#(WHAT do you mean that's not normal child behavior)

[lune-moon-nuit]

I feel deeply uncomfortable seeing how misunderstood Mike is—not just by the general audience but especially by some fans within the "Byler" fandom, who are supposed to be the ones who understand him best. They are incredibly harsh toward him, wishing for his death, for him to be beaten and humiliated, all because of his behavior in the last two seasons, particularly towards El and Will. This is largely due to his repressed homosexuality and internalized homophobia, but also because of his mental health, which is, in reality, utterly miserable yet so widely ignored.

These Byler fans, many of whom are teenagers or in their early twenties and some even part of the LGBTQ+ community, show little to no empathy towards him. They fail to realize the level of violence that existed against homosexuals in the United States during the 1980s, amidst the AIDS crisis and under Reagan's presidency. I strongly encourage you to conduct in-depth research because it is evident that you vastly underestimate the extent of the widespread, normalized, and, most importantly, violent homophobia of that era. Even people who could have been open-minded were wary of gay individuals out of fear of contracting AIDS, fueled by widespread paranoia and mass hysteria.

I believe Season 1 already paints a clear picture of this atmosphere—through Joyce’s words about how Lonnie referred to Will and through the slurs Troy and his friend used at school. These lines and characters were not included merely for storytelling purposes; they subtly highlight the pervasive homophobia present in the town (and the country) at the time.

Countless gay individuals of all ages in that period preferred to reject the mere idea of being homosexual—along with their own feelings—and would even become homophobic aggressors themselves as a form of self-preservation. At that point, it was pure survival instinct. To avoid being bitten, you bite first.

Now, let’s remove the supernatural trauma from Mike’s context and consider his reality:

We have a child who has been bullied throughout his school years in a small American town during the 1980s, a time when the AIDS crisis was at its peak. His best friend is bullied for appearing/being gay. When Will goes missing, the town—including his own father—suggests that it was expected because he was gay. The only plausible explanations, according to them, were either:

He was kidnapped and murdered by a “queer” (and let’s not forget “sexually assaulted” because one of the most dangerous stereotypes about gay men at the time was that they were pedophiles).

He committed suicide by jumping off the quarry because he was gay.

Everything related to being gay at the time was synonymous with death—whether from AIDS, suicide, or murder for simply being gay. And this violence, hatred, and fear were widely accepted and validated by society.

Now, imagine placing all of these subtle yet deeply ingrained messages inside the mind of a 12-year-old child.

On top of that, Mike’s emotions have always been ignored or minimized by everyone in the series, especially by his parents (even if they mean well). So what do we have? A traumatized child who has been humiliated and relentlessly bullied all his life, who has been made to understand that expressing his emotions and feelings is pointless, that no one listens to him, and that he should stay silent.

Even from the beginning of the series, Mike has always had a bit of an "attitude"—which, when he was younger, was endearing to the audience. But that’s mainly because he is extremely sensitive and deeply caring, yet he struggles to express himself and be heard, as most people don’t listen to him—especially when it comes to his own emotions and feelings. So what does he do? He bottles everything up. He internalizes every emotion until the pressure builds to the point where he explodes—just like in Season 2 when he lashed out at Hopper after being emotionally exhausted and pushed to his limit upon learning that El had been alive the whole time without his knowledge.

Mike’s situation is incredibly complex, with countless factors influencing it: his repressed homosexuality, his internalized homophobia, survivor’s guilt after El saved him, guilt over hurting both El and Will, his complete lack of self-esteem, his unresolved trauma from being bullied, supernatural traumas, the quarry scene (he was suicidal at 12—I repeat this because it still doesn’t seem clear to many people), his fear of losing Will or El again, the massacre at the lab where Bob never returned… I could list dozens of examples.

But do you realize the sheer emotional and traumatic weight he has never "unpacked"?

The only reason people are so harsh on him is that, for the past two seasons, we have had zero insight into Mike’s perspective. We have no access to his thoughts, emotions, or inner world. All we can do is observe him closely, piece together what we know about him since Season 1, and logically connect his behaviors, facial expressions, and words.

But here’s what’s truly baffling: these Byler fans who are so cruel to Mike are supposed to already know everything I’ve just explained. They should understand it. Yet, despite this, they show a complete lack of empathy for him. It’s as if, to them, Mike isn’t allowed to make any mistakes.

Yes, his behavior is frustrating. Yes, he has made mistakes. Yes, he has said hurtful things. But isn’t that what being human is? It doesn’t change the fact that he has always been a kind-hearted person with a huge capacity for love.

I mean, if we’re really going to judge a character’s worth based on their mistakes, should we condemn El for making Max fall over out of childish jealousy in Season 2? Should we blame her for violating Mike and the boys’ privacy by spying on them? Should we hold it against her for outright denying and dismissing Mike’s pain when he said, “I’ve been bullied my whole life,” and she simply replied, “No, you don’t”?

Of course not. We acknowledge that those actions were wrong, but we understand the context and underlying reasons behind them. So why is there such a glaring lack of understanding when it comes to Mike?

Yes, his behavior is frustrating, but ask yourself—would you do any better in his situation?

I’m sorry, but I find it incredibly hypocritical that people normalize insulting and hating this character while completely ignoring the context.

Mike always apologizes to Will when he messes up, which shows that he does reflect on his actions (even if he only does this for Will). He is willing to put himself in danger—even risk his life—to save and protect those he loves. He has a massive heart. He does not deserve the sheer cruelty I see directed at him on Twitter. His actions can be criticized, but he does not deserve to be hated or insulted.

Because the reasons behind his actions in the past two seasons are, in reality, deeply tragic.

Mike is profoundly miserable, and I am convinced he is suffering from depression—especially with the clues subtly left in Season 4, which many fans have picked up on.

I sincerely hope that in Season 5, they finally reveal what Mike has been feeling all along—shedding light on the internal struggles he has been battling silently for years. Whether through Vecna or some other means, Mike needs catharsis to finally heal. He needs to suffer—not for the sake of suffering, but because it is the only way for him to face his traumas and emotions instead of repressing them.

He has been running from his own feelings, burying them so deep inside that they are eating him alive. He is reaching his breaking point.

And that is heartbreaking—not only because it speaks volumes about how poorly mental health was treated in the ‘80s (and still is today) but also because even now, the audience continues to ignore it.

Instead of blaming Mike for his behavior, ask yourself: Why is he acting this way? Why has he changed? Why does he say the things he does?

The answers confirm that, more than anything else—besides therapy and being happy with the man who loves him—Mike needs to heal. He needs to understand that he matters, that he has worth, and that his emotions are valid.

And believe me—if he felt safe enough to express them, he would.

PS : While responding to an anonymous message reacting to this post, I ended up developing even more analysis and depth on this topic as I kept writing. So, consider this post as part 1, and feel free to check out part 2 here, which is even more detailed (and which I’m proud of and spent hours writing, haha).

[scoobydoodean]

sorry for dropping this into your askbox but someone compared dean going off with sam to hunt (and promising lisa to come back iirc???) was treating ben the same way that john abandoned him a lot as a child. head in hands. one time ben called him and said that lisa was doing badly and dean rushed back to make sure she was okay. john never did that for dean even when he was Literally dying.

We sometimes forget there was more to John than extended absences. His neglect is undoubtably a large part of what harmed Sam and Dean growing up, but when John was around, he wasn't necessarily aloof and distant—he could actually be overbearing and paranoid. Case in point: He didn't want Sam to go to school because he was worried he wouldn't be able to protect him (we are told this as early as 1.08, and John himself admits it to Sam in a vulnerable moment in 1.20). Dean also mentions this about John in 6.02 (quoted below).

Dean is explicitly worried about turning into John in 6.02, but it's in a way where whatever he chooses (whether to stay or go), he feels like he'll reflect parts of John's negative behavior, and it leaves him feeling terrible and stuck. If he leaves, he's afraid he'll be abandoning Ben and Lisa (reflecting his father's harmful absences). If he stays, he's scared someone looking to hurt him will find Lisa and Ben, or that his own trauma and stress over the possibility of that happening will turn him into someone so paranoid about their safety that they can't have normal experiences (which is again, reflective of John).

Dean quickly realizes that he can't figure out how to relax after the djinn showing up in 6.01. He and the Bradens move, but something has shifted for Dean psychologically in the aftermath. This is kind of skirted around, but the simple fact of the matter is that Dean has PTSD, and the djinn showing up was extremely triggering for him. We know from his dialogue in 6.01 that Dean really did not feel well mentally for the first several months he was with Lisa and Ben. We also know Dean is ashamed of this (though Lisa does not resent him for it). I think Dean was scared of returning to that place and the shame and guilt he felt about his own mental health around that period, but those concerns are coupled with—again very explicitly—the fear of reflecting his own father's paranoia. In 6.02, Dean doesn't want Ben to ride his bike around the new neighborhood and doesn't want them to all go out for dinner. Dean realizes that his paranoia is a problem very quickly and has a discussion with Lisa about it and how he doesn't want to be a negative presence in their lives because of his own trauma and stress.

DEAN: I don't know what to do here, Lis. I mean, if I knew for sure what the safest thing was, then I'd do it. Stay here and look after you guys or get as far away as I possibly can, but I don't know. And I get what I've been doing lately, you know, what with the yelling and the acting like a prison guard. It's just, that's not me. You tell yourself you're not gonna be something, you know? But my dad was exactly like this. All the time. It's scaring the hell out of me.

I've talked before about how Dean is being dishonest with himself and Lisa as far as yelling at Ben, but that aside... it's here that Lisa tells Dean he should start hunting again, and come and see them when he can. It's really tragic, because Dean's options are so limited. Dean can't see a psychologist. He does not have access to the kind of healthcare he needs. He is scared that he is at least emotionally—a net negative influence on Ben's development. He can't handle staying because of that and he also doesn't want to abandon them because then what if that's worse or they get hurt because he wasn't there? So Lisa tells him to go.

LISA: Okay. Okay, but you also want to be there. I get it. You're white-knuckling it living like this. Like what you are is some bad, awful thing. But you're not. But I'm not going to have this discussion every time you leave. And this is just going to keep happening, so I need you to go. DEAN: I can't just lose you and Ben. LISA: That's not what I'm saying. DEAN: You're saying hit the road. LISA: Dean, if there's some rule that says this all has to be either/or, how about we break it? Me and Ben will be here, and you come when you can. Just come in one piece, okay? DEAN: You really think we can pull something like that off? LISA: It's worth a shot, right?

Dean's already skeptical at this point that they can make a long-distance relationship work, but they give it a shot. They break up three episodes later.

Btw Soulless Sam, in an effort to convince Dean to leave Lisa and Ben and come with him, had also suggested earlier in 6.02 that Dean staying with Lisa and Ben would turn him into John.

SAM: But moving them around? Keeping them on lockdown? I mean, you do have them on lockdown, right? How is any of that different from how we were raised? DEAN: So you're saying... I'm not shoving anybody into this life, okay? This is temporary. SAM: Dad always said it was temporary, Dean. He said it for 22 years. Look, I get it. You want to watch out for them. That's great. I'm just asking, how do you do that and not turn into Dad?

TL;DR Dean was mentally unwell and as far as "reflecting your dad's negative behaviors" was in a "damned if you do, damned if you don't" type situation with no good options, and two different people told him to leave, and his own brother (who at the time he thought he could trust) told him staying is what would turn him into his father. It's sad to see Dean wrestling with all of that reduced down to cold criticism of him for being "like John" or being a "headcase". This kind of criticism of Dean is in our faces in the show of course, but I think we're supposed to get as viewers that this criticism in the mouths of different characters (including Dean) is not always fair or remotely compassionate enough. Dean is not kind to himself. He sometimes overstates/blows things he's done out of proportion to make them sound worse because he has a very bad self-image. Lisa's own insecurities are in play when she suggests Dean wants to go back to hunting with Sam. Soulless Sam also overstates Dean's negative influence on the Braendens (who we explicitly know from 6.08 he does not care about) so that he can get Dean to come with him. It ultimately feels very cruel to frame someone overtly suffering from PTSD as if they're some kind of evil poisonous monster/the harm-doer/exactly like the eeevil dad because they left and because they stayed too long often simultaneously. It will never not rub me the wrong way how the majority of the fandom behaves about this plot line.

[lokivariant01]

I'm not those last anonymous before, you see I come with my username and don't hide. Because I'm absolutely not afraid to say what I think. Your tumblr and twitter accounts are really garbage. And your partner Soteriaeir is the same. It's really unhealthy behavior to talk and comments like this on Zawe. All your theories based only on photos don't mean anything either. What's “normal” content on Tom, what did we just read?

Tom Hiddleston is with Zawe Ashton, and happy with a sweet child. You have to accept it or move on.

Also you are racist, mysoginistic just as much in your twitter posts. Go outside, touch some grass, and question yourself because this is serious.

It is called accountability, stalker. You are taking it out on me because I am not “woke” and not putting up with people from “modern society wokeness”. This is not me being misogynistic or racist, just real. And the fact you hunted for me shows you are so crazy to attack me for an opinion, you will do anything to make me evil in your eyes and psychopath fans like you.

What? Think Tom will hug you and thank you for all of this? No. He doesn’t care for you and Zawe doesn’t care for your crap either, you are a ya for them to earn a life and they strive whilst you are chronically online, this crap on Twitter, shows how people like you are the real racists and misandrists. I hate people who defend others that are like this, and say we are racist and misogynistic.

I love original feminist, not modern feminists that want to get away with being horrid to men. And I don’t like people who act like victims still when they are not. Which is why I follow these people.

Go crawl in your cave, crazy fan. You go outside since you doing this shows how much you are online. What is your age btw? Cause it will determine what you really are? Are you a teen child saying things because her mind is full of crush fantasy? Or are you just a sad, bitter middle-aged woman or man that attacks anyone who actually doesn’t conform to your insane society.

Oh, let me piss you off further,

I support Trump. Bye.👍

[lorian-loriest-dingo]

Vale, pero aquí hay una teoría diferente. Creo que estamos olvidando otra posibilidad más triste y que probablemente contribuyó inconscientemente al estado mental y la dinámica de Félix y Adrien.

Colt liked Adrien's personality and that's why Adrien thinks Felix might be sad about his father's death.

Imagine this: Felix worried that he used Adrien to escape for a moment from his father's control

Felix: How did it go with my father?

Adrien: Un poco aburrido, pero está bien. ¡Puedo ir a tu escuela! ¡Mejoré un poco tus notas y seguí las reglas al pie de la letra para que tu padre pueda relajarse! Creo que casi se entera algunas veces, ¡pero logré controlarme!

Felix :.. ah ..

Maybe it could be the incentive for Felix to be better at everything and finish school faster? 🧐 Can you imagine how that could affect Felix's mental state, believing that it was his personality that was the problem? Or what happens to Adrien that he could come to believe that Colt and Gabriel's behavior being cold and hurtful is something acceptable for someone like him who has to be better at controlling himself?

What I mean is that Colt hated Felix more for the illness he caused him and that Felix did not obey him perfectly (which is normal because he is a child) It's very likely that Colt and Felix won't resonate the same way as Gabriel and Adrien won't resonate

Adrien is more submissive and calm his mom is also sick enough to play with him so imperactivity was not common with his mother , according to the recent flashback it seems that he has always been someone who kept his negative feelings to himself unless you are with someone his trust like him mother

Where Felix could not meet Colt's expectations, it is very likely that Adrien could have met them at least enough to be fine for a week I think that long term , neither of them survives the life of the other because eh, both are bad upbringings

Desde la perspectiva de Colt, él se dio cuenta de que era Adrien o tal vez no se dio cuenta. Uhm, creo que cualquiera de las dos opciones es válida y perturbadora.

A )Se dio cuenta de que era Adrien y no le importó porque Adrien es mejor siguiendo sus órdenes que Félix.

B) Félix (Adrien) se portó tan bien que Colt estaría feliz de haber domado finalmente al monstruo.

C) Adrien was so quiet and uncomplaining that Colt even forgot about his presence sometimes

D) Colt le dio ordenes con el anillo de Felix (Tranquilo Felix no sintió esto como cuando Nathalie usó el anillo de Adrien para controlar a Felix en Risk y Adrien no lo sintió y Felix pretendió obedecer) cuando se salió de la línea e incluso sin anillo Adrien los obedeció y entendió mejor lo que Colt esperaba de él y así no volvería a cometer el error

Maybe even unintentionally worsening Colt's opinion of Felix

Also now that we know that Gabriel went out all the time, it is very likely that Felix was alone with Emilie and that is where his passion for the theater comes from

Amelia, I feel like she was first confused and worried, even scared of why her son was acting like that, but then she realized but didn't say anything until a week had passed or at least that's what it seems like from the dialogue she says clarifying that it was them who didn't realize ( Although it could just be my translation? )

(Funny series if we actually got the flashback of the place swap in the series and it was something totally different than what we speculated )

I just thought about something. Amelie once said Felix and Adrien tricked Gabriel and Emilie for a whole weekend. I wonder, did The Agrestes agree to let Felix stay over for a while or do you think Adrien might have had to suffer a night with Colt?

For the longest time I thought that happened on the Graham de Vanily estate, while they were all trapped together for the holidays or something similar — but we’ve learnt from Werepapas that couldn’t have been the case!

For Adrien’s sake, I hope it happened while Felix/the Fathoms were staying in Paris and that he wasn’t trapped alone with Colt for an entire weekend, but that’s definitely a possibility. I’ve seen a few different posts theorising that this particular weekend is why Adrien appeared to be so afraid of Marinette’s sheriff/cowboy sketch in Psycomedian… and I mean, just look at the way he flinches here (00:35-01:07):

He seems genuinely scared of Marinette in that instant, which otherwise never happens. So it stands to reason that the problem isn’t her, but this particular act — which is eerily similar to the way Colt is portrayed in Representation. I don’t think Colt actually walked around dressed like that, mind you, but the cousins may have been caricaturing him since they were very little. Of course, there’s always the possibility that Adrien simply witnessed Colt’s treatment of Felix, and that was enough to leave scars.

If that worst case scenario did happen, then Amelie’s retelling and forced laughter is a little weird? But we know this petulant exterior of hers is all an act. She was very likely trying to make Gabriel mad on purpose, and bringing back memories of how Colt laid his hands on his son would accomplish just that.

There’s also the possibility that while Felix tricked Gabriel and Emilie for an entire weekend, Colt found out about Adrien immediately — especially if he failed to follow amok orders — and didn’t do anything to him. Which would make for some insane Senticousins angst upon their reunion (of course Felix wouldn’t want Adrien to be hurt, but it would probably reinforce the idea that there’s something wrong with him).

It’s always a little hard to analyse Felix (the episode) due to the inconsistencies in characterisation compared to later seasons (I don’t mean this in a salty way at all — I simply think the writers hadn’t fully figured out what they wanted to do with Amelie and especially Felix then, and had to course-correct from S4 onward). But Adrien being collateral damage of Colt’s abuse, in one way or another, is very likely. Maybe he himself isn’t sure why he reacted the way he did…

I actually have some fic recs on this concept, so here you go:

no one listens to the dead by @bittersweetresilience

It Was Never That Funny by @cookiedough77

There are probably more I’m not thinking about right now, but I hope you’ll enjoy these! 💚💜

EDIT: OK I JUST THOUGHT OF SOMETHING ELSE. What if Adrien tried to do what Felix did in Risk — stand up to his father for him? What if that’s how he convinced Felix to let him leave with Colt and it went horribly wrong? Can you imagine the guilt on both sides?

[echo-s-land]

It's insane how most of the time I don't get how ppl interact and I also Don't Fucking Care

[anaalnathrakhs]

wait, 8 years old kid, you can be alone all day but we'll drive all the mandatory stuff ourselves! wait, 12 years old kid, you're too independant! wait, 14 years old kid, come sit with us instead! wait, 17 years old kid, i'll take the car and pick you up 800 meters away from home! wait, 18 years old kid, don't you know how difficult and hard and painful it was for us when you didn't do activities you don't like with us, back then!

wait, 18 years old kid, i don't understand why you're not more independant if you want it so badly, after all it's normal at your age!

[ailelie]

This reminds me a bit of my pastor's sermon this Sunday. He leaned heavily on this sermon by Walter Winks.

Turn the other cheek has come to imply a doormat like quality that has made the Christian way seem cowardly and complicit in the face of injustice. Is this not evil? It seems to break the back of all opposition to evil and counsel submission. Going the second mile has become a platitude. Meaning nothing else than extend yourself. And encourages collaboration with the oppressor. Jesus’ teaching, viewed this way is impractical masochistic, and even suicidal. An invitation to bullies and spouse batterers to wipe up the floor with their supine Christian victims. Jesus never displayed that kind of passivity. Whatever the source of the misunderstanding, such distortions are clearly neither in Jesus or his teaching. The normal or natural reaction to being slapped, sued, or forced to carry a soldier’s pack was irritation, outrage, or violence. The structure of violence is quite simple. Do unto others as they have done unto you. [Murmured laughter.] Consequently, we always mirror our opponent and become the very thing that we hate. Jesus offers a third way. One which marks a historic mutation in human development. The revolt against the principle of natural selection. With Jesus a way emerges by which evil can be opposed without being mirrored and engaged without capitulation. Jesus councils resistance but without violence.

and

By turning the cheek then, the inferior party is saying “I’m not inferior to you. I’m a human being. I refuse to be humiliated any longer. I am your equal. I’m a child of God. I won’t take it anymore.” Such defiance is no way to avoid trouble. Meek acquiescence is what the master wants. Such cheeky behavior. [Lots of laughter.] Such cheeky behavior could result in a flogging or worse, even killing, but the point has been made. The powers that be have lost their power to make people submit. And when large numbers begin behaving thus, Jesus was already depicted as addressing a crowd, you have a social revolution on your hands.

and

The powers that be literally stand on their dignity. Nothing deflates them more effectively than death lampooning. By refusing to be awed by their power, the powerless are emboldened to seek the initiative. Even when structural change is not immediately possible. This message, far from counseling an unattainable otherworldly perfection is a practical strategic measure for empowering the oppressed.

and

The question here, as in the two previous instances is how the oppressed can recover the initiative and assert their human dignity in a situation that cannot for the time being be changed. The rules are Caesar’s, but how one responds to the rules is God’s. And Caesar has no power over that.

And ths last bit is what connects most to the original post, I think:

To an oppressed people, Jesus is saying, “do not continue to acquiesce in your oppression by the powers. But do not react violently to them either. Rather find that third way. A way that is neither submission nor assault. Neither flight nor fight. A way that can secure your human dignity and begin to change the power equation even now, before the revolution. Turn your cheek. Thus indicating to the one who backhands you that his attempts to shame you into servility have failed. Strip naked and parade out of court. Thus taking the momentum of the law and the whole debt economy and flipping them Aikido-like in the burlesque of legality. Walk a second mile. Surprising the occupation troops by placing them in jeopardy with their superiors. In short, take the law and push it to the point of absurdity. These of course are not rules to be followed legalistically. But examples to spark an infinite variety of creative responses in new and changing circumstances. They break the cycle of humiliation with humor and even ridicule. Exposing the injustice of the system. They recover for the poor a modicum of initiative that can force the oppressors to see them in a new light. Jesus is not advocating non-violence merely as a technique for outwitting the enemy. But as a just means of opposing the enemy in a way that holds open the possibility of the enemy’s becoming just also. If possible, we want both sides to win. This is necessary since we will usually have to live with our opponents after the conflict is over.

Love isn't quietly tolerating injustice for fear of being seen as judgmental. We show love for ourselves and others by calling out injustice and reclaiming our humanity. We show love for those perpetuating injustice by giving them pathways back into community, not by letting injustice in, but giving them room to stop and change.

The logic of Jesus’ examples in Matthew goes beyond both inaction and overreaction to a new response, fired in the crucible of love, that promises to liberate the oppressed from evil, even as it frees the oppressor from sin. Do not react violently to evil. Do not counter evil in kind. Do not let evil dictate the terms of your opposition. Do not let violence lead you to mirror your opponent. Don’t become the very thing you hate. This forms the revolutionary principle that Jesus articulates as the basis for nonviolently engaging the powers. Jesus abhors both passivity and violence. He articulates out of the history of his own people’s struggles, a way by which the oppressor can be resisted without being emulated. And the enemy neutralized without being destroyed. Those who live by Jesus’ words point us to a new way of confronting evil. Whose potential for personal and social transformation we are only beginning to grasp today.

Guys how do you deal with the, what feels like, hypocrisy of calling out Christians Nationalists. Cause like I won’t lie it feels weird calling them out for judging other because like… yeah I’m judging you. Ya know? Idk if I’m putting this correctly.

[desognthinking]

head still buzzing about the wn lovecraftian entities au, specifically how everyone else fits into it :

Lilith here's just like, an absolute force of nature, wild and furious and serpentine. The kind of visceral terror of unmitigable natural apocalypse, and the creature that arises tangled in it, almost indistinguishable from the tsunami itself. Melting and rippling seemingly between states of matter, sometimes viscous liquid and miscible with the water, and sometimes suddenly solidifying and churning into shore; eating up into solid land. That sort of monster. But for Lilith I'm especially reminded of a haunting, twisted version of  Peace Like a River.  The dread comes from watching the cool still surface of the lake or the ocean, having the knowledge that there's something terrible down there, and yet being entirely helpless, against that calculated invisibility and silence, to do anything. 

In a way it does fit her: hard, and fierce, and loves like an ocean. & eventually, I think she does also find a kind of peace like a river.

Camila’s kind of at the other end of this. The mindsick illusions that stretches of (seemingly) open, empty land cast on the psyche. It’s foggy, it’s overcast, and Camila’s there, laughing, molecules thrashing in concert with the atmosphere. It’s nighttime, but the sky is awful bright. She has no wing-analogous anatomy but she flies, translucent and half-tangible in this form, settling over the plains like a shudder. Every electronic device in the vicinity goes dead. Not at all hidden – but that’s worse; this is the kind of experience that draws you into endless spirals when you lie awake sleepless afterwards, bone-rigid, questioning and dizzy. Like a physicist kept awake at night by visions of an expanding universe. Something once whispered things to the back of Camila's neck and now it whispers things to everyone too. 

Mary and Shannon haunt a beautiful mountainous region with sharp suspended caves and snowcapped brown-orange peaks jabbing through lower cloud layers. They are a little older and settled a little earlier and so have ended up inadvertently integrated deeply into the mythology of the region. At the base of one of the mountains resides a town some way away, where Mary actually leads ghost tours on the weekends and holidays. They own fridge magnets and ceramic bowls as well as other traditional crafts and artwork made by the residents,  partially because Shannon believes in supporting small local businesses, and partially because some of it is based loosely on them and it’s very pleasing. 

It is, in any case, something of a rarity for a town to be paralyzed and plagued so faithfully – by blood-curdling noises carried on winter wind, and familiar spectral glimpses that always precede the inevitable discovery of the drained-dry husks of the previously reported missing – and yet remain so protective of their own monsters. Many an enterprising paranormal investigator has been turned away unceremoniously, and vandalizing hikers are made unwelcome. Respect what you do not understand, the locals insist, and Shannon and Mary find that even monsters are not immune to growing fond.

Then Shannon disappears on a dry summer’s day. 

Mary throws herself into finding her and rips up earth and sky for it. She refuses to accept, for a long time, that the most dreaded phenomena has taken place – not death, because unnatural creatures are less susceptible to typical natural reckonings, but simply: abrupt, unexplained, indefinite Departure. From which one may still return, but which one cannot predict or theorize in any way. When finally, it becomes apparent that all she can do is wait and hope, she throws herself into the town. 

After the council votes against a new contractor who wants to develop up in the direction of the Creatures, there’s reports of a falling boulder, originally headed towards the laundromat on the edge of town, arrested mid-descent. It rolls laterally and fuses with an outcropping. A fierce fire, spreading from the west, stops at the town’s threshold, the grass at the foot of the Welcome! sign unsinged. When the townspeople go out to survey the damage, piecing together what’s been lost and what’s salvageable, they lay out the carcasses of larger game across the charred trail – for disposal, or, well, just in case. They’re gone the following morning and the trees, overnight, have screwed themselves upright, scarred bark plastered over in ropes of dirty silver. A team from a major studio comes to town, researching for a documentary on local horror oral traditions, and is shooed away. The next day, a rock splits open and spews out a broad, too-sparkling stream that curls and joins the river downstream.

Sometime down the line, Lilith comes by and has coffee with Mary on the edge of a cliff. From up here the town is blocked from their view, and even if it were not, it would be so small as to be insignificant. Lilith had loitered in the town earlier, claiming boredom, although Mary knows the sleepy place hasn’t changed much, if at all, in the last twenty years, and she has no idea what form of interest anyone could take in it.

She stands on the edge now, looks out into the clouds at a view that still prompts sharp pangs of loneliness when regarded without a familiar grin by her side, a head tilted into her shoulder mouthing at her ear playfully in an attempt to appease her for buying ‘just one more cup. And it’s so quaint, too!’

And then when Mary, just for show, would shrug and huff, ‘You know, the shopkeeper’s mom is sick and his kid needs to go to school. How can you be so heartless, Mary, honestly’.

Lilith puts her cup to her mouth and takes a silent sip. “Well,” she says drily, interrupting Mary’s thoughts. Nods down in the general direction of below. “I see you have a cult now.”

Mary, tired and hungry, strong but so lost, bristles with anger and launches herself at Lilith, who lets her. She thinks that to the townspeople this must look like a condensed volcanic explosion, going on and on and blackening a corner of the sky into red-veined hellfire and thunder. She wonders what they think – what they believe.

They tear at each other's throats for what’s probably hours, sending rock scraping down the cliffside and smashing into the ground below. Somehow avoiding the mouth of the little cave network that is Mary’s home – Mary and Shannon’s home, lovingly studded with knickknacks and mismatched cutlery, the shape of rooms cut carefully out of rock, linen sets they’d hauled back from the big city three hours out and carried up the slopes. 

Eventually they let up, and end up sitting quietly at the dining table inside, nursing freshly brewed coffee in miraculously intact cups. Neither of them apologize. (There is an aching hole in Lilith’s scaly, serrated chest, too.) When the stars rise to their zenith, Lilith gets up to leave and squeezes Mary’s forearm so tightly it would sever if truly only flesh and blood.

“She will come back,” her eyes are black spires pulling light inwards into indistinguishable points far within. “She will.” Then Mary watches Lilith leave, not in a thunderclap but a whisper.

Mother Superion is really not a part of such kinetic drama. She resides, in almost perfect stillness, enmeshed in her glacial home. You could say she is her glacial home: splayed out barely visibly in sensitive, trembling threads snaking through ice. She is ice because the ice has frozen up along with her. In this form she’s so distant from what people think of as a living organism – presence, and the faint transmission of murmurs and vibrations from the way snow falls and shifts around. She’s the overwhelmingly ancient unwordable sense of surrounding in research bases late at night, the thrumming in the engine not attributable to anything mechanical, or even physical. The slightest probe, or reaching-out, and the minutest responding hum, followed by immediate waves of sweating, nausea, nosebleeds. Disintegration and desquamation of the mucus membranes. If she chooses to truly act; if she moves, there will be a magnitudinous shattering, as there once was before. 

The others come to seek her and talk to her, of course, careful not to disturb too much of the snow and ice for fear of accidentally setting off some kind of reflex. Which is how it’s ascertained that, despite her lack of perceptible movement, Mother Superion is eminently capable of conveying a range of complex responses and emotions (mostly centering on unimpressed, sometimes chiding and disapproving, proud, more often than you'd expect, and on the rarest of times, overrun with grief).

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

There always seems to be one kid who just screams like a tornado siren, all day long, at any given opportunity. Like, kid, I love you, you are precious and deserve all the happiness in the world; but please for the love of god shut up. There are people trying to learn here and you’re not helping them or yourself.

[thetimelordbatgirl]

The royalists are now officially out of fanfiction to use to hate on Meghan and Harry, because they now getting mad that their son, Archie, got a bike for his birthday....I ain’t making this up. 

[cathymee]

we're all wasting our time the earth should just explode soon <3

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

#not to be like ‘character of all time’ but man he’s a fascinating villain character. #villain loved by one our protags villain killed by another villain except SHE is only a villain bc of how ROBERT broke her down…….. #no one is doing it like the baratheon boys!!!!!!!!!!!

robert understanding that jaime was basically still a child when he killed aerys, a child given this MASSIVE and RIDICULOUS duty of being the sole defender of like 60% of the royal family except one of those royals was INSANE and EVIL, and that he reacted the way a child might which was just killing aerys before he could do any more damage……like being able to see so clearly the exact catch-22 jaime was stuck in when he’s still a teenager…..but then being completely unable to apply that same understanding to his own family, or even to lyanna & why she might have not wanted to marry him……..

[reiderwriter]

Isn't She Pretty, Daddy?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Teacher f!Reader

Summary: You're a little bit worried about one of your brightest students recently, so you call her Dad to come in for a meeting. Her absolutely adorable - and single - Dad.

Warnings: the birds and the bees as explained by a kindergardener. Some angst about being a single parent.

A/N: Here's another entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Kid Fic Challenge! Dad Spencer has my heart, and I've been in a really fluff forward mood this weekend, evidently! I think I have one more Kid Fic left to go before the end of the challenge, but we'll see what the will of the fanfiction gods is...

Masterlist

If you were to be asked what the hardest part of being a teacher was, you would, without question or even a second to think, have an answer. Parents. The worst part of teaching is talking to parents. 

Little kids were easy to talk to. They asked questions if they didn't understand things clearly, and they didn't typically say things they didn't mean. Adults were the opposite, and it just so happened that all of your kids' parents were adults. 

Including your most recent problem  child. 

You were used to the kids in your class having some behavior issues - for one, they were kids, it was to be expected that their little bodies couldn't quite handle all of the emotions they were feeling at once. But you were doubly struck by your school area being close to Quantico, meaning half the kids in your care had families with law enforcement backgrounds. 

Absent parents plus growing bodies plus normal kid stress equalled attachment issues, and your problem child Harper Reid was one of your more worrying cases. 

You really hoped everything was okay in the Reid household, so you'd called the little girls parents. She was lovely - honest to god - one of the sweetest little kids you'd ever met. 

Every day she came to school with some older kids and their mom, carpooling on the way in, so you had yet to meet her parents, but you thought that anyone who could produce something that sweet and cute and brilliant couldn't possibly be a bad person. 

You didn't know what to expect, so when her little pigtails peaked around the corner and she came running in, you were momentarily filled with anxiety. 

“MOMMY!” The little girl yelled, launching herself into your arms as soon as she spotted you behind your desk. 

“Hi, Harper! Hi, you must be, Mr. Reid-”

“Doctor, actually, um, but that doesn't really matter. I'm so sorry about this, Harper doesn't usually tackle people.” 

The 3ft tall ball of energy had managed to crawl into your lap and wrap her arms around your neck, so you had to pick her up when you stood to greet her dad. 

“Will your wife be joining us for the meeting today?” You asked, already used to Harper's hugs and general closeness. 

“Oh, no. No, she's not coming. She, uh, doesn't exist. Single father.” 

“Oh my god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to assume, it's just not on my files-” 

“It's okay, it's a …bit complicated.” 

You took your seat at the desk and gestured to the man to do the same. Finally, looking at him for the first time now that some of your anxiety had died down, you couldn't help but think that Doctor Reid was incredibly attractive. It wasn't one part of his face that stuck out to you as being particularly pretty, just the entire ensemble of it together that took your breath away. Either that of Harper was gripping you so tight she was restricting your ability to breathe, and considering a five year old is not a boa constrictor, this was all dad's fault. 

“So, you said on the phone Harper's been having some problems at school?” 

You snapped your attention back to the issue at hand, searching for the relevant files and pictures you wanted to show the man. Harper turned herself around in your lap and looped her arms around your arm, pulling it in close to use as a pillow. 

“Isn't Miss Y/N so pretty, Daddy?” You froze and flushed in an instant, suddenly so aware of the man's eyes on you. You weren't sure if you were thankful or even more embarrassed that Harper's dad seemed to be even more flushed than you. 

“Daddy? Isn't she pretty?” Harper insisted, and you realized that you both weren't going to get out of this without him answering. 

“Yes, angel. Miss Y/N is very pretty.” The little girl smiled in triumph and nuzzled into your arm even more, happily curled up into your lap like a cat. 

“Hey, Harper. We got a new puzzle delivered yesterday. It's got My Melody and Cinnamaroll on it. They're your favorites, right?” 

The little girl nodded in glee, eyes shining as she hung on your every word. 

“How about you go over to the play area and get it started, and then me and your daddy will come over and help you finish it?” 

In a flash, she'd hopped up out of your lap and wriggled away, shouting a quick “You promised, right?” behind her as she went. 

“I'm so sorry about that, I don't know what's gotten into her, she's usually very shy and-”

“Doctor Reid, it's fine. That's just why I called you in today. Teachers and parents are a team, right, we work together to make sure the kids grow up well, you don't need to apologize to me for that.” 

The man seemed to take a deep breath and nod, to regain his wits about him for a second. 

“Is she… this attached in her regular classes?” 

“Well honestly, she was a bit like that at the beginning of the semester, but she grew out of it after a while. In the last week or so, she fell back into it, and now she's calling me ‘Mommy,’ too. I was wondering if anything happened recently at home that could've led her in this direction, or…”

The man looked a little bashful, but there was a twinge of sadness in his expression that you recognised all too well. 

“Harper, uh, doesn't have a Mom. I adopted her, and it's a long story, but... She's been asking me to get her one recently, because she doesn't really understand all that well? I'm sorry, I didn't know she'd do something like this. I should've done a better job at home-” 

“Doctor Reid, raising a child is hard. It's so hard that humans usually do it in communities, or at least in couples. You're doing it alone, and Harper is already one of the smartest and most empathetic little girls I know. You're doing your job as Dad just fine.” 

The man smiled at you and looked down, quickly wiping away a tear as you gave him a moment of privacy. 

“So. If nothing at home set Harper off, we should probably go and ask her why she's calling me mommy, right?” 

You stood, and he stood with you, leaving his satchel next to his chair and unbuttoning his jacket. 

“Great. Sure, let's go see.”

Walking to the back of the room, you both smiled quietly, looking at the small girl. The 100 piece puzzle you'd guided her to was neatly arranged on the desk, pieces split into edges and centre pieces as she slowly looked at each one with a quietly focused face. Each time she found the piece she was looking for, her smile was bright as she connected it to the small part she was working on. 

“Mommy! Daddy! I can't find the melody's face, can you help me?” 

“Sure, Harper, we'll help you.” You moved to sit beside her at the tiny desks, giggling when the older Reid on Harper's other side struggled to fit himself in the toddler sized chairs. 

Harper assigned you roles, and you all started quietly doing your jobs, waiting for Harper to focus again so you could ask her questions without agitating her. 

“Harper, can you tell your Daddy why you call me Mommy?” 

“Sure! You're Mommy because I want you to marry with Daddy.” 

If you weren't already still flushed from her earlier comments, you certainly were lightheaded with embarrassment now. 

“Harper, that's not how it works-” 

“Yes, it is, Daddy! Henry said so. He said his mommy and daddy were sad one day, but then they were together again and they had a big party called a wedding and now they're happy, and that's why we have Michael.” You didn't quite follow from all the names and the story events, but it was evident that Reid did, so you waited quietly for his explanation. 

“My friend. Her son was at her wedding a few years back. They have another son who is a couple years older than Harper, they come to school together?” 

Your mouth made a small ‘o’ as you slowly filled in the blanks. 

“Harper, you want daddy to have a wedding so he isn't sad anymore?” 

The little girl gave a big nod and a smile, like she was so happy that she was finally being understood. 

“Miss Y/N should marry daddy because he thinks she's pretty. Henry said that was important for a wedding, your mommy has to look beautiful.” You made eye contact with Doctor Reid awkwardly as she spoke, both of you looking away for fear of seeing the embarrassment on each others faces. 

“And Miss Y/N wants a baby. So I will be Miss Y/N's baby, so everyone can be happy!” Harper's kid logic was a little hard to find fault with, but you still had to push back a little. 

“Harper, why do you think I want a baby?” 

“Angie asked you, and you said," the girl pouted, almost frustrated woth habing to answer all these silly questions.

"She asked you why you don't have a baby, and you said that you can only have a baby if you're married and that you wanted to have a baby when you were married. So marry my dad, and I'll be your baby!” 

Harper's smile was so happy and content that you really didn't want to spoil her dream just yet. You continued putting the puzzle together for a few minutes in silence, the full picture nearly being complete now. Harper seemed to fidget a little in her seat next to you, pushing closer and closer to you before tugging on your sleeve. 

You leaned down and she whispered in your ear - though you didn't doubt that her dad heard every word. 

“If you really want, I'm sure we can get another baby like Henry got Michael. I'll ask my dad, but I think it's allowed.” 

The poor man on the other side of the desk had to cover his face with his hands to stop the blush from showing, devolving to just straight up resting his head on the desk when his daughter kept going. 

“A boy is okay, but my dad doesn't really know about boy stuff. Uncle Derek says that my daddy is just a pretty boy with a book brain. We should get another girl, so daddy can be not worry.” 

The more you listened to Harper's adorable family plan, the more you just wanted to squeeze her tight and say yes and give her everything she wanted. 

“Miss Y/N, once again, I'm so sorry for everything, I'll talk with Harper at home about this.” 

“It's okay, I actually find it all very sweet,” you laughed a little and smiled back at him. 

“No, I'm sure your boyfriend would be so uncomfortable if he knew that she was trying to marry you off-” 

“Doctor Reid, are you trying to ask me if I'm single?” 

The small grin that quirked his lips up was nothing if not unfair. He really was a very pretty boy. 

“It was that obvious?” 

“Yep.” You made sure the ‘p’ popped a lot as you both shared a small laugh. Harper looked up between you and smiled, too. 

“So, can you get married now? Henry said you can do it really quickly, like in Grandpa Rossi's garden, and then you can go and do the secret part at home while Auntie Penny looks after me.” 

“Secret part?” 

“To make the other baby, silly!” 

[girl-lostconnection]

Acceleration AU (part 4) 7.1k

Warnings: smut, insecurities, unhealthy attachment, Johnny is middle child and hates it, possessive behavior, Ghoap x fem!plus size!Reader, Simon is a loser😔, mentions of religious elements (prayer beads) as allegory, suggestive themes, abandonment issues

Soap isn’t sure about anything. Soap looks at you and feels a surge of protectiveness, your tears cracking open the soft tender part of him.

The protector. At his core Johnny is a protector, and you look like you could use one. He knows you are capable of doing it all yourself, God, he can see the way you actually snarl at Simon when he tries to make decisions for you.

But he can’t help but move a little closer to you, passing you a pillow for your lower back while you drink your tea. It earns him a small smile and an additional biscuit on his plate.

(He will come off his leave few pounds heavier thanks to your efforts, but God, it’s not fair how delicious everything is)

For some reason you keep feeding him like your life depends on it, sneaking him crackers and nuts and sandwiches.

Passing him juicy cuts of steak Simon fries for dinner. Making him tea and sharing your cookies. Cutting fruit and peeling oranges and tangerines.

Soap feels like you would hand feed him like he’s a sparrow if you could. If he’d let you.

Caring for him comes to you so naturally like you don’t even have to think about it. And watching you notice Simon’s mood swings and the fact that you pinned comfort foods list for his lieutenant on the fridge…it speaks volumes.

Soap isn’t sure what’s going on and what it means but Simon seems incredibly pleased, and you seem to act like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

So, he just…accepts it? He likes to eat and things you pass him are always delicious so there are no actual grounds for complaining.

You aren’t pushy like Simon is with his advances, you don’t hover, you don’t stare him down. Where Simon is a mountain, an enormous heavy presence and heavy hands and heavy eyes — you are the wall.

You are the cover and safety and absolutely unyielding nature. You are wide shoulders and warm fingers passing him food. You feel like shelter.

Still, he can’t help but sneak glances at you and Simon, trying to gauge how you two even happened. How does it work?

Why did you two stuck together for so long?

Two stones won’t make a paper and while he thought that he and L.T. balance each other out, he didn’t know about you in the past. And now when he does the dynamic leaves him puzzled.

It’s entirely new side to Ghost. A side he never knew before, a side no one but you see, probably.

But you mention running low on groceries and Simon gets up without a second word, getting dressed.

Soap isn’t sure he’s morally ready to stay with you in an empty apartment while he wears your…boyfriend’s? partner’s? just yours? Simon’s sweater.

So, he gets up as well and then you hum to yourself and also get up, quickly drafting up a list in your phone’s notes app, murmuring to yourself what you need to get and occasionally asking Simon (who’s already one leg out the door) if he knows whether or not you have flour.

Simon huffs, getting his boots off and pads back to pantry to check before reporting that no, no flour.

Finally, after two more walks to the pantry (you seem to enjoy making Simon walk back and forth simply because why not and Soap hides his grin behind a cup) and uncomfortably warm fifteen minutes in a puff jacket (that’s what he gets for getting ready too quick) you all are dressed and ready to go.

The afternoon is cold but crisp, not a cloud in the sky, sun shining brightly enough for you to pull out sunglasses and push them on Simon’s nose.

Simon presses a short kiss to the crown of your head and extends palm to Soap, making a flexing gesture with his fingers.

Johnny feels something inside of him warm up when he takes Ghost’s hand and gets pulled up close, grinning when sunglasses almost slide off Simon’s crocked nose.

It’s good. He feels like a boyfriend. Like Simon’s boyfriend.

Where he stands with you, he’s not sure yet, because as much as primal part of him surges up to protect you from slick mud and Simon’s glares and stranger almost checking you off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic, he doesn’t know how you feel about him.

Why bother imagining something that may not even come to life? Powering through obstacles is purely Simon’s virtue, Johnny is more used to rebuilding things. To squeezing through the cracks and making his home in people’s heads before they catch the wind of it.

But you prance forward, click your tongue in annoyance when Simon pulls you back. There is a silent moment where you two just stare at each other and Johnny swears he can see the conversation happening.

He’s just not a part of it.

Johnny has never seen before the way you and Simon operate outside of your home bubble and now, he thinks he gets it a little.

There is this years-old familiarity with which you cover Simon’s side in the crowded mall, pressing him to the opposite side of people walking by you — minimizing amount of accidental physical contact with strangers for him.

And Simon lets you do this without as much as a sound, free palm under your puff jacket, on the small of your back as you lead the way.

It’s as if you know Simon like you know the back of your own hand, perfectly attuned to the level of his comfort, hypervigilant as soon as you step outside.

It’s the same deal inside of the supermarket when Simon tugs your puff jacket off, draping it over the crook of his elbow and pushes the trolley forward, following you as you go.

It’s a routine that you two have, it’s a habit born of years and years of knowing and learning each other’s clicks and hurts and little sore spots.

To the point when now Simon just hums and puts headphones on you when there are screaming kids in the store, and you haul in the shopping cart twice the amount of his favorite snacks.

You two just click and go, moving as a well-oiled machine, the intimate understanding of a perfectly combined puzzle — polished to perfect silence and flickering back and forth glances.

Soap feels the way his right shoulder nervously twitches and speeds up, so he doesn’t get left behind. There is a cool spiky ache in his chest at the comfortable silence you two share.

He’d honestly prefer to chat up one of you, but you are already wearing headphones, engrossed in shopping and Simon looks like he’s perfectly content with staying silent.

You two share a routine and Soap doesn’t know how to slot himself into it.

He doesn’t know if he should.

(How do you know when you are in? How do you know that you can make yourself at home? How do you know you are wanted there? How?)

Johnny waits for a sign.

Trying to see whether he needs to pack up his bag or stay by the door.

He doesn’t wait to see if he’s invited in the bed, he doesn’t wait to see whether or not Simon would change his mind, he doesn’t wait to see if you would kick him out like a stray dog.

A mutt that wandered a little close to the warmth of the hearth and wasn’t immediately shooed away.

Now lying under the table, nervous to breathe too often, nervous to ask for things, nervous to lick petting hands.

But Johnny is not a mutt. He doesn’t want to be one.

Johnny is smarter than empty despair, Johnny is stronger than taking it lying down, Johnny is too stubborn to give up easily.

So, he chats Simon up, so he makes his way into Simon’s arms and Simon’s bed and Simon’s life.

And he meets you.

You watch him — wary and tense, eyes growing heavy when he tries to push through you, when he tries to sneak under your table and wait you out.

It doesn’t happen.

John is annoyed that it doesn’t.

Part of him relieved at that. He tries not to think about that part.

Johnny is from a big family with brothers and sisters, born somewhere in between.

Born and forgotten — mom’s kiss on the cheek and sibling’s shove coming a little too late to go unnoticed. Just a moment later than for everyone else, like they have to make a conscious effort to remember that he is there too.

Just one of the children. Just one of the brothers.

Nothing special really.

He fucking hates it.

He doesn’t want to be one of someone’s, he doesn’t want to be blank face in the crowd, he doesn’t want to be second fiddle and second choice and second best.

Johnny wants to be the first. Johnny wants to be the best.

Johnny wants to be wanted.

He’s just not sure yet how to get himself in your hands. If you even want him, if you even would take him as he is or would he need to adapt to you. Would he need to create a separate Johnny specifically for you?

So, he can stay with Simon and you. So, he doesn’t get tossed out as soon as you are done with him staining your pretty hardwood floors and laying in your bed and fucking with your Simon.

Johnny hates that in his head he can’t name Simon his. Johnny hates that he doesn’t even share Simon with you — you already have him. You had him way before Soap.

And you won’t need to do anything to keep him. Simon is not leaving. Simon isn’t going anywhere from you. Simon is not leaving you behind.

Johnny doesn’t know whether or not he will get left behind. Johnny wants to find out.

He murmurs “give it to me, lass” getting your bags of groceries and watches you wrestle the door. Plastic of bags cuts in his palms, and he thinks they bought entirely too much, because do they really eat all of that?

But then he takes another look at Simon, picking coins off the floor and sighs. Yeah, probably they do. He didn’t think how much three grown people eat. Or two grown people and a bottomless pit of a man.

Simon huffs out air and rolls his shoulders when everything spills out of your bloody pockets.

It’s nothing special really, just that you fumble with your keys and send flying spare change and keychain and old museum ticket and some scraps of paper all over the floor.

Simon crouches with a grunt to pick them all up because Johnny is holding the bags in both hands, pressing one more to the wall with his hip and you are trying to unlock the door (God, he will change the fucking locks as soon as he can. That’s ridiculous, thing jams since you moved into the flat and it’s been years).

So, it’s nothing out of ordinary when you finally wrestle the doors open and shake off your coat, cupping your palms in a boat so he can place everything he picked up in your hands.

It’s not unusual, honestly, it happens a little too often to his liking, but it is what it is and then his eyes catch on a receipt stained with liquor.

A receipt with a phone number and cheeky “gonna wait for your call, doll!” in the corner written in the most shit cursive he has ever seen.

Which bloke with a handwriting like that tried to hit on you? A bloody chicken?

But you just hum, throwing everything back in your pockets, not paying much attention to his inner turmoil.

Though when your eyes catch on the corner of receipt, you pull it back out, inspect the cheerful note and hum again in a way that Simon isn’t sure he likes.

Because you don’t crumble the piece of paper and don’t throw it away — you put it back in the pocket of your coat.

You help Johnny with bags, giving him a chance to shake off his own winter jacket.

There is a dark hot coil of anxiety in Simon’s gut when he stares down your puff jacket, fingers itching to get the bloody receipt and throw it away while you are not looking.

It’s childish and he has no right to do that, but the urge is so strong he actually tries to come up with an excuse in case you catch him.

Soap’s voice is the only thing that snaps him out of it, forcing to start undressing, heavy boots thumping down as he gets them off. He’s a little lightheaded with razor-sharp panic and clouding agitation, tension pain in his neck spiking up again.

Will you call the number? Will you go out with the bloke again? Did you like him? Would you date him?

The timing really couldn’t be worse for this kind of thing. Not when he finally realized what he wants and how he wants it.

Not when he got you and Johnny in one place, not when he already admitted to Johnny that he wants you both.

And while he understands that he mostly dug his own grave on his own, Simon also strongly dislikes the idea of you with someone else.

It’s selfish and he has no right to your time and personal space. He has no legitimate grounds to even be jealous.

But he is.

Drives him fucking mad it does.

Simon watches you pour Johnny some tea, Soap’s eyes warm and thoughtful on you.

Like he is not sure he gets you. Like he doesn’t know where to put himself.

And maybe it should soothe him, but he can’t not think about the number that’s still lying in your coat. The number you didn’t get rid of.

There’s heavy dangerous kind of rage beneath Simon’s skull — pulsating and filling his head with migraine intensity, pushing on his eyeballs harder and harder. Until something breaks.

Until he can’t hold it in anymore.

But Simon could’ve gotten Olympic gold in bottling up his feelings if it ever became a sport. He’d be undisputed world champion with how naturally it comes to him.

Would be great if he also could bottle thoughts in his stupid fucking head so he can think clearly, so it doesn’t make him fidgety and snappy, so he doesn’t hole up in the bathroom for forty minutes just standing under the water.

He gets out only when Soap gets in, fingers massaging his nape, fingers rubbing his shoulders and pressing him in cool tiles. Somehow Johnny knows exactly how to pull the plug and drain him.

Somehow Johnny is always there, making it better, biting into Simon’s arm to force him out of delirium.

Johnny’s palms slide down Simon’s waist, forcing him to brace his forearms on the shower wall, forcing his back to arch.

There’s a familiar tap on his thigh, command to open up because frankly the floors are slick and there’s a huge fucking chance for Simon to fall and break his skull open if Johnny plays rough and kicks his legs open.

But Soap presses himself from behind, teeth scraping against Simon’s shoulder blades, fingers sliding down until there is this familiar pressure on Simon’s hole. The one that leaves him empty headed and greedy, the one that makes his legs slide open and his jaw go slack because bloody hell, Johnny and his long fucking fingers.

(Sometimes he thinks that he and bombs are the only things that get Soap’s fingers with his full concentration in addition. Simon often feels like Soap does work him like a tricky bomb)

Johnny and his attention to smallest detail because he knows exactly what he’s doing when he presses Simon into the wall and fucks him stupid.

Coaxes out moans and greedy greedy creature sitting in Simon’s chest, aching for more, always begging for scraps off the table, still not used to sit like a person and ask like a person.

Johnny cracks him open and bleeds him out just to kiss it better afterwards. Johnny is there, pressing his whole body into Simon, holding him together.

Just holding him.

The water in the shower is cold by the time they get out and Simon is blissfully empty headed and relaxed, shifting his weight from one leg to another when he feels familiar pull inside.

Probably should have stretched better but bathroom is cramped, and he needed to get out of his head then and there.

Johnny watches him before swiping his thumb at the corner of Simon’s mouth and popping it in his mouth, blue of his eyes so scalding Simon’s throat bobs.

Soap wipes off the drool and silently promises to make him go slack jawed again later. When he gets his hands on the lube that got left in bedroom.

Simon pads back into the kitchen and you silently place a mug with his tea made exactly the way he likes it, and Johnny plops himself down, leaning in close and snuggling.

All sated aching and pleased rumbles.

Simon isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel after everything, but he feels warm. His body melting into Soap’s, his eyes melting into yours when you swat away a tiny eyelash from his cheek and hold it up so he can make a wish before you throw the thing away.

How did you even notice it there? He has blond eyelashes; the tiny hair would be practically invisible on his skin.

Simon doesn’t ask, staying content with the knowledge that you just did. Like always.

You and Johnny both — keeping him together, noticing smallest thing, making him sane and full.

Making him Simon again and not just Ghost.

Simon watches you standing over the pot with water for future pasta you three are apparently having for dinner. Means he’s in charge of cooking meat a little later than. Okay, that he can do.

But for now, he doesn’t get up anywhere. Doesn’t really want to.

Kitchen is quiet, warm with more than just condensation from cooking, soft from more than just small light of your lamp.

Simon likes evening like this one, when it all slows down and feels home. Like a proper life. And a proper family for him.

The two of you is frankly all he needs. All he wants. He knows that it may be incredibly greedy of him, but he’s been more than humble in anything other than you and Johnny. He’s been content with scraps and leftovers for a long time.

Is it really selfish if he wants to have it all for once?

Maybe it is.

Simon watches you salt water, sleeves of his sweater pulled up to your elbows, your shoulders spread and relaxed as you hum something under your breath. It’s a pleasure to watch you like that. Calm and relaxed in the safety of your home, in the warmth of your kitchen.

Johnny leans on his shoulder yawning and Simon wraps an arm around him, letting him lean in, letting him nap as they sit there.

Feels good. Feels exactly the way he wanted it to.

Better than he imagined.

Simon rubs circles on the back of Johnny’s shoulder, skin under his fingers is warm and soft, littered with smallest freckles he has ever seen. Like his boy was just dusted with cinnamon at birth.

Prettiest fucking thing.

Simon looks back at you coincidentally in the same moment you look at him and you smile silently, mouthing “you okay?” just so he can nod, feeling his chest slowly melt.

Yeah, he’s okay. He’s more than okay. He’s perfect.

Simon smiles as you quietly pour the pasta in the boiling pot, doing your best not to disturb half napping Johnny. You may not be in love with his boy (yet), but he’s rubbing off on you.

You already care after all.

Simon’s eyes slide to your neck again and something in him clenches, scrubbing from inside out with annoyance. Demanding out.

He can’t help but think back to the phone number in the corner of receipt and the way you came back home — neck blooming with hickeys, some bloke’s cologne clinging to your hair.

It disappeared after prolonged cuddling session, of course. He took care of that.

And when the evening of that day came — you were warm, sleepy and smelling like you again. Soft skin and laundry detergent with the hint of something uniquely yours.

The soft scent he could usually feel only by nuzzling into your neck or when he managed to dip his nose in your cleavage.

Same soft scent he could feel on the tip of his tongue, when he’d leave kisses on your cheeks and jaw, soaking you with his affection.

The thing is, he could take care of scent.

But could he take care of some bloke that took interest in you?

Soft, gorgeous, warm you. His moon in the sky, his home, his family. His lovely bird.

Simon doesn’t know how to just tell you what he wants. It’s not conventional and he already fucked in a bit and then some.

But if he was at some point to inevitably lash out when his desperate childish “don’t leave me, not you, don’t leave me, i don’t want to do this without you” pours out into something thick enough to choke the words out of him and possessive enough to try and keep you back…he’d better have some really good reason.

Because if he was to ask of your attention, your time, your effort, you — both for him and Johnny — it wouldn’t be fair if he wasn’t honest about his reasons.

You are grown people. He’s a grown man for god’s sake; he should be able to hold a proper conversation with you about something this big.

Simon knows you hate change and don’t like surprises and have hard time adjusting to changes in routines and patterns.

Honestly, so does he.

That’s one of the perks of being in military — you get the same fucking routine over and over again, you have a clear set of rules and even clearer one of instructions.

(If drill sergeant tells you to sweep the sunlight out of the garage, you sweep the sunlight out of the garage)

But it’s not military this time. It’s home.

And home has always been a safe harbor.

Place for both of you — space designed with your specific quirks and preferences in mind.

Big bed with orthopedic mattress for Simon to help his back aches and sleep apnea, bought bloody thing off the first cheque he got. You bought proper pillows and weighted blankets (filled with glass balls or something, he wonders where you even found it. Probably costed a fortune).

Good ACs both in living room and bedroom for you, which costed a bloody rack at the time, but it’s been more than worth it. Keeps you nice and cool in summer (God knows you can’t sleep if you are sweaty and if you aren’t sleeping — neither does Simon).

There is his favorite beaten up armchair you saw on Facebook Marketplace and somehow hauled back to the apartment. There is your couch with dozens of blankets and pillows, thing that’s sinfully comfortable but a tad short for someone of his size. Though many things are.

There is Simon’s butcher knives in the kitchen and your neat rows of spices. Your herbal tea and his straight black Earl Gray.

Simon’s right side of the bed and yours’s left one.

For so long this home was only for the two of you — the only constant in your lives, the place of comfort and security.

He still remembers how he had to change locks on windows and screw in additional bolt lock for you to the front door. Can’t have any accidents happen while he’s away on deployments and not here.

Simon knows that asking you to even consider making space for an entirely new person is a lot.

Almost too much.

So, a proper conversation about the matter is the least he can do to smoothen over possible transition.

He needs to do this.

Because as much as he loves you, he doesn’t love Soap any less. He can’t ask of Johnny to just wait, standing in the doorway with his bags still packed and ready if he’d need to leave at moment’s notice.

He can’t leave Johnny hanging in the air.

It’s not fair to Soap.

So, after dinner when Johnny is already halfway napping Simon wraps him in a blanket and tucks him comfortably on the couch. Lights on the Christmas tree are still twinkling, there is unfinished plates with pasta on the coffee table and some movie you and Simon watches a million times is playing.

It’s soft and quiet, it’s warm and peaceful.

Simon pads back to the kitchen, nudging your hip with his so he can wash dishes instead. It’s only fair — you cooked, he’s gonna clean.

You hum, moving aside and picking up towel in area to dry off things he passes to you after thorough wash. God knows both of you can’t stand dishes being wet and cold.

“Something on your mind”, you muse quietly and Simon glances at you, moving his lower jaw until there is click before he actually nods.

“Yeah. Think we can have a proper conversation?”, the words feel like he has to physically drag them out of himself, fingers twitching again because there is sharp ping of anxiety in his head, and he hates that he can’t just bottle up some of his thoughts.

You hum, eyes sliding up to him. There is something in your face that makes him pause turning off the water, heart thumping in his chest.

He needs to sit down and preferably right now. This is fucking scary, why is that so fucking scary.

Simon doesn’t know how to properly say everything in a way that would be coherent and make perfect fucking sense to you.

God knows out the two of you, he’s the one who’s worse with words.

A small stubbornly childish part of him still really wants you to read his bloody thoughts so he can be off the hook. But the same part sometimes makes him eat ice cream in the middle of the night and then sugar doesn’t let him sleep so evidently, that’s not the wisest his part.

There’s thumping anxiety behind his thorax, phantom vibrations sending nervous twitch to his fingers, his eyes landing on the useless awkward stump of his absent finger.

Had to re-learn how to fucking shoot after Roba’s torture and even then, he managed to crawl back to you.

Legally dead and everything, he came back, and you didn’t ask any questions. You just accepted him — a finger less and a whole lotta scars more.

You deserve to have a proper conversation about his behaviour and about Johnny’s presence. You deserve so much, and Simon is here fighting himself to choke out something. Fuck, anything at all.

But there’s knot in his throat and lead weights in his belly and it should be funny that he’s that scared.

Only he doesn’t feel like laughing at all.

“Do you want me to move out?”, your question snaps him out of panic induced stupor and every thought train in him stops with screeching of pulled stop lever.

“What?”, his voice croaks with broken shards, thumping in his chest just getting louder and louder, his eyes flicking to you like you might disappear if he lets you out of his sight. “Luv, no, I— wha’— sweet’eart, no.”, there is an edge to his voice.

An edge that scrapes the inside of his gut, carving your initials in tender bleeding flesh. So, he gets to keep something. So, he lives with a reminder of you.

“Why—”, he licks his lips, feeling every crack and that’s the wrong time but maybe he should have used the chapstick you gave him and maybe he should have talked with you before and maybe he should have done more. “Do you want to move out?”, the question tastes like bile in his mouth and God, he hates the way even the thought of you leaving makes him blind with panic.

Because no. Nononono, you— he doesn’t want you to leave, please, don’t leave, please, don’t.

“Thought that’s what you wanted to talk about. So…you know, Johnny can move in”, you explain with tone so casual he’d snap if he didn’t know better.

If he didn’t know you.

There’s tension coiling in your shoulders, that pulls occasional shrug-like motion out of you — half-discreet attempt to loosen some of the muscle pain by rolling your shoulders.

You don’t look at him, staring down in the sink at the remaining cup like you can obliterate it with the power of your mind. And honestly, Simon wouldn’t be too surprised if the bloody thing fell apart.

He for ones certainly feels like falling apart.

“I don’t want you to move out.”, Simon’s hand wraps around you, pulling you away from the sink. “I want you to never move out”, he mumbles in your hair, breathing in the smell of your shampoo and it’s so lame of him and he hates the numb-headed state he gets in as soon as he starts panicking.

Maybe he should actually try therapy like you’ve been suggesting. Or at least start taking medication? He’ll think about it later.

“Luv”, there’s a soft press and a tickling exhale to the back of your head and Simon is very close to wrapping himself around you like a weighted blanket and just pin you to the floor.

Which would be a lame fucking decision but thankfully, you aren’t leaving yet. So, he can do that. He has to do that. “Luv, I want you to stay. You and Johnny both. I want you two to stay with me”

Simon breathes it out, wrestling every word out of himself and it feels like bloody confession he saw in movies and with his palms on the soft roll of your tummy he feels impossibly close to the divine, knuckles gently rubbing idle patterns on you.

Why would he need any prayer beads when he lives with a bloody saint? Your flesh so soft under his fingers he wants to press his face into it and never come up for air.

“I don’t think John would appreciate your friend forever third-wheeling you two”, there’s a small vulnerable crack in your voice and Simon can’t help but dip his fingers in it, opening you up.

Cracking open your ribs and scooping up your heart.

More and more and more and more.

So he can finally see what you are feeling, so he knows he isn’t the only one scared/

So he knows you want him. Them.

“Luv, I don’t want to be friends anymore”, Simon exhales and his lips are trailing down the nape of your neck, drinking in the rapid beat of your heart and soft scent of your skin, his body pressed flush to your back. “Not just friends”

“What do you want then?”, hitch in your voice makes his blood flow south, raw feral need bubbling in him, nose rubbing at the hickeys someone else left on you.

Thick and dark hunger of his threatens to spill over and cling to your skin. Never to be washed away. Never wiped off. Never-never-never.

You can always be his, he’ll take care of everything, he’ll take care of you, of Johnny, of home. He’ll be so good, you won’t need for anything, you just gotta stay.

“Want you. Want Johnny. Want us three together.”, the quiet exhale sends a shiver through you and Simon drinks in it, lightheaded and slightly mad with need, pressing a kiss to the soft place between your neck and shoulder.

“What does Soap think about that?”, you try to deflect, slide into different railroad, branch conversation away from his obvious need to hear your answer.

“What do you think of that?”, Simon huffs out, teeth nipping your soft skin, stubble scratching you. Bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

Simon smiles in your neck, his open-mouthed kiss hot and sinfully wet, his embrace tightening around you.

You are warmth and safety. You are home.

You are moon in his sky — he’d be blind without you, he’d be lost without you, he wouldn’t be Simon without you.

“I asked first.”, you dig your heels in and smack his palm away from sliding under the hem of his your sweater, effectively stopping Simon from getting handfuls of you to squeeze.

This man is not going to drop a bomb on you and then turn around and use your tummy as anti-stress toy.

He annoys you even more because Simon is not even trying to look guilty — his smile so wide you can feel it with every inch of your skin he’s pressing his big head to.

“I told him that.”, Simon finally admits, nuzzling himself in your neck. “You are mine. And he’s mine. It’s not gonna change.”

The silence stretches between you two as you turn your head to him, giving him the slowest blink in the world.

Simon pauses for a moment before huffing out air in your neck, palms finally getting a hold of your love handles.

“I can hear you rolling your eyes, sweet’eart. I’s not very nice”

“You are not very nice, Simon. You can’t just drop something like that on a person. It requires proper conversation. A mutual discussion of everyone’s borders and comfort levels”, you hiss trying to wiggle yourself other way in his hands so you can face him.

Simon eases his hold on you so you can reprimand him properly, but he doesn’t let you out of his hands completely. Not yet.

“I’m trying to have one”, which is honest to god’s truth, because he knows he’s not good at that and he knows you are right, fuck, you are right more often than not.

The sigh that he gets in response is so heavy he almost feels bashful. Almost.

“We can have one. All three of us in the morning”, he offers, and he can practically hear the sound of gears in your head turning faster.

Planning and outlining everything, already building a system in case of bad ending or good ending or no ending at all.

“Okay.”, you finally nod, your fingers hooking under his chin to tilt his head so he’s looking you in the eye. “Tomorrow in the morning, yes?”

Simon nods, leaning into your touch, eyes half-lidded and entirely too soft for someone who doesn’t have a definitive answer.

But he knows you.

And if it’s worth anything, the mere fact that he hasn’t heard “no” or “fuck off, Simon” is a good bloody sign. So things are going much better than expected in all honesty. Job well done. Almost.

There’s warmth in his chest as he cuddles sleepy Soap back to the land of awake, fingers rubbing the nape of Johnny’s neck, pulling him out of the slumber.

It’s slow and soft and for a few long blissful moments Soap is warm and heavy, honey is coating his limbs and eyelids.

He is safe and he is home, Simon’s side pressing into his, your quiet voice asking if he’d like a cup of tea.

And then, like a bucket of ice-cold water is “We will need to talk”, sending his heart in a rapid beat, his eyes flying open.

“Talk?”, he sounds hoarse even to himself and you just hum, collected as always, eyes calm when they settle on him.

“About the three of us”, you explain, and he swallows, eyes watching you.

Is that the time for him to pack bags? Is that the time you realised that you don’t want a stray in your bed and a strange man in your home?

Johnny wraps his fingers around your wrist, not even realising until he’s face to face to you, your eyes watching him expectantly.

“What’s wrong?”, there is a gentle care in your face he didn’t expect to see, there is lack of fight in you he didn’t expect to encounter.

Because in his first day here you looked at him like he was a mutt your partner dragged from a cold street and told you that it’s staying.

In his first day here, you hissed and bristled and snapped at him, your silence weighted, your eyes heavy.

Soap knows all too well that nothing comes to the likes of him without a fair price. Soap knows better than to hope without fighting his way up and proving himself over and over and over.

He’s not going to be pitied. He’s not going to be a charity that you do for the sake of Simon’s happiness; he doesn’t want it to be like that.

Johnny is anything if not persistent. Johnny refuses to go out without a fight, without trying to wiggle his way in, without clawing at everything he wants.

If he won’t get place for himself, at least he will leave his mark.

As a reminder that he was here. As a reminder that he was almost loved.

Johnny nuzzles in your palms, eyes a little mad and a little gone, hollowed out pit in his belly, hunger in his chest that he cannot sate, need that you know all too well.

A hysterical chant in his head.

Love me-love me-love me-love me.

Don’t leave me, don’t forget me. Notice me.

Johnny shudders when you hug him, when your hand reaches out for him even if you don’t need him. Just because you want to.

Just because you want him.

Johnny presses his body into you, whines when Simon presses his own from behind, his mind blanking out at the feel of being surrounded by you two.

It’s warm, plush of your tits cushioning on his chest, bulk of Simon’s body pressing him into you tighter.

More. He wants more. He needs more.

Johnny spreads his legs open and hides his face in your shoulder.

Johnny hiccups when Simon’s fingers rub his prostate, torturously slowly stretch him open, kisses littering his back, sharp overbite of Simon’s jaws sinking in the fat of Soap’s ass.

Leaving mark, staking claim, showing love.

Johnny whines when you pepper kisses all over his face, fingers going through his sweat-wet hair, pushing it off his face, your lips the sweetest fucking thing. He never wants to go without your kisses ever again.

He is sloppy and wet, mixed drool dripping down yours and his chins, his stubble scratching your soft face and oh, he’s sorry, bonnie, he’s sorry-he’s sorry-he’s sorry.

Johnny doesn’t realise he’s crying until you wipe his tears off, until Simon doesn’t wrap his hand around his waist tightly, pulling him in, the delicious stretch of thick cock spreading Soap open.

Fucking hell.

Johnny whimpers something incoherent, Scottish Gaelic mixing up with English, eyes glazed over and desperate, hands gripping you and legs spreading for Simon.

Anything. He’ll do anything.

Just don’t leave him behind.

“Love me-love me-love me-love me”, chants in his head, dances on his tongue, tears out of his throat when he sinks into your welcoming heat. Drunk on pleasure and dazed with need.

He wants it all. He wants you both.

Forever and always. Until death do you part.

Until you no longer want him

You make the prettiest fucking sounds when he bites your neck, canines sinking in soft skin, his cock so deep inside of you it should be impossible.

But he pushes himself into you again — dives in and gulps as much water as he can so he stays at the bottom of you.

So he can stay as a small coin in your fountain, a memento you’d never forget, a man you might never love but who’d never be just another face in the crowd for you.

He will always be someone.

Simon presses himself hard to Soap’s back, rumbles out “kiss ‘er more” and Johnny obliges because if this is his last night he’s going out with fireworks and your taste on his tongue and Simon’s bites all over his body.

And the imprint of your combined hands on him — gripping and tugging and holding and squeezing.

It’s so much and so overwhelmingly perfect he doesn’t know how he’s still lucid, pleasure dripping down-down-down, his spine melting, his mouth hungry wet thing full of teeth and promises to be the best.

To be everything. Anything. Whatever you need. Whatever you want.

Your lips find his and Simon bites down on his shoulder, fucking into him with the slow force of a heavy hammer coming down on anvil with all its weight.

You squeeze around him, inner walls of your cunt wet silken heaven that drives Johnny mad, that makes Johnny blabber filthy things, voice cracking with something wet and gurgly and he's kissing you again.

You won't forget him. He won't let you. He won't let Simon.

Pleasure coils in him until there's nowhere else to go, until he's overflowing and pathetic - face buried in your neck and god, Simon was right, you do smell divine - back arched so hard he feels like his spine will fucking crack but he wants more. He wants everything.

Until he's sick from how full he is. Until he can't take it.

Pleasure drips down-down-down and he never wants this moment to end, he never wants to come back to what was before and how fucking ironic it is that orgasm snaps him out of it?

He's coming and coming and coming, his body honeyed and heavy, his head empty and he's wet like a fucking dog - sweat and drool and saliva and combined fluids drying up on the insides of his thighs.

Soap blinks himself back to reality, but he can't move - he doesn't want to really. His face is nuzzled in your tits, your fingers combing through his wet hair as Simon wipes you both off.

The towel is warm and a little scratchy, cleaning you up, taking care of a mess Johnny is right now.

It's good. It's soft.

It almost feels like he belongs here. Like he deserves it. Like he isn't a stray accidentally let in and who purposefully overstayed his welcome.

But you are soft, and Simon is warm, and Johnny is sandwiched between the two of you in the best way possible.

He makes sure to remember every little thing about this moment. After all it may be the first one and very much the last one.

So, if things go south tomorrow - he was here. He felt good. He felt wanted.

For one beautiful hot night he belonged.

That's what matters, isn't it?

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[fulloflambing]

࣪ . ִֶָ๋ KINICH: ❛ it's not the alcohol, i swear! ❜ ♡

pairing: kinich x reader (uses she/her) synopsis: kinich never touches alcohol. the one night he does, he has a very pleasant secret to spill. banner artist: @/Lion_2929 on twitter/x !! wordcount: 1.7k words warnings: lots of alcohol consumption, kinda crack, kinich is drunk the way i feel like he'd be like if he was drunk (talkative and childish) cho's notes: heavily inspired by beer by the itchyworms. hihi happy reads!

Maybe it was a bad idea to go to this party.

“Believe me! I AM the hydro archon!” mualani cried, weakly shoving at chasca’s shoulder.

Definitely a bad idea.

The ignited torches set a cozy atmosphere into the weary inn, the instruments being strung by performers and high spirits of the natlanese only made it more comforting. It was a cold night out, and you had been invited earlier in the day to a party to celebrate the victory of Natlan over the abyss, a week after the intense battle.

Mualani was the one who sent you the invitation, giving another one to kinich when your group were lounging together. kachina threw a small tantrum, whining: “why can’t I go?” making mualani sigh, patting the small child on the head, “sorry kachina, it’s strictly an adult party. And i mean it! I really can’t sneak you in this time.” “I can’t believe they’d send a kid to war, but not to a grown up party.”

Mualani mentioned there would be alcohol, which made your eyes immediately dart to kinich, your close friend along with the other two. You knew he absolutely despised alcohol and he didn’t want to be anywhere near it, given his past surrounding the vice. You noticed how his shoulders had slightly tensed, only to slowly relax again. 

“So? Are you guys going~?” mualani coed, trying to convince the both of you to attend.

“I dont know.. I don’t think it’d be fair if only the both of us will-”

“I’ll be there.” You and mualani’s jaw immediately hang, looking at the stone-cold kinich absolutely bewildered. You quickly composed yourself as kinich raised his brow at you, almost saying ‘do you want me to change my mind?’ with his expression alone.

“A-Alright. We’ll be there.”

It was supposed to be a calm party, with only a few drinks. 

You only indulged in a glass or two, to join in on the festivities and to really be in the spirits of the party. You were barely tipsy, just a bit flushed with slightly fuzzy thoughts.

Mualani had almost gulped down 4 bottles of beer on her own, thinking and speaking had become one action to her. But that was normal. Mualani was known as the party girl anyway, it was her who carried the mood and laughter, even when she wasn’t making sense. What wasn’t normal, was when kinich decided to become drunk too.

“You.. are not the hydro archon. Stop.. *hic* disrespecting Fontainians.” He mumbled grumpily, slamming his glass onto the wood table with a thud. It was a rare sight; Kinich with his hair a little messier, with rosy cheeks and sleepy eyes. You felt your heart beating a little harder at the sight.

You knew you liked kinich, but there was never a perfect opportunity to confess it. And in the end, you had just decided to keep all the sappy feelings to yourself, not wanting to ruin the perfect friendship the both of you shared.

It caught everyone off guard, when kinich had asked for a taller glass of cold beer after the initial toast. Then he ordered another one, then another.. Then some more. 

“But I am! It came to me in a dream!” Mualani continued crying, drunk-stupid tears flowing down her face, frantically turning to him.

“Well i dreamt that i had normal friends, do you think i do?” he spat bitterly, looking at her with narrowed eyes. Kinich was a bit meaner while he was drunk, but he didn’t mean it. 

Again, It was supposed to be a calm party, with only a few drinks. 

But mualani started trying to turn one of the tables into a surfboard, citlali encouraged her behavior and was even trying to show her ‘how to do it properly’, chasca was nowhere to be found, and kinich was about to release ajaw. The atmosphere was still borderline calm, but if the circus continued to unfold you knew it wouldn’t end well.

You quickly grabbed kinich’s wrist before he could do anything, and suggested a walk. “We do not need ajaw making things worse. Let’s go take a breather.” Kinich’s eyes seemed to fill with some sort of determination for a second, before going back to being expressionless. He took one last bottle of beer with him, and followed your steps.

You brought him out of the weary inn, the cold atmosphere stinging your skin for a moment— It was a beautiful night. The moon was suspended high into the sky, illuminating in its beautiful full circle. with only a few clouds around. It was the perfect night to greet after a party. You walked with kinich out of the stadium, following a random path of pavement.

“I didn’t expect you’d want to get drunk tonight kinich.” You looked at him with a small smile, and admired the new side of him no one really knew.

“Do I always come off boring and lame to you?—” he sighed, bringing the bottle close and popping the cork off with his fingers easily. A subtle flex of his strength. “—I just.. wanted to try something different.” he said, picking his words carefully.

Something about kinich was different.

“Are you alright? You seem.. A little out of it.” you mumbled. He looked like he was avoiding something, or his head was filled with thoughts he so badly wanted to address. His breathing was heavier, his hands were trying to find purpose, and he avoided your eyes. 

“I-i’m fine. Just drunk. What’s the big deal?” he mumbled, still apprehensive and shuffled his steps. “..Just drunk, nothing more. Nothing less. Not hiding anything. Hiding nothing at all.”

“Okay okay. Fine.” 

You decided to fall silent, and let your eyes linger in the nature around you; Your heart ached a little. The trees slightly swayed to faint music, chatter, and crickets. The stars twinkled high above your heads and it was almost the perfect night. One more thing was missing: Kinich, but sober. 

in your mind, the night would've been perfect, if kinich loved you too.

“I can do this.” you turned your head to the dark-haired boozer next to you talking to himself, only to see him drinking the large bottle whole. “ki-kinich! slow down!” You tried to snatch the vessel out of his grasp, but he only turned his head until it quickly ran half-empty, a loud gulp coming from his throat.

He stopped in his tracks and brought the bottle off of his mouth, and wiped the extra carbonation off of his shiny lips and let out a hiccup before meeting your eyes.

“Y/n. I like you.” 

“Huh?”

“I like you. Like.. the romantic kind of like. Not the friend kind of like, I mean that I really want to be your boyfriend, kind of like.”

Kinich was a lot more talkative while he was drunk, but you prayed he wasn't a joker too.

Your mind fell silent, running out of words to say. You could suddenly hear your heart beat in your ears, and feel like the world shrunk around the both of you. ‘he's just drunk-'

“And before you say anything.. No. it’s not *hic* the beer. It’s not the alcohol. In fact, i-it’s the beer that’s helping me say everything right now. And if you decide to reject me right now, it’s *hic* also what’s going to make me forget this i-in the morning. Which is why i’m *hic*  drinking so m-much.”

He looked so serious, you knew he truly meant his words. His deep emerald eyes stared right into your soul, you almost felt violated. A deep heat rushed to your face, but you were still out of words.

You tried to speak. “B-but.. How? I mean. You never seemed to take interest in me. I thought-”

Kinich quickly takes the bottle back to lips, drinking down the rest and tossing the bottle to the side, burying it into the tall grass. He breathes out a ‘ha!’ sound before his liquid courage started speaking for him again:

“Never took interest in you!? All I ever do is stare at you, *hic* and listen to your stories, and br-briing you fruit, and help you whenever *hic* you break something! All free of charge! And I am a man of mora! Its literally my ancient name!” he whined; it was so unlike him. He was always so composed, mature. He had transformed into a whiny child throwing a fit in 5 bottles of alcohol.

“I’ve always wanted to tell you, but it was you who never seemed interested.” tears started pooling in his lower eyelids, and you feel a sense of panic combining into the butterflies causing a frenzy inside of you.

“Y-you always seemed to *hic* stiff up when i-i tried to compliment you, or you’d always go to other people when you wanted to *hic* ask for an opinion on how you looked or what you should wear. I have opinions too!” tears started streaming down his face. You quickly take his arm and put it over your shoulders, supporting him before he’d drop face-down into the dirt.

“Okay okay! I’m sorry i never asked for your opinion!”

“A-and you always gave a forehead kiss goodnight to kachina and mualani during sleepovers. Why did i never get one!”

“B-because i thought you didn’t want one!”

“Well I did! I really, *hic* really did!” 

“okay i’m sorry please stop crying now!” your free hand reaches out to wipe a tear off of his heated face, before your lips planted a quick kiss on his skin. “Can that make up for it for now?”

His cheeks get impossibly rosier, and he thinks to himself, before humming. “...mhm.” his tears slowly coming to a stop, until he's just snifling.

an awkward silence fell between the both of you, as you continued walking down the path. your face still hot, your trying to piece every memory of kinich and you together, trying to see a different angle where he was trying to show you his affections.

“Wait..” his eyes look away from you, and its almost like he tried to piece together a jigsaw puzzle in his head. Like a lightbulb had turned on, he turned back to you with his eyes livelier than they’ve ever been before, a sparkle appearing back into his gradient eyes.

“So do you like me back?” he mumbled meekly, like he tried to hide while asking.

“I do. I really, really do.”

[luludeluluramblings]

Smalltown!Neglected!Meta!Reader x Yandere!Batfam ☁️ Part One

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Part Two ☁️ Part Three ☁️ Part Four ☁️ Part Five ☁️ Part Six ☁️ Part Seven ☁️ Part Eight

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: I’ve been hyper fixated on Batfam and DC in general for the past two months, and this is what my brain has been cooking. This is based on an fem!OC I made, but I converted it to GN!Reader. Or attempted to. Might write an official one with the oc. I don’t know. I’m new at this stuff and doing this on mobile to boot.

Warning(s): Yandere themes, Obsessive behavior

Reader grows up happy, healthy, a safe away from Gotham

Momma and Daddy (step-father) adore their darling reader

Daddy is kind and understanding; gives good advice, encourages reader, comforts reader after nasty break ups

Momma is sassy and a bit possessive of her baby reader

Momma never tells reader anything about their biological father (He was a big city playboy that missed the court date for custody is all she said)

Reader has a much younger half-brother from Momma and Daddy, who reader also adores

Little Brother’s are annoying, but you have so many interest in common

Suddenly Momma and Daddy are dead; (tragic accident or murdered)

Reader’s Bio Father, Bruce Wayne is called and flies into town via Private Jet and whisk you off to Gotham

Bruce can’t get custody over half-brother due to Reader’s step-grandparents fighting him.

(They tried to keep Reader too, but blood is thicker than water in the eyes of the court. And, Bruce has enough money to make that water run dry)

Bruce isn’t exactly like Momma described, he’s distant and a bit cold with reader. (Like he doesn’t know what to do.)

Bruce gets upset when Reader talks about missing Momma and Daddy, especially when Reader talks about Daddy.

Bruce doesn’t introduce Reader to the family right away.

Reader doesn’t see anyone, but Bruce and Alfred for the first week at the manor.

Bruce avoids reader, but gets upset when Reader ignores him

Reader starts researching their new family. Everything they can find in the media, even the company.

(Family Buisness funds the Justice League? Gotham gains a new Vigilante almost every time Bruce gains a new kid? Jason Todd’s death and reappearance. Suspicious…)

Reader finally meets the others.

First up Cassandra.

Quite, but watches reader like she knows all of reader’s secrets. (That’s terrifying.)

Reader’s instincts scream that she’s dangerous (Reader trusts those instincts.)

Reader is still nice, they get along. Cass rather be alone, but it’s cool. They’re cool.

Second up is Duke.

Duke is great. Official bro. Passes all the vibe checks. (Most normal one in this house.)

Reader’s meta abilities go haywire around him, so Reader needs to be careful. (Reader’s not sharing that secret yet. Not till they share what Reader suspects is their secret)

Third, Dick and Barbara.

Dick is a whirlwind, coddling and pitying, treating reader like a sweet helpless child then leaving. (He’s a busy popular man)

Barbara is polite, but a stranger.

Reader tries to be friendly, but can’t get past the stranger stage.

Fourth Stephanie.

Stephanie politely ignores reader, but reader genuinely wants to hang out. (Similar interest, close in age. Please, can we be friends? ……….)

Reader says they’ll keep trying (It happens… eventually….)

Fifth, Tim.

Tim just brushes Reader off with a blank look and disappears.

Reader can never find Tim. (Always in the cave, at work, on patrol. He’s a busy busy busy sleepy man that avoids even the mention of Reader)

(Stephanie hangs out with Tim though, but they still ignore reader. It’s fine. Reader is fine. It doesn’t hurt.)

Sixth is Jason.

Jason is mean.

Calls reader spoiled, says reader a an ignorant privileged princess, Daddy’s pet, a brat, etc.

But, then leaves when reader starts to snap back.

(He looks like he’s struggling not to strangle reader almost every time reader sees him.)

Seventh is the youngest and reader’s half brother.

Reader is excited to meet him, reader already has a younger half-brother. Having two sounds even better!

Damian is cruel

It breaks reader’s heart.

Damian either ignores reader, or mocks reader viscously. He’ll push and shove and throw things at reader. (Won’t draw a weaponed though, he’s past that.)

He brushes off all of Reader’s attempts at sibling bonding.

All this goes on for a few months.

Reader tries so hard to get close to everyone, but they’re either avoid them, ignore them, are cruel, or they just don’t have the time.

Reader’s life in Gotham is… different.

Reader’s a commodity, and, surprisingly enough, most people like Reader

School Friendships form, which reader worries are because they’re a Wayne child

(Which is true, but not in the way Reader thinks; hint: it involves other types of night avians)

Teacher’s appreciate a humble Wayne (Damian goes to the same school, Reader is a relief to teach)

Reader is quite talented, not a prodigy, not extraordinary. Just extremely approachable.

But, like all good things there is a downside.

Reader wants to spend time with their new friends.

They’re invited to Galas, lunches, brunches, vacations, shopping, etc.

And Reader WANTS to go

But, Bruce won’t let them

It’s not safe

(Which Reader understands, that’s why they never really explore Gotham, but still brunch couldn’t hurt, right?)

So Reader has no one to lean on or connect with. It’s isolating.

Instead Reader spends hours talking on the phone to their old friends and family back in their small town.

There’s a silver lining though: Things are going to get better before they get worse

So much worse