#And don't get me started on the twelve!!!!

[lsunstreakerl]

in which ollie experiences the emergency department.

2k, ollie POV, mentions of gore

Seb takes Ollie away from Charles. Everyone says it's for the best, because Ollie doesn't want anything to do with what Charles is going to be doing, but it also means Ollie no longer has the safety net he'd been relying on.

Charles ruffles his hair and says he'll be fine, suggesting to Seb that Ollie shadows in the ER for the day. Ollie thinks it sounds terrifying. Seb thinks it sounds great.

He's introduced properly to Max, who has to be pulled out of a conversation with Daniel about stroke rendering. He raises a judgmental eyebrow at Seb, but a smile ghosts across his face when he shakes Ollie's hand.

"I'm Max. You can hide behind me until,"

He flips his wrist up to check his watch.

"Ten. And then you'll be shooting chests. Sound good?"

Ollie swallows. He knows how to take a chest X-Ray in theory, he just... hasn't done it in practice. It's nearly eight now, so Max is giving him two hours to learn before he, what, expects Ollie to do it? That can't be right.

He nods anyways, because he's pretty sure saying no isn't really an option here.

He follows behind Max across two skywalks, takes four flights of stairs down to the ER, and gets entirely turned around when Max tries to point out the cafe.

Max badges them through an employee door that opens automatically, leading them into a wide hallway. Ollie peers closer and realizes his markers have cats on them— and his badge reel is shaker globe, filled with tiny drifting flags. It seems a stark contrast to the frown he's wearing, but Ollie is briefly mesmerized at the way Canada is stuck at the top for a moment.

The screaming starts a moment later. He flinches, but Max keeps walking, smoothly redirecting them to the left as Ollie makes out the sound of someone demanding to speak to... the queen?

He spots signs above the doors labeled CT1, CT2, and CT3, and there's a gurney being wheeled into the third room, surrounded by several people. He can hear multiple monitors going off from the bed, as well as low moaning, but he can't see through the people to catch a glimpse of the patient.

Max doesn't even look twice, badging them into a large room with two doorways on his right and his left, with another directly across from them on the other side of the wall. There's tables and chairs, and a counter along the wall to his left with four computers. Ollie can see a mini fridge under the water cooler, and there's a beat up backpack on one of the old rolling chairs.

"XR one is to the left, directly across from it is room two, and then three and four are on the other side. You're back here with me and Liam today— he graduated a few months ago, so he can show you the ropes if we get separated— and normally Checo is back here, but he's out for the week. They've been rotating in whoever to fill that spot. I think it might be Paul today."

He pauses, leaning down and pulling a Red Bull out of the mini fridge.

"This is the control room, so you'd be doing your documentation and image review here, but you don't need to worry about that yet."

Well, that's a relief, considering Ollie doesn't even know where he'd start with documentation. Does it go straight to the doctor? What if he gets it wrong? What if—

The door on the other end of the room swings in, and Ollie is blindsided and distracted all at once at the man who comes in. He barely seems older than he is, and he has a lime green long sleeve under his black scrubs. It matches his bright neon shoes, but Ollie can see royal blue socks between the hem of his scrub pants and shoes.

The whole thing... clashes. This clearly does not bother the new guy, who spots Max and immediately looks relieved.

"Ohhhh, I am so glad you're here. Here's the phone, and if you give me one second— oh, hi, you look like you're twelve— I'll go over all the things I've left on the board and why."

Max makes a dryly amused noise, taking the phone from him and clipping it to his waistband.

"You've still got an hour and a half on your shift, I don't know where you think you're going."

"...Diagnostic?"

"Nope."

He deflates, sighing.

"Please?"

"Still no."

Max turns, gently nudging Ollie forward so that he's no longer hiding behind him.

"This is Ollie, our new student. He's a personal friend of Charles', so play nice. Just shadowing today. Ollie, this is Lully. Lully, Ollie."

Lully extends a hand, firmly shaking Ollie's twice before he smacks Max on the shoulder.

"Listen to what he tells you. He's a jackass but he means well, and if you can get past his cranky, asshole-ish tend—"

He's interrupted by Max shoving his head down, broad hand messing up his hair.

"Ignore him, he's night shift."

Ollie nods weakly, and Lully winks at him.

"Anyways— nothing in Gen Med got done 'cause we had a group project MVC come in, and then I was trying to get the ancillaries done but acute kept piling up, and then I had to run another trauma while you were doing huddle this morning."

Max nods, eyes watching the two large screens on the wall. There's columns of names and exams, all sorts of abbreviations and details Ollie doesn't understand.

"Where's Gianni and Fred?"

Lully winces.

"Gianni got pulled to help CT, and Fred's been bunkered down next to outpatient triage for the last three hours."

Max nods, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Anyone get a lunch?"

Lully gives him an incredulous look, and he snorts.

"Right. I'll cover you, and you can go. When Paul comes in I'll have him cover Fred, and Daniel will take care of Gianni when he gets over there. Get out of here."

"Well fuck, don't tell me twice. See you in thirty minutes, Maxy."

"Stop calling me that."

------

Max throws Ollie in headfirst. Sort of.

His first chest x-rays are done in acute care, sitting the patients up in the gurneys, and he rapidly realizes he's going to need to start going to the gym. Max helps with tube positioning for the portable, which Ollie is deeply grateful for, and he hides behind Max's back each time they shoot.

Max is also, as Lully had said, an asshole. He quizzes Ollie relentlessly on his anatomy with each shot, asking him what he would fix or what they could've done differently.

They have a patient who can't hold the right position, and Max pats Ollie on the shoulder as he pulls on the lead.

"Button on top shoots, you hold it down halfway to rotor. I'm going to hold her, you shoot when I say so."

Ollie blinks as Max secures the thyroid shield.

"Wait, what?"

"You got this Ollie, no worries. Mrs. Ruthford, I'm going to help you sit straight. On three—"

------

Ollie is mid-sip of his water when Max's phone goes off with a rapid beeping noise. He can hear the sound mimicked across other phones in the ER, creating an echo that immediately has him startled, eyes darting around. The intercom crackles to life overhead.

"Attention all staff, acute trauma inbound to Trauma C, ETA six minutes. Attention all staff..."

It keeps repeating, but Max is already closing out of the computer, looking down at his phone. Ollie caps his water.

"Rollover accident. Looking like just the one right now—"

"Attention all staff, acute trauma inbound to Trauma B, ETA eight minutes. Attention all staff..."

He sighs.

"Yeah, I should not have said anything. Ollie, grab lead from the other room. Your job is to observe and stay out of the way. If you think you are going to throw up, do it quietly."

Someone else darts in from Room 2, a shorter man with brilliant blond hair. He's also young, closer to Ollie's age, and he spits out a piece of gum into the trash before grabbing a water off of the table, taking a few long swings before setting it back down.

"You wanna rock-paper-scissors for the ugly one?"

Ollie fights the initial urge to be horrified. The seriousness is starting to sink in— people are coming in, people who are really hurt, and they're joking?

"No, you cheat. I have seniority, ugly one goes to me."

"Come on—"

------

Max shoves Ollie into the small, shielded control room. He double checks that Ollie has on his lead properly before he's grabbing the IR out of the wall charger, sliding it into a plastic bag. There's a trauma gurney waiting in the middle of the room, which is rapidly filling with people. Ollie sees a glimpse of him getting the IR under the gurney before he can't see past everyone anymore, and he twists his fingers nervously in his pocket.

The overhead pages again, shorter ETA's this time, and he can see someone stand behind the lifted computer section.

"Alright, I've got a thirty-two year old, rollover accident, he got T-boned at eighty-eight kilometers an hour, unresponsive, blunt force trauma to the forehead and chest, his airbags did not go off..."

She rattles off vitals and numbers Ollie can't follow, and someone else ducks into the control area, also wringing their hands nervously. He looks over at Ollie and offers a shy smile.

"Hello, sorry— did you need to be here?"

Ollie is only a tiny bit distracted at his messy brown curls. The lead seems too big on him, and he keeps fidgeting with the thyroid shield.

"No, it's okay. I'm Ollie, I'm a student."

The other boy brightens.

"I am also a student! My name is Kimi. Which program are you with?"

Ollie ducks his head.

"I'm with radiography. It's my first semester. What about you?"

The overhead pages again— two minutes out.

"I'm shadowing before medical school."

Ollie can't help the surprised expression on his face as he grins.

"Mate, that is sick."

He pauses.

"Not like, patient sick. Obviously. That would be a terrible thing to say. Sick like cool, or rad, but not rad like radiography—"

He's making a fool of himself, but Kimi is grinning at him anyway.

ETA one minute out.

------

Ollie picks numbly at the salad in front of him. Max had sent him to lunch after the trauma, and he hadn't felt hungry at all— picked the first thing that looked healthy. It still doesn't look appetizing, and he's only managed a few bites. Nothing feels real.

There'd been so much blood. Ollie had never seen more than scraped knees until today, where he'd seen white bone jutting out of bruised and mangled flesh, open skin so red and raw he'd felt bile in the back of his throat. He'd watched them flush out wounds, watery pink blood dripping off the side of the gurney onto the floor.

Kimi had gripped his hand halfway through, and Ollie can still feel the ghost of his nails digging into his skin.

He'd found out the other tech who'd come in when the traumas were first called is named Liam— he'd said something to Max about cracking the chest. Ollie had felt too numb to ask.

He still can't.

A tray thunks down on the table across from him, and he startles, eyes flicking up to see Max sit down. A foot nudges against his under the table.

"Let's talk about it."

Ollie shoves at a lettuce leaf.

"I don't want to."

"I don't care."

He sighs, setting his fork down. Max seems so unaffected— he and Liam had joked before they went in there, they'd known what they were going to see.

"How do you not care?"

Max steals a tomato out of Ollie's salad with his fork, popping it into his mouth.

"You don't like tomatoes, right? Charles doesn't either. And it's not about not caring— I care a lot. Too much, sometimes."

He pushes a protein shake across the table, and Ollie belatedly realizes he'd brought two over.

"Drink that. You've done a lot of moving today, don't need you passing out. You can't give out every piece of your heart to every patient, Ollie. It's just not possible."

Ollie takes a slow sip. It's peanut butter, and he doesn't realize how much he'd wanted it until he's drinking it.

"But how?"

"You get desensitized. That's not a bad thing, it is something that allows you to take care of people better. Sometimes you will see one that still sticks with you, and those are the ones you will think about for a long time. It is good to find someone to talk to— a priest, a therapist, one of us— as long as you are not repressing it all. Or drinking, don't do that either."

Ollie stabs a piece of cheese.

"I don't know that I can do this."

Max knocks their feet together again, meeting his eyes. Ollie feels pinned by the intensity of it.

"You can."

[ang3l0fde4th4ndd0gs]

Okay so now I'm stuck a little bit.

I technically did a character setup for one of my characters in the last series.

But now I don't want to write that character. I have to go with the first like 8 I created.

Cas

Azrael

Keiko

Robyn

Chaos

Nova

Juno

Cassius

But at the same time we have Azrael's 1000+ soldiers. Only about 12 of them will ever show up regularly enough.

Maizelen

Blythe

Borizova

Vanessa

Zaylyn

Reyes

Bridger

Ryeder

Glyen (yes his name is spelled like that and pronounced Glen. I needed punchlines)

Knox

Travers

Arturo

Blandon

Caine

Camila

Clemonte

Conley

Darley

Farrel

Levan

Oberyn

Sanchez

Sommer

Tempo

Sawyer

Brady

So it's definitely more than twelve but the point of making the entire series is to put together all of the different characters I've created for this universe (which is a lot, be warned) and give each of them their own series. But the nice thing is that there is a TON of crossover.

However the other dilemma I'm having right now is that I did Azrael like DANGEROUSLY dirty. So I am trying to convince myself not to like write his next little chunk.

But he's also one of my favorites. So it makes me sad that I can't like... fix it. Man could use a redemption arc.

Like yes I understand the taboo of having written a little bit of alcoholism for him. But at the same time he's a conditioned soldier almost from birth. Like he started getting experimented on at a month old.

The thing about him is that he would have to be conditioned a second time to remove his association with the scientist who experimented on him and alcohol because that was one of the motivators. So much so that it became worse and worse for him when he couldn't be using it.

So.

We might be going back and forth between POVs a little and just slowly adding another POV here and there. Obviously they will still get full series. 62k words has become the series minimum though because I want every series to be at least a few thousand words longer than the one before it.

But I think if I go back and forth between AJ and Azrael's points of view for the next 2-6 series, maybe it'll be an easier shift to the next POV which would add Keiko's point of view to the series.

I think I should probably start a collection for this series because it'll start to build up the actual series of series.

I have no idea how to write the plural of series so if that's super confusing, don't worry, me too.

I thought about making Mozzafiato Keiko's series but to honor the original, it is technically just the name I gave the whole universe itself.

So I would probably just name the collection that.

Anyway apparently this post made me figure out where to go next so thanks to my incessant reposting this singular post, I'be figured out how to continue on.

Doing my best to keep up with writing but legitimately made a deal with my mother that I'd keep trying to make like 600-700 a week to support my own lifestyle while paying rent so it is becoming 100% harder. So if you keep up with my ao3 at all, you might have to expect slower updates because dude, that much is like 15 hours of work a day. Not that I sleep much but STILL.

[degen-fics]

Device Incompatible

[Alastor x Reader; Vox PoV]

Rating: E

Tags: Smut, Voyeurism, One-Sided RadioStatic, Unrequited Love&Lust, Dom/Sub Undertones

CW: None, unless you're not into reading about Vox's jealousy.

Notes: Mostly written from Vox's POV; switches to Reader's POV near the end.

---[read on ao3]---

All Vox wants to do is go the fuck to sleep. Power down, as he used to say. Shut himself off (or up, depending on who you ask) and hibernate for a solid nine to twelve hours. He'll be lucky if he gets even half of that, but a man can dream. You don't create a technological empire in Hell without some hopes and ambitions, after all, but the weight of the day has been especially cumbersome, and even the quickest nap feels out of reach. 

And none of it was his damn fault. 

Productivity in the spyware department hit an all-time low for the month. Progress on anti-angelic defense systems hasn't moved an inch since its establishment. Val was in one of his moods, Velvette set herself to ‘do not disturb’ the moment he woke up, and ugh, all of the bugs he planted… Every camera, microphone, and motion detector, wiped from the Hazbin Hotel without a trace. Even the GPS functions all failed, and that shit’s built for survival in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. The worst of it? None of those feeds captured even a smidge of Alastor's presence.

Vox double checked. Frame by frame. Twice. No Alastor. 

Anyone would be exhausted after a day like this. He's not in the mood for any more nonsense, and ‘lo and behold, there's more of it. 

He tries the doorknob again. A twist to the left, a jerk to the right… a furious rattle and matching scowl… Nothing. Seriously? It's been five hours since their last argument. Val usually forgets what was wrong after the third, and he picks today to start holding grudges against him? He's supposed to be exempt from the grudge rule, for fuck’s sake. Defeated, Vox runs a tired hand down the front of his face, mumbling obscenities under his breath as he gears up for an enraged knocking spree. 

“...ah!”

He stops. 

“... … fuck, that's…”

A voice he doesn't recognize permeates the barrier, and he sighs. The bedroom's meant for sex when both parties are present and accounted for; anyone else, and you're relegated to, well, anywhere else. Fine, whatever, he'll sleep on the couch; he's faintly positive it's been deep cleaned sometime this week already. With a surge of fatigued rage zipping through his circuits, Vox squares up to send a scathing passive aggressive text, coming to a halt when a push notification cuts over the screen. 

The mothman in that photo is decidedly Valentino, posed with a drink in hand and a gaggle of sinners in his arms. ‘Can't hate me when I'm so good at my job xoxo’. 

Vox looks over his shoulder, dazed and disoriented, staring at his bedroom door like a deer in headlights. 

“Who the fuck is fucking in my room?!”

He's already chosen a replacement door, poised to give it a rough kick and everything, before the universe hands him another perfectly timed gesture of goodwill. 

“...louder than I recall… … …no reason for us to stop.”

His professor short circuits. 

You mean to tell him that, after hours of painstakingly combing through mountains of data, Alastor - the guy he was looking for - has been in his bedroom this whole time. This is a joke, right? It has to be.

Vox presses up against the door. Just to be sure, of course. Wouldn't want to ruin a door for nothing, even if no one's here to witness his manic descent. 

“Oh shit,” Vox whispers, casting a glance towards the high ceilings of the penthouse. The security cameras. All he has to do is tap into the feed. … If he wanted to see the doors and windows. Why did he think to have privacy in his own room? He knows better than anyone what an illusion that is. No matter where you go, someone's watching, listening; everything has a camera nowadays. He can take selfies with his fridge, and oh, the shame crawling over his cheeks the moment he remembers the laptop, always left open and pointing at the bed. 

Vox jumps in without a second thought and wow that is a clear image, holy shit, their tech is amazing. 

“But I said please! That's asking nicely.” The unfamiliar face pouts up at the lithe, lanky frame of none other than the Radio Demon himself. “Pretty please?” 

“My, you can make quite the adorable little face, my sweet! But I'm afraid I won't be falling for it. Once was one time too many.”

Despite the uncomfortable ache twisting in his gut, Vox doesn't look away. Not yet. Not when Alastor's in such a state of disarray. Locks of crimson hair arch out of place, and with a cursory look at the archived footage, yep, the same hair curls and laces around his hand as his partner sucks him off.

Alastor and his leashed submissive are fucking in his bedroom, and Vox, in all his pathetic glory, watches from the laptop. 

“That's not fair!” The sub huffs and crosses her arms. “You said we would fuck on his bed before we leave, and we didn't.”

“Mm, I believe I said we could ‘fool around’ as we were already in the area.” Alastor pats her head, wrapping the bright green leash around his forearm for good measure. “Now, now, don't get pouty with me, dearest. I've already made quite the sacrifice for you. Who knows how many quirky little devices he has in here?”

Vox shuffles on his feet, warmth crawling down his torso as Alastor kneels on the mattress. Hovering over this painfully lucky sinner with a wicked grin. God, he wishes that was him. 

“Why, for all we know, he's been watching us from the start.” Alastor's other leg follows suit, trapping his squirmy partner under the weight of his body. The rattle of her chain slides over Vox’s spine, a brief glimpse into her reality, one that only leaves him wanting more. He can't quite make out the whispering when Alastor's lips duck to her ear, bathing her in husky murmurings, leaving Vox to his imagination alone. You're electrifying, my love. Brilliant, beautiful, and oh, your strength… it's intoxicating, how admirable you are. How utterly perfect. You were made for me, Vox.

Whatever she heard leaves her red in the cheeks, lips parted in silent yearning for a kiss. Vox grits his teeth, reminding himself not to grind them into dust.

“Don't make me into a liar, darling.” Alastor cups her cheek, another cursory tug at her collar beckoning her closer to his dominating smile. “You know what I expect from you, yes?”

She nods. “Listen well, give you lots of compliments, and thank you for how good you make me feel.”

“And?”

“And get your permission before I come.”

“Good girl.” 

The seduction in Alastor's voice has Vox choking on his own breath. The way his dick prods against the fly of his pants doesn't help much either. What little composure he had left gets swept away by his violent heartbeat, aching in his ears, his groin, his chest. A shaky arm prevents him from completely crashing against the wall, his other hand palming at his clothed erection. He's hooked, utterly and miserably enchanted by the way Alastor captures her lips. Synchronized. In tune with one another, anticipating each other's every twitch, every sigh, every delicate moan into their shared breath. Alastor leads with an authoritative air to him, the shades of himself ever present; the terror of the Radio Demon lurks around the corner, waiting for her to slip up. And yet, her submission holds no fear. 

Vox still won't look away. 

The intimacy burns through his body, a rampaging scorched earth pulsing with every heartbeat, held at bay by just the breaths of pleasure radiating from his dick. Alastor tells her to take it off, and she's instantly on her knees, undoing the buttons of not her pants, but his coat and shirt, all with rehearsed elegance. All for him. All with his permission. His blessings, the way he worships her not in whispers meant for secrets, but for her. Vox swallows. He can't take it. The button and zipper of his pants come undone too easily, cock springing forth and weeping for help. His thumb moves in time with them, with her, slathering precum over his tip every time Alastor's hand dips under her panties. 

“Right there, yeah, ohh that feels so good… You're always so generous, sir, even when I haven't– ohhh fuck…” She grinds against his hand. “...haven't been on my best behavior.” Mouth agape, her eyes flutter shut, her wetness apparent in every flick of Alastor's wrist. The audible squelch of her essence goes straight to Vox’s aching cock, and he has to loosen his grip to keep himself from tipping over the edge. She has an envious amount of resilience. It's restraint, her self-control; anything to disprove her familiarity with Alastor's touch. 

“Mm, I'm quite the generous lover indeed.” Alastor dips deeper into her cunt, earning a voracious mewl of appreciation. “One might even accuse me of spoiling you.”

A string of profanities hisses through Vox’s teeth, pain smoldering through his chest as she finally takes off Alastor's slacks. He hooks a thumb over the band when she reaches for his underwear, a cutesy game of tug-o-war until her giggles and pleas finally crack his defenses wide open. What a sickeningly cute, intimate gesture; Vox’s stomach churns at the display, watching her arms wrap around Alastor's neck to pull him down into a dazzling, passionate, needy kiss. 

Vox might be overclocked and overheated. The wide hallway blurs into smudges of white and blue, his head spinning with an onslaught of thoughts, sensations, memories; a flurry of what could've been. He spent years telling himself that Alastor simply couldn't feel, didn't care to feel, didn't want to feel. All of that quasi-healing unravels the second Vox zooms back into the scene, watching in rapt torture as Alastor taps her cheek, pointing from her eyes to his. They have their own rituals, a sacred language known only to them and for themselves alone. 

And Vox watches on, matching their pace just as before. The urge to hold out morphs into necessity, a mantra on loop in his head as he fucks himself with his hand, louder with every thrust of Alastor's hips. Not yet, not yet, wait for her… Not her, not her. 

“Ohhh god, Al, sir–”

That's not his name. Didn't he tell you that?

“Your words, little love.” Alastor rocks into her, faster, harder with every moan splitting through her throat. 

“Can I please come, sir? Please, it's– oh! It's impossible to hold back when you make me feel so good. Please, please…” 

Vox, too, pleads for him, from the maddening sanctity of his mind. 

“Do as I say, cher, and I'll get you there.”

Vox's cock spasms in his hand. 

“Pay close attention,” Alastor murmurs, grazing her clit with the pad of his thumb, grin tight at the corners of his mouth. “This is much different than what I like to ask. I don't just need you to be good. I need you to be perfect.”

Not yet, not yet, not yet, not her not with her, fuck not with her!

“With every ounce of your soul,” Alastor swallows a moan, “I need you to tell him who has my heart.”

Vox should've stopped a long time ago. Every ounce of control snaps, overthrown by the first orgasm he's ever hated. Cum splatters against the wall, sticky stretches of heat singeing languid trails that lead to nowhere fast. All semblance of ecstasy fizzles under the damp weight spilling through his chest, nails puncturing the drywall as she cries out:

“I have your heart, Alastor, I-I have it, it's mine, it's mine, fuck, Alastor, you're mine!” 

“That’s right… Good… My good, beautiful girl… You're always so pretty when you fall apart in my arms. I'm–! Ngh, take all of me, love. Let me give you everything.”

And Vox… he watches to the end. He has to see it through. Has to see what Alastor looks like when he's completely himself, raw and vulnerable; has to see his smile. A gentle arc, softened around the edges, bathing her in a warmth Vox can only imagine. Alastor presents himself to her as he was, as he is, as he will be, and all Vox can do is watch, and want. 

—

You stretch across the bed after Alastor helps you back into your clothes, taking in the sights the ceiling has to offer. “That was incredible.”

Across the bed, Alastor chuckles, a lazy amusement glazing over his eyes. “An absolute pleasure, yes. Though I'm beginning to question your intentions with this outing.”

“Hm?” You sit up. “I said I wanted to play games. You're the one who got all protective and insisted that you come along.”

“And this is the sort of game you planned to play alone?” Alastor scoops you up into his arms, his shadow nuzzling your neck with affection and intent; the vertigo isn't as bad if you get a feel for the shadows ahead of travel time. He learned that one the hard way. “You are many things, dear, but reckless isn't one of them.”

“You caught me,” you smile. “I wanted to–”

The bedroom door rattles in its hinges, demanding your attention before it tumbles to the ground in a pile of waste and potential splinters. In all his glitchy glory, Vox tumbles into the room, his sneer torn apart by flashes of color. 

“What in the everloving fuck are you doing here?!” The wobbles and warps of his voice tickle your funny bone. “How did you get in?!” 

You point at Vox, and look to Alastor, wearing your biggest doe eyes. “One of his camera thingies was in my room.”

“Beg your pardon?” Alastor's eye twitches, his shadow twisting around you like a blanket burrito. “Dear,” his laugh is strained, “you insisted there was nothing to be found.” 

Vox holds up his hands. “Not to split hairs, or ignore the fact that you two have been fucking here, but I personally didn't put anything anywhere.”

Your gaze bounces between Vox and Alastor. Suddenly, all of Alastor's bloodlust really starts to make sense. He should've told you Vox was the ‘well actually’ type. You sigh in defeat, fixing your gaze back to Alastor, the same doe-eyed expression plastered over your face. “I’m sorry for lying… This was the ‘game’ I wanted to play as a kind of revenge, but I guess it didn't work.”

At that, Alastor smirks, locking eyes with Vox. You might not see it, but Alastor does, and he fully intends to commit that ugly television face to memory. “Trust me, dear. Your plan worked rather well.”

“Does that mean you're not gonna beat him up before we go back to the hotel?” 

“We'll have to save that for another time, I'm afraid.” Alastor turns his back to Vox, glancing over his shoulder with one last grin. “He’s far more damaged than you realize.”

Right before you sink into the shadows in full, you steal one last look at Vox. The faint tearing of his screen morphs his face out of emotional recognition. Flashes of color and morphed graphics fade to black, and as you dip into the shadows, you can't help but wonder if that's how television demons cry. Perhaps the thought alone is enough; you still have the luxury of holding out hope. 

[suzukiblu]

I love Superboys switch but it's hard to read even with the chrono link, like I think it's still out of order? 😭😭😭

ah, yeah, sorry about that; a few of my older WIPs start kinda out of order or are missing chunks 'cuz originally I was NOT intending to do the "just update all the time on Tumblr all in order actually and then put it on AO3 later" approach, hah.

but I can get in my onion man era for u, fren, me and this read-more, we got u, fren 💗🧅💗:

Jon had a great childhood right up until he had a horrible one, which is something he tries not to dwell too much on. 

It's also something that's a little harder not to dwell on than usual while standing in front of the only other Kryptonian-human hybrid he's ever met, who's twelve years old if he's a day. 

Literally. Literally this kid is both twelve years old and also just a day, because Jon and Jay and Damian apparently walked right into the middle of this weird cloning scheme that no one in Cadmus wants to explain the purpose of to them. 

So, like, that's not screamingly suspicious or anything. 

"Hi, kid," Jon tries. The baby clone wearing his dad's twelve year-old face just stares up at him from the bottom of the shattered remnants of the cloning tube that Jon maaaaaybe shouldn't have punched quite so hard. 

"We could eliminate the staff and destroy the evidence," Damian suggests from where he's standing by the nearest computer with Jay, which is not actually the kind of thing that Damian suggests anymore. Like, ever. It makes Jon more than a little bit concerned about what's on that computer. 

"Less murder in the plan, please," he requests, not quite able to take his eyes off the kid with, again, his dad's face. And also Ultraman's face. But he tries to concentrate on the "Dad" part of that observation, for obvious reasons. "Although I'm still open to destruction." 

"Any witness to the clone's existence is a threat to its autonomy and survival," Damian says as the staff members tied up in the corner all look very, very nervous. "Frankly the only compelling argument not to execute these contemptible excuses for sapient life is the risk of inciting trauma in the clone. I recommend covering its eyes at a minimum, depending on its currently developed powerset and any potential X-ray vision or enhanced senses that it may possess." 

"Not to encourage Nightwing's less Batman-approved instincts, buuuuut I just read, like . . . everything they were planning to do to this kid once they cracked that cloning tube," Jay says, eyeing the computer screen very, very darkly. "So we are treading a bit dangerously close to 'how many lives are worth this kid's freedom?', and to be honest the math does not support the assholes in the lab coats in this particular equation." 

"That doesn't make sense," the clone says as he gets to his feet in the tube and starts distractedly pulling off the genuinely alarming amount of machinery hooked up to him, looking puzzled. "The staff would be way harder to replace than me. They're, like, real people." 

. . . Jon reconsiders the merits of the murder plan. Just, like . . . just a little bit. Just a touch. 

"That is a logical conclusion to reach, given both the bias and inadequacy of the information that you have been presented with," Damian allows, and if Damian is actually being patient with somebody who is so objectively wrong in cold blood and without so much as a derisive aside or judgmental look, then Jon really doesn't want to know what's on that computer terminal. Like, holy shit, not ever. He'd like to keep some scrap of faith in humanity, thanks. "Counterpoint: the staff members do not deserve their lives." 

"Please don't teach my baby brother that," Jon says, already resigned to spending the better part of the next decade getting that particular sentiment out of the kid's head. "Or my . . . baby uncle, maybe, I don't know. Maybe we'll just start with 'baby cousin' and go from there." 

"Maybe he's your baby dad?" Jay suggests with a snicker. 

The clone . . . blinks. 

"I'm a clone," he says, looking perplexed. 

"We know, kid," Jon says, wondering why the kid thinks that's currently relevant as he takes off his cape. Said kid is naked except for the last couple of machines and wires that he's still working his way out of, so yeah, it's definitely time to take off his cape and wrap him up in some basic decency. "Are you cold?" 

"Dunno," the clone says, frowning consideringly. "What's 'cold' feel like?" 

Jon, again, revisits the merits of murder. Just like . . . just a couple of them. That's all. 

"I forget," he admits. "I kind of haven't been cold for a decade or so." 

"I maaaaay kind of also forget," Jay says with a wince. "These days I tend to just reflexively stop being tangible when I start getting chilly, it's actually really inconvenient?" 

"It is utterly inconvenient to be invulnerable to both freezing to death and the effects of hypothermia, yes," Damian says dubiously. "There are multiple degrees of 'cold', clone, but Superman is currently referencing a basic discomfort. Physical responses to it include goosebumps and shivering. A prickling sensation is not uncommon." 

"Please stop calling him 'clone'," Jon says as it belatedly occurs to him that said clone does not speak Nightwing-ese and might be taking that the wrong way. "And 'it', while we're at it." 

Also maybe he should stop thinking of the kid as "the clone" himself, come to think. 

". . . you're Superman?" The kid frowns up at Jon skeptically. "You don't look like you look in my head." 

Jon doesn't even want to understand that sentence. 

"There's two of us," he says. "You're probably thinking of my dad. He's the one they cloned you from. Although I don't actually know why, because you're apparently a hybrid and if they specifically wanted a hybrid I'm already one? Like, just cloning me instead seems a whole lot simpler than mixing up their own DNA cocktail and just hoping it worked out." 

"Sir said your mother's genetic material was 'clearly the inferior option'," the kid says, making air-quotes with his fingers. 

Jon wonders who the hell taught the day-old baby clone about air-quotes, of all things, but mostly is just kind of annoyed to hear that there's a probable-supervillain somewhere out there judging his mom's DNA. Like, fuck that guy, whoever the fuck he is. For one thing, genetic material is so unimportant to somebody turning out a decent person, and for another, his mom is genetically a badass anyway, so like . . . seriously, again, fuck that guy. 

"Inferior to whose?" Jay asks, which is a very good question, actually, and definitely reminds Jon why they bring him along for these things more and more often these days. 

"Sir's," the kid says. 

"And does 'Sir' have a name?" Damian asks, the lenses of his mask narrowing. "Preferably first, middle, and last." 

"I guess?" the kid says with a shrug. "Probably. Most people have 'em, right? Like, the real ones, I mean. But everybody just called him 'Sir' when he was here." 

"What did he look like?" Jay asks. 

"An asshole. Which, now that I'm thinking about it, 'Asshole' is a way better thing to call him than 'Sir'," the kid muses consideringly. Jay chokes on a laugh. Damian looks exasperated by the lack of intel. The staff just seems very, very nervous. And Jon . . . 

Jon is kind of comforted, actually. This kid was grown in a tube and force-fed who the fuck knows what kind of information, but he sounds nothing like Jon would expect from someone born and "raised" in a lab environment. Like, he isn't sure how the kid could sound less like he belonged in a lab environment. 

So that's . . . yeah. That's definitely comforting, Jon thinks, and doesn't think about volcanos at all. 

"Here," he says, holding his cape out to the kid and getting a blank look in return. The kid, admittedly, doesn't seem to be all that concerned about standing around naked in a room full of other people. Seeing as he was basically just assembled in a lab in roughly twenty hours and he's literally never worn anything that wasn't life support, Jon guesses that makes sense. 

Definitely another "merits of murder" thing, though. 

"What am I supposed to do with that?" the kid asks skeptically as he looks at the cape. 

"Not be naked, mostly," Jon says. 

"Oh," the kid says, then makes a face. "Don't you have anything . . . else?" 

Jon supposes there are worse behavioral issues than a physiological twelve year-old being picky about what he wears, all things considered. 

"Uh . . . let me check," he says, and gives the immediate area a quick X-ray vision scan. Mostly he finds scrubs and lab coats–which, no–but there's a closet halfway down the hall which looks like it has civilian clothes in it, for whatever reason. 

Jon doesn't know the reason, but also doesn't care. He just zips down to the closet, grabs everything inside at super-speed, and zips back to dump the whole pile of it on top of the nearest desk. 

"Take your pick," he says, figuring giving the kid options can't hurt. Also, giving the kid options is probably like . . . a moral imperative, at this point. 

"Sick," the kid says, his eyes gleaming as he just shy of literally pounces on the pile. 

"Why does it speak like that?" Damian asks, looking suspicious. 

"Please stop calling him 'it'," Jon repeats in exasperation. Damian shoots him an annoyed look. 

"Oh, and 'him' is somehow more appropriate?" he asks dubiously. 

"I–how is that even a question?!" Jon demands incredulously, staring back at him. 

"Because it is twenty-one hours old and cannot possibly know its gender yet," Damian says. Jon . . . pauses. 

". . . 'they', Nightwing," he says finally, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. At least he knows Damian's been doing his allyship research, he guesses. "If you don't know somebody's gender, it's 'they'." 

"I'm cool with Nightwing calling me 'it', actually," the kid puts in conversationally as he shakes out–as they shake out a random T-shirt and make a face at it, apparently finding it . . . somehow offensive, Jon doesn't really know how. It's just a plain white T-shirt. "I don't know if I have a gender or whatever but I like that he thought about it. But if anybody in a lab coat ever calls me 'it' again, I'm disassembling them." 

The staff all cringes. 

That seems like weird phrasing, Jon thinks, trying not to frown. Like–"disassembling"? That's weird, right? 

Then again, so is the kid. 

"I know Nightwing is threatening to set a terrible example but please don't actually try to murder anyone," he says. 

"Can I disassemble them if I let them live?" the kid bargains. Jon does not want to understand that question. 

"No," he says. "Just–don't disassemble people at all, please." 

"Unless it's self-defense," Jay says. "Like, if they're gonna kill you otherwise. Then disassemble away." 

"Or unless it is in defense of someone else's life," Damian says. "That would also be acceptable." 

"They're twenty-one hours old, you two, it's a little soon to be introducing major ethical dilemmas," Jon says, eyeing them both. Jay and Damian never get along this well when he wants to just hang out with them both at the same time, no. Teaching the baby clone when it's appropriate to kill people, though, that's apparently fine. 

Jesus, why is he even surprised? 

"It is an untrained and inexperienced child that was produced in a laboratory by people who will presumably wish to recover it post-extraction," Damian says, giving him an unimpressed look. "It cannot be held to the same standards of morality as an active superhero." 

"Definitely not," Jay agrees. "And like, we have no idea when said people might show up, so better to make sure the kid knows how to handle the possibility straight off." 

"Is this leather?" the kid asks with no apparent concern about any of that, their eyes lighting up as they hold up a black jacket to inspect. They're still completely naked and still very obviously don't care. 

"Looks like it," Jon says, giving said jacket a puzzled glance. It is leather, yeah. It's also covered in metal studs and mismatched pins and random punk-looking patches, absolutely none of which are related to a single band that Jon has ever once listened to. It doesn't look very professional, but maybe it belongs to an intern. Or, like, a janitor or something. 

In absolute and entire irony, there's also a crest of El patch stitched to one of the shoulders. Maybe whoever owns it thought that was funny or something. 

Prick. 

"I wanna wear this," the kid says firmly, hugging the jacket to their chest. 

"Pants will also be necessary," Damian informs them. "And ideally a shirt." 

"Yeah, I'm on it," the kid says, then returns their attention to the clothing pile. Jon has literally never met a kid who responded so well to Nightwing, of all people. Batman? Yes. Spoiler or Redbird? Sure. But Nightwing? 

Damian has literally had to knock kids out so they wouldn't freak out too bad for him to save them. Like, as a whole recurring thing. Which probably hasn't helped him reduce the need to knock kids out in general, Jon is pretty sure, but is in fact a fact all the same. 

Knocking out a Kryptonian kid would probably be harder to pull off, admittedly, even for Damian, so this is definitely for the best. 

It's still really, really weird to witness, though. 

The kid digs up a pair of beat-up jeans and a black T-shirt with an obnoxiously bright hot pink print on it that says "LIVE WEIRD" that they apparently consider acceptable and puts both on. The clothes are way too big, but there's a studded leather belt that Jon is gonna put even money on belonging to the owner of the leather jacket, so that should keep the jeans up and the kid can roll up the cuffs. Though the T-shirt is just gonna have to do its best, Jon guesses. There is absolutely nothing to do about socks or shoes or underwear, but he figures those aren't really that important right now anyway. 

The jacket actually fits the kid okay, surprisingly, so whoever it belongs to must be on the smaller side. It's definitely still too big for them, but more in a "they'll grow into it" kind of way than the jeans and T-shirt are. 

The kid grins when they put the jacket on, visibly preening, and Jon immediately decides that he is going to buy every single album that every single one of the bands on it has ever dropped. There is zero reason to make that decision, since who knows if the kid is even gonna like music at all, much less specifically like anything punk, but Jon decides it anyway. It's a thing and it's happening, that's just how it is and is gonna be. He is taking this kid home with him and they're going straight to the first streaming app Jon sees on his phone and just going from there. 

Also, he's introducing them to Ma Kent's apple pie and neapolitan ice cream and Dad's spaghetti recipe and all the joys of junk food and, like . . . he doesn't even know what else. TV? Movies? Gender studies? Probably gender studies would be helpful right now, considering. 

And Krypto. Definitely Krypto. Jon is gonna whistle for Krypto immediately after they get out of this stupid godforsaken lab. 

"How do I look?" the kid asks with a grin, tugging at their lapels. 

"Peculiar," Damian says. Jon nearly smacks him. 

"Anti-establishment," Jay says with a grin of his own. The kid laughs. "Wanna break a lab with us?" 

"But you already broke in," the kid says, tilting their head in confusion. 

"Yeah, but we didn't teach you how to commit arson yet," Jay replies reasonably, and the kid's eyes light up in both immediate understanding and very unsubtle excitement. And, well . . . 

Jon wasn't necessarily gonna burn down all of Cadmus, but also no way is he letting Damian and Jay end up the kid's favorites this easy. Like, that is just not happening. 

So yes, Cadmus is officially about to be ashes. Whole thing, top to bottom. 

Although– 

"We’re not telling Dad about any theoretical arson,” Jon says reflexively. “Or Batman.” 

“If my father does not comprehend the necessity of arson in this situation, then he is a disappointment to the cowl,” Damian retorts dubiously, very clearly rolling his eyes behind his mask as he fishes a fistful of tiny black cube-shaped pellets out of his belt that Jon doesn’t recognize the design of but is positive are incendiary. “Arson is the most efficient way to destroy as much evidence as possible and make certain nothing critical is missed. Aside from murdering the staff, of course.” 

“We are not murdering the staff, Nightwing,” Jon reiterates, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Damian looks unconvinced. 

“You’re kinda a stick in the mud, aren’t you, dude,” the kid observes, peering up at him critically. Jon has absolutely no way to process someone calling him a stick in the mud compared to Damian, even when said someone is less than a day old. That’s just–no, he really can’t handle that right now. 

Also, dammit. This is not going to help him earn “favorite” status, is it. 

“Superman’s just having a bit of a day, kid,” Jay says with a snicker. He’s sleeping on the couch tonight, Jon internally swears to himself. He’s never actually followed through on that promise, but tonight he’s gonna. 

Admittedly, probably they’re both gonna be sleeping on the pull-out tonight because the kid’s going to be crashing in their bed until Jon gets enough distance from this situation to figure out how to explain this situation to his dad and what the hell to even actually do with the kid, but that’s besides the point. Still counts, probably. Somehow. Technically. 

“Technically correct” is still correct, alright? 

. . . god, what are they going to do with this kid? Aside from keep them, obviously, but keep them where? How are his parents going to explain an extra kid who looks exactly like Dad just showing up out of nowhere? They already had to deal with not being able to explain him after he was timeline-displaced, and just . . . 

This kid isn’t even as old as Jon would be right now if he’d aged in time with his original timeline. Barely any older than Jon was leaving the timeline, in fact. 

Maybe even the same age, he thinks, and then forces himself not to think about it. 

( they’re less than a day old, and they look THIS old. how many years is that? how much of a childhood did they lose? how much– ) 

Jon forces himself not to think about it. 

“I really don’t think not committing murder is being a stick in the mud,” he says, and the kid snorts and then floats up a couple feet into the air, half-tucking their feet under themself as they do. Jon–frowns, for a second. That looks . . . something about how they’re flying looks a little off, for some reason. Like–different from how it looks when Dad and Aunt Kara do it, and different from how it feels when he does it. 

Then again, the kid’s two seconds into flying, so it’s kind of ridiculous of him to assume they’d do it exactly right straight off the bat. 

“Being a stick in the mud is just, like, a vibe, dude,” the kid informs him matter-of-factly, then floats over towards Jay and peers over his shoulder at the screen, then immediately looks bored by whatever’s on it and looks around the lab instead. They still sound nothing like Jon would expect someone made in a lab to sound, and his gut twists a little. 

But also, whatever’s on that screen already made Damian suggest committing multiple murders, and the kid just looks bored about it, one way or the other, so . . . 

So Jon doesn’t know how he feels about that, exactly. A kid who doesn’t sound like they came from a lab and doesn’t act like they came from a lab, but also doesn’t seem even slightly concerned by whatever made Damian seriously consider committing murder again and did not make Jay dissuade him from said consideration. 

It definitely makes him want to get said kid the hell out of this miserable excuse for a basement, though. 

“Just–you guys figure out the theoretical arson, I’ll figure out what to do about the staff, alright?” he says, sighing again. He can probably toss them all in a transport vehicle or two and then just carry those straight to the police while Damian and Jay watch the kid, he figures. Which isn’t great for a “you should send these people to jail” thing, admittedly, so maybe he should actually call the League and see who’s available to help Jay strip the data for damning evidence while removing any damning DNA or anything like that. Or, like, whatever they need right now. 

“I still consider what to do about the staff a fairly simple equation,” Damian mutters under his breath as the kid turns upside-down in the air behind him and peers at the heavy hood of his cape and the sword slung across his back. It’s a sakabato–a reverse blade katana, he means–and the reason that Jon is under pain of kryptonite not allowed to tell Batman anything about anime, like . . . literally ever. It just looks like a normal katana visually, though, especially when it’s sheathed, so he’s not sure why the kid looks so puzzled about– 

“Why’s your sword sharpened on the wrong side, anyway?” the kid asks, frowning in bemusement, and Damian pauses. 

Jon pauses, because Damian’s sakabato sheath is lead-lined. Mostly so he has a quick supply of lead in emergencies these days and less because he doesn’t want Jon to know what’s in it, but it’s definitely still lead-lined. There’s no way the kid could’ve seen through it, so how . . . ? 

“It allows the weapon to be used nonlethally,” Damian replies, watching the kid with a neutral expression that screams “suspicion” on a Bat. “As well as making the decision to slay a foe a more deliberate choice, as the weapon must be wielded backwards to cut.” 

“Doesn’t that mean the sharp side’s always pointing towards you?” the kid says, wrinkling their nose. “And like, isn’t it way harder using it backwards, if you gotta?” 

“Yes,” Damian says. “That is the point. The weapon is a handicap meant to prevent me from inflicting a mortal wound in any way but deliberately, and to also make that wound more difficult to inflict even once I choose to.” 

“. . . that is so badass, oh my god,” the kid mutters under their breath. 

Jon is still concerned about how the kid found out about Damian’s sword being a sakabato, since if Cadmus had told them he’d think they’d have at least had theories for why it was a thing, but also is now significantly less optimistic about his chances of ending up the kid’s favorite. 

Yeah, he should’ve absolutely told Batman about anime when he was still young enough to get away with it being an “accidental” slip of the tongue and embarrassed Damian out of ever using the damn thing in the field. Like, ever. 

“It is merely the most effective tool I have found to reinforce my moral standards while remaining pragmatic,” Damian replies. “And to assure that those standards will be upheld.” 

“So badass,” the kid mutters again, very feelingly. Jon is increasingly concerned about what kind of an influence Damian is going to have on this kid. Just–the kid is really responding way too well to Damian, and maybe it’s an unfair thought but that just cannot be a good sign in the long-term. 

It also makes Jon a little . . . uneasy, for the kid to respond so well to Damian. It just might imply some things about what this kid is like, whether they sound like they belong in a lab or not. But also, Jon personally got along with Damian before the damn volcano, so he doesn’t have all that much room to talk. 

. . . well, for a given value of “got along”, but all the same. 

“I’m going to handle the staff quick. Please don’t let my baby familial-relationship-to-be-decided hold the sword while I’m gone,” he says. The kid makes a face, then sticks out their tongue at him. 

“Laaaaame,” they say. “You are a total stick in the mud, man.” 

Jon . . . does not have a response to that, honestly. Jay’s barely-muffled snickering is not helping, though. 

“We just need to establish a chain of custody here,” he tries, and the kid makes another face and then flips around in the air ‘til they’re upright again. 

“How about Nightwing picks if I get to hold his badass sword or not?” they suggest. “It’s his badass sword. And I like Nightwing’s ideas better anyway. Nightwing’s ideas are, like, explodey.” They mime an explosion with both hands, wiggling their fingers as they throw their arms out dramatically. It’s still mercifully not a “lab” kind of impression, but also just weird to see a kid who looks this much like Dad doing. Jon just cannot picture his dad sticking his tongue out at him, okay? 

. . . okay, well, technically he can now, but that’s besides the point. 

“It is hardly as if it is going to cut itself,” Damian says, giving Jon a dubious look. 

“Oh, I mean, I think I could?” the kid says, looking thoughtful. “But I’d have to really concentrate and I’m probably not smart enough to do it anyway, so yeah.” 

“. . . not ‘smart’ enough?” Jon asks slowly, wondering how anyone would have to be “smart enough” or “concentrate” to cut themself. 

“‘Subject’s mental processing power is developing at a rate of seventeen point seven percent below projected expectations’,” the kid very obviously quotes, linking their hands together behind their back. “‘Subject to be repurposed if rate decreases to twenty percent’.” 

“. . . . . . ‘repurposed’,” Jon repeats even slower. 

“Oh like for scrap,” the kid clarifies, pointing at themself. “‘Cuz some of the DNA or body parts might still be useful. Or like, just to make sure the next me’s built better?” 

“Noted,” Jay says while Jon is boiling in active volcanic fury, which is very helpful while Jon doesn’t burst into a solar flare of rage in the middle of a basement and also leads into Jay asking another very good question: “Related question: are you a ‘next you’, kid?” 

“Yeah,” the kid says, then holds up ten fingers, and then fists his hands and flashes another three. “I’m Experiment Thirteen. So like, I’m the twelfth ‘next one’. I don’t remember being any of the others, though, I dunno if they didn’t wake me up those times or what.” 

Jon makes a careful mental note about that very concerning comment and the possible emotional fallout of the kid eventually realizing that is in fact twelve other people who were . . . ‘scrapped’. Who weren’t just earlier versions of specifically them. 

Then he boils in active volcanic fury and has a very hard time staying calm about it. 

“Wow,” the kid says, blinking up at him. “Is that what heat vision looks like? Sick.” 

Maybe Jon is not actually staying calm about this. 

He snaps his eyes shut. Exhales, very slowly. Doesn’t let his fists clench. 

“Gossamer. Nightwing,” he says very, very evenly. “Changed my mind. Less arson. More . . . explodey.” 

“Yeah, we can do that,” Jay says as Jon hears Damian snap open the same pocket of his utility belt that those tiny black cube-shaped pellets came from again. “We can definitely do that, in fact.”

[charulein]

I have completed both Pandemaemonium and Omphalos,,,,,, it was fun!!!!!!

[kloss-karliee]

my oldest just turned five in March and my younger little boy just had his second birthday on the eleventh of this month. so they're a bit older but not much. oh gosh, i am so happy that we haven't gotten to the phase where they are telling me how it all works just yet. Levi is rather mature for a five year old, though, so i think he might really know how the world works more than i do. he's super smart. i'm so grateful that he is because that just means that between his father and i we've both done a good job of teaching him. i am definitely going to keep that one in my back pocket for later when they they decide to come out with attitude later in life. i think i've definitely gotten the better of the bad situations and i couldn't be happier at this point in my life. he's definitely a great dad in training and he's so great with the boys that i already have. they love him so much! i can think of at least twelve places that are worse to lose your phone at. when i was sixteen and first started driving, literally the day i got my license i left it on top of my car and completely shattered it. that was a pretty rough day. kinda confusing, because i was excited to have my license but then i broke my phone. don't even get me started on the coffee situation. there have been mornings with a crying baby where i've started the coffee maker but had to go back and either warm it up again or remake it because by the time i had changed a diaper i had forgotten that i had coffee and let it get cold. my favorite is when i would completely forget that i made one and i would make another, then find the one i had previously made in the microwave because i had already warmed it up once. you couldn't be older than my older sister and she's only in her forties! so i don't wanna hear anything about how ageing is making you forget things! i've been so lucky to have the man that i have. he's been the best help here with finding the house and all of the moving. he stayed behind when i came back to NYC for Elijah's second birthday party. he's been such a hero. i'm just glad that we finally found a place that we can call home together.

Honey, that's baby brain mixed with sheer resilience, so still, kudos -- Are you other little ones much older ? I get that though, i felt like a whole different person when i was pregnant with my youngest, the only joy is, that’s the kind of thing you hold onto for later. When she’s 14 and trying to tell you how the world works, you just give her a look and go, “You know I sacrificed half my short-term memory for you, right?” Instant win. Take it from me. mom of two know it all teens. Okay, so what I’m hearing is: you’ve officially won at life with a man who’s hot, heroic, and possibly available to carry you across a threshold at any moment. Real or fake firefighter, I mean, come on. If he’s not at least pretending to rescue you from imaginary danger once in a while, then what are we even doing here ? okay, phew i suddenly feel better, i mean at least the ringing would be coming from inside the fridge and there are definitely worse places to leave things. And honestly, I cannot stand when someone tells you to “retrace your steps” when you’re already frazzled. If I could remember my steps, I wouldn’t be standing here halfway through a meltdown, trying to figure out if I’ve already made coffee or just thought about making coffee. But that, i'm now blaming on age -- It's a nice way to look at it, everything constantly shifting and that, is a huge thing when you're pregnant and looking for a new place anyway ! hon, i'll break out the tarot, i love when i'm reading for someone for the first time. And don't worry, it'll never tell you something sinister, but potential tears may happen.

[deconstructthesoup]

Realizing that the reason why Percy Jackson and Supergiant's Hades rank above a lot of other Greek myth adaptations for me is because they acknowledge that Greek mythology is a story about intergenerational trauma and abuse

[lightningidle]

Fig's line "I don't think I'm an artist, I think I'm just a good friend" has not left my head at all. Just...

You're Fig Faeth and your horns came in over the summer and you pick up the bard class as a form of adolescent rock 'n' roll rebellion, and it works! It's exactly the outlet you need! You give a guy you just met drumsticks and you start a band and it's good enough that within a year and a half you're touring. You are, in every sense, good at being a bard.

And then, finally, your junior year, you start to take it seriously. Your art goes from an outlet and a form of rebellion to a practice. A discipline. (Can rebellion exist within a discipline?) Your classmates know what they want to do with their work. They all have a thesis statement. And yeah, there's cohesion in the music you make, but you've never had to think about why you make it. You've never sat down and dissected what it is about bass that speaks to you. You've never poured over your lyrics to pick at any deeper meaning. Why should you? You don't play music for a grand design, you do it to... huh, why do you do it?

(Your art is the one form of self-expression that feels as safe as Disguise Self does, because even if you're pouring your heart onto the page and then screaming it in front of thousands of people, it's not like you're really making yourself known. You can sing I'm lonely, I'm scared, I'm furious, and your fans will sing it right back, and there will still be the distance between performer and audience to keep your heart safe.)

Now you're being asked to look inward to explain the artistic choices you're making, and you can't help but recoil at that, because you'd rather do anything than look inward. Meanwhile, your classmates have no problem with it, so you start to wonder if you're a real artist at all. Can your art be authentic if it only exists to bolster a thesis statement? Has your art been unauthentic this whole time because you've never really thought about a thesis statement before? Is that what makes it art, and not just the next track on somebody's teen angst playlist?

You can't think about yourself— acknowledging your own existence makes you want to puke. So if your music is an extension of yourself, (and it is, even if it's just because the spotlight reveals only what you want it to,) you can't think about your music. You can't. You have to. Your grade depends on it.

You're Fig Faeth, and you keep multiclassing because you'd rather be a good friend than a great artist. If introspection is what great art demands, then fuck it. You must not be a bard at all.

[fisheito]

snakes have something called a jacobson's organ that allows them to smell. they stick out their tongue, and then when it enters their mouth again, the jacobson's organ processes what they just smelled with their tongue. i say this to propose that, after yakumo licks eiden's dick for a good 10 minutes, he closes his mouth and processes it all like O_____O

when i TELL YOU that this message left me bracing the wall like

(overwhelmed with positive affect)

[goldtoothmaster]

Anyway let's act like twelve year olds who just discovered self insert fanfiction. If you were a dw companion what doctor would you travel with and what would your storyline be like. Get as self indulgent as you want we're having fun here

[camellcat]

WTFFF I thought thirteen would be my new girl crush love of my life heart eyes wife you-came-after-twelve-you-must-be-better-than-they're-all-saying bbygirl and then I had to sit down and watch as she told a man who (if he were not a murderer, of course) literally every regeneration before her would've LOVED and FULLY SUPPORTED that "the systems aren't the problem. how people use and exploit the system, that's the problem. people like you" </33333 !?!?

[aliusfrater]

Would love to hear about your thoughts regarding It’s a Terrible Life because it tends to be one of the most. Disputed episodes. I know it’s often understood as indicative of Sam and Dean’s true natures (which is how you get one million posts about Sam wanting a normal life in theory but would never have been able to live like that while Dean actually desires normalcy and domesticity) but I feel this ignores the context of the episode. The episode is a little horrific because of how Zachariah fucks with Sam and Dean’s minds and implants false memories and lives but I’d say the way they both approach this is telling; with Dean assimilating into and acting accordingly to his given role and Sam trying to understand and analyse a world around him that doesn’t quite make sense. He doesn’t want to hunt because of some innate desire or just the thrill of it but because hunting means something else in the context of this world than it does to Sam normally.

no yeah i've spoken about exactly this before from this perspective of deconstructing the shallow and, quite frankly, (unintentionally but what usually tends to be a purposefully) omissive fanon-popular interpretation of what seems to be the audience's uncritical adoption of zachariah's narrative in regards to his fallacious establishment of hunting as sam and dean's true selves/destinies largely because it suits existing fanon ideals as it relates to 1) the fallacious attributions of sam's monstrosity through the dichotomy of monstrosity and towards some kind of unknowable and inevitable evil mainly as it relates to how much more tightly people apply the Rules Of Hunting to sam when it comes to his role as Sammy proxy dean, because it's what dean does as well (ie. sam as the protected but agent innocent—the standard of an inherent innocence to be maintained magnifies the effect of his involvement in the Dirty Work of hunting. there becomes a higher standard regarding sam's hunting mortality in comparison to dean, as the righteous protector), and how that factors into the compartmentalisation of sam's identity into monstrosity. as in, along with existing misinterpretions of sam's season four arc, it's further applied in a sense that indicates a belief that sam finding agency within hunting as indicative of his monstrosity. and 2) the ideas that dean secretly doesn't actually want to hunt and that sam keeps him tethered to hunting.

obviously, within the actual context of the episode that i spoke about in the linked post of zachariah specifically recreating an environment around their existing Roles that will facilitate their existing agencies towards a desired outcome, his perspective as a third party character observing sam and dean—which tends to be some kind of badge of honour to this audience in regards to uncritically adopting their perspectives rather than understanding them as story devies and applying them within an analysis of the circumstances accordingly—becomes one that is explicitly manipulative. in terms of looking at the circumstances wrt analysing the mechanics of sam and dean's characterisations, on behalf of wider season's conflict regarding the framing of the apocalypse and (later revealed) sam and dean's roles as lucifer and michael's vessels, respectively, as the True, fated outcome that hunting had been grooming them towards but that they ultimately thwart, zachariah's fallacious and later thwarted simulation of the company -> hunting, the structure of the company within which sam wesson and dean smith work and have next to no life beyond becomes mirrored with their isolated upbringing within hunting, which i think is exacerbated within the context of season four's repeated references to sam and dean's childhoods within the john-dean-sam dynamic from sam and dean's point of views and sam's specific agencies as Othered within both contexts. sam wesson literally has visions and dean is sam's boss but they're both ultimately working under someone else. this show isn't subtle about The Roles lmfao. anyway, the point is that i think the exploration of their characters in regards to the larger season four arc as well as its explorations of their base motivations builds off of that as the foundational thematic context of the episode. like you said, hunting is hunting, but within the context what it means regarding their circumstances and sam's push towards it as well as dean's adoption of sam's agency, it means something else—it means something similar to sam's season one diversions from his familial role and his critique of the familial dynamic and hunting in general and dean's adoptions of aspects of that even as sam regresses into assimilating his familial role as his character encounters outside influences regarding his arc centred around his monstrosity throughout the season; it mean something about sam and dean's core agencies, its push and pull relationships, who, and what's at its centres.

i've said exactly this when discussing literal esaays published about supernatural with you before but it remains mind boggling to me, the idea of people seemingly loosing their ability to place themselves within the context of the perspective of the world we're given and how to mirror it with real life allegories as soon as it's time to analyse supernatural. suddenly dean is an intentionally subversive character because he subverts the life the author is writing about him from within or hunting is necessary and righteous, because it's what they would prefer to believe in order to preserve the structures these interpretations pillow that they also simultaneously are adamant they're exploring over analysing the actual fictional world, its perspective, and the watsonian recreations of certain structures that's presented to us through supernatural as a story. it's fandom discourse yeah but it also makes me feel like that scene from akira whenever i recognise the legitimate beliefs that tend to be the culprit for facilitating these kinds of willful interpretations of canon.

[neverendingford]

.

[skrunksthatwunk]

just finished s2 of kaiji and it was good i really liked it but i hope i never see that fuckass pachinko machine again!!!

[did-i-do-this-write]

Oh god I've made a horrible mistake

[teaboot]

One time my mom took me to a hibachi grill with a bunch of her friends and if you've never been to a hibachi grill basically the draw is that theres a bunch of interactive performance stuff done by the cook who cooks for you at your table, and one of the tricks they did at this one was take a squeeze bottle full of liquor and shoot it into your mouth across the table (with permission)

And now at our table my mom explained this because it was my first time going, and she wanted to make sure to warn me it was liquor because she knows I don't drink- she just said "if he offers to shoot at your mouth, say no because it's alcohol".

And so the chef does his thing and it's all very impressive, but the time does come where he pulls out this squeeze bottle of booze and asks me if I wanna try

I of course say no, because I really don't do alcohol, so he moves on to someone else

And I watch, and slowly come to understand that this is some sort of game, because once someone is drinking from the continuous flow the chef starts counting "ONE! TWO! THREE!"

I realize that we're trying to see who can keep drinking the liquor from three feet away without choking or spilling, and its a bummer cause i kinda wanna try and I CAN'T

But he goes around the table with everyone there, and I think my mom makes it to three, one friend makes it to five, I think my brother got to three as well, and he comes back to me

And I'm REALLY bummed out now but I will not drink alcohol, so I sort of sadly repeat that I can't when he pulls out a SECOND BOTTLE and grins and goes "juice?"

And Im like FUCK YEAH LET'S GO and I'm a bit worried he's gonna spray it into my eye or something but he doesn't, it hits me right at the back of the throat, and I start drinking while the whole fucking table counts "ONE! TWO! THREE!"

And like

It just sorta

Kept going?

And Im looking at the chef and he starts freaking out by the time we get to six, and at around seven I kinda start looking around and my auntie is staring back in shock, my brother is laughing his ass off and my mom has her face in her hands

And then at like nine or ten it gets like. Super tense and quiet, and only the chef is still counting

And I guess it got too much for even him cause we're at eleven and I don't believe in quitting early and it is almost painful how awkward it's getting

So he cuts me off at twelve and raises his hands in the air and everyone else cheers and claps like a dumb movie

and I just sit back in my seat to look back at my mother staring at me surrounded by everyone she knows, bright fucking red in the face and choking with honest to god tears in her eyes and she puts her face back in her palms and starts chanting "I don't want to know. I don't want to know. I don't want to know"

So I give her the biggest, proudest grin and tell her, "I won."

So now every time something suggestive happens in a movie, or in conversation, or something shocking happens around us and she goes to jokingly cover my ears, I just ask her, "Remember when I won?" And she goes face-down and groans, because I know EXACTLY how she thinks I trained to develop that particular skill and she HATES knowing that about me

The truth is though, I'm a whole ass 28 year old virgin. I've never so much as kissed anyone in my life. I had no idea I could do that trick until that exact moment

But she doesn't know that, and I'm never gonna tell her