why, hello there!

what i write

fandoms: i currently write for the games date everything!, dispatch, and scarlet hollow, as well as the movie project hail mary!

types:

'genres' of fic: fluff, lighthearted, sober, angst, aus (including smaus) and lightly suggestive to suggestive themes

sizes of fic: drabbles / ficlets, headcanons, oneshots, and potentially series if i feel like it!

customization options:

i mainly try to write for gender neutral readers, though i occasionally write for male and female readers as well, depending on the request (i've found a lot of my writing tends to default towards a gender neutral reader though by virtue of the reader's pronouns / appearance not being described in detail much).

i can try to incorporate specific personality types; i can also try to write a scenario based around a phrase or a song / playlist! i often like to write things around a horrible punny title name i come up with lol

my current favorites:

date everything: jerry, hector, zoey bennett, the hanks, barry styles, stepford, parker bradley, kopi, and chance

dispatch: waterboy and robert robertson

scarlet hollow: reese kelly, stella richmond, kaneeka forsyth, and tabitha scarlet (NON-COUSIN READER ONLY)

project hail mary: ryland grace (atm, would prefer writing for him non-suggestively, however!)

who i won't write for: i don't have any hard limits against specific characters at the moment! i am willing to give everyone a go at least once, although this may change in the future.

rules

if you are a minor (under 18), you can like, follow, and reblog my non-suggestive / sfw posts, but otherwise dni. the tone and tws that i can think of will be listed in each fic, so read at your own risk - i am not responsible for the content you consume.

although i am fine with writing suggestive scenes / for characters with suggestive overtones, please don't request any openly nsfw scenarios or prompts for characters! (i'm not uncomfortable with them i just don't think i'm skilled enough for that right now)

don't ask me to write content involving racism, homophobia, transphobia, or any other bigotry of any kind towards anyone. please do let me know if there are any tws i forget or accidentally offensive material i include in a post!

i consider every request i get, but will not answer every one due to interest / motivation / how well i can handle the subject / etc. i also may take a long time to get to requests, as it takes me a while to write and mainly for fun! please do not harass me if i do not fulfill your request or it takes a while, if i take a break, or if i decide to stop writing for this blog entirely.

do not feed my work into ai under any circumstances.

anon list and tags

anon list : if you would like to represent yourself anonymously when requesting / sending me an ask in general!

#musings : thoughts or ficlets about characters aside from my main fic posts! these are also tagged with ‘(character name) x reader’

#carbon's footprint : answering non-request asks, personal musings, that kind of thing!

#carbon's art : art / fanart / music i make!

#carbon's recs : fics i like :))

Normally, you like to experiment a little with your appearance. But it seems like you intend to go above and beyond. Hairsprays, eyeshadow palettes, face paints, accessories upon accessories… it opened up a whole world of possibilities for him going forward. After trying on a dozen different looks, he talked about your recent purchases to everyone who would listen, which in the end turned out to be Dirk, who’d similarly experienced a sharp increase in amount of items of clothing you had in rotation, and you, because you're always happy to listen to his rambling no matter how into it he gets, and even contribute sometimes. When he asked what you were planning, you had smiled and said that he'd be seeing it soon enough.

And he’s been getting to see them, all right. Every morning you’ve entered the bathroom this past week, he's bore witness to you making yourself up into a whole different person on the outside. Though the inside is still the same, beautiful you.

——

‘So! What’s today’s look, if you don’t mind me asking?’

'Not at all!’ You beam at Barry, the sunny smile completely at odds with the outfit you’re currently wearing — a black leather jacket with black jeans to match, fishnets underlaid, several studded belts slung around your waist, and combat boots with impressively thick soles. It's all topped with a glorious amount of silver jewelry, including silver-spiked cuffs you’re letting hover dangerously close to your eyes as you fiddle with your makeup. ‘So the idea today is gothic. Kind of basic gothic, honestly — all my good band tees are in the wash — but there really isn’t a bad way to do it.'

He watches as you apply white all around the lids of your eyes, topping it with a generous amount of black eyeshadow and really packing it in before putting on the eyeliner, all while speaking. 'I also wanted to try out some old dress shirts I had to go for a more classical romantic goth look. Kinda, vampire-y, if you get what I mean? But I wasn’t really feeling it, and besides, Shadowlord gave me some excellent tips on how to be “one with the darkness”, and he made me a banging playlist. So we’re going with classic goth today.’

‘You know,’ Barry recalls, ‘this is strikingly similar to that brief phase you had in your middle school —‘

‘Oh, no,’ you groan, cringing you recall the memories. ‘And I thought I was so cool, then, too.’

‘I thought you were!’ Barry protests automatically in support, but can’t resist teasing after a moment, ‘I will say that your foundation technique is much better now, though.’

You chuckle, inclined to agree. ‘Thanks, Bar.’ Satisfied, you set your brushes down and observe your work in the mirror, whistling. ’Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. I look ready to hate my life.'

Barry pretends to adjust one of the many brushes along his jacket so he can give you actual advice instead of slowing you down with too many compliments. ‘Don’t forget to wear the sunscreen and stay in the shade when you can. You are dressed in black, after all, and we wouldn’t want you to overheat.’

‘Ah! Good catch.’ Reaching into your cabinet to grab a mini tube of sunscreen he and Amir had convinced you to buy recently (with Farya providing the finishing blow by reciting some very worrying statistics), you shove it somewhere within the shadowy realms of your outfit, lacing up your boots one after the other. Straightening up, you shoot him fingerguns and a wink.

‘Now I’m ready. I’ll see you later for cleanup!’

'I'm looking forward to it!' And he really does, watching a hard day's work get lovingly washed off and tucked away for bed — that's also part of a beauty routine, after all. But it's really also because he gets to see you again. That's a thought that's so sappy he actually can suppress before it leaves his mouth. ‘Bye, darling!’

With a cheery wave of a black-nail-tipped hand, you exit the bathroom, your boots clunking thunderously down the stairs as you head to the front door.

‘Damn,’ Rebel says, for once sounding in awe at what they’ve just witnessed. ‘You see those belts? You have no idea what I’d do to get my hands on those.' They pause meaningfully. 'Or who I’d do it to.’

‘I’m sure I don’t,’ Barry says as lightly as he can muster. Rebel flips him off anyway.

——

‘The examples of this online that I could find are so cool,’ you gush as you affix brightly colored clips into your hair, surveying each one as they latch on with a satisfying snap. ‘Though I’m using a lot more product than I thought for it, I'll have to order more. Thank Rod for same-day shipping, right?'

Today, Barry notes, you’ve elected to go in a completely different direction than the day before, what you’ve dubbed 'an approximation of gyaru-style fashion'. Where last time you’d opted for dark colors, this morning has you decked out in colorful, layered clothing, with clashing neons and animal prints, and hair you’d tried to make as unignorable as possible. You've liberally spray body shimmer on your arms, giving off a glittery luster in the warm bathroom lighting. Right now, you're in the process of trying to enhance your eyes with eyeliner to make them seem larger and more exaggerated (and there's no danger of poking your eye out this time). You blink several times into the mirror, batting your eyelashes comedically, and reach for the rhinestones. Barry can’t help but think it’s adorable.

‘Wyndolyn said that I'm so bright no wonder I don't go outside as much,’ you tell him cheerily as you decide between a brightly-colored hoodie and a camo one to complete the look. 'I think that's a compliment.'

‘Well, I think you look fabulous, I can tell you that much,’ Barry says, testing a small spray of the body shimmer himself (and not ruminating too hard on the mechanics of himself trying out his own self, isn’t that funny, that’ll be liable to have him going all day.) ‘What do the others think?.’

‘They love it!’ You bring a hand to your face and turn it this way and that, admiring the sparkle of the rhinestones, which compliment your eyes. ‘Clarence and Dirk are having a blast, and I’ve been switching between clothes so fast the Hanks are getting a lot of mileage out of being tossed into the air. Win-win for everyone.’

‘Wonderful!’ He briefly wonders what it’d be like to be there while you're getting dressed, too — how much time does it take you, what you talk about with them as you pull (or strap, or lace, or any manner of things) your outfit on — but the mere thought of that threatens to make him blush again, as vivid a shade as your outfit.

You glance at the clock and do a double-taker. ‘Oh, dang. Gotta run. I’ll see you later, Barry!’

And before you leave, in one fluid motion, you pause and take a rhinestone up with your index finger and press it to the tip of his nose. ‘Boop.’

Barry forgets to take the rhinestone off all day. Not that he particularly wants to.

——

‘Now this,’ you say grandly as you pose in the doorway, ’this may be the best thing I’ve put together so far.’

Barry takes one look at your outfit and almost starts clapping there and then.From where you’ve gotten it, he has no idea, but your outfit today is nothing short of glamorous: you’re dressed in a highly elaborate, yet stylized version of an aristocratic prince’s uniform, incredible detailing, tassels and filigree with enough inaccuracy so as to still look both distinctly alternative and easy to move around in.

Barry’s heart skips a beat as you lean over the counter like you have before — and is it just him, or are you looking at him teasingly this time? Can you spot the pink on his cheeks? Of course you can, it’s basically the same color as his hair. Boy, but isn’t it hot in here.

Your stare doesn't last long, as you turn back to give yourself dramatic makeup to match your outfit, powdering your face matte and opting to go for a smokey eye, downturning the eyeliner at the edges to give you a slightly mournful look (though the twinkle in your eyes isn't really selling the effect much). You survey yourself and grin, posing in the mirror.

‘I'll probably have to take this one to the dry cleaner's,' you muse. 'The Stackables are going to have a fit with me if I leave it with them.’

‘Oh, I recently learned some fun facts about cleaning!’ Barry chimes in, elated to share information he’s gained on another exciting info-dive. ‘Did you know that it isn't actually "dry"? They're simply cleaned in solvents instead of water so that the clothes don't shrink’

‘No, I didn’t,’ you reply, looking impressed. That’s always been one of his favorite things about you — the fact that you listen to him, with whatever thing he can tend to prattle on about. ‘That’s all the more reason to do it, then. With the amount of money I spent this is going to have to be worn at least thrice. Maybe even four-ice.’

Barry would be happy to sit here and dialogue with you all day, if he could. Time never fails to cut the moment short, though, and you once again check the time with a noise of disappointment. ‘There I go again. I’ll see you this evening?’

‘Looking forward to it.’

You wink at him, and this time you blow him an — admittedly exaggerated, but still — kiss as you flounce out. Barry makes a show of catching it, and then clutches it tightly to his chest, and during the day his hand drifts subconsciously to it, like he can feel you there.

——

One day, you don't come into the bathroom at the normal time. Barry doesn’t even hear you hemming and hawing between outfits to pick from.

Eventually, he summons the inner bravery to venture out of the bathroom’s confines and sees you laid out on the bed. The bed and floor around you is surrounded by outfits and accessories of all colors and textures. He carefully tiptoes around them as if they were particularly well-stitched landmines and makes his way to the bed.

To his great relief, you're not crying — instead, you have a contemplative, almost unreadable expression on your face as you stare up at the ceiling, turning your head to look at him as he sits down at the edge of the bed, the soft material dipping underneath his weight.

‘Hey, Bar,' you greet. 'Didn’t really feel like doing anything today, I think I’ll just stay inside.’

‘That’s alright!’ Barry reassures immediately, and then hesitates upon seeing. ‘Is… there any particular reason why?’

‘I don’t know, honestly.’ Your brow furrows, and your arm raises, gesturing around you at the piles of clothing. ‘I was just thinking. This isn’t weird, right? Sometimes I wonder if my inability to stick to any style is a problem. I mean, it doesn’t mean there’s something morally wrong about it, but… is it bad to not have one kind of style? Does that mean I don't really have a stable identity?'

‘Not at all!’ Barry reassures you quickly, relieved that this is something he can encourage you about. ‘Your fashion — uh, fashions, I should say — are all part of how you express yourself, if you know, well, you know what I mean. And if it makes you happy to dabble in a little of everything, then that’s what matters, isn’t it?’

‘Hmm.’

You’re not sounding fully convinced, so Barry adds, ‘And, if it’s alright to be more personal… I love the way that you’ve been spending each morning trying out a different look, because it manes that I get to see you every morning doing things that are brand new. I’ve never felt so appreciated that you feel so beautiful.’

You look at him, expression still unreadable, and Barry wonders whether he’s said too much — it has been known to happen — before the edge of your mouth quirks, the rest of it following suit into a warm smile.

‘I love our time together, too,' you say softly. 'It’s part of why I’ve been doing this to begin with. Getting to see you every day.’

‘Really?’ Barry gasps, stunned — oh, no, he can feel himself wanting to do things with his hands immediately, and his knee is all jittery, he has to stop fidgeting for the love of —

Suddenly, you reach to place hand on his, and he stills immediately, his cheeks burning hot as you look into his eyes. You’re not wearing anything fancy, your face a bare canvas (and he would never judge, obviously) but there is a slight hint of drool crusted at the side of your mouth). This is the face Barry gets to see transformed into a thousand looks, and he would have you in any one of them — but especially here, so full of creativity and possibility.

And then you take a deep breath and abruptly stand up, your eyes shining with a new determination. ‘Okay. Enough wallowing. Help me pick out a look for today? And tell me something about the history of textiles while you’re at it, you’re a much better conversationalist than doomscrolling on Instafan.’

What an absolutely wonderful idea. Barry nods happily, already launching into it, as you begin to sits through the piles. You're going to look just as amazing as always when you’re done with today’s new style — but it can't be denied that the two of you right now make a beautiful pair, too.

‘They’re all looking at me, Robert,’ you insist, eyes darting over to the tables around you, ramrod-straight in your seat. ‘That woman to the right just gave me a withering stare, I swear.’

‘I think that she was trying to flag down a waiter.'

‘Well, she keeps staring.’ Your mouth presses into a flat line, your fingers tearing your napkin to tiny shreds as you glare down at the colorful menu laid out in front of you. 'I just don't like people staring like that.'

‘Hey. Hey. Relax, it’s okay,’ Robert commands, reaching out and interlacing a hand with yours, intending to be grounding. It works; your fingers curl around his, and he rubs a thumb over your knuckles. ‘No one's going to bother us. They don't know who you are, or who I am, and as far as anyone is concerned, we’re a normal couple on a date. Which we are.’

‘Hi, folks! Can I get you started with anything?’ a waiter chirps, sliding into view at the worst possible moment, notepad in hand. Your eyes shoot wide and you freeze, almost about to give possums playing dead a run for their money.

‘Maybe just two waters to start with, thanks,’ Robert interjects before you can do so, smiling up at them. ‘We’re still having a little trouble deciding.’

You let out a sigh as the waiter leaves, slumping forward onto the table. ‘How do you do that all the time? Just — talk to people?’

He shrugs. 'Well, I mainly just talk to people.'

You scowl at him. 'Helpful. Very helpful.'

‘You used to be fine in public,’ Robert says. ‘What about when you crashed the opera house a couple of years ago? Everyone was looking at you then.’

‘That was different,’ you retort.

‘How?’

‘Well, for one, it’s a lot easier to have people watching when you care more about being evil than what people think,’ you say, then admit as an afterthought: ‘Also, I had grenades.’

The waiter comes back with two glasses of ice water in their hands, setting them down, and Robert notices you clam up again, all the tension coming back in full force; your hand stiffens in his, holding him in a vice grip. Your eyes fasten themselves to the table.

‘And are you all set to order?’ the waiter asks, looking at you both.

‘Yeah,’ Robert answers, finding his item on the menu. ‘Could I get the, uh, Starlight Burger, with the curly fries? Or “flares”, I guess you call them. With ketchup.’

‘Of course!’ the waiter says, turning towards you and being just a little too attentive — Robert sees the way you shrink further into your seat. ‘And for you?’

‘Uh,’ you say. It comes out less as a word and more of a squeak, like a deflating balloon.

Robert squeezes your hand, intending to be reassuring; the action makes you glance back up at him. And a curious thing happens: something flickers over your expression, tongue darting out over your lip briefly before you take a deep breath.

‘…I’ll just have the same thing, please,’ you finally mumble, eyes not leaving his. 'And a Coke.'

‘Great,’ the waiter says, oblivious to what’s just happened and jotting the order down. ‘Coming right up!’

‘Did you see that?’ Robert asks as they leave.

‘See what,’ you groan, letting go of his hand to grab your water and gulp down a relieved mouthful. ‘How I totally copied off your order? That burger had better be good, by the way, because I didn’t look at anything else on the menu.’

‘But you did order,’ Robert says, brushing past your deflection. ‘Despite being put on the spot and stared at. The only difference is that you were staring at me.’

Your brow furrows. ‘So?’

‘So, why was it easier to talk to someone staring at you when you were staring at me?'

‘I don’t know!’ You trace little shapes in the condensation of your glass, avoiding his questioning look. ‘I guess it's because…’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Because?’

‘Well,’ you say haltingly, ’it’s because I trust you.’

The weight of the confession — the simplicity of it, the honesty — knocks the witty retort right out of Robert’s mouth, and it slowly blooms into a grin.

‘You trust me,' he says slowly.

You huff, face growing hot. ‘Shut up. We’re literally dating, of course I trust you. You're handsome too, is that what you wanted to hear?'

‘You’ve never said it out loud before.'

You swallow, shifting in your chair. ‘I can take it back —‘

Robert leans over the table and kisses you, cutting through all your panicked thoughts, and your eyes flutter shut as his lips brush against yours, all other sensation dulling for a moment. When they open again, he’s pulled back, just staring; his rich brown eyes are softened at the sight of you, unhurriedly taking you in, a faint blush making his freckles stand out on his cheeks.

‘I’m glad you trust me,’ he murmurs, low and utterly sincere in the way that you know means you have no choice but to believe him. ‘Thank you.'

Well, that's unfair. You can't come up with anything when he looks at you like that. It tugs the corners of your lips into a small smile. 'You’re welcome.’

‘If you don’t like people looking at you, just keep your eyes on me when you answer them, then,’ he says, and before you can say anything further, he adds smoothly, ‘Since I’m both trustworthy and handsome.’

And that has you rolling your eyes, ducking your head to try and suppress your own widening grin. ‘Dick.’

He hums, smirking at you. ‘Your dick.’

You dip your fingers into the icy water and flick them at him, trying (and failing) to stifle a squeal as he promptly does it right back, all social anxieties forgotten for the moment.

Don’t get him wrong: he’s plenty noticed enough when he doesn't want to be. The consequences of constantly being wet — moist, he should say, so as not to have that double entendre, not that it already sounds great in the first place, he’s going to move on from this now — the consequences of being the way he is are often made obvious by those who shake his hand or slip on his puddles. The look they give him is often one of discomfort or annoyance as they clean themselves off, and then they move on.

But whenever his powers aren’t making him stick out like a sore thumb, when he's not being a nuisance, he’s just… not really there. No one pays him any mind. He can blend into a crowd, slinking along with his head bowed, practically invisible, his trademark wet footprints on the concrete the only thing noticeable to anyone until he messes up and makes his presence known again.

Maybe that’s why he’d opted for the brightest hero costume he could find when he applied to SDN — to attempt to regain some sort of control over how much people see of him if he's actually going to try and help people. There's no way you can not look at someone in neon blue and yellow, right? He’d thought it was a little stupid after properly looking at himself in the mirror, but he’d already spent the money, and it was pretty comfortable. As comfortable as one can be when one's constantly wet — moist — the way he is, anyway.

Two days into his official janitor duties, he’s feeling pretty good about it. He can at least pretend the stares he gets are ones of confusion instead, and he is being actively called upon to clean things, even if it's mostly dismissive. He can live with that.

And clearly something about it must be working, because you’re currently talking to him.

Herman’s mind races to catch up to his ears. ‘Uh, I — s-sorry. Can you — say that again, please?’

‘Sure,’ you say, sounding not at all phased by his stammering — and you’re still looking at him, too, no change in your expression as you motion to the pile of crates lying on the ground behind you. ‘Would you mind helping me move some stuff inside the store? I know it’s probably a lot to ask, but if you have ten minutes or so I’d really appreciate it.’

‘No!’

You tilt your head in confusion, and he hastily revises, ‘I — I’m not — don’t mind. Wouldn’t mind. No is yes, as in, yes, I don’t — I can help.’

The corner of your mouth quirks as you bend down to pick up a crate, and, wishing he could cut his tongue out, Herman follows suit.

The thing is, Herman knows you. Not that he’s close to you, but he’s been close to you. A lot. He walks pretty much everywhere to run errands for his grandma and to go to work, and he often sees you somewhere along the way there or back. Sometimes it’s while you wait in line at a café, sometimes you’re on the crowded streets ahead of him, and sometimes it’s inside this very store ringing up customers.

And always, always, his footsteps slow a little, and he can’t tear his gaze away from your face, because you’re simply too stunning, the corners of your mouth twitch upwards into a lovely smile, so bright and open and warm that it sends his pulse racing as you say thank you or laugh at someone on the phone or apologize sheepishly to someone you bump into, sorry, I didn't see you there — have a nice day!

He always ducks his head and turns away before that smile has a chance to reach him, afraid of seeing it shrink. The two of you are so close and yet so far apart at the same time, like two stars drifting along separately but connected by the vast galaxy of the Milky Way. He figured it'd be inevitable that the two of you would meet one day, but thought it would take place under the normal circumstances — you'd trip over him or accidentally brush past him, and he'd see your lips curl in disgust, and you’d remember him like so many others do, the encounter tinged in discontent.

But no, he’s moving crates crammed full of inventory to and fro, and never has he been so thankful to possess naturally enhanced strength, because the boxes are pretty heavy but he lifts them by himself and hauls them inside in record time. Not only that, they’re all plastic, which means they’re waterproof — the best kind of material, because it means he can properly grip them and not worry about them turning to a pulpy mess under his fingers.

With his help, it takes all of five minutes to get everything inside, barely any sweat off of his back except for the massive amounts of water he naturally outputs, and then it’s over like that: the two of you are back out on the sidewalk with considerably less in the way, the morning light faded and dull from the sun hiding behind the clouds.

You sigh in relief, comically wiping your brow. ‘Okay, I can take it from here. Thank you so, so much. My coworker was supposed to help out, but they’re running late and I’ve got to open soon…’ You pause, placing a finger to your chin. ‘Though I guess I’ll have more time than I thought. I was prepared to wreck my back for half an hour dragging these in one by one.’

‘Don’t hurt your b-back,’ Herman says stupidly, and internally curses himself for it.

It earns him a laugh, though, a sound that bubbles out of your throat and washes over him, and he finds that he doesn’t regret it nearly as much if he can get you to sound like that. ‘And now I won’t have to, thanks to you!’ You raise your hand up to him, palm extended in a high five. ‘Good job, us.’

Herman hesitates. You waggle your fingers. ‘Come on, don’t leave me hanging.’

Obviously, he won't. So he presses his palm to yours quick as he can, already expecting the grimace, the shaking to dispel the water, the turning away.

But none of that happens. There's barely a reaction from you as you draw back, satisfied — maybe a slight raise of the eyebrows, but they’re more surprised than set off, and then it's gone. He feels a strange sense of comfort from that, the fact that you didn't regret it any.

‘Thank — glad to be of assis-tisis — happy to help,’ he tells you earnestly, so as to distract you from it anyway.

‘Again, thank you. Sorry for just recruiting you like that off the sidewalk, I just noticed you all of a sudden,' you say. ‘It might be the hero outfit you’re wearing.’

‘Yeah.’ He shuffles in place. ‘It’s — I-I’m pretty, uh, bright.’

You look him up and down briefly and hum. ‘I think it looks great.'

Herman has to physically keep himself from puking water out of his stomach doing a giddy little flip right then and there.

‘I don’t think it was the outfit, though,’ you continue while he’s regaining his bearings. ‘I think I’ve seen you before.'

‘R-really?’ Herman says, his eyes going so wide behind his goggles that the plastic framing starts cutting into his forehead. You remember him, even if faintly, and while he's not in costume? You've recalled seeing him in your peripheral vision as he blushes and stares at you from afar?

'Yeah. No idea where, though…' You laugh again, shrug. ‘Ah, I'm not really sure. But! We’ve officially met now, so if you’re ever around again, hopefully I’ll recognize you. What’s your name?’

‘O-oh!’ Herman stammers. ‘I’m -'

His hero name is on his tongue, so much has the original childhood nickname stuck with him and how he has introduced himself to SDN employees over the past couple days. But should he say Waterboy, if he wants you to know him as just himself? If he wants you to see him without the suit and be able to recognize him anyway?

‘Herman,’ he chooses to answer finally. ‘Or — I’m also, my grandma calls me — also Herm.’

‘Herm,’ you muse thoughtfully, and he could just about melt at the way you say it — it’s almost fond, how you drag the sound of the m out just a little like you’re savoring it. 'Okay. I'll try to remember that.'

Then you introduce yourself in turn. Finally, he can put a name to the face. ‘Good to — nice to m-meet you!' he says. 'And your — you also. Have a good name.’

‘Thank you,’ you return, and wave a hand in a friendly goodbye; your fingers are still lightly damp. He feels inexplicably happy that you haven’t dried them off on your clothes, like you haven’t noticed — or, a part of his mind pipes up, like you didn’t mind.

'I'll see you around, Herm!'

And then, without any warning at all, there it is. Your smile, beamed at him and him only. It’s like the sunshine pours out of you, bright and lovely as a summer’s day, sending a rush of warmth to his face, flowing through him like alcohol coursing through his system. It makes him want to skip down the road, heedless of whatever car is coming to run him over, and burst into song, like one of the old romantic musical comedies his grandma puts on TV, like a love ballad he’d heard playing on the radio yesterday: la-la la, la, la, la…

Maybe one day, you’ll see him among the crowd or on the street and then, that same radiant smile on your face broadening at the sight of him, you’ll go up to him to say hello, how are you, maybe even want to grab a drink or something, Herm? And he’ll give you a smile back, smaller, because behind it he'll be restraining the desperate urge to tell you how much he’d like to, how much he’d like to be yours, to have you smiling at him like that forever, if he could.

Maybe one day. Maybe even someday soon.

But for now, he’ll take this: you, disappearing back into the store, him, standing on the sidewalk, a blush on his cheeks, and the sun peeking out of the clouds, washing the whole street in light and color, as if you've just made his day a whole lot brighter.

‘Greetings, fair traveler,’ the bartender, a slender elf with flowing orange hair the color of a sunset, says as you approach.

‘Hail and well met, barkeep,’ you respond, your voice carrying a melodious lilt as you plunk down a sachet full of glimmering gold coins. ‘What’s a Guardian gotta do to get a drink around here?’

Her eyes crinkle with mirth. ‘I think you’ll find that you won’t need to pay to sate yourself tonight.’

She slides you a glass; it is filled with a blood-red liquid, smelling faintly of cranberries, faintly shimmering under the warm lantern light. ‘The gentleman over there sends his regards.’

You follow her gaze, turning your head. At the far end of the bar, a mysterious personage raises one hand in greeting, his face half-shrouded by a red hood embroidered with gold thread; the light seems to warp and bend around him, as if fate itself is trying to alert you to his presence.

Hint, hint: that guy’s important!

Okay, okay! Just saying.

You choose to approach the stranger, drink in hand. ‘Hello there,’ you murmur, low so that the others do not hear you. ‘To whom — who? — whom — do I owe this pleasure?’

‘The pleasure is all mine,’ says the stranger, in a low voice that is immediately soothing to your ears. ‘I have an adventure to propose to you, traveler. It concerns the legend of the Life-Giver, a mighty warrior who was known to breathe sentience into items far and wide. Surely you know of them?'

‘I am aware of the Life-Giver, yes,’ you say, your tone tinged with amusement. ‘And?’

‘There is a prophecy as old as time that points to a hero who will take up the mantle of Life-Giver yet again,’ he answers, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I believe that you are that hero.’

Uh, just to check, can I keep monologuing? I can skip to the end if you want.

Aw, hehehe, thank you! Alright. Ahem.

‘You must go on a journey throughout the regions of our land in order to unleash your true potential. It will be long and arduous — a couple of hours at least, plus or minus breaks for snacking — and it will involve trials of both the mind and body. But the rewards will be greater than you could ever dare fathom.

‘I have been chosen to guide you through this journey, traveler — accompany you and encourage you as you endure the trials, be your steadfast and loyal companion, and, perhaps…’ he pauses and coughs, his voice only faintly wavering as he questions — ‘more, besides?’

‘Sure,’ you say in a distinctly normal voice, correcting yourself, ‘I mean — of course. I would be honored, sir.’

‘Wonderful.’ He extends a hand, and you take it; his palm is warm as it makes contact with yours, strong and calloused. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, then.’

In one fluid move, the stranger uncovers his hood, and you stare at what lies beneath. With dark brown hair and kind, ruby-red eyes, he smiles kindly at you. He is the sort of man that you could fall in love with instantly within a minute of meeting him.

You open your mouth to reply, already burning with questions —

——

‘Something about this campaign seems very familiar,’ you say suspiciously, peering down at the painstakingly hand-painted miniature that stands on the table. If you squint, it looks a bit like Chance. If you don’t squint, it looks exactly like Chance.

Your boyfriend pushes the hood of his cloak back over his neck, innocent red eyes blinking at you from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘What’s his name?’ you ask, pointing to the miniature.

‘Hm?’

‘The name of the handsome stranger.’

He drums his fingers on the table. ‘Sir Prospect.’

Your eyebrows raise. ‘As in, Sir Synonym-For-Chance.’

‘I don't know what you're talking about,’ Chance says, smoothly flipping the dictionary lying on the table upside down.

‘Sure.’ You scrutinize the notes you’ve been taking of the encounter. ‘And the bartender, who is definitely nothing like Beverly in appearance or name?’

‘Hey, Refresha, my completely original character, wouldn't appreciate that accusation at all,’ he protests airily as he toys with the multicolored dice on his bracelets.

‘And the “mighty warrior who was known to bring items to life”, or something,’ you say, making air quotes. ‘Whose name appears to be exactly the same as mine with a few letters changed around.’

‘I think that the unpronounceability turns it from normal to fantastical.’

Hypothesis confirmed. You place your hands on the table, looking him dead in the eyes. ‘Is this entire campaign based on us?’

The tips of his ears go red at your staring, and he bites his lip, ducking his head sheepishly. ‘Maybe.’

The confirmation delights you, your eyes lighting up. ‘Oh my gosh, you absolute dork. So that’s why you said our date today was going to be different.’

‘I’m not going to sway the odds in your favor, in case you’re worried,’ Chance defends. ‘You’re still going to have to roll for things to go exactly how you want them. I just have…’ He mulls over what he wants to say. ‘I’ve planned so that it’s still fun no matter what happens.’

‘So I won’t mess your plans up by rolling a one and dying in the laundry room?’

Chance laughs. ‘If that happens, you’ll be revived with the healing power of warm clothing fresh out of the dryer.’

‘You’ve planned for everything,’ you say, impressed. ‘I’m so excited to see where this goes.’

‘Ah, you haven’t even seen the Land Of Slumber yet!’ he says, steepling his fingers deviously, his glasses glinting. ‘It’s a world of majesty! And maximum comfort! With pillows that are extra fluffy so we can roll even when lying down!’

‘Is this why you wouldn’t let me come into the bedroom earlier today?’

‘It’s one of many reasons!’ he says. ‘I have a whole thing planned in there later tonight — oh, but that’s spoilers. I need you and Prospect to meet first, and then we can go off to the bar so we can reenact this — I wanted to begin the adventure, but I just couldn’t resist starting it here when you looked so happy.’

‘And so, the drink?’ you ask. ‘That’s real too?’

‘My very own creation! Beverly said she’d run it as a special tonight,’ Chance says proudly, showing you a sketch he’d made as well as a list of ingredients. ‘Though she rejected the idea of making a full menu based on G&G. I don’t know why.’

‘I think if she tried sourcing the items you usually mention off-handedly, she’d start pouring her hair out.’

‘Hmm,' he muses. 'Maybe.’

‘You did get one thing wrong about Prospect, though,’ you note, picking up the miniature and holding it up to him. ‘I’m not going to fall in love with a guy I just met.’

Chance shrugs, flushing a deep crimson, and says with just a hint of cheek, ‘Well, you did for me, didn’t you?’

He's got you there. You snort, rolling your eyes and giving him a playful shove. ‘Silence, you unbelievable flirt. If you’re going to make yourself an NPC in this you're going to have to work harder than that to seduce me. Roll for Charm, why don't you?'

And, grinning, Chance picks up a dice and rolls it with a confident flick of the hand. By sheer coincidence, it’s a natural twenty.

‘No,’ you reply, panting slightly as you sprint through the city, following the path of floodwater before you, your feet kicking up large puddles as they go. ‘But he can’t have gone far. I should be right on his heels this time.’

‘Okay,’ Robert says, his voice coming in loud and clear through your earpiece. ‘Keep moving, and look for any signs of flood damage. The rest of you, keep looking for him at your posts and clean up any mess if you see it.'

‘Why did it have to be water,’ Coupé hisses, sounding absolutely miserable. ‘I hate water.’

‘I agree. Fucking cold and it snuffs all my flames out,’ Flambae complains, an audible sizzling sound coming through as he attempts to steam out the water soaked through his suit.

‘Who even is this kid, anyway?’ Prism asks. ‘Y’all ever heard of Deluge before he started tearing everything up?’

A chorus of exasperated nos. ‘Delugeional is more like it,’ Punch Up comments. ‘We don’t even have a clue what he wants yet, do we?'

‘He did rob a record store that one time and took a lot of metal CDs,’ Golem says, adding thoughtfully, ‘I mean… if he wants recs, I got recs.’

‘Focus up,’ Robert says firmly, ‘and stay on target. We can talk about recs later.'

‘Gotcha.’

A loud noise drowns out whatever he says next, your head instinctively swiveling to follow its source. A geyser of water erupts a hundred feet away from you. Out of it rises a figure, clad in a black and blue form-fitting suit, who uses the momentum to spit another stream of water out onto the ground; the force of it propels him forward and out of reach as he runs further down the street, hell-bent on escape — but something's different about him today. His feet are dragging slightly. He's slowing down.

Which means you stand a good chance at catching him today. ‘I see him,’ you say. ‘Heading after him now.’

Cheers and calls to "fuck ‘em upppp" sound joyously in your ears as you vault over a crashed car in your way — it wasn't technically necessary, but it did look awesome — and pursue him further.

——

In the news, they call him the “Torrent of Torrance”.

That isn't actually his name. The official name he’s put forward is Deluge, according to SDN's insider sources, but that isn't nearly as catchy a moniker, so half of the public has the completely wrong name for him. Whatever name you choose to call him, though, is accurate to his powers, which seem to involve water. Lots and lots and lots of water.

For the the past few weeks, he’s been causing floods throughout the city as he commits a string of robberies, all without saying a word. His goals are mysterious, his allegiances unknown, as no one really knows him; he's one hell of an upstart villain.

Is he a villain, though? This is the question that's been running through your mind as you've been tracking him down. He doesn't feel like one. For starters, there's his choice of robberies: he's escalated in his most recent heists, always choosing to break into the high-end banks, the most expensive of fashion stores, and pharmacies, but takes only the highest value items, waterlogging the security footage so all they see is a dark, blurred shape coming and going. You've found the same items going for sale online just days later, none of the items kept for himself, as if there's some kind of standard he wants to hold himself to.

What he does keep for himself seems to mainly be indulgences — items from grocery chains, bookshops, record stores. But the mom and pop shops that are normally the unwitting target of every criminal around have far less taken from them, only enough to survive, and he must use the profits from the other robberies to buy other things. It doesn't scream villain behavior to you. He's more of an anti-hero, if anything. Like some kind of aquatic Robin Hood.

And that, by all accounts, should put him fairly low on your radar, at least from a moral standpoint. But that's ignoring the collateral damage of it all. From what you've seen, the same harmless water you drink flows out of him in an infinite supply, and with enough pressure is more effective than any powerwasher you’ve seen, enough to leave incidents in its wake that SDN has been answering calls for for weeks now. He’s knocked pillars down in seconds, dented cars like soda cans. The destruction almost rivals Golem’s kaiju son itself; the only thing Deluge doesn't have to one-up it is the fact that the kaiju tends to get a little hangry, and destroy walls when it gets hangry. That's children for you.

He only ever attacks with enough force to take what he needs and then escape, slowing you down enough to prevent him from leaving. In other words, he’s been deemed a Category One: Pain In The Ass. This isn’t the first time that SDN’s tried to deal with him, but every one of your last arrest attempts have ended in failure so far — he’s just, pardon the horrible pun, too slippery. With the amount of near-misses you've had, he has to have been injured by now, too, but it’s like he tanks it and the springs right back up the next day, which has made short work of the company's healing facilities. At this rate, it won't be long before he seriously puts one of you down for the count; and it might not be long before he accidentally gets a civilian hurt, too.

Which is why you're really hoping you can actually talk to him this time, at least before you get him in handcuffs. Simply being dangerous is different than posing a threat; whoever he is, and with the power he wields, you're betting that he's just the former. You think you can get him to stop. You just need a chance.

Though he sure isn't making it easy, you think to yourself as you pass yet another overturned car (it’s a Tesla, so not a big loss, but still). At the very least, he’ll be facing public destruction and property charges. But that's a hell of a lot better than manslaughter.

Finally — finally — you see him up ahead again, and he ducks into a building. The sign in front reads TORRANCE MUNICIPALITY POOL, and below that, CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. Based on how every other confrontation has gone, you note that they’re likely going to need more after this.

'He's headed east,’ Robert tells you. 'Still see him?'

‘Yep. He’s headed into the pool.’

‘Like he doesn’t get wet enough already,’ Invisigal scoffs. ‘What’s he want with it? Thought he naturally drools enough water to swim in.’

‘I don’t know,' you say. 'But I’m going in.'

‘Copy,’ Robert says. ‘Watch out.’

‘Copy.’

Carefully, you slip inside, padding your way past the entry gates and through the locker rooms, the scent of chlorine and sweat immediately hitting your nose, the faint sounds of water churning far away. But it's only when you get to the pool area that you actually see him, staring out at the long — twenty meters or so, you’d estimate — pool, colorful float ropes bobbing over clear, tiled water. It’s shadowed inside, the main source of light coming from the windows.

At the farthest lane to the right, Deluge is swimming towards your direction, long forward strokes made with powerful, equally long legs, smooth and silent as they kick underneath the water. Cautiously, you approach the edge of the pool, waiting for him to come to you.

Slowly, Deluge rises out of the water, revealing a tall, lanky form; water rolls off of him like he’s shedding a second skin, only more drops beading on his face in its stead. His hair, light and reddish-brown, plasters itself to his forehead, individual strands curling limply inwards. His cheeks are streaked with leaking black eyeliner underneath; it makes him look like he's been crying, like a jilted lover. The look on his face is hauntingly blank, lips pressed into a thin line.

He looks up. He locks eyes with you. All the color drains from his face.

You move fast, but he moves faster. Before you know it, he’s propelling himself out the way you came in, brushing past you and sprinting towards the changing rooms, missing your grasp by an inch. You curse under your breath and gear up for another long-winded chase, when…

SMACK. Deluge skids on the floor, limbs flailing, before his legs fly out from under him and he crashlands flat on his back on the blue tiles, knocking the wind out of him with an undignified yelp. Guess not even he’s immune to accidents. You can’t help but wince out of sympathy; it’ll probably leave a massive bruise, and as he moves to get up, you see him clutch at his back and hiss. Even Supers’ bodies have limits, and he doesn’t seem as if he’s particularly well-equipped to deal with them yet — his costume lacks protective gear, and looks quite scuffed already.

Might as well make the most of the situation, though. You seize the chance to move forward, getting closer to him before he has the chance to run away again. He’s already struggling to his feet and scrabbles away from you as you approach, but you’re the one who’s faster this time, cornering him against the wall, grasping his wrist; he twists and jerks in your grip, but you weren’t trained in Strength for nothing, and you hold him fast.

‘Hey,’ you say firmly. ‘Stop. I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to talk.’

‘And bring — take — I’ll go to j-jail,’ Deluge spits, the first time you’ve ever heard him actually speak — the words are stuttered, haltingly said, like he’s unsure of how best to respond. ‘You’re one of the h-heroes — you’re a Super. Hero. You're part of SDN.’

‘Yeah.’ No use in trying to hide it, not when he's known you were tailing him for weeks. ‘Yeah, I am. But I’m not going to hurt you, like I said. I just want us to talk until the others get here so I can figure out what your deal is. It’ll be a lot easier if you’re willing to talk, or at the very least listen to me, okay?’

Blue-gray eyes, like the calm before a storm, glare at you, doing their best to intimidate. It is not very effective — he looks more frightened than anything, like this is his first real encounter with a hero up close.

You stare back, communicating your intentions with freezing intensity — sit down, and listen to me. It's worked on a lot of people, and Deluge is no exception. He looks as if he wants to fight you more, and you admit he could probably overpower you, even now: internally, you prepare yourself for another exhausting fight.

But then he seems to surrender, his shoulders slumping as he mutters something under his breath. With all the angry energy of a wet cat, he stalks over to the nearest bench without assistance, wincing as he sits down and slouching himself as far forward as his spine will allow.

Robert’s voice crackles again in your comm, questioning. 'I'm hearing a struggle. Everything okay?’

‘Yes, Robert, got it under control,’ you answer automatically, and then add on — seeing Deluge tense up and following your instincts — ‘I’m going to mute you right now, okay?’

‘What?' he asks, his voice sharpening. 'Why —‘

The dispatcher's voice fades to an angry buzz as you take your earpiece out and holding it up to Deluge. Some of the tension bleeds out of his posture, but he keeps himself curled up, long limbs folded over each other.

‘There,’ you say, and make a show of tucking your earpiece into your pocket, holding up your hands once more to show that they're empty. ‘Now we can talk one-on-one.’

‘Wh-whatever,’ he bites. 'I'm not — you can't make me.'

'No,' you reply easily, and move to sit down next to him; he scoots as far away as the bench will allow, but doesn't make to get up. 'I can't.'

You let the silence stretch out for a few moments, enough to make him start shuffling his feet, drops of water pitter-pattering onto the tiled floor.

‘So,’ you say eventually, when it seems like he's going to explode from the tension. 'Jewelry and meds and money all makes sense, but why steal records and books, anyway? It's not like you can't buy them with whatever you're pawning off.'

He mumbles something you can't quite make out, and then must realize that you’ve baited him into revealing more, promptly clamping his lips shut with a twist of the mouth. You wait. If anything, it seems like he'll crack and talk to fill the void if he can to avoid you prying deeper.

‘Th-they’re for me and my — for more than one person,’ he says sullenly, and then reddens, the color going splotchy on his cheekbones. ‘I — like stuff.'

You snort at the phrasing. ‘I, too, like stuff. You're a fan of metal?'

'Metal is cool,' he mumbles, as if daring you to disagree; when all he gets is a shrug and a nod from you, his eyes dart away, fixed on the high diving board on the other end of the pool. He scrubs a hand over his face, and it comes away slick with additional water; he brings his hand to his neck, massaging it it — a form of self-soothing? You don’t know.

Deluge speaks up again. ‘I left notes, with — I did — explained what I did take at the stores so it wouldn't be that much of a problem. In-inventory. So there’s — it's —' He makes a noise of frustration, shaking his hands to try and communicate what he can't. 'I left notes, I’m saying.'

You vaguely remember wet paper pulp being strewn over the cash registers, the ink bled out to the point that it’s illegible. 'Very noble of you.'

He scoffs, though with less resistance, and glances at you, though it lasts for milliseconds before his gaze darts away again, swallowing thickly.

You lean back, turn your head towards the pool, the water's surface only lightly disturbed now, the smell of chlorine still strong. ‘Pretty powerful stuff you had going there for an inexperienced Super. Did you learn to do that on your own?’

He immediately bristles at your choice of words, stammering a furious amalgam of phrases that include ‘I have a lot of — I’m very ex-experience —‘ and ‘You don’t — I — you didn’t catch me until now, today. So.'

‘Hey,' you say, your eyebrows lifting in surprise. 'Not saying that’s a bad thing, I’m saying it’s impressive. I mean, totaling a building’s infrastructure isn’t great, but the way you did it? That could be useful if there was a fire one day. And it's done wonders for the plant growth.' You pause, before adding, 'Kind of badass, honestly.’

Now that leads to an interesting reaction. Deluge startles, lifting his head, and some of the guardedness in his features cracks, giving way to an unfiltered expression of eagerness, a heartbreaking look of vulnerability in his eyes, before it shutters again.

‘B-badass?’

There’s your angle.

He wants to do good, you realize, but he's never gotten the chance to. He's been surviving all this time, and he’s accomplishing that the only ways he knows how, but he desperately wants to prove himself if he actually gets a chance to live.

You can understand that. You’ve been that before. And, you realize, now you know what you can offer him.

‘I was like you a while ago,’ you start quietly. The shift in tone makes him still, staring at you confusedly. ‘Decidedly less, uh, wet, but I’ve done some bad things. Things I did for survival. And I’m willing to bet that you’re not doing this out of a want for power, but survive, too. Am I right?'

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't contest it, either, crossing his arms over his chest like it'll make him smaller, harder to reach. Protecting himself. That's all the confirmation you need.

‘I work with a team of people just like you, who are helping others do good,' you say, scooting closer to him, shrinking the distance between you, and he doesn't fight that, either. 'Former villains, anti-heroes, you name it, they've done it. We need new people all the time. You could be a part of that too, if you wanted.' You let the words hang in the air. ‘You could be a hero.'

Deluge tilts his head to look up at you. ‘W-without going to jail?’

‘You’d have to go to trial,’ you apologize, and his expression falls. 'But when I bring you in, you can apply for the program yourself — it's called the Phoenix Program — from there, and you likely wouldn't have to serve a sentence at all if a hero recommends you for it. Which I could.'

‘You could help,' Deluge says slowly, each word like a revelation. 'You could help me?'

‘Yes,’ you emphasize, your voice going as earnest as you can make it. 'We can help you, and whatever your situation — whatever it is, I'm sure we'll be able to make it work.’ You hold out your hand to him. ‘Let us.'

And you're not sure why, but you add — because there's just something about him, the look in his eyes, the look on his face that makes you want to say, your tone edging more towards desperate — 'Let me.'

He sucks in a breath, stuttered and sharp, his expression wavering — doubt, relief, worry, curiosity. Slowly, his fingers twitch, and then he's reaching for your hand.

And then, you hear the blare of approaching sirens, a piercing wail that ruptures the moment you’ve worked hard to build in two.

Deluge blanches, limbs stiffening, pupils shrinking, and he snatches his hand away as if he’s been burned. ‘Y-you,’ he chokes out, scrambling back on the bench, nearly slipping off with the effort. ‘Y-you tricked me.’

‘No. No, I didn’t.’ You raise your hands in an attempt to placate him, trying to reason, internally yourself for not handling this better. ‘They must have figured out where we were. I promise, no one is going to hurt you, Deluge. Just let me —‘

That’s all the time you get to explain yourself, because he stands up without a hint of a wince, his hands shaking. He's healed a lot quicker than you thought.

Looking hurt — looking betrayed — he screws his eyes shut, and the next thing you know a jet of water blasts you into the pool.

Swimming was not on your mind today. The shock of the water — cold, chlorine — gets the better of you as you thrash for a moment, sinking low to the bottom and inhaling a large gulp of water before you kick your feet and push back up. Breaking the surface, you wipe the water from your eyes, gasping, swivelling your head around to look for him — he’s already made it to the window at the far end of the pool, with no chance you’ll be able to catch up to him now. Your waterlogged earpiece bobs somewhere, emitting useless static.

His face is red, his eyes fixed on you, silhouetted against the light of the window. He looks conflicted.

‘Think about it,’ you rasp, voice hoarse. ’That’s all I ask.’

He stares for a few seconds more, then gives a tiny, jerking nod. Then his cheeks balloon, he turns, and your ears ring as he smashes the window with a jet of water, escaping off just as the rest of the Z-Team bursts into the entrance to the pool.

'Well,' Sonar says, taking in the sight of you in the water. 'Shit.'

——

The application comes to SDN a week later, handwritten and stained with bleeding black marker, nearly illegible, torn in places where the paper fibers have weakened and then dried. It's accompanied by a thin sheet of paper the authorities have put together, as well as a page to write the recommendation. After Robert had admonished you for taking off your earpiece, you'd explained the situation to him: he must agree with you, because he hands a copy of the files to you and tells you to get it in as soon as you can.

The mugshot that greets you when you open the folder is the bare face of a tall man, water dripping off of his face and soaking through his clothing, scared, wide stormy eyes that stare back at you, pupils shrunk in the harsh light. But there's something else in his expression, too — one that you recognize as a tentative hopefulness.

Deluge.

A faint smile graces your lips, and you pick up a pen.

how i make my headers!

this is, overall, how i've made a lot of my headers recently - it's not the same for every header, but it's the steps most of them have largely followed hope it's useful :))

step 1: find an image of the character you're going to use for the header! exactly what kind of image this is will vary for the fandoms / characters i write for - for date everything, i mainly use pngs that i source from the wiki, and for dispatch etc, i mainly use screenshots from the game's cutscenes in addition to pngs. though ideally it's not super pixellated, it doesn't particularly matter what the quality is as long as you're happy with it and you think it works for the header! for this guide i'm going to use a screenshot of waterboy that i took from a compilation of his scenes on youtube! look at this beautiful man

step 2: import the image into your software!

this should work with any art software you have that allows for both image importing and creating a new work - i edit / draw all my headers in clip studio paint, my main drawing software, though you can use any you like!

i have an illustration with the dimensions set to 1300 x 300 which will form the size of the header (i use the same file for all of my headers, but you can make a new one with each too if you want that). then i import the image into my file and i resize it so that it appears where i'd like it to be positioned on the final image.

this is also the point where i edit out anything i don't want in the image, which mainly involves the background of the screenshot, if there is one. in this case, i basically just erase everything except for the character

it looks very weird but that's okay, because now we can head to...

step 3: background image!

so you have the main image for your character, but now you need a background! i've done a couple different things for header backgrounds - i used to have one image and then edit the colors along with each character, and i've also drawn a number of my headers. recently i've also really loved using photos. i like taking pictures of things and then messing around with them to see what is interesting!

for this header, i'm going to show the photo route! i use a picture of some fast-moving fish i took at an aquarium, and similarly resize it so that it fits where i'd like it to on the canvas (hiding the layer the character is on so that i can see it better). sometimes i also distort the image, blur it, etc - whatever comes to mind

usually, the colors of the image aren't very important (because they'll be changed so i convert the image to grayscale.

then i fiddle with the contrast of the image a bit, using more layers to make it brighter or darker how i want, and here's how it looks at that point, with the character overlaid:

when it comes to backgrounds i draw myself, i usually draw them in grayscale, so i can see the contrast better before i gradient map them

step 4: gradient mapping!

i take the background layer and gradient map it. this is the part where it might depend on what software you have and if it supports gradient mapping or not!

essentially, it takes all the values from darkest to lightest in the image, and i can replace the black and white with any color i want. this is how it looks as the default:

for the colors i use i look a lot on sites like pinterest for inspiration combos and color palettes, as well as presets, and i do whatever looks good to me! then i'll usually replace the darker values with my darkest color, lightest with my lightest, etc, and have other stuff in between. though it's interesting to play around with it and see what comes out of it!

this is what i ended up using for colors, and this is how the background looks with the subsequent gradient mapping:

as you can see, it looks really different! but waterboy still sticks out a lot (fish out of water, one could say.) this brings us to...

step 5: gradient mapping AGAIN!

i duplicate the character layer, then take the gradient map i have, and i use it on the copy of the layer!

now waterboy looks like he fits in too much, so i lower the opacity of the gradient map layer until his colors are just about even between the gradient map and the original screenshot!

step 6: making it look better lol

now comes the time i do a whole bunch of editing, and that kind of depends on what i feel like the image needs in order to look better! for this one i mainly:

changed the colors of the gradient map slightly to make them shift slightly warmer (so that he doesn't look so waxy)

added an additional layer which upped the saturation a bit and heightened the lighting

added additional layers to the background which highlighted the slightly off colors created by the character layer to make them match

added a faint shadow underneath the character layer to make it stand out slightly

with a textured brush, added a couple more highlights to the image so there's more light on the right side other than just behind waterboy's head

merged all the layers and gradient mapped them one more time so the whole thing would be more cohesive

so it looks more like this now! experiment with what you think works for you

step 7: noise and chromatic aberration

basically what it says on the tin: i apply a noise layer, and then i apply chromatic aberration to finish it off! and here's the final result:

then i just colorpick from the final image for the dividers and for the gradient text (which i wrote something about here)!

‘Woah. Language,’ you joke, settling down at the table next to him and finding him squinting at something on his phone. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Nah. Nothing.’

If the way he dismisses you isn’t proof enough, Chase brings his phone closer to his face in an attempt to read the text, letting the screen light sear into his pupils, before he drops it with a grimace and another muttered expletive, rubbing at his temples to stave off an upcoming headache.

‘Sure doesn’t sound like nothing.’ You let out an exaggerated, fond sigh. ‘Why don’t you use the reading glasses, Chase? They help. You know they do.’

He scowls at you, but grudgingly accepts the case you hand him — because you just knew this was going to happen — and slides them on, adjusting them twice before he acknowledges the light weight on the bridge of his nose.

‘I look dumb as hell. Happy?’

‘I am happy, and you don’t look dumb as hell. You’re like a wise owl.’ You nod, sagely satisfied with the comparison. ‘A hot, wise owl.'

‘I’m not trying to be an owl, I’m trying to be a goddamn superhero. I wear glasses there because they look cool, not because I need to.’ He whips the glasses off in irritation, but must immediately notice the improvement they give him after all, because he puts them back on again after a moment — not without visible annoyance. ‘What do the eye people know anyways?’

‘Eye doctors — opticians, if you’re fancy — and if they don’t know more than you, they sure as hell can see more, babe. You were running into brick walls at full speed.’

‘And? I lived, didn’t I?’

‘You did,' you say doubtfully. 'But you only have so many more brick walls you can smash through before they smash you.’

Chase raises an offended hand to joke at your use of "smash", but then hisses in pain as his fingers twitch, the joints swollen and stiff. Your expression flashes from teasing to concerned in an instant, and you scoot closer in your chair, taking his hand in yours without needing to be told anything, feeling the new coolness of his skin, the visible veins that weren't there a few months ago.

You wait like that for a moment, until the ache subsides enough for Chase’s fingers to uncurl, properly latching onto you. He exhales a long, tired breath as he squeezes, then lets go.

‘Thanks.'

‘Of course,’ you murmur. ‘Has it been like this long?’

‘Yeah,' he mutters. 'Felt like fucking broken glass in my joints all day.’

You hum in sympathy. ‘I’m sorry, babe.’

‘Whatever.’ Chase glares down at his hand, his features softening after a moment, though his eyes remain bitter. ‘Just got to get more used to it.’

He flexes his fingers again, grimacing less this time, and gingerly reaches up to card through his locs, now much more salt than pepper. The rapid aging seems to have taken pity on it, at least, opting straight for stark white instead of moving through gray.

When he next speaks, it’s much quieter — blunt, but so devoid of his usual gruffness that it catches you off guard.

‘You’re okay with me being old, right?’

‘What?’ You look at him incredulously. ‘Of course. Why would I have an issue with it?’

‘Come on, you know why.’ His eyes avoid yours, darting around stubbornly as if he’s trying to focus, even though the glasses are still on. ‘I mean, look at me. I'm young as hell but I'm old as hell. And I’m only gonna get even fucking older and harder to deal with. Weak knees and always needing the thermostat to be turned up and shit.’ He huffs. ‘Wonder how much you'll love me then.’

‘Chase,’ you say carefully — but not without making sure he can hear the honesty in your own tone, because you know he hates when you treat him as delicate — ‘I do not give a single flying fuck how old you are. You’re still the only one I’d rather want to be with. Even if you start wearing granny cardigans.’

He snorts, relieved by your candor. ‘Really. So you’d still find me hot when I’m going to bed at nine PM and knitting or whatever the hell it is I’m supposed to do to wind down?’

‘Especially then. And wrinkles are all the rage these days.’ You smirk, then add in a softer voice, ‘And I don’t care how much older you look. I want to grow old with you. As old as I can, anyways.’

That earns you the privilege of Chase capturing your lips with his, mouth curling at the pleased sigh you give against him — you let yourself be drawn into him, still able to be swept up with his strength, the beginnings of the mustache he's started to grow tickling your face.

When you draw back, the glasses sit a little crookedly on his nose. Gently, you reach and adjust them for him.

‘You are hot old,’ you say, clear affirmation behind your words despite the light way you say them. ‘Especially with these glasses. Get yourself those little chains to hold them up and you'll make me weak at the knees.'

Chase's eyebrows draw up, his gray eyes sparkling. ‘Careful or I’ll hurt my fucking back carrying you to bed.’

‘Oh, no, we can’t have that,’ you tease, leaning in to kiss him again. ‘Save your breath, grandpa, and let’s just stay here.’

He’s all too happy not to argue.