#and it's such a like rich part of the story

[antlersarchives]

𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐲𝐦𝐞 - remmick origin story.

remmick x reader

description - the earliest colonial history for settlers and immigrants alike were some of the most terrifying times to live in, somewhat considered one of the most dangerous times to be alive - famine, disease, disrupting Native American land and now... the undead reaching its ancient hand from the grave. now here you sit, beside the water just after the hot, summers sun has bid farewell, with the only person who stop by your side - the same one you had met many, many years ago.

warnings: blood/gore, vampirism, manipulation, death, 1800s and medieval Irish history mixed together - mildly inaccurate.

w/c: 9k

a/n: his took way too long to get out but here it is, so let me know if you want part two with the reader and how they met or anything otherwise! i'm going to be writing more, I had some things come up.. but I hope you babes enjoy this was hurtful to write :)

Liadan (lee-a-dan) - Remmick's younger sister. Meaning 'poet'.

Cónán - Remmick's younger brother. Meaning 'young hound.'

Is tú mo ghrá. - Meaning 'You are my love.'

1816

“Alasdair Mhic o ho / Alexander son, o ho, Chollo Ghasda o ho / Of gallant Cholla, o ho” 

Under the silver glow of the rising moon, you tenderly sang an ancient Irish ballad, your voice drifting across the riverbank as your fingers delicately gathered bluebells that lay there. The tranquil night scene unfolded like a painting coming to life: your bare feet rested near the cool, rippling water, while above you, the willow tree swayed its branches in the gentle breeze. The distant bonfire smoke wove through the velvet darkness, adding a nostalgic warmth to the crisp night air. 

Throughout it all, your gaze remained fixed on the delicate bouquet cradled in your palm, as you slowly turned the tender stems, admiring the moonlight on the damp, rich soil that embraced the roots of your precious midnight harvest.

“As do laimh-s’ gun o ho / Into your hand, o ho, Earbainn tapaidh trom eile / I would heroic entrust deeds” 

The breeze danced against your clothes, lifting the loose fabric, you closed your eyes gently, breathing in the feeling but the sudden eruption of applause shattered the serenity, cleaving the veil between solitude. Your head pivoted sharply, muscles tensing as you scanned the landscape behind you. There, through the sea of golden meadow grass, you glimpsed him perched upside on the ancient willow, his lips already curved into that knowing smile—a face so familiar it resonated within you. 

His was the kind of presence that effortlessly dismantled every fortress you'd constructed, bypassed every defence you'd established, reaching deep into the most guarded chambers of your soul and claiming what he found there. In that silent exchange lay something profound—a wordless communion.

The night’s reflection filtered through the trees, it landed on him through gaps in the brush, but the intruding dusk, gave purpose for him hanging a torch on the tree beside him. Spinning on his heel, he danced through the shadows, banjo on his back and dirtied cloth shirt wrapping his undying body, stopping just as he stands beside you, swaying back and forth.

“I always knew you liked to keep to yourself when you sang, so I was gonna say I’d only just seen you, but that would’a been a falsehood.” He brushed the dirt from his knees before settling down beside you, keeping his shoes safely away from the water's edge while gently bumping yours with his foot, his lips still curved into a warm, lingering smile.

He placed his elbows up onto his knees, looking out over the water, bathing in the open air now that he could; now that you both could, he stretched his neck in a circle before looking back at you. "I've snuck upon you to listen to you sing many times." He added, and you shook your head, hanging it in your lap, placing the scattered bluebells onto the tip of his knee.

He rested his elbows upon his knees, his eyes drifting across the water as the breeze caressed his face. There was something magical about sharing this freedom with you—the ability to simply exist in the open air, unrestrained and together. Now that you both could. With fluid motion, he rolled his neck in a circle before his eyes found yours again, warm with affection.

“I've stolen quiet moments to hear your voice,” he confessed softly, his words floating between you like a tender secret. 

You felt warmth bloom across your cheeks as you shook your head, gently lowering it toward your lap, fingers gathering the scattered bluebells to place them with care upon the tip of his knee—a small offering.

"You think I haven't noticed," you remarked with quiet dignity, not yet raising your look to meet his as you moved to gather fine blossoms nestled in the tall prairie grass, a shy look gracing your features. "What are you after, Remmick?" There was exasperation in your tone, though your own passions hid between it.

”Only to engage in pleasant discourse with my most cherished woman," he replied with a chuckle. 

His eyes sought and captured yours as he collected several flowers and weeds and selected a slender blade of grass from the rich soil. With practiced fingers, he began to bind the bunch, his attention alternating between his handiwork and your countenance, his movements unhurried.

"Oh, that's it, I'm your woman now, m'I?" You brushed up against Remmick, and you reached for felt through the long pieces in the grass; he watched you, the way your irises glinted when they flickered across his, all hues white and orange, like the final bit of sun he had set on his back all those years go.

 The memories washed over him like a wind, reminding him of all he held dear. He recalled those sun-soaked afternoons sprawled in the meadows after long hours of labouring in the fields, the warm earth beneath him, and the scent of wildflowers filling the air. Sweat would trickle down his forehead, matting his hair, while the fabric of his shirt clung loosely to his back, taut from the day's work. 

Like those golden summers when laughter rang out as children frolicked nearby by the shimmering waters of the creek, their playful voices weaving through the air like music, he would watch their spirit alive while they chased each other and splashed water. Whispers of young love drifted through the air, born from the shadows of the trees. Each moment reminded him of the strength of youth and the fragility of love lingering in his heart long after the sunset. 

To him, you were something spiritual, almost holy, the only save he had left.

He cursed softly beneath his breath, shaking his head with a nod before fixing his gaze upon you.

"Do you ever miss the sun?" you asked abruptly with gentle melancholy, your mind drifting to memories of days long past when you would walk freely beneath daylight's embrace.

"Miss the old life, darlin'?" His head tilted, accent thick as honey as he smirked at you, genuine curiosity in his eyes.

"Not really. Truth is, I always preferred stargazing anyway." You rested your chin on your knees, meeting his gaze with a flush and a playful smile.

"Had I known that, I might've claimed you sooner." He moved closer, wrapping his arms around you and planting teasing kisses along your jaw. Your laughter bubbled up as he murmured against your skin.

"Funny how these folks fear witches, while a vampire walks right beside them." His whisper was soft as he loosened his hold, gently pulling you back against him. His fingers intertwined with yours as you settled comfortably against his chest, his back cushioned by the soft moss, both of you content in the shared moment.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" you asked softly. "If anyone found out, I'd simply tell them all about you too." Your head nestled comfortably against his chest, your hand resting there as he laughed—not mockingly, but with warmth. The sound vibrated soothingly through you, drawing out your own quiet laughter.

The scene around you settled into tranquility as you noticed the torch on the nearby tree slowly burning, its gentle glow enveloping you both in a warm halo of light. This moment felt like true peace—still complex and layered like any paradise described in ancient tales, yet real despite the harsh frontier lands surrounding you. In his embrace, you found something you'd been searching for all along—a sense of belonging, a sanctuary that finally felt like home.

"Do you think you can keep singing that song f'me?" His deep voice broke the heavy silence that had settled between you, causing your eyelids to flutter as you blinked several times, trying to compose yourself. He reached out, placing his warm, calloused hand on the sensitive skin at the back of your thigh, his intense gaze meeting yours with a mischievous, almost predatory smirk that made your breath catch.

His fingers gave your flesh a gentle but possessive squeeze, the unexpected intimacy of his touch sending a shiver up your spine. You froze momentarily, your thoughts scattered, and swallowed hard before clearing your suddenly dry throat.

1212 AD

Remmick had never given much thought to his fate, where he would end up in this harsh world, or how. The days came and went in the misty hills of Ireland, where ancient stones stood sentinel over lands still untouched by the grand castles rising elsewhere. Villages nestled in valleys, their thatched roofs glistening with morning dew, smoke curling from simple hearths. 

Dark days descended over Ireland.

Common folk toiled from dawn till dusk beneath capricious skies, tending crops and livestock while Norman lords claimed ever more territory, trespassing darkness of conversion of their beliefs on the people . They traded wool and hides at muddy crossroads markets, bartering with passing merchants or neighbouring clans, all in desperate hope of keeping hunger from their door during the long, bitter winters that plagued the thirteenth century isle. 

Its ancestry fading like whispers in abandoned stone circles.

Remmick trudged along the muddy path toward their cottage - a small and humble structure with weathered stone walls and a roof that sagged slightly in the middle, nestled on the misty outskirts of the village. Only fields of golden farmland surrounded the building, stretching toward the horizon like a patchwork quilt, now becoming barren from the winter months.

A small parcel of food was clutched tightly in his underarm, filled with the meagre goods he could manage to acquire - yellow cheese wrapped in cloth, a plump pheasant with feathers still clinging to its neck, and coarse grain for the livestock that waited in the pen behind their home. 

The bundle felt impossibly light against his aching palms, a pitiful reward for fourteen hours of back-breaking labor under the merciless sun.

The same weathered path he'd walk religiously each day, a ritual etched into his existence over countless seasons. The winding trail where he'd once been with friends during those fleeting moments when being outdoors was still permitted, their faces tilted to the sky, drinking in the golden warmth of the sunlight.

Or the shadowy route he'd traverse with his first love every evening just as twilight surrendered to darkness, when the village retreated behind locked doors, and they'd exchange fervent, forbidden kisses beneath the silver glow of the moon, standing on the bridge others avoided with superstitious dread. 

But those days had withered away—the present grew increasingly bleak, corroding treasured memories with its harshness.

Sunlight had become rare now, a gift that townsfolk no longer dared to enjoy, ducking between safe place to another with hunched shoulders and fearful glances, finding it best to be inside. And his beloved—vanished mysteriously months prior, alongside his mother and several villagers with them, leaving only questions hanging in their.

Questions that were answered only weeks ago when their desecrated remains were discovered—limbs scattered like discarded dolls, flesh stained crimson, and skin charred by malevolent forces beyond what was mortal.

The countryside had already surrendered to darkness, the moon barely visible through the thick, swirling mist that clung to the moor around them like a ghostly shroud. Ancient trees stood along the path, their gnarled branches reaching  as he trudged the path further down the lane, looking around at every noise. The muggy air carried the earthy scent of decaying leaves and wet soil, while distant sounds seemed muffled by the oppressive fog.

 And something felt amiss, a subtle wrongness that crept along the branches spines and whispered warnings they couldn't quite hear.

He approached the farm—where his father's familiar grumbling and the children's defiant shouts should have greeted him, but instead the silence that hung, raised goosebumps along his arms. Drawing closer, Remmick's pulse hammered against his ribs as his eyes fixed on the front door, swinging ominously back and forth, each gentle tap with the stone wall echoing across the empty yard. His feet refused to move forward.

A faint, unnatural gleam seeped from inside, casting an eerie glow along the path to the entrance. He stood frozen, each thunderous heartbeat threatening to burst from his chest as dread crawled up his spine like ice-cold fingers. Something was wrong.

Then he heard it—desperate screams piercing the night, familiar screams. Some emanated from nearby but he could care less, the ones that echoed from within the cottage itself sent his body into overdrive and he took off running.

The package slipped from his fingers, its contents scattering across the ground in his wake as a cloud of dust kicked out from under his feet. He turned sharply into the doorframe, pressing his palms against the hinges with such desperate force that the wood groaned in protest, threatening to give way beneath his weight.

And once he saw it, his stomach dropped, not taking his eyes off of the scene.

Everything was flipped upside down.

The table and chairs lay violently overturned, the somewhat white tablecloth and dishes scattered across the weathered oak floor, and a crystal vase now reduced to glittering shards from across where he stood. As his trembling gaze slowly traversed the room, he noticed the tapestries—family heirlooms passed down for generations—savagely ripped from the walls, their threads dangling like exposed nerves. The once cozy cottage, suddenly appeared foreign—all the heavy wooden doors stood eerily ajar, hinges moaning  softly in the draft, while the stained-glass windows had been violently smashed inward, leaving jagged teeth of glass in their frames. 

But his eyes then landed on something else.

Blood. 

Dark, ruby red, thick blood. 

The coppery stench saturated the air, clinging to every breath. What began as speckles across the floorboards transformed into a viscous stream that snaked its way into the kitchen where it collected in a dark pool. Remmick's body finally responded, his lungs barely drawing in oxygen as the biting winter air invaded through the open doorway, his shaking fingers releasing their grip on the frame as the door slammed shut behind him.

He rounded the corner and recoiled. His father stood there - slumped against the wall, one hand clutching his throat, guttural groans coming from his mouth as consciousness slipped away from him. As his father slid down the wall, Remmick moved to help but froze at a sound that pierced the air. Sobbing.

His head whipped toward the table, where a pair of trembling legs poked out from beneath. Abandoning his father, Remmick approached the hiding spot. The shoes were unmistakable—more familiar to him than his own: scuffed brown leather, with frayed laces dangling past the soles. Cónan.

His baby brother. 

The room seemed to stretch, each step needing effort just to cross the smallest distance. And there they lay behind the overturned table, drenched in crimson. And yet, somehow, they remained bathed in an ethereal white. Untouched amid the carnage.

What remained of his family—Liadan and Cónán, his beloved sister and brother—sprawled lifeless upon the floor. He collapsed to his knees and crawled toward them, gathering their still forms into his trembling arms with a curse.

His forearms and hands became covered in the substance, sticking to him beyond recognition, so much so, that no longer seemed his own. Liadan's lifeless body lay slumped against Remmick's side, her once vibrant presence now horrifyingly still. His fingers tenderly brushed the matted hair from her sunken face, a broken sigh escaping his lips as hot tears blurred his vision. The weight of despair crushed his chest, making each breath agonising. Only a fire-poker remained clutched in her delicate hand—hastily snatched from the fireplace in a moment of desperate terror—its metal length now partially coated with congealing blood. 

The bitter truth pierced his heart like a blade; she was already gone, her warmth fading with each passing second as his world collapsed into darkness.

The acrid tide had engulfed her body, soaking her neck and cascading down to her chest, covering her dress—like a poison—and something in his heart told him she had been aware of this. An intelligent girl, possessing wisdom beyond her years, tragically so. No one else could have committed this act; that life wasn't theirs to claim. No. So she had taken control of her fate.

"Oh lass..." The words caught in his throat as he gently cleared away the final traces of dried blood from her soft features, the truth sinking in, and he felt the slight of a touch upon his arm.

"Rem..." A voice croaked from below, causing his head to snap downward. His brother's head rested in his lap, and he instinctively clutched at his middle, drawing him closer. Tears already blurring his vision yet his eyes opened wide, straining to focus through the stinging moisture, yet tragically able to see everything clearly.

Cónán's body trembled violently in his arms, blood seeping from the wound at his neck as he cried out in agony. Remmick placed a gentle hand over his chest, trying to still the convulsions while softly shushing him. His eyes darted desperately around them, searching for help—for anyone, anything. But there was nothing.

Nobody.

His thoughts collapsed into singular focus as the boy spluttered weakly. Dark ichor bubbled from Cónán's lips as he tried to speak, the same poison that had claimed his sister now spreading through his brother's body. Remmick shifted, attempting to tilt Cónán's head to prevent him from choking, but the venom's flow was relentless. With trembling fingers, he pressed his hand over the neck wound, knowing it was already too late, blood pouring through his fingers.

The boy’s face fell pale, and whined at the touch,

"Shh, it's alright, I've got ya. I'm here." He was at a loss, the child in his hands crumpled into something smaller, reminiscent of how he'd held him as a newborn when their mother first brought him into the world.

Remmick was much older than the two, and yet no gap existed beyond the years between them. From the moment they entered this life, they were his, and when their mother was taken from them, he had claimed them as his own without hesitation. Now, he strained to hear anything—no sound, no cries, nothing remained—as the only treasures he truly cherished faded away in hi shaking arms.

With one final lament, the life in his hands ebbed away. He cradled him like a mother would, drawing his brother's limp form to his chest as he wept bitterly. "Curse you.” he cried into his brother's auburn locks, stifling the keening that threatened to escape his throat. From his wool pocket he withdrew a dagger of ash wood, carved with ancient Celtic knots, as he rocked Conan's body gently. 

The spear lay heavy in his grasp, and he  thought it over briefly through the veil of his brother’s unkempt hair. With blood now soaking his garments, he drove the blade into his back, piercing through to his heart from behind.

His hair was now wet with Remmick's tears, holding the spear tight enough, air let out of Conan's body but it wasn't a gasp, more an escaping of life. He was gone too. 

Emptiness. 

Everything that had already been taken from him and his family, from the land, from their home from others was enough. But now? This was beyond empty—a raw, gaping wound where his heart should be. A weighted crushing feeling collapsed his chest from within, and though his mouth fell open in a silent scream, not even the faintest sound emerged. Grief had stolen his voice just as death had stolen his loves, leaving Remmick hollow.

He spent what felt like hours there, though it was only moments. He cradled his head in his hands before gently laying him on the floor beside Liadan. After closing both of their greyed eyes, he carried them one by one to their beds, as he had done so many times before. 

Returning to the kitchen, he stepped over the mess without a second glance. He soaked a cloth he found in water, wringing it out and moved mindlessly back to their rooms, motions seeming to carry him like a puppet. Remmick cleaned them both—their clothes, their faces—as much as possible, though the blood wouldn't fully wash away. Stepping back, he observed how peaceful they looked, as if all the sin that had touched them couldn't reach them anymore, instead only granting them one final sleep.

"Rest now, Is tú mo ghrá," he whispered, his voice cracking with pain. He placed a final, wavering kiss to their now untouched foreheads, the skin cool beneath his lips. Singular tears carved down his hollow cheeks as he stood back up, his movements slow and weighted. For several heartbeats, he remained there, suspended in his grief, unable to tear his away from their peaceful faces, memorising every feature as if afraid they might fade from his memory like morning mist.

"Boy."

A shout thundered from outside the room, rattling the walls with its force. That same voice he'd heard every day, barking the same old command.

His father.

Remmick spun on his heel, fury bubbling beneath his skin, reluctantly leaving the kids but pulling the door nearly closed behind him as he stalked out. Protecting them still. He'd almost forgotten his father was even there, and despite everything that had just happened—what he'd seen and done—Remmick felt nothing toward the man. Nothing but cold resentment.

He came into view, swiping shattered glass from beneath his feet as he settled on his father. His eyes, as crimson as the blood on his oaked shirt, reflected both exhaustion and anguish, his shoulders hunched with each laboured step. Opposite him, his father leaned against the wall for support, one trembling hand clutched at his neck while unintelligible words spilled from his lips. He couldn't tear his eyes away, watching blood seep between his father's fingers just as it did his own. Something inside him fractured then—a final, irreparable breaking. How could his father still be standing when they lay lifeless?

What took his lover from him, what killed his mother and siblings, what destroyed the family, what destroyed him.

Everything that this evil was, that it caused, was in him. And now he was one of them.

His father turned, pushing himself off the wall, a viscous mixture of froth and yellowish drool oozing from the corners of his discoloured mouth. His reanimated corpse twisted into a grotesque smirk as he staggered forward, now connected to something more, head hanging low yet tilting upward just enough to reveal rows of blackened, rotting teeth—just enough to confirm Remmick's worst fears.

Remmick lunged forward with primal fury, driving his fist into his father's putrid cheek with a sickening thud. The impact slammed the creature against the wall, but Remmick didn't stop. He delivered blow after savage blow—one cracking against the thing's that was his father’s face, another smashing into its skull. Spittle flew from Remmick's mouth as he screamed, his vision consumed by a crimson haze of rage and terror.

Blood.

Red hot searing pain. It coated his shirt, and his palms, in between his fingers and his nails. 

Not even the biting could distract his mind from the overwhelming sensation. He retrieved the gleaming blade from his pocket once more, pressing its razor-sharp edge against his neck, directly over his pulsing jugular, stretching the fragile skin until it whitened beneath the cold metal. But he hesitated at the threshold of no return, not yet piercing the surface.

"Did you do this?" Remmick demanded, observing as his father's expression emptied of all emotion, the ghostly, waxy pallor of his freshly transformed skin capturing the dying rays of light. The murderous fury in his father's countenance subsided, yet his eyes remained cavernous, ravenous, and focused—though still as lifeless as they had always been. Droplets spattered his father's face as he stood motionless amid the grotesque mangle of bodies that had once been their beloved family.

"Tell me." Remmick pressed the dagger deeper against his father's cold neck. His face twisted with fury as he leaned in, voice cracking with years of pent-up accusation.

"You have always had your mother's eyes." A cruel smirk curled across his father's shadowed face. Remmick's eyes widened, rage and heartbreak warring within him as his hand tightened around the wooden hilt. Years of abuse flashed through his mind like lightning. 

"Who?" Desperation clawed through his voice as he pressed harder, but his father remained motionless, refusing to speak. This monster—once merely his tormentor and now something inhuman—would not hurt anyone ever again.

"And now they'll be the last you'll see," he spat out, eyes welling with sharp tears. His hand moved before his mind could process it. The blade plunged into his father's neck, crimson life spilling forth in a cascade. He withdrew the weapon only to drive it again, this time into his heart, pushing with both hands and twisting with savagery . His father's face contorted in agony, one hand reaching out in a final, desperate gesture as the color completely drained from his features and his body slackened into the stillness of death, restrained against the wall.

Remmick fell backwards taking in the sight. Relief should have washed over him, taken him away in a dream as it did many times before, but this was no dream. Not even the death of that man could rescue him from this damnation. They were all gone. And he was alone.

He cursed himself, he cursed everything, screaming out into the air. Every window and door that was open, allowing the darkness to creep in around him as he kneeled on the hard ground. 

Hours really did pass this time, each minute stretching into an eternity as he searched through the remnants of what once was. His fingers trembled slightly as he gathered anything of significance, anything that could preserve the memory of what was gone, carefully tucking each precious item onto his person, collecting fragments of a shattered life.

The silver chain his father had worn faithfully every day caught the light as he lifted it from around his cold, still neck. The metal felt impossibly heavy in his palm, weighted beyond its physical form, only tiny crimson droplets decoratively stained the delicate links. After a moment's hesitation, he brought it to his own throat, the metal cold against his skin as he fumbled with the clasp, his fingers clumsy with grief. The chain settled against his collarbone, where it now hangs like an anchor to his past, the occasional blood spots having dried to a rust-like brown against the polished silver.

He then reached for his mother's wedding band with greater admiration. The simple gold circle had rarely left her finger in life, but since her passing, his sister had carried it faithfully in her pocket, a portable shrine to their mother's memory. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly to catch sight of the deep engravement in the gloom. 

For several heartbeats, he grappled with the propriety of taking it, wondering if his Liadan would forgive the theft of something so precious to her. Eventually, sentiment overcame his hesitation, knowing this would carry with them both, and he slid the ring onto his own finger with gentle determination. It squeezed uncomfortably tight around his knuckle before settling into place, the band digging slightly into his flesh—a physical reminder of how much he'd grown since childhood, how his hands had broadened and strengthened while his mother's had always remained delicate, hands that had once cradled him with such tenderness now existing only in his memory.

And lastly, his eyes fell upon the dainty lyre that rested on his brother's rumpled bed. The small stringed instrument and its polished wood carrying years of echoes—evenings spent huddled together, their fingers plucking melodies that filled their modest home with warmth. It had once belonged to Remmick himself, being gifted by one of the free-house patrons, but after noticing the way Cónán's eyes lit up with the same passionate fascination that had consumed him, he couldn't help but pass it down. 

A lump formed in Remmick's throat as he carefully lifted the instrument, his calloused and dirtied fingertips tracing the familiar curves of its frame, gracing over the strings lightly leaving a strum in its wake. With shaking hands, he found a sturdy piece of lace, long enough to secure around the ends of the cherished lyre. He tied it with care, attaching each end to his suspenders, feeling the weight of it against his side—both comfort and burden of what he was leaving behind.

And that was it. A heaviness settled in Remmick's chest as he walked through the house one final time, overlooking the mess of what was once beloved and full, was now empty. 

His heart pounding against his ribs. 

If he didn't force himself to leave now, in this moment of fragile resolve, he knew with certainty that he would never find the strength to walk away at all. 

His hands were mere tremors, as Remmick backed through the doorway, his gaze lingering on what was being abandoned. The weight of the matchbox in his pocket seemed to grow heavier with each step. Once outside, he drew a single match, striking it against the rough edge. The flame danced before his eyes, hesitant, like his will. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he touched it to the dry thatch of the roof. The fire caught quickly, hungry fingers of orange spreading across what once was, and what could have been.

And he walked away. Into the night, not knowing what would become of him, and he didn’t care one bit.

6 Years Later

"C'mon a good word never broke a tooth, give us another." A man encouraged from the back of the dimly lit tavern, his voice cutting through the haze of pipe smoke, and a chorus of voices followed after, "Ay." They echoed back, continuing in raucous laughter over the loud symphony of music. Drinks clinked together, amber liquid sloshing over weathered mugs.

"Right well after ya chuck me a penny hey?" Remmick stood before the eager crowd, his laugh genuine despite the hollow ache still nestled in his chest. He swayed back and forth, finding solace in the numbing embrace of ale and the familiar weight of the fiddle in his calloused hands. 

The music flowed through him like medicine, each note a temporary bandage over his wounded heart. Around him, a band of merrymen both sat and stood, picking up into another lively tune as the man he'd been bantering with waved him off jokingly. For tonight at least, the melodies and the drink would keep the darkness at bay.

He continued to play, moving with the music and dancing about with the drinkers and musicians alike. And he began to sing in front of the dimly lit congregation, ceiling hanging low. 

“Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street” A pluck of strings here and he paused, as the raucous picked up. “A gentle Irishman mighty odd.”

He had a brogue

both rich and sweet

An' to rise in the world he carried a hod

You see he'd a sort of a tipplers way

But the love for the liquor poor Tim was born

To help him on his way each day

He'd a drop of the craythur every morn

The singing intensified throughout the tavern as Remmick's voice rose to a near-shout, sweat soaking through his shirt while his vocals remained clear. His eyes danced around the room as he sang, his face alight with smiles and laughter, his body feeling every pulse of the music.

But though his jolly, his gaze caught something at the window—shadowy figures passing by. He dismissed the first glimpse, but then it happened again, and again. 

The movement was too quick to ignore—there were two figures now. Then another appeared. Three. And once more, multiple silhouettes lingered outside the tavern. Remmick tore his attention away as one of the musicians playfully bumped against him, momentarily pulling him back into the revelry inside. But just as quickly as they came, they disappeared. 

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer

Partner around the flure yer trotters shake

Wasn't it the truth I told you?

Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake

They continued to sing and Remmick stopped playing, uttering protests from those gathered around as he clung the instrument to his side, pushing through the grow of people to get to the door. Sticky hair stuck to his forehead and he breathed heavily, shoving through the door to the outside.

One morning Tim got rather full

His head felt heavy which made him shake

Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull

And they carried him home his corpse to wake

The music faded away as the door slammed behind him, and he hummed to himself, singing the lyrics softly under his breath. His steps carried a telltale swagger from the drunken haze clouding his mind. Around him, trees thrashed violently against the wind, while darkness blanketed the lane and fields beyond.

Standing there, he questioned why he'd ventured outside—perhaps it was the crisp air momentarily clearing his thoughts, or maybe it was that persistent ache he tried so desperately to ignore, that knowing part of himself he couldn't escape.

“Ay, they're wondering where ya went, going to be kicked out of here if you don't play. Now c’mon." A voice shattered the stillness and Remmick turned sharply, finding one of the musicians lingering in the doorway, silhouetted against the amber light from inside. 

Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet

And laid him out upon the bed

A bottle of whiskey at his feet

And a barrel of porter at his head 

He dismissed him with a casual wave, "Yeah I'll be in soon, give me a minute would'ya." The door creaked shut with a dull thud, and Remmick seized the opportunity to circle the building, the coarse gravel crunching beneath his worn boots. 

 The night air carried fragments of sound that pierced the darkness surrounding him—whispers, shifting movements, the faint rustling of fabric against skin. An unmistakable presence hung in the air, prickling at the back of his neck as he searched the shadows, determined to identify those mysterious figures he'd glimpsed from inside. 

The obscure faces—unfamiliar yet somehow important—pulled him forward through the darkness. Not fear but a compelling curiosity propelled each step, a need to uncover what lurked just beyond his vision.He froze at a weathered fence, its splintered beams marking the boundary between safety and the vast, shadow-drenched fields beyond.

Cautiously, he hopped onto the structure, fingers digging into the damp wood as if some unseen force threatened to drag him to the other side. 

The trees loomed and swayed over the misty low-lying land, and the breeze penetrated his clothes with a bone-deep chill and he shuddered, the eerie silence broken only by his shallow breathing and the occasional distant rustle that seemed to follow his movements.

With trembling hands, he retrieved a small pipe from his pocket and lit it, the brief flare illuminating his features before dying down to a soft glow—a tiny beacon in the darkness.

"You've managed a long time out here. Alone." A feminine voice slithered from the shadows, each footstep cracking the ground beneath her like brittle bones. Remmick jerked his head to the side, coming face to face with the being, jumping slightly clutching his chest.

Something about her presence made the air feel heavy, poisonous. He looked past her to see where she came from, not recognizing her from inside. No one else in sight, and the shadowy figures he'd seen before had vanished—as if they had served their purpose in leading him to this encounter with something far worse.

"I could say the same for you, out here, on your own. It's not safe in these parts—there have been attacks out her for years now," he reflected back, tilting his head confused and a little shaken up at the sudden sound, sitting up straight and laughing it off.

She released a gentle laugh, a primal rumble resonating beneath it as she shook her head. Observing her presence, one could sense she belonged to distant shores, her attire speaking of bygone eras—not the traditional garments he had known, but something more elusive. She floated within delicate fabrics that whispered like silk against her form, draped as if the heavens had adorned her with scarves. 

The intricate patterns sewn throughout resembled those discovered in forgotten mosaics—fragments of beauty like it was etched in stone. Ancient.

“Are you lost? I didnae spy ye in the tavern." His words tumbled forth, voice thick with both accent and smoke, slightly muffled by the clay pipe he withdrew from his mouth. Remmick squinted at the weathered alehouse from where he came, wondering if any soul within might offer aid to this woman. The mead still clouded his vision, yet he found himself oddly at ease. 

Though her appearance in the misty lane was peculiar, he felt no alarm—only an unnatural comfort washing over him, like warm peat smoke on this cold night. Something in her eyes glinted like polished flint, but the sensation of peace she cast upon him pushed such misgivings aside.

She shook her head again, eyes darkening with a patience as her laughing quieted to a measured cadence. "No no, I'm precisely where I need to be. But your music... it called to me. I simply couldn't resist when curiosity beckoned." Her words carried the weight of centuries, though wrapped in disarming charm. Remmick's head quirked as her gaze held him captive, her eyes never releasing their subtle grip on his attention.

“Well I’ll take the kindness. But curiosity, what would that be of?" He leaned his head back in confusion and from the subtle flirting, brining his hand up to relight the pipe in his hand. With a smooth motion, he jumped down from the fence where he'd been perched, landing softly beside her.

"I'm merely curious about you," she said, her voice gentle yet assured. "There's something about you that drew me here.” Winding her body closer, she raised a light touch to his arm enough to make his arm stand on end.

"Drew you here?" He raised an eyebrow, standing close enough now that she could feel the comfort of his presence. The cluelessness through every bit of pain. A sense of purity still dawned on him.

She nodded, glancing up at him. "The music. I heard you playing earlier. It was... alluring. I couldn't help but follow from where it came." Her eyes met his, stroking a finger at his arm. "And here I found you."

She stepped closer, her body subtly guiding them backward into the woods, each movement drawing them deeper into the darkness. The warm lights from the tavern dulled behind them until they stood secluded among the trees. "I was watching you, from outside," she whispered, confirming the suspicions that had prickled at him earlier. 

"But not just tonight," she added, her voice like silk against the night air. “And not just alone." The ember of his pipe cast an eerie glow across her knowing smiles he pulled it away just as fast, her face seeming to contort and he backed up slightly. 

The last comment raised his hairs, glancing around and reaching through the darkness seeing eyes dance in the distance. 

Two. Three. Four. The same as before.

“Well you and yer friends should have came on in with the rest of us if you enjoyed it that much.”  He shook her touch off, brushing past her without a care, sensing something more going on. His back now to her, he realised the glowing eyes from afar came slightly closer, more figure into view.

She spun around from the tree, facing him from behind.

“Would giving them name help you to remember?” Her voice lowered slightly, snarling in her words. 

He continued looking forward, his dizzying eyes tracking down the building from where he came from and he chuckled, shrugging of whatever kind of trick this was,  “I don’t care to go by name.”

“Not even for them?”

Them.

“And what is it you’re implying?" His chuckling faded and it turns into a grunt of words, stomach churning as he spoke, unsure yet certain of every word that came from her mouth. Remmick glanced around warily, brushing off his shirt and trying to sober himself up. He leaned against a tree for balance, his vision swimming.

"You crowd yourself in music, and drink yourself to stupor, and no man can return what you lost." She paused, stalking closer as he pushed himself off the tree standing straight, readying to leave thinking this as some sort of trick. He shook his head, staying with his back turned, somehow froze by her choice of words. 

Even through his drunken haze, he noticed something different in her demeanour, something predatory and knowing, different to the odd and sweet one it had been.

His back tensed and his expression fell slack, eyes dilating in the darkness as he began to pick at the bark, trying to bypass the thoughts, moments and memories but he pushed them aside, collapsing under the weight.

"I'm afraid to say ye have the wrong man." His head felt heavy, and shivers ran through his body. It had to be the drink, that liquor was no joking matter. But she continued on.

"What became of them? What fate concludes you all? Your lover, your mother, your dearest brother and sister. Even your father. And yet you walk here, wouldn't you want to be with them?"

Her words sliced through him like a blade of ice. Remmick froze completely, unable to step away despite every instinct screaming to flee. Her cruel questions burrowed into his mind like parasites, crushing what little composure he had left. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he wiped his face roughly, the devastating truth settling in his bones.

This wasn't the drink's doing, wasn't some fevered dream he could dismiss. This was real—a venomous enchantment that held him there even as it destroyed him piece by piece. His feet remained rooted to the spot, betraying his desire to escape her words. Merciless.

“How..” Remmick turned, his face red and flushed from the cold and he panted, trying to calm himself as his movement staggered, he felt anger, and hurt. What he tied down for so long was being set free, and not in the way it should have. She shushed him and placed a hand at his shoulder, fingering the buttons on his cloth shirt and he didn’t move.

"You left without scratch, or any harm at all leaving the dead behind, but here you stand as one of them, but only your heart beats."

Something clicked. Years had passed and yet everything may as well have been hours ago, time seemed to still and stand where he'd left it. He hadn't seen anyone, anything, the night it happened, but the smell, the taste in his mouth that the blood left, the dirt it left that he couldn't wash off. And she reeked of it, her scent a sweet poison that clouded his judgment with each breath he took.

 Her crimson lips curved into a knowing smile, her pale fingers brushing against his arm, sending involuntary shivers down his spine. Lights weaved through the trees, in the shapes of eyes, standing tall at all angles around them both and he froze, focusing in on them.

Three men with hollow cheeks and predatory gazes, and another woman with hair like midnight, dressed similarly enough in tattered finery from various eras—some wearing more recent clothing that he recognised through the dying light. Their pale faces seemed to glow with an unnatural luminescence as they watched him with hungry anticipation. A glinting fang in the corner of his eyes snapped his head back to her. 

As their eyes met, he felt his resistance melting away, his fear transforming into a strange acceptance.

 He understood now what she was, what they all were, and somehow knew this moment had been inevitable since that night long ago. His heartbeat slowed as he surrendered to her silent call.

"Except something can change that." She stalked closer, her face contorting with a toothed grin. "If you let it." Her hands placed onto Remmick's shoulders as she stalked around him, running her hands along as she whispered into his ear, dragging her hidden teeth around the side and back of his neck, her breath hitting it deeply.

Seductive and strong she grips him tightly, shivering under the feeling. Her fingers trail down his arm until they find his hand, toying with the ring on his finger, twisting it playfully and he shook his hand away. 

She plucks at his clothing, examining the fabric between her fingertips, handling his belongings with intimate familiarity. Remmick remains transfixed, his gaze never leaving her face, captivated by her every movement. Only occasionally do his eyes flick back to the others, noting their growing impatience, their shuffling feet and pointed glances, before his attention magnetises back to her, unable to resist her pull. 

"You know what we are." She declared, snaking around his body to face him. Her face was something evil, a soft spittle remained at her mouth, and her eye glowed a dark red  and the mouth into a jagged curve - something unnatural. There is no restraint, no screaming for help, no pleading. He stays stood without seeming to care.

"I've known." His voice was tired and sunken as he hung his head high.

"Then you know what can set you free. No burden, no pain."

"Salvation," he whispered, a word that once held meaning in his childhood prayers. He longed for peace, that divine grace the gods had promised, though faith had taken over abandoned him years ago. "The redemption I sought in empty churches, the ones they build on broken ground.”

Her clawed fingers tightened around his wrist. "We offer a different salvation. One you can touch."

In that moment, something primal awakened within him. 

“You offer no savin’.” With unexpected swiftness, he twisted violently from her grip, slamming his elbow into her temple. She shrieked, a sound more beast than human, as he bolted toward the woods.

Behind him, howls erupted from the darkness – her brethren, her pack. They would hunt him now, their prey who dared to flee. Through the underbrush he crashed, knowing they followed, their hunger intensified by his defiance but he didn’t panic. Not once. 

Fate was not defied by prophecy, it was defied by choice. And this was no way to die.

Remmick winced as the sharp brushes cut into his flesh, shallow wounds appearing along his arms in delicate slashes—a necessary sacrifice. He pressed deeper into the woods, sensing the pursuing figures following his trail exactly as he intended. The sound of their movement confirmed they were taking the bait.

Suddenly, the Earth beneath him gave way, forming a crater just large enough to swallow his foot. It pulled him downward with surprising force, dragging him into the sodden dirt that scraped against his chest and tore at his shirt, ripping the material to shreds. 

His face pressed into the damp ground, the taste of soil filling his mouth as he lay there, not in defeat but in calculated patience. Through his blurred vision, he watched as a quoir of shadowy figures materialised and gathered around him.

The woman caught up first, her breath a cold whisper against his neck as she circled him, crouching behind him tutting. One by one, they revealed themselves—pale faces contorted with hunger, lips curling back to expose elongated fangs. 

“An unwise choice.” She teased, her voice like silk over steel. They encircled him, taking turns to slash at his flesh with razor-sharp nails that glinted in the moonlight. Blood welled from each precise cut, drawing hisses of pleasure from his tormentors. The woman knelt beside him, gripping his chin and forcing him to meet her ancient eyes, smirking at their motions. "You cannot escape what you are said to become, we all shall be" she whispered, tracing a cold finger along his jawline.

"You belong with us. Belong to." The words hung in the air like a funeral dirge. “Many years of freedom-“ she paused, letting silence fill the space between them, "and yet you are so unhappy... living amongst it like this won't give you happiness, it won't bring them back to you." Her voice dropped to a whisper. 

“And debts must be paid, each one owed back to us in blood. It's only what makes you whole.” She slowly raised her hand, the dim light catching her nails one by one as they came into view, each twinkling with crimson that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. 

His eyes widened as she brought them closer, close enough that he could smell the metallic tang. Her lips curled into a smile that never reached her eyes. “And I intend to collect…” she trailed off, dragging a single nail along his cheek, leaving the faintest trace of red, “.. you become one of us, all of that you knew before will disappear.”

He trembled violently in her iron grip as she hoisted him upward, his battered body sagging against her kneeling form. Blood seeped from his numerous wounds, staining his tattered clothes crimson as his strength ebbed away with each laboured breath.

"No... I'd rather die empty than become like you," he rasped defiantly, his voice barely above a whisper. She ignored his resistance, drawing nearer with predatory intent, her eyes gleaming with hunger. Her razor-sharp teeth pierced the tender flesh of his neck with savage precision. He screamed in agony, his body convulsing as he desperately clawed at her arms, thrashing wildly to escape her deadly embrace. White-hot pain radiated from the puncture wounds as she drank deeply, each greedy pull draining more of his humanity. 

A molten fire coursed through his veins, spreading to every extremity until his limbs grew leaden and unresponsive. His skin, once flushed with life, now took on an ashen pallor as it began to claim him.

Salvation.

And yet it struck like a vice.

The others backed away, their forms stalking around the periphery like shadows retreating before dawn, gradually fading into the misty distance as the eerie blue lights in their hollow eye sockets dimmed to nothing. She cradled him there against her chest, her once-beautiful face now adorned with crimson streaks, thick rivulets of blood dripping from her chin onto his cold skin. 

His vision blurred and darkened at the edges, consciousness slipping away like water through fingers, while something else stirred deep within—a hunger, ancient and primal, beginning to unfurl in his chest as his humanity ebbed away, replaced by something colder, something darker, something... eternal...

His own thoughts that carried him now assimilated into a hundred - maybe a thousand by now, as the poison coursed gently through his veins like a warm embrace. His limbs grew weightless, each heartbeat stretching longer than the last. 

"You'll soon awake," a mutter came from the air singing to him like a lullaby, carrying him as he faded. The world around him softened at the edges, colors bleeding into one another as his consciousness expanded beyond his transforming body. The pain that had anchored him dissolved, replaced by a peaceful floating sensation as his cells surrendered to the sweet toxin flowing through his blood. Reality peeled away layer by layer, revealing something vast and welcoming beyond.

A life, now ended.

But something more was beginning.

The days, weeks and months that followed were nothing short of nightmarish. 

Ages passed all into one, everything that was known before was passing one moment at a time into a blur. He tore through the countryside like a tempest, ruthless in his desperation, draining every whiskey cask from Dublin to Galway, bedding maidens from thatched-roof villages to walled towns. His blood burned with reckless abandon as he plundered and pillaged his way through a changing world that cared nothing for his sensibilities - and not that he did either.

The age of knights and honour was fading, yet he clung to old ways while simultaneously destroying them, taking anything and everything without purpose - nothing giving meaning to what he lost, what he sought after. He shattered tavern doors and broken hearts alike, trying to catch up with himself, to outrun the void. 

A song. A poem. A love as pure as time.

Some people came and went, stood by his side as they surrendered to the same poison he did once - some went willingly, and some put up fight. But the ones that stayed, had a purpose.

And the only one that did stay, that he had found in all of this, was you.

1816

The night deepened into a velvet stillness as your singing faded to a gentle hum, your body settling comfortably against his chest, legs intertwined beneath the star-scattered sky. Remmick's breath caught slightly as you turned to face him, moonlight silvering his features while he rested against the tall grass.

He studied you with wonder, as though emerging from a trance, and you offered him a soft smile in return. At the sight, something stirred in his chest—a warmth spreading through him that you never failed to ignite. Your eyes met,  both a blue shimmer reflecting the connection between you in the quiet darkness. His fingers found your hair, gently weaving through the strands as he held you close, the gesture both protective and tender.

He lifted you up more towards him, drawing you to him as he pressed his lips to yours, it was with unhurried affection as a small, contented smile formed against your mouth at the taste of his lips. 

Is tú mo ghrá.

The words fell from his lips against your own, like poetry off of his tongue, and without knowing of the language that came from it. A silent understanding instead. You bumped your nose against his, resting your hands on his shoulder bracingly. 

“As are you.”

Tags: @fuckoffbard 💗

[killishin]

— ♡ right person at the right time.

PART 04.

pairing: jason todd x reader

category: lots of fluff, angst, he fell first she fell harder kinda trope, sfw, thinking of making this a slow burn but we'll see.

content warning: afab, mention of death (reader's mother), violence here and there, mention of blood, inaccurate medical talk, not proofread

summary: reader's just a normal citizen of Gotham, scrambling to making ends meet. after a fateful encounter, when he saw the reader kick ass and save a life- he can't get them off his mind. and fate just keeps pulling them together forcing him to do something about it.

a/n: im having a shit week but at least i have time to write. enjoy :)

wc: 3.8k

fic masterlist. previous. next

dividers by @cafekitsune

easing back into normalcy wasn't easy, not after that very weird, very out of the blue— very pretty— gift. you had wrapt it back in its box and kept it safely on your vanity as if your clumsy hands would somehow shatter the rubies. you had decided to give it back to red. you knew well in first glance that it would have hurt his pockets hard enough— and you just can't accept something that expensive as just an apology.

but he didn't turn up. that sly idiot did not come, it has been a whole week now. and you tried to rationalise that he has far more responsibilities on his shoulders than to play buddy buddy with you but you just wanted to return something that you possibly don't deserve.

you kept your grubby hands off of it without any problem initially, then your heart began tugging you along, wanting you to just wear it. its pretty, you love pretty things who doesn't?

your eyes stared at it, lips puckered in a deep frown, struggling with the polite part of you. the rubies stared back, like sirens calling.

that's when there was a knock, no not on the balcony but from the main entrance. you almost released a disappointed sigh as your heart had momentarily awakened in anticipation of that vigilante.

you opened the door and Kira barged in with bags— shopping bags held on both her forearms. you closed the door with an amused smile and folded your arms, "looks like you finally emptied your bank account huh?"

she rolled her eyes but her giddy smile stayed etched, "of course not! i didn't pay for it. at least not mine." your brows furrowed and she continued, "we're going to the gala!"

in contrast to her excited yelling, your brows just further furrowed, lips scrunching up as you walked towards her, poking at the bags in confusion and suspicion. dresses, two in total. "who's we, kira?" you questioned before giving her a pointed look, "tell me you don't mean me."

kira is a reporter, a good one at that, just reaching her prime and she has been to a good number of galas.

her lips turned downturned, brows furrowing and you immediately scoffed, "i can't believe you—"

"but its a gala."

"filled with those snobby, rich, insensitive—"

"it has great wine. and food."

"i can get great food at the diner down the road. and its made by a sweet old lady-"

"its a Wayne gala."

your lips seized for a moment, stopping as you registered the words. in your eyes all those charity galas are nothing but places for the rich to practice their laughs and stew in gossip. but you've heard of the most talked gala, the ones the Wayne's throw. and while you still have your reservations about it, you know its one of the genuinly best parties. it has the best cuisine selected, the wines are somehow always something new and better than last, the arrangement actually shows refined taste.

maybe for a day you can set aside your differences, at least you can have an experience of a gala, the best one at that. even if it'll suck at least you'll have a story to tell.

so you consider, much to your chagrin, you do.

"its still gonna be filled with those pricks." you grumbled, though it sounded more petulant than firm and she bit back a smile, "yeah but who says you gotta talk with anyone of them? I'll quickly scope any scoop i can get then we can dance, and drink and eat- all while looking the most gorgeous in the room."

and she's got you.

"alright when?"

"dress up, pretty. we're leaving in an hour." she winked before happily taking the bags to your room and you followed behind with a sigh.

"its been soo long since we went out together-"

"didn't we just eat dinner together yesterday?"

"that wasn't going out, that was just stewing in each other's depression." she scowled before stopping dead on her tracks, her eyes trained right on the earrings.

"oh. my. god."

"oh shit—" you cursed under your breath before rushing to hastily close the box. she clicked her tongue in annoyance before swatting you away, opening it back up and gasping yet again.

"who gave you these?!"

you reeled back a bit with an offended frown, "why did you assume someone gave it to me? i could have bought it too."

"with that salary? yeah right." she scoffed before back to cooing at the earrings as if its literally her baby.

"out with it. who gifted you these hm??" she teasingly asked and your groaned, pulling the box gently out of her grasp and putting it back down.

"no one. i mean— a friend."

"right a friend." she scoffed, "at least he's a loaded one for sure."

"its nothing kira. im gonna return it."

"why?!" she stares at you like you just committed a heinous crime, making you scoff. "because its too expensive?"

"so??" she scoffed back as she rested a hand on her hips, "come on if this didn't hurt the pockets of the one who gifted you, you should just thank the daylights outta them and wear it."

"but—"

"not wearing it will be a disrespect to the gift. to the person."

"....you know this is called manipulation?"

"not if its for your best interests." she shrugged as a cheshire smile adorned her lips, "also they're just too pretty to return because you're an emotional idiot."

and so she finally convinced you to go, wearing those rubies. you felt a bit bad for wearing them without even thanking him prior to it. the guilt was there, like a persistent ache, but it lightened at the sight of them on you. they really were beautiful, you didn't linger on why he specifically bought rubies, chalking it up to him just really being obsessed with red.

and as you left, lost in the shine of the red on you, you failed to notice the red reflecting off the glass of your balcony.

"kira what the fuck?"

"i know."

it was beautiful, down from the drapes to the architecture, the carefully selected wine that tasted just the right amount of sweet and fizzy, the chandelier— the chandelier. it was straight out of some fantasy, some fairytale and all its missing is the fluffy gowns. of course its ethereal, it would be since its held in the Wayne manor itself— something kira failed to mention.

"you didn't tell me it was hosted right in the manor!" you whispered to her, nervously yet awkwardly looking around. it wasn't that you were a mess at interactions, its just you don't want to be caught fawning over the art and architecture all for a rich snob to sneer at you. you really do not want to out yourself in a sea of sharks.

"it was supposed to be a surprise!" she grinned, this time it really was innocent and you sighed, shaking you head as you smoothened your dress for the umpteenth time.

"you gotta relax, pretty." she reassured, gently steering your shoulders towards herself, "do what you like. flirt with whoever you want or simply geek out about the art. the people here are way too self absorbed to notice us, trust me." times like this you really do feel grateful for a friend like hers.

"and if someone bothers you, i'll take care of them. just holler." she grinned wickedly, winking at you as she pulled back.

"holler? in the middle of the gala?"

"yep." she chuckled as she started walking away, "they won't remember us anyway."

you shook your head as you stifled a laugh, something told you she has brought the wild side of her to a lot of galas.

but then you realise you're alone. while she makes her round for any potential scoops, you need to keep yourself company. so you snatch a wine before looking around, actively avoiding everyone's eye. you pick a relatively empty corner by the huge window stool, leaning against the wall as your eyes admire the particular painting up on the wall.

"not fond of socialising i presume?"

your skin jumped a bit, the wine sloshing around in the glass a bit as you looked beside you. you really didn't hear him— him, oh he's a gorgeous him alright.

"didn't mean to startle. dick grayson." he smiled, a certain playfullness to it before he extended his hand towards you.

your eyes flickered to his hand and then his eyes, skeptical but also a bit confused. not only have you seen him somewhere that name sounds awfully familiar—

"oh!" your brows jumped up as you shook his hand, quite a reflex action since you realised this damn manor was technically his home. "hello— hi. sorry i didn't recognize-"

"its no problem." he chuckled, amusement rolling off of him and you're already starting to see the proof of his charm that the gotham talks about, "i tend to gravitate towards the more interesting people in these boring galas, so i should be the one apologising if i... intruded."

he did not sound apologetic at all, instead his eyes simply flared with delight as he looked down at you. it unsettled you, not exactly in a creepy way, but you do want to be a part of whatever he is concocting in that pretty head of his.

"interesting? how is me standing in a corner interesting?" you mused as your raised a brow at him, willing your nerves down. he stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets before looking around, his brows furrowing in fake annoyance.

"you're not among them, gossping and bragging. or feeling me up." he makes an exaggerated shudder of his body before sighing and you stifle a laugh, "the gotham elite has some drama every other tuesday, so i get them needing to gossip." you shrugged and he caught the way you subtly grouped him with them.

"also i thought you liked the attention. i don't mean to assume, but it certainly looked that way in the tabloids." you said and he immediately grinned teasingly , "really didn't take you to be interested in tabloids."

"im not." you come to your defense, quite quickly so, "but i see them here and there. in passing." you're definitely not going to accept that in front of anyone, much less the source.

out of the corner of your eye you noticed the center being cleared, lights dimming down. as if that was exactly what he was waiting for he extended a hand and did a little bow, and you wondered just how many people has he charmed to be this confident.

"great to know you're interested." he said and before you could deny that he tilted his head towards the center, where few had gathered. "a dance? something to break your assumptions." his smile wasn't inviting, it was challenging. everything about him seemed mischievous, as if he was upto no good.

still you accepted, and he was a good dancer. he swayed you right, the dip was perfect— though his hold did get tight suddenly.

dick on the other hand, he wasn't looking at the pretty lady in his arms, no, he was looking at his brother right across the room shooting daggers at him. he smiled back, wide and smug, before mouthing, "she's really gorgeous."

Jason's fist tightened as his jaw clenched in unmasked ire at his brother's antics. he would have regretted coming here, as he always does, but he really can't stand you in his arms.

so what happened was he had... eavesdropped on your conversation with your friend. he only wanted to check up on you but the mention of gala really caught his attention. more when the name Wayne reached his ears, he should have left at that. he never attends Bruce's galas, hates them with a passion— not to mention any interaction with bruce that puts him in the spotlight really throws him off. but then you wore the earrings— his earrings. and just like that his heart swayed.

it swayed so hard to the point he doned on the suit, full black and formal. and while the stares and whispers made his eyes twitch, he was far too enamored by the sight of you, beautiful and stunning. he can't help the pride that swells in his chest as the earrings glint in the warm light, he does have impeccable taste.

he would have approached first, he really wanted to but he wasn't red hood right now, he wasn't the red you knew, he was just.. jason. the man who promised to text back for the settlement of the coffee but left you on unread. yeah he really forgot about that.

and he was content with simply watching, but apparently his brother wasn't. dick was already flabbergasted when jason called him to let him know he's coming, reluctantly requesting him to handle bruce in case he swarms jason. and ever the curious cat that dick is, he needed to know why the sudden change of heart.

and his eyes followed Jason's line of direction and settled on you, immediately remembering you from the cafe.

now being the good brother he is, it is his... duty, you can say, to push his brother on the right path. and so that is why he is swaying with you, your innocent yet awkward smile in sharp contrast to Jason's glare at a distance.

his dimples simply deepened as he watched jason literally march to where you are, so confidently and smoothly evening out his frown before plastering the same charming smile dick has.

"really sorry to cut in." he wasn't. before you even knew what was happening, who it was and why the hell did dick wink at him—

oh.

Jason's hand engulfed yours, intertwining, while his hand slipped around your waist yet it felt as if it was hovering. he didn't even pull you close, the gap almost felt awkward yet his eyes didn't show that discomfort. he was giving you a choice, asking while respecting your space.

"you." you whispered out, and your brows raised slowly, "the guy who helped. jason was it?" you remembered his name, you weren't one to forget so easily. but it did hurt your ego a tad bit to not get a text back, its not like you were hitting on him, you simply wanted to return back the money.

his lips pulled into a sheepish smile as he looked away for a moment, cursing his past self for his stupid decisions. it made sense at that moment, to keep you at an arms length. "one and only."

you stepped closer to him, letting your hand rest on his chest, a silent permission and in an instant his hovering hand rested on your waist. it was just a simple touch, you shouldn't make a big deal out of it yet his touch burnt you— it seared through the very fabrics and found its way to your heart. neck warmed, heart thudded— your breath stuttered for a good second, but it wasn't noticeable enough, you hope.

it was to him.

he looked different, maybe its the lights or the suit, but he looked different, dashing. beautifully so. you couldn't help the subtle way your eyes lingered on him, not stagnant on a particular point but all of him. eyes, cheeks, scars, neck, lips—

"i really want to apologise. for not texting." he said, making your eyes snap up and you hoped he didn't notice how sweaty your hands got, or felt the heat searing your body.

he did.

of course he noticed, he noticed everything— he sees everything. but you don't, and for that he's thankful. he's entirely thankful that you didn't feel the twitch of his hand on your waist, simply to bury the need to pull you closer. you didn't notice the way his eyes softened when you let him be close, the way his lips parted. he could finally let his eyes be, admire you in your beauty while being jason and not red.

"can i know why?" he twirled you and gently tugged you back in his arms, they didn't feel cagey. for some odd reason something about him felt... familiar. the proximity was less than it was with dick, yet it didn't raise any flags in your head.

"i mean i wasn't hitting on you. just wanted to return your money." you shrugged and that tone was enough to drag him out of his happy reverie, plunge him in ice cold water because you do not sound very pleased right now.

"i forgot about it— im so sorry." he winced out a smile as he swayed you a bit more, more snug and your eyes narrowed amusingly, " i forgot about it and since i don't bother with unknown numbers—"

"i mentioned my name. and i think i even added that im the person from the cafe." you cut through, faking an innocent tone but your eyes conveyed all the skepticism you felt , "the very same day too. so unless you've got amnesia— which you clearly don't— i don't see how you forgot about it." your smirk was challenging, taunting and his heart roared. it fucking roared in his chest. he should feel even a tiniest bit guilty but he doesn't. his mistake did lead to seeing you being mean and scathing— he loved that.

and as if some higher power (dick) was helping him, the tempo changed. it was faster than before, it had more tension.

it got his blood rushing, putting his rational side on the bench and letting his heart dictate every move. it was dangerous, it was stupid.

but did it matter?

one look at you, the slight pull of a smile on your lips and he doesn't even have to answer.

nope.

legs worked faster, his hands gripped yours harder, twirled you faster— till your back collided with his chest. you felt the slight brush of his jaw on your cheek, the smell of aftershave. the man you met in the cafe was gentle, reserved but nice. the man you're in the arms of is far more than that.

"anyway i can make it up to you?" he twirled you back around and pulled you close, his hand flat on your back. he tilted his head, and suddenly the gap lessened even more. you could see his eyes— the deep blue, the green. his pupils were dilated, depths that seemed to snatch you in them.

"by taking back the money i guess— you're good at this." you huffed out in slight surprise, your brows furrowing and he chuckled, deep and low enough to reverberate through you. "glad i could impress you."

"you were impressing me?"

"thought that was obvious?"

"no i thought you wanted to forget about me—"

you let out an inaudible gasp as he dipped you suddenly. you didn't know whether to be shocked or mad at him. but your heart didn't care for either, thudding so hard you wouldn't be surprised if the whole fucking room heard it.

"let me take buy you a coffee as an apology?" he whispered, smiling so smugly you scoffed at his audacity as he pulled you up.

"are you asking me out after ignoring me for weeks— no, months?" you questioned cheekily and he laughed, "im never gonna hear the end of it won't i?"

"you sound like you're already sure i agreed. i didn't yet."

"you didn't say no either."

"but i can."

"you won't though."

you glared at him but the smile on your lips gave away your amusement. your eyes caught kira in a distance, wiggling her brows at you.

you stopped before taking a step back, your body didn't appreciate being robbed of his warmth though. "it was nice meeting you again, jason."

suddenly grabbed your hand as you were about to walk past him, "the earrings look beautiful on you by the way." he smiled before walking away, the tip of his ears suddenly red despite the confidence he presented. your hand instinctively touched your earring and you smiled, yeah they are.

Jason's world was crashing down, hands twitching, curling and uncurling as it lamented the loss of you. he got a taste, and now he wants more. he already thought he had enough as red, meeting you in those little stolen moments were enough. but now he saw how you'd look in his arms.

his heart craves that.

its a storm in him, he should keep his distance. sever all ties all together, both as red hood and as jason. that would be the smart thing to do, the right thing. he shouldn't entangle his personal and vigilante life together, not that they weren't already. but at least to you, red and jason were different. and he thought both were undeserving of the warmth of life, all until you.

so why won't his heart want you? selfish, greedy— whatever his heart was it didn't matter, he didn't care. there was more than just a pull towards you, you had already made a snug little home in his heart and he couldn't find it in himself to evict you out. his mind and heart were yet again in a clash.

his phone vibrated. his brows furrowed as he looked down at it. immediately he scoffed out a laugh, you wired back the money. and texted him a lil something.

i don't like owing people. also i'm only free on weekends.

he shook his head. what storm, what clash? it didn't matter. it never did. you were already carving a you shaped hole through the walls around his heart.

"why the hell you didn't tell me you danced like that?!"

jason rolled his eyes at dick. he forgot how both him and bruce must have seen it all.

"i didn't know i could either." he muttered under his breath but dick didn't care, he wiggled his brows again.

"you guys looked snug and cosy."

"that you did." where the hell did Alfred come from?

"we were just dancing!"

"why didn't you tell me you were coming jason? and who was that lady?" great now bruce spawned out of nowhere.

"is this an interrogation?" he grumbled under his breath but dick only grinned.

"did she say yes?"

"to what?" jason frowned in frustration.

"you asked her out. did she say yes?" now he frowned for a whole different reason.

"i didn't—"

"you're dating?"

"excellent choice, master jason."

"im not—"

"oh he is. oh i wish everyone could see it." dick sighed exaggeratedly.

"you will tell no one—"

"already did."

jason rubbed his face as he looked up at the ceiling.

"i will shove your face in that horrible cake."

"....it wasn't horrible :("

taglist: @itzmeme @bmyva1entine @sept3mberchild @lightthatgoout @satan-s-ass @deadbeatphobos @starshinegrl @ttdamian

reblogs are appreciated :D

[zenithsturniolo]

SCREAM, BITCH - ghostface!chris x blogger!reader

♬ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ series intro | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

chapter four: what have you done?

this chapter will contain.. murder, graphic violence, home invasion, blood, stabbing, strangulation, psychological horror, stalking, obsessive behavior, character death, mistaken identity, emotional shock, and strong language. wc: 2.1k series summary: a dark, twisted slowburn where obsession bleeds into desire. you're a true crime blogger. he's the masked stranger recreating your cases. dual povs, filthy tension, and cliffhangers sharp enough to scar. it’s not just stalking - it’s seduction. not just fear - it’s fascination. you wanted a story. he wanted you. now you’re both in far too deep.

♯ chris pov

I saw you in the car with someone else and couldn't sleep If somethin' happens to him, you can bet that it was me

it takes every ounce of chris’s self-control not to march into that cafe and drill liam’s skull into the checkered tile with a 9mm.

he’s parked just across the street, tucked behind the smudged glass of matt’s car, engine off, breath fogging up the windshield in slow, shaky clouds. his jaw pulses with tension. his grip on the steering wheel is iron-tight, veins raised under pale skin, silver rings glinting ominously in the fading light.

the cafe sits at the edge of town — a washed-out, run-down joint with chipped red bricks and a crooked neon sign that flickers weakly in the dusky air. he only knows about it because he dug deep. combed through tagged locations on your socials. cross-checked timestamps, even scraped data off old texts. turns out this is your spot. yours and liam’s.

the knowledge makes his teeth grind. the rage simmers behind his eyes like lava.

his stare cuts through the thick glass windows and lands on you like a fucking missile. you’re seated at the far table, light pouring over your skin, illuminating every perfect inch of you like you’re in some goddamn film. your laughter breaks through the air like bells — easy, rich, unbothered. you look alive. completely unguarded. you’re glowing, christ, and you don’t even know how dangerous that is.

you toss your head back at something liam says, your shoulders shaking with amusement, fingers tapping against the chipped tabletop. he’s leaning in, of course he is — too close, eyes fixed on you with a stupid grin plastered across his face. his arm grazes yours when he moves. you don’t flinch. you laugh.

chris swears the sound is loud enough to puncture his eardrums.

to anyone else, it might look like a casual hangout — two friends catching up, maybe something sweet in the air.

but chris knows better. he always knows better.

it’s not paranoia. it’s instinct. it’s being a guy and knowing how guys look at things they want to own.

liam is fucking starving for you. it’s all over him. the subtle lean, the way his pupils follow your hands, your lips, the sway of your body when you shift. how he soaks in your laugh like a man dying of thirst. how he doesn’t blink when you touch him.

he likes you so fucking bad. and the worst part?

you don’t even see it.

but chris sees it. he sees everything.

he leans back in the seat, head thudding against the cracked leather headrest, a long breath wheezing out of his flared nostrils. his heart pounds so loud it fills the car like bass.

he’s bloodshot and brittle, dark circles hanging like bruises under his eyes. a hoodie’s pulled low over his head, hat jammed on top, messy tufts of hair sticking out. the Fresh Love logo on his chest is half-faded, the sweater stained with soda and sweat. his fingers — long, delicate, stained with old ink — twist his sunglasses between them so hard they creak under the pressure. his jaw ticks. a nerve jumps in his temple.

and beneath all that simmering fury — he’s jealous.

ugly, rabid jealousy, the kind that coils in his gut and sharpens his teeth.

your body is doubled over the table now, wheezing with laughter, clutching at liam’s shoulder like you can’t breathe without him. chris stares with an empty sort of hunger, so consumed by loathing and longing that it makes him dizzy. he feels like he’s about to combust in the driver’s seat.

he wants to crack open the car door, cross the street, and drag you away by the wrist.

you’re his.

you’re his.

you’re his and only his.

that’s the mantra that threads through his brain on repeat, dulling the edge of his fury as he clings to the steering wheel. you’ll see eventually. you’ll understand the depth of his love — how it grows wild like ivy, how it would kill for you, die for you, do anything for you.

you’ll love him back. you will. you have to.

first, he just has to finish the plan. ride the wave. keep it together long enough to reach the end.

his phone buzzes in the cupholder, vibrating loud against the silence. he glances down:

Matt: yo? wya?? dude

Nick: chris hellooo?? where are you??

he groans, rubbing his temples until stars spark behind his lids.

first, he’ll go home and get a pepsi for the pounding between his ears. then he’ll film the stupid youtube video. maybe buy his own car.

and then, he’ll become ghostface.

— 

chris steps through the front door, movements heavy. the house is dipped in late-evening gold, sunlight spilling across the hardwood in warm slashes. it smells faintly of cinnamon and laundry detergent — familiar. safe.

it makes the guilt in his stomach burn hotter.

“‘m home,” he mutters, voice raspy from silence and restraint.

he kicks off his shoes, shoulders tight, heading to the kitchen. the keys land on the counter with a clatter. nick’s seated at the dining table, laptop aglow as he scrolls through analytics for his lip balm line. his jaw’s locked, eyes following chris like a warning.

matt leans against the fridge, gum chewing halted, strands of hair falling into his eyes. the tension is thick — immediate and suffocating.

“where were you?” nick asks slowly. cautious. like he’s approaching an animal that might bite.

“out.” chris pulls his hood off, running a shaky hand through his hair. his scalp burns under the touch. he doesn’t meet their eyes.

matt shifts. “you’ve been gone a lot, man. you don’t sleep anymore. you barely eat.”

“busy.” chris opens the fridge with one hand and snags a can of pepsi. “meetings. brand shit.”

nick clicks his tongue. “we haven’t had a meeting in days.”

“jesus fucking christ,” chris snaps, the can buckling slightly under his grip. “will you guys back off?”

nick flinches, mouth parting in shock. matt says nothing — just watches, eyes pinned to chris’s expression like he’s trying to read through the static.

“seriously,” chris continues, voice rising. “i’m not a kid. i don’t need a babysitter. i can breathe without telling you about it, okay? so stop blowing up my goddamn phone and get the fuck off my back.”

he storms upstairs before he can see their faces. the door slams shut behind him like a gunshot.

his hands tremble as he opens the can and chugs. the sweetness burns down his throat, fizzling in his chest. he swallows down the rage, the panic, the obsession clawing at his ribs. but it’s not enough. not even close.

because everything — everything — leads back to you.

the want, the ache, the fucking need that lives under his skin like a parasite. he can't breathe without thinking about you. he doesn't exist without you.

he drops the empty can into the trash. stares at the wall, the floor, the bed. the buzzing in his skull softens. guilt licks at his chest like a slow-burning fire. not for the things he’s done.

but for yelling. for letting the mask slip in front of the only people who’ve ever seen his real face.

funny, he thinks. he can strangle someone with a smile, but raising his voice at nick makes his stomach curl.

his door creaks open. he tenses — but it’s matt. slow steps. quiet concern.

matt sits beside him on the bed, silent. their shoulders brush.

a steady hand on chris’s back. warm. grounding. 

“do what you gotta do,” matt says softly. “you don’t have to talk. but we’re here. you hear me?”

chris nods into his brother’s shoulder.

it’s the only safe place he knows — besides you.

—

the street is almost too quiet. one of those thick, breathless nights where the sky hangs heavy with unshed rain and the air tastes metallic, like something bad is about to happen. shadows pool under the streetlights, and the clouds don’t move — they just hover there, bloated and waiting.

chris doesn’t mind the stillness. he sits behind the wheel, parked far enough down the block that her porch light doesn’t reach him, the engine long since killed, the heat of the day fading from the hood. it’s dark. it’s perfect.

inside the little bungalow, the girl — morgan — moves around like she’s safe. like she hasn’t been followed for the last five days. like she didn’t just walk straight into the blueprint he built around her. she’s in the living room, maybe fifteen feet away, clad in fuzzy socks and drowning in a hoodie that reaches her thighs.

the scent of buttery popcorn slips out through the half-cracked kitchen window, and somewhere deeper in the house, a record spins something soft and jazzy. the curtains are mostly drawn, but he can see enough — the lazy arch of her back as she stretches, the way her hair’s tied up loose and messy like she didn’t expect anyone to see her tonight.

the hoodie catches his eye. navy blue. old. the kind of fabric that pills after too many washes. there’s a logo stretched across the chest, half-faded, but he knows it. something flickers in the back of his mind — a cold crawl down his spine — but he doesn’t grab it. doesn’t pull on the thread. not yet. he inhales slowly, deeply, holds the breath in his chest and watches.

the mask waits in the passenger seat, glossy and empty. when he lifts it, his reflection warps in the surface — all smooth porcelain and hollow eyes. he doesn’t hesitate. it slides over his face like ritual.

the window screen on the side of the house is just as loose as he remembered. he nudges it free, slips it aside, pushes the glass open an inch at a time until the space is wide enough to slide through. inside, the house smells warm and lived-in — vanilla candles, laundry detergent, popcorn and shampoo.

his boots don’t make a sound. he moves like smoke through the kitchen, knowing every drawer before he opens it. the knife is heavier than he likes, thick and serrated, meant for meat. it’ll do.

she’s brushing her teeth in the bathroom, humming to herself. it’s soft, tuneless, the kind of sound people only make when they’re alone and completely unworried. he can hear the toothbrush clatter into the cup. water run. spit hit porcelain. she wipes her mouth with her sleeve, flicks the light off, and steps into the hallway without even looking up.

he sees her before she sees him — her silhouette backlit by the warm bedroom lamp, phone in one hand, thumb scrolling, still riding the tail end of whatever video or message she’d been laughing at.

and then she looks up.

for one thick second, everything stops. her whole body stutters. her breath catches halfway out. the phone slips from her fingers and hits the hardwood with a crunch of glass.

he doesn’t give her time to scream.

his hand shoots out, slamming her back into the wall so hard the frame on the hallway shelf wobbles and falls. her gasp is short and jagged, eyes wide as the knife flashes in the amber light. she fights — nails raking the mask, fingers clutching at his forearm — but he’s already braced for it. his grip is iron. 

“don’t,” he says, voice low and static-thick beneath the mask. “don’t make this harder.”

her mouth trembles like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t get the chance. his hand closes around her throat, pinning her higher against the wall, her heels dragging against the floor. the blade presses into her side. she feels it — the cold of it, the pressure — just before it pushes in. slow. steady. deliberate.

her body jerks, a half-choked scream bubbling in her throat, but it dies before it reaches her lips. the warmth spreads fast, thick and pulsing, slick between his fingers.

her legs buckle. her hands fall away from his arms. there’s a wet rattle in her chest, one final breath that doesn’t go anywhere. her eyes lock on his — wide, confused, glassy — and then they just… go out.

he lowers her gently, almost reverently, until her body slumps against the floor. he holds her there for a beat longer, studying her, head tilted. his own heartbeat stays steady. nothing rushes. this isn’t chaos. this is control.

he wipes the blade across the front of her hoodie — lazy, efficient — and tosses it onto the bed. the girl is already starting to cool. blood pools like ink, a soft red halo beneath her.

he’s halfway through resetting everything — window back in place, surfaces clean — when the buzz starts.

a faint vibration on the floor, muffled beneath shards of cracked glass. her phone, screen face-down, still blinking.

he glances at it without much thought. just muscle memory. he crouches, gloved fingers curling around the edges as he flips it over.

texts light the screen.

Matt: on my way now u want starbucks? babyyyy 

the world tilts.

he stares at the words, the shape of them, the nickname, the casualness. his stomach twists before his brain catches up.

and then, like floodlights flicking on, it hits.

chris has just murdered his brother’s girlfriend.

find parts of this series here !

a/n: let me cook 🔥

🏷: @drewswife @k4urltzx @courta13 @briizysturn @y2kstarr @chriscantwhisper @tezzzzzzzz @adorechris @dolliraez @rriverscuomo @sturnsblogs @mattspillowprincess @mattsplaything @sturns-mermaid @auttysturnz @sonnyangelsweetiee @izzylovesmatt @ribbonlovergirl @k4urltzx @matts-girlfriend @pair-of-pantaloons @444sturns @weron1ka @grrrrcherries  @matts-wife @thicknick19 @slvtf0rchr1s @devotedlyteenagemusic @adoremattsturns @slut4chrisloads @cayleeuhithinknott

divider by @anitalenia

this series is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only. all characters, events, and dialogue are entirely fictional and should not be interpreted as real. any similarities to real people or events are purely coincidental. credit and respect to all creators who’ve inspired similar works before me. I claim ownership only over my original writing, ideas, and interpretations. please do not repost, plagiarize, or steal. reblogs and love are always appreciated.

© zenithsturniolo

[leeril]

Quiet Worship

Tobias Rogers x Reader

Alternate universe to last one lol, still not proofread!! Short and all over the place, not used to writing in 1st person so just a lil practice

Banner credit- @cafekitsune

A deep breath as I open my eyes, your earthy scent draping over me like a thick veil. The curls on your chest, tickling my cheek, pulling me closer in. My eyes would lazily watch the slow rise and fall, ears counting the weary beats as they drummed against my face. I’d press a gentle kiss to your bare skin, holding it there for a moment too long.

You’d stir. A small exhale through your dry lips. The hands that cradle me would tighten. I don’t fight it, I’d simply lift my head up, craning my neck, just for a small glance of that peaceful stare.

I’d trail my fingers down, touch feather light, slowly, across your shoulder. The pads of my fingers pressing in and easing your muscles. I’d feel the small rumble in your chest as you hummed, satisfied, and I’d continue to stare up at you like you hung the moon and stars.

Your oh so tense body was always much more relaxed in the mornings, making it easier to admire, and admire I did. My fingers still tracing down, going over the bumps and scars, touching them so tenderly. Each one told a story and I was hooked to every page.

Your eyes would slowly open, the adoration in them so clear. Rich pools of brown almost daring me to drown in them. I’d falter for a moment, the intensity in your gaze making everything around us disappear. And then the corner of your mouth would lift, subtle, the gash would crinkle and your eyes would relax.

Such a small gesture, but it flustered me all the same.

Mornings together were always filled with a quiet intimacy, a sacred bubble that was almost impossible to leave. Such simple gestures amounting to something much more monumental.

Parting always felt like sin, like committing a horrible crime. The many lives that were ruined at your sullied hands seemed almost inconsequential in comparison. For your hands had been nothing if not gentle when it came to me.

You’d study me then, eyes tracing my shape with a natural ease, your stare still intense but softer; fonder. Almost sizing me up like prey. And I’d relent. Because if I was to be the fly in your web, I’d fight with all my might to get your ropes around me faster, tighter, I’d find all the prickles and imbed them into my soft skin.

I’d let you tear off my limbs one by one, staring at you with the same tender look. Doting on you even as you clip my wings. I may even beg you for more. Because. Those eyes, those gorgeous, beautiful eyes- hold such affection and warmth that even the pain would fill me with a sense of safety and love.

They say people do crazy and unspeakable things when backed into a corner. Would you think less of me if I pleaded for more?

My leg would sprawl over your thigh, your coarse hairs scrubbing against my skin like sandpaper, and I’d pull you closer. I’d take another deep breath, breathing you in like air, because you may as well have been.

My eyes would study your face with easy precision, drifting from your relaxed bushy brows, to the small scar on the corner, down the slopes of your crooked nose from a few too many brawls, to the sharp Cupid’s bow waiting to be marked by my arrow. I’d take all your features in like confessions, hoping you’d continue to transgress.

I’d take a moment and unravel your arm off me like string, lifting it closer, sweeping my lips along the freckles. My eyes shut, your heart hammering faster.

“thank you.” I’d say. My tone would be soft, but firm, loving, but needy. I wasn’t sure what I was thanking you for, but I thanked you nonetheless.

Your reply would come. A soft, acknowledging hum. And that’s all I really need.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Will you expand on that, Reverse Robin, with Tim? I just found it!

I don't have too much plot for the Cuckoo in a Robin's Nest Au (the Name is a WIP) yet, so I can't write a dabble for you. For those wondering, this references the DC-only story I was thinking of writing. It can be found here.

Tim glances up as the bell on the door chimes. He knows who it is before he spots the head of dirty blond hair and the warm smile stretched against a freckled face.

Little Freddie rapidly became a regular after Tim set up a side table for him to comfortably eat and do his homework. Tim didn't know much about the kid besides the fact that he was being raised by a single father and had two older brothers. Apparently, the three were constantly working yet barely making ends meet leaving the small child to his own devices.

That wasn't an uncommon story around these parts. Not many employers were willing to hire anyone with a Crime Alley address, and those that did often only wanted to overwork them while underpaying them.

The fact that the boy still actively went to school during the day surprised the Crime Alley dwellers more. He was a School Kid, which meant something different to the people here. If Ex-Bat had to bet, Freddie's family put his future before theirs, since the boy won a scholarship to Gotham Academy.

He had to tell the boy to cover his uniform when walking home. He never knew who would mistake him for a rich kid and what they would do for a bit of quick cash in these parts.

Freddie now always came after school without his blazer and uniform shirt. He always changed in the bathrooms, throwing on a faded oversized band t-shirt and a baggy, run-down hoodie.

Even with his uniform pants, Freddie easily changed from a Gotham Academy School kid to a common Alley Crime Kid.

Tim himself had two part-time jobs, but they weren't enough to get him out of the city. He missed his resources like a missing limb, but he had survived with less before, and he could now.

The idea of creating any link between himself and the heroes made his skin crawl, even if it was to hack into the bank accounts he once had access to. Tim was already risking so much by moving through the city without documentation.

If he created a fake paper trail, he worried the Bats would pick up on it. Tim was done with them all. He died for them. They let him die.

He would never let them back in again.

That is why he chose to stay in Gotham.

It was one of the few places that didn't bat an eye at the fact that Alvin Draper only had his name and homeless shelter address. His apartment was a shed in someone's backyard, barely legal to count it as a rental space. It had a bathroom, a tiny sink, and a stove, but not much else.

It was the best he could find with what little he had to prove himself.

His big, mountain-of-muscle Russian landlord thought Tim was a runaway or rent boy because of how he talked, but he took the risk of letting him live there anyway. He at least felt safe when the man pulled out a receipt book to give him proof of payment, and after a vague confirmation that Tim wouldn't bring any trouble around the house.

He only cared that he could turn in his rent in cash and that if he needed to work odd hours, he should not make any noise past ten p.m. He also offered to care for any troublemakers who couldn't understand that Tim was only working if they followed him home.

It was oddly sweet how Crime Alley had both empathy and self-preservation deep in their bones for each other.

"Hi Alvin!" Freedie chips, throwing his scruffed-up backpack in the chair closest to the wall. He bounces in his seat, digging into the Pepperoni pizza Tim sets on the table for him. It's only three slices, but with his employee discount, it's less than a soda from a vending machine.

Tim wasn't sure how much Freddie's family was struggling, but he didn't mind providing the boy with a meal if he could.

"Hi Freddie," he answers warmly, pouring the boy some water. Since they were the only ones in the restaurant, he lingered near the table, placing his hands on his hips as he regarded the boy's appearance. Three weeks ago, he caught a bruise, concealed by makeup, near his neck, and has been hyper-aware of any reappearances since. "How was school?"

"It was pretty good. John tried to throw me in a locker, but I punched him in the nuts like you taught me before he could," the boy reveals with a proud puff of his chest. "His friends tried to grab me, but I swung my shoulder bags at them and they got scared."

Tim sniggers, pride pooling in his gut. His fake Crime Alley accent is rougher than normal, further disguising him. No one who heard him ever thought he was born with a silver tooth. "Good. Teach those prep losers not to mess with ruffians."

Freddie's smile is crooked with both a mischievous nature and the edge of barely concealed violence. "My Dad and brothers think I shouldn't let them get under my skin."

"It's important to be the bigger man," Tim confirms, refilling the boy's cup after he chugs it nearly all in one drink. "It's also important to defend yourself before things escalate."

Freddie is silent momentarily before carefully offering, "My second-oldest brother used to say that, too."

Tim doesn't know what happened to the second oldest, but he has noticed that Freedie always speaks of him in the past tense. This was another common thing in Crime Alley.

People died all the time, and everyone who called this hell-hole home had personally experienced loss at least once before turning eighteen.

"Your brother had the right idea." He settles on grinning at the boy. Freedie's blue eyes are searching, tracing over Tim's face as if searching for a lie, but the door chimes again, and he has to turn away to greet the new customers before he can ask what the boy is searching for.

He offers Freedie a slight nod while returning to the cashier. He pretends he doesn't notice how the twelve-year-old pulls out his homework after finishing his pizza slices. More specifically, he ignores how the boy occasionally attempts to take his picture between math questions.

It's cute how hard he tried to be sneaky about it and how his frustration grew with each failed attempt. Tim was having far too much fun carefully dodging his camera, making sure to move in a way that made it appear like an accident that his face was never captured correctly.

It reminded Tim of himself when he was twelve. Ah, memories.

[colerains]

✨🐙 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒶𝓊𝓇𝒶 𝒾𝓈 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝓈𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓋𝒾𝒷𝑒𝓈. 🐙✨

Humanstuck AU (7/12): Feferi Peixes

Humanstuck Lore: I thought about making Feferi the popular "Queen Bee" archetype or a beach-obsessed "VSCO Girl." Both would make sense for her aquatic theme and social status within Homestuck. But my goal with this project is less about "making the Trolls human" and more about recontextualizing individual personalities.

My Feferi is a tarot-reading, crystal-loving, astrology girly. Somewhere between Manic Pixie and Art Hippie. She is a bit of a social chameleon, applying 100% of herself to whatever she does. A CPR-certified babysitter with glowing parental recommendations, who parties harder than anyone else at the function. (𝘓𝘦𝘵'𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘎𝘢𝘮��𝘦𝘦.)

I've always headcanoned the Peixes as African American. It makes The Condesce's weird urban slang feel slightly less... idk... minstrel-y? Plus, with Meenah knowing how to braid, to me it makes sense to draw Human Feferi as Black.

Like Eridan, Feferi comes from an upper-class background. She's 𝘙𝘐𝘊𝘏-rich but doesn’t talk about her family's wealth. Her parents are strict, Catholic, and conservative. Her free-spirited personality, reckless abandon, and abstract spiritualism are a direct response to the strict, controlling upbringing.

Fef is a ride-or-die kind of friend. Opinionated, overprotective, and aggressively supportive. She's nice to everybody and will put up with a lot of personal abuse. But the moment you're an asshole to someone she cares about, it's on sight. She does a lot of activism and volunteer work—in part due to her empathic nature, but also because of her "Rich Gill-t." (Get it!? '𝙂𝙞𝙡𝙡-' like a fish!!! ☝️🥴 🐠)

She started dating Eridan at 13 and spent the next five years waiting for him to come out as gay. Eridan's always been a bit elitist, but when he began making passive-aggressive comments about her race and body, a scrawny computer nerd came in to deck his ass. Long story short, Fef is happily dating Sollux, and now Eridan is an incel...

So... rip, I guess. 💀

[honeydippedfiction]

#18 of established relationship with Joe x Angel

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#7. Telling their family that they think they're going to marry you.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Snow drifted gently from the sky, blanketing Athens, Ohio in a hush that muffled the world into stillness. Joe Burrow had always loved this kind of cold. It reminded him of Friday nights at the local stadium, breath steaming in the air, fingers numb inside worn gloves. But this year, as he pulled into his parents’ driveway, it wasn’t the memories of football games or the crackle of hometown pride that filled his chest—it was something warmer, quieter, and harder to name.

Angel sat beside him in the passenger seat, her gloved hands resting in her lap. She wore a thick, camel-colored coat and a knit beanie that framed her curls like a halo. The car’s heater hummed softly between them, but Joe reached across the console and wrapped his hand around hers anyway.

“It’s like a snow globe,” she said, her voice soft, almost to herself.

Joe smiled. “That’s kind of what this town is like.”

She looked over at him then, raising an eyebrow. “You mean small and charming or claustrophobic and full of secrets?”

“Bit of both,” he replied, laughing. “But mostly the first. Especially when you’re here.”

“You nervous?” he asked, casting her a sidelong glance.

Angel raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Why? You think your mom’s gonna grill me this year?”

“She might. That’s how you know she likes you.”

Angel laughed, the sound rich and melodic. “If that’s the test, I passed it last Christmas.”

Joe squeezed her hand gently. “You did. With honors.”

They pulled up in front of the house just as the porch light flicked on. The Burrow home stood sturdy and familiar, wrapped in evergreen garlands and framed by frosted windowpanes. The warmth inside seemed to radiate from the bricks themselves.

As they stepped out of the car, Angel took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold. Joe rounded the car and reached for her hand without thinking.

“Ready?” he asked.

She gave a small, steady nod. “Always.”

The Burrow home hadn’t changed much. The same wooden shutters framed the windows, and a big red bow hung on the porch rail like always. But there was a new wreath on the door this year, a fresh layer of white lights coiled around the porch columns. Joe’s mom had clearly been busy.

Inside, the house buzzed with the easy noise of family—clinking glasses, overlapping conversations, the faint sound of a football game on in the background. The air smelled of cinnamon, roasted turkey, and something sugary cooling on the kitchen counter. As they stepped inside, Robin came bustling out of the kitchen with a wide smile and open arms, apron still tied around her waist, cheeks flushed from cooking.

“You’re here!” she said, pulling them both into warm hugs. “Come in, take off your coats. Angel, you’re just in time to save me from burning the sweet potatoes.”

Angel laughed as she unwound her scarf. “I’ve got you. Just point me in the direction.”

Joe lingered by the front door for a moment, watching her. Watching how she moved straight toward the kitchen like she’d been raised in this house too. watching her fold into his family’s rhythm like she’d always been part of it. Watching how his mother smiled wider whenever Angel spoke, how his brother leaned in to hear her stories. His dad, Jimmy, emerged from the den with two mugs of cider, handing one to Joe and giving him a pat on the back.

“She fits in well,” Jimmy said casually.

Joe nodded, quiet for a moment. “Yeah. She really does.”

✦͙͙͙͙❥⃝∗⁎ʚb⁎∗❥⃝**͙✦͙͙͙✦͙͙͙͙❥⃝∗⁎ʚb⁎∗❥⃝**͙✦͙͙͙

After dinner—an hours-long event full of laughter, second helpings, and mild debates over which pie was superior—the family settled into the living room. Robin and Jimmy sipped cider from matching ceramic mugs while the younger generation picked spots on the floor or curled into armchairs. Joe’s grandma, Evelyn, had claimed her usual spot by the fire, her cane leaning nearby, her short silver curls immaculate as always.

Joe stood near the hallway archway, his back resting lightly against the frame, a half-empty mug of cider warming his hands. The living room had grown quieter in the past few minutes, the energy mellowing into the golden stillness that comes only after a long day of food, laughter, and being surrounded by people who know you best.

Across the room, Angel sat cross-legged on the rug beside the tree, deep in conversation with Grandma Evelyn while Harper—Joe’s energetic six-year-old niece—curled up beside her with a lap full of paper snowflakes. Angel’s sleeves were dusted with glitter, and her eyes were bright, focused entirely on Harper’s animated explanation of how her snowflake was “special because it has six hearts.”

Angel laughed, and Joe swore it was the sound that could stop time. She touched Harper’s cheek with the back of her hand, then reached to adjust the throw blanket that had slipped off Evelyn’s lap. It was such a small thing—casual, thoughtful—but to Joe, it felt like witnessing a glimpse of his future: Sunday mornings, shared glances across family dinners, children running barefoot in a yard.

He hadn’t even noticed his parents had come to stand beside him until he felt the light pressure of his mother’s hand slip around his elbow.

Robin followed his gaze, her own expression softening. “You’re staring,” she said with a knowing smile.

Joe didn’t look away. “Can you blame me?”

Robin let out a soft laugh, the kind only mothers have—the kind stitched with memory and a hundred unspoken things. “I don’t,” she said. “I don’t at all.”

Jimmy stepped up beside them, sipping from his cider, his posture relaxed but attentive. “You alright?” he asked, sensing the weight in the air but not pressing.

Joe nodded, then glanced down at his cider before lifting his eyes again to Angel. She was now holding Harper in her lap, reading the tag on a gift aloud in a playful voice, Grandma Evelyn chuckling quietly beside them.

He swallowed, then spoke. “I think I’m gonna marry her.”

Robin’s head tilted slightly as she looked up at him, and for a second, Joe thought she might tear up.

“Oh, honey,” she said softly, touching his chest with her palm. “We knew.”

Joe’s breath caught. “You did?”

His dad chuckled. “She won us over before you finished your second plate of stuffing last year.”

Robin smiled, then leaned her head gently against Joe’s shoulder. “But tonight… watching you look at her like that? That’s how your dad looked at me the night he told my parents we were getting married.”

Joe’s lips twitched into a smile, caught between humility and awe. “It just feels… right. All of it. Her. Us.”

“It is right,” Robin said, her voice low and certain. “She brings out the part of you that doesn’t come from football or headlines. The part we saw when you were five and stayed behind at recess to help clean up without being asked.”

Jimmy clapped a hand on his son’s back. “Just promise us one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“When you propose—don’t do it on the jumbotron at a game,” he said with a smirk. “Your mom will disown you.”

Joe laughed, then leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes for a brief second. The warmth of the cider, the steady presence of his parents, Angel’s laughter floating softly through the room—it all wrapped around him like a promise.

“No jumbotron,” he said. “I want it to be just us.”

Robin gave his arm a gentle squeeze, then whispered, “She’s going to say yes.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“She’s special,” Jimmy said after a pause. “You know that already.”

Joe exhaled, a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Yeah. I do.”

Jimmy looked over at his son, his face unreadable for a moment. Then, with a slow nod, he lifted his glass. “Well… don’t wait too long. Women like that don’t just stick around because you’re a quarterback.”

Joe laughed, the sound low and genuine. “I know, Dad.”

Robin stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. No lecture. No checklist. Just a mother’s silent blessing pressed against her son’s chest.

There was no big announcement. No dramatic pause or speech. Just that moment—the three of them standing side by side, watching Angel laugh with the youngest and oldest members of their family like she’d always belonged.

✦͙͙͙͙❥⃝∗⁎ʚb⁎∗❥⃝**͙✦͙͙͙✦͙͙͙͙❥⃝∗⁎ʚb⁎∗❥⃝**͙✦͙͙͙

When Joe returned to the living room, Angel had dozed off slightly, her head resting against a throw pillow. He sat back down beside her and gently brushed a curl from her forehead. She stirred, eyes fluttering open.

“Hey,” she murmured.

“Hey,” he whispered back, letting his fingers curl around hers again.

Outside, the snow kept falling. And inside, Joe knew something had shifted—not just in the night, but in him. This wasn’t just someone he loved. This was someone he could build with, someone he would build with. And while the ring wasn’t in his pocket yet, the promise was already in his heart.

✦͙͙͙͙❥⃝∗⁎ʚb⁎∗❥⃝**͙✦͙͙͙✦͙͙͙͙❥⃝∗⁎ʚb⁎∗❥⃝**͙✦͙͙͙

Later that night, as coats were shrugged on and leftovers packed into foil, Angel hugged Robin tightly at the door, whispering, “Thank you for everything,” in a voice filled with gratitude and something deeper—something that had nothing to do with dinner.

As Joe and Angel stepped out into the night, the snow still falling lightly around them, Joe looked over at her. She was humming softly, cradling a tin of cookies against her chest, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and from something like joy.

He didn’t tell her what he’d said. Not yet.

But in his heart, the decision had already been made.

[brooklyn-house]

here's my take on pirate!riordanverse (mainly ta) au

thank you TA server for giving me ideas <3 mwah :nicoautism:

alabaster is captain of his ship.

ethan is a guy who became a pirate out of necessity, and just sort of works for whoever offers him most. that, in our story, is al.

luke is a captain of his own ship, with such bangers in his crew as kelli, a bunch of monsters, piper and leo, blanche, reyna

(piper and leo are a comedic duo in this. they're kinda lost and tbh not important to the plot at all)

chris is a guy who luke kinda kidnapped from one of the ports, but he's just there. he cooks for them c:

during a confrontation, al steals chris away from luke's ship, and he cooks for them from then on (he's prospering a bit more there)

luke became a pirate after spending his young years with annabeth and thalia as a trio of orphans, hearing tales of the high seas.

while "amazon queen" hylla leads her own battleship with a crew, after her and reyna fell out, reyna's gotten the short end of the stick, ending up on luke's crew (very unsatisifed by where her life is going)

jason is somewhat local royalty. he's from a rich family and probably the heir to one of the islands. reyna probably served him for some time, either as a servant or a bodyguard or something

his barbie-esque gay evil royal advisor is octavian, whos always whispering evil things in his ear while rubbing his grubby little hands together, and jason might as well be listening to music while he's doing this. he's just actively ignoring it

hylla's crew are the type of pirates who get paid by rulers to do things for them (like trash ships of business competitors or hunt other pirates who are wanted atm)

silena is a part of al's crew. she's kinda like the elizabeth swan character of this

she's the sort of character to use her "feminine charms" on people and then reveal she has a knife hidden under her tights, you know what i mean

lou ellen is kinda like a potc calypso in this, in that she has her witchy hut that the different crews sometimes visit to ask for favors. she's straight chillin in there

ethan is, the entire time, kinda resigned to his fate of being a pirate, and makes a point of not caring about the people he's working with, rather just getting the job done

but over his tenure as a part of alabaster's crew, al sees him as competent and he becomes de facto his second in command (and they become rly close teehee)

alabaster's crew and luke's crew are in this very love-hate stance towards each other, where they're either allied or in conflict, depending on the circumstances

al's crew are also kinda the underdogs in this situation. like they may or may not have splintered off of luke's crew when him and al had a disagreement

and i mean look at them. there's clovis, who's always up on the crow's nest "on watch", they're all just pretty sure he's sleebin up there. ethan, who doesn't want to be here, but if it pays, it pays. silena, who's actually pretty competent. but also like bad luck or whatever. chris who's just happy to be there grillin his meat or whatever. and there's like chiara benvenuti and maybe like butch walker, and chiara just complains half the time while butch is hardly ever heard speaking and just serves as muscle. they're a comedic duo guys trust

[toiletpudding]

A lot of Hollywood portrayals' of Adam depict him as a jerk and the embodiment of toxic masculinity all because of two reason:

He blamed Eve for eating the fruit.

In the Lilith folklore he wanted her to be subservient to him.

These are the reasons why he is always turned into a barrel of laughter. Which is really simplified and bad understanding of the character and easy targeting. Of course Adam is at fault for eating the fruit and him blaming Eve is childish and a horrible thing to do as a husband but we can't just ignore the fact that he is a human and that he was still fresh out of the oven. He just got a conscious, was feeling ashamed and was panicking. He's definitely gonna take time to mature and learn. We can't expect him to be perfect, he is just a dude and we can't base his entire personality on that one instance! His life didn't end there after he blamed, Eve, he still lived for 930 years and there is so much character there to be explored and we can't just ignore that.

Then Lilith, it's a myth. It's not part of the canon Bible and was invented like a millennia after the canon was established. If you wanna use the her folklore to base Adam's personality it's completely fine and so is using paradise lost for his personality since both of them are nothing but "Bible Fanfictions". You can write stories where Adam is the good guy and Lilith is the bad gal since that is also what a lot of the original myths follow too.

I just wanna say that these characters are humans and can't be treated as just as one note villains or heros and that they can be portrayed in any other interesting way.

You have done an excellent job at bringing the humaness of them to life in your comic and I "really" appreciate it and love you for doing such a great job at the characterization and hate you for making my heart break at their circumstances. I really love your masterful depiction of these characters who actually feel much more rich and Alive than the original version from the show.

Thank you for the kind words 🫶

And I just find it funny that all these depictions make Adam look like the bad guy but I don't really ever see anyone trashing on Eve in media (to be fair I don't usually watch a lot of stuff based around religions but just the stuff I have seen) for taking the fruit, sure she was tricked, but big G had one rule and she broke it.

Like, even my Eve, everyone on here talked shit about Adam being pissed off at her and they treat her like a special bean who did nothing wrong. 😭

[a-bit-of-writing]

08/30 - Negotiate

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Characters: Astarion x Reader 

Words: 1,291

Summary: Astarion is used to giving… in exchange for something. Blood, pleasure, favors - everyone wants something. So when you do something kind with no strings attached, he’s suspicious. Then he’s confused. Then he’s undone. Because no one ever offers him company without a price….until now.

note: been wanting to do this for a while now - so I consider this the 1st chapter of my yet to be announced full story. For now, it serves as Day 8th of my fanfiction challenge,

Moonlight silvered every broken column around the camp, catching on pale birch trunks and the scattered shards of shattered statues. The others were asleep or on watch, their muted voices drifting somewhere beyond the ruined archway. Only Astarion remained in the central clearing, lounging with theatrical languor on a fallen pillar, crimson-lined cloak spread like spilled wine across the stone.

You approached with a small mending kit cradled in one hand. His white silk shirt - savaged by a ghoul’s claws earlier - gaped open at the shoulder, fraying threads fluttering against alabaster skin.

Astarion’s eyes flicked to the kit, then to you. One pale brow arched in lazy appraisal. “Darling, if you were desperate to get my clothes off again, you only had to ask.”

You ignored the bait, sinking to your knees beside him. “Hold still.”

“My favorite command,” he murmured, voice a purr shaped for dark corners and entanglements. “Though I usually prefer it whispered.”

You threaded the needle. “And I prefer my patients quiet.”

His lips parted in a small, delighted “ooh,” but he obeyed. Only the occasional hiss of thread sliding through cloth broke the hush. When your knuckles brushed his skin, cool as porcelain beneath moonlight, he glanced down, lashes half‑lidded.

“Must you be so gentle?” he asked, faux‑petulant. “I fear I’ll become accustomed to it.”

“You could learn to enjoy softness,” you said, tightening the final knot.

“Oh, I enjoy many soft things.” His gaze dipped, undeniably appreciative, before returning to your face. “But softness always comes with a bill.” He flashed teeth - not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “Shall we discuss payment?”

You finished snipping the thread. “There is none.”

A laugh burst from him, bright and brittle. “Adorable. Truly. But come now - everyone wants something.” He rose, looming above you, silk settling over lean muscle. “A kiss? A bite? A night tangled in sheets until dawn burns us both? Name it.”

You stood, brushing pine needles from your knees. “Not interested.”

“In me?” He pressed a hand theatrically to his chest. “Impossible. Or perhaps coin, then? Secrets? I have centuries’ worth - recipes for poison, noble scandals, the names of hidden vaults.”

You shook your head.

His smile thinned. “Power, maybe? A favor owed by a monster with sharp teeth. Very useful, our kind of favor.”

Still you said nothing.

Astarion’s mirth cooled into suspicion. He prowled a half‑circle around you, predator graceful despite the torn shirt. “Fine. We’ll drop the flirtation. What darkness do you hide, sweet thing? Are you planning to trade my gratitude for someone else’s misery?”

“Astarion—”

“Or do you fancy ensnaring me?” He leaned close, breath velvet and iron. “Make me yours the way Cazador made me his? I’ve worn chains before; I can spot new ones being forged.”

The hurt behind the venom stung more than the words. You inhaled, steadying your voice. “I don’t want chains. Not on you. Not on anyone.”

He scoffed, but the sound wavered. “Then what do you want?”

You hesitated. Because the truth felt too small, too fragile for a man who thought currency only came in blood or lust. Yet you spoke it anyway, quiet but unwavering.

“Your company,” you said. “Your presence. Sit with me awhile. Just talk. Nothing sexual, no favors owed.” You met his eyes. “That’s all.”

A bark of incredulous laughter escaped him. “That’s rich! You mend my shirt and ask for tea‑time conversation? Darling, is this some new kink I haven’t heard of?”

“I’m serious.”

“People do not help Astarion Ancunin for conversation. They help for pleasure, profit, or pity and I despise all three.”

“I’m not offering pity,” you answered. “And conversation is a pleasure, at least to me. If you’d rather walk away, you can.”

He opened his mouth - surely to deliver another teasing barb - but the words died. You watched his expression shift, glittery amusement draining until confusion sat naked on his features. It lasted only a heartbeat before he hid it behind a smirk, but you’d seen it: the startled child beneath the painted masque.

He licked his lips, voice softer. “You truly expect nothing else?”

“I expect you to keep the shirt intact,” you said, folding your kit. “Beyond that? No.”

Silence unfurled, heavy as velvet. The campfire popped; an ember drifted skyward. Somewhere distant, a nightjar called.

Finally, hesitantly, Astarion settled back on the pillar and patted the mossy stone beside him. “Well. If conversation is the price, it would be rude not to pay.” His tone aimed for flippant but landed shy of conviction.

You sat, leaving a respectful hand’s breadth between you. He glanced at the gap, then at your face, as though trying to discern an angle he could exploit. Finding none, he exhaled - a soft, bewildered sound.

“What would you have me speak about?” he asked. “I warn you, my tales skew toward decadence and gore.”

“Tell me what you miss,” you said, staring into the fire. “Before all this.”

He blinked. Perhaps no one had asked him that in two centuries. You could almost hear the rusty gears turning.

“I…miss flavor,” he said at last, voice contemplative. “Food was pointless after Cazador. Imagine recalling the taste of wine, but every sip now is ash unless it’s blood.” He forced a laugh. “That’s terribly morbid dinner chatter, isn’t it?”

You shrugged. “Dinner’s long over.”

He studied you. In the fire‑lit dark, his crimson eyes caught sparks of gold. “I used to love pastries,” he muttered, as if confessing sin. “Piled high with sugared berries. There was a bakery near the palace in Baldur’s Gate. Dawn‑rise steam in the windows, the scent of yeast and honey.” A wistful curl shaped his mouth, bruised by longing. “I would sneak out with friends after magistrate meetings. Ruin my appetite before banquets.” He huffed. “Petty rebellion, but mine.”

You listened, neither pitying nor prodding. The quiet between you carried no demand. He seemed to feel that difference - like cool water on burned skin.

“Your turn,” he said, after a while. “What do you miss?”

You told him: moonlit windows in a city far south, the hush right before summer rain, the way fresh parchment smells when you crack open a new journal. Small, human things - evenly traded.

Time blurred. He lounged with one knee drawn up, cloak draping elegant folds. Anecdotes slipped free - barbed jokes about Balduran nobles, sly impressions of Cazador’s fawning spawn. Each story left a little more daylight between him and his fear.

When the fire dwindled to a glowing heart, Astarion stretched lithely. “Look at that - we’ve nearly talked the poor flames to death.”

You offered him the blanket draped over your shoulders. “I’m heading to my bedroll. Keep warm.”

He accepted it, fingertips brushing yours - a touch light as breath, yet enough to raise gooseflesh. He noticed, of course; his lips tilted upward in the faintest, most genuine smile you’d seen.

“I’ll return it tomorrow,” he said. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

A pause. “For deciding I’m worth more than barter.”

You gave a small nod and started toward your corner of camp.

At your first step, his voice followed: dry, teasing again, yet threaded with something softer.

“Just so we’re clear,” he called, “if you ever want to renegotiate - say, trade polite company for a night tangled in scandalous positions - you have only to ask.”

You laughed, glancing back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He watched you until you vanished beyond the ruined archway. Only when the night quieted did Astarion glance at the neat stitches on his sleeve. He brushed them with one thumb, as if testing reality.

For the first time in two hundred years, someone had offered him kindness priced not in flesh, coin, or fear but in presence. A currency he scarcely believed existed.

And in the hush of crumbling moonlit stone, Astarion found himself strangely, achingly…rich.

[starzfield]

“Absolutely. No stitching can happen without alcohol !”

She knew he was hooked on the offer. It wasn’t like Veronica had any ill intention anyway, she really wanted to heal Jackson the best she could, anything else was just a bonus.

It wasn’t like the woman intended to trap him. Her home wasn’t a jail.

She gave Mosh chin’s scratching once he licked her hand, chuckling. “What a duo of cuties you are…”

The woman cooed, giving a few more pets before withdrawing her hand to clap them happily. “Really ? Great ! At least I get to invite one of you. I really need to have you and your friends for dinner one day, I still feel like I owe you for taking care of my son.”

Smiling, Veronica started to lead the way, placing herself next to his arm - hopefully partly hiding the wound from eyesight. At least they weren’t far, she was on her way back home when that guy cornered her. “A pleasure to meet you, Jacks. I’d say I wish it’d be in better circumstances, but… I admit it was quite fun, don’t you think ? We’ll just not tell the story to someone.” She winked at him, mischievous. Obviously the ‘someone’ was William.

“Oh my, how do I put this… Some people just can’t take no for an answer, you know ? He was pretty insistent…”

There was a pout on her face, like a kid who got caught doing a bad thing, but not convinced by the lecture they were receiving. “But if I’m honest, I think he was angry because of his lost wallet. Maybe if he didn’t walk around insulting people’s husbands, his wallet wouldn’t have vanished from his pant’s back pocket ! Karma can be a bitch, right ?”

Her smile was blinding, Veronica looking delighted and… Maybe not innocent, but an attempt at innocence.

There was just too much sparkling amusement in her eyes for that attempt to have any efficiency.

“Now he has lost his wallet and his dignity. Poor man.”

Her tone was the opposite of her words, full of satisfaction like a cat who got the bowl of milk and the bird.

William’s mother guided them to the building Connor parked at not so long ago, then to her apartment. It was definitely not a rich place, rather average leaning towards poor, but it wasn’t too damaged or dirty in the communal parts.

Veronica opened the unlocked apartment’s door, gesturing for her guest to enter, before closing it behind them.

They were immediately welcomed with the smell of good food cooking, as it filled the whole apartment with a drool worthy aroma.

“Make yourself home sweety, I’ll be there soon.”

She gently pushed him towards the living-room. It wasn’t a big place, but still has a room with an old, comfy looking couch and two armchairs around a coffee table, and next to it a table big enough for ten people, though currently height chairs. It was set for six, the whole thing colorful and warm.

Though out of sight, there was the kitchen, a bathroom and three rooms. Veronica first walked to the kitchen, finding there her husband, Sean, in the middle of cooking.

“Love, you’ll never guess !!”

Amused, Sean stopped his actions to catch his wife who, of course, had just thrown herself at his neck without any care for the fact he was literally using a knife, and chuckled at her enthusiastic kiss.

“I heard you talk. Did you bring someone ?”

Her grin widened and she laughed. “What a smart man ! Yes, this gentleman saved me from trouble. But he got a nasty cut, so I have some sewing to do !”

Still amused, he nodded at her explanation. He knew she’d tell him the whole story in colored details later, anyway.

“Oh, and I have a gift for you !”

Opening her purse, she got the knife out to give it to Sean, handle first. He took the blade to study it, rising an eyebrow before making a disapproving noise.

“Whoever had it didn’t take care of it. I’m not even going to use it to cut the tomatoes. But thank you, honey.”

She giggled as he kissed her forehead, and judging it was more than time to attend to her guest, Veronica resumed her plan. She threw the asshole’s wallet in the ‘key bowl’ next to the door as she passed by, getting the stitching kit from the bathroom.

Then the woman joined Jacks with the kit and a bowl of water, which was put down for Mosh, before she went looking inside a cabinet.

“So, sweety, what would you like ? Wiskey ? Scotch ? Rum ?”

Veronica would then bring the bottle and a glass, pouring one for her guest before getting ready to stitch - waiting for him to be ready for her to start.

Eventually, Sean would make an appearance, greeting Jackson with a smile.

“I’m not done back there, but thank you for helping my lady. If you ever need a magician or a barman, don’t hesitate to ask.”

He had also brought a bowl with a few homemade naan cheese, putting them on the coffee table for Jackson before retreating to the kitchen again.

At the punk’s side, puffed out with pride. “He’s too modest. Sean can do way more than that ! And he’s a great cook, you should give it a try.”

Not even a second her motions faltered as she stitched, not even with her husband's arrival. She worked fast and accurate, her stitching flawless till the end.

Seriously just what was his luck that he would run into one of William's family members yet again? It was like they were everywhere!... How big was his family even?

"Uh yeah, sure. No problem." He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a bit awkward now for whatever reason. When she began fussing over his wounds though, he seemed surprised and confused. Connor would usually yell at him for getting in a fight and Damien would offer whatever help he could. They worried in their own way but it had been ages since someone worried about him like this.

Almost reminded him of his own mom. And before the thought could even settle did Jacks toss it aside, about to decline and tell her that he was fine but his arm was telling otherwise.

The Punk checked the wound and realized that this would not heal on its own and without insurance, he always had a hard time fixing himself up.

"Alcohol, huh?"

Well, getting patched up for free while also getting a drink didn't sound too bad now that he thought about it. Besides, it was a week day. Her son was most likely working so he could avoid running into him again. How long would this take? 30 minutes? Yeah, sounded better than whatever he could come up with.

"Sure, why not?" The moment she had snatched that knife, Jacks realized that his mom was nothing like William. And again, he was reminded of his own mom.

"It's cool, I'm Jacks by the way." Mosh was sniffing her hand, licking her fingers as his stubbly little tail wagged like crazy.

"Why did that guy try to fuckin' bust your face in anyway?" And as they were leaving the scene of the crime, Jacks took one last look back at the unconscious guy before looking at her.

[killishin]

— ♤ muse.

PART 01.

pairing: dick grayson x sculptor! reader

category: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

content warning: afab reader, mentions of depression, alternate universe where dick is not a vigilante, tbh none of the batfam is. and.. well they'll be added as we go

summary: loneliness often gives rise to the most beautiful of art, and that art is Dick Grayson, coming alive. literally.

a/n: so the reader here is a sculptor. depressed artist, as we all are (T＿T) as we go in the story we'll see where others are, but everyone is a normal citizen. I do art myself but I dont know much about sculpting so if I go wrong anywhere I apologise. enjoy

wc: 1.6k

fic masterlist. next.

dividers by @cafekitsune

loneliness has been, for a very long time, a dear friend of yours. grabbed your throat by its sweet claws, wrapping your cold body in its embrace to further dip you in frost, tearing you away from civilisation— from happiness. a friend, yes.

you were content with life, as everyone saw it, as interviews wrote it. a well established artist, a renowned young painter and sculptor. quick to fame and praise, you weren't filthy rich of course, but money was no longer tight. you had your very own apartment, and it was big enough— not that it mattered, you lived alone. have been alone for quite sometime.

sometimes you regretted buying a big place to live, the eerily quietness of your apartment sometimes haunted you. it made you hate it, yet you couldn't pry yourself out of it, you didn't want to. you had grown used to it, comfortable in the nightmares it gave you.

there was a time in your life, though, when your home started feeling more like a cage— not beautiful paintings adorning your walls but blood on the impossibly hot iron bars that seered you whenever you tried to leave. you had started losing hope, losing yourself.

thats when he came into your life. not really came, you brought him to life. yes that fits rather well.

nightmares that were only filled with screams and aches, when every night was spent in tears staining your pillow— it was all replaced by him. at first you hardly remembered him, all you could piece together was his body. you had intented to brush it off, but unknowingly so ,you became obsessed. you painted him in desperation to put a face on whoever your mind was conjuring up. pages and pages of sketches littered your desk, and everywhere in your house— but no face felt right.

"— come on you can do this." he teasingly encouraged, his laugh melodious enough to put a smile on your face.

"no i can't!" you groaned with an embarrassed laugh as you shook your head. you laughed in your dreams, it didn't feel forced, it didn't hurt to.

he dropped back from the handstand to his feet without so much as a huff before walking towards you, his extended hands taking yours in, gently pulling you towards him. you couldn't see his face, or maybe you can and your dream self has awful vision.

"why don't you at least try?"

"i'll fall."

"i would be there to catch you, baby."

it wasn't exactly him that got you obsessed, it was the idea of him. of course, he isn't real. but he gives you much more happiness than any real person could. you hoarded the happiness he gave you, eager to sleep and much more eager to see his face. you were greedy for him, all of him. alone in the world you finally felt like you had someone.

you probably need help, need some good therapy, but you aren't yet ready to let go of him yet.

the stars looked different, they were more visible, which was weird since you hardly ever saw stars in the city. but then again, dreams are weird.

"they're too bright." you whispered, to yourself you thought before you felt a hand intertwine with yours and you relaxed, because you knew its him, your soul knows it.

"i think they're pretty." he whispered back and it was a surreal feeling, his thumb on your hand, caressing with such care, "woah— was that a shooting star?" he immediately closed his eyes, as if wishing for something.

you huffed out a small laugh, "what you believe in that?"

his eyes opened slowly, a small sigh escaped him before he looked back at you, smiling softly while his eyes adored you like people adore your art— but much more intense than that. as if he's your artist and you're his muse, his one and only.

"maybe."

days and days passed, you barely left your apartment. hell you barely left your study, only to eat and shower. you slept right beside the the art you're bringing to life. you've been sculpting him, day and night, thats all you do. you have abandoned all other projects, they simply don't inspire any more creative juice out of you— him, though, he hoarded it all for himself. greedy little shit.

your hands sculpt him like you're shaping love, such care, such precision— such softness. you leave no room for mistake, no room for anything amiss. even though you remember much less from your dreams, its as if your hands do. they carve as if they've mapped his skin a billion times, with such familiarity. it scares you sometimes, you're sure you've gone mad.

"i think i know why im starting to like the sky so much." you stated, words hanging with a certain heaviness, a realisation that has started to knock some sense in you.

he looked up from your lap, the setting sun draping a beautiful hue on him, somehow making him even more ethereal. you wonder if you're even worthy to see him, even if he's a figment of your own imagination.

"why?"

"they're like you. pretty." you said, looking at the flower in your hand, slowly plucking its petals out, "sometimes you look... starry , like the night sky. sometimes you're too bright —"

"—too bright?"

"yes like maybe its because of your personality?"

"you say it likes its a bad thing."

"no—" you pause to frown, but couldn't help the smile, "okay i mean— you're sometimes too loud maybe?"

he scoffed dramatically, flicking the flower out your hands, "now that is just mean. im not loud. i sound pleasent."

"sure."

"say i sound pleasent."

"sure—" you pause, yet again faced with the fact that you don't even know the name of this visitor of yours. you never say it out loud, never were aware of it while it dream— or even if you were you just didn't say it, somehow thinking that you just can't ask.

"what?" he tilts his head at you, and your brows furrow— why can't you see him? it has started to irk you now suddenly.

"your name. your face." you said slowly,but then your eyes widened in surprise, that you could actually say it. "i- i don't—"

suddenly blue eyes stared back at you, crinkled in amusement, beautiful lips pulled into a cheshire smirk. you weren't even aware when his hand reached your jaw, his thumb caressing your lips.

"you will. soon."

it was a shock that whole morning, you truly didn't expect to ever put a face to it. but before your rational mind can dip into how eerie it all is, your hands immediately started to work. it was as if that one glimpse was enough.

and enough it was, you had sculpted his face just as you dreamt it, an annoyingly charming smile, the eyes that both stole and mended hearts. it took you quite some time to finish it, weeks actually.

when you were finally done, your heart swelled and roared, your hand raised to caress his face. soft were his cheeks but you knew had he existed it would be softer.

but just as fast as that euphoria encased you... reality came crushing in.

your study was clattered with canvases and paper, paint left spilled here and there, there was hardly any clean floor. stepping out of your study was even more of a punch to the gut. dishes piled up one after another, half opened ramen packets or the pan on the stove with stale pancake that you had left half made.

you weren't exactly a clean freak but you did kept things organised enough to look tidy. but this... this was a mess and showed every other sign towards the glaringly big issue.

your crumbling life.

your phone buzzed in the sofa and you saw just how many texts and missed calls you didn't see. it was your assistant, both concerned for you and your career that you have almost thrown away. her incessant scolding melded into the background as you sat down on the floor, rubbing your face tiredly.

this was your wake up call. it ached you, tore you apart knowing what you have to do. he was your sole place of happiness, he was the one who pulled you out of the darkness you plunged yourself into— yet now it all seemed funny. a laugh escaped your lips, void of any mirth. he was no one, you should really stop referring him as anyone. he was the manifestation of your own desires, your call for help— whatever you needed all carved into a man.

imagination, just that.

you leaned back against the wall, a shaky breath leaving your lips as tears stained your face.

"i didn't even get to know his name..."

it took you some time to get yourself together before you made all the decisions. you did some cleaning, you couldn't clean and tidy everything since you got way too frustrated. you weren't too worried about money, your study was filled with his paintings. as much as it hurt you to sell them away, you had no choice. keeping them means keeping a tether to him, and whatever you spiraled to. it also meant to sell his sculpture, this was what hurt you the most, both because it was your best piece as of yet and well.... it was him.

you buttoned up your blouse and fixed your skirt, brushing your hair you looked at your reflection with a sigh. the makeup did a good job at hiding the dark circles, good as new.

you had a meeting with your assistant regarding the paintings and what to do. you had already discussed it over a call, but she was insistent to meet. you knew that was her way of getting you to step out into the land of living.

taking your purse you made your way out, walking across the hall before pausing outside your study. a farewell wouldn't hurt right?

it infact did hurt.

because right now you're sat on your ass on the floor, your ankle twisted as you stare into your study with utter shock, your jaw slack. looking at him, him that caused you to shriek like a banshee and fall.

him.

your "dream" man.

he was there in the flesh, looking very much alive— very much naked, as he looked down at you with that same charming grin you had fallen for.

"the name's dick grayson. missed me?"

what the actual fuck?

reblogs are appreciated :D

[tricoufamily]

malcolm: my goals are beyond your understanding

prev | next

[kaurwreck]

I think it's relevant that he doesn't exclude himself from ability users and that he's explicitly based on Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov from The Brothers Karamazov.

The below is an excerpt from a poem that Ivan wrote, which he narrates to Alexei to illustrate Ivan's own conflict with the world as he understands it. In the verse, Christ returns to Earth in Seville during the Spanish Inquisition and is arrested by the Grand Inquisitor. The Grand Inquisitor visits Christ in his cell to admonish him for returning to interfere with the mission of the Catholic Church.

Much of the Grand Inquisitor's monologue reflects what, I believe, is a cruel and dour interpretation of humanity and Christ's intent. But, strip away the fat of anger and resentment and officiousness, there is tender, compassionate, helpless emotion in his tyranny:

"You promised them heavenly bread, but, I repeat again, can it compare with earthly bread in the eye of the weak, eternally depraved, and eternally ignoble human race? And if in the name of heavenly bread thousands and tens of thousands will follow you, what will become of the millions and tens of thousands of millions of creatures who will not get strong enough to forgo earthly bread for the sake of the heavenly? Is it that only the tens of thousands of the great and strong are dear to you, and the remaining millions, numerous as the sands of the sea, weak but loving you, should serve only as material for the great and the strong? No, the weak, too, are dear to us."

...

"But even if there were so many, they, too, were not like men, as it were, but gods. They endured your cross, they endured scores of years of hungry and naked wilderness, eating locusts and roots, and of course you can point with pride to these children of freedom, of free love, of free and magnificent sacrifice in your name. But remember that there were only several thousand of them, and they were gods. What of the rest? Is it the fault of the rest of feeble mankind that they could not endure what the mighty endured? Is it the fault of the weak soul that it is unable to contain such terrible gifts? Can it be that you indeed came only to the chosen ones and for the chosen ones?"

...

"Know that I, too, was in the wilderness, and I, too, ate locusts and roots; that I, too, blessed freedom, with which you have blessed mankind, and I, too, was preparing to enter the number of your chosen ones, the number of the strong and mighty, with a thirst 'that the number be complete.' But I awoke and did not want to serve madness. I returned and joined the host of those who have corrected your deed. I left the proud and returned to the humble, for the happiness of the humble."

Like bsd!Fyodor, the Grand Inquisitor does not consider himself outside of the cherished few (those who suffer but in whose suffering there is brilliant divinity). But he rejects salvation withheld from those whose suffering does not amount to martyrdom or sainthood; the humble many whose suffering isn't noble but depraved, who are left to writhe in the dirt as they strain vainly for the light that demands they reach for it of their own volition even when their arms are too weak to raise. While the gifted suffer (Dazai, Kyouka, Lucy, Atsushi, Akutagawa, Fyodor himself, etc.), their suffering is a trial through which they come into their divinity, embracing that which sets them apart, and persevere with tenacity so brilliant it manifests as preternatural power attuned to who they are within and because of their suffering. Atsushi has his tiger; what do the orphans in Suribachi City have for their abandonment, but the oppressive humidity of fear and violence and scarcity? Kunikida has a gift that allows him to manifest anything he's seen before within his notebook's confines; whether a grenade or a magic trick. The little girl he encountered in the sewer, who lived in squalor in the slums prior, has only grenades, which she was taught to use by someone who can't justify her suffering, but who can lay her to rest in her innocence and righteousness before someone arrogant enough to think he has any right to impose his ideals on a world that can't be set right for those already tormented.

bsd!Fyodor isn't seeking a scapegoat or a sacrificial lamb; he's rejecting a world that seeks meaning in inexplicably cruel suffering.

That's not apparent in Ivan's cruel poem in which a lofty divinity demands more than the vast majority of those who love him are capable of giving. So, so relevant to comprehending the fierce love in the Grand Inquisitor's vitriol is Ivan's expression of anguish and fury earlier in his conversation with Alexei, in which he recounts the suffering that persists without retribution, offers anecdotes about children mauled, maimed, and made to endure untenable circumstances (whose stories I won't further describe here, for being graphic and based on actual atrocities reported on within Dostoevsky's lifetime, the likes of which we can watch in sharp relief live or as recorded, sometimes even through dramatic reenactments staged for our entertainment). Ivan says to Alexei:

"It's not God that I do not accept, you understand, it is this world of God's created by God, that I do not accept and cannot agree to accept. With one reservation: I have a childlike conviction that the sufferings will be healed and smoothed over, that the whole offensive comedy of human contradictions will disappear like a pitiful mirage, a vile concoction of man's Euclidean mind, feeble and puny as an atom, and that ultimately, at the world's finale, in the moment of eternal harmony, there will occur and be revealed something so precious that it will suffice for all hearts, to ally all indignation, to redeem all human villainy, all bloodshed; it will suffice not only to make forgiveness possible, but also to justify everything that has happened with men—let this, let all of this come true and be revealed, but I do not accept it and do not want to accept it!"

...

"Oh, with my pathetic, earthly, Euclidean mind, I know only that there is suffering, that none are to blame, that all things follow simply and directly one from another, that everything flows and finds its level—but that is all just Euclidean gibberish, of course I know that, and of course I cannot consent to live by it! What do I care that none are to blame and that I know it—I need retribution, otherwise I will destroy myself. [...] Is it possible that I've suffered so that I, together with my evil deeds and sufferings, should be manure for someone's future harmony? I want to see with my own eyes the hind lie down with the lion, and the murdered man rise up and embrace his murderer. I want to be there when everyone suddenly finds out what it was all for. [...] But then there are the children, and what am I going to do with them? That is the question I cannot resolve. [...] Listen: if everyone must suffer, in order to buy eternal harmony with their suffering, pray tell me what have children have got to do with it?"

...

"I want to forgive, and I want to embrace, I don't want more suffering. And if the suffering of children goes to make up the sum of suffering needed to buy truth, then I assert beforehand that the whole of truth is not worth such a price. [...] Is there in the whole world a being who could and would have the right to forgive? I don't want harmony, for love of mankind I don't want it. I want to remain with the unrequited suffering. I'd rather remain with my unrequited suffering and my unquenched indignation, even if I am wrong. Besides, they have put too high a price on harmony; we can't afford to pay so much for admission. And therefore I hasten to return to my ticket. And it is my duty, if only as an honest man, to return it as far ahead of time as possible. Which is what I am doing. It's not that I don't accept God, Alyosha, I just most respectfully return him the ticket."

There is no amount of suffering worth the salvation of the few who can rise above the throng to seek divinity and independence over their circumstances.

There's a reason Fyodor invokes the image of Eugène Delacroix's Liberty Leading the French People when he alludes to the destruction of harmonious peace by the divisive independence of "heroes." She's French romanticism incarnate, exalting individualism and the rejection of suffering through violent revolution. She's divinity manifested on earth, professing equality and liberty for just social change. But, she's also evocative of the Reign of Terror, in which righteous violence spilled into vengeance and bloodlust.

Dostoevsky, the author, was critical of liberal radicalism for its proponents' arrogance, but also because of its emphasis on utopia without suffering; although suffering is an evil, Dostoevsky's works offer it as a source of meaning in the ephemerality of existence, and his characters frequently express profound love through and within suffering. His narratives consider that there may not be recompense for or transcendance in suffering; suffering may be unresolvable and unjustifiable. The only remedy may be love, however earthly and temporal.

But, bsd!Fyodor is Ivan, not Dostoevsky, the author, and he is stormy and irreconcilable. To him, the exalted few are not outsiders or witches he's hunting to bring unity through hatred. It's because he loves man and has such little faith in each as an individual that he thinks the existence of gifted asks too much of them. They will never allow others to live in peace and harmony because they will demand from them virtue and benevolence and satisfaction that can't be maintained so long as men are forced to look at gods and demand liberté, égalité, and fraternité. (There's a reason bsd!Fyodor invokes French imagery; in bsd, France is the nation leading skills weapons research, France created to take for itself Verlaine in response to Goethe, Shakespeare, and Hugo; not to unify the world, but in an impulse for power, to ensure its mouthful of earthly bread in the form of flesh. France created a wretched creature apart from God's light because that is what individualism, militarism, nationalism, and gifts demand of those too weak to resist.)

bsd!Fyodor loves God, but he does not accept the world that God has created. He will create another world instead, one in which the flock has a shepherd to assure them their place in complacence, without demanding more from them than what they can give. He will feed them so that they cease devouring each other.

(And should they do so anyway, they shall sin within his loving retribution— relevant, since Ivan's Grand Inquisitor and Fyodor's own machinations very much acknowledge and rely upon their conviction that people are inevitably inclined to mob violence like witch hunts. I disagree that either understands humanity based on my own thoughts regarding the same, or that witch hunts capture the nature that creates them, but if mob violence is how we're defining humanity's nature, they understand humanity well enough. Sometimes, details are implied by reference.)

There will be no one whose suffering manifests divinity to damn the many more whose suffering need not exist at all.

Thus, it's little wonder why Atsushi is abhorrent to him, Atsushi for whom, "The agony was so unbearable that it was as if he could feel his soul leaving his body, but even then, he fought through the pain because it was worth it." Within him is a creature that cuts through even gifts, that renders divinity petty. But, it's more than that; it's him, and he's isn't sure how much of the world there is and how much of it is merely a shadow; all one can do is move forward and consciously choose love and compassion.

or, yeah, maybe his desire to witness something like vengence for the untold amounts of suffering to which he's born witness is a kicks and giggles thing. wholly divorced from any emotion ive ever felt in a sonic parking lot while people watching. for sure. wet rat enrichment. exclusively.

Essentially, Fyodor wants to pin blame on ability users, which is what I was afraid the outcome to this arc would be since the very beginning; a scheme to unite humanity through shared hatred and disgust towards an out-group. A scapegoat. Terrorism, two trusted ability user organizations (the ADA and the Hunting Dogs) being uprooted and believed to be criminals, an ability based pandemic-like outbreak; it all leads to an erosion of trust and paranoia.

If you can’t unite everyone under an “us” then create a “them” for “us” to unite against, is the logic here. Allegedly.

But this logic is, quite frankly, terrible. Fukuchi’s plan is, in the long run, indeed doomed to fail. People form in-groups, outcasts always exist, and conflict will always arise; this is inevitable. But this kind of mass hysteria will not unite humanity for very long at all. People will turn on each other and regard their neighbours with suspicion. The only thing Fyodor will accomplish in this way is reinstating the sentiment that led to the witch trials. After all, the “enemy” could be anywhere.

But maybe that doesn’t matter to Fyodor. I have to doubt that peace is truly the goal. Maybe Fyodor simply doesn’t understand humans as well as he thinks. Maybe there is a personal grudge towards ability users that this is a cover justification for.

Maybe all that matters to him is simply that ability users bear the weight of humanity’s sins, and hang the rest.

[spacegirlsgang]

DBD x Met Gala (3/4): Charles Rowland and Punk: Chaos to Couture (2013)

[statementlou]

Tbh i am not surprised that a person who openly talked about having drinking problems since 1d days, because of how crazy 1d worked has been agressive. What surprises me is people being surprised (they never seriously saw drunk person?). But i am also confused about this whole book. Apparently Maya said that that book is not fully bout Liam but compilation about her exes and some of the worst parts are not about him. But recently she said that the book is “ofc about him” so what is true then? Or did she meant it that ofc some parts are about him or that whole book is about him?

Sorry, just confused

I also am not surprised- we've learned so much more about the real stories of things and about the guys' actual lives over the last years, and the story that has unfolded around Liam has been totally consistent throughout if you've been following it, and so the information Maya is telling us is shocking and upsetting but not difficult to believe. I got an anon yesterday saying they were worried about getting similar revelations about the other boys, like "if Liam could be doing this we just don't know, any of them could", and while in a way that's always true I guess, anyone could be doing anything in private like... that doesn't really concern me. Because none of these Liam revelations are coming out of nowhere, there have been many MANY steps along the way leading us here if you've been watching, and he has talked openly about both his mental health struggles and his addiction issues. So to answer that anon... to find out something similar about Louis would in contrast contradict everything we know about him and no I'm not worried about it. Is he an abuser or a loose cannon, well that news would truly shock me to my core, I will be honest. But anyway as for the book I don't find it strange that she was nervous when it came out and treading lightly and later decided, fuck it. In the absolutely on point tiktok she dropped today (YES👏GIRL���FUCKING TELL THEM👏) she even mentions attempts to keep her from publishing the book, presumably by Liam's team, that I am riveted by and cannot WAIT to hear more details about actually- like I said I don't find it at all strange that she was nervous and downplayed it a bit then. But if she says now that it's just about Liam, well, I would say it's been clear from the beginning that the book is their story. Maya herself brought up the parallel of songs being written about stuff and I think it's the same thing; it's true (she was in an abusive relationship that involved certain kinds of events) but maybe not 100% literal (I'm sure details were changed to make the story work, it's not like a word for word timeline of their interactions or whatever).