#babble for the cowl | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mangoisms · 10 months

Text

circle k (back to you)

summary: in which you're just the graveyard shift employee at circle k bombarded by vigilantes.

━ chapter two: it’s getting late | read chapter one

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 4.5k

━ warnings: none

━ masterlist

━ a/n: would be lying if i said this was for tim's birthday tmrw. it was rlly just because the reception to chapter 1 was so lovely and i also did this with my other tim fic—posting chapter 2 early, i mean. but we'll just have to work with this. happy early birthday tim you are annoying and i want to study you under a microscope <3

You expect Red Robin’s appearance to be a one-off thing.

It is not.

Instead, the next day, you get Black Bat.

It jolts you from the phone call you’re having.

“—understand the temptation to tell them to screw off but I really don’t want to get… shot…”

You trail off, watching, wide-eyed as your newest vigilante customer steps into Circle K.

Black Bat cuts an imposing figure, her suit made up mostly of inky black material, with a few accents of gold, the Bat symbol on her chest standing out the most. Her black cape flutters behind her, moving like a shadow. She looks the most like Batman, you think, with the cowl and the pointed ears. Except the eyes of the mask are black and the bottom of her face is completely covered—stitched closed. Considerably more creepy, you think, goosebumps breaking out over your skin. Though that could be the fan you have on, fluttering your hair as it makes a slow rotation.

“Hey, did you die or something?”

“No,” you mutter, watching, your heart starting to pick up as Black Bat comes up to the counter.

You aren’t sure what you expect, but it’s not—

“Do you have Red Bull?” Her voice is low and melodic. Not befitting of her… general aura.

Wordlessly, you point to the refrigerators at the back.

“Thanks,” she says, then she turns and walks away. You can only see the top of her head and the pointed ears of her cowl. A second later, you hear the suction-y sound of the refrigerator door being opened.

A voice calls your name from the other end of the line.

Your best friend, Stephanie Brown, who gave you a call to see how your summer break has been treating you.

“Sorry,” you say, clearing your throat. “Just got distracted by something outside.”

“Something outside? That’s not reassuring. At all.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Like I was saying, I’m not gonna tell them that. It’s tempting but like I said, I don’t want to get arrested or some shit.”

“The charges wouldn’t even hold. It’s a free country. I can tell a cop to fuck off if I want to. That’s my god-given right.”

“I appreciate the spirit, but I don’t think the GCPD would agree with you.”

“Well, the GCPD can kiss my ass.”

“You and me both, Stephie. You and me both. So, how’s, uh, Metropolis?”

“Metropolis is Metropolis. Brainiac nearly took control of the city yesterday but what’s new? Mom’s having a good time, though. Even if things are way overpriced over here. I mean, seriously. Eight bucks for a cup of coffee at this place we went to today. They’re crazy.”

Steph babbles in your ear for a few more minutes. Long enough for Black Bat to reemerge from the aisle, two cans of Red Bull and a bag of Takis and a pack of sour gummy worms in hand. You wonder who the second person is. Red Robin, maybe?

He’d been odd about the hot chocolates. Odd in general. But that’s what you get with these vigilante types.

No matter. You quickly focus on your current situation, giving Black Bat a small, embarrassed smile and pointing at the phone crammed between your shoulder and ear, mouthing Sorry.

You shouldn’t be doing this on the job and you should’ve told Steph you had to go but quite frankly, you need the assurance of another person with you. Even if said person can’t do anything and is across the harbor in Metropolis on a mini-vacation with her mom.

Black Bat shouldn’t give you trouble about it. You hope. She just scares you a little more than Red Robin. Which is silly because he’s a guy and probably more potentially dangerous but. You know. Her suit is just… too similar to Batman’s, and he’s the one who scares you the most.

Still, Black Bat just shrugs and waves a hand. “It’s fine.”

You nod your thanks, then scan everything and bag it. She pulls out a twenty dollar bill from her utility belt and you give her the change, which she promptly puts in the tip jar. A kind gesture, really, considering the twenty is a bit of an overshoot for her total, leaving you with a nice tip.

You guess that if anything else, at least it’s nice that these vigilantes tip.

After dropping the receipt into the bag, she takes it and waves at you.

Mystified, you wave back.

Then she steps out, cape fluttering behind her.

“Anyway,” Steph says on the other end as you focus on her voice again. “It’s pretty fun but I miss home. Can’t wait to be back in the city. We’re hanging out as soon as I do, by the way. How are things with you?”

Oh, you can’t keep it in. You have to tell her.

“I saw the Flash two days ago.”

But she misunderstands.

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “I saw that in the news. ‘Cause of Trickster, right? Bet Batman wasn’t happy about that.”

“No,” you say. “I’m saying I saw him. Here. At Circle K. He dropped in to grab a bite to eat. I know you and Tim absolutely refuse to believe me when I say he visited me and that we’re friends—which, by the way, he totally reaffirmed when I saw him—but he was here.”

“We’re jealous, that’s all,” she says. “Just don’t want you running off with the Flash thinking he’s cooler than we are. Which, to be clear, he isn’t. Not me, anyway. Tim is up for debate.”

“Well, you’re about to be a little more jealous.”

“And why is that?”

“Because since he visited, weird shit has started happening.”

“Weird shit is always happening in Gotham. What is so special about this weird shit in particular?”

“Oh, he said something stupid to Red Robin—Red Robin came in a little while after he did, I guess they were working together to track down Trickster—anyway, he was talking about how I’m… scared of the Bats—”

“Are you scared of the Bats?”

You throw up a hand, though she can’t see it. “I have a healthy amount of fear and respect for them—and on that note, please don’t tell anyone else I’m telling you this.”

“Of course.”

“Right, well, Flash was just ragging him, you know? About how he has a better relationship with me, someone who doesn’t even live in Keystone or Central, than the Bats do.”

“So?”

“So,” you blow out a big breath, “Red Robin showed up yesterday to get some hot chocolate—”

“Hot chocolate?” Steph asks, disbelieving.

“Yeah. He said it was a better alternative to coffee. Guess he’s not into energy drinks. Weirdo. The whole thing about it—weird. Like… I don’t know. He was just acting weird when he was asking if we had any.”

“… That is weird,” she says, an odd note to her voice. She clears her throat. “And then?”

“I knew why he was doing it so I told him he didn’t have to come around ‘cause he and the others obviously need to uphold a specific perception, right? Then he was all, Well, what does a civilian like you know about it? Can you believe they unironically call us that?”

Steph laughs. She laughs hard.

You wait it out, not entirely sure what or why she is laughing so hard but it’s not the first time she’s ever done that, so you can just let it go.

“Okay,” she giggles. “Sorry. Keep going. What else happened?”

“He left. But then, y’wanna guess who just showed up right now?”

“Who? Batman?”

“God, no. It was Black Bat. She was nice enough. Gave me a big tip. Creepy suit, though.”

“What’d she’d get?”

“Two Red Bulls, a bag of Takis and a pack of sour gummy worms. Wonder who that second Red Bull is for. And the snacks. Red Robin realizing hot chocolate in June is weird? Hard to imagine him eating Takis, though. He’s probably like Tim, saying they’re ‘too hot’.”

Steph laughs again for a while.

“Oh, god, you’re killing me,” she gasps out when she calms.

You shake your head, rubbing your finger over a scratch mark in the counter. “I don’t know what is so funny but sure.”

“So, then, what? You think you’re just gonna some more vigilantes? ‘Cause it’s only been two so far.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you grumble. “But it’s two. When previously, this has never happened.”

“True! Well… any preferences? For who comes next?”

“Anyone but Batman, thanks.”

Your next visitor is not Batman.

It is, in a turn of events that makes a little more sense, the Signal.

A few days after your call with Steph, things are fine, until your manager posts to the team group chat about wanting someone for an afternoon shift, saying someone quit unexpectedly. Not one to say no to some extra cash, you latch onto the opportunity—even if it’s an admittedly questionable idea. You try not to work weekends to let yourself recuperate from sustaining your not-so-great sleep schedule.

Anyway, you feel and look like a zombie, but you get your work done.

“I can help the next person in line,” you call.

A tall, broad-shouldered stocky older man with long blonde hair and blue eyes behind coke-bottle glasses steps up, armed with two large cups of coffee. The scrubs he wears clues you into some kind of healthcare position.

“Hi, did you find everything—”

The door opens, your eyes automatically flickering to the movement, and your voice cuts out sharply as you realize who it is.

The Signal stands there a bit awkwardly for a moment as all of you look—the blonde man at the counter and the other man waiting in line.

“Hey, you!”

You flinch, tensing, already fearing a confrontation as the other man steps forward, pointing at the Signal. The one in question tenses, shoulders rising, like he’s preparing to fight. You hope not. That would be a lot of paperwork for you. It’s the manager’s, technically, to report any damage done by vigilantes, but they always give it to you or the other employees on the floor.

But it is not as you feared. Instead of picking a fight, the man… thanks him?

“You’re the Signal, right? Right? You saved my son a few months ago from some muggers following him home from school. Thank you, man. Seriously, I can’t thank you enough. He wouldn’t be here with me if it weren’t for you,” the man says, holding out a hand.

“Hey, man,” Signal says, reaching out to shake his hand. “It was nothing. I’m glad I was there to help.”

“Are you here to buy something? Let me cover you. Please. It’s the least I can do—”

“Oh, you really don’t need to—”

“That went better than expected.”

The soft-spoken voice brings you out of your thoughts and you belatedly realize you still have a customer to take care of. But when you look at him, he is watching the Signal try to tell the other man that he doesn’t have to pay for him, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” you say. “Good thing. Signal’s a good guy.”

He turns back to you as you scan the cups of coffee, pulling out a wallet.

“He is,” he agrees easily—meaning his words, too, a genuine conviction you don’t hear often associated with the vigilantes of the city.

Signal manages to hold firm on not needing the man to pay, repeating that he was just doing his job, and thankfully, the man accepts it with good graces.

You quickly get your current customer wrapped up while the Signal steps into the chip aisle.

You pass him the receipt. “Thank you, have a good day.”

He sends you a small, handsome smile, picking up the cups of coffee. “Thank you, you, too.”

The one after him steps up to pay, talking jovially with you, spirits still apparently lifted at seeing Signal and being able to thank him. It’s a nice moment, you think, and you make sure to respond in kind.

The door swings shut behind him just as Signal re-emerges from the chip aisle, holding a can of Monster Energy and a bag of chile picante Cornnuts. The combination is… surely something. You let yourself slip with it, too, because you’ve personally heard a lot of good things about him. The fact that he works during the day helps his case, too.

“I need the energy,” Signal says, seeing that thought in your face; he doesn’t sound mad, though, just vaguely amused. His suit is filled with more yellow tones, still intimidating but not as much in the daylight, a helmet of sorts leaving only his mouth exposed.

“It’ll definitely give you… something,” you say, chuckling as you scan both.

He pats his stomach. “I have guts of steel. Don’t worry about it.”

“Not a problem as long as I never have to hear ‘guts of steel’ ever again. Jesus. Is that just a natural thing of your biology or is it evolutionary-based?”

“This life isn’t for the faint of heart or stomach,” he agrees, passing you a five dollar bill. “Adaptation is key.”

“I bet.”

Signal laughs, taking his change and dropping it into the tip jar. You smile, too, shaking your head slightly.

“Have a good day.”

He tips his Red Bull at you. “You, too.”

Guts of steel. You nearly can’t believe it.

You pick up your phone, finding your conversation with Tim. You and Steph are hanging out tomorrow, so you’ll tell her about it, then. She asked him, though, and he said he was busy. Too bad. But that doesn’t mean he gets out of being subjected to those words, either.

no joke signal came in to buy a monster energy and cornnuts (a questionable combo) and when he saw me judging he said he has guts of steel

meta related do you think???

makes sense to me. you have a gene inside you that gives you literal powers i think they shouldn’t be having digestive issues/ibs like us common folk do

Your three texts, sent in quick succession, deliver. You bite the inside of your cheek as you see your previous ones still unanswered. It’s been like that for the past few weeks. Not him ignoring you but a bit of a dry spell going on in your messages that was only broken when you told Steph what happened and decided you had to tell him, too.

It’s not his fault. The dry spell from before or the lack of responses going on now.

You started the first thing. So, it’s more your fault than anything for all of that. Steph’s talked to him, though, and she’s never let up on anything amiss…

You groan quietly, dropping your phone on the counter and burying your face in your hands.

Too complicated. Too much.

It never used to be like that but… things changed recently.

You, mostly.

You met Stephanie Brown your second semester at Gotham University.

Taking your required elective, you chose Intro to Psych. She was doing the same. Though, being a social work major, psychology was practically a cousin to it.

The professor for the class turned out to be a total dud. Rambled during lecture, refused to give out study guides, and while he would give out hints as to what material might show up on exams, his questions were trick ones. When people complained, he said some crap about being in a higher ed setting and needing to do better because of it. Like his class was some 300 or 400 level course and not a literal intro course to a large and burgeoning field of study.

But classes are expensive, so, you couldn’t drop it. Refused to, really, knowing you would face much more difficult classes later on, ones you knew you might need to drop and try again. So, you weren’t going to waste the money on this type of class.

Steph was of the same thought.

She sat next to you in the lecture hall. You two didn’t talk until after the first exam and everyone was upset about their grades, the exams having been handed back at the end of class. Your shared frustration brought you together, mostly as you two were ranting about it, you packed up and wound up leaving class together, the both of you just too caught up in your anger to realize you both needed to go in opposite directions for your next class.

You initially agreed to be study partners, to cover more ground that way. But Steph managed to worm her way to your heart by the end of that semester.

Your astounding lack of friends helped, too. Even if things had been that way since your junior year of high school, even if you wanted things to remain that way to protect what little remained of your heart, the loneliness hit you harder than you thought it would when you started college.

And Steph was nice and funny and listened to you and paid attention to you and you… were so very deprived of those things, so it was nice in the beginning, but then you realized, to your own horror, that you actually wanted her to stick her around, that just as she knew nearly everything about you by the end of the semester, you knew nearly everything about her, too, and you wanted to know more, wanted to be there for her like she always was for you.

You have that and more now and you are so very lucky because of it.

Tim, though?

Tim was something else.

Steph told you she had a friend visiting.

Just that—that she had a friend visiting campus and she ‘hoped he could find his way to the computer workstation on the fourth floor because as soon as I sit down, I’m not leaving for anything other than to use the bathroom or some kind of world-ending event.’

It was a particularly grueling paper she had to churn out—twenty pages, heavily research-based with the kind of statistics that made your head spin.

Working at the front desk of the Martha Kane Library at the time, you humored her. Told her good luck and that you’d keep an eye out. The second part was a joke, of course, because she never said who was visiting her and how could you know if she never said anything?

You and Tim Drake wound up finding each other, anyway.

Well, more like he found you.

It sounds sort of romantic, right?

It’s… well, it’s certainly something.

“I’m just saying,” you’re telling him, totally neglecting your homework and the other duties you have at the front desk (you know this last part is especially true by the way your coworker, also at the front desk, is side-eyeing you but come on, there’s no one in line, so it’s fine!). “It’s a solid movie.”

Tim Drake gives you a comically disbelieving look. “A solid movie? It’s—it’s gaseous.”

“Did… you just make a physics joke? About the three states of matter?”

Tim turns an attractive shade of pink. “It’s four, actually, and, uh… yeah.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Steph is right. You really are a geek. Anyway. Cloverfield still sucks.”

“Your opinion is automatically negated by the fact that you think the Final Destination movies have any kind of substance to them.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that. I just think they’re good ‘cause of Mary Elizabeth Winstead. You probably think the Transformers movies are actually good, don’t you?”

He looks offended. “Don’t insult me. We hate Michael Bay in this house.”

“Sure.”

“But I do think Bumblebee—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Bumblebee is good for a change, we all know it. You’re probably one of those Nolan stans, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think any of what you just said are real words.”

“Oh, they’re real alright. Nolan stans are constantly on his dick, they’re all like, ‘Nolan is so deep and thoughtful and there is no one else like him.’ Wrong. I could find ten of him in the movie industry.”

Tim narrows his eyes accusingly at you. “Steph said Interstellar is your favorite movie.”

“It’s his only good movie.”

“Don’t count out Inception like that.”

“Never seen it.”

“Wow.”

“You know what you sounded like just now? A Nolan stan.”

Tim actually grins at you and your stomach flutters at the sight of it. It’s that that had drawn your eyes to him. The cute but confused looking guy loitering around nearby, systematically checking his phone and glancing around—presumably for a map of the confusing and ancient library. With dark hair, pale skin, and pretty blue eyes that make you feel unbearably seen, Tim Drake is a sight for sore eyes. Your eyes, to be certain.

Of course, you also know he’s here for Steph. That he is the friend she spoke of. And also the ex-boyfriend. That reminder sobers you considerably.

Kind of funny, really.

Much can be said about Tim Drake.

The adoptive son of Bruce Wayne. The kid who snuck into No Man’s Land on a dare and had to be extracted by the US military after his father made a fuss about it. Then later, became controlling shareholder at Wayne Enterprises for whatever reason, boosting him into a very powerful position. Then he got engaged. Then he was shot—he was meant to be killed but obviously, it hadn’t gone that way. All this at seventeen.

But eventually it petered out. He stepped down. Engagement broke off. He recovered. Now? He does some work for WE. That’s all that’s known to the press, anyway.

It’s like you said. Much can be said about Tim Drake.

But most of your impression is from Steph. He plays Warlocks and Warriors sometimes. Is a bit of a computer geek and has built his own PC for gaming. Hits the skatepark every now and then. Likes to spend time tinkering on his car. And… has strong opinions on movies.

Above it all?

He is her ex. A good friend now! But still. That fact remains.

“Anyway,” you say, adjusting your notebook, textbook, and bag of pens just to do something. “You’re here for Steph, right?”

“She told you?”

“Well, she’s obviously told you stuff about me.”

“Steph won’t shut up about you,” he says, seeming more amused than annoyed by that fact. “I can’t imagine it’s the same with me.”

“I know enough.” Like the fact that he is her literal ex-boyfriend. Even if Steph says their relationship wasn’t the greatest, had some very questionable decisions on both their parts, and ended a bit dramatically… he’s still the first person she ever fell in love with. She told you that much. “She’s upstairs on the fourth floor. Hit the elevators over there, then when you get to the fourth floor, turn left, then another left, and the computer workstations are on your right. Can’t miss them.”

“You should watch Inception,” he says, instead of acknowledging literally anything you just said.

You arch an eyebrow challengingly. “You should watch Interstellar.”

He taps a finger on the counter. “We should do both. You, me, and Steph one of these days.”

“I hate to say it, but that sounds like a good idea.”

Steph’s voice scares the shit out of you. You bang your knee on the desk, cursing.

Tim looks unruffled as she comes from the side—the direction of the elevators, joining him at the counter and nudging his shoulder as she goes. He nudges back. They keep the contact.

“Sorry, Stephie,” you say. “We got preoccupied.”

“Arguing,” she corrects, but she doesn’t look upset about it. Instead, her cobalt blue eyes twinkle with something you can’t quite identify as she drops her chin into her palm.

“We weren’t arguing,” Tim says next. “We were lightly debating.”

“Of course. My cute little movie geeks. I think Duckboy’s right, though—” Tim groans slightly and mutters her name in annoyance; she ignores it “—we should get together and see them.”

You scratch your cheek. “I don’t know. Finals—”

“—are not for another month. I say let’s do it.” She looks at Tim and jabs a thumb at you. “She needs more friends.”

“Stephanie, please.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Timothy needs more friends, too. Friends from, say, the other half.” She smiles mischievously, a joke known only by the two of them.

Tim, for his part, rolls his eyes but says nothing in protest.

You don’t need more friends. More friends is actually a very bad idea. Letting one person get close was bad enough. Another person? Hell, no…

But the look on Steph’s face tells you that you, quite frankly, have no say in the matter. And the way you and Tim ‘lightly debated’ movies for a solid half hour tells you, too, that it’ll be too easy for you and he to become friends.

You decide to shelve the issue for now as Steph tugs him away, promising you that she’ll arrange for things.

Maybe it won’t pan out. Maybe he’s actually horribly arrogant and conceited. (Though, if he’s friends with Steph, the likelihood of that is admittedly low.)

You don’t know. All you know is it’s dangerous to let yourself get close to someone else.

But that’s all rather dramatic, isn’t it?

And it didn’t turn out how you wanted—you met Tim in the first semester of your sophomore year; your junior year just ended this May. You’ve been friends with him for a year and half. Steph for two. No end appears to be in sight. But you’ve compartmentalized. It’s just two people. That’s fine.

It’s totally fine.

Even if it’s two people to match the two others you lost when you were fifteen. Like a repayment for the pain.

(Or a way to double it.)

But you lost your parents in the earthquake.

Scientists called that a once-in-a-lifetime event.

There are plenty of things going on in this city that could cost your friends their lives but… it’ll never be as devastating as the earthquake.

The earthquake where you nearly died after a piece of metal pierced your thigh, barely missing your femoral artery, and you spent the entire time from after the earthquake, when they dug your body out of the rubble, and to when they decided to exile the city, in a coma from the infection.

By the time you stabilized, you were on a helicopter to Blüdhaven, the rest of the city in a panic to leave, and your parents were officially gone by that point.

They couldn’t even find their bodies in time.

It took almost three years before they did. The year in which the government turned a blind eye to the city and cast it away, then another two years to rebuild, to sift through the ruin and destruction, to find the bones of the ones left behind since they were decomposed by then, and identifying them was an even more arduous task.

You only managed to receive the catharsis of burying them when you turned eighteen.

You might tempt fate by saying this but even if you lost either of them, the fallout would never beat that. A blessing, in that way.

But even you hate to consider the possibilities of them leaving you. For anything.

They won’t.

Everything will be fine.

It has to be.

reblogs are appreciated!

taglist: @peachesona @knoxx-seresinbradshaw @kikis-writing-service @sweetistic @soundsfunbutno @ginevraxrogers

[if you'd like to be added to the taglist (or removed), let me know here or in my inbox! ^_^]

#tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #dc comics imagine #tim drake imagine #red robin imagine #tim drake x you #tim drake x y/n #red robin x you #red robin x y/n #batfamily x reader #batfam x reader #batfam x you #batfam x y/n

336 notes · View notes

ya-zz · 4 months

Note

Hiiii! Could I request platonic headcanons of Ramattra if he took care of/adopted a human child? You write so good for Ramattra 😭!

Ramattra with children is a cute little thing for me, I love the dynamic so much, just as much as the other kinds too.

RAMATTRA

He was taken aback by this child holding his hand.

At first he didn’t know what to do. They were just there holding his hand, unafraid.

Looking down at them, he notices how fragile they were, small body and even tinier hands.

When he hears that they have nowhere to go, he takes them in, wondering if he could use them when the time comes.

Ramattra spent most of his time researching how to take care of them, giving them what they needed.

Even though they’re living with him on one of his vessels, he has everything for them; a room of their own with a bed and wardrobe of clothes.

Despite his distaste for human kind, they had grown on him.

He would sit with them, listening to them babble about random subjects, how the teddy bear they hold means so much to them.

He’d watch their eyes light up when he chuckles.

The smiles that they share with him makes his lights flicker and optics adjust.

His systems would engrain the images of them, a replay for when they’re not there.

The giggles he hears when he watches them play with the slicers, treating them like little puppies; it makes his circuits run warm.

He notices that they show no fear to him or to anyone else.

A curious kid with a heart full of love.

He keeps them by his side when he walks the ship, hand on their back to keep them from wandering.

And when they can’t walk back, he carries them in his arms.

Sometimes he’ll set them down in his chair, wrapping his cowl around them as he goes back to planning his assault.

Upon looking at them, Ramattra realises that he would protect them even if it meant it cost him his life.

#overwatch #ramattra #ramattra x reader #yazzfics

71 notes · View notes

dindjarindiaries · 4 months

Text

Dincember - December 20: Celebration

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompt: Celebration

main masterlist • dincember masterlist

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙

The sound of the N-1's engine got closer and closer, making your entire body experience a rush of excitement as you ran around the cabin turning off all the lights. Grogu cooed with his own delight, and you gently shushed him. The child giggled, giddy in anticipation as you did the same with him.

You remained in close reach of the nearest light's activator and waited for the cue. As soon as the door to the cabin slid open, you activated the light, allowing Din to see what you and Grogu had been up to in his absence.

"Surprise!" You beamed at Din as Grogu tried to babble the same word.

Din was frozen in shock, his travel knapsack haphazardly falling at his side as his visor admired all the directions. The feast on the table was fresh, thanks to Din's update about his time of arrival, and hopefully it smelled as good to Din as it did to you.

Din still didn't speak, nor did he move - aside from the small movements of his visor. You bit your cheek in anticipation. "Do you like it?" A flicker of fear chilled your chest. "Or is it too much?"

Din finally took a step forward, his armored chest inflating with a breath. He was only able to speak one word, a question that somehow said a thousand more. "How?"

You shrugged and patted Grogu's head. "Well, this little guy was a big help." Grogu cooed and you smiled at him. "I just remembered you talking about this holiday from Aq Vetina a long time ago and I realized it was coming up. We have a place to celebrate it now, so..." you gestured to your surroundings, "I figured we would do that."

Din shook his helmet, stopping just a few feet in front of you. His visor was unable to look away from the setup. "It looks just like home." His modulated voice is strained, now, though his joy is palpable. "It smells just like home."

You grinned wider at that. "Oh, good. I'm glad." You and Grogu shared a look. "We just really wanted you to feel like you were at home again." Grogu nodded to affirm your words.

Din's visor found the two of you, his helmet tilting before his hands held the sides of it. He removed it and set it aside, his brown gaze sparkling with joyful tears that the lights caught. You were surprised when he came close enough to draw you into his arms, the movements slow enough to allow you to stop him if you wanted to. You held him in return, grinning into his cowl as he took a deep, steadying breath. "Thank you." Din fought to keep his voice strong.

You held his cape and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You're welcome."

He ran a gloved hand over your back and stepped away, his forefinger and thumb holding your chin to make you face him. "No matter what this cabin looks like," Din smiled, "it will always be my home, now." He gestured to the setup. "The past is the past." Din nodded at you. "You two are my future."

You joined him in his joyful tears, holding his face to press his forehead against your own. There would be a hell of a celebration after that moment, but you wanted to remain in it for a couple minutes longer - as did Din.

#oh to see din with happy tears #dincember 2023 #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin fic #prompts #dindjarindiaries

49 notes · View notes

cleromancy · 8 months

Text

an underexplored aspect of red robin 26 (the one where he sets up a weeks-long rubes goldberg scheme to kill captain boomerang only to choke at the last minute) to me is the impact tim thought this would have on his place among the bats. like what he thought would happen *next.* because he absolutely did consider it and wasn't at all surprised by dick and bruce showing up afterwards to talk to him about the choices he made that day.

to start with. why now? there was no particular event that made him decide to do it. tim does say he heard harkness was trying to regain lost power, but in context its not reasoning behind his decision, it was an opportunity to kick his plan off.

and i think its fair to say tim was never gonna be able to go through with it. that was never gonna happen. but he *thought* he could, and he decided he was going to, despite repeatedly questioning what the hell he was doing. he explicitly makes the points that he thinks its wrong, he knows his dad wouldn't want him to, and he doesn't believe itll even be more emotionally satisfying than bringing harkness to justice. and yet thats still the plan! for weeks!

and he does set up an emotional failsafe for himself which he calls plausible deniability, where all he did was manipulate events so that he expects harkness to be killed by victor fries by the end of it.

except ofc when it comes down to it tim cant let fries kill a guy, which he takes to mean he wants to do it himself. any interesting moral questions here about who would potentially be at fault are very tidily sidestepped as irrelevant. bc i mean to tim they kind of are. his veneer of plausible deniability was always an excuse. the interesting thing here for the character is that this means he's willing to do away with that plausible deniability, and intends to follow through regardless. (i went back to delete some images bc i ran out, but he does explicitly say theres a change of plan and he's gonna kill harkness himself.)

this is the point he dispatches dr fries, which he calls in to 911, and follows harkness. bla bla confrontation bla, and harkness fuckin trips off the edge of the roof.

the implication here to me, with the way tims flashback is framed as an interruption and the way harkness goes from saying he has no idea who the hell tim is to saying tim doesn't have the stones, is that harkness was babbling this whole time, and that's just what actually makes it through to tims ears. and i also think the implication here is tim being like ".......heartbreaking: the worst person you know just made a great point." hes like shit! hes fucking right! i *dont* have the stones to do this!

anyway. the next page we have dickie and damian show up. hi boys!!

so to recap. tim decided he was going to murder harkness himself rather than using a proxy, *called 911 knowing the other bats would hear it,* and went off to do the deed.

(side note its always dickie loving hours in this house and. you just know dicks thinking of blockbuster here. oughe.) .....i also get the impression that dicks "timmy down the questionable-choices-well" senses were tingling somehow from the 911 call (which, i cannot stress this enough, only even mentioned fries), and i think him and damian most likely fucking hauled ass to get there, which is also fun to think about hehe

i have a lot of thoughts about whats going through dicks and tims heads here lol. but i want to get back to the point. this is the segue into the reveal that bruce was also there the whole time, he knows what tim had been planning to do, and now hes yelling at him for thinking about killing harkness at all.

AND THE COWL COMES OFF WHEEEEEEE :elmofire:

(ok actually i am going to derail here for a minute i gotta spell it out. tim kept it on when he was talking to dick bc he was lying to dick by omission. he wanted dick to think well of him, and he doesn't believe he earned the praise--most likely thinks dick would think less of him if he knew the extent to which tim had planned the whole thing. the end result--not killing harkness--does not, in tims mind, count. what dick was saying was "I understand how hard it was to not let him die, and i love you," and what tim heard was "i know you were always going to make the right choice, because you care about doing the right thing." and when you interpret it the way i do--that the deciding factor for tim was actually that he *couldn't* do it, not because he changed his mind? yeah, tims not gonna be looking dick in the eye anytime soon.)

but anyway. buce:

and the thing is that if you don't look at it from the *batshit* bruce-and-tim-mutual-god-complex perspective... tims actual non-thoughtcrime actions began and ended with a series of misdemeanors, no matter how successfully he arbitrated the end results. again any actual moral questions around hand crafting a bespoke scenario tailored to end in a mans murder by inciting another to kill him are completely sidestepped, bc to both tim and bruce its cut and dry; its just murder using another person as the weapon. tim never once actually believed the plausible deniability thing and there was no tangible difference to him btwn manipulating an intermediary, doing it himself, or even *just letting harkness go splat.* it was all fucking talking points for the sake of argument, he was preparing to play devils advocate against bruce to defend his own choice bc. this was always the endgame.

and

which like. i cant help but think of batman 424 bc, well, im the jason todd think-abouter:

and im officially out of images for this post but what happens next for tim is bruce flying away vs in jasons he tells bruce "i guess i spooked him. he slipped." and flies off in the back of a big silent panel of Angst Buce. i love how completely fucking opposite these scenarios were for the both of them but ykw actually thats its own fucking post.

all this just to say tim planned to murder a man in cold blood *fully knowing* dick and bruce would find out. tim can't even face dick when dick tells him he did good, and the confrontation with bruce feels almost like tim did the whole damn thing just to prove a point to bruce which is. hilarious bc it WORKED to that end even though tim did not actually kill anybody at all. like that was a pretty significant thing that happened. tim very much did not kill digger harkness.

(i also think its significant that this issue is like immediately after tim tries to give cass her batgirl outfit back and shes like "...No." and hes like "please i miss you so much 😭 just come back to gothammmm i dont care what name you go by you could even be black robin if you want that would be fun right cass we could be red robin and black robin together? no? what if we put your name first? ....no? .....okay just promise youll think about it... bye............" [paraphrased])

anyway. *holds tim drake up under the arms like simba* Perceive him

#timothy jackson goodtimes drake #dc #text #meta

27 notes · View notes

mmmmalo · 3 months

Text

It seems like a guy named Tobin Siebers is a leading disability scholar but I'm having trouble identifying which of his works would best lend itself to singling out pejorative strategies... it looks like the library has a couple of his books so I will have to pick up a few and skim for leads

Some reevaluations will just have to arise organically though... I'm increasingly uneasy with the paradigm of Caliborn being, like, metaphysically disabled by the killing of Calliope's dreamself, for example. The readership's general giddiness around Caliborn being a "stunted, miserable tool forever" feels increasingly like an affirmation of disability-as-punishment, I guess. Rephrasing that as permanent adolescence doesn't really help since childhood gets weirdly racialized, and pointing to Lord English as an especially villainous Peter Pan doesn't really help insofar as it seems Pupa and his frog cowl are veiled gay signifiers. Frog stuff feeds back into disability talk through amphibian bubbling/babbling and related motif... ah, rambling. Point is, Caliborn's disability(s) should probably be read as part of a network of misrepresentation, the same way that his breaking out of chains and absorbing the Planet of the Apes plug him into nervous fantasies of race war.

#bubbles #homestuck commentary #caliborn

11 notes · View notes

ei-banana · 2 years

Text

Fic master post (ongoing)

I’ve been meaning to make one of these for a while so that my fics are easier to find! The list is chronological from most recent to oldest, and separated by fandom.

———

Little Goody Two Shoes

lie with my brittle bones

freya x lebkuchen | sfw | 4k | one shot

Freya couldn’t remember a thing she’d said after that—could only remember the warmth in her chest, though the cold cut to the bone. She stared agog from beneath her fur-lined cowl, breathless even as Elise pivoted for another’s distant beckon. Even as the snow continued its heavenly fall.

Buried and trembling, her father at last found her, mittened palm pressed to her chittering lips. By the crash and tumble of brimful chance, Freya was smitten.

She had fallen in love.

Or, Freya lets go in time.

———

Baldur’s Gate 3

sing to me that motley gospel

shadowheart x tav | nsfw | 3.7k words | one shot

And fear did not sit idle. It grew hungered with neglect, burrowing out of its prison to feast upon her deeper marrow. A weed left sowed now ensnared her in vines too knotted to unravel, though Tav had remarkably defied those odds.

Or, Shadowheart had always been afraid of the dark, in truth.

in the shadow of the evening trees

shadowheart x tav | nsfw | 3.8k words | one shot

Most nights, Shadowheart dreamed of her mother’s eyes. Olive like her own, they tracked her steadily as she worked, sundering her parents to bloody heaps.

Or, Shadowheart remembers, she grieves, and Tav remains a loving tether throughout.

a call to flame

shadowlach | nsfw | 2.8k | one shot

By the light of the moon Shadowheart stood, refulgent at the verge of a babbling brook. Shirtless, wreathed in silver, thin fingers working through the twine of her braid—she was a siren of the dark and unseen. Her hair fluttered down past the small of her back, long and silky like skeins of pure starlight.

“Care to join me?”

Or, Karlach is touch starved and Shadowheart is depressed. They kiss about it.

———

Octopath Traveler II

absolve me before the dawn

castthrone | nsfw | 3.4k words | one shot

The bedside casement window let in faded moonlight, the lump atop her sheets awash silver and gray. Castti dropped the bucket by the bureau, toeing off her boots to search for a nearby chamberstick, bath long forgotten.

“Throné?” She had expected the other woman to turn up, though not quite so late. This thing between them— an understanding born of their mutual want for closeness, the looming shadow of loss at their backs— left them silently desperate, seeking out the other when the coming dawn posed too great a threat.

Or, both their pasts haunt them, but here, while the world sleeps, they have each other.

———

Fire Emblem Engage

among the flowers, something more

aleivy | mild nsfw | 4k words | one shot

“Have you been to Lookout Ridge yet?”

“I don’t suppose I have.”

Alear was already walking, dancing her fingers through the air as if to twine them in the flossy clouds. “You have to see the Somniel from higher up… the night comes alive,” she said quietly, voice gauzy with wonder. It struck Ivy then, just how new this world was to Alear too.

Or, their relationship blooms, and so too the flowers.

irascible daze

aleivy | nsfw | 5k words | one shot

In her dozing mind’s eye, Alear held her close, pressing her into the sheets until the warmth of their cloister had Ivy sweating, panting, grappling for more…

The luring, amorous phantasms had been haunting her as of late, though she didn’t wish to impede Alear’s delve into erudition with her crazed want for closeness. Work posed the most vexing barrier; Alear hadn’t truly touched her in nearly a fortnight.

Or, Ivy wakes up alone and agitated, tearing through the castle just to find her salvation.

what had always been

aleivy | sfw | 5.9k words | one shot

Ivy squared her jaw, curling her numb fingers into fists. She hated that dress, she hated how the Lords and Ladies leered at her. She was half a decade of age, and Ivy already battled the court for Mother’s love.

Heartbreak had found its home in her, leaving her forlorn and resolute. It was better to be thrown to the wilds than to the gluttonous maw of the people, Ivy was certain.

Or, Ivy was born in the cold, and she spends her following years searching for warmth.

long may she reign

aleivy | mild nsfw | 5.4k words | one shot

“Marry me,” she spoke with slurred ardor, the words no louder than her clamorous heart.

“What?” Alear’s crystal clear astonishment silenced the whir in Ivy’s ears, sobering her so thusly that she stepped back with a gasp.

She didn’t have far to go before the door halted her escape, frigid fingers pressing to her own lips in self-admonishment. Ivy cursed her carelessness, her ill-timed slip of the tongue.

“I…” Silver tears of mortification clumped in her lower lashes; she couldn’t meet Alear’s awaiting stare. “Please, just forget I said anything.”

Or, Ivy ponders the prospect of marriage.

take my praise, take my heart too

aleivy | nsfw | 4k words | one shot

“I don’t understand.” She found her voice at last, already following after Alear’s sure gate. “Go where?”

“I’d like to be alone with you somewhere quieter, away from the bevy.” Alear stopped short in one of the western hallways, the life-size portrait of Lumera regarding them kindly from astride the floor to ceiling windows. “Is that alright?”

Ivy floundered in the face of her stately zeal. “Of course.”

Or, Ivy and Alear escape oppressive noble ramblings to find solace in one another.

———

Honkai Star Rail

my love is mine, all mine

kafstel | nsfw | 2.5k words | one-shot

“Would you marry me?” Stelle asked, her air of nonchalance almost comical.

“Marry you…” Kafka repeated, fingers twitching when Stelle pressed down on the tendons of her forearm. She worked at them a moment more, kneading her into pliancy it seemed.

“Me, yes.” As if Kafka would wed anyone else, and then: “I’m feeling just witless enough, aren’t you?”

Or, after a mission of little intrigue, Kafka and Stelle get married on a whim.

———

Genshin Impact

the devil is in the details

eisara | nsfw | multi-chapter, ongoing (4/?)

Sara—waylaid by heartbreak, disillusionment, and the fruity dregs of alcohol—summons a demon.

What happens after that is a blur.

Or, Sara is a medical student down on her luck, and Ei is a demon who yearns for company.

athyrium

kokoei | nsfw | 6.2k words | one shot (follow up for ‘beneath the roots’)

“If I didn’t know any better, Your Excellency,” Ei whispered to match the room’s lull, gaze falling to Kokomi’s lips, “I’d say you were courting me.”

Kokomi blinked, slow and cat-like. “It’s a good thing you know so much then, isn’t it?”

Or, Kokomi finally returns Ei’s letter.

and there is beauty yet unknown

furina-centric (gen) | sfw | 4k words | one shot

She hoped to feel a stirring deep within, a sprightly spark of hope like some grand pedagogy of the waters might lead her out of befuddlement. No such calling befell her, though the next rushing headwind brought with it the promise of snow.

Or, Furina finds a reason.

renaissance

furina-centric (gen) | sfw |3.5k words | one shot

How did one mourn the death of oneself? Furina wondered often, stared blankly up at the ceiling until her vision grew spotty, unsure whether to cry, or laugh, or shout her frustration.

Or, Furina mourns, she breaks, and, in time, she finds solace.

behind this house, an orange tree grows

eisara | nsfw | 7.7k words | one shot (sequel to ‘of dividends and dubious hearts’)

Her fingers dipped into the waistline of Ei’s skirt, the fabric fluttering to the floor as she sank to her knees. Sara pressed her lips to the crosshatch imprint that remained, chasing after each errant freckle in her descent, mouth half open and searing by the time her words finally settled.

Ei blinked, dazed, shoving at Sara’s forehead as gently as her mounting thrill would allow. “You mean…”

“Yoimiya helped me with the last of my things.” Sara kissed the jut of her hip, the marked notch of her pelvis, etching her smile into the plush of Ei’s stomach. “I’m officially moved in, as of this afternoon.”

Or, their life in bloom, one summer later.

where the white jasmine grows

makomiko | sfw | 5.8k words | one shot (prequel to ‘beneath the roots and further still’)

She made a ghostly visage, though not so haunting. She was otherworldly, straightening with a huff, and shoving her half-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of her nose. Makoto tossed her hair over her shoulder— the cascade of it rippling like the grander waters against her back— and the swelling bud behind Miko’s breastbone burst open to bare its waxy petals.

She gasped at the initial jolt, a sharp pain that melted to ataractic warmth. “Mako?” she called out without thought, voice small and tremulous, barely louder than the patter of foot traffic just beyond the window.

Or, Miko loves her, like flora do the sun.

take me under the blue

ayasara | nsfw | 2k words | one shot

Ayaka sounded amused, lips sliding over the hinge of the general’s clenched jaw. Sara lay prone, agog.

“What do you think about?”

“Missing you.” Ayaka kissed the apple of Sara’s cheek, propping up on her elbows until their lips ghosted. “Wanting you.” She rolled her hips in punctuation, swooping her tongue past Sara’s parted lips before the general could register the throaty proclamation.

Or, Ayaka and Sara elect to stay in bed for the morning.

of dividends and dubious hearts

eisara | eventually nsfw | 43k words | multi-chapter, completed (4/4)

The woman across from Ei seemed awestruck by the mere sound of her voice. Her smile slackened, a nearly imperceptible slip before she responded, “Sara Kujou.” Kunikuzushi sniffled loudly, severing their prolonged contact; Sara stepped back, looking almost bashful when she bowed her head and laughed. “But the kids call me Ms. Kujou.”

“How strange,” Ei hummed, cocking her head just enough to catch a glimpse of the other woman’s sharpened jaw, observing with open-eyed blatancy. “I can’t recall seeing you in the school directory last year.”

Or, Sara is Kunikuzushi’s teacher, and Ei is a single mom doing her best.

come away with me

dehyarzad | sfw | 1.5k words | one shot

Her childhood home, her gilded prison— coming back here had only brought her greater pain. Father and Mother always feared her dreams, but that had never stopped her from running.

Or, Dunyarzad’s parents can be stifling, but Dehya is always a welcome reprieve.

in this palace in chains

dehyarzad | nsfw | 4k words | one shot

She wound her arms around Dehya’s neck, urging their lips to brush when she spoke, “if this is what you want, then I have no reservations with you taking.” Dunyarzad slid a hand down to the dip of the mercenary’s back, breath catching when their bare skin touched. “I want you to make me feel alive.”

Or, Dehya is there, blindingly brilliant, and Dunyarzad yearns despite it all.

over the garden wall

eisara | eventually nsfw | 13k words | multi-chapter, completed (2/2)

Sara despised nothing more than being akin to a caged oscine— trapped and pinned by monotony and over frugality— and so she fled. Battered car and tentative determination guided her to the coast, down the winding roads of town, and up the gravel path to the house of promise. She would start anew, beginning in the garden where revelation waited.

Or, Sara moves to a small town and meets a ghost who uproots her world (an eisara ghost au)

between the lines

kokoyae | nsfw | 3k words | one shot

Nothing pleased Kokomi more than a good book and titillating conversation— the Guuji Yae offering both in droves— and so she boarded the resistance branded transport vessel on the last day of each month, Narukami island bound and heart fluttering with the promise of fulfilling literary analysis.

Or, Yae tells Kokomi to keep reading, no matter how dizzying her touch.

beneath the roots and further still

yaesara | nsfw | 100k words | multi-chapter, complete (23/23)

Driven by the gripping force of erosion and grief, Ei flees Tenshukaku without a word. She traverses beyond the city with ease, leaving her beloved general and kitsune to give chase. Both Sara and Yae struggle to see eye to eye, but this much was clear: they must work together if they want to bring Ei back.

meet me beneath the old otogi tree

yaesara | sfw | 6k words | one shot

Spring gave way to summer, and though their hands joined with ease, Sara still floundered. There was no easy way to speak directly from the heart.

Or, Sara goes to Yoimiya for advice and spends a week trying to ask Yae on a date.

like chocolate (a taste that lingers)

eisara | nsfw | 6.8k words | one shot

Brisk winter air and chanced first meetings— Sara was certain the smell of chocolate had permeated the walls of her office by now, though she found she quite liked it.

Or, Ei and Sara run into each other in front of a coffee shop and never look back.

ode to evermore

eisara | nsfw | 6k words | one shot

When the fog of war and loss finally clears, the Almighty Shogun stands before her, hand outstretched; Sara grasps at her splendor, but the words never come.

Or, Ei asks Sara to marry her, and Sara doesn’t know what to say.

coalescence

eisara | sfw | 7.8k words | one shot

Sara had seen much of what Teyvat had to offer, very little was cause for surprise, but the way Ei looked at her now— open and fervent, dazzling— had the general positively reeling. What did it mean when she touched her like that?

Or, it's Ei and Sara, and the ways in which they come together.

is it alright if i call you mine

jeansara | nsfw | 5k words | one shot

Surely one drunken kiss isn’t enough to derail their day at the gym, never mind how good Jean looks when she sweats.

Or, showering with a friend is a surefire way to work through some tension.

sweetest devotion

yaesara (implied eimikosara) | nsfw | 4.8k words | one shot

A wrapped lunch and soft caress go a long way, though Sara wasn't expecting this. Maybe she was spurred on by the heat of the summer sun, but the general was desperate for it.

Or, Yae Miko takes a break from work, with Sara's help of course.

in my heart is a christmas tree farm

yaesara | eventually nsfw | 19k words | multi-chapter, complete

Miko Yae, foreman of Yae Publishing House, doesn’t have time in her busy schedule for the leisure that often comes with the holidays. When she begrudgingly agrees to spend Christmas up in the mountains with Saiguu, Makoto, and her ex, Ei, she doesn’t expect to meet Sara as well.

Or, a yaesara hallmark christmas movie au

the smell of sunny places

eisara (implied eimikosara) | sfw | 5k words | one shot

The Raiden Shogun is insistent that Sara join her on a tour of Inazuma's sparse villages to provide reparations following the war. Despite her apprehension, Sara follows as always, braced for the worst to come to pass.

Or, Ei and Sara have each other, and perhaps that is enough.

dig those claws into this fragile heart of mine

eimikosara | sfw | 4.6k words | one shot

Atop Madam Kujou's thighs was Yae Miko's throne, so why was it that her reserved spot was now taken?

Or, Sara gets a cat, and Yae is jealous

realize not too late (loved you always)

eisara (implied eimikosara) | eventually nsfw | 18.5k words | multi-chapter, completed (5/5)

Following La Signora’s defeat, Sara is left despondent as her livelihood— her ambition— is stripped from her. How ironic. Sara decides she needs to get away for a while.

———

The Legend of Zelda

follow you anywhere

zelda/malon | sfw | 3k words | one shot (sequel to ‘my summer song’)

Zelda is nearing the end of her stay in Gerudo Desert, and each day away from Malon makes her longing grow stronger and more oppressive. They meet for a picnic and the Princess gives into her selfish desires; she asks her to stay.

all that’s left unsaid

midzel | sfw | 3k words | one shot

The Mirror of Twilight remains intact, and Midna stays. She makes a promise to Zelda, and even as the boundless days pass them by… she keeps it.

my summer song

zelda/malon | sfw | 11k words | multi-chapter, completed (3/3)

Following the Hero of Time's victory over Ganondorf, Zelda travels Hyrule on a mission to rebuild where tragedy hit over the last seven years, beginning with Lon Lon Ranch. She encounters Malon and is immediately drawn to her, much to Zelda's growing frustrations.

Lastly, I have an ongoing ko-fi request series (fandoms are varied!) My ko-fi requests are generally always open unless stated otherwise; all request info is on my ko-fi!

99 notes · View notes

bess3714 · 8 months

Text

Round three of someone making Dick feel guilty for not becoming Batman!

Dick looks so good covered in blood and getting trash-talked by his enemies

I actually like Damian's white suit, I think it looks cool, but it's very impractical for getting out bloodstains when your father's dead adopted son shoots you in the chest as part of his getaway plan.

I really sympathize with Dick, younger brothers are always causing problems! (This is a joke because I'm pretty sure Dick doesn't even consider either of them his brother at this point. He thinks Damian is an annoying kid he got stuck with and Jason is a homicidal maniac, so. Do with that what you will.)

Baby, you are so unwell. You are just like Bruce and you are trying so hard not to be but everyone is pushing you to be him anyway. Dick's got a big fear of failure (and can you blame him with a perfectionist like Batman for a mentor?) and here he's feeling like he's failing Damian, he's failing Gotham, and he's failing Bruce.

So unwell! The savior complex is strong in you. The guilt is going to eat you alive and I am here for it. I love to see my blorbos suffer.

#dick grayson #jason todd #damian wayne #nightwing #alfred pennyworth #batman #battle for the cowl #batman: battle for the cowl 2 #babble for the cowl #comic thought bubble #dickey bird #argo navis #demon tamer #in for a penny

91 notes · View notes

superbatdisasterblog · 2 years

Text

I had to take a break from the superbat de-cowling fic and I finally, FINALLY started on a batlantern fic.

So far it’s just fluff with no plot, but we’ll see where it goes.

A wee taste below the cut. :)

“Hal,” a voice whispers. Soft fingers smooth along his side, and he hums happily, curling closer to that delicious warmth.

The voice calls his name again.

“Sleepin,’” he complains, though it comes out as a whisper.

“I noticed.” That voice sounds amused now, and everything comes online all at once.

Oh no.

His eyes flinch open to find Bruce sitting on the edge of his own bed, staring down at Hal.

“Hi?” He says stupidly, and a small smile tugs at Bruce’s lips.

“Hi.”

Hal is stunned into silence for a second. He always is when he’s surprised with Bruce Wayne up close. God, he looks good. He’s wearing his usual work clothes— a nice collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a tailored vest, and pressed slacks. His hair is starting to fall across his eyes as the hold on his hair product disappears, so it must be late in the day.

“Sorry, I…what time is it?” He asks, shifting to sit up. Bruce’s palm against his waist stops him, and he licks his lips, grimacing at the dryness in his throat.

“7 pm.”

Shit. It was definitely early afternoon when Hal first got here…

“Alfred walked in and found you a couple hours ago,” Bruce says, and heat flames up Hal’s cheeks. Jesus.

“That’s…mortifying. God, I’m sorry Bruce,” he babbles. “I shouldn’t have just shown up, it’s just been a long three weeks and I’m exhausted—“

“Stop,” Bruce murmurs, leaning in and pressing a gentle, barely there kiss to the hinge of Hal’s jaw. Tension flood from his shoulders and a relieved sigh gusts from his lips. Okay, so maybe he hasn’t royally fucked this up.

“I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to come here,” Bruce murmurs, his lips ghosting warm and soft along Hal’s neck. Lulled by the comforting touch and heavy exhaustion still clinging to his mind, his mouth runs away with him:

“Missed you,” Hal mumbles, and immediately wants to zoom out the window because what the fuck—?

#batlantern wip #a little something different #batlantern

53 notes · View notes

1n-bl0om · 2 years

Text

brucetinez hcs

but spicy (nsfw)

- martinez is a dom bottom and bruce a sub top, sorry i dont make the rules. but i feel like if he’s in a certain mood, bruce would dom top

- martinez could call bruce any pet name and he just melts like a pile of goo

- martinez is a biter me thinks. he definitely bites his partners necks and pecs. like he definitely leaves hickies and bite marks all on bruces’ neck. he just has an oral fixation but with biting. he bites everything, his straws, pencils, anything. so him needing to bite and mark up bruce is so >>>> /pos

- bruce gets so flustered and martinez could just tease him forever about it

- i think martinez would cry when he finishes, he has that vibe

- i think that martinez would deffo degrade bruce, like call him pathetic etc etc

- also the aftercare would be so sweet between them i just know

- they are adorable and love each other dearly. i just know that bruce n martinez either shower together or have a bath together and spend the night just watching cheezy movies and cuddling

- some softer stuff is that bruce definitely just babbles and murmurs how sweet and good martinez is for him *sobs*

- bruce gives martinez light kisses on his neck me thinks

- bruce may be emotionally constipated but i feel like he’d be tender during sеx

- okay but dom top bruce i feel like would be something else. just feel like he would praise a lot and kind of degrade but not really. in my mind dom top bruce is like fueled by his batman high and maybe he’d be frustrated about other things. just time for him to take control and let off steam

- he would leave bruises on martinez’s hips fr

- okay but in general i think they are both into choking

- maybe some knife play- *runs away*

- i think bruce likes missionary because then he can see martinez’s face and expressions

- and i think martinez likes riding because he likes being on top and watching how he makes bruce feel.

- also SIZE DIFFERENCE !!!!!!!!

- martinez for SURE wants to be picked up by bruce and held against a wall and- yeah

- bruce is just so much taller than martinez, it sometimes just rots martinez’s mind with thoughts in a /pos way

- martinez would deffo let batman hit fr

- him and his coworkers are talking and he just goes “oh batman could get it.” and bruce is like 🧍🏻‍♂️

- thinks about bruce n martinez going at it while bruce is wearing his cowl, maybe thats how their first time happens

- little idea. when bruce and martinez first met martinez hated him. just… hate fucking. yes. yes yes. then it slowly gets softer and more loving

i talk about bruce being tender as if he wont get a heart attack from anxiety and emotions. love that little wet cat bastard <3

okay those are the hcs, if you have any feel free to send or comment them >:)

#brucetinez #bruce wayne #officer martinez #batman #the batman 2022 #blooms bats #not #safe #for #work

45 notes · View notes

againstacecilia · 2 years

Note

Hiii it's me again 🤪 I wanted to drop off another mental image / idea for you. Din going to a grocery store with you, or a trading post but instead of Grogu being in his pod, Din has one of those baby carriers wraps strapped on to his body.

Ace!!!! I want your brain omg this is so sweet!

Okay, we're doing more Din fluff let's go. (PS - I'm sorry I don't know how to write something short this got away from me. 😂)

The Pod was always a convenient way to get Grogu around. Controlled by Din's vambrace, it made sure the Child was never more than a few feet away from Din and, by association, you. It was safe and the little womp rat seemed to be comfortable in it but, as with all technology, it wasn't a foolproof solution.

Growing up in a smaller community, you had a more... Traditional approach to carrying little ones. Grogu always fit right on your hip or in a little backpack you had fashioned during the last time the Pod malfunctioned, but your mother had carried you on her chest using only a length of stretchy fabric and you had scoured every market and trading post for something similar since your joining this little clan. You had found it one day on Yavin 4 during a quick walk through one of the bigger towns and immediately purchased enough for two carriers.

"What's this for?" your Mandalorian companion asked when you unwrapped the fabric later on the Crest.

Nearly glowing with excitement, you smile and hold up a finger, asking him to wait. You find the center and smooth the fabric over the front of your torso, the material gliding over your fingers like water. Nimble hands wrap and cross the cloth behind your back then over your shoulders before tucking the ends under the band along your stomach. With a final cross in front, then a wrap behind your back and pulling everything to your chest, you tie the ends securely in front of you and throw your hands out on either side with a, "Ta-da!"

Din's helmet tips to the side as he surveys you, his silence curious.

"Give me the kid," you hold your hands out for the little package in Din's arms. He hands him over easily and you get to work tucking him into the loops and folds of the fabric until his little green head is tucked securely against your chest, the tips of his ears peeking out from either side. "Hands free," you giggle, bouncing a little bit to prove the security of the wrap. "For when the Pod doesn't work or we need him to be with one of us more securely."

A hum escapes the vocoder of his helmet as Din reaches over to gently adjust bits and pieces of the dark cloth. "I like it," he finally announces, "He looks snug."

As if to prove his dad right, Grogu's eyes begin to flutter close, a yawn stretching his little mouth.

- - - - - - - -

Whenever it's safe, Grogu travels this way. Most of the time you're the one carrying him since all of the additions Din has to his person would keep the wrap from laying correctly, but after a slip on some ice there's a stretch of time that lifting is going to be a no-go for you, even something as slight as the Child. You put the wrap away with a small sigh and prep the Pod for use heading through today's trading post.

Stepping out of the ship into the bright sun, you make a lap around the ship and go through the checklist of supplies needed as Din finishes locking down the ship. As you loop back around to the ramp, a the sight at the top fills your chest to nearly bursting.

His cape, rifle, and are bandolier gone, replaced with the dark material that usually adorned your body. Wrapped expertly inside, Grogu babbles and pulls at the cowl surrounding Din's neck. A smile breaks across your face and you giggle as Din's heavy footfalls come down the ramp.

"Well look at my boys," you coo, drawing a finger across Grogu's bat-like ear. You look up at the t-shaped visor above you, "What's this about?"

"I wanted to try it," Din shrugs, adjusting the material at his shoulders.

"It's a good look on you."

Din crooks his finger and places it gently under your chin before reaching to the bottom of his helmet. Your eyes automatically drop as he tilts the helmet up far enough to ghost a kiss to the top of your head before it's settled back over his tan, stubbled skin. "Let's get going, mesh'la, I want to see how well the wrap stays on the beskar."

Ever the practical one, you chuckle to yourself as you head hand in hand toward the town down the road.

#din djarin #din djarin fluff #ace my dearest #HOW DO YOU JUST HAVE THESE THOUGHTS???#please always share them with me I love them so much

10 notes · View notes

seadeepywrites · 11 months

Text

bleeding from the storm

Character: Haven Vasselon Words: 6139 tw: death, depression, fantasy violence

1. like an ambulance that's turning on the sirens

"I can fix this," Haven says. In panic, she says it a few more times. "I can fix this! I can fix this."

There's nobody to hear her babbling except the dead — the truly dead, like Siggi, who lies motionless on the bloodstained deck, and the undead, who crowd in around Haven and Siggi with gaunt, grasping hands. The possessed navy crewmates have a terrible slackness to their faces, eyes rolled so far back in their heads that only the whites are showing, but Haven's attention remains on the gatekeeper. It is something that should not exist, something Haven had not prepared for, and there is a very real possibility that she is about to die alongside Siggi.

The gatekeeper says nothing as the echoes of its Toll the Dead spell vibrate through the floorboards. It only stands before her implacably, its scythe glinting in the darkness and its withered face obscured under the deep cowl of its tattered cloak.

Haven licks her lips, noticing absently how dry and cracked they are. She can taste blood beading up on them, then hardening almost immediately into a grainy crust. She feels cold, all the way to her core.

She has to leave. Now, while she still can.

"I can fix this," she says, more faintly this time.

She leans on her Staff of Power for support, bends down to touch Siggi, and tries not to lose her balance as her vision swims and tilts with the motion. Gripping Siggi's collar in her fist, she mumbles a few arcane words. She steps backwards, away from the gatekeeper, and through the gleaming golden outline of a door that has opened behind her.

She sags almost immediately upon emerging, sinking to the deck in exhaustion, but her Dimension Door sent them where she intended — strong hands support her as she falls. Haven knows those hands intimately, very literally. Even as she blinks to stay conscious, she gestures towards Siggi.

"I'm fine," she wheezes, which isn't actually true. "But Siggi, he's..."

Whisper eases Haven to the deck, sparing half a second to brush one hand against Haven's cheek, then nods and reaches for Siggi. She pulls a small pouch from her belt, empties it over his body. Diamond dust spills downward like a waterfall, glittering in the lanternlight.

Haven relaxes, closing her eyes. The Nightweaver still lurks, less than five hundred feet away — Haven can be sure of that distance, considering her Dimension Door — but she got them out.

Whisper can do the rest.

2. like a loser that's betting on his last dime

Haven's nerves haven't settled since the gatekeeper fight. Even after the Magic Missiles hissed outward from her Staff of Power and shattered the gatekeeper's final ward, and even after Jaeldirra, tears streaming down their face, summoned shadowy spider legs to cram Whisper's soul back into her body. Even after Haven held tight to Whisper, touching her face, her shoulders, her hands, over and over — reassured herself that Whisper was alive again, was still here.

Haven kneels on the deck of the Abyssal Gaze, hand in hand with Whisper, and wonders why she can't quite manage to catch her breath.

It takes her ten minutes to identify the anxiety that buzzes inside her like an unquiet hive of bees. The telepathic bond has faded, its hour elapsed, and one of the last messages exchanged through it was a hazy reassurance from Klaus that he was conscious and swimming to the Munafik with the Kraken. So Haven knows Klaus is still alive, but knowing that intellectually doesn't settle the discomfort, the occasional little sparks of adrenaline.

Haven, it would appear, cannot trust the fight is over until she sees Klaus with her own two eyes. His stealth and his alacrity and his caution mean that by the time she's realized there's a threat, he's already vanished, and the devastating barrage of his black-feathered arrows is sometimes her first clue there's anything wrong around her. Conversely, she relies far more on his ability to sense danger than her own, and she knows he never appears back on deck until he's confident that all the enemy combatants have been dealt with.

But here, in the exhaustion after a fight that claimed the life of two crewmates, Klaus is absent. He's on board another ship, tending the Kraken's wounds, which were moderately serious — as well as his own, which were significantly worse than anything he usually suffers. There's no particular reason Haven needs him here, no practical justification she can find to demand his presence. She just cannot relax, cannot make herself believe this horror-filled night is over yet.

As it turns out, she is entirely correct. Even Haven can recognize the percussive roar of cannon-fire when she hears it. There's an awful crunching, splintering noise. The entire ship lurches suddenly, and chips of wood begin to rain down from above as the canvas of the sails folds and crumples. A few seconds later, another impact, and the deck begins to list beneath her.

Haven jumps like a startled cat. Looks around wildly, struggles to her feet. Her heart is in her throat, but she still does not understand what's happening. She saw the conjured crew of the Abyssal Gaze using crane equipment to move the Nightweaver's cannons across to their ship, so where is this damage coming from?

"Under attack," Whisper signs. And when Haven stares at her uncomprehendingly, she just points — across the dark, storm-tossed waters, through the drifting snow.

Towards the Kraken's ship, where its sails paint a blood-red pattern against the night.

Haven understands then, as Siggi begins barking orders to the crew and Nitha yells something about the Haste spell and a bottle. But her heart trips and stutters, one question swelling up to eclipse the rest. The details of why the Kraken betrayed them, and why now — they aren't important.

What she needs to know, so desperately that it feels like the question is carving its way out of her chest, is whether Klaus knew about it.

3. like a junkie tying off for the last time

Haven has cried so much in the last twenty-four hours that her eyes are sticky, her throat is parched, and she cannot breathe through her nose. Every time she thinks there are no tears left inside her, she thinks of something new the shipwreck has cost them, and her eyes well up again.

But before breakfast, before the seafloor search for their various possessions, Haven attends to the most important item that's missing — the former captain of the Abyssal Gaze.

From the unfamiliar surroundings of a cabin on the Nightweaver, she casts Sending, picturing Slark in her mind. His mottled skin, his webbed fin-like ears. The glittering diamond scars surrounding where his eyes once were, and the starry black orbs that replaced them.

The relief Haven feels when the Sending connects is like a rope snapping, tension evaporating into mist. She mumbles the words aloud as she thinks them.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "It's Haven. We couldn't find you."

The surge of distress at the memory scrambles her concentration, and she finds herself repeating, "Are you okay?"

It's all she can think to ask. If Slark's in trouble, he can tell her where he is and they can come find him. They can save him. She waits for a few seconds, then finishes with, "Love, Haven."

At least with Sending, the response is almost immediate. Slark's voice, nasal and as rapid-fire as his pistols, rings out inside her head.

"I'm okay! It seemed like things are getting pretty dangerous with you guys, so I think I'm gonna leave. Good luck with everything."

And that's it. Haven blinks a few times, lips parted in shock. It shouldn't surprise her — the day she met Slark, he told her that he was in Savnaer because, faced with a difficult conversation, he'd simply leapt off a pier and started swimming. He's even more flighty than Klaus, frequently choosing to vanish into the walls of the ship when combat erupts rather than stay and lend his gunfire to the fight. The idea that the Abyssal Gaze sinking — and therefore severing Slark's bond to the Shiplactery for good in the process — would cause Slark to panic and leave them is, unfortunately, wholly in-character for him.

It hurts anyway. Haven has known Slark for over a year, and shared a room with him for half that time. He was her first friend on Savnaer. She saved him from aliens, then debated a gatekeeper to call his soul back from beyond the Shell. They've faced Trihorn Behemoths and hyenas and aliens together, and Haven thought—

Haven thought he might have said goodbye. To her, if to nobody else. She'd thought their friendship was worth enough to him for that, at least, but it turns out she was wrong.

She's crying again, stomach muscles shuddering and shoulders shaking, but there are barely any tears to accompany the sobs. She just has nothing left to give.

4. like a child looking off on the horizon

The Nightweaver flees the harbor at full speed, sails snapping in the wind. Behind them, only half-visible behind the dark silhouette of the peninsula, the Disciple burns.

Haven watches from the sterncastle of the Nightweaver, clutching her Staff of Power close, because it seems like the right thing to do. Nothing else about what they've done to Bless and her crewmates felt right, and this is the best she can offer. To witness the destruction, to acknowledge it.

Haven only manages this vigil for a few moments, however, because Siggi quickly calls her over to the sails. She remembers why they came back to Farwater in the first place — they don't even have enough crew for her to remain at the railing and protect them. Setting her staff aside and shaking out her fingers, she stretches sore muscles and trips over to take her place on deck with the other Corsairs. Her arms and back haven't stopped hurting in the week and a half since the conjured crew liquefied into seawater. Keeping the Nightweaver moving requires everyone to pitch in, even pink tieflings who can barely hold a line taut without trembling.

The work is physically demanding, but only in intervals. Haven has altogether too much time to huddle on deck and be buffeted by the wind and the wet, driving rain, which combine to leave her freezing cold and even more thoroughly miserable. She can't stop replaying it all in her mind: the blue and red lanterns signaling for the Nightweaver to slow, the flurry of action to hide the illegal goods, the hasty conversation to agree on a story to tell.

They all knew why the Peaceguard was waiting at the mouth of the harbor, after all. The crew of the Nightweaver were returning to Farwater to reap the rewards of a sin they'd already committed weeks ago. They just hadn't counted on Bless and the other residents of Farwater putting the pieces together so quickly.

Haven hopes she never has to experience that awful feeling again — standing in front of Bless, drenched in sweat, stomach twisting with fear and guilt. Fever-hot tides of nausea and vertigo, piling up on top of each other and then crashing like waves on the shore. An echo of the feeling passes through her even remembering the moment, aftershocks following an earthquake, and she clenches her teeth until her jaw protests.

She couldn't lie to Bless, when the time came. Bless looked at her with those luminous green eyes and just — asked.

Haven, do you know what happened to Bessie?

Yeah, Haven said, shutting her eyes tight. I do.

At the time, Haven was solely concerned with getting Bless off the deck of the Nightweaver. Haven pleaded with her to stop, to let them leave, to stay away so Haven wouldn't have to hurt her. Yet no matter how many times Haven shoved her back onto the Disciple with Bigby's Hand, Bless kept leaping the gap and re-entering the fray, bruised and bleeding and relentless.

Haven was wholly focused on the delicate maneuver of keeping Bless alive. It would have been far easier to blow them all to hell with her magic, but that's always been true, hasn't it? Haven's an abjuration specialist for a reason — she flatly refuses to enact the indiscriminate violence that comes so easily to most wizards. Not against sentient creatures, and certainly not against someone she considered a friend. Bless was trying to die for Farwater, and Haven was just as incapable of allowing that as the day that they met.

But in that single-minded state, Haven didn't notice Nitha stealing the diamonds — or didn't realize the consequences. Haven torched the sails of the Disciple to stop pursuit, but never thought what that might mean for a port town already missing their monstrous defender.

It's far from the first time that Haven's been sideswiped by the unforeseen impact of her actions, but rarely has the impact been so widespread or so universally harmful. And she has never, not once, heard the kind of hatred that burns like wildfire through the Greater Sending that she establishes with Bless on the evening following the confrontation.

It was a mistake to befriend you, Bless says through the Sending, and I don't trust your word, or your crew.

Haven can't find the words to refute her. She isn't even sure that Bless is wrong.

We've made the decision to abandon Farwater, Bless says.

There are a thousand excuses and apologies that seethe on Haven's tongue, but in the end she shares none of them. She has already witnessed the tempered-steel strength of Bless' convictions.

What has been broken is already damaged beyond repair.

5. like a son that was raised without a father

Haven's conversation with Bless hurts worse than the time Haven got chewed up by giant hyenas, but when it's over, she swallows the heartache and casts Greater Sending again. She reaches out one golden thread of magic, seeking the brightest soul she's ever encountered. She holds his image in her mind's eye — his poncho from Pentibor, the shaggy mop of his hair growing too long, and that faint blush that always seems to dust his cheekbones.

Haven is seeking answers — she can rationalize Slark's abrupt departure, as painful as it has been for her, but Zeremy? He started teaching her Celestial only a few days ago, and he wants to explore the world. The garbled explanation that Nitha gave the crew on his behalf just doesn't make sense. There must be something that Haven is missing.

This conversation lasts twice as long as the one with Bless did — Haven has to burn through the entire day's reserve of her high-level magic to keep fueling the spell that connects them. And Zeremy assures her that he doesn't hate her or the crew, which should comfort her, but it doesn't.

Zeremy, formerly the Zenith of Tillnette Isle, still beloved of Vrent, cares most of all about the truth. And he tells Haven in no uncertain terms that the truth and the Corsairs are incompatible.

I realized, he says, that I had to choose between my god and my friends.

Bless' hostility has scorched Haven, has left her raw and open and stinging with humiliation. Zeremy's disapproval passes through her flesh entirely, exposing the darkest parts of her to an unflinching, unforgiving radiance. And even as she burns, Haven finds herself sick with jealousy. She wishes she possessed even a shred of Zeremy's confidence, or at least his conviction in the path forward.

What does it mean if someone that holy can't stay with this ship, despite knowing their mission and how little time is left to accomplish it? Haven has convinced herself so many times that she needs these people with her to save the world — that despite their lies and thousand little cruelties, she is stronger when she is with them. She loves her friends, even knowing how much blood is on their hands. Even when traveling with them bloodies her hands too, more vivid and indelible with every day that passes.

In the last minute that the Greater Sending grants her, Haven whispers to Zeremy her hopes for his happiness. Doubt in her own decisions mantles darkly above her like dragon wings, like thunder. There is silence in the room after the Sending, and she stares unseeingly into the corners without any expectation that the shadows will yield the solace she seeks.

She knows what she could have done differently — has scrawled it in ink-splattered words across countless pages of her notebook as some form of self-punishment, as if repetition alone can atone for her mistakes. The past cannot be altered, but that doesn't blunt the sharp edge to her sorrow, or season the bitterness that fills her mouth like blood.

Later, on the map in the captain's quarters, Haven traces a line from Coalition Cove to Tillnette Isle, from Tillnette to Veville, and from Veville to Farwater. Her fingers are shaking, but the path of destruction is all too clear. When she closes her eyes, she can see the scenes overlapping on the canvas of her eyelids.

The fleet burning in Coalition Cove, masts and sails ablaze as Peaceguard and priests lie slaughtered on the shore nearby.

An airship and its crew consumed in an explosion of blue light, all because Haven agreed to lend her magic to someone she should have known better than to trust.

A child kidnapped from Tillnette Isle, an entire community left in darkness without its sun-blessed figurehead.

The rumors of a prison break in Veville, gang violence surging and civilians caught in the deadly crossfire.

Most recently, Farwater. Families scraping together their possessions and leaving behind what they cannot carry. Bless, teeth bared and shield gleaming, leading them into the wilds of Benatia.

There is good that Haven has done — she can even call to mind some of the details, like the defeat of Xatroch in the Shadowfell and the exorcism of her brother. But right now, the rest of it eats at her with serrated teeth, and Zeremy's departure is one more loss piling up. One more crack widening in Haven's fractured heart.

The Corsairs might have kidnapped Zeremy, but it also brought him the freedom he'd only dreamed of. They gave him a new name and brought him to new continents, but it seems that wasn't enough.

Haven isn't enough.

6. like a mother barely keeping it together

Magical Darkness boils up from beneath the deck, and from the shadow-smothered hatch in the floor emerges a midnight-blue tiefling. Haven's first instinct is relief, but her stomach plummets a second later as she remembers Whisper's warning. She curls her fingers tighter around her Staff of Power, breathing shallowly.

Haven wishes she could be unilaterally glad to see Siggi, because it's only Haven and Whisper on deck right now — Klaus is entirely absent, in a way that actually concerns her, and after a few minutes of muffled screaming from beneath the floorboards, it seems Nitha's voice has given out entirely. Jaeldirra is working against the crew, possessed by a rabid fervency that is not their own, and Haven and Whisper by themselves may not be enough.

The howling void that parts the stars above the ship has broken the minds of the crew as easily as it broke the Shell itself. And Haven was slow to acknowledge the spreading fissures through her own her heart, her trust, her hope in the world. But she has learned her lesson by now. So she doesn't step towards Siggi, doesn't smile. Doesn't take her eyes off of him, even as Jaeldirra gurgles something incoherent from the ocean on the starboard side of the ship.

Siggi waves one hand in a lazy gesture, banishing the Darkness, and climbs out onto the deck. His ascent is hampered by the sword in his hand, which gleams like glass and measures easily six feet long.

The sight of it confirms all of Haven's worst suspicions. She asks anyway.

"Siggi, what did you do?"

Siggi smiles, looking down at the blade. Haven's not good at reading people, but something in Siggi's expression makes her skin crawl. It's not as obviously, abhorrently wrong as Jaeldirra's current insanity, but it's terrifying nevertheless.

"I have this now," Siggi says slowly. He looks at her, his gaze curiously vacant. His tone is all vague surprise on the surface, but there's an undercurrent of satisfaction running beneath it.

"Where's Lastiar?" Haven asks. She asks it slowly, nausea already roiling in her gut because she knows the answer to this question too.

"Downstairs," Siggi says.

His reply is smooth and instantaneous — simple enough when it reveals nothing important. The cuffs of his shirt are dyed crimson, but his gait is loose and even as he strolls across the deck towards Haven. He is casual, uninjured and intact. That's what fills in the remaining details for Haven — those stains on Siggi's shirt aren't his own blood.

Even as Haven processes this, Whisper has already taken a step, placing herself between Haven and Siggi as he approaches. Whatever Whisper has already seen belowdecks was enough for her to condemn Siggi, it would appear. Haven recognizes the iron hardness in Whisper's posture — instant and unyielding protective instinct. A choice to defend. It is the way Whisper faces her enemies.

Haven looks away. Moves to the railing again, even though each step feels like wading through mud. She is so tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Jaeldirra is swimming back towards the Nightweaver, if it can be called swimming — an odd, disconnected movement that involves flickering closer by several feet at a time, disappearing between one clumsy stroke and the next.

Whisper's hand closes on Haven's elbow. A surge of warmth, of healing and strength. Something unspoken must pass between Whisper and Siggi behind Haven's back, because Siggi speaks again.

"I love Haven," Siggi says, higher-pitched. True surprise in his voice. "I would never hurt her."

Haven curls her hand into a fist, summoning Bigby's Hand to smack Jaeldirra, and wishes she could still believe him. He hasn't attacked her yet, though, so she says, "I can stop JD. I just need someone to hold them still."

"On it," Siggi says promptly. He takes a few quick steps to the railing and dives overboard in one graceful motion. He disappears into the dark waters with barely a ripple, resurfacing only to strike out towards Jaeldirra with Presvyre, and Haven has just enough time to think — wait, isn't Jaeldirra an elf? Won't Presvyre object?

A wave submerges both of them before Haven can judge the result. She blinks and squints against the salt-spray, lifting her hand in preparation for another push with Bigby's Hand. It is only Jaeldirra who comes back up, and it sends a shock of terror twisting through her throat, so she responds with a shock of her own — golden lightning crackling out from her staff, racing across the water towards them.

It's not the first time Haven's caught Siggi in one of her Lightning Bolts — it's not even the third or fourth time — but she worries anyway as the seconds pass and there's still no sign of Siggi. He has disappeared into the depths, and she and Whisper are alone again against Jaeldirra.

Except — there's someone else behind her on the deck, dripping seawater. Haven spins around, fearing another threat, and cannot quite bring herself to relax when she meets a familiar set of lime-green eyes.

"What now?" she asks, heavy with dread.

Klaus looks down, nocking an arrow to his bowstring with slow, methodical precision. "The sky," he says after a moment, "is really scary."

Well, Haven can't argue with that. Klaus does look afraid, wild-eyed with some emotion that seems different than his usual paranoia. It is less controlled, more unsettling — but it isn't that different. He is here with Haven. He vanished, but he came back, like he always does. Haven almost smiles.

But then Klaus stiffens, staring hard at the weather-scarred boards of the deck. "They're belowdecks," he says, low and urgent. "Heading for the stairs."

Haven calls her Hand to her side. It swivels to place itself in between her and the stairs, coloring her vision in a shimmering, translucent pink. When she looks up again, Klaus is gone, but that doesn't surprise her. Hopefully he is hiding away to help her, not merely to hide, but she'll find out soon enough.

It ends like this:

Jaeldirra slithers up the stairs and pushes through Bigby's Hand, which shouldn't be possible. Then they phase partially into Haven, which really shouldn't be possible, and tangle their grasping fingers into her hair. They force her head back, even as she gasps and struggles, and the sight of the sky above drills into her. Encompasses her. Obliterates her entire being.

Haven gapes as the stars dance above her. Only for a few seconds, before she wrenches herself back to reality, but it is enough. Jaeldirra passes a hand through her flesh again, and Haven's knees give out.

As she crumples, she summons her Hellish Rebuke — a last act of futile desperation, because her tiefling flames have never burned very bright, but it's all she can think of. The fire is only a few flickers of gold in the darkness. Not enough.

Her staff clanks to the deck, rolling away as she loses control of her limbs.

The last thing Haven remembers is the hiss of an arrow above her head, passing directly between the prongs of her antlers. A masterful shot, but Haven would expect nothing less.

She sinks into unconsciousness hoping Klaus can finish what she could not.

7. like a soldier coming home for the first time

Haven comes to in the medical bay of the Nightweaver, splayed out on one of the cots. She keeps her eyes closed for a few minutes after she wakes, in a meager attempt to ward off the headache that has her skull in a vice grip, but eventually she acknowledges the futility of the act. She rolls over, opens her eyes, faces the world.

The world turns out to be Whisper, Nitha and Klaus at the moment. Whisper is lying motionless on the cot next to Haven, and she waits for a few trembling seconds — but yes, Whisper is still breathing. Nitha huddles on a stool in the corner, resembling nothing so much as a ragged bundle of red and white feathers. Her good eye tracks Haven as Haven sits up, but when she cracks her jaw open, only a wheezing rasp comes out.

It takes another few moments to find Klaus — even in this small, crowded room, Haven’s attention skips right over him at first. He is making no effort to hide, but he simply blends in with the teetering piles of supplies in his corner, possibly by pure instinct. He has something in his hands that he is fiddling with, fingers moving rapidly.

“How are you feeling?” Klaus asks without looking up.

Haven considers the question for longer than it truly merits. She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, applying grinding pressure until her vision bursts with sparkling swirls of colored light.

"My head hurts," is all that she says out loud.

It is hardly the only part of her that is wounded. Whatever Jaeldirra did to her left deep bruises that throb with pain, and they are layered over several weeks' worth of other combat injuries. Her heart keeps its unsteady rhythm in her chest, but even that is conditional, held captive by the amulet around her neck. Any other words she might say have withered in her throat, stifled by her deepening misery.

Klaus doesn't reply, though, and Nitha still cannot speak, so they sit in silence for a minute or two — just the three of them and an unconscious Whisper. Haven dredges up a flickering wisp of curiosity, some fading echo of a sense of responsibility.

“How long have I been out?” she asks.

Klaus does meet her eyes now, gaze steady. “About an hour.”

Glancing at Whisper, Haven recovers a blurry memory of Jaeldirra attacking Whisper the same way they attacked Haven. Of Whisper hitting the deck shortly before Haven did. And if the ship’s only cleric is still unconscious, then that means…

Haven swallows, hard, and forces out the next question. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Jaeldirra left. Siggi hasn’t come back. Lastiar’s dead.”

Klaus sounds so calm about it, so matter-of-fact. Even about Jaeldirra, whom Haven thought he genuinely liked. Haven buries her face in her hands again. Quite independent of her intentions, her brain whirs into motion again, churning out her usual iterative lists of options: spells to cast that might help, clarifying questions to ask, people to check up on after the immediate crises are resolved one way or another.

She doesn’t reach for her notebook, though, or a scrap of parchment. She just lets the thoughts ricochet off the inside of her battered skull, splintering into pieces and disappearing again when she does not focus on them or transcribe them as is her usual habit. She’ll reach for them later, and probably only be able to come up with half the checklist, and hate herself a little for being unable to remember.

Instead, Haven thinks: there have always been words clouding the air between herself and Jaeldirra. It is rare that Haven finds herself so frustrated by language, because it’s usually one of her greatest tools. But the slippery consonants of Undercommon continue to elude her, and she never found a way in any language to reassure Jaeldirra, despite her repeated attempts.

When the Abyssal Gaze first sets sail from Veville, even Haven could see Jaeldirra's misery. And she wanted to help, of course, if she could. They were both children of Povrunei, though Haven was raised on the sunny surface and Jaeldirra in the unforgiving depths of the Underdark. So Haven shared some of the convoluted tangle of logic and emotions she has constructed through intense consideration over the past couple years. Magic and its morality are topics she ponders frequently — which is apparently unusual behavior for a wizard, but that's not the point.

The point, which she tried somewhat incoherently to explain to Jaeldirra, is that power on its own isn't inherently evil. That using magic to save people isn't wrong just because other people have used that same magic to cause harm. Jaeldirra listened to her explanation, watching her in thoughtful silence, but Haven doesn't think she made them feel any better.

Later, she offered to teach Jaeldirra arcane magic, which they refused — of course they did. Haven only wanted to offer another option, one that didn't require worshipping a god of deception and pain, but it was probably tactless. Another clumsy reminder of Jaeldirra's rejection from the Unwoven.

Haven's request, then, to learn Undercommon from Jaeldirra, was made as politely and unobtrusively as she could manage. She tried her hardest to adhere to to Jaeldirra's rigid curriculum and strict lecturing style — Jaeldirra, normally level-headed and almost as quiet as Whisper, was brisk and unforgiving as a teacher, right up until Haven broke down crying during one of their lessons. After several earnest apologies on both sides, the two of them reached a workable compromise. Haven was making rapid progress, too, and estimated she'd only need a few more weeks to attain reasonable fluency. She planned to have another conversation with Jaeldirra about magic, maybe in Undercommon this time, when—

The sky split open.

Something monstrous took up residence in Jaeldirra's body.

The rest of the Corsairs also descended into various levels of insanity, and Haven was left standing alone on deck, trying to stop Jaeldirra's rampage without killing them.

Haven wishes now, here in the medbay, that she had been more ruthless. The crew could have brought Jaeldirra back from death, but cannot rescue them from the all-devouring obliteration that awaits them beyond the Shell. In trying to save Jaeldirra, she has damned them to a fate that is even worse.

Despite all that time Haven spent with Jaeldirra, she never really connected with them. It was only Klaus who seemed to see the world in a way they understood, who could speak to that restless uncertainty at the core of them.

Haven chooses her third question carefully. She’s watching Klaus’ expression, but she also knows he could easily hide his emotions from her even if he did feel something.

“What do you mean by ‘left,’ exactly?”

Klaus blinks. His voice is very level when he says, “They sort of… turned into spaghetti. And went up into the sky.”

“Oh,” Haven says. “Um.”

She thinks about that — what kind of spell it might have been, and how it correlates with the rest of the strange new abilities Jaeldirra developed in the short minutes before their ascension. It explains why Klaus couldn’t stop them, at least — he can obliterate any mage that sticks around long enough to fight him, but his arrows can’t counter teleportation spells. Only Haven or Siggi can do that, and they had both already been eliminated from the fight.

“They said something about Sty’ryk,” Klaus adds, helpfully. “That they were returning to it.”

Haven scours her memory. The word doesn’t spark any kind of recognition, but maybe there’s something in her notes. Then again, since it’s probably a place or entity beyond the Shell, her chances aren’t good.

From the hammock, Nitha makes a kind of creaking noise. Her eye is wide, but her voice is still too ruined to form words. Maybe she knows more than Haven does — it will have to wait until she’s recovered from the special brand of insanity the sky awarded her.

Haven makes ready to stand up, reaching out with one hand. She hesitates.

One last question, then — an important one. “Where’s my staff?”

The silence stretches a little too long before Klaus replies. Haven’s already sinking back to the cot, strength draining from her limbs, as Klaus says, “JD took it with them. As a gift.”

She doesn’t cry. She can feel her dismay in her chest and throat, thick as smoke and sharp as broken glass, but it only gathers there, dense and aching, without breaking open or spilling out.

“I can cast Gentle Repose on Lastiar’s body,” Haven says dully, falling back on those mental lists. “And, um, I’ll Send to Siggi, I guess. To see if he’s okay.” After a moment, she glances at Klaus, then Nitha. “Are you guys okay?”

Nitha can’t answer, and settles for an eloquent shrug. Klaus looks away. There is a strange sadness in his expression, a vulnerability that looks entirely unfamiliar on him.

“I want to go home,” he says softly, “but I don’t know where home is.”

Haven doesn’t know what to say to that — she can count the number of times on one hand that she's tried to offer advice to Klaus, rather than the other way around. It is a conversation that will have to wait for later.

Instead of speaking, she unwinds what's left of her bun, yanking her wand from the tangled mess. Her hair tumbles down around her and spills across her shoulders, down her back. She stares at the wand, readjusting to the feel of its wood in her hand, and bites her lip as she fights again against the burgeoning cascade of tears.

The Staff of Power was more than a lucky find — it was a trophy she and her friends had to defend over and over again, at the cost of two of their lives. Haven only took it originally because she wanted to keep it from Ally, but it has become her most powerful tool to keep them all safe. Not that Haven's done a very good job of that, recently. But now it is gone, along with Jaeldirra, to a place Haven could not follow even with twice the power she currently wields.

Haven tries to summon up optimism from a well that is rapidly running dry. There is no way to make this latest crisis more bearable, but the rest of it — she can still try. She has to, or risk losing her mind completely.

Half of her friends might have left her, but at least most of them are still on this plane of existence. And healthy and safe, as far as she knows. Klaus is still here with the Corsairs, and not with the Kraken, despite the memories that haunt him on the Nightweaver long after the more literal ghosts have been vanquished. And at least the Corsairs recovered most of their possessions from the wreck of the Abyssal Gaze, and were able to commandeer the Nightweaver.

At least they have a ship, and some of their crew.

But as Haven looks around this small, cluttered room, it all seems like slim comfort indeed.

#work title and part titles from 'Still Breathing' by Green Day #god that song slaps... anyway #Haven #corsairs campaign #Haven is having a BAD TIME

6 notes · View notes

spookycrazyhatboxghost · 1 year

Text

Two months Post Death of Khal. Joha leaves???

Joha is doing the last of his checks before take off.

The soft sound of wings register through his Buy’ce and he stays where he is. Back to the open hatch where he knows Xók is standing.

There was a brittle attempt at a joke when Xók announced his presence by asking “Permission to board Captain?”

The silent Mando hunches his shoulders and shakes his head no still refusing to look at him.

“So—that’s it? You’re leaving ? For how long?—Sir please—J—”

The hurt cut into him with each word and when he turns to the shorter man; he’s barefaced in his kitchen uniform with his cloak thrown over—barely keeping composure.

Joha reaches for his cowl and hauls him into the ship as he slams his palm against the shutting mechanism.

The momentum sends them both into the oposite wall and into a slow slid to the ground.

Xók’s climbed him bodily; heart beating wildly and arms locked around his neck. Cradled in his lap as they settle on the floor.

“Joha—what have I done? Why are—”

Golden eyes go wide as the hiss of his Buy’ce releasing stuns the question.

It clatters to the hallway floor and Xók tightens his hold.

He shuts his eyes tight and buries his face against Joha’s shoulder.

{Look at me—Xók }

The boy gasps softly; body going cold then warm.

The sound of his name from /this voice/ makes something in him fizz.

But still.

The shorter man shakes his head; voice a little wobbly.

{No—you—you put that back on— I don’t want to get you in trouble—}

A warm chuckle against the shell of his ear makes his face heat rapidly.

{My job is finished little bird — that’s why I’m leaving—look at me Xók?please?}

Anger flares and Xók rears back to lock eyes with him. In the dim light of the hallway Joha’s eyes are dark and soften when they meet his.

It makes his stomach flip the feeling he sees there; warm and openly adoring.

There’s a birthmark just under the man’s right eye— the smile lines— the shape of his mouth that’s ticked up slightly in one corner as he’s watched in return.

Joha is quiet as he just looks at him without the barrier of his t visor.

This face is familiar under his hands as Xók cups both sides of his face gently.

The shorter man feels a touch petulant when he says finally.

{Shield Brother—“You let me call you old man—- when you look like this??”

That shocks a laugh out of him that Xók can’t help joining in.

{That’s not what I was expecting you to say the first time you saw my face}

This makes Xók grin as he touches their foreheads together with gentle hands.

{I live to subvert expectations— I thought you knew that about me by now Joha—}

The teasing ended abruptly when the other man leans in and angles his face to the right.

Joins their mouths; curious to find out what his name tastes like.

Xok closes his eyes and hums into the kiss— this was tamiles territory.

As the taller man’s hands make the slow crawl from his thighs to his waist then slowly up his back to touch at the soft feathers at the base of his wings -the noise Xók makes in the back of his throat is new.

So is the way he rolls his hips and and bites at Joha’s lower lip hard enough to taste copper on his tongue.

Joha stutters out a low groan arching up into the press of their hips ; Xók feels the shape of him through the fabric of his flight-suit and makes another noise between a sigh and a curse.

The man’s large warm hands fly to his hips and clamp down. Joha’s mouth moves from his jaw to his throat and that leaves Xók free to babble half formed praises and attempts at Joha’s name.

Controlling the pace with the grip at the taller Mando’s nape, him sucking at a favorite spot makes Xók lose focus and squirm on the man’s lap . Wings twitching with aborted stretches as he tries to shift back and find balance bracing himself on John’s thighs

{Mmh—this feels really— good oh stars—but this isn’t what— I —came here —for—}

The taller mouthed at his pulse point before meeting his eyes; stare piercing.

His voice was rough and it made the shorter man hesitant as he entreated:

{Come with me Xók — you asked me in the past to go on assignment with me. Come with me}

For a second he hears another voice— Xok felt a lump in his throat and his body go cold so quickly.

“It’s too sudden Joha— I want to— I do! But—”

He’d scrambled off the man’s thighs and stood on shaky legs.

A helpless noise found it’s way out and Xók covered his mouth; pressing himself against the door. Alarmed Joha rose slowly as to not agitate him further.

{Xók? What’s wrong?}

/this isn’t him—he is a corpse—you pulled out his heart with your own hands—get a hold of yourself!/

Panic welling up in him; the shorter man pinned Joha in place with his golden eyes rimmed with tears.

Xók tried to explain {I want to go with you— I do but I’m—There’s my work and I’d have to find someone to feed Syril — Ari and Buir and—} /Alo’r Maul/

Xók flinches hard at that wound and his wings arch up— try to shield him from it.

Curled up tighter, Xók is mumbling “I’m sorry” in every language he knows; tears streaking silent down his face.

Joha touches him with gentle hands; coaxing him into his arms with soothing words murmured until Xók is cradled against his chest; wings lax and he is no longer apologizing.

{I was too rash—Xok I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to make it sound like if you didn’t come with me you wouldn’t see me again—}

Xok made a distressed little trill and tucks his face against Joha’s chest plate; the cool touch of Beskar a comfort to his heated face.

{That’s exactly what I thought—you ASSHOLE!} Xók rasps angrily as he grips at Joha’s shoulder armor.

Joha drops his head to the top of Xók’s softly; his hair a curtain as he whispers carefully.

{I love you Xók—So you can’t get rid of me that easily— Shield Brother}

Looking him I. The face now; awed Xok makes a happy noise that’s somewhere between a coo and a trill; wrapping his arms around Joha’s shoulders.

{-Love you too} he says easily as breathing— he kisses Joha’s face .

The crinkle between his brows; his nose his cheeks and gently on the mouth once -twice—lingering there as the taller man cups the back of his head and kisses him back.

There was no rush; this felt different.

Xok couldn’t place why but his heart beat fast all the same.

Resting their foreheads together; eyes closed.

Joha spoke first:

{I’ll be gone for three months— the job looks like a difficult one—}

Xok hums in understanding before asking quietly.

{Whose the target?}

Joha smiled softly and opened his eyes to commit Xók’s face to memory; peaceful and his if even for a moment.

{it’s a personal job not a bounty puck— I’m going to find my mother- I think it’s time I reconcile with her}

Xok opens his eyes in surprise and is momentarily distracted at the mirth that crinkles at the corners of Joha’s warm gaze trained solely on him.

Can’t help the smile that blooms on his face Xók exclames:

{That’s wonderful! Oh— I feel doubly worse for not being able to go with you—it doesn’t feel as helpful if I support you from here—}

/I’m a horrible friend /

Xók thinks dazedly as Joha holds his chin carefully and kisses his lips gently before putting a hand to the ka'rta in the middle of his chest plate.

{You’ll be right here— and I’f I miss the sound of your voice I’ll Comm you}

Xok was recovering from the way his mouth tingled; eyes going soft as the words register.

{I’m going to miss you —crushing me in my sleep—so so much—}

Joha kisses him again but it’s more of a bite that makes the shorter man smirk against his mouth.

When the taller man pulls back he knocks their heads together gently as hisses out; affection ringing out.

{Brat I’m trying to be soft here}

Xók’s eyes go pleading as he shifts closer and nuzzled Joha’s cheek as he responds

{—and I’m being very soft and serious—I’ve gotten used to you in my bed and now it will be too big without you.. I’m going to miss you Joha truly—}

The taller Mando cuts in {it’s only three months. We are not at War—-}

Trying to sooth the anxious way the boy’s wings twitched. The look Xók gives him stops that thought and he swallows the feeling.

“We could be—-isn’t that what you always told us in the training hall?”

Tone serious Xók admonishes switching back to Basic as he stands; dusting off his knees and giving him a cool once over.

Joha swallows at the look and his inappropriate response to it.

“Maybe your optimism is rubbing off on me?” Joha says as he schools his features with the years of practice he’s had.

Poor choice of words.

But Xók’s only response to that is to grin and carefully pick up his Buy’ce-kiss the t visor gently and hand it to him with that same soft smile that touched his eyes.

Looking down at the black Beskar, Joha hold his helmet like he’s found something new there— and maybe he had. Not feeling like putting it back on yet—

Xok gets his attention quickly when he says in a stern tone a clear mimic of his own.

“Stand up—“

Joha finds himself standing and leaning into Xók’s orbit, the shorter Mando looks back at him with reassessing eyes and one brow quirked up.

Xok speaks after a moment

“Safety to you Captain—”

Joha kisses him again—not wanting the weight of duty to bring him down from such height just yet.

Xok laughs as he attempts to real him back in.

Pushing at his chest and dissolving into more genuine laughter.

“Go— the sooner you leave—the sooner you can come back—”

Joha lets his Buy’ce seal the melancholy feeling in with him.

Touching the hatch panel with more care then before.

There was a spark of mischief as Xok gently pulled him down and kissed his t visor.

“A parting gift— for luck —when morons want eye contact ‘they can trust’ ”

The shorter Mando repeats with clear mockery in his voice.

Joha’s hands move to sign before he switches the amplifier on; hands free to pull him in close and speak directly in his ear.

{What have you done?}

Xok blinks and can’t hide the shiver— close as they are Joha definitely notices.

Okay that’s new.

“I —” Xok starts and then looks down at the other pair of googly eyes in his hands.

“I made these for when I go on off world missions and people don’t trust me since I won’t give them eye contact —I’m sorry Sir I can take them off— “

{Leave them be—come here}

The Captain leans down and Xok shifts up on his toes to gently press his forehead to his t visor. Xok feels gloved hands frame his face and rub at a cheekbone carefully.

The larger man’s aura keeping people from looking too closely or too long.

Gloved hands move away and one comes back to take hold of his chin again. Xok is further flustered when all he says is :

{Behave yourself}

Before releasing him from his hold and walking back up the ramp.

Xok steps back a few feet till his knees hit a stack of crates. Pulls his legs up and sits in an odd way as he watches Joha leave.

Something wraps around his heart and squeezes— but no forbidding feeling follows which he counts as a blessing.

When the ship has left the atmosphere Xók wonders if he laughed when he saw the eyes.

—he did.

And immodestly put them on his droid co pilot.

FIN

#spookycrazyhatboxghost #star wars fanfiction #whyyyyy #star wars oc #mandalorian oc #darth maul x male oc

3 notes · View notes