#this is pretty much just wildly self-indulgent musings about what it might look like

[weekend-conspiracy-theorist]

A needlessly self-indulgent Tim and Steph role swap AU. Sort of.

"There's definitely something hinky going on here," Barbara told Jason. She was down in the cave for the night rather than across town in her Clocktower; Alfred had requested her presence for dinner earlier that night. He'd requested Jason's, too, and having Barb around to sweeten the pot had almost tempted him. There had been genuine regret in his voice when he declined.

Her red hair wasn't bright under the lights near the Batcomputer, not exactly, but it was vibrant, and the screens flashed over her glasses in an intimidating show of blankness. What the rest of them needed kevlar and voice modulators to achieve, Oracle needed only sheer presence. Jason fucking loved her.

"Told you," he grunted. His helmet was tucked under his arm, domino already tossed aside for the night. He stepped up next to her, dropping a hand to squeeze her shoulder briefly, and he could feel the smug satisfaction rolling off of her as she deliberately didn't glance over towards Bruce, who was hunched over grappling gun repairs at the main table and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't jealous of their easy comaradarie.

Up on the screen in front of them were two pictures--the young, pale face of the private-investigator-in-training who'd been bugging the shit out of the Red Hood for the last few nights, hounding him about help on a case, and the neutrally attractive, mid-fifties PI who was supposedly responsible for the kid. Newspaper clippings, police files, birth certificates, and a copy of both the PI's investigator's license and the intern's training contract surrounded the pictures.

"The kid's barely old enough to be out of high school," Jason said, darkly. "I dunno what the fuck this guy is thinking letting him run around unsupervised."

Unsupervised, and with a fucking attitude. The kid clearly didn't have a very high opinion of the Red Hood, despite his uncompromising assertions that whatever he was working on was going to require his assistance, and still, somehow, he couldn't seem to catch the hint that Jason wasn't interested.

(Actually, that wasn't quite true. Jason knew the kid had caught the hint. He just didn't seem inclined to let the hint stop him, and he was both annoyingly sneaky and frighteningly good at guessing where Jason was going to pop up each night. It was fucking annoying.)

Barbara hummed neutrally, rather pointedly not saying anything about the number of teenagers they'd had running solo around the Gotham underworld over the years, and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "That's just the tip of the iceberg," she informed him, and she sounded much more interested now than she had when Jason had initially asked her to dig up information on the PI firm.

She flicked quickly through several police reports, her green eyes sharp as she studied them. "First of all, the kid seems to be pretty much the only one doing any real leg work for Red Bird Investigators. Draper's the one who handles digital communications with the police, and he's handled the press whenever their cases get enough attention to require it, but every time Red Bird shows up in an actual police report, it always seems to be Drake that they've run into."

Barbara paused rather than compete with the roar of a motorcycle as Batgirl came racing into the cave after her patrol, and she dropped a hand to the wheel of her chair so she could turn slightly, fixing a critical eye on her protegé.

Stephanie was rolling her eyes even as she pushed back the cowl. "Not a scratch on me," she yelled, hand cupped around her mouth, and flatly ignored the disapproving look that Bruce shot her. She'd been even more of an independent operator than either of the Robins that had proceeded her, and Jason knew it rankled for Bruce that she submitted so much more willingly to Barb's authority than his own.

"Just some nasty bruises then," Barbara said sardonically, voice pitched only a little louder than normal. The cave was quiet enough that that was all it took; Stephanie definitely heard her, but all she did was grin. It involved a lot of teeth.

Jason liked Stephanie, a lot. It was easier with her than it was with Dick or Bruce or even Barb, without any baggage between them from his previous life--despite the fact that there was plenty of baggage from this one. Luckily, Stephanie seemed to have decided against holding a grudge over his murder attempt at about the same moment as she'd fought through broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder to bash his face in with one of the steel chairs in the Titans' dining room.

They'd both laid there panting for a moment, Jason's vision swimming with the nastiest concussion he'd ever received, and called something of a truce. It was the last time he'd made the mistake of thinking Stephanie Brown was any less of a threat just because she'd lost a grip on her bo staff.

Jason shot her a lazy, two-fingered wave, and Stephanie fluttered her fingers back as she headed for the lockers. She was wasting no time, halfway to the door and already shedding her armor to reveal a sweat-soaked white tank top and a Green Arrow sports bra.

Bruce looked even more sour than he had a minute ago. Stephanie's reflection in the locker room door, just before she yanked it open, was bright with mischief.

Jason shook his head, trying not to look as amused as he felt, and turned back to the screen. "Okay, so Draper's... what? Riding his intern's coattails? Seems like a risky gamble to put a private investigation firm in the hands of a twelve year old."

"Drake's twenty," Barbara informed him.

"No fucking way," Jason said, flatly. Twelve was a joke, obviously, but--

"His identity, I can confirm," Barbara said, a delicate stress on the first word, and Jason's attention sharpened. So did Bruce's, over in Jason's periphery. Jason could tell by the sudden tension in his shoulders, even if his hands didn't falter as they fiddled with the retraction mechanism of the grappling gun.

"Mind your own business, old man," Jason shot over his shoulder, and Bruce just grunted.

Barbara turned fully back to the Batcomputer, and her long fingers flew across the keyboard as she pulled up a bunch of seemingly unimportant bits of paperwork. "Whoever put Draper's identity together did a good job. They covered their bases--school records, hospital records, employment records, even a social media presence, and all of it pretty convincingly done."

"Unless you're Oracle," Jason said.

Barb's lips twitched. "Unless you're me," she agreed. "Draper's identity would pass muster for most every legal entity that went poking around, but there's some small evidence of it all being faked."

"Is Red Bird some kind of front?" Jason asked, frowning. His eyes flicked over all of the records Barbara had pulled up, more for the sake of having something to do as his mind churned than out of the expectation of spotting something in just a few seconds that Barbara hadn't already seen. "Money laundering, maybe a blackmail operation?"

"I'm not sure yet," Barbara admitted. "Their hourly rates as a firm are shockingly low; it's pulling a lot of attention from your end of the city, attracting the kinds of clients who can't usually afford to hire a private investigator, and they seem to be doing good work. Tracking down missing kids, recovering stolen items, turning evidence over to the cops-- notably only to reputable ones-- when they turn up anything especially nasty or organized." She rolled her eyes. "Not to mention catching plenty of cheating husbands. But that can pretty much all be attributed to Drake; whatever else his boss may be caught up in, I'm confident he's not aware of it.

"I haven't done a deep dive yet. Right now," Barb said, as Batgirl reemerged from the locker room in a pair of sweats, chugging a bottle of water as she took the stairs two at a time up to the platform where Jason and Barbara were talking, "all I can tell you with certainty is that Alvin Draper isn't who he says he is."

Stephanie choked on her water, the bottle crashing to the floor as she spluttered and pounded on her own chest. "Did you just say Alvin Draper?" she managed to grind out, those dark blue eyes of hers wide with surprise, and Jason snapped around to look at her.

So did Barbara and Bruce.

"You know him?" Jason asked sharply.

Stephanie was staring up at the screen, her eyes darting over the information Barbara had pulled up, and then she made a strangled noise. For a second, Jason thought she was choking again--

Except then she was laughing so hard that she had to drop to a crouch, one hand on the railing to keep herself from tipping over completely when her foot slipped in the puddle of water still leaking from her bottle.

"Oh my god," she wheezed. "This is--Oh my god. I can't believe him--"

"Stephanie, if you wouldn't mind sharing the joke, please," Barbara said, a warning note in her voice, and Stephanie hiccuped, wiping tears off of her face.

"Yeah," she managed after a moment, pulling herself to her feet and breaking off in another choked off laugh. "Yeah, you could say I'm a little familiar with--yeah." She snickered, swiping at her cheeks again. "Uh, so, Tim Drake's the annoying creep who's been bothering you the last couple of nights, huh?" she asked Jason. Her voice sounded like Christmas, Hanukkah, and her birthday had all come at once.

"You know Drake, too?" Barbara asked. Her expression was flinty. "You never mentioned anything about working with any PIs."

Stephanie subsumed another giggling fit, talking more to herself than to them. "I should've fucking--oh my god, I should've known it was him as soon as Jason said he was a bit of a stalker." She took a deep breath, managing to get her voice more or less back to normal, and gestured dismissively at Babs. "I've mentioned him, just not by name. A lot falls under the category of 'trusted contacts.'" She wiped her eyes again, calming down even further. "Red Bird isn't some kind of criminal front," she promised. "And Alvin Draper is just-- well, okay, Tim is--"

She seemed suddenly cagey, her chin turning as if to glance over her shoulder at Bruce before she aborted the motion. "Okay," she said, and it was that casual, placating tone of voice that all of the Robins had perfected at one time or another. The "Really, Batsy, it's not that big of a deal" voice. Jason had never actually heard her use it before--by the time he'd reentered the scene, Stephanie wasn't the least bit shy about flaunting her disregard for Bruce's opinions.

"Okay, if I hadn't been caught so off guard I totally would not have handled this conversation this way," Stephanie told Barbara. "If I'm going to be honest, I did not intend to ever have this conversation. Tim would have given me away at my theoretical future wedding without a single one of you having any idea how we even knew each other. He'd probably have done it wearing a stupid wig and calling himself Maurice."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. Bruce was no longer pretending to be focused on anything else, a frown line etched firmly across his forehead.

Jason had no idea where this was going.

"Absolutely no chance you can just take my word for it and drop your suspicions about Red Bird?" Stephanie asked hopefully.

"Not in the fucking slightest," Jason told her.

Stephanie pressed her palms together and leaned her fingers against her lips for a moment, thinking, and then she dropped them, still far too casual to actually be casual. "I should set the stage for a second, because none of what I'm about to say is going to make sense if I just dive into it," she admitted, hands on her hips. "Jason, you know what what everyone-- what Bruce, specifically-- says about my reputation as Robin, right?"

"Ferocious," Jason said immediately. "Clever. Scrappy. Compassionate."

A smile twitched at the corners of Stephanie's eyes, but she told him, dryly, "Actually, the word I was thinking of was 'insubordinate.'"

Barbara rubbed at the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, suddenly looking exhausted. Bruce, in the background, looked vaguely like he wanted to argue, but didn't actually have much of an argument to make.

"I mean, I've always been the master of back talk to the B-man," Stephanie said, and her expression-- her tone-- was somewhere between pride and guilt. "And I frequently ignored any and all instructions to keep my nose out of certain cases, unless I was given really, really thorough and convincing reasons why I should leave them alone. So yeah, my time as Robin was characterized by a lot of flaunting the rules."

She took a breath. "But the thing is that even with all of that," she said delicately, "Bruce does not actually know even a third of what I got up to as Robin."

Bruce finally spoke up. "I know more than you think I do," he said, with just a hint of amusement in his tone. "You found a lot of counsel in Barbara, thinking it was behind my back. She handled plenty of mishaps for you, but she certainly didn't keep as many of your secrets as you might have hoped. I didn't mind, since you were confiding in someone."

"Sorry, kid," Barb said.

"Yeah," Stephanie said impatiently, "I know Babs was ratting on me. I knew it then, too. Which is why I leaned on the fact that you all saw me as just a little bit silly when it came to boys, and I fed Oracle a number of thrillingly believable lies about sneaking around on patrol to make out with Boyfriend, without ever mentioning that Boyfriend was also a detective savant with a corkboard conspiracy map of the city and a freakazoid obsession with stalking mobsters and crime lords with his insanely expensive long distance night vision camera."

Jason blinked.

Bruce said, "What."

Stephanie shrugged. "I mean, we did also do a lot of making out, it was just usually on top of a rooftop across the street from some dudes whose noses I was about to break. Which, before you say anything about endangering civilians, I did all the muscle work; I never let Boyfriend anywhere near the fighting, even though he's been taking a bunch of martial arts lessons since middle school.

"And," she added sharply, cutting off Bruce's response, "before you say anything about endangering myself, I'd like you to remember that it's only been two weeks since the Ex-Robins Union collectively negotiated for amnesty regarding cases that occured during our days in the pixie boots, and if you break the terms of the contract in under a month then the Extreme Penalty Subclause is activated and Dick, Jay, and I get to decide on our response. Suggestions have included an official Titans Gotham team and the Outlaws getting open season on the Joker."

Stephanie and Jason high-fived as Bruce's mouth slowly shut.

"I told you that signing that contract without reading it was a bad idea," Barbara sighed. "Dick was being way too nonchalant about the whole thing."

Stephanie turned back to Jason and Barbara and waved a hand at the Batcomputer. "This is relevant because Tim Drake is Boyfriend, if this room full of detectives hadn't already made that leap," she told them. "Alvin Draper's one of his favorite aliases. He did not tell me about this because he knows how much fun I am going to make of him, but I know how that batshit little brain of his works, and that guy--" She jerked her chin at the alleged picture of Alvin Draper-- "is definitely an actor Boyfriend hired to pretend to be his boss. Hacking the New Jersey PI database and issuing himself a license is easy enough, but convincing anyone he's actually old enough to be in possession of it is literally impossible with that baby face of his." Stephanie mimed squinching his cheeks together.

"Which, for the record, fucking classic Boyfriend move, right here," she added, grinning. "He once hired a fake uncle to be his legal guardian when his parents died and he was too young for the judge to consider emancipating him."

Jason had no idea what was going on in Bruce or Barb's brains because they both appeared to be blue screening a bit, but all he could think was that it was official: Stephanie was hands down Jason's favorite Bat.

"You hid a whole ass vigilante from Batman for like six years," he said wonderingly.

Stephanie snorted. "Not a vigilante," she corrected dryly. "Boyfriend has no interest in dressing up in tights or kicking people's teeth in; he just likes detective work and hates cops. He mostly just does a lot of sitting on rooftops taking surveillance photos." She obviously couldn't resist adding, smugly, "But yeah, more or less. Cass couldn't even kiss Superboy without Bruce knowing about it, meanwhile I practically had Boyfriend hidden under my cape on every solo stakeout for a year straight, and no one ever noticed." She tapped a finger on the side of her nose, raising her eyebrows. "No small part of why I've refused to ever live in the Manor or the Clocktower."

"This is the first and only time I will ever acknowledge that the people who call you the greatest Robin have even a single leg to stand on," Jason told her.

She gave him a nod, lips twitching.

"That's probably why Boyfriend's being such a little bitch about working with you, by the way." Stephanie leaned back against the railing and crossed her arms over her chest. Her scars stood out, stark, over the bulge of her biceps. "You used to be his favorite Robin, but then you came back from the dead and tried to kill his ex. He took it pretty personal." She made scare quotes, rolling her eyes and pitching her voice up an octave mockingly. "'It's my responsibility to hold a grudge since you have no intentions of doing it yourself, Stephanie.'"

She shook her head, her tone suddenly serious as she added, "I couldn't begin to guess his motivations in trying to drag you of all people into one of his cases, but it's gotta be something important. I'd hear him out next time he approaches you."

"You trust him? Trust his judgement?" Jason knew she did, she'd pretty much just admitted that Drake was aware of her identity, but it still seemed prudent to ask.

"As implicitly as I trust Cass," Stephanie told him immediately.

High praise, Jason knew, but he could tell it wasn't all she had to say on the matter.

Stephanie was very still for a moment, her gaze flicking to meet Bruce's in the reflection of the metallic plating at the edge of the Batcomputer, and then she met Jason's once more. Her voice was quiet but steady as she told him, "You weren't here for it, but I know you know the gist of what happened during War Games, and that I've always been vague about how I got away from Black Mask. Nobody ever pushed because they thought it was just the trauma fogging my memory, and yeah, that's part of it, but keeping Boyfriend safe from the fallout was the other part. I didn't somehow manage to break myself out after Mask left me for dead; Tim tracked me down. He got me to Leslie."

Barbara sucked in a breath, sharp, through her nose. A muscle ticked in Stephanie's jaw. And Jason had never before seen that expression on Bruce's face when the subject of conversation had nothing to do with an explosion in Ethiopia.

Jason whistled, low and slow.

"So, yeah," Stephanie managed, a little stiff. "I trust him. He's an obsessive, scheming little weirdo as I'm sure you noticed, Jay, but it's all part of the charm. He's a brilliant detective, and he cares so much about everything. We've always make a good team; he's good at seeing the whole picture, I'm good at seeing the people in it." She grinned, wicked. "Plus, he taught me how to skateboard."

Barbara snorted at that, then immediately looked annoyed at herself, but Stephanie was already fist-pumping.

"I'm not gonna lie, despite my years long efforts to keep all of this a secret, I'm excited to finally talk about Boyfriend as something other than the abstract concept of my best friend who none of you except Cass were completely certain existed," she said cheerfully.

"Cassandra knew about this?" Bruce asked.

Jason was pretty certain that the threat of invoking the ERU contract was the only reason the Bat was managing to stay so calm. Collective bargaining worked, people.

"I have never successfully kept a secret from Cass in my life," Stephanie said, ruefully. "I'm fucked when she takes over Batman."

"And everyday of interacting with you pushes Bruce closer to that retirement," Barbara told her dryly. "I'm still processing this, Stephanie, so I'm not going to get on your case tonight, but you know that your union will not protect you from me. We will be having a conversation about what other secrets you've been keeping."

"Considering that your vigilante career began and ended entirely outside of--well, anyone's supervision, not sure you have a leg here, Barb," Jason pointed out.

"There's a reason I'm your protegé now," Stephanie said cheerfully, as her voice cracked on a yawn. "Anyway, I need to scoot. I can text you Tim's number if you want it, Jay."

"Yeah," Jason sighed. "Sure. I guess I'm probably never getting rid of him if even your annoying personality hasn't managed to drive him off sometime in the last six years."

Stephanie flipped him off, rolling her eyes, but she was laughing under breath as she leaned down to pick up her water bottle. "Oh," she said, far too casual once more, as she found some papertowels to use to dry up the puddle. "There is one more thing I should probably tell you guys about Tim."

"He's a vampire," Jason guessed, just as casual. He kept her in his periphery, sensing immediately that this was something that the Ex-Robins Union contract was not going to cover.

"Nope." She bundled up the dripping paper towels and walked over to toss them in the trash. The movement took her closer to the stairs up to the Manor.

Neither Bruce nor Babs had apparently gotten any better at recognizing the signs of a shifty Robin than they had been before the revelations of the last ten minutes, so it's up to Jason to abruptly dart between her and the stairs, cutting off her escape route.

"What do we need to know about Tim, Replacement?" he asked, pleasantly, as he loomed over her. Batgirl was a bad ass, undoubtedly, but Jason had three inches and at least fifty pounds of muscle on her. Plus, he was still in his body armor.

"Ah," Stephanie said, clapping her hands together, and Bruce finally seemed to clue in to the fact that he was really not going to like the next words that came out of her mouth.

"What did you do?" he asked flatly.

"I did not do anything," Stephanie fired back immediately. "It was Dick, actually, and the thing he did was a quadruple somersault that only three people in the world can do, or whatever. Notably," she said, thumb and forefinger pinched together as she took a step forward, away from Jason and away from the stairs, "Dick Grayson, of the Flying Graysons, can do that somersault. And, my, what did a nine-year-old Timothy Jackson Drake see on the news one morning, except Robin the Boy Wonder doing that exact same somersault."

"You're fucking kidding," Barbara said.

"Yeah," Steph said. "Tim knows the secret identities of literally every single vigilante in Gotham, even the ones not connected to us. It's a hobby of his."

And then she pivoted, the space she'd gained from that step forward giving her enough room to dive under Jason's arm and come up sprinting as she took the stairs three at a time.

now continued

#tim drake #stephanie brown #I wrote this #I think that was my tag? whatever #this is pretty much just wildly self-indulgent musings about what it might look like #if Steph became Robin III and Tim therefore had no motivation to join the batfamily #and I thought this would be the funniest way to explain it #also ft. the truly hilarious concept of an ex-robins union #also war games definitely didn't go down exactly as it did in the comics but I'm i no mood to hash out details #I would be down to write more in this universe but also I have no interest in writing casefic so I will probably never touch it again #I just had this scene in my head and needed to get it out

[anika-ann]

The Fall Tale (S.R.)

(Of Fallen Leaves and Falling Dames)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader    Word Count: 3400

Summary: 

You just wanted to take advantage of the joy that the fall provides. You just wanted to be silly for a bit, let go of the adulting and feel as carefree as a kid again.

It gets enormously out of hand, but you find yourself unable to complain at the turn of events.

Prompt: one involving the fall, colourful leaves and a meet-cute (full prompt at the end of the fic as to not spoil the plot)

Warnings: swearing and tooth-rotting fluff (no really, it’s dripping sweetness as a damn maple sirup)… kids involved, not reader’s

A/N: For wonderlandmind4 challenge. Thanks for letting me participate in such awesome challenge! I adore this prompt! I hope you’ll get many sweet followers and that you’ll enjoy the submitted fics!

A/N 2: the lovely fall devider by firefly-graphics

The air was crisp, almost biting against our skin, but for the first time in a while, you didn’t mind one bit – even if your outfit was clueing otherwise.

The last October week was an unpleasant thing for multiple reasons, but the weather really was the cherry on top of your bittersweet cake; saying that was you being dramatic as hell, the past few days had only required of you to run many many adult errands, but still.

The gloomy morning fog that often lingered, overstaying its welcome, the cold wind and the absence of sun was beginning to take its toll on you, painfully reminding that the ‘sweater weather’, better-known to you as the ‘witch-bitch autumn time’, had long chased Indian summer away. You hated this kind of weather.

Colourful leaves, sun seeping through the clouds, playing with the vivid yellow, orange, red and remaining green in the treetops? God bless.

The kind of weather which this week graced you with, more or less requiring to keep your mouth covered with a scarf when going out? No, nope sire, shove it.

Today, however, a small miracle occurred; despite the yucky morning drizzle and downright icy wind, sunrays found their way through the clouds, illuminating you path as you had decided to reward yourself for the boring adulting-filled morning you pushed through.

The park was mostly quiet, the majority of New York City citizens clearly discouraged by the slick traps of mud and fallen leaves and the reluctant rise of temperature. Walking in the alley lined with maples and oaks felt like a dream, the uneasy feeling, tied to the many responsibilities to your person, that had been clutching at your gut subdued, the weight falling from your shoulders and allowing you to breathe in. Smile even grazed your lips as you spotted a dark-skinned man practically serving like a jungle gym to two kids, whose laughter was brought to you by the wind.

God, you wished to be a kid just for a moment again! (And the opportunity to climb that broad-shouldered man was only a part of the reason.)

You snickered under your breath, your gaze moving on—and falling onto a pile of fallen and neatly raked leaves by an old oak roughly three hundred feet from you.

Your smile widened. Someone from above was clearly sending you a signal and a wordless approval of your need for some child-like behaviour – because damn, was there anything more childish that wanting jump right into those leaves?

Your mind helpfully supplied you with an image of kids stomping into a puddle and jumping in that muddy mess and you came to conclusion that there were worse things you could do. Laundry day was ahead anyway.

With one goal ahead, chanting that you deserved a break from adulting, you quickened your pace and approached the pile with determination. You spun around, chuckling to yourself and trying hard not to think about the poor person who had worked on raking the leaves so hard, you spread your arms wide, closed your eyes in bliss and let yourself fall to the soft natural bedding.

The collision with something hard came sooner than expected, causing a startled yelp erupt from your throat – mostly because the mass your body met with moved and grunted.

You quickly spun away, literally falling on your ass when you tried to stand up again. A head peeked out from the pile of colourful leaves, followed by impossibly large frame of a man sitting up.

You sat there with our mouth open in mute awe, heart pounding in your chest, head spinning from both the shock and abrupt movements.

Still, you had enough wits to notice two things.

One, the man was gorgeous. Blond hair slightly ruffled by the wind and his previous hideout, startlingly bright blue eyes framed by unfairly thick and long eyelashes, plush lips, sharp jaw—and gosh, you didn’t think you had even seen shoulders so broad and arms begging to be wrapped in so prominently.

Two, the man, obviously, had leaves in his hair, a tiny smidge of mud on his cheek, his clothes, while rather fine and as if stolen from a sports catalogue, damp and little dirty; and he was frowning at you. And kinda gaping. Probably hurting too – the impact for you had been unpleasant, but it must have seriously hurt him.

And yet, instead of apologizing to him for this absurd situation, a whole different sentence left your lips as you were still seated on your ass on the wet ground, palms supporting you on your sides.

“What the hell are you doing here, hiding in a pile of leaves?!” you shrieked, the high-pitched sound as embarrassing as your reaction. You gulped when the real-life Adonis in front of you grimaced, cleaning himself of some of the leaves stuck in his hair. Your fingers might have twitched in urge to help him, but your mind went entirely elsewhere, another thing occurring to you. “Could you even breathe in there?!”

Clearly, he could, since he was perfectly fine.

Bravo, you genius, why couldn’t you figure that out before asking such a stupid question?

He stared at you for another moment too long, apparently as taken aback by the situation at hand as you were… and then he chuckled, his hand scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Eh, yeah, I could. And I was… uhm-“ he beckoned to the trio you had noticed earlier, the man who was probably babysitting for a friend, and you let out a silent oh as a victorious yell carried through the park “-playing hide and seek. Are you okay?”

The question was so softly spoken, a timid smile creeping to his lips and your heart melted an instant, laughter bubbling in your chest at the ridiculous predicament you found yourself in.

Talk about an embarrassing meet-cute with the most beautiful (yes, beautiful) man you could ever imagine. What else could you do but laugh… and perhaps fall in love a bit? You had jumped at him and he was asking if you were okay.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you assured him, returning the smile, not any less sheepish. His eyes lit up even more and your heart, finally slowing down a bit, started racing again. You must have hit your head and now you were making this guy up, right? There was no way a man like this actually walked the Earth. “Are you though?”

One corner of his lips rose higher as he climbed to his feet, dusting off his palms as much as he could, and gentlemanly offered you a hand to help you stand up. You could swoon at that moment.

“Worse things happened to me than having a pretty woman land on me.”

Uhh, a smooth talker when he wanted to be. Would you look at that.

You accepted his hand just for the sheer indulgence and to make sure you actually hadn’t imagined him, because this--- this specimen was talking to you and flirting with you. Doubting his existence was only natural.

His calloused palm tugged you up gently with barely any effort, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours and you had to force yourself to let go.

“Well, I’m glad. And uhm… I’m sorry. I really didn’t expect to--eh, you know,” you gestured awkwardly between him and the messed-up pile in a place of an explanation. He only shook his head, his eyes never leaving yours, a spark of laughter in them. “Question still stands though. Why would you hide here of all places? Kids love jumping into these.”

His eyebrows shot up and he chuckled, looking you up from head to toe. You felt a rush of blood warming your cheeks when you realized what a dishevelled picture you must have made and you self-consciously dusted off your clothes as if it had any effect.

“And yet it was you who jumped. Interesting,” he mused in a teasing manner, with no malice in his voice as he called you out on your child-like antics.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, grinning self-depreciatingly. You had totally walked into that one.

“I-uhm… I have a young soul…?”

The god amongst men huffed a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling and fuck, you really were falling hard by the second. He was—no words existed in English language to describe what a looker and charmer he was. The infamous butterflies flipped their wings wildly in your stomach, the slight embarrassment, while lingering, you barely acknowledged when the man laughed at your joke.

A sudden movement to your right startled you along with a heavy thud of feet and you yelped for the second time that afternoon, instinctively jumping away; your feet slipped on the wet ground and you prepared yourself for an unwanted meeting with the ground-

Only to land in Steve’s arms, curling around you protectively, sending your heart plummeting on the park floor – both in fright and dizziness, because shit he was warm and strong and over the natural scent of the park that lingered on his clothes, you got a whiff of his cologne and detergent and whatever and gosh, he smelled so good too. And his face was now in dangerous proximity and his beaty was even more startling up close and you could die a happy woman right here.

You found yourself so intoxicated that it took you a while to follow his gaze to the source of your current predicament; another man, just as ridiculously fit (what the hell was happening today, first the kid guy, then the charming blondie and now this brunet), with a shit-eating grin on his lips.

“Is all good, dollface. Steve here is an old soul, you’ll make a perfect match,” the man hummed as a thumping of several pair of feet shook the ground, announcing the incoming trio, still too far to overhear your absurd conversation.

The cheekiness of the newcomer and the fact he had just dropped from a freakin’ tree only to land right next to you would be annoying if he hadn’t just called you a good match to Steve and hadn’t finally reveal your handsome stranger’s name.

Steve.

He kinda looked like a Steve.

Steve sighed, sounding bone-tired because of his friend’s attitude. “Dammit, Bucky. Give the dame here a heart-attack, why don’t you?”

Dame?

“Got her in your arms, didn’t it?” Bucky retorted nonchalantly and as if in slow motion, Steve glanced down at you as he held you securely to his frame, appearing to realize your proximity for the first time. He swiftly helped you to find your footing for the second time that day and let go, causing you miss his warmth in an instant. “Hey there. This was so funny to watch that I forgive you for compromising our positions.”

Your cheeks felt like on fire again.

Sadly, you didn’t get a chance to come up a snarky remark as the ‘seekers’ finally reached you with booming laughter.

“We found you, Uncle Steve! And Uncle Bucky! Do we get the hot chocolate?” the girl around eight years old asked excitedly as she grabbed Steve’s arm and tugged on it as if she already wanted him to lead the way towards what you assumed was the promised sweet treat.

Truth to be told, your heart might have skipped a beat in relief upon learning that your new flirty buddy wasn’t the father. Also, you almost swooned, again, when he scooped the girl to his arms – correction, arm – and booped the girl’s nose, making her giggle. The image pulled at your heartstrings and you didn’t even bother analysing the fact that you felt such intense emotions after barely meeting the guy.

“Of course we do, Lila! They promised!” the boy, of whom you guessed was maybe two years younger, stated as if it was clear as day. Then, he swiftly took advantage of his new tree to climb – Bucky.

The man whom you seen earlier with them huffed.

“Not sure if it’s a good idea to feed them more sugar,” he questioned, sceptical. Then he turned to you, flashing you a smile that seemed kind despite his next words. “Hi. Thanks for your tremendous help. You sentenced us to an afternoon with sugar-fuelled monsters.”

Your eyebrows rose at such accusation, challenging, as you were not about to take the blame.

“Pretty sure you did that when you agreed to babysit.”

“Okay, that’s a fair point, I suppose.”

“It is,” you sassed him back.

Despite that, you couldn’t but make an offer. Not because you felt too guilty for ‘compromising Steve’s position’ – but because you couldn’t pass at the potential opportunity to spend more time with th--- yeah, mainly with Steve, who were you kidding. Though they all seemed like a funny bunch.

Yet, you eyed Steve as you worried your teeth over your lower lip. “However, since you’ve been made because of me, I might treat you guys a coffee? In a café that won’t kick us out despite the state of our clothes?”

Steve’s eyes met yours and even if he was beat to speaking by Lila, you could tell that he liked the proposition. Whether it was because of an intense coffee craving or liking the idea of not parting ways with you yet (he had been flirting!), you couldn’t tell.

You hoped for the latter.

“Yes! The nice lady will buy coffee for you grown-ups and we get a hot chocolate! Yay!”

All the grown-ups couldn’t but smile at the girl’s enthusiasm.

“Well, the nice lady needs to know that she doesn’t have to do that. But I could use some caffeine,” Steve said politely, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “But we all know we shouldn’t let a stranger walk us to god-knows-where, don’t we? No matter how pretty they are. Does the nice lady have a name?”

Ah, the smooth talked was back. And if Bucky’s and the other man’s smirks were anything to go by (or the look they exchanged for that matter), they were both amused and impressed by his flirting skills.

You introduced yourself then, shaking hands with Lila and her brother Cooper’s hand, followed by Bucky’s (with some difficultees as he was a bit occupied with the climbing Cooper) and then Sam’s. Steve shifted Lila from one arm to the other, just like that-- Jesus he was strong, and shook your hand as well, his touch lingering a little.

You certainly didn’t complain.

“It’s settled then. Lead the way,” Sam beckoned to you, before he stared down the two youngsters. “And you, down, you were full of energy a minute ago, you can walk just fine without these two carrying you.”

“Yes, Uncle Sam,” sounded unison from the kids, and you snicked, a picture of a leaflet asking men to join the army flickering in front of your eyes at the addressing.

Looking back, it should have dawn to you right then. Hell, you even considered that they might have all been a part of some law enforcement, or maybe firefighters, judging by their built, but the obvious didn’t occur to you; not until you reached the café and got questioned by your friend about when you had adopted three Avengers and two kids.

You stopped dead in your tracks upon Jill’s exclamation, your whole body freezing – including your brain.

Steve.

Bucky.

Sam.

Their ridiculously ripped bodies. Steve being an old soul, for Christ’s sake!

Oh no.

The air was tense for several seconds as you reconciled with the fact that you had had found yourself landing on Captain America twice today and that you had met the Falcon and the Winter Soldier while they were babysitting of all things.

“Pretty sure that now we’ve been made,” Sam uttered, causing you break from your trance. To your own surprise, a half-insane chuckle erupted from our throat, the sound being just another reason to hide your face in your palms, wishing for the floor to swallow you. The cheek you showed to damn superheroes! “Well, it was fun while it lasted and she treated you like the dorks you are.”

Huh?

“Look who’s talking, birdbrain,” Bucky huffed and based on the audio, since you sort of eliminated your visual input by hiding behind your hands, it sounded as if Bucky pulled Sam and the kids away, leaving you and Steve alone by the counter with a swift ‘you know our orders, punk’ thrown over his shoulder.

When Steve didn’t say anything for what felt like an eternity and a half, you spread your fingers so you could peek at him between them; you found him smiling at you patiently, but the twinkle from his eye, the one you had already learned to adore, was gone.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect, or-“

Steve – Captain America – shook his head, slowly reaching out to gently grasp your forearms to make you lose the barrier created from your hands. The movement was very slow and easy to spot so you could stop him if you wanted; because of course, he would respect your boundaries, he was a gentleman from the past century. You let him; you gave up to the pressure, but fixed our gaze on the floor, unable to face him fully as he released your arms.

“Hey. No worries. It was actually really nice to be just a weird guy who got jumped on, because he was hiding in a pile of raked leaves,” he admitted kindly and that had you raise your eyes to his again, finding nothing but honesty in his brilliant irises. “It was really nice to think I might have had a shot with a gal like you even being just that guy.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, your breath hitching in hope.

Wait, hold on a second, did that mean—but- certainly you weren’t that lucky, you-

“Uhm… it- it was?” you stuttered, mesmerized by the comeback of the twinkle to his eyes as he smiled wider and nodded. Your pulse skyrocketed, your head spinning for a bit because of what he was implying. He really liked you? “Oh. That’s… he did have a shot for sure. He—uhm, he was pretty charming.”

A shot? Like thousand of them! A million!

You wouldn’t even dare to dream about a guy like Steve being interested in you – he was so out of your league. Showing as much as a mild interest and you’d jump after the chance despite questioning the reality of it all – you kinda wanted to pinch yourself.

If he wanted to give you two a try and see you again… gee, who were you to protest. Already you had been falling for his gorgeous smile and stupidly handsome face… and body. And flirting. And-

He searched your face for a short moment and only then it dawned to you that with the words you used, it might have sounded as if he didn’t have that shot anymore. But he must have understood what you meant from what he read in your expression, because he took a tiny step closer to you.

All of sudden, you found it incredibly hard to breathe, as if your racing heart and spinning head wasn’t dangerous enough; you were almost afraid to breathe in, because if you got another whiff of him, you might jump him right here and now.

Focus.

Steve’s smile was bright as were his eyes, his voice only carrying a trace of self-consciousness as he spoke. “And now? Do I still have it?”

With sudden surge of confidence, your fingers brushed his hand as you glanced at him from under your eyelashes; his smile when you squeezed his hand could power a good part of Manhattan.

“Yeah. I think I’d like him to take me out for coffee or something…” Your gaze flickered to the boot padded with towels, which you got from the friendly owner in order to not let the hide-and-seekers dirty the cushions, and you couldn’t but grin cheekily. “Preferably without four children to babysit.”

Steve reciprocated the squeeze of your hand first and then burst out laughing when you finished, watching you as if you were the greatest and funniest thing that ever happened to him in like a month – which, as far as the humour went, it might have been.

“You got yourself a deal.” And as if you weren’t already halfway in love with him, he raised your still connected hands and landed a brief kiss on the back of yours. “I can’t wait.”

The Winter Tale - sequel

S.R. masterlist

Thank you for reading! 

Our fall weather does suck momentarily, so I hope your doesn’t and if it does that this warmed you up a bit.

Full prompt: Jumping into a pile of colourful leaves. Only to accidentally land on a body hiding in the leaves as a stake out or game and now their position is compromised (Fall)

#wonderland4seasonalwc #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x you #fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain amrica imagine #steve rogers reader insert #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers #captain america #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #bucky barnes #sam wilson #fall fluff #autumn fluff #season fic #captain america fanfic #captain america fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #sam wilson fanfiction #the fall tale #anika ann

[glorious-blackout]

Writing tag game

I was tagged by @elorianna @alexxturner-me-on and @lanatural-books - thank you! 🥰💖

How many works do you have on Ao3?

I have 54 works on AO3 and 73 on FFNet (though there’s a lot of crossover between the two). I’ve been at it for ten years now so the list of fandoms is broad to say the least...

What's your total Ao3 word count?

479558... I have a feeling my current WIP might push that over 500,000 🤯

What're your top 5 fics by kudos?

Watch Our Souls Fade Away  (Infinity War/Guardians of the Galaxy)

Silence is Golden (Guardians of the Galaxy)

What Might Have Been (Coco)

A Father’s Pride (Guardians of the Galaxy)

Way Down We Go (Guardians of the Galaxy)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to! I always aim to say a quick thank you at the very least, because it always takes me aback when someone says something nice about my work. If I’m particularly busy or if there’s an overwhelming number of comments, I’ll at the very least leave a massive thank-you in the notes to everyone who commented 💜

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

God, I was such an angst junkie in my teens that I could give you at least ten examples. I’ve abused the Major Character Death/Tragedy tags often enough in my time... Of the ones I can actually remember, We Are The Universe is possibly the bleakest overall.

You’ve Always Been Here should be an honourable mention, considering the implications of that ending were so grim, I had to write a 38,000 word fix-it to make myself feel better 😅

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

Most of my The Martian fics had nice, light-hearted endings. I also had a series called ‘Brothers in Arms’ based on the friendship between Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes which ended with them as bickering old men, which is still an image I’m very fond of.  

Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you've written?

I’ve only written one (technically two but they’re part of the same series) which is You’ve Always Been Here. I guess it counts as crazy considering it was wildly self-indulgent and is more a crossover between two albums as opposed to the two bands (Muse and Arctic Monkeys) involved!

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not hate necessarily, but occasional comments that have rubbed me up the wrong way or left me feeling a bit deflated. One example I can think of is someone who read seven chapters of my story and the only comment they could offer was ‘I don’t like that (insert random event) happened, I would have preferred it another way’. Or you occasionally get people who only comment to nitpick on one typo in a 1000+ word story and offer no other feedback whatsoever.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Nope! I can handle reading it regardless of the genders involved, but I am far too much of a blushing lesbian to ever write it for most of my favourite ships 😂 

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge - I've had a couple reposted to other sites but they usually credit me.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I’ve had a couple translated into Cantonese, and I stumbled upon a Thai translation of one of my stories once (they didn’t ask for permission but I was credited, so I just found it really cool).

What's your all time favourite ship?

Not sure I have an all-time favourite, but Milex currently own my heart. 

What's a WIP you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Thankfully the only unfinished WIP on my plate is one I definitely intend to finish! Still at the first draft/basic editing stage though so we’ll see 😉

What are your writing strengths?

I’m terrible at judging my own writing, but I think I’m pretty good at introspective character writing and I have a weird knack for emotional/intense scenes. 

What are your writing weaknesses?

Too many to count. I’m absolutely terrible when it comes to wordy, run-on sentences. Especially with unedited first drafts - I could honestly put Charles Dickens to shame. I’m also pretty naff at dialogue, which is why I prefer writing moody introspective stuff. 

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I've incorporated occasional words in dialogue but never full lines, and only after ensuring I had the correct spelling/definitions. I probably wouldn’t be brave enough to do full lines of dialogue in another language.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

My first ever fic was a Muse one which has long since been deleted. Weirdly it took me nine years to write for them again, though they’ve been an inspiration more times than I can count. 

What's your favourite fic you've written?

I’m torn between ‘You’ve Always Been Here’ and ‘Watch Our Souls Fade Away’ and in both cases it’s more because of the enormous fun I had during the writing process than the quality of the fics themselves. I think the former is the better written of the two, but I’ll always be proud of the latter. The response it got was incredibly overwhelming at the time and I still can’t believe that a story centered around Nebula got so much love and attention. 

Also whenever I look back on it, I’m astounded that I managed to write a 60,000 word story within the space of about 3 weeks. I want that motivation back...

I think most of my writer friends have already been tagged (except @rock-n-roll-fantasy  but I don’t think you have an AO3!), but feel free to join in if you’d like a go 🥰

#writing tag #this is so rambly I'm sorry

[antialiasis]

Jesus Christ Superstar: all of my thoughts

Allll right, this will be me watching my way through Jesus Christ Superstar 2012 (the arena tour with Tim Minchin/Ben Forster) and rambling about e v e r y t h i n g as I go, prompted by me having a lot of thoughts approximately every two minutes while watching it on YouTube/rewatching it/listening to multiple other JCS productions in between. Unusually for me, there will be very little complaining. This production is not perfect but that's not really what I'm here to talk about right now, shush, let me just go on about why I love this musical, at incredible length.

(I will be talking both about particulars in this production and about JCS in general as a narrative, without explicitly distinguishing the two, but please rest assured I do know which is which. I am pretty hardcore, I have seen five different productions live (including the 2013 leg of the arena tour) as well as the movies, listened to a lot of different Gethsemanes, I know this show.)

(this will also jump wildly between deep intellectual analysis and just me shamelessly appreciating the whump content, please bear with me)

can I start off by saying I really love the band and instrumentation and arrangements in 2012

The JCS overture is really long but I love it and it's always fun to see exactly what they do with it when it's staged. This production goes with showing Jesus's followers as protesters clashing with police, following news headlines, and then, during the calm choral "betrayal leitmotif", they're all gathered around Jesus staring at him in the most ominous way - then, as the first notes of "Heaven On Their Minds" play, Jesus closes his eyes and shakes his head a little, as if snapping out of a thought - as if he just felt the coming of betrayal. Neat.

Anyway, "Heaven On Their Minds"! This is such a good song. When I first saw JCS, as my school's production in 2005, and it opened not with Jesus but with Judas, presenting these totally reasonable concerns that he has about Jesus, I was already so intrigued by where this was going. Judas is the actual protagonist of JCS; one of the main narrative things it's doing is telling these events largely from his point of view, imagining how what he did might be interpreted to be sympathetic and understandable. This is why he gets the opening number and the final proper song with the show's closing musings. If you put on JCS and treat it like it's a story about Jesus with Judas as a side character, you're doing it wrong.

The iconic opening riff of “Heaven On Their Minds” is what I’m calling the “Agony” motif in my musical motif chart, because the places it recurs are the moment Judas resolves to hang himself in “Judas’s Death” and... “The 39 Lashes”. Originally I connected it to Judas, but “The 39 Lashes” has nothing at all to do with Judas; instead, the one thing that connects these three occurrences of the motif is pain - which really rather underlines how painful it is when Judas’s mind clears and he sees what lies ahead.

So, Judas: he was one of Jesus's closest friends, and a real, true believer in what this movement was originally about: charity, compassion, noble ideals. But lately, he's seen it turn into more of a cult of personality around Jesus himself - you've begun to matter more than the things you say. Now they're all thinking Jesus is the messiah, the Son of God - and worse, it's like Jesus is starting to believe it himself.

(Tim Minchin does this little frustrated eyeroll on you really do believe this talk of God is true, and I love it. I know his vocal performance is not to everyone's taste, and I get why especially with the unwarranted autotuning on the official recording, but I just love his actual acting here, his expressions and body language, so much. I was watching him for most of the show when I saw this live, because I usually spend most of JCS looking for whether Judas is doing something interesting in the background, and it was choice. Unfortunately the editor for this official recording isn't quite as interested in what Judas is doing in the background as I am, alas, and there are a lot of bits where I'd like to get a better look at him but we don't, but there are still some very good reactions.)

So, the reason this is bad, this whole messiah thing, is not only that calling Jesus their king might rub the authorities the wrong way, but also that now they're all expecting Jesus to up and free them from Roman oppression. Which is just not a thing that he can do! Judas is worried if Jesus doesn't deliver his followers will turn against him (and they'll hurt you when they find they're wrong). He's worried if Jesus actually does try anything, or heaven forbid, his followers just do it on their own - Jesus's words are already being taken out of context and twisted to justify whatever the speaker feels like - if they step so much as a toe over the line, that'll be all the excuse the Romans need to regard the Jewish community as a whole as violent insurgents or a delusional cult and bring in the army. This movement used to be a beautiful thing, but it's become an existential threat with the potential to get them all killed. And - when Judas tries to voice these concerns, Jesus brushes them off. He won't listen. Things are spiraling out of control, and Jesus won't do anything about it.

(Note, by the way, that a big part of Judas's worries is worries about Jesus in particular getting hurt.)

(Judas is very focused here on the future, all these things looming on the horizon that could happen if things continue as they are - so when we transition abruptly into the upbeat "What's the Buzz?", where Jesus tries to get his followers to think less about the future and more about the here and now, for all that it feels like a musical and textual non-sequitur we're actually kind of staying on theme.)

Jesus hasn't been doing anything about things or listening to Judas, and is very focused on the here and now, because as it happens he knows (or at least believes) that in a few days he is going to be tortured and executed, and really he doesn't entirely know what's going to happen after that, and this is pretty terrifying and stressful and right now he's dealing with that by trying to not think about it.

Why are you obsessed with fighting times and fates you can't defy? He basically means this at this point. Why would you try to fight inevitable fates? That’s pointless; it’s not like Jesus would ever do that. You just don’t think about them. Jesus is fine. It’s fine. This is fine.

(Mary is the one person who’s actively helping Jesus take his mind off things and stay in the moment. Emotionally he really needs to just relax and think of nothing and be told everything's all right, and Mary's the person who provides that. She alone has tried to give me what I need right here and now. I contend that this is the main point of Mary's role in the first act of JCS, more than her infatuation with him.)

Buuuut of course Judas has no idea what's behind this. As far as he can tell Jesus is just kind of hypocritically wasting his time on hedonistic indulgence, like the whole Son of God thing's just gone to his head, and like everything else about the situation, it's concerning, and he tries to speak out about it, in “Strange Thing, Mystifying”...

...which prompts Jesus to lash out. There was a sort of frustration behind some of his lines in “What’s the Buzz”, but he still just seemed to be preaching a general philosophy of staying in the here and now. At Judas’s criticisms, though, he's defensive and confrontational, exhorting him to not throw stones... and he's not done: I'm amazed that men like you can be so shallow, thick and slow! There is not a man among you who knows or cares if I come or go!

That's a total strange overreaction, especially since he starts out addressing Judas but then goes on to "There is not a man among you", when nobody else was saying anything, much less anything implying they don't care about Jesus. So, obviously, this isn't really about what Judas just said. What this is showing us is that Jesus has a lot of pent-up frustrations and concerns, too, and he's in a strangely delicate mood. It's kind of an odd sequence watching it for the first time; this lashout is weird! I thought it was weird when I first saw the show! But that’s the point. It’s here because it is weird, because Jesus is not as fine as he seems.

(This is what almost every song with Jesus in it in Act I is about. It's a series of incidents - many of them based on actual bits from the Bible - of Jesus lashing out unexpectedly and/or being strongly disillusioned with his followers and vaguely, bitterly alluding to his upcoming death. The weight of anticipating his own execution is taking a real psychological toll on him from the start, and this is all building towards where all those fears and doubts and worries and anger come out in "Gethsemane". It took me the longest time to properly notice this, that Jesus isn't just sort of being a drama queen out of nowhere here; these events are being presented like this to connect them into a cohesive speculative narrative that this was all just manifestations of Jesus's anxiety about the fact he believes he's going to die in a few days and he's not sure what he's really accomplished.)

While the apostles join together in a chorus of No, you're wrong! You're very wrong!, Judas silently pulls out a cigarette, because 2012 Judas smokes to calm his nerves and I love it. The nerves don't stop him rolling his eyes again in the background at Jesus's Not one of you!, though. (Jesus has probably been having these weird, oddly self-pitying lashouts for a little while now - it feels like a "this again" sort of eye-roll.)

Judas tries again to confront Jesus during "Everything's Alright", even more emphatic, but in a more sincere and genuine way - he really wants to get through to him. No, seriously, Jesus, why are you wasting expensive ointment on your feet and hair when the poor are starving - you know, the thing this movement was supposed to be about. Mary, probably a bit higher in emotional intelligence than Judas, can obviously tell that Jesus is just pretty stressed out right now and really needs some rest, and basically just tries to get Jesus to ignore him until he goes away - but Jesus responds to him anyway. Starts calm, but there's an oddly defeatist quality to what he's saying - there’ll always be poor people, we can't save them, look at the good things you've got... and then he launches into another bitter lashout: Think while you still have me, move while you still see me - you’ll be lost, you'll be so, so sorry, when I'm gone. Strike two on Jesus-is-not-as-fine-as-he-seems.

(Seriously, though, at this point it'd be reasonable to be pretty alarmed; from an outside perspective, these lines sound kind of suicidal. Perhaps that’s why Mary immediately steps in again to try to calm him down.)

Meanwhile, Judas silently backs off. What he takes away from these two confrontations is that Jesus isn't really happy either. He's not actually thrilled with his followers or what’s going on; he just seems to feel helpless and unable to change anything at all, and has apparently just resigned himself to it, instead of even trying to fix it.

I love how gloriously ominous the "Hosanna Superstar" bit of "This Jesus Must Die" is. It really makes this upcoming cheerful song sound like an omen of doom and horror, the way it feels to the Pharisees. It’s the same melody as “We need him crucified” in “Trial Before Pilate” - apt, since the crowd’s devotion to Jesus is the real problem that causes the Pharisees to believe they need to get him killed.

Thus, the Pharisees have basically the same concerns Judas does - Jesus's mass of fans is growing out of control, they're blasphemously insisting he's their king, and it's only a matter of time before this brings the wrath of the Romans down upon the entire Jewish nation. They only go a bit further by believing the only way to properly quash this movement is to put Jesus to death. (Which is kind of dubious - surely there's a danger that martyring him will just make people more devoted - but I appreciate that they, too, get basically sympathetic motivations. It’s the oppression of the Romans that’s the real enemy here; they only see Jesus as a real problem because of how the Romans might react.)

By "Hosanna", Jesus has recovered his usual composure and passion. This is the one Jesus song where he does genuinely seem to be doing all right, and in that way it serves as a good contrast to literally everything else in this musical. In it we see a glimpse of the preacher and activist that he’s been for these three years, almost bursting with glee as he tells the Pharisees they're not going to be quiet at all thank you very much. He preaches his message to the crowd: There is not one of you who cannot win the Kingdom - a kind, positive echo of yesterday's angry lashout. He loves this, and he still loves this movement. This is what it's all supposed to be about.

...only, of course, for some people to yell "Hey, J.C., J.C., won't you die for me!", and he turns his head, his smile fading just a little (I wish the camera stayed on him a little while longer here). But he recovers and carries on. Ha ha, yeah, he'd die for you.

Jesus's own rally leads directly into Simon's rave, full of adoring fans begging Jesus to touch and kiss them. Same enthusiasm, but more obviously a product of that cult of personality that Judas was worried about. And there in the middle of it is Simon, so bright-eyed and enthusiastic about the whole thing, telling him about how with his probably over 50,000 followers, he should add just a smidge of hatred towards the Romans, and you will rise to a greater power, we will win ourselves a home! He's one of those who want Jesus to be leading a violent revolution to free them.

I like how the first portion of "Poor Jerusalem" echoes a slow, somber version of the same melody as "Simon Zealotes" as Jesus laments, almost to himself, that none of them, nobody at all, understands power, or glory, or anything. This time Jesus isn't really angry, just kind of exhausted and contemplative. Nobody really seems to get his message; these poor misguided people won't get the revolution they're hoping for; Jerusalem itself is doomed. The city wouldn't be willing to do what's needed even if they knew.

To conquer death, you only have to die is one of my favorite lines. I’m an atheist, but as a kid I remember being taught at the Christian summer camp I went to that by dying himself, Jesus conquered death. That idea is twisted and presented the other way around here: to conquer death, you only have to die. Only. An darkly ironic presentation of it as if it were easy. It’s not as easy as Jesus would like it to be - but he truly believes that it’s what he must do.

"Pilate's Dream" has the same melody as the second half of “Poor Jerusalem” - because both Jesus and Pilate are contemplating an unsettling future that they have seen.

I do think it's a little wrong that 2012 Pilate chuckles at the end of "Pilate’s Dream”, though. The whole point of this song, as far as I can tell, is that he's unsettled by this dream, and it's probably part of why he's so reluctant to sentence Jesus to death later, so I think it's an incongruous choice to make it seem like he just sort of brushed it off as nonsense.

As I mentioned before, the arena tour staging includes Simon buying a gun during "The Temple", a really chilling detail that I liked a lot and that is in no way discernible in the official recording. Maybe the editor didn't notice, maybe it just wasn't very clear in the footage they got anyway, maybe it's some sort of ratings issue where showing a gun for a few seconds would just be too much (while the lengthy, brutal torture and execution scenes coming up are totally fine). Obviously it doesn't mean anything for the later narrative or anything (especially since the actual narrative is taking place in 33 AD and guns don't actually exist, regardless of the staging choices of any particular production), but it’s a nice way of using staging to lend further support to the overall point of how Jesus's followers variously fail to understand his teachings - it strengthens both Jesus’s and Judas’s concerns.

When Jesus and Judas arrive at the temple, they're arguing once again, though we don't know what about. Given the way Jesus is striding towards the doors and Judas is trying to hold him back, I imagine Judas is worried that doing something like running into the temple and breaking tables and screaming is the sort of attention-grabbing, polarizing stunt that'd be a really bad idea, and Jesus is upset and doesn't care.

(The bouncer doesn't let Judas in. I'm guessing Jesus tells him Judas is harassing him or something, within the staging-narrative where the temple is a nightclub that has a bouncer.)

So Jesus goes and smashes a table and yells at everyone to get out. This is probably where Jesus begins to alienate a lot of people, who were having a great time at the temple only for him to come in and have a breakdown at them.

(He's so angry, breathing hard, fists clenched after everyone's left. This isn't really about the temple either. He's really begun to realize how many of his followers don't get it at all, and he doesn't have time to fix that. He's been trying for so long and he's so tired.)

The leper bit makes a pretty similar point. Jesus wants to help all these people, and tries - but there are too many, and they're crowding him, and he's not going to be around to help them for much longer - so he desperately tells them to heal themselves, and they leave, probably thinking wow Jesus is kind of a jerk.

I'm sorry, I don't have anything to say about "I Don't Know How to Love Him", love ballads are pretty consistently my least favorite song in every musical, I like and appreciate Mary but my investment in this song pretty much begins and ends with its role in setting up the twisted reprise in "Judas's Death"

I enjoy the fourth-wall-leaning audacity of having the guitarist spotlighted on stage playing the solo before "Damned For All Time", and Judas is looking at him like "who are you, go away", and keeps looking evasively back at him while he's slowly getting the Pharisees' number out of his wallet and calling it. (It also helps show Judas feels pretty guilty and shameful about doing this, and works better for that than having extras on stage - if it were extras, we might expect that them witnessing this could actually mean something later, but when it's the guitarist, it's obvious he's just serving as an anonymous stand-in for a hypothetical random stranger who isn't literally part of the story.)

I like the shot of Judas looking into the security camera outside the Pharisees' building. (That’s decidedly not the same hairdo Tim Minchin has on stage, though.)

Judas opens his talk with the Pharisees, without even greeting them first, by frantically justifying himself, talking about how this is weird and hard for him but there was just nothing else he could do, he's not hoping for a reward or anything, he's been forced to do this, he's not a dirty traitor, please don't think that. He really doesn't want to be here. But here he is anyway, because Jesus can't control it like he did before - and furthermore I know that Jesus thinks so too, Jesus wouldn't mind that I'm here with you. He's seen Jesus over the past few days and he's pretty sure he has this figured out. Jesus can see just as well as he does where things are headed - it's just he's helpless to control it and doesn't know what to do about it. So this has to be done. He'd probably want Judas to bail him out of this, just get him arrested and the movement shut down, for everyone's sake. (Jesus is so self-sacrificing, after all.) Right? He'd be fine with this. Right? (Judas is fine.)

("Damned For All Time" is just Judas wildly word-vomiting trying to placate his own guilt and I love it. He's legitimately afraid of where things are headed if he doesn't do this, and thinks it has to ultimately be the right thing, but that doesn't make him feel any better about it.)

(I like how Caiaphas just sort of coolly listens to him ramble his head off like this while he sips his drink.)

Judas goes for a cigarette again (calming those nerves), and Annas helpfully lights it for him - prompting Judas's next ramble. Annas, you're a friend, a worldly man and wise - Caiaphas, my friend, I know you sympathize. It's not like he's selling Jesus out to anyone unreasonable. Annas is nice! We three, we get it, right? You get it. We're the people who can see when a difficult thing just has to be done, did I mention I HAVE to do this and this is not about money - only for Annas to tell him to cut it out with this blather and excuses and just give them the information they want. And also, they'll pay him handsomely!

I don't need your blood money! Judas says, then I don't want your blood money! Sometimes these lines are reversed, which sounds better - there's something more satisfying about the vowel in need than in want - but I think textually this original order is important. First he's sort of polite-ish-ly declining, saying no, he doesn't need any money, but then when they insist, he declines more firmly, that he doesn't want it either. (I love the way he shoves Annas's hand away.) It's so important to Judas's own principles that he came here because he thinks it's right, not because he wants payment; the idea of being paid makes it way worse.

...But then Caiaphas grabs the cigarette out of his mouth (leaving him a bit shaken with nothing to hold onto anymore) and goes well, you can give it to charity, or to the poor; they understand that's not why he's doing this, but they'd still like to pay him a fee. And that's the reason he ultimately does take the money: because just a few days earlier he was telling Jesus off for letting money be wasted when it could have gone to the poor. How could he do the same?

(Judas is not doing this for the money in this show. He is not being tempted by the money. He was not going to take the money until he was told he could give it to charity. One of the professional live productions I saw just did not understand this at all, and no. Judas is the protagonist! He is not here for the money! It's done right here, with the Pharisees just throwing the money at him after he names Gethsemane, and him not even reacting, just slowly picking it up afterwards. Tim Minchin gets Judas.)

I like to think the Well done, Judas / Good old Judas chorus is sort of the voice of the Divine Plan, such as it is, which he's now done his first part in.

"The Last Supper" has slowly become one of my favorite parts of the entire show, and I particularly enjoy it in this particular production.

Judas walks in and doesn't look at Jesus at all - can't quite bear to, at the moment. Jesus looks after him, knowing exactly what's going on... and that's when he starts in on The end is just a little harder when brought about by friends.

Jesus has a drink of the wine, which I like a lot. This definitely is a drinking sort of moment. I like the idea of him being a little inebriated in this scene.

For all you care, this wine could be my blood. For all you care, this bread could be my body. The end... This is my blood you drink, this is my body you eat. Judas reflexively rolls his eyes again - Jesus off on one of these weird sorts of rants yet again. (As with so much, I love that Jesus Christ Superstar takes this bit of the Bible and lets it just be a weird thing to say, recontextualizes it as an empty, halfhearted statement that he doesn't feel like his followers even care hours before his impending arrest, instead of treating it as something profound and meaningful. Again and again, Jesus is portrayed less as a noble profound religious figure and more as just a person haunted by mounting dread and anxiety, and I love it so much.)

Jesus sort of tries to make this into a nice, comforting thing, to ask them to remember him when they eat and drink - but it doesn't work. It's happening tonight, and here they all are, these people, his supposed followers, who don't understand a thing he's said, ever, and Jesus just breaks. I must be mad, thinking I'll be remembered! Yes, I must be out of my head! Look at your blank faces! My name will mean nothing ten minutes after I'm dead! (Judas looks up vaguely, kind of concerned - Jesus, this is further than he usually goes.) One of you denies me, one of you betrays me! And that's when Judas really looks up. Jesus knows.

There's a pause, a commotion, and Jesus is going to just retreat and leave it at that - but no, then he keeps going. He calls out Peter specifically for being about to deny him three times, shoving him, and then yells about how one of my twelve chosen will leave to betray me! At which Judas finally stands up. Cut out the dramatics! You know very well who! It's obvious that somehow Jesus found out. (Maybe Judas thinks the guitarist might have told on him.)

Judas's surprised You want me to do it? when Jesus tells him to go do it delights me. Judas, I thought you knew that Jesus totally wanted you to do this. It's almost like you didn't really know that at all and just convinced yourself of that to feel better about it. (Obviously, though, Jesus clearly doesn't actually want it so much, does he, the way he's shouting.)

Judas tries to explain himself but Jesus doesn't care - he doesn’t want to hear about why one of his most trusted friends wants to betray him to the authorities, not when this has to happen and he can’t prevent it. Judas is really nervous and defensive and hurt by his hostility, declares he hates Jesus now. (You liar, you Judas! Jesus says, which is kind of hilarious and also - yeah, he's a liar, he doesn't hate Jesus at all.) You wanted me to do it? What if I just stayed here and ruined your ambition? Christ, you deserve it! Judas still kind of wants to just stay and cancel the whole thing, even if it's simply justified as petulant spite. But Jesus tells him to just go already; he just wants to get this over with, as quickly as possible, because it hurts.

Judas is near tears as he turns away to get his things. The apostles have no idea what's going on, singing, some of them trying to see if Judas is okay, which suggests they have no idea what they were even talking about - whatever this 'betrayal' is supposed to be, it doesn’t cross their minds that Judas is about to get Jesus arrested.

Judas trudges up the steps, batting them away, still on the verge of tears - only then he stops, his face changing. And he throws down his backpack and turns for one final confrontation with Jesus. You sad, pathetic man! Look what you've brought us to! Our ideals die around us, and all because of you! This is still about their ideals for him, after all. And yet, saddest of all, someone had to turn Jesus in - like a common criminal, he first says, but then, like a wounded animal, someone helpless to help themselves, who needs to be pitied and put out of their misery. Jesus could have done something. Jesus could have put a stop to this. Why does he have to do it? (Why does he have to do it?)

Every time I look at you, I don't understand why you let the things you did get so out of hand. You'd have managed better if you'd had it planned. Why? Jesus does have a plan, of sorts, of course - it's just that this is all part of it. Judas doesn't believe Jesus is actually the Son of God, or that he could possibly have a "plan" that involves dying for some grand cosmic cause. As far as he can tell Jesus's actions are just bizarre and pathetic and self-defeating, and he's been saddled with the unfortunate, dirty job of saving Jesus from himself.

(Judas presumably still doesn't realize that the Pharisees plan to literally have him killed. I doubt he'd be doing this, or at least not in this way, if he knew.)

In the wake of this final confrontation, Mary hugs Peter, who Jesus just shoved and accused of denying him. She considers going to Jesus too, but Peter convinces her they'd probably best leave it alone. Peter himself seems to be considering going to Jesus, but then doesn't. Everyone dejectedly goes to sleep. Jesus is alone for tonight, his apostles alienated, his right-hand man gone as Jesus must wait for him to return with soldiers and set the dreaded end in motion. This must be the loneliest, most awful night of his life.

Jesus rubs his hand hard against a stair as the apostles are finishing their song - an agitated fidget that I am far more fond of than I should be. As he realizes they've all gone to sleep, he grips it instead, something to hold on to. Will no one stay awake with me? Peter, John, James? He just sounds broken and like he's about to cry. Which is good. He sings all of Gethsemane sounding like he's on the verge of tears and that's exactly how it should sound, do not at me.

(Please bear with me as I go on about this Gethsemane because it's my favorite one ever at this point, haters to the left)

See, when I first saw this production (I saw the official recording once before I realized it was still on and I could see it live), I didn't really like Ben Forster's Jesus for the first half! He seemed sort of over-the-top and I wasn't the biggest fan of his voice and all in all I was ehhh on him. But then he did "Gethsemane" and I just felt it to my core in a way I'd never felt it before, and it floored me. I've watched and listened to a lot of versions of this song. There are better singers who make it more pleasant to listen to - but they tend to be very dignified and Jesus-y about it, like this poised religious figure just having a brief moment of vulnerability and emotionality. Even the performances specifically praised for being emotional tend to be the ones that just make it really angry. And I've seen a lot of great ones of both varieties! But Ben Forster just makes it so raw and human. Like this terrified, exhausted, desperate human being who's spent the entire preceding hour of this play dreading this thing that's coming, his resolve finally faltering in this moment of agonizing solitude as his doubts and fears and frustrations finally come pouring out, how much he wants to call the whole thing off, begging to either not have to do this or at least be properly convinced why he should. It's what made me properly start to look at Jesus's character progression during this story in the first place and notice all the buildup about his fragile mental state that's always been there in the lyrics. This is the “Gethsemane” that made me really, truly care about Jesus.

he's rubbing the stair again at the beginning of the song, I'm sorry I love fidgets and nervous gestures you guys

I've never heard anyone emphasize three years the way Ben Forster does, and the desperation of it hits me in the heart. Weren't these three years enough?

Let's talk about You're far too keen on where and how, and not so hot on why, which is pretty key to this show’s interpretation of Jesus. He and the Almighty are definitively not the same entity here; Jesus knows or believes he knows a lot of things about how this is all going to play out, and even some of the future beyond that (in "Poor Jerusalem"), but he doesn't actually understand what his death is supposed to accomplish. He knows that he's going to be crucified and it's going to happen because Judas betrays him and so on and so on, and that this is all supposedly very important, and Jesus has been willing to accept that without question, but really he doesn't know the whys here and never has, and as much as he's just never questioned it anyway because of his absolute conviction that this is God’s plan, he can't not do so now, when he's going to have to suffer an agonizing death in the service of these inscrutable goals, not sometime in the vague far future but soon.

(Technically, for all we know, Jesus isn’t the Son of God. God doesn’t answer him; the song is a monologue. Jesus has suspiciously specific knowledge of the future but that’s about it as far as actual concrete evidence of his divinity goes in this show. But what matters is that he believes this is what God wills.)

His initial All right. I'll die. Just watch me die! is so spiteful, only for the following lines to just turn into this anguished scream, and it kills me

I love the way he collapses on the stairs, and just finally breaks down and starts crying, and there's that agitated rubbing of the stair again

The second three years is just exhausted and my heart still breaks for it. These have been a hard three years. Seems like ninety.

Why then am I scared to finish is probably my favorite line in this. He just sounds so broken and desperate and actually scared, and his body language is so tense and agitated and desperate; he's so angry at himself for being scared when this has been the plan all along and for some reason now he just can’t seem to go through with it.

And then he has that realization. What I started? ...What you started. I didn't start it! This isn't his plan. He's just a cog in God's machinery. It's a fixed, unavoidable fate, isn't it? And he finds a kind of desperate acceptance in just thinking of it that way - at least for a moment (before I change my mind!). But it's a spiteful acceptance. He's addressing God now. I will drink your cup of poison, nail me to your cross and break me, bleed me, beat me, kill me, take me now! Because it's you who are doing this. It's your cross, you who are killing me. Note the contrast to earlier: Let them hate me, hit me, hurt me, nail me to their tree. It's not actually the people who are responsible for any of this, even if they’ll technically be the ones to do the deed; it's God's plan, his cross, his crucifixion.

I love how he looks so tense standing there afterwards while the audience is applauding, because he's not actually waiting for applause, he's waiting for the soldiers to arrest him and set him on the path to his execution. Arms spread at first, in a come at me sort of way, but then he just clenches his fists at his sides, eyes closed, still waiting.

There he is. They're all asleep, the fools. Implying Judas wouldn't have just gone to sleep, if he'd been left there. AU where Jesus has literally anyone to comfort him, instead of standing there alone desperately pleading to God to not have him killed. Hnngh.

The kiss is just as it is in the Bible, of course. But there, it's presented as a sort of extra nasty element of this betrayal, that he'd be betrayed with a kiss. Here, it's more like Judas just wants to say goodbye, one last time, and does it in this kind of tender way.

And... Jesus breaks down crying, clings to him, pulls him into a hug. Because of course he does. The reminder that Judas still cares, memories of everything they've been through together, and the knowledge this is probably his last chance at some kind of comforting human contact? Of course he does. He just wants to not be alone, for a few seconds, before the end.

At first Judas just sort of lets him do it, but by the time the soldiers come along to separate them, Judas is clinging to Jesus, too. Ohh, my heart.

The apostles wake up at the commotion and are immediately on their feet to fight off the soldiers. There is not a man among you who knows or cares if I come or go, Jesus said, a few days ago; now here they are, worrying for him, wanting to save him. But he has to stop them. He mustn't be saved, and they'd only get themselves hurt. Put away your sword - don't you see that it's all over? It was nice but now it's gone. That exhausted resignation.

Why are you obsessed with fighting? Stick to fishing from now on. He doesn't sound angry here - it's just kind of a gentle rebuke. He's touched that they tried. I like that he plays it that way; it'd be legit to make it angry, but in the context of how Jesus has spent a lot of time feeling like they don't really care at all and in this moment it finally becomes clearer to him that they do - not to mention that this is basically his final goodbye to them - it makes sense to let it be kind of tender.

From this point on, Jesus has to just quietly accept his fate. He's very silent, barely says anything - because now things just have to play out how they play out, and nothing he says will change anything, nor should change anything.

The reporters asking questions here (to the melody of "The Temple") are one of the relatively few major anachronisms baked into the actual lyrics as opposed to any particular production. They're not really reporters; it's kind of a representation of some of his previous followers watching this as a kind of spectacle, expecting him to make a dramatic escape or fight back, excited by what's happening (you'll just DIE in the high priest's house!), rather than sympathizing or caring. These are the people who are going to ultimately turn against him as a mob and pressure Pilate into crucifying him.

Caiaphas asks if Jesus is the Son of God. Jesus says That's what you say, yet another line based directly on the Bible. Growing up I always just found that kind of a silly thing for him to say - why won't he just stick to his story instead of suddenly acting like he never said such a thing? But it makes real sense here. Again, Jesus is resigned to his fate, to passively letting this happen. He's not going to deny it or try to get out of it, because he can't and mustn't. But he has no desire to speak up about how the rocks and stones will sing for him right now, or actively provoke them and give them more reasons to persecute him. He's just going to stand here and let things happen until it's over.

(also, he probably doesn't really feel so much like the Son of God right now)

Judas, thank you for the victim! Stay a while and you'll see him bleed! In this production, Caiaphas and Annas both say the last sentence together, but originally it's just Annas, which has always led me to feel that where Caiaphas is pure cold pragmatism and just believes this is what needs to be done for the sake of the nation, Annas is bit of a twisted son of a bitch. He's obviously intentionally twisting the knife here, because he thinks Judas's conflictedness about the whole thing is a bit pathetic and hilarious and likes to see him squirm.

(let me complain again about the editor not letting us see Judas's reaction to this line)

Peter's reluctance to throw his phone on the fire is a mood

also him threatening the homeless people with a broken bottle when they keep pressing him on whether he was with Jesus, before Mary takes it off him, is something I enjoy

Pilate and Christ probably takes place at Pilate’s gym in this staging to show Pilate hasn’t even made time for Jesus in an official capacity - he’s just being unexpectedly brought before him in his off time, hence why he’s particularly dismissive here.

Jesus barely looks at Pilate. Another dispassionate That's what you say.

How can someone in your state be so cool about his fate? An amazing thing, this silent king. Of course, Pilate doesn't understand any more than anyone else that Jesus being crucified is the plan. Again, Jesus is just letting this play out.

He does look up when Pilate declares he should go to Herod instead, though. It must be torture for him having this drawn out further. Poor Jesus, having to suffer through a comic relief number when he just wants to get this over with.

Jesus does look at Herod as he's making all these offers of letting him free if he'll just perform a miracle. It's got to be a tempting thought despite everything. But no, he must still sit there and let it happen.

"These results are for entertainment purposes only and do not reflect any real votes. The outcome is predetermined by the character of King Herod who clearly is going to find Jesus guilty of being a fraud otherwise it would be a very short Act 2." Going all the way with that fourth-wall-breaking.

the bit where they put the hood over Jesus's head sure hits some specific button I didn't realize I had

Judas there with his head buried in his hands in the background towards the end of "Could We Start Again Please" ohhhh

I feel like the usual implication with the abrupt opening of "Judas's Death" is that Judas has just been seeing Jesus being beaten, whereas here he's explicitly sitting there with the apostles contemplating what he's done and just gets up and freaks out when Caiaphas and Annas happen to walk by. I like him punching Caiaphas, but the way he just goes from zero to sixty there does feel a little weird. I don't care, though, Judas in the background during "Could We Start Again Please" is worth it.

For all that Judas is mortified by the way Jesus is being made an example of, he can also see the way his name will forever be associated with treachery, and none of his good intentions meant anything at all in the end. He’s wracked with guilt at what he’s done, but additionally all he can see in the future is being vilified and reviled, blamed for Jesus’s murder.

Ugh Annas kicking Judas while he's down he's such a bastard

Tim Minchin goes so all out on making "Judas's Death" just ugly anguished screaming and crying and I am so here for it.

Judas has never believed in the divinity of Jesus, but Jesus has some strange, intense, frightening quality that both Judas and Mary can feel, and just before his final breakdown, although Judas is telling himself that He's a man - he's just a man!, he seems to be starting to feel that that's not quite true: he starts to wonder if Jesus will leave him be after his death, and then right after the "I Don't Know How to Love Him" reprise is where his mental state takes a turn as he realizes God is behind all this, that perhaps the whole thing was planned.

The projecting images of Jesus' torment up onto the background screen as Judas is despairing is also very good - Jesus hasn't even been sentenced yet but he knows where this is headed and he sure is imagining it and feeling responsible for it.

Judas, like Jesus, concludes here that it's God who orchestrated all this and he never got a choice. In his case, though, it's serving as a way of running from his guilt. We got to hear all about his reasons for thinking this was the right thing to do, after all - it's not as if he was literally controlled into anything. He didn't realize he was dooming Jesus to a horrible death at the time, but he still did it of his own free will. And it isn't a real comfort - all it means is that in his final anguished moments he has someone to scream his despair at. You have murdered me!

(hang me from your tree)

the particular scream and sob that he does as he kicks the box out from under him hits my buttons very hard hhhh

Poor old Judas, so long, Judas, goes the Plan chorus. There's a pretty callous quality to that, appropriately enough for a very callous Plan involving a lot of suffering.

Please give my compliments to the sound designer who makes a point of turning on Jesus' microphone so we can hear his strained breathing before "Trial Before Pilate" begins

Jesus's resolve to say nothing of substance is breaking by this point, and he actually answers Pilate's "Where is your kingdom?" I have got no kingdom in this world, I'm through, through, through - there may be a kingdom for me somewhere, if I only knew. It's probably pretty hard to feel like he's headed for a triumphant resurrection right now, and the fact he's spilling those doubts to Pilate in a moment of frustrated honesty is pretty tragic.

(Some versions, including the 1973 movie, change this lyric to if you only knew. No! Bad! The whole point here is Jesus doubting it! If you want to change it you should not be putting on this show!)

Then he's a king? It’s what you say I am! I look for truth and find that I get damned! This frustration coming out here is so good.

Pilate's frustration is very good too - just dripping off every line. This mob of people insisting he sentence this harmless fool to death (one who reminds him uncomfortably of this dream that he had the other day), crowing about Caesar all of a sudden like they're oh so very concerned with protecting Caesar's authority.

As Jesus once again refuses to talk, there’s a brief mournful instrumental interlude before Look at your Jesus Christ - this is a slowed-down version of a bit of “Prescience”, the motif from “Pilate’s Dream”. He remembers that unsettling dream, consciously or unconsciously, and feels sympathy and pity for this strange man before him. After that is when he begins to argue that Jesus hasn’t committed any crime and there’s no reason to kill him.

can we appreciate that Webber and Rice went and made a song called "The 39 Lashes" that's literally just Pilate counting excruciatingly to 39 while Jesus screams in pain

can we also appreciate Jesus writhing on the floor after rolling down the stairs, Ben Forster really goes for it in acting out all this pain and torture and I love him for it

Why do you not speak when I have your life in my hands? asks Pilate, and Jesus just about musters the energy to say, You have nothing in your hands. Any power you have comes to you from far beyond - everything is fixed and you can't change it! He's kind of desperate to make Pilate understand this. Pilate keeps on trying to get Jesus to say something that'll let him release him, but that can't happen, because this must be so. Pilate needs to just play his part and get it over with, please get it over with.

And so, Pilate has to appease the mob and let him die, even though he doesn't want to at all, and tries to wash his hands of it. Much like in his dream, though, he'll in fact be remembered as the guy who sentenced Jesus to death. Clearly didn't wash your hands well enough, Pilate

It's such a delightfully bold creative decision to place an upbeat number like "Superstar" right here as Jesus is about to be crucified.

It's fascinating to see the differences in how this song in particular is staged; it's so abstract and disconnected that different directors really go nuts with it. Some productions, including the 2000 movie, imply Judas has come out of Hell to taunt him; the movie in particular makes a point of having Judas lazily, cruelly stand on the cross while Jesus is trying to carry it, grinning at his agony, surrounded by scantily clad demon women, though he has a moment of doubt and guilt as Jesus stares at him. (That movie generally posits Judas as not in control of his actions at all - so God is apparently basically just making him do this as part of his torture in Hell, which is delightfully twisted.) Others (including this one and the 1973 movie) have him among angels, as if he's descended from Heaven. In the 1973 movie Carl Anderson seems largely to just be singing it to himself - it cuts to Jesus carrying the cross a few times, but Judas isn't there.

Here, "Superstar" feels a bit like a delirious hallucination Jesus is experiencing. Judas descends on the stage lights that are about to form the cross (what an entrance) and performs the song surrounded by angels while Jesus is being affixed to the cross; they look at each other, but Judas doesn't really interact with him. There's definitely no taunting; Tim Minchin plays it in a very good-natured way, not even the kind of angry questioning of Carl Anderson in the 1973 movie. Effectively, despite the hallucinatory vibes, the way it comes across to me is Judas really is actually there in spirit, from a timeless afterlife, having had an eternity to think and come to terms with and understand what Jesus was doing - and finally just asking him some questions, without judgement. Is he what they say he is? What does he think about Buddha and Mohammed? Why didn't he choose a different time period where it would've been easier to spread his message? Did he know his death would inspire millions? It's all a sort of musing, fourth-wall-leaning modern perspective, not hostile, just curious.

Also this version just makes me happy because Judas seems happy and mentally at peace in the afterlife and who doesn't want that

Anyway, from that to Jesus crying on the cross. And I mean crying. Once again Ben Forster delivers the human suffering element of this story. "The Crucifixion" is a weird, weird song, chaotic and noisy and kind of offputting and tends to feel sort of inappropriate for the mood; in this production you don't even notice because the staging is so brutal. There's no cool symbolic dignity to this; Jesus is just crying and screaming and sobbing the whole time, yelling the disconnected final-words lines in an agonized, delirious haze. You actually believe you're watching a man dying in agony, God damn. It hurts and I love it.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? is the most gutwrenching line, of course. (And straight out of the Bible, lest we forget - I think it’s fascinating that in the likely oldest gospel of Mark as well as Matthew, this horrible, heartwrenching, human cry is all he says on the cross, while the gospels of John and Luke instead each feature their own disjoint sets of more profound-sounding sayings. It’s hard not to wonder if the other lines might be inventions by those gospels’ human authors or their sources, people who perhaps just didn’t want Jesus’s final words to be something so achingly desperate and vulnerable.) He's done all this to carry out God's great plan, and yet in this moment, in the middle of this nightmare of slow, unending agony, he feels certain that God has abandoned him and he's just dying, alone, pointlessly, for nothing. Ow, my empathetic heart.

You can hear him feeling death approaching at last and the relief he feels at that realization just before It is finished and Father, into your hands I commend my spirit

(it's easier to believe again when his suffering is finally, mercifully about to end)

Ben Forster also does a very good job not visibly breathing when he's playing a corpse. On this blog we appreciate the little things.

I've always found it pretty neat and interesting that Jesus Christ Superstar does not include the resurrection or any allusion to it at all; he just dies on the cross, they mourn and carry him away, and the show ends. Again, the only thing in this show that’s at all supernatural is that Jesus seems to know the future, and even that is fairly ambiguous. It's a story about human suffering, and it's a hugely compelling story without him rising from the dead at the end, which'd just kind of cheapen it. You can imagine that he did, but this ending invites you to contemplate that this story is just as meaningful if he did not.

In conclusion, Jesus Christ Superstar is one of my absolute favorite things and the 2012 arena tour is my baby

Thank you for coming to my TED talk

#jesus christ superstar #ramble #review #character analysis #my buttons #holy jesus this is long #8500 words of JCS rambling #which is almost as much as I wrote about episode four of Breaking Bad

[write-place-write-time]

Keeping It

[ Can be read as a sequel companion to “Lost It” and “Found It”, or as a standalone ]

“Silent night, holy night….”

Molly sang softly to the curly-haired head of her boyfriend where it was settled over her heart, her fingers sifting through the strands soothingly. The Christmas tree was tall and willowy, sitting in the corner by Sherlock’s favorite window. Its soft twinkling lights cast warmly over the mound of presents (most of which were labeled “To: Rosie”) and spilled over the floor to meet the blazing glow of the fireplace.

A rumbling sigh accompanied Molly’s sotto voce performance as Sherlock’s long legs shifted under the down comforter. Where she was sitting propped up by pillows and John’s old chair, he was sprawled, bare feet poking out from the end of the comforter-pillows-and-quilts nest they’d made on the floor after wrapping all of Rosie’s and their friends’ gifts. He settled against her, arms shifting around her waist as he enjoyed her singing and hair-stroking.

Molly ended the carol with a smooch to Sherlock’s forehead. “I know you just got comfortable, but I need the loo.”

He lifted his head to mock-glare at her. “Inconvenient.”

“My bladder?” she chuckled. “Yes, well, transport and all that.”

With a melodramatic groan, Sherlock rolled away, letting the pathologist escape their cocoon. He watched her in her over-sized tartan pyjama set -- last Christmas gift from her late father -- go to the bathroom and close the door before he scrambled to his own feet. He watched in the mirror and kept an ear out for her as he carefully lifted the Santa hat and reindeer antlers headband off of “Billy” the skull, and plucking the small wrapped box from atop it. Carefully, he replaced everything, settling back down in their Christmas Eve nest where Molly had sat.

Sherlock studied the small present: it was wrapped in an iridescent blue-green paper with silver trim (subconsciously matching the giver’s eyes), the size of the box and the care with which the wrapping was done indicated high-value gift within, likely an engagement ring. With a self-indulgent smirk, Sherlock mapped out his plan.

Molly would come out of the loo, all pink-faced and smiles, and return to be cuddled by her boyfriend. Sherlock would hold her tight, and murmur his deductions of the holiday (the frankly appalling romanticism, the snow outside the window, the silly traditions of what they were doing for this pagan celebration, etc) before sauntering into his best deduction yet -- that Sherlock Holmes wanted to be Molly Hooper’s husband.

He had the plan. He had the ring. He had the nerve. He just needed his pathologist.

Right on cue, there was the sound of water, the squeak of the door as it opened, and the shuffling of small bare feet. Secreting the present away in the pocket of his pyjama pants, Sherlock looked up to find he was off to a good start: Molly’s face was indeed smiley and pink. 

“Oooh, switched places?” she giggled, kneeling to join him. “Right, so you’re gonna sing my favorite Christmas song and stroke my hair?”

“You will not hear me sing ‘I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas’, I’m afraid,” he smiled at her. “Hair-stroking is however more than available.”

“Mmm, good,” she scrunched her nose as she leaned in to kiss him. What should have been a swift kiss of affection soon became a clinging, heated, low-laughter affair -- Sherlock pulled away reluctantly when the insistent digging of the gift box into his hip won out. Starry-eyed and well-snogged, Molly shifted to lean back against him, pulling the comforter over their legs.

They were content to just sit for a few moments, Sherlock holding her to him with one arm around her waist.

“Molly,” he murmured, deciding this was it.

“Sherlock.”

“You realize what we are engaging in is horrifically stereotypical of the romanticism that plagues this pagan celebration?”

Molly smiled, nodding. “Oh my, yes.”

“The Christ-child -- if he existed -- wasn’t even born in December. The star the shepherds and wise men followed would have been seen in that particular part of the night sky in spring--”

“Suddenly you know astronomy? It’s a pagan celebration miracle!” Molly giggled, pulling his hand from her waist and kissing its palm.

Sherlock couldn’t even roll his eyes at her jest; they’d come so far since Sherrinford in January, and her ease in taking the mick out of him only made his Yuletide decision more concrete.

“Tell me,” he said, switching gears, “when is the correct time to open Christmas gifts?”

“Christmas morning, at least in my family.”

“Mmm. We always did either stockings or one gift on Christmas Eve,” Sherlock mused, a faint memory distracting him off course. “I vaguely remember receiving my first violin… and Eurus smiling.”

Molly squeezed his arm and hand. “Good memory?”

He thought about it, seeing the small girlish smile as he unwrapped the gift she’d no doubt been a part of procuring for him. The glint in her crystalline blue eyes was so merry. The memory fizzled as he nodded. “Good memory.”

Molly smiled. “Well, we could do a gift each tonight? Revive an old tradition? Make a new memory?”

Not the plan but it works nicely, Sherlock thought. “All right then.”

Molly whirled around in his lap, straightening up, and grinning wildly. “Yay! Um, who should go first?”

Sherlock blinked at the sudden shock of enthusiasm, recovered, and smiled. “I can guarantee I have the more clever gift--”

“Wanna bet?” She smirked, determination and confidence in her dimples. “I hid yours from you for weeks!”

“I hid yours too, Dr. Hooper, so there.”

Molly turned her elfin nose up at him. “Well, Mr. Holmes, I’m not a consulting detective. You may be slipping in your abilities.”

Seeing his opportunity, he leaned in and let his voice growl. “Not at all, going by my most recent and most brilliant deduction, Molly.”

The air was heady between them, and Molly’s pink cheeks flushed darker in the firelight. “Oh!”

Sherlock kissed her briskly. “Enough stalling. I have your Christmas Eve present.”

He pulled it out of his pocket, rearranging the slightly bent silver ribbon. If his hands shook at all, neither mentioned it.

“And I have yours!” She held up a long slim gift, the wrapping paper a cheery gold. They switched parcels.

Sherlock held onto the gift from her, refusing to deduce it, and focused instead on Molly and that little box. She was admiring the wrapping paper, looking up to meet his gaze.

“Clever boy, matching your eyes,” she teased. “It looks too pretty to open.”

“I shan’t open mine until you open yours, so….”

“Oh, all right then.” With the precision found only in the hands of medical examiners and surgeons, Molly peeled back the paper to reveal the small velvet box.

Her breath caught, and Sherlock’s nerves got the best of him, the words tumbling out giddily.

“It-it occured to me recently that I am not exactly who I thought I was. I have been a pirate, a graduate chemist, an a-addict,” he stammered, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “I have been a fugitive, a prisoner, a dead man, a resurrected man, a consulting detective. I'm a newly realized middle child, a pain in the arse, a friend, a godfather, a boyfriend. I’ve been tortured, I’ve told horrible, hurtful lies, and nearly destroyed all that I have been, am, and could be.”

Molly’s eyes, shimmery with emotion, lifted to meet his. “But you didn’t destroy it. At all,” her voice shook.

“But for the grace of a God I am afraid might actually exist,” he smiled, “and the grace of my friends, family, and you, Molly.”

She shared his smile, a tear threatening to fall from her lashes. Sherlock set his own gift nearby, and took her hands and the unopened ring box in his.

“What I have been, I cannot change. What I am, I have realized, is more than I ever thought to be,” his voice grew softer. “Which then begs the question: what do I want to be?”

Together, they opened the box. The simple white-gold ring sparkled with the modest sapphire flanked by two yellow topaz gems. Simple, clean, and ultimately Molly.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Molly, I have deduced that I very much want to be your husband. Would you -- may I -- can I be your husband?”

Their eyes met, and Sherlock felt like he was hurtling off the roof of St. Bart's again -- the air was sucked from his lungs and impact was inevitable.

The tear on Molly’s eyelash did the fall for him as she blinked rapidly, head nodding fiercely as she croaked, “Yes. Yes, please.”

They laughed goofily at their nervous bumbling around the proposal and acceptance, hugging and kissing through tearful smiles. Sherlock slid the ring on her finger, happy that she liked it and that it was sized to perfection. He kissed the palm of her left hand, then kissed her lips and held her to him.

After a blissful, affirming moment, Molly pulled away. "Oh! Your gift!"

Sherlock chuckled as she searched the tangled quilts and comforter, finally finding the gold-wrapped present. She situated herself to sit practically in his lap, holding the rectangle in her hands.

"Sherlock."

"Molly."

"You have been many things. And you are many things." Molly's smile grew wobbly but she bit her bottom lip and handed him the gift.

Sherlock lifted a brow in confusion to her face, then proceeded to tear open the wrapping. He pulled a curious white and pink plastic stick out -- his breathing stopped as he turned it over to read the small screen on the stick.

Pregnant.

A numbing silence rang through his brain as he whispered the word. Molly shifted in his lap and he instinctively looked to her.

"I know you've just asked to be my h-husband," she stammered, "but would you also like to be a daddy?"

Sherlock laughed, shouting "Yes! Of course! Oh, can you imagine the brilliance of our progeny? How far along are you? Oh this explains your preference of sparkling cider to wine tonight! And I thought it was just holiday weight, but no! You're carrying our baby!"

Well, he did so in his head. In reality he was staring at Molly, mouth soft and slack, silently weeping. Molly, not a stranger to Sherlock's buffering, cleared her throat and touched her hand to his cheek, swiping a tear with her thumb.

The touch worked and Sherlock blinked back into the tangible universe.

"Baby?" he whispered.

"About eleven weeks now, yeah," she smiled. "I suspected a couple weeks ago. John confirmed it for me."

"John knows?" Sherlock chuckled. "Explains his smug attitude all week."

Molly kissed his cheek. "When I took this test, I panicked at first. Just for a second. Then I thought of you, how much I loved you, and decided that no matter what, I was keeping it."

His smile grew -- Molly was a modern woman and of course would be responsible. But to know that she’d still want his child….

“Forgive the hyperbole but I am the happiest man alive, Molly.”

They shared another smile, Molly falling into his arms. She took his hand in her newly be-ringed one and placed it low on her belly where a small solid bump was growing. Sherlock’s heart pounded, and he sank his free hand into Molly’s hair, stroking softly.

After a few moments, he began to sing softly to his fiancee and their unborn child.

“I want a hippopotamus for Christmas…”

#sherlolly #sherlock holmes #molly hooper #christmas

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: hiraeth

Author: @slickandsolangelic

For: @usernamefieldhere

Rating/Warnings: T (warning for existentialism and disassociation)

Prompt: Hinata dealing with the consequences of having Kamukura as a past self, au or canon

Author’s notes: I hope this is to your liking, and I hope it’s okay that the au I picked is dnd-esque fantasy! I had lots of fun with this, and I can only hope that you do, too ^^

The Isles of Jabberwock are oft a pleasant place to be in, their sand a fine gold that lets itself be swept away by the lapping currents from the crystalline blue ocean that surrounds them. Better yet is the sun there, bearing down on them with its golden rays, easing flowerings into bloom and saplings into growth. Hinata is very, very glad that they managed to rescue it from being leveled down by those ambitious bandits from the east.

An adventuring life was unpredictable at its core, but unusually gratifying after a job well done.

Which is to say, it feels really fucking good to beat up some bad guys and get money for it, but such a thought is embarrassingly self indulgent and thus will remain at the very back of Hinata’s mind, where it belongs.

Nanami looks up from the weapon she’s examining. It’s a medium sized spear with a silver tip. She seems to weigh it in her hands for a bit, before letting out a satisfied hum.

“Komaeda-kun, would this be good to use if you ever wear yourself out using your magic?”

“Oh, Nanami-san, that’s really kind of you to think of me,” Komaeda starts to say, looking up from the item he was examining, a small flute embroidered with bronze trimmings. “But I’ve never really been good with sharp things. And as I’m already worn out, I’m afraid I might just point it the wrong way and, as per chance’s design. Being impaled sounds like it’d be inconvenient for our party!”

“Yeah,” Hinata says solemnly, because he’s traveled with Komaeda long enough to know that this is entirely possible.

“Yeah,” Nanami says, and she puts the spear back.

“I like this,” Hinata says. He raises both his hands to show them them silk pouch nestled in his palms. “It’s magical, so you can put up to three hundred pounds of stuff in there.”

Komaeda is at his side then, gliding past the tables laden with strings and wooden instruments. His arm brushes Hinata’s when he reaches from the small card attached to the golden thread around the pouch’s hem.

“It’s also worth five hundred gold pieces,” Komaeda says.

“Oh,” Hinata says.

“Oh,” Nanami agrees.

“If Hinata-kun really wants it, I can-” but Hinata is already putting it back.

They wind up circling the aisles of items for a few more hours, the other two interjecting with commentary when one makes a suggestion. It’s more comfortable than anything, Hinata muses, surfing through their options with one another together like this. Battles where their competence and trust in one another made the difference between loss and success, between life and death; that’s something that’s undeniably special. Something that matters, in a way, and Hinata knows that, and he is grateful- but he much prefers the quieter moments like these, when all that matters in the moment is their group effort at bargaining with the shopkeepers, the sunset’s rays framing their silhouettes as they journeyed through the winding paths of towns they’d saved or served.

There’s something he’s come to appreciate about their regular time spent together as friends rather than adventuring companions. It’s more bothersome than jarring (in a way that makes Hinata feel equal measures irritated and fond) when Komaeda answers a yes or no question with a tangent which existentially questions the universe and when Nanami turns out to have been asleep with her eyes open for the past hour they were going over plans.

It’s nice, Hinata thinks. It’s just… nice, to have moments of quiet in between. Away from threats to their life during the day, and away from his night terrors when it grows darker.

The Isles don’t really have much to offer aside from scenery and impressive craftsmanship when it comes down to it. They have a good time crossing the bridges that lead up to the separate islands, though (it doesn’t take them that long to haul Komaeda out from the water when he falls off one), and the locals aren’t unpleasant folk to converse with.

The third island has a slightly less relaxing ambiance than the others. Of the six, it’s certainly the loudest and most vibrant of the bunch– Komaeda almost immediately identifies it as the art venue when they pass by a Bard-run tavern by the name of “Titty Typhoon”. It sounds like hell in there, but hell in fifty different types of musical instruments and also wildly out of tune.

“Well,” Komaeda says, looking cheerful. “They’re having fun.” His hands are clasped together, and his eyes are widened in something that’s either wonder or contemplation. Hinata’s learnt to recognize when Komaeda begins to form overly complex thoughts over things that really aren’t that deep, but he chooses not to intervene.

“Very loudly,” Hinata says.

“And out of tune,” Nanami adds, but she’s smiling.

“Everyone’s Bardic inspiration manifests in different forms.”

“Yeah, well, it also helps when it manages to inspire without being a Bardic pain in the ass.”

“Hinata-kun speaks very boldly! Well, I guess I can’t really blame you for not finding that kind of music to your fancy, not when your own bardic prowess is unique in a way that’s unrecognizable to most regular people such as myself.”

“That was months ago, holy shit-”

“The sweet melody still haunts my dreams.”

“You’re horrible.”

“You’re the most inspiring artist a commoner like me has ever had the pleasure of hearing.”

Hinata’s shoving him now, trying to stifle a smile behind the sleeves of his leather armour plating, and failing quite spectacularly.

“Asshole,” Hinata says, but there’s no bite to it. Komaeda gives him a smile that’s a different kind of unsettling, only because it makes his insides turn funny. It’s wide, but soft around the edges, and it makes his eyes crease ever so slightly. Then he looks away, and that’s that.

.

Hinata hasn’t slept in what feels like three fucking days.

In reality, it’s only been about two and a half- the other half he spent goofing around with Komaeda and Nanami in the Isles of Jabberwock, hooking up their party with new shit for the next challenge.

This is bad. With the map of the nearby continent spread out before him on the scratched and damaged inn table, he should be getting in the mood to mark their next exploit. It’s a pretty good map, even if the dim yellow glow emanating from their lamps doesn’t do its details much justice.The sharp strokes that form the peaks of mountains are unmistakable nearby the expertly woven lines of rivers and streams, cutting through grassy landscapes and flat wastelands. There are circles and lines which mark territories and label them, categorizing them as either off limits or safe to explore.

But with how tired he is, Hinata’s beginning to circle around the same thought over and over. In fact, is that a fucking city, or a firefly? Is that a firefly on his map? Hinata isn’t sure if what’s on his map is a firefly or a city. That circular dot of yellow– is it a firefly, or is it a city?

“You don’t look well,” says a familiar voice. The dot of yellow buzzes and leaps into the air and onto Hinata’s nose. He swings back suddenly in an effort to swat it with both his arms. The momentum drives his chair backwards.

The quiet tavern folk don’t care to stop their chatter when Hinata crashes to the ground with a sound thud, and so the warlock is left to stare at the ceiling with unblinking eyes and his palms cupped around his nose as the minuscule sphere rises and floats away. Nanami’s concerned face hovers above him.

Ah, so it was a firefly.

Their next quest is for a blond wizard hailing from an important family. Hinata thinks he’s kind of an asshole, but Hinata also thinks that five thousand gold is maybe a sufficient price to get a job done for an asshole. He wants them to retrieve this artifact called the “Eye of Fate”, something that apparently reflects a person’s psyche and innermost desires. This is worrisome considering the Asshole Status of the person they’re retrieving it for, but according to the client, the Eye of Fate is trapped within the body of a topaz crystal gollum, a probably slightly more dickish creature to bestow such a relic upon.

Nanami helps pick him up off the ground, but he needs to take a handful of moments to gather his bearings.

“You need to take care of yourself. We won’t be able to get anything done if you neglect your health.”

Hinata thinks this is rich coming from Nanami, who never seems to sleep and yet spends half of the time she’s awake in a state of trance that’s impossible to break her out of. He means to tell her this, but instead the words that come out are “Lord Togami is an asshole.”

“He’s not easy to work with,” Nanami agrees.

“He’s a big fucking asshole.”

“Okay,” Nanami says patiently, sitting him down on the chair.

“I hate rich people who offer lots of money for ridiculous quests.”

“Mhm.”

“Nanami, there was a firefly on my map.”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, there was.”

“It flew.”

“I think fireflies tend to do that.”

Hinata presses his face against the scratchy surface of the map. He traces a finger along the Mountain Range of the Dead, across the Red River, and straight through the continental tunnel into the cavernous entrance of the Cave of Wonders.

“Yeah,” Hinata mutters. “’S cause of their wings.”

“Sure is.” Nanami puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,”

“Yeah,” she says, and pets his hair gently. “Go to sleep.”

.

The journey is harsh, but not unbearable.

Through the rocky mountain range they pass, tearing down groups of chimaeras, hopping between camping sights near the valleys. Komaeda picks flowers by one of the crevices, and Hinata feels bad when they wither under his bare hands.

They stop just a clearing away from the bank of Red River for the night. The sun kisses the horizon and turns it a warm shade of purple that lulls Hinata to slumber.

He dreams.

.

Hinata’s by the Red River.

His pants are rolled up to his knees, and the sky above him is as dark as the waters he’s lowered his feet into.They lap at his skin, icy and unforgiving. He pushes closer to the river side, sinks his legs further in until his calves feel numb.

Below the surface of the water, something is stirring. Moving like a shadow through the already dark film that covers the waters, closer than he wants it to be.

A voice says, “Haven’t they told you that this river is red with the blood of the fallen?”

Hinata doesn’t respond. He watches the figure grow closer and closer, a monster baited to the surface. His legs form ripples in the water when he moves them to and fro. He watches the spray of droplets disrupt the dark surface, and tries to hum away the panic in his chest.

“…You’re not listening anymore.”

The darkness is coming. Hinata is not afraid. He’s not afraid. He’s not.

(He’s terrified. He can’t move anymore, can barely breathe. He is helpless in a way that makes him angry at himself, useless in a way that makes him regret its existence.)

“You’re going to have to. It’s irrational to think you can run away forever.” The voice is calm as it says this.

It is nowhere. It is everywhere. It’s the full moon that lights up the stars above his head, the ripples his legs have stopped making in the river, the all encompassing darkness that wants to eat him whole, devour him until nothing is left of his existence.

.

Hinata wakes up with a start. His hands aren’t quite steady. That is to say, he’s shaking bad.

Hinata steps outside for a moment. It’s dark out still, so he snaps his fingers and watches a small flame flicker to life in his lantern. Their tent’s still steady against the breezes coming from the north. (Nanami had done a good job hammering it in right, after all. She’s always been good with practical skills like these, even if her proficiency was healing). The leaves sway high above his head on their host of towering trees, though, and the wind’s whistle is unmistakable and sharp, cutting through the night.

Hinata shudders.The bite of the air is akin to the sting of frost at his knees in the dream.

A hand lands on his shoulder, and he nearly jumps a foot into the air.

“Hinata-kun?”

Oh. It’s Komaeda. Hinata tries to be subtle about the breath of relief that leaves him, but he’s sure he failed. Whatever. God, whatever.

Komaeda retracts his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says with the kind of sincerity only he seems to be capable of. “I called for you before, but you seemed preoccupied.”

“…Ah, yeah.” Hinata tries to go for a smile, but it slips off his face at astronomical velocity. He’s exhausted, tired in a way that makes his bones ache and his heart stutter at every step. “It’s just that…” For a few long moments, he contemplates his next words, painfully aware of the tentative silence between them. Komaeda doesn’t break it, and even though Hinata’s looking away, he can feel the weight of Komaeda’s gaze pressing into the back of his head, sharper than the wind that pierces through the thicket of trees surrounding their campgrounds.

Hinata says, “You’re a bard, right?” Of course Komaeda is, that’s out of the question. When Hinata whips around, he sees the look of tempered confusion Komaeda is giving him. His head is tipped sideways, and his gray eyes blink at Hinata questioningly.

“By the standard definition, I am,” Komaeda says. “Perhaps not entirely deserving of the title, but that is the most conventional term to reference what I do.”

“…Right,” Hinata says. He tries to swallow back the lump that forms in his throat, and finds he can’t do it, just as he can’t quite bring himself to dispel the anxiety eating away at the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, I know. You’re a good bard, Komaeda, we’ve had this talk.”

“And you’re changing the subject, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda responds quietly. He’s still looking at him with those intent eyes. Fuck. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Silence. And then a howl from the wind hollow and loud all at the same time.

“Have you heard of the Ender of The World?”

More silence. And then, a laugh.

“Kamukura Izuru… who hasn’t?”

“So he has a name?”

Komaeda sets his own lantern on the ground, then lowers himself and takes a cross-legged position. Hesitant, Hinata follows suit.

“You didn’t know? They named him after the original Wizard, the one whose discoveries helped incorporate the plane of magic with our own.”

“Ah,” Hinata says. His throat is dry. “I, uh, never looked into it too much. I tried to, well- avoid. That sort of stuff.”

“…I see,” Komaeda says, and there’s an obvious question in his tone. To his credit, he doesn’t ask it.

“Well, Kamukura Izuru… Well, to start, he’s beautiful. I saw him, once.”

Hinata’s heart stops. “You did?”

“I did,” Komaeda says, and smiles. There are no creases under his eyes this time, no softness to the edge of his mouth. Only a wide curve that increases Hinata’s unease. Komaeda’s eyes watch the purple flame in his lantern flicker and sway.

“When I was still travelling alone, I took shelter in a sea-side town. I was still young then, maybe in my mid teen years, and so I was still learning how to get around alone, and still learning how to cope with my abilities. Naturally, no one wanted someone whose magical energy was as unstable and harmful as mine.” Komaeda makes animated hand gestures as he speaks, his voice remaining light and unbothered.

“So I tried not to use any, even when it got cold and I needed a fire, even if I had to defend myself. As soon as they realised their flowers wither around me and the grass their cattle eat from is poisoned by my magic, they’d throw me out. I couldn’t afford to let that happen yet, not when I was in such desperate need of a sustainable place to stay.”

“Komaeda…” Hinata starts to say, a crease forming in his brow. But Komaeda just continues.

“This is why I ended up staying by the port, where there was less organic matter for me to visibly hurt. And then he was there, and the stories? They were true,” Komaeda says. “He was- ah, I’m afraid I’m not nearly eloquent enough, but he was something else. He didn’t hurt anyone then, didn’t turn any cities to dust or erase landscapes with the swipe of his hand, but his existence was like…” He holds up a hand over the lantern, and his eyes are wide enough to hold the entire sky within then. Komaeda clenches his fist over the lantern’s glow.

He whispers, “Like fire. It was burning with the demand to be attended to. It was like being charmed, but worse, but better. And where he floated, Hinata-kun? It was over the sea, which had begun to turn inky below him. It was like void. Like nothingness was just overcoming the blue, erasing it.” Komaeda’s still smiling. How is he still smiling?

Hinata tries to regulate his breathing, but he feels sick. His head spins with a thousand visions, of tarlike darkness invading crystal blue, of lonely teenagers by ports, of magical essences strong enough to burn themselves into the hearts of spectators.

Hinata’s voice sounds hoarse to his ears when he speaks. “…And? Was he- was he evil?”

Komaeda laughs again. “Evil… Well, I suppose it depends on the standards of one’s morality. I just think he was hideous.”

“Huh?! Didn’t you just say-”

“I meant what I said.” Komaeda says. “He was the wrongest thing in the world, in that moment. Something that wasn’t destined to be. He was beautiful, too, and it had made me feel something. Now, I can identify that feeling as what it is.”

“And what is it?”

Komaeda turns to look at him then, eyes wide still. He closes them for a moment, but the smile doesn’t fade. Komaeda says, “Disgust,” and Hinata feels like he’s been kicked in the ribs.

“Oh. Um, I suppose that makes se-”

“I think he was just empty. I don’t understand how someone can have such power over destiny and be such a shell.” His smile takes a dip, then twitches back into place. It looks wrong, not that it ever really looked right to begin with. It looks… sour.

“People will call Kamukura Izuru beautiful, or they will call him horrible,” Komaeda says. “I just think that he’s like me.”

“Like you?” Hinata’s heart is pounding.

“I don’t mean to sound egoistical,” Komaeda says quickly, holding his hands up, His smile returns to its default vacancy again, “Of course, I could never hope to be as powerful. But Izuru-san and I have something in common.”

There is quiet now, and even the well timed howling of the wind fails to shake Hinata out of his semi-trance state of contemplation. He recognises that Komaeda’s given him an opening to ask. The tension in his gut notwithstanding, he does.

“What is it, then?”

Komaeda hums. His gloved fingers close around the handle of the lantern and pull it up to his face. Illuminated so closely by the glow, Komaeda looks like a flame himself. It’s a haunting kind of beauty that Hinata can’t fully wrap his head around. (His heart aches). He blows his flame out, and just like that, the world grows dimmer. Komaeda stands up, and Hinata wants to reach out and grab at his sleeve, but he’s too tired, and Komaeda’s too swift, and it’s too cold out here, so cold and dark and god, Hinata’s so tired.

“Well, when I looked in his eyes, I could tell. I could tell that he had nowhere to go either.” Through the mist of darkness, Hinata can’t see his features, he can sense it when Komaeda’s gaze leaves him.

He whispers, “Good night, Hinata-kun.”

Then he returns to their tent, and Hinata’s left alone.

.

There is a flash of light.

Pillars of light come together to form a gollum, at least 12 feet tall, its arms made of diamond shards which reflect the yellow light pouring out of the empty holes in its head that make its sockets. The gollum is a beautiful, monstrous thing, its voice caught somewhere between roar and song. It’s a compound of light shards taking the form of rocky limbs and sharp shoulders. Like tears, the light that runs down its head burns into the cavern’s ground, acidic.

They get in order. Hinata raises his wand, and Nanami prepares her wooden staff. The amethysts that stick out of the ground by Komaeda’s feet begin to lose their vibrancy as he puts his flute to his lips.

Hinata casts.

Nanami points.

Komaeda plays.

And the gollum unclasps a dark mouth trapped between jaws of silvery-gold crystals, and showers their attacking silhouettes in stunning light.

.

I.

You are born.

You are a creature! And how alive you are, how real- your hands are small and pale, your hair back length and a light shade of a pretty colour. And you are not clothed, not yet, but you are so alive.

Besides you a person with shaking arms and a trembling form. They say, “O-oh, it worked, it worked,” and they sound like they’re going to cry.

You reach out to them, and you feel concerned.

.

Disorientation. Fear. Hinata’s head is spinning, and he can’t tell his head from his feet, not anymore. The world is nothing but a dull blur of colour, and all he hears is a the quiet hum of the gollum’s voice, a guttural, chilling sound.

And then the next flash of light comes.

.

II.

You are alone. Ash falls between the spaces of your fingers, the remnants of the home you once had. The sky cries for you, but you do not cry. You cannot cry anymore, not when you know they were right all along. Right to abandon you, right to throw a creature of destruction and havoc.

You are disgusted with yourself, with the pulse of energy that crackles like lightning beneath your skin.

Your hands dig into the ashes that were once meadows and gardens and homes, homes you grew up in, homes you weren’t hated for existing in.

You let out a scream that tears your throat in two, and you are heartbroken.

.

He can’t tell if he’s breathing.

He can’t tell if he’s seeing. He can only hear the roar approaching.

But he feels it, too, the third flash of light slamming into him.

.

III.

Magic is difficult.

Magic is unnatural- it’s strange, because for your family, it seems to come as easy as breathing. Generations of wizards have thrived from their line, after all, each with magical energy in the very air they breathe, clear in the way they carry themselves, evident in the gleam in their eyes.

Except for you, that is. You have grown up looking at your hands and hating them. You have grown up with the words of the divination mistress inscribed in your head from when you were but a youth, her raspy voice calm and factual as she tells your parents, This one’s a branch that’s been severed. He’s dry, he is.

And you are. You attempt to cast spells. Nothing happens. You try your hand at passive magic, tries to see if you can work out divination, or magical forgery, or bardic inspiration.

Nothing happens within. Your hands remain plain, pitiable things, empty of even the telltale scorch marks and scar of a beginner magician. There is disappointment in the looks they give you. There’s judgement. There’s torment in their stares, a searing fire that burns away at you in the expectations you know you’ll never be able to fulfill. A tiresome, constant hum of unease.

So plain.

What a shame, that one- think of the potential!

Maybe he’s just a late bloomer?

But you aren’t.

You press your palms to your face and try to feel for a hum of something more that isn’t there, was never there, will never be there.

Until one day, not many days from now, at the hands of a circle of wizards who promise your family prowess, progress, and most importantly magic- it is.

And you feel… nothing.

You don’t feel at all.

.

A flash of light.

.

I.

Your hair is trimmed to your shoulders. You are dressed in a cloak of silver with a green hood, given a staff crafted of rosewood and embroidered with your initials. You are given a name. You are given a purpose.

The person who made you is loving. They are kind. They don’t make you feel like the tool that you are, but you know, and you think it’s okay.

.

And another.

.

II.

You learn that the leaves of plants wither first when you play. And then gradually, so do the stems. The petals are last to go, turning a sorry shade of gray that disintegrates to ashen black the more you continue.

You feel sorry.

.

And yet another.

.

III.

There is more magic in the air than has even been. More horror in your heart than you ever thought possible. They are chanting incantations, murmuring things in languages you can’t recognise, humming in tones you don’t understand, and you are scared, but your want to stop disappointing overwhelms this fear. Your want to be something that surpasses ordinary, something that beats worthless.

So you stay still.

And you drift, further and further away, into a space where you can’t feel your heart and can’t contain your soul.

And for a while, you don’t return. Not really.

Another.

.

I.

You learn that you are a cleric. You learn that your name is Nanami Chiaki, and that you can wield light and speak seven languages and be very, very useful.

You find your place among an adventuring party, and you set off to do your job as a cleanser of despair.

.

When will it stop?

.

II.

You feel smaller than you should, a quiet mass of stark white hair and shaky hands that suck the life out of every unsuspecting thing. But you learn- you learn to sleep in the hollows of large trees.You learn to survive days without fire and food. You learn what you have to do to live, what you have to do to continue, but often you wonder if there’s a purpose at all.

And then you see Kamukura Izuru turn the ocean’s blue into void, and immediately realise what you have to do.

.

Hinata hears what sounds like a thump, but maybe it’s just the dull beat of his heart. Does he still have a heart?

.

III.

It is

So

Dark.

It is so dark , and so quiet, and you are not there, but you are, but the world isn’t, but you are, but you’re dead, but you’re not, but you’re in pain, but he’s not.

And he’s you.

Or you’re him.

Maybe you’re both and he’s neither. She finds you somewhere between existence and death, surrounded by the skeletal remains of the seven wizards that made you what you are.

She examines the circle of black glass and scorch marks that used to be their mountain, and the grin on her face can cut through the fabric of the universe and weave it into something new. She holds out her hand, and says, “Confused, aren’tcha? I think I have something that’ll work for you.”

And before you know it, the world is ending at your hands.

.

There is the sound of something falling multiple times all at once.

.

I.

You love them so much.

You love them so, so much. But you do not, because you weren’t made for this. You don’t know what love is.

Do you?

.

It’s getting closer.

.

II.

You are a being of misdeeds, a creature of filth and ugliness.You are a pawn in the hands of luck and a facilitator of fate. And it’s fine.

It’s fine. You don’t deserve to feel this companionship. You don’t deserve the moments when his eyes meet yours and you feel something akin to hope. It’s selfish. It’s foolish.

It’s fine.

(It’s not.)

.

They are footsteps, Hinata realises distantly at the back of his head, and they fall like hail.

.

III.

You wake up in another circle of black glass. Your head is full of memories that aren’t your own, your back breaking under the weight of sins you earnt. You hands are pale and unscarred and yours, yours, yours, but you don’t know what’s yours anymore, so you dig them into the hard ground until your nails chip and bleed and you’re screaming because the pain is the only thing that makes you feel real.

You don’t know how long you lay there, but when you come to, you can cast flame, you can create light.

And it takes you so, so long, to pick yourself up, to tear away your memories and the bards’ songs of Him, of You.

You are sick of your own existence, but most of all, you’re not sure when you’ll be him again. You’re not sure how long you have as you.

(You’re not sure when you started to think of this in terms of you and him.)

When you find yourself a party, you worry.

When you sleep at night, you worry.

When your companion’s piercing gray greens look at you and tell you, “Good night, Hinata-kun,” you worry.

What’s a sense of self for someone without one at all?

.

Crash!

Splinters of diamond scatter across the cave’s floor, yellow and white and shades of off-orange, shattered, sharp and everywhere.

Komaeda is panting by the now screaming, headless gollum, its guttural screeches now reduced to weak yelps that sound more like windchimes. The splinters that caught him in the face send blood streaking down it, and he’s breathing heavy.

In his right hand Komaeda holds Nanami’s abandoned spear of light, semi-tangible and fading in his grasp. Nanami rises to her feet besides Hinata, only a distance away. Cuts and scrapes line her arms and legs where the crystals caught her, but she is healing faster than any of them can process, and she points her staff at the gollum, lips drawn in a thin line.

When Hinata gets into position besides his companions, his heart thrums with something that’s maybe determination, and that’s definitely the desire to beat this fucking thing to the ground.

Their eyes meet. When Hinata catches Komaeda’s, Komaeda gives him a tired, bloodied smile which he tries to return.

They attack.

.

LEGEND.

There is a legend in the land about a sorcerer. Or at least that’s what they think he is. He’s certainly not human- it’s not clear if he’s much of anything the people of this world can recognize.

He’s like something out of a night terror, spectral and haunting, ethereally beautiful in ways that are hard to encapture. Bards fail to find music befitting of him, and the storytellers, their hands bleed of their efforts to weave tales and tapestries worthy enough. An artist’s maddening, he is, a being of darkness, or maybe light, or maybe divinity.

He razes lands in his wake.

It only takes a flick of his wrist for the grandeur of towering spires, raised peaks and settlements, so many settlements built with caring craftsmanship and loving ambition, to become ash.

There are no scorch marks to tell of despairing fires, no bloodstained marble and cobblestone to tell the tragedy of battles lost. Only the memory of what used to be and the dust that remains of its existence.

Some call him the Destructor. Some call him a God. Most merely call him The Ender of The World.

And he is as beautiful as he is terrifying, the story tellers swear. He doesn’t function on malice, they say. It’s impossible to tell what his motives really are, but he doesn’t thrive off of evil nor off of death. He does not need to thrive, really, not when his very existence is that of raw energy and power, not when he can make himself a living deity on command of his presence.

Others have different stories to tell of him, all with the staples; the beauty, the divinity, the grace. But they speak of different powers- armies of the dead animated for seemingly no reason. Stormy clouds of gray that encircle him, a crown of booming thunder and imminent destruction.

Eyes the colour of rubies, painfully empty despite the ocean’s worth of magical energy they surely have.

The World is ending.

And then it isn’t.

The cities of ash remain as they are, as do the hearts of endless storms continue to beat with the booms of thunder. Every tapestry and abandoned sheet of song remain, but the Ender of the World does not.

.

At the gollum’s husk, Hinata brings down a spectral axe he summons; once her spear of light is back in her hands, Nanami maneuvers close enough to leave a gaping gash of oozing yellow where its abdomen was; Komaeda’s flute plays notes that manifest into spectral hammers which descend upon it, blown after blow. The amethysts around them are now a darkened gray.

With each hit that lands, crystals shatter across the floor.

Soon, all that remains is a gradient of gold in pieces at their feet.

And their prize reward, the gollum’s heart: an ornate circle of the very same gold, its surface clear and reflective like a mirror. The Eye of Fate.

Komaeda collapses on his knees.

He’s making a noise that sounds like giggling, red faced and dizzy, and then he collapses to the side, spent. Hinata isn’t fast enough to catch him, but he tries anyway. Chest still heaving from the effort of battle, he takes the time to brush away the red that bleeds from the wound on Komaeda’s forehead. The amethysts are more like coal now, a tell-tale sign of the energy he’s expended.

Nanami kneels beside him, and she’s not out of breath at all. But she looks just as tired as he feels. All her wounds have closed up. Hinata almost finds it funny- he always thought the reason her wounds were so quick to heal was because she was an extraordinarily healer. While that was true, he now more or less knows that there’s more to it. And she… they both…

Well, they both know now, don’t they? But the panic hasn’t really settled in just yet.

“I’ll get him,” Nanami says, and she nods towards Komaeda. Already her hand is on his chest. “You have to go retrieve the mirror. Hinata-kun, you know what to do with it.”

Hinata nods. Rises to his feet.

He heads towards the Eye of Fate, back turned to Nanami. It feels smooth and light in his hands. The surface reflects his face, bloodied and plain, and it all feels deceptively simple.

Nanami says, “Hinata-kun? I know you’ll make the right decision. I know you’re a good person, and you can make your own path.”

He feels the smile in her voice as strongly as he feels the sting in his eyes.

“Right,” Hinata says softly, and examines the glassy surface.

He throws it to the ground experimentally. It lands quietly without a sound.

And then he crushes it under his fucking feet. Over and over until it breaks apart for good.

Nanami laughs softly from behind him.

Hinata says, “All right, then. Now that that’s over with, let’s go home.”

.

Home isn’t anywhere but the three of them.

The journey back isn’t as tiring as Hinata thought it would be, but it’s every bit as emotionally taxing. He wallows in his anxiety on their trip back, just as he wallows in his thoughts.

He and Nanami don’t speak of it.

And he understand that she needs time, and she understands that he needs courage, or perhaps strength of will. But she smiles at him like he means something still, like he’s more than lost identities and failure and magic that isn’t really his, and he’s grateful. He smiles at her too, a bit less patient, a bit more jaded, but he hopes it lets her know that she means something to him like he does to her.

And then there’s Komaeda.

They’re back at their camp grounds when he finally wakes. The sun’s beginning to rise above the horizon, painting its line a faint white and streaking the blank sky with shades of pale blue and orange.

Nanami’s gone to bring them firewood for later on since they’re all too tired for conjuration. Hinata’s fingers clench and unclench into a fist. He counts the fading stars that are eaten by the sunrise, and wonders if he can still see the faint outline of the moon provided he tries hard enough.

Komaeda sits opposite from him. Neither of them says a word.

The silence is quiet and tangible, and when Hinata looks at Komaeda, really looks at him, he pauses. Komaeda’s fully healed and unscarred but for a nick that the gash on his forehead left, and even that is hardly notable. His hair is even messier than usual, dirtied and gray with dust and dirt from their encounter. His pallor is still prominent, but thankfully, it doesn’t look like he’s about to fall seriously ill.

"Hey,” Hinata says.

Komaeda raises his head to look at him. He’s giving him that look again, a look of uncomfortable  intensity that Hinata feels in his bones.

Komaeda say, “Hinata-kun,” by way of greeting, and they fall quiet again.

Hinata looks at his thumbs.They’re shredded from the shrapnel of crystal, scarred in little crisscrosses.

He says to Komaeda, “Well. I mean, god. Let’s- let’s cut right to it. Talk to me.”

And so they start to, the rising sun a backdrop to their conversation.

“You know now,” Hinata says.

“I do.”

“You wanted to find me. Or him. Whatever.”

“I do.”

“You still do?”

He tips his head sideways, and light curls frame his curious expression. Very sincerely, he says, “I do.”

Hinata feels a tightness in his chest.

“You’re weird.”

“You’re a god.”

Hinata gives him an annoyed, incredulous look. Now he knows Komaeda’s messing with him.

He says, “You know I’m not,” and can’t help the edge in his voice.

“Of course I do,” Komaeda says, voice hushed in a way Hinata’s never heard it before. “I felt your thoughts, Hinata-kun. We both did.”

He knows this. And it’s frustrating, infuriating even, to have something like that taken away from you and broadcasted so intimately. Looking at the mess he made of his own fingers, Hinata wishes he hit harder, attacked harsher.

And then he looks at Komaeda, and oh. He sees it now, the tightness around his shoulders, the tension in his frame. The sharpness of his present smile, guarded and ingenuine.

He’s hurting, too.

And god, Hinata’s so selfish. This entire time, his own anxieties have been overwhelming him, and he wasn’t able to realise sooner that his companions have their own plates full to the brim.

Of course. Of course he’d hurt. He’s felt it vividly, Komaeda’s loneliness, his pain, just as he had Nanami’s doubt in her existence, just as tangibly as they felt his own aches.

Hinata reaches towards Komaeda, who tenses like he’s about to flinch away, but… doesn’t. He places a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And Komaeda says, “I was wrong.”

“Wrong?”

His gaze bores into Hinata. “Wrong to call you beautiful and hideous.”

Hinata puts away his hand. He says, “Then what would you call me?” and feels bold for it. The way Komaeda says ‘you’ instead of 'Kamukura Izuru’ or 'The Ender of the World’ or some other superficial title makes him shiver.

“I would call you hopeful,”

“Uh, what?”

Komaeda puts a hand over his heart. And there it is again, that terrifying earnestness in his eyes.

“Hopeful. You’re not like me, Hinata-kun. Despite everything, you’re still here. You’re still doing good after what she made you do.”

What she made you do. The illusion of guilt, the vision of the perfect monster, it’s gone. It’s all gone.

Hinata is shaking just the slightest bit. His hands aren’t as steady as he thought they’d be in his lap. This is hard.

“But– so are you.”

“So am I what, Hinata-kun?”

“You’re here too, aren’t you?”

Komaeda falls silent.

Hinata can’t quite read his expression right, was never quite able to, but the stunned look of bewilderment that twists his features isn’t hard to note.  

“But I- that’s not… That isn’t how it works.” Komaeda argues, a confused frown twisting his mouth.

“Isn’t it?” Hinata is smiling, and as he does, he feels the tremors start to calm.

“It isn’t! Hinata-kun, if you’re as good at drawing conclusions as you are at playing instruments-”

“Stop trying to backhand compliment me, I probably can play if I really try.”

“Backhanded compliments? How rash of Hinata-kun to jump to such a conclusion, I was only trying to speak my mind.”

He flicks Komaeda’s forehead. Komaeda doesn’t make a move to flinch this time.

Hinata dares to push back the hair that falls in front of his eyes, heart beat mingling with the songbirds’ melody. He waits for Komaeda to stop him, but he does not. He rubs his thumb over the small scar on his forehead.

“…You were good out there with Nanami’s spear,” Hinata murmurs. “Maybe you should actually consider buying one.”

“Oh,” Komaeda breathes in response.

Sunlight makes him look even prettier.

It’s quiet here in these woods, and it’s not “home” forever. Nothing will be for a while. But the permanence of home and the worries of tomorrow mean nothing when Hinata sees that smile again. A smile soft around the edges that make his eyes crease, a smile that makes Hinata not want to let go.

“Is this okay?” Komaeda says, and his voice is quiet. His eyes begin to flutter. His gloved hands reach tentative towards the back of Hinata’s neck as he moves to lean into Hinata’s touch. Komaeda’s hands are light, their pressure barely there, like he’s afraid to hurt him.

Hinata says, “It’s okay.”

And when he kisses Komaeda, it feels like the relief of something long awaited. It feels like comfort. It feels like something right. Hinata’s hands reach to cup his face, and oh.

He kisses him again, and again, and again, and everytime Hinata pulls away, he sees that smile and just can’t stop.

They’re going to be okay.

#komahina #komahina secret exchange #fanfiction

[vernonfielding]

Life Writes Its Own Stories

Amy/Jake Newspaper AU, Chapter 2! (And at AO3.)

Amy’s family had not taken well to her announcement that she was leaving education to go into journalism. It wasn’t the leaving part that had bothered them – it was the ‘going into.’ Her family didn’t agree on much, but they were pretty united in their mistrust of the mainstream media.

Her dad had been a career cop with the NYPD, and three of her seven brothers had followed his footsteps. Her mom had been a full-time social activist, which didn’t pay as well as detective (as in, at all) but required the same level of commitment. Three of Amy’s brothers had taken after their mom and were now working for various human rights organizations in and around New York. Her youngest brother was the only other outlier, and he’d really gone rogue – he was a singer/actor/writer trying to make it onto Broadway. They’d all been gently indulgent of Amy’s decision to go into education, but when she’d shifted to journalism the fallout had been immediate and vehement, and come from all sides. Including David the singer/actor/writer, which seemed profoundly unfair.

Amy had been passionate about the news – and newspapers in particular – for as long as she could remember, but a career in journalism had seemed as outlandish to her as a child as David’s drive to go into entertainment. In a way, it had been his incremental successes that had given her the final push to follow her own dreams. That and the fact that she was sick to death of teaching 9- and 10-year-olds how to make sun collages and watercolor flowers. Kids were loud and messy (and also most of them sucked at art).

Of course, journalists were loud and messy too, Amy thought, as she leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms over her head, peering about the newsroom. At the desk directly across from Amy’s, Gina was screaming at someone on the phone that no, she was not going to write an expose about toxic government immunization programs.

“Fucking anti-vaxxers,” Gina snapped as she slammed the phone back in the cradle.

On the far side of the newsroom, Charles was asking Terry if dog shit really smelled different from human shit, and if it was necessary to include that in Hitchcock’s story on street pooping. Hitchcock himself was watching a video turned up way too loud on his computer; it sounded like porn.

Amy loved her job.

“Santiago,” Terry called, yanking Amy out of her musings. Holt was the editor in chief of the Bulletin, but it was Terry who ran the metro desk, the heart of the newsroom.

“What’s up, boss?” Amy said, as Terry walked up to her desk.

“What’ve you got for me today?” He was staring down at a battered legal pad in his hands, on which Amy knew was written the stories everyone was working on and when they expected to have them done.

“Um.” She usually had three or four things to pitch him, but the past few days had been unusually slow and she’d already written three stories that had been on her evergreen list. She was perilously close to coming up dry for the first time since she’d started at the Bulletin.

“Look,” Terry said, planting his palms on her desk and leaning toward her, “we’re okay for tomorrow’s paper, but it would really help if you could come up with something good for the weekend.”

Amy knew that “it would really help” was about as close as Terry came to ordering a story, so she squared her shoulders and nodded. “Roger that.”

Terry frowned at her and narrowed his eyes. “You’re starting to sound like a cop,” he said. “It’s weird.”

Amy shrugged. “Hazard of the job, I guess?” She hadn’t told anyone that she came from a long line of NYPD cops. She worried Terry or Holt might pull her off the beat if they thought she was biased.

Terry just grunted and scratched a note, then called out “Hitchcock” and moved on.

Amy slumped in her chair. She’d dodged the daily bullet, but now she needed to come up with something really good for the weekend edition. She pulled up her evergreen list – stories that, in theory, could be written up and published any time because they had nothing to do with current events – but the ones left were boring or would take more than a few days to finish.

Amy set her chin in her hand and checked the NYPD Twitter feeds, and then the neighborhood blogs and even The Times local news website, but there was nothing going on. What she needed was a good tip, some murder or weird robbery or identify theft case she could expose.

She thought of Peralta. She’d actually tried looking him up, the day after her story was published, but she’d found almost no public records on him. A search of the NYPD staff database had provided his name, rank and current assignment to the 99th Precinct, but no photo. He wasn’t in the Bulletin archives at all, and he didn’t seem to have a Facebook account or any other social media presence. She wondered if he was normally an undercover cop, which would explain the low-key identity. Or else he just didn’t do very interesting work with the NYPD – but somehow Amy didn’t think that was the case.

Amy tapped a pen against her reporter’s notebook and wondered – not for the first time – why he’d picked her out of the crowd to tip off about the ex-boyfriend-slash-cop. And she wondered what other interesting stuff he might have hidden under those rolled-up sleeves.

At that thought, Amy groaned to herself and chuckled. Detective Peralta was cute and he’d given her a good tip, but that was hardly anything to be fantasizing about. Besides, he was a cop, and she’d had enough cops in her life to know that though there were some amazing ones – like her dad and two out of her three brothers – a lot of them were power hungry, egotistic, self-righteous and borderline corrupt. Just because Peralta had helped her out once didn’t make him one of the good guys.

She turned back to her computer and pulled up the NYPD Twitter feed again. She might have to write that feature on the new anti-graffiti task force after all, Amy thought with a sigh, and began taking notes.

+++

Jake stared at the board in the briefing room, trying to find the link between the string of pawn-shop robberies he and Rosa had been investigating for two weeks. They had pins marking spots all across Brooklyn, plus a few in Queens, and there was no obvious geographic connection. He sat down on the edge of a table and ran a hand through his hair. Beside him, Rosa sighed and blew a strand of hair out of her face.

“Maybe it’s not the same guy,” Rosa said, picking up their stack of reports again and flipping through the pages.

“Or girl,” Jake said, just to be a jerk. Rosa kicked him in the shin. He flashed her a grimace and rubbed his leg. “Look, it’s obviously one guy, or a couple working together. It’s the same MO every time: Break in just after midnight, take out a security guard, grab the cash on hand, and out the way they came in.”

“And they never show up on the security cameras, so they’ve obviously staked the place out.”

“Right.”

They both stared at the board some more. Jake let his eyes go a little crossed, like maybe if he skewed his vision he’d make some sense of the puzzle in front of them. He was reminded of those old “Magic Eye” pictures from when he was a kid. He’d always been good at finding the hidden image. He didn’t see anything now, but he could feel a subtle tickling in the back of his brain, a familiar itch that let him know he was missing some piece, and that he was close. If he could just relax, open his mind, he was sure he could figure this out.

“Peralta!” called a voice from the bullpen. Jake jolted out of his musings and jumped off the table to poke his head out. The Vulture’s assistant, Penny, waved at him. “Phone call. It’s at your desk.”

Jake turned back to Rosa and nodded toward his desk and she waved him off. The bullpen was a zoo – the Vulture was cackling wildly in his office, some dude was screaming at a prostitute in the holding cell, and for some reason there was a group of Boy Scouts crowded around the sergeant’s desk. All the noise was distracting, which was part of the reason he and Rosa had retreated to the briefing room.

He picked up his phone and said, loudly, “Peralta.”

“Detective Peralta?” came the voice on the other end.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Jake said. He pressed the phone into his ear.

“Oh, hi. It’s Amy Santiago. With the Brooklyn Bulletin?”

“Shit!” A spike of alarm shot down his back. Jake looked quickly around the bullpen to see if anyone was watching him.

“Excuse me?” Santiago said.

“Why are you calling me here?” Jake hissed.

“I’m sorry, I just called the main line-”

“I can’t talk to you on this phone.” Jake glanced toward the Vulture’s office; he was sprawled back in his chair, feet on his desk, laughing at something on his cell phone.

“Okay, sorry, I just had a quick-”

“Look, I’ll call you back. Is this the right number?” He read back the digits that showed on his phone and Santiago confirmed that was her number. “Okay, give me five minutes.”

Jake hung up without waiting for an answer and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, then ducked back into the briefing room. “Hey, I’ve got to hit the head, I’ll be right back,” he said to Rosa, and left when she just waved him off again.

Jake took the stairs to the first floor and walked all the way down the block, toward the deli where he got lunch every other day. He leaned against the wall around the corner from the precinct and dialed the number he’d memorized.

“Amy Santiago-”

“I can’t believe you called me at the precinct!” he said, trying hard not to raise his voice. “Did you give anyone your name?”

“No,” Santiago said, quickly. “I just asked for you and they transferred me. No one knows anything.”

“Okay, good. That’s good.” Jake released a long breath.

“Seriously, I’m sorry for freaking you out,” Santiago said, and she did sound contrite. “I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you.”

“It’s fine,” Jake said. “But why were you trying to reach me anyway? And how did you even get my name?”

“Someone called your name at the press conference and I looked you up,” Santiago said. “As for why I called, I had a favor to ask.”

“Haven’t I done enough favors for you?” Jake huffed. “Nice story, by the way. Front page and everything.”

“Thanks,” Santiago said. “And yes, I appreciate the help. I promise, this one is not nearly as big of a deal. I’ve got the whole story already worked out, I just need you to confirm one little detail before I can publish.”

Jake closed his eyes, wishing he’d remembered to grab his sunglasses before darting outside. He really should end this conversation now, before things got complicated. Rosa would kill him if she knew he was out here even listening to a reporter. But he had to admit, he wanted to know what she was working on.

“I can’t promise I’ll help, but tell me what you’ve got.”

“Okay, here’s the story,” Santiago said, and Jake knew after half a sentence that he was screwed.

She’d somehow caught on to the fact that the deputy commissioner’s son had been tagging police vehicles with penises, and that he’d been caught multiple times and let go with no repercussions. She told him that her sources were solid but no one could confirm with absolute certainty that the kid was definitely the deputy commissioner’s son. He had the same name and was the right age, but there was the slimmest possibility that could be a coincidence, and Santiago said the story was too big to bet on coincidence.

Jake himself had barely dodged this particular nightmare a few weeks earlier, when the Vulture had demanded he drop his own case against the kid. Jake had been sorely tempted to arrest him anyway but Rosa had stepped in and told him it would be career suicide without his captain’s backing. It still bugged Jake that the brat had gotten away with it.

“Look,” he said to Santiago, “even if I had information that would help you, I couldn’t share it. The kid’s a minor. Those records are sealed up.”

“Ah, I thought you’d say that,” Santiago said. “Turns out Trevor Podolski is 18. About to be 19, actually.”

“What?” Jake yelled into the phone. “That little shit lied to me? On an official police report?”

“So you do know about this case!”.

Jake winced. “Fine, yes, I worked it for a few days. But seriously, I can’t help you with this one. It’s too risky.”

“Come on, Peralta,” Santiago said. “This is your chance to set things right.”

Jake groaned and bumped his head back against the wall.

“I mean it, I’ve got everything already.” Santiago’s voice took on a desperate edge. “I just need you to tell me the story is true. That the kid is the deputy commissioner’s son.”

Jake bit his lip, glanced up and down the street. A car was parked on the opposite corner. He recognized it immediately as an unmarked police vehicle because of the giant dick spray-painted on the driver’s side door.

“Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’re still on the phone? Or yes-”

“Yes, your story’s right,” Jake said. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Thank you!”

Jake gave her a quick “Welcome” and ended the call. He glared at the penis car, then pushed back off the wall and headed back to the precinct.

When he returned to the briefing room, Rosa scowled at him and said, “Where were you? I checked the bathroom.”

“You went in the men’s room?” Jake said, then shook his head and walked up to the board. “Never mind. I solved the case. It was the guys who installed the security cameras.”

Rosa stared at him, then picked up their notes again and began flipping through them, a slow smile spreading over her face. “How’d you do that?”

Jake just shrugged, and ducked his head to hide a small smile. For all that Santiago had nearly given him a heart attack, Jake had to admit, talking to her had actually cleared his head. 

+++

The next morning, Jake had just slung his bag onto his desk when the Vulture called him into his office. Pembroke had two tones when he yelled out his detectives’ names: impatient and furious. This tone was not impatient.

Rosa narrowed her eyes at Jake and he shrugged back in return before heading into the Vulture’s den. Or nest, Jake supposed. But “nest” didn’t sound nearly terrible enough.

“Wha’s up, Captain?” Jake said, tapping his knuckles on the Vulture’s open door.

Pembroke replied by holding up a copy of the Brooklyn Bulletin and shaking it so the pages rattled. Jake squinted at the front page and read the top headline out loud: “’Expose: Parking Fines Lining Police Pockets.’” Jake paused and scratched the back of his neck. “Ouch, there goes your retirement in Long Island. Sorry, sir.”

“Not that bullshit,” Pembroke cut in. “The other story, below it.”

Jake scanned down to the story in the lower left corner. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh! ’NYPD Official’s Son Is a Painter -- of Penises on Police Cars.’” The Vulture slapped the newspaper onto his desk. “What the fuck, Peralta.”

“Wait- what?” Jake stepped fully into the office, kicking the door shut behind him. “You think I had anything to do with this?”

Pembroke glowered at him. “You were the last guy to work that case, and you made it clear you were pissed about how it was handled, so yeah, I think you leaked it to the pretty reporter and probably got your dick sucked in return.”.

“Okay, first off,” Jake said, “that’s disgusting and super offensive. And second, no – I didn’t leak anything. I wouldn’t even know how to leak something like that. I don’t even know who-” he paused and made a show of lifting up the paper to peek at the name on the story, “Amy Santiago is.”

“She’s hot and she’s been busting our asses lately,” Pembroke said. “You really didn’t tip her off about the Podolski thing?”

“I swear, I had nothing to do with that.”

Pembroke eyed him warily and Jake just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, forcing his face to stay relaxed and give nothing away. Finally, Pembroke turned back to his desk. He flipped the newspaper into his trashcan – Jake was tempted to make a comment about recycling but now probably wasn’t the time – and said, “Fine, dismissed.”

Jake turned to go, then remembered he actually had a case he wanted to bring up.

“Uh, one more thing,” he said, plowing on even when Pembroke got that look on his face that meant their conversation had already gone on about five minutes longer than he’d prefer. “I got a text from a CI last night. He said there’s this new drug, some kind of fentanyl analog. They’re calling it Jazzy Pants-”

“No-go,” Pembroke said, cutting him off.

“Sir, with all due respect, if there’s another high-potency fentanyl on the street this could be a huge case.”

“I said drop it,” Pembroke said. “Anyway, the Seven-Eight has a task force. Let them handle it.”

“Oh, well, if the Seven-Eight has task force,” Jake said, not bothering to hide his scorn.

“Dismissed, Peralta.”

Jake walked out without another word.

+++

“You’re crazy, man,” Rosa said later that day, over lunch.

They’d gotten deli sandwiches to go and were eating them outside, sitting on the benches at the neighborhood playground. Kids were screeching and racing around the asphalt, climbing the wrong way up the slides and shoving each other on the swings. Normally Jake would be itching to go out and play with them – and honestly, sometimes he did; he figured it was good for police-community relations – but today he was on his phone. He was buying a digital subscription to the Bulletin.

“I know,” Jake said, mumbling around the credit card he’d stuck between his teeth. He plucked it out to type in the number and added, “But you have to admit, it was pretty great seeing that jerk kid’s mugshot in the paper.”

Jake had picked up his own copy of the Bulletin not long after leaving Pembroke’s office. Rosa had followed him outside and when she’d accused him of the same thing the Vulture had, Jake hadn’t bothered denying it, though he’d explained that he hadn’t been the original source. Rosa hadn’t seemed impressed by that detail.

“Yeah, it’s great that the kid is going to get in trouble for drawing dicks on cop cars, but is that really worth risking your career?” Rosa said. “Don’t be an idiot, Jake.”

Jake finished entering his credit card and personal information and hit “submit” on the subscription form. When the confirmation page came up, he tucked his phone back in his pants pocket and turned fully to Rosa.

“I’m not being an idiot,” he said. “So I helped her out a couple of times. It’s not like she’s putting my name in the paper or anything.”

“Not yet.” Rosa plucked a pickle out of her sandwich and flicked it into a nearby trash can. “What is it about her anyway? It isn’t like you to-” She paused, a frown of distaste twisting her lips. “Trust someone.”

Jake rolled his eyes and groaned. “I don’t trust her, Rosa.” She gave him a very dubious eyebrow lift. “Okay, I have on two occasions trusted her, but it’s not like I trust her as a person. You know I only trust three people-”

“Your mom, that weird friend whose name I always forget-”

“And you,” Jake finished.

Rosa gave him a thin smile that was part pity and part fondness. “I’m just worried that trusting this reporter is going to bite you in the ass later. It seems a little reckless, man.”

“Well, thank you for your concern, but I’m not reckless.”

Rosa sighed the way she did when Jake was being obtuse, and he slumped back on the bench. Because she had a point. Jake had come close to being burned before, almost a decade ago when he’d gotten drunk and mouthed off to a reporter from one of the tabloids. When Jake had called the reporter to beg him not to use his quotes or name him in the story, the reporter had refused. It was only dumb luck that the same reporter was arrested as part of a federal sex trafficking scheme the very next day, and was now in prison. Which reminded Jake -- he should probably check on Jimmy Brogan’s parole date.

He hadn’t been a fan of journalists since then. He wasn’t a regular news consumer, but he did pay attention when a case he was working on or familiar with got some coverage, so he knew the media bungled the facts almost as often as they got them right. Jake had seen a few cases actually mangled beyond repair by a reporter’s shoddy work. And even when the facts were technically right, they were missing context, or they were twisted in a way to make the NYPD look bad. 

Jake wasn’t an NYPD apologist, and he didn’t expect cops to be fawned over by anyone, but he believed in the work they did and he knew most of his colleagues were good people who deserved fair treatment, at least. Journalists weren’t interested in fair, though.

“I’ll be careful,” Jake said.

“That implies you’re going to keep talking to Santiago.”

Jake balled up the paper his sandwich had been wrapped in and tossed it toward the trashcan. He missed.

“I won’t,” he said, and pushed up off the bench to throw out his garbage.

+++

Jake didn’t think much about Santiago or the Bulletin until later that night, when he got bored during an episode of Real Housewives of Dallas and started fidgeting with his phone. He pulled up the Bulletin app and searched for Santiago’s name, and the next thing he knew he was reading through all of her articles.

He had to admit: Her pieces seemed surprisingly balanced and accurate. He read a few where she hadn’t gotten the facts entirely right, but he knew that was a lot to ask when she was probably dealing with reluctant sources (cops) and people feeding her misinformation (everyone else). She was also a pretty good writer, from what he could tell.

And he’d meant what he’d said to Rosa – it had been nice to see justice served in two cases where he’d been unable to get the results he wanted on his own.

He knew Rosa was right to be concerned for him about making this a habit, and he promised himself that wouldn’t be an issue. He really didn’t trust people generally, and Santiago wasn’t just “people,” she was a journalist, which made her, well, if not necessarily an enemy, certainly not a friend.

Still, he reasoned it wouldn’t hurt to let Santiago know that he’d read her latest piece. He took out his phone and pulled up the number he’d dialed the day before, hoping it was her cell and not a land line. He opened a text message and wrote, “Front page again. Congrats.” He hit send.

Jake tossed the phone aside and turned back to the TV. The text alert chimed and Jake leaned over to look at the screen: “Thanks.”

A minute later another message popped up: “We make a good team.”

Jake stared at the screen for a moment before turning it off without replying. He wasn’t sure what to make of that text, but for some reason the words stuck with him for the rest of the night.

CHAPTER 3

#b99 #b99 fic #jake and amy au #peraltiago #newspaper au #life writes its own stories

[allimariexf]

Green Arrow Exposed

Rating: G 

Relationship: Oliver Queen/ Felicity Smoak Tags: Fluff/ Romance/Season 7/post-7x09 Summary: The Oliver Queen publicity tour gets an unscripted guest appearance

Notes: Read/comment/kudos on Ao3  ^_^ This is just pure self-indulgent fluff. I have no idea.   

Oliver settled in to the plush loveseat and looked out over a sea of faces in the studio audience. This was his third of several planned media appearances that Dinah had somehow convinced him were necessary in order to bolster public confidence in his ability to work with the SCPD.

Oliver had doubts as to whether the publicity was actually doing anyone any good, but he was willing to reserve judgment. The first appearance hadn’t been terrible; he’d been interviewed by a respected news anchor who’d asked concrete questions about his time as the Green Arrow and his plans going forward with the SCPD. The second appearance, however, had been on a local talk show, and the hosts had seemed more interested in hashing through some of his more embarrassing youthful exploits than discussing any of the good he’d done for the city since then. He’d managed to stop himself from walking off set in the middle of filming, but afterward he’d wanted nothing more than to find his way into Felicity’s arms and let her remind him of all the ways he’d changed since those days. Unfortunately, Felicity was in Central City assisting Team Flash with a case, so he’d gone home to wander forlornly through an empty, still half-unpacked apartment. He’d called her, just wanting to hear the sound of her voice, but apparently the case she was working on was pretty intense; she’d texted him back and he hadn’t had the heart to insist she call him back.

“Are you ready, Mr. Queen?”

Oliver glanced over at the tall woman leaning toward him with her elbows on her desk. Maria Banks, host of an entertainment and pop culture television show. Oliver sighed internally. It wasn’t that he had anything against Maria herself; it was just that he didn’t understand how entertainment television had anything to do with him. He had almost refused, but Dinah had gone on and on about the need for him to have a friendly, personable image - one that the public could trust, seeing as how his cheerful mayoral image had been completely undermined by the fact that he’d been boldly lying to the cameras the whole time about not being the Green Arrow. It was a good enough point that Oliver had agreed, at the time, to go on the show. But that was before he learned that the format of this particular show was entirely live Q&A.

His stomach swooped unpleasantly as he studied the faces in front of him, realizing that they were almost all women. And that every single one of them was staring at him intensely.

He turned his head and met Maria’s expectant gaze, giving her one of his practiced public smiles. “I’m ready.”

Oliver beamed at the cameras as Maria began her show. “My guest tonight needs no introduction; you know him as Oliver Queen, wayward son and heir, miraculously rescued castaway, former Mayor of Star City, and last but not least, the Green Arrow!”

Maria turned her head and stared at him in silent awe while the studio audience cheered loudly, as if listing his many identities had made her realize exactly who was sitting five feet away from her. For some reason, her discomfiture made Oliver feel a little more at ease. He smiled at her and bobbed his head pleasantly at the wildly screaming audience.

“Okay, Mr. Queen, as you might know, we are going to be taking questions from the phones and the internet, but to start off we’ll take questions right here from our live studio audience.” She gestured toward the line that had formed in front of a standing microphone. “Beginning now. Hello, what’s your name?”

The microphone was only about ten feet in front of Oliver, so he had no choice but the look the woman in the eyes as she spoke. “Hi, my name’s Andrea, and I just wanted to tell you, Oliver, that I think you’re a hero. You’ve done so much for this city and I love you.”

Oliver’s smile froze on his face as stared back at her, wondering if she expected him to reply. Thankfully, Maria knew how to do her job.

“I’m sure Mr. Queen appreciates that, Andrea. Do you have a question?”

“Oh, yes, um.” Her eyes remained fixed on Oliver. “Will you go out on a date with me?”

Oliver’s jaw dropped as he scoffed in disbelief. He waited for Maria to save him again, but after a moment of silence he realized he was on his own. “Um. Thank you, I do appreciate your support. But, uh,” he laughed uncomfortably, “I’m married.” He stopped talking, waiting while the woman stood there staring at him. “Happily.”

She was still standing there. “So that’s a no?”

A small disbelieving laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it. “Yeah. That’s a no.”

“Next question, please!”

“Hi. My name is Paige Duchamps, and what I want to know is: who takes care of the Green Arrow? You’ve been taking care of Star City for years, but who takes your poor, broken body and rubs it back to life?”

Oliver choked on his breath at her obvious sexual innuendo. He was acutely aware of the live cameras pointing at him, and the fact that his entire purpose for being here was to polish up his public image. Somewhere in the back of his head he was aware that being rude on live television would probably work against that goal. “I….” He just didn’t know where to begin, and his practiced charisma was utterly failing him.

The host once again stepped in to his rescue. “Ms. Duchamps, I believe Mr. Queen already mentioned that he has a wife, who I am sure is quite capable in that capacity. Thank you.”

The minutes wore on, and Oliver entertained several more audience questions that all followed a similar theme. Oliver had always tried to ignore the day-to-day shifts in public opinion of the Green Arrow, choosing instead to focus on the good that he was trying to do, though he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been discouraged whenever the city seemed to turn against him. Still, he had never been aware of the very particular type of support that was overwhelmingly present in that room: people (mostly, but not entirely, women) who assumed he was alone and lonely; mentally, emotionally, and physically neglected and in need of their personal help and love. And now, given the chance, they were absolutely jumping at the chance to offer it to him.

“You must have been so lonely all those years, hiding your identity, unable to confide in anyone. How did you get through it?”

“You’ve spent years risking your life, your peace, and your body, all while being hunted, villainized, and sent to prison! You deserve so much better than that. Is there any reward I can give you?

“You really just look like you need to be kissed, and I would love to be the one to do it. Would you kiss me?”

Oliver’s ability to remain pleasant and affable was eroding with every question. It wasn’t the repetitiveness of their questions that bothered him, though that was annoying. Neither was it the overtly sexual suggestiveness, which once might have boosted his ego but now just made him extremely uncomfortable. Rather, it was the fact that all of them blatantly disregarded Felicity’s existence, as if she weren’t important to him, as if she wasn’t capable of providing the love and support that they assumed he was starved for. It was taking all of his willpower to avoid setting the record straight on all the very important roles she played in his life, but he bit his tongue because he and Felicity hadn’t talked about whether or not she was comfortable with the public scrutiny that went along with being outed as a vigilante.

By the time Maria announced they were going to start taking questions from the phones, he was almost completely out of patience.

“Hi, you’re Live with Maria, did you have a question for Oliver Queen?”

“Hi Maria, yes, I do.” The voice that came through the speakers had Oliver sitting up in his seat immediately. “Mr. Queen, I’ve been listening to your answers and it seems to me like everyone’s been assuming you were working alone all those years as the Green Arrow, but I noticed that you haven’t come out and said whether or not that’s true. So would you care to clarify whether or not you were, in fact, working alone?”

Oliver took a deep breath, a smile spreading over his face as he spoke with confidence. “I was never alone.” He swept his gaze over the audience; the faces he saw seemed distinctly startled.

“Oh. Well that’s surprising. Are you saying you had a partner?”

Oliver sat back in his chair, warming to the line of questioning. “Not exactly. At first I sought out help only when I needed it.”

“Ah, so you employed consultants?”

Maria cut in. “I think we should probably move on to our next -”

Oliver waved her into silence, shaking his head and speaking directly to her. “Please, I’d like to answer these questions.” He continued speaking, changing his tone to address the woman on the phone. “At first I thought I could make do with consultants, part-time assistance, yes. But what I really needed was partners. People I could trust with my secrets and my life.”

“Hmm. That is very interesting. So how did you end up with these particular partners? Did you hold auditions or something?”

Oliver laughed, genuinely amused by her unconventional humor, like always. “No, it was completely by accident. I found myself in the company of a trustworthy person who also possessed unmatched tactical and combat skills. I could have searched for years and never found a more qualified brother-in-arms, but somehow he was there for me. Before I even realized I needed him.”

“It sounds like you two were a perfect team.”

Oliver paused, musing. “We worked well together, but I wouldn’t say we were a team until we met our other irreplaceable partner.”

“Ah, a third partner!” Her voice was intrigued. “And what necessary assets did he bring?”

Oliver glanced at Maria and then the audience. “She.” There was an audible gasp in the room.

“She…?” the woman drawled suggestively. “Okay. Why did you recruit her to your cause?”

Oliver rolled his eyes at her obvious implication, determined to make it absolutely clear that his female partner was, without a doubt, the single most valuable member of his team. “Well, at first I believed it was because of her intelligence. She’s brilliant, a genius. A technical prodigy.” He heard the ring of pride in his voice. It was the first time he’d ever publicly admitted to the existence of Overwatch, and he was surprised at how excited he was for people to learn about her.

“She sounds amazing.” Her voice sounded slightly wistful. If Oliver didn’t know better, he’d guess she sounded a little jealous.

He smiled. “You have no idea.”

The line was quiet for a moment, and Oliver closed his eyes, imagining what she must look like at that moment, a flush creeping up her neck. He made a mental note to spend more time telling Felicity how amazing she was.  When she spoke again, her tone was less playful, more tentative. “But if I’m hearing you correctly, it seems as though it wasn’t her technical prowess that made you recruit her to your team?”

Oliver sighed. “If I’m being completely honest, no. Not that her brilliance wasn’t an asset from the start, because it was. But her technical abilities were only part of what she brought. I quickly came to rely on her in a hundred small ways without even realizing I’d become so dependent, but it was still a long time later when I finally realized that even at the beginning, I was coming up with every possible excuse to seek her assistance, because I needed something else from her.”

“And what was that?”

“She...she had a way of putting things into perspective.” Oliver ran his eyes over the audience, absently noting their rapt expressions. “I would get so stuck in seeing a problem one way, and all I needed to do was hear her perspective, and suddenly everything would be different. She always had a way of making the most difficult problems seem simple.”

“So her intelligence, like you said.”

“Yes, but not only that. There was just something about her. She woke something up inside me whenever I saw her.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, but Oliver remained completely focused, waiting on her response. “Sounds like you were in love with her.”

Oliver closed his eyes, suddenly transported to the past, remembering the sense of clarity and awe he had felt when he finally let himself realize it. “I was in love with her. But I fought it for a very, very long time.”

She released a long breath, as if she had been holding it. “Why did you do that? You have a pretty well-known reputation. It’s not like the Oliver Queen we all know to show restraint where women are concerned.” The teasing tone was back in her voice, but Oliver refused to rise to her bait.

“She isn’t like other women.”

She snorted a laugh. “You didn’t think she would reject you, did you?”

Oliver smiled, remembering Felicity’s obvious admiration for his salmon ladder workouts, and the adorable accidental innuendos that used to slip so frequently from her lips. “No, it wasn’t that, it was...I wasn’t worthy of her, not like that.”

“Surely she didn’t believe that.” Her tone was flat.

Oliver took a deep breath, calm despite the fact that he was so publicly revealing feelings that had remained private for so long. Somehow, it felt right. If he was truly going to go public as the Green Arrow, people needed to understand that the Green Arrow was more than just one person; it was even more than the team made up of the three of them. At its core, it was this. It was the faith they had in each other. “No. She believed in me. She believed in who I could be. But I couldn’t admit that I loved her...not even to myself...until I believed in myself, too. And that was the most important thing she did for the Arrow, for me. She believed I could be better. And she made me want to be better. And she showed me how.”

The line was quiet for the space of several of Oliver’s elevated heartbeats as he waited for her response. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“So then what happened? Did you tell her how you felt?”

Oliver paused, feeling the tortured weight of a protracted year filled with almost-confessions, before dismissing it from his mind completely. “I did.”

She didn’t respond for a moment, and Oliver wondered if she was similarly caught up in heavy memories.

But then she stepped out onto the sound stage, emerging from a side door. Oliver’s breath caught in his throat and the studio audience collectively gasped as they put the pieces together. “Did she feel the same way?”

Oliver stayed in his seat, his eyes locked with hers. “She did.”

“And then what happened?” She started stalking toward him, still speaking on the phone, her projected voice slightly delayed like a natural echo. “It seems to me like maybe you should have married her.”

She stopped a few strides from him and he looked steadily back at her as she lowered the phone and disconnected the call. He stood up slowly and held his hand out as he crossed to her with a small smile on his face. “I did.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I thought you were still in Central City.”

“I took an early flight. I was on my way home when I heard your voice on the radio.” She raised her eyes to find him looking at her in that private, adoring way of his. She smiled back for a long moment, both aware of and yet uncaring of their attentive audience.

Finally, Oliver turned, letting his hand slide from Felicity’s shoulder to interlace with her fingers. “Maria, I don’t believe you’ve met Felicity Smoak?”

The host stepped from behind her desk. “No, I haven’t. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Smoak!”

Felicity reached forward, shaking the host’s hand graciously. “Felicity Smoak Queen, actually.”

Maria stepped back, a slightly dazed expression on her face.

Oliver half-turned to face the audience, making it clear that his words were for them as much as they were for Felicity, the caller on the line who was no longer on the line. “So as I was saying, I was never alone as the Green Arrow, or the Arrow, or the Hood, or the vigilante. I had a partner who was there with me through it all.” He turned his head to meet Felicity’s eyes. “I could never have done any of it without her.”

Felicity smiled, returning his private gaze while pitching her voice for the audience’s benefit. “It’s true, there are a lot of criminals you never could have tracked down, a lot of buildings you couldn’t have entered, a lot of cases you couldn’t have solved, if there hadn’t been someone to lend,” she wiggled her fingers in front of her face, “technological assistance.”

Oliver tilted his head theatrically. “That, too.”

Felicity raised her eyebrow, playing along. “What else?”

“Well, you were always there for me to confide in.” He reached out and poked her shoulder with his index finger.

“Mmm.” She couldn’t stop the smile that was tugging at her lips.

He raked his eyes down her body, smiling suggestively. “And when I was wounded you always took care of my body.”

Felicity bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. “I have gotten really good at suturing. And applying bandages. And I did have that crash course in defibrillation, which is still one of my least favorite skills to put to use.”

Oliver was outright grinning at her. “At least your bedside manner has improved.”

“Hey! In my defense you used to be a terrible patient.” She cocked her head. “You’ve gotten a little better, I guess.”

Oliver gazed down at her warmly, letting the teasing tone drain out of his voice. “And of course your brilliance extends way beyond your technical genius. You’ve inspired some of my best plans, and come up with just as many on your own.”

“Hmm.” She reached up and laid a hand on his cheek. “We are a good team that way.”

“We’re a good team in all ways.”

“And we always have been.”

“Always.”

They let the moment stretch between them, private yet on full display, and after all it turned out to be not so different from anything else. They had always been able to be alone together in a crowded room, just as their way of being together had always attracted attention that they easily tuned out.

Eventually they let themselves acknowledge their audience, and Felicity quirked her lips, signalling that she had a plan. She pulled away from Oliver and stepped up to the microphone that was still set up from the Q&A.

“I have one more question. Is that all right?” She looked to the host for permission.

Maria looked surprised for a second, then gave a hasty nod.

Felicity looked directly at Oliver. “Hi. My name’s Felicity and I was wondering, will you kiss me?”

Oliver bit his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling. “Well, as I said earlier, I’m married.”

Felicity utterly failed at keeping a straight face as she whispered dramatically, “But I’m in love with you.”

Oliver’s face lit up with a rare huge smile. “Then it’s a good thing you’re my wife.”

Felicity crossed toward him and Oliver leaned down, deftly removing the microphone from his coat with one hand while cupping her neck with the other, pulling her mouth to his. After several soft kisses, he leaned back just enough so their noses brushed, keeping his eyes closed and enjoying the shared sense of intimacy despite the fact that they were being broadcast on live television. He felt the familiar puff of Felicity’s breath over his lips. After a moment he drew back slowly, opening his eyes and holding her gaze. “Was it as good as you hoped?”

“Better. Always better.”

Oliver turned to the television host. “Maria, we’re done here, right? I haven’t seen my wife in four days, and we have some catching up to do.”

#arrow #olicity #olicity fic #arrow fic #my fic #hearts and scars #green arrow exposed #arrow season 7 fic

[valhallababe]

you could find another me tomorrow

BakuShima/KiriBaku Fluff Fic.  Content notes: self-hating behavior, Bakugou’s sinful mouth, safe for work, fluff, true to canon, spoilers through chapter 100 Characters: Kirishima, Bakugou Words: 2,500

Dyeing his hair always brings Kirishima to tears, reminding himself of what a weakling he thinks he truly is. Fortunately, he gets a little pick-me-up from his explosive buddy.

You could find another me tomorrow And that’s the hardest pill to swallow

His gloved fingers rake through his soft locks, spreading thick, cherry-red liquid across his scalp. Hidden away in the confines of his personal bathroom, Kirishima Eijirou meticulously planned the most inconspicuous time possible to touch up his faded roots, so as to not be exposed as presenting a false image.

It’s not necessarily that he’s ashamed of the fact that his color was unnatural- he knew Kaminari’s hair was so elaborately done that it required salon care, as opposed to Kirishima’s drugstore bottled dye- but rather that the position he finds himself in during these treatments is a vulnerable one. Seeing and feeling himself manipulate his appearance with the sole purpose of begging for attention from eyes that demand flashiness made him feel self-conscious and weak. People like Todoroki and Bakugou have quirks that, in equal parts, demand and command a viewer’s attention, which is only improved with their natural pretty-boy looks.

Kirishima runs a final set of dragging fingers through his hair before discarding his stained gloves and hoisting himself up on the counter to wait his allotted fifteen minutes, scoffing at the fleeting suggestion his mind had proposed that he already is a pretty boy with an impressive quirk who didn’t need to mask himself behind dye and fake smiles.

Sure, he had scored well on the U.A. entrance exams as well as Aizawa’s tests, but they seemed to be oddly in favor of his abilities, he had surmised. Soon, he reminds himself, appearance and attitude will surpass sheer physical strength. Soon, he would need to compensate for his utter lack of both genuine heroic fortitude and aesthetic presence, the selling points that take a minor, baby-pro and thrust them into the trusting, idolizing eyes of the public.

So, here he is, waiting shirtless on his counter in his locked (he triple checked) bathroom, bawling his eyes out while recounting his inadequacies. Having dyed hair allows him to project an air of confidence, an assuredness of his own unique image, all under the guise of reverence of Crimson Riot. Of course, Crimson Riot is certainly his favorite hero, yet Kirishima’s red hair has less to do with a homage to his favorite pro and more with a burning desire to be a manly hero who was unmistakable within the ever-expanding pool of pros.

Feeling the dye stinging on his head is a reminder that, at his most natural base, he is not pro-hero material; he is an average boy with an average quirk, unworthy of a spot amongst tomorrow’s budding heroes. He has lucked out so far with U.A.’s assessments, but, he muses to his reflection through his tearful grimace, soon his truly useless nature will become apparent.

He turns on the shower, unsuccessfully wiping his tears away with the back of his free hand. What would his friends think if they saw him like that? Surely they would laugh, agreeing that Kirishima is the weak link of the bunch. Especially Bakugou. He peels away his remaining clothes and shuts himself away in the shower, water and dye spilling over his body and into the drain. At least in the shower he can’t see his own pathetic tears.

For normies like us, becoming a hero’s not even in the picture.

His callous-hardened hands help the water rinse his troubled head, streaks of pure dye staining the shower floor. He allows himself to whimper softly, indulging in the unmanly responses that come naturally to his body.

I ain’t a man, or anything else.

Even though the dye has mostly found its home in the shower drain, Kirishima stays in the shower, finding solace in the warm water enveloping him. What he wouldn’t give for a strong embrace right now, finding comfort in camaraderie. For now, though, he settles for the flow of water spouting from above him that is racing his tears to the basin.

When he’s done wallowing in his sorrows, Kirishima slowly flicks the water off, feeling the streams of water flowing off him ebb and cease. He grabs his towel (black, a dye-proof choice) and gingerly pats his freshly colored hair, wrapping the cloth around himself after deciding he was satisfied with the dryness of his hair. He wiped a hand across the steam-clouded mirror, peering into his eyes. At least I don’t look too puffy, he thinks of his post-sobbing visage, I can probably pass it off as allergies.

He manages to throw on some pants before there’s a knock at his door.

“Open up, asshole! I ain’t eating alone!”

Bakugou. Shit.

“Yeah bro, just a minute! I just got out of the shower,” Kirishima replies, rushing back into the bathroom to rinse his face under ice-cold water. He’s gonna give me so much shit if I come out looking like a fresh wreck. He decides to forego styling his hair in exchange for managing his messed-up face.

“I don’t have all fucking day, Shitty-Hair! Who the fuck do you think you are, making me wait? You think you’re better than me?”

Kirishima scrambles. He knows he’s gonna get chewed out by the Baron of Explodo-Kills, but he’d rather get blown up for being late than for being a weakling. “I’m coming, bud, I just gotta do something real fast,” the response is half-thought-through, a generic statement flying out of his mouth.

“WELL YOU BETTER HURRY THE FUCK UP!” Kirishima hears what sound like sparklers lighting outside his door. Bakugou is losing his nerve. Fuck. My eyes are still bloodshot. I look high. He continues fretting and pawing water over his face to no avail before coming to the conclusion that Bakugou probably won’t even mention it. I’ll just laugh it off. The guy won’t even notice, probably. He sighs, taking one last look at himself, before turning toward the door.

Opening the door, he feels Bakugou start to spark before stopping abruptly. Kirishima’s friend lifts an eyebrow. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve been crying like shitty Deku.”

Why did he have to be so intuitive for someone who’s usually so self-centered?

Normally, Kirishima would have been thrilled to be compared to the green-haired hero who bore a strong kinship to the world’s greatest pro, but he knows that, coming from Bakugou, the sentiment is wildly different.

“I, uh…I just slept crappy last night. Eyes have been stinging, ya know, from the shitty sleep. Let’s go eat, okay bro?” Kirishima attempts his most convincing smile, a lopsided grin that showed just a peak of his gleaming teeth.

Bakugou frowns. “I ain’t buying that shitty fucking excuse, Hair-for-Brains,” his voice is gruff but…there was something different about it. There’s no venom in his words, and he couldn’t even be described as angry. If he didn’t know him better, Kirishima might have even mistaken the tone for concern.

Kirishima shrugs, dodging the clumsy trap, “I dunno man, I always look like this when I sleep like shit. Let’s go eat, I’m starving!” He tries again to put on a mask of complete composure. This time, though, there are more cracks. He balls his hand into a fist, hardening the knuckles in a last-ditch attempt to maintain a semblance of self-control.

Kirishima’s friend moves closer. For a second, Kirishima fears he’s going to take a fiery fist to the face. He winces downward, his image still wounded from the insults he had hurtled at himself just moments prior.

“Fucking relax. I’m not evil, alright, I’m not gonna hurt you for crying. That’s what villains do,” Bakugou assures him,  the last part coming out more as a contemplative whisper than anything intended for Kirishima’s ears.

In that moment, Kirishima falls apart. Everything about him that maintained an image of being alright melts to the ground, mixing with falling tears. He collapses on his tiger-striped comforter, allowing his closest friend to see him unravel. In a quiet, shaking voice, he requests, “hey man, could you uh, could you please close the door? I don’t, um, want people to see m-me, ya know, like this?”

Usually one to tease and seek pleasure in making his friend work to get him to do anything, Bakugou quickly shuts the door without a single complaint. He looks bewildered, as though he’d never comforted anyone before in his life.

“Hey, uh, Shit-for-Brains, stop crying, I guess?” Kirishima chuckles through his sobs. What a simply Bakugou way of calming someone. He feels a dip of pressure on the bed. Bakugou has planted himself on the edge by Kirishima’s feet, looking unsure of how to continue. Kirishima turns to face his friend, having previously found comfort in lying face-down in a puddle of tears. Bakugou’s ears redden at the edges, uncertain as to how to proceed with Kirishima looking at him so expectantly.

Kirishima is truthfully just happy to have his friend there with him. The simple fact that he supports him even at his weakest moment is comfort enough. And besides, it’s harder to focus on your own self-loathing when you’re not alone.

“You better fucking tell me what’s wrong…or ELSE!” Ah, Bakugou. Ever the gentleman.

The red-haired boy lowers his head, unable to make eye contact with the sizzling blonde. “I, uh…um… just feel kinda inadequate, you know?” He looks up at Bakugou’s watchful stare, and continues, “I dunno man, I just see people like you and Todoroki and Midor-” he quickly erases the name and starts over, knowing now was not the time to bring up Bakugou’s own inferiority complex, “p-people like you and Todoroki, who have cool quirks and, ya know,” he blushes, “good looks, and I just, I can’t live up to that, man.”

He glances at Bakugou, whose lips have curled into a face that could be described as a frown, but seemed to convey more than that. Continuing, Kirishima sighed, “It’s just that, ever since I was little, I’ve watched the pros and they’ve got such showy quirks, right? And they’re attractive, and they have great attitudes. You can pick Mount Lady or All Might out of a crowd. That’s what I want.” He looks down, and mumbles more quietly, “You can’t be a pro if you have a boring appearance, a shitty quirk, and a crybaby personality like I do.”

Bakugou stares at him like he wants to burn a hole into his head. When he’s sure Kirishima has let all of his pain out, he asserts, “You know, you’re really fucking manly.”

Hesitantly, Kirishima looks at him. “W-What?”

Bakugou repeats himself, something he would never do outside this delicate circumstance: “I said, you’re really fucking manly!” Kirishima starts to thank him for his kind words, but Bakugou lets more words fall off his tongue, completely disregarding Kirishima’s pitiful, self-hating tone.

“You’re a real man, Kirishima. You hide all this shit away and put a smile on just to make everyone else feel happy and safe. Hell, you even make me soften a little which honestly is pretty cute…” he turns away so Kirishima doesn’t see him blush, “and your quirk is super cool. Remember the Sports Festival? When you would train by just throwing yourself off a fucking building and bracing yourself for the impact? That took incredible guts and control, and you never walked away with even a scratch. And guess the fuck what?”

Kirishima looks at him with eyes wide. Since when did Bakugou remember a single thing about anyone that wasn’t himself?

“You’ve got good looks too. Red hair or not.”

Blushes spread softly across both boys’ faces. Kirishima looks away, swallowing, “But I’m so ordinary. I’m a dime a dozen. Dudes like me are everywhere, I just got lucky, and–”

Bakugou cuts him off, “You’re special to me.” He pulls Kirishima’s chin up to meet his gaze. “I will always find you in a crowd. Hell, I’ll always look for you first in a crowd. And…” he bites his tongue, unsure if he wants to finish the thought. At the expense of his own composure, he assures Kirishima, “and now that All Might has retired, you’re my hero.”

Bakugou flops backward, grazing his head against the wall. “Son of a bitch…” he curses to the ceiling, whether regarding the pain of the bump or the confession he’s not entirely sure.

After Kirishima’s processed Bakugou’s uncharacteristically kind words, he places a warm hand over one of Bakugou’s, which is grabbed as though it had been anticipated. They lay there together, hand in hand, not speaking, for what felt like hours though was probably only a few minutes. It felt nice letting go of his feelings and even nicer knowing that one of his friends- and Bakugou of all people- was willing not only to listen but also to give a shit.

Kirishima croaks, turning to face his blonde friend, his voice raw from his sobs, “Hey thanks, man. For being here for me, and the kind words, and everything.”

Unsure of how to proceed, Bakugou lightly taps his chest, signalling that Kirishima could put his head there. As Kirishima complies, Bakugou laces his fingers in ruby red locks, petting him softly in the quiet room.

When Kirishima’s shaky breathing evens out and his scrunched eyes relax, Bakugou adjusts their bodies, lying together in the bed, his friend’s head on his chest. Before succumbing to his own drowsiness fueled by emotional exhaustion and interrupted hunger, he places his lips softly on his friend’s head, forgetting his rough persona for a moment of tenderness to soothe his friend.

You’re a real man, Kirishima. You’re stupid strong.

–

#bakushima #kiribaku #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #bnha #mha #my hero academia #fanfic #bakugou x kirishima

[allisianaholt]

Meet the Baroness

(( So, I’ve been given the opportunity to portray a wonderful new muse, and I’m diving right in! I’ve done a number of tests and alignments and things for her, so I’m posting all the information to share her with all of you. Enjoy, give her a follow, and spam her with asks! Pretty please! ^_^

The following is a combination of the Character profile sheet, the About the Muse prompt, the Moral Alignment test, the Self-Knowledge test, the Archetype test, and the Flower Personality test [I’ve included links to each one, if anyone wants to try them out; they’re creepy accurate!]. ))

NAME:  Allisiana Rosaline Holt

FACE CLAIM:  Caitlin Stasey / Emma Watson  NICKNAME:  Siana AGE:  20 HEIGHT:  5′4″ SPECIES:  Human GENDER:  Female BIRTHDAY:  July 31st SUN SIGN:  Leo RESIDENCE:  Blackmarsh Estate SKILLS:  hand-making jewelry  DRINK:  Strawberry wine  FOOD:  Goldenbark Apple turnovers  DAY OR NIGHT:  Dusk SNACKS:  Tel’abim Banana-nut bread  SONGS:  The Dress by Alan Menken [click link to listen] PETS:  none COLOR:  Teal & Golden Yellow  FLOWER:  Gilnean roses  EYE COLOR:  Chestnut brown  HAIR COLOR:  Soft brown  BODY TYPE:  fit, modest curves BODY CLAIM:  Lily Aldridge

ALIGNMENT:   Chaotic Good Everything you do is for the greater good, but you feel like needless bureaucracy often gets in the way. You’re trying to make the world a better place, but you really need to do it your own way.

[ SOCIETY ]

$ Financial : wealthy / moderate / poor / in poverty. ✚ Medical : fit / moderate / sickly / disabled / disadvantaged. ✪ Class or Caste : upper / middle / working / slave / unsure. ✔ Education : qualified / unqualified / studying ✖ Criminal Record : yes, for major crimes / yes, for minor crimes / no / has committed crimes, but not caught yet.

[ FAMILY ]

◐ Marital status : married - happily / unhappily / engaged or betrothed / partnered / single / divorced / separated / widowed ◒ Children : has a child or children / has no children / wants children. ◑ Relationship with Family : close with sibling(s) / not close with sibling(s) / has no siblings / sibling(s) is deceased / Has cousins and is close to them ◔ Filtration : orphaned / adopted / disowned / raised by birth parents

[ TRAITS + TENDENCIES ]

♦ extroverted / introverted / in between. ♦ disorganized / organized / in between. ♦ close minded / open-minded / in between. ♦ calm / anxious / in between. ♦ disagreeable / agreeable / in between. ♦ cautious / reckless / in between. ♦ patient / impatient / in between. ♦ outspoken / reserved / in between. ♦ leader / follower / in between. ♦ empathetic / unemphatic / in between. ♦ optimistic / pessimistic / in between. ♦ traditional / modern / in between. ♦ hard-working / lazy / in between. ♦ cultured / uncultured / in between / unknown. ♦ loyal / disloyal / unknown. ♦ faithful / unfaithful / unknown.

[ BELIEFS ]

★ Faith : monotheist / polytheist / atheist / agnostic. ☆ Belief in Ghosts or Spirits : yes / no / don’t know / don’t care. ✮ Belief in an Afterlife : yes / no / don’t know / don’t care. ✯ Belief in Reincarnation : yes / no / don’t know / don’t care. ❃ Belief in Aliens : yes / no / don’t know / don’t care. ✧ Religious : orthodox / liberal / in between / not religious. ❀ Philosophical : yes / no. / in between

[ SEXUALITY & ROMANTIC INCLINATION ]

❤ Sexuality : heterosexual / homosexual / bisexual / asexual / pansexual. ❥ Sex : sex repulsed / sex neutral / sex favorable. ♥ Romance : romance repulsed / romance neutral / romance favorable. ❣ Sexually : adventurous / experienced / naive / inexperienced / curious. ⚧ Potential Sexual Partners : male / female / agender / other / none / all. ⚧ Potential Romantic Partners : male / female / agender / other / none / all.

[ ABILITIES ]

☠ Combat Skills : excellent / good / moderate / poor / none. ≡ Literacy Skills : excellent / good / moderate / poor / none ✍ Artistic Skills : excellent / good / moderate / poor / none ✂ Technical Skills : excellent / good / moderate / poor / none.

[ HABITS ]

☕ Drinking Alcohol : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess. ☁ Smoking : trying to quit / never / sometimes / frequently / to excess. ✿ Other Narcotics : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess. ✌ Medicinal Drugs : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess. ☻ Indulgent Food : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess. $ Splurge Spending : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess. ♣ Gambling : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

[ MOST NOTABLE PERSONALITY TRAITS ]

REVERENCE

One part of you dreams of giving yourself up – perhaps just for a while – to a hero or mentor. In the right circumstances you can flourish by letting go of your ego. In your inner life, reverence plays out as a willing submission to your own conscience. In the outside world, you might get frustrated searching for something worth believing in – a country, a person, a company – but you will always be open to feeling respect, admiration and wonder.

SENSITIVITY

You have delicate, sensitive perceptions; you can be deeply moved by appearances – the right light in a room, or good food, or the texture of a piece of clothing. Expressive, intelligent language has a powerful hold on you; your mind works better when it is inspired and provoked by vivid imagery. It can be sad to live in a world which is often so ugly and not properly looked after. But you know that things can be otherwise, and you have the ability to appreciate the world at its best.

RESILIENCE

You have a tendency, after a setback, to turn your emotions towards restriving. What attracts you is the idea of wiping out a humiliation by resumed action – overcoming weakness, repressing your fear. Because part of your motive is pride, you can sometimes be unwilling to admit weakness or to receive aid. But at heart, tour insistence on coming back and never folding has taught you a valuable pessimism: you know that important journeys are never easy.

Your archetype is the realist.

traits: practical, understanding, honest, brutal, logical, creator, intelligent, sensible, down-to-earth, reasonable

the realist is most commonly used to symbolize the highest possible outcome in a dire situation. they are the ones who have everything planned, and hand out reality checks as if they were pamphlets to those who need them--which, quite honestly, is everyone who isn't a realist. although they can be harsh (brutal truth over merciful), they are nurturers and care more than they let on. realists tend to do things that will lead to the best outcome, and use their knowledge of reading people to manipulate situations and problems in order to get out of a rock and a hard place.

FLOWER PERSONALITY Allisiana is:

Ginger

You Are: Spirited. A feisty and fiery companion, quick with an opinion, a laugh or an idea. Warm, friendly and inviting, you never allow an awkward moment to pass. In fact, even cold and distant people warm up to you more quickly than others. Negative experiences or too much indulgence, however, can send you into a bit of a tailspin, and when hurt you may become quite cold and distant. Ginger people do best when their natural warmth and affection is flowing freely, giving them easy access to their love of life.

An international socialite, ginger has worked its way into culinary circles around the world because of its digestive and warming talents*. When experiencing occasional digestive disturbance as a result of overindulging, you can rely on the warming, spicy properties of ginger root to restore a sense of balance.

Known for its ability to relieve occasional indigestion and prevent nausea associated with motion sickness, ginger first appeared in the writings of Confucius in the 5th century BC.* By the 1st century AD ginger had become one of the most commonly traded spices. During this time ginger was so valuable that, in England, one pound of it was worth the cost of a sheep! Spicy, rich and warm, with sweet undertones, ginger is considered a warming herb in some traditions and makes a wonderful spicy tea for the winter months.

Nettle

You Are: Truly a nurturing and supportive friend, you’re the kind of person that just isn’t for everyone. But those who take the time are rewarded with your gentle disposition, and the kind of friendship that does a person good no matter the difficulty they’re facing. When out of balance, you can become more prickly than supportive or nurturing, though—a sign that you need to shower yourself with the same kind of nurturing you so freely give to others.

Nettle is a deeply supportive herb that has been used for centuries as a tonic to support your body’s well-being. A traditional springtime tonic whose alluring “green” taste is a reflection of the rising green of spring, nettle gently nourishes the whole body.

Nettle’s genus name, Urtica, comes from the Latin urere, meaning “to burn”, an obvious reference to nettle’s nasty sting. Nettle is widespread around the world, and evidence of this very old plant was even found in Neolithic stilt dwellings in Switzerland dating back to the third millennium B.C. It has long been enjoyed for its gentle support for the whole body, as well as for its refreshing, green taste.

Passionflower

You Are: Deeply concerned about others and the world around you, you have a developed sense of what’s right and just. You’re a bit of an idealist and strive to see your vision of perfection realized in the world. On occasion you get out of balance, and you may feel a deep sense of unease and be prone to worry—especially at night, tossing and turning over all that is wrong or that needs fixing.

Known and loved for its power to calm restless minds and relieve occasional sleeplessness, passionflower may help restore a sense of peace and ease and “all is right with the world,” as well as helping you get the rest you need to feel good again.

Anyone who has ever seen a passionflower can appreciate its wildly intense beauty. In fact, Spanish missionaries who encountered it saw religious significance in its anatomical structure. Native to the Americas, and used by Native Americans to promote rest and relaxation, passionflower has made its way into Western herbal traditions for its soothing and relaxing qualities.

@householt

#Siana Holt #new muse #please give her love