jason said. He looked at his hand resting against the concrete, blood still pouring out of the wound the batarang left. it was a bright, pulsing pain that danced across his reality, making his blood sing. He hoped it would scar. Another to add to the collection of ones he’d goaded Bruce into giving him.
“Why?” Bruce’s voice broke on the word. It was an ironic thing. How badly Bruce wanted to show Jason his mercy. His gentle side. And how badly Jason wanted Bruce’s violence. He wanted Bruce to fight Jason until Bruce’s knuckles were bloody and Jason was barely conscious. He wanted to feel Bruce’s violence down to the marrow.
Jason craned his head back to look at Bruce and smiled. “How else am I supposed to learn if you don’t punish me?”
Bruce stared. For a long moment, he was silent. Jason listened to his breathing like a lifeline. “You don’t actually believe that.” his voice was soft and laced with something that sounded dangerously close to concern.
Sentimental bastard.
“No,” Jason admitted. “We both know I’ll never learn.”
To prove his point, Jason grabbed a stray piece of glass from the ground and stabbed it into one of the weak spots on Bruce’s armor. It made Bruce’s grip loosen enough for Jason to roll free and try to kick Bruce in the face.
Bruce wasn’t fighting him. He only blocked Jason’s blows, and even then, let some of them hit. It was like fighting a brick wall. Hard and unrelenting.
It was starting to piss Jason off.
“Don’t be afraid to hurt me now, Bruce,” Jason said through grit teeth, throwing another punch. It sailed uselessly over Bruce’s shoulder when Bruce easily dodged.
“No.” Bruce’s expression was unreadable under his mask. “I’m not playing your game, Jason.”
“Damnit!” Jason could feel his anger threatening to take control. He kicked Bruce hard in the shin, forcing the man to his knees. Jason ripped Bruce’s cowl off. He wasn’t stopped by Bruce. Hard blue eyes stared up at him. Practically emotionless. “I know you hate me. I know you’re itching to rip my head off for…” Jason spread his arms, gesturing to all the bodies. “For this! For everything I’ve done.”
Bruce shook his head, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. “I don’t hate you, Jason. I could never-” He doubled over when Jason’s knee connected with his stomach.
“Well you definitely don’t love me,” Jason snapped, ice dripping from his tone. “If you did… if you loved me, you would let me have this.”
“Killing people?”
“Hurting me,” Jason corrected. He snatched his kris off the floor from where it’d fallen to. He stared at the blade. “I’m sick of your pacificism. I’m sick of you pretending you don’t crave hurting someone and pretending to be someone you’re not.”
“I’ve never pretended,” Bruce looked at Jason through careful, hooded eyes. “That want… that need has always been a part of me. I take too much pleasure in hurting people. Pleasure in believing they deserve it.” He studied Jason for a moment. “I never wanted it to consume you the way it consumes me. Because I know it’s something you can’t come back from, once it takes root.”
Jason hated it when Bruce waxed poetic. It was a whole lot of bullshit that meant nothing to Jason. It did nothing to fight the roar of rage building in Jason’s chest.
“Do you want to hurt me?” Jason asked.
He needed Bruce to say yes.
He knew Bruce wouldn’t.
Even if it was the truth. Which now, Jason wasn’t so sure.
Bruce was silent. He didn’t give Jason any answer, not even a change in expression. Bruce just pushed himself to his feet and looked at his cowl that Jason was still holding.
“I love you, Jason,” Bruce said. He grabbed the cowl, but Jason didn’t let go. “I want to help you. Please let me help you in any other way that’s not… this.” Bruce’s thumb brushed over the still bleeding gash on Jason’s hand.
Jason tightened his grip on the cowl. “I’m not giving you the free pass to sleep easy at night,” he hissed. “You can’t take back any of the scars you’ve given me. And we both know sooner or later, there will be new ones.”
Bruce tore the cowl out of Jason’s hand. Before putting it on, he started to reach out for Jason’s face, but seemed to think against it, hand abruptly dropping. He opened his mouth to say something. An apology, probably.
A muffled, crackly voice came from inside the cowl. A police scanner, by the sounds of it. Jason only caught the words bomb threat and hostages.
So much for Bruce’s attention.
“Come with me?” Bruce offered, pulling his cowl on.
Jason shook his head. “You know you don’t want me there.”
“I always want you-” Bruce cut himself off, seeming to realize how dangerously vulnerable his words were. “The offer to come to me will always be open, Jason. You know that.”
Jason’s fist curled and his blood dripped onto the concrete. “Go to hell.”
Like that, the intimacy was gone. Bruce put his emotional mask back on to go with his physical one and turned heel, walking away. Jason just watched him go, some part of him foolishly waiting for Bruce to turn back and say something. Anything. He could get any other hero to handle the bomb threat. He could spare Jason just a few more moments of arguing and fighting. Maybe even something more.
But of course, he didn’t.
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sleepy-the-loz-enthusiast · 8 months ago
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CW: injury description, I felt sad so decided to make the LU boys suffer. But it ends with fluff. Enjoy !!
To say it had been a hard battle would be a severe understatement. Sure, fights were never easy, but often the heroes were left with only a few scrapes and bruises. Not now, though.
Half of the Chain were rendered unconscious and now being carried by their brothers. But the conscious ones weren't without their woes- Twilight's femur had snapped out of his skin, for Hylia's sake!- so he's stuck riding on Epona. But only after Warriors had reset the bone and force-fed him a red potion. His trousers are still ripped and sticky with drying blood and tiny scraps of his flesh. Though, having one of the sturdier members on horseback has it's advantages, as Wild would tell you if he was awake. Which he isn't, his self preservation died alongside his body 100 years ago, and now he's slumped against his brother's chest, basically sitting in his lap. Wild's face is pale enough to rival fresh snow- hell, it's whiter than the bandages that wrap around the majority of his body. Though no broken bones, so that's a plus.
Sky's seated at Twilight's back, his head resting on the Rancher's shoulder. His arms are tied around Twilight's waist with rope that came from somewhere. Sky's stamina had failed him midway through trying to take down a particularly vicious Hinox, which kindly kicked him into a tree when he crumpled to the ground. The one moment Hylia decides to bless them is when Sky smacks into the tree arm first. Sure, his whole arm basically shattered, but a broken arm can heal; a shattered spine cannot. He didn't get so lucky when his head also hit the tree with considerable force and several ribs cracked from the initial kick. Needless to say, the boy is still knocked out cold even after two fairies and Warriors' first aid skills.
Speaking of Warriors... he's fine. Physically, at least. The War has made sure he can't be outnumbered in a swarm. Mentally? Well, about as fine as someone caked in blood can be. None of it belongs to him; it's a disgusting mix of monster and his brothers. His eyes hold a haunted hollowness, and though his legs keep marching and his arms hold Legend securely, he's somewhere distant.
Legend's no better off than Wild or Sky. In fact, he's arguably the worst off out of all of them, though not in terms of physical wounds. The Veteran Hero has his nickname for a reason, and his nimble fighting style merely highlights it. No, the idiot forgot to keep track of how much magic his items used and insisted he was fine without any green potions, Hyrule needed them more so he could heal the others. He wasn't so fine when the magic exhaustion stopped his heart. And it took 10 minutes of CPR and two broken ribs for his body to resuscitate. He barely stayed awake long enough to have a green and a red potion poured down his throat. His limp body in Warriors' arms is the reason the Captain periodically ducks his head down to see if the boy's still breathing.
Four had been the last to fall, and boy did he fall hard. With no other options, he'd had to split into his colours to guard the others and fight. It wasn't going terribly until their brains and courage got knocked out. A moblin's club took Vio down, and a Lizalfos took Green down with a cut across his legs. This spurred Red and Blue into a panic, which then led to more reckless injuries. What makes them reckless is that they tried to hide it, not knowing that all the wounds the colours sustained would all show up on Four's body. Who knew Red was the type to hide a stab wound? So now the Rainbow is passed out on Hyrule's back, occasionally muttering something incoherent to himself, but otherwise staying dead silent.
As for Wind and Time? The Sailor had been the one fighting that Hinox alongside Sky, and he'd been the one to cry out when Sky got kicked into a tree. But what does a Link do when in a panicked situation? Start throwing bombs, because that's logical. But Wind's barely a teenager, and so throw bombs at a Hinox he does. It's just a shame that the ugly thing fell on him and broke his legs. And that he couldn't even cry out for help until Time found him silently sobbing to himself. When Warriors reset his legs and Hyrule healed them, Time held him close like he'd done for Twilight.
Time's injuries are superficial, in his opinion. A few slashes here and there, a broken nose, a heavily bruised foot, nothing compared to what the others- his boys- had been through. Now he leads the group since Warriors is hidden away in his own mind, Twilight is fighting to stay awake, and Hyrule has no sense of direction.
But thankfully Time knew the path back to his ranch like he knew the exact time down to the second. He could find his home even if he was beaten within an inch of his life and on the verge of death... that was quite the scolding he'd gotten after waking up. But enough about the past, he needs to focus on the now. It doesn't matter how much he'd love to just collapse onto the grass and sleep, he needs to get his boys to safety.
And in time, that's what Time does. The lights of LonLon ranch have never held so much hope before, neither does Malon's voice as he shouts to them in surprise.
"Oh, you poor things! Come on, come inside, we need go get y'all in bed!"
The following minutes of getting everyone inside and comfortable is a blur to say the least. Somehow, everyone awake has been given a warm mug of chamomile tea with a generous amount of honey, and everyone who'd been unconscious is resting amid fluffy pillows and blankets.
Hyrule drops off to sleep beside Legend and Wild not long after, his body finally giving in to exhaustion after running on fumes for hours. Malon gathers Time and Twilight into her arms- though Twi's more on her lap than anything from his position laid on the couch. Time manages to relay what happened to his wife, but Twilight can't fight sleep any longer. Especially not when Malon carding fingers through his hair reminds him so much of his mother... he misses her....
Warriors sits silently on a chair, his mug of tea forgotten without a sip. He stares into nowhere while trying to claw his way back into some form of awareness. His brothers are safe. They're safe. They aren't going to die. So why is he still so... paranoid? Absent? Afraid?
He doesn't notice when an older man takes a seat on the chair beside him. "Son? Ya gonna wash all that blood off you or what?" He asks, his accent similar to Malon's in a way Warriors' dazed mind can't comprehend.
When the Link doesn't respond, the older man's bushy eyebrows knit together in worry. "Link? Ya with me?"
No response. The man- Talon- sighs.
"Yer friends are safe, kiddo. See?" He points over to the pile of blankets. The blonde man follows the motion with his eyes. "They're all breathin', all still livin' and kickin'. You ain't got nothin' to worry about." The man keeps his voice as soft as it can be, and filled with quiet patience.
"Y'all are safe here in my ranch, no ugly so'n'so's gonna beat y'all up. You can rest now, Link."
And that's what breaks the dam.
Warriors gasps for air, his mind catching up and reeling. He breathes heavily for a few moments, all the while tears stream down his face. They leave pale, clean streaks in the blood coating his cheeks. Talon takes a cloth and gently wipes it away, muttering words of assurance.
"You back with me, sonny?"
"Y- yes. I... sorry."
"Don' worry, boy. Go get changed outta those bloody clothes and join yer brothers, yeah? Yer gonna be all okay."
Warriors just nods, still a little numb, and walks off.
He returns a while later, his hair and skin damp and his undershirt clings to his torso a little. His eyes are weary and bloodshot as he looks around at his brothers, all safe...
Legend and Wild both huddle into Hyrule. Four and Sky are still out cold but wrapped around eachother. Wind's somehow cuddling into Twilight's side where he's sprawled out on a couch. Time's nowhere to be seen, but if the snoring is anything to go by, he's in his own room. With Malon.
Warriors sighs deeply, the tension in his shoulders unwinding for the first time all day. Suddenly he's exhausted and slipping under a rouge blanket before he knows it.
Everyone's safe now. Not uninjured, not healed, but at least they're safe.
This is kind of shit but I was sad and really tired so here's the boys being horrifically injured but with a happy ending! I don't really know how to write Talon, but I imagine him and Malon have helped Time through a lot so he knows how to help a traumatised Link. Anyways, if you're reading this, thank you, and have a wondeful existence !
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jisungsdaydreamer · 2 years ago
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No Man’s Land
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«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME» · «TAGLIST»
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SYNOPSIS After a disastrous shipwreck out at sea, Changbin should have died. But you saved him.
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Pairing: Changbin x gn!reader Genre: mermaid au, pirate au Warnings: swearing, slightly suggestive, violence, death, nudity but not sexual World Count: 3.6k
P.S. ♡ If you like my work, please consider giving me feedback in the form of reblogs, comments, and asks! ♡
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Changbin is accustomed to the folk law of sea creatures, monsters with tentacles and suckers that rip the skin clean off your bones. When he’d first set sail with a captain whose lucrative business involved bloodshed, cannon fire, and rare visits to dry land, Changbin was fifteen. All he possessed were the tales his grandfather had received countless times. A sword was always strapped to his hip, but it was some time before he learned how to use it. Piracy is a crime punishable by death. But Changbin doesn’t intend on getting caught.
It’s the stories of creatures half-human, half-scaled, that Changbin can recall in greater detail. Shivers ripple through his body as he recounts the brutal cruelty these beings are capable of; known to prettily coax ships to the rocks. Some say they physically transform for each victim, your own personal siren, beautiful and nigh uncatchable in the water.
But the tales are not of much concern at the present minute, as the ship is hosting a rather bloody battle between the crew and those that have swung aboard, uninvited.
“Changbin!”
The warning almost comes too late, but Changbin turns, carving his sword into the man’s waist. A fatal red seeps into the clothing around the deep wound, mouth wide and breath punched. The man falls back, his dead weight hitting the hard deck.
There’s not much time to relax before another opponent chooses Changbin to pick a fight with. Changbin’s aim is weak when holding a pistol, and he desperately hopes the man aiming at him is just as poor. The bullet clips Changbin’s arm, a flesh wound that doesn’t cause much discomfort. And that’s particularly useful, because his attack is a surprise to the man he charges at. He could take an arm or a leg, but a blade through the left of his chest is something Changbin finds kinder, when ending a person’s life. Not that he’s ever had it happen to himself.
Changbin’s sword is slicked with crimson as he withdraws it from the torso. Sweat trickles his neck and back, as he discovers flames that lick up the stairs to the raised deck which holds the wheel. One of the vast sails has just caught alight, and despite the endless water surrounding them, it will be difficult to put it out. Steering has been abandoned in favor of fighting off the enemy, and Changbin’s judgment tells him the ship is careening towards a reef just barely visible above the ocean’s glassy surface.
He’s forced to scale the splintered wood to the side of the stairs in order to reach the wheel, but even then, he’s burnt from the heat. Alas, Changbin is too late. The belly of the ship crunches, shredded by the unforgiving rocks, and any effort to stop the consequences are rendered fruitless. Changbin’s limp body is catapulted forward, his hip slamming into the outer edge of the vessel as he is thrown over the side.
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Changbin’s vision is blurred when he cracks his eyes open. It’s uncomfortable. Changbin is used to sleeping in rough conditions on the ship, but this doesn’t compare. Attempting to roll to the left jabs more sharp rock through his thin shirt. Wincing, Changbin moves to sit up instead, but soon wishes he didn't. Desperate eyes scan the surrounding water, but there’s nothing but a few floating planks and barrels. If anything was burning, the flames have been extinguished and everything is oddly still. The ship is gone and Changbin’s heart lurches at the possible whereabouts of his home.
The next sight his eyes are troubled by has him grabbing for the sword on his bruised hip but his hand clutches at thin air. Instead, a small dagger is drawn and thrust out defensively in front of him. Changbin sees that you look frightened, but the stories he has heard of mermaids has his fingers tighten around the handle of the blade. Your head bobs up again, and Changbin draws his legs further into him. He’s defenseless if you decide to drag him into the water.
He’s breathing heavily now, eyes never straying from the source of his fear. You curiously circle the rock he’s made residence on, coming a little too close for Changbin’s comfort. It’s a pathetic attempt, but he still wrestles off his one remaining boot and launches it at you. The pulsing waves make good cover as you duck. You seem more curious about the wriggling of his toes rather than his efforts to keep you away.
The movement triggers a sharp pain to the right of his forehead. The dagger has dropped from his hand, teetering on the edge of the stone, but before Changbin can reach it, the blade is swallowed by the ocean. He clutches at his temple, and as he withdraws his palm, blood mixed with water drips down his wrist.
“I’m sorry about that. You’re heavy and the sea is rough.”
You are much closer now, clinging to the rock on his left side with your hands, and it’s difficult for Changbin to mistake the regret in your sparkling eyes. The rest of your body past your bare shoulders is concealed within the inky waters and your dark hair cascades in waves around your delicate features.
“I pulled you onto the rock,” you continue as Changbin stares. “Because you can’t swim, can you? That’s why you sail on those big wooden arcs.”
“Ships.”
It’s the first word he’s spoken to you, and it seems apt for the situation he’s in.
“Ships,” you repeat, locking the information away.
He doesn’t correct her— Changbin’s a strong swimmer— but it doesn’t seem important now. He has far greater concerns. “Where is my ship?”
“Sunk.”
“And the men?”
“Sunk with it.”
You don’t hold an ounce of remorse, just inquisitively tilting your head. Your lack of sympathy reminds Changbin that you are a creature that isn’t human; you might as well be from a far-off land.
“Why did you put me here?”
It’s accusing. He should have died with his friends, not alone on a fucking rock. Changbin knows you both are in the middle of the ocean, he’d seen the maps a few days prior. They were sailing into open water.
“Because I found you.”
“There were plenty of men you could have captured,” Changbin bites back.
He’s not frightened of you anymore; he’s just incredibly pissed off. Stupid fish. Why couldn’t you have just left him to die?
“But I didn’t want them. I wanted to keep you,” you emphasize.
“Why?” He shakes his head.
“Because you’re beautiful.”
Your answer flushes his cheeks with color. He had expected a reply to run more along the lines of, ‘because I think you’ll scream the most when I rip you from limb to limb’ or perhaps, ‘you’ll taste the nicest when I wrap you in seaweed and feast on your flesh.’ You smile at his embarrassment, an emotion you’re probably unaware you have caused him to feel. No one has ever called him beautiful before.
“Are you a pirate?”
So apparently we’ve moved on, Changbin thinks. He shifts a little in your direction, and with the unparalleled view of his very own siren, he is secretly astounded with your beauty. It’s delicate in a fragile way, bringing a certain sadness to him.
“My ship’s gone, the crew… I’m just a man on a fucking rock now,” Changbin speaks in defeat.
He lays back on the jagged stone, heavily sighing and staring up at the clouds floating by.
“A boy.”
Changbin’s eyes harshly target you. Your eyebrows are raised in question to his challenging frown.
“I’m nineteen,” he states defensively.
“Is that old enough to be a man?”
He doesn’t miss the sharp gleam of your teeth. You could probably rip him to shreds, but he doesn’t think that will happen, now that you’ve called him beautiful.
“I think I’ve had enough life experience to merit me a man.”
“Oh,” you reply.
“How old are you?”
“I don’t know,” you retort with a shrug.
It’s off to see such a human gesture on something that Changbin knows is swimming around with a tail. It’s as though you can read his mind, flicking your lower half through the opaque water before coming to rest on his other side. He sits up.
“Why do you slay your own kind?”
The fighting. You’re talking about what happened between the two vessels. Changbin’s memory is fuzzy, and he accounts it to the knock his head received. The enemy ship must’ve gotten away unscathed, unless it’s wrecked like his own and lying beneath him. You were watching then.
“We had to protect the cargo,” He eventually replies.
“The shiny coins and pretty rocks?”
You smile in appreciation, and Changbin is certain you’re innocent to the worth of the stolen treasures. They wouldn’t be as good to you, as you spend your life solely below the surface of the sea.
“You’ve seen them?”
“Yes, I went down to have a look while you were sleeping. Your ship has holes in it, I don’t think it will float anymore.”
“No,” Changbin sadly shakes his head.
“Where have you been on your ship?” you ask, genuinely taking an interest in the stranded boy.
���Everywhere.”
You laugh, and the sound makes Changbin want to move closer. His grandfather’s words still ring in his head, the most malicious predator wears beauty as a mask, beware of the sealed splendor that inhabits the ocean, Changbin.
“You can’t have been everywhere.”
He’s going to die anyway, why not let it be at the hands of his own siren?
“Even if I haven’t, there are thousands of ships; man has conquered the ocean,” Changbin replies with assurance.
Your smile drops, fingers slipping from the side of Changbin’s rock, and you create space between you both. You float as he shuffles down, feet dipping into the water. When you make no move towards him, Changbin lets his legs hang over the side. The water is cool.
“You’re naive, pirate,” you speak in such a harsh tone, Changbin finds it difficult to accept that those words have come from something so lovely.
“My grandfather slayed a monster of the sea, it was forty feet long,” He challenges.
Changbin thinks you ought to be impressed, his grandfather was a legend. But his pride sinks as you coldly stalk him. The once pretty shimmer of your tail has taken on a darker tone. Changbin braces his hands behind him, leaning back slightly and away from you.
“I’ve seen bigger,” you finally reply with a small smile.
If Changbin didn’t know any better, he’d say your words were laced with suggestive air. It’s a manner he’s only ever heard of in the bedrooms of women he visits when making an occasional port stop. You’re either unaware of your affect or playing with him on purpose.
“Have you?” Changbin laughs, not in a questioning way, but with a genuine interest.
You swim closer back to the rock, your shoulders rising above the water for the first time, exposing your body to Changbin for the first time. His eyes traced over all of you, your delicate but strong arms, the graceful arch of your neck, the soft curves of your hips. And when Changbin realizes that your torso is bare, save for the gorgeous curls of your hair, he immediately looks away, his face colored with his sudden bashfulness.
It is not as if Changbin has never set eyes on someone’s naked form, but the gorgeous creature in front of him is no human- no, you are ethereal, exquisite, a kind of loveliness unknown to man. Looking at you feels new, somehow; you are only a fantasy, a being of old sailor tales, and up until now, everything about you was a mystery to Changbin.
“You and your ships have barely explored the surface,” you state, amused, as you rest your chin upon your forearms, propped up on Changbin’s small, probable death, a stone island. “There’s so much more.”
You’re kindly smiling now, friendly demeanor in place of whatever manifested a short time before.
“More?” Changbin speaks without thinking, leaning closer to share the secret.
“I could show you.”
Changbin shakes his head with a shy smile, looking down and observing the way his legs swing back and forth in the water. He should feel cold, but he doesn’t. Changbin doesn’t have time to go exploring with you, his life on the rock must come to an end soon; he has no drinking water, no food, no nearby shore.
“Will you sing to me then?” you ask quietly. “I heard you before the fighting. You have such a pretty voice, will you sing to me, pirate?”
Changbin indulges the bewitching mermaid and recites an old song his mother used to sing to him. You are so enthralled, requesting that he repeat the tune and then sing a new one. By the time he’s finished, Changbin’s voice is tortured with thirst. You are laid partially on the rock, tail dipping in and out of the water as you praise him for such a wonderful performance.
“Your eyes look like the deep ocean,” you keenly observe. Changbin has never heard of a more poetic way of describing his murky brown eyes. “It’s one of my favorite places.”
He’s tired now, hungry and possibly a little sunburnt. With his eyes closed, Changbin is free to imagine himself anywhere he pleases. The sun is still beating a warm glow in what he believes to be late afternoon. And Changbin can’t seem to envision himself anywhere but here, on a rock in the ocean, with a sea creature for company. A beautiful one. Changbin’s glad that they haven’t exchanged names, because hearing you say his might in fact be a massive obstruction in his plan of not getting attached and wanting to stay. Learning yours would swell his heart.
You are lovingly gazing at him when he opens his eyes. He’s had time to think and he’s made his decision.
“I’d like to see. Will you take me there?”
Changbin is slipping down the rock before you even confirm your answer. Your eyes are bright with joy, excited that the boy would accept your offer. You’ve never been this close to a pirate, or a human, for that matter. And now, your heart flutters because you get to hold him again. He’s not asleep this time.
Once he’s fully submerged, your arms wrap Changbin’s torso, pressing you into him. He’s not expecting you to be so gentle, conscious of the fragility of his body as you cradle him away from the inevitable danger of the rock.
“You can’t swim, I’ll hold you.”
Your smile almost makes Changbin want to confess he can’t be yours. There’s no hope for him, Changbin understands that. And maybe this won’t be such an awful conclusion. He’d imagined his life to come to an end at the tip of a blade, sea air spraying his face, not in the arms of a creature who inhabits the ocean he sails. Changbin almost wishes his grandfather could be here to witness the ‘monster’ he’d painted into his grandson’s young mind. To see that you’re not a ruthless predator, not a vicious, inhuman monster. You saved his life.
“Are you ready?”
And now, you’re unwittingly going to take it from him.
Changbin’s lips fall to yours. It’s a surprise for you, because it’s a soft pink. Warm. Their noses brush as the angle transforms, and the boy presses his mouth to the corner of yours. The laugh that escapes is musical, and you squeeze his injured hip.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s a kiss,” Changbin breathlessly explains.
Your eyes dart over his face, absorbing the boy’s striking features, and you playfully tug at the end of the black scarf tied around his head.
“What’s it for?”
The mermaid smiles innocently, questioning about a subject that he’s never been asked to analyze before.
“It— it doesn’t really have a purpose.”
He’s not going to delve into the logistics, because all Changbin can think of is to explain a kiss like that is love. The situation doesn’t need to last longer. He’s ready to go with you now.
“Then why do you do it?”
“It feels nice,” Changbin’s voice descends in volume, embarrassed to be called out.
He looks at the length of your hair falling over your shoulders and down your back, before tracing his eyes upward again, over the strange gashes in your neck.
“Do it again,” you breathe.
He does as told, closing his eyes and melting into the last kiss he’ll ever have. You follow the only lead you have ever had and shut your eyes. It seems strange to you, to blind yourself when commencing in an intimate act. Surely you’d want to see the other person. Your mind flutters as the boy performs magic with just his lips. And you come to realize that ‘kissing’ is more to do with how you feel, rather than what you see.
Changbin is startled as you pull away, hiding your face and giggling. Your shimmering tail floats back and forth under the water beneath them, your hands still firmly holding his waist.
“What’s wrong?”
You shake your head, water droplets trickling down your neck and over your chest.
“Your tongue touched mine,” you exclaim, blushing.
It’s enormously endearing and Changbin finds himself wishing that he’d met someone like you on land. You would have convinced him not to leave, not to climb aboard the ship proudly displaying black flags. He would have a respectable job and thrive on the knowledge that everyday, you’d be home waiting for his return. He could have loved someone like you.
“I’m ready.”
You beam a smile at him before helping his arms around you. His fingers skim the hardened scales on the small of your back, tracing the gradual boundary between ocean dwelling and human.
“Hold on to me,” you whisper, the last words spoken between you both before you submerge.
The saltwater stings Changbin’s eyes. His instincts tell him to fight the hold and break the surface, but he overcomes reflex, letting you cling to him as you dive further down. You’re more powerful than he’d expected, and they descend quickly. The pressure is starting to burn, pressing down on his chest as he holds the last of his breath. Three more beats of your tail, and Changbin can’t put off the inevitable any longer. Water painfully invades his lungs, body convulsing with the onslaught before succumbing to the ocean, and the pretty creature who cradles him.
He knew he would drown, but you didn’t.
They come to a slow halt to admire the surroundings.
“Look,” you smile.
These waters are your favorite, pretty fish and deep water coral. It’s a wash of colors that most don’t get to see, perhaps that’s what makes it so special.
The boy’s head rests in the crook of your neck. You hold him away from you slightly so you can see his face, see the awe you hope his features will express. But his face is blank, eyes shuttered closed, hands no longer seeking you for guidance.
You shake him, as much as the dense water allows. The hair not trapped beneath the bandana floats around him like a halo.
“Why won’t you open your eyes?” Your voice trembles with a cry.
He can’t swim. Your hands settle a small distance away from his waist in hopes that he’ll reach out and clutch you to him again. But he doesn’t. The boy begins to drift, and you snap from your despair, taking handfuls of his shirt and dragging him into your arms.
“Sing to me,” you desperately say into his ear. “Please.”
You’ve seen men like this before, but you had accounted for their unresponsiveness to the wounds to neck or chests. They were already dead before they hit the water, thrown over the side of ships that flaunted those black sails. Your boy has no such injuries. You check, hands smoothing over his defined chest under the tattered shirt. There’s no wounds, no blood. Delicate fingers inspect his shoulders, and your frantic searching dies when you reach his neck. A distraught cry frightens the nearby fish, as they seek cover in the nearby coral. The three gashes that you have on either side of your throat are absent on his.
The boy couldn’t breathe.
“No.”
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You receive odd looks from your siblings, but you pay no mind. The boy is yours; you’ll look after him.
Others of your kind have gathered around the wrecked ship settled on the ocean floor. It’s not too far from the surface, light still penetrating from above. With practiced skill, you carefully navigate the vessel’s interior, an area you’ve previously explored after rescuing the boy you now protectively embrace. The cargo he’d talked about spills over the chewed up wooden floor.
There’s not much of a current, especially as they’re sheltered within the ship’s hull. You allow his body to float down upon a bed of shiny coins and pretty rocks: a fitting resting place for your beautiful boy.
You stay with him until the waters are cold and looming with the promise of nightfall. Normally, you’d spend this time above the surface, sitting on the boy’s vacant rock to watch the sun go down. It is possible to cry underwater, and your sorrowful tears wash with the ocean.
Your lips press to his, but you don’t linger because he’s cold. The once pretty pink is now a stony blue as you run the tip of your finger over the curves of his mouth.
“Forgive me,” you plead.
One last look and you’re gone.
But you should have stayed with him though, as now the boy’s eyes are wide open. There are gashes on his neck, and he’s breathing the oxygen in the water…
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«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME» · «TAGLIST»
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
I wrote this years ago. I just love mermaids & Changbin!
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©jisungsdaydreamer 2023 | All rights reserved. I do not condone translations or transfers of my work onto other platforms such as Wattpad, AO3, etc. Tumblr is my only platform. Acts of plagiarism are strictly prohibited.
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misculenica · 2 years ago
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A love letter to the facial animations... And Solas's design.
I just love that first encounter with Solas, and how telling it is if you really pay attention.
We all remember how giddy he is, perhaps he even has a playful nature to some. He seems utterly delighted that you're there (of course he is - you're going to fix all his problems).
Knowing Solas, he always came across as someone who is very bad at hiding his true feelings about things (he can't help but declare everything/point out how clever he is/how wrong everyone else is) - he's an awful liar. He's quick to correct himself, but not quick enough to not let you know exactly how he feels about something.
Looking at in in more depth with hindsight of who he is and what's really going on, it's just that extra layer of ohhhh that's interesting. Praise to the creatives involved in the storyboards/animation/facial expressions, because hot damn it's beautiful to look at.
So let's go frame by frame like manaics. (yes, it's because I'm writing fanfiction and wanted more insight into his thoughts/character)
The first closeup we get of him is this;
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This is not a happy man XD
I would suggest he's just unhappy with you (I believe I mentioned in another post that Solas throughout the game has a sort of grudge against you for being the cause of all this - besides himself + Coryphidkfdfsdfus), but given the situation, I don't blame him for being on piss-mode.
But just... The way he stares at Inky just hits so hard. Imagine this guy you don't know grabs your arm and gives you this stare - it'd scare me more than the demons XD
That, and the fact that when he does the thing, he looks at you
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It just- whether it's my writer/artist heart or just my solavellan heart hitting me with this idk. Just nnnf how come I never noticed this.
And the first rift is sealed, and Inky stares at him all like O.o "What did you do?" And he responds "I did nothing. The credit is yours." But there's this second/half second pause of interesting aniimation from Solas that I think deserves attention/applause.
Here's his immediate response to "What did you do?";
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He's staring at the mark - with such intensity - before his brain catches up to 'oh right, respond solas respond'
And as soon as he makes eye-contact with Inky, it turns to this;
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The difference in these expressions hits me right in the vhenan. I really want to congratulate the animators for this, because holy crap that's a lot of information about a character and their mindstate in the space of a couple seconds - pretty much a 'blind and you'll miss it'.
And then the rest of the scene, he pretty much has the same head tilted to the side, vague smile on his face, 'I'm just going to twiddle my fingers in front of me' look happening - and it kills me.
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(Also it's slaying me that Solas is leaning down as if he's speaking to a child)
All humble and appeasing, until you look away.
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I particularly love this next part, where Varric tells you Solas kept you from dying in your sleep. And he just has this;
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Like; "yes, what do you think about that?" turn to look at you, instead of any verbal confirmation.
They rest is pretty much similar. Though I just adore the contrast of his expressions when he's 'in the moment' and then 'in character' - it's so goddamn telling from the very beginning.
I would kill to install flycam - if anyone can give me details on how to install a flycam for Inquisition (I've tried before, but any links I get taken to have dead sites/pages)
And I just want to share a happy egg.
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Part 2
I now have flycam installed and it works, however- controller isn't an option and i don't have a numpad on my keyboard XD gonna have to dig out an old keyboard!
But overall the software works and i've been able to use it! Success!
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