#....complicated relationship

[whumpitisthen]

Bloodhound

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“You really should consider accompanying me one day.”

Leaning against the glass door of the balcony, his eyes survey the blue shade of the woods outside with boredom. The Sun sinks lower minute by minute, surrounding the crown of every tree with a halo of scalding blood. To the east, he spots a wave of dark clouds coming this way. A wild storm is certainly inbound.

“I would suggest inviting someone more interested in your company,” — murmurs the man lounging in the corner. He sits with an old tome, studying it intently as he bears Grim’s efforts to distract him from his work. A small demon kneels next to his seat on the floor, focusing intently on the carpet under its legs and not the claws running through the curls between its antelope-horns. It wears a heavy metallic collar and a chain leashing it to its master, as well as vivid veins spanning the entirety of its sickly pale skin. Dark pits sit under its eyes and colourful bruises blot its limbs and torso, rings of purple encircling its wrists, ankles and throat. It occasionally winces in worry, shuddering when a stray finger wanders a little too close to an eye, then settling once more. The flinch is no more apparent than the clattering of its bones as it trembles in mortal terror under the hand that provides safety only through pain.

Grim scoffs, that trademark smile glowing in the golden red light of the bleeding sun glazing his fanged teeth. He turns to glance at the other, twisting his neck to the side in an unsettling, inhuman manner. — “I’m asking for too much again, aren't I? Oh, how could a little servant like me ever expect a god to make time for my silly little ideas? Inviting you so brashly on a trip to the Flesh Harvest near the southeastern colony as a way to have fun and relax? Please excuse my insolence, Your Majesty. I must grovel and beg for your forgiveness, lest you smite me where I stand for such an outlandish request!”

The dramatic display fails at garnering more attention. When the man’s eyes lift to glance at Grim, they land on the theatrical posing of the Reaper's hand, the knuckles hovering just over his own forehead, eyes closed and neck bared as he moans in faux-melancholy. When no comment comes his way, one mischievous crimson eye cracks open, and a toothy grin swiftly replaces the played-up pout. — “Must you always regard me with such contempt, My Lord? Those eyes are sharper than a dagger.”

His lord makes a face at that, rumbling a thought in his throat before letting it free. — “Do you find me so scary?”

Death's expression softens, his hand falling back to his side. Truly, it's hard to tell sometimes if his lord truly misses the meaning of jest, or if he is countering it skillfully with a surprising assumption. — “Positively spine-chilling,” — he teases with a good-natured chuckle.

The neutral expression of his lord rarely ever changes. The slightest widening of eyes, scrunching of eyebrows or downturn of his lips are all that you must acclimate yourself with, as those who aren't proficient in recognising the subtle changes in his mood may well find themselves in immeasurable torment at the snap of a finger. That is, unless he puts on a fake expression to garner empathy. It is, of course, not impossible to catch the lord truly smiling or laughing, or even yelling and crying — it's only that, to bring such a raw, emotional reaction like that out of a being that has existed since near the beginning of time, something outstanding must occur. He has been witness to the best and the worst of existence, and has not only experienced it all first-hand, but doled it out in return. Grim is one of the only remaining people who still manages to coax a true laugh out of him every once in a while. He is also the most likely to bring onto himself his old friend's true wrath.

Grim watches the demon slave by his lord, mesmerised by those long lashes fluttering in overwhelming fear. The poor creature is struggling to catch its breath. Not something out of the ordinary; it is in one room with two of the most powerful forces of evil in the world. Both the Reaper and his lord carry with them an unnatural air that weighs on the very souls of whoever happens to be near them  — an aura of death and danger, and an aura of fear and submission respectively. It must feel suffocating for a little thing like it. Grim licks his lips at the thought, and the demon must catch that from the corner of its eye, because the quietest, most adorable little whine squeaks out of it.

Ah, his lust is still not satisfied. Mori’s blood still coats the underside of his claws, their shrill cries still echo in his ears, yet he still finds it difficult to keep focus when such a darling critter is kept just out of his reach like this. He will have to pay another visit to his favourite fawn later. They must be having the time of their life with his newly acquired Fallen. He wonders what all they must be chatting about. He wonders what all Mori will tell the angel about his new life. He wonders how much he will come up in conversation.

“You don't sound very scared,” — his lord muses. The withered book he has been reading through he now places on the midnight black surface of a desk to the side, giving up on retaining any information he may gain from it for as long as Grim is here; an achievement Grim feels far too proud to have reached. — “As a matter of fact, you sound even more daring today than usual. As if you have made it your goal to annoy me to death. I doubt that would even be a challenge for you. Is this what this is? An attempt on my life?”

Despite the neutral tone, Grim catches the slightest smile in his lord's voice. It always warms his cold, unbeating heart when he smiles. It's this feeling of accomplishment, as well as the privilege of successfully manipulating his lord's mood in such innocent, harmless ways that does it for him. Manipulation is his lord's field of expertise, a thick outer layer of lies on his skin that not many can penetrate — Grim merely enjoys being the exception.

“You wound me, Your Majesty,” — Grim sighs, folding his arms. Red eyes break from infinitely dark ones, catching the exact moment the sky and the earth meet outside. The slave gasps behind him, cowering away from its master as he stands from his throne. The chain leading to his scarred hand falls to the floor in a downpour of heavy thuds, scaring its heart into beating just a little faster. Grim can hear it as well as if he had his ear right up against that ribcage visible through straved skin. — “Is your goal, then, to bore me to death? I could just leave, you realise. You called me here in the first place, and I have better things to do than to stand around beside you like an accessory. You already have one lap dog sitting by you; isn't that enough?”

He can't help but let his attention wander, from the cursed forest beneath the balcony to the timid, careful swishing of a tail against the floor. His gaze is pulled right back to the source of the delicious aroma wafting through the air. To the veins pumping that sweet nectar just a few strides away. — “Tch. My hunger does emerge again. The little one… I am tempted to snatch it up and have a taste.”

“Oh, you can have it if you would like. It tastes divine; it would be cruel of me to not share it. Just try not to end it yet.” — Ignoring its tremendous pleading, its owner leaves it right there with no remorse or care, defenceless against lustful eyes devouring its body from where the Reaper stands. It expects Grim to leap at it immediately, to latch onto and maul it, tear off a limb or two. Every second longer that he remains staring by the glass door with the red rays of the sun haloing him from behind like a fallen archangel, the demon scooches further behind the plush armchair to hide from that palpable, perverted menace coming off of the deity in waves.

It's the most precious scene, watching it cower and disappear inch by inch behind the furniture, listening to its heart beating inside its chest wildly.

“Enjoy it. A gift for showing up so early and surviving my apparent deadly disinterest,” — his lord yawns, his shoulders popping loudly as he stretches. Facing him properly, it's clear to the Reaper now that the devil is in a good mood. A dangerous thing, his good moods. Almost as unpredictable as his bad ones. — “I called you here for a reason, however. It may give you insight as to why I chose to decline your offer so outright, if you will let me explain.”

Grim suddenly brightens, tearing his eyes away from the small demon with an excited gasp, forgetting entirely about his hunger. He directs a truly devilish grin at His lord, looking awfully mischievous. — “No… Could it be? Your Majesty — are you in need of a favour from your dear old friend, the Grim Reaper?”

The title Grim uses for his lord is a flattering one, chosen carefully as a pet name of sorts. It serves well as a way to soften his words, and even better to tease when the opportunity arises. No one else calls the man royalty, and in reality, it is almost offensive to see him as only that.

No mere king has ever ruled the whole world before.

“A favour?” — asks the lord, raising an eyebrow, leaning up against the massive half-moon shaped desk at the back centre of his study, — “what do you mean?”

The Reaper is practically bouncing in his giddiness, giggling as he chirps with a flourish, — “what else could this be? You called me here to ask for my help, did you not? You even brought a lovely little lamb as payment.”

“You misunderstand.”

Grim skips up to His Majesty, taking hold of both his shoulders lightly as he leans in and speaks with sympathy. — “Oh, I know you find it hard to ask for help, darling, but there is no need to deflect. I am here to provide assistance, always and forever.”

“Grim.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I only have one favour to ask of you, my dear.” — He reaches out a warm hand to place upon the Reaper's cheek tenderly, his knuckles chilled upon contact with the undead flesh. There is no humour in His lord's voice, yet what he says next still manages to have the silver haired man cackle like a hyena in amusement. — “Please — shut the fuck up.”

Grim breaks from him in his fit of laughter, and though he doesn't see, his lord’s smile widens in a genuine way as he watches him lose all his composure to the unexpected delivery. He appreciates how familiar this feeling is; how, at his core, his oldest friend is still the same even after all these years. He still hides his smile behind the knuckles of his hand, he still breathes as he laughs, drawing out lovely long notes that most find endlessly unsettling. The mundane has become more than an annoyance to him by now, one that he fights every day as he looks for newer, more entertaining things to fight his ancient boredom with. Grim remains the one constant he could never bear to lose.

Once Grim escapes his breathlessness, he lifts a clawed finger, keeping his head low as he wags it at his lord a couple times in a ‘you got me’ kind of fashion. — “First of all, language, Your Majesty…” — He leans heavily against the desk behind him, taking a deep, mumbling breath.

Between leftover chuckles, his lord tilts his head to the side, regarding him with what seems to be indifference. — “Are you done?”

“Defeated candidly in a fair battle.” — The Reaper composes himself swiftly. He straightens as the last of the amusement bleeds from him, leaving only a satisfied expression. He gestures in his lord's direction vaguely, bowing his head as he decides to take a closer look at the demon still huddled behind the furniture weeping softly as he gives up the stage to him. — “Please, do carry on.”

Glancing out at the slowly darkening sky, his lord notes the falling sun. A chill wind is starting up, blowing out the candle sitting on the small table just to the side. Ephemera flies off the cluttered desk, landing on the large emerald green carpet stretching from entrance to furniture. A great storm in the making indeed.

As he moves to close the balcony doors, he has the chance to elaborate in the newly created silence without disturbance. — “It is already sundown. We must make haste.”

“I recall you had something planned, yes,” — Grim mutters as he peeks behind the wing chair, finding a shaggy head of unkempt hair curled up against the arm of it. The slave has a fractured hoof, slowly oozing black blood from the vicious crack. It must be horribly painful to walk on that. Only half-listening to his lord, Grim approaches the trapped demon whimpering against the fabric, whispering to it with a dark craving. — “Hello, little one. I can already tell you will only bleed the sweetest blood for me.”

“I was invited to a meeting, one which starts not long from now,” — his lord starts, clicking a claw against the surface of his desk, — “in human territory.”

Pulling at the demon’s long, black, twisted horn until it crawls up onto Grim’s lap, they sit on the chair together, the demon held close, captive in Grim's arms. He slides a hand onto the back of its neck, curling pale fingers into its hair to lightly pull and bear its neck for himself. Only after nuzzling into the soft, vulnerable skin of its throat to indulge himself in the mouth-watering aroma of a helpless little creature whining and crying from the purest fear does he care to reply. — “Mmm… How lucky you are.”

It's unclear if he speaks to his lord or the poor thing gasping in his lap.

“All of their leaders will partake. I assume they are ready to strike another deal with me. Or perhaps they have a new plan to try to get rid of me. Either way, it's always amusing to watch them struggle to delude themselves, isn't it?” — his lord muses, watching Grim taste the skin of the slave, drinking in the terror coming off it like waves of pure honey. One monster thirsts for its blood, the other its agony.

“It truly is, Your Majesty. You're making me,” — a long, open-mouthed kiss over the drum of a carotid artery pumping scarlet ichor, — “…very jealous.”

The lord seems pleased. He had hoped the blood would satisfy the Reaper, and it seems he chose well. It's a marvel Grim hasn't torn into its neck until now. His eyes have fallen shut, almost purring as he finally tears delicate skin and bites down. Almost like a hypnosis, feeding never fails to put the Reaper into the deepest pool of peace and pleasure. It's a vulnerable state to be in, especially in front of someone who could so easily take advantage of it watching from the side. Going off of his change in attitude alone, its blood must taste just as delicious as its fear. He is thoroughly distracted by the rush of crimson entering his mouth, holding the demon ever closer as if to squeeze the life out of it. It's such a beautiful sight.

“Don't be,“ — his lord says, — “I didn't call you here to cause envy. As I said, I may be walking into a trap. While I am certain I will survive, it's never a bad idea to have my loyal guard dog with me. Just in case.”

No further comment comes, only squeaks and cries forced from the main course’s throat. With fangs digging deeper into its flesh with vigour, it cannot help providing a lovely show for the both of them. Evening entertainment; nothing more and nothing less.

Pausing to watch the life fading from its eyes, it's clear it won't survive this unless the lord steps in.

“Is it to your liking?” — he inquires from the side, fixing the lace ruffle at his sleeve absentmindedly. — “I found it living in the streets of Gorenest. It came to me looking for help. Told me about how its family had abandoned it. How it had been living off of favours for strangers. It is used to this, if you can believe it. It is used to abuse.”

Neither the slave nor Grim even notice him joining them on their side of the room. He puts a hand right back to those soft, dishevelled curls, pulling down along its scalp gently as it shudders weakly, going limp between them. Its misery is simply delectable every time he gets a taste of it.

Not long after, it loses consciousness, signalling the sudden end of dining for both of them. Disappointed, yet so enamoured, Grim lifts his head from the bloody crook of its neck, eyes half lidded and breathing slow.

“So you're saying I should let it live,” — he rumbles, holding it upright with ease, — “so you can torment it further.”

“Precisely.”

“And you want me to come with you to this human meeting and hold your hand, because you are too scared to go on your own?” — Grim asks, turning to his lord with a raised eyebrow.

“I am asking if you would like to come with, as I know you love scaring humans and annoying me specifically,” — his lord replies easily, letting go of the unconscious creature and summoning his walking cane to his hand. — “If you want to, then we may go at once. I am already late because of you.”

“Because of me?” — the Reaper gasps incredulously, straightening in his seat, — “the nerve!”

But his lord has already turned his back to him, knocking twice on the blackwood floor with his cane to alert the servants and call for their aid in caring for the half-dead demon in Grim's lap. As if out of thin air, the empty halls spit out a couple horned creatures in similar collars to that of the abused demon slave, hurrying inside to take it from the Reaper with care. He simply stands and lets the body roll off him to the floor, forgetting about it as if it was a corpse already. Bowing deep before swiftly running off just as quickly and quietly as they had arrived, every servant and slave disappears in but a moment, leaving only the Reaper and His Majesty.

In a blink, his lord transforms into a different being.

He tends to change appearance often. From demonic, to purely human, to something downright monstrous, incomprehensible. Humanoid, an animal, simply a shadow on the wall. Sometimes he has no form at all, existing somewhere nobody can visit, not even Grim. It's fascinating, certainly confusing, but with enough time, one grows used to even this.

“Right after calling me your guard dog as well. I wonder why people think I'm the crueller one between us,” — Grim adds on, snarling in distaste. More often than not, the most hurtful things come out of his lord's mouth in the most casual ways. Common decency and respect are weapons as much as threats and promises are. They work the best when used in tandem, weaving their threads together to form a net impossible to escape.

His lord has taken the form of something similar to Grim; an innocuous, young, handsome mortal man, with an easy smile and right posture. He takes on human forms more often than one would expect a being like him to, seeing as most in power love to flaunt their abilities over others, showing off and shouting from the rooftops of their golden palaces that they hold power and they should be feared.

His lord appreciates humans, is all. He finds them fascinating. He hates them, and he adores them. He finds them disgusting, yet pure and innocent and gorgeous. Taking on their form helps him understand them better, and helps them fall for him easier. He loves humans. He loves to rip them apart. It's as simple as that.

“You are right,” — his lord says, turning back to face him with a sly smirk, — “‘attack dog’ would be more fitting.”

That prompts a scoff of a chuckle, and a tightening of the corners of his mouth. He does not appreciate being called a dog, his lord knows this well — but he can't deny that the description, while demeaning, isn't untrue. It would be a sign of weakness to do anything but laugh it off, and he does so with the bearing of his fangs and the growl of a wild mutt. He is an attack dog, and he chose to be. It's more fun that way. He does not appreciate the tone and repeated disrespect is all. Doubling down on it is more than just a small, harmless offence.

“You snide prick,” — he purrs, not even giving him the chance to catch anger slip through his words, — “it’s one of those days, huh? Just can't bear to hold your tongue. You can just say it's nice to see me, no need to hide your shame behind such harsh words.”

He can't help leaning in, nearly closing the gap between them, smiling with only his lips. His eyes are stone cold. — “I missed you too, Your Majesty.”

‘Call me your dog again. I dare you.’

Five seconds. Tension. His Majesty seems unbothered. Calculating, as he always does in that twisted mind of his. Then, the Reaper abruptly brightens again, tearing away and summoning his scythe to his hand, swinging his silver claws above his face to pull that cursed canine mask out of the shadows and put it on, hiding behind it before his true emotions could show. It would be a waste of time, and a waste of dignity.

His attack dog. Right. — “Shall we be going then?”

His lord seems entirely too unfazed by his barely cloaked threat, but Grim is anything but convinced. Both of them are more than aware that they are on equal footing. They are both gods, after all, they are both capable of hurting the other. That knowledge usually translates to mutual respect, reinforced through a shared past and millenia of time, and perhaps a bit of friendly confrontation. Sometimes, however, his lord forgets that he is more than just a dumb, defenceless servant carrying out his deeds without a word. He may be loyal, but only as loyal as a wild animal gets. To provoke a tamed lion relentlessly has never led to anything pleasant. You cannot tame something wild.

“Mmm. I suppose we shall,” — comes the murmur of a reply. Smooth and casual. Not even a change in tone.

He stomps on the floor with his cane once more, just a tad harder than before. In rushes another servant, looking to the ground in submission. It holds its dirty apron in its clutches so hard it tears into it with its beastly fingers.

“Clean this up,” — orders its master plainly, gesturing to the blood and papers scattered across the floor with his hand, — “and be thorough this time. Your legs have barely healed; I would hate to have them torn up again.”

Its knees knock together under it from the sympathetic, unbelievably innocent tone, itching at the heavy scarring between them. — “With pleasure, muh-, My Lord.”

He smiles sweetly, emptily, then turns away without a word, letting it begin its work. It struggles to bend its legs enough to reach the floor, trembling from exertion already, but that is not important. They have somewhere to be.

A snap of his fingers, and the very space rips open in the middle of the study, sending more clutter flying. A portal, one that presumably leads to where they need to go. Like a melting mirror, its edges flow and grow until it is large enough to fit a person comfortably, beckoning the two deities to enter with its unholy light.

“Come along.”

~

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long

[platosworstnightmare]

Adult Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase are the most surreal power couple in the mortal world.

Annabeth Chase, world renowned architect who was entrusted with repairs and renovation on the Empire State Building…

…and her husband, this guy who was wanted by the FBI for blowing up the St Louis Arch seventeen years ago

[greykolla-art]

⚠️Please don’t touch the sexy deer, it’s not flirting with you. ⚠️

I’ve got a thing for Vox being a fuckboi who keeps thinking their tension is gonna lead to hate sex. 😂

[chloesimaginationthings]

The FNAF Mikes talk about their extended family..

[ragingtrees]

bro cannot enjoy his milk in peace

[inadvisablebutinevitable]

the way that Andrew and Neil and Jean all have this incredibly intense codependent relationship with Kevin that’s based off of mutual trauma or binding promises, and then there’s just Jeremy who’s like… “Kevin is my buddy! 😁 We text! 🤗 Kevin you crazy fool! 😜

[rookiebe]

Memory

[glassedplanets]

more sketches! zs on the brain

[casscainmainly]

Why Duke Thomas Should Be A Dick Grayson Hater

Dick and Duke is such an underrated and underexplored relationship. Here is my pitch for why Duke should be a Dick Grayson hater.

1. The Rooftop Thing

Reason number one and the start of Duke's grudge should be the rooftop incident in Robin War. Dick, as part of his plan or whatever, leads Duke to a roof and abandons him to the cops.

LOOK AT DICK'S SMUG FACE. Tell me you wouldn't hold a grudge too if this was the FIRST major interaction you had with him?? Duke should use this against him at any possible opportunity.

2. ACAB

From We Are Robin #2. Once Duke finds out Dick used to be a cop, it's OVER for him.

3. Jason and Damian

Duke is quite close with Jason and Damian (in my head, particularly Damian - that's his LITTLE BROTHER). Anyway, these two are obsessed with Dick. You have Jason, with his miles-long brother issues that puts Dick on a pedestal, and you have Damian, who thinks Dick is the best person on Earth who can do no wrong. They would talk Duke's ears off about him. Duke would HATE IT.

4. Robin

This panel from Night of the Monster Men sums up quite nicely the difference in the way Dick and Duke approach vigilantism. Duke is the 'idealised' Robin, whose Robin-ing isn't contingent on Batman; Dick is more or less too tied up in Bruce. I think, because the Robin identity means a lot to Duke, having the original Robin be like this would irk Duke a LOT.

5. Tom Taylor

SPOILERS FOR CURRENT NIGHTWING RUN: in Nightwing #116, Dick gets framed for murder and Babs tells him to reveal he's Nightwing to clear him of suspicion. She says Bruce suggested it, and recounts everyone who agreed:

Hm. Is someone missing here? Oh yeah: DUKE. TT probably just forgot Duke, but where's the fun in that? Instead, if Duke is a Dick Grayson hater, you have the funniest scene imaginable. Everyone gathered in the Batcave, laying down their identities for Dick, and Duke is like 'I don't give a damn. He can rot in jail.' and peaces out.

BONUS points if he does this to get back at Dick for reason number 1.

6. Parallels

Duke's origin deliberately mirrors Bruce's, but that means it mirrors Dick's as well. Duke and Dick parallels go insane: they both had loving families, lost both parents at once, were in the foster system (varyingly for Dick but for the purposes of this post I'm gonna include it), were wards/not adopted by Bruce initially, have a huge reverence for family, have a thing about heights, view Robin as separate from Batman, forged their own identities, etc.

Tell me this page doesn't slap:

Anyway Duke would HATE this too. He'd be so annoyed that the person he has the most in common with is Dick, and that would fuel his Dick Grayson haterism.

Dick, on the other hand, has no hard feelings towards Duke. Duke would be glowering at him from the corner of the room and Dick would meet his gaze and be like 'ah Duke is so cute' and smile back. This would make Duke 10000x angrier.

Anyway that's my ideal Dick and Duke dynamic, feel free to add or modify or disagree with anything!!

[inkskinned]

before you know about women, you hear that you do not need to love the man, just that you need to love him through his manhood. which is to say you have seen the future painted in lamb's blood over your eyes - how your mother shoots you a look about your father's inability to cook right. how your aunt holds her wineglass and says i'm gonna kill em. men, right! how your best friend bickers with her boyfriend, how she says i can't help it. i come back to him.

you learn: men are gonna cheat. men aren't going to listen when you're talking, because you're nagging. men think emotions are stupid. they think your life is vapid and your hobbies are embarrassing. men will slam things, but that's because men are allowed to be angry. if you get loud, you're hysterical. if a man gets loud - well, men are animals, men are dogs, men can't control their hands or their eyes or their bodies. they're going to make a snide comment about you in the locker room, about your body, about how you're so fucking annoying. you're going to give him kids, and he will give you the money for the kids, and you're going to be running the house 24/7 - but he gets to relax after a long day, because his job is stressful. the man is on stage, and is a comedian, and says "women!"

and you are supposed to love that. you are supposed to love men through how horrible they are to you - because that's what women do. that's what good women do. wife material. your father even told you once - it'll make sense when you're older. it was like staring down a very lonely tunnel.

it feels like something's caught in your throat, but it's all you know, so. it's okay that you see sex as a necessary tool, a sort of okay-enough ritual to keep him happy, even though he doesn't seem to care about happiness as-applied-to you. it is relationship upkeep. it is kissing him and smiling even though he didn't brush his teeth. it is getting on your knees and looking up and holding back a sigh because he barely holds you as you panic through the night. it's not like the sex is bad and you do like feeling wanted. and besides! he's a man! like... they're another species. you'll never be able to actually communicate, right. he isn't listening.

you just don't get it. you don't feel that sense of i'm gonna climb him like a tree. mostly it just feels fucking exhausting. you play the part perfectly. you smile and nod and are "effortlessly" charming. and it's fine! it's alright! you even love him, if you're looking. you could have good life, and a good family, and perfectly happy.

in the late night you google: am i broken. you google i'm not attracted to my husband. you google i get turned on by books but not by him. you google how to get better in bed.

the first time he yells at you, it almost feels like blankness. like - of course this is happening. this is always how it was going to end up. men get angry, and they yell, and you sit there in silence.

you mention it to your friend - just the once - while you're drunk. she shrugs and says it's like that with me too, i just try to forget and move on. men are always gonna hear what they want to. pick your battles and say sorry even though he's in the wrong. you play solitaire online for a month. you go to your therapist appointment and preach about how you're both so in love.

after all, you have a future to want. nobody lied about it - how many instagram posts say marriage is hard. say real love takes work. say we fight like cats and dogs but the best part is that we always make up. how many of your friends say happy anniversary to the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. if you really loved him - loved yourself too - you'd accept that men are just different from you.

the first time she kisses you, it's on a dare at a party. something large and terrifying whips through your body. you wake up sweating from dreams where her mouth is encrusted with pearls and you pick them off one by one with your teeth. fuck. you sit at the computer and your almost-finished game of sim city. you think about your potential perfect life and your potential future family. you google am i gay quiz with your little hands shaking.

you delete each letter slowly. you don't need to love him. you just need to keep going.

[grendel-menz]

I have lied and I have betrayed and I have triumphed. If only there was someone to congratulate me.

[bumbleboa]

rainy day

[demigods-posts]

imagine if thalia visited percy on his fifteen birthday. an apology lodged somewhere in the back of her throat. knocking on the apartment door while holding back tears. sally greeting her with the warm smile of a mother. paul welcoming her inside with the kind tone of a father. imagine thalia surprised to see percy and nico bonding over two slices of blue cake. feeling even more alienated as a big three kid. knowing these two had a relationship without her. imagine thalia meeting percy's eyes from across the room. and for a brief second. she swears his previously gleeful gaze turns cold and bitter. and she's waiting for the anger. for the tide to drown her. and she's prepared to welcome it. but then his gaze turns remorseful. and then apologetic. and he doesn't yell at her. instead. he invites her to sit next to him and nico. and welcomes her to a slice of blue cake. because time will pass anyway. and life's way too short for kids like them to not hold each other through it.

[chloesimaginationthings]

FNAF Movie William judges Vanessa's friends..

[bubblingsteam]

[tofixtheshadows]

So I've been thinking lately about how Mithrun is Kabru's dark mirror (more on that another time- it needs its own post), and I thought it interesting that one of their parallels is that they were both cared for by Milsiril, but in opposite directions. She took Kabru in as her foster after he was orphaned and tried to convince him not to become an adventurer. On the flip side, she helped rehabilitate Mithrun specifically so that he could rejoin the Canaries.

And I kept wondering: why?

For Kabru, obviously she loves him a whole lot- despite any other shortcomings in their relationship, I do believe that.

So I get why she tries to convince him not to go dungeoning, and, failing that, at least prepares him as thoroughly as she can.

But why help Mithrun? She used to hate Mithrun, but after realizing what a secretly twisted person he was, she actually thought of him more positively (oh, Milsiril). So it wasn't as if she held the kind of grudge that might motivate her to make his already-depleted life even more miserable by sending him back to the dungeons. And it wasn't that she felt bad for him either, since she didn't visit Mithrun for the first ~20 years of his recovery.

The Adventurer's Bible says that Utaya was the impetus for Mithrun returning to the Canaries, but Milsiril is the one who made the trip to see him and tell him about it.

Why would Milsiril work so hard to get her old coworker back into fighting fit? Why encourage him to return to such a dangerous lifestyle, when she was the one who chose not to mercy-kill him?

That last panel is such a crazy thing to hint at and then never elaborate on. Without it we could have just thought that Milsiril wanted the Canaries' work to continue without her, even if it seemed out of character. I think some people even assume she's just a natural caretaker as a foster mom and handwave it to include nursing Mithrun too. What could Milsiril's suspicious motives be? What does she gain from Mithrun joining the Canaries that isn't an altruistic desire to see dungeons safely sealed? Feeling a sense of responsibility for the work she left behind isn't an ulterior motive.

My theory is: Milsiril, knowing that Mithrun was empty save for the burning desire to face the demon again, wound him up like a clockwork doll and pointed him back at the dungeons.

Hoping that he'd eliminate the biggest threat to Kabru's life, before it was too late for him.

Milsiril the puppetmaster.