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cetaceans-pls · 2 months ago

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Free Balling, Free Whaling

written for qwerty in thanks for their generous donation towards @dcufans4palestine 's recent charity drive! thanks again for taking part, and thank you to the mods for organising this event :')

qwerty, your request was both detailed and open-ended, and this turns out is the Perfect Recipe for me to go crazy. hope you enjoy this!

Sometimes, your community is you, a seal you've never actually met, a number of late-night service industry workers, 2 former grad students, and a lady who’s a leggy killer whale on land. Sometimes, that’s plenty.

Rated T, Gen, Jason Todd-centric. Read on Ao3 below:

or read here on tumblr below the cut:

See, the thing is, for all that Gothamites take Great Big Pride in being stone cold motherfuckers, they are in fact suckers for a pretty face.

And it’s hard to get prettier, sweeter, than a goddamn all-natural harbour seal that gets spotted off of Pleico Beach, in clear view of like the 10 million people enjoying this day of unbearable sun in Gotham, sweet-faced women in cute bikinis and middle-aged men in cute broadshorts all braving the sharp pebbles of the beach with just a beach towel between body and gravel, all scampering up to take ten thousand pictures of a wee face in the near distance peeking out at them.

Jason had laughed himself sick, because the appearance of a harbour seal in the bay had upstaged what had been quite a big spectacle of a thing with the joker and his 12 joker-lite disciples doing some weird biblical (?) reenactment at the Cathedral while they tried to steal some holy relic. Jason’s well-read but bibles had been so ubiquitously pressed upon him by well(?)-meaning church types in his messy youth that he’d never gotten ‘round to reading it, so he's unclear on the reference, but also there hadn’t been much time to analyse the tableau the guys had made, since:

i) Batwoman had massacred them right quickly because she'd been waiting for a date in the area and didn't appreciate the police presence;

and

ii) The nightly news had covered the incident with one (1) grainy still of the gang in some weird robes in the sepulcre for about 8 seconds before dedicating entire 20-minute blocks to coverage of Sheila the Harbour Seal, complete with marine biologists and seal-holograms.

Gotham Bay used to be a thing of nightmares, the way much of Gotham had been a thing of nightmares not even 2 decades ago, but under the stern but loving hand of Wayne Enterprise, both have recovered with a steely exuberance that makes bone-deep Gothamites feel Some Type of Way. Jason remembers being young and sitting at the docks illegally fishing for squid to sell to Alberta (the sole stalwart fishmonger based in the Narrows, most similar in appearance to a deep sea thing with a gaunt face and alarming teeth, who had a tendency to donate leftovers to the soup kitchen on 54th and Hertz, single-handedly making the residents of one of the most under-served parts of Gotham shockingly competent authorities of good proper fish stews), and how there would be a crust of muck and algae and blood audibly thunking against the wooden supports.

He’s still got a thumb bone at home, the first one he’d found on the beach back in the day when the mafias really acted like they had the right to run Gotham ragged, dumping bodies like it’s their civic duty, and he’s pretty sure most people around his age and the income-bracket of his youth have got one of these historical, hysterical souvenirs.

So to’ve gone from that, all of that, to Pleico Beach now hosting young families and harbour seals alike…. Christ. Now that’s biblical (maybe).

Jason’s not the biggest fan of crowds, though, and also feels some amount of toxic embarrassment to be caught in public trying to catch sight of some gal. This is why he’s here on his squid dock at 3 o’clock in the morning with his Bat-grade night-vision goggles, twice already blinding his own damn self when he’d pulled out his phone to google seal behaviour and inadvertently blasting his retinas with the brightness of his screen.

Probably should’ve checked and realised the little lady is likely less active at night before he got himself out here, but it’s not like it’s some great loss to just be out in the spray, chilled to the bone because he’s got Red Hood’s top on but just shorts on the bottom and late-summer/early-fall nights in Gotham can be so so frigid and so so loving. He’s halfway to wondering if he can find, like, a safety pin or something, tie it to the grappling wire he’s got in his right boot and do some squid-fishing for old times’ sake when there’s an almighty splash! at the end of the dock, and heavy ker-thunk! of something slamming into it.

Man, just how damn big is Sheila? And nowhere in any of the articles did it say that harbour seals had a 20 foot vertical leap! Jason’s up and running towards the end, imagination quickly conjuring up an image of Sheila with a nipped tail, having made an almighty jump onto the dock to escape a predator, though what large predator can survive Gotham Bay even in her current condition is a question and a half all by itself, and-

Uh.

Jason blinks, then takes off the night vision goggles to blink again.

Uhm.

A Large Predator, a veritable Eater of Seals, a killer whale with hands and knees and feet blinks at him back.

“Uh,” Jason says dumbly. Is this an undersea god type of situation? In which case he really wishes he’d brought his comms with him so that he could get Oracle to page Aquaman, emergency in aisle 3 (an orca’s evolved to have arms and legs by the frozen peas). “Is this a beaching?” he asks, possibly to the creature, possibly to whatever higher being might be listening. Deep deep inside, in that place that feels a certain giddy pleasure when Gotham wrings him dry and makes him come back for seconds, he’s a little warmly astonished that this many years of duty in and there’s still so damn much to be surprised by. “Are you okay?’ he says next, and manfully resists making clicking noises like a bad impression of a dolphin.

His mouth says these reasonably thoughtful things, but his body’s crouched low, ready for a judo grapple against this being that’s got to have at least 100 pounds on him (and he’s already a man of many pounds).

This orca-person somehow manages, with no eyebrows and no lips, to look at him warily. “I’m good. Are you?” they ask him right back, and whatever one might imagine a whale sounds like in English, one would be wrong. It’s like hearing a jackhammer suffering through conjugation, like the twang of a musical saw through the crispy static of a bad mobile connection.

It’s unbearable how in 4 words Jason knows with Absolute Certainty that this creature is a Gothamite, though. Who else says ‘good’ like it has 12 syllables? He finds himself relaxing, and straightens up. “Can’t say I was expecting, uh, you, but I’m not doing so bad. I’m Jason, are you in trouble?"

They look at him with the beady black eyes, body tensed and massive and toothy and packed dense with muscle rounded out with hearty blubber. They seem to come to a decision, and shrug shoulders like rounded mountains. “I was just out for a swim to check on the seal. Uh.” For the first time since their appearance, the great orca seems at a little bit of a loss. “I’m. Orca?”

Jason can’t help a chuckle, can’t hold it back now that’s fully fully clear that he’s not about to have to fight This Creature. “I’m happy with calling you Orca, but if you have a preferred name, and,” he very politely does not look downwards, “pronouns, stuff like that, I’m pretty good at being respectful.”

When orca-people sigh, it comes a little out their blowhole. Jason’s trying to hold back laughter so hard he feels a little sick, and he thinks Orca can tell, because though the glossy dark skin of their cheeks can’t seem to show it, he suspects there’d be a blush there otherwise.

“You can call me Grace. Sexual dimorphism’s not very obvious in killer whales, it’s mostly down to size.”

Jason shrugs. “Nice to meet you, Miss? Uhm. Grace Orca. And size isn't the only thing that matters.”

She snorts (the blowhole keeps getting involved!! Lord god!!), and picks up what Jason had thought was some dilapidated sail cloth but is instead a dilapidated sail cloth sewn in the approximate shape of a coat that could fit a 9 foot Lady Orca. “You’re taking this extremely well,” she says, squinting keenly at him.

“Can’t live in this city without being respectful of all her inhabitants,” Jason says with grave seriousness, before cracking into a smile. “I was hoping to catch sight of Sheila, you know, the harbour seal. Seems like I got to see a cool, uh, marine lady regardless, so it’s not like I’m going to run away screaming.” He doesn't add that 2 weeks ago he was making small talk over alien canapes with this guy that looked like 2 giraffes stapled ass-to-ass with 3 sets of diaphanous wings on some Outlaw business, so comparatively speaking, she's So Regular.

The facial muscles of a orca-person should preclude them from emoting very well, but Grace manages to get across warm surprise with great aplomb. “Are you a marine biologist?” she asks in the excited tones of someone who believes they’ve met a kindred spirit, and Jason makes a note to check in on all the Graces in Gotham who are marine biologists.

Jason shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve just never seen a wild seal in Gotham before. When I was a kid you got more dismembered feet than fish out here, so I got a little excited. Why were you out and about looking for her?”

A thought strikes him, and he winces. “I’m a city boy, but I get that it’s law of the jungle rules out there, and I respect that. If you are planning to eat her, though, you don't need to tell me .”

She looks like he's called her a slur. “ Of course not! ” she yells, shrill enough it’s half a whistle. “What kind of a monster do you think I am?!”

There’s no easy, courteous way to answer this, so Jason goes for blank honesty instead. “All of god’s creatures need to eat to live, man. I gotta make my peace with how cute cows can get when I’m eating a hamburger, I sure as shit am not gonna judge you .”

Grace Orca looks at him like he’s the weird one here on the dock, and to be fair to her, he maybe actually is. “I just wanted to check on her welfare ,” she says with injured pride, starting to stride down the dock back to shore, one step for every 3 of Jason’s. “They don’t tend to be fully solitary animals, and they’re not migratory either, so I was trying to figure out how she drifted all the way down here. Didn't manage more than a look before she swam off, though.”

Jason can’t exactly blame Sheila for her nerviness. He’s pretty proud with himself for acting real regular walking in sortof-step with Grace when her teeth are the size of his thumbs and he’s enviously, jealously regarding her muscular shoulders. Swimmers’ shoulders, damn. “We got any breeding colonies near here? I know people who know people, could probably figure out how to relocate her home if she needs it. And, uhm.” He very gentlemanly lets her go down the rickety wooden steps first (he’s not confident they’d take both their weight). “I’m sorry for implying you’d eat her.”

At this, she does gnash her teeth just a little. “The bay’s recovered a lot, water quality’s better, algal bloom’s more under control, and there are a couple of fish nurseries that are looking really promising.” Grace sighs gustily (her blowhole wipples like the lid of a tea kettle aa!!). “But we’re not doing so well that we can support an apex predator. I’d starve out there, and if I didn’t I’d be eating things more valuable than me, so.”

Ah, shit. Jason’s has a rough idea of rough living, but a street rat would experience life a lot different to a Literal Street Rat. Waylon’s got it rough but now that he’s borderline the de-facto union leader of the Great Gotham Underground Coalition, half the service workers in town will comp his food on sight. Grace has no such social influence, or Jason would’ve heard of her before. He glances at her, and feels some weird solidarity of being a thing that is of but maybe isn’t welcome to Gotham.

Maybe she got made a monster, too.

“That sucks,” he says, pebbles crunching underground. “You do the marine biology stuff for work? And hey, for ambushing you on your chill nighttime swim, let me treat you to dinner?”

She draws to a halt, and he almost loses an eye on the peak of her dorsal fin. Instead, he’s intensely whapped by her powerful tail when she turns on a dime to stare at him. “Are you hitting on me?” Grace says, gone shrill again, and isn’t that a thing.

Jason grins; he’s got teeth too. “Haven’t made up my mind yet, but I’m never gonna say no to good company and good food. Patrice’s over on 12th and Bakri is open all hours, and if you don’t mind takeout we can go sit in a park or something. I have so many ocean-based questions, Grace, you’d be doing me a a favour.”

He’s also uncertain if she needs to, uhm, Submerge, and the Dumbfuck Giant Fountain with Horses in the park at 13th and Bakri would give her plenty of space to splash. God, he makes less efforts to be diplomatic with emperors of ancient civilisations, but Jason is relatively confident that he can predict the shape of Grace’s predicament, and 9 foot tall or no it sure seems like she deserves a gentler hand than most.

(There are a lot a lot a lot of scars all down her back, pale stripes on what should be glossy smooth inky black, and he doesn’t know what caused ‘em but he knows that they’re not right.)

No one’s ever accused him of being terribly smooth or charming, but Jason does okay. He cocks his head in question, knows he looks a little cute and a lot silly in between his armoured turtleneck and his knobbly knees all out in the open, and Grace sighs (!!) and goes “Hope your wallet’s ready for this.”

“What a lady wants, a lady’s gonna get,” Jason says with the confidence of a man with a platinum credit card with no conceivable limit, and off they go.

Patrice himself always takes the night shifts, too serious to be the sort of guy that would let teens suffer through night-time Gotham serving calzones on the cheap. Fair play to the man, after a short sharp scream when Grace has to hunker down to squeeze herself into his dinky little store, he’s back to being stone-faced damn damn quickly.

Said stony facade does relent, though, when he sees Jason peeking out from behind her. “You shouldn’t be having dinner so late, Jason,” he tuts with the severity of a man who doesn’t get to spend enough time tutting his own kids on account of his late night shifts.

Jason just snorts. “It’s not late if I stay up. This is my friend Grace, and we’re both starving.”

“You have a lovely store,” Grace says dutifully, and Patrice takes her rattling-whistling-whirring voice in stride, inclines his bald head with wispy hairs with great gravitas, and gives her a respectful nod of thanks.

“Sweet talkers,” he says gruffly. “What will you both have?” He eyes Grace, head tilted back to meet her face that’s tilted down (to avoid a droplight). “I got vegetarian pies.” He squints, reassesses. “And seafood marinara calzones, though I’m gonna have to bake ‘em so you’ll have to wait.”

Jason’s got squid on the brain. “How many do you want, Grace? ‘s my treat.”

She looks sedate up top, but her tail is whapping like she’s about to murder a great white shark. “Two?” she hazards, looking curiously awkward for being this awe-inspiring sight.

“Sounds good. Two dozen of your seafood best, Patrice, and hit me with a slice,” he pauses, and faintly wishes she had ears that would give away how she’s feeling instead of, uhhhh, ear holes?? Ear holes?? “Two slices? Of tiramisu, and a latte each. That sound good, Grace?”

“Two dozen is so many-” she starts in protest, this lady too in love with Gotham Bay to eat her fish, not even built to survive off of sewer rats like Waylon and the lads, and luckily Jason doesn’t even need to step in.

Patrice just rings their order up. “Growing kids need to eat,” he tells her very sternly, like she’s a regular customer, like he hadn’t shrieked a glass-shattering shriek at the first sight of her. “I’m gonna throw in some garlic knots, too. Got any allergies or anything, miss? God knows this boy's got the gut of a trash compactor,” he says with genuine affection.

Grace looks a little lost, and Jason figures that she isn’t an eldritch sea creature (because you’d seldom find something more self-assured than a 4,000 year old oarfish the size of a tectonic plate), figures that this change is kind of recent, but long ago enough that it’s been too too long since a well-meaning middle-aged person behind a counter has called her miss and smiled at her, and man, they need to come up with a better system on how to treat metas with dignity.

“My mom used to make really good seafood marinara,” she offers up instead, and Jason sees in real-time as Patrice’s eyes go a little misty as he adds mozzarella sticks and another half dozen calzones to their bill free of charge.

(Thank god for tip jars).

It takes 25 minutes and Patrice is sweaty and a little breathless by the time he’s bundled up their food, but the vibes are immaculate and tomato-tinged as they wander out his restaurant down to the park, right to the massive fountain.

Grace seems a little dazed by all that’s happened, which is good. Jason very intentionally is trying to leave her off-balance enough to spill her secrets (the better to serve her with!), and also while he’s not the most Warm and Affectionate person, by hook or by crook he’s been some type of older sibling for some pretty large chunk of his life, and he feels in his gut that Grace is younger so she’s just gonna have to suck it up and make peace with him being a bit of a coddler. To reduce any embarrassment on her part, Jason kicks off his shoes and sits on the lip of the fountain, feet in the cold, grimy water. It makes him shiver, just a little, but a sip of hot hot coffee has him sighing in delight.

“Go on, help yourself.” He nudges a bag over, grabbing a calzone wrapped in foil for himself.

After a brief pause, she shucks her coat, scrambles over the ledge to sit in the water, submerged just barely to her waist, but it’s clear that it’s some sort of soothing; her tail is lazily whipping in water, and he wonders if she even realises she’s gently making herself drift forwards and back. “Thanks,” she says. “Been a while since I got to eat cooked food.”

Yeah, damn, they really need to figure out some sort of soup kitchen/shelter situation for people who are people who just happen to be a little less regular.

“Patrice is a nice guy. Kinda traditional, but his youngest came out recently and he’s been working real hard to make himself more accepting. The pride calzone is gross as hell, though, do not recommend it.”

She, uhm, chortles, maybe? A jolly little sound, and Jason grins. “You’re laughing now, but you’re not gonna be laughing when I get you one of them and you realise that man’s put peaflowers and sardines and butter and shit just to get the colours right.”

Grace baps him with her enormous tail; it will bruise, and he’s charmed. “I still can’t tell if you’re a weird fetishist who’s trying to hit on me, but I think I’d forgive a lot for a pride-themed pie.”

“Promise I got brought up to be very respectful of women,” Jason says with the confidence of someone who had Wonder Woman in his upbringing. “You’re just really cool. It's rare to meet a marine biologist in general, you know, never mind a marine biologist who’s, uhm, extra marine.” Much of the walk to and from food has been heavy on pelagics and Cnidaria and Phocidae and Gulf streams and Jason understands maybe 65% of what she’s talking about, can really only spiritedly join in when they both go off on a growling tangent on sea-level rise and how it’s worsening the housing crisis in the city, and man, there’s just a lot to admire in that kind of fervent dedication to a damp cause.

She baps him again, but looks substantially more morose even though her more rigid jaw doesn’t seem to allow for downturned non-lips. “I used to be a marine biologist,” she says in mournful whale-song. “With a specialisation in marine mammal growth hormones and their applications in medicine. I had a little cubicle at the Gotham Aquarium and everything .”

Jason hums mildly. “Take it that the tail and stuff is a more recent development?”

She nods gruffly. “Had a real bad accident, got paralysed, and I did not respond to that in a super healthy way.”

Bruce has had his back broken, Babs is in a wheelchair still, Jason just fully fully died. He knows academically that there are ways to healthily process the complete and total upheaval of a life; he’s just not confident it’s attainable by anyone below the level of a bodhisatya. “My brother’s partner had a run-in with the joker, and she’s been in a wheelchair ever since. I don’t know how she does it.” He very carefully doesn’t look at her. “Don’t know how you’re doing it, but I’m glad you’re doing it anyways. Would’ve been a real quiet dinner tonight otherwise.”

Grace makes a strange burbling sound, and maybe cetaceans have cetacean feelings that English just can’t get across. “I’ve done some pretty fucked up things. The gene-splicing and dosing and orca-fication just so I could walk again isn’t the half of it. I’ve committed crimes , Jason.”

It takes an enormous effort of will to not laugh so hard his lungs give out. Miss ma’am’s out here swimming pro bono to check in on fish and seals and shit, and she’s making a confessional out of a fountain with a priest who’s got a body count in the dozens; Jason’s got blood caked on so thick he always always always smells just a little metallic (just a little too-human) nowadays. God, how hopelessly sweet. “Lay it out on me, I’ll be the judge of how bad is bad, Grace.”

She doesn’t look at him still, tucked up tight and folded away like she can compress the whole lot of her (she can’t). “I didn’t used to be full-time like this. Used to be I could swap, you know, between paralysed human me and super cool killer whale me with a syringe and 20 minutes of throwing up. Work was going great, I was collecting so much data, it was crazy, the tissue samples from my thighs had human and orca protein markers but from my tail it was all orca, and there’s a lot of implications for organ regeneration and tissue transfers, really, but…”

“Not hearing any greater crime than being a massive nerd,” Jason says mildly, and is splashed for his efforts (he’s laughing as he pushes his sodden hair back. “C’mon, spill, have another calzone.”

He tosses her one, and she digs into it immediately. “There’s a program we have for kids with rough backgrounds, at the aquarium. Kind of like day camp, over the summer, and the parents get free daycare and the kids get to do fun little activities and practice being aquarists, all that sort of stuff. It was great, but the funding didn't get renewed for this year, and I thought, hey, how hard can it be to get money for that?”

Jason winces, and Grace just keeps pushing on. “It’s the sort of thing you hear rogues doing all the time, right? Steal a great big diamond, something like that. So I ambushed this yacht party,” and she says yacht the way a lesser man might say ‘steaming pile of shit’, “and was gonna grab this ugly diamond off this woman who did not follow sanitation protocols for her yacht’s wastewater, and it was going mostly okay, and then…” She looks around, somehow managing to look hunted despite being a quintessential hunter. “Batman appeared.”

Jason goes cold, freezes up and feels a roaring rage, this unshakeable white-hot thing that always flares in response to any proof of Bruce’s negligence or foolishness or bloody-minded adherence to made-up rules causing so so much more damage than they could ever be worth. “Did he hurt you,” he says very mildly, but his jaw aches with how much he wants to shout and bite throats out.

Something in his tone must’ve given him away, or maybe it’s one of those whale-only senses, again. Grace turns, propelled by her tail, and looks at him with less guilt and more startled curiosity. “Hey,” she says tentatively, awkward in how she comforts. And for the first time in their brief but delightful acquaintance, she very tentatively reaches out to very delicately place her massive massive hand just above his knee, so so thoughtful to keep a barrier between his skin and hers, like that’s something he’d ever care about. “Hey, you okay? Did Batman do something to you? I’m willing to try biting him if he’s done something, Jason. I don’t know karate or anything but I’m pretty sure I could chew through armour?”

This startles a laugh out of Jason, though it’s a little ragged because his breathing is a little jacked. “Been treated pretty bad by him,” he settles on, in the end. “But I’m not one of those guys that thinks he’s great and amazing and perfect, so I’ve gotten pretty good at managing expectations and being disappointed in him all the time. But Grace, hey. You gotta tell me, I promise I need to know. Did he hurt you ?”

She shakes her massive, wondrous head. “I mean, he tried to get the gem back, but I’m not really someone you can just throw around. The problem was that I got really distracted fighting him, and he’s really scary even to me, so while I was looking his way I got shot a bunch of times by the woman’s bodyguards.”

Grace twists a little so he can see her back, and there’s a scattering of rounded scars just by her fin, and that’s awful awful close to her spine, and oh, god, he can see the Shape of Things.

“I think I would’ve died if I turned human again then, and I was pretty sure I was going to die in orca lite mode too. The Bat incapacitated the gunmen and hustled me away, and I think he was going to take me to a hospital, which, broadly speaking, if you see an unwell marine creature you really should go straight to the aquarium because the vet team there’s incredible, but I was really bleeding out and I had the human-to-orca serum and I told him I think taking the orca shot while I’m in orca mode’s probably the only thing that’s going to keep me alive.”

Fucking hell. “Then what?”

Grace shrugs, enormous and abashed. “He said okay, took off his cape so I wasn’t sitting bare-assed on the ground, and then offered to hold my hand while I took the shot.” She looks down at her hand, reflexively squeezes it. “Think he thought I was gonna die on him. Think I thought I was gonna die on him too. I’m not a behavioral ecologist, so this is just conjecture, but I don’t think orcas are big fans of dying alone either, so I appreciated it.”

Jason rests his hand on what would be her wrist, and squeezes down tight. God, he hates unloving deaths. “You're a social creature both ways, huh? Glad you weren’t alone, Grace,” Jason says with way more understanding than most. “Glad it worked. What happened after?”

“Well, I threw up for 20 minutes,” she says primly. “Then I knocked him on his ass and ran away, because I was scared he was going to arrest me.”

To be a fly on that wall, holy shit. Jason offers up a hi-5, and she takes it. “They should get you a medal,” he says with utmost seriousness. “What you been up to since? I’m a big man ‘round town, and if a lady like you were available for dinner dates I sure would’ve heard of it.” He doesn't know how to politely say how have you kept yourself alive since, so this light-hearted sleaze is all that he can manage.

Grace abruptly gets up, parting the seas, and climbs out without making eye contact. “The rest of the story up till right now isn’t something I’m proud of. You sure we can’t go back to talking about flood risks and poor urban planning?”

He climbs out too, and hands her more food. “We can talk ‘bout anything you like, but if you’ve got troubles, I can’t help with things I don’t know, you know?”

Grace screws up her face, and it doesn’t go very well because there’s a lot of face to screw up, but her unhappiness is clear. “I’m a muscle-for-hire,” she says all at once. “Have to work to eat, and not a lot of places are looking to give me work looking like this.”

An agitated lady of any persuasion is not a very fun sight to see, and it makes Jason really hopping mad, but 'really hopping mad' doesn't serve Grace Orca, so he swallows it down and shakes his head to clear it. "Been having a real rough time of it, huh, Grace? Sounds godawful." He does need more specifics if he's going to try to improve her lot in life, though. "What are the, like, top 3 things you wish you could fix?"

She laughs a whistling mirthless laugh. "Number 1? Take me back to when I was human again. I'll make my peace with being disabled, at least I wasn't getting shot at all the time."

Not a thing Jason can do for her, though not for a lack of want. "Man, don't we all have a time we wish we could go back to," he says in pale consolation. "Can't help with that, though I'll holler if I ever get my hands on a time machine, promise. What's next?"

Grace tugs on her overcoat. "Same as what I needed when I was still a grad student; would be nice to have some cash. Get some good food, maybe use my old ID and figure out how to rent a little apartment with a tub, something like that." She makes a disgruntled clicking sound. "I still can't get used to sleeping under water, and the serum's not perfect. It gets so cold."

Now that's a solvable issue! "Girl, that's easy peasy. Here, c'mon." He tugs out his wallet, tugs out his credit card that's got neither name nor limit to it, and hands it over. "My, uh, my dad's rich but I'm in a lifelong rebellious phase 'cos he's kindof an awful person a lot of the time. You don't need to hench if you don't want to, get takeout seafood marinara for the rest of forever, I don't give a shit."

She makes no move to take it from him, but he keeps holding it out towards her. "Seriously," he says. "Your number 2 most desired thing is something I can help with. If it makes you feel bad, you can catch me on the docks and pay me back once you've got a roof over your head and figured out some better employment. For now, you gotta take it."

Grace scowls (it's terrifying). "I don't gotta take anything! What am I going to do with someone else's card!" she yells, flinging his arm away. "This still isn't a face they'll let into Whole Veg!"

She takes a deep, gasping, shuddering breath, and lets it all out in a miserable, hurtling whisper.

"This isn't a shape that gets to be human."

And ain't that just the Shape of The Thing (that is no longer human). Jason can empathise on the inside of his head all day long, how he's not 100% all-natural all-human after a tango in a Pit, how he's pretty sure his eyes glow in the dark now and his canines are a little serrated and he's really really immune to most poison these days, but the face of him is the face of a person who does not make Patrice scream when he enters his shop. Strong arms and strong legs and strong tail and Grace still would rather go back to a time when she wasn't a powerful predator, when she couldn't even walk. Jason's never had to tackle this specific issue, and he isn't entirely sure what to say, except to say the things he used to say to himself in the dark of the night, too-sharp nails ripping through corpse-pale skin, tucked in a corner and barely (not-quite) human.

"Maybe not," he says, carefully. "Not your average Joanne, no. But it's a shape that gets to be a person, Grace. Can strip flesh from bone and replace it with the king of the sea, lose all your DNA 'cos you fought to survive, but you don't stop being a person. And so long as you're a living breathing person, you're entitled to care, and I'm entitled to look out for you. I know a guy who knows a guy who's got a bit of crocodile in him, I know a lady who knows a lady who's 1/16th cypress pine, and I know people who are technically all-human and they're the most discomfiting motherfucker on Earth. And I know all of 'em and all of 'em know me, and now I know you and you know me, so do you know what I think your third wish is, Grace?"

"What?" she says like she's trying to sound angry but mostly she just sounds sad.

"It's company, isn't it? People to check in on you like you check in on Sheila, people to have calzones with, people to talk shop with, people to hold your hand when you're not feeling good. Tell me true; is that wish number three?"

The fight's gone out of her, and hers isn't a face made for crying but Jason hates that she looks like she wants to anyways. Months and months and months sleeping in the sea and committing crimes she didn't want to for the lacklustre joy of continuing a wretched existence, and now she's getting harangued by some rando she met on the docks in the middle of the night.

Still, though, he's just got this one little push left. He can lead a killer whale to a seafood marinara calzone, but he can't force her to eat. See, consent's also a massive massive part of personhood, so he's got to wait. She's got to say it.

At long last, in a tiny voice that's like a distant chirp, Grace says "I don't want to be so alone anymore."

And with a smile spitting sparks like an electric eel having a real time of it all, Jason says "Your wish is my command".

It's gone 4 in the morning right now, and Jason's without most of his gear, so he can't really go all out All Out the way he wants to, show off and showboat for Grace to illustrate to her how, uhm, colourful and varied the threads are that make up the tapestry that is Gotham. He's limited by addresses he knows off the top of his head and people he knows would be at home right now.

Enter the cute, slightly-rundown brownstone duplex 4 blocks away from the Scheyichbi Botannical Gardens. It's a pretty chilly night, like frost is an imminent threat, but the front door (that he'd jimmied open) leads to a veritable greenhouse of vegetation, obliging monsteras with leaves dipped low, pothos sprawling like wildfire, a ficus in the corner taller than a man, bundles of mums flourishing up to the size of ottomans. "Pam, don't kill us, 's just Jason!" he'd yelled as soon as he came in, because he knows her and her hair trigger response to invaders (Venus fly traps the size of Honda Civics). "It's an emergency, and Harley if you're in, come say hi too!"

There's a sound like a mighty oak getting splintered in a storm, but that's just Ivy acting a little dramatic (she's very understandably very sensitive to day-night cycles). There's also a light jingling sound, so it seems like he's gotten a little lucky.

Grace meanwhile is trying to hide behind his back, this technical criminal gone so awkward over a spot of breaking-and-entering. "Jason, what the hell is going on?" she tries to whisper furtively, but given her throat and her build it's ringing loud and clear.

The jingling comes closer at a rapid rate.

"I just wanted you to meet these nerdy chicks I know, you guys can have ladies' night out and talk about how shitty graduate school was, or whatever," Jason says, before ducking down to the ground.

Grace does not have similar reflexes, and so is helpless in the face of Harley sprinting down the steps, shotgun in one hand, cute pyjama bottoms making the clinking sound 'cos the draw ties have little bells sewn to them. Harley, who'd been ready to kill a second ago, claps eyes on Grace Orca in her living room, and immediately screeches like maybe she's part barn owl. "Oh my god!" she screams, not slowing down a tad, "oh my god, Pammy, come the hell down! Jay's brought in thee cutest girlie in the world!" And just like that Grace is tackled and then picked up in a hug, picked up feet-clear-off-the-ground picked up, and man, Jason's so good at plans.

"I hate all of you," Pamela says as she comes down the stairs in a robe, and she's a lady up top but today her legs have strangling vines 'round them like it's what she gets instead of leg hair, and when she turns to the side you can just about make out that half her hair's just spines. "What the hell's going on?"

Jason gets up, brushes himself off. "Pam, Harley, meet my newest friend, Grace Orca. She's got a PhD in marine biology, and she went rogue for a bit 'cos she needed money, and now I'm doing my civic duty in setting her on the right path."

"Right path," Pamela says testily, scowling at him, plucking burrs from sleep-heavy eyes. "At 4 in the morning?"

"No time like the present," Jason says, helping her with a seedpod stuck to her lashes. "C'mon," he says real quietly. "She could do with some looking out for, before she gets in too deep."

They both look over to where Grace is now festooned in a knitted afghan around her shoulders, Harley sitting with her in a loveseat as she very cheerfully spills her life's story to Grace, who goes from looking immensely awkward (Harley's college days) to intensely, feverishly angry (must've hit the joker just now).

Pamela sighs. "I'm not in the habit of picking up strays," she says meaningfully, even as she grows both ears out into pitcher plants, the better to look more inhuman with.

"No," Jason says matter-of-factly. "But you've never been one to let a sweet shrub wither, either."

She can't argue with that.

(Three hours later, they're all having breakfast at this little hole-in-the-wall diner run by a cute couple that left henchmanning around the time Harley did, and Grace has been made master of

1. The pink and purple afghan from Pam and Harley's lovenest;

2. Jason's credit card;

3. A little woven beach bag Harley had had lying around for short term storage of snacks and items;

and

4. An old smartphone of Pam's, complete with a sim card furnished by Gerry who's the barista, on account of him knowing Akechi who got out of henchmanning a couple of years before he did to start a successful mobile phone kiosk in Queensbury Mall two blocks down).

It's brunch, and Grace and Jason are out in the garden seating area of a cheerful little Brazilian café, enjoying the slight peeks of sun between the clouds. Grace looks a little dazed, which is pretty understandable given a good few hours in the company of Gotham's premiere power couple, but she's also looking pretty, ah, happy. She's got any number of kiss marks all over her face, because Harley's affectionate by nature, and Jason thinks it's an awful cute look on her (he is himself decorated in three).

"Waylon's office hours are Thursdays and Fridays," he tells her over sandwiches. "Noon to 5, and I texted you his address. He's kinda prickly at the start, and don't call him Killer Croc ever because it's pretty rude, but if you tell him what it's been like for you he'll tell you what it's been like for him, and I think that'll be good for both of you. And the other address I sent to you is this lady that runs this fish shop in the Narrows. I haven't spoken to Alberta in years, don't think she even remembers me, but that woman is unshakeable and loves fish, so I feel like you two would probably get along."

Grace nods, attentive and studious like she wants to have a pen and notebook in hand to take notes with. In the cool loving light of day, after hours and hours in Jason's company (and then Patrice's and Harley's and Pam's), she's looking a good deal more relaxed, had done little more than good-naturedly say "Don't worry about it," when Euvaldo had let out a manly yell when he'd first been startled by her entrance, and it's a good look. "And who're we meeting now?" She looks around to make sure no one's listening, though given that she's a 9-foot-tall orca-woman of course everyone is straining to eavesdrop even as they politely pretend they aren't. "I think after this I want to go to the aquarium," she tells him, a little shy and a little steely. "I want to let my friends know I'm okay, kindof. I want to figure out if I can get accessibility services to accommodate me, see if I can't get back to doing good work. Seems like after the first scream, people get used to me pretty quick?"

Jason snorts. "I didn't even scream once, thanks. And I know you're still kinda cut-up about keeping my credit card, so before I let you go off to do your cool girl scientist shit, I thought you'd want to hear from the horse's mouth himself that it's okay for you to commit a little fraud."

"The horse?" she says quizzically.

Jason squirms. "My da-"

"Jason."

And Jason looks up, and it's Bruce looking at him and at Grace with a broad, unfeeling smile, tenser than a bowstring.

"Bruce," he says. On one hand, it's maybe an asshole move to spring this on Bruce, but on the other hand, it's not like Bruce wouldn't have heard word of what Jason's been up to. No, the most important thing is to make Bruce see Grace and see how Grace has been failed, systemically and personally, so that maybe next time a different poor fuck won't have to suffer the way she's been made to suffer.

It's the Red Hood's duty, the purpose of this blood-red bat on his chest, to hold feet to fire, make sure people get exactly what it is they deserve.

He'd thought he was playing it pretty cool, but just as he's gotten better at reading Grace she's gotten better at reading him, and ah, shit, he had said something about not getting along with his dad, hadn't he? Because Grace has turned to fully face Bruce, and she's stood up and drawn her shoulders back and Jason's half-hidden by the bulk of her tail and the curve of her thigh, and she's baring her teeth at Bruce like she's gearing up for a fight (even though she doesn't know karate). "Who're you?" she snaps, and it's a lucky stroke of luck that she doesn't semm recognise Bruce Wayne in the flesh.

Bruce doesn't clarify for her. "I'm Bruce," is all he says, not taking a step closer. "I'm Jason's, ah, guardian."

It's a little hysterical that that's the title Bruce's gone for, and it's not the one Jason (even in his perpetual anger) had assigned to him.

Grace doesn't look mollified, but she does look over to check on Jason. He pets her tail, and then gently pushes it away so that she can take her seat again. "Grace, it's fine. We're not on the best of terms, but you don't gotta bite his head off."

"I'm willing to try," she tells Bruce menacingly, even though Jason knows there's no way in hell she'd go for it.

"Perhaps later," Bruce says politely, taking a seat. "Can I know why you asked me to come here?"

"Yeah," Jason says. "Got 2 things to put by you. First thing's first; Grace here's in a bit of a tight spot, and I'm offering to help her out by lending her my credit card. Since it's technically yours, I thought she'd feel better if you gave her your blessing."

Bruce's lips go thin, but she doesn't know he's Bruce Wayne so he can look a little sour and a little cold and a little worried. "Jason, it's your card, it's your money. You don't need my permission to use it. But miss, if it makes you feel better, whatever Jason says is okay, is okay with me."

Grace still looks discomfited, massive tail twitching behind her. "Cool," she says, but she's looking at Jason.

"Cool," Jason echoes. "Two, Grace, Bruce here helps run a lot of non-profits. I need you to tell him your story, okay? From the kiddie camp at the aquarium, to the shit going wrong on the yacht, to the things that you had to do to survive after that. You can leave out things if you want, but if you can tell him all the things you told me, it'll help him figure out how to do better in the future."

She looks a little uncertain, and tries to murmur out the side of her mouth (extremely unsuccessfully). "Even the stuff with the, uh, creature of the night? And the, uh, legal stuff?"

Jason looks at Bruce, who's sharp enough to see the Shape of Things coming and is already gritting his teeth to bear it, and nods. "All of it, as much as you can manage, Grace".

And the main reason that Jason's here and Jason had called Bruce despite despite despite, is because even with all the things the man is so so so bad at, there isn't anyone on Earth so dedicated to holding their own feet to the fire, more invested in trying (and often failing) to atone for all his many, many wrongs.

So Grace tells her story, about too-little-money and too-many-hurts, gunshots and violence and sleeping in the cold dark ocean and being alone and being a criminal and being a no-longer-human struggling to remain a person, and Bruce goes paler and paler and his hands clench tighter and tighter, and Jason watches over all over this as he quietly sips at his limonada suiça.

(It goes on for well over an hour, with Bruce asking clarifying questions and taking notes in his phone. Getting things off her chest has Grace mellowing out enough to ask if Bruce wants to join them for lunch, but Bruce had shaken his head, handed off 6 different cards for 6 different people who can help with 6 of Grace's top 10 troubles, and gotten to his feet with a gentle excuse of having a meeting he can't avoid.

"It was good to make your acquaintance, and I hope you'll keep in touch," Bruce had said, shaking Grace's hand. "I'm sorry for all you've had to go through. I hope I can help make things easier for you, and anyone else that might share your circumstances."

And that had taken Jason aback a little, that Bruce had actually apologised, had taken in the enormity of his wrongs and then taken ownership of his faults. It happens more rarely than it should, but goddamn it feels good to have gotten this apology for Grace even if she'll never figure out the true heavy weight of it.

Bruce had looked like he'd wanted to say something to Jason, too, but Jason's too wrung out to want to hear it, and had kept his eyes firmly on the condensation rolling down his glass.

And then Bruce had said, "Thank you for calling me, Jason," and he'd sounded like he meant it, and then he'd left, and Jason had exhaled the heat in his head, and things are a little better now for all of them than they were before.

"He didn't scream even a little when he saw me," Grace had said admiringly. "I see where you get it from, Jason."

And if that ain't a compliment and a damning indictment all at once.)

They split up, after that, Grace saying that she wants some privacy as she works through the mess of things left in her wake, meet-ups and calls to friends and family. He imagines her going through door after door and hearing startled scream after startled scream, and it gives him a little bit of a headache. She's an adult, though, and if she's prepared to do this he'd be doing her a disservice to tail after her.

So instead Jason had gone home, fully ignored his phone exploding with texts from everyone bombarding him with pictures of him hanging out with Grace Orca, and taken a 10 hour nap. At some point, he think he dreamt that he was in the lily pond behind the Manor, swimming on his back like he's an otter and Sheila had been on top of him, like a baby otter, and the water had tasted of limonada suiça but was the colour of a sizzly electric green.

Grace had been running around on land, he thinks. Damian had been there too, inexplicably, like even in a dreamscape he'd heard the siren call of wild beasties, and they'd laughed loudly with each other, and then Grace had thrown him into the sky and he hadn't come back down, had stayed in the air like a sugar glider that's a stranger to gravity.

And then Sheila had rolled over and then gotten heavier and heavier on his chest, and Jason had kept going down and down into the lemonade-not-lemonade, and no one had seen him go down or maybe no one had cared, and he hadn't struggled and just kept sinking.

He'd woken up with drymouth and a faint desire to drink more lemonade. He'd also woken up and realised he's only ever seen Sheila in his dreams, and there's no text from Grace yet, and it's early out still (only 1 AM), and he feels a little unsettled in his skin. Easy enough to put on a good face for Grace, who for all her build is still a civvy, but in the quiet dark of his own home, Jason's feeling, ah, a little lonesome, a little cold. Sucks, that Red Hoods don't get a Red Hood to look out for 'em.

Instead of moping for too long, though, he takes a long hot shower, uses up every last drop that boiler has to spare, and dresses real nice and warm, replete with fluffy socks and a scarf around his neck. He grabs a beer and a couple of slices of 2-day-old pizza in foil, puts them into his shopping bag in case he wants to get more snacks on the way. He remembers, this time, and shapes and sharpens a bit of wire into the shape of a fishing hook to bring with him.

He's still, somehow, got squid on the brain.

Set and prepped, exhausted and a little cored out and a little light-headed, Jason heads off back to the primordial sea (Dock 3 at Newquay Harbour).

He gets there, has barely taken a seat with his feet in their fuzzy Christmas socks and Crocs(!) hanging over the side, when there's a splash! and a whump!. Jason turns, already halfway to smiling, and there's Grace, who's fully smiling.

"Hey, stranger," she says, cheerfulness bubbling up and out her blowhole (!!).

"Hey yourself," Jason says, relieved despite himself to see her in good spirits. "Someone's in a good mood."

"Someone's not." Grace is studying him rather intensely. "You okay? Anyone I need to bite?"

That does get a laugh out of him. "I'm gonna take you up on that offer one day, and you're really gonna regret it."

She flashes her teeth, and it's a promise and a half. "I have a phone now, so just call me anytime. Seriously, though. You're okay?"

Jason nods. "Yeah, man. Hearing about your stuff kindof reminded me of some of my stuff, and it's nothing new or super tragic or anything. I'm just a little worn out, which is pretty crazy, since you've been doing all the heavy lifting."

"Yeah, but I'm built for it, little guy." The joke doesn't land with Jason's mood the way that it is. She stares at him shrewdly, and then she continues. "I'm having drinks with some of the girls from the aquarium on Friday. They're gonna bring a bunch of stuff, and then we'll meet down on the beach for a picnic. You wanna come?"

Uhm. This is not going in the direction Jason was expecting. "Uh. Nice of you to invite me, but won't it be weird to have me over when you're reconnecting with your friends?"

Grace just stares at him. "Didn't let weirdness stop you from knocking down Pam and Harley's door at ass o'clock in the morning to introduce me to them, did it? Besides, you're pretty cool, for someone who isn't a marine biologist. I'm kinda easing back into, into regular friendships," into being a person again, she doesn't say, "that kind of thing. I wouldn't mind the moral support?"

What's a guy to do, even when he's pretty sure he's being manipulated? Jason nods helplessly, fondly. "I might have work, but text me a reminder and I'll try and swing by for a drink. That good?"

She beams at him, and what an experience it is, to be smiled at by this hallowed face, her pale underbelly glowing in the light pollution like a beacon. "Sounds great. And come in early on Friday, with a change of clothes, okay?"

"What for?" He frowns. "You need help with something?"

She shakes her marvelous, majestic head. "No. Maryam's a post-doc at the aquarium and her partner's working as part of the conservation trust managing the breeding harbour seal population like 2 hours north from here. The plan is to relocate Sheila so she's not at risk of being hit by a boat, and we're gonna need someone who can help with transporting her. I told Maryam that I knew a guy who knew a guy, but really I meant you."

Oh, my. Jason, unlike Grace, can turn red. Luckily the blustering winds already has him flushed, so maybe she can't tell. "How did we get to a point where you're the one doing me favours already?" he says, instead of saying no I don't want to help move Sheila, don't pity me. Because, well. It isn't pity, is it? Hadn't been pity when he saw her for the first time, either.

"Always been told I'm a quick learner," Grace says, and then she blinks audaciously at him, and on god she seems to have twice the number of eyelids than the average person, and this has Jason bursting into startled laughter so hard he almost rolls off the dock, and is only saved by Grace grabbing him round the shoulders, and she's so startled by it she'd started clicking at him, and this makes him laugh even harder, and he laughs so hard he almost cries, in the circle of the arms of an orca-person who should be a killer but is instead insanely tender-hearted about seals and sad lads alike.

(Turns out, the truth of it is;

If you look out for people, people will look out for you too).

a/n: super secret tumblr-limited author's note here. man this fic really took me places. i feel like i'm usually a lot more explicit about theming, and half wonder if jason's slump in mood near the end felt like it came out of nowhere, but i wanted to give him highs (this incredible man looking out for this killer lady) and also give him lows (who watches the watchman and he's afraid the answer is No One). i also worry i didn't give grace enough of a personality.... turns out i'd like to work on how to give people flavour even when they aren't the pov character!!

and i put in a bunch of references to other fics and it felt really self-indulgent but i think they work even if you've never read anything else from me and it for me felt like a victory lap... like oh, yeah, what a built-up lived-in gotham you've set up for yourself!!

anyways this has been the first fic in a long long time where i felt really relaxed about writing.... feels nice man.....

#whale writing #bruce wayne #jason todd #dcufans4palestine #this ended up running Real Long i'm really someone not built to be brief #nevertheless i hope you enjoy going on this very strange adventure over a 24 hour period with jason and grace!!

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hergrandplan · 5 months ago

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Hey Nina 💜,

1,4,5, 14 and 17 for the writers ask thingie

Gladly!!

The last sentence you wrote

Simon wishes he could do more for W., help him somehow. Refer him to another publisher, one who would see what he sees. But Simon doesn’t have those kind of connections.

Okay technically these are three sentences but otherwise it wouldn't make sense i hope you don't mind lol

4. A story idea you haven't written yet

Oh, I have many (too many, some would say) but I once had an idea where Party Prince Wille gets into big big trouble one night. He gets way too drunk at a club, and even gets photographed leaving with someone. The next morning, his mother shows him images of him leaving with none other than Simon Eriksson, Sweden's Sweetheart, hand fully on his ass in a definitely-not-friendly way. His mother is done with him ruining the image of the monarchy with all his fooling around. In order to straighten out his image, Wille and Simon have to pretend they're actually dating...

I'm not explaining this well but it's fun and messy I promise

5. First sentence of the fifth paragraph of an unpublished WIP

"Plus, what right did they have to be there?"

14. Where do you get your inspiration?

I want to give the poetic answer and say shit like. All around me, the world, people on the train, but that's bullshit.

I get my inspiration from songs, a good 99% of the time (I stan very lyrical artists and that makes it so so easy)

17. Talk about your writing and editing process

Ooooh okay. Love this question!

Once I have an idea, like when that first flash hits me, I start writing immediately. Doesn't matter where I am; at home or at work or, once, literally walking the streets of New York. Cause once I have that idea, I usually at least have one or two fully fleshed out scenes in my head that I have to get out before I lose them.

After that, I usually let the stories marinate and sit and focus on other projects that are in a further stage of development. It's rare that I immediately write a whole story; editorial au really is the exception to anything really.

After that, I just pick up the story whenever I feel like it, but the beginning of writing is very much snippets in my notes, little random thoughts that hit me throughout the day.

When I sit down to write, depending on how fueled I am, I either write like 5k words in one go or 5. I try not to be too hard to myself during the writing stage; it doens't need to be good then (it really doesn't need to be good ever, but hey) it just needs to be Something. Words on a page. Any thoughts I have about the scene. Any time I get stuck, I write in a bracket what I want to do and move on. If I think about what I'm stuck on for too long I get stuck in writing and lose all motivation. It happens once or twice that I also don't have any ideas on what's supposed to happen after the scene I'm stuck on, but yeah, usually brackets.

I also talk to myself in the comments. If I'm hit with an idea about something I wrote earlier, the most I'll do is put a comment there about that idea, and go back to where I left off.

Sometimes I'll ask friends on opinions; discuss scenes or whether something a character does is actually in character. Talking really helps in working through hurdles, more so than I initially thought it would.

Often times when writing I think of my writing as too flat, but that's okay, because: editing is where I shine.

Now, given my profession this shouldn't have surprised me but I mean it that my best work is done in editing. That's where I get the sentences to flow, the pacing to work. I'll rewrite whole sections, and maybe it can seem like a waste of time, but those rewritings wouldn't be as good if there wasn't something that came before them. I take my time editing, making sure everything works, and then I send it off to my beta reader who reads it, works out those final kinks with me and then it's off to ao3!

(this all means it does take me ages to publish a story so thank you to everyone who's so patient with me lol)

Send me fic writer asks!

#thank you for asking!#also let this be proof i am not ignoring my inbox at all #re those drabbles #im just . thinking about them #nina answers #tag game #sillylittleflower

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original-character-championship · 2 years ago

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Bracket F Round 1

Poll 18

Rider (@exist101) vs. Jules (@axebreaker)

355. Rider (@exist101)

She/her

Rider was adopted by the number 1 hero Tara, who if you don't know is a horrible person. She grew up surrounded by tragedies and seeing the problems of the world. She ended part of an unnamed group of heroes including Wolf, Beatrice, and Thomas, and ends up the second to last person to leave thanks to Tara. Tara does eventually go missing too, so at least there's that. Eventually Rider got her hands on Posedeon's trident and decided that with that power she was finally able to leave without being worried she'd be targeted. And she ends up becoming a villain too!

There's more I plan to detail when I make more vids for her

Also propaganda if she wins or at least makes it to the final round

She's a tall bird person based on a snowy owl, with sunset colored eyes. Pre-corruption her hair is shorter and more put together, post she's much more messy and angry. The picture I chose is post-corruption because she's a lot of fun. She also wore Tara's old crown, but not anymore.

356. Jules (@axebreaker)

he/him

Jules is a detective's apprentice and is overly cocky with a penchant of getting in trouble. He marches to the beat of his own drum, and often slacks on the job simply because he doesn't want to do it. He is annoyingly attractive and likes to get under people's skin for fun. Obviously Jules has a troubled backstory, wherein he had a shitty family and he fled to rename himself and start a new life. Because of his rough childhood, he always feels the need to put on a facade and desperately clings to the idea of living the way he wants to so he can finally have a fulfilling life.

Jules has problems with authority but respects his mentor immensely. His bestie is a lesbian so he's a feminist ally! He loves sunny weather so much it turns him into a nicer person. His favorite animal is the crocodile and his dream is to go to Gatorland. Jules ruined my life so please vote for him it'd boost his ego

#oc championship #tournament poll #round 1 #bracket f #355 rider #356 jules

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hallowed-nebulae · 2 years ago

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his bracket/poll won't be until next week, but here's more k'pheli/sae'pheli'ehva propaganda, for the wol tourney run by @woltourney ! these sketches are messy bc the lack of spoons hit ahaha

the appearances are as follows, left-to-right top-to-bottom: A Realm Reborn, Syrcus Tower alliance raid (Crystal Tower questline), midway through Stormblood, Labyrinth of the Ancients alliance raid (Crystal Tower questline), post-Crystal Tower questline. and a doodle of k'pheli and g'raha (from just before ST raid)

some notes under the cut, bc these got rambly oops:

k'pheli has two names! technically "k'pheli tia" is the second one, and sae'pheli'ehva is the first one; it's due to the worldbuilding of the au he's in, which i might elaborate on at some point later. but both names are equally valid and he'll answer to either of them

technically he's a self-insert but i added lore for how that works, so in-universe he's the incarnation of a god responsible for creating the plane of existence. because of this he does radiate divinity sometimes, though other times he's just some guy. in-universe he's also worshipped bc people (g'raha) Notice the divinity and go (in the tone of the history of the world and everything) "we should make a religion out of this" and then they did.

adding onto that, because the god he's an incarnate of had black hair, the more he's worshipped the darker sae'pheli'ehva's hair gets, and it'll eventually turn black. the blue streaks are crystal (as is the lighter blue eye), and the blue streaks are to do with him being the crystal god (because the whole religion that worships him popped up around mor dhona and the crystal tower -- i'll elaborate on this later)

after g'raha gets sealed away, the tips of his ears and tail turn black permanantly while the rest returns to the original pink color, and k'pheli cuts his hair short. it grows out from HW to post-SB, where it ends up going down to about his waist.

he's got chronic aether sickness and due to divine nature creates a ton of aether-filled crystals to try and lessen the amount of aether in his body. all of the crystal jewelry that he wears is made by his own hands and he'll give out any crystals he makes for free. as a gift.

k'pheli is afab genderfluid but uses he/him for convenience; the little marks at the corner of his eyes are actually tattoos to match what a male miqo'te's face marks would look like, but he's too lazy to cover up his other natural ones.

the crystal streaks in his hair increase over time, though by post-SB they've stopped growing. they're just sorta there.

his canine teeth are made of crystal, as are his claws. he loses about 60% of his tail around the waking sands incident (yknow, when pretty much everyone is killed) and regrows the missing 60% as crystal (though this is somewhat a painful process)

technically this image is inaccurate, since he isn't learning archery until the crystal tower questline (g'raha is the one to teach him the basics) and only tears through archer/bard quests after the world of darkness when g'raha gets sealed away. it made for a good visual contrast with the dragoon armor though so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

since he's a gelmorran miqo'te (more on this on another day), he's naturally taller than other miqo'te. gelmorran miqo'te are generally the same height as elezen, but poor k'pheli is short. luckily for him, short for a gelmorran miqo'te is tall for any other miqo'te, and as such he's several inches taller than his beloved g'raha. perfect height difference to rest his chin on g'raha's head and hug the allagan history nerd from behind.

i couldn't think of what to put in the bottom right corner initially so i just put that little g'raha/k'pheli doodle there. the ship of the two of them has a name and it's crystalline connection, bc i like my themes. and yes g'raha has freckles, it's what he deserves. k'pheli will trace the freckles in an invisible constellation with his fingers, as one does

the one crystal eye has a white pupil because i thought it looked cool and also something something divine eye. i dunno the vibes are neat

i have not actually played SB or post-SB or ShB (i've been watching a letsplay) due to being a free trial player, so any of sae'pheli'ehva's outfits from post-HW or onwards have yet to be properly ironed down. oops. if you see inconsistency in outfits due to this, don't worry about it! it's gucci!

#final fantasy xiv #oc: k'pheli tia #g'raha tia #scribbles #wol tourney propaganda #i put ''insatiable'' from ShB on loop while drawing and coloring this lmao #anyways i was trying to think of what hairstyle for SB k'pheli before i got bonked over the head with ''use kilmaa as inspiration''#so shoutout to kilmer from uhh niru kaijitsu's music videos and also miy_yuu's cover for helping me find those songs to begin with aha #im scheduling this post bc its almost 2am as i type this lol

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the-scandalorian · 2 years ago

Text

I posted 3,293 times in 2022

451 posts created (14%)

2,842 posts reblogged (86%)

My Top Posts in 2022:

don’t know you’re taking requests or prompts but just had this idea of reader drowning/near drowning, and in your near death haze you think you’re being kissed by din and can hear his voice and when you come to you sit up, still out of it but can feel someone supporting you as you throw up water, a hand patting your back to get it all out, and as you finally relax still breathing hard and a bit in shock, you lean back into whoever’s supporting you, and can hear the un-modulated voice behind you asking if you’re okay and you’re sitting facing away from him and say yea but then it hits you

for you, anon 💙

gn!reader cw: near-death experience, drowning, unconsciousness, angst, spice

It happens so quickly that you don't have time to call out or hold your breath. The ground shifts under your feet and then—crack, plummet, flood, asphyxia.

You sink like a boulder through churning blue, and despite the electric shock of cold on your nervous system, your limbs feel clumsy and lethargic as you try to force your way up. Your efforts to break the surface are futile—the black water is too claustrophobic and disorienting, too heavy and deep, pressing in on you from all sides, dragging you down, down.

Ice, panic, abyss. An iron circle closes around your wrist, and everything goes numb. Blank.

You drift back to consciousness slowly, to bright sunshine behind your closed eyelids, to a warm embrace. Soft lips close over yours. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it hits you: This is a dream.

A good dream.

Your eyes are closed, but you know the lips moving against yours belong to the Mandalorian, your Mandalorian. You know him by his smell—smoke, metal, worn leather—and by the hard lines of his beskar pressed against your body. You know because you've imagined this hundreds—thousands—of times.

Something heavy lands on your chest, and the bliss is ripped right out of your grasping hands. You're plunged back into nothingness.

You wake again when something angry and scaled claws up the back of your throat. Your eyes snap open, and you retch up water, your eyes stinging and lungs screaming. You're shivering, chattering, frozen—sitting on the cold ground, slumped against something solid—

Behind you, Mando makes a broken, choked sound of pure relief. A large hand smooths down your trembling back, pats hard, and you heave up more water.

"Thank fuck—that's it, cough it out—"

You choke and splutter, and he slides closer behind you when your gasping inhales slow to wavering hiccups. He fits himself against your back, knees bracketing your hips, his arms locked around you in a bone-crushing embrace.

His breath is hot against your neck when he buries his face there, his voice halting and fraught: "I thought I lost you, mesh'la. I thought—I thought you—"

His breath. His unmodulated voice. It clicks.

Your own voice is wrung raw, croaky and fractured. "Mando—your helmet—"

"It's okay," he reassures you. "Just close your eyes. I need to—"

"Close my eyes? Why—"

"Please."

Your eyes slip closed at his plea, and an ungloved hand frames your jaw to guide you around. You twist backward, and he leans forward, his lips meeting yours in a sloppy crash. It's a messy kiss, frenzied and hungry and cut short when he pulls away.

"We have to get back to the ship, get you warm. I can't lose you. I won't."

711 notes - Posted February 1, 2022

apparently when you get expelled from wizard school for loving your dad too much, you have to fly yourself home even if you're an infant

851 notes - Posted February 9, 2022

Title: Stepwise Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 5.1k Warnings: explicit smut (fingering, blowjob, unprotected p-in-v, cum eating, cum play, mention of ass play), touch-starved Din, possessive Din, somewhat inexperienced Din, soft feelings, references to canon-typical violence Summary: Requests for both soft and smutty touch-starved head canons spiraled out of control and became this.

Din Djarin knows some touch.

He’s versed in violent touch, in touch made heavy by duty. He's comfortable with the tangled chaos of hand-to-hand combat, the brutal embrace of wrestling a quarry to the ground, the dead weight of a body slung over his shoulder, the strange intimacy of towing someone by their bound wrists from the moment of capture all the way to the carbonite chamber.

From those things, Din comes away bloodied and bruised. Exhausted. They're second nature—reflexive, at this point—but whether he likes it or not, each one takes something from him.

Soft touch—touch that restores and comforts and gives—has been scarce for so long that it’s mostly foreign to him. He knew it best as a child, before his commitment to untouchable beskar and an unbreakable code. He has memories of his mother sweeping his untidy hair off his forehead and of his father taking his small hands in his much larger ones to show Din how to plant a seedling without crushing the delicate green leaves. He remembers falling asleep snuggled under a thick red blanket, crickets chirping a muted chorus outside his window, the grounding weight of a hand rubbing up and down his back.

These distant memories start to feel much closer—and more tactile—when Grogu comes into his life. Staring down at a wailing, wriggling kid with no idea what to do, Din finds himself thinking back to his childhood, to his parents, out of necessity. And as those memories sharpen, little by little, affection slips into his interactions with the kid. Din shrugs off a pauldron to rock him to sleep or soothes his hiccuping cries with reassuring pats from an ungloved hand. These soft gestures make sense: they keep the kid calm, help him stay asleep longer…which means Din gets to sleep longer. They’re purely practical. So they become habit.

And, gradually, they become comfort. For Din. He feels better—quieter—when Grogu is settled in the crook of his elbow with three tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb.

You come into Din’s life at just the right time, at the exact moment of this subtle opening.

He takes you on as a hunting partner—he finds that he needs one after ten years of working alone. Apparently, raising a toddler is a full-time job. Your relationship as work associates lasts maybe two months, though. Care and attraction are almost impossible to keep private in a space as small as the Razor Crest. He’s taken by your smile and your strength, by the way you soften the sterile lines of his ship into something akin to home. You’re enamored with his duality: a tender heart cased in steel.

When Grogu leaves with the Jedi, it’s implicit that you’ll stay.

The rest should be simple.

But Din—the man you really want, not Mando or The Mandalorian—is armored in so many layers, both physical and emotional. You have to work towards intimacy in stages, in a stepwise function you feel your way through together.

One

In the beginning, Din flinches away from your friendly physical advances: twisting his shoulder out of your grasp, recoiling when you try to help him clean a smudge off his visor, retracting his hand when you reach for it. It’s not that he doesn’t want you to touch him—he wants that more than he thinks he’s supposed to—but he has to overcome decades of conditioning, of constant reinforcement that every touch is a threat. Defensive reflexes—survival and solitude—are woven into the branched network of his nervous system. It takes time to work them loose.

He’s trying though. As soon as he twitches his gloved hand away from yours, he lets out a tired sigh, rolls his shoulders, and reaches back over to rest his large palm over yours, intertwining your fingers and muttering a quiet sorry through the modulator.

One day at a time, his icy exterior thaws. He gets accustomed to having you in his orbit, and soon, he can’t remember what it’s like without you there. He’s so used to keeping everyone out of his radius, but he starts to feel off if you’re not in it. You weave yourself into the fabric of his life, and it feels so damn good for Din to be fully at ease around someone else—not always tensed and poised to react. It’s a novelty in his adult life: feeling more secure with company than alone, like he’d be off-kilter in your absence.

He stops flinching. He starts craving, gravitating.

Din’s body language shifts as he relaxes around you: his fists unclench, the tap of his restless fingers abates, his shoulders loosen, his spine loses that fighting-corps rigidity. He dozes without shutting himself in the privacy of his bunk. And—first subconsciously, then consciously—he starts to make a point of keeping you close at all times, within arm’s reach if either of you happen to reach out. Soon enough, that progresses to comfortable contact: sitting so near that his knee bumps yours, leaving a hand on your lower back as you walk side by side, enclosing your bare hand in his gloved one, sitting back-to-back while you eat, resting his helmet against your temple.

He blinks, and you’re the sun around which he revolves.

Din’s throat gets tight when you stand behind the pilot’s seat and wordlessly remove his pauldrons to massage the tension out of his shoulders. After a few blissful minutes of your thumbs working at his tight delts, his eyes can't focus on the flashing controls in front of him anymore, no matter how many times he tries to clear his vision. Everything goes hazy and warm, and he has just enough sense left to reach out and flick a few toggles to set the ship to autopilot. Then, he stops resisting. He lets his helmet thunk dully against the back of the seat and hums low and content when you work out a particularly stubborn knot—one he’s never quite able to reach himself. Sitting there, unwound and mellow under your attention, even the cold black void of space laid out before him feels golden.

After that, he stops wearing his armor around the Crest, and there’s one less layer between you.

Two

Din’s flight suit and his gloves are his second skin, a vital sensory organ. He’s worn some version of both since he was eleven years old. Shedding them—especially in front of another person—feels wrong. It’s not that he’s self conscious; it’s that he knows the world through them. So peeling them off feels like baring raw nerves.

He needs to go slow, and you understand.

He wants to go fast. You can tell by his heavy breathing, by his frustrated growls, by the things he tells you in that husky voice—rasped in a gruff murmur, his cold helmet tucked against your neck. He wants to strip bare and press his chest against yours—to undress you, lay you down, spread your knees, and sink inside your tight heat—but you both know that would be too much, too fast.

Like exposing someone with severe hypothermia to direct heat too quickly.

Dangerous.

So instead, you start with two fingertips, slipped between his glove and vambrace, while your foreheads meet in a Keldabe kiss. You stroke the sensitive skin there, and he shudders and caves, his shoulders rounding as he breathes through the initial sting of it—the shock—as if you’d slipped an ice cube up his sleeve.

When the feeling wanes into something sweet, he pulls his gloves off, letting them fall, forgotten, to the ground.

Gloves precede vambraces. His cape crumples to the floor by his feet. He shoves his sleeves up his forearms, exposing as much of himself as he can without actually undressing. Learning the feel of you without the barrier of leather and duraweave is more intense than he expected. He already knows the shape of you—the curves and valleys and ridges—but now he gets the textures and the temperatures: the softness of your skin, the tickle of your body hair, the warmth of your breath when you bring his knuckles up to your mouth to plant kisses on each one. He loves it all.

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1,298 notes - Posted May 2, 2022

Happenstance

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E Word Count: 2k Warnings: smut, unprotected p-in-v Summary: Of course, there’s only one bed. Notes: This is for @pentechnics! Happy Secret Santa, Mari!! I hope you enjoy this, love!

You are so tired, so dirty, so grouchy, and so over everything that when you see the single bed, you sigh audibly... which is usually Mando’s job.

You’ve been trekking across this godsforsaken planet for four days, scaling and descending steep canyon walls to locate the hideout of your elusive quarry. Your muscles ache, and you’re covered from head-to-toe in reddish dirt. All you want is a hot shower and a soft bed... and ideally, some space from Mando.

Apparently, that is not in the cards.

The service droid at the front desk warned you that the only available room had one bed, but you didn’t think it would be quite this small.

You and Mando are both staring silently at it as the door behind you slides shut with a hiss. You estimate the width of the laughably narrow bed to be about one-and-a-half Mando shoulder breadths. Measured without the extra bulk of his armor, that is. So... decidedly not enough space for two people, especially when one is a full Mando.

Even in ideal circumstances, this situation—sharing a tiny room and a tiny bed with your hunting partner—would be awkward. And things are far from ideal at the moment. The easy rapport that developed between you and Mando over several months of working together has deteriorated rapidly over the last few days. And it is 100% your fault.

Turns out that one teeny tiny sex dream was enough to royally fuck everything up.

You feel bad that Mando has no idea why your dynamic has shifted dramatically. He probably thinks he did something wrong or that you’re taking your frustration about this interminable job out on him. Somewhere, under all that armor, you think he might even be a little hurt. He was just starting to open up to you—talking about his past, asking you about yours—when you slammed the figurative door in his face. Or maybe you just want to think he's hurt because that would make all of this less one-sided. Regardless, you don’t know how to explain to him that the reason you’ve started flinching away from his touch, the reason your playful banter has devolved into exchanges of terse monosyllables is because you’ve realized how badly you want to fuck him.

So, for several reasons, the idea of sharing this tiny bed with him is... unwelcome, to say the least.

...But there is no way you’re sleeping on the floor or making him sleep on the floor after the past few days you’ve had. You’ll just have to suck it up.

You turn to Mando. “Look, don’t be weird about this, okay? We both need sleep, and we’re both adults, so we’ll just share.”

He cocks his head, and there’s a short crackle of static through the modulator as he starts to reply.

You hold up a palm to silence him. “Don’t argue. I’ve decided already.”

You’ve been sniping at each other all day, and you can’t stand the idea of arguing over one more stupid thing.

To your surprise, Mando grunts, “fine,” and starts stripping off his armor.

You slip into the refresher and close the door behind you, peeling off your filthy clothes and reveling in the warmth of the shower. For a fraction of a second, you consider sliding your hand between your legs to find some relief for the persistent ache—knowing this is the only time you’ll have any semblance of privacy—but you’re sure Mando is waiting to shower too, so instead, you shut off the water and wrap a towel around yourself.

Mando is sitting on the floor when you open the door—surely to avoid getting any of the muck plastered to his flightsuit on the bed. Something inside you melts at the thought.

Big, scary warrior being thoughtful and polite makes you want to scream. And sit on his lap. Maybe ruck his cowl down and kiss his neck. Just a little.

“Your turn,” you say casually, nodding toward the shower.

You pull clean pajamas out of your backpack as Mando disappears into the refresher. You get dressed and settle into bed, laying down on your side, shifting to the very edge to leave him as much space as possible.

Before Mando has even switched off the water, you’re asleep.

You wake up to him saying your name.

You grumble incoherently in response, refusing to open your eyes, refusing to believe it could already be morning. It feels like you’ve been asleep for all of ten minutes.

He repeats your name.

“Shhh... not yet.”

He says your name again, jostling your shoulder lightly.

Okay, now you’re just annoyed.

“Seriously?? Can you not—?”

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1,411 notes - Posted January 8, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Mutual

Pairing: Sex worker!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 7.2k Warnings: smut, sex work, first time p-in-v for reader, first kiss for Mando, fingering, unprotected p-in-v Summary: You pay a visit to the Mandalorian for your first time. Notes: Written for an anon request. The perspective shifts back and forth between Din and the reader.

Thank you so much to @thefact0rygirl and @fisforfulcrum for reading this over for me! xx

perfect gif by@bestintheparsec

DIN

In the beginning, Din is conflicted.

It’s such an appealing idea, though, that he can’t shake it once it occurs to him. There’s no question that he’d make more money and make it faster. He’d even be able to stay in one place—fuck, the absurd luxury of that simple prospect—and that would mean fewer credits spent on overpriced fuel and less time wasted in hyperspace.

Still, he feels hesitant. There’s nothing wrong with it. He’s been to brothels before, with no shame whatsoever. But there is no denying the fact that sex work would be a nontraditional choice for a Mandalorian, and that’s putting it lightly.

I could stop at any time.

Then, he realizes how readily the clients line up—and how much they’re willing to pay—and Din finally appreciates the nuanced effect his armor and mystique have on people. He’d always thought it was pure intimidation. He thought of himself as scary—as too menacing—and he did what he could to mitigate that in friendly company. He kept his hands in everyone’s line of sight. He moved slowly and carefully. He announced his intentions. He unclipped his Amban rifle and propped it against the table. He spoke softly, politely.

But now? He knows that in some cases, there is a healthy dose of attraction mixed into that fear. The staring, the stuttering, the lingering glances that trail down his metal-clad body, the inability to meet the severe gaze of his visor?

It turns out, for many, fear and lust share a blurred edge, and Din can make thousands of credits playing in that murky in-between space.

So he settles into it.

His average client is wealthy and adventurous. They’re senators and merchants and sometimes even royalty. A thousand credits an hour mean nothing to them. They want novelty. They want danger—or, really, the illusion of danger. Some want hunter/bounty role-play, some want restraints, some want gun or knife play. He’s open to it all.

His Creed remains intact: the helmet always stays on. Most clients insist that all of his armor stay on, in fact. They want the full experience. So he pleasures them with his fingers and his cock, and no one ever complains. He knows the reason for that is twofold: how can they be upset when they’ve cum six times? And who’s going to complain to a fully armored Mandalorian?

So now, Din spends his days in high-end hotel rooms on plush feather beds. He’s well-rested and well-fed all the time. He sends an obscene amount of money back to the covert.

It’s ridiculous how much better this life is—there’s no contest between being run ragged from hunting and this. He doesn’t chase credits anymore; clients come to him. And for him because he is excellent at this job. His endurance and attention to detail easily transferred between occupations.

The one disappointing constant though, the one thing about hunting he hasn’t been able to shake, is the loneliness. There’s little companionship in being a companion, he’s found.

*** YOU

This is a great idea.

This is a terrible idea.

You pace back and forth in front of the hotel room door, eyes fixed on the sleek metal floor under your feet, trying to control your frantic breathing.

You can’t believe you’re actually here…about to blow half your savings on a night with a Mandalorian.

You heard about him through your wealthy clients at work. They rave about him—about his attention, his hands, his shoulders… his armor, his cuffs, his voice. His cock. They whisper—loudly, purposefully—about their multiple orgasms.

You’ve been hearing about him for months. Getting hornier by the fucking minute.

Just do it.

You’ve already paid, credits wired over this morning, so you might as well get your money’s worth. I’m ready. You’re completely sure of that.

You stop in front of the silver door and reach out to swipe the key card across the scanner when another wave of embarrassment hits you—not because you’re here but because you’re going to have little to no idea what you’re doing.

And he’ll know.

That’s too much to take. You turn on your heel and stride away, but you’ve only taken two steps when the door slides open behind you.

See the full post

2,417 notes - Posted February 7, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #lmao i truly forgot about my tbobf shitposts #what a time

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inevitably-johnlocked · 2 years ago

Note

Hi, dear Steph, i hope you doing well ❤️ it's sensitive topic, so take your time to respond

so, i'm trying my best to deal with bbc sh after 5 years, and I really think that we will have an s5 in the near future, they have given a lot hits about, (BC finally talking about a new season, the free copyright party 2023...)

So, my biggest problem with the s4 is the morgue scene, and i've been reading some s4 fix-its that properly deal with john's behavior. I read some about Sherlock leaving/moving on after what happened (my favorites I must say, cause I can't forgive john) (+ sanjay my beloved)

And I ended up in a category of "dark john", and I'm sure some traumatized me forever

I read this fic, post s3, where j&s has an established relationship post mary, and their relationship starts to change to something abusive (on john's part), this fic is amazing, honest and realistic about abusive relationships, and well the ending is tragic for johnlock, with an happy ending only for sherlock.

Then I saw that the fic was from 2015???? And that left me shocked, cause... john's behavior was always like this? Should we have realized sooner what was going to happen?? And that just made me hate the show even more. And looking back, maybe it was always there, especially after the fall. At least me, I never really gotten my head around the violence scenes, and I took the morgue scene as something OOC from John, but now I don't think it was. It makes me so sad.

I wanted to know if there are any metas and analysis about john's behavior in the show, because WATSON would never do something like that. I hate this show with all my heart at this point, It's ruined me :(

Thanks, all love to you and your amazing work as the Oracle of this fandom ❤️

Hey Lovely!

Thanks! I appreciate you letting me take time to answer this. Not necessarily anything other than "lol it was long and I was lazy" hahaha.

ANYWAY, this is just my perception of the fandom before S4: No, John wasn't overtly portrayed as a "dark" character... I think the darkest the majority thought of him as was as just a man with anger issues he was working on. That said, regardless of fandom, there's ALWAY ALWAYS a "dark" genre of fics where one or the other "protagonists" are characterized as "morally ambiguous to downright evil" people, and that's all it is. Dark Sherlock and John fics were a popular subgenre once upon a time, but I've never personally read any of them because I have a hard time with fics if the characterizations are "off" from my readings of them (literally it's just me), but I have no problem if that's what someone else wants to write about.

As for meta, the closest I can do for you are these meta about who John is as a character, and you can check out my 'who is john watson' blog tag for more (I've put it under the Chrono tag so you can see the earliest posts first).

(sorry that “my posts” is a bit messy... tumblr doesn't allow sub-bullets anymore... bolded are the main posts, and italicized with square brackets are the sub-topics. for my meta, I have a TONNE more meta about John, but I just pulled the relevant character-arc ones I’ve done)

MY POSTS:

WHO IS JOHN WATSON

People and John (TAB)

Why Didn’t John Hug Sherlock in TEH?

Of Scars and Gunshots

John’s Panicking in TGG

Secrets, Half Truths and Trust

Was John Ever a Hostage?

[TBB and TGG were Orchestrated for John]

John Will Cry Buckets and Buckets

Is John / Martin Left Handed?

Things John Never Said

John’s Hand Clench

[Why Does his Hand Start Trembling?]

Why is There so Much Emphasis on “Solve it!”?

John the Dummy

[Who Would Sherlock Bother Protecting?

[What if Mary had Shot John?]

[Mary Surely Can Tell When John is Lying (Mary Underestimates John)?]

[Damsel in Distress]

Why Do People Think John is Well Endowed?

Trash John

[Why is there a double standard, where Sherlock is always forgiven but John is an asshole?]

[Why Trash John]

John’s Middle Name: Sherlock’s New Addiction

They Seemed to Forget He Was A Doctor

Modern TAB!John is Like S4 John

Did John Have an Imaginary Sherlock?

John’s S4 Hair

John’s Family Mentions in Canon?

Do I Think John Quit his job at the hospital in S4 / S5?

Is John Left or Right Handed?

The Post with John vs Irene Through GIFs?

John Grieved for Years Over Sherlock (Sherlock vs Mary)

John’s CV / Resume

When Is John’s Birthday?

SUICIDAL/DEPRESSED JOHN

Suicidal John Masterpost

A Weather Eye (Was John Suicidal When Sherlock was Gone?)

What are John’s Nightmares Actually About?

Did John Have an Imaginary Sherlock?

John’s Suicide Meta Links

The Coffin (John’s TAB Theory)

Open or Closed Casket For Sherlock?

John is a Very Sad Man Compared to Molly

Any Meta On the 3G Moment Being John’s Suicide Attempt?

JOHN’S SELF-ESTEEM

John’s Guilt

John Blames Himself for Sherlock’s Death (TLD Reflection)

John Wanting to See Someone Else?: Faith as a John Mirror

JOHN’S PTSD

TLD Morgue Scene: Is it PTSD?

John in TGG looks like he’s having a panic attack (hostage past)

I don’t like angry John

JOHN’S FORGIVENESS

Punches the Superintendent but Forgives Mary?

Did John Forgive Sherlock?

Did John Forgive Mary?

JOHN’S CHARACTER ARC

John Loves Sherlock in Every Episode!

John Loves Sherlock

John’s Cheating

John’s Past and his Bisexuality

John’s Attracted but In Denial?

John’s Soldier vs. Doctor Dichotomy (TLD)

S4 Is John’s POV Masterpost

Dream John from TAB same as S4 John?

John’s Character in S3

John in S4

Canon Evidence of John Having Problems with People of Authority?

Does John Know He’s In Love With Sherlock?

Fic Writers’ Characterization of John

OTHERS' META:

Trained No To Cry: Challenge of Being A Soldier

Tom vs Sherlock and John vs. Molly: Obvious Mirrors

Doesn’t He Have Friends?

Captain John Watson (TSo3 Scene)

Adorable John Watson: Tricky to Write

John’s Hole

Closeted John: Growing Up in a Homophobic 80’s/90’s

Watson’s Horny Disdain

Crack Shot John Watson Under Pressure

John as a Perpetrator of Domestic Violence?

Writing John Watson

John Watson’s Medical School Life (wellington goose)

is it any wonder John is closeted

John Watson Eating Disorder

John was OOC in S4

That Time Sherlock threatened to replace John with Jim

-----

Sorry this got long, but I hope it helps :)

#steph replies #long post #sherlock meta #who is john watson #john's character arc #meta masterlist #my meta

69 notes · View notes

capseycartwright · 3 years ago

Note

“I’ve waited so long for this…”

Eddie’s heart felt like it was going to thunder out of his chest, as he looked at Buck. The younger man was half naked in Eddie’s bed, which, first of all, was the most mind-blowing, unexpected, wonderful thing that might have ever happened to Eddie. Buck was half naked, and he was in Eddie’s bed, and Eddie sort of didn’t know what to do.

Listen - the mechanics of it, Eddie was sure he could figure out. He knew his own body pretty well, and so it was mostly a matter of applying that knowledge to Buck, and figuring it out from there. Surprisingly, he wasn’t worried about that aspect (surprisingly, because before now, whenever he thought of being with Buck, the sex part had absolutely fucking terrified him, frankly.)

Buck shifted, slightly, propping himself up on his elbows. He was still wearing his jeans, his legs going on for miles even when encased in dark-wash denim, the material stretched over his thighs and leaving nothing about the muscles and strength that lay below to the imagination. He’d already lost his shirt; Eddie’s eager fingers had made sure of that. He thinks it’s probably on the hallway floor, somewhere, a crumpled mess they’ll need to collect later, but Eddie didn’t really care, all that much, not when Buck’s broad chest and shoulders were on display, an expanse of delicious pale skin, all Eddie’s, for the taking.

He had freckles on his chest, Eddie noted. They started just by his collarbone, and continued down his chest, his abdomen, in a smattering that was too random to be a pattern, but still held Eddie’s attention, all the same. The dips of his hips were a promise of so much more, of all that was still hidden under the material of Buck’s jeans.

Buck’s body was a work of fucking art, if you asked him, and Eddie was slowly getting to unwrap it - it was like all his Christmases had come at once.

Still -

Eddie was terrified.

Buck sat up more fully, knees bracketing Eddie’s hips.

(Had Eddie still not laid down on his bed? He thought he had.)

“Talk to me,” Buck murmured, his voice low, and slow, and honey-fucking sweet, syrupy and washing over Eddie like the greatest comfort he’d ever had. Buck was - Buck was the greatest comfort he’d ever had. He was Eddie’s best friend, his partner in work, in life -

In love now too, apparently.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” Eddie admitted, stroking a gentle hand through Buck’s already messy hair. “And I just - what if we make a mess of this? Or I do something wrong - there’s no coming back from this, Buck.”

“Do you want to come back from this?” Buck asked, his question sincere, and Eddie knew, Eddie knew if he asked Buck to put pause on this, and for them to remain nothing more than friends, Buck would do it without argument.

Eddie shook his head. “The idea of losing you scares me more than I think I’ve got words for,” he admitted, Buck shivering slightly, in his arms. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“You won’t,” Buck promised, his unwavering faith in Eddie the most overwhelming thing in the world. His hands were under Eddie’s shirt, down, the flannel already halfway undone, the palms of Buck’s hands big enough to spread across the expanse of Eddie’s ribcage, holding him close, holding him steady. It sent a thrill of want down Eddie’s spine - the kind of want he so rarely felt, the kind of want people wrote books and movies and fucking poetry, about.

Eddie wanted to drown in him.

“I’ve wanted this - you - for so long,” Eddie repeated, nudging at Buck’s nose with his own, capturing the other man’s lips in a long, slow kiss. “I’ve waited so, so long.”

It felt like he’d been waiting forever, to get to here, to this moment - through relationships and breakups and months of dancing around each other, Eddie had waited, he’d waited patiently, and impatiently, and he’d waited without complaint because all he wanted was Buck.

Buck’s smile was blinding. “You don’t have to wait anymore, Eds.”

send me a prompt from this list

#911 fox #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie #in which i ramble #in which lorna writes fic #prompt fill #im trying to write all these without having either of them actually say i love you lmao its quite hard

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becca-e-barnes · 3 years ago

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hi lovely, I wanted to make a request about a sensitive topic, so it's ok if you decide not to.

But if you decide to do it, Zemo x Reader where she has been sexually abused and he comforts her, because I just need him to tell me that it was not my fault.

I sometimes remember the moment it happened and it makes me really sad and guilty. I'm really sorry if this request triggers you. Thank you in advance🖤

Honey omg, can I start off by saying whatever happened was absolutely not your fault. I woke up at 5am and saw this request and I just couldn’t get back to sleep until I had started writing it. I was in a similar situation a few years ago so this is really based off my experience and how I found I dealt with it. While it still upsets me sometimes I’ve found I don’t think about it as often as I used to so it does get better, I promise. I actually found this quite cathartic to write since it’s something I don’t talk about much. If you ever want a little chat, please don’t be scared to shoot me a message! Hope you’re doing okay 💗

Pairing: Helmut Zemo x GN! Reader

(Again, the fact this is gender neutral was a happy accident but I wanted it to be applicable to anyone that might find some comfort in it)

Word count: 1.5 k

Summary: You have a bad night and Zemo comforts you (list of international resources at the end.)

Warnings: TW: Sexual Assault mention, please don’t read this if those themes will upset you. There are no graphic descriptions, this is more just the reader dealing with the aftermath. Hurt/ comfort, quite dark, angst, Zemo does his best but everyone heals differently, fluff.

You weren’t quite sure how it had happened but it had become one of those nights where reality had become a little too heavy to handle. You had went to bed feeling fine but woke in the early hours, head swimming with the recollection of everything that had happened. All of a sudden, sleep was the last thing on your mind, your body jarred awake by the painful memories and the sickly feeling that always accompanied them. Rather than spend the night tossing and turning in bed beside your boyfriend, you got up, hauling your sleep deprived frame from the warmth of your bed, heading to the little snug at the end of the hall. Grounding yourself wasn’t easy when you felt like this, but you had to take the time to notice the little things or risk losing yourself in the past altogether. You let yourself notice the little breeze that came in through the window down your hall, the smooth feeling of the wooden bannister under your fingertips and the cold that travelled up your bare legs as your feet padded softly across the wooden floor. Your pyjama shorts tickled the tops of your thighs as you walked the short distance before you gently pushed the heavy wooden door, admiring how it manoeuvred silently under your touch, despite it’s weight. None of these things were particularly special, often lost in the monotony of day to day life but during these early mornings where the past felt all too real, they were little blessings, reminders of the present.

Closing the door behind you quietly, you made your way over to the little cushioned window ledge. It had been extended so it was easily large enough to sit on, giving you a vantage point to look out the topmost window of the house, completely unobstructed. You settled into the familiar spot, legs crossed in front of you. From here you could see everything that went on in the grounds of Helmut’s massive estate. You could see the little stream running down beside your house, often your favourite point of focus as it was ever changing and therefore, distracting. Huge birds swooped and dived at the lake, hoping to procure some breakfast for themselves and their young, some flying off triumphantly with a tasty fish while others left with nothing, frustrated by the difficulties of hunting. Apart from the running water and their squawks, there were no other sounds to disturb the early morning air.

The birds were an adequate distraction for around an hour before you began to lose interest, feeling your mind wander once more in a direction you didn’t want it to take. That pang of guilt hit you deep in the chest as you began to feel like your body was tainted in some way. Horrible memories flooded your head, memories of roaming hands and that feeling of being painfully helpless, your chest feeling like it might collapse under the weight of those memories. You had no more tears left to cry when you thought about what had happened, while it still hurt as intensely as it did, the memories weren’t often accompanied by tears anymore, rather a guilty ache in your chest that threatened to consume you and you honestly weren’t sure which was worse. A good cry used to get it all out, give you the opportunity to start fresh and you often felt all the better for it when you were done but the ache was harder to manage. You hated how this was now something you had to live with, knowing that someone else’s actions had such a huge reign over your life.

You were so lost in thought, you hadn’t even noticed Helmut slipping in behind you until you heard the faint click of the heavy wooden door.

“Bad night my love?” He asked softly, his voice barely disturbing the calm, his accent noticeably thicker after he had just woken up. He was still in a little thin pair of cotton pyjamas, hair messy and tousled from sleep. You could only nod in response, noticing how his lips pressed together so he didn’t voice his anger about the person that had done this to you. He didn’t want the focus of this to be on them and their selfish actions, that wasn’t helpful but it didn’t stop his blood boiling in his veins. Dealing with this was often as hard for him as it was for you, seeing the only person he loved so dearly feel the way you did, knowing you were hurting and he wasn’t able to take the pain away sometimes brought him to a very dark place.

“May I touch you?” He whispered quietly, knowing that sometimes having that contact could be worse for you.

“Please.” You nodded simply, feeling his body slot in behind yours. His legs bracketed yours, arms wrapped around your waist and his head buried in the crook of your neck as you both went back to watching the birds silently. His heart beating in his chest was comforting against you, the rise and fall of his breathing giving you something else to focus on.

“This is not your cross to bear alone, my dove.” He whispered, thumbs rubbing at the exposed skin of your waist where your pyjama top had ridden up slightly.

“I know I just… Didn’t want to wake you.” You replied, equally softly.

“How many times must I tell you sweetheart, I want you to wake me. Let me be there for you.” He pleaded, pressing little kisses to your shoulders, hoping to rid your arms of the goosebumps that had begun to form. He was not mad, not at you anyway, understanding that sometimes you just needed the time alone to come to terms with things but if you needed him, he wanted to be there. There was a heavy pause that hung in the air after that, both of you slightly weighed down by the gravity of the emotions this can inflict on you as a couple.

“Can I talk about it?” You asked softly. It wasn’t something you did very often, preferring not to burden Helmut too much with the details. He had heard it all before so nothing would surprise him but you were still conscious that it hurt him to hear what had happened.

“Of course.” He answered, gentle chaste kisses to your shoulders reminding you that this was entirely on your terms. He did not press you to talk further when you had said enough, he also didn’t let his own pain at the situation take away from yours, knowing if you needed to talk about it, he had to be there to listen. You took a deep breath, taking one of his hands in yours, clasping them together.

“I just feel… Tainted? I feel guilty. Feel like I could’ve done more to stop it.” You knew you couldn’t have done more but there was always a nagging sense of ‘what if’. Helmut nodded from behind you, giving your hand a little squeeze, waiting to see if you wanted to continue. “Feel like it’s my fault. And now I have to deal with it. But you don’t have to.” You explained quietly, ache in your chest growing to sharp pain.

“You are not tainted my love. Nor was it your fault. You could not have done more to prevent it and even if you could, that is not the point. You shouldn’t have had to do more. One ‘no’ should have been enough.” It killed him to know you thought like this about yourself. He didn’t see you like that at all. Your body wasn’t tainted from what had happened, it didn’t make him want you less. It made him admire your strength and courage, seeing how you got up every morning and took care of the body you blamed. “Your blame is misplaced my love. The blame is not yours to carry. You have done no wrong.” His words made warmth flourish in your chest, hearing him listen to you and truly understand meant more to you than he would ever know.

“Thank you Helmut.” You whispered, tears brimming in your eyes, spilling over your cheeks but not from sadness, more from the unconditional love Helmut afforded you, the time he took to make you be gentler to your body again making you feel more loved than you could’ve imagined possible.

“Not at all, my sweet.” He whispered, gripping you just a little tighter. He loved you, every single part of you. To him, you were perfect and nothing would change that. He just wanted to help you through your pain and absolve you of it, hoping some day you could see yourself how he saw you.

A/N: I’m going to drop this link here just in case it’s needed, this was the most comprehensive resource I could find. If you need it, please do use it. 💗

https://osapr.harvard.edu/international-resources-0

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shorkbrian · 4 years ago

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THIS ISNT AN ASK I JUST GOT INSPIRED LOOKING AT YOUR TINGSSS; (Prohero) Yan Kiri responding to his (kidnapped) darlings' birthday request: Just do what they say for the day. Darling had to suck dick LONG AND HARD for this very special birthday wish, and spends the day dancing around the garden in a dress that they FINALLY got to choose themselves (the longest one they own) with gorgeous, full coverage underwear on. (1/2)

“This isn't an ask” then why it in my ask box hoe (Lolol I’m sorry I write what I see hope u don’t mind)

(What to expect - Cunnilingous, dubcon, noncon, NSFW, sexy birthday gift)

Yes you had to suck his dick, not to be allowed to wear the dress (Kirishima’s a sucker, and he likes seeing his baby in pretty little dresses that make them look all innocent), but to have him promise to not pin and fuck you the second she put it on (or at any point during your special day, just one day without sex, please? ur pussy needs a mf break)

Because it’s your birthday, Kirishima lets you order a dress online, sat in his lap of course, while he offers feedback.

“That one’s pretty.”

“Oo, you’d look so gorgeous in that color, you should get that one!”

“Eh, this one doesn’t seem like you, let’s look at a different one babe.”

“This is cute, but don’t you think it’s a little long? You might trip.”

His advice was unwarranted and mostly unwanted, hands distracting you by playing with your hair, kissing at your exposed shoulder while you scrolled through the options.

You finally decided on a dress, begging Kirishima to allow you to buy underwear as well to go with it. Kiri got excited for a second, and of course said yes, only to get confused and laugh when you added comfortable, un-sexy underwear to the cart.

But a promise is a promise, so everything gets purchased.

And the morning of your birthday, you get presented with the dress, the underwear, and breakfast in bed, which is slightly burnt, but the effort is somewhat appreciated.

Kirishima doesn’t bother you when you head to the shower (usually he follows you everywhere like an oversized puppy, and showers are never completed without his wandering hands and wet kisses), just smiles at you forlornly as he keeps his end of the “no touching” agreement for the day.

He doesn’t make you sit in his lap, or even next to him while you eat your breakfast in bed.

You don’t have his hands constantly touching you, wrapped around your waist, heavy on your shoulder, playing with your hair or skimming along your thigh.

Kirishima’s taken the day off, just so he can spend it with you, and he’s so glad. You’re laughing at his stupid jokes, you seem comfortable and relaxed, cheeks rosy, eyes bright, and the man has never been so in love.

It’s obvious that he’s struggling to hold himself back from grabbing you - his fingers itch, his smile is strained, he can’t stop staring at you in that dress. But he had promised, and you took advantage of that.

Flouncing around his bulky form, swishing your dress, giving an enthusiastic twirl that maybe showed off a bit more of your legs than was considered modest.

Teasing him about the slight bulge in his pants that appeared after a little bit of flirting, feeling safe because he wasn’t allowed to touch you.

You were shameless about the flirting too, a sort of confidence filling you and making you giggly and feel light, even though you weren’t exactly fond of the man you were flirting with on account of all the things he had done to you.

Kiri tried to convince you to stop, joking along with you at first but then quickly growing serious as you amped up your playful seductiveness, feeling powerful and in control because he couldn’t touch you no matter what.

His words were ignored, and you continued to live your best life, dancing around, licking food off of your finger with a mean smile, letting out little breathy moans whenever you stretched.

And the best part? Kirishima just had to sit there and take it. Just like he had forced you to accept his affection, you now forced him to accept the fact that you were wholly in reach, but absolutely off-limits.

That evening, you get ushered out to the garden, which Kirishima had “decorated” for you.

Technically, it was your garden, something for you to work on and occupy yourself with while Kirishima was off working. It wasn’t much, but you’d done your best with taking care of the plants.

Kiri had hung little twinkly lights in the trees, stringing them between the branches. He had set up a little table underneath the lights, a small cake, a bouquet of flowers, a few candles here and there.

It was romantic, and your heart swelled at the sight. In any other situation, this would be the absolute best birthday in the entire world. But today you wanted to be happy, so you didn’t think about all the reasons for why it wasn’t.

The two of you sat and ate cake, Kirishima recounting how many times he’d gotten cake slapped in his face by trying to surprise Bakugou on his birthday. You laughed, almost choking on cake, which made you laugh harder at the ungodly noise that left your throat.

You talked about your garden, animatedly gesturing to the various plants, explaining how you took care of them and what you still needed to work on. Kirishima listened intently, smiling at you.

He interrupted you in the middle of a story about your life growing up, holding a bite of cake towards you on his fork. Without thinking (he had been very insistent at first that he hand-feed you), you leaned across the table, opening your mouth and accepting the food.

You made eye contact, Kirishima’s eyes flicking down to your mouth, the way your lips stretched around the fork, the pink of your tongue as it accepted the bite. A moan was uttered, a smile teasing your lips as you licked at the frosting around your lips, bringing a thumb up to swipe it clean, sucking the digit into your mouth while moaning about how good it tastes.

And then Kirishima was breathing hard, red eyes locked on your own, calmly putting down his fork.

You immediately recognized what was going on, started rising from your seat the same time Kiri rose from his, holding your hands out and reminding the man of his promise.

But he was done, you’d teased him all day. Enough was enough.

He grabbed your arm before you could even think about moving away, jerking you to him to capture your lips in a heated kiss, tasting the subtle hint of sweetness on your tongue.

As soon as he pulled away, you were admonishing him, saying he promised, telling him to stop touching you, he’s such a jerk.

But he had a one-track mind, picking you up to settle your weight in one hand, forearm under your rear as he cleared a space on the table quickly.

Then you were getting sat down on top of it, Kiri sitting back down in his chair as he pulled your hips to edge, quickly rucking up your dress.

“Kirishima! You-you promised! Stop, you said you wouldn't!” You cried, trying to push his hands away, push his head back, stop him from revealing your underwear, but he was determined.

“Sorry baby, I just can’t help myself.” Was the offered explanation while he pulled down your underwear, managing to get it off one of your kicking legs before giving up and letting it dangle off of one ankle.

He hunched over immediately, large hands gripping and angling your hips up so he could reach your pussy, licking over it messily. There was no technique, no rhythm, the man just wanted to taste you, practically drooling over your cunt.

You cried out, hands pulling at his hair, making him grunt, but he couldn’t be moved from between your plush thighs.

“You said-ah! Don’t Kiri-” You whined, resigning yourself to the fact that he wasn’t going to let up. “It’s my birthday, I-I didn’t want you touching me....”

Kirishima pulled back a little, brows furrowed. He reached over to the cake, your eyes following his hand as he scooped up a glob of frosting.

No, he wouldn’t-

He would.

“No!” You yelped, but his grip on your hip was firm as he slapped the handful of frosting onto your cunt. You keened at the odd sensation, the cool frosting quickly being heated by your warm skin, beginning to melt.

“Birthday girl, you’re all messy, gotta clean you up-” The man breathed, diving back down the suck at your skin, tongue enthusiastically licking up the frosting, your juices with it.

All you could do was cry.

He ate you out until the frosting was cleaned from you cunt, until your skin was shiny and slick with spit and your own creamy juices. By the time he seemed satisfied, you were shaking, thighs bracketing his hand while they trembled and convulsed at each eager lave of his tongue over your swollen slit.

It began raining, the soft pitter-patter droplets easily hiding the streaking of tears down your face.

Kirishima didn’t seem too phased, merely standing, pulling you into his arms and striding towards the door.

You could see the little area Kirishima had set up for your birthday, lights beginning to drop out of trees from the wind, the cake getting ruined by the elements, the scene quickly dissolving into a mess.

And Kirishima had barely gotten started with you.

#Yandere kirishima #kirishima x reader #bnha kirishima #kirishima #kirishima eijirou #yandere kirishima eijirou #yandere kirishima eijiro #birthday #tw dubcon #tw.dubcon #tw noncon #tw.noncon #bad writing #author sucks lol

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lilxberry · 3 years ago

Text

I Watched You Die} 3 - Natasha Romanoff

Synopsis;

Someone from Natashas’ past makes the most of unsuspected arrivals and begins to cause issues, not only for her, just everyone they come into contact with. HYDRA uses them as a simple puppet and Natasha believes that maybe, just maybe, she could get them back to her in the way she remembers.

Warnings: Violence peeps, not a lot but still man. I’m not even sure if I added some bad language but you’ll find out I guess lmao. Mentions of broken limbs (poor random OC I came up with out of the blue). I can’t even remember what I’ve put in this fully so I’m sorry if something is triggering and I haven’t placed a warning for it.

Words: 3111

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Reader (female reader) (super soldier reader) (HYDRA reader)

(A/N: Everything in bold italics are in Russian and everything in bold italics encased in brackets is the translation.)

(A/N 2: You prolly get the jist of that now though lmao.)

< Chapter 2 Chapter 4 >

“С Днем Рождения, Natalia!” A young you had happily whispered as she groggily woke up at, what seemed to be, exceedingly early in the morning. (Happy Birthday, Natalia!)

"Который час?" Natalia inquired; the birthday girl spoke. (What time is it?)

You rolled your eyes and sat at the edge of her bed, smiling down at her. “Уже праздничным часов.” (It’s birthday o’clock)

Natalia softly giggled at your silliness. You may have been two years older, but you certainly knew how to still act so young and carefree, even at this horrid place. “Зачем ты разбудил меня?” She questioned further, now sitting up slightly and rubbing at her tired eyes. (Why did you wake me?)

“Потому что у меня есть кое-что для тебя, маленький лисенок,” came your reply, a small but unmistakable, mischievous smirk upturned the corner of your mouth. (Because I got you something, little fox)

Her eyes gained a slight twinkle in them, clearly a little excited about you getting her a present, about anyone getting her a present. You noticed the smile and the slight bounce of excitement her body did, and you chuckled. “закрой глаза.” (Close your eyes)

Natalia hastily obeyed, even placing her hands out flat, palms facing upwards, waiting to receive her gift. You shook your head fondly at her eagerness, her red hair still slightly bouncing from her movements of anticipation. You laid the wrapped, albeit messy and done with old newspaper, into the palm of her hand and sat straight once more. “открыть их.” (Open them)

Not even a millisecond later had her eyes flew open to gaze down at the gift that now sat in her hand. “Давай, открой коробку.” (Go on, open it)

She tore the newspaper away and softly gasped as her eyes widened at the small, wooden carved figure that laid in the palm of her hand. A small, simple, basic fox carved from a piece of mahogany wood was simply the most precious gift she had ever received.

She looked up towards you, a teary smile upon her face. You smiled down towards her smaller figure before leaning closer. “Это место может создать маленьких пауков, но ты моя маленькая лиса.” ( This place may create little spiders, but you are my little fox )

Natalia threw her arms around your neck and buried her face into its crook. You were quick to wrap your arms around her smaller frame as she sniffled and you smiled, happy that she had found the hand-crafted gift so meaningful.

“Иди сюда, лисёнок. Тебе нужно поспать.” You guided her to lie down after a few more moments of a sweet embrace. She unwillingly unwound her arms from around your neck, but still held tightly the wooden fox in her hand. (Come now, little fox. You must sleep)

As you went to pull away and head back towards your own bed, her hand gently grasped your small wrist. The action made you halt and turn to face her once more. “Спи со мной. Пожалуйста.” (Sleep with me. Please.)

With a kind smile and a curt nod, she scooted over as you settled underneath the sheets beside her. She gently took ahold of your hand, almost timidly. You gave her tiny, frail hand a comforting and reassuring squeeze before closing your eyes, hands still connected.

Before unconsciousness consumed the both of you, you quietly uttered a final sentence. “С днем рождения, лисёнок.” With that, you both fell into slumber with faint traces of smiles across both of your faces. (Happy birthday, little fox)

_______________

Natasha stared at the wooden carved figurine atop her dresser and sighed. Now that you were back within her life and seemingly with a vengeance, she felt her birthday couldn’t been as smooth sailing as previous years. Only one week ago had she completed yet another full year within her ongoing life but, all she could think of during the celebration was of you, the past that connected you both and how you seemingly risen from the dead.

It had now been 7 weeks since you had presented S.H.E.I.L.D. and Earths mightiest heroes your offer, one they had deliberated on during a lengthy meeting that had been hastily called soon after Natasha’ conversation with yourself.

Ultimately, they decided against it, saying that it was not worth the risk and threw you back into your little cage without any thought of allowing you back out.

They couldn’t keep you locked up here forever, they knew that. The best option anyone could come up with as of lately, was sending you to one of the 4 specialised maximum-security prisons ran by S.H.E.I.L.D. They weighed their options. The Cube, The Big House, The Vault and The raft.

Obviously, there were two more options, the first seemed simple enough; to keep you within their hold, within their sight. The second on the other hand, was a lot more unethical and definitely something that many would disagree with, finding it inhumane, something that would easily deem them worse than HYDRA itself.

That option would be, to find some way to kill you.

Some small part of Natasha feels that would, in the long run, be what’s best. But, although she may be an assassin in a previous pivotal point in her life, she knew she couldn’t possibly kill someone now, not at least without a strongly warranted reason and many emotions involved.

Plus, she thinks she could never kill someone who was once so important within her life, her first love. Even now, you’ve resurfaced and have become the main occupant of her thoughts and feelings. It was usually only the anniversary of your supposed death that she allowed you to enter her mind, now it was a reoccurring thing throughout each and every day.

She huffed, feeling utterly complexed about you and the situation you and herself are involved with.

A sharp knock at her door had brought her back to the present and out of her own head that’s swarmed with so much of you, the haze you now once again cast over her. Natasha finally looks away from the carved figure and younger you had gifted her and turned to look towards the door.

“Come in,” she called out, evening out her voice to regain its natural tone. Upon the red-heads go ahead to enter, Wanda poked her head through the gap she created between the door and its frame.

Wanda smiled sheepishly and she locked eyes with her. “We’re heading out in 5 minutes and the others wanted to know what was taking you so long.”

Natasha shook her head and blinked hard. She had completely forgot the upcoming mission she was originally preparing for when her mind had wandered to you, yet again. “Uh-yeah, I’ll just be a second.”

With her verbal confirmation that she would be joining them soon, Wanda gave a curt nod and a friendly smile before retreating and closing the door behind her. Natasha let out a soft sigh before allowing her gaze to flitter over towards the figure once more.

Its usual placement atop the dresser no longer felt fitting for such an item with such fond memories during terrible times. She almost felt disgusted at the mere sight of it. Breathing deeply through her nose, she arose from her seat before the dresser harshly and snatched the wooden carving from where it sat. Hastily opening a drawer, she tossed it inside.

She looked longingly downward at it, peering at it with a heavy heart and saddened eyes. She shook her head once more, her facial expression now changing to that of hopelessness; quickly altering to something devoid of emotion, now like yourself. There was no hope for you, no hope for you both, she felt there was nothing left of the one she had fallen in love with those many years ago.

The old you was gone, the old you was dead. There’s no way of bringing you back. Simply nothing remained that she could salvage, that she could save. Nothing that she could explicitly love. For the first time in her life, Natalia Alianovna "Natasha Romanoff" Romanova, had truly felt no hope was left.

With those final thoughts and the dissipating beacon that was once shining brightly upon her situation now flickered out like a broken lightbulb, she buried the carved fox underneath the few clothes that resided on the drawer and promptly slid it shut, hiding the one thing she treasured the most from the light of day.

_______________

It wasn’t hard to find out about the little mission the Avengers had just recently departed for, your enhanced hearing easily picking up on the chatter within the earpieces the agents sent to ‘guard’ you wore.

This was the first mission the merry little band of heroes will be partaking in since your first meeting. Allowing them back out into the field after the fiasco you’ve caused shows they’ve somewhat have let their guard down.

It’s also evidence of your tremendous play at the waiting game. You had bid your time, waited patiently for the perfect opportune moment to set things into motion. Of course, the Avengers could only sit out on missions for so long, due to their paranoia surrounding you and the situation you’ve thrusted upon them.

Even thinking of such things almost brought a smile out of your stoic guise, almost.

All you had to do now was simply continue to be patient, just for a short while longer. Although the Avengers were no longer present at the compound, it hasn’t been long enough for there to be enough distance between yourself and the team before you make your first move.

You’ve always been calculated, in everything you’ve done, so why should now differ from any previous predicaments you have found yourself in? The wait almost makes you antsy, nearly shifting in your spot, squirming to leave, itching to get out. But your resolve stays standing strong.

It has now been ‘56, 57, 58, 59-‘, 14 minutes since the team had clambered into the jet and set off for their destination. ‘Just one more minute…’ you think to yourself. ‘Just one more’. Simply leaving it only 15 minutes since taking their leave is a risky move; you would be cutting it remarkably close, walking on very thin ice. So close to crossing that fine line between just enough time and just wasn’t enough. You knew the team would double back twice as quickly once you made a single move to exit what has been your temporary housing.

’56, 57, 58, 59…’

“время шоу.” You grinned wolfishly as you whispered out to yourself. Simply leaning backwards from your hunched over position on the floor with your legs still crossed made those surround your cell tense. You chuckled inwardly before rolling your shoulders and clicking your back, somewhat stiff from the lack of movement on your behalf. (Show time)

You slowly raise from the ground, standing at the centre of the offending glass confinement, eyes shut momentarily. Rolling your neck with a soft groan, your eyes flutter back open as your posture straightens.

Quite frankly, you’re thankful for the simply idiotic idea of removing your restraints from the one and only Nick Fury. There’s nothing better than unrestricted movement.

Your eyes dart around the space outside of your cell, speedily surveying your surroundings; the guards, the cameras.

Your eyes land on the guard just to the right of you, who’s shaking quite visibly. You almost coo at the, clearly, young, and inexperienced agent which became a trembling mess at your miniscule actions. “Hey. Boy. Come here,” you beckon him over.

His eyes widen and you spot a trickle of sweat descend down his right temple. He looks towards his comrades in fear, silently, fearfully, asking what he should do. After a moment of hesitation, the young lad takes slow and cautious steps towards the clear wall of your cell, his knees slightly wobbly. He reminds you of that little deer from that one movie, the one where the mother bites the bullet of the hunter.

You mentally chuckle at the comparison to the movie that played during one of your self patch ups in a crusty motel after an assignment, even if the injuries only lasted for roughly 4 hours after infliction.

“What’s your name, парень?” He gulps, what’s visible of his Adams apple bobbing. He swallows thickly once more before answering. (Kid)

“Uh- i-it’s L-Lewis. Lewis O-O’Connor.”

You smile sweetly at him, giving him a smidge of a false sense of security. “Well, Lewis, would you be a dear and get me some воду, water? My throat is quite dry.” You make an act of coughing slightly to emphasise your ‘dry and sore’ throat.

“Okay.” Its so softly spoken that the poor kid panics and rushes to nod his head as second confirmation. Lewis leaves the room only to come back moments later with a plastic cup filled heartly with some refreshing water.

You smile as he makes his way over to you once more as you advance closer towards the small box with two doors on opposing sides for food and such to be deposited to you. With shaky hands, agent O’Connor unlocks his side and places his hand in the box lightly grasping the cup.

The kid simply blinked when, next thing anyone knew, you lunged at the box, griped his arm and pulled him harshly against the barrier that separates you both, your hold bruising. The swore they’ve never seen someone smirk with such malice before, even when Loki himself was once in their hands.

All guns now pointed towards you as you kept your hold on the now whimpering boy. “Ah ah ahh~” you spoke in a singsong tune, tutting towards those with their aim set on you. “Are you really willing to allow such a sweet, young олень be killed by your foolishness?” (Deer)

The smirk upon your face grew as all movement halted. You released one hand from Lewis’ arm and began to snake it through the gap and down towards where the keys to your cell dangled from his pants.

Quickly hooking the keys on to your ring finger, you retreated your arm through the gap and back towards you, placing the ring of the keychain in your mouth, in-between your teeth. Your hand now back to hold on to Lewis, you smiled at the young boy who was undoubtedly shitting himself.

Sighing, you let the smile fall from your face as your face scrunches up in false concern and remorse. “I am sorry, Lewis. You must understand, I have been left with little to no choice.” With that, you brought your left arm up to strike the underneath of his elbow, instantaneously snapping his arm in half.

You release your hold as he screams in pain, cries out in agony, now cradling his arm curled up against the cell wall. ‘I think he may want a career change.’

In slow strides, you walk towards the door to your right, watching those who’ll become easy prey once the door standing between you and the guards is unlocked. They seem to contemplate pulling their triggers and unloading their magazines into your torso, maybe out of fear, possibly out of order, most definitely for the selfish reason of wanting to live.

Little by little, you slot the key into its lock and gradually turn until that satisfying click sounds throughout the whole room. You sigh almost happily as you push the door open, seeing it move on its hinges to grant to an exit.

“Well, it has certainly been fun,” the smallest tinge of your Russian accent coming through in your speech. You downcast your gaze down to the shaking form of the snivelling and sniffling agent on the floor. “Once again, so sorry O’Connor. If only it had not had to come down to this.” You shake your head and turn your attention to your front once more, all while Lewis glares daggers your way with his puffy, red eyes.

Taking one step forward set off the first of many bullets to be fired at the compound, although, each and every shot was futile in stopping you. You were now out and running, leaving the compound which alarms blared and emergency lights flash behind and those inside to recuperate, at least the ones you still left alive.

_______________

The team had turned back and gone in the direction of the compound the second they had heard that you were escaping but, alas, they were mere moments too late. Already too many injured or dead and you nowhere in sight, like a ghost, vanishing into nothing.

They had all watched what had went down through what any security footage could provide them. Quite honestly, they had never seen something so horrific unfold before them, they had now even begun to question whether it was only the super solider serum that had been injected into you.

What you did, what you were, made them no longer consider you human.

Natasha had always known that you could be ruthless, dangerous, but this had almost shocked her into a comatose state. She was paralysed from what she had witnessed. Natasha retreated to her room, seeking solitude after such events, needing to be in her own head, as bad as it is. She needed to think.

She desperately wanted to find a way to bring you back, bring you back to her, to stop this insanity. She couldn’t bare to see you as it was, but it was an even worse image of seeing act in such ways. She knows that there is the possibility that she is far too late, that you are far too gone. But she refuses to believe what she had thought just earlier that day.

It had been hours since she first arrived back to her room, so deep in thought, mind swirling and head pounding, she had lost any sense of time. The hum of her phone vibrating at her bedside table forced her head to snap towards the device. She bit her lip and she contemplated, deciding whether to answer or not. The face up, lit screen showed it was an unknown number, possibly withheld.

Should she answer.

As the ringing neared its end, she made a quick grab for her phone, pressing the answer button and breathing deeply before bringing the smartphone up next to her ear and speaking in a unwavering, determined tone.

“Hello.” Natasha was met with a pregnant silence before a voice, an extremely familiar voice, gave her a reply, one she couldn’t help but sharply inhale at.

“Hello, Natalia.”

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Oh boy, wtaf is this lmao

I dunno, just trust the process my doods

I swear I’m also working on requests, I just thought I would finish this off and post this first since I was already like half way through it

If you wanna be tagged in future parts, lemme know

Anyways, I hope you enjoy

As always, constructive criticism and requests are welcomed and greatly appreciated :D

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Marvel taglist:

@thanossexual

‘I Watched You Die’ taglist

@diaryoflife @username23345 @drpepperobsessed @fayhar @d14n4ol

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