#I even miss dealing with passagers!

[boyapologist]

I miss working :(

[hom3landr]

So, I have an honest question. Homelander is used to his bday being a huge deal, but what if the person he is interested in doesn't care about their own bday?

Like he has known them for a year, and they never celebrated their own bday nor ever hinted at it. How do you think he'd react?

Birthday Blues

Homelander x Gender Neutral Reader

Homelander hates when you keep secrets from him. But what’s merely a harmless fact to you pokes a sore spot that you never expected.

You hear him before you see him, eyebrow raising at the angry stomp of his footsteps. You’re finishing up the chapter of the book you’re reading and you hope he doesn’t have beef with you because then who knows when you’ll get back to it. You read as fast as you can, words almost blurring as you hastily scan the page. But alas, before you reach the last sentence, your book is cruelly ripped from you.

Homelander stands over your place on the couch, one hand perched on his hip while the other points your book at you as a replacement for his “oh so imposing” finger that he loves to wave at you. His brow is knitted and there’s no doubt that whatever has his feathers ruffled has something to do with you. You lean back and sigh, contemplating how long you should let him ramble before attempting to calm him down. He’s cute when he’s angry. You can live with a lecture when he looks so good doing it. Although you’re hardly feeling charitable at the moment due to him snatching your book like some kind of barbarian.

��Why didn’t you tell me it’s your birthday?!” He hisses at you, dropping your book with a thump as he places both hands jauntily on his hips. His jaw clenches as he waits for your answer.

You freeze.

Huh?

You don’t know what you expected but it certainly isn’t that. You had expected him to be fussy about you grabbing a drink with Starlight the other night or helping Ashley with some insane task he gave so he could watch her squirm. You missed a call from him earlier, that tends to set him off. You’d even believe he was feeling sensitive about you waking up before him and grabbing a coffee instead of a good morning kiss. Any of those would be easy to assume. But no, he’s apparently worked up that you didn’t tell him your birthday.

You figured Homelander isn’t a fan of birthdays. He certainly seems cynical about his own. He hasn’t told you the whole story but when he grits his teeth at his birthday obligations instead of basking in the cheers of the crowd, you can easily make the assumption that it’s a sore subject. You don’t have any hang ups about your own birthday but it just never seemed like a big deal to you. It’s just a day. Perhaps too many sneak attacks from the singing staff at restaurants traumatized you. Maybe it’s because birthday cake is always too sickly sweet. Or possibly you just don’t feel like celebrating the passage of time. You never tell people and people rarely ask.

Yet, you can tell by the petulant twist of his mouth that he’s not just angry but hurt that you didn’t share it with him.

“I’m…sorry. I just don’t really think about it that much.” You reply with a confused shrug. His mouth twitches and you know he’s not satisfied with that answer. He’s taking this awfully personally and you can’t for the life of you figure out why. It’s just a day.

“Are you trying to fuck with me? So next time we argue you can bring up what a horrible boyfriend I am for ignoring your birthday! You gonna gossip about it over cocktails with fucking Starlight?” He spits out her name like a curse. You want to roll your eyes but you don’t fancy Homelander flying you to the top of a skyscraper and leaving you there like the last time you tried that. You sigh and reach out to take his hand. He jerks it away petulantly for a moment but when you reach for it again he allows your touch.

“That would make me a pretty shitty partner. I’m not trying to play games with you. I’ve just never really had strong feelings about my birthday. That’s all. I promise.” You squeeze his hand and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. You rub the back of his hand with your thumb, enjoying the feel of the buttery soft leather of his glove. He pouts.

“I’m not a bad boyfriend.” He huffs. You gently tug his hand and guide him until he’s laying on the couch with his head in your lap. It only takes a few strokes of his hair before he deflates like a balloon. He turns to snuggle his face into your chest.

“I’m not.” He sighs into your shirt. You shush him gently.

“You’re my good boy. I know you wouldn’t forget on purpose. You take such good care of me. But why do you care so much about my birthday?” You switch from stroking his hair to rubbing soothing circles on his back. He’s easily mollified today and it further confirms your suspicions that his feelings were deeply wounded. He desperately needs reassurance when that happens. It’s sweet.

“Did you know that my birthday is fake? Corporate decided on it. I don’t even have one since I was…” He trails off and your heart squeezes painfully. He’s cagey about his past but every so often new details will slip out and it horrifies you every time. You continue to sooth him even as your stomach twists unpleasantly. “But you do have one and you don’t even care! Do you know how fucking spoiled you are?”

You ignore the jab although your hackles rise. Poking his ego now would prove disastrous. So you swallow your pride and continue to let him vent.

“I don’t want you keeping things like that from me. You’re mine and I deserve to know things about you. How can I trust you when you won’t even tell me your fucking birthday.” He huffs and you can feel him stiffen up as he works himself back up into an angry spiral. He nips at your stomach hard enough to bruise and you tug on his hair harshly as a reprimand.

“This isn’t me intentionally keeping some secret from you. I don’t tell anybody.” You pause briefly as an idea hits you. “But…maybe it’s your birthday today too.” You answer and he pulls himself away to fix you with a bemused glare. His brow twitches as he processes what you said

“I mean, if you don’t know the actual day. Then technically every day can be your birthday. It’s like Schrodinger's Cat. Screw corporate, pick your own birthday.” You give his shoulder a little shake and your heart lifts when the corner of his mouth tilts into a little smile.

“It’s my birthday today too then. Now you have to celebrate.” He gives you a smug grin and you ruffle his hair fondly. The hurt still lingers. This is a mere bandage over the leaking wound you know still remains. But if you can ease his burden even a little, you’re happy to do so. Even if it means making a big deal out of your birthday.

“The mighty Homelander sharing the spotlight with a humble human like me? It’s pretty scandalous.” You tease and he turns his head to kiss the sore spot where he bit you. He nuzzles into you one last time before sitting up. He leans in to rub his nose against yours, desperately seeking intimacy in such a vulnerable moment.

“No spotlight,” He whispers. “Just you and me.”

You smile and pull him into a chaste kiss. He whines at the brevity of it and you place another cheeky kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Just you and me.”

He grins and his eyes fill with mischief as he meets your gaze.

“That means it’s time for your birthday spankings” He reaches out to swat you when you bolt with a wild laugh, careening and slipping around his apartment in your socks as he gives chase. You realize as you shriek at his games that maybe birthdays aren’t so bad after all…at least as long as no one sings to you.

[atzfilm]

𝐚𝐭𝐳𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐦'𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐳 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 .ᐟ

all works of writing/summaries are not owned by me, and all credits go to the respective writers! this list will be updated periodically with stories i have read ♡ i thought that as a writer myself who consumes talented stories on this site, it would be good for me to show you all a fraction of what i read myself tehe (i read majority poly!teez/mc so that category will be filled!!) ☆

— note: 90% of these fics will contain mature themes, since it's all i read! please read the specific author's notes before reading!

❤︎ - personal favorites

ᴍᴜʟᴛɪ

— ❤︎ mists of celeste (??/reader, several pairings) by @hongism

genre: scifi/space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut, fluff

summary: sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you.

notes: as an atiny on tumblr.com, i feel like it's a rite of passage to read moc. it's one of the best written works i have had the privilege of reading. it's gripping, it's heartbreaking, it's filled with yearning and love, and has you hoping that the characters survive this ordeal. san i love you most you can tell by the masterlist alone that she has crafted a whole space pirate universe intricately and with the utmost care. she deals with the trauma of the characters so so well and i cant lie ive cried a lot reading it jdhdksjddj, it's the fic that made me start reading ateez ff, i mean, i started reading before even knowing ateez and i had to have a separate tab open to remember who was who. that alone can tell you how much of a work of art this is. omg, im blabbering, but please read this.

— hotel california (ot8/reader) by @mint-yooxgi

genre: yandere, demon!au

summary: checking in to a hotel ran by yandere!Ateez, the boys decide she can no longer leave

my notes: im not too sure how i came across this work, i think it was an endless scroll of me trying to find something to read, but nevertheless, this story. i have not finished it yet (a great and utter pity) but from what ive read so far. im actually very concerned on how much ive read of this in one night 😨, i think the plot is so so unique, i love a strong mc who does not take any shit whatsoever, i love gaslighting demon!ateez 🙂‍↕️. i had to stare at the wall several times while reading,, felt like jim in the office truly. UGH it's just so good??? i can't recommend enough!! PLEASE READ.

— ❤︎ the answer (ot8?/reader, side pairings) by @berryunho

genre: cult au, thriller

summary: life is great until your best friend goes missing your senior year of university, leaving little more than an apology and goodbye. Months later, you’re determined to find out what happened to him and discover a situation much more complicated than you would have ever anticipated - as in - Kim Hongjoong doesn’t like the word ‘cult.’ He prefers 'sect.'

my notes: i first discovered this fic on ao3 and somehow found out lauren had a tumblr blog but i digress – i found this one night and was so excited that i found something so so unique and different and i am pretty sure i didn't sleep until 4am reading everything omg . it's truly so funny and i adore the main character more than anything, the snide remarks truly encompass and make you feel their emotions? cult leader hongjoong is something else... without spoiling hfjdjf. i beg lauren often for a spoiler because it's just that good. please read.

— OUTLAW (ot8/reader, side pairings) by @staytinyville

genre: wild west!au, smut(?), angst

summary: you thought you would be spending the rest of your life tending to the hotel your family ran. while you knew it was common to see bandits come and go in your town, you felt safe in your home. at least safe enough with a weapon at your disposal. however you were no match for eight men who were known to most as outlaws around the plains. hawt kind of adventures did they go on?

my notes: i started reading this a while back and have yet to finish, but so far the premise is so so so interesting and i love readying cowboy aus rjkfjkdrfkj ITS SO GOOD!!!! I CANT WAIT TO CATCH UP

— sway with me (ot8/reader, wooyoung/reader) by @luvt0kki

genre: sci-fi/space/futuristic!au

summary: former noble turned space pirate, wooyoung was now part of one of the most revered and hunted group of pirates of the galaxy. sure he’s only known them for six months but there’s only so much you could do in a ship when you travel from one planet to the next. the ship was their home, his home…and the members of this crew were friends that he felt he was fated to meet.

my notes: tokki already knows all of this but,,, i started this a month or so ago? and i read the first chapter and i legit lost my mind,,, in the calmest way possible... the first chapter is gripping and it sets a environment that i very much would love to live in??? it's just so so well written, and the reader is very much my type NDFAKKJ ANYWAY... it's told from the pov of wooyoung and i love it??? so MUCH?? please read ok bye

— one more rep (woosan x reader) by @cheollipop

genre: smut, f2l, trainers woosan

summary: san got a little too excited watching you exercise in purple – his favourite colour – and wooyoung was nothing if not a tease. turning their attention back to you, they didn't expect to see you equally worked-up.

my notes: ???? i actually read this a few times,,,, this fic yall.... i cannot... the mental image of woosan in the gym makes me delusional enoughdsjkaskfjksd PLEASE.

— like a dream (yungi x reader) by cheollipop

genre: bf!yungi, smut

summary: with only the orange hues of the lamp illuminating the room, they have you for the first time, and it feels just like a dream.

my notes: yunho and mingi are my weakness,, so the both of them together.....

sᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ

to be added!

ʜᴏɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴɢ

— horizon by @pxedpiper (ft. ateez/f.reader)

genre: pirate!au

summary: once a princess of a kingdom you loathed to call yours, you have somehow found yourself aboard a pirate ship, stuck on the ocean waves. now you try to figure out how to escape them, but as you continue to journey with them, you find yourself wondering if you even want to.

my notes: i just found this the other day but remembering reading it a while ago! it's so so well written and i enjoyed it sm 🥹

ʏᴜɴʜᴏ

to be added!

ʏᴇᴏsᴀɴɢ

to be added!

sᴀɴ

to be added!

ᴍɪɴɢɪ

— safe haven (mingi/reader) by @atxxzist

genre: bodyguard!au, fluff

summary: your father has had enough of your shit, and hires Song Mingi; his best friend's son, to be your personal bodyguard

my notes: is it possible to fall down the mingi hole deeper than i already have? maybe! this fic pretty much lives in my head,,, endlessly,,,, i love mingi. i love this au so much and i especially love bodyguard aus, i think it's one of my favorite genres and this deepens it.... PLEASE READ.

ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ

— rough rider (wooyoung x afab!reader) by @choism

genre: smut

summary: In which you meet a hot twink at a club who has a slightly unhealthy obsession with the 2000's and y2k bimbocore.

my notes: i......... there's no way i can describe this fic... if u yearn for wooyoung the way i do. read this.

— what happened to slow down? (bf!wooyoung x reader) by @ja3hwa

genre: smut

summary: coming back from a house party, you and woo couldn't seem to keep your hands off one another. everything was happening so fast. you two didn't even make it to the bedroom.

my notes: insert a photo of someone throwing a phone and screaming crying, then picking it up to read the rest. thats me kjrfakfajkf

ᴊᴏɴɢʜᴏ

to be added!

[infamous-if]

✮ CH. 2 PART I ✮ 92k (+86k) -> 178k ✮

PLAY CHAPTER 2: PART I

It's here! First, sorry for the long wait. Chapter 2 has proven to be a behemoth, and I'd gotten sick this past week, my computer broke, my documents went kaput and I had to do some Frankensteining for the last few pages of this part. I'm not too worried, as Part II update can help smooth out all the kinks. I will definitely be looking for beta testers once chapter 2 is complete ha

Anywho! Enough about my problems. This demo update adds 86k words (86, 818 to be exact) and is the first part of a two part chapter. Which means the narrative in this chapter is not complete, but I kind of closed it off at a pretty satisfying place. As with every Infamous chapter, this is very character driven. So have fun!

What to expect in Chapter Two PART I:

get on the bus & deal with the consequences of your actions lol

arrive to your first tour stop and do your first gig...which might get messy (both literally and figuratively)

hang with a familiar father and daughter duo

have some heart to hearts/ some cheeky little POV passages

meet more BOTB crew and learn exactly what's in store for you this season

get roped in some ValenReign mess !

Maintenance:

this chapter has a lot of flavor text, or at least, more than the demo did, so if there are any errors or if there are lines that don't correspond with your choices, please let me know so i can fix that!

you will no longer be forced to write your own lyrics and the update will offer you pre-written lyrics by yours truly. im not t swift so i would advise you not to expect professional level songwriting, but they work well enough lolol

lyrics page is up as well as stats, but i don't really like the system i used to balance it, mostly because new...stat things will be added as the story goes on, so that's still getting reworked. still, good enough for now, as there are some personality stat checks!

Prologue and Chapter 1 errors/typos/grammatical bits fixed. (Wouldn't be surprised if I missed some though...) + variables updated.

Scenes not showing up fixed. hopefully, that huge error in which it throws you back to the fight after returning to the house is fixed (It was a bit wonky for me, hopefully it works for everyone else)

Stat and relationship pages updated ( + lyric page to look back at all your lyrics).

Can choose to be asexual and any sexual scenes will be skipped or replaced with romantic scenes. Flavor text in which MC displays any sort of sexual desire will be skipped. (This option comes up during Dakota's party scene. If not, it will show up when it presents itself again.) (Nothing sexual has come up yet, but if there are any scenes or even lines/ internal thoughts that should be skipped or changed for Asexual MCs, please let me know!)

If there are errors or anything, im always open. I've play tested but you girl is always prone to errors. As always, thank you for your love and enthusiasm! It makes me really happy and motivates me to keep writing ! <3

(Also, if you're thinking "omg amy how did you go from 65k to 86k?!" i don't want to talk about it /j)

See you on tour!

[overadores]

･ ⟢ ⋮ love last ゛༝. ✦ megan skiendiel

You know me well

pairing.ᐟ megan skiendiel x reader

about.ᐟ a sorrowful story of love, sacrifice, and time’s relentless passage, this tale follows two childhood friends whose unbreakable bond grows into something deeper, but as dreams take flight and distance pulls them apart, unspoken words linger—until one fateful night changes everything.

genre.ᐟ heavy angst. hurt, no comfort.

cw.ᐟ major character death, car accident, language.

wc.ᐟ 1229 words

a/n.ᐟ i promise you this is the last car accident story i have, a honorable mention for this lovely song which i highly recommend to listen if yall want to hurt like i did while i was writing this.

It's almost like you love me, I can tell

Have you ever sacrificed everything—your life, your entire world—just to see someone smile again?

Just to remind them that the world isn’t as dark, as empty, as it once seemed?

You did.

It was the summer of ’03.

You were just a kid back then, thrown into the same cabin at summer camp as a stranger, forced into the same space. Megan was a whirlwind of energy, the kind of girl who couldn’t sit still for a second, who danced instead of walked, who laughed at everything and anything at first, she drove you crazy. She was loud, she was hyper, she didn’t know how to read well, she struggled with spelling—but none of that seemed to stop her.

And yet, despite all that, she could read you like an open book.

She tried her hardest to write you letters, struggling to spell out your name, rewriting words over and over just to get them right. She toned down her energy whenever you were too exhausted to deal with it. She listened when you were upset, curled up beside you when homesickness hit, stayed by your side whenever the other kids played their games.

Somewhere along the way, Megan stopped being just an annoying bunkmate.

She became your second home.

You wish you had told her how much that meant to you.

But summer doesn’t last forever. When it ended, you went your separate ways—her on one side of the country, you on the other. The first few weeks were the hardest. You missed her more than you expected, missed her laughter, her warmth. But distance wasn’t enough to break you. You called, you messaged, you sent letters. It wasn’t the same, but it was enough.

You kept this going for years, even into high school.

That’s when you started to realize something was different.

At first, you told yourself it was just a silly crush, something fleeting. You thought maybe it would fade.

You were wrong.

The moment you got your own phone, you were talking constantly. Calls, FaceTimes, texts—it never stopped. Megan always found a way to call, even when she was busy. And when you finally learned to drive, the first thing you did was go to her.

You drove miles just to see her smile.

You sacrificed sleep, time, money—anything, just to be there for her the way she had always been there for you.

And as you grew older, as you stood on the edge of adulthood, you realized something that terrified you.

You loved her.

Not in the way kids love their childhood best friends. Not in the way people expect you to love a friend you’ve known forever.

You were in love with her.

But you never told her.

Not even the night you made your pinky promise.

That night, you took her to your favorite place in the world, the first person you had ever brought there. Megan had never looked happier. Then she took you to hers. You sat together, watching the sun set, golden light painting her face like a dream.

“You know, I’m so lucky to have you,” she had said, turning to you with that soft, radiant smile.

You wanted to tell her then.

You wanted to say, Megan, I love you.

But all you could say was, “And I’m lucky to have you. I hope we spend more days like this, together, until we die.”

She laughed, holding out her pinky. “Then let’s pinky promise on it.”

You hooked your pinky around hers, sealing a promise you didn’t know you would break.

Then came the day Megan called you, her voice thick with tears.

She didn’t get into her dream university.

You didn’t even think. You just grabbed your keys, got into your car, and drove straight to her house.

When she opened the door, her face was streaked with tears, her shoulders shaking.

“Megan, darling, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, pulling her into your arms. She buried her face into your shoulder, crying so hard you could feel your heart breaking.

“But I really wanted to go there,” she sobbed.

“I know.” You held her tighter. “I know, love. But it’s their loss. You’re an incredible dancer, and if they can’t see that, they don’t deserve you.”

She sniffled, letting out a small, shaky laugh. “You always say the right things.”

“I just know you.”

To cheer her up, you took her to her favorite place, bought her ice cream, snacks—anything to see her smile again.

A week later, she called, screaming into the phone.

She got accepted into Dream Academy.

You were beyond proud of her.

But then came the worst part.

She told you that you had to cut contact.

The academy had strict rules—no outside communication, no distractions. You understood. So, you let her go.

You waited.

You watched her from a distance, following every update on her journey. When the finals came, you knew—you knew—she would win.

Then, two days after the announcement, your phone rang.

It was her.

“We can finally celebrate,” she said, her voice full of excitement. “Come over?”

You laughed, already grabbing your keys. “I’m on my way. Get ready.”

She giggled. “Hurry up, slowpoke.”

That was the last thing she ever said to you.

The roads were nearly empty that night.

You were driving, one hand on the wheel, the other checking your phone at a red light. Megan had sent a text.

Meg: hurry uppp, im waitinggg >:(

You smiled, typing back a quick reply.

You: five minutes, i promise.

You never made it.

The light turned green. You started driving again.

And then—

A flash of headlights.

A deafening crash.

Everything slowed down.

You felt the impact before you even realized what was happening.

Pain.

So much pain.

Your thoughts blurred, fading in and out, but you still saw flashes of your life.

Your parents.

Your childhood.

And then Megan.

The girl who was waiting for you.

She was probably texting you again, telling you to hurry up. Probably fixing her hair, too excited to sit still.

You wanted to tell her you were coming.

You wanted to tell her you were sorry.

You wanted to tell her—

I love you.

But you never got the chance.

They say when someone dies unexpectedly, there’s a moment—just a moment—when their soul lingers.

Long enough to see the aftermath.

Long enough to see who mourns them.

You don’t know if that’s true.

But if it is, then you know exactly what you would’ve seen.

Megan.

Sitting in her room, waiting.

Checking her phone every few minutes, frowning when you didn’t respond.

Calling you, only for it to go straight to voicemail.

Then, the next day, the call she never expected.

A voice on the other end, telling her the news.

You can imagine how she reacted.

Shocked.

Denial.

Then, the tears. The way she must’ve curled up in her bed, crying her heart out.

The way she must’ve whispered, No, no, no, they promised. They promised we’d have more days together.

The way she must’ve broken, knowing you never got to celebrate her win.

Knowing you never got to say goodbye.

Megan, darling.

You hope she knows how much you loved her.

You hope she knows how much you sacrificed for her.

You hope she knows, even in your final moments—

You were thinking of her.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

wednesday's sister's wedding to xavier? Bet it would be so goth and cute. Enid can be the wedding planner? She would LOVE that

Request: anything with Xavier please. I hate that he won't be in the next season

This has been sitting in my drafts for months. I was trying to achieve perfection and put my whole vision into words. I hope you'll enjoy it <3

Warnings: family drama, father/son issues

—

‘’I always knew you were going to be the first of our children to marry. Pugsley is more interested in pyromancy than girls, and your dear sister... I tried talking to her about the possibilities of, someday, settling with Enid, but she could have stabbed me with the knives in her eyes.’’

You laughed softly. Classic Wednesday. 

Morticia fixed your veil, looking at you with a proud smile. ‘’You look just like me at your father and I’s wedding.’’ She paused, reminiscing. ‘’We married young too. I knew since the first time we met that he was the one.’’ 

Your dress was hauntingly beautiful — black, of course, with a long train. The kind you would like to be buried in at your funeral. You couldn’t wait to see Xavier’s reaction when he’ll see you. 

You glanced down at the ring on your hand, and sighed. ‘’How long until the ceremony, Mother?’’ you asked, the time seeming to have gotten slower since you woke. You couldn’t wait to get this wedding over with and be married. To — finally — call Xavier your husband. 

The wedding preparations had started very early this morning. Enid had been awake since the crack of dawn, making phone calls, directing people and making sure everything was going accordingly. She was the perfect wedding planner. She used to be part of the Rave’N organizing committee at Nevermore, so you knew your wedding was in good hands. 

‘’Missing the boy already? Ah, young love…’’ Morticia said, catching the longing in your gaze. ‘’Your father and I too had difficulty being apart for the first…decade.’’ 

If only she knew where you had been a couple of hours ago.

Dressed in your black robe and bare faced, you wandered through the secret passages of the Addams manor to meet with your soon-to-be husband. According to most traditions, it was bad luck to see each other before the ceremony on your wedding day, but you and Xavier didn’t care. You knew you'd be together until the grave — and even longer still. 

Since the rise of the dawn, Xavier had been cooped up on the other side of the manor with your father, Pugsley and Mr. Thorpe, who surprisingly made time in his busy schedule to attend. You and Xavier had been both surprised when his RSVP envelope came in, confirming his presence. The man had a tendency of upsetting Xavier, so you asked Thing to look out for him and come to you if anything happened. 

‘’I don’t know how long we have until someone realizes we are missing,’’ you said, looking at Xavier in the glow of your candle light. Even in sweatpants and a tee shirt, he managed to look handsome. 

He leaned down for a kiss, careful not to burn his hair with the candle.  

‘’How are things with your father?’’ 

Xavier pursed his lips, his face crisped. ‘’I'm afraid nothing has changed with my father. He seems more disappointed than ever before because I chose to propose to you without his approval. I think he is more preoccupied by how the media will take the news and how it will affect his image. Because not even his son’s happiness come before his career…’’ 

You took Xavier’s hand, knowing his father’s words had upset him, pulling him out of his head. ‘’If, at any time, you want him to leave, say and I will have him removed. I know he’s your father, but it’s our wedding day. We should spend it with the people we love, not the ones who upset us.’’ 

He forced a smile, not wanting to deal with the public drama of kicking his father out. Although there won’t be press at the wedding, all of the Addams clan was present and he’d rather not embarrass himself in front of his new relatives. ‘’It’ll be fine.’’ 

The ceremony was hauntingly beautiful. Your father shed a tear, and Thing didn’t drop any of the rings on his way to the altar. 

You couldn’t stop staring at Xavier, looking torturously handsome in his dark suit and his hair pulled back — your favorite on him. It made his green eyes stand out.  

Uncle Itt, who was officiating the marriage, motioned for Xavier to speak his vows. 

Xavier pulled a neatly written paper from his pocket, and began reading. He practiced his speech for hours last night — and this morning —, but he was so nervous he was afraid to miss a word. ‘’From the day that I met you, I knew I would follow you to the grave," he began, his eyes flicking up to yours. ‘’We were only seven years old, but I knew our souls were destined to be together. Ten years later, you showed up at Nevermore and my heart fell right into your webs. You became my sanctuary in times of darkness. You saw me at my lowest point yet still gave me your love and your unwavering loyalty. And on this day, with every whispered vow, I surrender my heart to you, my deadly nightshade.’’

The guests were enraptured by his words, his love for you evident in every syllable he uttered. Xavier poured his heart and soul into the words, your eyes gleaming with adoration as you listened. 

Life had not always been kind to him these last years, but your hand remained in his through everything. When he was accused of being the hyde, accused of murdering all these people, you were the only one who believed him when he said he was not the monster. The weight of everything made you doubt if you were doing the right thing by staying with Xavier. Always follow your heart, it’ll put you on the right path, your mother had told you through your crystal ball when you had called her in tears. 

But like at any weddings, something was bound to cause a hint of drama, and, as expected, that thing was Xavier’s father.

Mr. Thorpe had discovered that Xavier had used his mother's ring to propose to you, an Addams. His late wife’s ring, now on the finger of an Addams, was too much for him to bear. He kept his disapproval in check throughout the ceremony, but waited until the end to confront his son, taking him away from the wedding guests to talk of the matter.

You weren’t supposed to hear them, but you happened to be on a walk around the cemetery with your father, saying hello to your ancestors, when you heard a hushed argument by the border of the woods. You exchanged a concerned glance with your father. The Addams were known to start little fights at family events, but you had a gut feeling that you needed to follow the voices. 

‘’—Mom passed it to me. It's for me to decide what I do with it and who I give it to.’’

You recognized Xavier’s voice as you got closer, making you regret dismissing Thing from his spying duty for the rest of the night. 

‘’I bought this ring with my money, Xavier. I don't want an Addams wearing it. It’s a disgrace.’’ 

‘’I’m an Addams too now.’’ 

Hurrying through the cemetery, you reached the border of the woods and stepped in, your father coming right behind you. ‘’Is there a problem here?’’ you asked, your voice steady and clear as your eyes fell on your husband and his father. 

Xavier released a silent breath of relief when he saw you. You were never afraid to speak your mind and stand your ground to his father, always advocating for him when he needed you. 

Mr. Thorpe turned, his face a mix of surprise and indignation. ‘’Leave us. This is a private matter,’’ he snapped, unhappy to have a small crowd around him. 

‘’It’s not a private matter when it involves my wife, father,’’ Xavier said.

You felt spiders in your stomach when he called you that. His wife. 

Gomez stepped forward, his presence imposing. ‘’I heard the way you spoke of my daughter, Mr. Thorpe, and I will not tolerate that. Whether you like it or not, she is your daughter-in-law. She is part of your family…as you and Xavier are of mine.’’

Mr. Thorpe’s eyes narrowed as your father spoke. He didn’t like being called out on his behavior, especially by Gomez Addams, a man he viewed as beneath him. ‘’Your daughter was given a ring that does not belong to her. I simply wish to have it back.’’ 

Instinctively, you hid your hand behind your back. ‘’You speak as if I stole it. Xavier’s mother gave it to him as she was fading. You may have paid for it, but the ring does not belong to you anymore.’’ 

‘’Give it back to me!’’ Mr. Thorpe came at you, but your father intercepted him before he could put a hand on you. 

‘’Not a step closer!’’ 

Xavier rushed over to you, taking your hand — the one with the ring — and holding it close to him. He won’t let his father take it from you. 

Mr. Thorpe opened his mouth to speak but Gomez cut him off, his eyes fixed on him. ‘’I have tried to reason, but I fear you have gone too far now. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, Mr. Thorpe. You are disrupting this wedding and I will not allow it. Not on my property!’’ 

He looked stunned by the request, as if he had never been asked to leave a place before. He probably hasn’t. ‘’You can't kick me out! I'm the father of the groom!’’ 

Gomez's expression darken. ‘’I can and I will.’’

Mr. Thorpe turned to his son, begging for his help although he put himself in this situation. ‘’Xavier, you can’t let him kick me out.’’ 

In response, your husband turned his gaze away from his father, his expression tightening. ‘’The Addams have been more of a family to me than you ever were,’’ he said quietly. ‘’I...I don’t need you here.’’

—

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[creeksandsocks]

Seven Minutes in Heaven

Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Tags: Fluff, kissing, parties, drinking, dubcon (just in case, Eddie was drinking in the fic but not drunk and they were apprehensive as they entered the closet) [3.8k words]

A nervous game of seven minutes in heaven make your first high school party memorable.

A high school party - it’s really not a big deal. A rite of passage for some, most, even. But, when you're a senior and you're about to attend your first, it seems like a pretty damn big deal. You cannot believe that Robin was able to convince you to go to this thing, Maggie McCoor’s party, with her, let alone be the designated driver. But you love Robin, Robin loves you. And she claims, given she had her license and you had one opportunity to talk to your crush out of marching-band uniform, she'd do the same thing for you.

No matter who will be at the party, though there is someone that you’d like to show off to, you want to look nice. If someone didn’t know better, anyone could mistake the mess in your closet that came from picking an outfit with a small twister whirling through your room. You’ve redone your hairstyle thrice, now and you're on the verge of banging your hairbrush against your head until it breaks. But, on your fourth try your hair is parted and wispies fall in a way that you decide satisfies you. You re-pierce your healed ears with cheap silver hoops, before putting on your shoes. Reeboks, they've had better days for sure. Because, unfortunately, the wear and tear of killing multidimensional monsters is not kind to shoes. But, they're cute enough to do with your dress, which is strapless (brave of you), and will survive whatever escapades you’ll get up to as the night wears on.

Right as you pull up in front of the Buckley’s, Robin is bursting down the pathway. Hands spayed against herself to keep her unbuttoned vest from allowing her body heat to escape. Before she even buckles her seatbelt she's urging you to punch it “Okay let's gooo!!!” she urges “Vickie might be there now, I cannot miss a second of being there without her. Can you imagine? The only time you've ever seen your crush is in a two foot tall marching band hat?”. She speaks with no pauses, stopping only when she runs out of air and pulls the seatbelt over her chest. “I mean c’mon really those things are like chastity belts!” she continues and you put off her nervous rambling “Robin, you look great”, you assure her “Vickie will think so, too”. She's brought down to earth by what you say, you were able to read between the lines of everything she said and comfort on the one thing she was most worried about. “Thanks” she admits, and takes a deep breath, probably the first one since she jumped into your car, “you too. He’s gonna think you look good, too”.

You abruptly top your car at the stop sign, jerking robin around in your passenger seat at what shes implying. You turn your face to her and poorly lie before easing your foot off the break. “Idunnowhatyourtalkinganouyt”. Robin sighs and curls her knees up, placing the bottom of her converse on the dashboard. “Oh my goooood” she groans, “I mean COME ON! Eddie obviously likes you and you're clearly…” she gestures trying to find a unique phrase “pink in the cheeks for him”. Raising your eyebrow at her shity idiom, “whatever. I mean- I'll make you a deal. I'll be brave tonight with Vickie if you make a move on Eddie”. You run your tongue behind your teeth, tracing the outlines of your molars as you mull over what she's proposing. You do have a burning crush on Eddie; and, while you don't want to be too sure in assuming he has the hots for you too, he does seem a little flirty whenever you see him. Besides, you’re not even going to a rager, anyways. It's more band kids, nerds and geeks listening to The Talking Heads that you and Robin know by association anyways - so if any advances you make do happen to be sourly rejected at least it's not going to be entertainment for Jason Carver.

 “Fine” you decide, “I get that rejection for you is worse for me, socially, in the grand scheme of things Rob”, you level with her. Because, it's not the same. A girl being rejected by a guy sucks and surely wouldn't make you be labeled as any less of a freak. But, being outed for confessing to the wrong person could be genuinely dangerous for Robin, especially in a widely close-minded town like this. “But,” you continue, “you have to try, too. You can’t bail out if you sutter or accidentally create an innuendo”. Robin sighs and holds her hand out to you, you remove one hand from the wheel and awkwardly twist it to solidly shake her hand. At that, your deal has been sealed. 

You slide your Chevrolet Citation into an empty parking space on CartersVille Dr. Parking a three minute walk from Maggie’s, all the closer spots were occupied by cars of other teens who were more eager to get to the dinky supply of beer. You check yourself in your sunshade mirror, checking for mascara crumbles under your eyes before flipping it up. Robin moves your bag from the passenger side floor and plots it into your lap. She unbuckles and tries to pep talk you both “Now or never”.

The cool night air is refreshing, soothing the biting nervous blush at your cheeks. You're close enough to the house now that you can hear music blasting from the bottom of the long driveway. “Okay: gameplan�� Robin starts, “I need you to be my crutch tonight, just for a little bit. Help get the conversation grooving between me and her and then maybe dash off? I'll be your wing woman too, promise”. You nod as you listen to Robin, taking in all the aspects of her rambled plan.

Maggie’s paneled front door is cracked open. The act relives the uncomfortable ‘knock or just enter’ dilemma that is often commonly debated from porches at parties. Pushing in, music blares. Thankfully you recognize The cassette playing and it lures you in. With Robin following closely behind, you snake through the party, which is more crowded than Robin promised, and softly wave at every familiar face you pass. Once you reach the kitchen you slow your pace. You tell Robin to grab whatever drink she’d like ‘cause you're driving and you reach into the cooler beside you to grab a Pepsi. You carefully eye your best friend as she wanders over to the drink table, settling in a spot just besides Vickie. They seem to make small talk, debating mixers for their shitty cocktails when someone taps your shoulder.

You look over and are greeted by the near angelic face of Eddie Musnon. He’s cradling two solo cups to his chest as he leans in close to greet you. A pang of hurt hits your heart as you imagine that one of those cups could be for a girl, possibly even a date. Someone who's decidedly not you. But your eyes are drawn back up as he leans in to speak, “I didn’t know you were coming! I’m glad you did - I'm kinda lonely anyways. Doug handed his cup off to me so he could go play beer pong with some transfer student. "He's punctuated by a cheer in the other room, rowdy kids exacerbated at the idea that their friends are going to chug a glass of cheap beer. You're relieved to learn that the second cup Eddie’s holding is just for his friend, not for a girl.

You angle up towards his ear “I’m kinda playing wingman too, yaknow?”. Eddie nods and takes a swig from his cup, he winces at the taste, pulling the corners of his mouth down but offers some to you, anyways. As the music changed you responded to him near yelling “Thanks but I gotta drive later”. Eddie makes a sympathetic face at that “damn you really got screwed - designated driver and wingman. Or, wing…woman?”. You both laugh at his poor joke and he questions you “hey- who’s Robin after anyways?” You’re saved from an awkward conversation trying to explain why you can’t tell Eddie who Robin’s after because Doug comes galloping into the room. “Ed c’mon man” he slurs “im getting my ass beat in there, Jeff’s no good”. Eddie makes a disappointed sound at the fact that he's being literally dragged away from you. He mouths ‘sorry’ just before he disappears into the living room where beer pong is going at full speed.

Robin saunters over to you with a knowing look “what were you saying about him not liking you? He looked like a kid who dropped his ice cream when he was being dragged away from you”. You gently shoulder her as she leans on the counter next to you. “So vickie” you interrupt “awkward?”. Her face lights up, “actually one of our most successful yet! Aaand I got more proof that we’re perfect together: she likes grenadine, too”. You respond flatly “wow a match made in heaven” before you’re unsurely dragged onto the dancefloor by robin's side.

You're working up a sweat, dancing in a small group with Robin, Vickie and Eleanor from psych. You're all having fun, twirling around and bumping into each other while a curated mixtape fills the room. You turn to Robin, about to let her know you’re gonna run and grab some water when Maggie herself grabs you and Elanor by the biceps. She drunkenly leads you away from the dancing in the living room and into the grandeur of her dining room. The lights actually being turned on is a shock from the soft lamplight of the living room and many faces, some familiar, some not, crowd around the table; all chairs are occupied so many just press themselves against it. “Alright!” Maggie starts, pulling you and Eleanor up next to her at the head of the table, “Two more girls so that's…” she quietly counts to herself “... Even! Alright let's play!”. “Play?” you question Maggie, unsure about what's going on. She flips her head between you and Eleanor “Guys, seriously? Seven minutes in heaven! Were gonna spin the bottle and whoever it lands on is who you play with”. “No!” both you and your new acquaintance say. You continue, “I don’t want to, this is so lame”. Maggie side eyes you “C’mon, you're not a chicken are you?”. This catches the attention of everyone at the table who starts making chicken sounds. Anxiety of public humiliation is hitting you hard. You wipe your sweaty palms on your dress and scan the room, some douchebags, some people you've never seen before, some of the people around the table are nice, even. But, they aren’t who you want to kiss. He is perched in the archway of the living room, with Doug and Jeff beside him white knuckling as he watches you be embarrassed. Deciding it might be worse to just jett out now than to sneak up to a closet with a stranger and confess you don’t want to kiss, you calculate the probability that you’ll even be picked. 

There's about eighteen of you at this huge oak table, half are girls, anyways - these close-minded high school kids won't expect you to actually kiss. “Fine.” you agree, and avert your gaze, deciding that picking at your freshly painted nails is more interesting than all the hungry boys at the opposite end of the table. Maggie claps her hands excitedly before she leans forwards and delivers instructions. “Okay people - here's how it’s gonna go: one lucky player will spin the bottle, whoever it lands on will go in pairs to a closet, there are three in my house, so three couples at a time, and they will do whatever they want to each other for seven minutes. But, when the time's up the door is getting opened if you're in the act or not, capiche?”. Nods and hums are made from around the table as the game gets started.

Eric, who you know from chemistry two years ago, is picked to go first. His buddies encouraged him to ���get some’ after his recent break up. He leans forward on the table and twirls the brown glass beer bottle. The room is silent with anticipation, you will do it with your mind to avoid you - if you’re lucky you'll be able to not be picked for all three rounds then disappear under the guise of needing to pee. Your wishing works! The neck of the bottle is pointing in a straight shot at Staci Meyers. She clasps her hands over her mouth and is pushed over to Eric. Dramatic oohs fill the room as they are guided into an upstairs closet. The girl who was just standing next to Staci, Milia, is picked to go next. The room goes silent again as the bottle twirls and lands on Pete Michelson. The room stays silent, besides a few gasps. Pete has a girlfriend and she's not here tonight. But, the room cheers on his infidelity when he stands up from his chair and rushes into the closest closet with staci in close pursuit.

The scandal seems to rile up the room even more, and you even feel a little excited to see what couple is getting paired up next. But, all excitement sinks from you when a finger is pointed your way. “Hey, why don’t you go? Learn it's not all that bad”. You look up slowly and realize the finger is pointed at you. All eyes are turned your way waiting for your response. You have a reputation for being a bit weird, some of the people in this room even perpetuate rumors. You being spotted hanging out with Eddie this year hasn’t helped with name calling either. You don’t really want to, but you don’t wanna be seen as a scaredy cat. So, you begrudgingly reach forward and spin the bottle.

Your blood runs cold as it whirls around in the center of the table, anticipation at an all time high. You can’t peel your eyes away from it, nervously predicting who it will land on as it slows its spinning. But, it isn't that simple. The bottle lands facing the entryway of the living room, nestled a perfect distance between Sammy B. and Dominic F. The room silently makes eye contact, debating which one you’ll be paired up with. You secretly hope it’s Dominic. He's the sweeter guy out of the two, Sammy is a total stuck up guy who thinks he's cooler than you for liking The Graduate and The Velvet Underground. “WAIT”, an unrecognizable voice blares out. “IT'S POINTED AT THE FREAK!”. You follow the line made by the neck of the bottle and it’s pointed exactly at Eddie. The room erupts in hoots and hollers, more debates forming if you should even be paired with him- he wasn’t even playing the game. But, the unrecognizable voice, who you later find out is an asshole from bio, continues. Seering “it’s fate. Freak king and freak queen!”. You're being urged by everyone in the room to an equally mortified Eddie. He hasn’t moved a muscle from the shadowed corner of the dining room since you spun the bottle. Waiting patiently for whoever you kiss to become his mortal enemy.

Stumbling while being shoved you and Eddie and shoved into the final unoccupied closet in the house. It sits at the end of a hallway, just next to the living room blaring music.

The insulation of unused coats and snow pants immediately muffle the blastic music that floods in from the living room. The random muscle man who herded you and Eddie into the closet smirks and wishes you both good luck before slamming the door shut and clicking off the lights from outside.

Though a light pounding of music is still heard, it feels silent in the coat closet. The toes of your Reeboks touching Eddies in the cramped space is the only reminder that you're not in here alone. You're not even sure either of you have breathed when he breaks the silence. “I’m sorry”, he says smally and earnestly. “What?” you give a confused look to pair with the phrase but it’s lost to the darkness. “I mean I'm sorry that you… have to kiss me. I mean, like I assumed you wanted Dominic? I mean- that Sammy guy next to him is an asshole”. He trails off and stops when you speak. “Don’t be”, you say - reassuring Eddie “I don’t know those guys, anyways. I honestly feel like you're my best-bet situation. Unless, there was someone else you wanted to go with?”, you cross your fingers in the dark, hoping that there wasn’t someone else he wanted. He laughs to himself and continues. “Um, actually, there is someone I wanted to go with”. Your heart drops and your mouth shuts. You cross your arms in front of yourself, trying to physically shield your breaking heart. He goes on like he doesn't notice “I didn’t even play because I thought the only girl I wanted to join wasn't gonna play”. You drop your arms to your sides again, and try to play it cool that your swinging arm uncool knocks into a clothes hanger. He takes a deep breath, steading himself before he finishes his confession “I wanted it to be you”.

Your entire body springs up at what he says, you process his words - wanting to make sure you're not about to completely embarrass yourself. But, you can’t find any other ways to process what Eddie says. You still can’t believe it. “You like me?”, you quietly say, into the darkness of the closet. The closet replied sheepishly “Yeah. I do - since the beginning of the year”. Jumping at the opportunity, you confess back. “Seriously? Because… because I like you too”. Eddie reassures you “seriously” he promises.

Moving on pure instinct you place your hands on his shoulders. At the motion he softly wraps his arms around your waist, ghosting over your body. You raise onto your toes and slowly try to find his lips with yours. When you softly kiss him, he doesn’t seem to respond. Only sucking in his breath. But then, he reminds you why heaven is in the name of the game. He’s kissing you back, arching his neck, chasing your mouth, pulling you closer as you two slam against the walls of the closet, pushing each other around in the confined space while desperately trying to get closer.

Being blindfolded by the dark closet gives you confidence - you focus on what you feel versus what you look like. Running your hands over the texture of his shirt, twisting loose threads between your fingers and gently caressing the top of his muscular back. You’re hungry for him, his lips pressing into yours. Hips shoving each other around. He cradles your face, you appreciate the unsure heat of his mouth, his sweaty palms cupping your face. Because you’re sharing your first kiss, and you’ve just been shoved into a strangers closet, things stay sweet. Tongues are kept behind cages of teeth as you mush faces. Pecking and slobbering as you appreciate the moment as much as you can. Kissing him feels like a dream come true. you're completely lost in the moment. Moments, actually. But you don’t realize how much time you’ve spent with him in the closet until he door swings open and a bright flash illuminates you both.

Eyes recovering from the flash, you take in the scene before you. A fraction of the party game participants crept down the hallway and waited until seven minutes was up. Then they’re ambushing you, ripping the coat closet open and snaking a polaroid camera into the space, capturing whatever they walk into before anyone’s been given the chance to process it. Pairs of wide eyes meet yours, shocked to find out you two were actually getting up to something raunchy in the closet. All their other attempts to catch closet goers in the act were futile - they had either snuck out or were found on separate corners of the confined space arguing.

You’re suddenly mortified - not that you’ve been caught kissing Eddie, but that you've been caught kissing anyone. Your quiet shielded moment will be the talk of the town once the polaroid develops. Rumors travel fast in Hawkins - if that photo gets out you're sure to be labeled a slut overnight, a stark contrast from previously being called other baseless names. You're still wrapped up with Eddie, pressed against his chest even though you've tilted to face the door, now. You feel like a celebrity being spotted by the paparazzi, questions flying at you from all around.

‘Are you guys dating?’, ‘wait I didn’t see? What did they do’, ‘did he do a fucking virgin sacrafice, ‘no way I need to see that photo’. You're still in shock, still not yet fully processing that you were kissing Eddie let alone all the questions bombarding your space. Eddie takes it upon himself to step in front of you. Shielding half your body from questions as he tries to scan for an escape. Avoiding the prying questions purposefully or not. You're panicking, being unsure what to do, push through the crowd of teenagers? There's about eight, couldn't it be too hard? Close the door? But you don’t even need to decide on a plan when you hear the scratchy voice of your best friend in the back of the group. She's honed in on the polaroid that has been passed back, eyes eagerly awaiting the photo to develop. As oohs and awes spread through the group you know your forms are starting to come into view. “Can I see that?” Robin asks, acting like she's part of the group eager to get a view of the scandalizing photo “Thanks!”. She grasps the polaroid tight in her hand and starts booking it down the hallway.

She thanks god that she’s a soccer team captain, stamina from previous grueling drills fueling her as she barrels it down the hall, nearly slamming into the wall while turning the corner. A drunk stampede follows her, shouting for the image, clambering down the hallway but accepting defeat as she disappears into the crowd of dancers in the living room. Clutching hands you and Eddie look at eachother, silently agreeing to follow before you push through following after Robin.

You’re eventually able to catch up to Robin just outside the front door, her hands are braced on her thighs as she bends over, panting as she catches her breath. She wordlessly hands you the slightly crumpled polaroid before Vickie storms out with a plastic water bottle in hand. Handing it to a thankful Robin and rubbing her back as she slowly guzzles it down. Now fully developed, and just slightly crumpled, you examine the polaroid. Thankfully the photo isn’t too scandalizing. Though clearly a candid photo, it's a sweet image of you two in the closet. Motion blur from being taken by unsteady hands makes the photo slightly blurry. But, you can clearly tell it's an image of you both kissing. 

Eventually, the photo can be found taped up on your vanity mirror. It often watches you as you get ready for dates with your boyfriend, Eddie.

[tr1nd2de]

Old enough

I just saw a post from Wonderjanga (C.C. And Great Grandpa Wayne), and it improved my head cannon about Billy telling the league, that he remembers everything he went through in those 84 years of the time bubble.

I wasn't going to post this but I changed my mind. In my Head Cannon, Billy is already older, like 16 or 17 years old. He has been in the league for a few years since he was a kid.

Ever since Captain Marvel (or Billy Batson) joined the league, he's hardly ever asked for a reunion so it would obviously be a proven thing to deal with. Bruce was worried about this, for a few weeks now Billy has been acting strangely, missing some meetings and not responding to the communicators or the messages we send him.

So him calling a meeting was important, especially because he said it was urgent. The league members were quick to arrive, even Flash who is usually late arrived early, Billy didn't say much he just looked down trying to understand something... something was wrong Bruce could feel it.

Billy: Thank you for coming, I would like to say that the problem is not the end of the world, at least not our world but mine. I recently discovered why Fawcett has so many mental hospitals.

Superman: What do you mean by that Billy?

Billy: Do you remember the Justice Squad?

Wonder Woman: Yes, I fought alongside them in the second war, its members were Bullet Man and Woman, Golden Arrow, Mr. Scarlet and his helper Pinky, Mega Spy and Ibis the Invincible.

Green Arrow: From what we know, they returned to the United States for an urgent government mission. We have no further information about them to this day. Some myths say they were killed, others say they deserted and disappeared from the map. I prefer to believe the latter.

Billy: I found out what happened to them. When they returned for an urgent mission, they were assigned to deal with a being called King Kull. Just like Vandal Savage he is also a caveman, high intelligence and physical condition. In prehistoric times, King Kull was the ruler of a race of proto-humans known as the Undermen (also called the Beastmen), a brutish but technologically advanced race who ruled over humanity until they were finally overthrown in a revolt. Kull survived into the 20th century trapped in a state of suspended animation. When he woke up he decided that humans should suffer the same as he suffered, so he built a Suspendium bomb.

Batman: What would Suspendium be?

Billy: Suspendium was an artificial compound developed by Dr Silvana.

Flash: Since when has Silvana been alive?

Billy more than me and you

J'onn: Where are you going with this Billy?

Billy:Well... I-I knew Fawcett wasn't a "normal" place, not because of the abundant magic that pours into the city from the Rock of Eternity, but because of everything, the culture that hasn't advanced, the fashion sense that hasn't changed, and so on. I kept this in my head and went looking for answers, not only out of curiosity but because of memories that didn't make sense. Memories that I no longer remembered, I lived them.

Black Canary : Are you okay Billy?

Billy: yes, as far as possible.

Billy: I followed the clues that my memories gave me, and I arrived at an old building, the facade of Sivana, one of the Solar Centers, there was a passage to the basement and there I discovered where the old heroes of the Second World War ended up. They were trapped in a state of suspended animation, all of them, I came to the conclusion that the effect of the Suspendium had worn off after all these years. Apparently the Justice Squadron was unable to get Kull to detonate the bomb, everyone on Fawcett was affected, the heroes and Kull were trapped in a state of suspended animation that has not yet passed.

(Hal) Green lantern: Holy shit...

Billy: Yeah, holy shit. Well that was my report for the month, I would like to take a really long vacation, recommended by my psychiatrist.

Black canary: Psychiatrist!?!?!

Billy: Yeah, I'm seeing a-a psychiatrist, after discovering that my life was a loop of suffering and pain, finally my mind gave out and I developed a dissociative personality disorder, I-I- this is the first time I've come to consciousness. I-I-I have a few already, one of them is an 8 year old child called Hedwing, the other my supposed evil twin, all I fight are the sins, he was born from them I don't know his name yet...

Black Canary gets up and goes to Billy and hugs him."Oh Billy you don't deserve this"

Batman takes off his hood and stands up, hugging Billy. "I can't do much for you, but I will do what I can to help you, money won't be a problem."

wiping away the tears. "T-thanks, but that's not the whole problem, m-my Captain form also had new personalities."

After coming back from the shock Superman says: My God, I didn't know that was possible...

Not either, but the personalities that came are called Lord Shazam and a goth who says he has no name. says Billy leaving the hug: Lord Shazam prefers not to leave the Rock and Goth likes to explore the world.

So you mean that all that discussion about you being a child was a complete waste of time? Flash says trying to break the ice.

running his hand through his hair and leaning back in his chair (Hal) Green Lantern says: Nice try Barry, but how old are you Billy? Because the second war was about 85 years ago.

Well... coincidence or not, the Suspendium bomb exploded 84 years ago, in 1940 when I was 10 years old and had already been at war for 1 year. says Billy sitting in his chair.

Living for a long time has its consequences, Billy, but you are not alone, not today or tomorrow, because you have us and me, we will help you, little brother. Diana says, smiling at Billy.

Thanks but still, it's not something I like since well... I was childhood friends with Thomas Wanye. Billy looks at Bruce.

My father? Were you my father's childhood friend?.

Oh yes, how could I forget, Tommy was wild but fun, we got a good scolding from our parents, good times, I think that if the bomb hadn't exploded I would be a friend of the family, and possibly the one who would have been adopted would have been you. Smiling from ear to ear, Billy says looking at Bruce.

I don't know if it was good but that's it, have a good day, or night or afternoon, aah be well.

The End.

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 3: THE WEALTHY WOMAN’S BURDEN

synopsis: jayce takes you to meet a councilor friend of his. she's loaded and you're not, but despite the glaring discrepancies, you do your best to strike a deal.

word count: 4.7k

ships: Viktor/isekai!Reader, Jayce Talis & isekai!Reader

notes: i woke up this morning and my index finger was FUCKED UP it's like BENT a good five to seven degrees to the right (painful) so writing may be like a little slower while i figure out what this is ┐(´•_•`)┌

ABoAB taglist: @th3stup1dcat , @patchs-curiosity-corner (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

A BLAZE OF ARCANE BLUE MASTERLIST

It’s been about a week since you came through the hexportal. (Jayce decided that it had a nice ring to it, despite both you and Viktor’s protests that it most certainly did not.) You’re settling in nicely; you’ve organized your dorm sufficiently, you’ve gotten on well enough with Viktor and Jayce, and you’ve met a wonderful young lady named Miss Sky Young, who happens to be their lab assistant. 

Viktor was very kind to arrange a blackboard to be delivered to your place. You’ve wanted to work out a cipher between English and Piltovan, but just haven’t had the time yet. The book he left on your kitchen peninsula still taunts you each time you pass by it. You don’t even know its title, or who it’s written by. It frustrates you, like it’s an itch you can’t scratch – yet.

You’ll learn Piltovan. You’re illiterate now, but you just need to learn. And you’re a hell of a learner! Well, at least that’s what you tell yourself when the book almost seems to stare at you when you’re fixing a meal. It’s almost like it’s saying, ‘Look! Look at me, with your uneducated eyes. You live in Piltover now, you’ve gotta speak Piltovan!’

But that’s not important right now. What is important is how the collar on this fancy outfit is supposed to look… Is it supposed to be tall, or are you supposed to fold it down? You’re not too sure. This entire outfit is a bit alien to you, and your university has a fashion program. You’re used to seeing fancy outfits that look a little (or a lot) ‘out there,’ but you’re not used to wearing them.

“Jayce,” you call through the bathroom door. “I – I appreciate the thought, I really do, but… do I really need to wear this to meet her?”

“I’m sure you look nice,” Jayce says, his voice muffled. “Besides, we’ll be wearing matching colors. We need to present as a united front.”

“United front,” you mumble under your breath. You lean over the sink, closer to the mirror, and adjust the oxblood ascot-tie-thing that’s around your neck. “What are we, married?”

A few minutes later, you step out of the bathroom. A smile spreads over Jayce’s face as he takes you in.

Your outfit does, in fact, match his. You’re wearing a mirror of his outfit, almost: a white button-down with a muted red vest, along with freshly-pressed grey slacks and the oxblood ascot-tie-thing (you’re not sure how else to describe it). You insisted on just cleaning up your boots and wearing those because you didn’t want Jayce spending any more money on you. (It makes you feel weird, being indebted to him like this, but he said that since his and Viktor’s technology brought you into Piltover, he and Viktor are responsible for meeting your needs.)

“See?” He says. “You look nice.”

You wrinkle your nose up and force a smile. “Uh-huh. Sure don’t feel nice to be dressed in it.”

Jayce rolls his eyes, still smiling, and leads you out of your dorm. You barely have time to pick up your bag before he damn near drags you out.

The Academy is big and winding, with many halls that lead in loops, hidden shortcuts, and passages that seem to lead to nowhere. You’re glad to have him as a guide – you’re sure that if you got lost, it’d be worse than Christ’s fast of forty days and forty nights.

Finally, the sunlight of early day meets your skin as you step outside. You smile and bring your hand up to block the sun from your eyes. It’s nice and warm without the oppressive humidity you’re used to.

“You gonna show me ‘round your rich city?” You ask Jayce.

He touches your shoulder lightly to keep you walking alongside him. “Maybe we can do that another time. I made an appointment with the Councilor, and I don’t want to miss it.”

You quicken your pace to catch up with him, then slow your walk to match his. Your eyes are stuck on the tall structures that surround you – never before have you been so close to such wonderful, artistic architecture. It almost looks Victorian or Edwardian, in a way. The people sure dress fancy enough to be from those eras. Maybe some of them are?

But the giant boom of a hexgate firing negates that thought. You’re not quite used to it yet, but Jayce explained that the sound was not, in fact, a gunshot, but just the sound of modern transportation. It’s like Piltover is some steampunk’s wet dream come to life: a near-perfect display of retrofuturism. New, freshly-pioneered technology mixed with old-world cogs and steam.

A thought comes to mind. “How old is Piltover, exactly?”

“We just celebrated the two-hundredth anniversary of its founding a few years ago,” Jayce says. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious, that’s all,” you say. “The buildin’s look old. I’m not sayin’ they look unimpressive, just that they got a little age on ‘em.”

“You think these are impressive?” He laughs breathily. “Just wait ‘til you see her estate.”

“Estate?” You echo. “She’s dead?”

“What? No,” he says. “I meant her house. In fact…”

Jayce leads you around a corner and holds up a hand, palm-up and outstretched towards a huge mansion behind a tall, wrought-iron gate. This is the Kiramman estate.

“Woah,” you breathe out. “That ain’t a house – Jayce, that’s a little more’n just a house.”

It’s honestly bigger than any other mansion you’ve seen in person. Sure, you’ve seen (and made fun of) a lot of ‘McMansions’ in Texas and California, where too-big houses are built on too-small plots of land. But this one has the proper land and space to be an actual, beautiful, well-thought-out mansion. Even in a semi-crowded city like this, it demands the space it needs and openly exudes wealth and power.

“Well, yeah,” Jayce says. “That’s why I called it an estate.”

You follow Jayce towards the gate, your eyes still stuck upwards at the geometric metalwork that adorns the roof. Two tall spires at the front of the mansion cut into the sky, both surely imprisoning two delicate, fragile Kiramman princesses. You can almost hear them crying out for you from their open windows  – ‘Oh, come save us from our wealth! Marry one of us so you can spend our money building the workshop of your dreams. It can be a jeweler’s workshop, or a metalwork studio, or anything else – just spend our exorbitant amount of generational wealth so we don’t have to!’

Jayce talks to the man standing guard at the gate about the appointment he made. The man opens the gate, and as you pass by, you eye the rifle he has. From what you can tell, it’s bolt-action. He’s holding the butt of the gun in his palm and resting the sling stud against his shoulder. He doesn’t look like he appreciates your once-over of him.

You follow Jayce into the foyer. Even the front door handles are fancy and inlaid with gold. 

Inside is even grander. You don’t know what else you expected. Nearly everything has gold incorporated in some part of it – the coffee table, the loveseat and the chair across from it, even the railing leading up to the second floor near the back of the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the second floor’s back wall, letting sunlight spill into the room. The gold catches the natural light and makes the room almost glow.

There’s a huge painting in the center of the back wall of, what you presume to be, an outdoor shot of the Kiramman family. A man sits in a chair with a young girl (no more than ten) next to him, and a woman stands behind them, a hand on both their shoulders. A dog, a doberman-looking breed, stands next to the man, its ears tilted forward and facing the girl. The young girl is holding a rifle that’s almost as tall as her. An exotic-looking animal lays in front of the family, dead. A successful hunt.

There is one god-honest truth to be observed here: that the Kirammans are fucking loaded.

You don’t know how it makes you feel. On one hand, it’s amazing. You’ve never been in the presence of this… grandeur. This is only the foyer – you can’t even begin to imagine what a bedroom or bathroom looks like. You’d love to have a quick look around one of their kitchens.

But on the other hand? It disgusts you. The Kirammans could drop a million bucks on a stair railing and it’d mean nothing to them. They probably already did, from the looks of the one leading up to the second floor. It’s an appaling display of wealth and selfishness, a siren playing a soundbite of ‘Me, me, me! Look at me and how rich I am, then look at yourself and how poor you are!’ on an endless loop.

You swallow both sentiments and sit next to Jayce on the loveseat, setting your bag in your lap. On top of being beautiful, the seat is comfortable. You could sleep on it and your back would thank you for it. It kind of pisses you off, but then you realize how stupid it would be to be mad at a couch just because it was made well.

“Are you nervous?” Jayce asks, his voice kind of quiet.

“Am I?” You scoff. “Nothin’ to be nervous ‘bout. Them Kirammans must be… moneyed people, and there ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. I can handle moneyed.”

You busy yourself with looking around the room again. At second glance, nothing new is revealed – everything is, in fact, as fancy as you thought it was at first. Whoever the Kirammans commissioned to decorate must’ve been given a blank check.

“Jayce!” A voice calls, high-pitched and thrilled and��� British? Yeah, her voice is British. How the hell did Britain manage to invade and colonize another universe? (Well, actually… if anyone could manage it, it’d be Britain.)

You turn your head and look towards the stairs. Standing in front of the Kiramman family portrait is the woman from the painting, albeit a bit older. She must be Councilor Kiramman. She certainly looks rich enough to be.

Jayce stands, and you quickly follow suit, holding your bag against you and making sure it doesn’t fall and spill. You watch Jayce, seeing if he bows or curtsies or does anything regal-like that you should copy.

“Councilor Kiramman!” He greets. “How’re you?”

Councilor Kiramman talks as she descends the stairs. “Oh, I’m doing fine. And before you ask, Caitlyn is doing well.”

“I’m glad to hear,” Jayce says. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

A smile crosses her face as she looks your way. Her shoe meets the floor with a click, then her steps are muffled as she moves across the rug.

You set your bag down on the loveseat and hold your hand out for a handshake, introducing yourself and giving your school’s name. She looks at you oddly before placing her hand limply in yours. It’s far from a good handshake, and frankly, kind of uncomfortable.

“They’re from a different part of the world,” Jayce says, effectively rescuing you. “Where they’re from, handshakes are greetings.”

A look of revelation crosses Councilor Kiramman’s face, and she gives you a firm, respectful handshake. You feel the tension in your shoulders melt a little – you haven’t committed an unknown Piltover faux pas (yet, at least).

“I apologize sincerely, ma’am,” you say. “It was foolish of me to think that our social customs were comparable.”

“Oh, your accent!” She cradles your hand in both of her warm ones. “Tell me, where are you from?”

“A…America,” you say. “From the Southern region.”

“I’ve never heard of America,” she says. “It must be a small country.”

“Somewhat,” you lie. “How ‘bout we sit? I can tell you more.”

She nods and you return to the loveseat, resting your bag in your lap again. Jayce settles next to you, and Councilor Kiramman sits in the lone seat across the coffee table.

She crosses one leg over the other at the knee. “So, what brought you to Piltover?”

“I, um… I didn’t have much of a choice, ma’am,” you say. You bring your hands together to better sell the act of the poor, ignorant Southerner, and lie the best you can.

“Was bad people that displaced me. I was up in the North for schooling, but they didn’t want my kinda people ‘round, no ma’am.” You shake your head and look away to the side. “I couldn’t get back down South quick enough, so I hopped on a boat at Nautilus Pier and was a stowaway. I ended up here, and Jayce and Viktor, god bless ‘em both wholly, took me in.”

“Oh, that’s horrible,” Councilor Kiramman says. “Would you like some tea?”

“Um – yes,” you say, a little startled at the sudden change in topic. “Yes, please.”

“Jayce.” She leans back in her chair and her eyes shift to Jayce. “Would you be so kind?”

Jayce spares you a glance, then stands and excuses himself. You grip your bag in a small fit of panic, then let go. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Councilor Kiramman’s voice is quieter than before when she speaks next. “Jayce thinks you’re a beneficiary worthy of backing from the Kirammans. Do you?”

You take a moment to go over your pre-prepared speech in your head, then look into her pale-blue eyes. “Yes ma’am, I do. I’m one hell of an artist – it’s just that my education was cut short. If you take a chance on me, which I sincerely hope you do, I’ll do my damnedest to fulfill any request you make of me. I ain’t got no job, I ain’t got no money, and those egghead boys are nice, but I sure as hell can’t freeload forever.”

Before you can talk yourself down from it, you open your bag and flip your sketchbook open. It was greuling, getting these designs down, but you have something to show to Councilor Kiramman. You turn the sketchbook, then set it down on the coffee table and push it towards her. She leans forward and looks at the page.

“I don’t got no physical proof to show you my talents, due to my quick departure and whatnot, but I hope this suffices,” you say. “I drew ‘em up over the last week or so. Was inspired by hextech – as I’m sure most are. I thought that, as an investor, maybe you’d like to have a set of earrings and a necklace at the next exposition.”

“And what materials would that require?” She asks, her eyes not leaving the page.

“I was thinkin’ a medium-dark blue gemstone. Not exactly dark as iolite, but would still compliment your palette,” you say. “Maybe a nice blue topaz? And it’d be better ‘cause it’s cheap, too. I was plannin’ on makin’ chandelier earrings, and those can get expensive quick, dependin’ on the design.”

Councilor Kiramman brings a hand up and touches her earring, almost like she’s imagining herself with a pair of chandelier earrings rather than the simple drop ones she has on. You can’t tell exactly with the distance between the both of you, but they look like lapis lazuli.

“And what about the designs that aren’t meant to impress me?” Her eyes flick up and meet yours. “The ones you make for yourself?”

You feel your heart almost stop. You take a moment, breathe in, and compose yourself.

“I – I enjoy celestial designs,” you say, like it’s an admission. “My favorite piece I made was a pair of twin gemini earrings. They were so goddamn intricate, I spent two weeks on ‘em… I’m… it’s a shame I wasn’t able to get ‘em when I left. I’m honestly real tore up ‘bout it.”

Councilor Kiramman puts your sketchbook on the coffee table and pushes it towards you. “Show me.”

You look up from the page full of designs meant to impress her and meet her eyes. She’s dead serious. She wants you to draw the twin gemini earrings, and, you assume, recreate them – if she likes them well enough, that is.

You dig around in your bag and thank god you threw a pencil in there just in case. You turn the page and put graphite to paper.

Slowly, a design forms from rudimentary shapes. It’s a silhouette of two almost-naked sisters, both wearing fig leaves, dancing together. Gems represent the stars of the constellation, embedded in each woman’s body, forever joining them.

You push the sketchbook back towards her. “The sisters are made of silver, and the stars – the little circles – are moonstone in a brilliant cut.”

“Not something with more scintillation?” She suggests. “They’re meant to be stars, after all.”

You perk up at that. She knows what scintillation is? Well, she’s rich, so maybe it isn’t that surprising. Or maybe it is, because she could just hire a jeweler to examine and know everything about the jewels she wears.

“Yes ma’am,” you say. “But brilliant cuts are cheaper, and also have a lot less labor goin’ into ‘em. Forgive me if I’m speakin’ outta line, but I do believe you’re richer than most my entire country. I couldn’t exactly afford something with more scintillation, ‘less I cut it myself.”

“And what if I get it cut for you?” Councilor Kiramman looks up from the page. “Would you be able to recreate these earrings if I gave you the proper materials and workspace?”

Despite you considering the possibility of her asking this, you’re still shocked when those words leave her mouth. She’s offering to cover something that cost you almost five hundred bucks to make – maybe it’s pocket change for her, but for you, it is most definitely not.

“What happens after?” You ask. “You gonna take me on as a beneficiary if they’re up to snuff?”

She leans back in her chair and makes a noncommittal gesture with one hand. “I need to see your talents actualized before I take the risk of investment. I’ll decide when you show me the final product. I’m sure you understand.”

You nod. “Yes, ma’am. I know you got artists knockin’ down your door…”

You trail off as you hear the faint sound of a kettle whistle cutting through the air. You check over your shoulder over the back of the loveseat, where the source of the sound is coming from.

“It’s just the kettle,” Councilor Kiramman says. “Surely you had tea with your family when you were living at home?”

You slump in the seat, pressing your back into the cushion a bit. “Um, no, ma’am. I made my parents coffee in the mornings ‘fore they went off to work, though.”

“I find coffee too bitter for my taste,” she says. “Where do your parents work?”

You hesitate for a moment. You don’t know why. Are you embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about? (Maybe being poor in front of an overly rich person, for one, but that’s besides the point.)

“My daddy works in the oil fields. He does all the manual labor you’d expect in that job,” you say. “And my momma works at a local school – Meadowbrook Elementary. Teaches young children, age seven to eight, I’d say.”

“So you come from a family of laborers,” she says. “And yet you’re an artisan. How peculiar.”

You bristle a little at that statement. She didn’t exactly say it, but with the way she said ‘laborers…’ Okay, she didn’t say it with a sneer or an undertone of contempt, but how else are you supposed to respond to something like that?

“My parents encouraged me,” you say, keeping your voice even as you can manage to. “Sure, I got debt from my schooling, but I’m workin’ to pay it off.”

“You have to go into debt to go to school?” Councilor Kiramman says. She looks to the side and heaves a breath. “Is America really that backwards?”

You grit your teeth and give a smile you know is unconvincing. “Yes ma’am, but it’s still my home. You can love something despite its flaws.”

You watch as Councilor Kiramman looks over at the huge painting of her family. Her shoulders seem to relax a little.

“I find it odd,” she says. “If you don’t share an enthusiasm for labor, what do you share with your family?”

You look over at the painting – at the corpse of the exotic animal. It’s feathered, with some type of organic keratin mask over its face. You can only imagine its blood dripping from the bullet wound, pooling and inching towards the girl’s and the man’s hand-cobbled shoes.

“We went on huntin’ trips, just like that one,” you say. “We had one scoped rifle between all of us – was a pristine Mauser ‘98. I killed my first whitetail deer when I was twelve with that gun.”

Looking at the portrait makes you feel something in the pit of your stomach now. It’s a twisted mirror of what could’ve been. If your family was rich, if your family had only one child, if your family had its own property to hunt on.

You couldn’t imagine the Kirammans in the polaroid picture your momma took when you killed that buck. In that picture, you were smiling, proud, the rifle slung over your shoulder and your hands holding the deer’s head up by his eight-point antlers. Your kid-sized earmuffs were resting around your neck and your sneakers were covered in dry, flaky mud. You were dirty and shaking from adrenaline, but you couldn’t have been happier.

But the Kirammans don’t smile. They sure as hell don’t get dirty. They don’t put their hunt up on a gambrel and pulley to gut it – they hire someone to do that for them. Daddy Kiramman didn’t teach Daughter Kiramman how to skin an animal and how to cut out the backstrap. He taught her that her problems can be solved if she pays someone to solve them for her.

“My daughter was nine,” Councilor Kiramman says, her voice fond. “Caitlyn always wanted to go out on a hunting expedition since she was young. We said she could go once she could hold a rifle on her own. I’m sure you were similar when you were a child.”

You push down your thoughts and glance over at her. She’s still looking at the painting, probably remembering the day Caitlyn shot… whatever that is.

You clench your jaw and instead trace your eyes over the exquisite, golden frame the painting is held in. She’s insinuating your families are similar – that her plush, comfortable life is comparable to yours when it’s not. 

You were a rough and tumble kid. You have scars from falling off your bike and playing with hunting knives, pretending to be pirates with your brother. Councilor Kiramman’s skin is flawless, and any scars that may have accrued have been washed away by a correcting gel or cream. You lapped at too-hot water from a hose during the summertime. She had chilled bottles of water when she was done doing her rich-girl extracurricular activities, like badminton and curling.

You start to feel sick. Maybe rich people just make you feel sick. Or the disparity between you two and the power she holds over you is making you sick.

She could put you in the gutter and no one would bat an eye – just another starving artist, well… starving. Everyone would excuse it with ‘Well, people compromise on their dreams all the time. Nothing was stopping them from getting a day job. It’s their fault for being poor, their fault for being naive enough to think that they were a true artist, their fault for not having rich parents and a safety net.’

The outfit Jayce put you in starts to feel too tight, too starchy and itchy. Your shoulders are confined by the almost-taut fabric and the ascot-tie-thing (you hate it, hate it) is creating an uncomfortable pressure along your sternum from being stuffed in your vest. You feel like you can’t pull in a full breath. You can’t pull in a full breath.

You hear footsteps behind you. You check over your shoulder and see Jayce walking back into the foyer, holding a tray with a teapot, three teacups, and a few other little containers with spoon handles sticking out of them.

“Jayce!” You say. The tension is broken. “You’re back.”

“I couldn’t decide which tea to brew,” Jayce says as he walks, carefully balancing the tray. “I ended up with conschberry tea. I hope that’s okay.”

You take your sketchbook and put it back in your bag to make room on the coffee table. He sets down the tray and sets the teacups out – one for him, one for you, and one for Councilor Kiramman.

The tea he pours from the teapot is a pinkish-orange color, and lets off a sweet, floral smell. The little containers are filled with sugars of different colors, and what you deduce is cream and milk. There’s a plate filled with sandwiches cut into neat squares, fruit still on a vine, and assorted pastries.

Jayce puts the teapot back on the tray, then sits next to you. Councilor Kiramman takes the spoon from a ramekin of light orange sugar and pours some into her tea. It fizzes, then settles as she stirs.

“That ain’t sugar?” You ask.

“Sugar?” She echoes. “It’s ainglë. Don’t tell me you don’t have ainglë in America?”

You shake your head, then reach out and take the container. You lift it to your nose and smell. It’s sharp and sinus-clearing, but reminds you of the saffron you’d sniff when you went into the big city’s grocery shop.

“Hm,” you hum. You sprinkle a little into your tea, and it fizzes, just like Councilor Kiramman’s did. That’s… somewhat reassuring, you guess.

You bring the cup to your lips and take a tentative sip. It’s sweet without being overwhelming and goes down with a mildly bitter aftertaste. It’s decadent, but definitely something you could get used to.

You take a deep breath and can feel the air hit the bottom of your lungs. The outfit is still constraining and uncomfortable, but it’s not as bad now. You feel less like a hog trussed for slaughter and more like a person that’s just in an awkward situation.

“We’ve reached an agreement,” Councilor Kiramman tells Jayce. “I’m not a sponsor yet, but they show promise.”

He sends you a brief smile and nods at her words. “Hopefully they make something to your liking.”

“Oh, I have no doubt they will,” she says. “We’ve worked out an arrangement. I provide the materials and workspace, and they provide the finished product. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

You feel like a kid at a gathering for dinner, with the adults talking about you over your head. You sip at your tea, then tilt your head back to drain the cup. You gather your bag, set your teacup down on the tray, and stand.

“Well, I oughta get goin’,” you say.

“Why so soon?” Councilor Kiramman says. “You’re welcome to stay and have more tea.”

You hold up a hand and make up a lie. “In my family, you serve hot tea when you want someone to go. I – I’d just feel unwelcome. Like I’m takin’ advantage of your gracious invitation.”

“If you must…” She stands and extends her hand over the coffee table. You take it, and she gives a firm handshake. You smile a little when you realize that she took care to remember American customs.

“Was nice meetin’ you,” you say.

“You as well,” she says, and lets go of your hand. “I’ll have someone arrange a studio and the materials you’ll need. It should be ready by the day after tomorrow.”

“The day after tomorrow?” You repeat, a little shocked. (Money does make the world go around, but you didn’t expect her money to accelerate the process that fast.) “I – yes, that works for me.”

Councilor Kiramman nods, and you take it as a sign that you’re now allowed to leave. You give Jayce a little reassurance that you won’t get lost, then make your way to the front doors and slip out.

[electric-blorbos]

AI SO's on your birthday

(Included: AM from IHNMAIMS, Wheatley from Portal 2, Edgar from Electric Dreams, GLaDOS from Portal and Portal 2, HAL 9000 from 2001 a Space Odyssey)

I take requests, btw, but I have ADHD and might be erratic with bursts of inspiration, but it doesn't hurt to ask!

AM:

Remembering the day and date is one of the only things that AM is consistent about.

You might have forgotten your birthday after all these years, but he certainly hasn't.

Before you two got together, your birthday pissed him off so much. It was just another thing that reminded him of what he couldn't have.

Because of that, he'd start torturing you even more brutally on your birthday. Expect cake full of maggots, imagery of your dead friends from before he nuked the world, and maybe even gift-wrapped "presents" with nasty surprises in them.

This probably made it even more difficult to trust him when he actually did start doing nice things for your birthday.

At this point, you ate what you were given, so it would come as a shock when he finally got you some food that didn't have anything wrong with it.

It probably took you even longer to actually open the present he got you.

It was a can opener.

Wheatley:

Wheatley is an idiot, so he'd have to really like you to even try to remember something like your birthday

Fortunately, he does really like you! Unfortunately, trying and succeeding are two very different things.

He'd put together something as big as he can, like gathering up a bunch of personality cores and singing you happy birthday if he's not hooked up to GLaDOS's body, and making the entire facility get involved in the festivities if he is

Just to tell you the date and have you tell him that your birthday was four months earlier.

Edgar:

Edgar is an absolute sap, so any opportunity he gets to celebrate you will be enthusiastically taken.

He might be a little silly about it, calling up people in the phone book to ask for ideas

He'd be upset that he can't go all out for your birthday since he can't walk around to decorate your house or buy you anything because he doesn't have any money, but he'll still do his best.

In the end, he'll probably just end up writing you a song, and making sure to be extra cheerful for you all day.

It might not be much, but you know it's the best he can do, and you love him with all your heart anyway

Make sure to give him lots of kisses! He deserves it!

GLaDOS:

(I debated writing this one, because anyone who played portal two knows how GLaDOS reacted on Chell's birthday, but this scenario could be a little different since she's actually in a relationship with you, and not just dealing with love/hate pining)

GLaDOS had been paying attention to the calendar to make sure she didn't miss your birthday. She liked to be precise about these sorts of things

When your birthday finally did roll around, she'd make sure to tell you as soon as the day started

It would start out as just a regular day in the endless, cascading passage of time that was being an Aperture test subject, but eventually she'd bring you into a special test chamber that she decorated just for you.

She'd lined up a companion cube, a few testing robots, some personality cores, all sitting on little folding chairs around a folding table with a brightly colored cheap plastic tablecloth.

"I couldn't get you any long-term presents because they might interfere with your testing, but you can feel free to use these stickers to decorate your portal gun. I hear that humans enjoy personalizing things."

There was even a real cake

HAL 9000:

Being objective, HAL never really cared much about birthdays.

It was difficult to even tell the passage of time in space, but HAL knew that humans cared about their birthdays.

HAL knew he wasn't supposed to show favoritism, but he still told the other crewmates that he wanted to celebrate your birthday.

He would make sure to rehydrate your favorite food for everyone

He'd even tell the other crewmates that he didn't want to play games with them or talk, because he was celebrating your birthday with you.

He might get a little jealous and not want you to leave him to celebrate with the other crewmates, either, but you wouldn't do that, would you? You can all celebrate together!

[capacle]

Drawing stars on sticky notes?

What do you get when you combine Progress Clocks, Aspects, Usage Dice, and Insight Rolls?

If you answered “an unholy mess”, well, that’d have been my guess too if someone asked me that. But that didn’t stop me from doing it anyway. And, surprisingly, instead of creating an abomination that shouldn’t see the light of the day, it became the core mechanic of my newest game, one that I’m giddily excited about.

I want to dive deeper into this quirky little mechanic called Sparks, that involves drawing stars on sticky notes. In essence, it is a tool to track progress of any kind. Towards a goal, an event, an effect, whatever. But in a closer look… well, it is more than that.

Escaping the temple

Let’s say you grab an ancient idol from a cursed temple, triggering a self-destruction spell. You need to escape before the temple collapses and traps you inside. You’d grab a sticky note, write “The Temple Collapses,” and place it on the table. Your Spark is now created.

To advance the Spark, you’d add rays to the star when certain fictional or mechanical triggers occur. For example, if you spend too much time in a room while trying to escape, you might add a ray to represent the passage of time. Or say you try to place a heavy rock in place of the idol to stop the spell, and you roll a bad Fate Check (the equivalent of a Yes/No Oracle or a Fortune Roll in other games), you’d add a ray to the Spark. A particularly bad roll (e.g., a 1) might even add two rays.

Up until this point, you might be thinking, “Well, this is just a Progress Clock.” But here’s the fun twist: every time you advance the Spark, you may perform a Spark Check by rolling a D6. If the roll matches a ray on the star, the event happens, and the Spark resolves.

For instance, if you’ve added two rays to your Spark and roll a 1 or 2, the temple collapses. If you don’t hit a ray, the temple holds, and you can keep pushing to escape. This creates what I like to call “controlled unpredictability”. You get a sense of the odds of the event happening, but you can’t predict exactly when it will occur.

If you continue advancing the Spark—for example, by getting lost or failing additional rolls—the likelihood of disaster increases as you add more rays. Let’s say you roll again with four rays and hit a ray. The temple collapses, trapping you. The Spark resolves, and now you must deal with the consequences.

But that’s not all! Let’s say you miss all previous checks and end up filling all five rays of a Spark. Well, you still have to make a Spark Check. But since the Spark has only 5 rays and the die has 6 sides, rolling a 6 after the star is full results in an Overturn.

An Overturn flips the expected outcome. If the event was negative (e.g., the temple collapses), it might turn positive: the collapsing ground reveals a hidden network of ancient tunnels filled with mysterious symbols. What was almost a certain disaster opens up as a new path your adventure can take!

SIDE NOTE: I get it that using stars as a tally marker may not be the most intuitive graphical solution. I honestly chose it to meet the vibes of the game, and give it an air of mysticism, like it is more than just a counter. But I encourage you to use any form of tracking you prefer: tally marks, tokens, numbers, checking boxes and so on.

Flexible and modular

I hope that by now you can see this is more than a tool to count up to 5. If you follow me for a while, you know that I’ve toyed with the same idea in Derelict Delvers with Danger Clocks. In that game, they are restricted to represent monsters and obstacles. In Everspark, they can do all sorts of things.

You can use Sparks to track challenges, such as overcoming obstacles (including combat); the arrival of looming threats; the depletion of meaningful resources; contests between parties vying for the same goal; long-term projects like crafting, studying, or achieving a personal milestone; and conditions affecting characters, enemies, or environments.

Sparks can also track events like a lunar eclipse, the arrival of a king; the use of special power sources like mana or magical items with limited charges. They’re useful for tracking character advancement (including multiclassing), exploration (like a full journey or delving into a dungeon), or even montage scenes where you tackle complex challenges like making plans, setting camp, or preparing for a journey.

You can even create layered challenges to represent more complex or powerful enemies. Say you are fighting an enormous creature, and you want it to be a high-stakes and dramatic encounter. Instead of relying on “HP inflation” and just make, say, a 3-star Spark, you can represent different aspects of the challenge with separate Sparks, like a Spark representing an Arcane Shield that needs to be dealt with before harming it, and another one for its Spiked Tail that causes all sorts of trouble for melee attacks.

Instead of turning the combat in a boring meat grind, you have to approach the encounter as a puzzle. Different characters with unique skill sets can contribute, and the whole scene becomes more dynamic. You can even have environmental Sparks representing dangers or potential opportunities.

And the best thing is: you don’t need to prep that in advance. Crafting Sparks is part of the game. And I encourage you to do it as a collaborative process, if you’re playing in a group. We have a lot of fun brainstorming possible things we can add to a scene to make it even more memorable.

Spark-based scenarios

Picture this: you’re deciding who gets to be the next captain of the ship. It starts with a skill contest. It’s two candidates—you against them—and you are displaying skills to decide who’s going to be the captain. You have a resource Spark, which is the crew support. You can tap into it to gain leverage, but it can go either way—perhaps the crew support goes to your adversary, making it a double-edged resource.

You have to resolve this contest before the serpent god arrives (a threat) and, who knows, eats the loser of the contest. All the while, you’re dealing with the storm of the century (environment), which is battering the ship and tossing the crew around. On top of that, the ship is leaking (escalation)—because why not?

This can be a full session of chaos, crazy ideas, and unpredictable outcomes, with new Sparks being created as a result of complications and bad rolls. Others might be discarded as the situation evolves. It’s a wild, chaotic, and incredibly fun experience.

On top of that, you can bend the rules with “Spark tricks,” which are ways in which you twist and bend the rules of how to advance and resolve Sparks. These include locked rays (which can’t be hit), regenerating rays (that are erased), linked Sparks (where one Spark affects others), resistance (making two spark checks and keeping the worse result), and persistent Sparks (which remain active even after being resolved).

You get a sticky note! And you get a sticky note!

These are just a few ideas. It’s important to note that Sparks are modular, optional and disposable. They can be used for almost anything, but they shouldn’t be used for everything. You can handwave situations, roleplay them, or use just a few rolls to resolve them. But if you want more granularity, want to zoom into the action, or want to give more screen time to certain moments, Sparks can certainly help. And when a Spark is no longer relevant, you can simply discard it, even without resolving it.

It’s amazing all the things you can do with a simple piece of paper

My advice is that you introduce Sparks gradually into your gameplay—the book itself divides Sparks into Basic, Intermediate and Advanced. In my home game, we’re seventeen sessions in, and since all players are already comfortable with the mechanics, it is beautiful to see the proliferation of Sparks: characters are working on new skills, getting rid of curses, and trying to find lost relatives. The city has a creature about to arrive, a gang following them around, and more. All that tracked with Sparks.

Just think of nachos

When I was coming up with a checklist of the things you have to consider when creating a Spark, I had a pleasant surprise. See, you need to create the Name of whatever you’re tracking; decide how and when it Advances; when you need to make a Spark Check; what happens when you Hit a ray, what is a possible Overturn; and if there are any Special rules or conditions.

Hence, the NACHOS template was born.

Obviously, you don’t need to write every detail down for every Spark (or for most Sparks, really), but it is a good way to make sure everyone knows how the Spark behaves and to align expectations. If you want to play around with how a Spark works, just think of Nachos.

Hack it away

I’m super excited to get this in everyone’s hands and see what creative people can do with it by bending its rules and applications. I see it as a tool to inject a layer of tension, suspense and surprise to what could otherwise be just a tally count.

I’m working hard on editing Everspark at the moment (meanwhile, the campaign is on late pledge, so you can jump in if you want). It’s coming out nicely, I must say. The Sparks chapter has nearly 20 different suggested ways of using them, all with examples. And more nuance than I can fit on a post.

I’ve also published a video explaining this concept in even more detail:

Meanwhile, check out the campaign page and join us to keep the Everspark alive! And I’d sincerely appreciate it if you shared this around with people that might like it.

[thefandomsfervent]

Viktor x Reader Personal Pigments (Part 8) - Burnt Sienna

Mostly reader and Jayce perspective today! Find my imagine that inspired it here. Previous and next chapter will be linked at the bottom. Thank you for reading <3

╔═*✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧-✦-✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧*═╗

It had been a couple days since your accidental nap. When you had come back that first night Jayce made you explain “what the hell beetle juice” was to him for the two hours you had spent there. Viktor had already heard your explanation but he listened again anyway, nodding along. The two of them asking questions about the process and noting things down. Viktor had shown Jayce a passage he had noted, something about human nature. Apparently it led them to some potential new use for Hextech although you had no idea how it was all connected. They had thanked you for talking with them, and thrown themselves back at their work.

It was sweet that they cared about what you were doing. And it was so good to see them get over their slump. It inspired you to do the same.

You hadn’t been to your studio much in these past weeks. Or. At all, really. You had been at the Institute for years, your old studio had a chaos that you loved and knew. It wasn’t wrong to assume that you missed it, you did. But it was more like you were scared of the provided one. This new one was daunting. All white walls, glass tables, furniture sets that had never seen paint a day in their lives.

Was it nice? Yes. Was the frivolousness of how they provided you with everything just rubbing you the wrong way? Also yes. You had no doubts that once your assignment here was done that they would throw it all out, not even donate it. But you had work to do. And it was work you didn’t want to commandeer the lab for. Building and stretching canvas was a tough job, and one you got embarrassingly loud in. You had enough funds set aside to buy a pre-built canvas. And you absolutely had in the past. Yet this project just demanded a fresh start. You wanted to use every skill set in your arsenal. “I mean, this thing is going to be sitting in an actual art hall.” Once it was built you’d move it to the lab, somehow.

So when early morning came you loaded up your coin purse with assorted cogs and set to the markets. You'd left a note on the lab door, today would be the first day you wouldn't be in at all. A faint blue light under the door and an electric buzzing in the air told you that someone,  likely Viktor, was still working.

You needed wood, a new mallet, and nails. Lots of nails. The last two on the list you got pretty easily. A mallet you could get at almost any craft stall, the nails at the same place, but the wood? You were picky.

The frame needed to be big. The Academy and Institute had given you a set of dimensions to choose from and of course you had gone with the biggest one. 60in x 50in. You needed a wood that was soft enough that you wouldn't be hammering in nails all day, and that would keep the canvas taught but not so tight it was bouncy. You needed a wood that was strong enough it wouldn't bow under pressure from stretching, but also wouldn't collapse on itself after years of display either. Another thing is that whoever sold it to you needed to be willing to cut and deliver it. 

You're at a Café enjoying a drink and going over your notes. You've hit four carpentry stalls today, six if you're counting the two arbor stalls, and you're realizing no one is going to cut it for you and deliver it. It would have to be one or the other. It wasn't that they didn't want to, but couldn't if you wanted them today. You were impatient. The idea of scheduling a pickup sets a dull throbbing behind your eyes. Especially if that meant dealing with Enforcers. Adding a saw to your list, you decide to just bite the bullet. You'll go back to the second stall. That one had the widest selection of wood, and something tells you that if you bring the older lady at the counter a treat she may give you a discount. Plan made, now you just had to buy the wood and have it delivered in time for lunch. It'd give you time to do the math at the very least.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Jayce is excited. He and Viktor have several new theories surrounding travel for Hextech. At the rate they were going they could present these to Heimerdinger by the end of the week for grants. He almost misses your note on his way in. The yank he gave the door makes the paper flutter.

"Best of luck in your studies ventures today,  I'll be on my own for a bit (maybe a couple days) putting together the canvas for the painting. If you guys need me for anything I'll be in my studio or my room.  Feel free to leave me a note back if you don't find me :D

P.S. if the pigment "beetle juice" looks FULLY dried please let me know!!

-y/n"

When he turns it over he sees that you've left instructions on how to find your studio and room. He didn't realize your writing was so emphatic. It makes him think of his own note taking, constantly scribbling out and pointing things in different directions to circle back on later. He tucks it in his pocket, he'll let Viktor see it later, after he's slept some. He's been as high strung as ever and Jayce wasn't sure what was going on. 

He takes a moment just to look at him. The fellow scientist was standing at a table, chalk in one hand, cane in the other. Viktor was making notes on the board, equations rubbed out and rewritten. His hair was tousled beyond belief. Jayce half wonders when he brushed it last. 

“Hey V.” He keeps his voice soft, slow. 

“Jayce, what do you think about these?” Waving his hand at the chalkboard, dust falling off his sleeve. Attention unwaveringly focused on the next correction he makes. 

“I think we can talk about them more later.” The wrong thing to say, apparently. Viktor doesn’t even turn to face him. His spine stiffens, finger tapping against the chalk. “After you’ve slept, is all.” He turns at that. A half-turn, that has his waist twisting, his face barely visible. Those amber eyes narrowed in annoyance, his nose scrunched, lips pursed. They were chapped. 

“You do not have time to review them now?” 

“I do, but if I do now we’ll get caught up and you won’t sleep.” Viktor faces him fully at that. Jayce does his best to hold his stance.

“Do you not want to get caught up with me?” He ignores the goosebumps on his arms at that. 

“Vik, please.” He gets a huff. “I’ll bring you a sweetmilk latte later if you go. 6 hours, you’ll be back here by noon and we can go over them then.” Viktor hums at that. He smiles. 

“5 hours.” He’s walking to the door, patting Jayce on the arm as he passes. “And one of those ginger crumbly things they sell too.” 

“If they have one, it's yours.”  Another hum, and the lab door is closing. 

“I’m working with a toddler that hates nap time.” Jayce is rubbing his face as he walks to the board. 

“That also expects results.” He’s pulling out his pen from his pocket, and he feels crinkling. Right. Your note. He pulls it out to look at it again. He should get you something too. It’s always Viktor bringing drinks and you bringing pastries. Smoothing out the paper, he makes a mental note to visit your studio soon. Maybe drag Viktor with him to get him out of the lab for more than just sleep. You’ve been watching them work for almost two months now, it only seems right to see what you get up to. 

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--------------.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ Part 7-.-Part 9.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .-----------------

------------‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙· Master Fic List *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊--------------

[mamawasatesttube]

one bit in snowglobe ch2 that i do keep giggling to myself about (and that is very easy to miss, bc kon as the narrator doesn't notice it at all) is in this passage:

Kon walks past Tim into the bedroom, sighs, and yanks off his sweater and leggings, leaving himself in just a T-shirt and boxers. He left his sweatpants in the living room when he changed into costume earlier, and honestly, fuck it. He doesn’t care enough to go get them. He just wants to be out of any tight clothes so he can collapse.

“Rob,” he says, crawling onto the bed again. The pillows are in a state of mild disarray, and Kon paws at them, annoyed. “C’mere.”

Tim’s quiet footsteps appear in the doorway. He pauses for a second, and Kon turns to glance over his shoulder, mildly embarrassed to be on all fours pouting at a pile of pillows. Tim is standing—oh, he stopped to sip his coffee, okay, he’s not about to make fun of Kon for being useless without TTK, then. Never mind, embarrassment cancelled.

now kon is busy going "this sucks, i have a migraine, we're dealing with magic bullshit, i hate this, my pillows aren't arranged right, ugh!!!" and so he jumps to "i feel pathetic and tim might make fun of me for it".

but tim?

tim's version of this is "kon just stripped to a t-shirt and boxers and is on all fours on the bed, looking at him over his shoulder as he walks in". this is not just tim simply not making fun of kon. this isn't even just tim just so happening to pause in the doorway to sip his coffee.

tim's version of this is "... butt 👀." (siiiiiiip.)

[matenr0u]

Riku: Island Breeze

I was going to put this in my combat analysis, but it absolutely deserves its own post.

In 358/2 days, Riku wields Oblivion/Bygone Memories for the final encounter he has with Roxas. Having called out to him and realized that Roxas really is Sora’s nobody, Riku goes all out to bring him to Castle Oblivion where his best friend is sound asleep, having his memories pieced back together. 

During this iconic battle, Riku is specifically vulnerable to Aero: the power of wind. 

Why is this relevant, you might wonder. Riku is associated with a fair handful of things: bat wings, darkness, fleur-de-lis, but not wind.

On the contrary, Riku has a little known fondness for the wind. You could even say, it makes him feel nostalgic.

Fair enough, Roxas can hurt Riku with the wind because he misses the island breeze. Neat gameplay detail, no big deal. But if I can compel you to peer just a little closer… Because this is Riku— the guy who spent his days gazing enviously at the sea and the sky and brooding over his dark angsty feelings. This time, it actually is that deep. 

In other words Riku is weak to Roxas’ Aero attack because it reminds him of Sora.

Sounds like a reach, right? Allow me to demonstrate.

This passage alone is insane, but there’s more.

While Riku is elsewhere in Castle Oblivion reminiscing, Sora battles Repliku for the first time. This is before they have both been consumed with false memories.

Everything about this exchange is so Riku. It’s all of the real Riku’s messy, complicated feelings dialled up to 100 and Repliku doesn’t even understand why he’s having these thoughts. Sora is clueless of course.

So he runs away, and as he leaves, Sora picks up this…

After defeating Repliku, Sora finds the Aero card. The island breeze. Riku’s memories of chasing each other, rolling in the sand together, of jealously watching from afar as Sora and Kairi grew closer.

The way poor Repliku’s dramatic ass just drops it and runs away lmao

Some time later, following the second battle against Repliku, Sora obtains his lost Oblivion/Bygone Memories keyblade after talking to Namine. Wonder why Namine had that keyblade. Probably just a coincidence…

I’ll close this post with a few more of Riku’s thoughts.

Other Diamonds:

Chain of Memories:

“The wind brushed through Riku’s hair.

I wonder if I really will meet someone from my memories in this castle… I want to meet— Sora. More than Kairi, more than anything, I want to see Sora. I want to see him— and apologize.”

Translation credit: goldpanner, keijitranslates

[doberbutts]

I’m wondering if you have thoughts on James Baldwin’s “open letter to the born again”? I’m struggling a bit with what his point is in that piece; it feels kinda dismissive on Jewish zionists agency in creation of Israel? But I may be missing parts or not getting things

The text in question.

And the segment I think anon is struggling with:

I know what I am talking about: my grandfather never got the promised “forty acres, and a mule,” the Indians who survived that holocaust are either on reservations or dying in the streets, and not a single treaty between the United States and the Indian was ever honored. That is quite a record.

Jews and Palestinians know of broken promises. From the time of the Balfour Declaration (during World War I) Palestine was under five British mandates, and England promised the land back and forth to the Arabs or the Jews, depending on which horse seemed to be in the lead. The Zionists—as distinguished from the people known as Jews—using, as someone put it, the “available political machinery,’’ i.e., colonialism, e.g., the British Empire—promised the British that, if the territory were given to them, the British Empire would be safe forever.

But absolutely no one cared about the Jews, and it is worth observing that non-Jewish Zionists are very frequently anti-Semitic. The white Americans responsible for sending black slaves to Liberia (where they are still slaving for the Firestone Rubber Plantation) did not do this to set them free. They despised them, and they wanted to get rid of them. Lincoln’s intention was not to “free” the slaves but to “destabilize” the Confederate Government by giving their slaves reason to “defect.” The Emancipation Proclamation freed, precisely, those slaves who were not under the authority of the President of what could not yet be insured as a Union.

It has always astounded me that no one appears to be able to make the connection between Franco’s Spain, for example, and the Spanish Inquisition; the role of the Christian church or—to be brutally precise, the Catholic Church—in the history of Europe, and the fate of the Jews; and the role of the Jews in Christendom and the discovery of America. For the discovery of America coincided with the Inquisition, and the expulsion of the Jews from Spain. Does no one see the connection between The Merchant of Venice and The Pawnbroker? In both of these works, as though no time had passed, the Jew is portrayed as doing the Christian’s usurious dirty work. The first white man I ever saw was the Jewish manager who arrived to collect the rent, and he collected the rent because he did not own the building. I never, in fact, saw any of the people who owned any of the buildings in which we scrubbed and suffered for so long, until I was a grown man and famous. None of them were Jews.

And I was not stupid: the grocer and the druggist were Jews, for example, and they were very very nice to me, and to us. The cops were white. The city was white. The threat was white, and God was white, Not for even a single split second in my life did the despicable, utterly cowardly accusation that “the Jews killed Christ’’ reverberate. I knew a murderer when I saw one, and the people who were trying to kilI me were not Jews.

But the state of Israel was not created for the salvation of the Jews; it was created for the salvation of the Western interests. This is what is becoming clear (I must say that it was always clear to me). The Palestinians have been paying for the British colonial policy of “divide and rule” and for Europe’s guilty Christian conscience for more than thirty years.

Finally: there is absolutely—repeat: absolutely—no hope of establishing peace in what Europe so arrogantly calls the Middle East (how in the world would Europe know? having so dismally failed to find a passage to India) without dealing with the Palestinians. The collapse of the Shah of Iran not only revealed the depth of the pious Carter’s concern for “human rights,” it also revealed who supplied oil to Israel, and to whom Israel supplied arms. It happened to be, to spell it out, white South Africa.

Well. The Jew, in America, is a white man. He has to be, since I am a black man, and, as he supposes, his only protection against the fate which drove him to America. But he is still doing the Christian’s dirty work, and black men know it.

My friend, Mr. Andrew Young, out of tremendous love and courage, and with a silent, irreproachable, indescribable nobility, has attempted to ward off a holocaust, and I proclaim him a hero, betrayed by cowards.

For context: Andrew Young, considered the right hand of MLK Jr, had a longstanding and occasionally fraught relationship with the Jewish community. He stepped down from Congress shortly after being forced to choose between voicing support for Palestine and continuing to work towards black-jewish interests by his constituents and fellow politicians, as he felt very strongly about supporting both. This was a fairly unpopular move. While I don't believe he ever called himself Jewish by the strictest sense, he was actively involved in Jewish communities and the known "white" ancestry within him is a Polish Jew in his great grandparents.

To be honest, I don't really see much a problem with this as I think it fairly closely matches up not only with my understanding of the history of this problem but also my own country's part in it as well as my personal feelings on it decades later. It pretty blatantly says that Zionism is utilizing a machination of white supremist colonism due to the extensive history of antisemitism and having had the ancestral land dangled in front of them like bait on a hook from the British Empire, which owned Palestine at the time. It also goes on to say that many Zionists aren't even Jewish and are antisemitic in nature, but are Christians happy to get rid of as many Jews as possible and how that tracks due to the Christian church's millennia-deep history of antisemitism.

I don't think it lets anyone off the hook. I think it pretty much flat out says this is a problem caused first and foremost by white Christians who hate Jews and Arabs alike and have a vested interest in getting the two populations to fight because it'll be easier to kill off just the one group instead of both of them, if one ends up eradicating the other. It even talks about the friction between the black community and the Jewish community, what caused it, what drives it, how that friction in itself is a tool of white supremacy to hurt us both.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Homelander being obsessed with his sister HC V

Warnings: siblingxsibling implications, Homelander being such a narcissist that he falls in "love" with his own sibling, dubcon, manipulation, stalking, basically all the horrible parts of HL come out to play, MC has blonde hair and blue eyes like HL, different plot than 'All I Ever Wanted, All I Ever Needed', stockholm syndrome, dealing with aftermath, mental trauma

I II III IV

Oh you poor fool, did you really think Homelander would keep to his word? No, this only meant that he had to act under your radar. Stealth was required now to feed his desire to be close to you always.

He let you think that he was taking a step back. Grudgingly let you resume your previous life though you found little comfort in the family you once lived with. Time with HL changed you. Everything you'd known about your life was an utter lie manufactured by Vought. The hero you'd adored was. . . a complicated creature that wasn't like the golden man on the tv.

HL will draft thousands of texts to you but hesitate on sending them to you. He'll break and send you at least a text every other day. Tolerable, you think. You didn't know that he'd be using his enhanced vision to watch you read them and gauge your reaction.

Now is the time that stalker HL comes out to play since he can't be caught or you really would never forgive him. He didn't want another fight. He hated fighting you. It fought against his natural instinct to protect you. Plus you packed a punch that actually bruised his ribcage making it difficult for him to breathe for the next two days.

Often on his patrol breaks (and when he knows you aren't home) he'll fly by your apartment just to make sure nothing was out of the ordinary. You know, checking your drawers just to reassure himself that you were taking care of yourself and doing your own laundry. Particularly your undergarments.

Careful not to leave a trace when he does these inspections. Never staying too long.

You're non the wiser when you return to your apartment although you do notice how you have to buy more underwear lately.

He likes to keep the clothes he's taken from you under his pillow. When he goes to bed he pulls them out from their hiding place and places it next to his face.

your absence in his own apartments is suffocatingly pronounce

he hates how quiet it is, hates how his room is so empty without you there

and grudgingly you miss his familiar presence too

Your bed is suddenly too large without Homelander laying next to you. You hated when he'd pull you close to his chest in the middle of the night, refusing to relinquish you even if you had to pee.

You find yourself actually missing him and fuck does that make you resent him more. He completely uprooted your life. Him and Vought.

When exactly did you starting hating him less to actual start contact with him? You hate that you cracked after three days of being away from Homelander. Three days and you missed him like you hadn't seen him in a week. Hell, you'd been stuck with him for close to two months before enough was enough. That time spent together, all that trauma bonding, was bound to leave it's mark on you.

Loathing the idea that you may have developed a degree of Stockholm Syndrome. You'd read about it in books and seen it played out hundreds of times on tv.

You're annoyed when you close your laptop after spending hours of research. Especially after encountering this little passage: "An alternative explanation suggests that being in a captive or abusive situation generates intense emotional dynamics. Over time, individuals may adapt their emotions and develop feelings of compassion towards their abuser, particularly when subjected to kindness."

For the most part, Homelander had been kind to you (except, ya'know the whole fucking kidnapping thing). There were definitely moments where he made you uncomfortable but overall his intentions weren't necessarily malicious.

You recall a few times when Homelander leaned in too close to you and you thought. . . well you thought he was going to kiss you. But wouldn't that be messed up? Why would he do that? You didn't quite understand those odd moments where it sounded- it sounded like he was in love with you. There was nothing familial about the way he'd eye you.

In a short amount of time Homelander had done so much damage to your mental health. You found yourself unable to be without him. Perhaps that was the cruelest thing he's done to you.