#something homemade and cobbled together but good.

[bookishjules]

i feel like the 'i could make/do that' mindset is so invaluable to have. i don't mean in the sense of like going to a modern art museum and insisting that you, a non-artist, could have made the art just as easily. no, that is condescending assholery. the mindset i'm talking about is one more of confidence, of optimism and.. i guess the willingness to put yourself out there, to ask the right questions, to try something new. and to fail, or rather for your vision not to come to fruition. maybe you don't have the tools yet, maybe you haven't acquired all the skills. but at least you could try. and you have confidence in the level of ability you do have to start. oftentimes actually sitting down and doing something is the best way to learn, and the only thing that could stop you from starting is telling yourself 'i could never make/do that'

[torscrawls]

A Ghost by Any Other Name ch.3

You can read the whole story on AO3!

If you prefer tumblr: Chapter 1 can be found here. Chapter 2 can be found here.

---

Danny was big. Like seriously big, with a tall frame and wide shoulders, but Tim didn’t think he had been for very long. He still moved his body as if he wasn’t quite used to the size of it yet. Maybe Tim should have been intimidated, but he was too used to big enemies and siblings to really take notice. 

No, what he had taken notice of was the prosthesis making up the other's left arm. A prosthesis that Tim would bet his whole hidden stash of coffee in the Batcave was homemade, a fact that had spurred him to start talking with the guy when he had spotted him sitting alone at lunch.

A prosthesis that currently lay on the table between Tim and Danny where they sat in an otherwise empty room usually used for construction and prototype testing.

Tim hovered with his hands over the arm as he looked up at Danny and asked for the third time, “Are you sure?”

Danny nodded, straightening the liner covering his now exposed upper arm. “Yeah, man. I’ve been doing this solo ever since— well, since I got it. If you could help me work out some kinks that would be great!”

Tim let his hands fall to the prosthesis, tilting it this way and that to get a better look at it as he took in the patchwork of metal. He didn't have any trouble believing that no one else had worked on it as it was clearly cobbled together from whatever Danny had been able to find. The soldering was stable, but looked patchy from where it had been stretched thin to cover what it needed to.

It was an impressive piece of machinery to have been made by one person, even more so from what were clearly scrap-pieces, but if Tim was being honest the most impressive thing was that it moved at all.

Considering its weight, its many functions, and the length at which Danny could use it without charge, there was no known source that could possibly power it. 

Danny had given him some vague explanation of batteries, sustainable energy, self-sufficiency, and a whole lot of nonsensical buzzwords. Tim might not be an expert in prosthetics, but even he knew that it wasn't possible to have batteries big enough to sustain it for a whole day, and small enough to keep the arm as lightweight as it was.

“So,” Tim said as he placed the arm back on the table. “What do you need help with?”

Danny looked up from where he was fiddling with the fingers of the prosthesis. “I can’t get the thumb to move but I'm thinking of adding something to make the articulation of the fingers better, so if you have any ideas about that I would love to hear it.” He perked up, “Oh! I also need to make it lighter, I think, so that I can keep it on for the whole day. It’s starting to become too heavy for me.” Danny gave a strained laugh. “Not getting any younger, you know?”

Tim didn't buy the excuse of age, Danny wasn't old by any means and he certainly was big enough to be able to support the weight, but he had noted that Danny didn't use the arm every day. Which meant that there was another reason for it. 

“Is this related to your… Illness?” Tim asked carefully.

Danny didn’t answer. Which in itself was answer enough.

“Can I ask… What it is?”

He really didn’t want to pry, but maybe Danny didn’t seek out treatment because he lacked the money for it. If so, Tim found that he wanted to help. “If it’s a question of money, then I can—”

“It’s not,” Danny cut him off. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

“Alright.” Tim dropped the subject as he reached for a small, closed hatch at the underside of the arm. “What’s this part? The power source, right?”

He had just managed to get it open an inch, peeking inside to see something glowing green when Danny snapped the lid shut with a harsh, “Don't touch that.”

Tim held up his hand in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry.”

Danny kept his eyes narrowed and fixed on Tim a second longer, but then relaxed. “No, I'm sorry. I just—It feels personal, okay?”

“Hey, no worries. I get it,” Tim assured him, trying to curb his own curiosity by reminding himself to feel grateful that Danny had trusted him enough to let him work on the arm to begin with. “Thanks for letting me take a look at it.”

“I know it’s not much,” Danny said self-consciously.

It was, but Tim understood what he meant; understood the frustration of being restricted by material things. Tim would love to see what Danny could do with better materials, and there were some benefits to being the son of the richest guy in town. 

“I might have some materials lying around, if you're interested. And I might have an idea about that thumb.”

Danny's whole face lit up.

Tim realized that they were actually starting to become friends. Wish meant that there was only one thing he could do in this situation.

——

Tim scanned the results of the background check he had just completed on Danny.

He had come up clean. Almost too clean. But he also came from a small city in the middle of nowhere; maybe there hadn’t been that many opportunities to get into trouble in Amity Park.

Tim had found no signs that Danny was in any way out to get them, which was great since Tim really didn’t have the time and energy to fight some new villain pretending to be his work-friend and coffee-buddy. His heart wouldn’t be able to take it.

He did trust in Wayne Enterprise’s HR-department (and security department’s) ability to screen new employees but since he had started to run into Danny more often he wanted to investigate himself. But to his surprise, those accidental meetings seemed to just be actually accidental. So even if Tim had been burned one too many times, Danny was starting to look like an actually nice guy. No matter his big size, slightly uncanny looks, and cobbled together technology. The villains can’t get all the cool people, Tim thought smugly and found that he was more relieved than he wanted to admit that Danny had come up clean.

“A new friend?” Dick asked with a raised eyebrow and an infuriating smirk as he leaned over the back of Tim’s chair to get a better look at the screen.

“A colleague,” Tim corrected distractedly as he scanned the documents.

Danny almost seemed too perfect; a friend factory-made to suit Tim.

He liked coffee, he was witty, not afraid to tease him even though Tim was his boss, quick-witted, and had a big interest in technology and inventions. A fact that was proven in his work as well as his prosthetic arm.

In truth, Tim had already started to sneak Danny some projects under the table. Not bat-classed project, but… Maybe some personal things he had under development and would like a second pair of eyes on. And Danny’s insights had proven to be invaluable. Tim looked over his shoulder at the still-smirking Dick. Danny was also non-judgmental and non-infuriating, in contrast to certain other people that should not be named.

As if hearing his thoughts, Dick laughed and nudged his shoulder. “This is a thorough check for a colleague.”

Tim averted his eyes. Maybe it had been longer than he thought since he made a normal friend.

Dick smiled. “I’m glad it came up clean. You could really need some more friends.” 

Dick ignored Tim’s outraged “Hey!” as he scanned over the document before pausing with a frown. “Amity Park? Where's that?”

“No idea.” Tim clicked away on the computer. “Apparently a small town that mostly makes its living as a tourist trap. And their draw is…” Tim trailed off as he digested the last word before exclaiming, “Seriously?!”

Dick leaned in. “What?”

“Ghosts. The whole town claims to be haunted by ghosts.”

“Alright? That's eccentric, but it's not that strange.”

“No, it's just…” Tim dragged a hand through his hair. “It's the second time lately that ghosts have come up.”

And he really didn't want to associate Danny with the two lunatics from a couple of months ago.

“Well, maybe it’s a sign that you should change careers and become a ghost hunter! Can you imagine? A superhero ghosthunter!” Dick laughed and punched him in his shoulder.

Tim snorted and swatted at him. They were really lucky that ghosts weren't real.

——

Of course, after foolishly tempting fate, ghosts stayed not real for far shorter than Tim would have preferred. It wasn’t even a month later when his entire worldview reoriented itself (and really, he should be used to that by now) as that belief died and didn’t come back to life. Which seemed to be a rarity all of a sudden.

At first, they hadn't realized what they were; seemingly harmless and, most unsettlingly, impossible to catch. The blobby apparition had fazed through any and all containment devices they had tried to capture them in, and more often than not they hadn't even been able to touch them. None of their sensors worked, just spouting nonsense readings that fluctuated wildly.

The blobs were hard to handle but thankfully they weren't very destructive since they mostly caused confusion and some accidents brought on by gawking bystanders.They weren’t really attacking anyone—yet, the cynical part of Tim’s mind added—but they were causing enough of a panic to be a problem.

Thankfully, Gothamites generally knew to keep well away from new and unknown possible threats.

The real problem was that they had no idea what they were dealing with and no idea on how to make it go away, but overall Gotham’s green and glowing new decor didn’t really take president over all the daily attacks from both villains and normal criminals.

Tim had foolishly (once again, damn it Tim) believed that was it.

And then he got a message on his communicator masquerading as a cellphone summoning him to the cave for a new type of threat. Tim straightened up from where he had been sprawled over Danny's sagging armchair. “I'm sorry, I have to go. Something came up.”

“Oh?” Danny looked up, eyes immediately jumping from the video game on the TV to Tim. “You okay?”

Tim waved him off, feeling a bit guilty at the clear worry on his friend's face. “Yeah, yeah, nothing bad. Just… A family thing.”

Danny grimaced and Tim guessed he'd had his fair share of family things. He let go of the controller in his right hand, instead grabbing at his prosthetic left, rubbing at it as if in pain.

Tim got to his feet. “It was nice hanging out though. Same time next week?”

Danny's grimace immediately turned into a smile and even though it looked genuine, there was something strained at the corners. “Sure! Good luck with the family.”

There was real fear there, barely visible under the happiness. Tim reluctantly discarded the observation, reminding himself that his friend wasn't a mystery for him to solve. “Thanks. Good luck with the boss without me.”

Danny laughed and shucked a pillow at him. “As if your so-called skills make any difference.”

Tim ducked the soft projectile with a smile before leaving, mind already focusing on what new threat could have come up for him to be called in on one of his few nights off.

Said threat turned out to be an intangible, periodically invisible, glowing, and floating villain. All of those characteristics wouldn’t necessarily lead Tim to the conclusion that he was facing off against a ghost—Gotham was filled with a lot of weird people with even weirder powers—but what sealed the deal was the fact that this new villain just wouldn’t shut up about being one. The ghost of boxes, to be more specific.

Tim would say that he had higher hopes for his own afterlife, but who was he to judge?

And, sure, if that had been the end of it then maybe the easiest answer would have been that they were facing off against a man with very specific interests and an unfortunate chemical accident in his recent past (it had happened before, more than once) but now they were staring down a new villain every other week. All of them proudly proclaiming themselves to be ghosts, and all of them freaking every sensor and scan the Bats threw at them the fuck out.

So ghosts. Were apparently a thing.

Tim wished he was more surprised than he was.

So far, most ghost attacks would stop seemingly by themselves. The ghost in question would be mid-rant and mid-destruction, only for them to suddenly pause, eyes wide. Every time this happened, the ghost’s focus was directed at the group of innocent civilians unwisely trying to catch a glimpse of the action that always accumulated during attacks that weren't too destructive. Their leading theory was that the ghosts were simply scared of the living.

Which was lucky, because the ghosts were both frighteningly strong as well as too many for comfort. Tim was desperately looking for more dependable ways of combating them, but so far he had come up with nothing.

It was hard to fight an enemy you couldn't touch and they weren't used to feeling so powerless.

Which also meant that the small and round creatures that shared all the characteristics of the bigger ghosts, except for the fact that they were shaped more like jelly than people, were also—more than likely—ghosts. It had taken them a frankly embarrassing amount of time to reach that conclusion. Yes, Tim was well aware that Bruce was a world-known detective and that he himself was a genius. No, neither of them had mentioned this slow deduction to anyone.

All of this led up to Tim stumbling into work on a Wednesday, definitely late and definitely operating on way too little sleep. They had all stayed up late yesterday (or maybe it was today? It was hard to even think) facing off against a ghost that claimed to be able to control technology. Okay, facing off might have been an exaggeration. The truth of the matter was that they had ran. The risk of an unknown villain, someone with largely unknown powers and unknown motivations, getting into their tech had been enough of a threat to warrant a tactical retreat.

Which had proven to be a good choice since not even half an hour later there was an attack on their servers. And then another. And another. All of them seemingly from the same source. They had taken readings and scanned everything five times over, but the source of the attack seemed to adapt and change and move in a way that was almost… conscious.

Tim would swear off coffee forever if it turned out not to be the ghost that claimed to be able to control technology. They had been able to stay on top of the attacks but only barely, which was very worrying considering their top-of the line and frankly absurdly paranoid firewalls and assorted protections, as well as the fact that they had, well, Tim on their side.

He promised to never mock Bruce and his paranoid precautions again. At least for a week.

Thankfully they managed to contain the possible (probable) ghost in one of the computers stored in the basement by continuously upgrading and changing their fire walls. But this thing was learning and adapting faster than they could keep up with. It was only a matter of time before it broke out.

Too bad they had no idea who to reach out to. Or even where to start looking for a person who specialized in supernatural possession of computers. The science of ghost hunting didn’t exactly amass reputable scientists and inventors, or if it did, they were probably laying low so as to not get lumped in together with their more… eccentric colleagues. Understandably.

Which meant that trying to find a reputable expert on ghosts was as impossible as grabbing a hold of the ghosts themselves. But Tim knew that he would never be lucky enough for an expert to just stumble into his life, so they kept on searching.

So. No sleep. A whole work-day in front of him. If only he didn't have to keep up appearances. 

Tim tried to keep a brave face and go about his normal duties in his day job and nightly activities, but the threat hung heavy over his head. As well as the lack of sleep, but that didn’t feel as heroic.

Thankfully, his tiredness seemed to act as a homing beacon for his new friend and before he even sat down at his lunch table, Danny was there with two extra-large coffees.

Tim accepted one of them with teary eyes. “You’re a life-saver.”

Danny laughed. “At least I can keep you from joining me.”

And Danny did look tired. He always did.

He was holding his own coffee in his shaking right hand. Apparently the little tweaks and upgrades they had made on the arm hadn’t been enough to make it as reliable as he had wanted, if Danny chose not to use it. Instead it was hanging at his side, looking a little less cobbled together with a new top-plate and Tim felt happy knowing that Danny had taken him up on using the materials.

Tim had started to be able to anticipate what kind of day it was going to be just from how Danny held himself and today didn’t seem like a good one. He was still unsure of what exactly was wrong with his friend, but he was scared to ask again and risk offending him. Their relationship was still too new.

So Tim sipped his coffee and simply said, “I appreciate you keeping me alive.”

“We don’t need any more ghosts,” Danny muttered under his breath and took a sip from his own coffee.

The comment made Tim’s exhausted brain suddenly remember that Danny came from a town known for being haunted. It was a slim chance—since it probably was a cheap way of luring in tourists—but maybe Danny had some insights that could help them with the newly appeared ghosts. And especially the one trapped in the computer in the basement.

The only problem being that Danny had never revealed where he was from and Tim couldn't very well admit to doing a background check on him. That would probably ruin the mood since he was fairly certain that wasn't normal behavior between friends. Admittedly his perspective on what was normal or not was pretty skewed; something his siblings never hesitated to point out to him. Which was true, but they really didn't have a leg to stand on when it came to being normal. 

Tim made sure he sounded casual as he tapped the logo on his coffee cup and asked, “Hey, do they have Crabby Coffee where you’re from?”

Danny paused, something suspicious in his eyes. Then he smiled and asked in an almost casual tone of voice, “What, you don't believe I'm a local?”

Tim snorted. “You asked me if Arkham was an arcade just last week. Besides, you don’t have the right accent.”

“Fair,” Danny allowed with a shrug and a grin that was only slightly strained at the edges.

“So...?”

“I’m from Amity Park,” Danny said in a way that indicated that he didn’t like the fact, mumbling the last words as he looked away from Tim

Tim pretended to be surprised. “Amity? Never heard of it. Is it known for anything special?” And then he almost winced at his own clumsy and obvious fishing for information. Bruce would be so disappointed if he saw this. Okay, maybe he was more sleep-deprived than he thought.

It was lucky that Danny seemed distracted by some sort of inner conflict as he shuffled from foot to foot, not meeting Tim's gaze. “Well… It's a tourist thing…”

“Oh? Like what?” And now Tim was interested why Danny seemed so hesitant to share. Not a mystery, Tim reminded himself.

Danny deflated, looking defeated. “It's ghosts.” Then he switched to the overly-enthusiastic way of speaking inherent to all slogans, clearly mimicking some commercial, “Come on down to America's most haunted town! Guaranteed to scare the ghost right out of you!” and then in a fast paced mutter, “The city of Amity Park is not liable to retrieve any ghosts that decide to leave their bodies during your visit.”

Score.

“That's so cool!” Tim didn't even have to fake his interest as he asked, “Was it really? Haunted?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Danny hedged.

Tim gestured at Danny with his coffee cup. “I'm asking you.”

Danny paused with a worried frown on his face that he quickly tried to hide, looking at Tim intently as if he tried to work something out. Then he shook his head and simply said, “No.”

And it was the first time Tim had detected a lie from his new friend. Which meant that he did know something. Tim felt himself get excited at the prospect of a challenge, a mystery, and this time it was connected to their current problems which meant that it was fair game. He finally had a lead and he refused to let it go.

Why would Danny lie about his town being haunted? Was he scared of being made fun of? Didn’t he think that Tim would believe him? Ghosts was a rather eccentric thing for your town to be known for, maybe he had been ridiculed before.

Or maybe, a more jaded part of his brain supplied, he had been threatened to not say anything. Maybe he was hiding something.

Maybe Tim would have to show him some things related to ghosts and see how he reacted sooner rather than later.

“You sure?”

“Yes. It's not haunted.”

“Ah, so it's just a tourist trap, then? To make money?” Tim asked, trying to keep the excited interest out of his voice, trying to keep the conversation casual.

Danny wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Yeah, but it's nothing special. Just like any small town, you know?”

“Some people always take it a bit more seriously, right? There's always some believers,” Tim fished for more information. In every tourist attraction that claimed to be the home of Bigfoot or Mothman there was always someone who actually believed in what they were selling.

And if they believed, maybe they had some real information. Maybe even ways of combating them.

“Yeah, sure. There's those that believe and even—” Danny paused, swallowed, and then said, with real anger in his voice, “even some nut jobs that claim to study ghosts.”

Some people were studying ghosts? Tim made a mental note to look into them.

Danny cleared his throat as if embarrassed by his outburst and asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Tim allowed the subject-change, not willing to push it and risk Danny suspecting him. “Haven’t you seen all the new villains on the news? They look kinda ghostly, don’t they?”

“Most newspapers write about them as if they’re a new kind of meta-humans.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Tim shrugged. “But I don’t think ghosts would be much stranger.”

“You’re not scared?” Danny asked, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Of course!” Tim laughed. “But I don’t see why they would be more dangerous just because they’re dead. If anything, that only shows that they’ve already been killed once!”

Danny smiled at that and Tim took it as a win. His new friend might not feel comfortable opening up about everything just yet, but at least he could show that he’s open to talking about it when he was.

[gliphyartfan]

Can I send you this idea. Imagine all the chain as horror movie slasher during Halloween.

Halloween never dies I suppose. 🎃

Time would go for the classic Michael Myers look with the jumpsuit, white mask, and eerie, silent presence. He nails the intense, watchful silence, drifting in and out of shadows without a word, making everyone around him feel a little uneasy.

The others try to get him to talk, but Time just stares, almost too committed to the role. (At some point, he even sneaks up on one of the others just to stand there and watch them. )

Twilight decides on Ghostface lurking around corners and calling people with an old landline he managed to find. (That or Wild found it I dunno) He has a little too much fun sneaking up on Wind and Hyrule, whispering, “What’s your favorite scary movie?” in the dark before darting out of sight. (He may have enjoyed the movies a bit too much)

(Though if he wanted away from the Halloween excitement, he’d just stay as Wolfie and snooze away)

Wild goes all out as Leatherface, with a homemade, cobbled together mask that looks unsettlingly realistic and an apron he distressed just for this night.

He brings along a toy chainsaw he modified to make loud noises, and he runs around with it, revving it up while grinning in a way that’s a little too convincing. The whole chainsaw act is both hilarious and terrifying. (Especially when he starts chasing after Legend, who absolutely hates the noise.)

Speaking of him, Legend embodies Freddy Krueger with the classic striped sweater, hat, and even a glove with fake blades. He takes on Freddy’s twisted humor, tossing out snarky, creepy one-liners and getting far too into the role.

He’s practically taunting everyone all night, and at some point, he even starts ‘haunting’ the others’ dreams (or at least pretending to). He just enjoys sneaking up on people. (And if he makes use of Ravio’s magic bracelet, well no one can call him out)

Hyrule dresses as Jason, complete with the hockey mask and machete (a fake one, but it’s convincing enough).

He’s eerily silent, just standing behind people without saying a word and waiting for them to notice.

When he’s caught, he tilts his head slowly, trying to add to the creepy vibe. His innocent, quiet nature makes him surprisingly convincing. The others start getting spooked when they realize Hyrule’s really good at not making a sound.

Four, would choose to go as something loosely based on Pennywise, (wait does he count as a slasher??? Eh, too lazy to research properly) but instead of just a clown, he’s more of a shapeshifter.

His costume is a mix of colors, almost resembling his split forms, with unsettling makeup and sharp, exaggerated features. He occasionally splits into his colors to make people think he’s rapidly switching between different personalities. He does the whole creepy clown act, jumping between cheerful and sinister with unsettling ease. More than once people thought he was really warping around behind them.

Wind picks Chucky, with the overalls, striped shirt, and red hair. He even carries around a fake knife and leans into the whole ‘possessed doll’ vibe, taunting everyone with his small but fierce presence.

He’s surprisingly committed to the act, running around and shouting things like, “Wanna play?” in the most disturbing way he can manage. Despite his age, he’s genuinely intimidating, using his small stature to his advantage to creep around and sneak up on the others. (Trust me I was stuck between him and Four. Both would fit each others costumes.)

As for Sky? Ya know what, Sky goes for the cold, calculated menace of Hannibal Lecter. He wears a straitjacket with the infamous mask that covers his mouth, giving him an eerie, restrained appearance.

Sky leans into the eerie calm and unnervingly polite nature of Lecter, calmly staring at the others with unsettling intensity, speaking softly and choosing his words carefully, almost like he’s assessing each of them. He doesn’t do much more than that, but his chillingly calm demeanor is enough to unnerve everyone, especially when he starts making cryptic comments about “having them for dinner.”

Warriors goes as Patrick Bateman, the well-dressed but psychotic character from American Psycho. He wears a suit with a clear raincoat over it and carries around a fake blood-stained axe for full effect.

He leans into the unnervingly cheerful and charismatic side of Bateman, delivering disturbingly enthusiastic monologues about things like weapon quality, armor polishing, or favorite foods, all while swinging the axe casually.

He’s surprisingly convincing, getting a little too into character as he grins at the others, his gaze almost unnaturally intense. He manages to freak everyone out just by acting overly ‘normal,’ with a hint of something dark underneath. (….i dunno if he’s acting or just letting his Yandere behavior shine through 😀)

[nobedofroses]

October 30th

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

warnings: beginnings of smut, grinding

words: 1.5k

a/n: Prompt for today is "The power goes out on Halloween, leaving A & B to find their way to each other in the dark" from this list by @goldenroutledge. final sequel to the jackson!joel blurbs!!

Directory, previous Joel blurb, Day 29

🎃🎃🎃

The community-wide Halloween events in Jackson were over by Halloween night, but some families were doing things on their own in their houses with whatever they had managed to cobble together. Trick or treating had happened earlier in the day with homemade treats (although yours were salty and savory, not sweet as sugar was nearly nonexistent). With people needing to go on patrol, it just made more sense to do it in the early afternoon than at night. 

Ever since your kiss at the costume dance party, you and Joel had shared a few more (private) kisses and spent some evenings together at his house, talking, reading, and playing board games with Ellie. You were surprised to find out how much more casually touchy Joel was when your feelings for each other were established. His hand was always on your back, around your waist, or on your thigh if he wasn’t holding yours. It was making you a little antsy because you hadn’t done anything very sexual yet and you were… very excited to. 

On Halloween night, it was just the two of you. Ellie had plans with some of her classmates and was off with them. Tommy and Maria were on a patrol date, so you weren’t hanging out with them. It was the first time you were going to spend hours alone together at Joel’s house since you had kissed and you couldn’t tell if you were more excited or anxious. You didn’t think you had any specific plans although you were definitely hoping for something specific. 

After you ate dinner together in the canteen, you and Joel walked back to his house hand in hand and you asked, “So what do you want to do tonight?” 

“I got a couple mystery books from the library. One’s actually Halloween themed, if you’d wanna read?” Joel asked slowly. 

Even though it wasn’t the activity you were hoping for, you didn’t think a southern boy like Joel would come right out and say that you should fuck. And it’s not like you were doing so either. Plus, it was maybe the sweetest suggestion of a date that you could think of. 

“Yeah, I’d love that,” you told him earnestly. 

An hour later you had read a couple chapters of the book, switching off so you each read one at a time. You enjoyed reading aloud but you maybe enjoyed listening to Joel more, his deep voice and slight twang making everything he said sound good. It was perhaps getting to you, listening to him like that, and you had to shift in your seat a couple times during the last chapter. 

When Joel noticed your movement, he thought it was because you were cold and suggested a hot drink to warm you up. You figured you might as well, to give you a little break if you were still going to have to wait longer for sex. 

“Yeah that’d be great,” you told him with a smile. 

Joel stood up, disentangling himself from you on the couch, but bent down to give you a quick kiss that left you warmer than a cup of herbal tea ever could. 

When Joel left the room, you flopped back on the couch and sighed deeply but quietly. Maybe you should just jump him when he got back with your tea. Well, after he set it down on the coffee table of course. 

You were contemplating the best course of action when suddenly the wall sconces that lit the room went out. It had only been a little bit of light but it was the only light there was, the sun having gone down a couple hours ago, so you were plunged into darkness. You waited a moment because sometimes the power flickered in Jackson, especially in the winter when everyone was using their lights more, but they didn’t come back on. 

“Um, Joel? I’m gonna come in there with you, it’s a little too dark in here for my liking,” you called out to him, standing up and walking to the kitchen. But when you got in there, he wasn’t there. All the lights were off, but the streetlights were on outside and let some light in through the windows. And other houses on the street still had lights, so that was confusing. 

“Joel?” you called out again, not liking being alone in the dark and especially not liking not knowing where he was. You couldn’t hear him and you wondered why he hadn’t told you. 

Maybe he went to check the breaker? That seemed plausible. But where the hell was the breaker box? The garage? The basement? You knew there was a utility room somewhere in the hallway, would it be in there? Since that was the only option that wasn’t going to be cold and possibly creepy, you decided the hallway was the correct place to start and walked in that direction. 

When you got to the hallway, you couldn’t see anything anymore, but you knew there were five doors. Ellie’s bedroom, Joel’s bedroom, the bathroom (at the end of the hallway), a closet, and the utility room. But you hadn’t been in any of them but the bathrooms, so were the bedrooms at the front of the hallway or at the end? You just had to try them all, you guessed. 

You walked blindly down the hall and reached for the wall to guide you. The first time you tried to touch it, you weren’t even in the hall yet and your hand just swiped through the air. So you took another couple steps forward and then felt the wall under your hand and slid it along until you found a doorway. The door was partially open, so you pushed it further and called out, “Joel? Are you in here? I can’t see a thing.” 

Stepping further into the room, you could smell him, which seemed weird because you wouldn’t think your senses would get that much better after a couple minutes in the dark. You heard his voice then, responding to you, but you couldn’t make out what he said. You kept moving forward, about to call out to him again, but instead you yelped as you started to fall. 

Joel heard your outcry and hurried after you into the room. He wasn’t sure why you had gone into his bedroom, but he could ask after he knew you were okay. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” 

As Joel and the light of the candle he was holding came into the room, he could see you, turned over on your back on his bed and laughing. You sat up, resting your weight on your elbows and said, “I- I didn’t know your bed was here— I f-fell,” and then dissolved into giggles again. 

Joel smiled, relieved you were okay and thinking you were really cute when you laughed. He set the candle down on his dresser and walked over, standing in front of you. “I think the power went out because I was using the stove and the heat and the lights.” 

He held out a hand to you, ready to pull you back to standing so he could get you that tea and get you warmed up. He had fixed the breaker right before you fell, so everything should be fine now, the water would be ready in a couple minutes once he turned the burner back on. 

But when you took his hand, you tugged on it instead of using it to help you stand. Joel hadn’t been expecting it and tripped forward, his free hand coming to catch his fall and landing on the mattress right next to your hip. He was just a couple inches away from you now, his knee pressed against the mattress between your legs. 

You were breathing a little harder, your chest moving with each one, and you were close enough the two of you were sharing breath. The knowledge made Joel feel heady, drew him towards you so that connection could be more tangible. 

After a second, you dropped his hand and reached up to his shoulder, tugging him towards you the last couple inches and fitting your mouth to his. Once you were kissing, Joel became just as enthusiastic as you felt, maybe more. He moved and helped move you until you were pressed against each other, his warm, strong, broad chest against yours and your hips so tight to his that your core was pressed to his thigh. 

As his tongue pressed into your mouth, you rolled your hips against his, the friction of his thigh on your clit making you moan. One of his hands came to your waist and he encouraged you to do it again and again. After a few more moans, he pulled back to kiss down your neck so he could hear you better. 

“Oh, Joel,” you moaned, threading your fingers through his hair to keep him close. Everything about him felt so good you were worried that somehow it would stop. You were determined not to let that happen and said, “How ‘bout I don’t need the tea and you just keep me warm, yeah?” 

Joel pulled back, chuckling, and even the feel of that felt good. He looked up at you and the candlelight was enough to see his warm brown eyes. “Yeah, let me keep you warm, sweetheart.”

🎃🎃🎃

[wistsandmagic]

MORE QUESTIONS!!! pick any ocs of your choice :3

1) Does your OC have a voice claim, if so who?

11) What was your inspiration for your OC?

20) If they fight, what's their weapon of choice?

25) Are they the kind of person who can't resist a good song? Can I catch your OC singing to themselves while they do the dishes?

26) What flower do you associate your OC with?

I think most of these are gonna be for Wonton, honestly. XD; 1. Yes, surprisingly! Ayaka Nishiwaki from the Japanese techno-pop band Perfume! She has the highest vocals and the 'cutest' voice, and that fits Wonton to a T. She isn't squeaky, she just has a higher-pitched voice than one would think, and when she speaks her words tend to flow more than you would expect from even a small truck.

2. .....a joke that Glyph made about how "One Ton" sounded like a TFA truck bot's name and my own opinion that the tiny kei trucks would make EXCELLENT little minicons. Add to that the fact that TFA is the continuity of Cartoon Logic and naming conventions are made up, Wonton was born. 20. The only thing Wonton's had to fight so far are the occasional tanuki and wild deer that try to get into Ojii-chan's garden. She doesn't know that Cybertron or the factions themselves even exist, she's never seen another Transformer. She was an Allspark fragment that was carried across the ocean and landed on the kei-truck that is now her altmode, and no one has been to Japan. As far as she knows she is the only one of her kind in existence. So...she's not exactly had to fight. That being said, her preferred weapon is dual-wielding a homemade broom and a garden rake. That usually scares anything that's in the garden off, and if it doesn't, she's really good at whacking things. (also you are getting a Tripwire for this one because. Reasons*

Tripwire is from Eterna AU, and he's one of the three Warborn bot kids (consisting of Bumblebee, Strongarm, and himself) that were on board the Ark when the Ark left Cybertron. He's the youngest of the three, but yes, he knows how to fight, and knows how to fight well. He had to learn, just like the others, in order to survive. His preferred weapon is actually a bow, and he's pretty bloody accurate with the thing, too. Like trick-shot levels of accurate. Really the only person who can still outshoot him is Hot Rod, and Hot Rod is the one who taught him how to shoot to begin with, starting when he was the equivalent of 5 years old, with a little baby bow he'd cobbled together with Wheeljack's help. Only reason Hot Rod ever got him to learn, though, is because he told Tripwire that Damus would be super proud of him when they got back to Cybertron for learning and not relying solely on his ability to short out electrical components with his scream. (Not that he was wrong, it was just also self-preservation since the kid did NOT have great control over the direction he shorted things out)

25. Wonton is, actually! She sings to herself quite often, and utilizes the radio in her cab to listen to music when she and Ojii-chan are working on the farm. They both enjoy it, though Ojii-chan has influenced her taste in music quite a bit. She likes traditional things and isn't really much for 'modern' Japanese music, though there are a few pop songs that she thinks are catchy. And yes, you can definitely catch her singing something to herself as she does dishes. Because she does actually help with the dishes, for one, and for two, singing makes things go by faster. (Dishes is a chore she doesn't enjoy.) 26. The Japanese lotus flower. Her original paint was designed to mimic the lotus, and she likes the colour scheme, so she's kept it. The lotus also symbolizes rebirth, which. Well. Can't really get more on the nose with that, now can you, considering her origins as an Allspark fragment bringing a truck to life. She very LITERALLY was 'reborn' as a Transformer.

[clawdmg]

✿ . PERMANENT PLOT CALL

stumbles  onto  the  stage  dazed  and  bleary-eyed.  is  this  thing  on?  can  anyone  hear  me?  hello?  hello!  great,  oh  my  goodness,  can  anyone  believe  it  took  me  this  long  to  cobble  a  plot  call  together?  so  long,  in  fact,  that  i  think  everyone  has  already  had  their  fill  of  the  commission  board,  so  we  should  start  off  with  something  off-menu~

the  following  are  non-board  plot  bunnies  that  you  are  always  welcome  to  approach  me  with!  these  will  be  updated  on  a  semi-regular  basis  when  the  ice  cubes  in  my  head  finally  clink  together  and  i  can  think  of  a  new  bnuuy. typical  addendums  that  i'd  prefer  to  take  on  only  two  threads  at  a  time,  but  we  can  always  chat  and  spin  together  in  our  teacup  ride. 

CAT'S TAIL, a  permanent  bunny!  we  can  workshop  the  finer  details  together  but  the  cat's  tail  tavern  is  an  easy  place  to  get  the  ball  rolling  for  a  thread.  the  surly  patch-eared  bartender  will  greet  you  at  the  door,  and  then  you  can  grab  a  drink,  play  cards,  or  lounge  about  with  the  adorable  kitties. no  promises  diona  won't  be  a  little  prickly  after  dealing  with  the  rowdy  patrons  but  i'm  confident  your  muse  can  soften  her  edges  a  little. 

THOUGHTFUL GIFT, a  petrified  diona  has  stood  dead  center  inside  a  fancy-schmancy  shop  for  the  past  two  hours,  hoping  to  buy  a  birthday  gift  for  margaret,  her  boss.  instead  of  the  usual  homemade  jams  or  plush  toys,  she's  saved  her  mora  to  buy  something  real  special.  unfortunately,  she's  a  little  out  of  her  depth  here,  so  it'd  be  great  if  someone  could  step  in  to  help  before  she  flees  out  of  embarrassment.  ( alternatively,  i  think  callirhoe,  mondstat's  spring  fairy  and  oceanid,  could  replace  margaret  here.  helping  to  choose  a  present  for  a  body  of  water  would  undoubtedly  spark  an  interesting  conversation! )

STORMY WEATHER, as  you  can  see  from  my  writing  sample,  i  have  a  special  fondness  for  diona  angst  haha.  the  setup  is  simple:  diona  is  caught  off  guard  by  a  storm  and�� is  left  stranded  somewhere,  shaken  by  the  lightning  and  memories  of  being  left  behind.  i  think  it'd  be  cute  if  someone  found  her  and  comforted  her  until  they  can  depart  home  together  :softsmile: 

ICE SKATING, cats  may  be  inherently  agile,  but  the  rink  is  a  different  story.  blooming  with  the  hope  she  can  bring  her  father  along  one  day,  diona  has  set  up  an  anonymous  commission  to  teach  her  the  ice-skating  ropes.  expect  a  lot  of  snark  and  overconfidence,  followed  by  frantic  yelling  as  she  flails  around  on  the  ice.

TEA PARTY, i  headcanon  diona  has  to  care  for  the  tavern  cats  sometimes  on  her  days  off,  so  she'd  bring  her  little  tea  set  and  pretend  she's  having  a  tea  party  with  them.  i  think  it'd  be  amusing  if  the    tavern  door  was  unlocked  and  another  muse  stumbled  upon  her  mid-roleplay,  and  after  some  tsundere  banter,  she  invited  them  to  join  her.

PEN-PAL, i  think  this  could  be  adorable    bunny  for  a  muse  extremely  different  from  diona  haha.  we  can  workshop  the  details,  but  i  picture  the  adventurer's  guild  creating  a  cross-regional  pen-pal  system  so  folks  from  across  the  world  ( or  worlds,  as  per  the  honkais )  could  establish  friendships.  our  two  muses  would  write  letters  to  eachother,  ask  each  other  questions,  share  pictures,  and  maybe  even  exchange  gifts!  would  make  it  incredibly  sweet  if  they  ever  recognize  each  other  in  a  lore  event  :softsmile: 

[fordarkisthesuede]

Fangs of Ouroboros - Chapter 2 - Digging Down to the Nitty-Gritty

Bet you didn't expect an update so soon, huh? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Before we begin, please remember that the Ao3 version is available for Ao3 members only. So please circulate the links!

Last time...

After "visiting" Penguin in prison to find out why he wanted to destroy a P.I.'s office, Bruce discovers that Oswald has been corresponding with a assumed-to-be-deceased Lady Arkham. With more questions than answers, and another mystery on top of the ones he's already saddled with, Bruce tentatively leaves Tiffany and John to solve at least one - who created the bomb in the first place?

[ start ] | [ prev ] | [ Read on Ao3 ] | [ next]

It only took two seconds from Bruce making his leave for John to try and sit in his chair. 

One second too late.

“Hey, I wanted to sit this time!” he pouted, hands on his hips like a teenage girl.

“Too bad,” Tiffany shot back gloatingly, “You gotta be fast if you want to take the captain’s seat.” 

John glowered, crossed his arms, and defiantly situated himself partway onto the left armrest. If he moved too much, he’d definitely elbow her in the face. And most likely wouldn’t feel bad about it. “So, how’s it lookin’, Captain Robin?”

The list of matches to the partial fingerprint was long. Waaay too long. “Bad.” 

She attempted to filter out anyone arrested for previous explosive-related crimes, but there were still quite a few. Even when filtering out the dead ones. “Wow. Just life in Gotham, huh?”

John gave a derisive hee. “Tiff’, I’m a good juggler, but I didn’t get arrested for juggling crimes.”

He had a point, but she didn’t like the smug little smile he was looking down at her with. She wordlessly reset the filter for anyone with a background in firefighting, military, special effects, SWAT… Fifty-two potential suspects. Yikes.

“Of course, we’re just assuming they were ever arrested,” John commented.

“Are you kidding? Whoever they are, they definitely made this kind of stuff before.” She brought the 3D-image of the bomb over to the largest screen. She remembered what his homemade explosives were - essentially blocks of C4 with primitive (but accurate) timers attached to styrofoam heads. It was easier to show the example. “Look, the casing on this thing was custom-made. The timer was kind of cobbled-together, but the guy knew how to weld and solder right. See, the wires would have been really tight together. Like, practically perfect. The print was left in this tight area where he had to pick the explosive material up and connect it.”

John laughed - the kind where he actually found something funny. “You’ve been holding out on me! You’ve made one of these puppies?”

He reminded her of how one of her more distant relations would talk to her at the family barbeque when they found out what she did for a living. She wasn’t about to lie and tell him yes, even though she was sure she could make a duplicate any time she wanted. It would only give him ideas. “Not…exact-ly? But I know enough.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he added, looking strangely proud. “So why did it go kablooey early, then?”

Honestly, she wasn’t sure. The schematics Bruce and the AI pulled together looked almost perfect. Going by the remains of the board from the timer still attached to the very burnt-out wire, it likely wasn’t put in upside-down… But there was a gap above where the timer would have been. “Maybe it wasn’t,” she answered, “The timer might have had a shell cover.”

John hummed, pursing his lips and sitting back, but being mindful of her head. “So it could’ve been passed along with little Rocky none the wiser…”

“But it doesn’t make sense. Mr. Hartright is apparently just on vacation, and even if he goes into a coma, he could have cloud backups for his case files. Why destroy the office?”

“Well, either the bomb-maker hoped to kill whoever picked it up, or… Whoever ordered it specified the ‘wrong’ time.”

“I dunno, killing off his own men doesn’t sound like The Penguin…”

“No, it doesn’t…” John muttered, staring up at the list of suspects. “Any of our little rogue gallery in that list?” he asked, gesturing back to the glass cases of Batman’s foe-related memorabilia in the distance.

“‘Rouge gallery’?”

“What else do you call it? The Baddie Exhibit? The Scoundrel Repository? Villains on Display? Ha ha ha!”

“I dunno, I thought ‘Bruce’s weird trophy case’ was pretty on point,” she said with a shrug, filtering the search further for any major-player ‘rogues’. “And - doeeesn’t look like it.” A beat of silence between them, and she let herself ask what was practically dangling there:  “You really think one of them could be doing this?”

John leaned his head back with an annoyed sigh. “At this point, everybody’s a suspect. I wouldn’t put it past any of ‘em…”

Tiffany looked back at the list. There was a section she had ignored, being so focused on the people who could match the partial fingerprint:  recorded crimes where it was entered in as evidence. There might be something.

There were a few more cases than culprits. Only so many with bombs listed as evidence. 

But jugglers don’t always get arrested for juggling crimes. Tiffany warily set the filter for anything excluding the arrested suspects.

One result returned.

“I honestly didn’t expect that to work,” she commented aloud, feeling John shift on the armrest. “Looks like our print shows up in a second-degree murder case from five years ago… Mary Dahl and Waylon Jones - convicted of murder, conspiracy to cover, desecration of a corpse by CANNIBALISM?!”

“Oh-h-h, THAT’s why they’re familiar!” John clapped his hands together. “That was a great news cycle!”

“‘Suspect Waylon Jones was discovered barbequing the victim’s thigh in open air by the circus’ trailer park.’ God, that’s disgusting!”

“Well duuuh. That’s what made it such a great case! No one could hide their disgust on camera!” John laughed. “I still remember that cop in the background puking in the grass, live!”

She wasn’t feeling too good herself, now that she thought about it. John wasn’t helping, joyfully reminiscing about the news coverage of the guy’s freezer. “Apparently he hadn’t eaten any pieces yet, but of course they slapped him with the hard charges anyway. Still don’t know why he never ended up in Arkham… I knew three guys like that inside! One told me it tastes gamey.”

She couldn’t take any more. “John. Shut up.”

“...sorry.” 

Tiffany had learned enough ASL to translate his following hand gestures as “I’ll read silently”. “You better. I don’t want to get sick all over the keyboard.”

She took a deep breath, trying to focus on the background noise of rushing water behind her like Bruce had taught her as she covered her face with her hands. A deep breath in, focus fixed on the darkness of her eyelids as she dragged her fingers down the sides of her nose, and out. Another in - You can give it five minutes, and close it to pass to Bruce, she thought,You can do five minutes. - and out.

Mary Dahl, age 30, pleaded guilty to murder in the second degree. According to her statement, the victim, a local television producer by the name of Ben Uslan, came into her dressing room after following her from a magic act where she acted as the crowd participant. Ben made a pass at her (Tiffany felt a surge of sympathy with her disgust - Mary looked maybe seven), attempted to assault her, and Mary struck back (rightfully) with a glass whiskey decanter. Mary admitted to trying to cover up the crime by getting help from the circus’ sideshow-freak-slash-strongman, Waylon Jones, who dismembered and intended to eat the body.

Among the list of evidence was said decanter with the partial print found on the body of the rectangular glass, which was looked over when compared to Mary’s on the bottle neck. When the victim’s head was retrieved from the nearby wooded area (Tiffany grimaced and scrolled past the autopsy photo as fast as she could, only to have to go back up to read), Waylon took the blame for the second impact mark on the skull, claiming to have kicked it.

Tiffany leaned on the other armrest, trying to think while pushing the glimpse of the disgusting photo out of her mind. How the hell Bruce did this every day was a mystery itself. The waterfall was both too quiet to focus on and too loud. The coroner had stitched the head and hands back on like it was a sick puzzle put back together. The marks where a saw had cut through were so noticeable -

“Okay, I can’t take it - please say something!”

“They must’ve been close,” John said softly.

Tiffany looked over at him. John was staring at the page for Waylon Jones, which he’d clearly read to the bottom, with a sort of serious, contemplative look she’d never seen on him before.

“They both tried to take the fall for each other. You don’t see many people willing to do that.” It almost sounded like…he admired them. But surely John wasn’t that off-kilter. “That kind of dedication… It’s almost nice. You know,” he shrugged, his usual humor returning in a flash with one of his wider smiles, “if it weren’t for the attempted cannibalism-barbeque thing. So what did you find?”

“Aside from more nightmare fuel?” she asked rhetorically, breaking the weird mood he had built, “The print showed up on the murder-weapon, but no one mentioned a third person hanging around the scene.”

“And of course our good ol’ morons in blue completely ignored it.”

“Eeex-actly.” Tiffany crossed her arms and looked back at the long list of potential suspects. Things were becoming a little clearer, now that she was thinking aloud. “Someone here must have followed the producer and waited until Mary Dahl struck him. That, or they found him afterward and finished him off… But it sounds really stupid now that I say it.”

“Hey, anything’s possible!” John added cheerfully. “But I think you’re onto something, mon Capitaine – stalking to kill is classic.”

“Looks like there’s three people who used to work for Gotham TV here. Writer Lahn Myne, military-veteran turned cameraman Bonnie Behti, and special effects artist Garfield Lynns. Looks like there were some layoffs that year.”

“Mm-hmm… Hey, Tiffany.” (This was going to be a favor, wasn’t it? He hardly ever used her full name nowadays.) “What would you say to a little field trip?”

She wasn’t really sure where he was going with this. Knowing John, what he was planning was probably weirdly complex. “If you’re thinking we would have the time to visit all three,” she guessed, “you’re way off….for a lot of reasons.”

“Ha ha ha! No, no - what would be the point? It’s been five years! Any evidence is kaput, and I doubt we’d get a confession. No, I was thinking we’d try and get an eyewitness account.”

Yup. She knew it. Weird and complex. “You want to…what, visit the circus murderers in BlackGate? John, that’s…” 

Crazy, she wanted to say. Completely asinine. But she stopped herself, remembering John didn’t like that particular word, and truthfully… It was crazy, but it might work. A witness who didn’t know they were one was more likely to be believed. 

“...not a bad idea. Actually.”

John’s smile stretched to show all of his teeth. “I knew you’d get it! And if it doesn’t work, we’ll at least know we tried.”

“You know we won’t be able to just walk in as ourselves, though, right?”

“A-doy. We’ll be lawyers! I’ve got enough experience with ‘em to know what to say. You have a suit, right? I mean, I figured, since you do work in a world-renowned corporation…”

“I kind of just throw a blazer on top of most of my outfits,” she said slowly, “I’m not really a fan of the whole pencil-skirt-and-heels thing.”

John practically sprang up, phone in hand. “Nooo problem, I know just the gal to call…” He took a few steps away and held his free hand out, the monitor light glinting off the emerald setting in his engagement ring. “Sheesh, I better not get her voicema- Heya, Pumpkin! I’ve got a bit of a Bat-favor to ask…”

∞

It wasn’t so much the ride to The Redfur Theatre - Tiffany did enjoy weaving through traffic like it was nothing - but John’s reasoning for going in the first place. Apparently just meeting their one-woman costume department at her place wasn’t enough. Even though Tiffany could’ve sworn she’d heard the question ‘do you want me to meet you?’ on the other end of that call.

Nooo, John wanted options. And she wasn’t sure if she was annoyed about it because he had something of a point for the second time in a row (she certainly didn’t want to risk being recognized by anyone in BlackGate), or because this was just another diversion she had to deal with today. She was already a week behind schedule on the latest build project her engineering team had handed to them, and she got a notice about another pointless team meeting that she had to attend today. 

Tiffany parked the motorcycle in the back alley, waiting to shut off the engine until John had hopped off with his usual flamboyance, and had only turned the ignition key when the backstage door opened. 

“Jackieee!” John spread his arms wide not a moment before Jackie Lant practically slammed into him with a hug. “How’s my little slice of pumpkin pie? Look at you, going back to your roots!”

Jackie snorted into a short laugh at what Tiffany presumed was the bad joke about her hair color having returned to her natural fiery orange. “Don’t act surprised, J-man, you’ve seen my Snaps.”

“Like I’d ever miss out on a good pun,” John grinned. “Besides, you were a brunette when Robin saw you last!”

Jackie peeked around John to look at Tiffany, and her lightly-freckled face lit up with instant recognition. “Ah! Batman’s assistant!” she exclaimed with a smile, “I thought it was you in that suit… Back in the church, I mean.”

It kind of hit Tiffany that they never really met before. She saw her for the first time in the crypt-cum-abandoned-Owl-bunker as an antagonist who changed sides, and then briefly in the Court of Owl’s church basement as a well-armed ally. Everything she knew about Jackie Lant was learned vicariously through investigation notes and John.

And she had no idea what to say. It was kind of nice to see someone closer to her age in-the-know, but they were technically ‘working’. “Yeah, uh… You look good?” she settled on, hoping it didn’t sound weird.

“Thanks, things have been better since my student debt got mysteriously erased last Christmas. Kinda wish I’d known sooner than after the whole Owl fiasco, but…” she trailed into a shrug, still half-smiling. “I’m not complaining. Come on in, I’d like to get you two all dressed before everyone else decides to show up. I’m supposed to be finishing some of the background set pieces.”

“I thought you were an actress,” Tiffany pondered aloud, tailing alongside John.

“I am,” Jackie smirked over her shoulder, walking straighter. “You’re looking at this production’s Red Queen.” She showily fluffed a side of her curly orange French-style bob. “Mr. Tetch just loved my natural hair; like I knew he would. I just double as a set designer. And the occasional sound technician.”

“Small production,” Tiffany half-scoffed, hearing the exterior door squeal shut behind her.

“It’s a small theater. But it’s a good part and a director that gets you noticed. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t be renting a couch here. Well, except to see Matt cry in court.”

She assumed Jackie meant Matt ‘Clayface’ Chaney, aka her ex. Tiffany had seen part of the court proceedings for his murder charges as part of the Court of Owls back in July. He had, in fact, cried during his sentencing and proclaimed himself innocent despite everything to the contrary.

John grinned beside her. “Didn’t he also cry when you broke up with him after he was arrested?”

Jackie gave a dark sort of laugh. “Yeah, that was a good one… The press talked about that for days. He was totally messed up.”

“A thirty year life sentence will do that to you,” John said brightly, “And a couple of new scars,” he muttered with a wink over at Tiffany.

She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Even though she could label him a friend, she knew very well what it was like to get a scar from John. And from what she remembered, Matt had gotten two. 

Even if he did kind of deserve it.

Jackie made a beeline for the long plastic costume rack in what was apparently her (and two other people’s) dressing room. It was a lot better looking than Tiffany had expected - the vanities were covered in makeup bottles and brushes and a professional looking case, but were otherwise clean, and old play posters and cast pictures were scattered around on the walls, the winking red fox face practically stamped in the corners. Only a few odd props were leaning against the walls and corners, all of which looked like they belonged to an Alice in Wonderland set. “We’ve got some stuff from a few indie shows still laying around… We should have something to fit that ‘lawyer’ vibe… Ah-ha!”

Tiffany had a dull yellow-brown tartan suit thrust in front of her. To say it was boring was a compliment. “Do you have…anything else?”

“Hang onto that and let me look.”

John, of course, was sifting through the adjacent rack like he was on speed. He already had two suits thrown over his arm.

“I think you can pull off khaki,” Jackie said, giving a suit a once-over and holding it up to Tiffany. 

John made a playful noise of disgust, which Tiffany partially ignored.

“I think these pants and that patterned jacket will work,” Jackie added, “Give you that ‘I’m the junior partner in this firm’ vibe. Like you want to be your own person, but you know you have to look professional.”

“Why am I the junior partner?” Tiffany asked, shooting John a look.

“Because I’m older than you?” John offered, an eyebrow raised to match hers, “And I know more about what we’re getting into.”

Jackie rolled her eyes a little at this. “Don’t act too smart, John. Most people can smell over-acting a mile away.”

John gave her back a little glare, but didn’t do any more than pout. “Be right back,” he grunted.

“Don’t jinx it,” Jackie called back, shaking out the tan slacks and returning the unused pieces to the rack in one sweep. “Old horror movie rule,��� she said with a slight smile. “I’m superstitious when I'm in any theater.”

She wasn’t the biggest fan, but more than once she and Barbara had a late night double-feature with the so-called classics. She knew a few ‘rules’. “I always liked ‘don’t ask who’s there’, personally.”

“Hah, I was dumb enough to ask that in Arkham once. It’s how I lost my ponytail. And speaking of hair,” Jackie began to steer her by the shoulder to the vanity, “take a seat, and I’ll get a wig fit.”

Before she could object, Tiffany found herself sitting in the old metal folding chair with a wig held up by her face.

“No, too long…” Jackie muttered, picking up another from the plastic case, “Can I ask something?”

Do I really have a choice? “…sure.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to visit BlackGate?” she asked, holding up another wig. “I know you’ve helped put away your share of criminals, but I know John is used to that kind of atmosphere. He’s…one of them, if you know what I mean.”

She knew what she meant. ‘You can take the man out of Arkham, but you can’t take Arkham out of the man’, as Iman had once put it to her. And truthfully, no, she wasn’t ready, despite the fact that she was used to dealing with some of Gotham’s worst as Robin. But she imagined it hadn’t been easy for Bruce when he wound up in Arkham the first time. 

“Is anyone really ready for this?” she answered, “I’m not exactly doing it for fun.”

Jackie seemed to find that funny enough to give a little ‘hah’. “Well, you’ve got some brass, at least. What made you want to help Batman, anyway?” she asked, shaking out another wig, “I know I tried to kill someone and take their life’s work, but believe it or not, I really admire him. It’s why I didn’t put up a fight when he and ‘Joker’ found me last year. And I know why he helps him,” she added with a knowing little smile, “but I don’t know about you.”

Tiffany did not expect this today. She wasn’t sure how much she could tell her. Or if she should at all, with Jackie previously studying to be a psychologist. But she supposed that giving a simpler answer was better than none at all. “My…father worked for him. And when he died, I…wanted to find who killed him.”

Jackie draped the wig over Tiffany’s head, but she was paying close attention, her leaf-brown eyes brimming with empathy. Tiffany was reminded for a second of Bruce. His ability to multitask and scrutinize and understand. 

“After I did, I still felt…kind of empty,” she said as honestly as she could. “But after learning about my father’s connection to Batman, I wanted to… To keep going, in his place. He believed in all of this. Helping clean up the city and save people. Make a difference.” That sounded cheesy when she said it aloud. “And I get to glide around the city and punch people who deserve it.”

Jackie smiled at that, adding another bobby-pin to keep the short ponytail wig in place. “I hear that. I lost a lot of people to the city, myself… Car accidents, murders, drive-by shootings, disease caused by shitty housing. Close your eyes for me,” she instructed, holding up a brush primed with a dark brown cream. It felt weird going on; Tiffany felt she should be moving her hands instead. (When was the last time anyone else had done her makeup? Senior prom?)

“What amazed me,” Jackie continued, working quickly, “was how Batman managed to solve so many cases the cops would’ve let go unsolved. I’d like to think if he were around back then, my childhood friend’s killer would’ve been found a lot earlier.”

“I’m sorry,” Tiffany said genuinely, not knowing what else to say. She could hardly tell her she’d known about that.

“You have nothing to feel sorry for.” Jackie glanced at her with something like distaste as she picked up an eyebrow pencil. Tiffany wanted to kick herself; John’s notes in the case files had said she didn’t like to feel pitied. “Neither of us could’ve done anything. Like you, I just try to keep their memories alive the best I can. It’s one of the reasons I act; outside of getting to be anyone else for a while, I mean. I add pieces of them into every role I play. The way they talked, or moved, or pronounced certain words. Even the way they held things… But you definitely got the long end of the stick in how to keep ‘em going,” she joked, “Your dad must’ve been awesome.”

He hadn’t been perfect. He had missed more school events for work since Batman showed up, and there were times Tiffany had wanted to call Bruce herself to tell him to stop keeping him so late. And she’d learned too late that he was an expert secret-keeper as well as more selfless than she’d thought. But…

“He was,” Tiffany answered, thinking of the hologram message he’d left for her. He knew she’d want to know the truth behind everything, and that she’d want to continue Batman’s work. He knew that she would understand. “I’m guessing yours…wasn’t so much?”

“You got it in one.” Jackie began swiping a concealer stick over Tiffany’s face in clearly well-practiced strokes. “My parents tried to stamp out my inner theater-geek by pushing me to get a degree in ‘something useful’,” she snorted. “But I went along with it because I thought I could help kids who had been through what I had. I took fewer classes a semester so the loans wouldn’t be so outrageous, but my Dad skirted back on his promise to help pay for some of them after my third year anyway - because it was ‘my’ responsibility now, or some shit.” A highlighter stick swept down her cheeks. “And I powered through it so I could graduate and get a ‘good’ job. Which led to that Arkham internship I’m sure John’s told you about.”

Tiffany seemed to both know too much and too little about how that whole mess ended. But not exactly from John. Bruce’s notes on the whole affair from last October were rather thorough. “He, uh, keeps Arkham life pretty private.”

Jackie’s thick, light eyebrows rose as she primed a pink blending sponge. “Really? He’s a weird guy… Did he tell you about how he got engaged to Bruce Wayne?” she smiled, “He told me the whole thing in excruciating detail.”

“Are you kidding? He didn’t shut up about it for a week, and I keep catching him looking at his ring.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.” The blending sponge felt odd, but Jackie worked quickly. “He must not want to scare you with the grittier details of what went on in the ol’ asylum. Which I think is dumb, because from what he’s told me, you can really kick some ass. You don’t seem to scare easy.”

The knowledge that John talked about her - and positively, apparently - felt weird. Unexpectedly nice, yet kind of concerning. “I’d like to think so,” she said, not wanting to talk about the rat incident in the Batcave.

“Then you’ll do just fine.” Setting powder brushed over Tiffany’s cheeks. “Just remember, you’re not Robin in this get-up. You’re a young, upcoming lawyer who wants to prove herself; serious, but empathetic. It’s important,” she stressed, dotting her nose, “to try not to put too much of yourself in the role. Sometimes, you can find yourself lost in it. I’m a prime example.”

Before she could ask her to elaborate, Tiffany heard the click of John’s shoes before he entered the room. “Okay, lesson learned today,” he grumbled, face not quite covered in the peach-tone he used before, “I still need a little mirror to finish doing this or my brain nopes out.”

“I can finish you up,” Jackie waved, smoothing a fruity-smelling gloss over Tiffany’s lips. I could’ve done this part, Tiffany thought as she sat stock-still. “You just need mascara and you’ll be set.”

John was very pointedly not looking in the oversized mirrors, choosing to face the doorway. Then, like he suddenly remembered she was there, he cast a sheepish sort of look over at them. “Uh, I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

“Nah,” Jackie smiled, recapping the mascara and moving so Tiffany could finally go get change, “Just girl stuff.” Tiffany picked up the outfit she had been selected to wear and went out the way John came, not feeling like ‘Robin’ at all. Had she lost herself in her suit? Or, like Batman, had Robin been there all the time, visible only when she said or did things a certain way?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author Notes: One of the reasons I avoided doing this story for so long was because I wanted Tiffany and John to be able to work together without it feeling too awkward. In our Season 3 replacement story (AtBoM), John considers her a rival for Bruce's attention as well as bears a grudge for Bruce letting her go (and letting her work with him!) but force him back into Arkham, while Tiffany considers him too dangerous and "crazy" be trusted. Even though they eventually reached an understanding, in Season 4 (TToJ) Tiffany is still uneasy about him and John still makes a point to rub any attention he gets from Bruce in her face, which causes a huge rift in their budding friendship until they repair it at the end. Looking back at what my ideal-but-real-Season-3 would actually be (which would be a combo of all three of these stories), I could picture Tiffany and John's awkward attempts at getting along being charming on their own, and any scene of them saving the other from some harm a bit more impactful, but it would feel too rushed to get them to any trust-fall point. Not to mention Tiffany's own current arc concerning [redacted]. And in this final story, when shit hits the fan, I feel they should be able to trust each other more than they could've originally been written to in that alternate universe where Batman the TellTale Series: Season 3 actually exists to play. (;´༎ຶД༎ຶ`)

But enough about that! It's time for fun facts! In-between Seasons 3 and 4, I was thinking how nice it would be to have a short story with John and Bruce visiting the circus, wherein John gets along real well with the so-called "freaks" and they sort-of team up when some crime happens or something. I was reeeal fuzzy on the plot. All I knew was "oh man, it'd be great to see TellTale's version of Killer Croc…he could be part of a circus! Ooh, and we could add Babydoll, she never gets used - a TT-spin on her would be nice". It never went anywhere, of course, but while working on The Whole Nine Yards I decided to go ahead and work them into the plot for Season 5 because I love them. And because…ah, well, to avoid spoilers, let's just say it's because of reasons. (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

I also stuck a couple of easter eggs in this chapter! For one, did you know that same two executive producers are alllways listed on every Batman film since Burton's? Benjamin Melnicker and Michael Uslan! Michael is apparently a huge bat-fan himself, but I didn't learn about any of this until I was searching for a funny homage to other Bat-media to make in a throwaway name. The second egg is "The Redfur Theatre" - the name is taken from the real Fox Theatre and Redford Theatre in Detroit. As the logo is a fox, this is a bit of a stretched joke regarding Tiffany's surname.

Finally, my darling readers, real talk time:  this is the last time you get a weekly update. Please expect at least 2 weeks for the next one. But next time, we rejoin Bruce…and see some more of Joker's game.

[coldheartxd]

[ cook ] sender and receiver cook a meal together

lars liked cooking for axel.

partly because the son of hermes was far from a picky eater, and partly because his face usually broke into a medley of joy whenever he tasted good homemade food, as if having it for the first time ever.

since a young age, food and the act of preparing it had always borne a sacredness to lars. he and his mother bonded over chopping hearty vegetables for a later broth or marveling at fine slabs of rare, glisteningly red meat together. because of how she would cook for him, he was raised with the desire to do the same unto others. a wordless yet impassioned act of love to show others his care, his affection, all subtly translated through the dishes he would prepare.

tonight’s menu, cobbled together by what he remembered axel liking from their shared ordeal in the wardrobe: dumplings kneaded by hand and softened by steam, plump with a generous amount of meat filling. the shapely dough pouches glistened from the herb oil slathered onto them, making them all the more enticing.

but once eaten, the taste would be more comforting than fanciful, a trait shared by all of his dishes.

“hm, got something on your lips,” lars said after he’d been watching axel eat for a period of time, not skipping a beat to reach over and thumb it away gently.

lars liked cooking for axel as much as he liked being in axel’s company.

[halloweeneveryday]

Spiritual awakening

About 20 years ago when I was young and foolish, I decided to try an Ouija board - by myself - after watching one of those rubbishy Witchboard sequels. I cobbled one together on an A4 sheet of card with the usual letters and numbers and yes/no markings, using an upside down contact lens case as the planchette, so you can see it was very homemade, probably not something Mary Fitzgerald would approve of.

I went through the usual "Is there anyone there?" ritual a few times and as I was about to give up, I felt this sensation like something was being poured into me, starting with my feet all the way to the top of my head. At that point, my hands started to involuntarily move the "planchette" in a figure 8 pattern. I couldn't stop it, it wasn't like something was moving my hands from the outside, rather that it was happening inside of me.

I asked the usual questions, "who are you?", "what do you want?", but the case was skittering so quickly across the board that I received no proper answers and it eventually moved up to the "goodbye" part of the board. At this point, I didn't want "it" to go, because, as well as being intrigued, I was also highly aroused in a way that I had never experienced before, or have since. Every part of my body was tingling, and I had no control of it.

Whatever "it" was, left, and so did the sensation. I was terrified and burned the "board" (which I've since read is not a good idea). The experience unnerved me for days and left me grateful that the spirit/whatever was just toying with me and left no lasting effects.

However, since then, whenever I read of someone doing something awful and out of character, it makes me wonder if possession really does exist...

source: https://www.boards.ie/discussion/comment/104776558/#Comment_104776558

[remindingpersephone]

Original Content

Well this blog was in danger of becoming reblogs only there for a bit, but I truly love all the things I've been reblogging recently. There is so much wisdom and beauty here, and I know that's easy to forget with all the dumb shit Tumblr admin cranks out. But the users, the creators, that's where the good stuff is.

ANYway, today I'll post some photos and talk about some stuff. Bullet lists are the order of the day because what's on my mind is a bit all over the place. Here we go!

I made homemade pizzas for dinner last night and they were fucking awesome. A bit labor intensive, but worth it. And my diet went out the window because: pizza. Also worth it.

I fell off my workout routine late in June and I really need to get back to it. I need to try something different though, because last time I had a lot of muscle tightness in my back after I'd do free weights. I was doing something wrong, or not stretching enough or not warming up or cooling down. It wasn't soreness so much as if every muscle from my shoulders down to my hips decide to cramp up and not let go until I laid down in bed. This is the problem with trying to cobble together my own routine from YouTube videos and Instagram stories. I don't really know what I'm doing. But there's no way I'm going to a gym right now.

Speaking of Delta, I have plenty of rants about people and selfishness and thinking for yourself instead of relying on bureaucrats and people need to do the work to learn and get answers to your questions and not making important health decisions based on social media memes and people need to be getting at least a little bit better about risk assessment and this is a terrible run on sentence but this is what happens to my brain when I think about covid and the stupidity of so many humans and so that's why I can't write anything coherent about it.

My focus is very low right now. Maybe it's the low-level, near constant anxiety that while not truly debilitating is distracting af. Maybe it's a touch of situational depression because I'm procrastinating doing things I actually want to do in favor of watching Netflix. There are creative projects I want to work on and I don't have a lot of free time to do them, but when I do carve out an hour I never seem to actually get to them. Some of this is discipline and some of it is life. Life is a balance and I have shitty equilibrium.

Some family issues I cannot go into detail about because they involve others is certainly not helping me with focus and calm and lowering anxiety. The general state of the world isn't adding to the warm and fuzzies, either. I accepted last year that I would just have to work a bit harder to keep my energy up, my mind at ease, my joy intact. It's the reality of the world we live in. But I also must acknowledge that it is harder than it used to be, due to the times we live in, and some days I'm just not going to have it in me to push that boulder any farther up the hill. But I've got to try again tomorrow, and the day after that.

I'm having chocolate milk and a banana for breakfast, and I gotta say, it's delicious.

Thanks for letting me ramble. Be good to yourselves, kiddos, and cut yourself a break. We're all doing the best we can, but it's easy to forget that when we're too hard on ourselves.

[technicallymilkshakes]

A Change of Season

Genre(s): Fluff, Fantasy Pairing: Yixing x Reader  Word Count: 4.1k 

This is my gift for @chicken-fifi​ for the @exolssecretsanta​ event! I hope you enjoy this take on dad!Xing. Happy Holidays! 

When Mae stampedes back into the house, a whole host of critters follow her in. A young fox kit bolts between your legs, a hawk chasing after it. You shoo away a curious chipmunk, intent on investigating the roasted chestnuts you've set out to cool. Bingo, the white hare that has followed your daughter since she celebrated her first birthday, runs in next with a little leap of joy. And rounding out the procession is Yixing, who walks into the room with a sheepish expression.

Melting ice and snow puddle along the floor like little cookie crumbs trails that lead to what is apparently a whole forest's worth of animals in your house, your daughter included. You and your husband exchange a familiar look, one of equal parts fondness and exasperation.

You beat him to placing a finger on your nose.

“Not it!” you crow victoriously.

Yixing laughs and hangs up his scarf, resigned to animal round-up duty.

You smile and hand the chipmunk, who has returned for a second attempt at pilfering, a chestnut. You watch with amusement as he promptly stuffs it in his mouth. This is the enchanted life you've become used to ever since your daughter was born.

**

After a dinner of rich stew and homemade bread, Mae totes her father off to play, leaving you to clean the dishes. She had not been happy with him after he had herded the last woodland creature out the door, so you're glad that she seems to either have forgiven him or forgotten.

Your mind drifts as you begin washing up. The window over the sink affords you a view of the backyard and the forest that abuts it. It had snowed long and hard the past two days, but tonight the sky is clear. The evergreens appear like frosty giants in the evening with their wintry snow coats aglow.

Winter is your favorite time of year. Your family bundles up inside together against the cold, a cozy intimacy that no other season can seem to replicate. Dinners are warm affairs, full of good food, laughter, and Mae's cheerful chatter. It feels, for a time at least, that you exist outside of the rest of the world. The only sounds are of birds, the crack of branches and the snow falling from them, then crunching beneath your feet. You never want it to end.

Such thoughts and reminiscing help pass the time, and soon enough you are drying the last dish and setting it back in the cupboard. The quiet strikes you then and pulls you into the living room in its wake.

Already Mae has fallen asleep, the gentle glow of Christmas lights dancing blue, orange, white upon her eyelashes. Yixing cradles your daughter in his arms, bending his head low to sweep his lips against her cheek. The fire he had kindled hours ago crackles dimly in the background. Bingo, ever watchful, has curled up beneath the Christmas tree to keep an eye on his sleeping charge.

A deep-seated happiness burns within you. You promise yourself to commit this moment to memory.

You come up behind your husband and touch his shoulder. When he looks up, tears sparkle in the corners of his eyes.

“Yixing?”

“She's getting so big,” he whispers. “I remember when she was just a baby. Her whole hand could only wrap around one finger. And now she already knows how to talk.”

You wrap yourself around him and feel the reciprocating bittersweet ache of your child growing up. “Oh, Yixing,” you whisper back. “We're parents for the rest of our lives,” you murmur as you rest your head on his shoulder. “She'll always be our baby.”

**

Eventually, Yixing puts Mae to bed. She stirs from her sleep, brow scrunching. Bingo hops onto the bed and slips into her arms. You sweep her fringe away and lay a kiss as gentle as snowfall on her forehead. Only then does she relax and slip back into sleep.

Arms slips around your waist and spin you. Yixing holds you loosely in the circle of his arms. He catches your gaze, eyes sleepy and affectionate. Mae's nightlight projects snow drifting down the walls around you.

“Love you,” he says.

No matter how many times you hear it, you always have to fight down the sudden spike in your pulse, the warming of your cheeks.

“You're just jealous I haven't given you your kiss yet.”

He's smiling, the shadow of his dimple a deep dark. “How'd you know?”

You smile knowingly. “Love you, too,” you whisper back before finally giving him the kiss he's been waiting for.

**

You dream that night. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that you remember.

One spring day, when the first buds appeared on the trees, Mae was taken. You had been sleeping, and then you weren't. A great clattering came from down the stairs. Mae's crib was gone. You scrabbled out of bed, crying out “Mae!” Yixing jerked awake behind you, but you couldn't linger. There was no time to explain.

You sprinted downstairs to see two white-tailed deer dragging the crib out of the house. Vines had sprouted from the crib's wooden legs and attached themselves to the halters of the 12-point bucks. The backdoor was open and they were making a dash for the woods.

“No!” you shouted, leaping after them. You managed to grab onto one of the rails. Bingo peered at you over the edge. They were going so fast, they were dragging you through the remaining snow, which that night measured a scant inch. Snow and slush slid into your shirt. I can't hold on, you realized with  creeping horror. And just as you thought it, you jolted as the deer dragged you over the jagged end of a rock. Your fingers slipped and you came a halt, curling around the bruise blooming on your ribs.

A breeze whisked by you and you glanced up through tears to see Yixing racing into the forest after your baby.

Minutes, hours went by, and then a blinding flash, brighter than lightning, blazed through the woods. The howl of soul in despair rang out after like thunder.

You were already crying by the time Yixing came back, carrying something. He looked up at you, devastated.

In his hands hovered the most perfect snowflake you had ever seen.

**

Mae sits at the table drawing with Yixing. Crayons scatter across the table in a mess of color. Some have rolled off the edge. Yixing holds one captive, rolling it back and forth on the ground with a socked foot.

“What are you drawing?” you ask Mae.

“This is you!” she says, pointing to a vaguely human-like shape. There is a concerning red blotch by the head. A smaller blob she declares to be herself, and Bingo a small circle that you had thought was a foot at first.

“And where am I?” asks Yixing.

Mae points to her father's drawing.

“I'm a sheep?” he asked, confused.

“No! A bunny,” she says back.

You stifle a laugh as Yixing looks even more confused.

Mae traces the sheep's horns. “These are its ears.” Yixing nods thoughtfully, then scrawls over the paper to make the sheep more bunny-like

He's such a good father, you think. He is patient, and kind. He listens to her and responds sincerely. You are profoundly in love with them, with your family and its small place in the world.

The two drawings hang from the refrigerator later that evening. You can hear Yixing playing with Mae in the living room, bouncing her up and down on his lap as she giggles and shrieks “Horsey!” Mae has labeled each figure in indecipherable symbols, but underneath one, in handwriting too elegant to be a child's hand, reads Daddy. It is undeniable a bunny.

**

You had long been suspicious of Bingo. He was no ordinary hare. But you had never been more suspicious of him than when your daughter came home this year.

It was the first snow of the year, and you and Yixing had been standing outside for hours already in the cold so that you didn't miss it. And there! To your left, a bright light had flashed in the forest. You were the first to find Mae and you fell on your knees before her.

“Oh, baby,” you said, cradling her cheeks in your hands, checking her over for any injuries. She was dressed in a similar foreign garment as last time, this one made of a pale pink shimmering gossamer.

“Where have you been?” you cried. She was old enough now, if she could just tell you where she went, then maybe....

And that was the first time you noticed it. The way your daughter fell silent and stared at the white hare.

She looked you full in the eyes a moment later and said, “Bingbing says I can't tell you yet.”

Yixing came at that moment and swept her into his arms.

“Don't leave us again,” he said, voice muffled against her. “Promise me that you won't go.”

“Daddy!” Mae complained, squirming in his hold. She looked at you plaintively over his shoulder and pouted. “I'm hungry.”

**

The first time it happened, you thought you'd lost your daughter forever. You had grieved with the force of a death. And then you woke up on the first day of snowfall to see a white hare on your chest.

“Mae...” came Yixing's hoarse voice besides you. You turned and saw your daughter in her crib beside the bed. Two seasons had come and gone, and she had clearly kept growing the months you'd been apart. But she watched you with those same keen eyes like she knew exactly who you.

“Did you...bring her back?” you asked, turning back to the white hare. Bingo merely twitched his nose a few times. He seemed to be staring right at you.

“Thank you,” you whispered. You rested a tentative hand on the hare, who close its eyes in acceptance. After another moment, it jumped away.

Yixing watched you with wide eyes, Mae already cradled in his arms. You wrapped your arms around the both of them. “I love you so much,” you whispered in a voice choked with tears. “I am so lucky to have you both.”

**

It snows again the next day. You're not sure who's more excited about it, you or your daughter. Yixing struggles to get Mae kitted out for the weather, and you practically trip over yourself to shove your boots and hat on at the same time.

You had spent your free time this fall building a sled. You had cobbled all the pieces together yourself: the polished wood, the metal runners, the string that worked the rudder like reins on a horse. The winters have only grown longer since Mae was born, and you want to enjoy it while you can.

You start to wax up the candles with a broken candle when Mae huffs and puffs her way over to you, stretching up to try and reach your hand.

“No, mommy! I want to do it.”

You laugh and hand her the piece of candle. You wrap your fingers around hers, two-times clumsy with her gloves on, and help her slide the wax on the metal, lifting your daughter up when she can no longer reach.

“Perfect!” you declare when you finish with the second runner. “Thank you for your help, my little elfling.” You pinch her nose lightly and she giggles and runs to her dad.

All of you, Bingo included, pile out into the snow. You and Mae get the honors of the inaugural sled ride. Yixing bursts into a run first, yelling “race you down the hill!”

“Get him, mommy!” Mae yells, trying to scoot the sled forward. You kick off, and soon the two of you are zooming. You catch up with Yixing easily and then you are past, far past, trees blurring by.

The sled finally comes to a rest and Mae is still laughing. She has already hopped off the sled and is tugging on you, wanting to do it all over again. You roll off the sled, feeling about as dexterous as a marshmallow. Then you stand and survey how very long you have to climb back up.

“Come on, Mommy,” Mae says, slipping her hand into yours. The two of you walk forward in silence for a minute before you ask, “Where's your daddy, Mae?” 

She runs forward, Bingo dashing after her, and you call after them not to go too far by themselves. Your warning is half-hearted, though. The woods welcome Mae like a friend. Even now, cardinals flock to the branches around her, bright splashes of red against the snow like trail marks pointing straight to her. There is an undeniable magic to your child. You have a feeling that nothing could hurt her, and the only thing that could take her is a force that you have no way of stopping.

The sled glides easily back up the hill—you do your best to keep it in the tracks you left on the way down. You eye the branches of the trees along the climb. Not one of the deciduous trees you spy has a single hint of a bud upon its branches. You heave a sigh in relief.

You're the one who stumbles across Yixing first. He has fallen backwards into the snow, his phone lying on his chest, staring up at the sky. You can't resist—you pick his phone up and take a few pictures of him, rosy cheeked, haloed in snow.

You pocket his phone and stretch a hand out for him. Mae comes barreling towards the two of you, yelling “Daddy!”

Yixing takes your hand with a smile.

“I guess you guys won.”

**

Later that night, Yixing shows you a video on his phone. He was filming the entire sled race. You watch second hand as you tuck Mae between your legs and wrap an arm around her. Suddenly, the camera is jerking forward, Yixing's muffled challenge to a race humming through the speaker. You hear his huffed laughter, the crunch of snow and the way his jacket sleeves rub against his sides as he runs. All of a sudden, you and Mae streak by, Mae squealing, and then the world topples. From white to black to white again, you hear Yixing trip, the sound of his breath knocked out of him in a single oof. Miraculously, he manages to keep a grip on his phone.

He lays there, camera facing the sky. All you hear is him breathing. A couple of snowflakes drift by and just miss landing on the lens. You feel oddly self-conscious when you show up onscreen. Is that what you looked like? A wide grin split your face, your hair windblown. You look down at Yixing with what is unmistakably love.

The video ends when you grab the phone to take pictures of Yixing (which you have already bullied him into sending you).

“I love watching you with Mae,” he confesses as the two of you lay in bed. Your bodies have curved inward, seeking the presence of the other. His fingers wrap around yours.

“Your smile, how tender you are...” Yixing turns and presses his face against your neck. “I love you both so much,” he says.

**

Mae becomes increasingly more cuddly as winter wears on. It's difficult to put her to bed. She'll cry long into the night, begging to sleep with you and Yixing. More and more, one of the two of you would cave  in. She would crawl into your bed and rest in the warm hollow between your two bodies. Soon, neither of you bothered with carrying her to her bed.

How could either of you resist when you already had so little time with her? You want to hold her close just as much as she wants to be held. Everyday, you find her napping with Yixing, laid out along his chest and stomach. Your phone album is full of pictures of the two of them together.

Yixing said she took after you. But you see all the ways in which Mae takes after her father. The shape of her eyes. Her brilliant dimples. Her wavy hair. You had taken far too many pictures of them waking from a nap together, sporting matching cases of wild bedhead. It is the most adorable sight you have ever seen.

**

It happens earlier this year than it ever has before. On Christmas Day, Mae disappears. You race outside, going tree to tree, looking for the sight of even a hint of a bud. But there is nothing.

Hours pass in the woods, but they feel barren. You hunt for even a hint that Mae has been there, but find not even footprints. The forest is quiet and empty. For the first time, you feel the loneliness of winter.

You trudge into the house, numb from cold and disbelief. Yixing looks equally as hollow. “Bingo's still here,” he says hoarsely. And the two of you collapse towards each other with the gravity of your anguish. Why is this happening, you wonder.

Later that night, you wander in Mae's room. Lying atop her pillow is a single brilliant snowflake and a white hare.

**

Spring marches in with a a triumph. The flowers are riotously beautiful—bashful pinks, velvety reds, radiant yellows, and inky purples. All the life that winter has lacked bursts forth with a vengeance. And still, Mae is gone.

Bingo spends most of his time outdoors now. The sight of him upsets Yixing, which in turn upsets you. But outside of your husband's sights, you take some comfort in the hare's presence. He joins you on walks through the forest, thin tethers to a time before. You while away most of your days there now.

Where you have turned to the forest, Yixing haunts the threshold to Mae's room. He doesn't go in. He simply stares, watching the snowflake that never melts. You suspect that he's waiting for the moment it disappears so he'll know exactly when Mae has returned.

Neither of you have been sleeping much, nor well. The house is quiet, as if it's waiting with the two of you. It feels like the first time she disappeared all over again. A part of you, one you can never confess having to Yixing, thinks that she will never come back. Not this time.

**

One morning, you awake and find Yixing gone. You frown and throw the bedsheets off. Yixing never gets up before me. You slip downstairs and find yourself standing in front of Mae's room. The snowflake is gone.

“Yixing?” you call out, with real concern now.

It is quiet still. A pot of coffee rests on the counter. A half-empty mug sits abandoned on the dining room table, the chair still pulled out.

The backdoor is open.

“No,” you gasp, and stagger outside.

Yixing is nowhere in sight, but you know he must be in the forest. What is he doing. You hesitate at the edge of the woods. You've spent hours amounting to days in this forest, and yet it suddenly appears to you a maze. He could be anywhere.

And then you hear it. A chorus of whistles. And like magic, a path marked by the red of cardinals appears before you. You hurtle along it, crashing through bracken and bramble, until you see the sight of a very familiar back.

Yixing whirls around. In his hands is the snowflake.

“Look here,” he says, pointing to the snowflake. “The gates are open.” You gaze at the snowflake. It is like ice, or glass—clear enough to see through to Yixing's palm on the other side. All six points of the snowflake are perfectly formed like castle spires or a knight's sword, and at its hub is a beautiful ice castle with open gates.

You look up at Yixing. “The gates weren't open before,” he says. “There's a path,” he continues, body already half-turning, “the hare....There!”

He takes off, and you see the flash of a hare disappearing in the distance.

The two of you race after Bingo. The world flashes by in colors and noise, simultaneously real and insubstantial. You feel the burn of your lungs, the jolt that goes up your legs with each stride. All you have to do is follow Yixing. He is a few feet in front of you until.

He isn't.

You try to stop, but your momentum carries you forward. You break through the edge of the trees and slide right over the edge of a blind ravine. You try reaching for the scraggliest tree you have ever seen jutting from the cliff face, but it uproots and you, and it, plummet

down

down

down

onto warmth. Thick white blankets your lap. Yixing sits ahead of you, looking just as shell-shocked as you feel.

“It's about time,” rumbles forth a voice from beneath. You realize all of a sudden that you are sitting astride the most gigantic white hare you have ever seen.

The hare comes to a halt, lowering itself. With a gentle shake, both you and Yixing are deposited on the ground.

You gape at your surroundings. It is starless night, yet everything is awash in a glow of blue. Frost blankets the world as far as your eye can see. Without the warmth of the hare, the cold bites deep into you, undeterred by the thin pajamas you had rushed out in.

A sudden wind blows, and you shield your eyes against it. A man, or something like it, lands before you. Wings arch away from his back and a small fount of feathers sprout from his red hair, whereas his eyebrows and beard are a trim black.

“Welcome, Starbearer. Welcome, Woodweaver.” His voice is musical.

You and Yixing stare perplexed at the winged man. He approaches Yixing first.

“Thank you for returning the First Star. We humbly accept this gift.”

For the snowflake in Yixing's palms had turned into a blazing light. Warmth radiates from it, reaching you even from where you stand. The man bows his head, cupping his hands beneath Yixing's and then pushes them both up. You watch as the star ascends from its cradle in Yixing's palms until it streaks into the night sky. It settles into place, and soon, begins to color night into day.

The man approaches you next.

“Thank you for returning the First Tree. We humbly accept this gift.”

This time, the man places his hands over yours and pushes down. The scraggly tree, which you had been holding onto all this time, immediately roots itself into the ground and begins to flower and leaf. Soft showers of iridescent petals drift around you.

Morning dawns over the land and sweeps the ice away. Grass has sprouted beneath your feet, and little flowers like fireworks burst into bloom. You gasp. In the distance, you catch sight of a familiar castle, with spires that spear the sky. It glimmers golden in the sunshine.

“I apologize. We have been looking for you for a long time, however your daughter was an unforeseen element that confounded our agents.” He gestures with a wing to two white-tailed deer and a white hare. “All this time, we expected it to be one person when we needed two.”  He shakes his head, feathers ruffling.  

“But I digress. You have brought with you the first new season. Starvale thanks you.”

The winged man observes you both for a moment, then gives a brisk nod, the plume at his front rising.

“Daddy!”

Like a reflex, Yixing drops and gathers Mae into his arms. You find yourself in the mix a moment later. You shake with sobs, pressed cheek to cheek with your daughter. Yixing pours kisses all over both of you, much to Mae's chagrin. She is wearing the same kind of garment as before, this one with real twigs and berries stitched into it. Some berries get crushed, staining the fabric around it in halos of red.

“Will you stay?” she asks. Her eyes are wide and watery, her little hands clutching fistfuls of Yixing's sweater.

“You have my heart,” Yixing answers, helplessly in love. “For the two loves of my life, I would capture every star in the sky if I had to.”

**

And so, the family stayed on in Starvale.

The Starbearer walked the lands to bring morning and night. The Woodweaver felled trees and scattered seeds to make the forests grow. And their Herald of Joy showed the world what great love is capable of.

** A/N: Thank you for reading! I’m grateful for this event, which has brought forth such wonderful content and connected creators across the fandom. This was my first crack at a kid fic, which was a great challenge. Thanks to chicken-fifi for being such a good sport, and sorry that I couldn’t send you more asks! Still, I hope you enjoyed. I look forward to more of your own writing!

Happy Holidays!

[bluecrusadearcade]

Harrison Osterfield is not your regular irregular

By Baker Street, Gentleman’s Journal quizzes the star of Netflix’s new drama on world records, Sherlock Holmes and his golf swing…

Draped in a silk shirt and paisley scarf, Harrison Osterfield is shivering his way across a brisk Regent’s Park. But he’s not complaining. Why would he? After all, the 24-year-old has dealt with worse. In his latest television series alone — Netflix’s The Irregulars — he’s tussled with demonic crows, paranormal serial killers and even the occult. So a little nip in the air? Nothing to worry about.

“I do have my eye on that jumper, though,” beams Osterfield from behind a bold pair of sunglasses. I don’t blame him. It’s a chunky-knit, funnel-neck number from Connolly, and the next piece of clothing lined up for this al fresco photoshoot. But, for now, the young actor must grit his chattering teeth — and continue striking willowy poses in that billowy shirt.

And those poses are turning heads. Dog-walkers, taxi drivers and tourists are all picking up on Osterfield’s energy; a coolly British blend of big grins and bouncy enthusiasm. He swings from a lamppost! He dances through daffodils! He feeds the pigeons! NW1 hasn’t seen this much action in months…

And we’ve come to Regent’s Park for obvious reasons; Baker Street snakes down from its south-west corner. And, on that famous thoroughfare, sits the fictional digs of Sherlock Holmes. But The Irregulars, a supernatural-tinged drama named for Holmes’ gang of trusty street informants, wasn’t shot in London. Rather, it was filmed on the authentically old streets of Sheffield and Liverpool — the same cobbles walked by the Peaky Blinder boys. So this, Osterfield grins, is a fun opportunity to see the real thing.

“All of the rest of the cast,” he admits, “are really big Sherlock fans. I’ve never really read any of the Sherlock books. I’ve seen maybe one Robert Downey Jr. film? So I was very new going into it.”

Today, then, will be a crash course. Because, after we get Osterfield out of the park (and into that jumper), we’re heading to the Holmes Hotel for a coffee and a catch-up. It’s a relatively new hotel just off Baker Street, decked out with knowing nods to the world’s greatest detective. There’s a bronze bulldog guarding the door, pipe-patterned wallpaper and signature cocktails at the sadly-closed bar (anyone for a ‘Case Closed’?).

But, though there are only suggestions of Sherlock in the Holmes Hotel, Osterfield explains that they’re even subtler in the show. Because The Irregulars, in a nutshell (wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma), sidelines the sleuth, and shifts the focus onto Osterfield and his fellow gang members. The actor plays one of the show’s leads; frail runaway nobleman Prince Leopold. All sullen glances and broken bones, his story is the heart of this first season.

“And it’s been a long project in the making,” says Osterfield, noting that filming on The Irregulars began almost two years ago. “That’s quite daunting. When you’ve spent that much time on something and you’ve got no idea how it’s going to turn out?

“It means that, now, it’s crunch time,” he continues, face creasing with mock-worry, “and I have no idea how people are going to react. But I’m really proud of the work, and that’s what I’m taking away from it.”

The Irregulars may be Osterfield’s first lead role — but he’s been acting for years, popping up in several short films and the George Clooney-directed adaptation of Catch-22 before Netflix took notice. His first role came at 11-years-old, when he was cast as Tiny Tim in his school’s stage production of A Christmas Carol. “It’s funny, actually,” says Osterfield, “because it’s quite a similar physicality to my role in The Irregulars”.

“But that’s where it started,” he continues. “And the real reason I got into acting was because there was this girl in the drama class who I really liked. I thought, if I joined up and impressed her, I could take her out on a date. That didn’t happen. But, although she wasn’t interested at all — the acting seems to be going okay!”

It certainly does. But, like actors all over the world, it’s been a very slow year for Osterfield. He returned to set in September to finish filming the Netflix show — but the rest of his lockdown was eerily, cannily familiar to everyone else’s.

“I went back to my home in Kingston,” he nods, “where I was living with three of my best mates who are also actors. Quite a few of my friends are in theatre, and they had a really tough time of it — not knowing what was going to happen next. I was very lucky, knowing that I was going back to finish something”.

The actor says it was strange being locked-down with fellow performers. With sets closed around the country and curtains falling on theatres, it was one of the first times they had all been at home together. But, even with the additional pressure, he says there were no problems. And there never have been, according to Osterfield — as it’s rare that he and his friends ever compete for the same role.

“We’re all very different castings!” he laughs. “Which is good. It’s a mixed bag, really. But it’s very useful when you’ve got to self-tape an audition and there’s another actor literally upstairs. Also, we’ve all known each other for ten years, so we’ve grown up together and, luckily, know when not to push each other’s buttons.”

With no work, Osterfield spent most of his 2020 getting stuck into lockdown. And he shamelessly tried every self-isolated stereotype. He binge-watched every sports documentary from Drive to Survive to Last Chance U. He upped the frequency and intensity of his workouts. He even tried his hand at cooking. He tried everything.

“I did try everything!” the actor laughs, fizzing once more with that lamppost-swinging, daffodil-dancing energy. “Really! I think I went though every lockdown activity there is. I gave baking a go for two weeks — that didn’t work out. I made a banana bread and that was it. I’m not going to be delving into that any more…

“We were quite lucky, though,” he adds, “because we had an outdoor space. We built a homemade golf net in our garden, by putting up two wooden poles and hanging a blue screen we had left over from filming. That kept us entertained most days”.

But, despite the failed banana breads, closed-off golf courses and Irregulars anxiety, Osterfield says that the worst thing about lockdown was missing his family.

“Because we’re a very close family”, he explains. “Massively so. And, usually, we’d have family gatherings every other weekend – my whole family are in East Grinstead and closer to Brighton, so real countryside. I’m honestly just looking forward to the day, with summer on the horizon, that we can do some good barbecues outside.

“We even tried family Zoom quizzes over lockdown,” he adds, “and they all figured out that I’m not that clever. The rest of my family all seem really, really intelligent. I don’t know if they were just revising beforehand, but I was definitely last a couple of times…”

And Osterfield’s most inspiring family member — not to mention the most irregular — is his 89-year-old grandfather. Despite the young actor upping his own fitness levels during lockdown (“I started doing handstand push-ups. That’s my new skill!”) Osterfield’s grandfather put those athletic achievements to shame.

“He’s fitter than me!” laughs Osterfield. “He’s been kept at home for most of the time and, as a family, we’ve been quite worried about him. But I struggle to keep up with him. I’ll ring him up and ask how his day’s going and he’ll say ‘Oh, hi Harry. Can I call you back later on? I’m just doing some exercise’. So he’s doing better than okay!”

But the exercising, Osterfield says seriously, has been a real lifeline. It’s kept both him and his mind busy during lockdown — and has motivated the actor to pursue more physical, active roles in the future. If he can look back at a body of versatile work, measured out in marked body transformations, he says he’ll be happy.

“I’ve been doing a lot of bodyweight exercise over the last year,” he nods. “I thought it would be quite cool, while in lockdown, to break a world record for something — so I’ve been trying lots of fitness challenges. I’m very close to getting the most burpee chin-ups in under a minute. I’ve got to knuckle down on that.

“I also tried to eat an apple in under 38 seconds,” he laughs. “Which sounds like a long time, but it’s actually quite difficult. And, with apples, I eat everything. Even the middle bit. Even the stem. I just chuck it down. I’m a big fruit bat, so I eat everything apart from the seeds.”

There’s that bouncy energy again; that fun-but-utterly-sincere enthusiasm. It’s an odd thing for an actor, to be so happily unabashed by everything — but the 24-year-old is as animated when talking about his acting as he is about his apples. And that’s nice to see. He’s clearly relishing every opportunity to better himself, and just getting started with what promises to be a very exciting career. Harrison Osterfield, it seems, takes every bite of the apple — literally. Talk about irregular.

[hiccanna-tidbits]

So y’all seem to like my Moanida aesthetics, so...*smashes glass against the ground* ANOTHER!

I was struck by a sudden inspiration last night and remembered the memes about how the next batch of gay fanfiction is gonna all be quarantine-themed, and BOOM it was time to make a “Moana and Merida are roommates who get quarantined together and fall in love” moodboard! This one complete with a list of headcanons I wrote to go with it :D

~With the beaches, lakes, and pools closed, Moana misses swimming and sailing SO MUCH and resorts to fancy aromatherapy flower baths to still get her “submerged in water” fix. Merida buys her a little plastic boat partly as a joke, saying “here, lassie, ‘t least yeh can sail that one!” One day, Merida is walking past the bathroom while Moana is taking one of her flower baths, and she  overhears Mo making boat noises and dramatically narrating the Adventures of Moana the Epic Sailor before pretending the be a vengeful ocean goddess and sinking the entire ship. Merida grins so big her face can barely hold it because that’s the cutest shit she’s ever seen. Besides, she’s not about to judge--the quarantine is making everyone go a little crazy.

~Merida is the kind of person who likes to constantly stay active as much as she can--whether that’s going to archery ranges, going on runs, or hitting the gym. The roughest part of quarantine for her is being cooped up inside with barely any space to move around, so Moana buys her some home exercise equipment so the poor redhead doesn’t go totally insane. Whenever Merida lifts weights or does stretches, Moana is her biggest cheerleader.

~Merida has had the same stuffed horse, Angus, since she was a kid, but of course she hides him in the darkest depths of her room during the day because she wouldn’t be caught dead harboring even one stuffed animal. One day, Merida doesn’t hide him well enough and Moana catches a glimpse of him through Merida’s open door. Poor Merida is mortified, terrified Moana will never believe she’s tough again. Quite the contrary--Moana is delighted, and upon seeing Angus instantly goes “A new friend!!!! :D” Moana campaigns for Angus to become the new apartment mascot and Merida, after quite a bit of convincing, agrees. Angus earns a spot as the new centerpiece on the kitchen table. Sometimes Moana likes to make him little flower crowns.

~Merida would never in roughly 10,000 years admit it for how unduly “feminine” and “domestic” it makes her look, but she’s actually a pretty incredible baker. Her little brothers are absolute FIENDS for empire biscuits, and for years Merida and her mom have been making lots of them for the boys’ birthday. One day, upon seeing Moana especially bummed out from being away from the ocean for so long, Merida makes her a big batch to cheer her up. Moana is absolutely wowed by how good they are, and begs Merida to teach her how to make them. Merida reluctantly agrees. By the end of the experience, there is flour and icing all over their kitchen...but it’s totally worth it.

~Tui and Sina have taught Moana how to make some INCREDIBLE homemade tropical cocktails. Naturally, the girls get to a point in the quarantine when they both start drinking a little more just to keep from getting bored. Moana decides this is a good opportunity to teach Merida how to make said tropical cocktails, partly because hey, if they’re going to drink anyways, might as well drink the good stuff, and partly to repay Merida for teaching her how to make the empire biscuits. Turns out Merida has some apparent natural talent for mixology, and together they whip up more tropical cocktails than they really have any right to.

~The first night they do this, they celebrate by both getting extremely drunk and binging Broadway bootlegs. During the romantic numbers, a bit of drunk kissing may or may not have happened. Both claim the next day that they blacked out and don’t remember anything that happened after like 11 pm. Both are lying.

~Merida has known she was a lesbian since she was like 16 (I imagine the girls are like early 20s in this AU) but she’s got a fear of commitment and would never even ENTERTAIN the idea of something as long-term as marriage, mainly because she’s terrified it would take away a lot of her freedom. She’s hooked up with lots of girls and had a few short-term flings, but she’s never been in a serious relationship before. Moana, meanwhile, just...hasn’t really given much thought at all to her sexuality or romance in general, mainly because she’s always had better things to do. Because of this, the tingling sensation they now get whenever they see each other or accidentally brush hands passing in the hallway is a rather alarming development for both. Mo has never had a crush on really anyone before, and Merida, well...she’s had dozens of crushes, sure, but never a serious one.

~They end up making tropical cocktails and getting drunk together as a regular thing. Friday night becomes Cocktail Night. On the next Cocktail Night, Moana drunkenly decides she’s going to teach Merida some traditional Polynesian dance, even going so far as to cobble together a poorly-made grass skirt and flower crown for the redhead. Merida can feel her heart speed up a little every time Moana puts her hands on her waist or her arms to try and show her how to do certain dance moves. As soon as Mer realizes what’s going on, she’s just like “...oh. Oh no.”

~Merida suggests a karaoke night solely so she has an excuse to listen to Moana sing. Merida secretly thinks Moana has the most beautiful singing voice she’s ever heard in her life, even when drunkenly singing along to Broadway bootlegs. She tries to play it off by playfully teasing Moana about it, rolling her eyes and saying things like “Yeh’ve got thae voice of ae siren, lass, yeh know that, right?” Meanwhile, behind closed doors, Merida fantasizes about sexy siren Moana leaping out of the ocean with the moon glinting off her scales, come to save Merida from drowning or something else equally romantic. Merida tells absolutely no one about this.

~One Cocktail Night, they put on some nature documentaries (partly so Moana can chip in with the ridiculously large amount of marine biology trivia she knows). Merida comes back from the bathroom to find Moana drunkenly full-on sobbing because the current documentary is showing a bunch of baby turtles struggling to make it to the ocean and several being picked up by various birds and other predators. Poor Moana is sprawled out on their couch, wailing “IT’S NOT FAIR, MER...THEY’RE SO SMALL...SO SMALL...” over and over. Merida hugs her tight and consoles her to the best of her ability and also gets far too much pleasure from feeling Moana’s boobs up against her tbh.

That’s all I can think of for now! Pic credits available upon request!

[hlootooart]

Hey there! So here's my take on how the ink machine works, as well as some headcannons. It's more symbolic than others, but....meh, it was fun.

The way I see it, what if the whole "lack of a soul thing" was more on how they were created? Like, the reason why the creations come out so corrupted, is because Joey is trying to create life through a lifeless medium. Hear me out. You know how people tend to dislike factory made items, as opposed to homemade? There's a world of a difference between a cake made on a conveyor belt and one on a kitchen counter. The latter has care, time, and quality put into it by human hands— it was created. While the former was cobbled together with whatever ingredients would suffice to be supplied on demand, maybe touched by some hands— it was manufactured.

This can also be an allegory for artists. When you want to make something of good quality, it takes more than snazzy materials. It takes effort. Effort Joey failed to supply. I don't know what he provided for Bendy's creation, most likely a simple sketch, but I'm guessing a cutout (could explain his size). He just chucked it in a machine and crossed his fingers for a miracle. If I were one of those gods he was ranting about...I'd be offended. That's probably why Bendy came out all wonky and disfigured. Joey was basically trying to squeeze blood from a stone, in the most hands-off way possible.

I think this explanation fits in with Joey Drew's character. He's a man that doesn't care about quality so much as results. He has big aspirations but never takes the time to temper and hone them into something worth while. For crying out loud, the dude's first response to losing money, was to spend more of it! And after Bendy's botched birth, he just said 'f*** it' and started chucking even more garbage into the machine in a vain attempt at achieving perfection, pissing off the gods even more.

(Seriously, what the heck was he thinking when making the Butcher Gang?)

(Where the heck did that plunger come from?! Why is it there?!)

(The fishing rod for Barley/Fisher makes sense...)

(...but what is that thing on Edgar/Striker's arm, a giant corkscrew?! WTF Joey?!)

But most offensive of all, was the fact that he commits one of, if not the, biggest art sin one can commit:

PLAGIARISM.

Taking that which belonged to others, and staging it as his own.

Every character he tried to bring to life was someone else's, namely Henry's. The only exception being the Butcher Gang as they're not listed as his, but I highly doubt Drew made them either. (I have my own headcannon for that though.) He screwed Henry even further by naming the company after himself. In fact, all his achievements were stolen from others. Even the supplying of actual souls represents plagiarism. He is literally stealing the life force and personalities of others to power his own selfish desires— that he also stole! Heck, even before that he sacrificed the time and well-being of his employees so bad they had to have an infirmary installed, complete with round the clock doctors.

He stole (or at least tried to steal) the acclaim of Bendy Land from Bertram Piedmont:

"For forty years, I've built attractions that stagger the imagination! Colossal wonders such as the world has never seen! I have earned my legacy with sweat. But right in front of everyone... high level investors, Wall Street tycoons, the ever-tactless Joey Drew introduces me, the great Bertrum Piedmont, as Bertie! Like I was his child. You may be paying me, Mister Drew! But you don't own me! I'll build you a park bigger than anything YOU could ever possibly conceive! But before you go taking any bows, Mister Drew, know that this grand achievement will belong to me... and to me alone."

— Bertrum's 1st audio log

and the credit of the ink machine from Thomas Connor. And if SuperHorrorBro from YouTube's theories on the ritual items is to be believed, then he had to group in other people's talents and jobs to appease the gods, because his alone wasn't enough.

And yet, I don't think a human soul was still enough; as Buddy, Tom, Allison, and Susie prove. Physically, Tom and Buddy were perfect (particularly Buddy), but personality wise Tom was very different. It's hard to tell with Buddy however, but in the book at least he was still mostly there. Maybe Joey lucked up and found just the right "formula" that happened to work just for Borris, or maybe the gods were just feeling impishly cruel, and gave him false hope.

Meanwhile, Susie failed at first, and had to repair herself by consuming the hearts of others (there's that plagiarist metaphor again!); and while Allison was more "perfect", she clearly looked nothing like the real Alice Angel. She was more of a caricature than an actual cartoon. Other than them, most of the poor souls who were sacrificed devolved into inky abominations. I like to think at around this point the gods were truly fed up and abandoned Joey more so than they had already.

I also like to think that they're gods of Life and Creativity. Joey had the first part down-pat, but flunked the other hard...and it cost everyone dearly. Because if you half-ass the gods they will half-ass you.

The saddest part is, Bendy was calm in the beginning. Unsightly, maybe, but not hostile. But because Joey was such a controlling despot, he locked him away and imposed his own vision on him. He chained him to a chair and played the cartoons on repeat until he would act like the way Joey wanted him to (going off of SuperHorrorBro again). In Dreams Come to Life Buddy heard him crying...

....CRYING.

Who knows how different things would've been if Joey just put some decent involvement into Bendy. Perhaps he could've become something even better than what he planned. But it doesn't matter I suppose, because the bottom line is that Bendy is Henry's creation, not his.

Nothing was his.

He was not only a liar, but an incredible thief too.

TL;DR Joey Drew took the whole "souls" thing waaaaay too literally.

(Who told him that anyway?)

Shoutout to SuperHorrorBro on YouTube for inspiration. [SuperHorrorBro BATIM Live|https://youtu.be/b2ZZBkfbUDE]

[What did Bendy want?|https://youtu.be/VenV5yp5HmM]

Photos from the Bendy fandom wiki

[vickyvicarious]

well now I have to headcanon that Killian enjoys cooking

(Regarding this gifset.)

Anon I agree. I very much agree. To a... schmoopy amount, so prepare yourself.

.

Emma spent most of her adult life living alone, and a decent amount of her childhood essentially raising herself. She’s gained a lot of skills from those experiences - the useful but depressing stuff, like clocking liars and abusers from ten paces, how to get a good deal at a pawn shop, how to shoplift, to break into cars, how to fill the silence with music so loud you stop thinking about how lonely you are, how to fire a gun, exactly how far ten dollars can stretch if you need. Sure, she’s learned all that.

But some of the stuff is just plain useful. Emma’s known for a long time how to manage her money, how to do laundry, how to keep a house clean, how to sew up rips in your clothes to make them last longer, how to cook. Some of those skills she hasn’t needed in a long time, and others she doesn’t use much just because she doesn’t like to, and she no longer has to. Still, even if she doesn’t especially love cooking, for example, she isn’t actually forced to live on takeout. Before Storybrooke, that was more of... a choice.

(Eating alone in your own home has never been something she’s liked. At least in a bar or a restaurant, she could hear other people, watch them.)

Living with Mary-Margaret, she wound up cooking a little more often, and during her time in New York she remembers making dinner with Henry most days. He was pretty awful in the kitchen himself, could burn water, so she didn’t let him do anything too important, but it was more about the companionship. Even having him doing his homework in the kitchen while she whipped something up was just as good. Sure, there was still pretty regular order-in days, and they ate out sometimes, but for the most part they actually had real meals together. She remembers making a decision to do that when he was still small, to always set aside this time to cook and eat together and share their days. 

It was a curse memory, fake, but Emma liked that routine. Even after moving back to Storybrooke, at least once everything eventually settled, she tries to keep that going. She still doesn’t especially love cooking - it’s more about the end result for her, having that time to sit down together as a family and enjoy something you made together.

So when she and Killian started living together, she made sure to tell him. Emma wanted him to know everything that mattered to her, wanted him to be involved in it. She... also wanted to know ahead of time, if he was terrible in the kitchen and shouldn’t be allowed anywhere nearby. His other household skills were a bit of a hit-or-miss. He was really good at cleaning, but could never remember when to take the trash out. Maybe she expected him not to have any skill with plumbing or cleaning out the gutters, or using a washing machine, and to be fair he learned those all pretty quickly, but she was surprised when it turned out Killian didn’t know how to fold anything neatly. If a lightbulb went out, he usually just ignored it, lit an actual gas lantern if there wasn’t enough light. He actually had a lot of interest in how to decorate the house, but hated changing the thermostat for some reason, preferring to just wear more layers if it got cold. 

Anyway, the point was - she was pretty sure he’d be fine with the idea of family dinners, knew he’d be willing to help even if it were just via setting and clearing the table and doing the grocery shopping, but she wasn’t sure if he’d be interested in actually making the food. And more than that, she wasn’t sure he’d be any good. He had, after all, lived most of his life on ships that had actual cooks to take care of that kind of thing. It might just be something he couldn’t do.

She definitely didn’t expect the way his face lit up at the idea.

“That sounds brilliant, love,” he told her. “You’ll show me how to use everything?”

Of course she agreed, and Killian had always been a quick learner (which was why she kept finding herself surprised at the chores he never seemed to pick up). So the way she only had to explain each modern cooking implement once was not a surprise. He was good with a knife, so she put him on veggie duty, and they made a simple but tasty chicken dish. Nothing unusual, pretty much the kind of cooking she always did. Quick and easy, healthy enough, didn’t taste amazing but definitely not terrible either.

When they sat down to dinner Killian’s face did... something.

It wasn’t quite a sneer.

It also wasn’t quite not a sneer.

“Well, it’s alright,” he said.

.

Those comments became increasingly common over the next few days. Emma’s pasta sauce was “a tad runny, but not bad,” and her tacos “could use a bit more spice,” and her ribeyes were “perhaps a little too long on the stove, love?” and her Sunday morning pancakes needed “a splash more buttermilk, I suspect.” Killian wasn’t picky, he ate every bite, and he didn’t exactly nag her about her cooking. Just one or two comments, not necessarily even directed at her so much as him musing aloud about the food. But every side dish he made tasted amazing, even if it was just a simple salad, and he very clearly had opinions and it wasn’t like Emma even liked cooking all that much anyway. She’d never claimed to be a genius at it. But she’d never admitted to being bad either, and the little snubs over and over got increasingly irritating until one day she just snapped that he should be in charge of dinner then, if he cared so much.

Killian instantly looked contrite.

“I don’t want to step on your toes, love,” he said. “If you enjoy cooking - just maybe another shake of the pepper next time -”

“I don’t like cooking,” Emma snarled, “I just like eating together. Except I’m liking it a lot less when I’m constantly getting criticized!”

“Oh,” he said, a little taken aback. “Oh. Well, then.”

And then he completely took over.

It started with him making her own staple recipes, just being the one in charge of the actual meals. He told her she didn’t have to help if she didn’t want to, and Emma was pissed enough to agree that she wouldn’t. Except then the simple pan chicken she’d been making for ten years came out tasting like it never had before, and there was this sort of lemon-y sauce with it? And he’d made asparagus and some kind rice pilaf thing as well, and even though he claimed he’d just “tweaked it a little” it was so clearly a completely different meal. A better meal. Definitely.

He went through all her favorites like that, completely elevating them beyond anything Emma had ever dreamed of making herself. They took longer, of course, but unlike her he didn’t care. He’d be in there for an hour or more; she’d hear him singing sea shanties to himself as he kneaded homemade bread. Whenever she (begrudgingly, at first) complimented his cooking he’d get this very sweet smile on his face. He rarely seemed satisfied with his own efforts either, still making little comments about how it was a shame the bread had come out a little too chewy, after all -

It was ridiculous. And that was before he started trying to recreate various meals he’d eaten over the course of his long life, a wide variety of vastly different foods he cobbled together from memory and instinct alone. She started helping him out more often, definitely over her irritation at this point and dipping right into fascination. She liked to watch him think, the way he’d dip his hook into a sauce then suck on the tip with his brows knitted together, before adding a little more of some seasoning or other. Now that he was in charge and no longer holding back out of respect for her feelings - or whatever the hell he’d been doing at the start - he’d talk through his decisions. Whether that was muttering aloud about needing more garlic, or telling a long and convoluted story about the first time he’d had this particular curry in a tiny dockside tavern and then delayed leaving port until he could at least partially figure out the recipe from taste alone - thus setting off a chain of events that led directly to his first near-death experience at the hands of mermaids. When he’d come back five years later, the tavern was gone.

Their spice cabinet grew, and their fridge filled up. The pantries too, and the cooking implements, though that happened more gradually. They’d started off with a coffee machine that automatically brewed a pot every morning; five months into living together, Killian acquired a French press and, always an early riser, ground beans himself every morning as she woke up. By the time she got out of the shower and downstairs, he would hand her a cup with exactly the right temperature, flavor, and timing. This went along with the breakfast he’d made, of course.

Emma bought him a set of cookbooks for Christmas; Henry got him some kind of complicated food processor that led to a sharp increase in soups and smoothies and sauces. His repertoire increased. Instead of going to Grannies for New Year’s Eve, they had a party for their family, and Killian went all-out on making a giant feast with Emma and Henry as his hapless assistants. She tried to tell him New Year’s was really more about partying than dinner, but he insisted he didn’t care and made a roast. It was obviously delicious, everyone who hadn’t had much of Killian’s cooking yet lost their minds a little and he alternated between incredibly smug and that familiar bashful grin. Later, they had some kind of pudding for dessert, and played board games for a while until everyone had digested enough to actually move - only then did more traditional festivities commence. They drank, danced, sang, all watched the ball drop and shouted the countdown together; and Emma kissed Killian at midnight, feeling a sharp burst of joy that finally, she could have something like this. Starting a new year surrounded by those she loved, and who loved her back, laughing giddily and dancing together with her parents and her son and the man she’d fallen so so hard for.

But even that paled, honestly, to the next morning. They hadn’t bothered with attempting to clean up, just waved everyone out the door where they’d stumbled down the street in a loud, happy cluster. Emma’d sent Henry to bed, then grabbed Killian and yanked him to their bed, and they hadn’t gone to sleep right away at all. When she did eventually fall asleep, it was blissful and slow, sated in every possible way - and well into the night.

When she woke up, late, it was to an empty bed, sunlight filling up the room. Going downstairs, she heard that familiar low croon from the kitchen; stepped over the streamers still scattered on the living room floor and rounded the corner to see Henry slumped at the table, yawning over a plate of pancakes. Killian at the stove, timing his song to a flip of the newest pancake. She could see blueberries in it. Coffee and orange juice waiting for her at the table. Bacon. Three different kinds of syrup.

Emma started crying.

Henry jerked up out of his chair, rushing to her in a panic. He held her arms and called her over and over, “Mom, mom, what is it?”. Killian moved the pan off the heat so it wouldn’t burn then came over to her too, gently touching her arm. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her.

“Mom, please,” Henry said, and pulled her into a hug - and he was so tall now, so much bigger than he’d been when he found her all that time ago. “Tell us how we can help.”

She shook her head, unable to speak clearly enough to explain they already had, that absolutely nothing was wrong and it hadn’t been for a while now. She didn’t know how to tell them exactly how monumental it felt, walking in here and seeing them both calmly engaged in such a familiar routine. How she’d woken up alone and had been doing so for months and never once worried Killian was gone. She knew he was downstairs, making breakfast.

Emma didn’t know how to say this was the moment she finally realized she had made a home, found a family, and that neither was ever going to be taken away. She didn’t even know why this was that moment, after all the more significant events they’d been through. It didn’t make sense that her deepest doubts would suddenly be banished by a simple breakfast she’d had countless times before.

“You made my favorite,” she sobbed instead, hugging Henry back tightly. She pressed her cheek into his hair, reached out to catch Killian’s hand and tried to blink past her tears to meet his gaze. “I-it’s my favorite breakfast.”

So stupid. So insignificant, after everything, so small, so - so important somehow, the most important thing in the world. Killian had made her favorite breakfast. Henry was there to eat it. Emma hadn’t cooked herself or asked him to make blueberry pancakes specifically or for either of hem to share this moment with her, hadn’t done anything besides sleep in. And it didn’t matter. Here they were, and Henry was always sleepy in the mornings but affectionate still, and Killian’s cooking was delicious and he always sang during and Emma loved them both so much.

Henry held onto her tightly, swayed on the spot a little. Killian reached out to wipe away her tears. He moved his hand to Henry’s shoulder, squeezed gently until he stilled, and then touched the back of his hook gently to her cheek and leaned over Henry to kiss her. Soft and slow.

“I know, Emma,” he told her after, smiling so soft and his voice rough with emotion. Emma had no doubt that he understood exactly what she meant; that he knew just what she couldn’t say and he felt that wonder too. That same incredible contentment, somehow more stunning than the fiercest joy. “I know.”

[thewreckkelly]

Brendan Behan, Nurses & Invalids 

In the course of discourse last Wednesday - it being here on the temperate southern coast of Espanola – the sun held court in a clear sky, the mood was light, the topics tidy and tame allowing high quality / low cost coffee, cervezas and vino to flow  unabated until the tolling metaphorical bell of COVID curfew sounded.

The party was within the legal limit of six and composed in the comfort of those who have an affinity for such a gathering along with an obligation to participate in argument, debate and shared laughter.

An enquiry was forwarded concerning long playing records or albums or CD’s or downloads – depending on one’s vintage and use of expression – which had made a personal impact beyond the moment, or even the era, and continued to colour thinking to the extent of influence ...... in simpler terms; ‘what are your top five albums of all time girls and boys?’

Despite generally having serious objections, (unvoiced on this particular occasion), to limiting all or any artistic expressions I have heard and felt throughout my life to a list of favourites – not possible ... no .... definitely not possible – I accepted the premise of this parlour game and became a good listener as those around me were rapidly definitive in choice only to, equally rapidly – as they heard the selections of others – realise such a table was not as easy to compile as an order of drinks for the table we were being hosted at.

Brendan Behan once said that people come in two baskets; ‘Nurses & Invalids’, and that was never more apparent when listening to the voices and changing choices my fellow ‘pop pickers’ were visibly consumed by. I don’t know why I suddenly thought of this quote, but I do know this, it took me on a journey.

-o- 

Back when I was bordering on adolescent awareness, a friend of the family – a very accomplished fiddle player by the name of Tom Potts – came up to our house one Sunday evening to be recorded by my Dad.

It was a time in Ireland when traditional music was neither popular nor profitable and my old Man, (fancying himself as the Dublin George Martin looking for the next big thing), had cobbled together, in the front room, a recording set-up of an old Philips reel to reel, a solid state Sony amp, homemade speaker cabinets with highly magnetic cones attracted to feedback and a couple of battered mic’s he’d procured from a friend at the Olympia Theatre; ‘they’ll be grand Mattie, just a bit on the temperamental side, as you’d expect, given their age an all’.

With wires everywhere and pillows from every bedroom strategically placed to ‘baffle’, (whatever that meant), the whole thing became an exercise in endurance and excessive use of the vernacular – if we thought the annual ritual of putting lights on the Christmas tree was a trial, (in me Da’s frustration and bad temper), then we were in for a shocking reality that night.

Anyway .....

When the deed was done, the whole family was summoned to sit around the good table and take in a playback performance of the evening’s artistic industry. The tunes, to the best of my memory were ‘The Coolin’, ‘The Blackbird’ and ‘Saddle the Pony’.

Having just recently discovered David Bowie and The Velvet Underground I found the whole experience excruciating but, in the manner of beaten down social etiquette, made the appropriate gestures and noises of acclaim like the rest of the sheep comprising that limited audience.

As Tom was leaving, flushed and fulfilled in the role of recorded artist, he interrupted the farewells and asked for a minute while he got something out of his car. Returning he handed an LP to my Dad with the sentiment;

‘This is the sort of rubbish we’re up against Mattie, have a listen if you can bear it’ 

The album was not new – I later learned it was fifteen years or so old – and my Dad for no apparent reason did not feel inclined to share anything about it once he’d glanced at the title and artist, instead of which he tucked it under his arm and disappeared back to his ‘recording’ studio.

I asked my Mam later and she cautiously explained; ‘Daddy was going to listen to it first to make sure it was all right’.  

Curiosity being immediately piqued I countered with the obvious; ‘Why?’ 

‘Because the man who is on the record is someone your Daddy doesn’t trust to be heard by children’ 

As a 14/15 year old I didn’t consider myself a child and of course I was immediately on a mission.

-o- 

So here I was, being a touch mesmerised by my Spanish cafe society, congregated on a terrace of a small cafe on the border of Fuengirola, each and every soul enunciating well remembered classic albums with over-zealous eulogy and gentle critique in unequal measure – while all the while my head was back in the good room of the house I grew up in, remembering seizing the first opportunity to be alone into the evening to listen surreptitiously on BOSE headphones to the recordings of a man my Dad doubted as an artist and influencer.

And amid all the noise of luminaries from Mozart to The Beatles - along with everyone else, that deserve listing, being thrown in for good measure and reason – I was honestly lost to the surrounding conversation as I replayed in my distracted mind what I could remember from back then of - what is essentially - a drunken ramble in the unique voice of a Dublin, (and Dubliner), on the cusp of being changed and lost for better or worse.

-o- 

The record was produced in 1959 by a fella with the grand name of; Arthur Luce Klein and recorded by a less exotically titled engineer; Peter Hunt. The artist is Brendan Behan and there are, in total, fourteen songs, (or bits of songs anyway),  performed a-capella with a peppering of satirical and self absorbed comedic explanation and bar-room philosophy included for God only knows why - not the hint of a played instrument throughout.

-o- 

I made no mention of such a pleasurable guilty choice to my fellow reflectors as they collectively selected the great and good formally recorded released music has to offer – it just wasn’t the time nor the place.

However, I made it my mission, (again), to find this displaced memory online

And so it was I found myself, (once again), sitting alone later that evening in shades of long time past, listening and reflecting and never once wondering why something so acquired works as a Top Number Something for me – and sure isn’t that the precise point of these things?