#this turned into it's own fic
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
The fun thing about COD is that everyone who calls the 141 and every other operator their precious little mew mew skrunkly is fully aware that Soap once used an enemy soldier as a meat shield, Price responded to a barricade by attempting vehicular manslaughter, Gaz saw one terrorist attack and decided going feral was an option that should be on the table, and Ghost is, well, Ghost.
They know their little mew mews are war criminals and they do not care.
#War crimes are acceptable in fiction#insert your own rant about acknowledging the military propaganda inherent in COD#And how you should never uncritically accept the messaging therin#but also the military can't turn our 400k soapghost fics into propaganda#text post#media analysis#fandom#fandom behavior#cod#COD#call of duty#john soap mactavish#captain john price#captain price#kyle gaz garrick#simon ghost riley
4K notes
·
View notes
Text
5’3” Logan: My boyfriend is too tall for me to kiss him on the lips. What should I do?
Wade: punch me in the stomach and kiss me when I keel over!
Wade: Stab me!
Wade: kick me in the shin! Tackle me!
Vanessa: just ask him to lean down?!
#new spin on an old incorrect quote#incorrect quotes#deadpool and wolverine#deadpool#wolverine#everytime I turn my back you guys let them stop trending and I’m not ready for that yet#poolverine#please I want them to be ship of the year#deadclaws#wade wilson#logan howlett#short Logan#short wolverine#god please make more short Logan content#their nearly a foot height difference could save me from the horrors#I’ve been obsessed with that The Proposal AU of them the last two days#but it only updates on Fridays#and I should be updating my own fics
916 notes
·
View notes
Text
Y'know what would be really funny? If each of the Flynn Fletcher siblings KNOW/have suspicions about Perry's secret, but they each keep it to themselves for individual reasons. It's been pointed out before that Perry can get REALLY reckless sometimes, and other times the boys are too clever/know Perry way too well.
-CANDACE has actually seen and interacted with Perry in secret agent mode, particularly during the time she thought she was high off her rocker and Perry had to save her from a self destructing volcano. She's had dreams where Perry was a secret agent in them.
-She doesn't bring it up or think about it much bc she just has like. A lot of other more pressing priorities most of the time, which is so valid. Also I lowkey thinks she suspects she's got a hallucination problem, like with the Zebra? I get why she doesn't talk about it out loud: she sounds crazy enough to her mother as is without suddenly talking about how their exotic pet is a sentient secret agent in a fedora.
-FERB figured it out almost immediately that day he and Phineas accidentally fell into Perry's lair and they pretended to be "secret agents" for the day. HE knows he didnt make that lair. Everything was almost toddler sized, but functionally and professionally equipped for a working adult. There were only two "P" s in the family, and it clearly wasn't Phineas. Also? Everything was Platypus themed. He put two and two together.
-I figure he doesn't talk about it bc he lowkey knows why Perry doesn't tell them. He and Phineas have a lot of faith in Perry, and Ferb is a lot less emotional. If Perry refuses to tell them about his double life and where he goes, hes just gonna trust him.
-Im pretty sure PHINEAS subconsciously knows about the secret agent thing. From where? Africa. He 💯 spotted Perry in secret agent mode on the other side of the gulf while hanging from that vine, and between his siblings Phineas is CLEARLY the one who knows what Perry looks like best. He can pick Perry out from colour and smell from every other brown eyed teal platypus in the entire tri-state area. He not only recognizes his paw prints: he knows Perry's healthy weight distribution on them to know whether or not hes injured or limping. Like....my boy can be oblivious and autistic 98% of the time, but Phin is also REALLY self aware and trusting of his own eyes and instincts.
-He doesn't talk about it because hes in denial 👍
#that being said i kinda wanna write a fic where the kids each try to help#in their own way#or help him hide from being found by literally every other member of the family#like in a comical way#realistically if Candace ever walked into her living room and saw Perry in a fedora shes just gonna stop#stare#and then turn around go somewhere else and pretend she didnt see it#and Phineas is gonna straight up dismiss it and pretend hes hallucinating or something#bc he really is his mom's son sometimes#Ferb is the only one out here hiding Perry's jetpacks under the bed and sneaking into Perry's lair after his missions to help modify#his gadgets lets be real#phineas and ferb#perry the platypus
835 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hualian Idol AU where instead of the statues the big reveal of Hua Cheng's longstanding amorous fixation on Xie Lian is all of his self-insert "my mom sold me to One Direction" style fanfics located in the depths of some boyband RPF archive.
#tgcf#hualian#hua cheng would write the most unhinged fanfics#he probably still prefers drawing to writing but a keyboard opens up avenues for him not having to worry about handwriting#300k magnum opus starring himself as a ghost haunting an antique ring xie lian buys and then he also owns hua cheng's soul and etc#he doesn't do y/n because YOU are not being sold to xie lian#he'd be totally shameless about it as well#like 'in this fic I get turned into a fox and gege hits me with his car and then nurses me back to health'#and people are like at least make up an OC or project onto one of the other band members or something and he's just like no#go feel shame on your own time#nineteen year old hua cheng is too busy writing a story where he is a sexy soldier who dies tragically in xie lian's arms
470 notes
·
View notes
Text
Health and Hybrids (XXX)👽👻💚
[I can't remember the original prompt posters for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]
🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.
💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)
Where we last left off... Several therapeutic white boards were drawn on. Everyone reading was so good and normal about it. So were the characters, presumably.
Trigger warnings for this story: body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) | my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.
💚👻👽👻💚
Additionally: apologies to Adwen and Allmune on ao3, to whom I directly said I wouldn't do this; I lied. (Whoopsie).
Also additionally: Bonus fic snippet you may have missed
💚👻👽👻💚
“Are you hungry?” Danny’s new therapist asks, her fingers playing with her pen.
Danny shrugs.
Pretty quickly, they’d figured out that these sessions went…worse…when Danny was hungry. Hunger makes him upset. Being upset makes him want to speak less. Not talking ruins the whole affair.
“Want to talk?”
Danny shakes his head, and sprawls out onto the couch—he’s allowed to basically position himself however he feels comfortable in the room, and if he has a choice, he’d rather just hang out horizontal. Does it make getting back into his chair harder? Yes. Is there a lady with super strength right outside his the office door who is willing to pick him up at a moment’s notice? Also yes.
(It’s kind of silly, but, if his legs ever stop feeling so sore…Danny is. Well.)
(He’s kind of curious how tall he’d be if Diana held him piggyback.)
“Want to draw? Paint?”
Drawing is a high-stress activity. Danny tends to default to memories when he draws these days, and he’d rather not think about that right now. Finger-painting is another option, but it’s pretty messy…even if it would be fun…
Danny’s therapist (?) (he's pretty sure that’s what she is?) is a blonde woman, with a quiet face and piercing eyes. She’d probably be less intimidating if they knew each other’s language, if Danny’s being honest; usually these types of people try to talk their way out of being intimidating. Instead, Danny sits on her pinstripe couch in unbranded sweatpants and a thin white tee, and she wears a suitjacket over her tights.
It’s all very strange. It’s not more strange than his chaperone’s usual outfit of plate armor and tiara, but still.
“Want the language bócastréon again?”
…Danny hums in thought, hands crossed across his chest. He’s pretty sure they’ve tried building a thing that’ll detect his language, like, three different times by now, but every time it winds up like the Fenton Ghost Gabber: mindlessly repeating his words back to him, unable to make heads or tails on translation. At least these trials don’t end every one of his statements with I am a ghost, fear me.
Oh well. It’s better than nothing. Danny shrugs.
The therapist clicks the machine on from a switchpad at her elbow, and a blue holographic screen fills the air. Danny only spends a little bit of time batting at the display like a cat, watching the light play off his hands for his own amusement.
“Please begin,” the thing says, and the same text pops up on the screen.
“S’up,” Danny tells it, and grins when the little display starts its very, very, long, and very, very familiar, buffering process.
Danny already knows this isn’t going to work. He might as well have fun with it.
He talks about his day, he talks about his old bedroom; he talks about what he had for lunch, toying with one of the sucker-toys he woke up with ages ago even though he doesn’t know who gave them to him. He talks about his friends, because he loves them—not Tuck and Sam, who he’ll miss the rest of his life, but Mikey and Poindexter, and what school had been like for him. Quiet topics. Easy topics.
Normal topics.
…Danny isn’t’ sure he’ll ever have normalcy again, but…remembering it isn’t so bad either. He plays with his weird suction cup toy with both hands and he talks.
“…So I ended up getting stuck without the Speeder like a million zillion miles from the portal. I thought Jazz was going to kill me, since she needed it to take her girlfriend to prom the literal next night, so I had to run around for like forty minutes looking for someone to help me out— but at least Wulf was like ‘Ne estas problemo’ and he helped me sniff out the weird cheese Vlad had left in the center console of the Speeder the week before—“
The box beeps. “Lingvo identigita: Kryptonian.”
Danny bolts upright as fast as his limbs let him.
Danny was never as good as Tucker was with Esperanto, but— But that’s Esperanto. Danny’s hung out with Wulf long enough, did enough Duodioma with the stupid little muppet bird mascot. The box didn’t call it the right thing, but—
—But—
The therapist looks at Danny, eyes wide. Danny can’t even look at her. He’s too busy staring at the discount-aisle Ghost Gabber.
“Diru ĝin denove,” Danny demands sharply. Say it again.
The screen automatically translates his words as he speaks—in Esperanto, and then into their own language, the two transcriptions populating side by side when Danny speaks.
At this point, the woman’s mouth is open. Danny would be right there with her, but—
Danny sits there, numb.
He has a language. A language that is mostly guesswork on his part and the occasional swears Wulf will teach him as a joke, but, still, a language.
A language made up by a doctor in Poland. In the eighteen…somethings. And these people with superpowers know it. And they know what it is.
And the therapist looks at him, stunned, with new eyes, as if she knows something new about him now.
…What the hell is Kryptonian?
*
There isn’t Kryptonian plural. Danny thought there there might be.
There isn’t.There is pretty much only one.
One. Singular. Kryptonian.
That feels worse, somehow.
*
Notes taken [DATE REDACTED] 2023, 22:37 UTC.
Participants are:
KE: Kal-El of Krypton, Codename: Superman. JD: Patient, John Doe, Codename: N/A. Patient file attached.
Note: Conversation was recorded in Kryptonian. Machine translation has been provided for convenience.
*Addendum: Yeah, I can get Jor-El on this, no problem –Supes
KE: This conversation will be recorded. Are you alright with that? JD: Conver…? KE: (Writing gesture) This talk. JD: Oh! Yes. KE: Good morning. My name is Kal-El, and I am of Kryptonian descent. On Earth, I serve as a protector. My title on Earth is Superman. JD: Superman? KE: Yes. JD: (Laugh) KE: Thank you. May I know your name? JD: (No answer) KE: Take your time. You may decline as well. JD: …I… (Pause). I do not… KE: That is alright. Do you have hobbies? JD: …What? KE: What do you like to do? JD: …I like to learn about space. I like to…when the fast child…we play games? KE: The fast kid? Impulse? JD: Impulse? (Incredulous) KE: That is his title, yes. JD: Why is his name Impulse? That is… Is that an insult? KE: I think he chose it? JD: (Stunned silence) KE: You like space? JD: Y…yes. KE: Tell me about it? JD: Do they not tell you about me? KE: I hear news. I have not met you face to face. JD: (Shrugs) KE: Not since you bit me, anyway? JD: I bit you? (Incredulous) KE: You were injured, and you were scared. I did not mind. JD: I am sorry! It was an accident! (Upset) I did not mean to! I do not remember— KE: It is alright, it is alright! (Placating) JD: (Cries) KE: Hey… (Touches shoulder) Oh, sorry. I should not do that. It is alright. My dog bit me yesterday, and my son bit me the day before. It is alright. You did not hurt me. JD: (Still crying, hard to decipher) You have a dog? KE: Yes! I have a dog! He is also from space. His name is Krypto. Here, I have pictures! (Takes out communicator)
*NOTE: pictures mentioned contain images of Superdog and Superboy(II)
JD: (Still crying) Are you supposed to ask me questions?? I have been here… I have been here for a long time. People want to know about what I am, and where am I from, and what I can do, yes? KE: Well…yes, but there is a lot of time. There is no limit. JD: (Wipes nose.) KE: All I am supposed to ask you today is if you have any allergies. See?
*NOTE: List of potential allergens has been attached to patient file.
JD: (Takes list from KE) Allergi…? Oh. No. I am… No food makes me sick. I can eat all foods. I cannot take…there is a sick medicine. For a cough. I cannot take that. KE: Good to know! (Alarmed) I’ll tell your doctors. Do you like your doctors? JD: …Yes. (Shyly) They are nice. KE: Wonder Woman says that she already asked if you feel safe. Do you feel safe with your doctors? JD: I do. Everyone here is kind. I eat a lot. I get exercise. We play games. I take breaks. I see space. I do not worry here, unless I get scared by accident. KE: I am…very glad to hear that. (Chokes up.) My son is about half your height. If my son was far away, I would want someone to help him too. We only want to do our best for you, alright? Please tell us if something is wrong. JD: So I can fight? KE: Pardon? JD: I am meant to fight, right? KE: No, no—not fighting. Just healing. And resting. JD: And then after… I am supposed to fight? KE: No. No, not—you don’t have to fight. The only thing we need is for you to be healthy. We don’t need you to fight anyone. JD: Everyone wants me to fight. (Begins stimming with slime) There are many children here. They all fight. I am eventually going to have to fight. I know.
*NOTE: Slime was provided by Medical team for therapeutic use.
KE: (Pause) Who is everyone? JD: (Silence) KE: Did someone make you fight, before? Is that why you were injured? JD: (Silence) KE: I am sorry if they did. That is not fair. You are not an adult yet, and even adults should not have to fight unless they enlist purposefully. You are a child. JD: No one thinks I am a child. KE: Who said that? JD: (Silence) KE: Did someone hurt you? JD: (Pause) I do not want to talk. KE: Alright. Can you tell me why you do not want to talk? JD: (Silence) KE: Would you like to fight? JD: I am good at fighting. KE: That is not what I asked. JD: There is no choice? When there are bad things and bad people, someone has to fight. I am strong—when I am not injured, I am strong. I fight. There are people who are not strong, and cannot fight. I can fight. I fight. KE: (Silence) JD: This is why you are healing me. KE: (Pause) No, little one. That is not why. JD: (Pause) Oh. (Puts down slime) Am I…am I going to be data again? Are you going to test my body? KE: (Puts face into hands)
[PAGE 1 OF 4]
[Interview is to be reviewed by Black Canary and Dr. Pranathi Russo MD, Pediatric Psychologist.]
*
“It’s bad!” Clark says with a watery smile, because Clark isn’t Superman at the moment—in Bruce’s home office, as private as a place as the world can get, Bruce is only Bruce, and Clark is only Clark.
When Black Canary had suggested that their debrief happen somewhere private where Clark felt safe, Bruce had known that there would be bad news. Still, he pours a mug of coffee that Clark will metabolize all the caffeine out of anyway, and pours a long, thick cup of the stuff for himself, and settles back into his warm leather chair.
“Tell me,” Bruce says, not quite Batman, but not quite Bruce either.
“Bruce, he ‘knows’ we’re going to make him fight. He thinks we’re healing him to be a child soldier.” Clark’s laugh is half joke and half derision. Bruce thinks that he understands. “He thinks we’re keeping him here as—like property, where if we pick up something dumped on the side of the road, we can fix it back up and put it to work. Like an engine, or, or…or like a lawnmower. It’s awful.”
Bruce skips the creamer and goes straight to the Baileys beneath his desk for garnishing.
On the one hand, Dick has been flying out in Gotham since he was a preteen. There had been no question about training him; training was the way one kept their children safe, the same way that Alfred had taught Bruce how to shoot as a child—no matter how much Bruce had loathed it at the time.
On the other hand, Jason’s death plays out in his nightmares in technicolor around…once every few months.
The fires. The flames.
(The alien boy found in a wrecked vehicle outside the Kent farmhouse, curled up in fear.)
Bruce thinks about Damian, and how long it had taken for Damian to understand he could be loved as a child who loved animals, and not a future prince of Gotham.
…Bruce passes the Baileys to Clark.
The Kryptonian won’t absorb any of the alcohol in any meaningful way, but he dumps the remainder of the bottle into his coffee nevertheless.
#tw alcohol#specifically as a coping mechanism#Clark has his own turn to go through it#after that Dinah has HER own chance to go through it#happy chapter thirty to all and to all a good (looks at clock) afternoon#after that the medical team all takes their turn going through it/having realizations as to why Danny's been VERY compliant#the important thing to remember about working in medicine is that you can't go around crying all over your pediatric patients#it freaks them the fuck out. And then where will you be? That's right: with freaked out patients#health and hybrids#danny phantom#dp x dc#tw medical#tw gore#tw body horror#although at this point we're mostly a recovery fic#dcu crossover#dpxdc#dcxdp#faer fic
233 notes
·
View notes
Text
(separating this into its own post bc I need the validation of the radiostatic enjoyers)
Alastor absolutely believes that everyone else ALSO thinks that Vox is the most charming and attractive demon in hell, it's just an objective fact - just like how Vox is an annoying clout-chaser constantly trying to upgrade himself towards more and more validation
--
Like imagine, for whatever reason, Vox is at the hotel and he's bitching about Valentino, and Alastor is nearby because he doesn't like or trust Vox alone in HIS hotel.
Vox: And then the fucker said that he only sleeps with 10s AND Vox! That absolute bitch, how DARE he?! After everything we've built!
Alastor, confused: The distinction makes sense. I fail to see how THIS is the thing you take fault with, considering everything else lacking in the moth.
Vox, mortally offended that his rival-crush ALSO thinks he's ugly and trying to pretend he doesn't care about it: uh, FUCK YOU?!
Alastor, now both confused and offended: If he included you in the scale, no one else would rate a 10? Although I suppose it is true about what they say about television rotting the brain, if your offense is taken at a rare show of consideration and NOT the publicized and continuous cheating. Ha ha!
Vox is so caught off guard that his screen immediately glitches, and it's not until he does a full system reboot that he can even RESPOND to what Alastor just said.
Alastor is making fun of his flimsy technology when Vox comes to.
Angel is cracking up in the background, watching this entire thing go down.
Vox has no idea where to go from here.
#radiostatic#staticradio#staticlovetune#fic#mine#alastor#vox#hazbin hotel#hazbin alastor#hazbin vox#i had to make this its own post bc its too funny to me to not#its just even funnier to me if Alastor also doesn't realize that not everyone thinks Vox is the most attractive demon in hell#he just thinks its such a fact that it doesnt even occur to him to be embarrassed for admitting it#bc he's just like: Vox? that sellout? yeah hes the best looking demon in hell but that doesn't stop him from being an annoying clout chaser#Alastor sees Vox exactly like that one phineas and ferb episode where Phineas had to take out Isabella's cuteness to not break the tracker#like obviously Vox isnt a 10 because if HE'Sincluded on the scale then literally no one elsewould rate#Alastor voice: Why are you glitching and turning purple I'm insulting your intelligence here#Everybody Loves Vox AU
470 notes
·
View notes
Text
— the weight of a sinner
to bear a sin is a result of consequence, but to bear a sin with no relation to you is an inescapable burden — a means to have a scapegoat and someone to hold accountable. unfortunately, you're one of the very few who seem to think as such.
CONTAINS : gn!reader, 3k wc, angst(y-ish), bittersweet, some lightheartedness in there... somewhere, shackling prison/pre-banishment dan heng, mentions of high-cloud quintet, relationship w/ dan feng left ambiguous (but implied dan feng x reader)
A/N : dan heng and reader face inner turmoil just as i do when facing any minor or major inconvenience. (the dan f/heng animated short was looped while i was writing this...)
Your time within the lifeless prison is limited. Lest you want to be caught red-handed by the stationed prison guards or, worse yet, Jing Yuan for trespassing, you ought to hurry. (You have an inkling he is well-aware of your routinely visits, but you choose to ignore the thought. It makes pretending to be none the wiser a little easier when you’re with him.)
Well, that much is easier said than done.
Shooing away unnecessary thoughts, you continue your way down towards the depths of The Shackling Prison. Blending into the surrounding darkness, you wait as patrolling guards pass by, watching their receding figures with calm eyes. As always, the security towards the bottom of this dreary place is tighter. It’s understandable, really, when taking into consideration who they have held captive.
Eventually, you come to a stop. You take in the familiarity of the surroundings, of the damp smell, of the hollow drips echoing within the walls, of the eerie isolation which encroaches on you.
Several guards hover in front of the cell. A quiet sigh escapes you, though it doesn’t come as a surprise. With the fluidity it takes for you to knock out the guards in one swift movement, one would think the act to be like that of muscle memory. It’s not all that far off when considering just how many times you have done this, on top of your past merits as a Cloud Knight. Now left without any potential risks, you step out from the dreary shadows and make your way through the bars and into the chamber.
Laboured breaths; beads of sweat; a harsh crease between his brows; clothing torn and sullied. No matter how many times you see him in such a state, your heart lurches for him all the same.
With quick, light steps you draw closer. Features you are all too familiar with become clearer in spite of the dingy lighting, but your attention is more focused on the dark, murky wisp festering his soul.
“Those blasted Elders,” you mutter to yourself as you take in the young man’s haggard appearance. “Just what poison have they deceived him with this time…”
His body hangs limp against the metal restraints, ragged breaths wracking his worn body as his expression contorts into one of pain. Dark spots flicker ominously when your eyes skim his body. The burden wrought as a result of the Preceptors’ influence must weigh heavily on his mind if his soul is this contaminated to such an extent. (You dread to think of the lies they’ve been spewing to him about Dan Feng for him to be in this state of conflict.)
Your gaze stops at one particular point, its shadow more concentrated compared to the rest. “They made his soul murkier than it was just a few days ago!” And he’s sustained more bruises than before…
Immediately, your hands hover over his chest. A dim glow distorts the matted appearance of his skin, its shallow light allowing for you to get a closer look at the injuries he has sustained since your last visit. Eyes narrowed at a particularly concerning spot, you’re loath to believe the Elders have even a smidge of humanity left within them — assuming they even had any to begin with, that is.
Amidst your hushed curses towards the Vidyadhara Preceptors, a low groan resounds from in front. The once slack figure writhes against the chains, hissing at the uncomfortable friction the metal must no doubt be causing to his raw skin. You are about to move your attention to his wrists to help alleviate the pain until a flash of colour appears in your peripherals. You blink once, twice. Tilting your head up, you find yourself gazing into an unmistakably striking pair of teal eyes akin to that of the viridescent horns atop his head, the crimson which rests under his eyes and woven into a portion of his hair standing out despite the gloomy environment.
The faint clanging of metal brings you out of your daze. Oh. Right. He regained consciousness.
…Oops.
“You… What did you do?” His voice is hoarse — raspy. There is a slight edge in the gaze he regards you with, a precautionary means of defence. You can’t say you’re all that surprised. Rather, it makes you glad he remains on guard even though he has seen you a fair share of times.
Pausing the usage of your abilities, you cast your full attention onto him as you engage in this rare conversation. “I’m simply here to tend to your injuries and alleviate some of the burden weighing you down.”
(You’re not lying, per se, but you opt to omit the part wherein this selfishness within you merely wishes to save what you failed to before; an unnecessary burden you carry on behalf of someone long gone.)
“Thank you, but why go out of your way to help a sinner? You receive no benefit from this.”
A bitter smile stretches your lips at his words. A striking familiarity seeps within his tone, yet you’re no fool to mistake the man in front of you for someone who no longer walks the path of the living. You’re not like the rest of them who are stuck in the past.
“No one deserves to be shackled by past burdens. I hope that, one day, you can break free from the shadows of the past and live the way you desire. This is your life. No one has the right to dictate what you can and cannot do…” Your fists clench, eyes narrowing into a glare towards the ground. The next words leave a bitter taste in your mouth. “Not even those Elders have the right to do so.”
Silence follows your words. You take that as your cue to resume tending to him; he lets you.
Thinking back, he seems far more relaxed compared to when he was awake during your first couple of visits. He would shrink in on himself when you tried to cross a certain distance, his tail flicking anxiously in response as he regarded you with trembling yet hostile eyes. It’s a stark difference to how he is now. For one, his tail isn’t even out, having retreated when he came to realise you weren’t a threat nor were you going to harm him. He isn’t tense in your presence either, merely watching you do what you came here for with calm, slow blinks.
“Alright, all done here!” Leaning back with a huff, you bring a tentative hand to wipe away at the beads of sweat accumulating atop your forehead. There seemed to be more work than your previous cleanses, but you find the extra effort to be worth it when not even a speck of that murky contamination is left within him. Pride swells within you at your handy work. Haven’t lost my touch just yet!
Now with no reason to stay, you make a move to stand when a quiet murmur halts your movements.
“...You’re not calling me by that name.” When you give him an inquisitive look, he elaborates, “Dan Feng. You don’t call me by that name.”
That name roots you in place. Your mouth runs dry when his name is uttered in that voice, breathed out by that unnervingly similar face, senses growing dull as an all too familiar ache weighs down on your heart.
Your gaze drops momentarily before meeting with his own one — one riddled with confusion and a hunger for answers. “Because you’re not him. You are not Dan Feng, you are you.”
In spite of what all those Preceptors keep trying to hammer on about, how the Vidyadhara High Elder Dan Feng still lives and must face the consequences of his sins, how they have not diminished in power and influence, you find yourself to be one of the few who abstain from such beliefs. How could you not when you were someone privy to his private life, to his wants and hopes, his fears and worries, his dreams for a better future when all was said and done amidst your roles in history.
As such, you can hold your beliefs with confidence.
Dan Feng is gone. Dan Feng is dead. Dan Feng, despite the haunting similarities which stand before you, is not the one you’ve been looking out for within this seclusion. The incarnation in front of you is not the same man you have spent countless years by the side of, nor is he the one privy to the deepest, most intimate parts of yourself only few know of, just as you were with him.
“And…” You pause for a brief second before standing. His eyes follow your movements in caution, though you can tell your words resonate within him (the previous uncertainty which clung onto him is nowhere to be seen, for one). “I hope this is the last time we meet. For both our sakes.”
You lingering around him like some shadow will do the both of you no good, and you would be no different than all the others who hover around him for his status and power. It’s a decision you have long since come to terms with, one you knew would take place the moment you left your house to come here today.
It’s for the better, you tell yourself as you walk away. With this, perhaps you can finally allow yourself to let go of him and the past—
“Wait…!” There’s a shuffle behind you, the faint clinking of metal, a soft curse and grunt following soon after. Upon turning your head to gaze over your shoulder, you find yourself staring into glowing teal. “Every time I— ugh!” A pained gasp escapes him when he struggles too much against the restraints. Before you can reach out and alleviate his pain he merely shakes his head, signifying he has no need for your power. Not a second later, he continues. “Unlike the other blurred or vivid dreams I have of the previous life, every time I see or think of you my mind is calm. I know little-to-nothing of you, and yet, instinctively, I feel safe in your presence. Who are you?”
His words cause your eyes to widen and your stomach to drop. You weren’t expecting him to have some awareness of Dan Feng’s life and your identity, nor for his eyes to shine so brightly despite there being no light. Your teeth clench; your lips wobble. Someone must have tampered with his rebirth, or else he wouldn’t be able to recall even a single thing. You’ve heard some of the ways in which Dan Feng has been described by the Elders — how he is a criminal, a sinner, a monster, one who brought shame to the Vidyadhara name as the High Elder, and how he as his incarnation is no different.
He won’t be able to live this life as his own without being shadowed by the past. He won’t be able to escape the sins and burdens not meant to be carried by his shoulders. He will forever have the name and consequences wrought by his predecessor follow him instead of his valour and achievements, and the mere thought of it weighs heavy on your heart.
A wince involuntarily makes its way onto your features at the recollection; you don’t dare think about the cruelties they could have sneered into the young man’s ears when he was at his weakest and most susceptible to the brainwashing.
When you gather the courage to face him once more, you remember he asked you a question: “Who are you?” Looking into his eyes, there’s a hidden desperation in his gaze which causes your lips to naturally form the beginning phonemes of your name. But you stop, instead deciding it would be best to omit anything that could potentially implicate you with his previous incarnation. After all, for him to forge a path of his own, the past must remain as just that.
And so, with a light smile, you answer, “I’m just someone who doesn’t wish to see an innocent person bear the sins of their predecessor.”
He doesn’t have the chance to respond. You’re long gone from the confines of his chamber, as though you were never there to begin with, and he is left to stare into the abyssal darkness which has accompanied him throughout the entirety of his life.
The only tell-tale sign of your presence being real is the warmth which spreads through his chest, warding off the dulled pain administered by the Preceptors.
In spite of your earlier words, the shackled Vidyadhara cannot help but to hope your paths cross once more. Whether that be within the tethers of a sinner, or perhaps in the distant future when he’s strong enough to leave his past burdens behind and start anew, he hopes he can talk to you as himself; as Dan Heng.
Maybe then you won’t have that pained look in your eyes when you gaze at him.
--
There’s a slight trickle of rain when you step foot outside into the Exalting Sanctum. It’s a stark contrast to the suffocating air of a cell, though the resulting chill which follows seems to be a worse trade-off.
You ought to have a word with whoever’s in charge of controlling the weather. Or at least get Jing Yuan to have a word with them. They certainly could have timed this better. What’s done is done, however, as chains of the past already begin to entrap you within its cold tethers.
“Forgive me,” you murmur, gaze upturned and blank as your body steadily becomes drenched in artificial rain. “Even your reincarnation will only know you as an emotionless sinner by word of those Elders.”
You must look terrible like this, soaked to the bone with nothing to cover you. You can picture him reprimanding your carelessness with that worried tone of his, laughing off his nags before he ultimately covers you with an umbrella and brings you back to his abode where a pot of hot tea and spare dry clothing awaits you.
But he’s not here to do all those things once more; nor is there anyone in the vicinity, for that matter. It is simply you, your grief, and your lonesome.
“You’re gone. Baiheng’s gone. Yingxing isn’t here. Neither is Jingliu. There’s only so much more Jing Yuan can try to carry by himself before he cracks. Or maybe he already has but remained stubborn as ever, hiding his burdens like always. And I… I’m just a coward who cannot do anything other than wish for the happier days to come back. I just want us to be happy again...” Warmth trickles down your cheeks, a stinging sensation blooming from within your senses. Abruptly, your voice quietens, barely a whisper. “Is that too much to ask?”
Had it not been for that prophecy of depravity and betrayal… would things be different now? Would everyone still be here drinking under the moonlight, telling stories of one-another (both the embarrassing and the emotional), sharing tears and laughter, sparring and honing one’s skills until muscles cried for rest and reprieve?
If you weren’t a coward back then — if you had just said or even just did something — would this all have been a mere nightmare they would tease you in good nature for?
You laugh, humourless. “Hah. What am I doing? It’s not like you can hear me if I talk to the rain. You would’ve given me an answer years ago if that were the case.”
A bitter taste lingers then, ceasing the rest of your words and instead causing you to choke up.
Inhale, exhale. Through the nose, out the mouth.
Having calmed down, your eyes stray towards the outside of the ship, taking in the bleeding hues of purple and blue distorted by the rain. Motionless, you remain in a trance for a few moments.
“...Remember that plan we talked about before?” you begin once more, voice steady unlike a few moments prior. “The one of all of us travelling planet to planet and exploring life beyond missions and the Luofu? Well, I think it’s about time one of us keeps to our word. I guess I should prepare to say goodbye to Jing Yuan soon.” A half-hearted chuckle escapes you at that. Your eyes close and drop with a sigh, a wry smile stretching the line of your lips. “Do you think he’ll resent me for leaving him as well?”
Silence is your only response, and you come to realise the rain has stopped. When you lift your gaze, the moon shines bright through the lingering mist. It’s almost reminiscent of happier days, when you were young and free, only having to worry about preventing a scuffle between Yingxing and Jing Yuan from breaking out, sometimes sharing a drink with Jingliu as Baiheng chattered away about her day. But most often were nights such as this spent together with Dan Feng, wiling away the nights stargazing and reminiscing missions and basking in one another’s quiet company.
It’s about time I move on, too.
With a swift turn you begin the trek home. For the first time in a long while, you have a goal — a hope and a dream to your name. Your mind recollects the young man’s gaze, how his eyes burned brighter than the sun itself in that one instance. Despite your prior words, a part of you hopes you meet once more when he truly discovers himself; for who he really is as opposed to the ghost which clings to his being.
For someone who can still create such an expression despite those conditions, his future is limitless.
(That night, after having packed your essentials in preparation of heading out the following day and penned a letter for Jing Yuan to read in your disappearance, you had a dream. Through your fragmented recollection, you recalled a woman with a comforting smile; a man wise beyond his years; a familiar, yet unfamiliar, young man who wields a calm aura; a cute girl with boundless energy; a stoic-looking girl with unexpected charm; a rabbit-like creature dressed akin to a conductor; and you… you were happy. Happy in a way you never thought you would be again.
It was a lovely dream.)
if you enjoyed this, then reblogs with/or comments are greatly appreciated !! <33
#honkai star rail x reader#hsr x reader#dan heng x reader#honkai star rail x you#hsr x you#dan heng x you#haha imagine in the animated short timeline when dan hengs drowning and u have ur own memory bubble after pom-pom and its just u saying:#“let's go home dan heng” bc now the express is both ur homes and ahahahhhaaha.... ha.... a..... (<- the sound of pain.)#very tempted to write a continuation but in dan heng's pov with how the fic ended...#the way i could easily turn this into a series... high-cloud quintet days leading up to present... blade & jingliu encounters b4 express#honkai star rail imagines#hsr imagines#honkai star rail scenarios#hsr scenarios
311 notes
·
View notes
Text
Changing channels 2.0 but Gabriel makes Cas the Bachelor and Dean is the P.A. having an excruciating awakening of homosexual lust
#destiel#deancas#spn#Supernatural#fic ideas#<- *chanting low under my breath* I WILL write a comedy that does not evolve into an emotional epic#I WILL write a comedy that does not evolve into an emotional epic#started a Too Hot Too Handle wip last year but Taylor Supernatural hates AUs so......... cannon-complient dating show destiel?#<- Taylor did not make me stop the wip#i stopped it on my own for reasons of adhd as god intended#ANYWAYS cannon-complient dating show destiel!!!#the conflict can be like. Gabriel is low-key torturing Cas (who knows it's all a hallucination or w/e)#and idk Dean is unofficially assigned as Cas' handler to prove that he's ready to be promoted to producer or something#and that causes a ~conflict of interest~#I have no idea what greater spn plot point this sould service#dean has to divert from his destiny in order to follow his heart?#i.e. Dean has to turn away from the allure of producing to fuck Cas in the bathroom of his show trailer or something? I'm working on it.....
122 notes
·
View notes
Text
hasbro is killing g5 mlp, which means it's officially my city now...say hello to my new and suspiciously familiar "ocs"
#my little pony#mlp#g5 mlp#mlp g5#g5 my little pony#mlp g5 fanart#mlp g5 redesign#my art#sunzy#stormblazer#izzy moonbow#misty mlp#misty brightdawn#sunny starscout#hitch trailblazer#zipp storm#pipp petals#opaline mlp#sprout cloverleaf#allura mlp#twitch mlp#sparky sparkeroni#sparky mlp#flurry heart#<- spoiler alert i'm making that old theory about flurry heart turning into opaline real in my personal visions of g5#i tagged this with sunzy but technically that drawing is a polycule with sunny izzy and misty#but idk wtf to tag for g5 stuff. i have so many visions nobody else gives a fuck about.#hopefully i'll start writing g5 fics now that hasbro is killing it...i need to save these characters G5 IS MY BABY I ADORE IT#i'm so miserable about how g5 has been treated so i'm going to do my own thing with it. i'm going to miss it soooo much so i'm coping.#stay tuned for more out of context self-indulgent niche au g5 mlp art.........this is how i am getting through the deaths of mym and tyt.
154 notes
·
View notes
Text
I think legend kept adventuring to escape how quiet his house is. The way its filled with memories of his uncle and the night he lost him. Even when years had passed, the house doesn't feel like a home anymore
Fable gave him a room in the castle and he knows he's welcome to stay there anytime, but he doesn't have good memories of being in the castle. He doesn't fully trust the guards, the rooms are big (too big, even) yet they make him feel trapped and he feels like he needs to put up an act with all the people going in and out for official business.
His house is not a home and the castle is out of the question. And so he wanders, does whatever quest is being asked of him because its better than spending time in that house or needing to be in that castle.
#and thats how his house became a glorified storage shed#a purple merchant comes along and starts living there– so the house isn't so quiet anymore#and then being in that house becomes a little more bearable than before#dunno how to draw this or turn it into a fic so here's the headcanon on its own#linked universe#lu legend#my ramblings
155 notes
·
View notes
Text
make a mess, lioness by @testarossa (carlos/oscar, 4k, rated e, complete,)
“Mate,” Carlos hisses. “When is the last time you cut your nails?”
Been so insanely obsessed with this fic lately <3
#carcar#carloscar#photo edit#f1 fanfic#fic rec#using my art degree to edit scratch marks onto athletes hell yea#initially wanted to post the pic edit on its own but also i dont really want people to share this out of tumblr / out of context#anyways i really like how it turned out#considering it was made in less than an hour
121 notes
·
View notes
Text
Danny moved to Gotham.
Freakshow is touring in Gotham.
Freakshow knows Danny is in Gotham.
Danny knows Freakshow is still after him.
Danny's faith in heroes has been shattered.
Danny turns to the only person powerful enough to run Freakshow out of town, hopefully for good.
Danny turns to the Joker for help.
The Joker is looking for a new punching bag sidekick after Harley Quinn left him.
Danny is just the perfect person to be shaped by the Joker's hands.
Danny becomes the new Joker Junior.
#pondhead blurbs#dpxdc#how we feeling about this fellas#i think it's an ideal angst fic#but i don't wanna write it lol#the younger danny is the worse it gets#someone said that danny shouldn't be afraid of the joker because he's a clown and freakshow is a ringmaster. not a clown#if i find that post i'll tag the creator cause i can't remember rn#but i'm imagining danny who is heavily traumatized and scared and lonely#finding out that one of his worst enemies he hoped to never see again is hunting him and is so close danny has to check his eyes every day#just to make sure they haven't turned red#his anxiety is out of control and he's not about to go find a Bat or Bird to talk to#who would believe him anyways? he's a monster#but danny needs help cause he will not survive this on his own and he knows it#freakshow haunts his every waking dream#but freakshow isn't from gotham. he doesn't have the city's curses engraved into his blood. he never died and he's not truly teasing death#so danny chooses to plead for help from the only predator bigger than freakshow (in his eyes) who IS from gotham#danny goes to the Joker. prepared to offer everything but his free will and free mind. he can't give those up. it's all he has.#danny is a feral house cat asking a tiger to take care of a mountain lion for him by offering the tiger his own liver on a silver platter#joker is...delighted? maybe? no one is quite sure. but he takes what danny offers.#here is this little boy. almost the same age as the second robin when he died. pleading for the JOKER to be his savior. this will be fun
513 notes
·
View notes
Text
i have this fic series i'm still working on where mihawk sort of becomes rayleigh's kid and spends ages 11-17ish on the oro jackson.
shanks and buggy imprint on him (bugs considers him a sort of older brother figure/sparring inspiration and shanks has a crush that eventually turns into full-blown love) and this is how i imagine they're like on the day mihawk sets off on his own haha.
#fic recs#dracule mihawk#akataka#mishanks#buggy#buggy the clown#shanks#akagami no shanks#red haired shanks#one piece#one piece fanart#op fanart#clearly my workaround to 'i should be working on my deadlines instead of doodling mishanks' is to finger-draw on my phone instead#on the plus side i'll never be tempted to go and fully render what was supposed to be a sketch#on the minus side i'm wondering if drawing with my finger takes up the same amount of time anyways.........#smh#anyways in this au i have this part planned where after shankd and buggy get into a fight over the chop chop#shanks comes crying to mihawk all devastated and annoyed and mihawk who is 16 and absolutely doesnt want to deal with a crying 12 year old#decides to fix things himself by showing buggy the pros of his devil fruit via forceful and incredibly harrowing sparring session LOL.#makes him see right away how much of a boon it is to never be able to get cut by a blade. it turns into an actually fun sesh#'cuz mihawk starts enjoying the challenge and the creativity and control and buggy starts wielding his knives in flying hands.#ends with mihawk berating him on how he treats his brother and how mihawk never wants to have to deal with shanks like that again#and also lowkey encouraging buggy by saying he's a resourceful kid and he's got people if he cant do things himself.#at this point in time shanks kind of wants mihawk to be his knight in shining armour so he's happy to hear what mihawk did#but mihawk is Fully Over bunking with two 12 year olds. ray please can he just set out on his own now. he's done it before. come on.#he is not a babysitter!!!!!!#tho these fics will focus mostly on hawk & ray jsyk#i digress
287 notes
·
View notes
Text
You gave those wounds to your god, Enki. Did you think they would heal so easily?
(Uh Oh! Someone gave the priest catholic guilt!)
#fear and hunger#enki ankarian#fear and hunger enki#funger#digital art#csp#illustration#my art#pixel art#enki#hiiiiiiiiiiii so fear and hunger is great!#played it for 4 hours last night for the first time and I love it 🥰 I’ve made a half hours progress lol#I keep losing the save coin tosses#I can’t believe this is what it took to make my art brain turn back on smh it’s patho all over again 🤣#not surprisingly enki is my fav immediately a sickly rude wizard priest? yeah that’s my number lol#fun fact I edited a wiki for the first time while making this#his page didn’t have his crucifixion dialogue and I couldn’t find a transcript anywhere#so I had to go find a video with the scene so I could transcribe it myself#and I was so annoyed by the end I added it to the wiki 😂 hopefully I did it right I copied the format of the rest of the page#(note that I didn’t even own the game at this point akkajdksdj)#also! this is partially based on a fic I read! it got me thinking about how he’s walking around w stigmata#also part of why I even knew there was crucifixtion dialogue#I’ll link it in a reblog I don’t remember the name rn#oh wait should I tag this for blood? idk#tw blood#insects
204 notes
·
View notes
Text
okay!! now that it’s not 2am for me, i’m going to post my selkie!jason todd hc’s straight up au apparently!
(uh. this was supposed to just be a list of hc’s but i got slightly,,,, carried away)
his selkie skin looks like an oversized red hoodie in his human form, and is just warm enough to help him survive new england winters.
when the summer heat becomes unbearable, he slings the hoodie around his waist
alternatively, he just coasts it out underwater. perks of living in a coastal city!
willis todd was a selkie. he used to tell jason stories of what it was like to swim through the big, wide ocean. of how freeing it felt. how different it is, from the smoggy, heavy air of gotham --- different, but both theirs, in their own right.
but to be honest, jason doesn’t remember much about the stories he was told, or really, anything about willis --- he had been in and out of blackgate for most of jason’s life, working for two-face to try and make ends meet, before dying.
what jason mostly remembers, are the warnings. don’t let anybody know you’re a selkie. don’t let anybody find your skin. they will find it, and they will use it to control you. even decades later, jason would still remember those warnings.
catherine is the one who teaches him how to swim, who helps him trial-and-error his way into putting his skin on, and learn how to make the transition seamless.
after she dies, jason spends three months as a seal, to just... exist. forget.
although jason technically lives on the streets, whenever he can;t find food, whenever he can’t find somewhere warm to sleep, whenever just being human becomes too unbearable, he spends the night as a seal. he ends up spending more time in the ocean, than on land.
that’s not to say he’s very good at being a seal --- he barely knows how to swim, has to learn how to fish the hard way.
when bruce finds jason stealing his car tires, he marvels over how nice jason’s hoodie is, soft and fluffy even after all of jason’s time on the streets, especially given the condition jason is in, ribs showing from malnutrition, and the worn and raggedy shape of the rest of his stuff.
jason is skittish when he goes to live in the manor, even after a few weeks. he always adopts an expression particularly similar to a cornered wild animal around alfred in particular, alfred, who keeps on trying to take his hoodie away, purportedly to wash it.
alfred eventually gives up on trying to force jason to wash it --- he figures that as jason becomes more comfortable living at the manor, he’ll wind up telling them why he’s so protective over that hoodie, and they can work something out then.
whenever wayne manor overwhelms jason with how big and how decadently expensive all the decor is, jason runs away, run to the ocean.
jason doesn’t actually end up telling alfred and bruce that he’s a selkie --- bruce just has a ridiculous amount of motion alarms, which are triggered every time jason ran off. he had followed jason the third night, and saw him transform.
bruce doesn’t tell jason that he knows, assuming that jason kept this a secret because he didn’t fully trust either of them. he would later learn that he was right in this assumption (a rare win for bruce in terms of emotional awareness)
except jason doesn’t fully trust either of them, even after a few months. bruce impulsively decides to do a few things --- a) tell jason about batman and robin and his crime-fighting secret identity, and b) tell jason he already knows about him being a selkie.
jason is absolutely bamboozled by the fact that bruce knows, and yet hasn’t tried to take his hoodie to control him, or to stop him from playing in the ocean for a few hours.
in fact, (under alfred’s encouragement) bruce offers to take him to the ocean during the day, so he can get “a proper night’s rest that a growing young boy such as himself would need”
jason remembers what his father told him, to never trust anyone, never let his guard down. but bruce has known about jason being a selkie for so long, and he didn’t take his hoodie or try anything. of course he can trust bruce.
and when he tries on the robin costume for the first time, it fits perfectly. just like his hoodie, his second skin. it fits just like magic.
oh, it’s a little loose in some places, the legacy of dick fucking grayson a little heavy sometimes, but he’ll grow into it. he’ll make himself, if he has to.
also, jason finds the fact that even though he’s a friggin’ selkie, his callsign is a bird (a robin, no less) incredibly ironic and funny
being a selkie is actually so useful for vigilantehood. the amount of people who talk freely, openly, and loudly about their drug smuggling plans near the ports is quite frankly, ridiculous.
honestly, towards the end of his robin years, jason remains genuinely surprised nobody catches on to him or his tactics yet. bruce is very proud.
even though jason is safe, has been safe for three years, and trusts bruce with his life, his skin, and everything, old habits are hard to break. so he has his hoodie on when he goes to find sheila.
and anyways, he wants to see if sheila is a selkie too. he’s taking biology right now, and they’re learning about punnett squares. jason’s never met another selkie before, other than willis who he barely remembers. there’s a possibility that sheila knows something, anything, so he has to try.
sheila gets a glint in her eyes when jason mentions that he’s a selkie, tells him that while she’s not one herself, she’s familiar with the myth. she has long suspected that willis was a selkie, she tells him, and she’s glad to have confirmation.
jason positively vibrates with excitement, can’t wait to ask, to pester his mother (mother!) with questions upon questions until.
until.
sheila doesn’t do anything after she gives him to the joker. she just smokes and smokes. and she doesn’t tell the joker about his hoodie, despite how it would have been much easier for the joker to destroy him that way. much more painful too.
small mercies, he supposes, in between hacking coughs that brings blood bubbling up his lips.
after he dies, his hoodie is ripped and in tatters from the crowbar, with burns along the edges from the bomb. bruce has to carefully peel it off his body.
when jason was alive, his magic kept the hoodie in perfect condition, always. even when the rest of him was covered head-to-toe in mud, or dripping sludge from the nasty gotham sewers.
bruce stares at the same hoodie, blood-soaked and mangled, so incredibly dissonant from how he remembered it on jason, when he was bright, whole, and alive.
he can’t stand it. the hoodie that was so precious to jason, that was jason, at the core of him, in this state. dirty and ripped and devoid of the magic jason had exuded.
in a moment of desperation, late at night, bruce asks alfred to teach him how to sew. he doesn’t dare to practice on jason’s beloved hoodie --- instead, he starts with the suits in his closet, grabbing the first one he sees, regardless of price. rips a hole and sews it back together over and over until he perfects his technique.
and then he washes the fabric gently, using baby fabric cleanser and scrubbing for hours upon hours until the last traces of the deep-set brown stain from jason’s blood washes down the drain.
he painstakingly sews the scraps of fabric back together with a red thread, carefully sourced to match the hoodie to try and make it flow seamlessly like it used to.
it doesn’t work, not exactly. despite his best efforts, the creases bruce had carefully sewn together are prominent and thick like scars, littering the soft fabric.
so he gives up. he hangs it over the grandfather clock entrance to the cave in his study. brings it with him every time he visits jason’s grave, because he doesn’t ever want to keep jason’s hoodie away from him, but he also can’t bear for it to get ruined.
dick visits him. a rare occurrence, these days.
dick yells at him, as he is wont to do.
these days, it feels like they spend more time angry at each other than not. dick says that this isn’t right. isn’t fair to anybody, not to alfred, not to himself, definitely not to jason. he rants, jason deserves to be remembered as he was in life, not frozen in death.
perhaps he is right. bruce is not unaware of the state of violent, cutting stasis he is in, this putrefaction of his life. and he is certainly not unaware of how it is affecting the people around him. dick. alfred. the neighbor’s kid, the one who wants to be robin.
bruce tries. not for himself, but for tim. for alfred, for dick. even for stephanie brown, who sometimes, when she smirks just right, or says something with just the right twang, he swears he can see jason in her.
he still can’t bear to put the hoodie away, because jason deserved better than to be forgotten, so he folds it gently and places it in his closet instead.
he also can’t bear to look at it for very long, so he forces himself to every single day.
it’s different from the glass case that houses robin’s tattered suit in the cave --- that, is a reminder of how he failed robin. this, this is salt in a constant, stabbing, festering would, reminding him of how he failed his son.
it was stephanie, that eventually helped him figure out what to do with the hoodie. when she was young, young enough to cry at ripped pants and skinned knees, young enough that her mother hadn’t touched the drugs yet, her mother would dry up her tears, give her a hug and a kiss on the forehead, before patching her pants up.
what not many people know, is that before crystal brown set her mind on becoming a nurse, she wanted to be an artist, first. and so she grabs her old set of embroidery needles, and stitched little designs. dogs and cats. stars and planets. tools and gadgets.
bruce doesn’t react, doesn’t even move, even as stephanie finishes her story. she hangs there awkwardly for a second, stares up at jason’s suit, waiting for him to respond, before shuffling towards the exit of the cave.
thank you, spoiler, bruce manages to croak out.
ah, yeah, she says, shrugging lightly while slouching in on herself, any time, boss. she walks out, and bruce watches her go from the reflection on the darkened computer.
that night, he takes out jason’s hoodie, smooths it out, grabs his threads, and stitches.
he stitches on constellations, argo navis, for jason’s namesake in the greek myths he had loved so much. a tiny seal, playing with beach balls. little books, with quotes on the sides. a robin, big and bold.
he tries to make it as true to jason as possible, not just in death and in bruce’s memories, but as he was in life.
jason wakes up abruptly.
he wakes up in a coffin, cold, alone, and with a gaping hole in his chest. getting dipped in the lazarus pit only made it worse, only made him all the more aware of what he was missing, all the more conscious of it.
he doesn’t bother trying to learn how to swim with two arms and two legs, instead of two fins and a tail. it doesn’t feel the same. it only reminds him of what he’s lost.
sometimes, on sleepless nights that happen more often than not, he wonders what would have happened if he still had a hoodie, still could swim.
if he still was robin.
and he doesn’t have access to the cave anymore, or to the titan’s tower, or the watchtower, and his memory of the past is still patchy and shitty in some places.
so in a burst of impulsivity fueled by the person he no longer is, he prints out photos of robin’s costume from the internet and recreates it on his own.
if his skin is gone, then fine. fine! he’s perfectly perfunctorily aware that nothing about this resurrection of his is natural. if he doesn’t think too much about it, he’ll be alright. his hoodie, his skin, that was something he was born with, a birthright that died with him.
but robin, robin was something that he helped shape. robin was something that he worked for, changed himself for.
and the makeshift robin suit --- it doesn’t fit him, not anymore. no, it feels wrong, like a child playing with their parent’s suit. or --- he realizes, perhaps more accurately, like an adult realizing they no longer fit in their favorite clothes.
and --- and --- what was the point of it all? what was the point, of trying to make bruce proud of him, of getting dick’s approval, of trying to futilely save people over and over again from the same gallery of supervillains who keep on escaping from prison?!
and what was the point of carving out a space for himself if the joker was just going to beat him out of it, and if tim drake was going to insert himself in the hole he left behind?
and then the next thing he knows he’s in titan’s tower hitting tim drake over and over again because who let him? who let him take jason’s role as a son, as a brother, as a hero? how dare he?
but when he’s slit tim’s throat and torn the ‘R’ off his chest, jason doesn’t feel any better. the robin suit still doesn’t fit. his hoodie’s still gone.
he’s starting to think it never will, not again.
sometimes, when he gets tired enough to let his mind wander, he wonders what happened to his suit.
he’s pretty sure he died with it, so either the hoodie is with the joker, batman, or... gone entirely. (it’s not like they found willis’ skin after he died. maybe selkie skins just disappear in a cloud of sea foam once they die, or some little mermaid shit like that)
it’s a cold comfort, that nobody can manipulate him now. nobody can control him --- not even batman.
(bruce had thought about it. when he first had his suspicious regarding who the red hood was, before he knew there was any trace of the son he once had left. he thought about using the hoodie, using jason’s selkie skin to coerce him, at least to stop murdering people, to stop hurting their family.)
(he would never go that far, in retrospect, or at least, he doesn’t think he could ever. to do that to jason, betray his trust so thoroughly and completely... but it would be a lie to say that he didn’t consider it.)
bruce reflects on this as jason reveals himself, the joker tied up at his feet with a gun pressed to his head, and venom spitting from his son’s mouth.
but when he lifts the batarang to hit jason’s gun, or wrist, or anything that’ll force him to drop the gun, he realizes that his hands are shaking.
and when he throws the batarang, he knows a millisecond after he’s let go, that he’s miscalculated the ricochet.
so when jason escapes that night, bruce knows he’s fucked up.
jason goes off the maps, completely. bruce doesn’t know where he is, if he’s safe, if he even made it out of the explosion that night.
it takes weeks. weeks for bruce to track jason down, from meticulously documenting the dropped threads of where the red hood was pulling strings in the gotham underworld behind the scenes, to tracking security cameras with facial recognition.
once bruce manages find where he’s staying, make sure he’s safe, he knows what he wants to do. and, he knows what he needs to do.
jason gets a package in the mail, five weeks after his disasterous meeting with batman and the joker. unmarked, unsigned, no return address.
when jason opens the box gingerly and carefully, he holds on to his skin for the first time in years. and then, and then, and then --- something right slots into place. his fingers brushed gently over the tiny spotted seal he knows he used to look like, the books he remembered ranting to bruce about for hours on end.
the robin, on the top left, over his heart, big enough to have changed him, yet small enough to not define him.
it’s not perfect. it doesn’t even fix anything, not entirely. he still fights with bruce most times he sees him, tries to punch dick in the face, steadfastly ignores tim and steph the entire time.
but it’s something. it’s something, and the next time nightwing, batman, spoiler, and robin fight a gang on the docks, the red hood gives them a helping hand before jumping back into the ocean and swimming away.
fin!
wow this got long
#jason todd#bruce wayne#alfred pennyworth#batfam#selkie!jason#dick grayson#stephanie brown#tim drake#catherine todd#willis todd#that one selkie!jason au#i swear i will turn this into an actual fic one day#anyways about the using embroidery to fix ripped clothes thing all i can say is WATCH HI MOM#it's SUCH a good movie and i guarantee it will DEVASTATE you in ALL your little mommy issues glory#like you think the batfamily comics/fanfics have an amazing nuanced complicated take on the parent-child dynamic?#this movie will BLOW your fucking SOCKS off. and best part of all: you can watch it WITH said parent#and it won't be as horrible of an experience as showing them encanto/turning red/eeaao!#in fact your parent will probably like the movie too and be reminded of THEIR own mommy issues :D#admittedly it's slightly different from the examples i listed above bc it's more abt what it's like to never reach ur parent's expectation#rather than an exploration of complicated parenting but it's still very relatable and very very good#the best part is you can find it all for free on youtube. also note that i mean the recent chinese movie not the old 70s movie#asteria's fics#i'm never writing a fucking flash fic on TUMBLR of all text editors again#shouldve written this out on a google doc first but i genuinely did not think this would get so long T.T#you can probably tell from the first three (3) bullet points that this was supposed to be a hc list before... it stopped being a hc list#guys i started writing this at 12 PM#IT'S NOW 9 AWOGEJAWOIG#my writing
833 notes
·
View notes
Text
Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.
He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.
Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.
Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.
Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.
It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.
He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.
"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."
It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.
Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.
There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.
Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.
That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.
The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.
Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."
It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.
It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.
He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."
The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.
It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.
He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.
"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."
He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.
"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."
He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.
But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.
"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."
He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.
He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.
#dimension 20#fantasy high#riz gukgak#baron from the baronies#this is set a Long time into the future. riz is like 32 in this one#''I will go to sleep'' so turns out that was a fucking lie#lmao I just needed to finally externalize this idea into Some kind of more final form#initially I aimed for a comic with this but ooughgoughhh I am. indisposed. unable to do that rn#and also I feel like there would just be too fucking much Riz Saying Words in that format for it to work. and I always go if theres so much#words in ur comic might as well make it a fic. and well. heeding my own advice perhaps#just been sitting on this sentiment of like. perceiving romantic relationships as uniquely permanent or conclusive#when the vast majority of people I know would hugely benefit from a divorce lmao#since watching fhjy at least. I think in a sense this is kind of my personal answer for that sticky note style comic I did way back thens#how much of that fear of being deprioritized comes from not being taken care of by the community you're in#I think that's the prettiest answer I can give for riz's deal. not one singular Special Person no matter the kind of flavour#but spaces that he's integrated in. that he has a hand in building even#okay NOW I sleep. everyone be quiet ok small voice for good sleep. it wont be a lie this time I prommy
111 notes
·
View notes