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daisychainsandbowties · 4 months

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Chapters: 1/4 [25k] Rating: Explicit

Summary:

Ava's having a really normal gay situation when her ship, the Nostromo, picks up a strange SOS signal on a distant moon and her problems suddenly become a lot bloodier and more acidic than her sex thing with the ship's navigator, Lilith, and her stupid crush on the perpetually grease-stained ship's engineer, Beatrice.

But if you asked her she'd probably say the two are pretty much on par.

or: the Alien (1979) au

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She found Beatrice watching her raptly; the way you might stare at a the very distant pulse of a neutron star. According to Beatrice, people once experimented with telling the time based off of these pulses – neutron stars spin very precisely, loosing beams of electromagnetic light toward the telescopes of watching planets. She says it’s like a lighthouse in that the light can only be seen when it points toward the person looking for it.

Ava always thought that the idea of lighthouses in space sounded romantic, but Beatrice at the time only poured hot water sloppily into a mug and stabbed at the teabag with a spoon, and told Ava that atomic clocks remained by far more reliable than distant electromagnetic phenomena.

From her position on the sofa in her navy jumpsuit, blue-and-pink pin winking in the better lights of her carefully uncultivated space, Beatrice looked at Ava like that. The way you look at a light that appears only intermittently. Never all the time.

Standing there, with water still hanging in long droplets off the tips of the fingers on her damaged hand, Ava didn’t dare to use the word romantic to describe neutron stars. Beatrice had her hands held very tenderly in her lap, palms upraised. They made her look small.

It took a while for Ava to find her voice. Too long, probably, but then Beatrice was never one to notice if a response came after a minute of silence. She had her own listing moments, staring into space counting prime numbers on her fingers. It was self-soothing, Lilith had said, looking at Ava over the rim of her mug with serious eyes – “Don’t give her a hard time about it.”

“Look in the mirror the next time you want to see a massive bitch, Lilith, because I’m not one.”

The droplets clung to Ava’s fingers and then fell – not in slow motion, slapping loudly into the little puddle at the bottom, rainbowed in oil thanks to Bea’s habit of emptying things right into the water mains on the ship even though she complained about everyone else doing it. The sound startled Ava into motion, speech. “Hey, Bea?”

A look. No a whisper of sound from her mouth, but Beatrice stirred in her seat. Ava tried to feel normal, looking into those eyes.

She cleared her throat, “Will you wash your hands, please? I think it’s better if the burn treatment goes on clean skin.”

And then there they were, Ava standing at one edge of the skin and Beatrice on the other, leaning toward the midpoint to stick her hands under the faucet. Then, after, and all in silence, Ava took Beatrice’s hand and spread the lotion over her palm.

Only then did she hear a slight sound from Beatrice. Low, in the back of her throat, the faintest edge of a giggle as Ava’s fingers played over the spot where each finger joined to the palm, where the metacarpals slotted against the jostle of many bones in the basin of the hand.

“Sorry,” Ava murmured, not daring to look up past the fall of hair over her face. From the twitch at Bea’s fingertips as she drew a line across that spot again, unnecessarily. “Does that tickle?”

When it was done, both of them held one hand out away from their body as they worked together to make hot chocolate. Beatrice insisted on picking only the white marshmallows for hers and only the pink ones for Ava’s.

They were mini marshmallows, and Beatrice seemed to have stashed at least twenty bags of them in her quarters. There was always one open on the table, dwindling as the days went by, Beatrice stopping to snatch a few out with her bare hands whenever she passed through.

She was careful to avoid the ones with stains on them as she chose Ava’s, dropped one, two, three, four, five, six, seven into the cup. Seven was, after all, a prime number.

They sat on the sofa and Beatrice balanced her mug on the arm where it had sagged to a flat enough plane. She wrapped her arms around her knees – carefully gripping the wrist of her injured hand to keep the lotion undisturbed – and she spoke again. Her voice shifted in pitch all the time, down and up, breaking like waves against rock before floating to her comfortable middle-C. She told Ava about the cosmic microwave background, then, since they’d used the microwave to heat up their hot chocolate – the cup still close to scalding as Ava hugged it against her chest, listening.

She told Ava about electromagnetic radiation, pronouncing ten to the third power aloud a little morosely. Three was a prime, but not ten.

“Think of it,” she suggested, “as fossilized light. It sits at the furthest point any telescope can see, and we think it illuminated first at the advent of the Big Bang. We can look at it, but as the universe expands it gets pushed further and further away from us. It shows us how far things are, I suppose, and you used to be able to see it inside the television.”

“I’m not sure how it worked, really. This was back in the 1900s, but apparently you could make a television sit at the in-between of two channels and see the CMB as a static signal on the screen. Interesting, isn’t it? How… um… sometimes more primitive technology allows us to see better, to see more?”

Ava grabbed a marshmallow out of her cup with the tip of her tongue – and then, when Beatrice looked aggrieved, she quickly snatched up another.

Five is a prime number.

continue on Ao3

#warrior nun #wn alien 1979 au #ava x lilith x beatrice #avalilitrice #this one is going to be... something #guess guess guess the one good scene from the prometheus movie i'm putting in here hehehehehe #ava pov time. ava pov channel #casper writes #(finally)

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transmascutena · 4 months

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these lines hit different when you read utena as transmasc

#i mean the first one is really awful regardless.#pretty sure i read somewhere that the words akio uses means something along the lines of 'you really should remain a child'#as opposed to 'you really should remain the gender that you are.' which speaks to his whole thing about keeping these kids from growing up #and there's So Much in anthy's line even without hypothetical misgendering #anyway the au where utena has already transitioned by the time he gets to ohtori is really good #and i of course have lots of headcanons about post-ohtori utena and gender #but i've been thinking about one where he's actively questioning while he's there and is not out to anyone.#and i guess not a lot would really change but akio's attempt at making utena more feminine would have a whole other layer of awful to it #and unfortunately i think in this scenario the first person he would come out to would be akio. which is so sad #like maybe it could be anthy but idk. i think it would be something he'd be apprehensive to be open about with her #(in the show utena does tend to be more vulnerable with akio than with anthy. at least the vulnerability with him comes first.#he's her go-to person for advice in the black rose arc and utena doesn't really begin opening up to anthy like that until the third arc)#maybe i should write something for this au. i can see it so clearly.#utena talking about his confusing gender feelings in one of those black rose scenes in the planetarium #and akio doing that thing where he sounds supportive and helpful but absolutely isn't.#that fake sympathy that's actually really patronizing and condescending and dismissive but subtly enough that utena doesn't realize it #and THEN the contrast when utena finally talks to anthy about it and she empathises by talking about her own confusing gender feelings #(transfem anthy realness !!!!!)#oh wow i did not mean to write so much in the tags #revolutionary girl utena #utena tenjou #my posts

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blizzardstarx · 2 months

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catnessa walk cycle part FINISHED!!

“I’ll be fine on my own,” she said

“I don’t need you inside my head”

(She’ll be fine on her own, she’ll be fine on her own)

okay i fixed the floor fr this time

#blizz's art #cat!vanessa au #fnaf movie #vanessa afton #vanessa shelly #fnaf au #fnaf #do i tag william or nah #I FINALLY FUCKING FIXED THE STUPID ASS FLOOR IT KEPT MOVING UP AND DOWN AT SOME CHUNKS #also i defo didnt just copy paste a chunk of the floor and space them out #also stole my floor coloring and background from the william choking catnessa scene #im so tired 😭 this took three days i think #which is actually fast but power of hyperfixation i guess #vanessa fnaf #vanessa shelly art #animation #flipaclip #i hate my life WHY IS THERE A SLIGHT WHITE OUTLINE #you can tell how pissed i am from the floor 😭😭😭#its just an 18 frame loop at 16 fps but im still proud of myself #yayyyyyyyyyy #also pls ignore the back left leg i forgot to fix the upper part changing sizes #all the other limbs are good and fixed but the back left one 😭😭😭#fun fact i powered through the background and the last of the coloring with buttercup by hippo campus in the background #long af tags <3

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scribbling-dragon · 11 months

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Watcher’s Nest Café

Chapter 8

summary:

The café was quiet.

The customers inside were sitting contentedly at their own tables, each lost in their own worlds as they spoke quietly amongst each other. He didn't know what he expected, really, from a café that relied on the local student populace. And with several final deadlines yesterday, there wouldn't have been many people willing to get up this early, let alone make the trek to the café with the miserable weather outside.

Scott wishes that a few more people would come in, only so that he might have something to do.

(ao3 link)

(masterpost)

(4,913 words)

and this is it! the complete thing- it’s been really fun to write this, so i hope you enjoy the final chapter of this fic!

The café was quiet.

Scott wishes that a few more people would come in, only so that he might have something to do.

Something to stare at other than the empty seats at the front bar, something to focus on other than the absence of someone that hasn't even been inside of the café for the past few days.

It shouldn't be bothering him as much as it is. He likes to think of himself as an incredibly composed person, someone that can roll with the blows that life chooses to deal him, even if it unbalances him for a few moments.

The sunlight, cold and pale, streams in through the windows at the front of the café. It pools just in front of the counter, spilling over the wooden tables and almost blinding Scott with how bright it is.

The light is always like this, early in the morning and during winter. It’s cold and bright, shining in through the windows and forcing him to squint through the light to try and smile at the customers. Normally, he’d have someone sitting at the front bar with him, though, whether that was Cleo or Pixl or even Martyn, recently. Normally, they’d be sat there, one or two or all of them, complaining about whatever early-morning classes they have as Scott contents himself with listening, occasionally contributing, and serving the customers.

Normally, on slow days like today, he’d lean over the counter, rest his arms against them, and join in the conversation. He’d smile, far easier than he normally does, and simply talk. Cleo would raise an eyebrow at him if he flirted with Martyn a little too obviously, hiding a smile behind their drink.

Normally, Pix would pretend he was actually doing his work, tapping away at his laptop, but infrequently enough that Scott, and anyone else bothering to look, would know that he’s not actually being productive, with how often he would pause to lean in and mutter some joke, or give some random fact that no-one actually understood why he knew, to their small group at the front of the café.

But it’s not a normal day.

It’s not a normal day and he’s stood, alone at the front of the café. Standing still behind the counter, hands folded neatly in front of himself as he tries not to think too much.

It’s not a normal day, because his head still hurts, despite the tablets he’d taken before he left Grian’s house this morning, and there’s a slight pulsing behind one of his eyes as he breathes slowly. He’s still not sure what it is that Grian puts in his mystery mix, but he vows (again) to never drink it again, because he still feels a little sick. Or that might just be the anxiety.

Because it’s not normal, as much as he’s trying to convince himself that it is; because he doesn't normally sit outside, in the cold, when he knows it’ll only make him hurt even more. He doesn't normally sit and let himself think, even if it’s only for a moment, that Martyn actually meant his words and that they weren't just the musings of a drunk person.

He’s not sure if he imagined the dismissal this morning, as Martyn barely glanced up from his phone. Barely looked towards him, hardly even spared him a smile, before he was looking away again. As though he didn't care. Like he didn't pay any mind to the words they shared last night.

He breathes out shakily, smiling as a customer comes to ask for a second drink. He smiles as best as he can, though it feels more like a grimace, and asks if she’d like anything else with that. She smiles politely back at him, her smile far more put-together than his own, and declines.

She taps her card against the machine, and he asks if she wants her receipt as he taps on the screen. He hands her receipt over, promising that her drink will be over in a minute. She smiles at him again, still well put-together, and returns to her table.

He drifts away, just slightly, as he makes the drink. He’s made this drink a thousand times before, will probably make it thousands more times, and he walks through the steps easily, thoughts spinning away from him. He can hardly grasp onto them long enough to string three words together, setting the drink down with a clink from the ceramic.

She doesn't even look up, murmuring a “thank you” that he pays very little mind to, returning behind the counter and trying not to favour his leg too heavily.

He drags the stool out from beneath the counter when he gets back, giving into his pride for a moment, if only because the sharp pain lancing through his leg is quickly becoming irritating and not at all worth it. It wasn't worth it when he sat outside, in subzero temperatures, and he knew that then. He knows it even better now.

He swings his other leg back and forth as he sits, hands curled loosely around the edge of his seat. One of the tables empties, chairs scraping back and breaking through the fog of his mind. He looks up, blinking twice to clear his eyes and watching as they leave.

He stands, dragging himself from his stool, and cleans their table. He returns the dirty mugs to the sink, leaving them for a moment as he returns to wipe the table down, cleaning it quickly before returning to his stool.

There aren't enough dirty mugs to justify running a full sink of water, for now, so he leaves them. He’ll get to them in a moment, once there’s a few more mugs or plates and it’s later in the day, and his brain feels less like it’s trying to burst out of his skull.

The bright morning light isn't helping, with how it streams through the windows and hits him directly in the eyes. But he can't just close his eyes and lay his head down- it would be unprofessional, and his boss hasn't come in recently, so he could visit any day now, checking up on him and making sure that the café he doesn't even care about is running to a “proper standard”.

He squints his eyes halfway shut, and he can almost see Martyn sat at the counter across from him, chin resting in one hand and balancing his head with the other as he stares down at whatever assignment he was struggling with at the minute.

The sunlight always hit his hair just right, seeming to illuminate it- turning it to gold right in front of Scott’s eyes, as cliché as that sounds. It’s almost embarrassing, the way he sounds like a teenager with his first crush, prone to waxing poetic about the smallest details.

Maybe he should have been a writer. His English teacher had always pushed for him to do that, nudging him along the path, even once he reiterated that he wasn't interested. He could, if he wanted. His grade in English was good enough to get him into most universities nearby- but it’s not something plausible.

He’d never been able to shake the habit of poeticising everything he comes across that snags his attention, only catching himself once he’s halfway through thinking about the exact green of the grass or the way the clouds hang heavy and low in the sky. It would be embarrassing, if any of his friends could read minds; thankfully, they cannot, and he hardly leaves any of his musings out there for someone to stumble across by accident.

The bell chimes, interrupting his train of thought. He looks up, curious to see who his next customer is.

He blinks once, then twice, staring at Martyn.

Martyn stares back at him, chest rising and falling quicker than usual, as though he’d run here. Or done something else to physically exert himself recently. His eyes are slightly wider than usual, hair falling over his face in a way that’s not at all like the usual, purposeful way it falls over his eyes.

His hair catches the sun just right, still. Lighting up behind him in hues of wheat-gold. The door swings shut behind him, slipping free from his fingers as he continues to stand in the threshold. The bell chimes once more as the door latches into place, and the small sound seems to break Martyn out of whatever had him frozen in place before.

Nobody even looks up as Martyn walks over to the counter, and Scott leans back on his stool when Martyn reaches him. He glances past Martyn, before looking back up at him, worrying his lip between his teeth, careful not to split the skin. He’s more than aware that Martyn could accuse him of…something. He’s not sure what, but he knows that he could definitely get him fired from his job if he was embarrassed enough about last night.

“I'm sorry,” Martyn says, the words spilling past his lips hurriedly as he continues to stare down at Scott. He slowly stands from his stool, not liking the height advantage Martyn has over him, however slight, when he’s sat. He freezes in place as the words percolate through his brain and process, leaving him staring at Martyn.

“Uh,” he says, intelligently.

“I'm sorry,” Martyn repeats, quieter this time, leaning over the counter. It puts them closer together, their faces scant inches apart. Martyn looks tired, probably as tired as he looks, the toll of staying up late and drinking more than is probably healthy. “I shouldn't have let you leave like that this morning, but I did anyway, and I feel like shit for that.”

“I- yeah,” he nods at that. “Just…do we really want to have this conversation here?” He asks, lowering his voice a little bit further when the girl from before looks over, slipping her headphones down to listen a little more intently. She looks away when Scott catches her eye. “It echoes.”

Martyn looks a little taken aback, before looking around and realising that the café is actually quite full, even if it’s really early in the morning and the only people here are those with the day off or a later shift, or something. Scott doesn't know anyone in here, aside from the one lady watching them intently from the booth beside the window. She comes in twice a week, the same days every week, and orders the same thing every time. He thinks she might be lonely, that she comes here for the conversations Jimmy normally engages her in and to people-watch.

“Yeah,” Martyn looks back at him. His eyes are still shining with something, hair lit up and framing his face, almost like a halo. He scoffs internally at the comparison, stuffing it away and hoping that he never thinks of it again. His face feels a little warm. “I just, I couldn't wait. I knew you were working, so, just, tell me to go away if this is pushing any boundaries, yeah? Because I know you can't exactly leave if you're uncomfortable, and that’s the last thing I want.”

“Come, uh, come to the back,” he steps back, swinging the counter up so Martyn can shuffle through. He can only pray that his boss doesn't choose today as the day he comes in to check that everything is running smoothly.

The girl from before gives him a judging look, eyes sweeping up and down Martyn- and, alright. Maybe not the best look, especially when his clothes are very obviously rumpled and look like they've already been worn. Absolutely not the best impression to be setting right now.

He glares at her, just because he can, and because it’s expected of him at this point. She stares right back at him, quirking an eyebrow judgmentally before she turns back to whatever the hell it was she was doing. He doesn't even know her.

The door swings shut behind him and Martyn, and then they're both stood in the break room-storage room fusion. The boxes are pushed into one corner, filled with the things that can afford to sit in there for another week until they have space for the stock out front.

“I'm sorry about last night,” Martyn says. His stomach drops a little at the words, the slight hope he’d managed to convince himself wasn't dangerous promptly shrivelling up and dying. “I didn't mean to get that drunk, I definitely wasn't sober when I had that conversation with you, and I don't think you were either.” He’s refusing to meet Scott’s eyes, even as he continues to stare at him. He should be burning a hole into the side of Martyn’s head with his stare, but Martyn remains unaffected.

“Ah, yeah,” he chokes out, feeling as though he’s speaking past a lump in his throat. He swallows, in an attempt to get rid of the feeling, but it remains lodged firmly in his throat. He feels like he can't breathe. “Neither of us were very sober then.”

Martyn scuffs his foot over the ground, back and forth, back and forth, before looking up and meeting Scott’s eyes. There’s something there, and these are the sorts of things that Scott prides himself on- he might not be great at the academic intelligence, though he’s decent enough, but he likes to think that he more than makes up for it with his emotional intelligence. Still, he finds himself scrambling for an answer that doesn't present itself when he looks into Martyn’s eyes, feeling slightly breathless and more than a little sick.

“I still meant it.” Martyn says. He refuses to look at Scott again. He feels almost weak in the knees with relief, the wave crashing over him so abruptly and with so much force that he’s almost carried away by it. He sways, a little, and his knee twinges with the motion. “I just…” he trails off, sucking in a large breath, “I just didn't want to keep thinking things over if you…didn't.”

“I- Martyn,” he can't help it. He really can't. He sighs Martyn’s name, feeling the lump in his throat disappear as he swallows. His heart seems to replace it, seeming to lodge itself right in his throat with how hard it’s beating. “Oh my god.” He laughs a little, because he feels incredibly, incredibly stupid now. Like he’s overlooked everything.

“What?” Martyn looks worried now, hands clasped tightly together, tight enough that he can see the whites of his knuckles.

“We’re both idiots,” he manages, breathing it out between laughter.

“Hey!” Martyn puffs up, looking offended and relieved at the same time. “What do you mean?”

“You know all of our friends had bets on us, right?” He asks, instead. Martyn blinks at him. “They had a board in their kitchen, apparently, but they wiped it off before the party, so we couldn't see it. Xisuma told me.”

“They- what?” Martyn sounds so genuinely confused that he can't help but laugh again, bending over slightly as relief sweeps over him again. “They bet on us?”

“Did you expect anything less?” He asks.

“I- no! But I still would have appreciated being told. Why did Xisuma tell you?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs, “guess he took pity on me.”

“Aw, man,” Martyn sighs, slumping against the opposite wall and tipping his head back. “I do feel like an idiot now- all of our friends knew and they didn't say anything?”

“We figured it out eventually,” he shrugs, going for it far more casually than he actually feels. He feels like he should be screaming, or something equally dramatic. Maybe sliding down the wall in a panic. He should probably be checking that there aren't any customers waiting outside. He finds that he doesn't actually care, when Martyn looks up.

“Guess we did,” Martyn says. He pushes himself off of the wall, taking one step closer. The break room isn't that big, and with that single step the distance between them is halved. Scott could reach out right now and grab him by his hoodie. He doesn't, looking at him from beneath his eyelashes as Martyn wavers. “Do you…have an answer to my question?”

Scott debates for a moment, continuing to watch Martyn from half-lidded eyes, leaning against the wall beside the door. He smiles, tilting his head to the side. “What question?” Martyn left him to stew in his emotions for a few hours, he can afford a few moments of floundering.

“You're seriously gonna make me ask?”

He considers it for a moment, before allowing his smile to spread a little wider, showing off his teeth as he looks up at Martyn. He expects a little surprise, maybe for Martyn to pull back as his teeth are revealed. He doesn't waver, continuing to stare down at him. “Yes,” he breathes, after a moment. He hardly needs to speak louder, with the distance between them even the slightest sound will be heard.

“Scott,” Martyn says, stepping closer, but not touching him, hands still hovering as he pushes closer, toeing the line between friendly closeness and…something else. “Have you ever thought about kissing me?”

Yes, he thinks but doesn't say. He’s thought about it several times, so many times, over the past few weeks. Every time Martyn would smile at him, grinning in his stupidly infectious way; every time he would comment on Scott slipping something from a rude customer. Every time the sun would hit his hair just right and he’d light up the entire café. Scott wasn't sure how people could look away from him when he was like that.

Martyn’s still watching him, still waiting for his response. His hands still hover, close enough that Scott can feel the warmth of his skin, but not quite touching. Not until Scott says he can.

“More times than I can count,” he replies. Martyn flushes at that, blush rising high on his face, causing his ears to turn pink at the tips.

“Then,” Martyn says, “can I kiss you now?”

“Please,” he breathes, hands already reaching up to pull Martyn closer to himself, because he’s not certain he can deal with the almost touching for much longer without going entirely insane. “Martyn,” he says, voice embarrassingly soft as he hooks his hand around the back of Martyn’s neck, pulling them closer.

One of Martyn’s hands settles on his hip, pulling them flush against each other. The other raises to his face, pushing his hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear, and kisses him.

It’s chaste, just a simple brush of lips on lips. Martyn pulls back a moment later, eyes already blown wide, blushing like someone that’s just had their first kiss.

“Martyn,” he asks, a teasing lilt working its way into his voice. “Have you ever kissed someone before?”

“Yes,” Martyn hisses, face growing pinker with embarrassment. “Of course I have.”

“Have you ever kissed someone for longer than a moment?” He asks, he softens his voice, “I'm not making fun, I promise.”

“I- no,” Martyn’s eyes dart away, then back to him again. They drop to his lips, and Scott smiles at the silent admission. “It…I never felt the need to do more than that.”

“Can I kiss you again?” Scott asks.

Martyn nods slowly, still watching him. He smiles, tightening his grip on the back of Martyn’s neck and pulling him closer until he’s close enough to connect their lips again. Martyn goes easily enough, the hand still resting on his hip squeezing tighter for a moment before relaxing again.

Scott sways into Martyn, pulling him down as he brushes his tongue over Martyn’s lips. Martyn makes a small noise at the action, but he doesn't pull back, even as his lungs must begin to burn. Scott’s own lungs are burning, too, but he pushes further into the feeling, biting down on the very edge of Martyn’s lip.

Martyn pulls back with a gasp, eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Too much?” He asks, cradling the side of Martyn’s face in the palm of his hand.

“I- no,” Martyn breathes out, still staring at Scott. It’s almost intense enough to make him cower away from it, but he pushes himself towards it instead, leaning further into Martyn, pressing them close together until his chest is resting against Martyn’s, close enough that he can hear the thump-thump-thump of his heart. “Just…unexpected.”

“In a good way?”

“The best way.” Martyn agrees, and then he’s kissing him again.

Martyn’s hand crawls into his hair, tugging at the strands there, lightly at first, then harder when it makes Scott bite his lips again, swiping his tongue over the spot a moment later to soothe it.

Martyn pulls back again, still staring at him with those wide eyes, pupils swallowing a lot of the colour in his eyes, making them look far darker than they actually are.

“Can I-” Martyn stutters off, out of breath and flushed, “Can I touch your hands?” He asks, after a few moments of catching his breath, staring down at Scott.

“Huh?” He pulls his hands back slightly at the question, flexing his fingers and listening to the way the leather creaks. Martyn reaches up to catch his wrist, holding it firmly but not tight, continuing to watch Scott.

“You can say no,” Martyn tells him. And his voice is sincere enough that Scott knows it to be true. He could say no and they could both move on; continuing kissing, if they wanted to. Even if Scott really needs to at least poke his head out and make sure that there’s no massive queue of customers awaiting his return.

“Why?” He asks instead. Because his hands feel sweaty, uncomfortable within the gloves, and taking them off doesn't seem like the worst decision in the world. He can think of several, far worse, decisions he could be making right now.

“Because…I want to see all of you,” Martyn says. “You're just- you're hiding your hands, and I don't know why. And everyone else seems to know, but I don't, and I want to tell you that it’s fine, but I can't, because I don't know.”

“And what if it isn't fine?” Scott asks. Because he has to. He has to. He’s worn gloves for the past four years, and no one’s ever asked him to take them off. Everyone’s just assumed that he’s wearing them for a reason, to hide something - and they're right - and they can't bear to be proven right. “What then?”

“Then we work past it,” Martyn says. “I don't know what to do with myself, Scott, you've driven me insane. I can hardly think of anything else; I've hardly been able to focus on my work, knowing that you're out there, somewhere, and I could be there with you if I wasn't working.”

“That’s silly,” he says. But he would be lying if he said he wasn't touched. It’s sweet, especially with the way Martyn smiles down at him.

“Please?” Martyn asks, and the last of his (admittedly very weak) resolve crumbles in the face of Martyn asking.

“You can't- you can't run away,” he says, even as he pulls his hand back, loosening the gloves. He can't remember the last time he took them off outside of sleeping, and even then he wears them to sleep in sometimes. Can hardly stand the sight of his hands himself.

He eases the leather off anyway, shivering as the air hits his skin and scales. He flexes his fingers, moving them around, even as he keeps his eyes fixed on Martyn. One, to watch his reaction, but two, because he cannot bear to look at his hands himself.

Something brushes over the back of his hand and he gasps, the small sound falling past his lips involuntarily. He shuts his eyes, keeps them squeezed shut and simply nods when Martyn asks if he’s alright.

“They're just…sensitive,” he manages, after a moment, once the feeling of gentle fingers on the back of his hand has eased. “I don't…I’m not used to someone touching them.”

“Oh.” Martyn says. He brushes a careful hand over the scales on Scott’s wrist again, before slowly trailing back up. He twists his wrist at the end, fits their hands together carefully, holding Scott’s hand carefully, as though it’s something to be protected.

“How can you,” he chokes out, breaking his silence when Martyn continues to hold his hand, looking completely unbothered. “How can you just hold my hand? You're not blind, are you?”

“Of course I'm not blind,” Martyn looks him in the eye. “I'm simply appreciating you as a whole, your hands are a part of you, how could I dislike them?”

“How can you just say something like that?” He can feel his face heating up, the way his fins press back against the sides of his head in embarrassment. “They're everything that people find disgusting about sirens. The only thing remaining to identify us as something else.”

“And Jimmy has the yellow feathers of a Canary,” Martyn says. “That identifies him as an omen of death, of misfortune, but everyone is friends with him still. Tango’s sclera is almost black, and I'm pretty sure we've all seen the depictions of demons like that, but Tango isn't a demon; I'm pretty sure he’s the furthest thing from a demon.”

“That,” he doesn't have a good argument against that, nothing to argue otherwise. “I guess.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I might care for you because you're just…you?” Martyn laughs. “At the risk of sounding cheesy, I don't think there’s much you could do to push me away now.”

Yes, he wants to say, yes it is hard to believe you. Because Martyn was doing what his family had chosen not to do. What his father and his brother had decided they couldn't deal with, couldn't stand seeing the reminder of his mother. Couldn't bear to see the resemblance between the two, when she had abandoned them so easily.

The weight of the watch in his pocket can attest to this. Its face cracked and broken, hands perpetually stuck in a time of the past. It speaks of a tipping point- a point of no return, something that he cannot, would not, return to, even if he was given the chance. He’s not sure he could face his brother again.

He doesn't say this, just sighs and rests his head against Martyn’s shoulder. And Martyn holds his hand.

The sound of the bell interrupts them, and his head jerks up, pulling his hand free from Martyn’s grip.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, realising that they're still stood in the break room. “Oh my god, Jimmy’s never gonna let me live this down.”

“What?”

“I abandoned the café to come kiss you in the break room- I make fun of Jimmy for doing that.”

Martyn stares at him, wide-eyed, for a moment. Then he laughs, the sound so loud compared to the quietness of before.

“I need to go,” he says, pulling his glove back on, fumbling to tighten it properly again and cover up the mess of scales that is his hand. “Oh my god, they're gonna make fun of me. They're gonna be horrible.”

“I'm sure it’ll be fine,” Martyn says, but he’s still laughing when Scott escapes the break room, still a little pink in the face. There’s only one customer waiting, and he doesn't look like he’s been stood there for too long, so Scott breathes a sigh of relief.

The girl from before is gone, leaving two empty mugs in her wake. The lady in the window booth gives him a small thumbs-up.

“How are you always right?” Jimmy complains, leaning over Grian’s shoulder, reading the message from Martyn. “It’s not fair, the universe is rigged against me.”

“Then you gotta stop betting, Timmy,” Grian nudges at him, shutting his phone off when Martyn’s texts devolve into nonsense. “If the universe is against you, you're never gonna win.”

“I thought for sure I would be right this time,” Jimmy slumps over the counter, ignoring Grian as he collects his spoils of war. He looks unbelievably smug- and really, they should ban him from betting ever, he seems to have made some kind of deal with Luck, with the way he keeps winning.

“There, there,” Tango pats him on the head, messing his hair up worse than it was before. “At least it wasn't as bad as-”

“If you bring up the Sheriff Incident one more time,” Jimmy growls, “I might kill someone.”

“Did someone say Sheriff?” Grian spins on his heel, wearing a smug grin very reminiscent of a cat. “Lemme tell you, I have an entire folder dedicated…”

“Kill me,” Jimmy whispers to Tango. “Send my congratulations to Scott, and then kill me.”

“No can do, buddy,” Tango pats him on the head again. “I like you too much to do that.”

#aw man. kinda sad to see this over #but also happy! because these last few scenes were the whole reason i wrote this fic in the first place :]#i hope it was enjoyable!#(if you want to see some ramblings from me about this fic. those can be found on the ao3 for the final chapter if not i hope you have a-#-wonderful day/night! <3)#juno.writes #watcher's nest café au #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #trafficshipping #majorwood #limited life smp #limited life smp fic #trafficfic

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skyward-floored · 5 months

Text

Breath of the wild Dark Link au

I’ve been playing with this au on and off for literal years, but haven’t posted much in the way of writing for it, and I wanted to change that lol. This is just a bit of it, so it’s a little out of context, but I really just wanted to finally post some.

The au takes place after botw, but only by a few months, so totk isn’t mentioned or referenced at all (plus I haven’t played it lol so I’m more or less ignoring it here). Here it is, enjoy.

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Link shivered as he absently plucked a stem of cool safflina and tucked it in his pouch, his breath coming out in a puffy cloud of steam in front of him. It was frigid up here, and even with the snowquill tunic’s gloves he could barely feel his fingers.

He’d been prowling around the edges of the Yiga base for a few hours now, and it was nearly dark, the temperature dropping to downright dangerous levels. He’d promised Zelda he wouldn’t sneak inside the base itself on this particular trip, but the lack of movement he’d so far observed was both concerning and boring. Nobody had seen any members of the cult since the attack where he’d been injured, not even the Gerudo, and they were practically next-door neighbors.

And that, along with the curse that had attacked Link, was too suspicious to ignore.

Link sighed, trying to rub some feeling into his fingers. Maybe since he’d survived the curse or whatever it had been in his injury, the Yiga had all decided to just give up on worshipping Ganon and trying to kill him, and were now living their lives as model citizens of Hyrule.

He snorted to himself. Right. And maybe they’ve started a shelter for homeless wolf pups.

A faint noise brought by the wind tickled his ear, and Link looked around for its origin, his hand going his sword. His eyes caught sight of a few figures far below him, and he felt a flicker of excitement, pulling out his slate and activating the scope feature. Flurries of snow were being blown around, making it a bit difficult to see, but when he zoomed in he could make out two Yiga footsoldiers standing next to a blademaster, the larger one holding a dark bundle of some kind.

Link frowned and tried to get a better look. This proved that the Yiga were still active, but what would they be carrying all the way up here? The soldiers below him weren’t very close to their base, and it was stupidly cold in this area. Maybe they were dumping banana peels or something? But why trek all the way up here?

The blademaster dropped the bundle to the ground, then reached for his windcleaver, lifting the blade high. Link startled as the bundle moved slightly, but a footsoldier put out a leg to kick it, and it fell still.

And that was when Link realized the bundle was a person.

Snapping his slate to his belt without a second thought, Link leapt off the ridge he was on, paraglider in hand. He was too far away to shoot any arrows without risking hitting the bundle, and all he could do was watch as the blademaster plunged his sword downwards. A muffled cry reached Link’s ears, and the blademaster removed his sword, crimson spattering the snow.

Outrage burned in Link’s chest, and now that he was close enough, he focused, drawing his bow and firing three arrows near simultaneously at the Yiga.

Two hit the first footsoldier as Link landed with a roll and unsheathed his sword in one swift movement, and the other arrow struck the blademaster in the shoulder. Link leapt forward at the large man, who deflected his blade with his own blood-stained one, and a small gust puffed from it as they clashed.

The first footsoldier had vanished into paper as soon as Link had hit him with the arrows, but the other had joined the fight, and the blademaster was stubbornly continuing to attack despite his own arrow wound, deflecting all of Link’s advances.

Link shot a glance towards the bundle on the ground, and felt a twist in his gut at the large amount of blood staining the snow.

Whoever was there didn’t have long if they were still alive.

He gritted his teeth and quickly swapped weapons, exchanging his royal guard sword for an ice rod. Ignoring the burst of cold that suddenly enveloped him, he dodged a thrust by the blademaster and flicked his wrist, sending a cloud of freezing magic in the Yigas’ direction.

It didn’t catch the blademaster all the way, but Link managed to get most of his left side, sending him reeling with the sudden freeze. The remaining footsoldier was frozen completely in place, and Link switched back to his sword as he jumped forward, whirling into a spin attack that knocked both of his adversaries backwards with a shattering crash of ice.

The footsoldier and blademaster looked at each other as they stumbled to their feet, then waved their hands in a complicated pattern, disappearing into the same paper as their earlier companion without a word.

Link breathed out a sigh of relief that clouded out in front of him, then turned to the motionless figure on the ground.

He wasted no time in sliding to his knees beside the Yiga's victim, grabbing in his bag for a fairy tonic. He didn’t have any of the actual creatures with him, a tonic made with their help would have to be enough. Pulling the blanket out of the way, Link prepared to give who he could now see was a teenager the bright pink liquid.

But he stopped short at the figure he’d uncovered, blood running cold.

His own face met him.

Link stared down at himself, brain refusing to believe what it was seeing.

Same nose, same mouth... the eyes were squeezed shut with pain, but he assumed they were the same as well. His skin lacked Link’s vast scar collection, and was a fair bit paler and gaunt, missing his own tanned color, but the main difference was his jet-black hair instead of Link’s own gold. And even then the color was really the only difference; it was the same length, though matted and dirty, even cut nearly the same.

Link swallowed.

This couldn’t be a coincidence. Not with everything that had happened with his injury and him and Zelda. This... this lookalike, must be connected somehow, to the wound, to him, to the Yiga...

...why had the Yiga tried to kill him?

His double whimpered, and Link snapped back to himself, shaking off his whirling thoughts.

Right. Injury. Questions could come later.

Link pulled the blanket further back so he could see what exactly he was dealing with, and breathed in sharply at the stab wound in his double’s stomach bleeding everywhere. He wasn’t wearing any clothes besides a pair of worn-out trousers, already stained with blood, and Link shook his head in dismay when he felt his freezing skin.

Link pressed the blanket back atop the injury with one hand in order to staunch the blood flow, and hopefully warm him a bit, and tried to ignore the unsteady gasp that came from his double at the pressure. He quickly uncorked the fairy tonic, then tilted his double’s head up to help him drink it. It took a few tries for him to coax his mouth open, but the pained noises coming from him slowed as Link finally helped him drink.

The hand that had been scrabbling weakly at the injury finally stilled, a weak sigh escaping him once the medicine was gone. One fairy tonic wasn’t enough to heal an injury of this caliber, but it would keep him alive long enough to get him somewhere safe.

...should he bring him somewhere safe?

Link hesitated as he looked at his double, biting his lip uncertainly.

He didn’t know a thing about the Hylian in front of him, other then the fact that they looked nearly identical to each other, and that the Yiga had tried to get rid of him. The second point was pretty indicative of the fact that they were at least both enemies of the Yiga, but... that didn’t necessarily mean they were allies either.

Was it safe to bring him to Hateno?

His double made a small noise of discomfort, and Link sighed, looking at all the blood in the snow. Even if he did mean them harm, he wouldn’t be able to do anything to them now, not with how injured he was.

Mind made up, Link made sure the flow of blood had truly slowed before gently lifting his double up, noting again with some worry how utterly cold he felt. He was also extremely lightweight, which he supposed made carrying him easier, but was yet another thing to be concerned about.

Link tucked the dry parts of the blanket as best he could around him, and started in surprise when his double’s eyes abruptly slitted open.

They were a bright, startling red from what Link could tell of them, and it almost looked like they were glowing in the fading light. His double blinked hazily at him, but then his eyes slipped closed again and Link couldn’t be sure if he imagined the glow or not.

He studied him again and was struck once more with how identical they looked, something squeezing his throat for some reason.

They could be brothers for all he knew.

Link swallowed, and decided that thinking about the implications of this wasn’t his priority right now, despite how much he wanted to.

Adjusting his hold, he pulled out the sheikah slate with one hand and continued to hold the clone with his other, tapping the shrine on the outskirts of Hateno, right by his house. Zelda was waiting for him there, as were more medical supplies. Hopefully she would know what to make of this.

Blue tendrils of light wrapped themselves around him and his double, and Link held tight as he felt the familiar sensation of travel with the sheikah slate warp him away into temporary nothingness.

The only sign that anyone had been in the area was the still-warm blood staining the snow.

#in which I attempt to show off my fight-scene skills #legend of zelda #breath of the wild #loz botw #legend of zelda fanfiction #loz fic #fic #tw injury #tw violence #botw dark link au #writing from the floor #ta da this is it #well some of it anyway #it's nice to finally post some of it #now I'm going to bed #also since I know I'm going to be asked don't ship them please thanks *thumbs up emoji*

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spacedace · 11 months

Text

Here, have a snippet of the Jason & Steph sibling bonding portion of the DP x DC AU I wrote 10k words for since last night in a haze of post sickness/burnout creative burst, featuring some Anger Management because of course it does lol

(I call it a snippet but it’s like...3k words lol)

Trigger Warnings because most of this snippet focuses on them running around Crime Alley and shit that goes down in it: references to drugs, overdoses, domestic abuse, child endangerment (if I miss anything let me know and I’ll add it). Nothing expliciet or details but they are things mentioned as happening because, well, Crime Alley.

Spoiler shifts subtly from foot to foot on the rooftop, hands open and ready at her side as she split her attention from watching him and checking the street below for signs of trouble. Her gaze was sharp on the girls working the corner, tracking for any hint that the man talking them up was making any of them uncomfortable even as she made sure Jason didn’t suddenly dart across the ten feet between them to strike out at her.

“George Conrad.” He said, satisfied that his sudden breaking of the silence didn’t make her jump though did catch her attention fully, fingers twitching warningly towards her belt. He nodded his head down to the street and the large man rummaging through the bag he brought with him. More of the girls had huddled up around him. “Not a john. Not even from Gotham.” He explained, shifting to walk over to the edge of the roof, giving her his back as he did. “His son Kyle ran away from home while George was oversees and ended up working the streets. George tracked him down once he was back in the states a few years ago but by the time he made it here Kyle had been killed.”

She moved to join him at the ledge, still leaving space between them but not enough for his guns to be as effective. Smart, vigilant, but still with a soft enough heart to stop and listen to one of the many tragedies that played out in Gotham’s darkest streets.

“What happened?” She asked, eyes softening on the big man in question as he started handing out ziploc bags. Jason knew very well what they held, and wondered if Spoiler could make out the finer details from the distance they were at. Sandwiches, granola bars, water bottles, condoms, clean needles, wet-wipes, little travel sewing kits, over the counter pain meds. Anything and everything George had ever been told would be appreciated or useful by the sex workers he spoke to.

“Overdose.” Jason answered, grateful that the distorter built into his helmet disguised the tightness of his voice. Memories of a cold body on the floor, stiff and waxy with distant glassy eyes. “Got mixed up with the wrong person. Boyfriend. Not a big player but,” He shrugged and knew that Spoiler would understand. It was how a lot of people got mixed up in sex work when they wouldn’t have normally. Boyfriend that promised the world, the painful fall into being pressured to sleep with said boyfriend’s friend, then another, then another. “One of Daisy’s boys was a neighbor and figured out what was going on, Daisy helped get him out but it was too late by then.”

Below one of the girls, younger than the rest - an adult, because he wouldn’t allow anything else in his territory, but still new to the scene - surged forward to wrap her arms around the old man. George gave her a gentle pat on the back, pushing her back gentle to dig out a card from his pocket. A list of numbers for her to call, shelters and organizations that could help, his own number in case she ever needed anything. “They chipped in for a funeral for him. Gave George somewhere to go and mourn. He’s been here ever since, trying to look after them all. He works as a bouncer at Daisy’s these days but he always does the rounds when he isn’t working.”

“People never get this part.” Spoiler mused, voice going soft and distant. “They always think the Alley is just…” She waved a gloved hand, “Trash and monsters. They can’t seem to get that there’s more. Just…people. Some really good ones even.”

He smiled behind his mask. There was a reason she was the one of the whole Bat Clan he’d decided to trust with this.

“Come on.” He said, waving her after him as he began an easy run that’d let them both move easily from rooftop to rooftop. Spoiler hesitated a moment, but at length followed, quick and quiet as she darted from shadow to shadow in his wake.

They spent the following couple of hours meandering around Crime Alley at an easy clip. Squat roofs and rusted fire escapes, narrow streets and dark corners. Pausing to jump in and handle anything that popped up or at particular spots of interest where he’d point out places and people. The chop shop run by the ragged gang of teens and children some of the gangs had been angling towards that needed looking after. The homeless encampment nestled between the grimy apartment building Daisy O’Neil had taken over to run her business out of and the tiny, almost forgotten pauper’s cemetery. The usual roosting spots for the drug dealers, the gambling dens, the little family owned cafe that had the best Tantuni at midnight and even better Turkish coffee at the crack of dawn.

It was as they perched on top of this last one, tucked back in the shadows away from view as Spoiler devoured the freshly made Lokma that Mrs. Solak insisted on making fresh for them when they stopped by that the question finally came.

“So what exactly is all this?” Spoiler asked, popping another of the sugary, honey covered Lokma in her mouth. He’d shoved the container Mrs. Solak had given to him over to her after eating only a few, knowing she was going to try to steal them anyway if he didn’t. “When you said you needed my help with something in Crime Alley, I was expecting…I don’t know, drug runners or something.” She popped another golden dough ball in her mouth, cheeks round as a chipmunk and voice muffled as she said, “Not a tour of the place.”

Jason let his head fall back on the brick of the rooftop entrance behind them, eyes scanning the glittering horizon of the Gotham skyline, trying to sort out his answer. He had talked about how he was going to do this with Jazz, practicing what he was going to say, what he wanted to reveal, what outcomes he could expect from the whole thing. When he left he’d felt confident about it all, riding high on the warmth of Jazz’s kiss and the fluttering thumps of little legs kicking against his hand. Now that he was here though he felt lost as to how to begin.

“I’m hanging up the mask.” He finally said. It wasn’t quite like the first time he’d said it out loud, in the privacy of his apartment, curled in bed with Jazz, only brave enough to whisper it in the dark. There wasn’t that rush of anxiety and relief that had hit him at finally saying what had twisted over and over in his head for weeks leading up to that moment. Now there was just the settled feeling, the certainty, the surety of being on the path he wanted to be on. “I wanted to ask if you’d look after my territory me when I do.”

Spoiler gaped at him. “Wait, seriously?”

He almost laughed, he settled on giving her a lazy smile. “Seriously.”

With her masked pulled down so she could eat her treats he could see her wide eyed, disbelief on her face easily. “Why?”

He gave a shrug, aiming for nonchalant. “This used to be your territory for awhile, right? You’re from here, you know the Alley and the people and how it all works.” He felt his smile go softer, “I trust you to be able to keep it safe.”

Spoiler’s - Steph’s - expression softened at that. “That’s…thank you.” She glanced out the same way he had before, face caught in something bittersweet. “I…I hated this place growing up. I still do, kinda. I think everyone that lives here does. But I still missed it, it’s still…still home.”

“Yeah,” He agreed, mind turning over his childhood. The constant fear and hardship. Living rough even when he did have a roof over his head. His father’s heavy hands. His mother’s slow wasting. Crime Alley was a complete shit hole, one where the worst of the worst tended to gather. But it wasn’t all monsters. There were good people too, just trying to scrape by. Old George wandering the streets handing out necessities to working girls and boys. The Solak family and their little shop, giving out the left overs to the street kids and homeless. The Nightingales, crammed into their two bedroom apartment, just trying to get by. “I knew you’d get it.”

They sat in silence for awhile. Steph chewing over his request and her Lokma, Jason lost in memories of the past and wistful dreams of the future. At length the blond next to him bumped his shoulder with hers, head tilting at a questioning angle. “I…I really appreciate what you said, about why me.” She said, awkward and touched in equal measure. “But…I was actually wondering why you were stepping back.”

He was ready for that question, he was. He’d initially just wanted to leave it at none of your fucking business but Jazz had - wise as ever - pointed out that he was asking her a favor, and a big one at that. He might not be comfortable with the rest of his family knowing everything - or anything - but Steph at least deserved an explanation as to why he was asking her to take over his territory.

“You tell anyone this, and I will kill you.” He started and then cringed internally because that had not at any point been something that had come up in his practice conversations with Jazz. Oh well, any more ooie-gooey feelings talk and Steph probably would have thought he was replaced by a pod person or something. “I’m seeing someone.”

The faintly alarmed look the blond vigilante beside him had melted away in an instant, replaced by a sly, mischievous grin. Hellion. One whiff of gossip and that’s all it took. “Ooooh, Big Bad Red Hood has a heart after all.” She crooned, ignoring her earlier reticence to get too close and leaning dramatically against his side. “Who is it huh? Anyone I know? Ooh, is it someone in the Outlaws?”

He was reminded of before he died, suddenly. Of teasing Dick over his latest crush over a beautiful red head that could kick his ass like a proper annoying little brother. In an echo of that moment so many years ago, he shoved Spoiler off in the same way Dick had done to him, rolling his eyes at her dramatic squawking as she nearly dropped her treat to disguise the small smile that wanted to curl at his lip. He swiped at the container lazily, a feint at stealing it back that resulted in a brief scuffle that ended with him popped a few of the Lokma in his mouth as she tore the container - that he had given to her in the first place - away, holding it close to her chest like a precious treasure.

“No, no one you know.” He answered at last they finally settled down. He paused for a beat, gaze turning back to the city as he added. “She’s a civilian.”

Spoiler looked considering at that, chewing at one of the last of the Lokma thoughtfully. “So what’s going on then? You do a face reveal and she asked you to quit the vigilante business?”

“No.” He said, taking a small, steadying breath. Better to just rip off the bandaid. “She’s pregnant.”

Spoiler went still beside him, laughing eyes shuttering and face falling into a neutral mask as she stared at him. After a long, long moment she gave a small, unreadable little, “Oh.”

Jason fought the urge to fidget. Oh. It could mean so many things. Oh shit. Oh no. Oh how nice. Oh boy I can’t wait to tell Bruce about this. That last one, admittedly, was unlikely. Spoiler was on good terms with most of the Bats and Birds but she and Bruce had long had something of a rocky relationship. No where near as bad as what he and the old man had, but still enough that she was probably the very last person to willingly go hunt Bruce down to share all the details of Jason’s private life unless she thought it particularly necessary.

The silence stretched on. And Jason knows what silence does to a human brain. Four seconds of quiet during a conversation after saying something registers as rejection, caused feelings of anxiety and apprehension, even caused the same signals in the brain as physical pain. Prolonged silence and steady attention at the same time caused an urge to fill the quiet, to speak and keep speaking until the other person says something. It was something Bruce taught him, guiding him along in his Robin days on how to perform interrogation and get the person they were questioning to spill their guts.

He was taught too how to outlast that silence in situations where he was being questioned. Both by Bruce and by the League - though the interrogations that he was meant to resist under their teachings had far more than long awkward silences to contend with. He knew how to clamp down on that instinctive drive to keep talking when faced with stillness like this.

And yet, somehow he could stop himself.

“I just…I think about being a kid and my dad going to work,” He said the word with appropriate amount of vitrol, “And then never coming back. Him dying in jail and it just being me and my mom trying to scrape by. Or…or with Bruce. Knowing that I was always going to place second to the Rogues and the city. I just…” His head dropped back on the brick behind him, eyes closed and throat tight. “I can’t do that to my kid. I’m going to be there. I’m going to make sure they’re safe and happy and that they don’t ever have to worry about if their old man is coming home or not.”

It was a nightmare he’d been having, since the morning he and Jazz crowded over a couple of pregnancy tests and saw the results. Dying out in the gutter and shambling home as a ghost to see the grief he left behind. Jazz crying, a child who’s features he could never make out standing in the doorway the way he would stand at the entrance of the cave when he was too injured to go out with Batman. Waiting in painful silence and burning tears to find out that his father was dead.

“I’m not…I’m not cutting out of the life completely.” He said, trying to focus past the squeezing in his chest, trying to force the conversation back into a conversation rather than him just pouring his bleeding heart out to a blank wall. “I’m going to talk to Babs, see if she’d be alright with me helping with some of what she does, or get something similar setup solely for the Alley. I’m going to keep tabs with my guys on what’s going on and work with them that way. And if there’s anything big, obviously you guys can call me in, I’m not just going to sit back if there’s a city wide threat or worse, I just - “

There were arms around him, suddenly. Warm and strong as they wrapped around him, a face pressed into his shoulder, his nose tickled by blond hair.

He sat there, frozen for a long moment before slowly, lifting his own arms to return the hug. Steph gave him an encouraging squeeze. “I get it.” She said, voice whisper soft and almost lost as she spoke into the leather of his jacket. “I think…I think if I’d been older, if I was more able to keep her…I think I would have done the same thing.” There was a faint sniff as she finally pulled away. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes were bright with tears. “I’m happy for you.” She moved to gently head butt him, “And I’m honored to take over watching over this shithole of ours.”

Jason gave a watery laugh, not even caring that he was crying as he scrubbed away some of the tears that had burned down his cheek. “Thanks Blondie. Steph.”

She rocked back on her heels, arms crossed as her expression turned suddenly serious. “I do have one condition though.” At his look the seriousness melted away into an exuberant grin. “I want to meet this mystery woman of yours. Wait!” She brightened, “Two conditions! I want to be there when you finally tell B and the rest! I am not missing the look on their faces when you tell them!”

He rolled his eyes and shoved her, sending her tumbling into the container of Lokma and sending the remaining fried dough balls rolling across the grungy roof. Steph squawked, dropping to her knees before the thoroughly ruined sweets as dramatic as if it was her one true love laying dead before her. “They were so young, so innocent!” She wailed, throwing her head back as if to howl at the sky in mourning before snapping back to him, finger pointing at him accusatory. “You! This is your fault! I will have my vengeance!”

The rest of the night was spent darting from rooftop to rooftop in an echo of the game of tag he used to play with Dick and Babs years ago. Tackling each other and fighting without actually aiming to do real damage. Only pausing to jump down to the street or through a window here and there to knock some heads together.

By the time he was heading to the Dead Man’s Hand so he could walk Jazz home - or whisk her off to his safehouse, if he was lucky and she was able to duck her siblings for the day - he felt lighter. Steph would look after the Alley, the people he protected. He’d work with her over the next few months, get her integrated with his lieutenants and make sure she was familiar with the ins and outs of his little slice of Gotham, make sure she was as ready as she could be to take over for him.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #jason todd #stephanie brown #jason & steph sibling bonding for the win #anger management #jazz fenton #crime alley #jason retiring as red hood #jason asking steph to take over looking after crime alley for him #my head canon is that the second Jason realizes he's a dad in any capacity he's gonna walk away from the vigilante/crime lord life #he just wouldn't be able to do it to his kid #Steph and Jason would be friends you can't convince me otherwise #they'd get each other in a way I don't think the rest of the batfam would #also Jason and Barbara teaming up to be overwatch would be amazing #the amount of snark and sass that everyone would get over comms would be unending #i'm so fucking glad to be finally writing again god damn #trying to point my brain back to business of family but this particular au has me in a chokehold right now #i just wanna write the scene were Harley shows up covered in blood and hugs Jason & Babs & tells them they're safe #because she finally killed that fucking evil ass clown #bc the Joker threatened the family Jason was building for himself #and Aunt Harley wasn't having any of that fuck you very much for thinking otherwise Joker #ghosts of gotham au

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thefangirlofhp · 6 months

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25. fireplace

“Now why would I do that?”

Elain looks over from her Herbology textbook at Azriel, hunched over the long table reading yesterday’s print of The Daily Prophet. Next to them, Rhysand and Cassian have settled into a game of chess a few minutes ago.

“Come on, mate,” Rhys persuades him, from where he’s sitting next to Elain. “Mum would love to have you there. We’d have proper fun. Cassian’s coming.”

Cassian snaps his head up from the chess board and pointedly glares at Rhys. “I said I’m going if Az is.”

“Shut up,” Rhys waves him quiet. “Mor will be there.”

“She’s your cousin, of course she is,” Azriel replies, uninterested, as he turns a page. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Now you aren’t,” Rhys argues. “But it’s not for another two weeks. Eh? I could lend you guys some of my clothes, you wouldn’t have to worry about getting fitted or anything. Better yet, Mum would make you robes on the spot if I tell her you’re coming.”

“Rhys, man,” Azriel sighs, and lays a scarred hand flat on top of the newspaper. “I’m really honored you want me there, but it’s not my crowd.”

“It’s a New-Years ball, at my parents’,” Rhys reiterates. “We’ll fuck around with the guests for a bit, steal a couple of drinks, break into Dad’s office, and have fun at my place. What about that isn’t your crowd?”

Azriel blinks down at the paper, quiet, as a muscle in his jaw flickers. Cassian glances at him, before turning back to Rhys.

“Maybe drop it?” Cassian suggests quietly. “Don’t pressure him.”

“You’re gonna make a move or not?!” demands a chess piece, that Rhys promptly moves before looking back at Azriel.

“What are you even going to do over the holidays?” Rhys asks. “Stay here alone all break?”

“I’ve got work to catch on,” Azriel replies quietly. “I’m way back.”

“Hey, I’ve got you covered on that,” Rhys presses. “And the professors understand. Come to the ball, change of air. What do you say?”

Elain leans against the table edge, watching Azriel purse his lips tightly.

“Sleep on it,” she suggests softly, as three pairs of eyes swivel to her. “Could be nice. Does he have to answer now?” she asks Rhys.

“No,” he quickly answers. “No, of course. She’s right. Think it over, yeah? You can’t let Cass go alone.”

Azriel nods once. “I’ll think about it.”

Rhys nods and returns to his and Cassian’s chess game. Elain meets Azriel’s eyes and offers an encouraging smile.

“Oh, and Elain, you’re welcome too, obviously,” Rhys remembers, a few minutes later. “Sorry, it slipped my mind.”

“Thank you,” she smiles politely. “It’d be a pleasure, but I’ve got plans with my family for the holiday.”

“Ah,” Rhys blinks. “That’s a shame. But have fun, yeah.”

She smiles again, and returns to her Herbology and swirling thoughts. She, too, like Azriel is very much behind on their work. Only Azriel has a plausible and legitimate reason but Elain’s is her lost grasp on reality. The stress makes it worse, as she’s realized, and this state of hers only generates more for her to worry over and on goes the vicious cycle.

She does think a change of scenery would be good for him; this year has been rough on all of them, but for Azriel it’s been one punch after the other. From being interrogated almost monthly by the Ministry aurors for potential relations to Hybern’s supporters (an unfortunate consequence of being the Shadowsinger family’s heir, the first actual shadowsinger in several generations) and most recently his mother’s passing away. Elain feels as if it has upended his life in a way, as whatever boy he was before this was no longer found in the aftermath. Azriel had left the school to bury her, and what came back was a solemn and reserved young man—granted he has always kept to himself, to a certain degree, but it was attributable to his shy nature and unique personality. But something was different, now, and Elain hopes it is only the grief.

When most of the students in the Great Hall have retired to their dormitories, and Elain’s too drowsy to make sense of the blurring words on the pages, Azriel takes a look at her and folds up the newspaper neatly.

“Come on,” he climbs over the table and shuts her textbook. “Bed.”

She yawns. “But ‘m not tired.”

“Elain, do you really want to risk actual sleep for half-assed no-yield studying?” Azriel packs her things up into her bag and slings it over his shoulder. “Could you guarantee another chance to sleep?”

She stands up, and follows him to the doors. “You’re right,” she mumbles. “But I want to stay up with you. I know you’re not getting any sleep.”

“I’m fine,” he replies. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Don’t have to,” she insists. “I’m right as rain.”

Azriel sighs. “Yeah. Plans with your family over the holidays? Since when?”

“Well, I am going to see Nesta, and spend time with Father,” Elain frowns. “What’s so unbelievable about that?”

Azriel raises a brow at her. “Didn’t you say your Father’s in Brazil?”

Elain blinks. “I actually forgot about that. But I’m going home, nonetheless. And you should stay with the Blackwoods. I hate to think of you here alone.”

“Look, let’s agree to suspend our mutual worry for each other and just focus on our own selves, how about that?”

Elain snorts. That meant she was winning. They reach the Hufflepuff corridor, and Elain turns to Azriel. “Hey,” she reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Think it over, really, okay?”

His eyes flicker over her face, his own unreadable and encrypted with his narrowed brows and clenched jaw. “I will,” he replies softly.

“Liar,” she breathes out.

He pauses.

“What are you hiding?” it is a rhetoric question, of course. If she thought whatever he had going on was something he could actually talk about, she’d have long ago pressed him for answers. But Elain kept his mother’s passing in mind, the bare minimum of excuses, while keeping a close eye on him. But she supposes what she wants to say is something like; I see you and I don’t understand, but I see something is the matter.

Azriel shakes his head a beat late. “Nothing,” he softly lies, and she supposes he knows already by now she can hear the lies just as well as the truth. “Good night, Elain.”

She watches him go. “Night, Az.”

#hogwarts!au #strikes again #reader: so it's really either a short nonsensical word vomit or an intricate scene from a fic with insider references and details #to the overall plot that you're not really revealing?#me: uh yeah :)) yes you are correct :))#elain archeron #rhysand #cassian #hufflepuff!elain #ravenclaw!azriel #slytherin!rhysand #gryffindor!cassian #no i will not accept any different houses this is final #although i would turn a blind eye to rhys being in ravenclaw but his slytherin characteristics are overwhelming #maybe one day i'll get to sit down and write this entirely #when i'm done with apaixonar and the last chapter of loea #hogwarts elriel #because i am a sucker for that #cheers

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valiantstarlights · 11 months

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[Dreamling Week Day 5: Jealousy] The Feeling of Freedom

This is from my Dreamling Hamilton AU where Hob lost his memory during the American Revolutionary War and now goes by Captain Gideon "Leon" Roberts.

You don't need to read the story in AO3 to understand what's going on. 😊 Just imagine it's a Regency AU but Hamilton is in it.

CW: period-typical homophobia because this is set in 1789 Albany, New York.

(Because I fucking love Bridgerton's idea of playing modern songs as orchestral music during balls, this piano cover of Only Love Can Hurt Like This by Paloma Faith is the song I imagined Dream and Hob danced to, but at 75% speed. Please listen to it! It's very lovely, and the song's lyrics are highkey dreamling vibes. 🖤)

"May I have this dance?"

Dream's head snaps towards Colonel Hamilton, who has jokingly (and with an unnecessary gentlemanly flourish), held his hand out to Captain Roberts.

"No, Alex," Captain Roberts replies, amused at his friend's antics but keeping his hands firmly behind his back. "Go dance with Mrs. Hamilton. I have no intention of having my feet be stepped on tonight."

"Slander!" Colonel Hamilton exclaims, eyes bright and merry and not offended at all. "You forget, my dear Leon, that I was one of the people who taught you how to dance."

"And you forget that it was Monsieur Lafayette who actually put me through my paces while you and Laurens danced like a couple of attendees at a bacchanalia."

"Oh, come now, it's a slow song they're playing next," Colonel Hamilton wheedles. "And yes, I have asked the lovely Ms. Jessamy to tell me the order of the songs to be performed so that I may know when to ask you for a dance, for I know you dislike fast-paced music with a passion. You're welcome. Now dance with me to gentle the sting of your cruel words."

Dream takes this as an opportunity to smoothly insert himself into the conversation. And as the party's host, he can do whatever he damn well please and Colonel Hamilton will just have to grit his teeth and deal with it.

"Ah, Captain Roberts, there you are," he says, and steps next to Leon. "Excuse me, Colonel Hamilton. If I might steal the good captain away? He has promised to dance the next song with me."

Captain Roberts hides his surprise well, but Colonel Hamilton's brows shoot up to his forehead as he looks between Dream and Captain Roberts. "Really."

"Yes," Dream says simply, then holds out a gloved hand for Captain Roberts to take. "Shall we take our places, Captain? The song is about to start."

"O-oh, yes. Yes, of course," Captain Roberts says. He takes Dream's hand and allows him to lead them both to the dance floor, Colonel Hamilton following them with his gaze.

There are other couples already on the dance floor, most of them ladies who are laughing gaily with their friends at the opportunity to be able to dance with one another at a formal ball. Dream knows from their daydreams which ones actually have romantic feelings for each other.

He is glad to be able to provide this chance for them.

"When exactly did you ask me to dance, Mr. Murphy?" Captain Roberts asks when they were out of earshot from the colonel. He doesn't sound angry at Dream for being presumptuous, at least. Just confused. "Have I missed a social contract entirely? Again?"

"No," Dream says, keeping his voice low in case anyone is eavesdropping. "I was only trying to remove you from your conversation with Colonel Hamilton. I couldn't help but notice that you looked uncomfortable."

His body language certainly implied as much, though Dream does not divulge the entire reason for his interrupting the conversation, which is that he doesn't want Captain Roberts to dance with another man. Even if that man were his friend, Colonel Hamilton.

Especially if that man were his friend, Colonel Hamilton.

"Ah." Captain Roberts glances to the side where Colonel Hamilton is still watching them curiously. He shuffles his feet a little. Then, catching himself doing it, stops entirely. "It's not that I am uncomfortable with him. He is my friend, after all. It is only..." He sighs and lowers his voice. "I do not want to dance with him. If I were to do so, I am afraid it will only dredge up old memories that have grown more painful with time. We...had a mutual friend, back in the war. Alex always used to dance with him."

In his mind, Captain Roberts is remembering a young man laughing together with Colonel Hamilton, their heads bent together as they danced near a bonfire, fingers intertwined and eyes speaking volumes of their regard for each other.

Dream recognizes the man as Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens. He had often dreamed about abolishing slavery and growing old with a red-haired man. He has been in his sister's realm for seven years now.

Through Captain Roberts's memories, Dream also sees Colonel Hamilton's devastated features when he received the letter from John Laurens's father, informing them of John's death.

He sees how Captain Roberts, along with Mrs. Hamilton and the Hamilton children, slowly but surely coaxed Colonel Hamilton back to living his life to the fullest.

Alexander Hamilton may never be the same again after John Laurens's death, but he would have been in a worse state had Captain Roberts, their mutual friend from the war, not been there to help him recover.

It is exactly what Hob would have done.

And while the man in front of Dream might be calling himself Captain Roberts now due to his memory loss, in Dream's eyes, he will always be his beloved Hob Gadling.

"I see," Dream says. He spends a moment wondering if he was in the wrong about interrupting the two men's conversation the way he did, now knowing about Colonel Hamilton's regard for the late lieutenant colonel, but decides that he does not regret his action at all, not when it gave him this opportunity to dance with Captain Roberts. "I hope Colonel Hamilton knows what a good friend you are to him."

The captain chuckles and tugs at his left ear. A gesture that is becoming beloved to Dream, as it indicates the man's shy pleasure. "I tend to remind him when he has passed the three-hour mark talking about the Constitution."

"Three?" Dream repeats, teasingly. "Then you must have more patience than the rest of New York's politicians put together."

Captain Roberts laughs, but does not refute the claim. It brings Dream joy to see the man at ease in his presence, though he notes that he still looks a little uncomfortable, glancing this way and that.

And in his mind, Dream sees exactly what he's worrying about. Countless, faceless, well-dressed people whispering about him, eyeing him with disgust, spitting at the face of his happiness.

That will not do.

Dream takes Captain Roberts's hand on his own again until the man looks up at him.

"Do not think of them," Dream says. "While we dance, look only at me and forget the rest of the world."

It is a bold statement to make, but Captain Roberts nods, and flushes prettily, eyes on Dream's, pupils dilating. "I...yes, of course. As you say, Mr. Murphy."

The image in his mind changes as he speaks. He is now thinking about the warmth of Dream's hand in his, and how close the two of them will be, while dancing. He imagines his hand on Dream's shoulder, and Dream's hand on his lower back, their breaths mingling, and feeling Dream's exhale on his lips.

He is almost shivering in want.

Dream pulls him closer and makes his daydreams a reality as the music starts.

After, when the last of the musical notes have faded and the people have started to clap for the musicians, Captain Roberts looks pleasantly dazed, and his cheeks are flushed with exertion and pleasure both.

Dream has yet to let go of him. He does not want to. Not yet, at least. And as the party's host, he can do whatever he damn well please and everyone will just have to deal with it or leave. The front door is unlocked. They are free to remove themselves from Dream's presence whenever they wish.

As long as Captain Roberts stays, Dream does not care about anyone else. Jessamy, Lucienne, and the others will deal with the other guests for him.

"Ah, Mr. Murphy," Colonel Hamilton says, walking up to them now that the song is over. "May I steal Leon away?"

"I'm afraid not, Colonel Hamilton," Dream replies smoothly and genially, unwilling to relinquish Captain Roberts's hand just yet. And for his part, the captain looks content to be where he is, holding Dream's hand, also unwilling to let go. "You see, Captain Roberts has allowed me the pleasure of having his next two dances, which are the last of the evening. I believe he is effectively mine for the rest of the night."

#Dreamling Hamilton AU #dreamling #DreamlingWeek #DreamlingWeek2023 #the sandman #my writing #hamilton: oh my god i gotta tell leon he's bi before he panics when he realizes he has a crush on mr. murphy #dream: actually no capt. roberts is mine forever and you can fuck right off #hob!leon: i am...in heaven?? mr. murphy is holding my hand 🥰 alex i wanna kiss him #hamilton: i have been banned from talking to you look mr. murphy gave me a restraining order #hob!leon: isn't he the best 😭😭😭#you guys have no idea how long this dance scene has been sitting in my mind waiting for an opportune moment to be written 😭#they're finally out in society and i'm so proud of them 😭

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aria0fgold · 1 year

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HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY TO MARI! (Ft. OAFB Mari)

Once again, from the beginning. With overlapping memories, I venture into a dull world with you. The painting of a sunny beach led us to the darkness and within it hid, a monster one can only call Regret.

. . .

It’s all my fault. I’m the one to blame. But it’ll be alright, everything is going to be okay. After all, I’m a perfect older sister.

#ariart #omori #omori au #omori mari #omori sunny #omori spoilers #ohboy... this is finally done #i was thinking of fully rendering everything #but it alrdy looks good as it is rn so!#contains scenes from my fanfic ehehehe #as well as the link self promo baaabbyyy

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crystalpallette · 9 months

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big thanks to @lutiaslayton for offering a theory on what emmy's butterfly could be! i have managed to finally puzzle it out, so here's a bit pertaining to it as celebration!

After some amount of incorrect answers, Luke sighs. "Professor," he says finally. "I... may have to use a hint coin." There's a palpable tone of disappointment in his voice- understandably, Emmy thinks, that would have been his eleventh consecutive puzzle solved without using hints.

The Professor laughs. "There's no shame in admitting you need help every now and then," he says. "Go ahead."

Luke perks up at the words and leaps for his satchel on the floor next to him. He digs around in it, a little hand eventually emerging with a hint coin that sparkles in the sunlight. He positions it on his hand and flicks the coin into the air with his thumb, and they all watch as it spins up and dissolves into a cloud of golden dust. It hangs in the air for a second, then begins its descent. Luke waits patiently for the cloud and the flash of inspiration it inevitably brings.

It never comes.

The shards of Emmy's butterfly, currently lying on the table next to her bed, begin to glow a bright red. The hint coin's dust is seemingly sucked in, funneling towards the former butterfly and disappearing into the glow, which has turned more orangey-red.

Rather like a mix of the butterfly's red and the hint coin's gold, Emmy thinks absently. Everyone in the room stares in silent shock as the glow fades as if it'd never existed.

"Emmy," Luke says slowly. "Did your butterfly just... eat my hint coin?" When she directs her incredulous look to him, he raises his hands defensively. "How else would you explain what just happened?!"

Try as she might, Emmy can't think of a better alternative. Truly, "the butterfly ate Luke's hint coin" is the best they've got.

#professor layton #butterfly's effect au #emmy altava #hershel layton #luke triton #it honestly put together the bits i had written super well? i dont think it could have gone better ngl so thank you again!!#there's a bit of context missing from the scene but hopefully it makes sense haha #it's all explained later on but i don't wanna give too much away at the moment #'i want to share all of it now' vs 'wait for the final full reveal' fight!!

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brinkle-brackle · 8 months

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✨️trouble with a capital t✨️

hi hello fellow trekkies please hear me out

#the music man #star trek #qcard #this totally wasn’t birthed from watching tmm with my mom and marian the librarian getting stuck in my head for like a week straight #and then my brain went hey. what if. the library scene. but qcard.#literally their whole dynamic is harold hill and marian paroo #WHY IS Q SO HARD TO DRAW. LIKE I CAN'T GET HIS HAIR RIGHT FOR THE LIFE OF ME #i feel like i did it the best in the panel where his eyes are closed #i love this au so much it's been bouncing around in my head for like 2 weeks and now i finally have inspiration to draw shit >:))#more of this au coming soon (next time with actual jean-luc content)#yahoooooo #also i might end up making a fic for this who knows? we'll see :))#qcard au #q x picard #picard x q #q #q star trek #captain jean luc picard #jean luc picard #professor harold hill #harold hill #marian paroo #star trek the next generation #the next generation #star trek tng #tng #st tng #musical theater #musicals #my art

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gonzaburrow · 1 year

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Flash Floods

(Context, this is canon-divergent and years after they're done with school. Tashiro is a bartender at weddings and Hanzawa is a wedding planner. They unexpectedly ran into each other at an event they're both working. Slowly but surely I am piecing together a plot for all these scenes with hamfisted water metaphors...)

Tashiro's shift ends late; he checks the time and there should be just enough to catch the next train. So he's running from the venue to the station.

If he misses this train it's another hour or two until the next one, he's out in the boonies.

He's running.

He feels free.

He's running and the autumn air is crisp and sharp in his lungs.

He's running.

And now it's raining.

It starts as a few drops: a warning.

He could turn around and head back, find shelter, but he elects to continue.

It's raining harder. He's giving it his all to get to the remote station sooner.

A small pothole trips him up, he stumbles but manages to catch himself. It's all for naught, because a larger pothole was lying in wait.

Tashiro's face first in the dirt that's turning to mud. Rain is pelting his back and taunting him.

He picks himself up and admits defeat. He's walking to the station; the rain is unrelenting and unforgiving.

He makes it to the safety of the enclosed shelter, grateful for the door. It's raining so much and Tashiro's looking through the glass ceiling. He's in a sub-aquatic vehicle, just thin glass separating him from pure and utter destruction.

His phone shrieks and there's an emergency alert- flash floods are imminent and the trains are shut down for the foreseeable future.

Shit.

He's laying down, eyes closed, letting the rhythmic drumming of rain send him into a nap. It's not a great nap, every time he's on the precipice of deep sleep Tashiro's pulled back out by the roar of thunder.

This is what working hard and saying yes to people gets you, he tells himself. Stranded, cold, wet, and alone in a shelter.

Sleep beckons him once more despite the cacophony happening on the other side of glass. Tashiro submits without protest, and he's pretty sure he hits at least a few seconds of deep sleep.

The next clap of thunder is accompanied by lighting and his little shelter shakes, it feels like it could be ripped up from the ground. It jolts Tashiro from sleep, the thunder and lighting continue. The only light is a small overhead light struggling to stay lit and the lightning.

The shelter is illuminated, but a shadow is cast that Tashiro knows wasn't there before. He whips his body around so fast he falls off his bench.

The ground is cold and hard and filthy. Tashiro's looking up with trepidation at the new figure, wondering how long they'd been there. He can't make out their features until lighting strikes once more.

It's Hanzawa. And the way the light shines on his face is a step from nightmarish.

Tashiro doesn't know what he should be feeling. Hanzawa Masato always did have a knack for finding him, and it makes Tashiro wonder if there's been a tracker implanted on his person all along.

He comes to his senses and picks himself up, brushing off the dust; it's a silly gesture because he's still caked with dried mud. He's painfully aware that his socks and shoes are still soaked, his hair is half undone from his naps, and the dirt under his fingernails becomes too apparent.

It's raining and the two men are staring in silence.

Tashiro wills himself to say something- anything, but his body does not acquiesce; he's opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

The rain continues its assault on the world.

Tashiro isn't sure if he's more grateful or nervous that Hanzawa speaks first.

"I was looking for you, Tashiro."

The way his name spills from the other man's mouth steals Tashiro's breath for a second. And then he's all too aware of his breathing pattern, quick little breaths in and out. Tashiro is a rabbit in the woods, and whatever Hanzawa is, is large and unknown and that alone makes him terrifying.

He can only summon breath for one word: "Why?"

Lightning hits again and Hanzawa isn't wearing his usual mask. There's a tightness around his mouth and Tashiro's betting that his jaw is clenched.

Hanzawa sighs before answering. "I was going to offer you a ride; I know you don't live near here. But when I went to find you at the venue you were gone. The other bartenders told me where you catch the train and I got worried with the weather."

"Oh yeah, that makes sense. I wasn't trying to avoid you." But he was. And Tashiro hated how the lie felt in his mouth. He didn't really know why he was avoiding the other man, it was a bit reflexive. "But you really didn't have to come out here, now we're both stuck."

In the dim lighting, he can see Hanzawa stand and take a step closer.

He steps back. Once, twice, and then his knees are hitting the bench behind him and he falls onto it. Hanzawa continues his advance.

Tashiro looks anywhere but in front of him, like if he didn't look at the other man then maybe he wasn't really so close. What was Hanzawa going to do? Tashiro's heart was racing, did he remember how to breathe anymore? What was he supposed to do with his hands, or his legs that Hanzawa's own were bumping into.

The other man raises a hand and as it approaches Tashiro's face he squeezes his eyes closed.

There was a gentle brush of skin on skin; Hanzawa wiping dirt from his cheek with the most tender touch.

"If it's with you, I don't mind being stuck."

No one had ever spoken or touched Tashiro in that way. Like one wrong move would cause him to shatter into a million pieces. He liked it, but the rawness and intimacy of it all scared him. Petrified him.

Hanzawa presses on, taking his time rubbing dirt away from Tashiro's face while speaking. And Tashiro lets him continue his ministrations; it seemed like the easier path at the moment.

"Why do you keep avoiding me? I think this is the most we've spoken since we met again."

Tashiro places his hand over Hanzawa’s; grips it and lowers it and holds it in in between both of his hands. He finally looks up at the other man.

"Uggfhh." He tries to speak but only a jumbled noise comes out. He forces himself to take a deep breath and try again. "Honestly? This is going to sound absolutely awful of me, but I…don't…know? It's just-" He swallows, and scratches his head with their conjoined hands. "I never expected to see you there, after all this time, after how we parted. My flight instincts are still strong I suppose." He shrugs.

He doesn't know when he started, but Tashiro's shaking a little and hopes Hanzawa hasn't noticed, but he's sure he has. His head feels heavy at the admission and he wants to cry.

Something wet rolls down Tashiro's cheek, and he hopes Hanzawa didn't notice. "Ah, guess there's a leak in here somewhere." He tries to play it off.

Hanzawa stops looming and sits next to him, hands still joined. He isn't looking in Tashiro's direction when he replies. "Ah yeah, it seems there is."

The silence is heavy, and they're sitting with fingers threaded together. Where their skin meets is hot and sweaty and Tashiro hopes it's not all him.

It's still raining.

Time has lost all meaning; they could have been trapped for minutes or hours, Tashiro doesn't know and doesn't move to check his phone.

At some point, their thighs touch on the bench, and the warmth seeping into him from the contact sends a shiver through him. Tashiro doesn't move for fear of breaking this peace between them.

His face is wet; silent tears had tumbled down his face but had yet to dry.

The drumming of rain slows.

Tashiro dares to ruin the silence. "It's not worth much anymore, but I'm sorry. I know we can't go back, and I don't know how to go forward now. Everything just feels-" He sucks in a deep quivering breath, begging his words to sound stronger than he feels. "-wrong." he finishes with a whisper.

Hanzawa squeezes Tashiro's hand and nudges his calf with a foot. He still won't look his way, but responds nonetheless. "I was wrong, too. All this wasn't one sided; I'm just as culpable as you. Probably more."

When Hanzawa finally twists his body, one leg on the bench sitting sideways to face Tashiro, it's with the most pained expression Tashiro's ever seen. His tidy hair is a mess, eyes bloodshot beyond belief, and face just as wet as Tashiro's own feels.

"Is it really so wrong to want still?"

Tashiro's broken heart breaks further.

"Wish I knew. God, why did things have to get so heavy? I'm no good at this." Tashiro takes a dirty hand and wipes Hanzawa's face, a trail of dirt left in its wake. "Do you think it's possible to push pause on the heavy stuff, Hanzawa? I don't wanna pretend it never happened, but maybe we branch off and revisit it later?"

Tashiro can't imagine having this conversation with anyone else. There's a dam that keeps all his deep, weird emotions back. He's pretty sure no one else would be able to treat him the same after hearing the woes that slumber in the abyss of his heart. No one but Hanzawa.

Hanzawa stands and pulls Tashiro with him. "There's no harm in trying." He maneuvers them to the door, one hand poised to push it open. "I'm glad you're letting us try again. I'm still struggling with forgiveness, if I'm being honest."

Tashiro stops and anchors Hanzawa in the shelter. Tashiro's face feels tight. "Oh." It's quiet, and the only indication Hanzawa heard is the way his fingers twitch against Tashiro's hand. "I mean, it was so long ago I barely remember what happened." It was the most obvious lie he's ever told. So transparent, like the glass above their heads. "You…don't feel like you need to forgive me. It's okay."

When Tashiro looks up, Hanzawa's expression is equal parts confused and distraught.

"There was never anything to forgive you for, Tashiro." Hanzawa heaves a heavy breath. "I was talking about forgiving myself."

"Oh. Oh."

"Yeah."

The rain is softly pattering, a few drops drum every couple seconds.

Hanzawa pushes the door open, and pulls Tashiro outside with him. "Well, come along Tashiro. I'm parked a few blocks away. We can finish this conversation another time."

It's drizzling; the rain has eased up.

#hanzawa to tashiro #hanzashiro #tashiro gonzaburou #hanzawa masato #sasaki to miyano #this was originally going to be a complete AU but then I realized the weight of their past together makes it so much better #this was a long one #guesstimating the final completed story will be like 20-25k?#their scene in the train shelter was inspired by that one scene from My Summer of You

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