#fuck this one hurt me to write

[autistic-beshelar]

rue is, i think, in love with the idea of love.

they set a wager. the lords of the wing will find true love in this romantic, ephemeral bloom, if they only seek it. they can win it, as though it’s a game.

they long to abolish the courts. their own court has never held any love for them - why would any other court be different? a court stifles, a court smothers, a court suffocates love. the courts must be abolished, so that love can bloom. true love, love that is unfettered by politics, or station, or duty.

they are the architect of the bloom. the hunt, the heart. the dance. the potions. they will pour love into a cup and the guests will drink their fill. fae from across the realms will fall in beautiful, perfect love at rue’s hand. 

they have become the arbiter of love. when an engagement between a cruel prince and a wild goblin is set, what else can they do but judge it unfit? it was not love, it was not true. 

they share a moment in a forest with a venerated captain. he is tall, as they are. he is clawed, as they are. he is a beast, as they are, and so beautiful for it. they fall fast, and hard, and heavy. and perhaps it is only the nature of queerness, of a life lived behind a mask, yearning for the faintest spark, that causes them to love so fast. 

or perhaps they did not truly fall in love with hob at all. for they did not see him. 

they fell in love with a reflection of themself.

except, of course, that hob is not a reflection of rue. hob is his own person, and like any real person, he cannot live up to an idea. and while rue is on a wonderful journey of revelation and self acceptance, it is baffling to them that someone else’s love does not always mirror their own.

rue, in an act of bravery and vulnerability and hope, removed their mask. and they long so very much to remove hob’s - but he has never worn a mask. he has always been exactly as he is - a soldier, devoted and dutiful. an outsider, used and abused by his court. rue’s true form was hidden by their court, while hob’s otherness has always been mercilessly exposed.

rue loves hob for the idea of who he could be, if he could simply unmask as they did. but hob needs, just as rue does, to be loved for who he is.

#this really went from 'rue doesn't truly understand love and is fucked up about it' #to 'rue thinks hob's story is one of queerness but it is in fact of neurodivergence' #and while rue could pass #hob never could #this hurt me to write btw. #a court of fey and flowers #delloso de la rue #captain kp hob #i see a LOT of talk about rue's story being a queer one #which it very very deliberately and wonderfully is #but i see the same being said of hob #and i'm not saying it's wrong to see hob's story as a queer one too #but to me hob's entire narrative is so clearly an autistic one #the abuse and manipulation and straight up gaslighting that he has received from his superiors #reads so clearly as authority figures taking advantage of a neurodivergent person #his whole... inability to accept that anyone could love him for who he is #the way he is othered not so much for how he looks #but for his BEHAVIOUR #for things that are blatant autistic traits #that's... that's an autistic narrative for sure. #not to say that hob isn't also queer #and of course there is so so much overlap between queer stories and autistic stories #but i think that #rue is only seeing their experience as a queer person #they aren't understanding that hob's experience is different than theirs #because he is autistic #also for many other reasons but like. look. we're talking autism babey. #and also i'm not saying rue can't also be autistic or neurodivergent in some way #but they don't have the same experience as hob does

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

<< First - here - Next >

#rc9gn #randy cunningham 9th grade ninja #Torn Pages AU #rc9gn first ninja #first ninja #randy cunningham #me: oh i probably wont do much for this au i wanna concentrate on the other one ;) ;) ;) this is just silly thing haha #also me: ITS OCTOBER AND I GOT AN IDEA BUT I ALSO NEED TO SET UP EVERYTHING AND NOW I HAVE 9 PAGES AND MORE IDEAS FUK #can u tell i cant control what inspirations i have? h a h #me: let feral baby randy kick first in the nuts! also me: no. no its too mean. ;( lets just kick him in a sternum its gonna hurt too ;) #i do not know how to pace comics and write dialogues. but i got too tired cringing at everything and just fucking did it imma posting #i was supposed to finish it yesterdaaaayyyyy

[quirkle2]

[zombie au] when ur.when ur brotherturns into a z.when ur brother turns into a zombie and u spend the next several years of ur childhood braving the most fucked up shit ever so u can find a cure and it gets to the point where ur killing parts of urself just to pick up the pieces of ur brother with shaking, cut up hands and glue him back together but at that point ur just going to end up bringing him back to a world that's not worth living in

#qkdraws #id in alt #mob psycho 100 #mob psycho #mp100 #zombie au #ritsu kageyama #mp100 ritsu #shigeo kageyama #mp100 shigeo #mp100 mob #btw even tho i like to draw mob snarling and being a bit feral i do wanna make it clear that he's Very rarely like that #i just enjoy it when he Is so i draw it <3 hope thishelps #he's usually more like the top right. chill as fuck. not a single thought in that head #mob only gets aggressive when ritsu's in trouble #in the top left one he's actually snarling at tome. bc of uhm.reasons <3 #dw she didn't hurt ritsu. mob just Thinks she did and he's going mad abt it #wanna write that part eventually. maybe. some day perhaps #anyway yeah.uhm. i think im cookin w this au #im cookin Smth. might not be edible but im cookin and u can't take that away from me #mob doesn't just have eye bags cuz he's a zombie and owahh zombies gotta look scary #he has them cuz in this au it's REALLY hard to fall asleep when ur zombie #but ur stillhuman and u still require sleep to live. which is why sleep deprivation is like the leading cause of zombie death in this world #and that means ritsu has to be Super careful not to let mob go too long without sleep #he's always tryin to get the poor guy to Rest. even when ur exhausted beyond belief it's Rly hard to sleep when ur a zombie #ur brain's been rewired n shit man. it fucks up a lot of systems #ritsu has eye bags bc he's .tormented.by the entire earth #quite literally everything is against him.for a very long time #and he's fuckin exhausted man.he's fuckin tired #fun fact if u raid my inbox about this au ill kiss u on the mouth

[beanghostprincess]

I think a very normal amount about Crocodile and Mihawk genuinely seeing Buggy's value. Genuinely appreciating his dream and his sense of adventure. Mihawk (bored-to-death swordsman who desperately needs something new) and Crocodile (the man who only cares about business because the last time he wanted something a kid with flip-flops sent him flying) seeing that the clown they're only using as bait and punching bag is actually the one with the biggest pirate heart. They realize he has charisma and followers for a reason and it's the fact that his "fake it til you make it" persona is actually built above his true dream. The words of fake confidence he speaks are actually words he genuinely wants to believe, but always fears will backfire because he doesn't have anything to rely on (unlike Shanks. Because even if Shanks doesn't need to rely on anything, he used to wear the trust and love of their captain in his head and everyone else supported him to be his legacy). So they end up seeing that they can do more with him. Together. Mihawk and Crocodile might have the money and the people but Buggy has the dream. They can go higher. They can be more than what they thought they were. Buggy shows them this side of himself between tears and sudden yelling and they have to admit that... They used to have dreams. Long forgotten ones. And okay, Buggy might not be the king of the pirates. They're so not saying that. But they can go higher.

They see this side of him and they never say it out loud (and even if they did, Buggy wouldn't even notice because he's busy begging them not to kill him. Which, y'know, fair) but something changes inside of them. Perhaps it's a faint, tiny sense of protectiveness. Maybe affection. Some type of appreciation they can't quite name because it would be too embarrassing for them to even say they care for this clown but- But it's there. Something.

So they keep Buggy around and he starts to feel less like a punching bag and more like somebody they care about. Kind of. And you know what? Maybe the damn clown can become the king of the pirates if he has already made the impossible happen once.

#somebody should put me down honestly i am going crazy #is it the fever am i starting to get delirious what the fuck did i write #anyway i think these three should make out and then a comically sitcomy camera should point at doffy and shanks crying #i'm making cross guild romantic and not just sexy !! behold the powers of fluff and hurt/comfort see what they can do #no but seriously i need these two to appreciate buggy bc although i love buggy being their little chihuahua sometimes i really want love #one piece #buggy the clown #dracule mihawk #sir crocodile #cross guild #the ship between these three is just cross guild right like why would you need another word #to me it's romantic in canon too who cares

[opens-up-4-nobody]

She's turning the rain to snow

#LISTEN. uwu rukia my beloved 😭😭😭 #theyre both so sad abd soft together. bleach hurt me so bad. the betrayal. but the fucking sad rain music plays in my head all the time #fucking christ its the show i have so so much nostalgia for #god. i wanna write ichiruki feels but dont wanna rewatch all of bleach #i dont remember it well enough but the soul mates thing. the rain the ice queen. the rukia wanting a family and putting other before hersel #the ichigo being trained as a protector and being the onky one willing to not let her die. #im gonna have to redraw that kiss in like 2 years or so bc i like the pose. the dress is way too long for her tiny legs tho #i did not use my time wisely today 😬 #bleach #ichiruki #ichigo kurosaki #rukia kuchiki #tw blood #shout out to middle school me who couldnt draw either of these fools ✌️ #fanart

[shinystealingbirb]

Some thoughts on Yanqing

I don’t quite know how or if Yanqing was shown in Honkai Impact, but I’d like to talk about my understanding of him.

Biiiiiiig cut.

I assume many think he’s a flat character. He’s a child prodigy who arrogantly took on two immortals leagues more powerful than himself, and couldn’t get over his loss. Right? Who went out seeking some strange person, who Jingliu almost treats like an amusing pet, who tried to shortcut his way to total mastery. Who desires a title of a championship rather than the art itself. That’s the mark of a flat character- no displayed motivation, and traits we’re told, rather than shown, exist.

This is what the game explicitly tells us. In fact, it takes pains to push this narrative, and in my opinion, it’s specifically because he’s never in our party. To Stelle, or Caelus, or whoever you play as, Yanqing will always be on the other side. He faced Dan Heng and Blade, who we controlled. He duelled Stelle and Kafka. Faced us under the voluntary control of a heliobi. The only time we control him is when Yanqing battles Jingliu, and even then, he was canonically alone. To the Trailblazer, he is a child. An irritatingly strong one, but a child nonetheless, ultimately a footnote in their journey.

So that’s what the game says. But I want to talk about what the game doesn’t really put out there as much, but becomes more obvious the more we encounter Yanqing.

It’s a little hard to explain- I got a kick in the balls when I went through the Fyxstroll Garden quests and got to Yanqing, but I’ll explain that in a moment. For now, allow me to begin with a brief explanation of his character in the way I see it, rather than what the game has taken pains to show us.

He’s a winner- all he’s done is win, and he is young. It’s all he’s known, training and success. He’s showered with praise that he easily tires of, and the General is the only one he spars with that consistently defeats him. This praise is the expectation, the norm. You must win can be a hell of a motivator.

So when he loses to Dan Heng and Blade, it rocks his fucking world. He had no idea where he was in terms of power- really, the only thing he had to compare himself to was Jing Yuan, and the gap there is enormous. He got a taste of a true life-or-death scenario, as opposed to the competition he’s accustomed to, and according to the heliobus, the two immortals- who are way out of his league- left him teetering on the brink of death.

In an attempt to discover his prowess, something outside of the meaningless praise and predictable spars with Jing Yuan, he was absolutely ripped apart by an undead Hunter and a reborn Elder. The worst part? The heliobus in the Fyxstroll quest says he would’ve died “if the hunter’s blade pierced him,” which could quite possibly mean Blade was holding back. Given he was in a rush to beat the shit out of Dan Heng, I doubt it, but it is a possibility that would add salt to the wound- being defeated without being cut once by Blade, only using the flat side of his sword to almost kill him?

So he’s aching from that loss. He got fucked up and knows exactly where he stands, and that’s the single greatest defeat he’s suffered in his life.

For some children, for those who began or became skilled, who build and build and gather ourselves, trying to fight good to become great, a fear we have to overcome is failure. And failure is the single more horrifying concept to a gifted child, the absolute worst outcome.

A normal person fails. Oh well. Time to move on with life.

A competitive or gifted child fails, it means something. It means the effort put in, every single move spent in our lives, every thought, every moment of practice or rest, even if not working on that skill specifically, was a waste of a life, and as failures, that child, too, is a waste. Failure is like death. The way I can best describe the feeling… your heart clenches. Cold sweat, a sudden mental blank. A spider crawls up your throat, and with every step your throat grows tighter, the sense of dread closer and closer until the spider has made its way up to your stinging nose, your tearing eyes, and you are humiliating yourself with those tears.

It’s hard for people who do not understand this to be empathetic. To these people, a loss like this is just a loss. Things like “you’ll get them next time” or “they were out of your league” are said, and these things will never be consolations.

We, the Trailblazers, do not understand why Yanqing goes back to it in his thoughts so often, why it is a pivotal moment for him, why it appears in his character lines, and why he speaks about that battle so ruefully. It was inevitable, we think, that he would lose, isn’t it?

Shouldn’t he know he would never have beaten him?

Of course he knows.

But Yanqing is a child. For all his power, all his cheer and skill, he is a child. He’s gifted, and loss stings really fucking bad if you’re gifted, if you’ve won and won and already realized that praise is false and results are king (his trace voiceline sounds so sarcastic when he speaks of praise.)

Now: we can go over Jingliu and Stelle’s battles if you wish- more salt in the wound, to twist the knife just a little more(loser, loser, loser)- but by far our most interesting encounter with Yanqing is in the Fyxstroll Garden quest.

He’s possessed by a heliobi who claims- and delivers- that he can teach any weapon and advance the soldier to a warrior beyond compare. Despite the memory-wiping effects of the heliobi after possession, I believe said possession- at least for this one- is voluntary.

After all these losses, Yanqing finds a spirit who pushed a Cloud Knight into something lethal, and the spirit tells him, “I have seen your losses, I see them inside your head. Offer me your sword; offer me your allegiance, your body, and I will make you great.”

Knowing he was almost killed for his naivety, knowing he has been painted as the enemy, knowing he has won and won for his entire gifted life, right up until he hasn’t… why do you think he takes it? Of course he’s desperate, of course there’s a nagging doubt, a painful needling that tells him hes not enough anymore, nothing is enough. Of course he allowed himself to be possessed.

After all, praise is empty. Results are king.

The real kicker comes when Jing Yuan gets there.

I think Jing Yuan’s reaction to Yanqing’s possession says a lot. He’s not surprised it was him, nor how easy it was to get into his head. He knows these things, understands they are part of growth and motivation. He is only disappointed because Yanqing has allowed himself to cheat, to find the shortcut.

He arrives at the island, and so calmly he says “Yanqing would never lift his sword against me.”

Yanqing raises his blade. And then he turns to the heliobi and demands a duel. He proceeds to rip the false Yanqing apart with all the speed and precision that Blade and Dan Heng dueled him with.

I’ve seen people talk about how Yanqing was put in a loaded situation. That his choice was made based on disappointing one teacher over the other. It’s not an unreasonable claim, but a shallow one, i based on the surface teacher-student dynamic and taking nothing the heliobi or Yanqing said into account.

It comes down to the choices he has: in that example, his choices are loyalty to a heliobi he only just met, or a teacher he’s known since he was a little kid. In this perspective, the choice is obvious.

This one is not an incorrect perspective, merely an incomplete one. I think the complete choice was as follows: Instant power from an unpredictable, harsh master, one who is asking strange things of him- attack your friends, attack your previous master, don’t you want power?!- or turn back to the training he feels he’s outgrown, mentored by a man who he holds in such high regard and, if his voice lines are any indication, would trust with his life in an instant.

He’s braver than I am for choosing Jing Yuan’s side. Yanqing’s been shown to have an honorable teacher, but we have not seen him put in a situation where he has to prove it. We couldn’t confidently say what he’d do.

This quest displayed his desperate side. The heliobi had already exploited it, promised and delivered power. The heliobi proved it could be trusted, for that at least. Jing Yuan is a trusted mentor, almost a father figure, but those methods led to failure at the most critical of times. This undoubtedly crossed his mind- it certainly crossed mine as I played through that quest- and I genuinely thought I’d have to fight him again.

Frankly, I’m astounded he chose Jing Yuan, and that surprise made, at least to me, made him feel complete.

Yanqing is a child, with a child’s complex emotions and weaker understanding. He is cheerful and confident, a trait easily confused with arrogance. He is competitive. His worth is based on his prowess with a sword. He knows praise is empty and results are king. He is desperate, but more than that he is loyal beyond his own desires, honorable to a fault, which is more than I could say about most adults, much less myself.

He’s flawed and requires a certain prerequisite to understand. Yanqing feels childish in a different way than Hook and Clara, in motivations rather than actions. He feels human, and I really like his character

#yanqing #character analysis #honkai star rail #honkai writing #writing #analysis #jing yuan #but there are some similarities I drew to better explain #hsr blade #dan heng #he reminds me of me #doing that quest really fucking hurt #3am thoughts #I’ve seen people burn out hard #I’ve been one of them #I’ve seen people dedicate their life to a sport #and there are some moments where shit really hits the fan #rambles

[ragnarokhound]

((you don’t have to do both if you don’t want to, you can consider this one a back up / alt))

“If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.” 💞

From this writing prompt list i reblogged in...november lmao fljdsjfa

anyway this grew legs and sprinted away the second I picked it up yesterday - clearly it just needed some time to proof lmao. Thank you for the ask, tauria!! From *checks watch* almost 5 months ago fjdslafjsa I will be cross-posting it to Ao3 in my new oneshot collection fic :)

Warnings for: Vague allusions that Ra's Al Ghul is a creep (what else is new), threats of gun violence, canon-typical violence

15. “If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.”

When Tim arrived in Gotham this morning, he had no way of knowing that his day would end in Jason Todd’s bed. 

Frankly, he wasn’t really sure what bed he’d end up in— because his own certainly wasn’t an option right now. But If he had to pick, Jason Todd’s was somewhere near the bottom of whatever list he’d make.

He didn’t exactly plan on this, okay? 

But, uh. Let’s back up a little.

—

Tim knew his day was going to go to shit when he got back from the airport at 7 AM.

He had his driver drop him off two blocks away from his townhouse for the sake of caffeine at the hole in the wall place he likes. Wealthy CEO he may be, but a sixteen hour flight is still a sixteen hour flight and Tim is cursed with an inability to sleep in the air. 

Don’t ask. He’s tried. It doesn’t work.

So he wants coffee, and he wants a shower, and he wants his own bed. In that order.

With the first thing on his list acquired and blessedly burning his tongue, he managed to tug his brain cells together enough to realize that the building they’d passed that had been shrouded in tents and canvas was his building.

"What's going on here?"

The worker outside his building looks up from her clipboard, her face wrinkling into apprehensive confusion.

"Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

He hasn’t slept in roughly seventy two hours. He is not awake or patient enough for this.

“My name is Tim Drake. I own this building. What’s going on here?” He repeats.

The woman raises her eyebrows and looks down at her clipboard again. “Mr. Drake?” She questions, clearly expecting him to look like a grown-ass man and not a sleep-deprived college student coming home from spring break or whatever.

“Yes. Timothy Drake-Wayne. Why are you—” he tries to gesture with the hand still holding his suitcase handle, walking towards the tarps and tents erected around his townhouse with increasing trepidation, “—here?”

“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go in there. Not for at least forty-eight hours.”

Tim stops in his tracks.

“Forty-eight—?”

“We've been scheduled to fumigate the property today.” She says it like she’s reading it out of a handbook. “It won't be safe to enter the building for at least forty-eight hours. You should have received prior notice. Uh. Sir.”

Tim's jet-lagged brain kicks into overdrive. 

Bruce hasn't made any disappointed noises about Tim’s perfectly normal work ethic lately so it probably wasn't a misguided attempt at benching him. And besides, rendering Tim’s apartment inaccessible is counterproductive on that front. 

Dick wouldn’t. They haven’t been exactly— great, lately but he wouldn’t. Besides, if he wanted to get Tim out of the house more, he’d show up to drag Tim out into the daylight himself. This is a little too roundabout for him.

It’s too much work to be Steph. She would think it’s funny, but there’s no way she’d follow through.

Damian might, but this doesn’t quite fit his preferred methods for making Tim’s life hell. It could be some cloak and dagger maneuver to leave him vulnerable, faking a complaint to the city so he’ll—

And then Tim thinks about the call.

The call he’d brushed off at fuck o’clock in the morning somewhere over Europe, too busy with another project. The call his secretary took for him instead. He thinks about the distracted confirmation he’d given to whatever it was she’d asked him about five minutes later. 

He also thinks about the form he signed about two weeks ago, before this last minute trip to Hong Kong had consumed his entire attention. The one with “Two Weeks Notice” stamped across the top. His stomach sinks.

“Today,” he repeats.

She looks apologetic. “Today,” she confirms. “And we just started about an hour ago. I’m very sorry, Mr. Drake-Wayne but—”

"No it's—" he says through gritted teeth, "fine. I'll just. Make other arrangements."

—

He does not make other arrangements. Though not for lack of trying.

Tim has a handful of safehouses scattered throughout the city. He has options. He gets a taxi to the closest neighborhood, and nearly falls asleep in the backseat. The cabby has to knock on the glass divider to get his attention when they come to a stop. He grumbles and hauls his suitcase out of the backseat, and tips the man excessively.

Shower. Bed. Sleep. He’s so close he could cry.

Except when he finally rolls around the block, coffee half gone and trying to remember if this safehouse is the one with in-unit laundry or if he’ll have to haul his shit down to the laundry room, his building is a blackened husk with police tape all around it.

He stops on the sidewalk. He peers up at the window of his unit, squinting at the peeling black wood and shattered glass. He ponders whether two is enough data points to be considered a pattern. And whether he could get away with napping in the alley on this street or if that’ll end with him stabbed and robbed.

As he’s pondering, he catches sight of a passerby and stops him.

“‘Scuse me,” he says apologetically. “What the hell happened here?”

The guy looks up from his phone and takes in his rumpled clothes, his suitcase, and the scorched remains of his apartment.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, there was a big fire about a week back? Bad fire. Took out, like, half the block. Cops are saying it’s arson.”

“A week ago,” Tim repeats. The guy’s eyes widen.

“Oh shit, bro, did you live here?”

“I’ve been out of town,” he explains numbly.

“Dude, that sucks. And right in the middle of con’ season. Good luck finding a hotel!”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs as the guy walks away. “Thanks.”

—

The next safehouse he tries isn’t in much better shape. 

He remembers hearing about Freeze going on a rampage a few days into his trip, but he hadn’t realized another one of his places had been caught in the cross-fire. The cold burst the pipes, and now the whole place is undergoing renovation.

He hears all this from the crotchety old lady who lives in the next building over (her building needs renovation too, but will the city pay for it? Of course not, they weren’t ‘directly impacted by disaster’ so they won’t see a penny of relief funds even though their pipes are on the same line. Typical) and when he finally extricates himself from the conversation, it’s almost noon, his second cup of coffee is long-since empty and he’s at the end of his goddamn rope.

By the time he sees his next safehouse, he isn’t even surprised anymore.

“Does God hate me?” He asks the boarded up building. “Is this a punishment? What did I do? What the fuck did I do?”

He is 99% sure at this point that someone is burning his bolt holes. There’s a short list of people with the resources and the intel to do it, and while he’s not above ruling out the likes of Damian just yet, he seriously doubts anyone wearing a bat is behind this. 

Besides, Dick would have noticed by now if Damian were sinking this many resources into convoluted covert ops designed to make Tim suffer. Definitely. Probably.

Fuck it.

He goes around the back and hops on top of his suitcase to reach the clunky camera watching the back entrance. This building is on the shittier side, closer to Crime Alley than his other haunts; cameras break all the time around here. He’ll have it replaced after he’s a functional human again.

Reportedly, this building was tagged for ‘high toxicity levels’—  which is pretty typical for any building where fear toxin or Joker gas are found in any amount. They must have found a lot to condemn the whole building, but Tim is confident he’ll be fine. The airborne shit dissipates to safe levels within hours depending on the ventilation. If it was in the air, it’s long gone. Anything else needs to be injected to be effective.

Once the camera’s busted, he kicks out the boards and heads inside.

He drags his suitcase in after him, and mourns the shower he probably won’t be getting. The hall lights are out, and chances are the water’s been shut off along with the electricity. But at this point, he simply does not give a shit. All he wants are four walls and a mattress.

Leaning on the door to his floor to make it open, he stumbles out into the hallway—

And catches sight of the glistening curved dagger stabbed into the wall next to his door, the hilt gleaming green in the sinking sun.

“Nope,” Tim says, spinning on his heel and going back down the stairwell double time. “Nope, nope, nope.”

He is now 100% certain that the League of Assassins has been burning his bolt holes. Ra’s al fucking Ghul can eat his whole ass.

—

Seven blocks away, Tim sits on the sidewalk in front of a bodega and contemplates a third cup of coffee. The shittiest one yet.

See, here’s the thing.

The thing is, he has options.

He could go to the Manor. Or the penthouse. Or to Steph’s place. He’d have to answer some unnecessary questions like ‘Master Timothy, you know you can’t sleep on aircraft, why didn’t you sleep before your flight’ or ‘Tim, why didn’t you come here first, you know you can still come to me if you’re in trouble, right’ or ‘why did you agree to fumigate your fucking house, you loser, lmao’. (Stephanie is not going to let him live this down). 

He is absolutely certain that he would be welcomed in any of these places and after a completely undeserved amount of fussing, he could take a fucking nap and someone else would deal with the League bullshit for him.

And that’s the thing. There’s the rub.

No one should have to deal with the League bullshit for him. This is his problem. He’s not in a hurry to bring them down on anyone. Not even Damian.

With grim resignation, he reaches for his phone to try and find a hotel room (during a con’ weekend apparently, RIP) and maybe get a fucking handle on this whole stupid thing, when he hears:

“Hand over your wallet!”

He lifts his head slowly and finds himself looking down the barrel of a gun. A gun held by some guy wearing a ski mask in broad fucking daylight. There’s another guy next to him who’s watching the street. There’s a third guy somewhere behind him who he can’t see, but he can hear the scuff of his boots.

Sure. Why not. With the day he’s had, this might as well happen. He holds up his hands placatingly.

Tim contemplates his muggers. The guy with the gun is jittery, probably new to this, or hopped up on something. He keeps glancing between Tim and the bodega behind him, so they were probably planning a run on the till. Might have chickened out, or thought Tim was an easier target, an unexpected meal ticket plopped right in their path. Or they were already inside when Tim sat down, which wouldn’t bode well for his situational awareness seeing as he just came out of there himself.

The grinding gears of his tired brain keep getting caught on the fact that this is happening in the middle of the fucking day. Tim glances at the street corner and bites his cheek in frustration. Yeah, he’s smack dab in the middle of the Alley. Figures.

“Are you deaf or somethin’ man?” The guy with the gun is saying. “Hand over your fucking wallet!”

The other guy doesn’t seem as crazy-eyed. He’s nervous, though. He keeps looking around like he’s expecting Batman to materialize, to come whistling down the street like a beat cop.

“Dude, come on, it’s not fucking worth it,” he says, grabbing at the gunman’s shoulder. “We got the money, let’s fucking go.”

The third guy kicks over Tim’s suitcase. “Yeah, come on, Don, let’s just grab this shit and bounce.”

Tim can’t do anything. He’s not Red Robin right now. He’s Timothy Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and he’s getting mugged in front of a bodega at two in the afternoon in a rumpled suit and tie and still toting his suitcase from his early morning flight. 

His hands are trembling from unspent adrenaline, too much caffeine, and not enough sleep. His eyelids are the heaviest they’ve ever been in his godforsaken life. His ears are ringing. He could knock all three of them down in less time than it takes to tie his shoelaces. But he can’t.

“Shut up, Johnny, look at him shaking! What’s he gonna do? If he doesn’t wanna get shot, rich boy’s gonna hand over all his fucking shit!”

“Hey, let’s just—” Tim tries to say.

Stars explode across his vision as Tim takes a punch he genuinely wasn’t expecting. He stares up at the blue sky for about half a second, more confused than anything else, before the gunman grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him up to shout in his face.

“What’s it gonna be, pretty boy?!”

Caught on the exhausted edge between vigilante training and the preservation of his identity, Tim is frozen. He doesn’t know what to do. He kind of wants to cry.

“Gee, Donny, what is it gonna be?” A fourth voice says, full of false cheer.

Tim blinks. So do the muggers. 

He knows that voice.

“Who the fuck—?” The gunman drops Tim, spinning around and into a fist. He tumbles down to the ground, out cold.

Everything happens pretty quickly after that.

Jason Todd is in civvies. He’s sporting a worn out looking hoodie and a pair of jeans that have seen better days. But his heavy boots are the same ones he wears for his uniform, and the kick he delivers to Johnny’s face is all Red Hood.

Almost in a daze, Tim watches him fight with the usual mix of seething envy and raw desire that rears its ugly head any time he gets to see Jason in action. He’s fast, decisive. Efficient. Beautiful. Tim wishes he had Jason’s skill. And he wishes— 

Well. He wishes a lot of things about Jason Todd.

Tim is pretty sure he and Jason are friends. Maybe. Probably. They’ve pretty much moved past the whole “replacement”, “zombie-dickhead” part of their relationship and have graduated to occasionally providing backup on ops that overlap in each other’s sectors, ganging up on Dick when they’re all in the same room, and maintaining a surprisingly steady stream of vigilante gossip to keep each other in the loop. 

So, ok, yes, due to the aforementioned, he’s pretty sure they’re friends. And also because Jason wouldn’t have stuck his neck out for him otherwise. He would have just let him get mugged.

Watching Jason fight is one of Tim’s favorite pastimes. But right now, Tim’s usual appreciation is soured by the gut-roiling embarrassment of being caught in this position by Jason of all people. His eyes itch. His cheek throbs. He’s so fucking tired.

“Hey, little stalker,” Jason says suddenly, holding out an expectant hand in Tim’s face. The muggers are groaning on the ground around them. Tim isn’t sure when that happened. He might have zoned out. “Did you know that you had a stalker for a change?”

Tim flushes. “I resent that. I haven’t stalked anyone in years.” He takes the hand. It’s warm, and calloused, and big around his.

Jason laughs at him and yanks him to his feet. “Liar.”

Tim’s mouth twists into a scowl. He tries to glare at Jason, but he can feel himself swaying and Jason still hasn’t let go of him, and it’s ruining everything.

Also, lowkey, Jason is right. But in his defense, it is literally their job to stalk people, so.

“I haven’t stalked you in years then. Just other guys. Bad guys. Not non-bad guys. Fuck. You know what I mean. Whatever.” He pauses; recalibrates. “Had?” He asks.

Jason’s eyebrows inched higher and higher the longer Tim talked. Tim doesn’t blame him.

“Yeah. Had.” 

So much for the League, Tim muses.

Jason gives him a once over before tugging decisively on Tim’s wrist, easily grabbing the handle of his suitcase and starting to walk with both in tow, to Tim’s rising horror. 

“You’re coming with me, shortstack. What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk? You look like shit.”

Tim tries to yank his wrist out of Jason’s grip, but the asshole doesn’t budge. “I’m not drunk,” Tim snaps. “I’m fine. I’m just. I’m just… really tired.”

Jason stops abruptly, and Tim stumbles into his shoulder.

“I can see that,” he says, steadying Tim with an amused but ultimately sympathetic look. He loads Tim’s suitcase onto the back of a motorcycle that Tim literally just now noticed. 

God, he’s fucked. And not even in a fun way. 

“C’mon,” Jason says. “Don’t fall asleep on the way over— road rash sucks ass.”

—

They don’t talk on the way to— wherever Jason is taking them, but once they’re parked in a random garage and walking towards the elevators, the game of twenty questions begins.

“So why’ve you got League assassins after you, anyway? Piss in a lazarus pit? Push over the baby brat on the playground?”

“Ra’s al Ghul wants my body,” Tim says, dejected but resigned to this bizarre fact of his life. “Since I was seventeen, I’m pretty sure.”

Jason wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

“I don’t think it’s a sex thing? But it could also be a sex thing.”

“Again. Fucking ew.”

“Yeah. Also I blew up a bunch of his shit and I think he’s still salty I got away with it.”

“Is that why you weren’t at the Manor?” Jason asks, herding Tim out of the elevator and down a long hallway. “Or anywhere but a random street in Crime Alley?”

Tim nods. “Yeah. They found all my safehouses, but— my mess. My problem.”

Jason thwacks him upside the head.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“You’re the dumbest person on the planet.”

“Am not. B is on-planet right now.”

“Then you’re pretty fucking close,” Jason snarks, fishing out some keys and opening one of the apartment doors.

Tim scoffs at him as he’s pushed inside. “Oh, please. Don’t try to tell me you would let Dick swoop in and solve all your problems for you.”

Jason rolls his eyes, stepping into the side kitchen and popping open the freezer door of the fridge.

“Dickiebird can’t even solve his own problems,” he says as he rummages. “But maybe when I’m fucked up enough to let three nobodies robbing a fucking bodega get the jump on me, that’s a sign that, maybe, it might be time to call in the cavalry. Dick isn’t the only person who’s got your back.” He presses an ice pack to Tim’s face until he takes it himself, and keeps steering him through the apartment. “Just saying.”

Tim would protest with all of his very good reasons why Jason is definitely wrong here, but he’s too busy processing the fact that Jason has led him into a bedroom. With a bed. There’s a bed, with a mattress and pillows and blankets. Right there. Tim stares at it with lustful eyes.

Jason catches him staring. He rolls his eyes, but he’s sporting a small smile that Tim has the presence of mind to memorize. He walks over to a dresser and pulls out a big shirt and a pair of shorts that he hands to Tim.

“Look. If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here. No guarantees I’ll be always around, but, yeah. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.”

Tim eyes him up, clutching the bundle of Jason-smelling fabric in his hands. “And you’d do that for me because…why, exactly?”

Jason flicks his forehead, a stinging reprimand. Tim hisses.

“Because, dumbass, you need help and I feel like it. And you don’t actually suck to be around, so shut up and be grateful.”

“Oh, yes,” Tim deadpans, rubbing at his forehead. “So grateful to be allowed the privilege of squatting with you.”

The thing of it is, Tim is grateful. But Jason doesn’t need to know that.

Jason squawks, and before Tim can duck, he’s snatched Tim around the neck in a headlock. His arm is thick and doesn’t budge no matter how Tim shoves and kicks. The ice pack and the clothes go flying, and Tim just about dies. Jason is warm.

“Jason—!”

“Brat!” Jason crows, not giving an inch. “I paid for this place fair and square— you’re the only squatter here!”

“Blood money doesn’t count as square!”

“Tell that to half of Gotham, kid.”

“I’m trying to, thanks for noticing,” Tim says, finally wrenching himself free of Jason’s grip, stumbling into the bed and giving into its siren song. He sits down heavily on the edge, toppling over sideways and reaching pathetically for the fallen ice pack that’s just out of his reach.

“And don’t call me kid—” he complains, muffled by the pillow. It also smells like Jason. “You’re barely two years older than me.”

The cold ice pack is pressed into his fingers. He cracks an eye open to look, but Jason is just smirking at him, like he’s giving Tim the win. Ass.

“Coulda fooled me, shortstack.”

Tim rolls his eyes, and onto his back, toeing off his shoes and letting them clatter to the floor. He can’t tell if Jason’s bed is the best bed in the world, or if he’s just deliriously inventing things.

Frankly, Jason Todd’s bed is the last place he ever thought he’d end up, this morning or otherwise, so he’s never bothered to speculate. He does not have a contingency plan for this.

“Is there a reason you keep calling me short,” he complains, “Or will I just need to fill in the blanks myself?”

“Can’t help it. You’re just so small,” Jason coos. Tim props himself up on an elbow at that, raising a disgusted eyebrow.

“You don’t hear me constantly talking about how big you are.” 

Jason grins like he just won the lottery; Tim shuts his eyes the second it’s out of his mouth.

“Baby, you don’t know how big I am.”

He does, actually. Not in a creepy stalker way, just— there was this one time. A big rogue breakout at Arkham, all-hands on deck type of situation; Tim, Cass, and Jason were covering Poison Ivy in the park. Acid-spitting pitcher plants were involved.

And look, Jason’s tactical gear is fine in the day to day, but it’s not like any of them had time to prep a neutralizing agent, so when Jason needed his pants off, stat…uh. Well. Tim was right there.

He knows, okay?

“Alright,” he rallies, trying desperately not to replay the memory of Jason adjusting himself through his boxers. All of himself. “I walked right into that one.”

“Oh, trust me. You’ll know if you’ve walked into it.”

Tim scoffs, but he can feel how red his face is.

And the thing is. He says it without really meaning to. 

But he still means it.

“You gonna put your money where your mouth is, big guy?”

The change is immediate. Jason had been halfway out the door, but now he turns to Tim, giving him his full, undivided attention. He looks at Tim, laid out in Jason's bed, giving him a very slow once over. The scrutiny is at once nerve-wracking and thrilling.

“Thought you didn’t want my money,” Jason murmurs.

The temperature in the room spikes. If it weren’t for the slow throb of his bruised cheek, Tim would think that he’s already asleep and dreaming.

But he isn’t. He’s very much aware that he’s wide awake.

Tim swallows. “Well. It’s not your money I want.”

Jason’s grin is electric. 

He stalks over to the bed, and Tim is frozen like a rabbit, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Jason settles a knee on the sheets between Tim’s legs, looming over Tim and boxing him in against the mattress. Tim’s free hand reaches up of its own accord to tangle in the collar of Jason’s hoodie, and the cotton is softer than he expected.

Jason’s eyes rove over his face, dark and heavy. He catches Tim’s face in his hand, swiping his thumb lightly across the bruising hot ache of his cheekbone. He leans in deliberate and slow and—

—and stops about an inch away from Tim’s mouth.

“Get some sleep, babybird,” Jason teases, his breath puffing gently over the skin of Tim’s lips. “You can proposition me again tomorrow.”

“It’s, like, 3:30 in the afternoon,” Tim argues, breathless.

“Yeah, and your body thinks it’s 3:30 in the morning. You’re dead on your feet. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, and go the fuck to sleep.”

Jason moves to rise. But Tim hooks a stubborn arm around his neck and pulls him down that last remaining inch. 

The kiss is— bad. At first. 

Tim basically smashed their mouths together to prove a point, and Jason muffles a surprised sound against Tim’s teeth. He lands heavily on top of Tim at an awkward angle, and he’s kind of crushing him. Tim refuses to let go, but— Jason doesn’t pull away.

Jason gentles the kiss instead, and Tim thrills. He levers himself up onto his elbow, wrapping an anchoring arm around Tim’s back. He finds a home between Tim’s legs, and he lets Tim kiss him until Tim's lips are tingling and his fingers go slack; until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

Somewhere between fifteen minutes and a small eternity later, Jason presses one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. He curls around Tim on his side, and Tim turns his face into Jason’s neck with a soft wondering sigh.

“I’ll keep it. Promise. Wait n’ see,” Tim mumbles. Jason snorts, but doesn’t budge, and Tim can hear his smile in his voice, lilted and lulling.

“Sure, babybird. I’ll wait. I got nowhere else to be.”

Tim is already asleep.

#one hundred thousand years have passed #i creak up out of the soil gasping and hacking and coughing #'i lived bitch' #'have some jaytim that grew legs on me' #my writing #asked and answered #jaytim #ladytauria #hurt/comfort #this one is sillier and more light-hearted than the other ones #the hurt is more like 'near tears travel exhaustion' than your typical aftermath of violence lol but it so definitely counts #i held a gun to the head of the muse that said 'this is way too short' and pulled the fucking trigger #i KNOW it's a very fast get together but i did Not want this to become my next 5 digit wordcount fic okay. okay. oka #the bones of a long 'tim and jason vs the league of assassins' fic is hiding here #and if i actually wrote that this would have ended much differently #but i am Not Writing That okay I am Writing Cowboys and also Werewolves Right Now. I Do Not Have Time For This!!!!!! #prompt fill

[ressaart]

an attempt was made

The silence gets uncomfortable. 

“You have been avoiding me,” Tim says as he stands directly behind Jason. 

Jason shrugs again as he flips through his notes on a recent target. 

Tim rests his hands on Jason’s shoulders, testing. 

“Why,” is all Tim says as he waits for Jason to gather his courage. 

#sometimes i just try to draw scenes from stories i write #it hurts me bc its so fucking hard lol #idk if i will ever finish writing this one but i do love the scene this is from #timjay #jaytim #tim drake #jason todd #red robin #red hood #my art

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hi. here's a little over 5k words for the modern human au! entirely unedited, as usual! you'd think this is a full oneshot... ha... no... i actually have some warnings for this one - hospitals, panic attacks, major character injury / discussion of death / clinical description of injury.

in short, my writing comfort zone <3

~

The dial tone plays, and Barnaby looks down at his phone. Call ended stares back at him under Wally’s cheerful profile picture.

“He hung up on me,” Barnaby states. His lips twist and he tosses the phone onto the couch with a snarl of, “That little bastard.”

“Hey now,” Howdy says sharply, frowning at him. “That’s our friend you’re talking about.”

“Like he doesn’t deserve it! All I do is be supportive, understanding, and worry about his damn well being. And then he goes and acts like my very much well-founded concern is an attack!”

Howdy’s frown softens as he watches Barnaby pace, gesturing wildly.

“I love that RV. Maybe not as much as Wally, obviously, but it pains me that it needs to go. And it does need to go! Thing’s becoming a damn deathtrap.” Barnaby pushes his hair back and huffs. He glances at Howdy. “Right? I’m making the right call, here?”

“Of course you are,” Howdy says. “But-”

Barnaby cuts him off. “I tried to be nice about it. I tried to warm him up to the idea of retiring Home, yaknow? And what does he do instead of handling it - he revs up the tin can and runs. Home shouldn’t be started, let alone driven. It’s dangerous.”

It’s extremely dangerous. Wally is skilled at driving it, but no amount of skill will save him if it breaks in the middle of the freeway. What if the engine catches fire? What if a tire pops, or comes loose? Home is old, and wasn’t made to crumple in a crash. Barnaby doesn’t even know if the airbag still works. It’s not safe. 

The thought of Wally bringing Home hurtling down the freeway at ten at night in a - quite honestly - not great mental state turns Barnaby’s stomach. 

“I just wanted him to come back so we could talk about it,” Barnaby says. “I let him keep worming his way out of a serious conversation and now - now he’s -”

“Running away,” Howdy finishes. The point of his pen taps a rhythm against his notepad. 

Barnaby jabs a finger at him. “Exactly. One tough, necessary decision and he turns tail. This isn’t gonna go away if he skips town! Not to mention how he isn’t giving a thought to how this might affect the rest of us.”

“Especially you.”

Barnaby throws his hands up with an indignant look. “Now not only do I have to hunt him down-”

“That would be a we scenario, Barn.”

“But we,” Barnaby concedes, “gotta try to knock some sense into that thick skull ‘a his, and drag him back home - kicking and screaming if we hafta.” 

Howdy’s pen taps faster. “What if he doesn’t want to come back?”

“What if he-” Barnaby stops short and stares at him, wide eyed. 

That’s not. 

That wouldn’t happen, right? Wally would come back in the end. He wouldn’t decide to up and leave entirely, would he? He is in Home… all the essentials he needs are in that RV. Barnaby sits down heavily on Howdy’s threadbare couch. “What if he doesn’t want to come back.”

Wally would have to come back to clear out his studio - he’d never abandon his art. Then they’d have to go through everything inside the house and see what he wants to take, since not all of it is Barnaby’s. A lot of it is shared, so they might have to bargain on who gets what. 

Then they’d all have to watch Wally get into his motorhome and drive away. Possibly for good. 

Barnaby would be alone in that big house with Welcome, knowing that his closest companion is out of his life. Living somewhere else. It's sickening. 

“I’m sure it won’t come to that, Barn,” Howdy says, watching him with furrowed brows and a deep frown - if Barnaby were feeling like himself, he’d crack a joke about him emulating Frank. “I can confidently say that Wally loves you more than that old RV.”

Barnaby snorts. “You sure about that?”

“Unflinchingly. Believe you me, he’s going to wallow for a day or so, and then Home will come rumbling back down your driveway like it never left.”

“I wish I could have your faith,” Barnaby mumbles. He exhales and picks up his phone. No missed calls, no messages. “Maybe if I call him and ask him to just come back, no strings attached, he will.”

“That’s the spirit! Save the talk for another day - tell you what, I’ll help you corrall him so he can’t escape the conversation. I’ll tie him to a chair and bar the door if needed!”

“Good luck with that. Kid’s slippery.” Still, Barnaby hits call again. It rings only a couple of times before a robotic automated message states the caller as unavailable. Barnaby doesn’t enjoy being upset with Wally. However, it feels like his blood is simmering, and the wall is starting to look like great target practice for his phone. He grits his teeth. “He turned off his phone.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Howdy’s eyebrows shoot up as the man turns back to his paperwork. He exhales a controlled breath and writes something down. “I have to say, I’ve never known him to be such a-”

“Pain in the neck?” Barnaby offers.

Howdy clicks his tongue. “You said it, not me.”

“Yeah, well, he’s full of surprises.” Barnaby lets out a frustrated huff. He’s half tempted to run Wally down right now, but he wouldn’t even know where to start. There’s only one freeway out of town, but it goes both ways, and it branches. Wally would have hit one of those branches by now, and who knows which he took. North, south, east, west. Deeper into the woods, or towards the city? To the coast? Somewhere else entirely?

He has to face the facts - there’s nothing to do. He just has to wait until Wally pulls his head out of his ass and realizes how stupid and insensitive he’s being. Those are two words Barnaby would never normally use to describe Wally, but after tonight? They seem fitting. 

Barnaby can’t even muster up guilt for thinking such harsh things. He tried to be nice. He was patient. He’s always kept a lid on it whenever Wally frustrated him, which doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. And what does he get for caring? For being tactful and careful about a shitty situation? 

Avoidance, a shove, and a cut call. Wally left Barnaby’s been left to stew in his own anger and worry. Right now, he’s inclined to lock up that worry in a tiny box in the back of his mind. 

Barnaby pushes himself up with a grumbled, “I’m makin’ some coffee, want some?”

“If you’re offering then I will not decline.”

Barnaby pretends not to feel Howdy’s eyes following him to the apartment’s tiny kitchen. It’s hell to maneuver around in, and the frustration of bumping into something every five seconds only makes Barnaby’s mood worse. By the time the coffee is brewing, he’s ready to punch the cabinets. He won’t, but he wants to. He’d regret it immediately, but he stares at the chipped paint and fantasizes. 

The coffee machine breaks after brewing a whopping single mug. Barnaby stares at it for a long moment, and tallies up the consequences of taking a hammer to it. In the end, he just clenches his fists for a long moment and counts to ten. He takes the mug and sets it in front of Howdy, then goes to the window to brood. Thankfully Howdy is too reabsorbed in his work to notice beyond a mumbled thanks.

For the next hour, Barnaby’s thoughts are entirely composed of Wally. Different scenarios of what might happen next, how Barnaby might handle those situations without shaking Wally for doing something so needlessly reckless, and cruel daydreams of setting Home on fire. Barnaby wants to feel bad about that. He doesn’t. That damn RV has caused two different rifts between Barnaby and Wally - and Barnaby was the one to fix both of them, because both times Wally just left. 

He gets it. He really does - for a time Home was all that Wally had. It’s been with him since Wally was thirteen, and if the thought of retiring it to a dump makes Barnaby sad, he can only imagine how much it distresses Wally. Well, he can do more than make an educated guess. Wally practically told him tonight, if not with words than with actions.

Still. They’re adults - Wally is older than him, if only by a handful of months. When does Barnaby ever ask something of him? When does Barnaby ever push? Why can’t Wally see that Home is becoming a liability, and why won’t he listen? Barnaby can’t make it make sense. 

Wally has always been more inclined to avoid conflict, but this is too far. Barnaby swears, when he tracks Wally down he’s going wring that scrawny little-

His phone is ringing. 

Barnaby lunges for it, relief dousing his anger. He picks it up, ready to give Wally a piece of his mind and then beg him to come back-

“It’s an unknown number,” he says, shoulders slumping. Of course it’s an unknown number. Wally wouldn’t change on a dime and decide to be considerate for once. He exchanges an exasperated look with Howdy and declines. He goes to set the phone down - the number calls back.

“That’s one determined scammer,” Howdy says. He leans back in his chair and holds out a hand. “I’ll deal with ‘em.”

Barnaby is all too happy to hand it over. Let the poor sap on the other end of the line deal with a master swindler. 

“Howdy-hi, how can I help?” Howdy starts with a mischievous grin thrown Barnaby’s way? He leans back in the chair and hums. “Who, may I query, is asking?”

All at once, the ease drains out of Howdy and he stops fidgeting. He sits up, already looking at Barnaby with a paled expression that has something cold slithering down Barnaby’s spine. Something is wrong.

“He’s right here.” Howdy holds out the phone. His throat works uselessly for a moment before he plainly states the obvious, “It’s for you.”

Barnaby takes it, his mouth abruptly dry. Howdy is already up and moving - grabbing his coat, his keys. “Hello?”

“Is this Barnaby Beagle?” a professional feminine voice asks, tinny through the phone.

“B. Beagle, yeah.”

The woman introduces herself as the nearest city’s hospital, and Barnaby’s heart drops through the floor. She asks him to confirm that he’s Wally Darling’s emergency contact. He confirms, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. Howdy takes his arm and gestures to his shoes by the door, spurring Barnaby into motion.

“Is he okay?” Barnaby manages to say. He puts the wrong shoe on the wrong foot and almost curses aloud as he switches it. 

“Mr. Darling was involved in an automobile accident,” is all the hospital employee says. “He was brought in a few minutes ago.”

Barnaby steadies himself against the doorjamb, choking on a whispered, “Oh, god.” 

Keys jingle as Howdy opens the door and pulls Barnaby through, then locks the door behind them.

“But is he okay?” Barnaby asks again as they hurry down the short hallway to the stairs. 

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information at present.”

It’s bad. It has to be bad if they won’t say anything over the phone. He must be silent for too long, because Howdy takes the phone, tells her they’ll be there soon, and hangs up. He tucks the phone into Barnaby’s pocket before opening the door to the store’s back lot. 

The frigid air slaps the shock out of Barnaby, and sensation comes flooding back in. He grabs the keys out of Howdy’s hand and strides to the car with long, powerful strides that would leave anyone shorter than Howdy in the dust.

“Are you sure-”

“I’m driving,” Barnaby growls, cutting Howdy off.

Howdy makes a disapproving noise, but relents. They get in and Barnaby adjusts his seat with harsh movements, jabs the key into the ignition because Howdy’s car is a dated hunk of junk, and peels out of the parking space before Howdy even has his seatbelt all the way on. 

Howdy clings to the ceiling handle as the car tears down the mostly empty street, going at least ten miles over the speed limit. Barnaby doesn’t know exactly where the hospital is, but he knows how to get to the city. They can figure it out from there. Several people honk as Barnaby brings them flying onto the freeway. 

“Holy Marilyn marmalade!” Howdy screeches as they narrowly avoid side-swiping a minivan. 

Barnaby ignores him and cuts off a pickup to get into the right lane for the interchange. Howdy whispers a string of something high pitched and strained and clings to the handle with both hands. 

It takes him a moment to parse out the constant ramble as, “-pull over pull over pull over pull over-” Two honks and a squeal of tires as Barnaby almost causes an accident, and Howdy yells in a louder and deeper tone than Barnaby has ever heard from him, “PULL OVER!”

Barnaby clenches his jaw and cuts across the carpool lane’s double whites. It only takes a moment to reach the shoulder. Howdy leaps out of the passenger seat as soon as the car stops, marches to Barnaby’s side, and wrenches the door open.

“Out,” he snaps, breathing hard. “Barnaby, I swear to all things priceless, get out. “

Barnaby meets his steely gaze for all of a second before unbuckling and getting out. Cars whip by. Howdy huffs at him and slips into the driver’s seat, muttering about recklessness and disasters and if you would wait to try and kill us until we’re right outside the hospital, if only to save us the ambulance fee-

When Barnaby gets into the passenger seat, Howdy waits for him to buckle in with fingertips drumming on the steering wheel. He merges onto the freeway smoothly and carefully. They go slower than the speed Barnaby had them flying down the asphalt at, and it makes something deeply impatient itch in him, but it’s safer. 

“I know you’re upset,” Howdy says, eyes still fixed on the road, “and I know that you’re scared. But what in hell’s bells was that, Barn?”

Barnaby side eyes him and grimaces, folding his arms. “I don’t know. I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have put you in danger like that.”

“You put yourself in danger too, you know.” Howdy sighs and relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. “We’re of no use to Wally if we get ourselves in a crash. What would he say?”

“Whatever he’d say would be hypocritical,” Barnaby says before he can think better of it.

Howdy glances sharply at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He..” Barnaby’s voice fails on him, and he swallows hard. “He was in an accident.”

Howdy is silent for a full few seconds before he exhales a thin, pained sound. “Oh, Walls…”

He must not know what else to say, which is good and well, because Barnaby doesn’t either. A long few minutes pass of silence. Headlights of passing cars on the other side of the freeway flash over them before plunging back into darkness. The dials on the dash glow. The check engine light is on. They’ll need to get gas in order to make it home. 

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” Howdy says. He’s tapping the steering wheel again. “It’s likely just a few scrapes and bruises, at worst a broken bone. Nothing Wally can’t handle, and certainly nothing to be concerned over.”

Barnaby can’t bring himself to agree. Maybe… maybe if Wally was driving slowly… but that wouldn’t matter if someone crashed into him with enough force. Home is a large, sturdy vehicle, but it isn’t invulnerable. Wally certainly isn’t.

Without the distraction of driving, all Barnaby can think about is the what ifs. Yeah, what if he’s only a little bit hurt, but what if it’s worse? All of the worst images Barnaby can think of roll through his mind like a messed up movie reel.

Wally dead on the scene, caught in a hunk of twisted metal. 

Wally, choking on his own blood in an ambulance, dying en route to the hospital.

Wally flatlining on a metal table. 

Wally’s small body covered with a sheet-

“Almost there,” Howdy says, slowing at a stoplight. It bathes them both in red. Barnaby didn’t notice when they got off the freeway. 

Barnaby squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead to the cold window. After a moment, a slender hand rests on his thigh and squeezes. It’s such a small, stupid thing, but Barnaby breathes a little easier. 

Despite the drive down the freeway feeling like it took hours, the drive through city streets to the hospital passes in a blink. Before Barnaby knows it the car is spiraling up to an upper floor of the parking garage. The floor is mostly empty - Howdy pulls into a spot right by glass double doors. 

Barnaby gets out a split seconds before Howdy, staring at the pristine white walls just inside the doors. In a moment he’ll find out if it’s not that bad, or if he’s about to have the worst night of his life. He’s been to a hospital twice. The last time was for Howdy, but he went with the knowledge that it was only a precaution. The other time was for Mama’s health scare. 

That had been terrifying. The waiting, the wondering, the too-bright hallways and the staff’s rigid smiles. It ended well, but it had still been horrible, and hospitals took center stage in some of his recurring nightmares. Barnaby never wanted to see another loved one in a hospital bed again.

Looks like he doesn’t have a choice. 

Howdy comes around from the driver’s side and lays a hand on Barnaby’s shoulder. “If you need a moment to-”

“Nah,” Barnaby says, his voice rough. He nods and adjusts his sleeves. “Better rip the bandaid off.”

They go into the sterile maze. The bright overhead lights dazzle Barnaby’s eyes after being in the dim parking garage, and he grimaces at the strong odor of antiseptic and floor polish. Howdy makes a beeline for the nearest receptionist and talks to her in rushed, low tones. 

Barnaby shuffles after him, rubbing his shaking hands together and eyeing every person in scrubs that walks past. Something beeps somewhere. He thinks he hears someone crying. This is a place without color, art, or happiness. 

“This way,” Howdy says, walking past him and tilting his head at the elevator. Barnaby follows, feeling like a lost puppy dropped at the side of the road. 

A nurse gets into the elevator with them and politely smiles before staring at the floor counter and pretending they don’t exist. It’s fine with Barnaby. If he has to make small talk right now, he might actually snap. The man’s pink scrubs are almost an eyesore in the harsh lighting. 

The elevator dings, and they all get out on the same floor. Howdy reads door plaques and wall signs like a hawk, his head turning on a swivel as he reads everything at lightning speed. Barnaby nearly has to jog to keep up with his hurried pace. 

Howdy changes direction without warning and heads straight for a door at the end of a short offshoot hallway. Barnaby reads the sign next to the door.

[can’t remember if it’s icu or the other thing, research later]

It’s bad.

The waiting room is small - longer than it is wide, and there’s a woman sleeping in a chair in the corner. It looks nicer than the emergency room, or where Barnaby waited to see his mama. The benches have colorful cushions, and the walls are a pastel green instead of white. There’s an abstract geometric painting on the wall next to the woman. 

Barnaby slowly takes a seat on stiff cushions, watching Howdy talk to the receptionist from afar. He nods and pats the counter before joining Barnaby. He sits close enough that their legs press together.

“Someone will get us up to speed as soon as there’s news,” Howdy says. “I tried to pry some more out of him, but he wouldn’t give up another word.”

Barnaby nods, staring down at his hands. His nail polish is already chipping, despite Julie painting them only last weekend. Barnaby picks at the bright red on his pinkie until Howdy pulls his hand away and enfolds it in both of his own. 

When Howdy takes a deep breath, Barnaby finds himself mimicking him. Their gazes meet - Howdy’s is unflinching, and steady. He smiles and runs his thumb over Barnaby’s knuckles, soothing the nervous trembling, and Barnaby is struck by how darn grateful he is to have Howdy with him. 

If he had to do all of this alone… Barnaby doesn’t think he could. Either he’d have gotten himself into a crash to join Wally, or he would still be sitting in his car, staring at the hospital doors. He doesn’t have the courage. But Howdy does, and Barnaby loves him for it. 

For once, Howdy lets the time pass in silence, though after a long stretch of indeterminable time he gets up to pace. The bench cushions are high quality, but they start to feel uncomfortable. Barnaby doesn’t dare go for a walk. At least they’re not the usual waiting room chairs - he’d rather stand than try to fit into those plastic, narrow things. 

At some point the woman in the corner wakes up. She startles seeing two strangers in the room with her, but quickly ignores them. Barely a few minutes pass before she leaves, mumbling something about coffee. She doesn’t come back. Barnaby spends a while wondering why - did she go home, or wait somewhere else, or did she receive news in the halls?

Howdy sits down again and starts typing furiously on his phone. When Barnaby gives him a curious nudge, he quietly explains that he’s texting the group chat. Barnaby feels a twinge of guilt at that. He completely forgot to let everyone know that there’s a… situation. Who knows if any of them will see it until morning. 

Message sent, Howdy gets up to pace some more. His rhythmic gait gives Barnaby something to focus on, seeing as the clock on the wall is silent, and the receptionist seems to be sleeping. Barnaby could probably pass time on his own phone, but every second spent distracted is a second he might miss someone coming to tell them…

What? Tell them what, exactly? That Wally is okay? That he can receive visitors? 

That he didn’t make it?

The door opens, startling Barnaby to his feet. Howdy scurries over from the far side of the room and rests a steadying hand on Barnaby’s lower back. A woman clad in blue scrubs enters, reading something on a clipboard. There are shadows under her eyes, and she looks beyond exhausted. Barnaby can sympathize.

“Mr. Beagle?” the doctor asks, looking between them. When Barnaby nods, she smiles thinly, gaze flicking briefly to Howdy. “Hi. I’m Dr. Allen. Before I disclose any sensitive information, I’d like to confirm what your relation to the patient is.”

The question gives Barnaby pause. He’s always had a difficult time putting his and Wally’s relationship into simple terms, because it’s anything but. Wally is his best friend, his dearest companion, the man he lives with and can’t imagine being without. 

“He’s my partner,” Barnaby settles on, because it’s a good umbrella term. Partner can mean a lot of things, and people don’t usually pry for specifics. “We’re as good as family.”

Dr. Allen writes something down on her clipboard. “No worries, I’m not going to kick you out if you’re not - you’re his emergency contact for a reason, after all. It’s just basic information that I’d like to have on hand.”

“Course - so how is he?” Barnaby cuts straight to the chase. He’s not in the mood for niceties. 

“Well, Mr. Darling is certainly giving us a run for our money,” Allen sighs. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but I believe he’s gotten through the worst of it.”

“He’ll make it?”

Allen offers another tight lipped smile. “We’re doing our best.”

Barnaby has seen enough hospital dramas to know that we’re doing our best means no promises, prepare for the worst. Howdy must feel the tension gripping him like a vice, because his hand slips from Barnaby’s back to his hand. 

“What are his injuries, if I may?” Howdy asks. 

“I’m not sure-”

“Please. We’d rather know than wonder.” 

Allen looks between them and sighs again. She flips a page on her clipboard. “Unfortunately, there was a bit of time between the crash and when emergency services were called. Between blood loss and the near-freezing temperatures, Mr. Darling developed mild hypothermia.”

Wally was dying, cold and alone in the wreckage of his home for who knows how long before anyone came to help. Barnaby sways in place, and Howdy helps him sit down on a bench instead of the floor. Allen looks apprehensive.

“Keep going,” Barnaby rasps. He needs to know.

Allen doesn’t look happy about it, but she continues. “Mr. Darling also suffered several low-grade lacerations from shrapnel, some fractured ribs, a compound fracture in his left tibia, and currently unidentified damage to his right hand and lower arm.”

Barnaby swallows a mournful sound. That’s fine, it’s fine. Broken bones heal - Wally will be painting again in no time. 

“He also developed an intracranial hematoma. It’s been treated, but we won’t know the extent of the damage until Mr. Darling wakes up.”

“What is that?” Howdy asks before Barnaby can figure out how to speak again. “Intracranial hematoma - tell me if I’m wrong, but that sounds like a head injury.”

“It is - in layman’s terms, it’s a brain bleed. Head trauma can cause bleeding inside the skull, which puts pressure on the brain. We caught it as quickly as feasibly possible, which should raise his chance of a full recovery.” Allen flips the clipped page back into place. “There may still be lesser complications and injuries we haven’t been able to diagnose or address yet. I’ll be forward with you - this is one of the worst crash cases I’ve seen in some time. Mr. Darling was lucky to be found alive.”

Allen goes on to offer platitudes that Wally is a fighter, and easily answers the flood of questions Howdy has about the mentioned injuries. It all sounds distant. Underwater. The room is too small and the air is stale - are the vents working? Is there a window they can open?

In a blink - and yet the conversation lasts ages - Allen promises to come back with more information as soon as she has it. She smiles one last time and leaves. 

“Barn?” Howdy sounds muffled. “Barn, are you alright?”

What kind of question is that? Of course Barnaby isn’t alright - his best friend is dying, likely on this very floor. There’s a chance he’s already dead. Barnaby might have already lost him, he just doesn’t know it yet. 

Mr. Darling was lucky to be found alive. 

One of the worst crash cases I’ve seen in some time. 

Mild hypothermia - brain bleed - lacerations - fractures.

Lesser complications and injuries we haven’t been able to diagnose or address yet.

We’re doing our best.

“He hung up on me, the little bastard-”

Barnaby is up and out the door before he registers moving. He staggers down the hallways in a blur, everything swirling together into a mess of sight and sound as his lungs struggle to get a full breath. He bypasses the elevator and takes the stairs down to the level they parked on. 

The cold air does nothing to help him breathe. Barnaby chokes on it as he leans against the rough wall grasping at his chest. Howdy is there immediately - he must have been on Barnaby’s heels the whole time. 

“Talk to me, Barn,” Howdy pleads, a hand on the back of his neck and the other over the one Barnaby has on his chest. “What is it - you’re not having a heart attack, are you? Tell me you aren’t, I can’t handle that right now.”

Barnaby doesn’t know. Maybe? He feels like he is. He can’t breathe. He tries to say so, but the ragged gasps his breathing has devolved into doesn’t allow it. Howdy must know something he doesn’t, because he doesn’t run to get a doctor.

“How can I help?” he asks instead.

“Don’t - don’t - know,” Barnaby wheezes. 

“Okay, alright, don’t worry, Barn, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. Let’s try, ah - what were the steps? I didn’t exactly write them down, though in hindsight I should’ve - that’s not the point! It was… what a time to take after Eddie’s memory-”

It shouldn’t be helping, but Howdy’s constant stream of words grabs Barnaby’s attention. He manages to inhale nearly a full breath before it stutters back out and he’s struggling again.

“Breathing!” Howdy says. “Yes, that was it - Barnaby, I need you to focus on me. Copy my breathing.”

He sucks in a slow, dramatic breath through his nose and exhales just as slowly through his mouth. Barnaby catches on and tries to mimic him, but-

“Can’t, I ca-an’t,” Barnaby says. His chest hurts. 

Howdy presses their foreheads together. “Yes, you can. Come now, Barn, in… out. Simplest thing in the world.”

It doesn’t feel simple, but Barnaby tries. It feels like forever before he manages a full inhale. He butchers the exhale, but Howdy praises the minor win before launching right back into measured breathing. 

Barnaby finally manages a slow inhale and exhale, and suddenly it feels like the pressure filling his chest has vanished. He slumps against the wall, worn out. He puts his hand over Howdy’s mouth in the middle of another dramatic demonstration.

“You’re alright now?” Howdy says, peeling his hand off. Barnaby nods, and Howdy leans next to him with a whoosh. “Thank the stock market - I was starting to get light headed.”

It takes another few minutes for them to catch their breath. Barnaby straightens enough to rest his head on Howdy’s shoulder, breathing in his cheap cologne and homemade laundry detergent. Howdy cups the back of his neck and massages the tense muscle there. 

“This will all turn out okay,” Howdy promises. “Wally is stubborn - I think we both know that well enough. By this time tomorrow we’ll be moving forward.”

Barnaby wants to be that optimistic, but this is real life. For all they know, moving forward means making funeral arrangements. His breathing stutters and he forces it to even out before he can start hyperventilating again. 

A car pulls into a parking space with a gravelly sound. Barnaby pays it no mind until Howdy makes a surprised noise - Barnaby looks up, and his stomach churns.

Frank, Eddie, and Julie are all getting out of Frank’s car. They’re all in various states of dishevelment. Frank’s hair is a mess, and he has what looks like Eddie’s company jacket thrown on over his pajamas. Eddie is in little more than a shirt that says male? lol, more like mail! and boxers - he’s even wearing slippers instead of shoes, and his hair flops over his forehead in soft tufts. Julie’s hair is still in curlers, and though she’s wearing shoes, she’s in a too-long shirt over sweats that don’t belong to her. They’re paint-stained. 

They rush across the parking lot, all worried faces and tired eyes. They’re already asking what happened, is Wally okay, Sally is getting Poppy, they should be here soon, has there been any news-

Barnaby lunges at the nearest trash can and vomits.

#IM SORRY FOR ANY HOSPITAL/PROCEDURAL INACCURACIES IM NOT TRYING TO BE ACCURATE AT THE MOMENT #except for the injuries. those are realistic and i did my due diligence. read a lot of first hand accounts! medical pages! #ohhhh this was so cozy to write #i mean. not as familiar as actual on-screen injuries but yk #its been too fluffy in here. #this is a mild example of my usual tastes and habits when it comes to fic & fiction #WHUMP CENTRAL BABEYYYYYY #i like it messy and painful!!! Lets Fuckin Go!!!! #this is a prime example of me not being able to shut the fuck up when writing #my scenes & convos just go on and on and on and on.... #but yes! enjoy! the Crash arc is very thoroughly planned out in my head and lately its one of my favorite things to imagine before bed <3 #bedtime stories can be fictional characters going through horrible injuries & emotionally hurting each other #snippets from the bog #i will repeat what i have said multiple times before #i take the comic relief character. i hurt the comic relief character #i could have posted the little carnival half-scene. i could have #but ive been feeling stressed and caged and i need to let out some steam #and this is how i do that. controlled fictional violence <3

[glambots]

Kind of a personal HC, but I really like the idea that Moon speaks in "we/us" pronouns and Sun speaks with "I/He" pronouns. Moon is constantly of the mind-set that he's a part of the DCA and no matter how badly Sun wants to pretend that he can, he can't just erase him from existence. And Sun, of course, wants to do what he can to try and separate himself from Moon as much as possible. Sure, he's technically him, but He's the other him, which makes him not as bad, right?!

#they are so very two sides of the same coin #let me say: if they ever did get separated #it would be heaven for sun #but it would be moon's personal hell #i love how intertwined they are #they are the same person! but they're not #they're both part of one ai but torn into two pieces #leaving one piece to loathe the other #while the other just wants to be accepted #remembered #loved #fuck they hurt mme so bad man!!! #once again i am rambling in the tags #dca #fnaf dca #dca fandom #sunnydrop #moondrop #headcanons #sfw #AAAAAAAA #i could write an essay about these fucking jesters man

[hamartia-grander]

Wyll breaking up with the player character if Ulder dies so Wyll must become the Duke makes me wanna throw up sobbing because he actually thinks that just because his father's first duty being to Baldur's Gate made him a Bad Father that Wyll himself will inevitably be a Bad Lover because surely no one could match love with duty if his father couldn't, unknowing he has more love in one hand than his father had in his entire body. fuck

#More in my reblog #“my father taught me more lessons than I can count” yeah dog they were called CAUTIONARY TALES 😭😭😭 #“pull me too close and I'm destined to hurt you” FUCKIGN. BITING YOU #“a champion's heart is as sharp as a new blade” SO CRAZY I GOT THIS SICK ASS ARMOUR. TRY ME. #I'm actually in physical pain over this. Wyll my love. #I need to rip ulder in two with my bare hands right now. #sorry I JUST saw the breakup scene for the first time today and I haven't stopped thinking about it it's making me ill with sadness #he didn't even break up with ME but it fucking feels like it goddamn #bg3 #Wyll Ravengard #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 analysis #oh my GOD and the fact that he offers one last dance. I'mgoing to ufckingexplode #and he spends five whole seconds just. holding the character. not even dancing. #I watched the version with him and astarion ofc I don't romance wyll myself (lesbianism) #makes me wanna write a fucking fic (derogatory) #why the fuck is everyone so ill over astarion when mr insane mental health issues is RIGHT here (i know why. but still)

[borathae]

Tumblr sucks so fucking hard I hope everyone who always makes these changes on this cursed fucking side stubs their toe today

They now introduced a paragraph limit of 1000 paragraphs, which means that Hoseok's story is "too long" for Tumblr. And in conclusion, I can't post the story in one piece.

Do you guys want me to post it in two parts (both today) here on Tumblr or post some of it here and then link to the full story on AO3?

I won't be able to post the story in one piece and I'm thinking of what I could do instead.

#i hate it so much #im writing this with tears of anger streaming down my face #im so angry im so so angry #theyre literally censoring art #the fact that i cant post my story in one post hurts me so fucking bad #be not surprised when one day i will just dissapear from this side #because they made it unusable #please help me you guys #what do you want? #rambling

[kerubimcrepin]

What do we know about Joris le Sans-Pouvoir (Joris the Powerless)?

Aka, addressing the "cancelled Nintendo DS game"-shaped elephant in the room.

While this blog has gone deep into the show and character dissections, I think it would be remiss to proceed without addressing the elephant in the room — the game, the myth, the legend, the 2007-2009ish cancelled game Joris le Sans-Pouvoir.

There isn't a lot that is known about it, and all the data in this post comes from two developers.

The only videos of it we have available are uhhh......,

...Please say "Thanks Ronik!" for this video in particular.

I spent hours trying to convert these two SWF animation video files, — which demonstrate how the game was supposed to look, — to something actually viewable. There were many issues, with at least seven different programs.

I suffered for crepinjurgenology studies, but I did it.

Instead of recounting the story in my own words and omitting anything on accident, I will simply present to you, what the portfolios of two different developers say (these two pages are the source of all the images, gifs, and gameplay):

Joris Le sans-Pouvoir is the main character from a feature film Ankama due in 2013. It’s a new character IP situated in the DOFUS universe. I had the chance to work on a platform game prototype that was all about delving into of the character’s backstory. We wrote a lot of background and had a lot of fun designing and developping a cute and quirky platformer with a hint of metroidvania elements and a dash of Grow gameplay elements in-between levels. It also was a great opportunity to work with Jono Takeshi-san of Radiata Stories fame who worked with me on the art direction. (SOURCE)

Joris was the first Nintendo DS project developed at Ankama (in partnership with Magic Pockets). I began working on the project as narrative game designer, then took on the role of Lead Designer and Project Manager. Game design on this project involved boss fight, level design, minigame design, UI… I also designed an original collecting system where collectible items were used in a minigame inspired by the “Grow” series. The developpement has been put on hold to match the release of the animated movie with the same character (scheduled in 2013). (SOURCE)

Neither the movie nor the game, survived their development, due to circumstances. (shorthand for: I have no idea what happened, man. Maybe one day I'll write a post about the history of the movie, and truly open that can of worms, but god, not right now. I don't want to spend more time on this.)

Eventually, The Wakfu film turned into three OVAs instead, and the Dofus film changed its plot a bunch of times, and became Livre 1 : Julith.

...For some reason, in some version of it, Joris had a tail. Yeah, I don't know what that's about either. Cool clothes, though!

We don't know anything about its plot, and unlike cancelled projects Dofus Donjons and Welsh et Shedar (which was cancelled for years, until its recent resurrection), the lore of this game carries no relevancy in modern canon.

The name, Joris the Powerless, as well as the log-centric gameplay, both seem to reference the early concept that Joris had log-based powers, — and that without his "magic wand," he couldn't do much.

(Joris and his weird fucking "magic wand" were, in turn, borne out of the idea of a warrior who had a woman's voice. Which makes me chuckle.)

(The following quotes are machine-translated and may contain errors)

(SOURCE)

This is, by the way, the reason why I personally headcanon Joris to be really bad at huppermagic. So bad that he dropped out of the Huppermage Academy, and almost never uses magic in combat. It's a homage to his original idea.

(Yes, there is an actual reason why I headcanon Joris to be godawful at magic, besides just projecting my neurodivergencies onto him.)

I suppose that, even at this time, Joris was meant to be a store owner:

The gameplay loop involves going from boutique, to missions, and so on, while those two pieces of concept art involve the said boutique section, and show a female character saying «Pas mal, boss !».

In my opinion, it might be this character. Proto-Simone, perhaps?

Since the store seems to be the centerpiece, and the Grow-style minigames involved collectibles, I would assume that the plot involved Joris going around and finding artifacts for the store. That would also explain the concept art gifs of him adventuring.

(Though, the adventuring would probably just be the inciting incident/a vehicle for plot development. Nintendo DS games loved using the jobs characters did for that purpose.)

This is the extent of what I can surmise about the plot.

The developer portfolios also included these example documents, but the image quality is too bad for me to make sense of or upscale. I am including them here solely for some French people who are very good at reading blurry text. (If you learn anything, let me know, okay?)

Overall, my verdict is that this game's cancellation was both a blessing (Joris without Kerubim and Atcham is like tea without water and a cup. How am I meant to drink leaves? Are you stupid? Why are you giving me leaves with nothing?) and a curse (THEY CANCELLED A GAME ABOUT MY BLUE-COLORED YOINKY SPLOINKY (who has a THIN, GRABBABLE WAIST)????? FUCK!)

Hope this was a fun read!

#ro liveblogs dofus #joris jurgen #wakfu #dofus #dsgame #<this one is for my pinned organization post's sake #anyway this post has fucked me. and my wife. and i don't even have a wife. my spine hurts my eyes hurt my hands hurt. #i want to do unspeakable things to that blue little man for what he put me through during the writing of this post. #please dont ask me to write about the other nintendo ds games ankama cancelled. they don't have joris so i don't care

[impala-dreamer]

is this too romantic? am I going too far? is there any other way to write romance than all in, all encompassing, perfectly magical? no. this is fine.

#talking to myself as i write #it's so flufffffyyyyyy #i should write romcoms i'd really be great at it #except someone would inexpicably die or get shot out of nowhere #and then ya know #“dying in the rain talking about theology” #classic me #also fuck you bc theres so much i cant share anymore #because you took it all away #why am i rambling in the tags agani #no one reads anyway #so screw you you hurt me #but im not going anywhere #i'm gonna stay here and write this stupid fluffy romanctic shit #and love it #and then i'll write my dean and jensen and misha #and i will love that too #and someday i won't be so sad or indifferently angry at you #and maybe i'll get back to writing what i used to but cant now bc you took it from me #i should delete this but honestly no #i'm not goinig to #now im just curious to how manyt ags i can have #someone count this i cant math #anyway whatever #writing #henry cavill #whatttttttt

[crybaby-bkg]

Dabi is surprisingly a lightweight. You honestly would’ve never figured by looking at him, but as you think back on it, you’ve never really seen him drink a lot. Not when there were celebratory parties, or when things didn’t go right for him. It’s why you’re so shocked when you convince two shots into his system, why he suddenly looks so loose, why his grin splits so wide.

He’s a clinger, you’ve also learned as you’ve started observing the blue eyed man where he shoves his face into the crook of your neck. His body bends over almost uncomfortably to fit into the position, and you can’t help but flinch a little when his damp breath blows a quiet little raspberry on your flesh.

omg wait my favorite thought is of you not even necessarily being a heavyweight, you can just handle your liquor a little better than anyone expects. you love to knock back drink after drink, convince Dabi into some stupid competition that he falls for because he’s such a little nerd and secretly wants to impress you. he does it thinking you’ll be the drunk one first, the one hanging off of his arm and hopefully his dick by the end of the night.

it belatedly shocks him when it’s the exact opposite. when he’s slurring a little and smiling at you, when you watch him through low eyes with a wide grin, when he wraps himself around you like a python, when you shake his face gently as you squish his cheeks together in hand. he’s just so utterly obsessed with you in these moments, and maybe it’s the liquor in him, but he knows his lowered inhibitions are only bringing forth the feelings he’s always suppressed.

drunk sex with Dabi where he’s the one too loose limbed and limp and weak. he flops onto bed like some rag doll with his arms and legs spread wide, but he musters up enough strength to release the heavy weight of his cock from its confinements. doesn’t do much besides lift his head from the pillows with a point to his crotch and a lazy grin, an announcement of, go ahead and hop on already before he’s flopping back down again, ready to lay back and get fucked like how he knows he deserves.

#at first I wrote about him getting whisky dick and not even realizing it and being so embarrassed about it the next morning #but it made me laugh too hard and I was like #no one will enjoy that dude shut up AJSHDKDJDJD #but omg lightweight baby that can only cling to you and whine to go back to your room to fuck #only to pass out immediately on the bed lmfao #I love him I’m gonna str*ngle him so bad #anyway I finished all my work for the week and now I feel empty so I will be moving onto next weeks work tomorrow LOL NERD #but everything next week is simple too so why not get it out the way ya know???? #after that I might sit down and actually write another fic since it’s been a little minute #everyone voted for therapist obsessed bkg next but I kinda wanna write something emotional for touya now lmfao #I’m becoming so obsessed with him and it HURTS!!!!! #I can only handle one ☝🏻 at a time or else I start getting the shakes #also omg my regular dr is making me go to the heart dr bc she said my anxiety worries her for my physical condition aksjdj embarrassing #okay bye I’m gonna read a little and sleep #—new treat in the streets! 🍫 #dabi treats! 🍬 #tw: alchohol mention

[resident-gay-bitch]

steve’s pov here :)

prey.

lots of prey.

that’s what eddie knew.

he watched them enter his land through that… thing. that hole in the ground that let off a high pitched sound and kept him in line. it scared him and his brethren. none of them could go near it. it hurts if you do. they’ve all learnt the hard way, whilst trying to escape. it burns your body to touch and turns your brain dizzy.

but the prey passed through it without an issue.

eddie watched from the top of the tree he was perched in, crowded around by his resting family, his cousins and friends. he watched the prey make their way through his world, listened as his master told him to kill.

eddie attacked when they least expected it.

he swooped down and swiped at one of their necks with his claw. he would have gotten it, if that one with curly hair didn’t scream his name.

it sent eddie flying back- he recognised it, the voice. the face.

it wasn’t prey.

it was a friend.

eddie flew away. too scared of what would happen if he stayed.

he couldn’t stay.

his master was mad. beyond mad at him.

he threatened to kill eddie if he didn’t complete his task. he’d send his brethren on the prey and himself.

eddie didn’t want that. he wanted the prey to live, he thought. well… the curly haired one. he didn’t know about the rest. but if not for that curly haired one, eddie might let master carry out that promise. he didn’t like this world. it was cold and dark and he felt dirty and he only remembered pain.

he flew back to his home, to his nest in a place he felt most safe. a safe place that was still standing. his old home, the one with who he thinks is his father from the other world, now destroyed to the hole that was too big and too loud and hurt too much if he flew near it.

his home in the drama room at school. he’d dragged mattresses and pillows and blankets back into the changing room and built himself a nest, collected all his favourite things.

he had a pile for his father, flannelette shirts all piled up on a bunch of random mugs. he had his sweetheart there too. he’d been collecting dice from everywhere he could find them, all different shapes and colours, they were scattered around his nest, and he played with them when he got bored and couldn’t sleep. he had a picture frame shoved there somewhere with a photo of his mother, a flower pressed under the glass that was her namesake. it was the only name eddie could remember; petunia. and he had the mangled old teddy bear she gave him as a baby that he curled up with every night.

but he had his most favourite pile there too, at the place where he lay his head every night. in the pile was a green and white jacket with a name eddie couldn’t read written across the back. there were shirts and two jumpers, a red and a yellow one. he had three odd socks and one pair, and some underwear, and a singular sneaker. he’d taken them all from a large house on the nice looking side of this world, from a room he didn’t like very much, but he remembered the boy that owned all those things was very special to him.

he couldn’t remember his name or his face though, and eddie cried about it every night.

he pottered around his nest, moving his things about and settling down in it. he hurried out and to the other side of his home where he had a pile of things he’d collected that took up too much space in the nest. he sifted through them; some more mugs, a weird al shirt, a pair of drumsticks, some comics, a bunch of action figures, a green ribbon, an old year book, some novels, an acoustic guitar, car keys, a cheer skirt, journals, a lunchbox- all things that made his heart clench to look at, to touch, but he couldn’t remember why.

except for the yearbook.

when he found the yearbook he got so excited he’d stretched out his wings and started flying in the tiny little room. he knocked over a rack of costumes with them, fucked up his nest, and put a hole through the wall. he didn’t care though.

he had the year book almost permanently open to one page. a page he remembered looking at a lot when he was younger. on the page was him, the man that eddie couldn’t remember the name or face of. the one he loved so much. and beside him was another man with eddie’s old face! he’d made it. he remembered making it. he wrote something, but eddie couldn’t read that either.

after finding that year book, eddie looked at the page every day and every night, whenever he could. he often went to sleep with the page open, he’d sometimes just sit there and look at it. he’d draw his claw lightly over the man’s pretty face and sometimes he’d lick it when he particularly missed him.

oh eddie loved him so much.

so that’s what eddie did now. he sat down in his nest and drew over his pretty face and he stretched out his long tongue until it touched the page and then he smiled.

he smiled so much his heart squeezed.

he missed his boy.

but his master was not happy with him. he made eddie go back out to kill them.

eddie promised himself he wouldn’t kill the curly haired one.

he flew out until he found them, and then he swooped down over their heads to give the prey a scare and perched himself atop an electricity pole. he crouched there with his wings hanging heavy down behind him and looked at his next meal.

only, he didn’t attack. not straight away.

there was something familiar about one of them. the one holding a bat over his shoulder, scowling at eddie. he had floppy hair and strong shoulders. eddie thought he’d put up the biggest fight.

but there was something about him.

eddie cocked his head and looked at him some more. looking looking looking. trying to figure him out. he ignored everyone else. the man adjusted his grip on his weapon, ready to swing it at eddie if needed.

eddie moved his head forward because… no…

no it- it couldn’t be.

it was him.

the boy in the picture.

the one he loved!

he straightened his back out in a flesh, sitting up tall, perched on the pole, and he let out a screech of excitement. he hoped the man was just as excited as he was.

his love leered forward slightly, looking ready to fight… to protect. oh, he looked so strong and brave like that, ready to defend his own brethren. eddie admired him so much. he was so beautiful. so strong. so handsome.

eddie stretched his wings out and stood, he let out another thrilled sound because- oh, because he was here! the one he loved was here… in his world! and eddie could have him.

eddie clutched at his heart like he’d just been struck by cupids arrow and fell backwards off the pole, like he was fainting. he was swooning afterall. he hoped to impress this man too.

eddie had to impress him.

so he free fell and right before he hit the ground he stretched his wings out further and lifted himself high into the sky. way higher than he needed to go. he looked down at the one he loved and- oh goodness, he just couldn’t help himself. he tucked his wings around his body and nosedived straight for him.

it’s what he’d seen his family do, when they found their love. one would fly high in the sky and barrel roll into the other, catch them, and take flight again.

it was their mating ritual, so it’s what eddie would do.

he crashed into the pretty golden haired love and had to take a moment to just look at him as he wiggled around on the ground beneath eddie. eddie tired to pin him down, to show him he was safe… it was just eddie. he tried to communicate, clicking his tongue to say “hello, it’s me, i love you” but he didn’t seem to get it.

that was okay.

eddie would show him.

but before he had a chance his wing was struck with an immense amount of pain.

he stretched it out to look, and found a hole clean through it, and he lowered it just enough to see one of his prey, standing there, a gun aimed right at him.

you hurt me, eddie thought, you tore me.

he was going to make her death the most painful. save her for last.

he looked back at his love and grabbed him tight and lifted up info the air. it made him scream, and eddie thought it was a nice sound. similar to his own happy call. eddie really liked this man.

he took him to his home, sweeping through the crack in the roof, down into his little home, and he lay him down in his nest. his love is the only other being allowed anywhere near his home.

the last being to try - his brother and friend - was ripped to shreds by eddie’s own teeth. no one breached these walls again.

eddie laid him down and crawled back to sit by his loves legs, crouched there and waiting. he looked at him curiously. he looked quite different than the picture. he had lighter, floppier hair, and some scruffy fur around his mouth, and he had this thing on his face that made his eyes look a little bigger than usual, and… clothes. in the picture he only had little swim shorts on. eddie hoped his love might take these clothes off soon.

oh eddie thought he was just neat.

the perfect new item to make home of his nest. he’d keep him here forever, that was for sure.

he was eddie’s now.

he looked a little confused, but that was okay. eddie would help him understand anything he needed. all eddie wanted to do was look after his love.

oh. the picture. that would help him understand. that’s how eddie could tell him he loved him.

great idea!

he crawled over to get it, leaving his love in the nest for a little moment. he sifted through some of his other things before retrieving it. he grabbed the book with his teeth, and crawled back over to pretty man, and perched himself as close as possible. he dropped the book between his own feet and pressed his hands on top of it to keep it safe, and waited.

when he turned back around to look at eddie, he freaked out a little. eddie thought it was very sweet. eddie wanted to see every face this man could make, they were all so beautiful. he cocked his head to the side and looked at him some more, trying to figure him out.

to ask if this was okay.

his love held up the jacket with the name eddie couldn’t read. he looked at the jacket, then back at his love, then back at the jacket, then back at his love and he felt warmth bubble up in his chest. he purred, hoping to let his love know what this meant. hoping to let him know he was happy that he was here. that he wanted his love to wear the jacket.

eddie noticed how his love was wearing one thing that meant a lot to eddie himself. a vest. one covered in patches and pins that he used to wear every day. eddie lowered his head to bump his loves shoulder and blinked at him once.

“it’s yours.” his love said, and it made eddie’s heart flutter so much! he loved the sound of his voice. it was so soft and smooth and eddie wished he could talk the same. his love tugged at the sleeve of the vest, “i know, i’m sorry. i hope you don’t mind. it helped ground me on the bad days.”

don’t mind? don’t mind!?

why would eddie mind about that? this was the best day of his life. not only was his love here, but he was here and collecting eddie’s things too.

eddie cocked his head, trying to communicate that of course he was okay with it. that he was okay with anything his love wanted.

“can you understand me?” he asked.

eddie nodded.

“can you talk like me?” he asked again.

eddie really wished he could. he wanted nothing more than to say that he loved him. he wanted to ask his name.

“i’ll take that as a no.” he hummed, and it made eddie’s chest vibrate, “you have a lot of my things.”

eddie wanted to collect more of them.

he dropped the book on his loves lap and watched curiously as he opened it. eddie’s heart was about to leap out of his chest when the man found the page eddie wanted him to see.

his pretty pretty love drew his finger over the page and read out the words eddie had written there many years ago… the words eddie had longed to be able to read or remember, and now he’d know, “by the time you graduate, this will be real, and he will be nice and want you back.”

oh… right.

yes. eddie loved him. he knew now. didn’t he. his love knew and- oh, he was laughing.

eddie didn’t like that. why was he laughing? did he not love eddie too.

eddie screeched at him and pouted because… because why would he laugh? that’s mean. it hurts eddie. it hurts eddie a lot. he would just like to love his love.

oh eddie loved him so much.

he watched with sad eyes as his love realised how much it was hurting eddie, and then he said, “you technically still haven’t graduated, you know?”

oh goodie. his love wanted him too!

he loved him so much he just- oh, he just couldn’t hold back any more. he flicked his tongue out and licked up his loves cheek and it was so much better than licking the picture. this time, when his love laughed, eddie liked it.

this was a good laugh.

“licking? really?”

eddie smiled at him and nodded his head because, yes. of course! he had to show his love and that’s how he did that. that’s what he knew. he hoped his love would lick him back… but maybe that’s not how those creatures showed their love.

that’s okay. eddie would learn eventually.

eddie helped shuffle his love back to cuddle because he didn’t care how mad his master got right now, eddie had his love and he’d finally be able to sleep well. he was sure this would be the first sleep he got without crying since waking up down here, in this world.

he curled up with his teddy and wrapped his wings around his love, curling into his lap and chest. eddie pressed his ear up over his heart to listen to the steady drum beat of it inside. it was one of the best sounds in every world. eddie started to purr again, feeling warm and dizzy against his love. he smelt amazing, and eddie nuzzled his face under the vest to get closer to him.

eddie felt his love pet his head softly and hold him a little tighter. eddie didn’t think he could love something any more than he loved this being right here. he was going to keep him forever. protect him and make sure he was safe, and well fed, and warm. he’d stay here, in eddie’s home, where no one else was allowed to go so eddie could keep him for himself. if he wanted anything, eddie would fetch it for him.

eddie would love him with every fibre in his body and more.

he’d do anything for his love.

he was sure of it.

if only he could remember his name.

#jay writes #unedited #kas!eddie #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie pov #kas eddie pov #steve x eddie #kas eddie but make him a puppy dog #eddie just loves steve so much it hurts his demonic little heart #also. he may be a monster but he’s still fucking dramatic #also. eddie trying to impress steve. because he would #he’d see steve being all macho man and be like LOOK AT ME PLEASE FIND ME ADORABLE! #eddie would tear apart his world - his brethren (the demobats) - and vecna for his love #hell remember it all eventually #don’t worry #our poor babies NEED. a happy ending #feel free to give them one because i don’t think i’ll write any more of this #stranger things 4 #stranger things #stranger things 5?