#It is an absolute tragedy to live knowing that every moment could be your last

[purgatorygrl]

Arthur had to face the reality of his mortality. With each passing day he knew that his life was coming to an end, with no possibility of a better tomorrow.

The dreams and plans he once had became impossible knowing that he would not be able to experience a future. The fact of not being able to think about anything but the present, without the possibility of planning for tomorrow, is something that surely filled him with deep loneliness and terror.

The uncertainty of whether he would wake up the next day or not, and having to live with the constant pain, both physical and emotional, is an unimaginable pain.

The fear of the unknown, of what would come after death, is something he probably struggled with in his final days, in addition to the sadness of the emotional weight of knowing that his death would affect those he loved, leaving a void and causing pain

[nightingale-prompts]

Time Off-DCxDP prompt

Getting Phantom to comply with anything is hard enough. He does his own thing more of the time. He is constantly shifted from team to team as a sort of contracted hero. He goes where he is needed.

So far they have learned a lot about his kind. Ghost were hard to pin down due to how different they behaved. One important thing they have learn is Ghosts have their own rules and one big rule is never skipping out on the holidays. They celebrate every holiday they can from Halloween, Christmas, to New years. They like these days. Other holidays like Independence Day depend on the ghost. But Phantom made it clear that they have their own holidays that were very important. If those days came up he had to adhere to them.

"A meeting. I can't go. Not next Saturday. It's the Veil's Thinning." Phantom said "It's the biggest part of the year."

The Thinning was the day the barrier between realms weakens and allows natural portals to form. It is the one day that they are given free rein to roam. They can visit family or finish their business. They even leave gifts or messages for the living.

"You can't come because of a party? Phantom this is serious business." Natman sighed.

"I am being serious. Your parents visit you every year for the Thinning and you can't even appreciate it. The least you could do is respect our traditions and leave an offering for them this year." Phantom pouted as he jetted off

**********

"I need a date to the Haunter's Ball. Or else Clock's gonna choose someone for me." Danny sighed flopping on the couch.

The Titans all glanced at one another to see who was going to try to claim the title first.

Phantom took the silence as a no.

"The ball is sort of like a fea party. Friendly hauntings, playing tricks on mortals, and attend a grand feast where we eat enchanted food. You have to dress in costume though. It also happens to fall on my death day so its a big deal if I don't go."

He conveniently left out that part that mortals who dare attend may earn favor with the Ancients—or become the subject of ghostly pranks.

************

Not every holiday is a celebration.

One day in particular was The Silence. A day of absolute stillness, observed once per year. On that day, all spirits cease their movement. It is a sacred time of contemplation, where ghosts meditate on their past lives and what lies beyond their new form.

Phantom took it very seriously. He sent it meditating in the Watchtower. J'onn joined him in silent contemplation. It's an emotional holiday.

It doesn't compare to the holiday that has no set date. The Unfinished Mourning. when a great tragedy befalls a world a large number of souls enter the realm on their way to the other side. Some stay, but most don't. Their deaths are often sudden and unfair. Ghosts of the recently departed come together to grieve alongside the living. Those who participate earn a brief moment of clarity, where they may remember their lives and speak their final thoughts before they depart to their afterlife fully.

Phantom isn't seen during this time. He is busy laying souls to rest and performing last rights. He knows the names of the dead and marks them all down so that they are buried properly. He tells families, the survivors of their loved ones' fate. He gives them final goodbyes. He takes the blame of angry citizens who tell him it's his fault. He is demonized most in these moments as a harbinger of death. He can not control what he is and knows his role is important. For the living and the dead.

************

On a very special night Phantom invites everyone to his favorite holiday. It was created for him after all. Clockwork named it thousands of years ago when Phantom accidentally created it. Long story.

The Night of Unanswered Whispers. A rare celestial event when the stars align in a specific pattern. Ghosts gain the ability to be heard clearly by the living but only in riddles and cryptic phrases. Many spirits use this opportunity to pass on secrets, hidden knowledge, or warnings. Scholars and mystics would spend the night deciphering ghostly murmurs in hopes of uncovering forgotten lore.

Ot was like a giant puzzle to solve as everyone could write down their messages and try to solve them. The Bat family members liked it as much as Danny did. Diana and Hal just liked the atmosphere. It was a nice moonlit picnic under the stars with wisps providing light.

(That's the end for now. I have 10 more holidays in mind.)

[rafeskai]

Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Chapter Two

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Summary: When tragedy strikes, two very different individuals find their lives unexpectedly intertwined as they become the guardians of an orphaned child. As they navigate the challenges of co-parenting, balancing careers, and confronting their pasts, they discover that family can form in the most surprising ways. Through heartfelt moments and unexpected humor, they explore what it means to build a life together—one step at a time.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: Inspired by the movie "Life as We Know It"!

Masterlist: Here

It had been three days since you’d found yourself in Rafe’s house, a place that now felt more like a cage than a refuge. You hadn’t had much time to adjust to the new reality. Between the funeral, the endless meetings with lawyers and child services, and the sudden responsibility of Willa, everything seemed to blur together in a haze of exhaustion.

You had told yourself you’d stay at the house more often, that you’d help Rafe get into a routine with Willa, but the sheer weight of everything had left you in a constant state of uncertainty. It wasn’t just that you were suddenly her guardian, it was that you were also navigating a delicate, complicated dynamic with Rafe. Every time you thought you had a handle on things, another obstacle seemed to rise up in front of you.

But life didn’t stop, and the bills still needed to be paid. So, you found yourself at the local café by 7 a.m. every morning, working the early shift as if it were a lifeline to some semblance of normalcy. The smell of fresh coffee and pastries helped ground you, a comfort amidst the chaos.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

That morning, you found yourself staring blankly at the coffee machine, lost in thought as you tried to get a fresh batch brewing. Willa’s laugh echoed in your mind, that small, joyful sound she’d made when you’d managed to make her smile that morning at Rafe’s house. But then there was Rafe—his disheveled hair, his barely-contained frustration as he tried to make breakfast, as if he were a stranger in his own life.

You shook the thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand. You couldn’t afford distractions right now.

"Hey, [Y/N], you okay?" Jess, your co-worker, asked as she slid into the back room, eyeing you with concern. Jess had been your friend since you started working at the café, and while she wasn’t a mind reader, she could always tell when something was off.

You nodded quickly, putting a smile on your face. "Yeah, just a little tired. You know how it is."

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press further. "Well, the morning rush is about to hit, and we’re already behind, so I’ll let you catch up. Just take it easy when you can, alright?"

You offered a grateful smile, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest. Jess had a way of reading you, and the last thing you wanted was to let her know the extent of what you were juggling.

The morning rush came and went, the familiar frenzy of orders, refills, and people coming and going. By noon, the crowd thinned, and you finally got a break. You slipped into the back room, sitting on one of the crates as you checked your phone, hoping for a distraction.

You had a few missed texts, mostly from Sarah’s family offering condolences, a few work-related messages, and then... one from Rafe.

Can you come over tonight? Willa’s been fussy all day. I can’t figure out what she wants.

You stared at the message for a moment, your thumb hovering over the screen. You’d been trying to keep your distance from Rafe, only coming over when absolutely necessary, and still, he was asking for help. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with his emotions, but there was something about the way he’d written this message that gave you pause.

You knew it wasn’t just about Willa—it never had been. There was still tension between you and Rafe, an unspoken rift that neither of you had quite figured out how to cross. Yet, here he was, reaching out.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. You’d been trying to balance it all—work, helping Rafe, and processing the grief that seemed to be dragging you under—but it wasn’t easy. You needed to be there for Willa, but you also needed to keep your job, and your sanity.

After a moment of contemplation, you typed out a reply. I’ll be there around six. I can stay for a few hours.

You didn’t know what you expected, but you sure as hell didn’t expect the quick response. 

Thanks. I’ll make dinner. She’s been restless.

You felt a strange knot form in your stomach at the offer. Dinner? From Rafe Cameron? A part of you wanted to laugh, but another part—an irrational, confusing part—wondered if this was his way of trying to do something right, for once.

The rest of your shift passed in a blur. You tried to focus on the coffee orders and the chatter of the customers, but all you could think about was Rafe and the odd, fragile dynamic that had begun to take root.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

By the time you pulled into Rafe’s driveway later that evening, you could feel the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. But Willa needed you, and whether or not you wanted to admit it, Rafe did, too.

You took a deep breath before getting out of your car, trying to mentally prepare yourself for whatever awaited inside.

The house looked even bigger at night, the lights from the interior casting long shadows across the front yard. As you walked up the stone path, you noticed the faint scent of something cooking—garlic, herbs... something surprisingly warm and inviting.

When you stepped inside, the familiar coldness of the house hit you, but this time, there was something different. The warmth of a home-cooked meal filled the air, and for the briefest moment, it almost felt like things could be normal again.

Rafe was in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up as he stood over the stove. He looked up when you entered, a slight tension in his posture as if he was still waiting for you to call him out on some unseen mistake.

“Hey,” you said quietly, watching him carefully. “Dinner smells good.”

He nodded, but didn’t meet your eyes. “It’s nothing fancy. Just pasta, I—uh, thought it might help if she had something warm.” His voice faltered, just a little, but he quickly recovered.

You glanced over at Willa, who was in her high chair, her small hands gripping the edge of the tray as she watched Rafe. She looked so small in the expansive room, and the sight hit you in a way you weren’t prepared for.

You walked over to her, gently picking her up from the chair. “Hey, little one,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Rafe turned away from the stove, his hands gripping the counter as he stared down at the floor. "I don't know what I'm doing. She won’t stop crying, and I... I don’t get it."

You felt a pang of sympathy, despite everything. You moved toward him, your voice soft. “It’s okay. You’re doing fine. It’s all new for both of us. You don’t have to have all the answers.”

Rafe looked up at you, his expression tense but vulnerable. "Yeah. I guess I just... I want to do right by her. I don’t want to screw this up."

You nodded, the weight of his words sinking in. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The sound of Willa’s cries echoed through the vast kitchen, filling the space with a noise that felt almost too loud for the house. She was tiny, yet her cries were fierce, relentless. It had been over an hour, and you were beginning to feel like you were running out of options. You had tried everything.

You’d fed her, changed her, rocked her. But no matter what you did, she wouldn’t stop. Willa’s little fists clenched and her body writhed in your arms, the tears never slowing, never quieting.

“Come on, Willa,” you muttered, trying to soothe her with the kind of gentle rocking you’d seen Sarah do a million times. But nothing worked. You glanced over at Rafe, who was standing across the kitchen with his arms crossed, looking both helpless and frustrated.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Why the hell won’t she stop?”

You didn’t have an answer. Honestly, you didn’t know why she was crying, either. She had been fine all afternoon, playing with her toys, laughing when you made funny faces at her. But now, she was inconsolable, and it was starting to tear at your patience—and Rafe’s too.

You rocked Willa more gently, trying to keep calm. "I don’t know," you said softly, your voice low and soothing. “Maybe it’s... something else. She could be tired, or maybe she’s just upset. Babies have their moods.” You spoke from experience, but your words felt thin in the moment. You hadn’t expected to be thrown into this role, and you were starting to feel every bit of the weight of it.

Rafe glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “Do you think she’s sick?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.

You shook your head. "I don't think so... I mean, she doesn’t have a fever. Maybe it's just... a bad moment." You were doing your best to sound confident, but even you didn’t believe the words you were saying.

Willa’s cries intensified, her tiny body wriggling in your arms, making it even harder to calm her. Your chest tightened with frustration, helplessness. It was hard enough to balance everything with the weight of the situation, but right now? You felt completely out of your depth.

“I don’t know what else to do,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. You looked over at Rafe, who hadn’t moved an inch since you started holding Willa. His face was tight, his eyes narrowed in frustration, but there was something else there, too—something you hadn’t expected: vulnerability.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. After a few more seconds of Willa’s crying, he finally broke the silence.

“Maybe I could try,” he offered, his voice a bit softer, tentative.

You were surprised at the offer. You’d never seen Rafe with kids—never even imagined him with a child this young. But there was something in the way he said it, a quiet desperation, that made you nod.

“Yeah. Try.” You handed Willa to him, careful not to jostle her too much as she continued to wail. She was still kicking her legs, her face scrunched up in distress.

Rafe hesitated for just a second before adjusting her in his arms, awkwardly holding her against his chest. His expression was uncertain, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with this tiny person who was now his responsibility.

“Hey, Willa,” Rafe said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle. “It’s okay. You’re safe. We got you.”

He bounced her lightly, just enough to make her feel the rhythm of his movements. For a moment, nothing changed. Willa’s cries didn’t soften, but Rafe didn’t seem to mind. His focus was entirely on her, like he was determined to make it work.

You watched him for a moment, trying not to show your surprise. You didn’t think you’d ever see Rafe in this light. The way he moved, the way he spoke to Willa—there was something different in his tone, something real.

But the crying didn’t stop. Willa’s cries just seemed to escalate, as though she was testing him, testing you both.

Rafe gritted his teeth, adjusting his hold on her again, more firmly this time. “Alright, little one,” he muttered under his breath, his voice still trying to stay calm despite the rising frustration. "We’re gonna get this right. I swear."

He then shifted, trying a different approach, gently patting her back. He’d seen Sarah do it before, you knew, but it still felt foreign coming from him.

You, not sure what else to do, knelt beside him, trying to be as calm and soothing as possible. You placed a hand gently on Willa’s leg. “Shh… Willa, sweetie, it’s okay,” you cooed, matching Rafe’s rhythm.

And then, something unexpected happened. Slowly, gradually, Willa’s cries began to soften. Her body stopped wriggling as much, her little fists loosened. It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t magic, but her wails started to turn into quiet sobs, then sniffling, then, finally, she rested her head against Rafe’s chest.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"See?" you said softly, your heart still racing. "I told you it was just a moment."

Rafe, his face still a bit tense but now with a faint trace of relief, looked down at Willa. Her eyelids fluttered as she finally, finally, drifted off to sleep.

“I don’t get it,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “I tried everything, but... she calms down when you do that. When we’re both here.”

You shrugged, feeling the exhaustion in your own body. “Sometimes... it just takes both of us. Babies are unpredictable.” You didn’t know what else to say, because, truth be told, you didn’t really understand it either. But you knew one thing for sure—despite your differences, despite the chaos, this was something you could do together.

Rafe shifted his weight, still holding Willa carefully. “Thanks,” he said quietly, as if he hadn’t just gone through a whirlwind of frustration. It was brief, but there was sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t think... I mean, I wasn’t sure I could handle this.”

You glanced up at him, and for the first time in a long time, you saw something different in his eyes—something that wasn’t defiance or anger, but something closer to gratitude.

“You’re not alone in this,” you said softly. “We’ll figure it out, one step at a time.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The house had fallen into a strange stillness after Willa finally settled into bed, her little form bundled up in the crib, tucked in for the night. The hours of chaos, the endless crying, the uncertainty—it had all melted into a tense kind of quiet that felt almost too heavy to breathe through. You and Rafe were both exhausted, physically and emotionally, but the weight of the situation hadn’t lightened one bit.

You leaned against the counter in the kitchen, your fingers wrapped around a mug of warm tea, trying to find some semblance of calm. The silence was comforting in a way, but also suffocating. You and Rafe hadn’t exchanged many words since Willa had fallen asleep. There had been a brief moment where you’d both sat at the kitchen table, exhausted, sipping coffee in silence, but now it felt like the quiet was pressing in from all sides.

Rafe was standing by the window, his arms crossed, looking out into the darkened yard. He had been quiet for a while, but you could feel his presence like a weight in the room. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

"You know," he began, his voice low but firm. "I’ve been thinking. Maybe it would be better if you just moved in here."

You froze, your fingers tightening around the mug in your hands. "What?" You turned to face him, the surprise evident in your voice. "What are you talking about? Why would I—"

He cut you off, not giving you a chance to react. "Look, we’re both her guardians now, right? I get it—you have your life, your job, but you can’t keep going back and forth between here and the café. Willa needs us both, and we both need to be there for her."

You blinked, trying to process his words. "That’s... a huge thing to suggest, Rafe." You shook your head, stepping away from the counter, moving to the other side of the room. "You think it’s easy for me? You think I don’t have a life outside of this? I’ve got my job, my own responsibilities. I can’t just—move in here."

He turned, his gaze sharp as he watched you. "I’m not saying it would be permanent, but Willa... she’s not going to be okay if we’re both stressed out all the time. You’re already running yourself ragged. This way, you wouldn’t have to go back and forth. You could be here when she needs you, and you wouldn’t have to worry about missing shifts or running out of time."

You felt your pulse quicken, frustration creeping in. "You don’t get it, do you? It’s not just about time. This is my life, Rafe. I’m not just going to—what?—move in with you? Because that’s what you think is best?"

Rafe’s face hardened. "It’s not about what I think is best, [Y/N]. It’s about what Willa needs. You think it’s easy for me, either? I didn’t sign up for this. But here we are, and we both have to step up. We both have to make sacrifices."

Your breath hitched, your voice shaking with the weight of it all. "You think I haven’t thought about that? But this isn’t just about ‘stepping up,’ Rafe. This is about our lives. You can’t just dictate how things are going to work because you suddenly want to play house. I’m not some—"

"Not some what?" he snapped, cutting you off, his jaw tightening as his temper flared. "You think I’m asking for you to live with me because it’s some great idea? I’m trying to help you. You can’t keep doing this alone, and neither can I."

You felt a sting of anger rise in your chest, the frustration of everything spilling out. "I don’t need you to help me, Rafe. I don’t need you to fix everything. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of this!"

There was a long, painful silence that hung between you both, a tension that had been building ever since that damn phone call, and now, it seemed like it might tear everything apart.

Rafe exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging slightly as the heat of his anger cooled into something more complicated, more raw. "I’m not trying to fix everything," he muttered, his voice quieter now, laced with frustration. "I’m just trying to do the right thing. I didn’t ask for any of this, either, but I can’t keep pretending it’s just going to work if we’re both barely holding on. You need help. I need help."

Your heart ached at the words, and for a brief moment, you thought you saw the cracks in his armor, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. But you pushed it aside, unwilling to let the floodgates open.

"I don’t need you, Rafe," you repeated, more firmly now. "I need to figure out how to do this on my own. We’re both her guardians, but I’m not going to make this—whatever this is—worse by complicating it. I can’t just move in here and pretend like that makes everything better."

His face tightened, the walls going back up, the Rafe you knew slipping behind his defenses. "Fine," he said, his voice flat. "Then keep living your life. Keep juggling it all, and see how far that gets you."

You shook your head, your words coming out in a rush. "You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t care? I care, Rafe. But this isn’t just about what’s easiest for you, or me, or anyone else. It’s about Willa. And right now, she needs more than just two people fighting over what’s best for her. She needs stability. She needs peace."

Rafe was silent for a long moment, the tension still thick in the room. His eyes flickered to the hallway where Willa’s room was, the soft rise and fall of her tiny chest visible through the crack of the door. His face softened for just a fraction of a second, but then he steeled himself again.

"Yeah," he said, his voice quieter now, though there was still a trace of frustration. "She needs peace. And maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t the right call." He turned his back to you, his body tense as if he was still holding onto something you couldn’t see.

You felt your anger begin to ebb, replaced by a quiet weariness that settled deep in your chest. You wanted to argue more, to fight for your space, for your independence. But the truth was, Rafe’s idea, crazy as it seemed, did make some sense. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to agree.

You stayed silent, the space between you growing more and more uncomfortable, until Rafe finally broke the stillness.

"I guess we’ll just have to figure it out, huh?" he said, his voice distant.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you were agreeing with him—or just acknowledging the mess you’d both gotten into.

"Yeah," you whispered. "I guess so."

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you both wasn’t just filled with tension. It was filled with uncertainty.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 

It had been weeks since the argument, weeks since you and Rafe had first clashed over what was best for Willa, what was best for the two of you. You’d spent those weeks bouncing between your place, Rafe’s, and the café, and with each passing day, it was becoming more and more clear that you couldn’t keep it up. You were running on fumes, your mind spinning with the constant demands of work, the responsibilities of being Willa’s guardian, and the weight of your personal life crumbling under the strain.

You couldn’t do it anymore.

It was a quiet morning when you finally made the decision. The sun had barely risen, casting a soft, golden glow across the living room of your small house. You hadn’t been home in days, had barely slept in your own bed. Willa was still adjusting to the routine, and the nights at Rafe’s were becoming more frequent. The constant back and forth was wearing you down.

You stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the coffee mug in your hand, the warmth barely reaching you. It was still early, and the sound of Rafe’s truck hadn’t yet filtered through the house. But today, you had to make it right.

You had to admit you couldn’t juggle it all.

The idea of moving in had been haunting you for days, but admitting it was another thing entirely. Rafe’s offer wasn’t just about practicality—it was about more than that. About Willa, about what you and Rafe were going to have to become for her. You’d been resisting it, pushing it away because it felt like giving up control of your life. But you knew you couldn’t keep going on this way.

And so, you made your decision.

When Rafe finally walked through the front door a few hours later, his presence filled the space like it always did—big, heavy, almost too much to ignore. He didn’t say anything at first, just kicked off his boots and moved to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water before leaning against the counter, his gaze flickering over to you.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low but not unkind.

You set your mug down, taking a deep breath before you spoke. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, your voice steady but with an undercurrent of hesitation. “And I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep bouncing between my place, yours, and work. It’s... it’s too much.”

Rafe’s brow furrowed slightly. “So what does that mean?”

You met his gaze, the weight of what you were about to say pressing down on you. “I’m going to move in. I can’t juggle all of this alone. But there are some conditions.”

Rafe tilted his head, his eyes narrowing just slightly in curiosity. “Conditions?” he echoed, a hint of skepticism in his voice. “Like what?”

You took a breath and laid it out, clear and firm. “First, I’m not giving up my job at the café. I need that. I need a space where I can breathe and do something for myself. I’m going to be there on my shifts, but I won’t be running myself into the ground. So, we need to find a rhythm that works. I can’t just be at home all day, every day. I have my own life, too.”

Rafe nodded slowly, processing the first part. “Okay. Makes sense.” He crossed his arms, waiting for the rest.

“Second,” you continued, your voice unwavering. “I’m not going to just be a ‘housewife’ or whatever. I need to be treated as an equal, I’m her legal guardian too, not some babysitter. I’ll help with Willa, but I can’t take on the full load. If we’re doing this, we’re both sharing it.”

Rafe didn’t argue with that. He gave a slight nod, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he were preparing for the next condition.

“And third,” you added, stepping forward, your gaze never leaving his. “We set some boundaries. This is for Willa. We’re doing this for her, but I’m not moving in here for any other reason. We need to keep things professional—for her sake. I’m not moving in here just to... make things weird.” You paused, feeling the tension rise between you. “If we’re doing this, it’s for Willa. Nothing more, nothing less.”

There was a long silence between you two as Rafe absorbed your words. He was silent for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, a sound of reluctant agreement. “Fair enough,” he said. “I can deal with that. We both need to be in this equally. No one person doing more than the other.” He glanced over at you, a little more seriously now. “And about the boundaries... I’m not trying to make this any more complicated than it has to be. I get it. You’re here to help with Willa, and I’m not going to make that weird.”

It was strange, the way things were shifting between you both. There was a subtle shift in his tone, something closer to understanding. As much as Rafe might have wanted to fight you on it, you knew he respected the fact that you were being clear about your limits.

“So, what now?” he asked, breaking the silence. “You move in today?”

You nodded. “Yeah. But, you’ll have to help me get my stuff together. I’m not just leaving everything behind, Rafe.” You allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to tug at the corner of your lips. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

Rafe smirked, the tension breaking between you two for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll help. Just don’t expect me to pack your clothes.”

You laughed quietly, feeling the weight on your chest lift just a little. “I don’t need you to pack my clothes. I just need you to be... not a pain in the ass while I get settled in.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow. “No promises there.”

You shook your head, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. It was a step in the right direction, you told yourself. A step toward figuring out how to make this new life work.

Maybe it wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe it would take time, patience, and more compromises than you had ever imagined. But one thing was clear: you couldn’t do this on your own. And maybe, just maybe, with Rafe by your side, you could figure out what it meant to be a family, even if it wasn’t the family you’d ever expected.

With a deep breath, you took the first step.

"Alright," you said. "Let’s go get my stuff."

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.

[tornado1992]

The world does not deserve some things.

It doesn’t deserve destruction, hate or cruelty.

Sonic has known this for quite a while, being some sort of fighter for nature or a so called “protector” of it by a lot of people, he’s not so sure about that though.

Just as the world can be beautiful it can become dreadful, the world gives origin to everything in it, and that everything is part of the world itself.

The people that live in it are the part that shows the contrast the most clearly, just as some inhabitants are kind, take care of each other and enjoy the wonders it has to offer, there was a few of them that seemed to spite everything that wasn’t like them, everything they didn’t like, and everything that wasn’t theirs. Sonic knows that, he’s been fighting that enough time to be named a protector.

All things considered, to him the world still meant kindness, endless opportunities, adventure… and it meant freedom.

Then it meant something else.

Between all his fighting and running, he met and befriended a lot of the ones that called him a hero before he could even process the title, some of them energetic, some hotheaded, and some unbothered, they reminded him that even if there was despair or tragedy, the world he knew and loved was still there.

At least it was there to him.

Getting to know all the world meant getting almost as much deception and anger as happiness, every new place meant new sceneries, new ways, and new people, and he wouldn’t want it any other way. Even if it meant taking all the damage himself, getting to know everything personally was better than blindly trusting anything he was told, he knew it was worth it; he confirmed it when he went through one of the worst parts to find the absolute best one.

The place wasn’t even bad looking, the nature growing harmoniously beside the artificial work, it gave a peaceful kind of vibe, the people seemed kind and respectful, kids playing and chasing each other while adults looked out for them from afar, even welcoming him with open arms not caring if he was a stranger, “a united and caring community”, no sight of conflict or cruelty came to view, they didn’t seemed to have any hate in them. Only kind words and even warm chilli dogs greeted him. He thought this was the kind of place he would fight for.

That thought lasted less than an hour.

It really doesn’t take much longer than 10 minutes to completely change your perspective of a so called perfect community when after thirty minutes of an apparent peaceful environment you notice the sick looking child they suddenly chase down the woods so he doesn’t “steal their food and gives them bad fortune”. Sonic gives them a full minute of doubt, doubt to himself as what he’s hearing and seeing, because that can’t be right, because it must be a mistake. What reason could there be for a kid to “give bad luck”? Why would a kid need to “steal” food? And why would he be called a “curse”?

Some villager takes a long four minutes to explain the reason for all that, falling down to “that mutant was born with two tails”.

Sonic spends the next five minutes looking for the kid, and restraining himself from committing several crimes.

He had to focus, ending a full village’s whole career can wait, what cannot wait is the fox kit that just ran away from a group of kids leaving a trail of blood behind him. Even in the thick forest tundra it’s easy to see the big droplets of blood on the tree branches, the ground, and the tiny bush that kept trembling.

That’s where he found him.

A fox kit, didn’t looked any older than two, but by what he heard he could even be four. He looked way too tiny to be around four.

Big baby blue eyes greet him, a glassy sight, sorrow, confusion and sadness behind them.

The moment the fox noticed the speedster he tried to run, but the bush was too thick around him, and his back was facing a big tree log, he was trapped, the kid flinched every time he moved towards him, whined whenever Sonic rose to stand, and even started silently tearing up while curling around his tiny bruised body when he tried to reach for him. This kid thought Sonic wanted to hurt him.

How much does a kid has to suffer for his first reaction to some one approaching him being to cry, tremble and try to protect themselves?

Sonic can’t decide what enrages him more, the matted brown fur that surely must mean a long time without proper care for it, the bruised skinny body that trembled every few seconds as if it couldn’t stand by itself, the obviously recent bleeding nose that made the fox kit whimper every time he breathed, or the so clear loud sound of an empty stomach.

This was the result of long period of abuse and neglect, and by the way the kid hugged his twin tails while crying, Sonic would even call it torture.

Sonic couldn’t help him without getting close to him, but the kit wouldn’t let him near him without flinching. Putting the kid through more distress was not an option, but leaving him alone wasn’t one either, and the kid needed help, so he stayed. Sitting beside the trembling bush, taking watch in case some of those hollow hearted villagers came back while thinking of a way of helping the kid.

This is not the kind of help Sonic is used to offer, but he cannot just leave the kit alone. Even if he didn’t know anything about taking care of younger kids, even if his first aid kit was almost empty in his plane far away from him, even if the fox cried at the very sight of him, Sonic won’t leave him alone.

He doesn’t remember feeling like this before. Frustrating, he remembers some adults calling it, a feeling of helplessness, anger, and even sadness that consumes one self through the impossibility of effective action, in his case, the impossibility of helping.

And so he found himself, frustrated, sitting on the forest ground while rubbing his eyes with his hand, who knew, frustration is stressful; he kept at that for a few long minutes, until he felt a slight touch in his back. Finding those big blue eyes when he turned his head, a tiny gloveless paw patting him gently, careful with his quills but yet touching them, trying to comfort him.

This kid could barely stand, was obviously scared, at the verge of tears, and hurting from the beating the other kids gave him; and he was trying to make Sonic feel better.

It was clear now, they didn’t seemed to have any hate in them because they put all the cruelty and hatred in a kid, an innocent, tiny, and so kind hearted kid. The same village that greeted Sonic with kind words and offered him warm food was willing to let a literal toddler starve, if he wasn’t killed by the village’s youngest inhabitants first. All over something that wasn’t even bad, it wasn’t even his fault.

That won’t do.

Looking less distressed than before but still trembling wasn’t an ideal state to approach the twin tailed kit, but again, the kid needed help, the most urgent now being probably first aid, but Sonic sadly knew that the thing that would calm down the kid more would be something to eat.

Sonic offered him a smile, an attempt to soothe him, standing as slowly as he could not to scare the kid, and running as fast as his legs allowed him to return with four chili dogs was the game plan, managing to startle the kid a little bit with his rushed return, with the most difficult part of the plan being convincing the kid that the food was for him, that he could eat, that it wouldn’t hurt him, that Sonic wouldn’t hurt him.

Words might be useful to communicate that, but they just might, this kid was obviously casted away from society, who knew since when, he might not even understand him, well, if he used words that is, for now he hopes his smile would do (that and him eating a chili dog himself so the kit would know it’s safe).

It took a while, but it seemed like the fox’s empty stomach finally convinced him to eat, his hands trembling as he grabbed the supper, eyes getting a different kind of teary as he took his first bite, his twin tails wagging as he devoured his second chili dog.

Sonic wasn’t much of a baby person, sure they were cute and all he didn’t saw the big deal, all babies were the same. But seeing this little kid, a hurt toddler, starting to smile and wet his eyes over something as simple as warm food.. while a part of him was burning with rage, another part of him couldn’t help but think that he wanted to see this kid truly smile.

He wonders how could anyone see this kid with anything but love.

So he stayed around him, always with a smile, but even bandages, chili dogs, and big smiles couldn’t help much with the kids perspective of the word, much less the perception of himself.

The only world the fox knew before Sonic was a merciless one, rejection, hate and cruelty being its main traits, with bad people who would hunt him down, hit him and hurt him because he was the bad one, just for existing in the same time and place as all of them, but not being the same as them. He believed he really was the bad one for some time.

Sonic wouldn’t allow that for any longer, so he took the best part of the world with him and never planned to return it.

His life wasn’t the ideal deal for a toddler, he couldn’t give him a traditional family structure, a roof over his head, or a warm bed, but he also didn’t trusted anyone else to take care of him, he didn’t trusted the world to take care of him. So he would take the job himself, this kid wouldn’t go a day without warm food, he would never lack shelter, and as long as Sonic was around, he would always protect him.

But Sonic still was a hero.

Sonic fought and ran, ran and fought, and when the running and fighting from him alone seemed like not enough, the kit didn’t even doubted risking his own life to help him.

After a life of suffering, as little and scared as he was, at barely four years old, he still wanted to protect the world that wronged him.

The world doesn’t deserve this kid.

But it was the world itself that gave Sonic the title of protector, guardian, and hero; he knows there are things worth fighting for, far more than the things that wouldn’t deserve any kind of protection.

He won’t deny the title, ever.

Because even if some day everything around him comes down, everyone gets mad and bad, and his own hope is questioned, he’ll still have a reason to fight.

After all, this kid is his world.

[rachandroll]

There won't be another Aeor now, because Aeor was a very specific kind of tragedy, wherein the gods prioritized their own survival over the survival of huge swathes of mortals. They had choice after choice after choice where they could have diverted to a more merciful path. Even in the very last moments, they could have just destroyed the Factorum Malleus and spared the rest of the city, and found another way to deal with the knowledge that had been disseminated. But they chose their own immediate security over the lives of every regular person in Aeor, every refugee and civilian and child. The Primes may love mortals, may work to protect them, but when it comes down to it, they will choose themselves (and their Betrayer kin!) every time. It is love with a very big caveat.

Two thirds of the world's population died in the Calamity because the Betrayers were initially banished, not destroyed. The gods say they cannot let any of the Betrayers die because they might need them if a bigger threat arises, but what good does that potential possible protection do Exandria if their warring wipes the world out now? Why should anyone, god or mortal, expect that the Betrayers would help fend off such a threat anyway, when they very clearly want the Primes and all mortals dead? There was so much emphasis in Downfall on how, despite it all, the Primes and Betrayers are family and the Primes cannot let that go. It's hard to take Ayden at face value when he says that they need the Betrayers, in the light of that. SILAHA says "That's all our problem. It's all about ourselves. At least I have the, well, confidence to actually accept it." And that's the truth of their motivation that their actions indicate in Downfall.

The Arch Heart and the Matron explicitly told the Hells that the world was on the cusp of another Calamity. Except for those two, when confronted with the possibility of Predathos, the gods wanted to chose, once again, to sacrifice the lives of countless mortals in order to protect themselves. The Divine Gate is meant to stop another Calamity, but now we know that they are willing to tear it down to save themselves. So Calamity is the threat that hangs over the world much more immediately than potential cosmic horrors.

I don't think anyone is out here saying that this plan with the gods becoming mortal means that there will never be any danger to Exandria again. There ARE terrible threats that exist, like the Chained Oblivion and there are almost certainly more that exist out is the cosmos that are currently unknown. Predathos might eat those or it might not, we don't actually know. There absolutely will be more evil mortals, just as there will be mortal heroes to stop them, as they always have. This is not the creation of utopia. It's the aversion of another apocalypse.

But something that struck me, at least, about Aeor, something that I think often get lost underneath all the other debate, under the focus on hubris, is the stark fact that mortal understanding grew to the point where they could create a weapon that could kill a god. That's incredible. If the gods saw mortal understanding reach so far and instead of saying "you are children and cannot comprehend and so we will strike your knowledge from the world because it is too dangerous for you," said "you are our children and you are growing up, perhaps we should help you understand" what might mortal innovation have accomplished? What solutions would mortal creativity come up with that might have surprised their creators? If the gods chose to treat mortal attempts to understand with encouragement instead of condescension, what might the Cassida Previns of the world built?

You say that level of power has to exist to fight off the next eldritch horror that arrives. Why does that power have to be concentrated in a small handful of gods above any sort of accountability? Why can't it be power distributed amongst a larger number of mortals, defending themselves? Why can't it be mortals, no longer children to be shielded but instead come into their ascendancy to fully inherit the world and its responsibilities? Why can't mortals be equal to the gods, not in the sense sought by those power-hungry mages, but as a collective, with the gods reborn among them and treating them, as it were, as adults, who might come to understand?

In the final narration for Downfall, Brennan says:

"In short, brief life can even the infinite change, realize, recognize, commit to something new, singular. To move forward on the paths of destiny and fate, changed."

And I think this choice being given to the gods to become mortal again, beyond just giving them the ability to survive at the cost of their power, is also offering them the chance to learn and grow the way mortals do again. Being mortal in their quest to destroy Aeor, ending even as it did in something horrific, did actually change them enough that they created the Divine Gate. That was a sacrifice and it was better than what was before it. But it was not enough and now that the flaws in that approach have become clear, it's time to look for another path. Mortality offers that. And I think seeing how mortality could change them further will be a hell of a story, and I'm looking forward to it.

Anyway, I don't particularly think this is going to convince you or anything, you seem pretty mad, but it's fun to talk about this stuff, and you gave me an excuse, so thanks.

[galvanizedfriend]

Klaroline Fic: The Wolf IV [4/13]

Summary: Five years after the downfall of the Mikaelson family, Caroline returns to New Orleans to fulfill the promise she made to Marcel: one day, she would be back for the man he has been keeping prisoner in the bowels of the old compound, and she would not be leaving without him. But the plans to abandon the city's eternal loop of tragedy behind once and for all are thwarted when a new enemy with unexpected old ties resurfaces, threatening not just Eve's life, but Caroline's as well.

--

S04E04 Keepers of the House 🎁

Klaus didn't expect to be back in New Orleans so soon. In fact, he was ready not to step foot in the city again for decades. This time, he was even glad for it. For the last eight years, New Orleans has been a selfish lover, taking from him much more than it has given.

He realizes now, with much belated clarity, that he had been holding on to some misguided sentimental attachment to a New Orleans that no longer exists, afraid of letting it go as though the city had been the very source of all his happiness. The only grounds where anything meaningful and lasting could ever grow. The city he built. His fortress. His kingdom. The only place that ever felt like home.

It's a belief that only solidified in his chest after Mikael took it from him. The decades that followed were a blur of misery and rage, where paranoia nearly drove him insane and the loneliness of being separated from his family ate him alive. He had to disappear like a coward, make himself a ghost, a name whispered in fear like a curse in the bowels of the underworld. New Orleans became a distant memory of joyful, thriving times.

He waged wars and shed blood and made new formidable enemies because he was chasing a dream, hoping to replicate those bountiful days. Klaus couldn't envision his family settling down anywhere else, couldn't picture his daughter growing up anywhere else but at the compound that carried her family's proud name.

He sees what a load of bollocks that was now. It was never about the city. His happiness didn't come from those sodden streets or that wretched house. It was about the people. About the moments of peace he'd managed to find with his family after hundreds of years running from Mikael. About finally being allowed to put down roots, forge alliances, build a legacy, live without restraint. He got to be as reckless and impulsive and expansive as he wished without the fear of attracting the Destroyer's attention with every breath he took.

It was... Liberating. The first time he ever truly tasted freedom.

Read the full chapter here on AO3

--

Happy Holidays, everyone! To celebrate the season, here's an update for you! 😃✨ What does that edit have to do with the contents of the chapter, you ask? Nothing. There is absolutely nothing festive in this update. It just suits my mood. Sadly, I do not have enough money to pay for someone to make me beautiful art for my shit, so this is what I've got. You can deal.

Anyway, hope you enjoy! And if you do, as always, know that your comments and reblogs and messages are very much appreciated and go straight into my little jar of motivation to keep pushing toward the finish line with this one ✨

[phantomdialogue]

˗ˏˋ. ݁₊ ✶ ˖ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐥𝐲𝐧𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝟔/𝟓 ☆ . ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗

sequel to better than the movies

in honor of its official release today, here is my review of what may be my favorite book of the year that i had the honor of reading an arc of in august. THERE WILL BE MINOR SPOILERS BELOW THIS TIME!

premise: wes bennett’s life fell apart 2 years ago when tragedy struck his family and lost him his relationship with his favorite girl in the world. now he’s picked up the pieces of that shattered life and wants her back. liz buxbaum has had 2 years since their breakup to swear off love as a whole, going from the rom com queen to the cynic. but wes has a plan to make her believe in love —their love— again.

couple: wes bennett and liz buxbaum

tropes: second chance romance, college setting, fake dating

beware there are heavy themes of grief in this book but nothing too explicit

review below!

review:

first, anyone who says that BTTM didn't/doesn't need a sequel... please just read this book. it really is worth every second. lynn painter, my soul belongs to you. i went into this book thinking that better than the movies had become my least favorite of her books and not expecting much, but OH. MY. GOD. this topped betting on you for me somehow when i was so sure nothing would top that.

liz wasn't my favorite character in BTTM, but this book immediately redeemed her for me. the theme of grief in this book is just perfection to me. i can really relate to wes so much throughout this book and getting to read his POV really just made this book so much better (i clearly love lynn's dual POV books the best). watching wes get to lean into the romcom aspects was so fun and really did make me melt.

some specific moments that i jotted down while reading were: "oh my god, she mentioned in between by gracie abrams... she's heard us", "CHARLIE AND BAILEY CAMEO CHARLIE AND BAILEY CAMEO CHARLIE AND BAILEY CAMEO" (can you tell i got excited? lynn making charlie and wes cousins was the best decision ever made), and "he knows the exact number of days... 720 days... oh my god"

in the end, by the ultimate shocking turn of events, this is my new favorite lynn painter book i've read, and it's topped betting on you, which i never thought possible. i liked this WAY more than BTTM and i did spend a good 15 minutes crying after finishing it.

q & a:

are they endgame? - i'm going to be honest. if you asked me if liz and wes were endgame after BTTM, i would have told you no. i would have said that they both needed to mature and maybe they could have come back together later in life because their relationship was just a bit... juvenile? i felt like, as cute as they were, they couldn't have lasted through the hard stuff in the long run (and apparently, i was right). BUT NOW. now they are endgame. wes and liz needed the time apart, and they needed the space to learn more about themselves, who they were outside of high school/the little bubble they lived in.

did i cringe? - i don't think there was anything that stood out to me in terms of cringey moments. i think that lynn does a really great job of writing for a mainly gen z audience without making the language she uses cringey.

favorite part? - i don't know if i could choose... there is so much about this book that i think about constantly even nearly two months after finishing it. the first thing that stands out to me, that i also feel like has been really misunderstood by other readers, is how lynn handles wes' grief. grief has a way of absolutely decimating your life at any age but at 18/19, it really is truly life-wrecking. i think she really was able to lean into it and handle it gracefully as she showed the issues that wes still has two years later and, at the same time, show the damage it did so extensively and understandably. while other people say that what wes did/what happened was completely out of character, i think they fail to understand that you're not yourself when you are dealing with that level of grief and for me, it made me feel extremely seen as someone who went through something similar at the same age. as well, the ending, the epilogue, made me sob profusely. it may be one of my favorite endings i've read in a book recently. the way it pushes away from the action to give us one last goodbye to these characters and where we met them made me incredibly emotional.

least favorite part? - this really is so much harder to pick than favorite part because i'm not sure i could pick something i didn't like. i think both wes and liz were extremely validated in this book and the interactions between them were so realistic especially toward the end with the push and pull of a "will they won't they" moment because when you're in that position, it really is so hard to make a definite decision on it. if i really had to pick, i'd say that maybe the extra roommates of liz just because i felt like they didn't really add a ton to the story. but i did still enjoy their presence at times.

favorite quotes (some spoilers here, of course, but minimal/out of context):

Regarding Lizzie, I had all the intentions in the world.

We were in the past, and he was simply someone I used to know.

"Okay, so tell me your three favorite things about UCLA so far." Liz Buxbaum, Liz Buxbaum, and Liz Buxbaum.

"I don't want to discuss this with anyone, ever, but if I have to, I'd choose you over anyone else."

Now we're just two people who used to know each other.

His gaze was more than familiar. His gaze was home.

It'd been better than the movies, I swear to God.

You don't was the answer. You don't get over her.

But not before taking a moment to pull into The Spot one final time.

"The dude looks at you like he knows he's going blind in an hour and he's trying to memorize every detail of your face."

There really was a fine line between love and hate, and Libby's rage fueled me to burn that line to the ground.

Eventually, we'd find our way back to each other again. I'd been certain of it. Silly little love lover.

I'd never be sure if she was my type--had I always had a fondness for redheads with green eyes?--or if she'd created my type. She was the prototype.

"Because you shouldn't have to mentally split a person in two in order to love them."

"I am just Wes fucking Bennett, Lib, the guy who can't remember a single day in his life when he didn't love you."

"Because our good moments were the crumbs that fed me for seven hundred and twenty 12:13s when I was alone."

It's like I breathe for you, like I exist to exist alongside of you.

"It wasn't you, I don't think, or me. I think it was just life that made us cry."

[infuckingdestructible]

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in here and even longer since I’ve used this page as a One Direction fan account but the 16 year old me found therapy in writing here and screaming into the void so I figured 26 year old me might find it cathartic too.

Mourning someone you admired and loved so much as a girl while being a woman and acknowledging the terrible things he did while alive is such a hard thing to navigate. I feel so angry that the victims will never feel justice but so sad that this beloved singer, father, son, and brother has so tragically passed away.

I sit here at 26 thinking of the last times I really paid attention to One Direction. I was 17 when Zayn left. I was 18 when the band broke up for good. Both had me devastated, knowing these were such pivotal moments. Now I sit on my bed in my apartment with my partner of five years crying while he rubs my back, trying to explain the complex emotions I’m feeling. Because how can you really describe the feeling of a part of your youth, your transformative years, your girlhood being shattered?

I was just a girl when I last listened to them. I remember so fondly so many memories of jamming out to them with my middle and high school best friend. I think about how my old high school friend went to their concert and called me so that I could listen to them singing live because she knew how much it would mean to me. I think about how when I met my closest friend we were able to form such a fast friendship over Niall being our favorite. I think about how I would set alarms on music video release days just to wake up early and watch them as soon as they dropped. I think about how I would beg my dad to let me buy their albums on iTunes so I could download them on my iPod to listen to in my bedroom. I remember learning that Zayn left and feeling devastated. I remember the infamous beef on twitter. I remember the break up. I remember slowly phasing out of that interest and moving on. And every now and then I’d hear What Makes You Beautiful and remembering all these wonderful memories.

I also remember the feelings I had learning about the allegations, about the stories women would tell and feeling so angry that this person I looked up to becoming a monster. I think about how I was just telling someone at work the news as it was happening just a few weeks ago.

And I don’t think I’ll ever forget the feeling of my partner texting me while I was at work that Liam had passed away and I don’t think he understood the absolute devastation I felt in that moment. I felt like I was my 17 year old self learning new news about one direction all over again, feeling absolutely beside myself, mourning a person who meant so much to me in my most formative years. God. I feel sick to my stomach.

I wanted accountability, not tragedy. It shouldn’t have ended like this and I’m so sorry that it did. May his family find peace in this time. May his son be okay. May his girlfriend have support around her. May his victims not feel guilt or responsibility. And may the four boys grieve how they need to, in private and away from fans.

To my 15-18 year old self, mourn however you feel is right and to my 26 year old self, be kind to her with how she chooses.

May all other women around the world find comfort knowing that we’re mourning together. I know I have.

This is all so dramatic but I don’t know how else to express feelings regarding this. Fuck.

[harocat]

I really want to babble about how thematically, this ending makes no sense, and it's so contrary to what we've seen up to this point, and how it's not just that it's sad and that TTJ deserves better (though both are true); it's a story about a man who wanted to die that ends up with him… basically committing assisted suicide to save the world, because well, I guess he was right to want to die all along, even though his reasons were ALWAYS because of the cruelty of others, not because of his own self.

Then he finally gains agency and a life that he wants to live, a simple life filled with love and fulfillment that is enough for him, and he doesn't want to die any longer. And it’s taken away from him and he is forced to go back into that mindset of seeking death. He was ready to live. He’d defied fate and he was ready to live. It’s bad. It’s not fulfilling. We already KNEW he would do anything to save LSS and her world. We didn’t need that proven.

It doesn't matter how hard you fight against your fate, how much you love and how much you strive to be a better person, if you are doomed to suffer and die, you will, is what TTJ's story tells us. And if you want to die, you may as well give in, because happiness never lasts.

I also want to ramble about how unfair it was to LSS, who at the end was deprived of agency and essentially just shifted around wherever she was needed, not being allowed to make decisions of her own. How episode thirty-five WOULD have been a much better ending, and if anything, what we see in TTJ's bo’re life in episode thirty-nine reinforces this.

But more than that it's just upsetting to me because this was such a good show, that presented such compelling ideas and did so in SUCH an entertaining way. And yes the scenery and costumes and aesthetics absolutely slapped. It's gorgeous as hell. But also the character dynamics were interesting and complex, and their relationships were easy to get invested in. There were fascinating relationships among the entire cast as well, not just between the leads and couples (XL and TTJ, LSS and Pian Ran). Yes, there were missteps along the way; the dream arc was about twice as long as it needed to be, and even Clam Gege and his sparkles could not save it, the show plodded along a bit in the early thirties (episodes like thirty-three were super disjointed because of time cuts), Mo Nv was added in as a new character for who knows what reason, etc. But nothing is perfect. This is still one of the better shows I’ve watched in a long time, and I was on edge for every new episode. A genuine enemies to lovers story with chemistry and anguish, hatred and tenderness, sometimes all at the same time. I was obsessed.

And… Tantai Jin is one of the best male leads I’ve seen for years. He’s so layered, so interesting, and so heartbreaking, and Yunxi does a beyond incredible job with every moment of his portrayal of him. He’s legitimately a tour de force in the role. Yunxi and Bai Lu both deserved better than this. But a great lead requires deserves a story that lives up to him, and TtEotM isn't that.

I hate that TTJ is going to probably kind of fade into obscurity, at least among English speaking fans, because people are going to be rightfully wary of recommending this drama now. And I can’t blame people, because if I’d known the ending, I probably wouldn’t have watched either. It left me feeling so empty today, and not in a ��wow hurts so good’ way that true, well done, and cathartic tragedy does.

One can hope youku releases a ‘fix it’ clip like has happened with some other shows, that at least gives a happier ending for TTJ and LSS. Even then, that’s kind of putting a bandaid over a gaping wound, because a lot of the issues with the ending will still exist, but at least it might make it so I can recommend it with a ‘yeah the ending isn’t great, but it’s overall really good.’ And no the audio clip does not cut it.

[soulsuckcr]

HEY, i think i just saw THEODORE LÉMIEUX walking down the strip. stop by to catch up and you’ll learn the TWENTY-EIGHT YEAR OLD is working as a BLACK OPS ENFORCER FOR THE WEISS FAMILY (ALIAS: CRIMSON), & POKER DEALER AT THE RIVIERA CASINO & HOTEL and lives in MANOR SUITES. given they are METICULOUS but COLD, it’s likely that they ARE NOT a vampire. on the flipside, rumor has it that HIS FIANCÉ PUT A HIT ON HIM AND ENDED UP DEAD AT HIS HANDS WHICH THE FAMILY COVERED UP and it keeps them looking over their shoulder. i bet you can find them tearing up the dance floor to ACHILLES COME DOWN BY GANG OF YOUTHS and you’ll know why they’re called THE LOST LEGACY. ( cis man + he/him + homosexual + capricorn )

PINTEREST. STATS.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: addiction, death, drugs, mental illness, murder, suicide, implications of kidnapping and tr*fficking.

BORN WITH A SILVER SPOON IN YOUR MOUTH — sterling, antique, and engraved with legacy ... what more could one possibly want? they call him the perfect son. polished manners, bespoke tailoring; a walking trust fund with a jawline sharp enough to cut inheritance clauses. they call him disciplined. he calls it choreographed. every gesture premeditated, every step rehearsed, every smile a maneuver, every achievement a box ticked on someone else's blueprint. simply put, he never asked to live this life of nepotism and crime. and so, the trips to france always felt like a taste of freedom; it was there that he discovered his love for art. once, he dreamed of becoming an artist. he'd learned early on that perfection wasn't a goal, but something you wore. the praise came easily. so did the envy. so did the therapists, although none lasted more than a season. violin at four, fencing at six, and existential dread by eight. perfect etiquette. perfect posture. perfectly hollow. but really, who could tell? when your life is embroidered in gold thread and doused in champagne, even breakdowns can look like performance art. ONE MOMENT, THE GOLDEN BOY WITH A FUTURE sculpted for him in marble and gold. the next, a tragedy in progress: a handsome face on a missing persons poster, a name whispered in police reports. turns out perfect diction didn’t mean much the only thing that mattered was living to see the next sunrise. he could recite latin flawlessly, but when it came down to it, instinct spoke a much older language: run, bleed, hide. fast forward a few years, and he’s found bloodied, stumbling along some forgotten stretch of nevada highway, looking less like the boy who vanished, and more like something the world had tried, and failed, to kill. no, they didn’t kill him — he killed them. brutally. like, bite a guy’s ear off and stab him with the leg of a chair kind of crazy. his parents, bless their hearts, were quick to arrive, making a silent vow then and there: whatever he had done, whatever it cost, they wouldn’t lose him again. despite everything, the two men loved their kids. the string of bodies he left behind? never traced back to him.

SURVIVAL FIRST, MANNERS LAST. someone brushes up against him, and finds themselves on the ground, wheezing. the butler, loyal but foolish, tries to rouse him from a nightmare, and ends up with a blade kissing the skin of his throat. a socialite at a gala lays a hand on his shoulder, and leaves with a broken arm and a hefty settlement. it wasn’t rage. it wasn’t even choice. survival rewrote his reflexes. once, he’d been taught to maintain public appearance, to bow and kiss hands or whatever — now, he only knew how to break them. drugs became his way of dulling the unbearable weight. at twenty-two, he tried to take his own life. at twenty-three, he got sober for the first time. at twenty-five, he got engaged. the guy? just a gem of a person … if by “gem” you mean “the absolute worst”. how do we know? not only did he enable his addiction, he hired someone to fucking kill him. yeah. pretty solid marital material. makes you wonder how the wedding speech was supposed to go, huh? i promise to love, cherish, and eventually arrange your murder … well, survival first. the hitman ended up dead. the fiancé? also dead.

WHEN EVERYTHING YOU KNOW TURNS VIOLENT — when you lose yourself so thoroughly you can’t even remember who you were trying to be, where else would you go except into … the family’s black ops division? sure. if you’re already a weapon, might as well get paid for it. he could be useful. is useful. precision, brutality, survival — all those charming skills he picked up while scraping his life back together with bloody hands ( they never did come clean. spoiler alert: they never will ). it’s been about two years since the whole murderous fiancé thing, and he’s been sober for sixteen months. that therapist? still around. more than a season. progress! look, he’s a bit of an asshole, but he has a heart. somewhere. you know that meme — he was the best guy around! (what about the people he murdered?) what murdaaaaaAAahhhh!

[faceless-mirror]

CHAPTER 2

Ship: Hozier and Farren(ONBC)

Andrew and Farren have been traveling through the centuries. Andrew remembers each time, when each of their times together ended in horrible tragedy. Farren never remembers, but their hearts call to each other in every life time, even if it brings pain. Andrew is breaking now, just needing one happy ending where they don't die crushed to death- sacrificed to old gods- hunted for their love- or torn apart in battle.

All he wants is to have Farren and live in peace. Hopefully, the Gods will grant mercy at last for his past transgressions that led to this cycle.

Taglist: @rowanballard @likehipsters @darkcloverme @holy-shitposting @cwooley1999-blog

(If you'd like to be added or removed please let me know)

Farren woke the next morning to golden rays burning across their face, causing them to hiss softly in pain, rolling over trying to throw the bed cover over their face grumbling softly and angrily at the sun for daring to wake them, even if it was their own fault for not closing the curtains.

It was a moment of quiet contemplation, eyes held shut, breathing in and out easily. Finally when their brain decided that it did, in fact, want to be alive and awake, they slipped out of bed steadily, bare feet hitting the floor. After going through their morning routine, they sat down at their desk, ready to get started on their projects for the day. Though upon opening the laptop, it was an email that caught their attention. 

An interview for the bartender and artist position. Responding quickly they decided that if they could interview today they would. Starting by the next week would be divine. It didn’t take too long to get started on their commissions, though they were anxiously awaiting to hear from the venue.

Almost two hours later, they got a phone call, offering an on the spot interview. 

***

A few hours later, Farren was there in front of the building, dressed in a white button down shirt and bell bottom stretch pants, wearing platform shoes. Looking around they were a bit shocked, it was a nice large venue, with some historic undertones. All they could think of was hoping to be a candidate for the job.

Stepping in, they couldn’t help but appreciate the red brick walls and the hardwood bar that greeted the doors. There was a man sitting and waiting, for them it seemed. The way he jumped to his feet, moving close hand extended, blond locks tied back neatly. “Avira Swan- It’s lovely to meet you- Farren was it?” he questioned warmly, gently pressing a hand to their back guiding them to an office with a smile. 

“We just came under new management- and we’re determined to put in a beautiful mural-” he explained. It seemed this man had visions for the venue and was insisting upon it. Already pulling out a contract. “Feel free to sign, Mx. Doven.”

“What about the interview-?” Farren started to question, reading through the contract curiously. It was fairly standard. Some things were… odd. Riches and prosperity for as long as they obeyed, if contract is broken, owned by one (1) Avira Swan for ten years. That was the line that stood out.

“Don’t worry about the interview. Your art skills are exactly what I want for the mural- Absolutely beautiful.” he said reassuringly, devilishly green eyes watching them like a hawk, except focused on the pages in their hands. 

They hummed softly, they’d be stupid to turn this down. It paid so well… but the one line worried them. “What does this mean… can you clarify…?” Farren questioned, “I would love to accept so long as i can understand this or have it removed-” they said licking their lips nervously. Something felt wrong with this- but the money they couldn’t refuse.

Avira frowned in concern and looked over, and sighed, “Oh- I can have that removed. My lawyer must have taken a joke too far- I apologize.” He took the contract away and the feeling subsided, “Thank you that could have been a lot of paperwork later on.” he chuckled.

The beautiful man smiled fondly, “Let me get that taken care of.” he said softly, standing and moving to a filing cabinet throwing out the old contract and bringing over a fresh one and offered it to Farren. They looked through it firmly, humming softly as they did. A melody that haunted their head. “That’s an old song, dear,” Avira commented thoughtfully, elbow on the table his fingertips supporting his chin as he watched them. “Take care of what it may summon, my dear.”

“You know it?” they questioned, attention diverted.

He smiled softly, “It’s an old song… very old. Legend says it was written by a fae who fell in love with a mortal despite the warnings that he shouldn’t, that he would be cursed as they would be. Whenever the song is hummed or sung… played… he shows up searching for his love. Destruction follows him…”

Something… something itched in the back of their mind at the story. It couldn’t… it wouldn’t be real. They hummed running their fingers through their black and blue hair. “It sounds like a tragic love story… but just a story.” Their lips quirked, eyes returning to the contract reading through it. Nothing was jumping out this time at least. 

“If it is just a story its a story that’s unfinished, dear.”

They didn’t know what to say to that, so they asked a different question. “What is the mural to be of?” they asked.

“I’d like it to be a mural that depicts the fae… and music of course. Just whatever feels right to you. I’ll show you the spot for the mural.” he added as those almost glowing green eyes focused on her hands signing the contract. 

“Of course. Can I get a copy of the contract please? For my own records.” she clarified.

“Of course.” Avira said warmly, pulling out a contract from the same folder passing it to her, letting her glance through it before standing. “Now… let’s get you that tour to the place for the mural.” he purred, a sound that seemed to soak into her mind.

- - - - -

Andrew had been getting ready to perform feeling a tremor along the red cord coming from his chest making his throat tighten. They remembered the song. It had vibrated many times over the years. It always happened at odd intervals but… that was a sign. His long fingers touched the cord lightly. “Beloved… I’ll find you. I’ll find you no matter where you are.” he breathed out, muddy green eyes focused on the translucent cord. “My beloved.”

[crowncrown]

MORE GENLOSS BRAINROT LETS GOOO

!!!MAJOR SPOILER WARNING!!!

Generation loss’s ending is so incredible I can not STAND IT OH MY GOD I need to write out my thoughts before my brain explodes because I haven’t been able to think about anything else since.

The first episode was an absolute curveball to everyone who’s been keeping up with the spooky ranmail and everything and I’m not gonna lie I was a little nervous about what this show was really gonna be when I was watching it. But the thought process it took behind every detail to make something so goofy actually be horrifying once you understand the context of the next two episodes WAS BRILLIANT. Every piece of the puzzle just adds more and more to the storyline and it makes me want to dissect every detail of the vods for hours.

But I think the most bone chilling part of this-very intentionally I must add- is the final sequence. We witness every one of the characters sacrifice themselves for GL!Ranboo and GL!Slime isn’t any different spending his last breaths being killed by the wire creature (for lack of better words) to make sure Ranboo hits the finish line. But as soon as you feel any level of triumph you realize that Slime is just like Sneeg in the episode before sacrificing himself to ensure the show goes on.

Because it was never about the hero.

Ranboo isn’t special. He’s just another pawn in the game with the illusion of being the protagonist to make it more interesting for the desensitized viewers watching these people die over and over.

He was never meant to win.

And then that leads to us.

The audience.

Given the illusion of choice.

Do you publicly execute this man? Or do you let him live to be tortured the rest of his miserable existence until he is inevitably killed by Showfall for breaking the rules. If you spare him, is it a fate worse than death? We fight with this moral dilemma, trying to decide if it’s our decision whether people live or die.

But he’s a murderer! He killed people and showed no remorse! Showfall metaphorically whispers in our ear that he earned this fate for the terrible actions he committed. But was it him? Did he have any control over the actions he committed throughout the show or is he a victim?

He begins begging to be let go. To just escape from this snare he never asked to be trapped in the first place. The audience heavily leans towards letting him live because maybe being alive in this horrible show is better than the execution. But he knows that was never an option for him. He watches as a cartoony figure jokes about his demise and a audience poll decides his fate. And in that moment he realizes his choices were never his own.

So he gives up.

Begs to just be put down because being part of the cast means he will hurt more and more people the way he’s been hurt. That he will be the cause of more and more pain, and very likely more murderers.

And the audience decides death is the best route for him to take.

Maybe he died believing this is his fault. That the audience decided he should be dead for the horrific things he chose to do. But did he ever really choose?

His story was a tragedy before he could even pick up the pen.

And then there’s Showfall. Once again the ever present voice in our ear. Whispering that we are just the same as he is.

You just chose to murder a man. Is that not any different than him killing the innocent to progress in this game? Showfall now has the audience in the same grip as the man in the guillotine.

Your story as an audience is a tragedy long before you will ever pick up the pen.

[llondonfog]

Hello, I would like to make a request if possible. I'm translating through a translator, so I'm sorry if something is not too clear. I hope that the request meets your criteria and does not cross the line. You can change it as you feel more comfortable or completely ignore it. So the essence of the request is that Silver dies in childhood because of Mellius. Perhaps he will find out about the origin of the child or just an accident. But Silver is dead and Lilia is going crazy. Mellius himself is plunged into a sense of guilt. And in their grief, they decide to bring him back to life. Whether it's an attempt to revive it or replace it. It doesn't really matter. Just distraught from the loss, they begin to live in the illusion that Silver is alive. But Silver himself is just an empty shell acting on orders and possibly imitating the behavior of the original. Most of all, I am interested in the reaction of the other characters to this. Sorry, it's a little hard for me to put the whole idea together. I would like to see how they live after the tragedy in complete denial and reassurance that everything is fine, continuing to live as before. But perhaps it breaks down when they try to destroy this illusion. As I wrote earlier, you have every right to ignore my request or change it as you wish. The main thing is that the essence of the idea remains. I also wanted to ask if it is possible to make multiple requests? Of course, taking into account not to spam and not to burden you. Anyway, I'm glad I was able to get this idea out of my head. Thanks for attention.

drabble fic posted here! <3

first, thank you so much for taking the time to share this incredible request, i absolutely LOVED writing it and i hope the spirit of what you wished to see was conveyed!! <3 please don't hesitate to ever jump into my inbox with ideas or twst thoughts that you'd like to share! it may take me some time to get to it, and i'll make it known if it just isn't something i can't get to at this time :)

as far as the direction i went with for your request, i was fully OBSESSED thinking about the mundane, agonizing horror of silver dying by a simple and natural accident— a slip on the wet rocks of the creek in front of their cottage home, losing his grip on a mountainside during a bout of rock-climbing, etc. something so blameless that it would RUIN lilia because it was such an ordinary accident that he couldn't prevent.

i really wanted mal to be the one to bring silver back to life out of a desperate bid to heal lilia's near overblot levels of grief, but also out of this childish way (because he's still a child himself!!) to save lilia's wish to so desperately know if he could love a human— plus of course, mal is obviously fond of silver at this point too and is similarly grief-stricken and absolutely NOT thinking clearly when he tries to resurrect the child.

something that i wanted to be key is that whatever mal brought back, it is NOT silver. silver is permanently dead, and whatever spirit is inhabiting his body is one that mal sees as a complete abomination. lilia, too deep in his grief, latches onto the child regardless even if he has moments of clarity when he can't look at the new 'silver' or be around him for some time. so both mal and lilia know the truth, but nine year old sebek has been pretty much kept in the dark so far with only a few play dates to start seeing a weird behavioral difference in silver and the others.

(but the illusion can't last— this silver can never grow past the age in which the body died, and the spell has to be reapplied after so many weeks or else the corpse starts, well . . . becoming a rotting corpse again. also i'm kind of insane over the idea that the spirit inside silver is malicious and has bewitched lilia into trying to kill himself to reunite with his dead son so that it can take his magic and now mal has to figure out how to undo the awful that he did BUT I MIGHT BE GOING TOO FAR DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE NOW LOL)

[bbobpul]

the last thing i wanted (is the first thing you do) — stsg

NOTE. my first ever jjk au!!!!!!! REBLOG! REBLOG! REBLOG!

PAIRING. satoru gojo x suguru geto

GENRE. angst, hurt/no comfort

SYNOPSIS. a person like satoru harbors no regrets, that was until he met a person like suguru.

WARNINGS. none

W/C. 1.3k

masterlist

Satoru, in the depths of his soul, harbors no regrets. From the second he took his initial breath as humanity's finest sorcerer, an immense feeling of pride flowed through him, leaving absolutely no room for guilt. He handles life with the weight of incredible power and the absence of regret, balancing the line between having everything and having nothing to lose.

Satoru sees the world as a vast tapestry embedded with fibers of triumph and loss. His intimate understanding of life's complexities rests not on the absence of obstacles, but on his unwavering embrace of them. Because he knows that remorse is merely a whisper in the wind, easily scattered by the stubbornness of a heart that pulses with purpose, the very essence of his being echoes with the harmonious music of living without the veil of shame.

That was until he met Suguru. He uncovered a void within himself that he had not known existed at the time. Suddenly, the concept of having everything became less clear than it had previously appeared. Satoru grew to understand the delicate intricacies of fear—the fear of losing something valuable—with each passing moment spent with Suguru.

Suguru became a vibrant thread in the monochrome patchwork of his life, bringing value to the hues of who he was. Their experiences together, laughter, and even moments of silence of understanding offered an analogy that went beyond the apparent contradiction of having it all. Satoru found himself navigating unfamiliar emotions, discovering that vulnerability was not synonymous with weakness but rather a tribute to the profound connections that may change one's fundamental being.

As the vibrations of his growing fear resonated in the haze, Satoru decided to carry on, confident that the might of both of them could withstand any kind of obstacle. After all, he was Satoru Gojo, and Suguru Geto was far more than a friend; he was a foundation in a world where weakness and power coexisted, and the dreaded feeling of abandonment was overpowered by the unwavering strength of their bond.

"Penny for your thoughts," Suguru's voice slipped in from behind, a soft interruption in the quiet ambiance. Sunlight streamed through the leaves of the tall tree hovering over the both of them.

Satoru's laughter, rich and warm, filled the air. "I'd pay you a million to know what's been going on in your mind these days."

"Funny how I should be the one telling you that, Satoru."

"Just some stuff. How to enhance my skills and all," Satoru replied, a thoughtful expression playing on his features. His words hung in the air, playing with the dust caught in the sunlight.

The conversation lingered in a brief silence, allowing the weight of unspoken thoughts to settle. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves beneath them, like the earth sighing in relief, creating a soft melody that accompanied the subtle tension of their exchange.

"You've lost weight, Suguru. Been indulging in too much Somen?" Satoru asked playfully, his eyes scanning his best friend with a discerning gaze. The school bore witness to the shared history etched in the lines of their faces, with vintage photographs adorning the walls and memories echoing in every corner.

Suguru, on the other hand, simply observed him. The sunlight accentuated the vibrancy of his blue eyes, turning them into a deeper shade. His normally white hair appeared softer in the natural light, free from the usual hold of styling wax. The subtle play of light and shadow seemed to come alive in the place, expressing the complexities of their thoughts without the need for words.

Perhaps it's the cascade of tragedies that unfolded in the past year, or maybe it's the weight of loss they've shouldered despite their youth. It could be the haunting number of bodies they had to burn that eclipsed Satoru's understanding of what was poised to unfold between them. The school, charged with an unspoken heaviness, seemed to hold echoes of sorrow and resilience, intertwining the threads of their shared experiences into a tapestry of unforeseen challenges.

"How have you been, Satoru?" Suguru broke the silence with the sudden question.

"Fine," Satoru replied, though the simplicity of the answer carried an unspoken weight that hung in the air.

"Will you be fine alone?"

"Huh?" Satoru's confusion was evident in his response.

Instead of clarifying, Suguru released a dry laugh. "Nothing."

Satoru, despite the facade of casual conversation, felt a certain gravity in the air that tugged at the edges of his consciousness.

"I have been thinking," Suguru began, his voice carrying a subdued intensity, "of a lot of things." The words hung in the air, poignant, unspoken thoughts and the echoes of a shared history that had weathered storms together.

The depths of Suguru’s silence and his rhetorical question were a dust storm that Satoru paid no attention to until they stood, feet apart from each other, where Satoru’s one and only fear came to life. The unspoken weight of Suguru's contemplations now materialized, hanging in the air like a dense fog, shrouding the space between them.

The words Suguru spoke carried a weight that only Satoru's heart could comprehend from a distance. "This is the life I've chosen. All I can do now is give it all I've got. This is what I was made for. Don't ruin it for me... like what you always do."

In response, Satoru's determination to challenge those words was evident. "I'll ruin it all over for you." There was a sense of defiance in his retort, a refusal to accept Suguru's chosen path without a fight. The exchange encapsulated the tension and complexity of their relationship, a clash of wills that hinted at a deeper, unspoken history between them.

The conversation between Suguru and Satoru unfolded with poignant intensity. Suguru, expressing a long-suppressed desire, explained, "You need to understand that this is the first thing that I wanted. Maybe the only reason why I haven’t done this is because of you, Satoru. Always having to compromise for you. Always having to break into your mind to have you understand everything. Your problems are always my problem. It was never easy with you, Satoru. And I figured that leaving you is the easiest thing to do."

Satoru, grappling with the weight of Suguru's words, countered with an emotional, "And the last thing I wanted is the first thing you do."

Suguru's response, delivered with a touch of resignation, reflected the complexity of life. "Well, life won't always agree with you, Satoru. If it was you in my shoes, you would do it without any hesitation because you could."

"What you want is impossible," Satoru asserted.

"You say it's impossible when you yourself could do it," Suguru countered, feeling the weight of Satoru's silence. "You have always been the righteous one, Satoru. Everything you do and will do is justifiable because you are the strongest. But are you the strongest because you're Satoru Gojo or are you Satoru Gojo because you're the strongest?"

Everything after that, to Satoru's mind, became a blur. The questioning of his identity and strength stirred a tumultuous whirlwind of thoughts, leaving him grappling with a reality he had perhaps never truly considered.

Satoru, in the depths of his soul, harbors no regrets.

Until he met Suguru, who altered his life forever. Satoru now regrets not following him, failing to realize the profound significance of Suguru's quietness in spite of his own noise. The load of accountability falls entirely on his shoulders, and he feels that he only has to blame himself, not Suguru. Despite his regrets, Satoru is willing to let Suguru reacquaint him with the nuances of life, which he had no opportunity to learn. Whatever happens, he's willing to let Suguru rain on his parade since he's learned to embrace the curse that he was taught to abhor. He's grown to accept the fear he used to keep buried, realizing it was just a fear with no real meaning prior to it ever striking.

Now, Satoru finds himself back to square one. He fears nothing because, in losing Suguru, he believes he has nothing left to lose.

[madefate]

HI TELL ME STUFF ABOUT SHADYVERSE ADRIEN AND HIS DAD. Because I see Gabe being caring and affectionate to his son but Emodrien is too distant/guarded because he thinks his dad doesn't mourn his mom enough [he's seen how Gabe looks at Nat]. But also Gabe maybe comes on a bit too strong and it seems forced, but he's just /garbage/ at proper emotional inflection sometimes. He genuinely ADORES his son but respects his desire for space. LIKE I WANT YOUR THOUGHTS ON THEIR RELATIONSHIP FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER. / @nerdynanny

HI YEAH LET ME SCREAM ABT THE AGRESTES. the hardest thing is that, no matter the universe, they do love each other. that's where the grief and the tragedy come from !! if they didn't love each other, it wouldn't hurt as much or mean as much that they're on such opposing sides - in the fight of good vs. evil, but also ideologically, emotionally.

the biggest difference between r!adrien and his mainverse counterpart is support. shadrien is living in a world that's already asking for your worst self and feeds off your bad choices - your violence and anger. when his mother died, he would have always gone through a period of anger, but in this world he grabs onto that anger with a white knuckled grip and doesn't let go. in the absence of friends, in the absence of hope itself, it's the most tangible motivation he has.

he doesn't know how to feel about gabe. this gabe is kind in a way that adrien has to see as soft, lest he allow himself a moment of vulnerability and be weak, and it infuriates him - largely because it shames him. he knows how much he's let himself spiral, and when he sees his father trying - when he sees him trying to move on, make healthy choices, adrien is ashamed of himself - furious that it feels like his father is just leaving emilie behind - empty because he's searching for his mom's arms but he'll never get them back.

but he does fundamentally and absolutely loves his father. at his core, adrien is clinging to the last scraps his family - which, really, is his father, and eventually nathalie. when he gets the chance ( chance, i say, as if it was really a choice ) to wield the cat miraculous, he's doing so on the false promise that the supreme can give him back the thing he misses most. but this is also the first chance he's ever hard to access the power to fight - to not be helpless - and part of his decision is the power to protect the family he has left.

maybe when mom is back, they can just ... go back to the way things were. maybe it'll be okay - maybe all that anger will leave him. maybe it won't be so terrifying to expose the love and pain and anger and grief to the one person left who would understand him.

because at it stands now, adrien has no idea how to talk to gabe. every time he tries, it's just that mess of emotion that comes up and he has to mask it all with anger because that's easier. that's something he understands. honestly, and especially since becoming claw noir, the thing that scares him the most is that his father will see him - for exactly what he is. that he'll be disappointed. that possibility that his father would be ashamed of him is terrifying.

but - how could he not be ? adrien knows what he's looking at when he's looking in the mirror. he'd deserve it. he just - can't let that happen yet.

[nellyofthevalley]

spawn, ch.1

astarion x fem!tav…

rating: explicit content: NON-CON, tragedy, violence, lots of cazador, dead dove, probably death at some point, i don’t know it’s a lot, fuck or die summary: cazador uses the one thing astarion cares about to exert control over his favorite spawn in the worst ways.

“My boy, you’ve not been paying attention. I never needed you to be my spawn to control you. Leave if you like,” says Cazador. “But first, tell me, what do you think I will do with her if you leave? And where will you go running off to?” Tav just looks at Astarion across the room, accepting of what’s to come, eyes begging him to leave. She shakes her head, telling him not to stay; to save himself. If he left, she would be granted a fate worse than death, he knows it. To kill her would be a mercy. Cazador has never shown mercy. 

chapters: ch.1 | ch.2 | ch.3

read it on ao3 or below the cut:

No. No no no. Anything but this.

When Astarion rises that morning from his nightly trance, Tav is gone without a trace. No sign of struggle, no note, nothing. Only an empty bed. He panics, pacing around the room, trying to think. 

Maybe she’d had enough and left him. Maybe it was too much for her—he’d warned her of that, that he came with a lot of baggage, and he thinks that maybe she’s finally wisened up. Still, Tav was never one to be so cold, he’s certain she wouldn’t just leave, right? She’d have the decency to tell him. 

Cazador still lives, perhaps she’s gone to take care of him herself. He’d hate that, but she’s always been pragmatic and the worry in her voice when they talked about facing him was evident. Tav had asked him so many times how he was feeling about the ritual, clearly hoping he’d changed his mind since the last she’d asked, and he’d gotten frustrated with her. She could have taken things into her own hands to prevent him from completing it. 

No. No, he knows the truth, and he knew it from the start, much as he’d rather deny it. It was bound to happen, he’d given Petras and Dalyria an earful, and his siblings had come for him once already on Cazador’s orders. Cazador knew he’d taken a lover, he had to; he’d watch from the shadows and force every last minute detail out of the mouths of his brothers and sisters. 

Cazador has her, he’s sure. He took her. Worse, Astarion’s sure this means they’d been watched for longer than they thought; it’s the first night they’ve stayed in separate beds for awhile, and now, only tonight, she’s gone?

It’s hard to believe; they’d already won the battle against the Absolute, and Cazador is nothing compared to that. And yet, he’d managed to whisk her away, right under his nose, having perfected the art of capturing people, by many means, over the centuries. Astarion blames himself—they’d put off facing Cazador for too long and now she paid the consequences for it. 

He has to go alone. If he doesn’t, Cazador will surely kill her as soon as he dares to step foot in there with allies, and he can’t risk it.

For a brief moment, Astarion wishes she’d simply left; he thinks it and holds onto it with a little naive hope. She’d shown him how to feel again, and he could re-learn that, even if it took centuries. But he couldn’t re-learn it if her very essence had been stolen from this world. Not in a century, not in forever. 

Cazador is waiting for him in the ballroom. There, with his six siblings, and by Cazador’s side, Tav; her hands and legs tied, her mouth covered with tape. He would give anything to trade places with her. Gods, just seeing her like this—she hardly looks like herself, bound and helpless, but those amber eyes and braided hair he’d recognize anywhere.

She looks, outside of the restraints, to be untouched. No blood, no bite marks. Still her. 

“Welcome home,” Cazador announces with a smirk, tightening the grip of his hand resting on her shoulder. “Are you done with this… outburst of yours? Are you ready to take your place as my good little spawn again?”

Astarion disregards his words, trying to focus. He can’t get distracted, can’t let Cazador’s manipulation work on him. It’s not about him. It’s about Tav. He can’t be imperfect. Not now.

“She has nothing to do with this,” he says. 

“Ah. You thought you could disobey me and go unpunished? You’re the same stupid boy you’ve always been,” Cazador mocks. “She has everything to do with this.”

“You can’t compel me anymore, you can’t order me!” The desperation in Astarion’s voice shows; already, he’s losing his composure as the walls close in around him. He’s wrong, and he’s aware of it the moment he speaks.

There’s no way out. The moment Cazador got his hands on Tav, it was sealed. It doesn’t matter if he can be compelled or not—he has no choice in the matter. The only variable now is how cruel it will be. If he can get Tav out alive.

“My boy, you’ve not been paying attention. I never needed you to be my spawn to control you. Leave if you like,” says Cazador. “But first, tell me, what do you think I will do with her if you leave? And where will you go running off to?”

Tav just looks at Astarion across the room, accepting of what’s to come, eyes begging him to leave. She shakes her head, telling him not to stay; to save himself. If he left, she would be granted a fate worse than death, he knows it. To kill her would be a mercy. Cazador has never shown mercy. 

“This is your home, we are your family. The only ones you’ve known and will ever remember,” Cazador taunts him, reminding him of the old life long lost to his memories. Astarion is already his, malleable and ready to serve him, ready to bargain with his life.

“Fuck you! Just take me. Take me back,” he pleads, his lips burning with shame as he does it. “Let her go. Don’t you fucking touch her!”

“Oh, I won’t lay a hand on her. Foolish child of mine,” Cazador says. “You will.”

“What—? No…”

“Can you imagine how much I loved to hear about your ego and boasting when Petras ran back to me? Spending all this time thinking you’re the master. You’re still nothing but a putrid, hopeless spawn. Look what you’ve done to her.”

“No,” he repeats.

“Come now, don’t be difficult. If you want to be a master so badly, take it. I’ve taught you how, now prove to me you’ve learned your lesson. Take the pleasure you crave from her body, make her yours,” Cazador commands, beckoning him forward. “Whisper little apologies into her ear while you defile her, tell her how sorry you are. We’re all dying to see your performance. Do it well enough and I’ll let her leave.”

How did they get here? How did they fall from grace so fast? It was mere days ago Astarion had fantasized about how he’d kill Cazador, how he’d take the ritual for himself. How sweet it would be to get his revenge and walk in the sun again. 

Cazador leans over, ripping the tape off Tav’s mouth and leaving a streak of red behind. “Go on,” he says. “Talk. Put on a proper show for your audience.”

“Don’t you fucking listen to him,” she immediately insists; the words had been clawing at her mouth for release. “Leave me. Please! Go.”

“You don’t understand,” Astarion replies, his face resigned to anguish, any fight he had left gone. “You don’t know what he’ll do. I can’t leave you here.”

He approaches her—what else can he do?—and kneels. He can’t stand to look in her eyes anymore. He needs her to become any another victim to him, but it’s an impossible task. He turns her around and shoves her forward, putting her on her hands and knees, just how he’s done so many times before.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her ear, how Cazador told him to. “Forgive me, my love.”

“This isn’t you,” Tav says. “It’s okay.”

Even now, she sees the good in him; he doesn’t deserve her, he never did. She doesn’t see the truth. This is him. This is what he was made to be.

Astarion places his hand on her back, shaking, still trying to find it within himself to be this person again. This monster. His hand slides up her neck, to her hair, grasping at the strands and craning her back. A little sparkle of tears welling at her eyes dampens his very soul. 

With what small freedom he retains, he positions himself to drink from her. He inhales, taking in her sweet scent; Tav, by habit, leans to offer herself. Before the opportunity can pass, he breaks skin with his fangs, biting hard and indulging in her. Reaching for the only thing that can bring him any sort of relief.

Cazador doesn’t intervene; he watches, relishing in witnessing his favorite spawn’s barbaric display. Astarion’s messy, painting his lover’s skin red; his lack of care is reminiscent of a wild animal. It’s exactly the point. To turn him into a creature and to take away the last bit of his humanity. His siblings ache, the metallic smell of blood in the air intoxicating them, drawing them in. All they can do is watch their dear brother fall apart, piece by piece. 

Tav utters a harsh groan as Astarion sinks his fangs deeper, drinking more; he’s aggressive, he’s taking too much and she can do nothing about it with her hands tied and her voice tired. He forces himself to separate from her, and the sight of blood trickling down her shoulder and collarbones rouses him in a visceral way he can’t control.

Astarion lets her hair go and violently pulls her pants down to her knees. He frees himself, moves her underwear aside and pushes into her. She cries out for him, in despair he’s sure, but he tosses the thought away; he must. Has to pretend every noise she makes is no different from the ones she made for him in the forest, so many months ago. 

Tav whimpers beneath him as he takes her, burying himself as far in her as he can, each thrust fiercer than the last. Drops of blood seep from his death grip on her hips. He tries to remember a better time, but what better time was there? When he’d slept with her before, that wasn’t real—he was manipulating her, charming her as he’d done to so many others for Cazador. How their relationship blossomed later didn’t change that or make it any less of a tainted memory.

Now he’d missed the opportunity to touch her, to really touch her how he’d wanted to. Astarion had dreamt of the day he’d be ready to lay with her again. In his fantasies, he’d be reborn again with her, forgetting his countless experiences and learning everything anew with her as his lover. He’d imagined discovering what he liked together, how he’d awkwardly kiss and touch her all over, paying close attention to what made her warm, what made her heart accelerate, and the spots that made her melt to his touch.

“I love you, we’ll be okay,” Tav reassures, a quiet murmur under the sounds of him ruining her heart and body.

Cazador’s words echo in Astarion’s mind: ‘whisper little apologies into her ear while you defile her’. He can’t do it. An apology, like this, is meaningless. How do you tell someone—the person you care about most, the only person you care about—you’re sorry while you hurt them like this?

He always did love how patient she was with him, and how their sexless relationship didn’t seem to take up even a moment of her thoughts. She was just happy to be with him, showering him with kisses and affection he’d never known before. And this is how he’s repaying her. 

His hand finds her hair again and he pushes her face down to meet the cold tile floor.  Astarion can’t hear her, can’t face her, can’t see those tears he knows are there. He has to separate himself from her. His eyes close and he focuses on the feeling, the best he can. 

In his mind, he pictures the forest. In spite of the pretense, they had fun, and he can still remember how beautiful she looked in the moonlight. She rolled and offered her neck to him, trusting him, something she never should’ve done. Drinking from her then was such a rush—it was still new, to drink from a thinking creature, and he could feel her body awaken and warm for him when he did it. She enjoyed it, and that made it all the better. There was satisfaction in knowing he was giving her something, too. 

Astarion thinks of what he’d do to her now in better circumstances. How he’d fuck her slow, fast, in every position and every surface. He’d tease her and make her beg for it, denying her finish until she did. Her body would writhe beneath him, a silent plea, but he would take his sweet time with her until she was sweating and feisty and yelling at him to fuck her proper.

Then he’d finally let her come undone. He’s hardly aware of his own undoing when it arrives, lost in his thoughts of what could’ve been. When he looks down at her, he feels disgust, like when he’d turned away, his body had been taken over by another that moved and felt for him. It hurts to see her now, her lovely skin coated with disheveled trails of thick crimson, her face glued to the ground, and his own shame spilling out of her.

“No,” he says only, cursing himself again, spirit shattered. With what little pieces of his mind remain, he tries to redress the both of them and then sits there, wishing it all away in a futile effort; the Gods never answered his calls, and they wouldn’t today. 

Cazador’s voice booms across the ballroom again, but the words go right through Astarion’s ears, his senses shut off to the world, and his soul a thousand planes away or more.

It’s not until one of his siblings comes to take Tav away that he’s back in his own body. 

“No! You can’t,” he yells in disbelief; foolish for it, foolish to believe Cazador would do anything less than the worst. “I did what you asked!”

“Yes, and you did such a poor job of it. You’ve let yourself become too soft!” Cazador’s laugh echoes through the ballroom and shakes Astarion’s core as reality settles in. “Because I so kindly believe even someone as arrogant as you is worth teaching, I’ll show you how to be a real master. Godey will see you back to the kennel.”

“Fuck you,” Astarion cries, but his body is subservient, yielding to Godey’s grasp. “What will you do with her?”

“She will stay in my chambers,” Cazador answers, taunting him, flaunting his power. “At least you can do one thing right—this one is quite lovely. You picked well.”

Stripped of his weapons, armor, dignity. He has nothing. Nothing but her. Maybe, just maybe, together, they could get out… they could escape… Not now, another time. Though he doesn’t understand why, he still hasn’t felt the call of Cazador’s magical pull after ridding themselves of the tadpoles. It means all they need is a leg-up, some sort of advantage, and they can be free.

So long as Cazador doesn’t make her his spawn.

Astarion retches at the thought of it. If Cazador turned her and became her master, that would utterly and truly destroy him. It makes him sick, just thinking of her in Cazador’s chambers, in his bed, him touching her—what does he have planned for her? It was rare they ever saw Cazador taking a special interest in anyone, and the spawn had learned to never show love. He’s learning that again, now, the image of her after he’d finished is burned into his memory, and the knowledge that he’s the one who made her that way. 

When he’d refused to bring his master that lovely boy he couldn’t stand to hurt, he’d been locked away for a year, alone, in silence and darkness. The worst year he could remember. But he’d never stopped to consider what had happened to that sweet boy.