its ok if you dont like the clown much as i find that to be a very sad and dull existence i can understand it. but ive always been so fascinated watching the way that theres not much room in the fandomspace of homestuck to just not care about her. its always been so weird and hostile even to perceived neutrality and on a scale that just almost never transfers over to other characters. the unanimous not just distaste but anger she instills in people, to the point of breaking through the narrative and into the tangible, living up to the intent and function of her classpect far beyond the means of her story.
like it feels like the biggest dupe in the entirety of homestuck, that AH created a scapegoat character to be an inciting force of rage and everybody sure did take that bait without much awareness at all. its almost funny to me except that it created such an air of hostility that i still feel weird just talking on my personal little comic blog. and then its doubly not funny when you look at this character, made with the express purpose of pissing everybody off, and have to see the attributes that hussie has decided to Use for that function, Who he is saying these things about and for why. and the fans who proclaim equality and consciousness are so quick to latch their jaws into that and tear as soon as the most minimal levels of obfuscation make it easy to do so. and i have to stress minimal because what about gamzees coding is even subtle?
and its not even so much that i care about fandom or even that i want to keep rehashing the admittedly embarrassing amount of damage this space did to me personally that made me unable to stop talking about this shit. but i am just so interested in people and the ways we think and especially in how that relates to stupid shit i have stake in. and in a fandom thats been constantly grasping for reasons to be taken The Most seriously, to have The Smartest takes, its just very silly to me that nobody wants to sit back a little further and peer at it all as a whole, because if they did they might just get a little bit more of a look into how a piece of media wants to trick you into agreeing with it, and that a lot of the work to make this character so Bad and Hateable was work that hussie ultimately didnt even have to do because his readerbase was so willing to do it for them. i just think it says some things about biases.
came across grease and glitter on my day off, binge read the whole thing in one day. I love it! can’t wait to read more and see how it goes. the slow burn is killing me but it’s so good!
⋆. 𐙚˚࿔𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫❀˚⋆
⋆˙⟡Burning Gold𑣲˙⋆
pairing:mechanic!jason todd x bimbo!reader
category:mechanic au, grumpy x sunshine, dc comics, romance, slice of life, slow burn, action, banter, soft tension, competent reader, strong female lead, foul language, emotional damage, traumatic childhood, mentions of addiction
word count: 5k dividers: enchanthings
a/n: oh thank you so much anon! im glad you like my series but im guessing you wont be super excited for this chapter lol ive been meaning do a chapter focussing a bit more on roy then jason and reader, since i love him a lot and my baby deserves a lot of therapy :( anyways, hope yall like it, be careful with triggers and enjoy reading<3
Previous Chapter/Next Chapter
The morning at Red Line starts the same way it always does: burnt coffee, the record player humming something classic, and Roy Harper acting like he personally invented joy.
He’s leaning on your desk like he pays rent there, tapping your pen against the clipboard as you update the whiteboard.
“Okay, bosslady,” he says, voice bright. “Tell me we’ve got at least one easy day this week. Like… a cute little oil change. A sweet grandma with a Corolla. A man who doesn’t think ‘alignment’ is a conspiracy.”
You swat his hand away with your marker. “We have a guy coming in at ten who thinks tire pressure is a government experiment.”
Roy grins. “See? That’s the spice of life.”
Jason’s at the counter sorting invoices, sleeves rolled up, expression permanently carved into that grumpy, beautiful baseline he wears like armor. He doesn’t look up, but he does snort.
“You encourage them,” he mutters.
You glance over your shoulder. “I don’t encourage them. I simply observe them and make it everyone else’s problem.”
That gets a real sound out of him—barely a laugh, more like a breath that almost becomes one.
Roy notices.
He always notices.
At first, it’s nothing. Just little things. The way Jason’s eyes flick to you more than they used to. The way you’ve started asking him questions you never asked before—quiet ones, about business stuff, about suppliers, about where he learned to do a stitch so clean on torn leather seats. The way he answers even when he pretends he doesn’t want to.
And the way you… listen.
Not like you’re waiting to fire off your next joke. Like you’re actually letting him take up space.
Roy’s still there, still talking, still loud enough to fill the shop on his own—because that’s what he does. He fills the silence so no one else has to sit in it.
But lately, he’s realizing he’s not the only one who can.
You say something about a customer’s weird request and Jason replies, and then you reply to him, and then he replies back again—like a thread catching, tugging tighter. A private rhythm.
Roy watches it happen while pretending not to.
He reaches for his coffee, takes a sip, and tells himself it’s fine. It’s good, actually. It’s what he wanted.
Didn’t he?
You finish writing on the board and cap the marker with a click. “Also,” you say, almost casually, “Rachel texted me this morning. She’s still sending me honeymoon pics like she’s being paid to torture me.”
Roy perks up immediately. “Show me.”
You do, and Roy makes a dramatic noise of suffering. “Oh, wow. Look at her. Happy. Sun-kissed. Emotionally stable. Must be nice.”
Jason finally looks up. “Stop whining.”
Roy places a hand on his chest like he’s been shot. “I’m not whining, I’m grieving. That could’ve been me.”
You snort. “With who? Your reflection?”
Roy gasps. “Excuse you. I’m a catch.”
Jason goes back to his invoices like he’s above this conversation. “You’re a liability.”
Roy leans toward you, stage whispering. “He’s so mean to me. It’s because he’s in love.”
Jason’s head lifts, slow. Dangerous. “Finish that sentence and I’ll throw you into the tire shredder.”
Roy beams. “See? Affection.”
You laugh—sharp and bright—and Roy feels something in his chest twist, quick as a muscle spasm.
He’s still smiling when he says, “Speaking of love… isn’t your birthday coming up, Todd?”
Jason freezes like Roy just threw a wrench directly into a fan.
Your head snaps around. “Wait. Your birthday?”
Roy nods like he’s presenting evidence in court. “Oh yeah. It’s soon. You didn’t know?”
Jason’s jaw ticks. “Harper.”
“What?” Roy spreads his hands. “It’s a normal thing to talk about. People have birthdays.”
Jason’s glare is a warning shot. “Not me.”
You lean against your desk, eyes narrowing in that way that makes trouble feel inevitable. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. You don’t get to be twenty-something and act like birthdays are a personal insult.”
“I don’t celebrate,” Jason says flatly.
Roy, of course, can’t help himself. “That’s because no one ever throws you a party, grandpa.”
Jason looks like he’s about to commit a felony.
You step in, all sugar and steel. “So you’re telling me,” you say, slow, “that you’ve been working here for months and I haven’t gotten to weaponize cake against you even once?”
Jason opens his mouth. Closes it. Like he doesn’t know how to respond to someone sounding genuinely offended over frosting.
Roy watches the two of you—how your eyes catch, how Jason’s stare lingers a second too long before he forces it away. How the air between you goes tight with something that isn’t just banter.
And Roy feels it again.
That small, sharp ache.
Not jealousy. Not anger.
Just… the quiet awareness that you and Jason are building something he doesn’t fully fit inside.
He clears his throat, trying to shove himself back into the conversation the way he always does—like a wedge, like a joke.
“So,” he says brightly, “should I start designing the ‘Happy Birthday, Murder Gremlin’ banner or—”
You laugh.
But it lands a fraction late, like your attention is already drifting back to Jason. Like you’re already planning, already plotting, already pulling at that thread between you.
And Roy’s smile flickers—just for a second.
Jason doesn’t notice.
You don’t notice.
Roy does.
He opens his mouth to try again—another joke, another spark, something to make them look at him the way they used to—
And it doesn’t come.
So he swallows it.
Grins anyway.
Because that’s what Roy Harper does.
He keeps the room warm, even when something inside him goes cold.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The shop settles into that late-morning lull where the air feels warmer, heavier—like even the tools are taking a breath.
You’re already shrugging into your jacket when Jason steps in close enough that his shadow falls over your desk.
“You don’t have to—” he starts, like he’s trying to pretend this is about logistics and not the fact that he likes watching you move through the world.
You cut him off with a grin. “Yes, I do. Because if I don’t leave, you’ll keep pretending you don’t miss me hovering.”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t miss—”
“Mhmm.” You grab your keys with a jingle that sounds like victory. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Then—because you’re not cruel, not really—you turn your head toward Roy.
He’s perched on the stool by your desk, one foot bouncing like the floor is made of caffeine. His smile is there, but it’s… thinner. Like a sticker that’s been peeled off and re-stuck too many times.
You soften without thinking.
“What about you, Ginger Styles?” you ask, voice gentler than your usual bite.
Roy blinks, like you just turned a lamp on in a room he forgot you were in.
“Oh, I see,” he says, immediate deflection. “Now you’re doing customer service for me? Should I leave a five-star review? ‘Front desk girl asked about my lunch order and didn’t call me a whore once.’”
“You’re welcome,” you say dryly. “Eat. What do you want?”
He rattles it off with his usual flair—extra sauce, extra fries, a drink that tastes like sugar and bad decisions—then squints at you.
“And get yourself something too. You can’t survive on spite forever.”
You lift your chin. “Watch me.”
Jason exhales like he’s trying not to smile.
“Roy,” he says, already turning away, “take the desk while she’s gone.”
Roy salutes dramatically. “Aye aye, Captain Broody.”
Jason flips him off without looking. Roy laughs, loud enough to fill the space.
It lands.
Not perfectly. But it lands.
And for a second, it almost feels normal again.
You point at them both, already backing toward the door. “Don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”
Jason grunts. “No promises.”
Roy beams. “He means yes.”
You roll your eyes, blow them a kiss that makes Jason’s ears go faintly pink, and disappear out the front.
The bell jingles behind you.
And Roy is alone at your desk, in your spot, surrounded by the tiny signs of you—your pink pen, your neat handwriting on the board, the smudge of glitter that never fully leaves the surface no matter how many times he wipes it down.
He leans back in the chair, grinning to himself like he’s fine.
Like he isn’t counting the seconds.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The front door opens again.
Roy straightens automatically, slipping into that easy front-desk voice like it’s muscle memory.
“Welcome to Red Line—”
Then he looks up.
And the words die in his throat.
The man standing there is tall and polished in a way that doesn’t belong in a garage. Expensive jacket. Clean hands. A face Roy’s tried not to picture for years, because thinking about him always turns into thinking about everything else.
Oliver Queen.
Roy’s fingers go cold on the edge of your desk.
For a heartbeat, he’s not in the shop anymore.
He’s somewhere else—somewhere older, rawer. A place where promises were made in warm tones and broken in silence.
Oliver smiles like this is a coincidence. Like he didn’t just walk in and tilt Roy’s whole day off its axis.
“Roy,” he says, like the name is still his.
Roy forces air into his lungs and stands.
“Queen,” he answers, too sharp—because he can’t afford to sound soft.
Oliver’s eyes flick around the shop, taking in the lifts, the tools, the half-dismantled car Jason’s under in the back. The whiteboard. The little details.
A normal place.
A real place.
“It’s… good to see you,” Oliver says, and he sounds sincere enough that it almost hurts more. “I heard you were—” he pauses, like he’s choosing the right word. “—doing well.”
Roy’s mouth twitches into something that wants to be a joke.
“Oh, yeah. Living the dream. Grease under my nails, trauma in my back pocket. You know, wellness.”
Oliver chuckles—soft, fond, like Roy’s still a kid in his orbit.
And Roy hates how familiar it feels.
“I’m glad,” Oliver says, stepping closer. “Really. After everything you and Jason have been through… it’s good to see you came out on the other side.”
There it is.
That line.
That pretty little phrase people use when they want pain to sound meaningful.
Roy’s spine stiffens, his smile sharpening into something defensive.
Oliver keeps talking, unaware—or maybe pretending he’s unaware—of how Roy’s body has gone rigid.
“You both… you’ve built something here,” Oliver says, like he’s proud. “You turned all that… hardship into—” he gestures vaguely, like he can wrap it up neatly. “—character. Into strength.”
Roy’s laugh comes out wrong. Too loud. Too flat.
“Yeah,” he says, voice tight. “Character. Great. Love that for me.”
Oliver finally seems to clock it—something in Roy’s tone, the way his eyes won’t hold his.
But instead of stepping carefully, he reaches for control the way he always has.
“I didn’t mean—” Oliver starts. “Roy, you know I—”
Roy cuts him off before the sentence can become a net.
“I’m busy,” he says, and the words come out harsher than he intends. “If you need a car fixed, talk to Jason.”
Oliver’s jaw tightens, just for a second. Then he nods.
“Right,” he says quietly. “Of course.”
He lingers like he wants to say more.
Like he wants to explain himself.
Like explanations are what Roy needed back then, when he was breaking.
But Roy isn’t giving him that opening.
So Oliver leaves.
The bell jingles again.
And the air doesn’t feel the same after.
Roy stands there staring at the door like he’s waiting for the floor to stop moving.
His chest feels tight.
His mouth tastes like old memories.
He tries to swallow it down.
Tries to shake it off.
Tries to do what he always does—make a joke, make it lighter, make it not real.
But the spiral’s already started.
He turns his head toward the back, voice rougher than he means it to be.
“Hey,” he calls. “I’m taking my break.”
Jason rolls out from under the car, immediately alert at the tone.
“Roy—”
But Roy’s already moving.
Too fast.
Like if he stays, he’ll say something he can’t take back.
He pushes through the side door—into the little strip of space behind the garage where people take “breaks” they don’t want witnessed. Smoke breaks. Breathing breaks. I-can’t-do-this-right-now breaks.
And he doesn’t even realize how hard he’s walking until he nearly collides with you coming back in, balancing bags and drinks and napkins like a one-person catering service.
You blink up at him, already forming a joke—
“Damn, Ginger Styles, you running from the cops or—”
Then you actually look at him.
And something in your face changes.
Because Roy’s eyes are too bright.
His smile is gone.
And his hands are shaking like he’s trying to hold himself together by force.
“Roy?” you say, softer. “Hey. What happened?”
Roy doesn’t answer.
He just slips past you, shoulders tight, heading for the back like the air in the shop is suddenly too thick to breathe.
And the joke dies in your throat.
Because you know that look.
Not the details.
Not the whole story.
But the shape of it.
The look of someone trying not to fall apart in front of people they love.
Roy brushes past you like he’s late for something—late for oxygen, late for anywhere that isn’t here. His shoulder catches yours, and you feel the tension in him like a live wire.
“Roy—”
He doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t even pretend.
The bell over the door jingles as you push back inside, food bag swinging from your wrist like an anchor. The shop smells like oil and hot metal and the faint vanilla trace you’ve basically branded the place with.
You drop the bag on your desk without even looking at it.
“Hey,” Jason’s voice cuts across the garage.
You turn—and he’s already there.
On edge. Eyes sharp. Body coiled.
“He just ran out,” he says, fast. Too fast. “He didn’t say shit. He—” Jason’s jaw tightens like he’s trying not to grind his teeth into dust. “I don’t know what the hell happened.”
“I saw,” you breathe, hands already moving, already halfway to the back door.
Jason steps with you automatically.
You don’t even realize he’s following until his shadow merges with yours.
“No,” you say—gentle, but firm. “No, no. Let me handle this.”
Jason halts like you shoved him.
His eyes flash. “Excuse me?”
You pause, turning back just enough to see the way his worry is leaking out through the cracks. He looks like he’s trying to keep control by sheer force of will.
“I’m not saying you don’t care,” you start, quick, because you already hear the fight brewing. “I’m saying I—”
“He’s my best friend.” The words come out sharp, rougher than he means, like he’s been holding them between his teeth and they finally cut his tongue. “I think I have the right to check on him.”
The shop goes very still for half a second.
Not awkward.
Just… heavy.
And you realize—this isn’t ego. This isn’t Jason being territorial in the stupid way.
“Because you go out there looking like you want to commit a felony, he’s gonna do what Roy does.” You hold Jason’s gaze, unflinching. “He’ll joke. He’ll deflect. He’ll perform.”
Jason’s nostrils flare like he wants to argue.
You beat him to it.
“And I love him, but I’m not in the mood for his comedy hour right now.” You take one step closer, speaking quieter, like it’s just the two of you. “Let me get him to breathe first. Let me get him to say it out loud.”
Jason’s jaw works.
His hands flex at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to move anyway.
Finally, he exhales through his nose. A surrender disguised as irritation.
“You’ve got twenty minutes,” he says, voice tight. “If you’re not back, I’m coming out there.”
You nod immediately. “Fair.”
You reach for the door—
Then you stop, just for a breath, and look back at him.
“And Jason?” you add, softer, because you can’t help it. “You’re not wrong for wanting to go. I promise.”
Something in his face stutters. Like he didn’t expect kindness after snapping.
You don’t give him time to overthink it.
You slip outside.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
Behind Red Line, the air smells like hot asphalt and cigarette ghosts.
It’s not a real “smoking spot,” not officially—just a strip of space where people go when they need to be out of sight but not out of reach. A place for breath breaks. Breakdown breaks. The kind of place where you stare at the sky and pretend your life isn’t actively chewing on you.
Roy is there.
Leaning back against the wall, head tipped slightly, hands braced on his knees like he’s trying to catch his lungs before they sprint away from him. His shoulders rise and fall too fast—like he’s been running, even though he hasn’t moved.
You slow your steps so you don’t startle him.
When you get close enough, he glances up.
His eyes flick over your face, searching for what he expects to find—annoyance, confusion, judgment.
You don’t give him any of it.
You just look… worried. Quietly. Serenely. Like you’re a steady thing.
Roy forces a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Wow,” he says, breathy and fake-bright. “You found my secret lair. Congratulations. You’re officially invited to the Roy Harper Emotions Dungeon.”
The joke falls flat.
You don’t laugh.
You don’t even smile.
You just step closer, stop beside him, and wait.
Roy’s grin wobbles.
He tries again, weaker. “I ran out because… uh… I remembered I left the stove on.”
You tilt your head. “Roy.”
His name on your tongue is soft. Not scolding. Not teasing.
Just… real.
Something in him finally gives up pretending.
His shoulders drop like the fight drains out.
“…Yeah,” he exhales. “Okay. Yeah. That was stupid.”
You don’t press. You don’t demand explanations like you’re owed them.
Instead, you offer him a choice.
Your voice is gentle when you say, “We can just stand here, if you want. Quiet. No talking. Or you can tell me. Or I can leave you alone for a bit and come back. Whatever you need—”
Roy’s eyes flicker.
Like he doesn’t know what to do with someone giving him permission instead of pressure.
You add, softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”
That lands somewhere deep.
Roy swallows. Hard.
Then, with a shaky exhale, he lets himself slide down the wall until he’s sitting on the ground, knees pulled up, forearms resting on them like he’s trying to hold himself in one piece.
You crouch beside him.
Close enough to be there. Not close enough to crowd.
He stares at his hands for a long moment.
When he finally speaks, his voice comes out quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“You don’t know a lot about me,” he says.
You shake your head once. “Not the past stuff, no.”
Roy huffs a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Past stuff.”
He drags a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe the memory clean.
“My dad died when I was a kid,” he says, eyes still not on you. “House fire. Fast. Ugly. And my mom…” His mouth tightens. “My mom didn’t— she couldn’t— I don’t know. She just left.”
Your chest squeezes.
Roy’s voice goes flatter, like he’s reading facts off a page because feeling them hurts too much.
“So I bounced around. Foster homes. Streets. Whatever. Then Oliver—” He pauses, and the name tastes complicated. “Oliver Queen.”
Your brows knit. “The blond guy that left right before you?”
Roy’s mouth twitches, bitter and fond at the same time. “Yeah. Him.”
He shakes his head, staring at the pavement like it’s safer than your eyes.
“He took me in,” Roy says. “Tried. I’ll give him that. He tried.” A breath. “But trying isn’t always… enough.”
You don’t interrupt.
Roy keeps going, voice tightening.
“He didn’t know what to do with me. Not really. He saw this broken kid and thought—what, I don’t know—good food and a bed and a lecture about doing the right thing would fix it.”
He swallows again, jaw flexing.
“And I wanted it to fix me. I wanted it so bad I could taste it. I wanted him to be… my person, I guess.”
The words hang between you, fragile.
He laughs once, sharp with self-disgust. “Which is a stupid thing to want from anybody.”
“It’s not stupid,” you say immediately.
Roy glances at you—quick, startled—then looks away before your empathy can burn him.
“I messed up,” he admits. “A lot. I was angry all the time. I didn’t know how to—” He gestures vaguely toward his own chest. “—be anything but sharp.”
You stay quiet, letting him build it.
Then he says it.
“I started using.”
Your breath catches.
Roy’s gaze snaps to your face instantly—watching, bracing, ready for the flinch. Ready for the judgment. Ready for you to see him differently.
You don’t.
Your expression softens, eyes shining.
Slowly, you reach out and take his hand.
Just… hold it.
Like it’s nothing. Like it’s not disgusting. Like it’s not shameful. Like it’s just Roy.
Roy’s throat works. He blinks hard.
“…Yeah,” he whispers, barely there. “Heroin. For a while.”
He squeezes his eyes shut like he can still feel the weight of it.
“It wasn’t even about getting high,” he says, voice raw now. “It was about… quiet. Like—” He laughs, broken. “Like for a second, my brain shut the fuck up.”
Your grip tightens.
Roy’s voice drops, and it’s the most honest thing he’s said all day.
“For a minute, I didn’t have to think about how everyone I love eventually moves on. Eventually leaves.”
He exhales shakily.
“And Oliver… he didn’t know how to handle it. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. So he threw me out.” Roy’s mouth twists. “Not officially, not like a movie. But it was still… ‘Get out. I can’t do this.’”
Your eyes sting. You blink fast, trying to keep it together.
Roy notices anyway. “Hey—” He frowns. “Don’t— don’t cry. I’m not trying to—”
“I’m not crying because you’re telling me,” you say, voice wobbly. “I’m crying because you were a kid.”
Roy’s face tightens like he’s fighting his own tears now. “I was a mess.”
“You were a kid,” you repeat, firmer. “And you didn’t deserve that.”
Roy swallows hard, eyes going glassy. He sniffles, then tries to laugh it off and fails miserably.
“Great,” he mutters. “Now we’re both crying. This is so humiliating.”
You wipe under your eye with the heel of your hand. “Speak for yourself. I look hot when I cry.”
That gets a strangled laugh out of him—small, real, grateful.
“Sure you do,” Roy murmurs, voice thick.
You give his hand a squeeze. “Keep going.”
Roy nods once, breathing through it.
“I got clean,” he says. “Took years. Took… everything. And I’m proud of it.” His jaw clenches. “I am. But it doesn’t mean the cravings disappear forever.”
You stay still.
He looks down at his fingers in your grasp like he can’t believe you’re still holding on.
“Seeing him today—he didn’t even say anything that bad,” Roy admits, and his voice cracks with frustration at himself. “He said he was proud. He said I ‘came out the other side.’ Like my life was a motivational poster.”
Your nose wrinkles sympathetically.
“But it hit me,” Roy continues, quieter. “Because it felt like… ‘See? You’re fine now. So I don’t have to feel guilty.’”
He swallows.
“And then…” His eyes flick up to you, and for the first time he looks truly scared. “And then I started thinking about you and Jason.”
Your stomach flips.
Roy rushes on, like he needs to get it out before he talks himself out of it.
“Not in a weird way,” he says quickly. “Not jealous. I’m not— I’m happy for you, okay? I am.” He shakes his head, flustered by his own honesty. “But I keep… waiting.”
Your brows knit. “Waiting for what?”
Roy laughs, small and sad. “For the part where I stop being necessary.”
The words hit you like a punch.
He stares at the ground, voice barely above a whisper.
“You two are… building something. And I keep thinking one day I’m gonna wake up and realize I’m just—” He gestures helplessly. “—extra.”
Your chest tightens so hard it hurts.
Roy presses on, voice rough. “And today, with Oliver, with you two talking and… forgetting I’m there for a second—” He swallows. “It made my brain do the thing.”
You squeeze his hand. “The thing?”
“The thing where it goes, ‘You know what would fix this?’” Roy’s mouth twists. “And for a second—just a second—I thought about using again.”
His eyes flick to yours, terrified now.
“And it scared the shit out of me.”
You don’t hesitate.
You lean in and wrap your arms around him.
Roy stiffens for half a second—then melts into it, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he’s been holding himself upright on fumes.
You hold him tighter.
“Roy,” you whisper, fierce and soft at the same time. “Listen to me.”
He makes a small sound of acknowledgement.
“You’re not a placeholder,” you say. “You’re not ‘the funny one.’ You’re not a temporary person in anyone’s life.”
Roy’s breath shudders.
“You’re…” You swallow hard, because it matters. “You’re one of the best people I’ve met in years. You make me feel safe. You make me feel seen. You make this place feel like home.”
Roy sniffles. “Stop,” he croaks. “You’re gonna make me ugly cry.”
“You’re already ugly crying,” you mutter into his shoulder, and that gets another wet laugh out of him.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“And whatever happens between me and Jason,” you add, cheeks warm, but your voice doesn’t waver, “doesn’t change what you are to me. That’s different. That’s its own thing. You and me? We’re… forever.”
Roy’s eyes widen.
“You’re being dramatic,” he whispers, offended and wrecked.
“You love dramatic,” you shoot back, wiping his cheek with your thumb. “Don’t act brand new.”
He laughs again, shaky, and squeezes your hand like a lifeline.
You inhale, steadying.
“And about the cravings,” you say gently, shifting into that practical tenderness you use with scared customers and hurt friends. “That doesn’t mean you failed. It means you got triggered. It means your brain went back to an old coping mechanism because it was scared.”
Roy nods, swallowing hard.
You tilt your head. “Would you… want to go to a meeting?”
Roy’s eyes flick away. “I don’t— I don’t know if I—”
You cut in, softer. “Not alone.”
His gaze snaps back.
“I’ll go with you,” you say simply. “If you want. I’ll sit there. I’ll hold your hand. I’ll stare down anyone who looks at you wrong.”
Roy lets out a broken laugh. “You’d get banned.”
“Probably,” you admit. “But I’d do it with love.”
Roy breathes out, shoulders sagging.
Then, quietly, like admitting it is its own kind of bravery, he nods.
“…Okay,” he whispers. “Maybe.”
You squeeze his hand. “Good.”
Roy wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, trying to get himself together, and sniffs hard.
“God,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “We’re like twelve-year-old girls having a friendship breakup.”
You grin through your own wet eyes. “Except we’re hotter.”
Roy laughs—real this time—and it shakes the last of the panic out of his shoulders.
He looks at you, eyes still glassy, but something steadier in them now.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
You tilt your head, smiling soft. “Always.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
They walk back in together like nothing happened.
Like you didn’t just peel Roy open behind the building and hold his heart steady in your hands.
But the evidence is there anyway—your eyes a little puffy, Roy’s nose a little pink, the faint sniffle he tries to disguise with a cough that doesn’t fool anyone.
The bell over the door jingles.
Jason is pacing.
Not casually. Not “waiting.” Pacing like a caged animal with too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it. His hands flex at his sides. His jaw is tight. He looks up the second the bell rings and his whole body locks—
Full-body tension. Shoulders high. Eyes sharp.
He sees Roy and stops so abruptly it’s like he hit a wall.
For a heartbeat, he just stares.
Then his voice comes out short and rough, like it hurts him to ask.
“You okay?”
Roy glances at you first.
Just a quick flick of his eyes—checking, confirming, grounding.
You squeeze his hand with a small, steady smile.
Roy swallows, then looks back at Jason.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I will be.”
Something in Jason’s face shifts.
It’s so subtle you almost miss it—a crack in the armor. Relief leaking through the seams.
Jason nods once like that’s enough, like that’s all he needs.
Then he steps forward.
He hesitates for half a second—because Jason hesitates around softness, around touch, around anything that resembles comfort.
And then he does it anyway.
He reaches out, grips Roy’s shoulder, and pulls him in.
A tight hug. Real. Firm. The kind that says you’re here, you’re breathing, you’re not leaving without using a single goddamn word.
Roy stiffens for a second from surprise—then melts into it, head tipping forward, arms coming up like muscle memory.
You watch Jason’s eyes close for the briefest moment, like he’s letting himself feel it too.
When he finally pulls back, he keeps a hand on Roy’s shoulder like he’s anchoring him to the room.
Jason’s voice drops, low enough to be private.
“Want me to beat up that discount Legolas?”
Roy lets out a wet laugh—small, wrecked, genuinely amused.
“No,” he says, wiping at his face with the back of his hand like it’s annoying him. “I don’t need him anymore.”
Jason’s hand tightens once, approving.
“Good,” he mutters, like that’s a vow too.
Roy breathes out, steadier now, and flicks his gaze toward you.
“Okay,” he announces, forcing brightness back into his voice like he’s reclaiming it. “Can we talk about how you left food here and didn’t even offer me a fry? That’s emotional abuse.”
You scoff, instantly grateful for the familiar banter. “You’re literally still in my good graces. Don’t ruin it.”
Jason rolls his eyes, but it’s softer than usual. Less sharp.
You all slide back into the rhythm of the shop—voices overlapping, small complaints, the whiteboard squeaking as you update it, tools clinking in the background like a heartbeat.
And Roy… Roy feels it.
The difference.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way.
Just in the way his lungs stop fighting him.
In the way he can stand in the middle of the garage and not feel like he’s waiting for the door to close on him.
He’d been so scared of being left behind that he forgot what it felt like to be chosen without earning it.
Now he remembers.
Now he knows what home feels like.
And for the first time in a long time, the thought doesn’t terrify him anymore:
Wow. This really was a CCCCallsigns. And that's it. Bye!
Ahhh, I'm joking. You guys didn't think I'd just vanish into hiatus before sharing the Fun part, right? It's time for me to share the bulk of my work.
I'll start by posting Every Static Image Ever in this post, as well as unused images and assets from both the website and Counting Control
"Callsigns admin. what the fuck is a Counting Control."
SHHHhhhh. wait patiently. it's getting its own post. though I Will release the Answer to Static's secret page at the bottom of this post, for those interested.
Tacking a "keep reading" on this one, since she's bulky on the images.
Without further ado, let's break down my torture!
Lets start with images everyone has already seen !
14 sprites; 6 day-openers, 6 day-results, one hint, and tiny corner Static from the website reveal
All 12 textbox sprites
the intentionally-few pictures actually Containing Static from the website
And here's a bunch of unused assets!
the draft sketches for my commissioned guest pieces on the About page. I still think these are REALLY cute
the old 5-panel lineup for Static's Intro comic. a lot changed, but a lot also stayed the same. I'm so glad I changed what I did. Everything flows better [i had no idea what i was doing when i made these], and Static's poses are a LOT less stiff.
COUNTING CONTROL UNUSED CONTENT
Still frame and gif render for a scrapped segment of Counting Control, replaced because I decided to break up the language of this scene into two parts.
another gif i never ended up putting into the final cut; when I re-storyboarded counting control, I cut out the entire concept this gif would have been needed for
Tweening segment because Counting Control was originally going to be. mostly just a lyric video instead of an entire AMV! You can now imagine Static singing his heart out to anything you desire.
Scrapped walk cycle that I REALLY SHOULD HAVE USED IN THE FINAL CUT. I SHOULD HAVE USED IT. i was thinking about it last week and I was like "damn if i want to put this in CC i have like 3 days to do it" and then i decided it wasn't worth the effort. he walks away from me forever.
Scrapped gif from the Counting Control intro; they were all originally going to be animated! but I decided against it in favor of the frames that made it to the final cut, on the basis of workload and also quality.
old traditional cover ideas for Counting Control, the oldest of which [left] dating back to 2024
God. ok! That's. that's all I can muster. I dont have to draw this guy for three more months at MINIMUM <3 thank god /silly
Thanks for joining me on. um. this ! I've put in an ungodly amount of work into this project between. basically doing Everything Twice. and. being a fledgling adult LMAO. God willing, next time I cough something up it WON'T be during finals week for the average high-school aged demographic that engages with Callsigns. Whoops.
For those of you who are here looking for the answer...
foremost, if you just skipped all my lovely work to get to the answer i am so disappointed in you, go back and look at it [please]
and secondmost, if you've made it here and you already had the answer BEFORE ive given it to you, there is a special prize for you in my heart and it's called my greatest and most sincere congratulations! Thank you SO MUCH for playing the game [mostly] as intended and making your way to the end! Sorry for all the evil pressure LOL! I'm super duper proud of you!
Enjoy watching Counting Control as intended, you guys !
I will post Counting Control by itself soon, probably AFTER the Artfight theme reveal, and then in a couple days we can finally wrap up the intro segment of CCCCallsigns once and for all and proceed into Act 1!
Or. well. the hiatus that comes before I start Act 1.
