#so they googled me to try to find out where i was going

[tortoisebore]

let’s pretend i’m not posting this a week late 💕💗❤️💖

happy (belated) valentine’s day—here’s a very cheesy and poorly written bonus scene to tack on to hey sharpshooter featuring inappropriate use of chocolate syrup and a cameo from everyone’s least favorite business major !!!

—

In all honesty, Sirius wouldn’t have known Valentine’s Day was even happening if James hadn’t said something.

“—and I think me and Lil are just gonna do dinner here after. She’s not super into Valentine’s Day—”

“Valentine’s Day?” Sirius had muttered absently, entirely more focused on adjusting the crop and lighting on the latest of a series of semi-dirty photos he’d been sending off to Remus throughout the day. Remus’ service had been too spotty to text back much since earlier that morning, but Sirius had gotten several unintelligible key smashes and a very frustrated phone call around noon, which he was counting as a win. Really, he was just biding time here in the living room with James and Pete until Remus made it to whatever city the team was setting up shop in for the night and they could FaceTime uninterrupted on some nice, stable hotel WiFi.

“Mhm,” James continued. “I really should have learned my lesson by now—every year I try to plan something and she shoots me down, says it’s a fake holiday created by corporations and we shouldn’t participate. It’s probably for the best, since it’s on a Monday and all this time, plus I have practice at—”

“It’s what?” Sirius exclaimed, shooting up from his spot lounging on the couch and dropping his phone in the process. “Monday?”

“Well, yeah,” James shrugged through a mouthful of popcorn, juggling one of Pete’s borrowed game controllers in his free hand. “The fourteenth. Like it always is.”

Sirius confirmed the date on his lock screen as February 12th and spent the next hour losing his entire shit about it. Remus was away for a game until tomorrow night (either Illinois or Iowa, Sirius couldn’t remember) and they hadn’t even spoken about dates or gifts or plans for Monday, and oh no, oh god, four months in and Sirius was already the worst boyfriend ever, confirmed.

Through a series of vague, sneaky texts and some Googling the next day, Sirius managed to hatch a little plan just cute enough to make up for the fact that every decent restaurant in the city was booked up through Thursday and there simply wasn’t time to write Whitman-level poetry professing his undying love. This was going to have to be a wine him and dine him on a budget sort of situation, but Sirius was nothing if not an unabashed flirt and quick on his feet, so he had confidence that despite his lack of prep time Remus would be feeling quite doted upon by the end of the night.

The plans were so last minute and low-key that Sirius hadn’t been expecting anything in return himself. It was just a regular, simple night in, really—a walk to pick up a little surprise dessert and whatever cheap wine they could get their hands on, cooking dinner at Remus’ place, and what he hoped would be a repeat of the deliciously intense tipsy sex they’d had last weekend. It wasn’t really Valentine’s Day-esque at all, nothing out of the ordinary from any of their other typical date nights in, so when Sirius answered the door on Monday afternoon and found Remus wielding a bouquet of flowers, what looked to be a homemade card, and a precious, shy little smile, he’d nearly combusted on the fucking spot.

“Where did you even find these?” he cried from his spot thrown in a heap on the floor of the entry hall, having collapsed the moment Remus shuffled inside to hand over the flowers and press a sweet, smiley kiss to his cheek. “I looked everywhere for flowers, Remus—everywhere. There are none left in the whole city!”

“I got them in the airport before we flew out yesterday,” Remus admitted sheepishly from the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame and watching on amusedly as Sirius brought the little bouquet to his face to get a good whiff. “There was a little stand right outside security.”

Sirius wailed. “You went all the way to Illinois to buy me flowers?”

“Iowa,” Remus corrected, then thought better of it and shrugged. “But yeah, I guess I did. It’s not like I played in the game—the flowers were the real accomplishment.”

“I love you,” Sirius implored desperately from the floor. He lowered the plastic-wrapped bouquet gently and met Remus’s eyes with a forlorn sigh. “You sweet, perfect, adorable man. I love you so much.”

Remus laughed softly, but Sirius caught a tinge of pink on his cheeks and dusting over the bridge of his nose and felt his stomach erupt in butterflies. “How long are you planning on hanging out down there?” he diverted.

“Until you stop being so cute my legs don’t work.”

“Well—might be here for a while then, won’t we?”

They eventually did make it out of the apartment, only after Sirius had trimmed the flowers and got them settled in a jar on his bedroom windowsill. The cold was biting and sharp outside as they began the trek to Sirius’ little surprise, hand in hand, huddled close for warmth.

“Where exactly are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise,” Sirius urged for the third time since they’d left the apartment, nudging at Remus’ arm with his elbow pointedly.

“Okay, but what sort of surprise?” he asked. “Are we getting food, or coffee, or going sightseeing—you’ve got to give me something, Sirius.”

“No can do,” Sirius maintained. He swung their joined hands back and forth idly as they walked. “But I can promise that you’re going to like it.”

Remus rolled his eyes dramatically but smiled, squeezed Sirius’ hand and kissed his knuckles goodnaturedly. “Whatever you say.”

Sirius wasn’t fucking around, he really was going to love this last minute little surprise—through all his frantic research on Saturday night, he’d discovered a tiny French chocolate shop attached to a cafe near the river off campus that happened to be running a half-off special on assorted truffle boxes for the week. Sirius was very much planning on buying at least three boxes—one to share tonight, one for Remus to keep, and one for himself to hide at his own apartment.

The shop was busy when they arrived, so Sirius offered to grab a spot at the end of the line by the door while Remus assessed the territory up front. He watched on amusedly as his precious, darling boyfriend wormed his way through the crowded tables to the glass display cases at the counter, resting his chin in his hand and taking in the selection of truffles and fudge and miniature pastries. Sirius’ heart swelled and tugged with affection, and he bit at the inside of his lip to quell a smile.

“Oh—Sirius?”

His stomach dropped. He turned around slowly, pleading with the universe—please please please don’t be true—and tried to school his face into something less of a grimace.

“Hey, Ben,” he managed around a forced little smile.

“Hi,” Ben grinned back, all gleaming, perfect teeth and dimples, and Sirius fought very hard against the urge to roll his eyes. “Long time no see!”

“Mhm,” Sirius agreed. He turned and glanced back at the display case across the room, where Remus was now hunched over observing the bottom self intently. “Grabbing something for Valentine’s?” he asked absently.

Ben cringed a little and hesitated. “Yeah, actually,” he said apologetically, much to Sirius’ confusion. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” he repeated. “For what?”

“I’m—well, I’m sort of here with someone,” Ben said reluctantly, nodding over his shoulder to a table in the corner and who Sirius assumed was his date—a short, dark-haired boy with clear-framed glasses.

“Oh,” Sirius said, still a bit confused about the blatant remorse on Ben’s face. “Um—okay?”

“I’m really sorry,” Ben continued, taking a step forward into his space. “We just met a couple of weeks ago and I thought—well, I know you and I haven’t been able to connect again this semester, so I figured there was no harm branching out a bit. I had no idea you’d be here, Sirius, really—I’m sorry—”

Sirius frowned. Did Ben—oh god—did he really expect Sirius to be hurt seeing him with someone else? Did he think he’d just been waiting around, twiddling his thumbs until they ran into each other again?

“Oh, no—” Sirius cut in. “No, no—I’m not—”

“I don’t want you to think this means we can’t still talk, you know?” Ben urged. “I’m still sort of seeing people here and there—just a few guys from my course, that’s all. A lot of them have been interested for a while and keep asking to go out but I just can’t find the time, you know—things are so busy lately. But anyways, we can still grab a drink sometime on a night I’m free or I can move some things around and meet you after your trainings—”

And suddenly it was all very, very funny, but Sirius forced himself to keep a straight face.

“No, Ben—” he interrupted, biting back a laugh. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Ben reached out to touch his arm, squeezing apologetically with a silly little grimace that may have been an attempt at sincerity. “I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Sirius—I’m so sorry you had to see this—”

Sirius swayed out of his grip. “Ben, I have a boyfriend,” he urged, raising his brows pointedly when Ben’s hand stilled and then recoiled. “So, like I said—it’s fine. Really.”

“Oh,” Ben blanched, cleared his throat and straightened up a bit. “You do?”

“Yes,” Sirius said, letting himself laugh a little. “I do. So it’s okay, really, it’s all fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“How—” Ben shook his head a little, did a hesitant little quarter-spin in place and clicked his tongue. “Um, how long have you—uh, had…that?”

“Four months or so, now,” Sirius shrugged.

“Oh. Oh, and, uh—who—” Ben started, then glanced over Sirius’ shoulder and froze, and oh, Sirius loved, loved, loved Remus’ timing more than anything on earth at that very moment.

He appeared out of nowhere, suddenly plastered to his side in a flurry of excitement. “Baby, they have chocolate covered strawberries—”

Sirius felt him freeze more than he saw it in his peripheral. Remus was still for a split second, taking in Sirius’ predicament quickly, and then his hand was slipping around Sirius’ back to fist in his jacket as he cocked his head to the side and smiled.

“Oh, hi Ben,” he said cheerfully, and oh, Sirius loved him. It was impossible not to bite back a laugh at the way he grinned all friendly and sweet (and so, so obviously fake now that Sirius had spent all this time observing his smiles so closely), the way he leaned into Sirius’ side and tapped his fingers in a quick, excited rhythm secretly behind his back.

“Hi,” Ben repeated, a pained smile pulling at his mouth as he squinted and gestured between them. “So you’re—”

“Yep,” Sirius confirmed happily, swaying a bit in an attempt to secretly jostle Remus’ shoulder with a warning that he was about two seconds and a couple of words from crying with laughter. Don’t be funny, he pleaded. Please please please don’t be funny, I beg. “We are.”

“Ah,” Ben said flatly, nodding stiffly. “So—four months, you said?”

“Mhm,” Sirius nodded, turning to shoot Remus a smile and nudging his arm. “Give or take a week or so.”

“A week and six days, actually,” Remus added with a one-shouldered shrug. “But who’s counting?”

“You are, apparently,” Sirius teased, and he very much wanted to kiss the little crease in his cheek as he smiled, but figured that might be a bit cruel.

Ben cleared his throat. “Well,” he said through a forced smile. “Uh—we were actually about to leave and go somewhere else, I don’t really love the flavor combos here today, and I know a better place not too far from here—” He did another one of those little half-turns, patting his pockets awkwardly and pulling out his phone. “Ah, yeah I’ve got to take this,” he said apologetically, gesturing to his very much silent phone. “One of the guys from my course I was telling you about—probably confirming plans tonight.”

Sirius nodded and bit back a laugh, watching wide-eyed as Ben shuffled backwards toward the door, pretended to answer his phone and cover the receiver.

“So sorry, uh—nice running into you, Sirius. See you around.”

Sirius lifted a hand to wave, didn’t trust himself to speak without actually cackling. Remus waved as well, and Sirius bit his tongue hard to avoid a laugh.

“Bye, Ben,” he called merrily. “Good to see you.”

Ben grimaced, hesitated and waved again. “Remus,” he said flatly, hesitated with his phone still at his ear, and then sped out of the shop.

“Oh my god,” Remus started, jostling his hold on Sirius’ jacket before he cut him off with a firm grip on his arm.

“Shh,” Sirius hissed, pushing back a laugh so hard he felt his eyes start to water. “He left his date,” he managed to whisper.

“What?” Remus whirled around, glanced wide-eyed around the shop and then back in the direction of the door. “No!”

“He did,” Sirius wheezed. “He did, he did, he so did—”

The door bell chimed again and Sirius schooled his face into something more vaguely amused just as Ben barreled through the door again, still holding his phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he called across the shop, glancing back at Sirius’ table with a forced smile. “Uh—what’s—Noah, hey—yeah, sorry, let’s go. I have somewhere better, let’s—yeah, let’s just go—”

The poor boy—Noah, bless him—followed Ben confusedly out of the shop. Remus waved again, the bastard, and nearly made Sirius choke on a quick inhale to stave off a laugh, and then they were gone again.

Sirius turned back around, lest Ben or his poor date try for one last fleeting glimpse through the shop windows, covered his mouth with his hand and let himself laugh, finally, at the wide-eyed amusement on Remus’ face.

“Wow,” he breathed, gaping at the door where Ben had just disappeared. “That was wild.”

“Oh god,” Sirius laughed, wiping at his eyes. “Oh god, oh god, Remus—”

“How long was he here before I came back?”

“Not—not long,” Sirius managed through a fit of giggles. “Oh Jesus, you should have heard him, he was going on and on about all these guys he’s seeing and how ‘sorry he was to have made me uncomfortable’—”

“Uncomfortable?” Remus repeated incredulously. “About what?”

“Oh, he was entirely certain that seeing him here with someone else ruined my day,” Sirius said. “Did the whole ‘we can still get a drink sometime’ spiel and everything.”

Remus groaned. “I can’t believe I missed it. Those damn chocolate covered strawberries—I got distracted.”

Sirius pressed his face to Remus’ shoulder and laughed. “Oh, I love you,” he sighed. “You’re my favorite.”

“Okay, but really though—” Remus pulled back after pressing a kiss to his temple, meeting his eyes intently. “That fucking weirdo aside—we have to gameplan here. The strawberries are a must, but there’s also walnut fudge and white chocolate macadamia truffles, plus some of those round almond butter things you like. I took a picture, here—”

They managed to make it out of the chocolate shop with only three boxes of assorted confectionery and one whole tin of chocolate covered strawberries, plus a bottle of reasonably priced chardonnay from the cafe next door. After a dinner of Remus’ famous three-ingredient pasta, the two of them managed to get through one entire box and the majority of the strawberries by the time the wine was gone. And later, once they’d migrated to the bedroom in various states of undress after nearly half an hour of making out on Remus’ couch, Sirius pulled a miniature little bottle of dark chocolate syrup from his discarded coat pocket and waved it in the air pointedly.

“Your last Valentine’s surprise, mon chou,” he said, crawling up the bed to straddle Remus’ hips. He pushed up to his elbows and watched on dazedly as Sirius trailed the nozzle of the little bottle down his bare chest, circling at the waist of his jeans teasingly. “I’ll let you decide if you want to eat or be eaten.”

Remus’ jaw dropped open a little and his eyes went a bit cloudy, slipping distractedly up and down Sirius’ frame before grabbing his hips and flipping them over in a heap.

“You don’t even like dark chocolate,” he said matter-of-factly, pinning Sirius’ arms above his head in a quick move and grabbing the bottle with his free hand. He met Sirius’ eyes as he tore the plastic from the tip with his teeth, popped open the cap and squeezed until it overflowed, oozing in a little drizzle onto his stomach.

Sirius sucked in a breath. “That’s cold,” he gasped, squirming just enough in Remus’ grip to get him to hold his wrists tighter.

“Good,” Remus grinned conspiratorially. He pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to his lips and then sat up, squeezed Sirius’ wrists and letting them go with a firm “don’t move.”

After a mere couple of hours, they managed to very enthusiastically work their way through the entire little bottle plus the rest of the chocolate covered strawberries. Even though they’d chipped the paint on the wall behind Remus’ bed again and earned themselves a sharp rap against the ceiling from his upstairs neighbors, Sirius counted their first Valentine’s Day together as a win. And later, once they’d showered and brushed their teeth free of chocolate and crawled back into bed, Sirius ran his fingers through Remus’ hair where he lay against his chest, twirled a curl around his finger, and thanked the universe that his besotted, lovesick heart wouldn’t be forced to endure another Ben ever again.

[gauzemer]

Chapter 3: Dumpster

2708 words

According to Google Maps, it takes forty-two hours of uninterrupted driving to reach Thirtymile, Oregon from Gotham, New Jersey.

Jason manages to do it in only forty-four, but in his defense, he’d never been to a Buc-ee’s before, so that was at least three extra hours right there.

He follows I-76 out of the Eastern seaboard in what’s mostly a straight line, the distance only punctuated by occasional toll booths where he pays in cash, doling out ten dollar bills where ones and fives would do. Road maintenance is serious business, he reasons, and nevermind his extensive criminal record– he has a civic responsibility. He refills the tank when it dips towards empty, likewise refills his coffee at gas stations, makes sure to text Dick whenever he passes a billboard that promises “HELL IS REAL” in big red letters.

Dick might text back. Jason stops checking his phone somewhere around Akron.

Gradually, his playlists run out of music to shuffle through. It’s around the fourteen hour mark that he realizes his speakers relay only silence, that he’s been humming a chorus to a song for miles now with only the car’s engine for backing. He finds he doesn’t mind it– he drives in silence for a few hours. The lights over the highway cast rolling shadows on his face, like waves lapping up against a shore. Above them, he can see satellites, clouds, and, when the highway lights fall into disrepair, real stars, small and scattered and distant.

It’s nice.

The Buc-ee’s stop in Colorado, of course, sends him an hour out of the way, but it’s worth it. It’s so worth it. They have that stupid fucking beaver on everything. “On everything,” he tries to impress upon Dick after he gets in the car absolutely laden with be-beavered merchandise. “They have Buc-ee’s napkins, Dick. They put him on napkins.”

“Uh huh.”

Jason turns to look out of the back window as he leaves the parking lot. It’s, like, three in the morning. There’s definitely no one else here. He checks anyway.  “How are you not impressed by this?”

“Because I’m an adult human with a functioning brain,” Dick deadpans. Even hundreds of miles apart, the sound of him rubbing his temples is practically audible. “It’s a gas station with a mascot, Jay, it’s just a gimmick.”

“They had brisket.”

Dick pauses. “Was it–”

“It was good, yeah.”

Dick sighs, and Jason grins, hoping the expression makes it through the phone. “You’re almost there, though?”

“Yep.” He drives out of the parking lot and makes for I-25. “Sixteen hours out.”

“Jesus, haven’t you slept?”

He hasn’t, and he doesn’t bother to lie now. Dicky would have him out in a heartbeat. “You know me,” he finally says, his smile fading. “I’m just planning to crash when I get to Oregon.”

“Do you have sixteen more hours of driving left in you?”

“I’m fine,” Jason says, which he knows doesn’t really answer the question. He doesn’t sleep, is the thing. He doesn’t need to. Sleep is only a cheap imitation of death, and he’s already been ruined by the hard stuff. Besides, he’s so hopped up on Buc-ee’s coffee he’s not sure he could if he tried. “I’ve got, like, straight caffeine in my veins right now, man, I’m wired.”

“Doesn’t caffeine give you nightmares?”

“That’s melatonin.” He downshifts, pulls onto the highway. They did try melatonin, in the first days, until al Ghul told him he didn’t have to sleep if he didn’t want to. More time for training. He would stop when he needed to. All was as it should be. “I’m fine on caffeine.”

“If you say so.” Dick doesn’t sound at all convinced, but that’s alright. He doesn’t understand, but, then, Jason hasn’t explained himself. How do you even begin to have that conversation? “I’m tracking you on our maps, by the way, I can be there in, like, an hour if anything happens.”

The thought comes from way out of pocket: like what, Dick? “Nothing’s going to happen.”

The silence on the other end rings with disbelief. “You think you’ll be safe to crash when you get there?”

“Yeah, why?”

“The trap–”

“I’m not worried.”

“Why?”

God, the sky is beautiful out here. He’s starting to look forward to Thirtymile– no streetlights, no highway lanterns. Just the split-open depths of the cosmos. “I can handle whatever he throws at me,” he lies. “We always have before.”

Dick stays silent. Again, the thought comes in from out of pocket: not always. “Bruce is worried,” he finally says, clearly trying to make it sound like Bruce is the only one. “He’s stress-prowling.”

“I’m honored.”

“Jay–”

“I’m gonna get back to driving,” he says, which isn’t technically a lie this time. It’s dark out. Maybe sleep deprivation actually is starting to catch up to him, because he’s kind of looking forward to the nothingness of zoning out. “I’ll call you next time I get gas, alright?”

“Can’t you drive with me on the phone?”

Jason hesitates before hanging up. Is that concern he hears? “What time is it for you?”

“It’s… like, five.” There’s a pause as Dick checks. “Five eleven.”

“Go to bed.”

“I’m not tired.” Read: I’m worried about you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jason reassures him. Read: yeah, well, I promise I won’t die without telling you this time. “I mean, I’m going to Oregon, but I’m not– you know what I mean, I’ll see you soon.”

Dick doesn’t answer. When Jason looks down, he sees that the call’s been disconnected. He’s lost signal.

The trip through the Rockies passes in a haze. For what must be half a day, Jason falls into a sort of road hypnosis. He doesn’t think of anything, except occassionally about Ra’s, or about Gotham, how strange it is to be away from the city. No one here knows Jason Todd. His name isn’t written on memorial hospital wings or park benches, not on college scholarships or debt forgiveness payments or gravestones.

He’s never been buried here.

Some part of him reckons it’s good to be away from Gotham. He could start again out here, if he wanted to. It’d be easy.

Isn’t that such a common refrain, though? Lots of things are easy. Even the hard stuff gets easy, if you’re desperate enough. Synth keens. Electric bass guitar snarls. In Ab major, Penelope Scott has the audacity to ask him what the plan is.

Jason pushes down on the accelerator and keeps going west.

When he finally makes it to the coordinates in Thirtymile, it’s a little past eight in the evening, or at least, he thinks it is. His internal clock is all kinds of fucked up. He was right, though: even in Oregon, it’s winter, and with the sun down, the uninterrupted sky stretches out forever, dizzying and deep, dusted with stars. He doesn’t even care about the mystery of the property– as soon as he arrives, it becomes an afterthought. He parks the car in the tinder-downy brush of what might be a sugarpine and then clambers through the sunroof just to stare.

There is no music. There is no interruption. The creaking insects are all gone away for parts unknown, and the lonely wind rustles through the deadwood skeletons without them for company. Somewhere, Thirtymile Creek trickles through a path it carved centuries ago. He can hear it. Even in the reverent stillness, the water moves. Jason closes his eyes, and lets the silence fill him up until he goes silent, too, and for the first time since he left Gotham, he breathes.

Expectation fogs outwards, disappearing under the vast sky.

When he’s had his fill of being empty, when his body starts to go numb, Jason finally takes his sole bag of supplies in hand and gets out of the car. The cabin Ra’s has left him is a modern little thing, with a slanted roof and plenty of black-tinted windows he can’t see through, but it looks like it’s been here for years at least. It’s weathered, a little ragged– abandoned, but not unloved. He trudges up the moss-stained wooden stairs to the unassuming front door, and finds it to be unlocked when he tries the handle. “Okay, Ra’s,” he says quietly as he pushes it open. “Don’t fuck me on this, old man.”

The door creaks, of course, but nothing happens. No one jumps out to attack him. Neurotoxin doesn’t immediately spray in his face. After a moment of groping blindly in the dark, Jason flicks on the lights.

The house is little more than a bedroom and a bathroom. There’s a couch by one wall, a fridge tucked into a corner by what appears to be a free-standing stove. There’s no television, only cases and cases of books with titles he can just barely read from here: The Last Mastodon, The Plumber’s Guide to Light, After the Revival. Sylvia Plath is shoved haphazardly beside Shel Silverstein. It’s all poetry.

Jason closes the door behind him and locks the deadbolt in place, still looking around warily. The curtains are closed. The fridge is empty. The couch, after forty-four hours, is inviting– but he’s here for a reason, and it doesn’t take him more than a few minutes to see an envelope with a familiar red wax seal lying on the countertop.

He puts his bag in the bedroom (and oh, god, that bed is so tempting) and riffles through the bathroom, which mysteriously seems to have clean running water all the way out here, before he attends to al Ghul’s message. This letter is much heavier than the last, and when he breaks the seal, he’s rewarded with a veritable sheaf of paper, all of it covered in sprawling calligraphy. Jason slides down the wall and sits on the floor to read.

Jason,

Do forgive me for not stocking the kitchen with perishables. I was not sure when this day would come, and I did not know if it would spoil before you arrived. Besides, I recall that you weren’t much for eating when you were in my care. Why sup on what cannot fill you? Tantalus might have learned something from us.

I digress. If you are reading this, then our time together has already drawn to a close– that is, I have departed, and this is all I will be able to leave you. The house is yours, of course, as is the surrounding acre of land to do with what you will. You will find the deed to both in the safe hidden behind the collection of Audre Lorde, the combination to which I have included in this letter.

I suspect that this is all you will accept from me, after our strange, turbulent history, and I have made my peace with that notion. As you have no doubt guessed by now, I have given you this place with ulterior motives. Forgive me– unlike myself, my selfishness does not die easily. I did not tell Talia of this place. It is ledgered on no map of its ilk. You are the only soul I have entrusted it to.

This house is built on a Lazarus Pit.

The words blur together. Fear surges headlong with fury, the adrenaline causing his heart to beat once, painfully, before it goes still again as he grips his chest. Jason stares through the letter, his jaw clenching, his teeth beginning to grit together. “You son of a bitch,” he mutters to himself. “You motherfucker.”

You will find it soon, I am sure, and then perhaps you will understand. I have my doubts, but there is no one else on the face of this earth like us, Jason Todd, and I mourn the fact that I must depart before you come into your inheritance.

Alas, I have frittered away too much of my time already. I am tired. You are here now, and that is what matters. All is as it should be.

From wherever I am now, be well. Give her my love.

There is no signature.

Jason’s not sure how much time he spends on the floor, just that he can hear a sound that the Joker might make in between landed hits, except he’s probably making it himself. It’s the kind of noise you only get to make once in your life. It’s the sound you make when you realize no one’s coming.

Ha. Been there.

He crumples the letter in hand and throws it across the kitchen. Even in death, Ra’s can’t leave well enough alone. He’s still fucking crazy. Jason stares at it balefully without blinking, wiping off his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Fuck,” he finally spits out. “God. You– you–”

No one’s listening. Ra’s is dead, and the letter can’t say anything else.

Jason gets out his phone and calls Dick.

The phone rings, and rings, and Jason gets sent to voicemail. He doesn’t leave a message. Dick’s probably on patrol, so he stands up and goes to look for the safe while he cools off. He needs to be calm while he decides what to do next. He needs to be rational. He needs to not lose any more of his entire shit than he already has.

Fuck, he’s getting a migraine.

The safe is right where the letter said it would be. The door swings open almost eagerly. There’s a manila file with the deed in Jason’s name inside. There’s a corked glass phial of what could probably be flat lime soda, but which he knows can only be water from the Pit, which he reaches for and then thinks better of, just in case it bites. There’s a sheet of paper, too, covered in what can only be described as the code of a madman, emerald-green symbols running thick, vertical interference over what might be black print, like someone cross-wrote a message in two different languages with their nondominant hand.

“Because of course you wouldn’t just leave me a note like anyone else,” Jason mutters. “Had to be fucking dramatic and shit. Asshole.”

This paper doesn’t say anything to him, either.

He puts it back in the safe and tries calling Dick again. The phone rings, rings, ri–

“Did you get there?” Dick asks him without preamble, way too close to the mic. Jason fumbles his phone and drops it on the couch. “Are you okay? Are you– Jason?”

“I’m here,” he reassures him, his voice croaking hoarsely. Fuck, it’s good to hear Dick’s voice. “Yeah, sorry. Hell of a night.”

The wind in Bludhaven whistles across the connection. “Did you get ambushed?”

“Kind of.” He’s breathing again. He always fucking does this when he talks to Dicky. Stress response. Prey-based camouflage adaptation. He swallows, but it only makes his headache worse. “You were right. He left me some nice real estate.”

“And?”

Jason doesn’t say anything.

“Jay–”

“There’s a Pit,” he finally manages, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Under the house. Ra’s– he left a letter.”

Dick’s silence is duly horrified. “Oh.”

Jason nods before remembering that Dick can’t see him. “Can you–” His voice cracks, and it takes him a minute to continue. This is fucking pathetic. “Can you still come get me?”

“I can.” Dick’s voice is soft and level, like he’s trying to gentle a scared animal. It’s appropriate. That’s basically what he’s doing. Jason sits on the couch and rests his head in his free hand, lets his eyes fall shut. The darkness is a relief. “I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“Yeah.”

A rustling noise. Nightwing’s moving. “Three hours.”

“Three hours,” he repeats. That’s so fucking long– at least someone’s coming this time. “Okay. I’m gonna try to sleep.”

“Are you safe?”

The old question rings in his head: are you a danger to yourself or others? He’s not angry. They’re just doing their job. He’s too tired to be a danger to anyone right now, anyway. “I’m fine,” Jason says blearily. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah,” Dick reassures him. “I’ll see you–”

Jason hangs up and tosses his phone away, lays down. After forty-four hours, he’s gone before his body finishes falling. He dreams of Thirtymile creek.

In his head, the water sluices ever forward.

I'll Eat You Up (I Love You So)

Chapter 1: Feel Better

Summary: Ra's al Ghul's body is found under extremely fuckin' weird circumstances. Jason is normal about it. 2197 words.

Somewhere deep and forgotten in the reaches of the Swiss Alps, the snarling Head of the Demon, the dreaded Ra’s al Ghul, is writing a letter.

It is not the first letter he has written tonight, but he is fast approaching the end of the matter, and he knows with certainty that this letter will be the last. It will join the stack of fine stationery he has created on his desk, and it will be found in the morning, after the alarms have sounded, after his security detail has searched the compound, after he has disappeared in earnest. It is all arranged. The letters are the last piece of the jigsaw image, and they fit neatly into the hole that Ra’s perpetual life will leave.

Talia is prepared for her role as the grieving heir apparent, but even so, hers is the letter at the bottom of the stack, the ink now fully dried. There is a letter to young Damian Wayne, so that he will understand when he is older, when the time comes. There is a letter to the boy’s father, Bruce, who Ra’s was never able to sway– he does not trouble himself to attempt the feat now. The time for it is long since past, the letter likewise already finely sealed. Ra’s could not take the sentiment back now if he tried.

Besides, he does not need understanding from the Wayne family. Not anymore.

Ra’s slips his fine pen back into its inkwell and studies what he has written upon this final and most crucial letter even as he prepares the wax for its seal. There is much he wishes to say, but there are eyes upon him, both in this compound and in this delicate world. This will have to do.

He does not doubt his decision. He has not always been a good man, he knows, both by way of being more and less than good and likewise more and less than a man, but in this, at least, he has done right. He nods to himself, and then he pours the wax, closes the letter, and stamps the envelope simply with his signet ring as it cools. 

There. He places it gingerly upon the pile with the other letters. The work of six hundred years, finally done.

Ra’s taps the letters together and gets up from his fine desk chair. Yes. The work is done– and now, there is only one task remaining. For a moment, he stands in silence and watches the wild snow whirl past the window, blanketing the compound in pure droves. He does not breathe. He does not blink. After six hundred years on the fine and leveled face of this world, he is at last able to think of nothing at all.

And then, as he leaves the room, one final thought presents itself: that it is a good night to drown.

Under the heavy, foreboding clouds of Gotham, a tinny bass guitar rumbles and crashes out of a phone speaker in a shitty apartment, and the room’s sole occupant sings along  to the best of his ability as the introduction ends: “I don’t wanna feel better /”

This is, of course, Jason Todd, dressed in his boxer shorts and doing his best to make a smoothie out of whatever the hell he’s found in his freezer. Most of the food he’s pulling out is in plastic bags, and it’s all too covered in ice to really discern the shape of, so it’s a very slow process, and it’s not going well. He’s currently trying to tell if this latest item is cooked chicken or pieces of banana.

Shit. Oh, god, he really can’t tell, but he’s got a fifty-fifty shot, right?

“No one’s ever gonna love me like that again / I don’t wanna get over it / I wanna sit with you–”

“Hang on,” Jason mutters to himself, pausing the music so he can consider the contents of this bag more seriously. Whatever it is, it’s been cut into little discs, which implies that it’s a banana, but it could also be some of Alfred’s really fancy chicken that he stole a few weeks ago. Jason frowns.

He still empties the bag into the blender.

He’s examining what’s probably a bag of strawberries when his phone pings with Dick’s ringtone. He doesn’t check it at first, not until it pings again, and then with Tim’s ringtone, and then with Bruce’s, all in quick succession– the family group chat is raucous with recent activity when he finally abandons his smoothie to look.

DGrayson: I have news

DGrayson: Starting a video call I need everyone to be so extremely cool right now

RDrake: I’m cool I’m cool what’s up

BWayne: Ra’s al Ghul is dead.

What the fuck? Jason stares at the screen for a long time waiting for someone to tell him fucking anything else, but no one does. He opens Dick’s video call.

Tim is, predictably, already losing his shit, and has, predictably, angled his phone camera so that everyone can see up his nose. Jason steps in halfway through him freaking out. “–fucking way. There’s no way, this has to be a– a trick or something, there’s–”

He turns off his microphone and lets Tim finish his thought as he closes up the blender and presses the button to start it. “Like, have we gotten the autopsy report? Do we know anything except where he was found?”

Bruce and Dick seem to be coming in from different rooms of the house, with Bruce in front of his display in the cave, and Dick coming in from… his old room, maybe? He’s clearly using his laptop, because his microphone is shit. “Tim, can you cool it?”

“I’m cool! I’m so cool!” 

Jason’s smoothie is about as smoothie-d as it’s going to get, so he turns off the blender and activates his microphone. “What happened?” he cuts in, because he’s clearly the only one who’s capable of taking this seriously right now, nevermind that he’s in his boxers. He puts his phone down on the counter and angles it so everyone can only see his top half, anyway. “S’this a power play? Is there someone new we need to be worried about?”

Bruce’s face might be carved in stone, but he’s wearing a very strange expression, and he doesn’t answer for a minute. In his absence, Dick takes point. “It looks,” he says carefully, “like it was a suicide.”

That shuts Tim up, but Jason only squints. Hm. “You guys aren’t convinced, though.”

Bruce’s expression gets weirder. He still doesn’t say anything, though, so Dick continues, his voice still oddly careful. “His security detail found him floating dead in a Pit yesterday morning.”

Oh, yeah. That’s why they’re being weird– mystery solved. Jason starts looking for a clean cup to pour his smoothie into. “Isn’t that kind of like blowing your brains out with a hairdryer?”

Over the camera, Bruce’s neutral expression splits into confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Because you’d, like, put it to your head, but it’s a hairdryer, so you’d…” He stops just shy of demonstrating. “It doesn’t work, is what I’m saying.”

Everyone is staring. “What?”

“Jason,” Bruce says levelly, “can you please put some clothes on?”

Jason grumbles, but that’s a pretty fair request, all things considered, so he turns off his camera and goes to find some pants. He can hear Tim through the phone, still trying to puzzle everything out. “Do you think maybe someone, like, hurt him and he tried to get the Pit to bring him back?”

“The official autopsy found water in his lungs,” Bruce tells him as Jason opens the door to his bedroom. Paper rustles over the phone. “Quite a bit of water, actually, but I’ve checked the report. All the evidence points to death by drowning.”

“Which shouldn’t be possible,” Dick clarifies. “Right?”

“It shouldn’t be possible,” Bruce echoes pensively. “It shouldn’t be possible at all.”

Jason picks up a pair of worn jeans from the floor and starts to put them on. There’s a spattering of blood around the hem of the left leg, but that’ll probably come out with some bleach. It’s fine. He’s able to take advantage of a quick lull in the conversation. “Why do we think it was a suicide, anyway?”

“Because he left notes.”

Shit, that’s pretty convincing. Jason makes his way back to the kitchen. “Which I assume we know because we got one?”

“Yes, I got one.” Paper rustles again, and Jason checks his screen just in time to see Bruce hold up a wax-sealed envelope. “So did you.”

Jason turns his camera back on so they can have this conversation face to face– or, at least, as face-to-face as the phone will allow. “We weren’t penpals or anything,” he preempts, but Bruce’s face only grows stonier. Jason rolls his eyes, but he thinks back, considering. “If you’ll recall, Bruce, we’re not exactly on speaking– wow, I haven’t talked to him in years.”

Ra’s is– was, apparently– a weird guy. Impeccably put together (and maybe responsible for Jason’s post-resurrection bisexual identity crisis), but also six hundred years old and obsessed with wiping out most of the planet, so, yeah, pretty weird. Their relationship, or whatever it was, could probably best be defined as ‘cordial,’ like a father towards his daughter’s boyfriend, except the daughter in question was an ancient, toxic fountain of youth. Pretty standard stuff.

Scratch that, actually. That makes it sound like Jason was sleeping with the Lazarus Pit. Gross. Reiterated: for several reasons, gross.

Jason opens the cabinet, wrinkling his nose a little at the thought, and pours his smoothie into a cup that’s mostly clean, just a little dusty. It’s weird thinking that Ra’s is gone, especially in light of the circumstances. “Isn’t he pretty notoriously hard to kill?”

Dick pipes up before Bruce can speak. “There’s still a lot we don’t know–”

“There is,” Bruce agrees, “which is why I’d appreciate it if everyone could make their way over so we can discuss this.”

Tim immediately raises a hand. “Can I be excused if I’m on patrol?”

“Tim–”

Jason sips his smoothie. Fuck yeah. No chicken. “Yeah, I’m actually hosting my book club today, so…”

Dick hides a grin, and Bruce doesn’t roll his eyes, but he very clearly wants to. Double nice. “If you won’t be here, I reserve the right to open your mail.”

Checkmate. Damnit. He scowls, and hangs up before anyone can stop him. “What are we, Communists?” he says aloud to himself as he opens his messages.

Dick is already typing.

DGrayson: JFC drama queen are you coming over or not

JTodd: yeah obviously

DGrayson: oh cool nice

DGrayson: so are you ok?

JTodd: yeah why wouldnt I be

A pause. Jason finishes his smoothie. Look at him go, getting his daily servings of fruits. He’s crushing this.

DGrayson: do you want that alphabetically or chronologically?

JTodd: very funny

JTodd: yeah im so ok im the oldest guy i know

JTodd: *okest

DGrayson: you’re just historically weird abt hole stuff

JTodd: .

JTodd: Dicky do u want to rephrase that rq before I screenshot it

DGrayson: don’t you dare

Jason takes a screenshot.

DGrayson: youre the one who fucking named it the bad decision hole

DGrayson: do not pin that shit on me

JTodd: too late

He immediately sends it to the family group chat.

DGrayson: how could you do this to me

JTodd: easily lmao

JTodd: yeah fr I’m fine tho

JTodd: fuckin weird as hell that he drowned I didnt know you could do that

DGrayson: weird as hell indeed

DGrayson: do you want to see the autopsy report when you come over?

JTodd: are there photos

DGrayson: yeah

JTodd: are they gross

DGrayson: yeah he’s all pruney and junk

JTodd: fuckin bet

JTodd: yeah I’ll be there in like 20

Jason tosses the empty cup into the sink, grabs his earbuds off the counter, and makes his way out to his motorcycle. He’s so fine. The Lazarus Pit is like an old ex, one that he didn’t even sleep with– which is to say he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t. It’s fucking nothing to him. He puts his earbuds in and presses play on his music, and lets the distorted bass guitar snarl like a junkyard dog as Penelope Scott’s singing-speaking voice drowns out anything he’s definitely still not thinking about. For the first time in days, his mind is stillwater placid as he mouths along. “I don’t wanna feel better / I’d do anything to miss you again / I don’t wanna get over it /”

He does not think about Ra’s al Ghul, or, indeed, about his Lazarus Pit as he turns the engine and starts at a breakneck speed towards Wayne manor. There’s just the silence of the wind and the rabid bass guitar. “I wanna get under it instead /”

Jason Todd thinks of nothing at all until one final thought presents itself: that Dick is absolutely going to kill him for not wearing his helmet.

[meguwumibear]

i am so livid my new job made me set up an account on this government website to prove i am who i say i am and that im qualified to work in my field without warning me the information wouldnt be kept private so my whole address and number is now completely visible when my name is googled 🙃🙃

[t4tails]

ok this game has so many glitches or just fuck ups in general compared to its predecessors its a little funny. the worst i got in city was getting stuck in a wall once but here theres just inexplicably jack ryder tied to a table by an evil preacher despite the fact that i have already completed that mission and saved him

[jrueships]

I HATEEEEE DYSPEXIA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[nexus-nebulae]

another childhood bucket list item obtained: i finally have a snuggie

[six-improbable-things]

Raynes songs always go hard, but the lyrics for Tie Me To The Tracks are something else:

"You showed me what you are but I couldn't believe you. Assumed you were a star, and never really wondered why your eyes were burning red."

"I see the carrion crows, I hear the whistle blow, I know it's coming soon. I'll close my eyes, imagine what the big surprise could be and say goodbye. Wish I didn't have to die, but I'm not gonna see you again."

"You can tie me to the tracks if you wanna. You can stab me in the back, and I'll take a moment to relax cause at least I'm not gonna see you again."

[new-haven-psych-ward]

Kamen Rider Geats episode 35 poorly summarized via memes with as little context as possible:

[mortalityplays]

talking about impenetrable accents/dialect just reminded me. when I was in Milan a couple of years back I was staying in this little rathole hotel and I had the biggest fucking migraine, so I was like non c'è problema I'll just go buy painkillers. of course every pharmacy on the map in a three block radius was closed, so my stupid ass just starts wandering around trying to figure out on the fly if you can get OTC from supermarkets in italy.

I walk into this little everything store (to my foreign eyes the kind of place that back home could sell you a bunch of carrots, a 6-pack of beer, pantyhose, bleach and a screwdriver set) and I see some household basics in the back but not what I need. with the confidence of a person who is only in the city for 3 days because he got bored and packed a bag and booked the cheapest flight available the week before (<= MENTAL ILLNESS), I was like no worries I know some italian, I can just ask.

I grab a bottle of water, walk up to the counter, and I'm like Ciao, hai il paracetamolo? And the guy is like che, and I'm like paracetamolo. Per la mia testa. And he's like che?

This is where I would have said 'aspirina' except I can't take aspirin for medical reasons, or 'antidolorifico' except I don't know that word and I've got no phone data for google translate and also I'm stupid. So in my fucked up leith-glasgow-italian accent I'm like paaa-ra-cetta-mollll-ooo. He's like ohhh bene, bene, and he calls another guy out of the back and asks him to go get something. Other guy then walks out of the store into the street, and before I can be like hey, che la fuck, he comes back and hands me a huge bundle of herbs.

At this point I'm like okay this entire interaction has been a bust, but these guys have been very nice and patient and they're both smiling happily at me because they've been of service, so I'm like ahh perfetto, grazie, pay them a couple of euros and leave.

EVENTUALLY I find a pharmacy that's open, and my head is fucking killing me, and my phone still isn't connecting, and now I have this small shrubbery poking out of my coat pocket, so I don't even bother looking around the shelves. I just walk straight to the counter and I'm like uhh ciao, scusi. And hearing my nightmare of an accent the guy answers in english and I'm like thank christ, do you please have paracetamol. Not aspirin, I can't take aspirin. And he's like yeah yeah hold on, goes into the back, comes out with what I need.

Only when he comes out he gives me this look, and then he starts laughing. And then he pretends he's not laughing and rings me up and I pay, and as I'm leaving I can see him losing it. But I don't care, my head is going to explode, I'm going back to the rathole to close the blinds and fall comatose for four hours.

When I get back to my hotel room I take off my coat and remember the huge bouquet of herbs in my pocket. They smell amazing, and I'm like I'm pretty sure this is parsley in which case I can just get some tomatoes and mozzarella later and make it work. but since I have no idea what that interaction was, I want to make sure. I bring out my phone to get a visual reference of what parsley leaves look like, and because I was using it for google translate earlier I put 'parsley' in the wrong box like a dope and translate it to italian.

prezzemolo

I wish I could have been the pharmacist in the moment he looked at my tired pissed off anglophone ass, heard me say 'paracetamol' in my fucked up accent, and turned around saw what was in my pocket. I'd have lost my shit too.

[radellama]

Picky but.. when watching a docco/docco style video, while it can be interesting to hear about how you ended up in contact with certain relevant people, or how there were plans to contact people that fell through, or that you couldn't get in contact with them... I hate when the filmmaker harps on and on about their 'investigative' process and try to dramatise it.

Sorry but. I don't really want a 15-20+ min detour of you lamenting over trying to get in contact with certain people when all that's happened is you sent an email and didn't get a reply.

[raeathnos]

.

[braintamer]

Subtle ways to serve the patriarchy in your daily life:

1. Be respectful

When talking to strange men, always refer to them as "sir" or as a "gentleman." This may seem outdated, but some people still talk like that. It shows your respect and harkens back to a time when men were in charge and women knew their place.

2. Be polite

Always say please and thank you, even if it doesn't seem necessary. For example, instead of saying, "Hey, do you know where the restroom is?" say, "Excuse me, sir, could you please show me where the restroom is?"

3. Be dependent

If you go out with a man, let him hold your phone. He'll decide what you need to see and who you need to communicate with. If he goes through your texts and photos, that's his right.

4. Be a doll

If you go out with a man, let him choose your outfit, how you do your makeup, and your hair. Don't leave until he is completely satisfied with your appearance.

5. Dress to impress

If you go out without a man, choose makeup and an outfit based entirely on what you think men find attractive. (Unfortunately, you will have to use your brain just a little bit for this one 😥) It doesn't matter if you like it, or if it's comfortable, men's taste is your taste.

6. Be helpless

If you think you might need help with something, ask a man. Even if you think you could probably do it on your own, remember that you can't. If you're lost, don't try to use Google maps. Ask a man for help. If there's something wrong with your car, don't even try to figure out what it is, take it to a mechanic, and say, "It makes a weird noise when I do this" and let him handle everything for you (ideally you wouldn't be driving at all)

7. Be approachable

If ANY man flirts with you or compliments you, be receptive. If a dirty homeless man says you have nice tit's, smile at him and say, "Thank you, sir." If a group of men are hollering at you, stick around, give them a spin so they can see and judge every part of your body, invite them to come over and grope you.

8. Be submisive

Never talk back to a man. If a man is rude to you, be grateful for the attention and ask him what you can do to make it right.

9. Be dumb

Don't use big words, in text or in speech. If you have an idea that you don't know how to express, it's probably too complicated for you. Only read when you have to. Never try to understand current events, occupy your mind with porn. If you really need more intellectual stimulation, you can watch something like celebrity gossip news.

10. Spead the word

Subtly try to teach other women their place, compliment them on their appearance, and nothing else. Discourage them from valuing things like their education and career. Encorage them to dress more slutty, if possible get them drunk and makeout with them for men to watch.

[sonicboomseason3]

a brief recap of what has been going on with the sonic movieverse in the past several months:

paramount has come out in public support of israel

keanu reeves, a man who has publicly rubbed elbows with none other than benjamin netanyahu, reportedly gets cast as shadow for the upcoming third movie

james marsden, the guy who plays tom, got exposed as having written a letter of support for a convicted pedophile

there's fucking??? zionist propaganda in the knuckles series???

kind of connected to the last point but adam pally, the guy who plays wade, is evidently pro-israel too

this is a complete and utter joke.

EDIT AS OF 4/30/24: if people see this version of the post, i'd really appreciate it if you reblog it instead of the other versions, as it's the most updated one with all the information that i want included. thank you :]

you know, it's been a few days since i've made this post, and some of you (not most) are staying determined in defending/justifying/giving the benefit of the doubt to keanu for that photo with netanyahu, whether it's because "it was a decade ago," "him being civil to someone he ran into at a party one time doesn't mean anything," "he's probably just silent because his pr managers won't allow him to speak up," etc. i've made my thoughts on the matter quite clear by directly responding to these people, but at this point, i'm tired of both seeing them in my notes and repeating myself, so take this as my final word on the issue.

i can't help it if you don't think the photo with netanyahu is damning, and i'm done engaging with everyone going out of their way to tell me that. i obviously disagree, especially after finding out that 1. the host of the party, arnon milchan, is a former israeli spy who has a history of developing israel's nuclear program and promoting apartheid in south africa (information that had broken out a few months prior to the party and thus would've been fresh news around the time keanu chose to attend) and 2. keanu has been caught hanging around at least two other weirdos, but if you don't find any of that to be cause for reasonable concern, then there really is nothing else i can say afaik.

with all that said, i'm beginning to realize how strange it is that these people's first instinct when seeing this post is to start debating about keanu's political stances without ever acknowledging any of the other bullet points. you guys realize that this isn't just about him, right? i know tumblr reading comprehension is known for being piss-poor, but like… you realize that i was trying to make a point of how there are MULTIPLE terrible things that have broken out about the people and company involved in the sonic movies, right? and yet, a lot of the people leaping to speak on keanu's behalf in my notes are completely ignoring the parts where i bring up paramount, pally, etc. all in favor of zeroing in on the singular point about keanu and making bad faith assumptions about me for holding him accountable. really makes one wonder where your priorities lie if, in a post that talks about so many other things, me accusing an a-list celebrity with, according to google, a net worth of almost $400 million is where you draw the line and apparently the only thing worth your acknowledgment.

ultimately, what i'm trying to say is that the intention of this post was just to gather up everything that i had been hearing for the past several months and put it all together in one place. there were a bunch of people who didn't know about at least one of the bullet points before seeing this post, and i'm glad that i could help inform them, that was what i was hoping to do! but as for the keanu thing, i've said pretty much all i can say for now, and i don't want to derail the original post even more than i may have already. unless something new comes up, i'm done talking about him.

[honey-tongued-devil]

↞Arcane Masterlist↠

Since Arcane season two is about to come out, it seems right to do some spring cleaning and make a list of all the headcanons written so far! The list will be updated as I post more. If you'd like a personalized letter from any character, here is the Google Sheet for commissions!

▶ Ongoing Arcane ff

↠ "Everytime it rains" (alternative timeline)

▶ The last drop tour

↠ Part 1 (the bar)

↠ Part 2 (Silco's office)

↠ Part 3 (Alternative timeline)

▶ The ones with just one or two characters: 

↠ “Stroking the other’s back comfortingly” [Cassandra]

↠ “If we ever stop talking send me a song” [Vander]

↠“Sinners” [Marcus]

↠“This is where the magic happens” [Viktor]

↠“I can't explain and I won't even try” [Jayce]

↠“Lips tasting like rum” [Jayce]

↠“We wanted to be the sky” [Ekko]

↠“Ekko & Vi with a transmasc S/O” [Ekko & Vi]

↠“Vi with a chubby S/O” [Vi]

↠“This is the sign you’ve been looking for” [Silco]

↠“Look at me. Breathe, there you go.” [Silco]

↠"Love is a cycle" [Powder s02E07]

↠"The corner shop [Marcus]"

▶ The ones with everyone or almost all of them:

↠[arcane preference] founding out you were injured in crossfire

↠ drinking with [arcane preferences]

↠ Arcane men and their kinks

↠ [Arcane preference] reacting to their s/o gifting them sweets

↠ [Arcane preferences] and their s/o reacting to the cold

↠ [Arcane preference] finding you asleep at their workplace

↠ [Arcane preference] with s/o wet due to rain

↠ [Arcane preference] Love language

↠ dancing with [Arcane preferences]

↠[Arcane preference] reacting to you wearing their clothes

↠[Arcane preference] reacting to a s/o with a mental health issues (eating)

↠[Arcane preference (girlies)] with a chubby s/o

↠[Arcane preference zaunites] with a s/o from Piltover

↠[Arcane preference] with a chubby s/o pt.2- cuddle time

↠[Arcane preference] with a s/o with a mental issues pt.2 (the big sad)

↠[Arcane preference] reacting to someone flirting with their s/o + jealousness

↠[Arcane preference]reacting to their s/o calling them husband/wife for the first time

↠[Arcane preference] reacting to a s/o falling asleep on their lap

↠[Arcane preference]reacting to their s/o wearing parfum

↠[Arcane preference]reacting to their s/o wearing mobility aids

↠[Arcane Preference] And Their Favorite Hot Drink

↠[Arcane preference] reacting to a jealous s/o

| Tip jar |

[katsukikitten]

Retired pro hero Bakugou buying a really old abandoned home in Japan and restoring it while living in it.

It's all he's got, a lot of his friends have wives, families, kids, some of them even expecting a first grandkid and Bakugou in his 40s has nothing of his life to show for aside from the undisputed number one spot on the hero charts for 20 years straight and more scars than he can count.

He feels he relates to the house, old, once adored but now empty.

He wants to change that, wants to be more than an idea or idol, wants to disassociate from Dynamight and just be Bakugou Katsuki but he isn't sure he knows who that is. Dynamight is still parts of him yes but exaggerated, in all his years Katsuki knows he can soften he just doesn't know where.

Although he's ready to find out. Sadly or maybe fortunately, he's the type of man who has to find out through action and hard work. He bought the house site unseen, didn't even Google what the front of the home looked like he didn't care.

Standing in front of his mostly dilapidated home he feels good, crossing his arms over his chest as he lets his mind wander on where to start. Eyes sharp, cutting into the features of the home as he assesses just like he would any villain situation.

"Excuse me Dyna-" You clear your throat before he looks at you, as you remember his retiring announcement of him saying Dynamight can go fuck himself. I'm Bakugou Katsuki now.

"Excuse me Bakugou. I brought you a little welcome gift. I'm your neighbor." You don't flinch when his heavy gaze flicks to you, don't shy away from his snarl and if anything your smile grows as you offer up the bento and plate of cookies.

He doesn't take them and you don't take offense, just gently pull them back to yourself as you look at the home

"I'm so happy you bought the Sato house. They were good neighbors. They lived here when I was younger by both passed suddenly. Old age does that ya know? They didn't have any children but Mrs. Sato taught me her special rice for bentos."

You're rambling but you don't care, you'd just bought your childhood home from your parents a month prior. Fearful your home would suffer the same fate as the Satos. That the love and memories would be washed away by the rain and neglect. That the air around the home would worsen each year it went unaccompanied until it became so stagnant with neglect it became a miasma that not even the toughest soul could stomach.

Yet here stood Bakugou strong and tall outside a broken home.

"I don't think it's anything special by the way. Just a bit more soy sauce or sesame seed oil, I think she was what made it special."

Katsuki looks down at you for a long time, sees your fingers twitch against the fabric of the neatly wrapped bento, watches you swallow thickly and lashes flutter to combat the burn in your eyes as you stare at the home. You turn to face him, give a polite smile and nod of your head in a brief good bye before his voice stops you.

"I'll be the judge of that." You furrow your brows in confusion, looking up at him before his big warm palm comes under the bento to lift from your hands, "If the rice is special or not."

He watches your face light up, a true genuine smile that could compete with the sun and he feels something deep in his chest ache. Feels it yearn to reach out to you but he stands firm in his spot as he watches you disappear down the short overgrown walk way back to your home.

He doesn't even need to try the fucking rice to know the answer.

The rice was going to be special because you made it, Katsuki's sure of it.

[harrysfolklore]

the carlos sainz roast

summary: it's carlos' 30th birthday and what a better way to celebrate it than roasting him. wc: 2.8k

folkie radio: happy birthday to the smooooth operatorrrrr. i hontesly LOVED this idea that randomly popped in my head and writing it was sooo much fun, i hope you like it !

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Carlos Sainz was turning 30. The big 30.

You wanted to do something special to celebrate it, something out of the ordinary that he would never forget. After spending multiple hours on the internet looking for ideas, a brilliant one came to your mind: A roast.

"So all of you will take turns roasting me? Like making jokes about me?" Carlos asked, looking at you from the couch as you pitched him your idea.

"Exactly, baby, It's going to be so much fun!"

The next few weeks flew by in a whirlwind of preparations. You sent out invitations, coordinated with the other drivers, and gathered embarrassing photos and funny stories about Carlos.

The night of the roast, you transformed your living room into a makeshift comedy club, complete with a small stage and a spotlight. Each driver that arrived at your house complimenting your effort.

As everyone settled into their seats, you stood up and tapped your glass with a spoon to get their attention.

"Welcome, everyone, to the Carlos Sainz Roast!" you announced, catching Carlos's eye and winking at him. "We're all here to celebrate the man, the myth, the legend... the one who always leaves the toothpaste open - Carlos Sainz Jr. on his 30th birthday. And what better way to show our love than by mercilessly making fun of him?"

Laughter rippled through your friends as Carlos playfully rolled his eyes, "Thank you, amor, that's very nice of you."

You playfully blew a kiss his way before speaking again, "Now, before we start, let's remember the rules: keep it funny, keep it respectful, and try to speak slowly so Max can understand." You shot a teasing glance at Verstappen, who grinned and shook his head.

"First up, we have Charles Leclerc, Carlos's teammate and the only person who can make Carlos look slow on a good day. Charles, the floor is yours!"

Charles stood up, straightening his jacket as he approached the makeshift stage. He cleared his throat dramatically, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Thank you for that introduction," Charles began, "You know, when I first heard Carlos was joining Ferrari, I was excited. Finally, someone to make me look good! But then I realized, with his luscious hair and chiseled jaw, he was going to steal all my sponsorship deals. So I had to step up my game."

The room erupted in laughter, Carlos included.

"But seriously," Charles continued, "working with Carlos has been an experience. He's like a Spanish version of Google Maps – always recalculating, never quite sure where he's going, but somehow ends up in the right place eventually. That's why I had no doubt in my mind he was going to find an amazing car to drive next season, my bet was on the Safety Car but he opted for an even slower car, a Williams!"

Everyone erupted in laugh again, making Carlos shake his head with his eyes closed, "That one was low, Leclerc."

Charles took a moment to catch his breath, then added with a grin, “And Carlos, now that you’re 30, you’re officially a veteran in the sport. But don’t worry, no matter how many years go by, you’ll always be the guy who can make a Ferrari look like it's in a constant state of panic. Cheers to you, mate!”

You grinned at Charles as he stepped down, patting Carlos on the shoulder. "Alright, that was pretty good, Charles," you said, "But let's see if Lando can top that. Norris, you're up!"

Lando bounded up to the makeshift stage, his trademark cheeky grin plastered across his face. He adjusted the microphone, clearing his throat dramatically.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the birthday boy, Carlos 'Smooth Operator' Sainz," Lando began, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You know, when I first met Carlos at McLaren, I thought, 'Wow, this guy's got it all – talent, looks, charm.' Then I realized it was just his hair products messing with my senses."

The crowd burst into laughter, Carlos included, you ran a hand through his famous locks and he gently grabbed it to place a kiss on your palm.

"If I'm being completely honest," Lando continued, "Carlos taught me so much during our time as teammates. Like how to perfectly time a dad joke in team radio, or how to look devastatingly handsome while finishing P7. Essential skills in F1, really."

The room erupted in laughter once again, with Carlos shaking his head in amused disbelief.

"Carlos, you're one of my best friends," Lando's tone softened slightly, "Even if you did spend most of our time together trying to teach me Spanish pickup lines that work about as well as Ferrari's strategy team."

"But I have a girlfriend and you don't, mate. Even with my bad pickup lines." Carlos jabbed, making you throw your head back in laughter.

As the laughter died down, Lando raised his glass. "To Carlos, the man who proves that you can be devastatingly handsome, irritatingly talented, and still somehow likeable. Happy 30th, mate. May your midlife crisis be as smooth as your overtakes."

Lando stepped down from the stage, approaching Carlos who stood up from his seat to give him a hug.

"Love you, mate," you could hear Carlos say, making you smile.

"Next up, we have Fernando Alonso, Carlos's longtime mentor and fellow Spaniard!" you announced, making everybody clap as Fernando took the stage.

"Ah, Carlos. I've known him since he was just a little karting prodigy. Back then, I thought, 'This kid's going places.' Now, 20 years later, I realize I was right – he's gone to every midfield team on the grid!"

The crowd roared with laughter as Fernando continued, "But seriously, I always thought Carlos had potential, and I was right, he's got the potential to be the second-best Sainz in Motorsports!"

Carlos playfully rolled his eyes, taking a sip from his drink.

"But let me tell you something, Carlos," Fernando's tone softened slightly, "You've made all of Spain proud. You've shown that with hard work, talent, and a famous last name, anything is possible in F1. Well, almost anything, winning a championship might still be a stretch!"

As the laughter died down, Fernando raised his glass. "To Carlos Sainz Jr., the man who proves that you can be a great driver, a fan favorite, and still be overshadowed by your dad at family dinners. Feliz cumpleaños, amigo!"

Fernando stepped down from the stage, approaching Carlos who stood up to give him a warm, laughing embrace. As they parted, you stood up to introduce the next roaster.

"Now, let's hear from someone who's known Carlos since their early days in Formula 1. Please welcome to the stage, the reigning world champion and certified cat lover, Max Verstappen!"

Max sauntered up to the stage, he adjusted the mic and grinned at Carlos.

"If it isn't the new old man of the grid," Max began, earning chuckles from the crowd. "You know, Carlos and I go way back to our Toro Rosso days. I remember when we first met, I thought, 'Wow, this guy's got great hair.' Then I realized that's all he's got!" everyone laughed once again, "Back at Toro Rosso, Carlos was always so dedicated. He'd spend hours studying my telemetry, trying to figure out how to be as fast as me. Spoiler alert: he's still trying!"

The crowd roared with laughter, Carlos included, as he playfully threw a napkin at Max.

"But in all seriousness, Carlos," Max continued with a grin, "you've always been one of the most hardworking and determined drivers on the grid. You never give up, no matter how many times you've been dropped by your teams mid season."

Carlos laughed, raising his glass to Max in a mock toast. "Thanks for the reminder, Max."

"Carlos, you're one of the best guys in the paddock. With your resting bitch face and all, you're always there with a helping hand. Even if your driving skills are debatable," he added with a wink. "Happy 30th, mate."

Max stepped down, and Carlos stood up to give him a hug, both of them laughing. You took the mic once more, "Thank you, Max, for that trip down memory lane. Now, let's welcome to the stage a man who's known for his infectious smile and his matchmaking skills. Please give it up for Daniel Ricciardo!"

Daniel bounded onto the stage with his characteristic enthusiasm, flashing his famous grin.

"G'day, everyone! Carlos, mate, happy birthday!" Daniel began, "You know, I've known Carlos for years, but my proudest achievement was introducing him to his lovely girlfriend, YN," you smiled at this, feeling Carlos squeeze your hand, "I thought to myself, 'This bloke needs someone who can put up with his golf obsession and his constant need for mirror checks.' And boy, did I deliver!"

The crowd erupted in laughter, with you and Carlos exchanging amused glances.

"I remember the day I introduced them," Daniel continued, "I told YN, 'Look, he's a great guy, but be prepared for endless conversations about tyre management and the perfect hair product.' Little did I know, she'd be nodding along enthusiastically!"

You playfully rolled your eyes as the audience chuckled.

"But seriously, folks," Daniel's tone softened slightly, "watching these two together is like watching a perfect pit stop - smooth, efficient, and occasionally involves someone getting sprayed with champagne."

Carlos pulled you closer, placing a kiss on your cheek as everyone 'aww'ed.

"Carlos, mate," Daniel concluded, raising his glass, "you've found yourself a keeper. Someone who can navigate your mood swings faster than you navigate Eau Rouge. YN, love, you've got yourself a man who's smoother than a freshly paved track... at least when he's not tripping over his own feet trying to impress you."

Daniel stepped down from the stage, approaching you and Carlos. You both stood up, enveloping him in a group hug, all three of you laughing and thanking him for his words.

"Alright, that was brilliant, Daniel. Now, let’s hear from let's hear from someone who's about to get very familiar with Carlos's driving quirks. Please welcome to the stage, Carlos's new future teammate, Alex Albon!"

Alex strode up to the stage with a playful grin, adjusting the microphone as he faced the audience.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my new teammate, Carlos Sainz," Alex began, "You know, when I heard Carlos was joining Williams, I thought, 'Great, someone to help push the team forward!' Then I remembered his time at Ferrari and realized he's just as confused about strategy as the rest of us."

The room erupted in laughter, with Carlos good-naturedly shaking his head.

"But seriously, Carlos," Alex continued, "I'm excited to work with you. I mean, who wouldn't want a teammate who's been through more teams than I've had podiums? Toro Rosso, Renault, McLaren, Ferrari... Williams is just the latest stop on the Carlos Sainz World Tour, isn't it?"

Carlos raised his glass in mock salute, chuckling along with the audience.

"I have to say, though, I'm a bit worried," Alex said, feigning concern. "I've seen how competitive you are, Carlos. I just hope you remember that at Williams, we're usually racing against the clock, not other cars. But hey, at least you'll always beat the safety car... probably."

"You know, Carlos, I just realized we have something else in common besides our great hair and questionable career choices. We're both proud members of the 'No Appendix Club'!"

The room burst into laughter, with Carlos nodding in amused agreement.

"That's right, folks," Alex continued, "Carlos and I have both had our appendixes removed. I like to think it makes us more aerodynamic, but let's be honest, in Carlos's case, it's probably just made room for more hair product."

Carlos playfully patted his hair, eliciting more chuckles from the audience.

"But seriously," Alex said, "I suppose this means we're perfectly matched as teammates. We're both down an organ, so when Williams inevitably asks us to give 100%, we can honestly say we're already giving everything we've got - minus an appendix, of course! Happy birthday, teammate, here's to a season of driving a tractor, but at least we'll be together."

Alex stepped down from the stage and approached Carlos, who stood up to give him a hug patting his back.

"Now, let's welcome to the stage a man who needs no introduction, but I'll give him one anyway. Seven-time world champion and fashion icon, Lewis Hamilton!" you said and everyone clapped.

Lewis sauntered up to the stage with his characteristic cool demeanor. "Carlos, my man," he began, "I've got to hand it to you. You've had quite the career. Toro Rosso, Renault, McLaren, Ferrari, next year Williams, it's like you're collecting team merchandise,"Lewis grinned mischievously as he continued, "You know, Carlos, I've got to thank you. You've done such a great job warming up that Ferrari seat for me. It's like you were my personal seat heater all along!"

The crowd roared with laughter as Carlos playfully buried his face in his hands, and you rubbed his back comfortingly while chuckling.

"But seriously," Lewis continued with a grin, "You've made that Ferrari seat look good. I just hope I can live up to your legacy of looking devastatingly handsome while trying to figure out what on earth the pit wall is thinking."

Carlos laughed, shaking his head in mock despair. "Thanks, Lewis. I appreciate the… kind words."

"You know, Carlos, I've always admired your ability to stay positive," Lewis continued his roast, "No matter how many times you've been dropped from teams, you always manage to smile for the cameras. It's like you've mastered the art of looking happy while screaming internally. I'm taking notes mate!"

After a few more jabs Lewis concluded his roast, several other drivers took their turns at the mic, each adding their own flavor to the celebration. George joked about Carlos's infamous beach photos, Pierre told some stories about their Toro Rosso days and even Oscar joked about being surprised about being invited since him and Carlos always push each other off the track.

Finally, it was your turn. You stood up, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness as you approached the stage. Carlos looked at you with a huge smile.

"Well, well, well," you began, locking eyes with Carlos, "what can I say about Carlos Sainz that hasn't already been said? He's talented, he's handsome, and he's the only man I know who spends more time on his hair than I do."

The room filled with laughter as Carlos nodded in mock pride.

"But seriously, living with Carlos is an adventure," you continued, "He's always talking about smooth operations, but let me tell you, there's nothing smooth about the way he leaves his socks all over the house. It's like living in a minefield of sweaty foot prisons."

Carlos threw his head back in laughter along with the rest of the guests.

"And don't even get me started on his competitiveness. Everything's a race with this guy. Brushing teeth? Race. Getting dressed? Race. I'm surprised he hasn't tried to overtake me in bed yet!"

The room erupted in cheers and wolf whistles as Carlos turned a shade of red.

"But in all seriousness," your voice softened, "Carlos, you're the most incredible person I know. You're kind, passionate, and you never give up, whether it's on the track or trying to convince me that paella is a breakfast food."

You raised your glass, "To Carlos, the love of my life and the smoothest operator I know. Happy 30th birthday, mi amor. May your future be as bright as your smile and your pit stops be faster than your hair routine."

As you finished, Carlos stood up, his eyes shining with laughter and love. He pulled you into a tight embrace as the room filled with applause and cheers.

"I love you so much," he whispered into your ear, kissing your temple softly.

"Well, folks, I think we've successfully roasted Carlos to a crisp," you said with a grin. "But before we wrap up, I think it's only fair that the birthday boy gets a chance to respond. Carlos, amor, the floor is yours!"

"Wow," he began, his accent thicker than usual, "I'm not sure whether to feel honored or insulted. But I guess that's the point of a roast, right?" He paused as chuckles rippled through the room. "First off, I want to thank all of you for being here. It means a lot that you'd all take time out of your busy schedules to come and insult me."

Carlos thanked each of his friends with a blend of humor and sincerity, making everyone laugh. He playfully teased Charles about making him look good on track, jested with Lando about the success of his Spanish pickup lines with you, and expressed gratitude to Fernando for his mentorship while vowing to become the best Sainz in motorsports.

"And finally, to my beautiful girlfriend," Carlos's voice softened as he looked at you, "Thank you for organizing this amazing night, and for putting up with me every day. You're the real smooth operator here."

The room erupted in cheers and applause as Carlos stepped down from the stage. You met him halfway, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug once again.

"Happy birthday, amor," you whispered in his ear, pulling away to kiss him softly.