#ANS HOW TIME EFFECTS MY SENSE OF SELF | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dashielldeveron · 3 years

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and i’ve gotta crow | takami keigo

hawks x pro-hero! reader. quirk unspecified.

summary: “You’re suffering from amnesia,” says Hawks to you, in your hospital bed.

No, you are not.

“We’re engaged to be married.”

No, you are not.

After an accident that was that bastard Hawks’s fault, you decide to play along with your diagnosis of amnesia, among other things, because how far can you make your former bully bend over backwards for you?

fluff/trickery??? completely avoidable angst, bc reader is a little shit. hawks is a scumbag bully at first. reader is honestly kind of violent. dealing with acne in a scene.

When the first things you saw after groggily blinking your eyes open were multiple IVs in the back of your hand, you flipped over and snuggled farther into your hospital bed to deal with it later, but against your will you were forced to lie flat on your back to stare into the hospital fluorescents.

When the nurse fiddling with your IVs came into focus, he said, “You need to lie on your back. You have deep gashes on your lower abdomen, and tossing about too much could open the stitches.”

That sounded like bullshit, but you were too out of it to care. “Yeah, okay,” you said through a croak, “Oh, fuck.” You wrestled a hand to your throat, massaging it. “Am I waking up from a coma? Don’t let anyone see me until I’ve done my eyebrows.”

The nurse laughed through his nose. “No, don’t worry. You’ve barely been—” He cut himself off and frowned. “The news should probably be broken to you when you have emotional support. I’ll be back soon.”

He left.

Emotional support? Wouldn’t that fucking gash on your stomach be—ooh, ouch, don’t move.

Where’s your phone? Where’s your goddamn phone; where’s any of your personal belongings? If they got crushed, you’re killing Hawks on sight.

Hawks, oh, my God. Where is he? He’s dead. If he still has the audacity to bully you professionally—fuck.

He’d cornered you on patrol earlier—whenever that was—and cut into you in that casually, negging-type way that wasn’t enough to report but enough to make you stay up late and freak out about being good enough. It hurt your chest whenever you thought about it.

But this was the first time he’d gotten seriously physical.

He’d alit on the top of the warehouse next to you, landing what would have been haphazardly for anyone else (the arch of his feet against the edge, his toes barely touching roof) and had crouched next to you, his scarlet wings completely blowing your cover as they stretched and shuddered.

“What’s a little girl like you doing in this part of town?” Hawks had propped his chin on both his fists. “Thought shoplifters were more your calibre.”

“Hawks, this is actually really important to me, so please, please leave,” you’d said, keeping your eyes on the group you could barely make out through the skylight. They’d already been partially concealed by crates, so they were hard to see.

“Someone else give you a tip for their location?” He’d tapped your opposite shoulder with the end of his wing, but you hadn’t even flinched.

“Bruh, you know I’ve been on this for weeks,” you’d said, shifting away from him, “I even shared intel at your last briefing.”

“Is that what you were talking about?” Hawks had scratched his chin. “I zoned out. Usually the little cases female heroes present aren’t in my circle, and I like to unwind when brain power isn’t needed.”

You’d planned to rip his wings out feather by feather while you’d gritted your teeth. “You can’t talk to me like that, Hawks.”

He’d laughed, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “C’mon, babygirl, have a slice of chill, won’t you? I thought you were one of the cool girls. Relax. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“Leave me alone, Hawks. You’re not gonna bully me into joining your agency. You’re not gonna bully me into quitting being a hero,” you’d said, inwardly screaming, “I’d tell you to go talk to someone who’d fall for your shit, but then, she’d have to suffer, too. So, fuck off into a sewer, jackass.”

“Oof,” Hawks had said, placing a hand over his heart and shaking his head, “You don’t have to be such a bitch, sweetheart. I’m only looking for my better half. Didn’t think it could be you, but I’d thought I’d give you a chance to prove me wrong. Don’t take yourself too seriously; just be along for the ride like the rest of us.”

“Huh,” you had said, and you’d stood and strode to the edge of the warehouse to your harness and rope, and you rappelled down the side of it as stealthily as you came up.

“I’ve been watching you all these years, sweetness, and I know you by now; I know how you really feel,” Hawks had said a bit too loudly while he flew downwards at your speed (braggart). “Strip away all of your busy work, your so-called hero trappings, and we’d mesh together just fine. We may be rough around the edges, but we clean up really nicely, don’t we?”

You’d unclipped your carabiner and stepped out of your harness, stashing it in your pack. “Fuck off.”

You’d moved towards the back entrance, but Hawks had slammed a hand against the concrete wall in front of you. You’d ducked under it and carried on, and he’d grabbed the back of your shirt.

“C’mon, if we didn’t know each other, and our eyes met from across the room at some hero gala, you’d be all over me, wouldn’t you?”

You had swiped his hand away. “I’d be putting a lid on my drink.”

His arms behind his back, Hawks had followed you through the door and behind the exposed pipes and closer to your targets. “Saw you coming onto Todoroki at the last one. You looked fine in his colours, but you would’ve looked better in mine.”

Don’t grace him with an answer; don’t grace him with an ans— “I wasn’t coming onto Shoto,” you’d said, pulling yourself up a couple of pipes for a better view—and you’d hit him when he flapped his wings to hover the few feet you’d ascended, because the noise might alert them.

“Yeah, you just simp for him, right? Then you didn’t step outside your comfortable ice queen act?” Hawks had gripped onto a pipe just underneath your ass. “You’re too much of a natural tease for that.”

How can you report him when he’s the head of his own agency? You guess the commission might listen, but what can they do besides slap his wrist? There’s really no one who can stop him, is there?

You hadn’t replied but instead crawled onto the iron catwalk. If you could position yourself about three-quarters of the way across, you’d be able to effectively activate your quirk and get this over with—wait, why would you think like that? You’d been waiting for this for ages.

A hand spreading across the small of your back had reminded you.

You’d flipped over with fire in your eyes and kicked him away as quietly as you could, but all he’d done was sit back on his knees to grin down at you, army-crawling your way through a dirty warehouse.

Would he take credit for your work again?

You’d shaken yourself. Eat my entire ass, Hawks. And with that, you’d continued inching towards your targets. When you’d gotten into position to watch them, Hawks had merely watched you.

You had scowled. “I’m gonna tear you a—”

“You had a hard childhood, didn’t you?”

A chill had unfurled up your spine, simple as that. Hawks now not only had the annoying air of an arrogant pick-up artist but also gave you an intense sense of danger. You’d moved away from him, regrettably away from your target, but Hawks had followed you, getting closer until his body heat had seeped into yours, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his dumb face.

“I could take suuuuch good care of you, little girl,” he’d said under his breath, “if only you’d let me. No one else is crazy enough to call me out or want more than the bare minimum.” His wings had folded in on his back, making themselves as small as possible to get closer to you. “If you give in, tell me yes, say please, you wouldn’t have to let any worries cross your pretty little mind. All you have to do is let me in.”

“Yikes,” you had said, sucking in through your teeth, “God, you’re a creep.”

Hawks had slammed you down onto the catwalk, iron reverberating through the warehouse as it struck your head, and your targets had looked up by the time the catwalk hinges had loosened and had come crashing down in the midst of their meeting.

You’re really not supposed to shoot guns inside. Don’t they know that’ll ruin their ears? No matter, really. You had fought them anyway, amidst crates splintering open from whatever they were shooting at you—fuck, that was a big hole. What’s oozing out of that? Gross, don’t step in it.

One with a normal revolver—his arm had given a woody crack when you’d bent it backwards—God, that was nice. Good sounds. If you could sample them into a rap track, you would.

You’d been planning a collab with a popular rapper while you’d hurled yourself at another villain, sawdust flying—just to keep your mind busy, really, but fucking—fucking Hawks had bested whoever he’d half-assed to the ground and had shouted your way.

“C’mere, you little shit—”

He’d scooped you up while you’d been taking care of it by yourself, and he had pinned you down behind a stack of crates that reached the remains of the catwalk, straddling you but keeping most of his weight off, his wings outstretched yet still hidden from the cloud of sawdust rising with deep gurgling on the far side.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” he’d said over the chaos, spit flying, “You can’t handle this; you’re gonna get fucking killed. I can’t babysit you all the time.”

“Get fucked; I’m the number fourteen hero,” you’d said, deadly still, but twitching in fury, “I can handle anyth—”

“Aww, fourteen. And one day babygirl might reach the single digits.” Hawks had sneered in your face. “If she manages to fuck her way through them.”

Your jaw had dropped, and you pretended to cough on sawdust and kicked him off in the confusion. Hawks had grabbed a hold of your calf, grappling for your thigh, while you’d scrambled to climb over crates to the gurgling mess on the other side; you could handle it, and you would.

You’d slapped his hands away, wrestled out of his grasp again and again, and you’d launched yourself into the dust—

Yeah.

While the fluorescent lights flickered overhead, you picked at a hangnail. You hadn’t braced yourself for the explosion, so, you guessed you deserved whatever was wrong with you now. Big-ass gashes on your stomach. Probably broken ribs. Something felt off in your left leg, besides—oh, ho, what had the doctors thought when they’d seen Hawks’s scratches?

What an idiot.

When the door creaked open, the nurse returned with a mug of water for you, but—what? Who’s that bitch following him?

You blinked, twice. With his hands in his pockets and his nasty little wings tucked in behind him, Hawks meandered to your bedside, his gaze on your throat as you swallowed down water.

God, you’re too tired to deal with him. Let’s get this over with.

The nurse glanced over his clipboard. “I’ve already told your partner this, but I thought you would want him here.”

Maybe if you ignore Hawks, he’ll leave.

“You were very brave today,” said the nurse, “Your work as a hero is greatly appreciated. You’re on temporary leave to heal, though. Like I said, you’ve got three, major gashes on your stomach, and your leg’s broken—the fibula split, if you want to know. You’ll be on crutches for a while. You have four broken ribs, and—” The nurse bit his lip and softened his voice. “You hit your head pretty hard. Nothing’s broken, but you should have amnesia, with the trauma you’ve endured.”

Should have? They don’t know? You sure as hell don’t fucking have amnesia. It barely happens in real life, and it definitely hasn’t happened to you. You remembered every fucking infuriating thing Hawks did to ruin your mission, and if he doesn’t square up—

“I’m so sorry, baby,” said Hawks, grabbing your hand. He stroked the back of it with his thumb, and then he took his glove off to hold you skin-to-skin. “You remember who I am?”

You just stared at him.

“Your fiancé’s been a real presence in the waiting room,” said the nurse, “He hardly stopped pacing the entire time you were in surgery. He wouldn’t even talk to fans.”

Oh, my God.

Holy fucking shit.

“Oops, sorry,” said the nurse, covering his mouth, “I know you were keeping it a secret. Don’t blame him, please; he only told me to be able to see you immediately.”

Shutting your eyes, you took a deep, deep breath. You have been handed a golden opportunity on a fucking Hawks-shaped platter, holy fuck, and by God are you going to take advantage of it. Imagine how much you can fucking humiliate him, how far you can take it. How much you can make him pay for how he treated you, and now, if he says he’s your fiancé, then he’s gonna fucking worship you. You’re going to mould him into your little bitch, and he’s going to thank you for it. And you’ll get endless dirt on him just by seeing his place.

Don’t fuck this up.

Exhaling, you opened your eyes, blinking a bit. You curled your lips into your mouth, biting the lower one. “I remember you’re Hawks,” you said in a nervous voice, “and I remember, uh.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.” Hawks squeezed your hand, his tone kind. “It’ll come back in time.”

You clutched Hawks’s hand while the nurse rattled off instructions and gave you your crutches, and Hawks squeezed your hand back, softly smiling at you.

When the nurse left, you turned to Hawks and said, “I’m so, so sorry, but I—I feel like there’s something big missing that I can’t remember.” You scratched your forehead with your free hand, dragging the IVs with you.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Hawks tilted his head, still gazing decidedly down at you.

“Oh, God,” you said, “Oh, fuck. I don’t know. Um.” Take it back. Take it way back. That way he’ll dig himself into a deeper hole. The more lies he has to create, the funnier it’ll be. “Let’s see, I, hm.” You already weren’t speaking like yourself, but you looked upward as you faked combing through memories. “I don’t know how things work chronologically, but the most recent memory I have of you is—it’s after a press conference, and I’ve never been in the building before,” you said slowly, “And I can’t find the bathroom, but some press keeps following me, and I—I faceplant in between your shoulder blades, right between your wings. You—” You lowered your voice, shrinking a little in the hospital bed, “You got rid of them so easily, with just a gesture, and you put your arm around me. You were—” You shook your head, staring at both of your hands. “—so warm.”

Was that too thick? That was too thick, wasn’t it?

His free hand shot to his mouth, and he bit his knuckle. “But sweetheart, that’s,” said Hawks, his eyes watering, “That’s only around the third time we met.”

You know.

“Shit,” you said, widening your eyes, “How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Hawks squeezed your hand and kept the pressure longer than was necessary. “Three fucking years. You don’t remember anything past that?”

You pretended to be scared to look at him. “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry—”

“No, no, you don’t have to be,” said Hawks, and he leant towards you to lift your chin, rubbing his thumb against it, “It’s not your fault.”

You had to hand it to him: Hawks was a good actor.

But so were you.

***

Hawks disappeared for a while after that, but he manifested the day you were loosed from the hospital, more than giddy to carry all of your shit all the way to your flat. He was probably getting some sick pleasure from watching you hobble on your crutches.

“I can help you, if you lean on me,” said Hawks, giving you an easy grin, “I don’t want you to be in any more pain than you have to.”

“This is something I should do myself,” you said in what was hopefully a tough-it-out voice, “I’d like to be able to walk without depending on anyone.”

“I honestly think you ought to be in a wheelchair.” His wings bristled. “But what do I know? I could fly us to your place, if you like.”

“I don’t like. I’ve gotta concentrate on limping. Stop talking, Hawks.”

You got to your flat, and Hawks had guessed which key opened the door on the first try. Drat! He was already doing a good job of acting like he’d been here before, like he’s not surprised that the number fourteen hero lives in a pretty shitty apartment (you started living here as a student and got too damn comfortable for your own good—plus, you didn’t want your cat to endure the trauma of moving).

Hawks plopped your keys in the bowl by the door with a clatter, and he shut the front door behind you, flipping one of the locks.

He set your stuff neatly on the kitchen table—your purse, your tactical pack, your ropes—and lay your dry-cleaned hero suit over the back of a kitchen chair, and his hands were on you the next moment to guide you to your tacky, sunflower couch. Removing one crutch, he put your arm over his shoulder instead, one hand planted on your lower back above your bandages, and he eased you down onto the cushions.

Hawks then stepped over your legs to sit on your opposite side, and he brought your legs to rest in his lap, his hand gripping your non-casted leg. “Gotta keep it elevated, chickadee.”

You let yourself giggle. Time to get this shitshow started. “Thank you so much for helping me, Hawks; I know I’ve been a real hassle these past few days, and you shouldn’t have to deal with that sort of stress. You’re already under so much. I don’t understand how the commission would let you date anyone, let alone propose.”

“Oh, I know,” said Hawks, spreading himself out on the couch. He shifted himself to face you in addition to accommodate his wings—he was now positioned so that they’d drape over the arm of the couch instead of being squished against the back cushions. That bitch, he probably wasn’t used to couches that weren’t custom made to his special body requirements. Spoiled fuck.

“The commission was really pissed when they found out. Do you remember how, sweetness? Right, I’ll tell you,” said Hawks, running an ungloved hand through his hair before shaking it loose. “You remember up to the press conference with the faceplant. Short version is that you hated me for a good year before something clicked. You started acting awkward whenever I was around, avoiding me, and stuff. Sometimes getting red. I thought it was cute.”

You ducked your head. Flustered. He probably likes easily flustered women.

Wait. That’s not who you are. And he’d like you for who you are, if you’re engaged.

But at the same time, if you’re (gag) in love with him, wouldn’t you be flustered by some of the things he says?

Easy, baby. Take it as it comes. Pick your battles. Go with your gut.

And gut says make Hawks eat shit.

“You think I’m cute?”

“I know you’re cute.”

You’re going to stuff his own feathers down his throat.

“We got together at that dinner Endeavor’s agency sponsored. Do you remember that at all? That place with the purple lights. You’d gotten nervous from the crowd and had gone to take some of your anxiety meds. I caught you in the hall back from the bathroom and talked you down before going back out there.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’d like to say I’m the one who kissed you, but you took initiative before I had the guts.”

Funny. Hilarious, in fact. That was the night Hawks had solidified himself as the Biggest Dick in the World, because yeah, he’d caught you in the purple-lit hallway, but he’d caught you on the way to take your meds, not on the way back. You were talking yourself down from a panic attack and couldn’t argue him away, so he’d followed you into the bathroom, running his mouth and acting like it was an accident when the tip of his wing had knocked your two capsules down the sink.

He’d told you that if you’re a big girl, you’d be able to handle the rest of the night. Or you could leave at any time with him, and he’d make excuses that everyone would have to accept.

Honestly, you’d love to let his fake memory be true, because then, you’d be able to wear purple again without feeling queasy.

Cocking your head, you smiled. “That doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

Hawks let out a light laugh, craning his neck to rest his head on the back of the sofa. “That’s what you said that night, too. About how it felt out of character.”

“Was I good?”

Lifting his head, he raised an eyebrow at you: probably the first genuine emotion he’s shown you the whole time he’s been here. “Hm?”

“When I kissed you. Was it good,” you asked flatly.

“Oh,” Hawks said, his wings puffing out just barely, “Oh, sweetheart, you were amazing. Groundbreaking. Show-stopping.” His tongue flicked over his lower lip, and he shifted underneath your legs, leaning slightly towards you but holding eye contact before carrying on.

You shook your head. “I don’t have the energy to give you the makeout session you deserve,” you said, envisioning drowning him in the bathtub, “I’m exhausted. Forgive me.”

“Always,” said Hawks, “Want me to keep going?”

“You can hardly eat me out when we haven’t kissed yet.”

“I meant,” said Hawks, pausing to visibly swallow (was it real?), “about our relationship, but if you wanna eat—”

“Nah, keep going. So, I started the relationship? I must be crazy. Neither of us have fucking time to sleep, let alone be in a relationship.”

Hawks never shut up about how he was taking time out of his endlessly packed days to spend time with you, how time was precious to him, and if he’s spending time with you, why, then, you’d better pay up, bitch (always accompanied with his hands on his belt, subtly pointing his thumbs towards his cock).

Hawks shrugged with his wings instead of his shoulders. Interesting. Has he ever done that before? “The commission said that, but after I insisted we’d make time, they relented. Eventually,” said Hawks, jerking his head to the side, “Our quirks don’t exactly fit well, so we haven’t worked with each other professionally too often, and, of course, we’ve had to hide our relationship so that we can’t be a public weak spot to each other. Plus, we’re more marketable as eligible, young heroes.”

“Fuck the market,” you said, slumping into the pillows.

“There’s my girl,” said Hawks, grinning with his tongue caught between his teeth, “There’s her spark. I know, baby. I feel the same way, but being made into libidinous body pillows pays the bills, y’know?”

Nodding, you brought one of the couch pillows around for you to hug, and you smushed your chin into it. “Hawks,” you said, so quietly you almost couldn’t be heard over the A/C kicking on, “How long have we been engaged?”

“Four months,” he said, his grin unconsciously fading until he was essentially baring his teeth, “Since the twentieth.”

Taking a moment, you said, “I can’t remember anything at all.”

“That’s okay. It’ll come back.”

“No, I can’t—” You slid your hands through your hair, pulling at it, and you heaved a sigh. “Goddammit, Hawks. I wish I could—fuck. I’m missing something huge. I know I am.” Make him nervous. Make him lie awake at night. “I’m sorry, Hawks. It’s probably something really important, and I—”

“Shh, shh, shh, shh, it’s all right,” said Hawks, and he stood to lean over you, his hands rising to cup your face, and holy shit, his hands cover so much of your skin; is that legal? He’s got hands. “Don’t worry, baby. You’ve had a big day. Turn your brain off. I’ll take care of you.”

Red flag! Big, red flag! Creep! He’s a creep!

Your gaze fell to his jacket pockets. Does he carry date rape drugs on his person?

“Hawks, I don’t wanna inconvenience you any more than I have.”

“I’m your fiancé,” said Hawks, actually looking you straight in the eyes and not breaking, “I want to take care of you.”

“Sure, in the way the mob takes care of people.”

Hawks’s mouth opened slightly, and his eyes narrowed.

Cover it up. “I’m not sorry. I don’t trust your cooking. You’ll poison my spaghetti!” You made a dumb gesture, pinching your fingers together. “Have you seen The Godfather? There’s actually a pretty legit spaghetti recipe in it; it’s not too bad, but it’s kind of watery—”

Hawks brought your hand to his mouth to kiss your knuckles and let his lips linger. “Watch it with me?”

You shook your head. “I’m too tired. I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll join you.”

“No,” you said, “My bed’s not made with your wings in mind.” Fuck off to your own little sex next, Hawks. Get out of here. “If they got hurt, it’d be my fault. Go sleep in your own bed, all right?” Go home. Get mugged on the way.

Hawks sighed, blowing his hair out of his eyes. “If you insist. But you’ve gotta reach out to me for anything you have trouble with, yeah? Memories, opening jars, orgasms, you know.”

“I’m leaving,” you said, reaching for your crutches, “Ten minutes ago.”

***

“You didn’t tell me how you proposed.”

Hawks froze mid-bite of his ramen, but after a quick beat, he slurped the rest of the noodle up. “I was hoping you’d recall that on your own, baby. Get your own feelings about it, instead of me telling you how to feel.”

If you weren’t faking amnesia, you’d fucking break his nose for that. Bastard.

“I imagine once you tell me, the feelings will rush in,” you said, clicking your chopsticks twice for emphasis, “I want to remember everything, and if I don’t, well, I want to fall in love with you again.”

Hawks’s gaze glazed over for an infinitesimal moment. Score.

“It’ll sound goofy once I describe it.” With his wings cramped against the back of the booth, Hawks scratched the back of his neck—a classic move for pretending to be embarrassed. “I’m not exactly known for being romantic.”

Yeah, he’s known for fooling around with anyone who’s glittery, like a goddamn crow. If you’re paying attention.

“Aw, but Hawks, you’ve been nothing but so effortlessly romantic to me since I’ve been convalescing,” you said, rolling up the paper wrapper of your straw and soaking it in the ring your cup left on the table.

“Right, well. I flew us out to the countryside, to this overlook halfway up a mountain. You liked going rappelling there a lot. To practise for missions.” Hawks had some of your habits down, at least. Bet he gets the location wrong, though. “We watched the sunrise. We shared a thermos of tea. I asked you once the sun had risen, but you didn’t say yes right away,” said Hawks, “You jumped off the overlook without your gear, and I caught you. You were furious about it—you didn’t want me to see you overwhelmed. But you said yes.”

Ugh. That sounded about right. That sounded pretty realistic. Hawks was a fucking stalker.

“Fuck,” you said, burying your face in your hands, “That’s cute.” You stretched the skin of your cheeks before releasing, and you returned to your ramen. “Question: did we put the ring into storage, or something? I don’t have the little indent on my ring finger from wearing a ring too long, and I haven’t found anything at home.” Make him sweat. Make him stumble. Where’s the ring, Hawks?

With a flash of his eyebrows, Hawks maneuvered his straw to his mouth using only his lips, looking quite stupid, in your opinion. “Figured you’d ask that at some point. I’m so overjoyed to see you every time that I forget to bring it up. The ring’s been sent off to a high-level, government-backed, support company. I’ve pulled in a favour from the higher-ups. I wanted to turn your ring into something a little more personal and incorporate one of my feathers into it,” said Hawks, taking a moment to slurp his drink noisily, “Depending on how well it goes, I’d be able to help you if we’re separated and know where you are. At the very least—” Hawks ducked his head to give the illusion of staring up at you with wide eyes, his blond eyelashes light against his skin. “—I’d be able to feel your heartbeat. It would bring me great comfort.”

Great, so he’d have a GPS on you at all times, knowing whether or not you went somewhere he didn’t want you to. He’d be able to tell if you went somewhere your non-amnesia self would know about. Great. Phenomenal.

“Hawks, that’s very sweet,” you said, fiddling with the remnants of your straw wrapper, now fizzled out of its snake shape, “Wouldn’t the process hurt you, though? Since you can feel it.”

“Nothing more than a twinge, sweetheart,” said Hawks, holding up his hands, “And I’d bear any amount of pain for your sake.”

You fantasised about beating his head in with the back end of a rifle.

***

When you were told Hawks was waiting for you outside of the recording booth, you told the messenger that Hawks could wait until you were finished with five more takes. You could picture Hawks’s little pout at the news, his feathers bristling despite the closed space, and resigning himself to sit in one of those clangy, metal chairs out front, having to hunch forward so that he didn’t crush his wings.

The idol group adored the ingenuity of bone-crunching as percussion in a song, and along with that and some other combat foley, you were singing the bridge with the rapper of the group (the dance captain would sing your part for live shows). It’d be a good promo for the girl group and for you, and the song, “Spine,” was going to be released as a single as soon as it was polished.

Hawks perked up the moment you stepped through the secondary door to the booth, his eyes brightening and wings spreading to take up more space. “I didn’t think I’d catch you,” said Hawks, standing to take your hands (the cold leather gloves sucked the heat out of your hands), “I’ve got to fly, soon, but I wanted to tell you personally.”

“You’re not pregnant,” you said, fighting the urge to break his goggles/visor/hat thing.

His lopsided grin widened. “Not yet, baby. There’s gonna be a heroes’ gala held at the end of the month, and I wanted to let you know that I’m doing everything in my power to make it a positive experience for you. Here, I’ve got this woman’s phone number,” he said, fishing a slip of paper out of his jacket, “She’ll help accommodate the venue for your leg.”

Stupid fucking bastard man. He probably wanted to pick out your clothes himself, infantilise you and dress you up like a goddamn doll. Deny you your personhood. “I’ll be out of the cast by then.” You slid the paper into your back pocket.

“I know,” Hawks said in a way that was a fucking lie, “I just don’t want there to be any accidents. I can’t have my babygirl any more hurt than she is.” Hawks placed his cold, gloved hand against your cheek, and you, shutting your eyes, made yourself lean into it. “But contact her. She’ll make it the safest place it can be for you, even when I have to leave your side.”

God, galas were great. Big events for villains to ruin. You licked your lips thinking about using a new move you’ve learnt to take a villain down (involving clamping your legs around the villain’s neck to choke him as he crumpled to the floor—your combat coach had banned you from the move after you made her pass out). “Are we announcing our engagement, then? If we’re going together?”

“I’d love to,” said Hawks, “but only if you want to. The ring could be ready by then, if I ask them to rush it—”

“Let’s do it.” If you plunged the ring into icy water, would he start to shiver? Ooh, your ring’s going to act as a fucking bay leaf in your soups for a while.

“Oh,” said Hawks, sighing lightly with his eyes fluttering shut. He pressed his forehead to yours and rubbed his thumb over your cheek. “You have no idea how much that means to me, sweetheart. You are so dear to me, and I want everyone to know it. The best damn thing in my life. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, placing your hand on his face to push him away, “Don’t you have work to do, screw boy?”

***

“Did we have a date?” you asked from the edge of the bathtub.

Hawks dipped the razor in the water, washing off the hair and shaving cream. “We’ve gone on so many, darling; you’ll have to specify.”

“No, I meant for the wedding.” Let’s once again play: Can Hawks Cover His Own Ass?

Hawks dragged the razor down your freshly exfoliated, freshly-un-casted, freshly not-broken leg, starting at your knee. “Nope!”

“No explanation?”

“You wanna get married tomorrow? A six-month engagement is rather short, don’t you think?” His nose twitched. He’d said the scent of your shaving cream irritated his nose. Good.

“I don’t. Why didn’t we have a date for the wedding?” You eyed the actual and literal pile of your dead skin on the towel. Maybe you should make Hawks snort it.

“We were too busy working; you’d said you didn’t mind having a long engagement, so long as I was yours. Then, uh, you know. The accident,” Hawks said with a shrug—with his shoulders this time, because if he moved his wings while he was crouched in your bathtub, he’d soak them, and they were a bitch to dry, apparently. Suffer, you rat bastard.

“The commission isn’t involved in that decision?”

“I thought that was implied,” said Hawks, gripping your ankle to turn your calf to the side, “They don’t want it to be a huge spectacle, so even I don’t know how much of a wedding wedding they’d let us have.”

He’s too damn good at this. If he weren’t a pro-hero, he’d fit right along in a theatre troupe.

You’re going to wring his neck.

You caught him staring at the crotch of your underwear (bone-dry, you might add) while he shaved your thighs, and he spent more time rubbing lotion into your inner thighs than anywhere else. He tossed your dead skin before you could make him eat it, and he scooped you up against your protestations about your weight and capability, humming while he carried you to your bed.

The fucker tucked you in and rounded up your cat to place in your arms (your cat disagreed with him and promptly leapt off the bed).

“Let me stay with you,” said Hawks, kissing each of your fingertips. It’s an order.

Yet you shook your head.

***

“The doctors said you shouldn’t drink,” Hawks said under his breath, taking the champagne flute gently from your grasp.

“But I want to,” you said, sticking out your lower lip, “I’m wearing goddamn heels and a fucking dress. I’ve got on makeup, for Christ’s sake. I’ve done my time; let me drink.”

“Baby, you’ve got to stay safe,” he said, and he set the glass next to some 40s-level hero’s place at the long, white tablecloth. “There’s already press paying more attention to us than usual. You wanna make a fool of yourself?”

“Yes,” you said, lifting another champagne flute from a passing gala waiter, “Who gives a shit about the press.”

Hawks laughed too loudly to be natural before lowering his voice. “Baby, you are gonna be the death of me.”

“Promise?”

***

When “Spine” was released on a cool, spring morning to an excitable audience, you were lurking in alleyways by the docks, searching for a fight. When the music video dropped, you were smashing some guy’s face into a concrete wall. While more and more citizens recognised you and your talent, your work for the community, your connections, your popularity—with your rank steadily rising—you were rappelling down a port sewer to pummel a slime villain into dust.

You wiped his blood off on your pants, hands devoid of anything that could taint. You’d left the ring at home.

***

“You tricked me,” you said, scowling as Hawks pushed you forward, “This isn’t the rock climbing park.”

Once you deliberately smashed your face into the glass door and crossed your arms, Hawks held the door open for you. “Would you have dressed up so nicely for rock climbing?”

“A meta-game challenge,” you said, “to rock-climb in a long skirt.”

You glowered about the restaurant while you and Hawks stood in the lobby, his hand low on your back, suspiciously respectfully. You made no effort to hide your distaste: it was the place with the purple lights.

Over there at the absurdly long bar, Endeavor had drunk flat whisky without so much of a growl at anyone, despite it being his event. Hexagonal tables with lilac tablecloths dotted the floor—you’d hidden in one of the few booths, up against the exposed brick wall—but your hiding place had been ruined once a violet disco ball had emerged from the ceiling. Shiny, wooden floor that had reflected your post-panic attack face right back at you and let every shoe strike it with a clatter. No silence allowed.

The whole restaurant had lavender LED lights running around the walls, swathing the place in a distorted sort of purple haze, and any candles lit on the centre tables had indigo flames—you’d focused on how those might have been made in the process of coming down from your panic attack.

God. You’re going to throw up.

The hostess escorted you and Hawks to a farther back room, this one with booths separated by small, brick walls that didn’t reach the ceiling yet concealed the booths’ occupants from each other—unless you were passing directly in front of one.

Hawks made you sit in the booth first, trapping you in as he settled. He had to be on the edge, anyway, he told you, because of his wings. You’re going to rip them off and boil them in the soup.

The two of you ordered. You don’t remember what. You can only channel so much of your nerves into jostling your leg. This is not cool. This place is not cool. You need to get out.

“Hey, let me through,” you said, nudging Hawks, “Bathroom.”

Once there, you lightly slapped your cheeks a couple of times, trying to ground yourself through physical sensation. No use. Can’t they fucking use normal lights in this place?

You didn’t have your panic meds, because you’ve never needed them rock climbing. You can do it. You’re fine. You’re fine. Your tongue is too big for your mouth.

You took your time meandering back to the booth, coming to a halt at the end of the narrow hallway and ducking behind the corner.

Endeavor stood by your booth, his arms crossed over a flaming chest. You caught your breath at the sight of his orange fire, a comforting contrast to all the damn purple, but still—Endeavor. Talking to your (gag) fiancé.

Without the courage to interact with Endeavor, you listened at the corner for his departure.

“Nah, she can handle her bladder just fine. It’s her nerves,” Hawks was saying, hidden by the bricks, “She likes hiding. She doesn’t necessarily like being in the spotlight.”

“Yet she hasn’t completely withdrawn as Eraserhead has. You’ve picked a strange one to marry.”

From the angle Endeavor glared at him, Hawks must be slumping in his seat. “But that’s what so great about her. And it’s hard to process, y’know, like, she’s finally mine. You follow?”

“Regrettably,” said Endeavor, “Regardless, I offer my congratulations that your courtship finally worked out in your favour. You should have told me sooner.”

Courtship. That’s a funny way to pronounce bullying.

“Eh, I’ve gotta have some secrets, don’t I? Can’t betray my otherwise cool exterior.” Hawks laughed. “I can’t believe I’ve been allowed such happiness. The woman I’ve loved for years is gonna be waking up to me every day soon, y’know?”

Hawks has got to know you can hear him, otherwise he wouldn’t be saying those things. Endeavor must be in on Hawks’s ruse, since Endeavor is Hawks’s closest—actually, Endeavor isn’t the type to revel in romantic shit. Endeavor straight-up isn’t the type to revel. To the best of your knowledge, Endeavor doesn’t genuinely like Hawks as so much as tolerates him; when did they get so close? It must have taken a long time—

Time.

You could feel your IQ dropping as you actually considered: had you been in a legitimate coma? Had you (fuck) genuinely had amnesia?

No, no. You don’t live in Crazytown. Your eyebrows hadn’t been overgrown when you’d woken up in the hospital. You’d only been there a day.

Of course, Hawks is a vain piece of shit and does his own eyebrows, so he might have considered that yours were a piece of pride/insecurity for you and may have done them while you were—did Hawks do his own eyebrows? That spoiled fuck probably had someone else to do them for him. If they were naturally like that, you were going to throttle his ass.

You didn’t fucking have amnesia. Hawks is and always has been a stupid, clammy birdbrain. He’s always been cruel to you. He didn’t fucking like you.

He sure as hell wasn’t in fucking love with you.

Oh, my fuck, what if your memories of Hawks have been fabricated by a coma-addled mind and that—

“Hey, there,” said—said someone, some pale-ass, sleep-deprived freak who startled you out of your head, “Are you all right? You look—I mean, do you need some water? A chair?”

You blinked, yet he wouldn’t come into focus—you were taking in details about him, ones that didn’t fucking matter (chain on his wallet, three rings all on the left hand, a button-down missing the last button, a cloud of axe body spray), but he didn’t register as a human person. He couldn’t; you hadn’t grounded yourself yet. You yourself still had a frazzled, cartoon scribble buzzing inside of your chest, and until you vomited it up, a panic attack may yet still happen.

You can’t deal with anyone new right now.

A spark of recognition crossed the new guy’s face, and he, through a smirk, asked if you were your hero name.

Oh god oh fuck not now

“Sweetheart,” came Hawks’s melodious drawl (registering first his voice, then bodily warmth, then the wingtip covering your ass), “You were taking so long that I came to check on you.” He pulled you by the waist towards him, blocking the guy from seeing your face by pressing it into his chest. “Who’s this?”

Who cares. All you could focus on (sharp and overwhelming, nothing else but) was how fucking incredible Hawks smelled, and at this point, you’d use anything to bring yourself back down to earth. A small voice in the back of your head told you that freaking out to this degree in this particular situation was leaning towards pathetic, since basically nothing happened, besides being in an uncomfortable environment and being accosted by a fan at the wrong time, but you? You did not control the rate at which your brain panicked.

And really, no rhyme or reason played into why your grabby little hands itched for human contact once safe in the booth again, why Hawks’s scent lay on your tongue more heavily than your soup, why the overwhelming sensation of being so fucking spaced out of it threw its entire weight upon your shoulders—you couldn’t find yourself. You were lost.

And in this horrible, purple place, the only thing that’s familiar was Hawks.

When you scooted as closely as you could to him in the booth, keeping your glare towards your lap while you looped your arm under his to snuggle into it, Hawks cleared his throat to say, “What’s this?”

You scowled into his jacket, both hands gripping his forearm.

He set his chopsticks down. “How can I help, darling?”

Growling, you bonked your forehead against his shoulder, dragging your hands down to his.

“Hey,” said Hawks, and he guided your face towards his and stroked your cheek with his thumb, “Did that guy bother you too much before I got there?”

Turning your mouth towards the hand cupping your cheek, you kissed his palm, bit the leather, and kissed it again before burying yourself in his shoulder again.

He rested his hand on the crown of your head. “What’s the matter? Can you tell me?”

“Not sure I can put it into words,” you said, “I think I wanna go home.” You bit the fabric of his jacket and gnashed it between your teeth.

“I can handle that,” said Hawks, “Gimme a moment to get takeaway boxes, yeah? Then we’ll leave, and you’ll be safe. Don’t worry.”

Unfortunately, you were still clutching onto his arm by the time he unlocked his darkened penthouse (because you’re not gonna hold his hand. God), but you slapped his hand away from the light switches.

“Turning them on would be too much stimulation,” you said, “Please don’t.”

Hawks hummed against the top of your head, placing keys and both of your phones on the kitchen counter. “Bed or couch?”

“Window,” you said.

“Window?”

“I’m assuming you’ve got one.”

“I do,” said Hawks, guiding you through his dark apartment, probably past scarily expensive, posh shit. He led you to what was most likely his living room, with the cool, dim light of the night sky through a vast, single-frame, wall-to-floor window illuminating furniture custom built for his wings, but he eased you down onto the carpet, tugging your shirt upwards so that the window would be touching your bare skin on the small of your back.

Hawks yanked his boots off, late, instead of at the door, and he tossed them over his shoulder. He took yours off, too, and once he’d set them aside, he sat next to you against the window, a hand on your thigh.

“Better?”

“Probably,” you said, staring at the triangle of light beige carpet between your crossed legs.

“Need me to talk? You need to talk?”

“Not right now.”

Hawks was a dumbass. He’s such a fucking dumbass. But he’s a dumbass who’s here right now, and he’s interested (?) in you, interested in helping you. And good golly, you have to be touched. Hawks’s offering warmth, freely, potentially lovingly, and all you had to do was reach out to take it, even if you didn’t reciprocate whatever sentiment was motivating him yourself.

Do you really want to take what you have no feelings for?

Hawks lies a lot to Endeavor. To everyone. He might not have been lying earlier. What reason had he to lie?

Guess it didn’t matter, because you were lying.

But good God, you haven’t been kissed in a long time. Haven’t felt safe or loved. You could…you could indulge for a few hours in order to calm down. You could pretend.

The last ten months had proved that.

“Hey,” you said idly, reaching out to grab the inner fleece lining of his jacket to rub it between your fingers, “Hawks, I’m gonna—I’m gonna put my mouth on your mouth. Okay?”

Hawks’s wings ruffled and constricted themselves so that he could move closer to you, and his hand has migrated from your thigh to grip your hip—how could anyone’s hands encompass that much of you? Your fucking hands couldn’t, not in the way his does.

(Bird man big and safe.)

([No, fuck you, don’t think that.])

(BIRD MAN SAFE—)

Shoved is how you’d describe the first few seconds of the kiss, followed closely by wet and you’d think his teeth would be sharper. Your lips didn’t line up with his completely until he adjusted your chin with two of his fingers, guiding it open just barely, as well, so that his tongue could graze your teeth—it took you a moment of processing before parting them, with a final don’t think! shouted to your neocortex.

Birds have a higher body temperature than other animals, on average having a body temperature of 105 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius). The colour of their feathers, of course, affects how much light and heat they absorb, with the lighter coloured feathers—say, red—reflecting more, rejecting outside heat sources.

Yet Hawks gripped you like he’d fucking freeze if he weren’t clutching you, if he weren’t straddling your legs, one palm flat against the cool of the window by your head. The other snaked around you, his forearm lying almost vertically up your back to press down between your shoulder blades, keeping you as near to his chest (he probably didn’t realise it, but his fingers ran across the curve of your shoulder blades where his wings were on his own body.

For some reason, the thought crossed your mind that you weren’t enough for him, because you were too dissimilar.)

Don’t think!

When he massaged your tongue with his, applying pressure sporadically, you returned the action—have you ever seen a bird tongue up close? They’re fucking nasty little things, looking more like a grub than anything else. Thank God Hawks had a normal, human tongue that performed particularly delightful, normal things, like drag across the roof of your mouth and aid in sucking phenomenal hickeys onto your jawline, licking over where he’s bitten and kissed.

Stop thinking about bird anatomy. Hawks has no discernible bird traits except for his fucking wings. He’s not a fucking bird man. He’s just some dude with wings. And not all birds have functional wings; for example, the ostrich and the penguin do not have wings to be used in flight—

Oh, my fuck. Turn your brain off.

Your stomach lurched. That had been something Hawks had told you too often, back before your accident.

It’s what he wants.

Hawks fucking whimpered when you pulled the shorter hairs at the back of his neck, prying him away from your skin with great difficulty—he kept trying to touch you with his mouth and tongue in the process.

“Let me have more,” he said, panting, his breath heavy and just below your ear, “Please.” He pressed his lips to the spot in front of your ear in a weak kiss, having spent himself for the most part. “I’ve missed you so much, baby. I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me for so long.”

“I don’t—” You fake-stuttered, but it turned out you needed the time to put your thoughts into words. “I don’t think I’m back yet. I’m,” you said, taking as deep a breath as you could with Hawks smushed against your chest, “Something’s missing. Something big.” That’s right. Steer it back in his direction. Make the bird man sweat. “I don’t—something doesn’t feel right.”

It took a moment, but Hawks nodded fervently, shutting his eyes. “Of course. Yeah. Yeah, I get it, sweetheart. Can’t do anything when your heart’s not in it.”

Your heart’s not the problem. “Thank you for being so understanding, Hawks,” you said, untangling yourself from underneath him, “Would you just, uh, hold me for a while?”

His wings wrapped around the both of you on his enormous bed, still fluttering with each slow breath he took. Hawks almost looked genuine while he slept, and probably for the best—at least he was getting rest; at least his guard might be down.

You couldn’t sleep. Your mind was racing.

***

“Rank speculation is out,” you said, scrubbing the pumice stone over a patch of dry skin on Hawks’s back and scrolling through the twitter with your other hand, “Take a look.”

He opened the link you sent once he’d safely removed a dead feather that had been lodged in an odd spot in a wing. “Huh. Think I could truly take on Endeavor?”

“Well, he’s got that abusive-to-his-family thing, while you’re rocking the preparing-for-my-wedding look, and he can’t network non-aggressively to save his life.”

“Nor can you.” Hawks shot you a smirk over his shoulder.

“Zoom in on my speculated nine, baby,” you said, flicking away some dead skin with a satisfied/disgusted sneer, “And I didn’t have to sleep my way there.”

“Ah, ha, ha,” said Hawks, “Knew you could do it. Whoever’s told you that is gonna have to deal with my foot up their ass. You’re more than capable of getting there on your own.”

“Which I did. I have.” Wait. Hawks told you that. No, it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s a commonly said, misogynistic comment towards women heroes. Hawks isn’t special. “But having your foot up someone’s ass wouldn’t be good for PR, unless you wanted to advertise that you’re a kinky son of a bitch who’s cheating on his fiancée.”

“I would never,” said Hawks, and, contorting his arm, he grabbed your hand with the pumice stone to kiss the back of it, “But my PR is solid, regardless.”

“If the public knew how much time you had to spend preening these fucking wings, they’d probably appreciate you more. Or call you conceited.”

Hawks hummed. “It’s a necessary evil,” he said, returning to his wingtip to search for dead feathers. “Thank you for helping.”

“No problem. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get to see how—Hawks, holy fuck. Do you feel that?” You ran a finger near the base of a wing.

“It’s your finger?”

“No, this,” you said, tapping the spot.

“No?”

“My God. It’s a dilated pore of a winer,” you said, already reaching for the tweezers, “Right at the base of your wing. It’s basically an enormous fucking blackhead. I’m popping it. Oh, my God. I’ve never seen one in real life.”

“You’re popping it?”

“You didn’t have a problem with my getting the ones where your costume sits.”

“No,” said Hawks, rolling back his shoulders, his wings spreading with them, “Gotcha. Get on with it.”

“Can I film it?”

“What? No,” said Hawks, “No one can see me preening, let alone dealing with acne.”

“There’s sure to be another hero out there with a wing quirk, right? I don’t know how you can’t feel it.”

“Yeah,” Hawks said slowly, “Since my feathers can feel—I suppose where the wings merge with my skin is pretty numb. I haven’t ever had to think about it.” He licked his lips. “Funny.”

He continued to scroll through his feed and tend to his feathers while you worked at his back. “Bad news: the tabloids got a hold of our grocery list from the last time we went to the shops. I must have dropped it at some point in the store.”

“Oh, so do they know what kind of ice cream we prefer? The horror.”

“No, but they’ve brought in some hack handwriting analyst. Talking about our annotations for each other on the list. Something about how you’re logical and I’m a romantic. The writer of the article is practically swooning.” Hawks pulled out a clot of feathers with his teeth and spat them aside. “With good reason, though. The trashy pictures they snapped of us are hot.”

“Describe them to me.”

“I can show you—”

“No,” you said, concentrating on your work, “I don’t want the image imprinted on my brain. Describe them in your own words.”

“All right,” said Hawks, crossing his legs and placing his phone on the coffee table in front of him, “To start, the flash is on.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah. We’ve got that distantly surprised look going on. It looks like we’re near the eggs and cheese. You’re not looking at the camera, but I believe it’s in the moment I caught it.” Hawks flicked away a feather and let it fall to the carpet. “My hand’s on your waist. The other’s on the cart. You’ve scrunched your face up in concentration; it’s really cute.”

“Aw, we should get it framed,” you said, wiping away the gunk with a tissue and wadding it up so that no one will ever have to see or touch it ever again.

“Never,” said Hawks, “The first picture of us I wanna get framed should be on our wedding day.”

“It’s coming along quickly,” you said, setting aside the tweezers, “Bit more quickly than I’d thought it would.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait,” said Hawks with a light laugh, and you ducked to rest your head against his shoulder, straining your neck to reach him over his wing.

Hawks clicked his non-nasty, non-bird tongue. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

Sighing, you said, “Turn your head this way.”

He did you one better, since he anticipated your plan. He twisted around, keeping his legs crossed as he pulled you into his lap. His wings initially bristled but wrapped around you when his arms did, and Hawks kissed your cheek, once, twice, until he arrived at your mouth, where he barely grazed your lips, rather letting his hot breath spread over your face—and he grinned up at you with half-lidded eyes (he’d left off his eyeliner today, but the natural marks below his waterline kept his eyes sharp, anyway).

“Kiss me, you fucking idiot,” you said, overriding whatever he was about to do by kissing him yourself, hard and open-mouthed, almost violent in its fervent. Yet Hawks held you lightly, delicately, but still close enough to freeze.

You ran your cold, cold hands over his bare abdomen, pressing your thumb down with considerable force to trace his muscles (he grunted at that, and that’s it; that’s right—make him squirm; make him sweat; make him yours). His finger only toyed with the hem of his shirt that you were wearing, as if waiting for you, which didn’t line up with what you had garnered about Hawks at all, but c’mon, man, come on; didn’t you want this all those months ago? Almost a year, now? Years, if what he said to Endeavor is true? But when he flinched away with a shaky breath once your cold fingers circled his nipple, you knew this was where you were supposed to be: right here, in Hawks’s lap, completely destroying him with hardly anything at all. Nothing but light touches and a strategic flick of your tongue. Idiot man. He must really like you if this is doing it for him.

You slowed and opened your eyes at that thought, frowning, and you pulled away. With the back of his hand, Hawks wiped saliva off of both of your mouths, yours first.

He waited for you.

“If you can’t take all of me, then what’s the point?”

He tilted his head. “I’ll take whatever part of you you’re willing to share.”

“I’m missing something.”

“I know.”

“I want to find it before we get married.” You laid your palm flat on his chest, and he grinned at the cold.

“You can find it,” he said, “I know you can.”

“I don’t know what I’m blocking out,” you said, lying—or maybe you weren’t? Fuck it. “Whatever I’m repressing is really fucking with me.”

“Take your time,” said Hawks, running his tongue over his lower lip. “I’m here for—”

“Hawks,” you said, faking the light of realisation in your eyes, accompanied with a sharp inhale, “I can’t remember your name.”

Hawks’s mouth snapped shut.

“You told me once. I know you did,” you said, moving to cup his cheek after tapping the mark underneath his eye, “but the memory—there’s a blur where you spoke. I—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip. “That, that might be it. I don’t know. Everything else about the scene is in perfect detail. I remember what fucking socks I was wearing, for Christ’s sake. But you. What you said. Maybe it’s something so personal, so intimate, that I’ve repressed it. Maybe it was too much for me to handle.” You cupped his face with both hands now, forcing him to look at you. If you hadn’t been scrutinising him for some evidence of breaking character, you wouldn’t’ve seen the minute quivering of his upper lip. Hardly there, but it was there. “It’s a part of you that I want. Even if I couldn’t handle it before, I want to try now.”

Hawks averted his gaze, even though he couldn’t move his head. And bang, you’ve got him. Hawks’s name was still strictly secret, hidden by the commission, but if he’s genuinely in this dumbass situation for the long haul, if he’s truly in it for you, then he would have told you. Even if he wanted you to continue to call him Hawks, your own fiancé would have told you his damn name.

So, this is it. The way out.

Hawks was going to feel so stupid when he found out you’ve been faking all this time. Good. Let each feather burn.

“Keigo,” he said, staring into your eyes with a newfound determination, “My name is Takami Keigo.”

Oh, shit—you clapped a hand over your heart, your eyes widening. Maybe you could play this off as memory recovery instead of absolute shock? But you hadn’t any memories to recover, probably. Holy fuck.

Where do you go from here?

You tried to say his name but ended up simply mouthing it, and after clearing your throat and coughing a bit, you managed to say it aloud. “Keigo,” you said softly, reaching for his hand, “Keigo, I fucking love you.”

You’d only been kissing him for a few moments before his wings shuddered in a muscle spasm and flung you off to the side.

***

Only a commission higher-up witnessed your wedding. She stood silently to the side the entire ceremony in the courthouse and only shook Hawks’s hand afterwards.

You and your cat essentially moved into his penthouse and adjusted. Your mostly empty apartment stayed leased under your name.

Sometimes, you’d note that you turned your brain off and instantly be hit with a lightning strike of self-loathing—but you didn’t have to consciously decide to be affectionate with Hawks. Being with him came naturally and easily. Probably for the best, since if you had to think about it, you’d screw it up.

You stayed together. Supported each other. Sneaked out to see the other on patrol. Took care, listened to each other. Defended each other. Worked it out.

And now, you stared up at the ceiling fan whirling in your darkened bedroom, Keigo lying on his stomach next to you in the bed as he slept. Your cat catloafed between his wings and nestled into them, rising and falling with each breath he took. Hawks was perfect, always saving the day, working up a routine to mesh with your fighting style and quirk, always charming and easygoing with the people he rescued, indulging you in your ferocity, and Keigo, Keigo whispered sweet and dirty things into your ear when he spotted you in public, made you laugh, worked wonders with his cock, helped you clean up before he even thought of preening himself, held you, and made you feel held. He’s got it bad.

And maybe you do, too.

Hawks was going to feel so stupid when he found out.

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dangermousie · 2 years

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The state of TV in general is truly abysmal tbh, I watch Korean and American shows mostly and they're both heading towards a cliff right now. I truly watch every genre and my favorite dramas reflect that but that's because there was a wide variety to choose from now it's 90% thrillers/crime dramas and most of them are not even good?? Like unless you're churning out stranger and signal like shows how about you make different things? There maybe a handful (and that's being generous) that you could say are actually well written dramas this year in that genre ,also Netflix has truly effed us and will continue to do sow everyone is going to be looking for the next squid game not to mention their horrible subtitles. Us shows are being suffocated by streaming services, everything is 8 episodes now because for them it's the same thing and they want to spend as little money as possible, how is it that they don't get that tv is not just jumping from plot point to plot point, characters and relationships need room to breath and develop and grow, those are the things that make a good show, this constant drive to be like "it's a long movie" is not doing anyone any favors, I adore serialized plots but I'm not watching a movie am I? Tv shows have been such a comfort to me since I was a kid and I get that it's a business like any other but I wish we could more creativity and less money hungry execs who understand nothing about what the fans actually want made clear by the fact that the biggest tv hits in the last few years were completely random and unexpected and things that took so look to get the green light bridgerton only got made bc it's shonda rhimes and she's been proving her self for more than a decade, having the vast majority of people at the top be men means that no matter the evidence to the contrary( romance books being a billion dollar industry that has more profits than fantasy/scifi and crime combined) don't think romance sells so when it became the most watched Netflix show you'd think we'd get romance book adaptations left and right and it's been a year and there are like 2 in the works which??? How is that even possible? It makes no sense? Same for squid game, they were like an asian show is never gonna be that big of a hit and now it's the biggest show ever. I'm honestly terrified of how the state of both these industries will be like a few years, I know kdramas have never been perfect and we've had some pretty sexist shit and an abysmal rate of shows lead by women and we have a little bit more of that now but only by like the smallest percentage. As for the US they're making strides towards diversity ( still a long way to go as well) which makes me so happy but how about we also make good television while we're at, big budgets and shows looking good is great but that's not the most crucial part, the writing is, I'll take a show that looks barely decent with great writing over a show they spent 200 million on that has abysmal writing, buffy is my favorite show of all time and that show is 25 years old the effects look awful but the writing is mostly brilliant so I'm okay with that. Sorry for the word vomit, you seem like you would understand and it's especially disheartening in a time when the world has gone to shit and we need comfort ans escapism now more than ever.

I honestly could have written most of this, Anon and totally agree with you!

Luckily, there are still some good shows out there and if they fail, there are books :)

#asks

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ladyofriverrun · 3 years

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What do you think happened with the first Adam for Lilith to have such negative feelings about him? I can’t help but wonder what she meant when she said he was “only ever cruel”. Emotionally, physically, etc.? He must have hurt her very badly for her to react the way she did in that scene.

I think it's the idea that he never saw as anything but lesser than him. Even Lucifer, in the beginning at least, saw her as a person, an equal, someone to be his Queen; even if that changed over time as he changed, the fact is that in the beginning he was 'kind, gentle' as Lilith says herself.

But with Adam he refused to consider her as equal from the very beginning, he had the False God himself backing him up in that belief, that women must be 'beneath' in all aspects of the dynamic. And someone who doesn't think you're equal, who thinks you're there just to please and serve them (which is why i think Lilith has such a visceral reaction when she hears Lucifer now thinks the same of her, 'Lilith knows her place, her purpose; to serve', because it was obviously what was thought of her in the Garden) is going to be cruel in everything they do, even if they don't consciously realise it, because they think you don't deserve better.

imagine living in a place that you can't leave and the only other human being is someone who thinks you are lesser than him, who thinks your destiny and purpose is to serve and make him happy, who refuses to listen to your desires in sex but also demands you heed to his. Lilith was living a life of being constantly told she wasn't worthy, that she was nothing but secondary, and also living a life where she was expected to have sex when demanded, who was punished for questioning things and challenging them, and told that being 'different' and going against the status quo made her evil.

That is such a cruel thing but in such a low-key. subtle way as to be viciously hurtful and leave lasting effects. I don't think Adam physically abused her (it was Paradise after all, and I think even the False God would draw the line there, and Adam isn't fundamentally 'bad', he's simply entitled and believes in the right of that entitlement because the very God that created him tells him he is) but it was a constant mix of belittling, dismissing, mocking, gaslighting, because 'How absurd you are Lilith to think you, a woman, are equal to me, a man' and that is cruel.

It would have eaten away at her, at her sense of self-worth (and no doubt heavily contributed to why she put up with the Dark Lord for so long, because as terrible as he was, he did, on occasion, listen to her, she was 'rewarded' if she did the right thing. Adam and the False God made her ripe for the Dark Lord's give-and-take style of abuse, because she'd already been gaslit for so long), and just imagine saying 'I think I have worth. I think what I have to say is worthy' and the only person you know laughing at you, walking away and leaving you feeling alone. Imagine being told 'No, you don't get a say in how we have sex, because you're below me. You're not my equal', having things to say, thoughts and opinions ans feelings and never having them embraced or considered...just dismissed. Because 'you're only a woman'.

That is horrendously cruel in a quiet and constant way.

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thewayshedreamed · 2 years

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F, O, and S for the fanfic asks? Also hi, Dani!!

HI CASS! I've missed you so.

Here's the answers to the letters you sent for the ask game! Thank you for sending them to me ❤️

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Wow, Cass. Of course you had to hit me with the big guns. I think I'll go with this bit from Death Dance. I wrote it pre-acosf, so it's been a while since I've revisited that fic. I liked this scene because it shows Nesta's willingness to strip her walls down to make sure Cassian knows how impactful of a life he's led up to that point, especially since he struggles with his self-worth so often. It's after Cassian realizes they're mates during a training drill in Illyria. It's pretty long, so I apologize for that!

You believe I meant you aren’t enough, that you aren’t worthy?” She did nothing to disguise the pain in her tone.

His eyes widened slightly as he scanned her face for any clue that would make sense of her words. A chuckle worked its way from her chest, and she watched as his jaw tensed in irritation.

“I was angry and disappointed with myself; never you. I felt our bond on the training grounds, and I panicked. Do you realize how intimidating it is to look up at you, the General Commander of the Night Court’s armies, and realize you’re my mate?” Her words were quiet and breathy, as if she were sharing the most secret parts of herself.

Maybe she was.

His expression twisted into one of confusion, his head shaking slightly as if trying to clear some imaginary fog that had settled over them. His words never came.

“You don’t hear the other soldiers when you walk away, the way they speak of you as a legend in your own time. You have fought countless wars, defended thousands, thrown yourself between lethal threats and your family, and trained legions upon legions of others to do the same. Do you know the effect your existence has had on this court; on this world?”

Cassian could only blink, silver rimming his lower lids slightly. Her thumbs started to stroke him gently on the cheeks in comfort. She felt tears of her own prick at her eyes at the thought that he’d never realized these things, that no one had ever told him.

“And beyond that, you are one of the most compassionate and authentic males, or men, that I’ve ever known in my short life. All these years of war and pain, and you continue to love openly and not let those things jade you. I’m in awe of you everyday.”

His eyes squeezed shut as his throat bobbed, and a tear slipped down cheek. She wiped it away quickly, unsure of how he would react if she fussed over his emotion.

“Here I am, a human-woman-turned-High Fae, training to control my powers and as a soldier, and all I can think about is how I will ever measure up to what you’ve contributed in this life. I promise I will do my best to try. If you’ll have me,” she finished, swallowing dryly and holding her breath.

Cassian’s calloused hands dropped from his chest to rest on her waist, his thumbs stroking over her ribs. He looked down at her then, tugging her toward him and nestling her between his thighs. Their hips were flush, and Nesta was overwhelmed with the sensation at each point of contact between them. He brought his forehead to rest against hers, their noses brushing against each other as he continued to look at her.

“Say it,” he asked, near pleading.

She knew what he meant; felt it in her very self.

“Cassian,” she murmured, “you’re my mate.”

O: How do you begin a story–with the plot, or the characters?

I've done it both ways! Sometimes, I have an idea for a plot and think "what characters make sense to carry this plot? Who do I need to pull this off?" and other times, I love a good character-driven story that evolves over time to focus more on the aspect of honest connection rather than intricate plot. Hope that makes sense!

S: Any fandom tropes you can’t resist?

A while back, I wouldn't have known exactly what to answer, but I've recently realized that I'm kind of a slut for a fake dating trope. That includes when characters ask each other to pretend for the sake of an event/ circumstance, all the way to arranged marriage AUs where they're trying to sell their relationship as authentic. I love the opportunity for those small glimpses of vulnerability and watching genuine respect/ admiration grow between two strangers. I just love it.

#ask game #twsd answers #answered #iddragyouwithme #cass tag

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cadomoisspokenfor · 3 years

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Legion Rewatch Notes,

Chapter 6:

Balance

Farouk later says he made all this to keep David comfortable. But then why go through the effort of having therapy sessions with anyone else? Is he just delighting in the gaslighting?

Small thing, Ptonomy’s not technically a psychic in the same way David/Farouk/Oliver are, but he does have well practiced mental abilities. I wonder if it takes more work to trick him than the others. Same for Walter I guess.

“I like to think i’m a time traveller. I can go back and back, but all I can do is... watch.” Sad and also relevant for future episodes. Thinking about it, this a pretty character defining statement for Ptonomy. Perfect recollection of all the horrible things he’s seen in the past, but never able to change anything.

Also, Farouk sat there and listened to Ptonomy’s entire story patiently and quietly. To what end?

Do Cary and Kerry still think of themselves as siblings in this simulation? Or are they just codependent friends?

So Walters problem is fragile masculinity?

Why is Syd able to see through Farouks delusion? Why doesn’t Farouk do anything about it?

I theorized once that Syd could see through it cause she knows what it’s like to be in the white room, but Ptonomy and Melanie have been in the astral plane too. And Ptonomy prides himself on knowing when he’s in reality. Could it be that Syd just has a really strong sense of self? Because of her power I mean. “Everywhere I go, I’m me.” It’s also possible Syd holds no insecurities about whether she’s psychotic or not. So when reality suddenly changes, she doesn’t just brush it off.

Is Farouk over inflating parts of Amy’s real personality, or is this just a completely inserted personality with no tangible connection to the real Amy?

This isn’t how David sees Amy, but maybe it’s how Farouk sees her, for holding David back?

Ptonomy takes Lenny’s place here. By Farouk’s design, or is it just to show similarities between their personalities? Ptonomy can be a bit cruel towards people with trauma and grief.

David no longer loves dogs.

“Paul” and not “Ptonomy”. I think it’s just a nickname, and I *think* they use it later too.

“I just feel so in control here. Like- my expectations... I’m not trying to bite off more than I can chew...” David feels most comfortable with low expectations and small and manageable goals. This feels really relevant for later.

I think Lenny here realizes she’s made David too comfortable. He’s never gonna want to leave and become a God if this keeps up. Also, his attachment to Syd keeps him from becoming what Farouk wants him to be.

On that attachment, this is maybe the most at peace we’ve ever seen and will ever see David be in the show. And he cites his relationship with Syd as the reason.

(Small note) I don’t think it’d be fair to say that David moving forward, or even David before this, not prioritizing their relationship all the time is a mistake on his part. Even though the show sorta paints it to be one, most of the time when he’s pulled away it was either to save someone in mortal danger, or to stop a global threat. David’s constantly dealing with the classic superhero dilemma, but the others don’t seem to see what they’re putting him through. Or in some cases they do and think he should just get over it. Curse of his powers I guess.

“People always talk about the depression. But it’s the other side, that... invulnerable feeling. Tha- it’s.... dangerous.” The more David gives into the thought that he is a powerful mutant who can’t be damaged by anything, the more dangerous he becomes. This one’s hard to reconcile cause it means even if he wanted to use his powers for good he couldn’t because it’s treated as a slippery-slope to him becoming a villain. Dammit, Hawley...

Farouk clearly knows what makes David happy, but continues to try pushing him into the “I am God” thing despite this. Perhaps this is what he regrets in s3? He could’ve given David exactly what he needed, but like many parents, he wanted his kid to be a miniature version of him. He thought that was what was best for him. Later he’ll realize it wasn’t.

Melanie’s airplaning her food to no one. Is she just pretending or does she actually see Oliver there? Probably the former.

Cary and Kerry’s in-syncness isn’t always all that relevant to the greater plot, but it’s always fun to see.

Farouk’s probably still trying to build up David’s subconscious hatred of Amy.

David’s real upset about the pie. This note’s not necessarily important, I just feel bad for him 🥺.

Also, Syd tried to use this as an opportunity to get out of eating cherries. Valiant effort.

Those bugs are in the white room too. Is Farouk even leaving those on purpose? Or is it more like a mental infection?

The bugs are gone when Syd and the others are looking at it, but they reappear after she sits back down.

Farouk probably hasn’t gotten to flex his powers *this strongly* in 30 years. Hence the “Feeling good” dance sequence.

The same weird thing behind the glass that was in David’s room in Chap 1 is in Syd’s room this ep.

Syd’s also having nightmares about the real world here, just like she will in s3.

I reiterate, how can Syd tell?

MAYBE, the reason Syd could tell is she’s actually been in the real Clockworks before. The rest haven’t. Well, David has, but I don’t think he *wants* to question things right now. Being with Syd in Clockworks was a real happy time for him. Syd describes it like a feeling of deja vu. It’s all reruns to her, but... slightly edited reruns. A constant feeling of “that’s not how this went.” (Small note) It should be considered that David actively resist believing in anything supernatural because of his previous diagnosis. Ans his current one too, probably.

David feels the outside world is too complicated for him. “Too loud.” “I need the routine, the grounding. I’m good.” Interestingly, Dr. Busker’s the one who tells him the outside side worlds not cut out for everybody. Seems counterintuitive to her/Farouk’s goals.

David’s completely comfortable with growing old and dying in a mental hospital. This wasn’t the case at the start of Chap 1. I think the only thing that changed was Syd came into his life.

“I can’t stay here.”

“Not even for me?”

David’s relationship with Syd makes him feel happy and safe and comfortable, but Syd can’t stagnate. She assumedly has dreams outside of David or anything going on with Summerland. *Assumedly* since we’re not necessarily shown what those might be. (There is that alternate timeline where we see her in the back of a limi driving past homeless David)

This is all to say, their lives right now are too busy for them to sit down and talk about it, but there are hints that their long-term relationship goals are incompatible with each other.

It’s not brought up a lot but Kerry has a lot of chemical and prescription terms memorized. Probably from paying attention during Cary’s career, but still, it does make me wonder how she knows so little about other aspects of life in s2.

According to www.uofmhealth.org “Clozapine is an antipsychotic medicine that is used to treat schizophrenia after other treatments have failed.”

(Small aside for drug talk) [According to www.rxlist.com “Effexor (venlafaxine) is an antidepressant used for treatment of major depression.”

Those are the 2 drugs Cary and Kerry say Syd might be on. Said in response to Syd talking about the strange dreams she’s been having.

One of the listed side effects of Effexor is “strange dreams.”

Clozapine has a lot of things listed but I don’t see anything about effecting dreams. I do see drowsiness and muscle problems listed though, and Syd looks like she trips a bit before starting to talk about her dream.]

I didn’t realize on previous watches that Cary and Kerry both had Oliver related dreams. Cary saw the ice cube, and Kerry saw “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.” Probably in reference to the diving suit.

Melanie in Mental Clockworks acts very similar to Melanie throughout s2. I’d go as far to say they’re the same. Perhaps Farouk is just overemphasizing already present parts of their personalities. When driven to this point Melanie’s willing to do or believe anything that will bring Oliver back. In s2 this mindset will be intentionally orchestrated by Farouk, then subsequently exploited for the cave conversation.

Is Walter interested in Kerry because he subconsciously recognizes her as the girl he shot before?

When Cary’s first brought into the astral plane he’s in the middle of a forest. Could this symbolize the forest around David’s old house? David also had to make a journey before getting to where Oliver was located. Though I can’t remember what he was surrounded by when he came in.

If Syd’s not in there because she doesn’t want to be touched, then why did David still do the pillow divider thing when they were in bed together?

Syd was stored in David’s memories of his childhood bedroom.

Ptonomy’s powers give off a very “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” vibe. I think this is also the last time we see him in mental clockworks.

Walter definitely goes for power above all else.

Syd got locked behind that door she was so curious about.

Amy says some real targeted stuff here. She plays directly into David’s insecurities. If what she says is supposed to represent David’s deepest fears, than it would seem being unloved or underserving of love is the worst thing in the world to him. “You’re unwanted.” It feels doubly sad cause Amy visiting him in the hospital was probably what kept him going all those years without Syd. Lenny was nice but she... was also being treated.

Melanie prays.

Is it the actual Oliver that appears to Melanie at first? Whoever they are, they leave immediately after instructing her to somehow save David and Syd. It could be possible that Oliver did that to get a head start on it while he brought Cary up to speed.

Whenever someone questions his and Syd’s relationship, David’s only response is a defensive “We’re in love.”

Farouk’s sick of trying to indirectly manipulate David to his will and just starts outright venting about how he doesn’t get “love.”

This is also the first person-to-person philosophical discussion between David and Farouk.

Farouk also doesn’t get being “happy” and “fulfilled.” How sad.

Lenny says “Daaaviiiiiiiid” in the same way that Clark does.

Farouk calls himself a fungus here. If he’s using the previous metaphor, he means to say he’s feeding off David’s power and is eventually gonna burst out of his head, killing him in the process. (Added a few seconds after) I forgot he literally shows David that that’s what he means, lol.

Farouk’s downplaying his emotional connection to David here, claiming to only want to team with him for boosted power. But he does also say “I’m trying to help you.” I think this whole scene might be Farouk’s way of saying “Either you finally hatch and become a God, or I leave you behind to die. There are no other options.”

Again, Farouk knows what makes David happy and can’t accept that cause it’s not what he wants out of David. He’ll regret this later.

“Oh, you pretty things! Don’t you know you’re driving your mama’s and papa’s insane? Let me make it plain, gotta make way for the homo superior!” “Homo superior” in Marvel comics is another name for mutants. And David being the most powerful mutant in show would mean he’s the most “superior” of the homo superiors. Farouk locks his mind away for not realizing that. I guess he’s the “papa” in this scenario.

The lyrics to “Oh! You pretty things”in general is relevant to what’s going on at this point in the story.

Another line in particular sticks out, “Look out at your children. See their faces in golden rays. Don’t kid yourself, they belong to you. They’re the start of a coming race.” Farouk tries to essentially disown David at the end of this episode, but the song says “don’t kid yourself.” Farouk will eventually come to think of David as his son. A son that he knows he failed. Not yet though.

#legion fx

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toastedbuckwheat · 5 years

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Hello! May I ask how you draw? I'm currently learning how to myself and would be highly interested into a step to step process by you! Like from sketch to the done thing (no color necessary)

Hello there!

I dunno how I feel about showing how I work/giving advice to someone who’s learning (and I say it as a pro artist who went through years of traditional art education) because when I do the illustrations you see here on my tumblr I BREAK THE RULES you’d learn though life drawing routine, and give in to bad habits, and my methods are rather unplanned and chaotic which makes it difficult to pinpoint significant stages. But I used my portable potato to take some photos during working on my last piece, so I’ll throw it here with a bit of an explanation of what’s going on.

Before I begin - and because you’re about to look at a mess of a WIP - I’d like to give you some general advice that generally makes life easier when you draw (again, things that I learned in traditional arts education - another artist might advise you the complete opposite, dunno!)

Work holistically. Forget them satisfying-to-look-at clips on instagram showing someone produce a hyperrealistic portrait starting from an eye, with each and every element emerging being finished before they proceed to another part. It takes a lot of talent, yes, but these are ppl redrawing a photo in a kind of a mechanical manner. Most artists don’t work this way. Especially if you’re working without a reference, or if you’re doing a life drawing - your process will be layering and changing and finding what works best to give an impression of what you’re drawing rather than reproduce the exact image, and your artwork is likely to look messy most of the time.That said: don’t start with the details. Don’t spend too much time on a particular part while neglecting others. Your goal is to keep the whole piece at the same level of ‘finished’ (even though it’s unfinished - do I make sense?) before you’re confident that everything is where it should be and proceed to the details. So sketch out the composition first. See how things fit, what’s the dynamics. You’ll save yourself from limbs sticking out from the frame, odd proportions etc etc.

Because it’s a game of relationships between different parts of the picture/scene. I ask you not to worry about finishing a single element before laying out the rest because you’ll find that said element will look different once the other part appears! For instance - you might think that the colour you picked for a character’s hair is already very dark. But once you’re done with the night sky background, you’ll find that it’s in fact too light, and doesn’t work well with the cold palette. You’ll have to revisit different parts of the image as you go to balance these relationships and make the picture work as a whole.

Give an impression of something being there without actually drawing it ‘properly’- because details are hard, mate. You’ll see that my lineart usually has hardly any, and my colouring is large unrefined stains, but the finished thing looks convincing. Like, fuck, I can never focus on how Crowley’s eyes are really shaped. So I just turn them into large glowing yellow ellipses crossed by a line, and heard no protests so far.

Don’t panic if you messed up (you probably didn’t anyway). It might turn out to be a completely unnoticeable mistake - because, remember, things work together to balance each other, so another finished off prominent element will probably drown that badly placed line that looked so visible and out of place a second ago.

It might not look good before it’s finished. I’m mostly immune to it after years of drawing, and my recent illustrations all follow a specific method (ykno, my sunset glow effects and all that) so I can kinda predict the next stage. But I do my linearts on a specially picked crap paper, I don’t bother erasing the smudged graphite, and it looks messy af until I make the background white in Photoshop. Conclusion: you might have a moment of doubt as you work through a piece, but try to break through it - I often suddenly start to like what I cursed a minute before! - and try to finish it even if it’s meant to be bad. This way, looking through your past pieces, you’ll see the progress. And trust me, I can’t even look at my art from literally three months ago. It’s normal.

Now, pics! The sketches are paler in real life, but I increased the contrast a little so you can see something.

1. Laying out the composition!

I wanted to just show them kissing, but I got carried away due to some Art Nouveau inspiration. As you might have noticed, most of my illustrations are quite self-contained (ykno - they look like a sticker on a plain background). So I wanted a tight swirl bordered by Aziraphale’s wings creating a sort of rounded, yin-yang like bubble around them. Consequently I made the whole composition revolve around their heads.

2. Adding more details to the sketch. It’s messy af. It will be messy until I’m done. It’s fine.

3. These are the fineliners I use for the linearts! They are made by Uni-ball and come in light and dark grey. I also sometimes use the guy on the left - ‘Touch’ sign pen by Pentel, when I want more brush-like, wider strokes. I work in grey because when I scan it and do my usual boring trick with sunlight highlights - which is an Overlay mode layer in Photoshop - the highlights ‘burn out’ the lines too and make them vanish a little, and the lighting effect gets more striking. I also like to use the light grey ones to make something look pencil-y without actually using pencil, because pencil fucking smudges.

4. It smudges! So because I am right handed, I start inking from the right hand side, no matter how tempted I am to do their faces first.

5. You can see the composition directions here. I made it intuitively, but ofc some ppl actually use grids etc to lay out their drawings.

6. See how pale ans thin the lineart was at first? I kept adjusting it as new inked parts were appearing. It starts to look nice and consistent now!

7. Finished lineart? There are some mistakes which I later corrected in PS. Notice that Aziraphale’s face has hardly any details on it - I tried to make the drawing suggest his expression rather than risk overdoing it.

8. Photoshop time!! You can totally do what I did here even if you don’t have a graphic tablet. I used Curves tool to enhance the lineart, then Quick Selection Tool to select the background around around my sticker-like piece and filled it white (on a new layer ofc). I keep this white layer on top of the layer order so it works as a mask as I colour. I decided I did not like the hatching shading underneath Aziraphale’s halo, so I erased it with a Stamp tool (because I wanna keep the textured grey fill my crap paper naturally gives me!). It’s done roughly but won’t be visible once the thing is coloured.

9. And the reason why I keep the grey shade instead of easily getting rid of it by using Curves/Levels is because when I set this layer to Multiply mode and colour underneath, it gives me this nice desaturated look like from an old cheap paper comic page. It works as a natural filter! But of course I can’t do bright colours this way, so all my glowing highlights happen ABOVE the lineart layer - on a separate layer in Overlay mode!

Finished thing here!

_____

Commission infoBuy Me a Coffee - help me with my transitioning expenses!Prints and stickers and things on my Redbubble!

#ask the buckwheat #long post #tutorial #drawing advice #drawing tutorial #good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fanart #good omens art #my illustrations #doodles #toastedbuckwheat

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for-what-reason-if-not-love · 3 years

Text

Pitiful Creatures

Sometimes you just need to cry it out on a shoulder.

(DazaixChuuya) (Omegaverse Au) (Alpha Chuuya and Omega Dazai) (Fic Excerpt) (Approx 2k words of hurt feels and Alphas on the verge of a breakdown)

For the past several weeks, Chuuya had taken to willingly spending his time in combat zones, taking on almost all the field assignments that Mori had to offer. It was quite frustrating on how hard it was becoming to catch the Alpha around and Dazai could recall that the last time they had even so much as had a decent conversation, was weeks ago, too far long for his liking, and now his patience was getting thinner.

Ane-san had also expressed her concern regarding Chuuya’s behavior, quietly stating that he had not once visited her establishment this month, her current disapproval in her young charge showing from her sharp tongue. She had gone on to make a quip about how it was Dazai’s own self-destructive behavior that was starting to rub on the Alpha, the accusation leaving a bitter taste in Dazai’s mouth.

He had left her place with an empty expression, immediately deciding on hunting down Chuuya and giving him a piece of his mind about how it was <i> he</i> that was the self-destructive one of the two, or maybe put out the offer of double suicide if Chuuya really was working with the aim to kill himself.

A call from Hirotsu confirmed that Chuuya had just entered the Mafia headquarters to hand in the latest report regarding his most recent suicide mission (Dazai had thrown quite a hissy fit upon hearing the nature of this mission a week ago, because of fear and jealousy alike), the news making Dazai pick up his pace so he could catch Chuuya before the Alpha left the building.

He had noted it, the reason behind the whole relentless overworking, had known it was because of Corruption and the high amount of casualties that had recently eliminated half of Chuuya’s underlings, topped with the work overload he must be facing due to his newly earned position as Executive. But mostly it was due to the files on the Arahabaki case that Chuuya was finally allowed to review because of his status, and really now, this was becoming troublesome. (Dazai has already peeked into the files.)

Rushing over and climbing the stairs in strides had gotten him to the top floor much faster than he calculated, giving him enough time to compose his rapid breathing and pull up an unperturbed face. He could hear Mori’s voice from the other side of the door, droning on about some flaw in Chuuya’s report, the defeated silence in answer stifling the air and disrupting his breathing. It sounded like Chuuya was even more disheartened then the last time Dazai had gotten a glimpse of him in the corridors.

Mori had moved on to give a little lecture on Chuuya’s carelessness and crude behavior that he used in dealing with the mission, with what must be in a disapproving tone, if Dazai ever heard one. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine Chuuya, frozen in a terse bow with his hat off, eyes fixed on the carpeted floor in a show of respect and submission, a frown marring his handsome expression.

Dazai was still reviewing the entire one on one happening on the other side of the wall, when the door opened up to reveal Chuuya, who was wearing a look of utter surprise on finding the Omega, that did nothing in hiding the watery gleam of his eyes, making Dazai’s inbuilt instinct go on high alert mode.

It must have shown on his face, the alarm, because the next thing he knew, Chuuya was already walking away from him in hurried steps, face shadowed by the brim of his stupid hat. It hurt, just a bit, seeing his partner ignore him so openly after a month of radio silence.

His mind reeled in itself, seeing the Alpha sprinting down the corridor, wanting to ran away and shut himself in his nest and sulk about the whole situation, his mind wanting to retreat back into his shell, but without it registering, his feet had already started following after the frustrated scent left in the Alpha’s wake. Chuuya was already at the end of the passage by the time he caught up, ducking into an empty meeting room.

“Leave me alone for a bit, Dazai”. It wasn't exactly an order, body turned away from the door, waiting for the omega to clear out, his voice sounded heavy, gloved hand coming up to cover his face.

“Chuuya”. He was hurt, honestly, first time they talk in a month and Chuuya is asking him to leave him? Unbelievable.

Dazai did not pay any heed to his request (when did he ever), choosing instead to close the door behind him and stride into the center of the room, a cautious distance from the strung-up Alpha.

“Kouyou nee-san said you're being an ass these days, and I couldn’t agree more”. This elicited no response from Chuuya. “Sulking just because of Mori’s lecture?”, Dazai asked, slowly trying to close in the distance. He lifted his hand up to rest it on his shoulder, prepared for retaliation.

“I said LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, DAZAI!” As soon as the contact was made, Chuuya had whirled around and shouted it on his face.

It wasn't the fresh wave of angry alpha-scent pheromones that hit Dazai, to make him stumble back a step, rather it was Chuuya’s face, tear tracks cutting clear lines into his cheeks, the colour of his eyes intensified by their glassiness.

“Chuuya!”, if Dazai wasn’t alarmed before then he was definitely shocked now, moving with purpose towards the Alpha that hadn’t seemed to realize that he was crying at all. Chuuya seemed surprised to see him advancing forward, stepping back a bit to avoid the Omega hellbent on cornering him.

Chuuya kept backing away from him, not realizing that Dazai was fully intent on getting over with whatever-this-was. The back of his knees hit the seat of a swivel chair, and Dazai wasted no time in pushing him back to sit on it, hands firmly holding his shoulders.

Chuuya made a move to stand back up, but Dazai was fast enough to straddle himself on the distressed Alpha, wrapping his arms around his lithe frame.

“Honestly if you hate being down talked by Mori so much…”, that was most definitely him skirting around the main issue because rule no. seven of surviving the underworld stated that issues that are not talked about, don't exist and right now making Chuuya calm down was top priority.

“I mean, Mori is technically right in his way…”, He continued talking, wanting to distract him with the things his mind must be thinking.

By now Chuuya had taken to hiding in his embrace (knowing it was fruitless to try and fight against Dazai), hands holding onto his waist a little too tightly for comfort, sniffling every few seconds, but Dazai doesn't mind. He had taken to hugging Chuuya back just as tightly.

After what seemed like an eternity, Chuuya’s shoulders relaxed a bit, just a bit, and the barbed wire wrapped around Dazai’s heart managed to ease it’s hold. He had his cheek resting on Chuuya’s head, waiting for the flood gates to close.

“Sorry”. The Alpha seemed sheepish, judging from his cracked voice, but Dazai just shook his head and let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Chibi, you had me worried here for a second”. This earned him a low growl from Chuuya, making him grin.

“Chuuya got all his tears and snot on my shirt!”

He missed this.

Relaxing his stance a little, he prodded further,“Oh, so it’s about your height? Quite a weird thing to sulk about.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya groans, his face still hidden. By now the Alpha had calmed down, breathing pattern going back to notable.

Dazai started to pull back from the embrace, wanting to see Chuuya’s face properly after so long, hands coming to hold Chuuya’s red face, “Look at you”.

This situation was definitely a first for both of them.

”Chuuya looks like a little toddler”. Dazai lovingly squished his cheeks to maximize the effect. The Alpha’s face was flushed, red-rimmed heavy lidded eyes looking back at Dazai, bottom lip bitten into by his fang, but he still managed to look attractive.

Chuuya must have been tired, because he only sighed at the remark and moved his hand up to cup Dazai’s. Winding his fingers in between his, he pulled them back from his face and held them in the space between them.

Too much distance, Dazai thought, slowly pulling his hands away and moving closer again to wrap them around Chuuya’s neck, resting his face on his shoulder, nuzzling his scent glands under his collar. A deep inhale of the Alpha’s scent had him going boneless, touch starvation making itself obvious. Chuuya seemed to have sensed it too, moving to nuzzle his face into Dazai’s neck, hands moving to his waist to pull him closer.

Dazai’s body seemed too eager for this physical touch, head tipped back to allow more access for the Alpha, as Chuuya kept kissing and nipping at his glands, hands twisted in Chuuya’s hair, exhaling soft sighs and gasps every so often.

Perhaps, Chuuya thought, he should feel guilty for having neglected his omega for so long.

Even at this proximity, he could barely make out the scent of Dazai, overwhelmed by blood and gunpowder. It was a soft whiff of petrichor and paper, intoxicating and ensnaring.

Dazai let out a sharp gasp when Chuuya slipped his hand under his shirt, cool leather caressing patterns on heated skin under the loose bandages. It felt like fire chasing away the frost.

“Chuuya” Dazai gasped out, to which the Alpha just hummed. Dazai was feeling too warm now,pressed up against Chuuya, heat pooling in his belly making him breathless. He tried to wiggle a bit to adjust his position on Chuuya’s lap, intent on simply rutting and making-out, but the Alpha had a very tight hold on his waist.

Chuuya yanks a fistful of Dazai’s hair, exposing his pale neck. He starts with light kisses that turn into soft bites, the Omega shivering and spluttering out half gasps and moans.

“Chuuya.” Dazai whines, shaking hands trying to unbutton Chuuya’s shirt, mirroring Chuuya’s actions of opening his neck tie. He shivers when Chuuya bites into his collarbone and tugs down his shirt and jacket which pool behind his back. The Alpha makes quick work of the bandages winding down his neck, exposing all the rope burns, scratches and bite marks on his pale skin to the soft evening light, and Dazai shivers at the heated gaze directed at him. He doesn’t know what to make of-never knew how to process- the fact that Chuuya finds him attractive, a shiver sliding down his spine from the way Chuuya was giving him this look.

The room was already tainted with their scents running wild, mixed with the heat of arousal and want. Dazai could feel the slick sliding down his thighs, could feel Chuuya’s arousal between his legs, could feel his self-control thinning out as lust choked all coherent thoughts with desire.

“Chuuya, please”. This was getting borderline unbearable, how Chuuya seemed so calm and collected in a situation like this, even with his hair mussed up. (The hat was knocked down somewhere on the carpeted floor) and his face looking so kissable.

Chuuya pulls him in by his nape into a slow open mouthed kiss, moving on to suck and bite at his bottom lip, it would most likely bruise (Chuuya liked leaving evidence of his hold on his territory), tongue settling heat in his mouth as his other hand slowly trailed down Dazai’s spine.

Before the Omega could process anything, Chuuya had already scooped him up and stood up, walking towards the conference table, and Dazai paid no mind to it, too busy getting his share of kisses and fervent touches.

They only separated once, when Chuuya had deposited him on the desk surface, to take of their dress shirts, the Alpha immediately pulling himself back between his legs again to drown in the kisses. Dazai was lightly rutting against Chuuya’s obvious erection, desperate enough in his actions to make Chuuya start unbuckling their pants.

One shove and Dazai’s pants and underwear were thrown somewhere behind them, leaving him perfectly naked to the alpha’s heated gaze, safe for the bandages winding down his torso and appendages. Chuuya pulled off his gloves by the tip of his fangs, fully intent on simply staring at the ruffled Omega.

One hand moves to part Dazais legs further, as the other moves to circle around his neck, pushing him down until his back rested flat against the desk. Even now Dazai’s mind likened this action to creating distance, but he simply lay there, content on sitting back and seeing what Chuuya was willing to do. Cold fingers brushed against his flushed erection, making Dazai jump, slowly making their way to circle the tight leaking hole.

Chuuya had a perfectly expressionless face, only his eyes letting go on how interested he was, solely focused on Dazai’s lower body. One finger slid in without any sort of resistance, which showed just how aroused the Omega was. Dazai breathing stuttered.

“Sorry” Chuuya mumbled lowly, apologizing for what exactly, for having flooded out his emotions earlier or for downright ignoring him for a whole month now, Dazai wasn’t quite composed yet to try and decipher that, mind more than content at just being touched after so long.

#soukoku #dazai x chuuya #bungou stray dogs #omegaverse #omega dazai #they have issues #someone lock them in a room and make them talk it out #its all downhill from here folks #fic excerpt

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violetsmoak · 4 years

Text

Philtatos [13/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47690671

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #fatal flaw #secrets #riddle #fate #revenge #oracle #betrayal #prophecy #jealousy

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Tim feels a little bad about using Jason’s skin hunger against him but only for a moment. Any concern about that vanishes when he peeks back at Jason as they walk, and observes the color returning to the other man’s cheeks. The hand clasped in his own stops shaking the longer they touch.

Tim has never been one to enjoy holding hands—often he’s felt uncomfortable or self-conscious, worrying about sweaty fingers or whether the other person might consider it lame—but this doesn’t feel like that.

This feels right.

It’s actually concerning how right it feels, especially in light of his recent discussion with Steph.

Stop it. This isn’t about you. It’s about putting Jason at ease.

They return to the containment unit to find Barbara facing down Eros—an impressive feat considering she’s in a wheelchair and he’s the one looking down on her. Her face is drawn in irritation, and he’s gratified to see that Eros seems put-out about something.

“Took you long enough. Cherry here says she’s got a bonafide prophecy from the Oracle of Delphi and wouldn’t share it until you got back.” He eyes their entwined hands and leers. “I take it the domestics are going well?”

“Get bent,” Tim snaps in irritation as Jason tugs his hand back so fast he might as well have been burned.

“Only if you do the honors, pretty boy.”

Jason growls and makes a move for his gun, but Tim reaches out to stop him.

“Can you not tease him?” he demands of Eros. “Especially when the only reason he’s like this is because of you.”

“Oh, if only you knew…”

Before Tim can comment on that, Jason interrupts.

“What’s the feathered freak talkin’ about?” he snaps, radiating tension. “What prophecy?”

“The one Signal was able to recover from the girl that was killed,” Barbara says coolly. “He transcribed it and sent it along. Do you want to hear it, or do you want to keep acting like a child?”

This she directs at Eros, who actually does look chastised a beat, before gracing her with a cool smile.

“I guess it is apropos if you do the honors, darlin’,” Eros says with a cool smile. “Is it ironic or coincidental if someone who stole the title of oracle interprets a prophecy from the actual Oracle of Delphi?”

“Who cares? This whole situation is making me hate both irony and coincidence,” Tim says.

“It’s making me wonder if there are any coincidences,” Jason mutters, eyes fixed on Eros in intense dislike.

Barbara offers him an identical look, before thumbing the screen of her phone and opening her incoming messages.

Then she begins to read:

“The Unseen darkness cannot keep its captive thrice for mortal masks the divine that seeks its reward in the city where dark nights conceal the greatest of secrets.

“Crossed beneath the stars when the Rager’s Moon is full, eternal freedom is neigh upon the eleventh moment of the small hour.The sacrifice of the virgin gifts triumph to the prisoner and that which drowned in Lethe’s tears is reborn.

“But take heed, for the winged scion of Cythera, willingly blinded by the veil of vengeance revealed by Discord’s most cursed boon, awakens the warrior guided by the Physicians heir.

“Fury dooms the fair, heralding the return of magnificent Alexandros and one whose name is painted in blood and stone.

“Greatest of loves, damned by the gleam of a golden barb, torn asunder by jealousy and parted by cruel death, they will stand against Strife.

“Titans will rise and one who Death names hero, betrayed yet shielded by love, will sunder the chains of Aidoneus and avenge the victim of grievance. One will be born anew, the other bound eternally to Stygian Darkness.”

There is silence as she puts the phone down, eyebrows drawn together in thought.

“What?” Tim says.

“I see your ‘what’ and raise you a ‘the fuck’,” Jason adds. “Does any of that make sense to anyone else? Because it don't make sense to me.”

“Blame my uncle,” Eros says, apparently annoyed.

“What? Why?” Tim wants to know. “Which one’s he?”

“Apollo,” Barbara says, still considering the puzzling words on the screen. “Aside from being a sun god, he was also the god of prophecy.”

“Talking in riddles is his favorite pastime,” Eros agrees. “It’s a pain in the ass.”

“I’ll bet,” Tim agrees. “We’ve got someone like that here in Gotham.”

“Yeah, and he’s a frequent guest of Arkham, so what’s that tell you?” Jason grumbles.

“That people who come up with riddles have too much time on their hands.”

“There’s a reason the Oracles of Delphi didn’t put their predictions into simple words,” Barbara points out. ”If you give people information about what’s coming, how do you know you’re not ensuring it will or won’t come to pass? It was important for them to be seen as the medium of the message and not an agent.

“By keeping information vague, it would seem like they were allowing a querant the chance to defy fate, while at the same time allowing fate to take its natural course, whatever that might be,” Eros agrees. “Ans it was good insurance. Even Oracles needed to cover their asses. You were less likely to get your head lopped off by a visiting king that received news he didn’t want to hear. And whatever the outcome, they could still say, ‘we told you so’.” He considers Barbara. “You know, I don’t usually find brainy sexy, but you might just turn me.”

“I’m thrilled,” she deadpans.

“So what’s all this supposed to mean, anyway?” Tim asks, trying to bring the discussion back to the matter at hand.

“It could mean anything. Though to start with, that bit about ‘unseen darkness’, that’s an epithet for the Underworld in old Hellenic documents.”

“We called it that in the old days,” Eros confirms.

“And then there’s the part about someone captive in Hades.”

“I thought Hades was a person?” Tim says.

“It is. But it’s also a place.” Jason tells him.

“It depends on what story and what source you’re drawing from,” Barbara elaborates. “And what translation.”

“What about the next bit? About mortal maskin' the divine?”

“Could that mean whoever’s possessing Carrie Cutter?” Tim suggests. “We’ve already established she’s got help from a god, and if they’re inhabiting her body even for short amounts of time, it’s a pretty effective mask.”

“No doubt,” Eros agrees. “Not so sure about that part with dark nights, but I guess it’s referring to this cesspool you people call a city.”

Tim, Jason and Barbara exchange glances, knowing exactly how dark nights and secrets relate to their city.

Maybe Duke misheard. It might not be dark ‘nights’ so much as dark ‘knights’. Which makes sense, considering Bruce and Dick both have that title depending on the day.

“Safe to say it’s Gotham,” Tim confirms. “So all that begs the question, do you have any idea who’s locked in the Underworld trying to get out?”

Eros snorts. “The better question is who isn’t locked in the Underworld.”

Jason is glaring furiously at Eros, clearly growing tired of his evasive and snarky answers. The way his fists clench, Tim suspects he’s close to throwing a punch at the glass in frustration. Not something Tim wants to see, especially given Jason’s injuries from their altercation with Carrie Cutter and Dick haven’t even been seen to yet.

God, it feels like it was days ago but it was only hours. He probably came right here to confront Eros without even looking after himself.

He has to put that out of his mind for now. Deciphering any clues in the prophecy takes momentary precedence.

“…. A lot of myths end with someone displeasing a god and getting sent to Tartarus, so he has a point,” Barbara is saying, her thumbs busily texting something on her phone.

“So that’s not going to tell us anything,” Tim decides. “What about the ‘crossed beneath the stars’ part?”

“More of the same in terms of pinpointing when everything is supposed to happen,” Eros says.

“Which is when?”

“November twenty-third,” Barbara says, frowning at the small screen in her hand.

Jason looks askance. “How d’you know?”

“'Moon’ equates to month, and another name for Zeus was the Rager,” she replies. “So, Zeus’s month. According to the Athenian calendars we still have access to, Zeus’s month was Maimakterion—which in modern times would fall somewhere between November and December. And the next full moon—” She holds up her phone, showing a lunar calendar for the month, “—falls on November twenty-third. It’s the only full moon that falls during Maimakterion.”

Eros nods along in approval. “What she said.”

“And the small hour?”

“Midnight.”

“So, whatever’s supposed to happen is going to happen eleven minutes after midnight…assuming that’s what moment means,” Tim muses, glancing at his own phone calendar. “That’s this Friday.”

“Five days from now,” Jason agrees, and side-eyes Tim. “We’ve all had shorter deadlines.”

“That’s not necessarily referring to your deadline, sweet cheeks,” Eros reminds him. “I figure you have about half that.”

“No thanks to you.”

“You know, the last Jason I knew wasn’t this whiny.”

“Children,” Barbara says sharply. “Let’s stay focused, shall we? I’m concerned about this virgin sacrifice part—specifically the part where it ensures success for someone we probably don’t want to succeed.”

“Cutter did kill that girl,” Tim reminds them. “Maybe it was some kind of offering, so she’d be successful at whatever she’s trying to do.”

“It’s a good an explanation as anything else,” Eros agrees, examining his nails. “We always did love our human sacrifices. And a virgin does increase the likelihood of something working out to your advantage.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Jason growls. “That’s a kid you’re talking about!”

“And as an Oracle of Delphi she’s entitled to an eternity of bliss once she enters the Underworld,” Eros dismisses. “It’s a better end than some people are entitled to.”

Jason’s eyes blaze as if that’s a personal insult. Tim can certainly empathize.

“What about the second part?” he prompts. “What’s Lethe?”

“The Lethe was the river the souls drank from to forget their previous lives before being reincarnated,” Barbara explains.

“The Ancient Greeks believed in reincarnation? But I thought that was something from the Far East?”

“Many ancient cultures had a concept of reincarnation beyond the Hindu and Buddhist mythos,” Barbara explains. “Just look at the belief systems of the indigenous peoples of North America and you’ll see countless examples. And they didn’t have any contact with the civilizations of Asia during the time when those faiths were evolving.”

Beside Tim, Jason is as stiff as a board and appears to be having trouble breathing. Automatically, Tim edges closer to him, and though he doesn’t outright take his hand—he leans into him, nudging him with his shoulder.

Jason’s eyes dart to him for a moment, and he relaxes incrementally.

“How does that relate here though?” Barbara wants to know.

“Maybe the prisoner forgot something,” Eros suggests, not sounding very interested.

“Or maybe whoever’s tryin' to escape Hades as made to forget something,” Jason counters darkly.

“Only mortals can be made to forget by drinking from the Lethe,” Barbara says. “The prisoner could have been human. Salmoneus or Tantalus or one of the Dainads.”

Tim doesn’t even get a chance to question who they are before Eros interrupts. “Actually, it’s a little broader than just mortals. More like mortals, demigods that haven’t consumed ambrosia, giants, hybrids—”

“So again, we’re back to a broad spectrum of people it could be talkin' about,” Jason complains. “Great. Is there anyone or anything in this stupid prophecy that isn’t doublespeak?”

“Well, the next verse is pretty self-explanatory. Obviously, we’re talking about yours truly,” Eros says, pointing at himself. “What other 'winged son' do you know from mythology?”

“A case could be made for Pegasus.”

“No, it’s Eros,” Tim says. “Cythera’s another name for Aphrodite.” Everyone looks at him in surprise.

“How do you know that?” Jason asks, but where the emphasis ought to suggest incredulity, he sounds impressed.

Tim tries not to bask in that.

“My parents used to visit the island of Cythera a lot when they weren’t on business trips, especially before I was born. It was their favorite vacation destination. Full of history, not touristy—they didn’t like having to socialize with people when they were on vacation.”

Tim falls silent then, remembering sitting in his living room with his parents, pouring over their vacation photos of the Mediterranean island while they told stories. They’d always promised to take him one day…

He glances up and notices the others are watching him now—Eros with a sharp, calculating gaze while Jason appears concerned. As for Barbara, she seems to sense his discomfort, because she navigates them past the lull. “Okay, so if it’s Eros, what are you wanting revenge for? It’s not exactly your M-O.”

“I can think of a few people who have it coming,” Eros answers. “Starting with my mother.”

“What’d she do?” Tim asks.

“Do you have a few centuries worth of couch time?”

“Isn’t she the reason your wife died?” Barbara wants to know. “In the myth, she survived, but Tim told me that's not what happened in reality.”

Eros expression goes cold.

“That’s right,” Tim remembers; he and Eros had this conversation a few days ago, didn’t they? “Aphrodite is the one who sent Psyche to the underworld.”

Eros bares his teeth. “One of her many sins, but not the only one.”

“Then couldn’t the prophecy maybe be referring to her? Psyche, I mean? Maybe she’s the prisoner.”

“Are you implying my wife is the one behind your Cupid’s actions?” Eros growls. “Because that’s impossible.”

“How would you know? It could be—”

“Because she died a mortal! Her soul is mortal and wouldn’t have the power to escape the Underworld in any capacity! Furthermore, Psyche would never kill or arrange the death of anyone! She was good and pure of soul and that’s why I fell in love with her.”

“That’s not what I read,” Barbra says. “Didn’t you prick yourself on one of your golden arrows while watching her?”

“I pricked myself because I fell in love with her,” he snaps. “I’ve already told Jason here that the arrows only work to magnify emotions that are already there.”

“That makes no sense. You liked her before you made yourself fall in love with her?”

“Look, you know the story: Psyche was beautiful. So much so, that the idiots in her kingdom started treating her like a living goddess, bringing the gifts meant for my mother to this human princess. You can guess how well that went over.”

“Right. She sent you to make her fall in love with a horrible beast.”

“Yeah, one of Diomedes mares. Gorgeous animals—people would stop and stare at them for hours. Also, vicious, flesh-eating beasts. Just getting to close to one of those and it would have ripped her to shreds—and she would have stood there and let it.” Eros’ expression becomes soft, eyes faraway at the memory. “If she had been some arrogant, selfish royal I would have let it happen. But I watched her for days while I tried to put her in the path of that thing. And everything she did was just good and kind. I had never seen as pure a soul like hers.” He shakes his head. “The idea of a girl like that being sent to her death just because a bunch of idiot humans had the audacity to praise her alongside my mother didn’t seem fair.”

“And you’re all about fair, aren’t you?” Jason sneers.

Tim has to agree; if Eros cared about fair, he would have been a lot more helpful about curing Jason and wouldn’t have demanded they find his diviners beforehand.

“I was young and stupid, and I didn’t realize the world didn’t work that way,” Eros dismisses. “Even for gods. I thought my mother would never want to harm me—and so if I put Psyche under my protection, she couldn’t hurt her. And if I could show my mother what a good wife Psyche was, even if she was unable to see me, it would prove the point.” He snorts. “It didn’t exactly go my way.”

“And there’s no way her soul could have somehow been corrupted when she died?”

“The Underworld is stagnant. There’s no such thing as change or time there. Everything occurs both in one moment and in all moments there.”

“So you’re saying a soul going in would remain in the same state as it was when it died,” Barbara posits.

“Exactly. How else do you expect the judges to judge souls if they kept changing after death? It’d be a headache.

“Then if it’s not Psyche, who else can you think of that it might be?”

“It might be more than one person,” Tim suggests. “That line about 'greatest of loves'—what if that’s why Carrie’s been targeting couples? She hears the prophecy—or whoever’s riding along inside her hears the prophecy—and thinks there’s a couple out there that’s going to stand against her. She could be trying to eliminate potential threats to her end goal.”

“If so, we need to decipher her criteria for choosing her victims. You already said it didn’t seem like they had anything in common.”

“We’ll have to check again. Maybe now that we’ve got this prophecy, something new will jump out.”

“We skipped a whole verse,” Jason points out. “The ‘warrior guided by the physician’s heir’. Any ideas?”

Eros shrugs. “Since the rest of the prophecy involves me, I’d say it’s me.”

“How do you figure?”

“The Physician is another name for Apollo.”

“So?”

“So, who do you think taught me archery? Next to him, I’m the greatest archer among the Olympians.”

“Or it could be Jason,” Tim ponders.

Jason seems to go pale, almost panicked. “What?”

“I mean, assuming you’re interpreting ‘awaken’ by activating the way you do with a sleeper agent. You infected him with your blood however accidentally and then pressed him into doing your dirty work.”

“I resent your tone, boy,” Eros grumbles, but Jason interjects, “And the other bit?”

“The other bit is just really literal,” Barbara catches on. “Jason, you were trained by Batman. Who was the heir to an actual physician. The M.D. kind.”

Thomas Wayne.

Jason looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that information. “Shit.”

Eros watches Jason, inscrutable eyes considering; Jason glares back at him as if waiting for him to make a comment.

“But if it’s Jason, the next bit wouldn’t make sense,” Barbara says after a moment. “‘Magnificent Alexandros’. The only Alexandros I can think of off the top of my head if Alexander of Macedon. But that doesn’t really track with the rest of the verse. He was a historical figure, not mythological.”

“That’s offensive, you know,” Eros drawls. “All those stories you call mythology actually happened.”

“Then why don’t we have an archaeological record for them?”

“Because screw you, that’s why.”

“If it is talking about Alexander the Great, Robin will be happy,” Tim says with a rueful smirk.

Jason is perplexed. “Why?”

“Apparently he was on the list of the kid’s League-approved childhood heroes. Mother-son bonding time seems to have included traveling in his footsteps as preparation for world domination.”

Jason looks surprised and amused. “Really?”

“Is it that surprising?”

“No, it’s just…” Jason shakes his head. “Never mind.” He clears his throat. “So, back to the prophecy. It talks about the Titans—are we talkin' the creatures the Olympian gods overthrew?”

“Well, whenever one of us mention the Titans, it is usually those bottom feeders rotting in Tartarus, yes,” Eros says dryly, inscrutable focussed on Jason. “Them going free is never a good thing. Don’t believe me, read the Titanomachy. Hesiod got it pretty close to right.”

“Could be the goal, could be the result,” Tim suggests.

“Which brings us back to possibly being on the lookout for more than one prisoner escaping Hades,” Barbara says.

“And all of that leads us to the typical ‘one shall live and one shall die’ device,” Eros concludes.

“Only we don’t know who either of those is.”

“I can tell you now if it’s a prophecy involving me, I have no intention of dying."

“If it’s even about you. It’s not really an exact science, interpreting this sort of thing,” Barbara warns. “Even an Olympian like you can misunderstand—there’s evidence of that in the myths. In fact, I’m sure we’re missing more than is good for us. It will take some time to decipher it and we need more information.”

“At least we have something,” Tim maintains. “The exact date when it’s going to happen and where. We can begin preparing for that.”

“It’s a whole hell of a lot to think about,” Jason agrees.

“Which you can do back at the Cave. We only came here to see if Eros could shed some light on the prophecy or see the arrows.”

“What arrows?”

“Wonder Girl told us that to reverse what’s been done to Nightwing is to remove the arrow that Carrie stabbed him with.”

“Uh, there is no arrow,” Jason says. “Cupid took it with her, remember?”

“I guess that answers that question,” Barbara sighs. “You can’t see them.”

“Of course he can’t,” Eros says. “I’m the only one that can see the wounds caused by my arrows. Even this pseudo-Cupid wouldn’t be able to see them.”

“After she stabbed Jason she seemed to be looking for something, so I’m not sure about that,” Tim argues.

“She can’t see them. Though it may be possible her divine passenger might. I don't know. Never had another god take my diviners before."

“Speaking of being stabbed,” Tim goes on, nodding at the bruises coming out on his face. There are likely more hidden by the leather jacket and gear. “You should get those looked at.”

“I didn’t physically get stabbed, you know. Magic wounds don’t need to be looked at.”

“You went toe-to-toe with an enhanced fighter and Batman. You could have internal bleeding for all we know.”

“If you think a little tussle with that dick is going to do lastin' damage—”

Tim cuts off his indignation. “I don’t, but you haven’t been eating or sleeping properly, and your system is already compromised, so how do you know what damage was or wasn’t done? You didn’t stay to get treated at the Cave.”

Their eyes meet, remembering exactly why that is, and Tim’s cheeks darken. Jason is the first to look away, though.

“It’s nothin'. I can patch myself up whenever.”

“I can help—”

“I’m good.”

“Jason—”

“I’m an adult and I’ve been treatin' myself without help for years now,” Jason interrupts tensely. When Tim can’t stop himself from flinching, Jason’s eyes flash with dismay. “I mean…” He flounders like he’s trying to take it back, and instead changes the subject. “Didn’t you say somethin' about a list? Maybe get started on that and I’ll do an injury check myself.”

It’s a clear cop-out, and if they were alone, Tim would be calling him on it.

“I’ll ask for help if I need any,” he adds, awkwardly, like it’s been a long time since anyone actually cared about his injuries being treated.

Barbara glances between the two of them, obviously sensing the undertone, but not commenting on it. Instead, she says, “I don’t mind helping Jason. Besides, Red Robin needs to contact the Family and let them know what we know.”

“And I need food,” Eros says. “I haven’t eaten since before you went on your little reconnaissance mission. Can’t you see? I’m wasting away.”

“If only,” Jason mutters.

Tim is torn, wanting to argue that he can help Jason, but at the same time trying to respect the other man’s obvious need for distance.

At last, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, feeling a little defeated. “Let’s take a break. I’ll make a food run…you get yourself fixed up.”

“Whatever you say, babybird.”

⁂

Once Tim vanishes, Barbie indicates with a jerk of her head that Jason should follow her upstairs to the Nest medbay. He knows better than to think it’s just her wanting to take a look at his injuries—like him, she’s probably looking for some privacy.

They take the elevator up in silence, and Jason wonders vaguely when the last time was, he was this close to Barbara Gordon.

I don’t think I have been, actually. We both avoid the manor unless there’s no choice. And we both have good reasons for it. And when we are there together, there’s usually about six to ten feet of distance between us.

They were never what he would call close before she was paralyzed and he died. Barbie was Dick’s girl and Jason’s occasional babysitter until the Joker ruined her life. And then she wasn’t around at all. Jason wasn’t alive to watch her painstakingly drag herself up and pull it together again, so he never got the chance to interact with the Barbara Gordon that became Oracle.

Since returning to Gotham he’s kept her at a distance as much as he did the rest of the Family, so it’s somewhat surprising to him that she’s here now and working to help him.

Probably it’s on account of Tim.

Still silent, they enter the surgically pristine room of the Nest’s medical wing—and Jason is a little jealous of the supplies here. It makes the kits he has in his safehouses about as sophisticated as a needle and threat.

Barbie watches him, framed in the doorway.

“Well? Spit it out,” he grunts, deciding to get whatever reprimands are forthcoming out of the way.

Her look turns sharp before she reaches into her jacket pocket for something; Jason can’t help tensing up, even though she knows the likelihood of her pulling a weapon on him are slim to none.

That suspicion is confirmed when she instead draws out a device and turns it on; there’s a high-pitched background whir that Jason recognizes as a listening device scrambler.

Clearly we’re both aware of what a paranoid freak Timbers can be.

“Okay, Jason, what’s going on?” she asks without preamble. “You know Tim only wants to help you.”

“Yeah, at his own expense,” he retorts sourly.

Barbies raises an eyebrow as if waiting for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, she presses, “You’re being cagey. And it’s more than just worrying about losing control around Tim, I can tell.”

“Oh you can, can you?” he challenges.

“I’ve known you since you were still desperately trying to live up to Dick while pretending like you didn’t care. I know when you’re hiding something,” she folds her arms. “Believe it or not, Jason, you’re a terrible liar when it comes to things that matter.”

It’s reflex to want to say something caustic to that, but he stops himself in time. He needs Barbara’s help and pissing her off isn’t going to make his life any easier.

“I need a favor,” he admits after a beat.

“Another one?” she repeats, sounding like she doesn’t believe him. “You’re going to owe me a lot.”

“Yeah, well, now would be the time to collect on those debts while I still can.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means everyone else is tiptoein' around the subject, but at some point, I’m gonna need to be put under,” he says, erring on the side of just enough truth to keep her from questioning him further. “We both know what I’m talkin' about here.”

As expected, Barbara only just keeps herself from visibly recoiling; she’s already ready with an argument. “You don’t know we won’t find something before that happens.”

“I’m already feelin' like I’m livin' in someone else’s skin—” Literally, in a way. “—I’m not gonna get any better than I am right now. We’ve already seen what it looks like when I dip toward worse. So while I’m still lucid, let me make my decisions. And my decision is, I’d rather go under while I’m still me instead of violent, mindless…reaver.”

Barbara does a minor double-take. “Did you just make a Firefly reference?”

“It’s the last series I was watching before I died,” Jason says, a little defensive.

“I’m not judging, just surprised. Dick and Tim are usually the ones making pop-culture references to deflect. I’m not used to it from you.”

“And I’m not used to you stallin',” he counters. “You’re different from the other Bats, O. You know how to cut your losses, and you know how to make decisions when no one else wants to think about it. You get makin' the hard calls. So, I’m gonna ask you: when it comes down to a choice between me and Tim—and I mean when, not if—who do you save?”

Something like pain passes over her face, and then resolve hardens her face. “Tim.”

“Exactly,” he approves. “Because unlike me, he’s good. And smart.”

“You’re both of those things, even if you pretend like you’re not,” she protests.

“And he hasn’t committed multiple murders,” Jason continues, acting like he didn’t hear her. “Not that what I’ve done wasn’t justified. It wasn’t good, but I don’t regret it because I will go to my grave believin' sometimes that line needs to be crossed. Again. But it’s still a line Tim’s been lucky enough not to have to cross.”

She doesn’t argue with him, instead inclines her head.

“More people will miss him if he were gone then they would me,” Jason concludes. “I’m not supposed to be here anyway.”

There’s a long beat of measuring silence. Then, Barbara sighs. “What is it you need, Jason?”

He tilts his chin in gratitude.

“I didn’t just come here to yell at Eros,” he admits. “If Wonder Woman doesn’t show up, he’s the only one I know who has access to the stuff I need.”

“The Stygian Sleep.”

“Yeah. But it’s probably in GCPD lock-up.” He gives her a quick run-down of events, minus anything about Eros’ intentional plan to infect him. Babs listens, jaw set and eyes narrowed; given what she just said about him, she likely knows he’s not being completely truthful, but his explanation clearly holds enough water that she doesn’t call him on it.

“I’ll get someone to look into it,” she decides at last.

Which, even though he’s relieved about, he’s also suspicious.

“And by ‘look into’ you mean grab hold of and perform a million tests on it before handin' it over,” he posits.

“Just because you’re hellbent on using something that’s effectively going to kill you doesn’t mean I don’t want to know everything about it first,” she says, unapologetic. “Like the prophecy, it might have clues about how to circumvent it.”

“Yeah, because we’re having so much luck with that.”

“Also, when Bruce comes to me later in a righteous fury for letting his son die a second time, I’ll be able to assure him we knew everything we did about it before making an informed decision.”

Jason doesn’t pretend to believe that’s the end of it. Barbara might be willing to humor Jason a little more than Bruce, or even Dick when he’s not compromised—she might even be a little more objective in considering things, but she’s not going to trust Jason’s plan to be the only plan. She’ll have her own contingencies, the same as any Bat.

The only difference with Babs is that once it’s over and done with, and it becomes clear there’s no saving him, she’ll have an easier time getting over it than Bruce will. And she won’t let it compromise her work.

Tim’s told Jason what Bruce and Dick were like after he died the first time, and if it happens again, Gotham needs someone competent in keeping things in check.

And Tim…

Jason’s heart thuds with guilt.

This time, Tim won’t just be sweeping in to pick up the broken pieces of Batman and Nightwing as he did as a kid. He won’t be watching it from the sidelines.

The memory hits him then. To his surprise, it’s not from Achilleus or Alexandros.

Jason hates Wayne Charity galas.

People are always staring at him, murmuring through pasted-on smiles that even if he couldn’t read lips, he would be able to hear the judgment dripping from their words. These people are so achingly dry and genteel, their teeth don’t even unclench around their vowels.

Bruce doesn’t make him come to all that many of these shindigs, thankfully; only the ones involving children’s advocacy and the like. Jason doesn’t mind those too much, considering their purpose. He just hates that even at those—like the one tonight—he’s the only kid that has to parade around in the straitjacket Alfred calls a tux.

He gets it, of course; he’s the poster-boy, the success story, a means of showing the rich snobs how well a dirty Crime Alley orphan can clean up so that they’ll open their checkbooks.

It doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Except for tonight, for the first time, he noticed another kid that’s been dragged along. A tiny boy whose meticulously fitted tux still manages to look too big for him.

A man and woman who must be his parents are chatting with another couple, seemingly oblivious to the way their son is staring into the distance, a neutrally polite expression fixed on his face. He might as well be sleeping standing up, and Jason has the odd suspicion that’s by design.

That makes his mouth twitch; maybe rich kids get bored with this kind of thing too.

Jason keeps staring across the manor ballroom until the strange kid senses his gaze and looks up. He grins when the boy’s eyes widen—their color is startling, even from across the room, and they take up practically his whole face—and wonders at the sudden flood of color in his cheeks.

He’s about to motion the boy over to the edge of the reception area—hanging out with another kid, even a little one, will definitely break up the monotony of the evening—when Bruce’s hand falls hard on his shoulder.

“Time to make an exit, son,” he says, voice quiet and intense and incongruent with the false smile he’s still beaming at everyone within a ten-foot radius. From the distracted note in his words, Jason doesn’t even need to look out the window to see the signal lighting up the sky.

They meet Felipe Garzonas that night, and he doesn’t think of the boy again.

Jason shudders as the technicolor recollection fades out, his stomach twisting angrily.

He’s never made the connection between Tim and the boy at the fundraiser before. It occurs to him how stupid that was—at the same time it occurs to him that if not for that case that night, he might not have been on the outs with Bruce. He might have endured more Wayne event galas instead of limiting whatever time he was with Bruce to being Robin by night. He might have gotten to know Tim in this life, instead of dying.

He might not be in this damned predicament right now.

“Jason?”

He looks up, realizes that Barbie is watching him with concern. He is quick to revisit their conversation and mutters, “Yeah, fine. Just make sure the stuff actually makes it to me before my brain dribbles out of my head, okay?”

“Stop being so dramatic,” she replies, reaching out to turn off the scrambler device, though she continues to exude suspicion.

“All Bats are dramatic, or have you forgotten?” he quips back, offering an irreverent smirk to cover up.

“Hard to forget something you live with every day,” she returns dryly. “Now get over here and let me check you over.”

“You don’t need to,” he points out. “I’ve had worse than this, you know.”

“Yes, yes, we’re all aware you’ve died and come back, who hasn’t these days?” she returns. “Now, shirt off, or I’m telling Tim you didn’t do what you said you would.”

Jason glares. “This is going to become a thing, isn’t it? You people using Tim to make me do things.”

“Things that are for your own good, yes. Now strip, Todd.”

“Yes, mother…”

“You wish your mother was as cool as me.”

Which Jason can’t argue with, because she’s right; he’s had a total of three mother figures in his life (two of which he’s not sure even qualify because of how messed up they were), and none of them have been as capable or decent as Barbara Gordon.

Once he’s shrugged his top half out of the body armor and leather, she reaches for him.

Jason experiences a nauseous swoop in his stomach at the idea of anyone but Tim putting hands on him. Instantly, his hand snaps up and knocks hers back.

“Don’t touch me!” he snarls.

Barbara pulls away, watching him with a raised eyebrow and instantly Jason is overwhelmed with shame.

“Sorry,” he bites out. “I didn’t mean…”

“We can wait for Tim to get back,” she suggests, instantly understanding.

Alarms blare in his head at the thought; he shakes his head. “No. No, I’m…I’m good. Now that I’m expectin' it.”

She considers him several beats longer and then makes the next attempt to check his injuries. This time he concentrates on forcing the sick feeling away and tries to ignore how it feels like someone is rubbing sandpaper across his skin.

That’s a new symptom. Great. Because it wasn’t enough that I’ve been trying to claw my skin of myself, now other people get to do it too…

Barbara checks him over with quiet efficiency, evaluating the shallow slash between his arm and shoulder which his armor didn’t cover, as well the bruising along his hips, elbows and lower back.

“It could be worse,” she decides eventually, considering the mottled purpling across his chest. “Ribs are bruised, not broken.”

“I could've told you that…”

“And were you going to tell me about that?” she points at his shoulder and the spiderweb of gold leeching out around the long-healed-over bullet wound. From the way he’s been itching at it this past day, he doesn’t need a mirror to know it’s beginning to creep up his neck as well. “How long has it been growing like that?”

“Pretty much since I got it,” he replies.

She reaches up, brow furrowed and reaches toward one of the raised lines winding toward his chest. Again, he braces himself for the pain of the touch his body doesn’t want.

Thankfully, she barely grazes that. “You haven’t been keeping better track, have you? It might give us a more specific idea of how much time you have.”

“How so?”

“The same as any poison, I would guess. The closer it gets to your heart, the less time you have.”

He frowns. “At this point, I don’t think it even matters.”

Movement outside of the med bay window draws his attention, and he across the floor to see Tim climbing the stairs from the ground floor.

Jason is quick to grab his shirt and tug it on; it’s not something he wants to discuss with Tim just yet.

Barbara watches him, lips pursed in worry and disapproval, but he could care less about the latter. She knows his thoughts on this, and she’ll respect them.

Tim strides in and then slows like he’s wondering if he’s supposed to knock or not.

“How are you doing?” he asks, hesitant like he’s afraid expressing concern will set Jason off like a bomb.

Guilt hits him at that, but he forces himself to remain calm and blank-faced. “Fine.”

“I have to go,” Barbie announces, maneuvering her chair toward the door. “I need to go back to the Cave and check on Dick’s condition. I don’t know how long it will be before he tries to escape or pull something to keep from going nuts.”

“Also, it’d be nice if this month was one of the ones where Alfred doesn’t get knocked out,” Tim suggests with false levity.

“Or lose a hand,” Jason mutters darkly.

“Exactly. And whether he knows it or not, Feathers downstairs gave me some ideas about how to remove the arrow,” Barbie says as they leave the med bay.

“I should come with you.”

“No.” Both Barbara and Tim speak at the same time, but she’s the one that keeps talking. “You should stay here.”

“Not sure that’s the best idea.”

“I think it is,” Tim counters. “It will keep us out of everyone’s hair and they’ll know where we are.” His tone is reasonable—too reasonable; clearly Timmy has some ulterior motives.

Whether those motives are to circumvent Bruce or Jason’s plans, he doesn’t care. But one thing is for sure. “They can know where we are if we’re at the manor.”

And isn’t that a reversal—Jason being the one to insist on that?

I need to have people around because I don’t trust myself right now.

The mutinous expression is back on Tim’s face, before he visibly switches tactics.

“Okay, how about this,” he suggests, tone only a shade off exasperated. “Why don’t you go lie down somewhere and try to catch a few hours' sleep? If you’re sleeping, you’re not doing anything else, right? And then we’ll either go back to the Cave or see if anyone can be spared to chaperone here.”

“There’s no need for that,” a voice says, and they all look up to see Damian stride in still in full Robin-gear.

Tim scowls. “How did you get in here?”

“It was fairly simple,” the kid snorts. “A fish tank, Drake? Really?”

Tim looks like he wants to protest, but Jason chuckles. “It was kind of obvious, babybird.”

“You can barely take care of yourself, and you expect someone with a brain to believe you have the patience to care for fish?” the boy continues. “Exactly who do you think has been feeding them when you forget?”

Tim gapes. “You…break into my apartment…to feed my fish?”

Jason can’t help the loud guffaw that escapes at that, earning two equally unimpressed glares in return. He doesn’t care—that might be the funniest thing he’s heard in days.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Barbara says and wheels out of the room. “Try not to kill each other, boys. Alfred would be unhappy about it.”

“Luckily, we are standing in a well-stocked room with several methods for resuscitating a dead body,” Damian replies easily.

“Don’t you have school?” Tim grumbles.

“It’s Sunday, Drake.”

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“I have been sent to babysit you two and put Todd down with extreme prejudice should he try anything.

Which Tim gapes and, while Jason is…kind of relieved about.

“Aw, Dami, I knew you cared,” he teases.

“Don’t address me with that infantile drivel!”

Tim sighs.

“Just don’t set anything on fire while you’re here…”

⁂⁂⁂

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fifteenleads · 4 years

Text

Chuuya had worn pink ribbons in his hair on one of Dazai's past birthdays.

It had been the result of losing a bet, as always. The cunning bastard had an extra trick up his sleeve and reversed all of Chuuya's hard-earned points in UNO. He'd become the laughingstock of the entire Black Lizard force that day, and because of that, he couldn't say no to Dazai this time.

"Be my birthday gift," had been the exact order. Yet another variation of Dazai's "be my dog (for all eternity)" spiels, to which Chuuya had either merely ignored or responded to with any and all degrees of violence possible— none of which worked on Dazai, of course.

Having caught wind of the affair, Ane-san had been so kind as to style his messy hair into an intricate double-braid that went across his crown, then twisted and tied together with pins and pink ribbons made of real silk. It was, for all purposes, technically fulfilling his end of the bargain; Dazai would never deny a "gift" just because it didn't have large ribbons wrapped around it.

Considering how much Dazai had relished the challenge of undoing the braids and pins one by one with that smarmy mouth of his, Chuuya had let himself feel proud just a bit— even if it guaranteed that the same thing would only happen next year, and the year after that.

The next year had never happened, however. As well as the year after that.

Chuuya still kept those pink ribbons in his dresser, in a sealed box, never to be opened until— whenever that would be.

Maybe when he was finally ready to forgive.

He was loathe to admit it, but deep down, he missed Dazai a lot, insufferable mackerel that he was. The years have taught him to ignore that growing Dazai-shaped hole in his chest, but one day it will no longer be enough. He knew that much, and was prepared to live with it.

It was merely a consequence of certain events, the Boss had dismissed, and Chuuya had slowly begun to believe it until his mind went numb.

A knock on the door interrupts Chuuya's thoughts. He hadn't been expecting anyone for the day, given that it's his annual birthday leave. "Parcel for Nakahara-san," goes the voice over the intercom, a professional lilt with a hint of delight.

Normally Chuuya would pretend to not be at home until the other person gets tired and leaves; there's no way of telling what sort of person is lying in wait— a standard precaution of sorts for the line of work he's in. The knocking and ringing of his doorbell persists for a whole five minutes, however, and Chuuya's patience finally reaches its breaking point.

"Take a fucking hint, damn you!" he bellows into the intercom, glaring into the peephole to see which bastard dares ruin his—

In an instant, Chuuya's years of training and self-control fail spectacularly as he practically short-circuits, instantly breaking the door and tackling his visitor into the ground.

"YOU—!" he growls with a feral vengeance, "How dare you show up now after disappearing for two whole years!"

"Now, now, that's no way to treat your birthday gift," Dazai tuts back, totally unfazed. "Is this the welcome I get after so long? I thought you missed me more than that."

Sandy brown trench coat, black vest over a blue shirt, beige slacks, and bandages peeking out from all parts of his body. For all those months Chuuya had never seen Dazai, he would never, ever forget how much he hated that cunning smirk and those knowing eyes that have seen it all.

Yet, despite that— despite everything, Chuuya missed Dazai so much.

He responds to that feeling with his strongest punch to Dazai's face.

"I did," Chuuya answers after that, not bothering to wipe his bloody knuckles. "And you'd better believe I'm gonna yell at you so much, your ears will bleed after."

Dazai laughs weakly in response, a stream of blood from his nose flowing down his upper lip and into his mouth. With a sigh, Chuuya finally gets off Dazai's torso and helps him up. He probably has enough antiseptic and spare bandages in the medicine cabinet, even that shitty mackerel will thank him for it later.

"I swear to the gods, you have a lot of explaining to do," Chuuya mutters under his breath, Dazai's arm slung over his shoulder as they enter his apartment. "You're paying for the door."

"But I'm broke, Chuuya," Dazai languidly protests, his other arm lazily snaking around Chuuya's torso like it was a thin beanpole. "I live on three cup noodles a day, you know."

"I'll drop you," Chuuya threatens with a low voice. He doesn't resist the way Dazai clings to him, though, the extra body heat filling him with a warmth he has missed for so long now. Dazai definitely knows this, and may just be intentionally pushing his buttons, but Chuuya lets him be for now.

They have all afternoon to catch up, after all.

"Hey, Chuuya," Dazai calls out in a singsong voice, "Where'd you keep the ribbons from my birthday before? We should play dress-up!"

Chuuya, at least, has half a mind to not hurl the bottle of iodine at Dazai. Damn that shitty, insufferable mackerel, just after he made such a huge scene out front. (Chuuya knows that that one is his fault; he's just being petty, and he knows it.)

It doesn't stop him from playing right into Dazai's hands, though. (He knows that, too.)

"I threw them out," Chuuya deadpans as he gathers up the medical supplies to put them back. Dazai probably already knows where he kept those hideous things; the bastard has already stayed over for days on several occasions, after all. He mentally prepares himself for an embarrassing death by humiliation later, should Dazai succeed in retrieving those ribbons and do unspeakable things with them, knowing how he is.

To Chuuya's (greatest) surprise, Dazai hasn't moved an inch by the time he gets back. He hasn't wiped off that irritating, expectant smirk from his face, however. "Well?"

"I already told you, they're gone," Chuuya repeats, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice, since Dazai probably knows he is lying anyway. They both know that keeping up this charade is useless, but Chuuya has Many Things he wants to tell Dazai, short of kicking his ass and pinning him to the ground. And so he allows himself this much pettiness, at least— an injured man deserves at least this much kindness.

"... Fine, if you don't want to tell," Dazai relents after a few moments, letting himself plow down onto Chuuya's bed. "Is it just me, or are these sheets softer than I remember?" Twisting his body to bury his head into the pillow there, he lets out an exaggerated, satisfied moan, as if only to prove his point.

"Get the hell off!" Chuuya quickly clambers up to the bed to forcibly remove Dazai, who holds on tight to the pillow with a childish pout. "These are imported, dammit!"

"No waaay!" Dazai rolls back and forth, evading Chuuya's attempts to grab him by his clothes. "Aww, the little kid can't reach with his little arms and legs! What to do~?"

Chuuya has had enough.

He quickly extends his right leg to the other side of the bed and kneels, effectively trapping Dazai's squirming torso between his thighs, before leaning in and grabbing a fistful of hair. "I don't know what the hell you came here for, but my patience is wearing thin," Chuuya growls into Dazai's ear. "You've always had your way for so long, it fucking gets on my nerves, you know.

"I hate you, shitty Dazai. I hate you so much I want to kill you right now." Chuuya's vision begins to cloud, and the rest of his senses dullen until the only thing he can appreciate is his rapid heartbeat and angry pulse. He thinks he is losing control, as reckless and wrathful as the god that dwells in him.

How pathetic must he look before Dazai before he is satisfied?

How low must he go before Dazai before he is finally seen?

"Oh, Chuuya," comes an airy whisper, before cold hands cup his cheeks and a ghost of a kiss touches his lips.

The spell immediately breaks, and Chuuya's strength immediately leaves his body. Dazai lets him lie on his torso, the thick comforter separating their bodies. "Must you always be so difficult," Dazai mumbles wearily, one arm circling Chuuya's waist and the other gently combing through his hair. "Then again, that's just like you."

"... Shut up..." Chuuya mouths, unable to muster the strength to use his voice. "... Ribbons... in safe..."

"I know," Dazai confirms, his hands unceasing with their gentle minstrations. "They're in my pocket."

"... Damn you..." Chuuya says again, without any malice. He feels himself gradually drifting off. He knows this is how it would end, but... "... Won't... forgive you..."

"I know..." Dazai, too, starts to drift off slowly, and the next line, spoken in remorse, breaks Chuuya's heart: "I'm sorry."

Pink ribbons stained with tears fill his dreams that night, and the next morning, Dazai is gone, a check for a measly ten thousand yen left on the nightstand.

The sealed box in his safe remains untouched.

Chuuya buries his head into his pillow, inhales Dazai's scent, and lets himself cry.

For Eloise. (4/4)

... I have no excuse. (hides)

Happy birthday, my friend!

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #dazai osamu #nakahara chuuya #soukoku #skk #for eloise

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clairen45 · 5 years

Text

The Bridge Trope in Star Wars and what it may mean for IX

Besides being iconic markers in our daily lives, bridges are an awesome symbol:

transition and a boundary between sky and earth, life and death, real and imaginary, mortal and immortal, good and evil, civilization and the wilderness,rich and poor, old and new

marking both a connection and a separation through time and space, between people, between places

Which is why, they are so easily used in stories as a decisive step in a hero’s journey, the Rubicon moment, the ultimate test, when through wit, trick, or strength, a bridgekeeper must be defeated. Let’s say it is a hero’s journey and fairy tale classic.

Add to that the fact that bridges are quite the war movie cliché, they are obvious landmarks to destroy, and vital targets to control. Destroying a bridge often means isolating and weakening the enemy, depriving it from communication and food, water, or medical supplies.

So, of course, we get to meet the bridge trope again and again in Star Wars. And, more often than not, the bridges we get are bridges of Death. From the Phantom Menace’s Duel of the Fates

To Han’s death in The Force Awakens.

It is actually fitting to say that both scenes constitute an interesting framing for the Skywalker saga. Duel of the Fates is a very apt name for the beginning of the saga. Remember that Anakin’s name is etymologically “Ananke”, that is to say Fate, Destiny. Anakin’s fate is in the balance there, and the end result of who gets to become his Master and teaching him about the Force is key. Had Qui Gon lived, possibly, there would not have been any Vader. As for, Han’s death in TFA, the constant play of words between sun and son, and the not so subtle imagery of light and darkness, is supposedly all about Kylo’s fate. If Qui Gon’s death is possibly the first step towards the fate that will turn sweet lovable Anakin munchkin into big bad Vader, Han’s death is the counterpart of this scene, thus the first step towards big bad Kylo turning eventually into lovable Ben Solo. And just as it took three movies to realize the Fate of Anakin, it will take three movies to realize the Fate of Ben Solo. But I digress. Or not.

Because both stories, which interact like mirror images of each other, are perfectly hinged around two other crucial bridge scenes. One in ESB. And one in ROTJ. You know what I’m talking about, right?

And these two are also counterparts. ESB’s bridge scene is Luke’s symbolic death scene: learning the truth about his father, and losing his hand, he would rather choose death and commit suicide. ROTJ’s bridge scene is Vader’s death and Anakin’s redemption, with Luke accepting the truth, Vader losing a hand, and choosing to save his son’s life. Even the placement of the actors emphasize this idea of mirror image. So Luke gets his Troll Bridge twice: he fails the test the first one, falling to the chasm and falling apart, and succeeds the second time around. Doing what? Throwing away his saber. Choosing love. Refusing to kill.

But I would also like to stress out that, from a certain point of view, Luke is not the only one who gets tested there on the Troll Bridge. Anakin, just like his son, also fails the first test and passes the second. In ESB, he has little to no love to offer and tempt Luke to his side: he offers the vague promises of the power of the dark side and ruling the galaxy together (which didn’t work with Padmé either). In effect, he is selfish, abusive, scarring his son physically and psychologically, and does not seem too distressed when Luke lets go and falls “presumably” to his death. In ROTJ, he chooses the losing side, standing against the Emperor to save his son’s life, which he knows, will eventually cost him his life. Thus, he is showing empathy and remorse, and saves Luke through a selfless act of love.

Yep, that is what the OT is about.

And, arguably, these two scenes constitute the very axis around which the other two trilogies are built. Hence my first “digression”.

It is also very interesting to note that in the four cases exemplified so far, the “bridges” in question are seemingly “reactor cores”, excuse my tech ignorance. These scenes are never about bridges out in the open, over a river, connecting two shores. They are always played out over a chasm, surrounded with energy fields, in dark environments with a possible fall into a bottomless abyss... Two possible interpretations:

because they are battle of the brains, moral battle of good versus evil within oneself. Inner battles. Think grey cells, cerebellum connections, as a map for these duels.

because they are battle of the heart. Issues of love. “core”

Honestly, I think they both go together!

Symbolically, they are your typical “choose the right path” bridges, the life and death, good vs evil bridges.

The many bridges of Luke

If you actually consider the OT, Luke’s journey is very much rhythmed by a series of bridges. Which might seem ironic for a boy coming from a desert planet with no water, and thus, no use or concept for bridges (besides rocky arch formation such as we see during the pod race in PM). But consider the last name GL decided to give him: SKYWALKER. That was not the orginial name he had chosen, right, since in first drafts Luke was called “Starkiller”. Consider then what a huge difference it makes when you move from a very martial moniker “Star/killer”, which is all about destroying life and light (and Luke actually comes from “light” etymologically speaking) to choose something that means: the one that walks the skies. Not flies. WALKS. And if you walk the skies, chances are you are walking on a bridge of some kind (like mythological rainbow bridges). Crossing a bridge is very much akin to walking the sky: you are suspended between heaven and earth. So even the name GL chose for his star family is all about “walking” on bridges.

The “bridge” moment in ANH is rather brief, but quite interesting. It is actually the “NO BRIDGE” moment, the one when Luke and the Princess find themselves locked out with no crossing, and stormtroopers shooting at them. This moment:

What does it reveal about Luke? His ingenuity, since he uses his farmboy utility belt to cross the bridge, but then also his instincts, the fact that he can rely on his roots (what he learned as a farmboy), his audacity, his ability to take a leap of faith (something that will play out later in his relationship with his father). But it also sets him apart as a different kind of hero. The NOT MY LUKE people should really pay attention to these details. Sure, he plays the hero, saves the damsel and everything, but in this scene they work together, she also gets to protect them, he trusts her with defending them, she is the one giving him a kiss for luck. This is very positive masculinity. Heroic, but not pushy. Manly, but respectful of women. Physical but also using his brain. Luke is such a dear.

In ESB, the big bridge moment is the one I already referred to. The moment of truth. Having these two characters on a bridge is very clever of course. It’s all about meeting in the middle. A bridge is by essence a balancing act. Can they meet halfway or will they cut all connections? Can opposites reconcile? Will they connect/reconnect? What better way to talk about human emotion and love than put them on a bridge, the very metaphor for communication, leap of faith, and the possible danger of reaching out to the other with your feelings?

But ROTJ goes even further with the bridge metaphor. Going with this when Luke reveals the truth to Leia...

To carry on with Leia and Han, where Han shows more of his emotions ans proves how supportive and selfless he can be when he is just there to comfort her in the end, putting away his jealousy and self-doubts:

Followed with this, for Luke and Vader’s first meeting since ESB when Luke calls him “father” for the first time and tries to bring him back:

To conclude with the bridge sequence already mentioned when Vader chooses to be Anakin all over again.

WOW.

And where does it all take Luke? To a water planet with NO bridges. Seriously. When VII opens, Luke has chosen to sever, metaphorically speaking, all the links to others. As if he had chosen to destroy every bridge that could connect him to Leia and the rest of the world. And when we see him going about the island, there are no bridges. He jumps from one cliff to the other. Interesting thing is on The Art of The Last Jedi you get to see some of the art concepts that they had for Ahch-To that included a lot of variation on bridges:

But eventually they went for the very design that removed any bridge from the place that Luke has chosen to spend the remaining days of his life until his death. Which is, I must say, a very good choice. He disconnected himself from the Force, he disconnected from people he loved not telling them where he hid, it made absolutely no sense to put him on a place that was covered with bridges. The bridges were meant to be burned.

That is... until one very last moment. Which is the perfect segway into my next chapter... Until the end. When he projects himself for one final face-off with his nephew. And that is a big bridge metaphor about reaching out across the stars. And we know that when Luke is on a bridge with someone he loves, this doesn’t mean harm or spite or revenge. Or even fighting. Bridges in SW are not so much about fancy duels as they are about love. Yep, even in PM. There is the love that Obi-Wan (yes, even a Jedi) feels for his master, and the need to extend and take care of a little boy that is all alone in this galaxy. A leap of faith. Love. Which means...

The ST is about crossing that bridge

Yes, there are bridges in the ST. And how Kylo and Rey are going to be able to cross over and meet each other. Let me explain. This happens at the end of VII:

Visually, it tells us that there seems to be no possible bridge between the two characters. Yet, the whole point is that they keep on looking towards each other. The bridge,aka the connection, is their eyes (mirrors of the soul yadiyada). And sure enough, comes VIII, and the bridge is there. WTF, will you say? What bridge are you raving about. Well... that one...

The Force bond.

And how do I presume calling this a bridge? Because...

It was I who bridged your minds

Interesting choice of words. But there it is. Put it as plainly and simply as you possibly can. The Force bond is a bridge, a spiritual bridge between Kylo and Rey. That’s quite something, right?

Which means that, there may be some physical crossing of some kind in IX. Now, I don’t want to be presumptuous and declare for sure, but it would seem like a logical concept. And on Vic Mahoney’s moodboard...on the left, some of the pictures seem very bridgelike...

And that’s also where I want to bring in that clever little TV kid show called Star Wars Rebels.

Take it to the Bridge

So Star Wars Rebels came before the release of TFA, in 2014, merely two years after Disney bought LF and therefore all the rights to Star Wars. Let’s look at what they did there and let’s wonder why. I don’t think that it was a random move on their part. They could, after all, have imagined something that took place right before TFA, or come up with the many adventures of Luke and the gang, or even spend more time on the Clone Wars, or go way back in the Old Republic. But no 14 years after ROTS, 5 years before ANH, is the time they chose. And came up with a totally new gang we had never heard of. Except that... well... the new gang got to meet A LOT of familiar faces. From all over the place: Hondo, Rex, Ahsoka, Vader, Leia, Mon Mothma, Bail Organa, Obi-Wan, Darth Maul, Yoda, Lando, C3P0 and R2, Palpatine, just to name a few... The point is that they get to meet people from the PT AND people from the OT. Thus (you know where this is going) bridging story lines. And, surprise surprise, what special name did they choose for their hero? Ezra Bridger. Gosh, that’s not even subtle, there. And by the way, what does Ezra mean? Helper. So Ezra helps bridging... aka, Star Wars Rebels helps bridging, connecting, if you will storylines. Towards a logical conclusion. And what is this conclusion, pray? The ST of course. And who stands on the bridge? Kylo and Rey.

Even better, what particular storyline did they preciously choose to keep to conclude this new Star Wars story:

the return of the Mortis Arc, balance

the World between worlds, and its very specific bridges that cross through time and space, and the possibility to alter the past/future, plus bringing back loved ones

looking for knowledge (last time I checked it was not so much about knowledge in the PT and OT). But Ezra’s story is all about knowledge.

love and sacrifice, saving the people you love (Ahsoka, Kanan, Ezra), and, come on, Hera and Kanan’s baby (by the way, Kanan is very reminiscent of Canaan, the Promised Land, so keep the prophetic aspect in mind)

Again, how will it play out in IX? I have some ideas but I really can’t tell whether it will show up or not. There have been rumors about an artifact (very SW Rebels) that would require both Kylo and Rey’s powers. So knowledge. So possibly with notions of Mortis implied in there (balance). Love, sacrifice, we have discussed a lot. Remain the bridges. I can totally envision an important scene taking place on a bridge, with Kylo and Rey embracing, or running to each other, or holding hands while everything else around them crumbles. I can also imagine a bridge playing out with an intimate scene as we got in ROTJ in the Ewok village, something akin to the terrace where Anakin and Padmé first kiss on Naboo and finally get married. Again, the film has already been shot. So too late for that already and there’s a fat chance that it won’t even happen. But since we got a bridge of death in VII with Han’s death, we need a bridge of light.

Which might just turn out to be the symbolic bridge of Rey and Kylo coming together and finally uniting the light and the dark sides...

Leaving Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water behind as a great Reylo vibe. Seriously. Reylo vibe, guys!!!!

When you're weary, feeling small When tears are in your eyes, I'll dry them all I'm on your side, oh, when times get rough And friends just can't be found Like a bridge over troubled water I will lay me down

When you're down and out When you're on the street When evening falls so hard I will comfort you I'll take your part, oh, when darkness comes And pain is all around Like a bridge over troubled water I will lay me down

#reylo fandom #reylo fam #reylo meta #star wars meta #star wars fandom #star wars parallels #star wars symbolism #star wars episode ix #bridges in star wars #reylo playlist

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lustresky · 4 years

Text

hochelaga [peter parker]

summary: Peter never really had a ton of positive male influences in his life, and at this point he had given up his hopes of ever having one— that is, until he meets Happy.

wc: 4200ish.

themes: angst, peter’s a misunderstood and troubled teen, some happy stuff in the end (cuz i physically can’t write shit that doesn’t end in a happy ending ok), trust issues, happy cares about peter, some family fluff because i just want peter to be happy ok:’’(

warnings: cursing (da usual), underage smoking & mentions of nicotine addiction, me trying to be deep haha yikes!

a/n: title is a song by alexandre poulin. (it’s a really good song, i highly recommend listening to it in the background while reading/listening to it after! i translated the lyrics in english but it isn’t an exact translation, i changed a bit of the words to fit in more with the story!!) i recently listened to it again and it inspired me to write this. a lot of fics have tony as a parental figure in peter’s life, and he was my first choice for this fic too, but in the end happy just... made more sense. but honestly?? idek if this fic makes any sense. hopefully it does lmao

if you have any questions about this fic, feel free to send me an ask!

please note that the plots of CIVIL WAR, INFINITY WAR & ENDGAME are excused in this fic.

available on ao3.

T’es pas mon père, tu t’prends pour qui? (You’re not my dad, who do you think you are?) Tu sais rien de moi pis de mes amis. (You know nothing about me or my friends.)

Peter scoffs to himself as he hears May laugh in the living room; he hisses at the contact of alcohol on his skin, groaning at the large gash on his forearm. He quickly bandages it up, making sure to wear a long sleeve shirt in order to hide the large white cotton wrapping around his injured limb.

As soon as he hears footsteps, he swiftly hides the first-aid kit under his bed.

May opens his bedroom door, still wearing her work clothes and a huge smile on her face. “Peter!” She grins, walking towards him and grabbing his arm— the one that had been sliced open just an hour ago. He inwardly winces, but keeps on his indifferent face.

He has a front to maintain.

“Come on! I have someone for you to meet.”

Ma mère ’n’a ramené des ben plus tough, (My mom has brought home tougher guys,) Moi, les gars comme toi j’les mets dans ma poche. (Guys like you are nothing to me.)

Peter trudges to the living room, mentally preparing himself to see another man that he knows he would hate in a few days’ time.

To his surprise, however, he’s greeted by a man who’s the exact opposite of the image that he had been used to. Where the black leather jacket had been, there’s a formal black suit— complete with a tie and all. Where the gelled up hair and five o’clock shadow had been, there’s curly, salt and pepper hair with a white beard to match.

Where a smirk that seemed to size him up had been, there’s a genuine smile.

“This is Harold,” May introduces the man in front of him with such a wide grin that her eyes crinkle. “Harold “Happy” Hogan.”

What kind of fucking name is Happy?

Harold clears his throat and offers his right hand to Peter; a first for all the men that May had brought back home.

“I’m Peter.” Peter says, taking his hand. The man gently grips it, hands warm yet firm at the same time as he shook it with one of them on top of Peter’s own. “Nice to meet you, Harold.” He adds, forcing out the manners May had ingrained in him even if he doesn’t like it.

“Nice to meet you too, Peter,” Harold smiles. “And Harold’s too formal—”

“Just call me Happy.”

Pis tu vas ben faire comme tous les autres, (You’d be just like the others,) Tu vas claquer la porte en mettant ton coat. (You’d slam the door closed whilst wearing your coat.)

Harold— no, Happy, stays over for dinner. Peter left the conversation to May and him as he focuses on the news being displayed on the TV while he chews on the food that she had prepared.

“Rising vigilante, Spider-Man, spotted!” The female TV reporter announces, hair swishing left and right as she animates her words with hand gestures. “Six thieves have been found, bound with the ever familiar web and with the oh-so-famous venom puncture holes in their necks!”

“As much as his work is appreciated by many,” The announcer continues. “Is his way of justice acceptable, when these men—” The TV flickers to show the mug-shots of the six men, now incapacitated due to the poison. Peter recognizes the one who had cut his arm immediately. “Have not yet faced trial? Tonight, we will be discussing this with J. Jonah Jameson, editor in chief of The Daily—”

The TV screen suddenly goes black. Peter groans at May as he looks over at her; her arm outstretched with the remote in her hand aimed at the now blank display.

“No watching TV while we’re eating dinner.”

C’est moi du haut de mes 14 ans, (It’s my 14 year old self,) Qui veille sur le bonheur de ma maman. (Who grows old because of my mom’s happiness.)

Peter had quickly retreated in his bedroom after dinner, telling May that he still had homework to do.

The truth is that he just can’t stomach seeing Happy and his legal guardian sending love eyes to one another for another fucking hour.

Especially when he had already told himself numerous times in the past few years to never attach himself to any of the men that she brought home— no matter how happy they make her, because he knows better.

He tries to disregard their laughter outside of his bedroom. He tries to ignore the creaks of the floorboard as May sent Happy home. He tries to be oblivious to the peck that they both shared as a goodbye.

Tries; because his enhanced senses completely made sure that he notices every single one of them.

Much to his dismay.

T’es pas mon père, m’as-tu compris? (You’re not my dad, don’t you understand?) J’les connais les grands secrets d’la vie. (I already know life’s greatest secrets.)

Peter still remembers his first smoke.

He had been twelve.

It had been an experience— and when his senses got even more enhanced after he got bit, it didn’t take long for him to get addicted.

May doesn’t know about it. Just like she doesn’t know about him being a vigilante.

As soon as he hears a scream from an alley not too far from where he’s perched, Peter drops his smoke onto the cement— squishing and therefore extinguishing it with his foot.

He shoots a web onto the light pole to his right, hoping that whoever it is that he’ll save, that they’ll give him money for his services; just like what most people would do.

Peter lets out a breath, missing the nicotine in his lungs.

He’ll need it for another hit.

Garde tes histoires pis tes conseils, (Keep your stories and advices to yourself,) Check, fais tes affaires, j’vas faire pareil. (Look, mind your business and I’ll do the same.)

Happy comes over again for dinner.

As May cooks, they both sit on the sofa, watching the news.

“Spider-Man strikes again!” The same female reporter from a few days ago announces. “This time it seems that he has saved over a dozen people in a department store by binding the attacker in his webs and incapacitating him with his ‘venom’!”

Happy groans beside him and Peter looks up at him, annoyed. What’s his deal?

As if he can read minds, Happy looks back at him, a stern look on his face.

“Listen,” He starts, head downcast to stare at him in the eye. “If something like that ever happens to you, you go and run the other way— alright?”

Peter scoffs at his words and breaks eye contact. As if.

Happy doesn’t seem to be content with his answer. So stubbornly, he asks, “Peter? Do you understand?”

Peter subtly rolls his eyes. Who does he think he is?

“Yeah,” He just replies back, not wanting to strike another conversation with another person who thinks that they have more power than him.

He has had enough of those.

Mais si jamais tu mets l’pied dans ma chambre, (If you even enter a foot in my room,) J’te jure que j’te paye des vacances. (I’ll make sure that you’ll regret it.)

“Peter!”

Peter quickly fumbles out of his suit, pulling the red and blue cloth off rapidly as he opens his closet door to stuff it in. At full speed, he grabs his venom and web shooters and locks them inside his desk drawer.

The footsteps don’t cease, and Peter only manages to get a shirt over his head and a pair of boxers over his legs before his door opens to reveal Happy; an eyebrow raised at him.

It doesn’t take long before the man’s eyes widen upon casting sight onto his bleeding legs.

“Jesus Christ, Peter, what happened to you?” He asks, opening the door even more to let himself in. “Are you okay?”

Peter doesn’t even try to keep the bubbling rage inside him as Happy carelessly welcomes himself into his bedroom; the only space that he has to himself. The only place that understands him.

“Yes!” Peter cries out, anger coursing through his veins. Fucking hell, he doesn’t have time for this. “Now please— get out!”

Happy, surprised at his outburst, moves backwards until his feet were a mere inches away from Peter’s bedroom door frame. “Okay, okay— I’m glad that you’re okay,” He raises his hands up in retaliation, sighing. “But still, what in the hell happened to you, kid?”

Peter doesn’t answer, instead he ignores the burning pain across his legs while walking towards the door with the goal of closing it. He grits his teeth in the process.

“That’s none of your business.”

Ma mère pense ’t’es l’homme de sa vie, (My mom thinks that you’re the love of her life,) Moi, j’te donne pas trois semaines pis t’es parti. (Me? I’ll bet that you’ll leave after three weeks.)

Peter had been genuinely surprised when he had come back home to find May and Happy in the kitchen, flour and eggs scattered everywhere.

Their smiles are bright.

Peter clears his throat, effectively gaining their attention as he crosses his arms across his chest. “What are you guys doing?” He asks, throwing a pointed look at May who just laughs at his question.

“What does it seem like we’re doing, Pete?” She replies, a huge smile still displayed on her face. “We’re trying to bake a cake!”

That still isn’t enough of an answer. “What for?” He adds; from what he remembers— which was almost everything, nobody has their birthdays today.

May just sticks her tongue out at Peter.

“It’s Happy and I’s first month anniversary, babe!”

S’rais-tu mon père jusqu’à midi? (Will you be my dad till’ noon?) J’me suis mis dans l’trouble pis comme t’es ici. (I got myself in trouble, and now you’re here.)

Peter curses at himself as he holds his head down in between his arms.

The principal doesn’t say anything to him as the air remains tense.

“I’m sorry—” Peter’s head pops up at the unexpected voice. That isn’t May. “I had a meeting— I came here as fast as I can.”

Looking to his right, Peter sees Happy taking the chair beside him; his own face stoic.

“That’s alright, Mr. Hogan,” The principal gives him a tight lipped smile. “Now, shall we discuss why I called you here?”

Happy looks at Peter, an eyebrow raised. Peter doesn't— no, he can’t bring himself to say nor explain anything.

Everything is clear.

He had fucked up.

Ç’a l’air qu’à l’école y auraient trouvé, (It seems that the school has found,) 10 grammes de shit dans mon casier. (The ten grams in my locker.)

Peter had known that he should’ve been more cautious; he knew that his school had a strict rule against cigarettes. He had known.

However, did that knowledge still stop him from lighting one up?

No.

Is it a surprise that he was caught?

No.

Peter bites his tongue as he tries to even out his breathing.

The next thought passes by his mind and he can’t help but wholeheartedly agree.

I’m a disappointment.

Faudrait pas l’dire à ma mère, (Please, don’t tell my mom,) Elle s’rait ben capable de trop s’en faire. (She wouldn’t be able to handle it.)

Happy took him home.

The whole car ride had been silent; neither party focusing more on the road than one another.

Peter forces himself to speak up once Happy has parked his car in front of the brick building.

“Please..” He croaks out, feeling the tears welling up in his eyes. “Don’t tell May.”

God, he hated being like this.

A pause follows, and Peter worries for a second that Happy will spill everything.

However, the man beside him lets out a sigh as he places a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

He squeezes, and for the first time, Peter doesn’t flinch at the touch of a man.

“Don’t worry kid,” Happy says.

“I won’t.’

Toi, tu sais comme moi qu’on passe par là, (You know just as well as me that we all go through this,) Quand on devient un homme dans Hochelaga. (That this is how we grow up in Hochelaga.)

May gives them both a bright smile as they enter the apartment.

“Dinner will be ready in a sec!” She tells them both; giving Peter a warm hug and Happy a peck on the cheek before sprinting back to the kitchen.

Peter just looks up at the man beside him who grew red at his guardian’s antic.

He doesn’t even try to stop the genuine laugh coming out of his throat as Happy looks back at him, trying his best to mask his fondness for May with annoyance. “What?” He scrunches his nose up at Peter, trying to act tough but failing as his flushed face goes against him.

Peter just continues snickering. “Nothing.”

The sudden happiness in his stomach’s overwhelming.

S’rais-tu mon père jusqu’à cette nuit? (Will you be my dad until tonight?) J’me souviens même plus quand l’mien est parti. (I don’t even remember when mine left.)

After dinner, Peter had mustered up the courage to ask both May and Happy if they wanted to watch a movie. They both had said yes— but Peter knew that May never really had a thing for sci-fi movies, and so it isn’t a surprise for him when she had blacked out thirty minutes into ‘The Empire Strikes Back.’

Happy, however, still has his eye focused on the film. In fact, he seems to be enjoying it way more than Peter— which was a complete yet welcomed surprise.

He doesn’t ever remember having witnessed something so nice like this after his passing: May curling up against someone, a smile on her face as she slept; completely serene as the man who she loved cradles her back. It was a sight that pulled at Peter’s heartstrings, yet also tied them into pretty bows at the same time.

As the sounds of the movie fills the air, Peter realizes something which made him smile.

He can get used to this.

Y avait pas grand temps pour dire « Je t’aime ». (There wasn’t really a lot of time to say “I love you.”) Entre la DPJ pis le HLM. (Between the CSS and the DSS.)

After that night, May and Happy had started saying “I love you”‘s to one another more often.

He and Happy got closer— and slowly…

Peter let his walls down bit by bit.

On pourrait p’t’être r’garder la T.V., (Maybe we can watch some TV,) Quand maman rentrera d’son shift au PFK. (When mom does her shift at KFC.)

“What‘cha doing there, kid?” Happy asks him as he knocks on Peter’s door, slowly pulling it ajar.

Peter looks up from his papers, rubbing at his eyes as he lets out a yawn. He gives Happy a nod to let him know that it’s okay to come in.

The man then walks up beside him, a hand on his hip as he looks over at Peter’s calculations. He makes a face. “Yeah no, if you’re gonna ask help for this stuff, you better ask Tony and not me.”

Peter makes a face at him, not sure if he’s joking or being serious. What is it with him bringing up this Tony dude? He doesn’t even know who he is.

“Ask who?” He snorts, shaking his head. “Tony Stark?” He jokes.

“Uh, yeah? Who else?” Happy looks at him like he doesn’t know if Peter’s joking or not. “Tony Stark, billionaire, inventor, Iron-man? AKA the guy that I work for?”

Peter’s eyes widen. “Wait a minute—- this whole time you’ve been talking about Tony Stark and not your like— eccentric best friend?” He lets his jaw touch the floor in shock.

Happy just laughs at him. “Yeah?”

Peter blinks his eyes and shakes his head, and now it suddenly made so much more sense as to why Happy seems to always be in a full suit.

“Anyway,” Happy interrupts Peter’s thoughts, hands going in his pockets. “I was just thinking that you may want to take a break, kid— maybe watch a movie or something before you burn yourself out. Netflix just added Aliens, and May isn’t here.” He raises an eyebrow as his lip quirks up.

Peter’s ears perk up upon hearing the movie title. He’s been dying to watch the movie ever since Happy had suggested it, but most of the time he never got to as May had forbidden him to watch— as she so eloquently put it— “Those disgusting and disturbing movies.”

“Fine, fine—“ He waves off Happy, turning his front back to his desk, trying not to sound too giddy. “Lemme just clean this up.”

“It’s gonna be fun, kid, trust me.”

Peter just shakes his head, a hint of a smile on his face.

Happy turned out to be right.

Ce serait drôle un jour d’aller jouer aux quilles, (It would be fun to go bowling, one day.) Ç’a l’air qui font ça dans les vraies familles. (It seems like real families do that.)

May had suggested that they all go bowling one Sunday night.

Happy taught Peter and May how to strike.

Peter doesn’t know if, in the end, it had been a good idea as Happy ended up losing.

Still, Peter appreciates him going out of his way to teach him something that he doesn’t know.

It had been such a long time since he hasn’t taught himself something.

It was a nice change.

S’rais-tu mon père pour toute la vie? (Will you be my dad for the rest of time?) L’temps passe, pourtant t’es pas parti. (Time has passed, but you still haven’t left.)

“Happy anniversary!” May laughs as she hands something to Happy.

It’s been two years since they’ve been together. Peter still can’t believe that time can fly by so fast.

Happy kisses her on the cheek as he pulls out something from his pocket; a small, velvet box.

Peter tries his best not to shake the camera in his hands. He already knew that this was going to happen— hell, he had planned it with Happy himself, but the happiness and excitement bubbles in his stomach and rushes through every limb in his body as Happy gets down on one knee.

If it isn’t for the fact that his eyes are getting teary, he would’ve laughed at May’s shriek.

“Will you, May—“

Happy didn’t even get to finish his sentence.

“Yes!”

Moi, j’suis fatigué de jouer au tough. (I’m tired of acting tough.) J’ai dans l’ventre une carrière de roches. (My stomach is full of rocks.)

Peter stumbles into his bedroom through his window, chest-heaving as he takes off his homemade mask. He grits his teeth as he continues applying pressure onto the wound, closing his window with one of his legs.

He hears a stack of papers drop.

Peter quickly whips his head around.

Happy’s face, morphing into shock— then disbelief, then concern, then rage, greets him back.

“Is this what you’ve been doing, sneaking out all these years?” He asks Peter, gaze hard and almost deadly.

Happy rarely gets angry.

“Yes,” Peter wheezes as he stands upright; his lungs screaming for more oxygen. He winces as he continues putting pressure on the wound on his left shoulder. “I know, I know— I’m sorry but I’m—“

Happy quickly notices his discomfort. He drops his disapproving parental act for a moment and goes on full mother hen mode. “What— what is it, kid? What happened?” He moves towards Peter’s side in less than a second and Peter let’s his tired and aching body fall onto him.

“Bullet grazed me,” were the only words that he had managed to spew out through the pain.

Happy inhales a breath. “Do you have a first aid kit in here somewhere?”

“Under— under my bed.” Peter groans as Happy slowly let’s him sit on the ground; pain pulsating in his arm.

Within seconds, Happy has a needle in his hand and Peter’s trying his best not to wince nor flinch every time the sharp metal goes through his skin.

There was a pause— and then;

“I think it’s time for you to meet him.”

Peter looks up at Happy, making eye contact.

The man’s eyes are glassy.

“Who?”

Another pause. Happy lets out a sigh.

“Tony.”

Peter shakes his head. “Why?”

Happy breaks eye contact as he sets the medical instrument back down in the box.

“Because you need to know that you aren’t alone, kid.”

Pis comme c’est ma fête le mois prochain, (And since it’s my birthday next month,) M’emmènerais-tu voir une game des Canadiens? (Will you take me to a game and lunch?)

Meeting Tony Stark had been an experience, to say the least.

An experience that had ended with a brand new suit.

As Happy drives back home, Peter’s body shakes with excitement.

Once they’re both parked, Peter almost bursts open the car door— but Happy has locked it before he can even try.

“Happy?” Peter asks, an eyebrow raised. “Can you open the door?”

Happy’s hands fell from the steering wheel and onto his own lap.

“Listen, kid,” He starts, clearing his throat. “When I told Tony about you— I didn’t think that he would, you know—“ He waves his hand towards the metallic suitcase on Peter’s lap.

Peter, not a clue as to where the conversation is going, doesn’t respond.

“I just—“ Happy sighs. “You’re a smart kid. I have absolute faith in you and what you do.”

“I trust you, Peter…” Happy looks back at him, making eye contact. His voice wavers.

Peter swallows the lump in his throat. He ignores the familiar feeling of tears welling up in his eyes as Happy says one last thing;

“Just… be safe. Please.”

Pis si personne entend pis que c’est juste une fois… (And if no one else hears, and it’s just once...)

The wedding had been extravagant.

May had been wearing the white dress that his grandmother had worn; a family tradition, she had said.

Happy had worn his best suit.

Families and friends had attended. Joyful music had played.

A few of the Avengers had even showed up, wishing them both happiness.

As Peter clicks through the pictures that had been taken, a warm feeling blossoms in his chest upon seeing a specific one.

It’s a picture of him, May and Happy. The two adults were showing off their rings to the camera as both of their arms were wrapped around Peter’s shoulders, squeezing him into a one armed hug in between them both. All three of them had their lips curled up into the brightest smiles that they had ever had.

It’s his favourite.

Voudrais-tu que j’t’appelle papa? (Would you want me to call you dad?)

Peter looks at the black packet in his hand.

He shakes his head and promptly throws it to the garbage can.

Peter then swings himself home, going through his window as always to get inside. Today had been an uneventful day.

As he takes off his suit, someone knocks on his door. “Hey kid, you free for a bit? We wanna show you something.” Happy calls out.

“Just a sec!” Peter replies, putting on a hoodie and pajama pants.

As soon as he’s done he walks to the living room, seeing May and Happy on the sofa with a pile of papers on the coffee table.

Peter quirks an eyebrow. “What? Is this some sort of test?”

“No, Pete,” May chuckles at him, shaking her head. She intertwines her arm with Happy’s. “Just… sit down, will you?”

Peter does as he’s told, sitting down onto the armchair adjacent to the sofa that Happy and May are both sitting in. “Well?” He asks as soon he plops down.

Happy clears his throat. “Well—“ He starts, placing a hand on top of May’s hand. “Your Aunt— that is, if you want to call her your aunt and not… I don’t know, your mo—“

Before Happy can even finish his sentence, Peter stands up. His eyes landing and focusing themselves on the papers.

There, written in big, bold letters are the words: ADOPTION FORM.

May, upon his sudden reaction, untangles her arm from Happy’s and instead places a hand on top of Peter’s. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, Pete—“

Peter looks up at May, and this time, he lets the tears fall free.

Instantly, May’s arms are around him— and it didn’t take long before Happy’s own are around him too.

“Peter? Are you okay?” May fumbles with her words, unsure on how to address his sudden outburst. “We don’t have to—“

“No,” Peter replies as he lifts his head up from their arms. “I— I want to.”

Happy, still unsure, pipes up. “Are… are you sure, kid? I mean, I understand that maybe it’s a bit too fast—“

Peter just shakes his head. He’s sobbing, but his whole body is filled with joy and excitement and glee and he’s so sure that he wants this.

“I am,” He says, as May and Happy wipe the tears off of his face.

“A hundred percent.” He smiles.

and as always, requests are open! pls don’t forget to like and reblog, thank you! :]

#lily’s lil’ stories #peter parker #spiderman #happy hogan #may parker #tony stark #fanfic #harold happy hogan #happy x may #happy hogan x may parker #marvel #aunt may #aunt may x happy

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