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lambsouvlaki · 9 months

Text

For the Hell of it - Robin

Characters: jason todd x fem!oc

Rating and warnings: G, no warnings.

Word count: 1,626

Summary: A peaceful evening is interrupted by a visitor through time.

Masterlist

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They were lounging together in Jason’s apartment, Downton Abbey played in the background while they both focused on their own things.

She was sitting up on the couch, half heartedly reading a new fantasy book. Jason was lying with his head on her lap, on leg swinging over the end while he blithely poked through the GCPD’s servers. A half empty board of snacks sat on the coffee table next to two wine glasses.

She carded her fingers through his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp. He occasionally moved his head against her hand seeking out scratches in different spots like an overly large cat. She wasn’t sure if he knew he was doing it but she sure as hell wasn’t going to call it out.

Her eyes were puzzling through a sentence with too many invented fantasy words, when something in the air shifted. She looked up. Jason arched his neck to look around. Her ears popped.

Then Jason was suddenly gone and the head on her lap was significantly smaller.

She blinked down at a kid in a domino mask. He wore a bright red tunic, a yellow cape bunched up on the couch, bare legs and bright green knee pads and little pixie boots.

He looked about as startled as her.

On the TV Maggie Smith gasped in dignified shock.

He pulled away all at once, backflipping off the coffee table. He landed in a cautious stance in the middle of the room. She half stood, holding up wary hands.

“Jay?” she asked, tentative.

“I’m Robin! Who are you?”

“I’m Andy. Where did you come from, Robin?”

He looked around, taking in their surroundings with no overt reaction. She studied him. His face was round with baby fat, but that was about the only fat he had on him. He had familiar curls on his head, sans a white streak at the front.

“I was fighting a magic guy,” he said. He pursed his lips. “He didn’t really know what he was doing. Lots of purple light flying everywhere.”

“Did you get hit? Is that why you swapped places with Jason? Oh.” She dropped her hands. “That wizard’s day just took a very bad turn.”

“Jason?” he asked, carefully casual.

“Black curly hair, blue eyes, about twice your size. Turns twenty four in a week.”

“Huh.”

He looked at her. She looked at him.

“Do you want me to tell you the year?” she offered.

“Na, I got it, thanks.”

“What happens now? Is there… protocol for this?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again with a snap. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, and then trotted off to an empty corner for the illusion of privacy, yellow cape flapping behind him.

What a polite young man, she thought, failing to mentally connect him to Jason in any way. She paused the episode and sank back onto the couch.

Jason had never actually told her he used to be Robin. She suspected, but not enough to ask. It was one of those things about him that everyone seemingly knew and never talked about. She knew he’d died at some point in his teens, and then stopped being dead, carving his life into a distinct before and after.

Seeing the ‘before’ was surreal and heartbreaking.

He was calling someone, and who that was wasn’t a great mystery. His grin was bright and infectious, and utterly foreign to her. His nose was crooked but it had broken in a different place than adult Jason. Weird.

How did this weedy little sprout turn into her absolute unit of a man? Jason was a verified motherfucker extraordinaire.

She watched while Robin described his situation and location to Batman, then recounted everything she had said, word for word.

Well, damn. Batman was probably going to come here then to collect his wayward Robin.

She had never met Bruce and had really been hoping to keep her winning streak going. He was probably fine as a person, but she didn’t want to turn this sweet little boy over to someone she didn’t know. Going by the earnest smile, he had the utmost faith in him. She couldn’t imagine a Jason who had ever been quick to trust people.

He finished his call and drifted back near her.

“So. You know who I am, but I don’t know who you are.”

“We haven’t met yet.”

“Yeah I figured that.” He looked at her with shrewd eyes. “Are you my– his–” Despite his brashness, his ears turned pink and he looked down at his feet.

“No,” she said gently, ignoring her own cheeks feeling warm. “We’re not… not anything. He and I are just friends.”

He cocked his head. “Riiiight.”

She was suddenly overly aware of the borrowed hoodie she wore, her short shorts and bare feet. This was clearly a man’s apartment, and it was almost eleven at night. It wasn’t the most platonic looking situation.

But she recognised the careful assessment he was giving her, even through the mask. He might be fun sized but he was already sharp as a tack.

“Actually, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you anything,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Something something, preserving the timeline. If you know what’s going to happen it might not happen anymore.”

“Oh yeah.” He puffed out his chest. “No need to worry. Batman and Robin will take care of it.”

“I’ll leave it in your capable hands then.” She picked up her book again. She wasn’t really reading, but she made a valiant effort to move her eyes along the lines.

Robin looked around.

“Stop it,” she said.

“Stop what?”

“Hunting for clues.”

He snorted. “I don’t exactly have to go hunting. What’s with the wall of guns and swords?”

Oh yeah. That. She shrugged.

“Ask me again in a decade.”

“So it is my apartment.”

“Don’t touch. He’s very intense about security and I don’t know if your biometrics will line up.”

He looked baffled.

“Why wouldn’t they?”

She stared at the words on the page. She shouldn’t have said that.

“Robin?” a quiet voice called from a dark corner.

She jumped and stood up.

“B!” The kid dashed across the room.

The shadows coalesced into a man, who stepped forwards and wrapped his cape around Robin in an expansive hug. Batman bowed his head.

She looked away. She tried to tune out Robin’s quiet muttering to his dad. She felt like an intruder just being in the same room.

Batman rallied himself, and they turned to the door. Of course, Bats never said goodbye, they just stopped being present.

Batman halted before disappearing though, and looked back at her.

“Andrea.”

“Batman.”

“Good luck on your exam next week.”

She did not roll her eyes. It was a near thing.

“How long do these things usually take to resolve?” she asked.

He looked at Robin with a pain so profound he could not grasp its enormity. Robin looked a little uncomfortable under his stare. Batman didn’t say anything.

The two of them left.

She stood alone in the apartment. She looked around, feeling the size of the place for the first time. She stooped to collect the leftover food and empty plates. Jason would want the food saved, so she wrapped it up and put it in the fridge.

What a precocious little rascal he used to be, she thought, in the silence. No wonder Bruce was so heartbroken.

She stood alone in the empty kitchen.

She wanted her Jason back.

Feeling selfish and ashamed of it, she returned to the couch and sat with her feet pulled up beneath her. She turned the show back on but wasn’t really watching it. Maybe she should turn the heating off. It felt silly to heat the whole place just for her.

Less than a minute later, the door swung open.

Full Size Jason strolled in, with a bent piece of rebar casually resting on one shoulder.

“Hey sweetheart,” he said, tossing the rebar onto his weapons table.

“You’re back!”

“Yup, switched back in the elevator.” He was in the same loose t-shirt and sweatpants as before, and they weren’t even blood splattered.

“What happened on the other side?”

“Beat up a wizard.” He collapsed onto the couch next to her and picked up her half-drunk glass of rosé. He took a sip and put his boot up on the edge of the coffee table. “Real amateur production. I shouldn’t know how to use your magical artefact better than you. How was the kid?”

“Very sweet,” she said, relaxing. “Bit of a snitch.”

“Yeah?”

“Immediately called Batman and reported every word I said.”

He scoffed. “Yeah he would.” He looked morosely into the glass. “How did Batman take it?”

“...He was devastated.”

He frowned at the wine. “He didn’t say a word when we swapped back.”

She frowned at the screen.

“I’m glad to have my Jason back,” she said. She wasn’t brave enough to look at him.

He was watching her though.

“Yours, hm?”

“Yeah.”

He hummed. They settled down again, both looking at the screen. Neither was really watching.

“How was young Batman?” she dared to ask.

He sighed quietly. “Younger than I remembered. Worried about his Robin.”

They watched in silence. What could she say to that? Some things couldn’t be fixed, and platitudes were just bandaids on scars.

That little kid smiled so brightly, and it was a fucking tragedy. But it wasn’t hers.

He put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in against him.

She relaxed into his side, and he stretched out some more. She snuck an arm around his waist, he nuzzled the side of her head, and neither commented on the desperately tight grasp he held her with.

Next>>

#Jason needs more people in his life who are happy he came back to life #jason todd #red hood #jason todd x oc #red hood x oc #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader #for the hell of it #my fanfic #dc #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #Robin!Jason

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watcheraurora · 2 months

Text

Abducted

I wanted to combine some ideas. This was the result. Happy reading 5.1k words

—

Scar groaned. Everything hurt. Which, by and large, was not a new experience for him. He was more than used to constant pain. Usually at a slightly lower level than this. But this time his head was also pounding.

He heard a familiar cough from nearby.

Peeling one eye open, he tried to lift his head—only for his neck to scream in pain and prevent him from doing so. Still, he could see.

Beside him on the spruce-wood floor, a head of fire hair burned low to its owner's scalp. Diamond armor—sans helmet—covered a red coverall jumpsuit and black utility vest.

Tango shifted slightly, sounding like he was hurting too.

Scar checked their surroundings.

They appeared to be in Tango's house. The steampunk cottage. Scar had gotten lost in here multiple times, but he knew they were on the floor with the big open balcony designed for landing and taking off with Elytra. Because this was the room with the bed. Which neither of them were on. Instead, they were splayed out, fully clothed, on the floor.

"T... Tango?" Scar asked. His voice was hoarse.

"Hey buddy," Tango replied, equally strained and raspy.

"You okay?"

"Head's pounding like you wouldn't believe, but nothing's broken." Tango managed to turn his head, his bloodred eyes meeting Scar's gaze. "You?"

"Same."

Scar tried to sit up. He'd been through pain like this, he could push through. He could—

Purple chains appeared around him, keeping him lashed to the floor. "Ah, ah, ah," a voice said. Feminine and unfamiliar. "You'll stay right where you are if you know what's good for you."

Scar and Tango both scrunched their brows and turned to follow the voice. Up another short flight of stairs, on another "floor" of Tango's M.C. Escher painting he called an interior design, stood a figure.

Definitely none of the Hermits. Her skin was so dark purple it was almost black, nebulae and stars constantly shifting, drifting over exposed skin. Her hair was long and flowing, played with by a nonexistent breeze, and only slightly lighter purple than her skin. She was dressed in black. A tank top and loose trousers. Barefoot. With a cloak on. The underside of the cloak was more cosmic sights, brighter than her skin. It billowed in that same nonexistent breeze that toyed with her hair.

Scar blinked when he got to her eyes. They glowed the brightest, most vibrant purple of all—and were actually glowing.

A sword hung on her hip. At first glance, he thought it was Netherite. But the metal of the blade was too black, and stars glittered on its surface too.

"Who are you?" Tango asked, a snap to his voice that showed he was more than a little displeased to have his house broken into.

The figure smiled. Her teeth were sharp. "You'll find out." She seemed to be half-obscured by shadow, even though Tango had lit his base up fairly well.

Then Scar realized those shadows were great black wings, towering more than a head taller than her.

He scrunched his eyebrows again. "Have we met before?"

She smirked. "No," she replied blithely. She raised a hand and examined her nails. Her eyes flicked up. A spectral, translucent eye blinked into existence on her forehead, glowing and large.

Pain burned in Scar's torso. Lava in his stomach and fire in his heart. He cried out, curling up on himself. Black crept around the edges of his vision. The chains didn't stop him. Tango ground out a noise of agony beside him, clutching at his chest through his armor.

It was over as quick as it had begun. Both Scar and Tango slumped.

"Hmm," the figure grunted, as though noting the weather. "Interesting. Still there, but only a single fiber left. I'd hoped so." She looked between Tango and Scar, her eyes focusing on Scar. "Now which one..."

"What—the he—" Scar couldn't even finish his sentence. He panted, his body reeling from the pain, even though it was gone. Tango was staring with wide eyes, pupil, iris, and sclera all indistinguishable from one another.

"Scar!" Tango stage-whispered, voice raspy still. "You okay?" He seemed to have recovered okay from the pain.

Scar didn't have an answer to that. It should have been a simple Yes or No. It wasn't.

"Um..." He shook his head. Spots were swimming across his vision.

The sky outside darkened as a crack of thunder resounded. So loud Scar thought his eardrums might burst. No flicker of lightning preceded it. Just darkness.

The figure in the next room smiled, showing those sharp teeth again.

In a ripple of black-and-purple shadow, another figure appeared right on the edge of Tango's balcony. The figure wore a black robe. One that fell directly to the ground, slits cut into the back for massive black wings. A black mask with a purple symbol like a broken Nether portal covered half the newcomer's face. The upper half. The hood of the robe was drawn up over the head. But not enough to block the light-brown bangs falling over the newcomer's forehead.

"You wanted my attention," a familiar voice snapped. "You have it." An otherworldly resonance accompanied the words. Like the words themselves were spoken by the thunder that rolled over the server again.

Darkness was radiating off the figure like fog, little flickers of purple occasionally visible.

The newcomer also wore a sword. The same starry black one that the one in the other room wore.

She was still smiling. "There you are, little bird," she crooned. "Come in, come in. Let's talk."

"Release Scar and Tango first. Then we'll talk," the newcomer spat.

"Oh, but if I release them, you won't listen!" the first shot back. She clenched her fist and yanked back. The chains reappeared, bright purple, showing she was holding them. Tango shouted in pain as the chains burned against his armor.

The newcomer growled. Animalistic and furious. Purple lightning flickered away from him. Scar... recognized the newcomer's teeth? Vaguely? Like he'd seen them smiling for years. "Let. Them. Go."

"Look at you, little bird. You've been the biggest, baddest being on every server you've been in since you left us and you think you can intimidate me."

The newcomer drew his sword and took a step deeper into the room. Barefoot under the robe, just barely peeking out from underneath. "I won't tell you again, Iris."

In a flash of purple, Iris was standing toe-to-toe with the newcomer, her hair and cloak whipping in a wind that Scar and Tango didn't feel.

"You ungrateful child," she spat in his face. Scar realized a mask had appeared over her eyes as well. The same symbol in the center. "We saved you. Gave you everything a Player could ever want—and still you spurned us!"

Several more eyes blinked into existence around the pair, hovering like clouds.

Tango and Scar glanced at each other, both still wrapped up in the ethereal chains. The tilt of Tango's eyebrows revealed a question he didn't dare speak out loud.

You okay?

Scar managed a nod. Yeah.

The other two began shouting at one another in a language Scar couldn't understand. Tango's brows furrowed and his eyes narrowed. Like maybe he was picking up a word here and there. Scar gave Tango a look in askance. Tango shook his head subtly.

Scar caught the smaller of the two figures—the one with human skin and hair, the newcomer—saying his name again.

This time, his brain actually clicked into gear and he realized why the voice was familiar.

"Grian?" he asked.

"Ga-gah!" Tango exclaimed in surprise, giving Scar an alarmed look before his head whipped to look at the two figures.

Both figures' hundreds of spectral eyes immediately trained on Scar.

An overwhelming sensation of power rolled over him. Like high air pressure and deep water all at once. He popped his ears.

Another flash of purple light. Iris was behind Scar, her black blade at his throat and her other hand grabbing the back of his head. There was some sort of triumphant smile on her face. "Want to feel that last fiber of your old soulbond snap?" she sneered at Grian.

"Ho-kaaay!" Tango said.

Scar, whole body rigid, looked between Iris and Grian.

"Let him go," Grian said, calm, collected. Back in a language Scar could understand. Sword still in hand. Often, when his emotions were heightened, Grian had a tendency to screech. He did not. The sword in his hand was only loosely gripped. "We're talking, Iris. You don't have to threaten him anymore."

"You're coming back, little bird," Iris said.

"I'm not." Grian's voice still rung with otherworldly power. Darkness still radiating off of him. A glowing eye hovering at his forehead. "I'm never going back." Thunder crashed again, earsplittingly loud.

Grian spun his sword.

The shriek of metal on metal made Scar, Tango, and Iris recoil.

Apparently Tango recovered first, because his inhumanly warm hand had closed around Scar's wrist and was dragging him to his feet. "Flee with extra flee!" he said softly. Scar stumbled to his feet and staggered after Tango, who was leading him down a set of stairs.

Where the magic purple chains had gone, Scar didn't have time to find out.

Tango led him through the absurdly complicated stairs and floors that made up the interior of the steampunk cottage. His Blaze Rods made a rare appearance, rapidly orbiting his head. His fire hair was blazing big and hot. Somewhere up above, an unnaturally loud clang! of swords clashing grated against their ears.

"Where are we going?" Scar asked Tango as the latter pushed him toward a ladder in an open hole in the floor leading outside.

"Just go, just go, just go," Tango hissed, bracing his feet on either side of the ladder frame and sliding down it. Scar followed him down. Once his feet were on solid ground, Tango pulled him to the right. Toward the cherry blossom mountain Scar, Grian, Skizz, Impulse, Mumbo, Gem, and Joel had chosen to build their bases on and around. Which was odd. Scar had guessed that Tango was going to lead him to the Nether, where Tango tended to feel more at home.

Tango didn't let go of Scar's wrist. His Blaze blood kept his internal temperature much hotter than a normal person's, and his heat was prominent against the skin of Scar's wrist. Scar had on fingerless gloves with his zookeeper outfit and where the leather of those ended, Tango held on tight.

The two skirted around the massive hole Skizz had been digging to build up his pyramid in—Skizz had already built the first layer, deemed it too big, and torn it down, leaving the hole empty again—and ran across the treacherously narrow temporary bridge across the river. They readjusted course to head a bit more to the right. Toward Skizz and Impulse, away from Gem.

Tango's boots hit the deepslate ramp of Skizz's starter base, heading up for the castle-like tower with its greenish-blue S emblazoned on the front.

"Skizz!" Tango shouted as they ran up the ramp. "Skiiiiizz!"

"Hey dude!" The man in question dropped off a ladder. "What's up?"

"Can you do that cool thing you do where you do the hand wavy-wavy and all the sparky-sparklys appear and no one can get get close?" Tango asked.

Skizz blinked. "You want me to put up a ward?" he asked.

"Yeah-yeah." Tango nodded.

"What for?"

"Now would be good," Tango said, his head turning toward his steampunk cottage. It wasn't on fire—yet—so Scar counted that as a win. "Please."

Skizz raised a brow, but did as Tango asked. His hands sliced through the air. Yellowish-white light followed his movements and a sphere of faintly-glowing light shimmered around his starter base.

"Wanna explain to me what's going on now?" Skizz demanded.

"Scary tall purple lady knocked us out and hurt Scar to get Grian's attention. They're currently fighting in my base."

All color drained from Skizz's face, leaving him ashen. "You're joking," he said in a tone that said he was not.

Tango shook his head, fire hair flickering.

"Are you two okay?!" Skizz demanded, looking them both over. He put his hands on Tango's shoulders as he inspected, before looking over Scar without touching him. "Where's your cane, buddy? Do you need it?"

Scar swallowed. His legs were almost aching worse than his head. "I don't know. I had it. And then I got hit with something and now I don't have it. I didn't see it at Tango's place."

Skizz grabbed something out of a chest, went to a crafting table nearby, and returned with a wooden chair a moment later, setting it down. "Sit down, Scarface," he said gently. Scar collapsed into the chair without protest. Stone and sticks and string were passed to him next. "Wanna craft a temporary one? I don't have a lot of metal here, it's all at the iron farm. Otherwise I'd make some bars that might be good—"

"This is fine," Scar said, dragging the crafting table over. "Thanks Skizzy-wizzy."

Skizz smirked before going over to Tango, who had just sat in a heap of armor on the floor.

"So, gonna explain why you seemed to know who we were talking about when I mentioned the scary purple lady?" Tango asked.

Skizz pursed his lips, a wry smile beginning to form like he was going to say no—

WHAM!

A familiar voice cried out in pain.

Scar used his makeshift cane to shove himself to his feet and go to the ramp under Skizz's tower to investigate.

Grian had been thrown against Skizz's ward. The scary purple lady—Iris—was in the air, her shadowy wings churning the clouds. Thunder rumbled.

"Aaaaand that's my cue!" Skizz announced.

Scar watched in fascination—he'd seen this before, but it never stopped being amazing—as Skizz's six white wings blazed into existence and a ring of white-and-gold appeared above his head.

Grian groaned, still splatted against the sphere, mask a bit askew, but still covering his eyes completely. "Skizz, get them out of here!" His voice was muffled through the ward, but insistent. Scar, his knees starting to buckle after the adrenaline had started to ease out of his system, hobbled a little closer. Tango pushed to his feet.

"Why can't he go through?" Tango asked, approaching. "I thought you said friends could pass."

"They can," Skizz said.

"Do you not consider Grian a friend?" Scar wondered, head tilting to one side.

"I do. But there are certain... beings that my powers will block no matter whether friend or foe."

At that moment, something slammed into the ward. The point of Iris' sword. She was braced against the shimmering transparent barrier like she'd gone for a superhero landing and Grian had rolled out of the way, pushed off the ward, and took flight. A fierce black bow appeared in his hand.

"What kind of beings?" Scar pushed.

"That's for Grian to tell you later. Hold on." Skizz took both Scar and Tango's shoulders in his hands and shut his eyes.

A burst of yellow-white light nearly blinded Scar.

When he opened his eyes and blinked the afterimages of Skizz's halo out of his vision, he looked around. "Where... where are we?"

Skizz looked back to normal. No halo, no wings. Just Skizz in his suit with the sleeves ripped off. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "This, gentlemen, is a small private server of mine. Little safe haven."

"We're not in Hermitcraft anymore?" Tango asked, looking around. His vibrant yellow brows knitted together, worry etched in the lines of his forehead.

"Nope," Skizz declared confidently. "Which also means you two are safe."

"Why'd she come after us?" Tango complained. Not being in the Hermitcraft server meant their inventories were wiped. No armor, no weapons, no food. No supplies of any sort. The only thing that had carried over was—thankfully—Scar's cane. Which he was leaning pretty heavily on.

Scar hoped it was temporary. Hermitcraft had just restarted and he was already just enjoying a fresh start. He didn't need another one so soon. He sank to the ground.

"She said something about the last fiber of the soulbond," he said.

"Oh come on," Tango retorted. "Double Life was Grian's game for fun. The soulbonds weren't permanent."

"Those games aren't just for fun," Skizz said. "Grian makes them fun. The others of his kind started them as a way to feed off the energy a person gives off when they die—and people's misery. Grian feeds off it too, but he tries not to if he can help it. Remember Limited Life? The time he was awake but not... there?"

"Yeah." Tango looked unimpressed.

"That was his kind pulling his soul out of his body and forcing him to just Watch."

"Great. What does that have to do with the fibers of the soulbond?" Tango, as usual, was dry and blunt.

"Iris sensed Scar's connection to Grian. Used it to get his attention. That's why Scar was targeted. Who was your buddy, again?"

"Jimmy. Solidarity," Tango replied.

Skizz made a face. "Well that's why she grabbed you. Jimmy and Grian are the same... species. Different subsets of powers, but the same DNA, so to speak. Iris probably detected that both of you were bound to one of her kind but couldn't tell which one led to Grian. So she hurt you both to see which one got Grian's attention."

"Great," Tango muttered sarcastically. He stalked off and started destroying the tall grass to get wheat seeds.

"Grian feeds off misery?" Scar wondered aloud.

"He can," Skizz said. "His kind can feed on any human emotion. But misery and other negative ones are the easiest to elicit. And some of his kind think they... taste the best. His kind set up those games, Grian invaded them to ruin the meal by making the games fun. To punish him, they chipped away at his power and pulled him out for a while. It's been a power struggle the whole time."

Scar looked down at his legs. They were shaking but he couldn't feel it. Probably a bad sign. But he ignored the worry for that in favor of some unidentified emotion coiling darkly around his heart.

Betrayal.

"Why didn't he ever tell us?"

"He doesn't want to be different?" Skizz suggested. "He wants to play and have fun with his friends? Maybe live his life away from the crazy people? You saw what Iris was like."

"Yeah..." Scar hummed thoughtfully and started to massage his legs, one at a time, until the aches started to ease. Anger was trying to poke its head out, past the betrayal. Scar did his best to force it down. He wasn't an angry man. And Grian was one of his best friends. That didn't change the fact that Grian had been keeping a secret from him. Scar wouldn't have judged Grian for not being a normal Player. His jaw tightened. "How do you know all this?" he asked to get his mind off of the bubbling emotions in his gut.

Tango returned, seeds in hand and a wooden hoe on his belt. He wandered over to where a river stood nearby and tilled the soil before planting the seeds. He sat on the ground by Scar, still looking grumpy.

Skizz took a deep breath and sighed. "Well, Scarface," he said, "G can't hide what he is from me. I knew what he was the second I met him. Can't really hide the black wings and the mask and the purple darkness from an angel." His halo hummed into view and vanished. "His glamour that makes him look normal to everyone else is good and can't be detected or pierced by most forms of magic or most people's powers. But his kind and mine are on the same... level. So I can see through it. And even before I joined you all on the server, he'd come visit wherever I was living when he needed to talk to someone."

"So... does Grian always look like that? What we saw today? And what we've always seen of him was fake?"

"Fake is a strong word. A glamour just masks his power and the appearance. I've got a glamour on right now too. Keeps the wings and the halo from freaking people out. I imagine Grian does it for the same reason. To fit in with his friends. He wants to stand out on his own merit, not just because he's got the power levels of a minor deity."

"He does?"

"That's for him to explain."

—

Grian's teeth vibrated with the force of Iris' blade striking against his. Why did it always come down to violence with the Watchers? He could never seem to get them to listen to him otherwise.

Part of him wanted to fight dirty. To dig his fingers into her wings and tear her feathers out. But that wouldn't solve anything either.

Grian?

The voice was distant, small, echoey. Not heard through his ears. But felt in his mind.

He ignored it. He didn't have time to concentrate on anything other than Iris trying to destroy his home server by pummeling him into the ground. Not now.

Grian, we need to talk, the voice said. Louder. Clearer. Familiar.

I'm a little busy at the moment, Tim! Grian thought back, shooting his words like a lance down the connection. Even over telepathy, he knew he sounded strained.

This is important! Jimmy insisted.

Grian hurled Iris away from him, his wings beating at the air to keep him aloft. Buying him a couple seconds. You have reached Grian's voicemail. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you. He did his best impression of a cool, calm voice that he would have left on his answering machine, taking a moment to get his breath back before twisting and plummeting into a dive, bow out and arrow drawn. He loosed it.

Iris batted it away with her sword, ducking. Her sharp, gleaming, blindingly white teeth bared in frustration.

Their swords met again, hard enough for Grian to feel the vibrations down in his bare toes.

Grian, this is about Tango! He's in trouble—I felt it!

With a twist, he tried to disarm Iris, but she managed to flip in midair and maintain her grip on her hilt.

I literally just sent Tango to safety with Skizz—now will you shut up?

What's going on?

You remember Iris, right? My lovely "sister."

Yeah.

Guess who infiltrated Hermitcraft looking for me and who I'm trying to banish?

She didn't!

She did. Now shut up.

Do you need help? I can get over to fWhip for a faster portal to you.

I'm fine, thanks. Just shush. I'll let you know when Tango's back on Hermitcraft safe, yeah?

Thanks.

Cheers. Call you back later, Grian said.

Bye.

Jimmy's telepathic connection vanished. Listeners like him were naturally telepathic and could reach people from much farther away. Watchers, like Grian, could learn telepathy but weren't as adept. Grian had learned to be telepathic, of course. It was a great way to mess with his friends. But it would always take him more effort than it took Jimmy.

Iris slammed into Grian, sending them both sprawling in the pit Skizz had dug for his pyramid. Grian hit his wing joint hard as he impacted the ground. He clenched his jaw and grimaced in pain, pushing himself up into a seated position so he could get his feet under him. The back of his sword hand was scratched and the skin was nearly shredded from the impact. He dismissed his bow to put his other hand on the ground and hop to his feet. Gentle purple light began to coalesce around his injured hand. Skin began to stitch itself back together.

The thing about being a converted Watcher, rather than a naturally-born one, was that he could use his powers in different ways than the others. Like immediate healing.

Iris shoved herself to her feet and bent her knees in her defensive pose. “You can’t defeat me, little bird.”

“I don’t need to today. I just need to banish you from Hermitcraft. And impose upon you the understanding of what I will do to you if you dare go after my friends again. There won’t be enough left of you for the others to identify, understand?”

Iris spat blood—purplish black—to the ground at Grian’s feet.

Grian raised his sword. His power was still darkening the sky and rolling thunder. He concentrated on the chaos of it all and pulled.

Lightning forked down. Purple and bigger than a normal bolt. It struck Grian's sword. He dropped its point immediately and leveled it at Iris. The electricity arced away, toward her. Carving her out of Hermitcraft.

—

Scar looked up as thunder rolled across the small private server. The clouds turned from fluffy white to black and looming.

"Here he comes," Skizz said.

As if on cue, a figure fell through the clouds. Black shadowy wings furled close to a smaller body. Robe flapping around bare feet.

Grian nearly crashed into the area around spawn. He barely managed to twist his body and get his feet underneath him for a landing, but he hit hard and almost crumpled.

Skizz was next to him before Scar could even blink, taking Grian's arm and slinging it around his shoulders. "You're okay, G," he said. Almost like he was reassuring himself of that fact, rather than Grian. Tango ran over from where he'd been attending to the wheat he was growing. He'd brought back enough for a few loaves of bread so far.

"S... Skizz?" Grian's voice was wavering. Exhausted.

"Yeah, yeah. It's me," Skizz replied. "Why don't you come sit by Scarface."

Grian managed a weak nod. "I need... my..." Scar couldn't see the way Grian's forehead wrinkled under his mask, but by the way his mouth grimaced, he knew Grian was scrunching up his whole face.

"Don't bother with your glamour yet, buddy," Skizz said. "We're all okay with it, here."

Grian managed to tilt his head in Scar's direction. Whether he could actually see Scar through his mask, Scar had no idea. Grian didn't reply to Skizz, just let the latter help him sit down in the shade of an oak tree. He nearly flopped back to lie down, but tilted enough to instead crash into Scar's shoulder. Scar instinctively grabbed him and kept him upright.

"Scar?" Grian asked quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you afraid?"

"I'm not afraid," Scar replied.

Grian swallowed. "Yes you are. I can sense your emotions. You're terrified. Is it because of me? What I am?" As if magnetized, Grian's hand reached out and planted on Scar's chest, purple light drifting around the point of contact like a cloud—no. Like a whirlpool. Scar stared at it. The light was spinning and narrowing going up Grian's arm. His breathing was heavy and he was leaning hard against Scar's shoulder.

"Skizz. Skizz, pull me away. I can't stop it. I need to sto—I can't stop it!" Grian's voice turned panicked. Tango and Skizz each grabbed one of Grian's arms and dragged him back, away from Scar. Grian bit out a sound like it physically hurt him to be removed.

"What was that?!" Tango demanded, hair flickering faster than usual. Neither he nor Skizz let go of Grian's arms.

"I'm depleted. My body's seeking sustenance. Emotional energy to feed on. My kind tends to benefit off the negative emotions the best. Misery. Fear. Scar's terrified and my powers want it—need it—to rejuvenate. But I can't... I can't do that..." Grian arched his back, teeth bared as though in pain. "I told myself when I left that I wouldn't feed off my friends' worst feelings. It's bad—don't want... don't want to be bad anymore."

Scar watched, eyes flicking between Grian, Skizz, and Tango. Skizz looked concerned and sympathetic. Tango almost looked angry.

Scar cleared his throat. "I'm not scared of you. Or what you are, Grian," he said softly. The other three froze. "I won't lie. Feelin' a little bit betrayed that you never told me you're basically a god. But I'm scared for you. That you're hurting and exhausted." He used his cane to push to his feet and closed the gap. "If my fear and betrayal is what you need, take it."

Grian shook his head. "I can't—I can't do that to my friends—"

"Grian, listen to me," Skizz began.

But Scar cut him off. "You're not asking, mister," he snapped at Grian. "I'm telling you to take it." He pried Tango's fingers off Grian's wrist and brought Grian's hand back to his own chest. The purple whirlpool of light started spinning again. Siphoning the emotional energy directly into Grian.

Tango and Skizz seemed surprised, stepping back with raised eyebrows.

Grian and Scar stayed in the same position for nearly two minutes. Scar leaned on his cane, but he stayed standing while Grian knelt in front of him, hand raised and planted on Scar's chest as though unable to remove it.

Finally, Grian gasped and ripped his hand back. His wings beat a little to get him away from Scar, scrambling backward. "That's enough. That's enough. I'm okay now. I don't need more." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. With one hand, he reached up and balled his fist in his mask, ripping it off. He panted, staring at the ground. His eyes were wide, then narrowed as though blinded by the sunlight, despite being in the shade and tilted down, away from the sun.

"Better?" Scar asked.

Grian managed a shaky nod. "Loads. Thank you."

"That's what friends are for."

"Yeah... yeah." He tied his mask back on and massaged his temples. "I... I need to call Timmy back. Give me a moment." He looked about ready to collapse.

He did not, in fact, call Jimmy. Instead sitting in silence while continuing to rub his temples. Scar scrunched his eyebrows and looked over at Tango and Skizz, confused.

"Jimmy's telepathic," Tango explained. "He can read minds from across the universe if he concentrates hard enough. Grian's talking to him through their thoughts, probably."

"Ohhh. Okay. I get it," Scar said. While not, in fact, fully getting it.

After a few moments, Grian tilted his head up as though meeting everyone's gaze. "Right. I suppose I owe you answers," he said. "Before I start, what have you heard about the Watchers, Tango and Scar?"

#Hermitcraft fic #Aurora Writes #Rory Writes #Watcher!Grian #Tango Tek #TangoTek #Skizzleman #GoodTimesWithScar #Scar #briefly featuring Jimmy Solidarity

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nova2cosmos · 4 months

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Just wanted to color some part of @au-mashup-party 's CPAU Comic!X333

They are so Cute in your art style!! 🥹💜💃

Roselyne,hacker505, Micro ,Comic and Line by @au-mashup-party Ametyst, Saphir, Himeros and Coloring by me:3 Blithe Belongs to Us!<3 Ship Child of Ruby (@rubytale-chapter2) and Basic (@susartwork)

#nova2cosmos art #(only color but welp)#aumashupparty #undertale au #undertale art #undertale #utmv #hacker505!sans #rosey!sans #saphir!sans #ruby!sans #basic!sans #himeros!sans #himeros! sans #micro!sans #blithe!sans #sanscest

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stardate44002point3 · 1 year

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Shaw and Risk - some thoughts

Rewatching Picard S3 and to turns out I have more thoughts about Shaw. Who out there is surprised?

So, much of what follows is actually derived from the many, many Todd Stashwick interviews about Shaw that are all over the internet right now. With some additional insightful commentary from the Shaw Nation Discord server (thanks all y'all).

Here's the thing. In response to all the people who hate Shaw, who think he isn't a "real" Starfleet captain; who think he's a coward (thanks dudebros on the ST Facebook pages); who think he's boring. He's actually none of those things. He's what actual military (and quasi military) leaders look like. Our first introduction to him is him talking about structure and tempo and meter; structure exists so that when you are doing something inherently risky (exploring the final frontier) you have guidelines so that you aren't always relying entirely on your own judgement. Rules and guidelines and procedures exist to keep people safe in an inherently risky environment.

To make a real life comparison, in search operations, coastguard, marine and mountain rescue there are specific conditions under which a rescue will NOT be initiated because the weather or other conditions are too dangerous, exceed the tolerances of the equipment etc. Think back to the beginning of the year when Julian Sands went missing in the San Bernardino Mountains, there were entire days when not only were the helicopter search and rescue teams grounded because of weather, but even the ground team didn't deploy because it was too dangerous (and there were multiple people lost on Mt Baldy at the time). Are they cowards? Of course not, they have procedures and criteria that are laid down by risk management experts that advise whether there is too great a risk to the rescuers. If the risk is too great, they don't go out.

But we're used to fictional universes where those are exactly the kinds of high-stakes situations that make for good drama, and that always end well because our deontological heroes always have to be vindicated.

Presumably Starfleet has exactly those kinds of structures and procedures that govern their operations; so taking a crew of 500 out beyond the edge of Federation space to rescue Bev Crusher from some unknown peril is exactly the kind of thing that Starfleet would have policies for, and those policies would say NO. As they should. We're just used to our Starfleet heroes blithely ignoring those structures, taking the 1% of success chance and of course, succeeding because the writers make it so.

Although it has often struck me that, if we actually were able to count the 'redshirt' (they aren't all redshirts, that's just shorthand for unnamed characters) deaths in Star Trek, the attrition rates for our favorite captains might be surprisingly high, even with writers giving us deus ex machina saves every second week. It's just that they aren't main characters so their deaths are meaningless.

Back to Picard: there is a moment in Episode 2 that struck me at the time, where Seven is really disingenuous. She asks Shaw if he wants to be known as the captain that let two legends die; or the hero who saved them. As his XO she should also have pointed out option 3; that he be known as the captain who led his crew of 500 into a face off against a much more powerful opponent and they all died. Now, why didn't the writers put those words in her mouth?

Added to which, Shaw is an engineer, I think there's a reason the writers made him an engineer. A huge part of his professional life is risk-management, that's much of what engineers do. They are consequentialists. They look at the equipment tolerances, margins of safety, human capacity for error, and then they make rules to allow certain actions to take place (exploring the final frontier) and also keep as many people as possible safe (bringing most of your crew home alive).

And finally, there's all that accumulated trauma from Wolf 359. Shaw lived, undeservedly as far as he is concerned, his job as captain is to make sure everyone else lives. And using Starfleet protocols is one way to make sure that happens, to the best of his ability.

I mean, Shaw is clearly not a coward, he has commendations for bravery in his ready room, he's all in once he makes a decision to commit to a course of action, and he puts himself in the frontline every time he has a (realistic) chance of shielding his crew from harm. The man was willing to die to stop the Changelings from taking the bridge.

And that's the only niggle I have about his last appearance, and his speech about Seven; Shaw is not boring and rules don't necessarily need to be broken because again, the rules exist for a reason, they are generally not arbitrary and, in reality, breaking the rules gets people killed. The only reason rule breakers are celebrated in Star Trek is because it is FICTION. It's how we would like to see the world, not how it is, but it's actually a pretty dangerous way to think.

#liam shaw #picard s3 #shaw thoughts #Star Trek ethics

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au-mashup-party · 7 months

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New AU coming soon??? 🤔

Himeros by @nova2cosmos

Blithe by me and nova

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foxalone · 2 years

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Bonus:

Underblood belongs to me

Himeros!Sans and Inversotale by : @nova2cosmos

Micro!Sans by: @microtaleoffcial

#undertale au #undertale fandom #undertale art #utmv #undertale comic #undertale multiverse #jasar!sans #yosa!sans #nor!sans #inversotale #gim!sans #mark!papyrus #helian!sans #himeros!sans #micro x himeros #micro!sans #Baby Blithe awwww #underblood #underblood lore

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amjustagirl · 2 years

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Chapter 9: rebuild from the ashes

chapters: 9/15

pairing: miya osamu x f! reader

genre: romance, angst, fluff, inarizaki shenanigans

word count: 4.6k

summary: miya osamu does not dare set fire to his heart. it burns anyway.

(prev / next)

It ends before it even begins.

Smoke without fire. Clouds without the ensuing snowstorm. All your daydreams constructed beneath the yellow forsythia shrub in Kita’s farm collapse into shrivelled twigs and burnt out husks.

It’s no fault of anyone’s but your own.

Osamu’s within his right not to find you worthy, to find that you’re not good enough for his love. You saw that as a very real possibility. You’d already tried your best to soften the blow from the rejection you saw coming from a mile away (as much as you hate it, Suna Rintaro was right, you owe him an apology) by telling yourself again and again that Osamu won’t see you that way, and that it’d all be alright, you’d move past this embarrassing blip, smile at him blithely and continue your friendship as if nothing ever happened.

But when it actually happens and you’re staring rejection in the face, you can’t.

Like a coward, you rewind your life back to the way it was pre-Osamu. You revert to your hermit-like existence to lick your fresh wounds, hiding away on your snow-capped mountain, hunkering down as a blizzard rages outside. You leave the apartment only for work, avoiding any street that might conceivably bring you even close to Onigiri Miya. He doesn’t reach out to you either - not that you’re checking your phone every few minutes to see if it buzzes with a message from him, so you stamp down your cravings for onigiris, trying your best to satisfy yourself with inferior substitutes from the combini instead.

You wish you could set loose all the ugly emotions clawing at your insides but really, you’re just numb. Unable to cry, unable to scream, anguish just trapped in your throat, threatening to cut your airflow off. You can’t even take a deep breath to clear your lungs, on the verge of choking at all times -

Your phone lights up.

“Show yourself or I’m gonna do a wellness check.”

A text from Suzuki-san. When you don’t reply, an avalanche of messages from everyone jams your phone. Morita and Ishida start flooding your inbox with jokes and memes and half-meant threats to keep delivering onigiris to your apartment until you’re sick of them. A sweet text from Miyamura-kun, who offers a listening ear, a brief text from Murata-san, who just wishes you well.

Kombu-chan looks at you like you’re dumb when you tell her you’re surprised people care about you. Her sentiment is echoed by Suzuki-san when you’re bugged into agreeing to meet for dinner (not at Onigiri Miya).

“Why would you even think that?”, she scolds, before flagging down the waiter in a bid to stuff you full of food. “Just cos the boss is blind doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t see with our two eyes.”

You don’t have an answer to that (or at least one that isn’t self-flagatory) so you shut up and eat fried chicken. If you end up crying into your beer when she passes you the little gifts from the crew (scribbles and stick figure drawings from Ishida and Morita, pastries from Miyamura-kun, a bottle of ginseng from Murata’s grandma), Suzuki-san and the bartender are kind enough not to remark on it, patting your back and calling for another round of drinks (since yours is contaminated with salt).

The blizzard starts to die. Your wounds start to scab over.

You realise you do not regret meeting Miya Osamu.

If he didn’t choose to barge into your life, you wouldn’t have left your cave, hidden from the world. If he didn’t insist on being your friend, you would never have met Suzuki-san, Ishida and Morita, Miyamura-kun and Murata-san. You wouldn’t be fast friends with Kaiyo (who’s caught up in some family emergency but darkly promises some consequences to you know who when it’s cleared up - she doesn’t respond when you ask if she’s okay), you wouldn’t have opened your heart to Kombu-chan, watched sunrises in a little seaside town nor sunsets on a mountain farm.

You look back. It’s clear how far you’ve come from before. You’ve moved forward with your life, you have friends now, adopted a cat (or rather, she’s adopted you). Being in the kitchen no longer spooks you, the ghosts that haunted you are exorcised, your inner demons caged up, unable to claw you down.

There’s progress.

There’s nothing stopping you from moving further on. Or moving in a different direction.

You call your property agent. You put your apartment up for rent, quit your job and book plane tickets immediately after the lease. It’s a mad rush to get things in order, pack up or disposing of decades worth of your parents’ belongings that you never threw away, arranging Kombu-chan’s care with your neighbour, notifying your friends that you’ll be away for a while (be safe, they all chorus, shoving charcoal pills and neck pillows your way). By your calculations, you should be able to rely on the rent from Osamu’s shop and your apartment to be away for at least half a year without digging into your savings, so everything should be okay - it should be -

You fret until your feet touch the tarmac.

It’s freeing to explore a new land, thrusting yourself amongst people who don’t speak the same language as you. You land in Bangkok first, disembarking off a budget flight since it was the cheapest out of Osaka, and you’re immediately overwhelmed. Scooters honk at you. Tangled wires hang overhead. You trip when trying to climb into a cab, scraping your knees and dropping your phone in a puddle where it dies a watery death, wiping your contact list clean, leaving you with no way of contacting anyone back home in one clean swoop.

You don’t cry over it. You don’t cry over easily over the cards life deals to you (because if you did - well, you’d never get anything done) so you just buy a cheap phone in a combini - a convenience store here, and just put the numbers that you remember by heart into its address book - your neighbour, so you can check on kombu-chan, your property agent (thankfully she’s called you enough times to know her number) and there’s another number that your fingers itch to type but you don’t, because that’s exactly who you’re trying to leave behind.

This trip is already starting on a terrible note. But then you check into a little inn owned by an older woman who reminds you of both Suzuki-san’s kindliness and Ichika’s effusiveness. It’s an unassuming little bed and breakfast with peeling walls, sitting atop a simple diner that the innkeeper and her daughters run. You can’t seem to help yourself, but you’re drawn towards the kitchen, full of bustling, good natured women singing to Thai songs, and you’re invited in without hesitation when you peek into the diner’s kitchen one hot, humid afternoon, gesturing an offer to help her prepare food.

At first, just like in Onigiri Miya, they feed you instead of letting you help, but once you arm yourself with a knife and start chopping fine, uniform pieces of garlic, they relent. The innkeeper obviously has no formal training in the kitchen, but she has years and years of experience cooking for the constant stream of guests, so she opens your eyes and tastebuds to new techniques and ingredients - you soak it all like a sponge, entranced. Lemongrass, galangal, curry powder (you’ve burnt your tongue, greedily slurping down a bowl of green curry), a variety of dangerously spicy chilis, dried and fresh, red, yellow and green, plump and large to tiny, like peppercorns (the smaller they are, the spicier - they remind you of Kaiyo), cilantro, pandan - you have so much fun just experimenting and learning new things in the kitchen under the tutelage of your innkeeper (she asks you to call her mâem, your smile doesn’t falter when you learn it means ‘mother’).

You learn even more when she insists on sending you to her sister who has a homestay of her own up north in Chiang Mai, though you have to put up a fight to insist on paying the going rate for your accommodation. The children in particular are fascinated when you willingly squat on the kitchen floor to pound herbs and spices for the salads - pomelo, papaya, green mango, and they all gang up to teach you how to ride a scooter, screaming with laughter when you topple over, landing unharmed on soft grass.

After spending three months in Thailand, you startle when you hear a smattering of Japanese, spoken by a stranger, short and slim with wild hair and bright eyes. “Konichiwa”, you bow, the words suddenly foreign in your mouth but he lights up, barrelling towards you with a warm wave and a wide grin. He introduces himself as Noya, and chuckles when you insist on calling him Noya-san, saying that it reminds him of his friends back home.

“I’m gonna ride through the Mae Hong Soon loop, wanna join me? It’ll be great having someone who can speak Thai.”

You speak rudimentary Thai at best, enough to order food perhaps, but he seems convinced you'll be an asset, so a call to a bike rental shop later, you bid your landlady a temporary farewell, and set off on the windy roads from Chiang Mai to the northernmost frontier of Thailand.

Noya-san runs a travel-related blog and youtube channel for a living, you learn.

“To fund my endless travelling!” he crows, and though you’re camera shy at first, you eventually pop in and out of his vlog, waving hi to his viewers.

Fortunately, the weather is pleasantly cool in the winter months, and riding a scooter around the mountainous towns and cities isn’t as scary as it initially seemed - even the roads in Chiang Mai are a million times less chaotic than the traffic in Bangkok where it seems anything goes. Noya-san whoops and laughs and chatters about the things he’s seen, the people he’s met, and you enjoy his company as much as he claims to appreciate yours.

“What makes you travel permanently?” you ask on a trek up Doi Inthanon, Thailand’s highest peak, aptly nicknamed the roof of Thailand. “Don’t you miss home?”

“I miss my family and friends sometimes”, he admits, leaping over rocks, dancing lightly over fallen twigs. “But I go where life leads me, and I’m always looking forward to what’s next! It’s exciting that way. I like it!”

Doesn’t it scare you, not knowing what comes next, you want to ask next, the words on the tip of your tongue though you hold yourself back, fearing you might overstep.

But he reads the doubt in your expression as clear as day. “I used to be a huge crybaby y'know”, he says conversationally, still grinning. “The coward. My grandpa shocked that out of me-I do not recommend his methods, but I see his point from him now. Life is too short for us to keep looking back. I'm gonna keep moving forward, keep doing the things that make me happy - that's all. It's as simple as that.”

“Is that what you tell your followers online?” you ask drolly, though he laughs, taking no offence at your gentle retort.

“It’s what I truly live by”, he declares just as you reach the peak. “C’mon - isn’t it a waste to hang back cos you’re scared of what life has to offer? Look at all of this!”

(a waste, he says)

This time, you take a look. Beyond the swarms of tourists and convoys of honking buses, past the royal pagodas that glint gold in the sun, you find yourself gazing at gauze-like clouds, peering into lush valleys and forested ridges.

“It’s pretty”, you say.

The terracotta steeped canyons, the leaf-green of the rainforest foliage, the clear blue of widening skies, the land before you humming with life. “It is, isn’t it?”, he exclaims, bouncing on his heels. “Don’t waste life when it has so much to offer!”

Yet - yet. You can’t help but look back. Even after you spend the rest of the afternoon trekking through waterfalls and admiring ancient trees, you can’t help but think of a little seaside town, with nothing more noteworthy than a little hill overlooking the vast blue sea. Though you’re sure there are prettier sunsets out there in the wider world, more colourful, more vibrant, but that particular sunset where the blue-silver world turned pink-gold, aflame with the light of the dying sun -

You try your best not to, but you still think about Miya Osamu once in a moon.

You ruminate on him quite a lot at the start of your trip, wondering if he only befriended you because he pitied you, if you ever stood a chance with him or if it were all wishful thinking, if you’d perhaps been someone better - less of a waste, less of a burden. Maybe then he might’ve looked at you as more than just a friend.

(a waste, he says)

Loneliness sweeps over you, drowns you with longing, a cruel tidal wave. You’re soaked to the bone, cold and gasping for air.

“Is something wrong?” Noya-san asks, when your gaze grows distant.

You have no right to look back to what you've been running from when you have every opportunity to keep moving forward. Everyone you've met here is kind and generous and gentle, taking you into their hearth and home even though you barely speak their language. Thinking too much about Osamu slows you down ( not that you're sure of your next destination though that's something you're figuring out slowly, one day at a time ) so you redirect your thoughts to the adventure you've impulsively set out on .

You pull yourself back together. “Nothing’s wrong”, you reply.

Still, still.

Once in a while, once in a moon, little things slip by your defences, reminding you of him.

The discovery of onigiris in the combinis here, wrapped in fluorescent green and orange plastic. The silhouette of a broad-shouldered stranger makes you double take. The smell of cooking rice leaves you lightheaded sometimes. It’s not something to be surprised about. You let him graze the edges of your soul. That’s not easily forgotten.

(It’s pretty, he says.)

(You thought he might’ve been looking at you.)

You think about the what-ifs and the could-have-beens a little less each passing day, a little less caught up in your dreams and fantasies. But once in a moon, you wallow in self pity for reaching out to someone who doesn’t dream of you. Sometimes you buy a postcard, sit yourself down at some cafe with a piping cup of tea. You put pen to paper, addressing letters to Osamu that you have no intention of sending, wringing out the jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings from your system.

So when you reach northernmost city of Mae Hong Son, heading to the night market at Noya-san’s behest, because he claims that he has a craving for pad see ew and oyster omelette, you buy a hand drawn postcard depicting a snapshot of rural Thailand (with a marked resemblance to the Kita’s farm in Hyogo), laying on your bed on your belly to write ‘til it's past midnight. No one needs to know that you’re still embarrassingly lovelorn, so you tuck the postcard deep into your backpack with its cousins, stowed away from the light of day.

But Noya-san seems to have an uncanny knack for seeing right through you. “What about you?” he cheerfully asks during a pitstop for coffee.

“Where is life taking you?”

Sunflowers dance in the field, waving at you.

“Where is life taking me?”, you echo blankly before frowning. “I…don’t know?”

He chuckles, sprite-like. “S’okay. I get it. I’m the same too! I just let the wind blow me to the next place, as long as it’s in the general direction of my goal to see the world and do things I haven’t done before. As long as I’m moving forward to my next destination, I figure I’m on the right track.”

“Huh.”

“Yep!” you marvel at his ability to carry the weight of a conversation all by himself. “It’s what I admire most about my friends - something they all had in common besides volleyball, even in high school. They’re the best - Asahi and Ryu and Chikara and Hisahi and Kazuhito, cos’ even when they weren’t sure about stuff, even if they were scared or on the verge of defeat like coach said - volleyball is a sport where you’re always looking up! - and they’d get up, keep chasing the ball, moving forward even though everyone else counted us out. Super manly of them, y’know?”

“Uh huh”, you reply, confused. “I guess that’s how you guys made it to Nationals from nowhere?”

“It’s not volleyball”, he says. “I mean - it is kinda about volleyball, but not volleyball - if you get what I mean. In hindsight, it’s so cool what volleyball ended up teaching us all about life. Like - there’s no point running away from things, you’ll just regret it. Or if you’re not moving forward, you’re just gonna get left behind. Volleyball’s just a game we all played in high school, but it’s so cool that it’s taught us so much.“

“It’s a waste I never played it in school”, you reply, your tone light. “Maybe I’d have learnt those lessons a little sooner.”

“Never too late to start”, he cheers, smile bright. “I can teach you!”

He doubles over with laughter when you backtrack immediately, moaning about your back and the fact that you'll probably fall on your face in the dust if you even tried slapping a ball over the net ( we can just try passing, he chuckles ) and when he magicks a ball out of thin air when you reach your accommodation for the night in Pai, you make sure to hide until he's distracted teaching the village's children how to bump a ball high in the air.

You sit in the shade of a banana tree, away from the gleeful squeals from both Noya and the children, your hidden postcards to Osamu spread out on the sundrenched grass. This trip is good for self-introspection, you think wryly. Not quite the cliche of an eat pray love journey, because strictly speaking you’ve only achieved the first of those goals, stuffing your belly full with exciting new foods, but it’s been good for you nonetheless.

Because you realise pre-Osamu, you’d been frozen in place, going into a deep hibernation alone in a dark, cold cave. All your life, you’ve been told by your parents who you are, what you must do yet you fail miserably at doing precisely that after they pass, leaving you alone in the world to the wolves. Critics ravage the restaurant once it’s in your hands, sneeringly writing how sad it is for a daughter to tarnish her family’s good name even though you were already steering the restaurant solo once your father took ill. A lone woman can’t take on the culinary establishment whilst struggling to keep afloat.

It’s easier to bail.

So you did. Rented out the shop (to Osamu, as it turns out, it’s better anyway in his hands), took up a job at the combini which isn’t too taxing, which was adjacent to what you’ve been trained for (everything but taking up your father’s knife). You hunker down, barely living life, not knowing how to step out of your prison cell even after the doors are unlocked and you’re free to go because you were never allowed to live for yourself before.

It’s Osamu who tried his best to teach you.

He taught you to be brave, to take the first baby steps out of your cave into the great, wide world. He taught you to bask in the sun’s warmth, to be comfortable and happy to be around people and accept that sometimes, surprisingly, people might like to be around you too. It’s because of him that you no longer shy away from the heat and fire of a kitchen stove despite your scars from the past.

You have him to thank for all that.

But now you also realise that even as you look forward, moving towards the horizon, you’re still keeping your scars under wraps, still running away from the skeletons in your cave, the ghosts of your past. It weighs you down even as you’re pushing to move inexorably forward, drags you back under the waves.

It's time you learned to make peace with what you've been trying to leave behind.

(a waste, he says)

(he’s right)

You can cook.

Good food, not mere sustenance but food that nourishes, nurtures. Onigiri Miya is testament that food binds a family together, brings a community close. It’s a skill that was a curse to learn, but it’s now a blessing you can share with others.

After all, it’s a waste not to.

“Noya-san, may I cook dinner for you?” you ask. It’s Noya’s last night in Thailand and you’re back in Chiang Mai, bunkering down in the homestay where you know the kitchen is always open to you.

“You can cook?!” he exclaims, excited.“That’s so cool! Please! Of course!”

He chatters at you as you bustle around your host’s kitchen. You’ve offered to cook for the entire family tonight, and though the matriarch of the family hovers around to keep a watchful eye over her domain (lest you burn the whole place down accidentally), everyone oohs and aahs when you present the fruit of your labour, slaving over charcoal fires, pounding away to create the fresh fruit salad, spicy curries and perfectly grilled meats that you’ve spent the last few months learning.

“It’s still a work in progress, but I hope you enjoy it”, you tell everyone, because you would never dream of being presumptuous enough to claim you’ve learn a whole other culture’s cuisine in a mere matter of months, but you’re happy with what you’ve produced, almost proud even, especially when your host (you call her bpaa, or auntie) pats your arm and takes a second helping.

“It’s so, so good, I can’t stop eating”, Noya says, looking like a demented chipmunk, cheeks bulging with food. “This sucks - I should’ve stayed longer here so I can eat more of your cooking.” He stops to shovel another spoonful of curry and sticky rice into his mouth, laughing you off as you remind him to stop and swallow, or he’ll choke. “Gods, I’m gonna be dreaming of this for a long, long time - ”

“The next time you’re in Osaka, I’ll cook for you.”

Impulse takes over before you realise you actually mean what you say, and he seals the deal by grabbing your hand, pumping it up and down enthusiastically, and he doesn’t even deny it when you lament that your short friendship seems now to be wholly based on food.

When day breaks, your paths diverge. Noya-san he hops on a bus headed further north. “To infinity and beyond”, he cheers as you wave him off. You hunker down, returning back to Bangkok under the tutelage of mâem, who welcomes you back with open arms and you’re determined to learn as much as you can, formulating new recipes, new ideas, new concoctions with every passing day, returning to Osaka when she declares she has nothing left to teach you and shoos you off with the air of a mother bird shooing her offspring out of her nest.

You return to Osaka in spring just as the cherry blossoms burst overripe, white and pink. You keep your return under wraps, picking Kombu-chan up from your old neighbour (she slinks around your ankles, sniffing you suspiciously until she decides you’re alright and she forgives you for not being around), renting a tiny studio apartment, reserving whatever scant courage you have to reach out to some of your father’s old associates - suppliers, vendors, fellow chefs, those who were friendly and kind to you before. You intend to start small with a home dining business where you’d venture out to people’s houses as a private chef, whipping up dishes inspired in equal parts by your childhood and your travels abroad.

As it happens, people are kinder to you than you expect.

Word of mouth spreads like wildfire once one of your father’s old friends drops your name with a food critic contact of his (dear, almost deaf old Masahiro-san), and you impress him with your sixteen-course omakase meal that featuring a hodge podge of perfectly marbled otoro and yellow curried soft shell crab handrolls, pearls of orange ikura served with fruit - and before you know it, you’re booked out for weekends on end. You barely even need a website, your phone number circulating through Osaka’s food aficionados. Your father’s knife in your hands, you make a splash in the local food scene.

Before you know it, it’s summer. Hot and humid and muggy, the back of your shirt sticking to your skin uncomfortably, and you’re dreaming of leaving the city once more when your phone rings.

“Hello!” Ichika sings. “It’s been a while!”

She scolds you for being so hard to locate (I dropped my phone and it broke, you try to explain), and after exchanging pleasantries, it turns out she needs a well-trained chef to feed some exclusive guest that booked a week’s stay at her guesthouse (for whatever reason, they seem to want to get away from it all, but they’re so SO picky about food, and there’s no way obaa-san or I can cope with their demands, let alone satisfy them). You can’t turn down an offer to escape the searing heat, so you pack your bags and board a train for the cooler plains and ridges of Hyogo again.

You come full circle by returning to Hyogo.

Obaa-chan greets you with a pat to your cheek, more wrinkles in her weathered face. Ichika’s trio of daughters are older and no less shy, clustering about you when you give out candies and cakes. Kita-san seems almost taken aback when you arrive, though you later learn it’s because Ichika surprised him with your arrival. “Do first, ask permission later”, she says breezily. “Shinsuke doesn’t mind you coming one bit, though maybe he’s just a little surprised - but it doesn’t matter! We need your help anyway - c’mon, we can head to the market together to make sure you get what you need.”

You retrace your steps. Ichika puts you in the same bedroom you had last fall, facing the forsythia shrub you hid beneath though it’s now lush and green. The sunrises are just as glorious as you remember, the sunsets no less majestic. Though you’re here for work, spending hours prepping in the guesthouse’s kitchen, it almost feels like you’ve rewound time by almost a year back to the happiest week of your life.

Osamu’s mixed up in those memories too, and you still think of him once in a moon. Sometimes you expect to see him sprawled out beneath the sun-yellow forsythia shrub, sometimes you still long to drink the honey in his eyes. But these thoughts no longer drag you beneath the waves, you savour the sweetness of them, like fresh summer plums, allowing the bitter tang of disappointment to fade.

You’ll make fresh memories here of feeding your guests, nourishing them with the skill of your hands and delighting them with your flavour concocted with the power of your imagination. You’ll make friends with Ichika and Obaa-san and Shinsuke again, delight in the antics of their daughters, relearn how to watch the sun rise and set with a smile.

Life can be good. Life is good.

You’re happy. You’re okay.

a/n: hello my bbs, i'm back!

#haikyuu angst #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #miya osamu x you #miya osamu #miya osamu x reader #miya osamu x y/n #Miya osamu x you #osamu x y/n #osamu x you #osamu x reader #Haikyuu romance #Inarizaki

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eralisse · 3 months

Text

Brothers Conflict: Season 1 LN - Ch16, Sec6 & Sec7

This is the penultimate major scene in the Iori/Kaname conflict, taking place at the festival hosted by Club Buddha.

Brothers Conflict Translations Index

???: “Hey, are you by yourself?”

I was sitting on a bench outside the main temple, waiting for Yuusuke-kun and Wataru-chan to come back, when a voice suddenly called out from beside me.

(...... Eh?!)

When I looked over, an extremely flashy man was standing there.

He was in a yukata with a dragon design, and gaudily designed rings, watch, and necklace.

Although he was quite young and beautiful, he also had a bit of a dangerous feel to him.

(Whoa…… Amazing.)

???: “Why haven’t you nominated anyone? Is there not a man you’re interested in?”

(...... N-nominate?)

The person very casually sat down next to me.

???: “Or are you waiting for a good man to come by? …...Heh. If that’s the case, how about me?”

(......?)

At first, I thought he was a pickup artist or something, but his appearance wasn’t quite right for that.

At that moment, I saw the fan that the man had in his hand.

(Ah!)

“Club Buddha” was written on it.

???: “Won’t you try listening to my prayers? If you wish, you can listen all night long. I’ll fill it with love. … But I’m quite expensive, so be prepared.”

Ema: “Uh, um…”

I said.

Ema: “Excuse me, are you Kaname-san’s colleague, by any chance?”

???: “Kaname?”

Kaname: “Chi-chan.”

I heard a voice call out from behind me. When I turned around, Kaname-san was standing there.

(... Why did Kaname-san call me “Chi”?)

The only ones who called me “Chi” were Juli and Rui-san. Outside of them, no one else called me that.

Not to mention, Kaname-san has not once called me that way.

(Then why…?)

But right after that, Kaname-san said something unexpected.

Kaname: “Oh, Imouto-chan, you’ve come.”

(Eh?)

Meaning that, the one Kaname-san called “Chi”... wasn’t me?!

(B-but, the one here now is…)

???: “Kana-san.”

The flashy man next to us said.

???: “What, you know her? Don’t tell me, is she one of your clients?”

Kaname: “Nah, Chi-chan.”

Kaname-san smiled wryly.

(“Chi-chan” is… this person?!)

Kaname: “Sister. She’s my younger sister.”

???: “Younger sister?”

Ema: “Um, Kaname–san, this person is…”

Kaname: “Ahh, this is Senshuu. Written as ‘chi’ (thousand) and ‘aki’ (autumn). His real name is read as Chiaki, but here it’s Senshuu.”

Ema: “Chiaki… san?”

Chiaki: “What’s this, she’s not a client?...”

Having quickly lost his interest, Chiaki-san got up from the bench.

Chiaki: “I’ve wasted time… Hah…”

Chiaki-san turned to leave.

Kaname: “Ah, hold on, Chi-chan. You should go to the reception hall soon.”

Chiaki: “Eh?”

Kaname: “Looks like you’re up to bat. The parishioners are arguing.”

Chiaki: “Huh?!”

Kaname: “Chi-chan, could it be that this was on purpose?”

Chiaki: “No way. I came here on my own.”

Kaname: “In the meantime, you have to do something. It’s bothering the other parishioners.”

Chiaki: “... Got it. Thanks, Kana-san.”

Chiaki-san walked off towards the reception hall to the main temple. After watching him leave, Kaname-san turned to me.

Kaname: “Imouto-chan, I’m glad you came.”

Ema: “Ah, no, I’m just here by mere chance…”

Kaname: “If it’s by chance, then I’m even more happy. Because something beyond human ken is blessing us.”

Ema: “...... That’s such a convenient interpretation.”

Kaname: “Sorry that you came all this way, though.”

Kaname-san blithely continued as if I hadn’t said anything.

Kaname: “I’ve still got a nomination after this. But I’m free after that. Do you mind waiting a little bit?”

Ema: “Ah, no, please take your time…”

Kaname: “Oh, oh no. I’ve got to go. Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

As if chasing after Chiaki-san, Kaname-san headed toward the reception hall.

There were a lot of female guests in the area, and as Kaname-san went by, calls of “Younin-san~!” rose up from all around.

(Hmm, that was Kaname-san’s professional, no, priest name. Speaking of which, the flyer was… not here!)

When I dug around for it, once again, a voice called out behind me.

???: “... Oh? Are you alone?”

I couldn’t help sighing.

This temple really had some pushy monks.

Ema: “Um, no thank you!”

I said immediately upon turning around.

(Huh?!)

However, it was not one of the temple’s monks like I’d thought.

Iori: “Um? No thank you for what?”

The person standing there was Iori-san.

—

Ema: “Ah… Iori-san.”

Iori: “Good evening.”

Iori-san looked slightly surprised.

Iori: “That was pretty aggressive just now. What happened?”

Ema: “Ah, pardon me! You see, Kaname-san had…”

Iori: “Kaname-niisan?”

I explained to Iori-san about the monk from Club Buddha.

Iori: “Ahh, so that’s what happened. As expected of the temple that Kaname-niisan serves.”

Iori-san smiled wryly.

Iori: “Anyway, did you come by yourself?”

Ema: “Ah, Yuusuke-kun was here until just earlier…”

Then, I told him about Yuusuke-kun and Wataru-chan.

Iori: “That is such a pitiful story for Yuusuke.”

Iori-san’s wry smile grew larger.

(......Oh?)

Iori-san’s mood changed from what it was previously.

Since his hospitalization on the day of the entrance exam, I had been worrying, and although the atmosphere had been that I could not say anything careless, that feeling was different today.

Ema: “Iori-san is by himself?”

Iori: “Yes. I came here on a walk. …Hey, is it alright if I sit?”

Ema: “Ah, yes, please.”

He lowered himself down onto the bench.

Iori-san sat right beside me.

Iori: “The truth is, I was sleeping until just earlier. Last night, I was writing a report and didn’t get much sleep. And when I woke, the house was empty. Ukyo-niisan let me know that everyone had gone to the festival, so I came too.

Ema: “Ahh.”

(Ukyo-san didn’t come after all. He really didn’t like the atmosphere that much, I guess.)

Iori: “Even so, I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Ema: “...?”

Iori: “You see, since a little while ago, I’ve been thinking about talking to you. But, things happened, and there wasn’t much of a chance.”

Ema: “What did you want to speak with me about?”

Iori: “Right. How should I say this… Mm, an apology, I think.”

Iori-san said regretfully.

Iori: “Earlier, I said something strange about the entrance exam, and it’s been bothering me since.”

Ema: “The entrance exam?”

Iori: “Yes, see, I once told you I wanted you to come to Jouchi, remember?”

I remember that, about the time I became a 3rd year in high school, Iori-san strongly encouraged me to go to Jouchi University.

Iori: “At that time, I was speaking completely unilaterally. I’ve been extremely concerned about it.”

Iori-san lowered his head.

Iori: “I’m sorry.”

Ema: “Iori-san?”

I was a bit surprised at the sudden apology.

Iori: “I think I spoke too rudely towards you. Could you forgive me?”

Ema: “W-what, please stop.”

I said frantically.

Ema: “It’s not such a problem that you need to apologize…”

Iori: “I just wanted to convey that clearly.”

Iori-san said.

Iori: “I was super excited for if you could come to Jouchi. That’s undeniable.”

Ema: “...”

Iori: “But, no matter which college you go to, I won’t raise objections.”

Iori-san nodded once then, as if in confirmation of his own words.

Iori: “I will respect your decision. I will absolutely not distort that.”

(Iori-san…)

Iori: “That’s all that I wanted you to understand.”

At that moment, a loud voice came over the PA system from the main temple.

PA System: “Thank you for waiting, now it’s time for the main event!”

A great cheer rose up from the female customers around us at the announcement.

Iori: “... Hey, shall we move someplace else?”

Iori-san’s face contorted slightly.

Iori: “It’s a bit noisy here. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

Ema: “Ah, alright.”

Behind the main temple, at one corner lined with trees, a path had been built that you could walk on.

We walked in that direction.

Iori: “Mm… It’s quieter now, isn’t it?”

Iori-san said with a relieved sigh.

The area was at the outskirts of the temple grounds, without any stalls, so it was quiet.

Iori: “By the way, about the entrance exam topic earlier.”

Iori-san said while walking.

Iori: “Have you decided where you’re going?”

Ema: “I’m not entirely sure yet… but there are some things I’m thinking I want to take.”

Iori: “I see.”

A little while passed.

Iori: “Hey, you’re definitely not coming to Jouchi?”

Ema: “Eh?”

Iori: “Ah, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not trying to force you. No, it’s just that…”

There, Iori-san paused, trying to pick out his words.

Iori: “I want you to listen for a moment.”

Ema: “Uh-huh…”

Iori: “The truth is, after I heard of that matter recently, I’ve been thinking that I could be by your side.”

Ema: “That matter?”

Iori-san’s expression became gloomy.

Iori: “The matter of your birth.”

Ema: “... Ah.”

Iori-san stopped walking.

Iori: “I was surprised, you know.”

Ema: “...”

Iori: “It must have been quite a shock. To have something that you had trusted without a doubt, suddenly taken away from you.”

Iori-san looked up at the dark sky.

Iori: “At that time, I thought this.”

Then, Iori-san’s gaze returned to me.

Iori: “That you were the same as me.”

Ema: “Eh?”

Iori: “Although it wasn’t about blood relation, I had a similar experience… on that winter day.”

Ema: “Iori-san…”

Iori: “So I thought.”

Iori-san closed his eyes.

Iori: “I can understand the pain in your heart. So I thought I could do something to help ease that pain.”

Ema: “...”

Iori: “To do that, it would be necessary to spend a lot of time with you. That’s why I wanted you to come to the same university as me.”

Iori-san looked at me.

Looking into his eyes, I could tell that his concern was truly from the heart.

Iori: “The pain you feel, no one else can understand. But I… I can share and ease it.”

Then, Iori-san said.

Iori: “Right now, I think you’re struggling alone in the dark. I know that pain well.”

(... Eh?)

At that moment, I felt uneasy at Iori-san’s words.

It is true that I was shocked when I learned that Papa wasn’t my real father. But thanks to my conversations with Papa, Natsume-san, and Rui-san, that shock has mostly abated.

Which is to say, I was not struggling in the dark.

(Could it be… that Iori-san thinks that I’m still in shock…?)

Iori: “What is it?”

Iori-san’s face became doubtful.

Iori: “Have I spoken too bluntly? I suppose my manner of speaking was a bit strong. I apologize if I’ve offended you.”

(Indeed, that’s the case. Iori-san thinks I’m hurting…)

– He’s wrong.

I may have been at the time, but I’m okay now.

(I have to let Iori-san know this.)

For a moment, I didn’t know what I should say. Since Iori-san was speaking out of concern, I didn’t want to dismiss his kindness.

But, right after I thought that, Natsume-san and Ukyo-san’s words arose in my mind.

(The things you need to say… you must say.)

I made up my mind to speak.

Ema: “Iori-san, you’re wrong.”

Iori-san’s face clouded.

Ema: “I am not hurting to that extent. Of course, I was shocked when I first heard it. But I’m alright now.”

Iori-san looked at me without saying anything.

Iori: “You’re… okay?”

A while passed before he asked this.

Ema: “Yes.”

I said this as clearly as possible.

Then, Iori-san’s face appeared to change.

Iori: “... Is that so.”

Iori-san’s gaze fell to the ground.

Iori: “I was… deceiving myself.”

Ema: “Iori-san?”

Iori-san raised his head slowly.

Iori: “Sorry, I am a coward.”

It was in a flat voice.

Iori: “I deceived myself, and tried to win you over. I know that now. What on earth was I thinking...”

No words came out after that.

Iori-san stayed silent, and after a little while, spoke again.

Iori: “As I thought, I have not yet recovered.”

(Eh?)

Iori: “Just, I stopped remembering, and pretended I didn’t see anything… and assumed I had recovered.”

Iori-san’s eyes turned towards me a second time.

Iori: “The one needing help isn’t you… It’s me.”

Iori-san’s expression tightened.

Iori: “Hey, listen…”

Iori-san stepped forward. The space between us narrowed.

Iori: “I’m not rejecting my past feelings. And I will not forget them, either.”

Iori-san placed his hands on my shoulders.

Iori: “Regardless, I must move forward. I cannot stay frozen in time forever.”

His hands left my shoulders, and then circled around my back.

Iori: “I am still living in the past. I want to stop that and live in the future. But right now, I don’t have that strength.”

I felt a strong pull on my back. I could hear the sound of my yukata brushing against Iori-san’s clothes.

Iori: “I want you to give me that strength.”

Iori-san held my face with both hands.

Iori: “I can’t do this alone… But, if there’s 2 of us…”

His hands tightened on my cheeks.

Iori: “I can endure.”

Iori-san’s lips pressed onto my lips.

Iori: “... Hm?”

His eyes moved to something behind me.

Iori: “Kaname-niisan…”

When I turned around, a grim-faced Kaname-san was standing there.

(... Ah.)

Kaname-san had his fist pressed up against a nearby tree.

And his face grew grimmer and grimmer.

-----

Comments:

I had noticed this before, but I need to mention this again-- Iori is really really pushy. I understand now a bit of why Kaname explains about Iori in ch17 (link to translation) the way he does. Iori wasn't paying attention/listening to Ema at all! (As in, he was super selfish.) He just steamrolled straight over her and pulled her into a hug and a kiss.

#brothers conflict #translation #season 1 chapter 16 #asahina kaname #asahina iori #iori asahina #kaname asahina

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