#anyway i am so sorry that i went on and on and on about this i am very passionate about it

[bangtanhoesthings]

Long ask.

Forgive me, this will be all over the place.

I have noticed that over the past few years the hate for the boys has been escalating particularly for Jimin, Jungkook and Joonie.

For Joonie, among other things, because as a leader, if they break him, they might break BTS. (Gosh look at him😭. Has me my man, my man, my man-ning all over the place like a dog in heat, it's embarrassing and a little concerning). Sorry, I digressed but look at him 😭😭😭, y'all don't thirst over this man enough. Woof! 🫦

Anyways, moving on.

For Jungkook, among a plethora of other reasons, because of the unrivaled, unmitigated global success he has had and continues to have (am so proud of my funky lil popstar ✨).

He came, he saw, he conquered. Kicked ass and took names. Ate and left no crumbs. Had them by the neck. Pulled up and shut it down (Somebody stop me 😭)

The way some army attribute his success to the 🛴 guy boils my blood, and that rage is for another day.

This post is towards Jimin.

Jimin's hate is both from outside and inside the fandom ( am not talking about solos, toxic shippers, mantis and the like) but people who claim to be 0T7.

I know that Jimin has had haters for years but the shady tweets I saw during the FACE and MUSE era from so called "ARMY" said a lot. Am not here to debate who is or isn't ARMY. That's for another time.

My question is, why does Jimin's success seem to be a sore spot for some 0T7s? The one reason I have been able to come up with is that Jimin sort of messed up the hierarchy system.

Let me explain and see if I make sense. For a long time, when people thought of the maknae line, no matter the order in which they ranked Tae and Kookie, Jimin was always the third one. Too many posts relegating him to the role of cheerleader and not much else. I saw posts before solo works commenced dismissing the idea that Jimin would ever release an album but would instead fully support the others. Well, he not only released two solo albums, but was also a composer, lyricist among other things, so they can take their opinion and smoke it.

When the solo era started, people had different expectations for what every maknae members would achieve but no matter the expectations, those for Jimin were that he would be third. Bronze medalist if you will.

FACE was released, Like Crazy got to number 1 and I logged off twitter. We were in hell particularly when it went from 1 to 45 after Billboard deleted over 100k sales and changed the rules (thank you Travis Scott for freeing Jimin and finally taking that number 1 spot). The hate from outside was expected, it was when it came from within the fandom that it hurt.

Fast forward to MUSE and it got worse. Sprinkle in a dash of Are You Sure and we have

Here I have a list of things I have noticed

1. An increase in the number of people talking about how they hate PJMs and how they are making them turn against Jimin. Honey, if a solo can make you dislike one member, you aren't sh*t anyway.

2. Dislike for Jimin disguised as dislike for his solos. If you haven't seen it, consider yourself lucky.

3. How sometimes ARMY came in droves when a member didn't achieve something but Jimin did. For example Spotify US. When a new song failed to enter but Jimin's songs increased ( during both LC and Who era).

4. His long run on the hot 100 has really revealed people's true colours. It's not his fault. Blame the fandom for their clear bias.

5. The number of ARMY accounts on X low key calling AYS fanservice.

6. Discourse on Jimin's ability to sing. I don't argue with stupid people.

I could go on and on but what I am trying to say is that in a perfect world, it would be wonderful if all the members had the same support from ARMY. The discrepancy needs to be addressed (caused by a multitude of reasons) but making it a member's fault and not the fandom is asinine.

I used to be a 1D fan and my favourite member to date is the least favourite and successful, Louis Tomlinson but that doesn't mean I hate on Harry, Zayn or Niall for their success. I wouldn't even know where to begin.

What prompted this you may ask? I saw a post talking about Jimin being the company and fandom fave and having special support. Like huh?

All in all what I am trying to say is that Jimin really shook things up and some people resent him for it. That one post (article?) about Jimin bringing out either admiration or envy keeps getting proven right.

Keep supporting this angel for a long and happy life.

What do you think are some other reasons for the increase in the 0T6 agenda against Jimin?

[narnian-neverlander]

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again [Machine Herald Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 10,7k

Warnings: slight body horror/modifications, suicidal thoughts, canon typical violence (injuries and blood, mentions of torture, mentions of character death, alluded murder)

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

A/N: Does a broken rib from too much coughing count as the AO3 curse yet cause wow this took way longer than expected. Anyways, Epic x Arcane has been bouncing around my head since Season 2 came out, but this was inspired by this post from @le-fruit-de-la-passion cause I saw that and I’ve been internally screaming over it ever since 💁

Happy Valentine’s everybody 💞

Nothing had been the same since you woke up.

It’s to be expected, it had been almost two years after all.

Two years since the explosion. Two years since half the council had died. Two years since any attempt at peace between the two cities had been shattered. Two years that you had spent blissfully unaware of all of this; a coma keeping you trapped within the confines of a hospital bed and your own mind.

You’d expected pain after coming back to your senses; it was the last thing you remembered before the world had went dark. But you’d slept through most of your recovery. Through your wounds turning into scars. Through your muscles growing weak from disuse. Your hands were a different story, though. They didn’t so much hurt, only at times, as they were simply numb. Shattered bones and nerve damage had made them mostly useless and that was not something any amount of time would simply fix.

Not everything had completely changed, though, you’d found. You’d been awake for not more than an hour when Jayce had burst through the doors of your hospital room. And sure, he’d looked different: his hair longer, a beard, the white and gold that had always dominated his outfits replaced with black and silver, a brace on one of his legs and a cane at his side. But the relief in his hazel eyes when he’d found his friend conscious was familiar. The way his hug had felt. And how he’d completely avoided your gaze when you’d asked about your lover.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

He’d expected you to cry, scream, anything. But you hadn’t. You’d merely nodded, as numb as your broken hands, and had thanked him for coming to see you. Had told him to go back to his work, he must certainly be busy after all. And it had torn him apart, to see you, someone he’d always known as energetic and joyful, so tired, so apathetic. The very least for him to do had been to offer his help in any way he could, including finding a doctor that would fix your hands. He’d been more than reluctant to leave you, but you’d asked for some time alone to rest and he could hardly deny you that - it had still taken him a good ten minutes more to actually take his leave, with promises of a soon return and to simply send for him if you needed anything.

You’d settled back into the bed, fully intent on going back to sleep and pretending you’d be able to wake up in a different world, but the sun had caught on something metallic on your bedside table, hidden behind flowers and cards. You’d reached for it with stiff, unsteady fingers, almost sending the small, scratched up, mechanical cat crashing to the ground; luckily it had just ended up bouncing off your leg and then settling in your lap.

You’d stared at the little robotic feline in astonishment for a long time, unblinking amber eyes staring right back, like it would tell you who had brought it here, when it should’ve been sitting on a shelf in your apartment. Like it would give you all the answers and solutions in the world. An answer to your pain. To the hopelessness creeping in. To the feeling of your heart slowly shattering.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

It had almost made you drop your precious possession all over again, breaths heavy and migraine pounding in the back of your skull. And your racing mind had very clearly told you that there’s no recollection of ever having heard him say anything like this, your aching heart replying that it had been an idle wish, nothing more.

This idle wish comes back to you know, lying bruised and bloody and dazed in a ditch somewhere in Zaun. The people you’d been sent to for help had turned out to be anything but the kind, generous researches they’d made themselves look like; only interested in their own profit, gained on the backs of the helpless and the beaten. And after months of more pain and suffering, once you’d no longer been of use, your body even more mutilated and damaged than before, you’d been discarded like the trash they viewed you as. Face in the dirt, body and mind exhausted and screaming for rest, just a small respite, you consider letting go. Consider closing your eyes and just letting eternal rest take you; you don’t have anything left, after all. No home to go back to. No loved ones waiting for you.

Your shattered psyche seems to welcome the idea more than anything; through blurry vision you swear you see your lost beloved right in front of you, like it’s just another lazy morning spent in bed together. A warm hand cupping your cheek, gentle amber eyes, voice still raspy and accent thick from sleep. Telling you to go back to sleep. That it’s okay to rest. You blink and he’s gone.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

A cry for help, created from a desperate mind and a broken heart. A fantasy. Wishful thinking. Nothing more. No one would be coming for you. Nobody would know or care if you just laid down to die right here. But there’s still a part of you, tiny as it may be, that wants to live. That under no circumstances wants to die on the same streets you once crawled your way out of, while your tormentors get rich on your suffering and are left with no consequences. Your blood’s starting to boil, powering you like a steam engine, getting you up on your hands and knees, groaning and whimpering in pain as you hopelessly try to get your feet back under you.

Peace is for the dead, revenge is for the living.

It’s what forces you towards the city limits on wobbly, clumsy legs, one stumbling step at a time. If revenge would be your only reason to live, then so be it. You’d take it over simply giving up and being forgotten; your body left to rot in the dirt.

So you live off scraps and garbage. Get your quick bouts of rest on dark, dirty street corners. Collect herbs from the riverbed, as scarce as they may be, to fight off the infections you incurred. It’s not pretty or elegant and you can barely call it living, but you’re alive. And eventually you catch rumors, whispers, only spoken in the same shadows you’ve now spent months living in: rumors of a healer. Well, some call him that. Others revere him as a god. Others fear him as a monster, more machine than man. But they all agree on two things: that he’s the one to go to if you’re in desperate need of help and have nothing left to lose. And where to find him.

The gate to the house on Emberflit Alley is old and bent and rusted. Not locked, but your stiff, useless fingers have enough trouble opening it anyways. The front door is a different story entirely, encrusted with interlocking gears to keep you and anyone else out unless invited in. So you knock and you wait. And then you repeat that process. Until it becomes clear that either no one is home or that a disturbance isn’t currently wanted. You’re not about to give up so easily though, so you step off the porch and start making your way around the house in search of any windows to knock on instead or maybe even break if necessary. It’s dusk by now and the ever present fog that always seems to cling to this area of the Lanes isn’t making your job much easier; your foot inevitably catches on something, a loose brick or a protruding pipe maybe, and sends you stumbling, falling and while you manage to catch yourself against the brick wall, your flailing palm ends up going straight through a window.

Perfect. You hadn’t actually been serious about breaking and entering. Not entirely, anyways. Trying to assess the damage to your hand in the dimly lit alley, you’re distracted enough to not pick up on the sound of a door opening and you only notice the heavy footsteps when they stop right behind you.

“You’re persistent if nothing else, I will give you that.”

The voice is deep, warped, with a mechanical echo to it, but it’s the accent that sends an unwelcome and unexpected twinge to your heart. You turn around very slowly and carefully, prey about to get caught by something terrible, and gulp when you actually need to crane your head back and look up cause fuck, he’s tall. At least a head taller than you, with a broad frame, all heavy armor and pieces of metal, a sharp, three pronged claw pulsing with energy pointed right at you from over his shoulder and a mask with only two hollow, glowing, yellow eyes staring back at you. He’s an imposing, unforgiving presence and you’re starting to understand why people only come to him as a last resort. But you’d come this far and he’s right, you’re persistent, stubborn, if nothing else, for better or for worse.

“I was— No one was opening the door and I was just trying to— Are you the Herald?” It’s a redundant question, really. “It’s what they insist on calling me.” Okay, you’re having a conversation. Sorta. That’s progress. “They also say that you… help people?” He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side and while you might not be able to see his eyes, you can feel them taking you in from head to toe. “To the best of my abilities. What would you need help with?” You falter for a second. “It’s uhm… a lot, really, but mostly my hands?” Most people have always reacted with disgust or pity and you don’t expect him to be much different, so the way you bring your hands in front of you for him to see is slow and hesitant. He leans forward for a better look and you fight the urge to back away and flee. It’s quiet, too quiet, the way he’s so intensely studying you and your injuries unnerving and the metal claw that looks like it could tear you in half opening and closing and rotating as if in thought is most definitely not helping your anxiety. Finally, he straightens up and turns around. “Follow me.” He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he check to see if you actually do follow him, merely strides back inside the house, leaving you scrambling to catch up.

The halls that he leads you through have dozens of motionless automatons leaning against the walls, the room you eventually arrive in is lined with shelves of glass jars containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid and in the far corner a leather gurney with a mechanized drill laid upon it and stains you don’t want to think too hard about. Fortunately, he doesn’t lead you over to that, but instead to a workbench cluttered with machinery and tools and blueprints. He sits in the old, rusty chair and then drags out a little stool from under the table, gesturing for you to copy him while he reaches above his head and fiddles with what is revealed to be a bright, neon lamp when it finally flickers to life, blinding you for a moment and leaving spots in your vision. You do as your told and finally place your hands in his when he holds out his own, one gloved and from what you can tell human, the other solid metal.

There’s a certain gentle diligence with which he conducts his examination, something you most definitely didn’t expect, but it puts your frayed nerves at ease. It also triggers a memory from long ago, an accident in the lab, that had ended with you curled up against your boyfriend’s shoulder while Jayce had carefully picked glass shards from your palms. A slight shake of your head brings you back to the present; a different life, it no longer matters. It’s silent between you two, except for the occasional question from his side that you answer truthfully. Eventually, he sits back and switches off the lamp above you. “Your hands can not be salvaged; the damage is too severe and was left insufficiently treated for too long. If you want full use of them back, they will need to be replaced.” He says it like it’s the most logical, natural thing in the world and to him it must be, but to you? It leaves you stunned, mouth going dry. “So I’d lose them entirely…?”

“You already have,” he states matter of factly. “Now it’s just a matter of wether you’re insisting on clinging on to broken, useless flesh and bone for the sake of sentimentality or if you’d rather exceed your human limitations and be able to return to a normal life.” It takes everything you have not to laugh bitterly; new hands or not, you weren’t going back to your old, normal life anytime soon. But he’s right nonetheless. “And you can do that? Replace them? Make them work like before?” You can’t be certain, with the mask’s filter and all but it almost sounds like he scoffs in offense. He waves his own hand in front of your face and flexes his fingers for show; dark, solid metal, expertly welded and crafted together to create a perfectly functioning hand. “Naturally.”

There’s nothing for you to think about anymore. “Okay. Yeah, I… that sounds good. Except…” Maybe there is one thing to think about. “I can’t… pay you for it. B-but I can work it off! Or I could—“ he decisively cuts you off with, “I do not take payment for my work.” And your jaw actually drops, because there is no way anyone in this world would offer services like this for free. There always has to be an angle, something to be gained. “Right. So you just do this out of the goodness of your fucking heart? Do you even have one? A heart, I mean.” He stands to his full height and it hits you like a ton of bricks that you just followed a complete stranger into the confines of his home. A stranger twice your size that would have no trouble turning you into parts for his future experiments. A stranger that has a reputation on Zaun’s streets as an unhinged monster. And it seems like you might’ve hit a nerve.

But he merely reaches past you, for something behind you on the table and comes back with a pair of tweezers and gauze and then proceeds to remove the parts of his window that are still stuck in one of your palms. Right. Since you can’t really feel them, you’d forgotten all about them. “Of course not. And to answer your question, no, I got rid of my heart a long time ago; it was of no use to me any longer. I only ask that you stay here during your recovery so I can oversee the adjustment process. Document it to further my research. You will be paying me in information, knowledge, progress. That is worth more than any gold or jewels you could throw at me.” Your own heart is going a mile a minute after that scare, but you’re slowly coaxing your body to calm back down. If he truly wanted to harm you, he would’ve done so by now. “And you’re sure that’s enough?” A sigh, as if he’s forced to explain something overly simplistic to a child over and over again. “You can bring any scrap metal you may find on the streets to me, if that will make you feel better.” You snort in amusement. “Okay, sure, you got yourself a deal. Sooooo… now what?”

He pauses wrapping your hand for a moment and turns his unblinking gaze to you again. “Malnourished, sick or overly exhausted people make for greater risks, both during surgery and recovery.” You flinch because you damn well know that you check all of those boxes. And you’re sure he knows it, too. “Yeah, well it’s not like I can snap my fingers and magically be healthy again. If I could, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, do you know where you live? You can’t tell me that every Zaunite who comes in here is of picture perfect health?”

“No, I just thought you should be made aware. We can perform the procedure tomorrow, at least get some sleep before that; surely that’s not too difficult?” It almost sounds patronizing and you realize you’ve gained back, or rather are rediscovering a part of yourself you haven’t used in a long time in the few minutes you’ve been talking to him: the defiant smartass. “Of course I can do that, I’m not an imbecile. There’s a brothel owner who owes me a favor, I’m sure I can get her to cough up a bed for the night.” He’s doesn’t look up from putting the finishing touches on your bandages, but apparently he still feels the need to state, “And leave with more diseases than you came with?” Had he just called you diseased? “I’ll have you know I don’t have anything contagious, thank you very much. I don’t think. And it’s that or sleep out on the streets again, so…”

“Or you could just stay here.”

You barely manage a very intelligent ‘Huh?!’ in return.

“You will return here tomorrow anyways. And stay here for your recovery. One night will not make a difference.”

Your eyes flit over to the leather couch in the corner; it’s clearly old and worn, missing an armrest and has obvious tears in the leather. Truly, you shouldn’t be this comfortable around him so quickly, but it’s still the closest thing to an actual bed you’d had in months so you’d take it.

“If it’s okay with you.” you shrug and quickly walk over to the sofa, dropping the bag that contains whatever little belongings you have left to the floor and then promptly collapse on it in an exhausted heap of limbs. That seems to break some of his composed facade as you catch him physically startling in your peripheral while you’re busy shrugging out of one of your coats and turning it into a makeshift pillow. “There is a room upstairs, with a bed, entirely unused. You can sleep there.” But you’re drowsy already, the worn leather surprisingly soft and pliant against your battered body. “So you don’t sleep, I assume; noted. And don’t worry, I don’t snore, so I won’t interrupt your… your work. You won’t… even know… I’m…” You’re out cold before you’ve finished your sentence and it takes all of half a minute before you’re lightly snoring. Liar. But he knew that already.

A heavy sigh and then he’s up, grabbing the blanket and pillow from the bed upstairs; replacing the bunched up coat under your head and pausing before he covers your body with the thick, warm fabric. Your skin has lost color, you’re underweight, he most definitely caught you limping earlier and those are just the things he could tell from a first glance. Your hands would be an easy enough matter to fix, but the rest would take time and care. He covers you with the blanket and you immediately snuggle up into it until only your hair is barely poking out. So you still hate the cold, then. Just like you’re still defiant and mouthy. It’s ridiculous how much you haven’t changed in direct contrast to him; changed so vastly and completely, of course you wouldn’t recognize him.

Carefully dragging down the blanket and the backs of your several layers of clothing, he indeed finds a series of numbers and letters branded into the skin at the back of your neck, as expected. He recognizes their shoddy handiwork by now; you weren’t the first Zaunite to come through his door after they’d fallen victim to that group. But you’d most definitely be the last. He gathers some things from around the lab and finally grabs his staff from where it’s leaning against the wall, gem at the top crackling with energy; one last look at your curled up form and then he’s out of the door, leaving you resting in his lab.

You’re warm, comfortable. It’s quiet and you actually feel well rested. All of that is so utterly foreign to you, it frightens you back to consciousness, makes you startle awake and fall off whatever you’d been asleep on in the process. Blind panic as you untangle yourself from a blanket you don’t remember having and stagger back to your feet, wild eyes searching for the closest threat.

Dim lighting breaking through murky windows, shelves stocked organs, a bloody gurney in the far corner and a hunched over figure at a workbench, their back currently turned to you as a clawed contraption over their shoulder emits a thin, precise ray of light.

“I do not appreciate getting lied to.”

There’s a part of your mind screaming at you that you know this voice, this person, this place, but the terrified haze you’re in yields little room for rationality as he shuts off the laser and turns around to face you, features covered by a mask with nothing but a set of glowing yellow eyes.

“You do, in fact, snore.”

It’s like a switch gets flipped, the haze lifts as you realize that you’re safe and you collapse back into the couch in a relieved heap, breaths still frenzied and heart still trying to jump out of your chest. “Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t comment any further, simply gets back to whatever it is he was working on before, leaving you to recover by yourself. It takes a few minutes, but once you consider yourself sufficiently calmed, you sit back up on the couch cross legged, blanket draped over your shoulders, wanting to apologize and thank him properly, but looking at him gives you pause.

He seems… smaller somehow than the night before. You find your answer in a heap of metal scattered around his workbench: big, cumbersome pieces of armor. Armor that you remember seeing on him yesterday, that you’d just assumed to be irremovable parts of his body. What you most definitely do not recall are the dents, scratches and the dried blood all over the metal. Nervously flitting your gaze back to him, you see what he’s working on is actually himself; laser directed at a part of his chest that he seems to be welding shut. And you’re taken aback at how much skin there is - human skin. The entirety of his chest and his right arm are sleek steel, interlocking gears and mechanisms, flawlessly shifting into each other as he moves, thin glowing panels pulsing with energy from hidden engines. And there’s definitely more metal at his right hip, disappearing into the waistband of his pants, but other than that…

His left arm is mostly pale skin, scarred flesh at his shoulder connecting to the dark steel; a wired glove slipped over his slender fingers seemingly controling the movements of the claw over this shoulder. His stomach and waist are still incredibly human too, if nothing else because of the dark purple bruise forming against his skin. He’s nowhere near as much machine as you’d expected, not to mention he looks… hurt. Had he been in a fight? Gotten attacked?

You open your mouth to ask, but think better of it before any sound can come out. It really has nothing to do with you; what he does in his own time is none of your business. It still feels off, to infringe on his time and help and not even ask if he’s alright when clearly, something that you’re not privy to has happened. Never one to leave well enough alone, you grab your bag from the floor and start sorting through the collection of herbs you’ve managed to acquire over time. Once you’ve found the ones you’re looking for, you package them into the most clean rag you have in your possession and tie it shut; uncrossing your legs you walk over to him and place the haphazardly made package on the table, careful not to disturb him. The movement still gets his attention and even with the mask’s filter, confusion is clear as day in his voice as he asks, “What is that and what is it doing on my workbench?”

“It’s an herbal remedy, for uhm… bruises and the like?” you explain, vaguely gesturing at his waist. “You soak it in boiling water and then put it on the effected area; it helps with swelling and pain.” It’s silent for a few long seconds, then, “I see. Thank you.” Not even remotely close to anything you were readying yourself for as a response, but it makes something within your chest beam with pride. You don’t even realize you’re still staring until he points it out and is met with, “You’re just… not exactly what I expected.”

“A monster?”

The laugh you let out is so shockingly soft, it almost startles him. “You’ve got a reputation, sure, and you’re… intimidating at first glance, I’ll give you that, but… I’ve met plenty of monsters in my life and none of them were anything like you. In fact, all of them looked and acted remarkably, ordinarily human at first.” There’s no further elaboration from your side and your gaze is distant, mind somewhere far away from here. He almost calls your name, but it occurs to him in the nick of time that you never actually introduced yourself. You’ve been here for less than twenty four hours and already he’s slipping, making mistakes; he can’t have that, so he drives the conversation in a direction he has control over. “I am almost finished with my repairs, I can get the general anesthetic started so we can proceed with your surgery as quickly as possible.”

Wild, hot panic takes over your gaze and he fully expects you to bolt out the front door with how you flinch and take a step away from him. “I need be under for the surgery? Can’t you do like, local anesthesia on my arms?” He hesitates; he’s never known you to be afraid of medical procedures, so what’s the problem? “First off, I will not be replacing both of your hands at the same time. Too risky and you’ll be completely incapacitated; we’re going to start with only one today. And no, in theory, you do not have to be under full anesthesia, however, we are talking about a delicate and unusual kind of surgery; I can not promise that it will be painless while you’re still conscious.”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind the pain, I just… I wanna have some agency in what gets done to my body from here on out.”

Ah. So that’s it. One glance at the dried blood still clinging to his armor on the floor and he feels the rage from last night raise it’s ugly head again. He shoves that right back down, cursing internally, before he answers you, voice level and betraying nothing. “All right. It will not be a pretty sight, though.” You shrug, as nonchalant as if he’d just told you about dinner plans. “I mean, I don’t have to watch directly. But I’m gonna admit, I am curious.”

The curiosity lasts for all of the first cut into your flesh, then you turn your head away and simply let him work in silence; wouldn’t want to distract the man currently flaying you open and re-wiring your nerve endings. Luckily, there’s only the occasional pinch and pull, but you stay pain free otherwise. Recovery after the procedure is a different story entirely though; painful and arduous and time consuming. And you’re more than a little surprised at how diligently the Herald takes care of you. Keeping a close eye on his newest test subject, that’s what you write it off as at first. But as the weeks go by there’s a certain familiar domesticity that sneaks into your routine and you find yourself talking with him more and more. Well, it’s mostly you talking, but he listens; you know because the day after you complained about the room you’d been staying in feeling too dark, you’d come back from an errand to find the windows cleaned, the curtains gone and some mismatched lamps placed around the room. It’s a sweet, quiet kind of constant reassurance and you can’t help the way your heart warms at it; so much like what you’d been used to from your lost love.

The day you pick up a glass of water all by yourself, without spilling anything and the glass noticeably cold against your fingers, you almost weep with joy and just barely hold yourself back from tackling him in a hug. Instead you busy yourself with touching as many things in his lab as you can get your one properly functioning hand on - which means you miss the way he so openly stares at you, obvious even with his mask hiding his features. He hasn’t seen you this happy and energized since you showed up on his doorstep. It makes some part in chest whir conspicuously and it almost feels like something is overheating, so he quickly turns away and grabs a random, discarded project from his workbench to fiddle with.

“Do you… ya know, eat?”

It’s a random question, even for you, but he answers nonetheless. He’s used to it by now.

“I no longer require it as a form of energy replenishment, no.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, that doesn’t answer my question, though. You don’t have to, but do you? Sometimes?”

“I fail to comprehend why we are having this conversation in the first place.” He doesn’t put down his tools, nor does he look at you.

Okay, fair point.

“Well, I uh… I used to be a chef, had my own restaurant and everything? And since one of my hands finally works again I figured I’d like to give cooking something a try? And if you have a favorite, I could make it for you? As thanks for… well, for giving me a hand?” It’s not one of your finer jokes, you will admit, so you’re not surprised he doesn’t laugh. Not that you’ve ever heard him laugh at anything, for that matter. He doesn’t react at all, except for, “I told you, I do not take payment for my work. Are we done with this fruitless conversation now?” It stings more than you’d like, to have him dismiss your tries at kindness like that, even though you know it’s not personal.

“Right, yeah, sorry. It’s just… cooking’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for and I like to be some sort of useful so… but you’re right, it’s stupid. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Because if I stopped being useful, then… maybe he wouldn’t want me anymore. Maybe he’d leave me behind for something better.

It was years ago, he shouldn’t remember you saying it as clearly as he does. Nor the way you’d looked then; all teary eyed and vulnerable, in front of him and only him. He shouldn’t remember and much less should he still care. He finds himself putting down his tools anyways.

“Sweetmilk.”

It doesn’t even register that he’s talking to you at first, considering you’re already halfway out the door to give him some peace and quiet. “P-pardon?”

“Sweetmilk.” he repeats. “It’s technically not food, but a weakness of mine and it’s still made on a stove. However, I am out of—“

“I got it! I’ll go get everything; I know how to make it!” The biggest grin on your face, you’re out of his lab in an instant and he hears the front door open and close not long after that.

There’s an actual skip in your step as you make your way down the street, there’s no other way to put it.

You are no fool. It’s in the way he hyperfocuses on his work. In the way his place is always a mess, right down to how his tools and notes clutter his desk. In the way what little sunlight manages to reach this part of the Lanes catches in his chestnut hair when it filters through the windows. In the little vocal mannerisms and gestures that you remember oh so well, that he apparently was unable to remove, no matter how much of a perfect machine he claims himself to be. It’s all right there, it had been from the start, this had just been the final push you’d needed. The final push to actually let yourself hope.

You are no fool. He knows this. He knows this and yet he let you have this. This tiny, obsolete, aggravating piece of information that has now turned him into the fool instead. He’s certain you’ve already figured it out, how could you not have? With the way you were immediately way too comfortable around him? With the way you sometimes talked about yourself, your past, just naturally assuming he’d be able to fill in the blanks, cause to him, they weren’t blanks at all? With the way it had been so easy to slip back into old, dangerously domestic habits with you? This had simply been the final nail in the coffin, yours or his, he isn’t sure; he is sure, however that you do not belong here in his oh so carefully crafted solitude.

Over two years. That’s how long it had taken him to put himself back together again. To rid himself of the parts the Hexcore had already infected, tainted, taken from his control. To replace his dying lungs. To make sure he didn’t fall apart again after every second step. To ensure he was no longer weak. And then he’d come for you, intending to save you, make you whole again, but you’d been gone. Disappeared from your hospital bed, from Piltover all together it had seemed. He’d crossed several lines in his search for you, even the ones he’d set for himself; namely never asking for help from his former best friend and partner again. In the end, the only thing he’d accomplished had been to widen the ever growing rift between them, no step closer to you. So he’d done the only thing he could still think of: rip his heart straight from his chest to maybe, hopefully, get rid of the agony right along with it; erase the joyful memories that held nothing but misery anymore. And it had worked; everything inside him dulled and numbed enough to simply drown himself in his work with no interferences. Until you’d stumbled back into his life. And things should be different, he shouldn’t care about you anymore outside of how you can further his research, but they’re not. The way the two of you still fit together so effortlessly is disgustingly, hauntingly familiar and he has to put a stop to it. He has chosen to live like this, in isolation and loneliness, he would not force it on you in the name of some long forgotten affection.

Perfect opportunity strikes some days later, while he’s in the process of replacing your second hand and you question him about his own augmentations. So he tells you about his weak leg and his collapsing lungs like you don’t already know. Watches the smile vanish from you lips and your face fall as he explains how he removed his connections to people from his past.

“So you… you don’t remember anyone who used to be a part of your life? Family, friends, lovers?”

“I remember them just fine, I simply got rid of any unnecessary emotional attachments associated with them. I remember my mother’s lullabies, I do not miss them any longer. I remember the discussions with my old partner, yet I no longer look at them fondly. I remember the lazy mornings spent with my lover, but I don’t yearn for them anymore.”

You visibly flinch at that last one and he merely warns you to stay still, like he doesn’t know what hearing all of this must do to you. It goes quiet between you two afterwards and any glance he steals at you confirms his theory, proves that his action had the desired reaction: the cogs are turning in your head and the longer they do, the more the despair and grief start to show on your face; realization that he is no longer the man you knew and that you no longer have a place by his side. It’s quick, simple work to finish your surgery and he decides to leave you be, give you time to let the new information he provided you with sink in and with some trivial errands used as a quick excuse, you’re left sitting alone on a rickety old stool in his lab.

And you stay seated for a long while, still and unmoving, blankly staring off into the distance as you hopelessly try to process what he just revealed to you. The love you hold for him hasn’t diminished in the slightest, no matter how much he might claim to have changed, but what’s it worth if you’re nothing but a stranger to him now? If the affections he’d had for you in return were lost to his quest of a perfect evolution?

You’re unsure what compels you to rise from your seat, to stroll across the room and absentmindedly trail your fingers across the books on one of his shelves. Maybe you’re simply trying to distract your mind from spiraling further down into the dark abyss of hoplessness it’s currently headed for. Maybe a part of you already knows that this is not meant to last and you’re trying to commit everything to memory through touch alone, now that he’s returned that sensation to you. The very last thing you expect is for one of the spines to catch your attention and for just a moment, you’re back in your old apartment, your old life. Hurriedly pulling the book from it’s spot you find that you are in fact correct, this used to belong to you. The corners of the dark blue cover are frayed and the golden lettering faded, but you recognize it anyways; you’d lent it to him years ago and he’d just never gotten around to giving it back. Which still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here, surely he doesn’t have any use for it anymore. You gingerly dust it off, careful not to over exert your new fingers, and crack it open only for a little slip of paper to immediately come fluttering out and land on the floor in front of you. Picking it up, you find only two words written in a handwriting you know all too well.

Lavender = devotion

The memories flood your mind wether you want them to or not; memories of your absolute mess of a first date. Of the meticulously crafted bouquet of flowers he’d gotten you, based on the book you’d lent him.

Putting the paper back with the page containing it’s corresponding flower, you quickly rifle through the rest of the book and find plenty more notes still left within the pages, all in his handwriting.

Iris = hope, trust

Alstroemeria = mutual support, fascination

Carnations = sincere love, respect, new beginnings

The last entry you come across doesn’t have a written note with it. Instead you find a picture: the two of you, slumped together on the sofa in the lab, all tangled limbs and sleepy intimacy, blissfully unaware of your friend sneaking this picture. It’s marking the pages for camellias and you don’t need a note or a proper look at the information in the book to know what they symbolize; not when you can clearly remember him telling you.

Eternal love. I’m yours for as long as you want. If you’ll have me.

The book slips from your fingers, landing open on the floor with a dull thump as you go right along with it, knees hitting the wood beneath you hard as you curl in on yourself and sob, photograph cradled close against your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve cried, some still coherent part of your mind realizes. Since waking up. Since being imprisoned and tortured. Since coming here. Since being forced to accept stroke after stroke of fate that had irreversibly changed your life entirely against your will or control. So you cry and you weep and you scream at the top of your lungs. For yourself and everything you’ve had to endure. For all you’ve lost. For the life you could’ve had.

You have to leave. You have to. Or you’d spend the the rest of your life desperately trying to rekindle a love that no longer exists. A final glance at the picture still held in your hands and you consider taking it; he wouldn’t miss it, he probably doesn’t even know it’s still here. But the people in that photograph are long gone and it would cause you nothing but more grief, so what’s the point? You drop it between the pages you’d found it in and shove the book back into its’ spot on the shelf before scrambling to your feet and beginning to gather your things strewn across his house. And you could’ve left then and there, things packed and mind made up. You probably should have. But it doesn’t feel quite right either, just disappearing without a trace. So you sit on the bed you’ve called your own for the past weeks and you wait. Until you hear him come home in the middle of the night and the urge to sprint downstairs, throw a quick goodbye and thank you over your shoulder and slam the door on this entire sad, miserable chapter of your life is there. But you don’t. You can’t. Because despite everything, you still want a proper goodbye - you didn’t get one last time, after all. Except you have no idea how you’d go about that, so you stay right where you are and rack your brain. Until dawn breaks and you’re no closer to a solution, so you drag your tired body off the bed and make your way downstairs; you’re just looking for more excuses to stay at this point.

Of course you find him at his workbench, where else, most of his heavier armor discarded and Hexclaw dimantled in front of him as he diligently solders wires to metal. Pausing in the doorway, you wait for him to acknowledge your presence, giving yourself some more time to think, but when several minutes pass and he doesn’t even look up you clear your throat, receiving a quick ‘Morning.’ in return and nothing else. No point beating around the bush, is there?

“When do you think I’ll be able to leave?”

Too busy fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of your shirt to distract yourself, you don’t notice the way he almost flinches, everything he’s doing coming to a halt. It’s quiet for only a moment before he says, “You are not a prisoner here. You may leave whenever you wish to.”

Not the answer you want, not the answer you long for, but an answer nonetheless

“I… now would be good for me, I think.”

“Very well.”

And that’s the end of it. The room is blanketed in silence once again, except for the scrapes and shuffles of his tools as he goes back to work. No grand, emotional request for you stay and why would he? You’re a stranger, an experiment and there’ll be others like you; others to further his research and learn from. He doesn’t need you anymore. He hasn’t for a very long time, you realize. Oh how you wish you could feel the same. You go to grab your bag from the hallway in apathetic, almost mechanical movements, nothing but muscle memory driving you at this point and you expect to walk out the front door without another word exchanged between the two of you, but surprisingly enough, he calls out to you again.

“Where will you go?”

Stopping in your tracks, you come to lean against the door frame, gaze falling anywhere but him. You’re not sure what he’s even asking for, it won’t have any impact on his life after all, but you answer honestly anyways. “As far away from this city as I can get, probably. There’s no one— there’s… nothing left for me here anymore.” A pause as the faces of your tormentors flash before your inner eye. “Not before making the bastards who used me pay for it, though.” He unscrews a panel at the base of the Hexclaw while posing another question. “And if that costs you your life?” You shrug even though he can’t see. “Just as well. I’m not sure I’ve got the will to build something new for myself anyways…”

Silence falls again and you interpret it as the natural end of the conversation and your cue to leave. Except there’s one last thing you need to get off your chest - quite literally, in fact. Slipping off the chain around your neck, ring still safely attached to it as always, you approach him and place it on the surface of his workbench. To your utter surprise, he actually interrupts his work and picks it up with careful fingers; his face might be hidden from you by his mask, but he radiates confusion so you explain before he has a chance to ask. “When I first came here, you told me I could pay you in scrap metal if it made me feel any better about encroaching on your space and time. You can melt this down, throw it out, I don’t care; I’ve carried it around with me long enough and it was always meant to be yours.” You truly don’t have the strength to wait for his reaction, or probable lack thereof; this means nothing to him now, you mean nothing, and that thought makes you hurry towards the exit, tears burning in your eyes.

Despite better judgment, you pause in the doorway, fingers tight around the strap of your bag and swallow around the growing lump in your throat. “Thank you…” It’s barely above a whisper and it’s not enough. You were the one who wanted a proper goodbye this time, weren’t you? So you turn to fully face him, met with the same blank, hollow eyed stare you’ve grown oh so used to and you smile, genuine and grief stricken. “Thank you for everything, Viktor.”

Part of you wonders when he last heard his own name. If he even still remembers it.

And then you’re gone, leaving him alone in his quiet lab, with only his research to keep him company, just as it should be.

The front door is as far your shaky legs get you, bag slipping from your shoulder as you slump against it, forehead pressed to the cool, worn wood as you press a hand against your mouth in a desperate attempt to to stifle the sobs. The man you’re leaving behind is the love of your life no matter what, you’ve known that for ages; there was a before him, but there was never supposed to be an after. And yet now you have to figure out exactly what that after is going to look like, because he’s gone and at the same time he’s still here and that, oh that aches something awful. It’s unfair and it’s cruel and it makes you want to claw your own chest open to strangle your heart with your bare hands just to make the pain stop. It makes you envy him for the first time, no heart left in his chest to ail him. And it makes you despise him, because how dare he leave you alone with the burden of this love you were supposed to share?

The heavy footfalls behind you should jumpstart you into action, make you wrench the door open and get out or at the very least compose yourself, but you can’t. You find that you simply don’t care anymore either. Let him see what he’s done to you, what he’s turned you into, even if he wouldn’t shed a single tear over it. A mechanical hand comes to rest next to your head, his presence right at your back, so close and so very much like the first night you came to this place and yet everything’s so incredibly different now.

“What? Did you forget some kind of last diagnostics test on the new hand or something?” The tears are obvious in your tone. “No. But you should know that the people you plan on taking revenge on are already dead. I made sure of it.” Breath catching in your throat, the memory of your first morning in this house comes back to you: the bruises, the blood on his armor, the way everything about him had screamed violence and death that day. “You… Why?” It makes no sense whatsoever and it’s making your head spin and he’s not answering, until, “That’s hardly a concern for you now. I simply thought it consequential for you to be made aware of the fact that if you wish to depart from this city you may do so. There is nothing—“ It’s the first time you’ve heard him falter and fumble in all your time here and when he speaks again there’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite place, accompanied by the hand against the door clenching into a fist. “There is no one keeping you here anymore.”

The clock in the corner counts down the seconds, loud and echoing in comparison to the quiet that has befallen you both. A quiet you decide to break, tentative and scared.

“Isn’t there? My tormentors might be gone, but what of the man I love? Could he still find it in him to love me if I stayed?”

“I don’t believe that still matters, does it? You’ll leave either way.”

And something inside of you snaps.

You brace your forearms against the door and shove backwards, catching him so off guard he stumbles back a step or two, creating just enough distance for you to rear back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. His mask gets knocked clean off his face, loudly clattering to the floor; your freshly operated hand sparks and creaks ominously, fingers now bent at odd angles while searing pain shoots up your entire arm, but you don’t care. It’s nothing compared to the white, hot fury that’s boiling you alive from the inside out.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?!”

He doesn’t even deem it necessary to look at you; completely frozen to the spot, head turned away from you and hair covering his eyes from your view. He will have to listen to you either way, wether he wants to or not. Wether he still cares or not.

“You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

You slump back against the door for support, chest heaving and unharmed hand coming up to cover your face; a desperate and all but pointless attempt to hide the tears and stifle the sobs.

He’s a scientist, an engineer. Solving problems, fixing things, improving lives; it’s what he does. What he thrives in. Yet he doesn’t know how to fix this. So he zeroes in on the one thing he can fix.

“Let me see your hand.”

But you don’t let him. Curl in on yourself and angle your body and injured hand away from him; it makes you seem so much smaller. So vulnerable. So defeated. Good. Maybe if he can drive you away even further then…

“You are… a distraction. A hindrance to my work that I can not tolerate. You do not belong here and it would be better for the both of us if you left and never returned.”

With the mask gone, the mechanical edge to his voice is missing as well, but every word still stings like the cut of a blade.

“So turn around and let me go. You’ll never have to see me again, I promise.”

He knows all too well how seriously you take that; every promise, no matter how small or menial, a solemn oath, never to be broken. He can not let you make this one; every part of himself rebels against the very thought of letting you walk out that damn door, even if it would be the logical thing to do. Drive you further away, he’s not capable of that any longer, who is he trying to fool? Himself, most likely.

Stepping closer he gauges your reaction and when you don’t recoil from him any further, he rests his hands on either side of you and drops his forehead against the old, worn wood above your shoulder.

“I can’t.”

It’s spat through grit teeth, like it physically pains him to admit it. But it’s the most emotion you’ve heard in his voice during all the time you’ve been here.

“I removed every function that wasn’t vital; every memory that was redundant to my work. Affection, jealousy, admiration, anger, joy, sorrow; any emotion that would’ve proven an aberration sooner rather than later. I clawed and prodded and scraped at my own insides until nothing remained and yet you refused to let go.”

Your sobs have reduced to sniffles, your body still beneath him; except for the hand you’ve dropped from your face that he now feels running up his back, titanium fingers gliding over the metal ridges that make up his spine until they settle at the nape of his neck.

“Your face, your laugh, your favorite color, the way you’d look cooking breakfast in the mornings, the way your body would feel against mine; every detail, no matter how minute stayed. Etched into the fissures of my brain, burned into the steel I used to rebuild myself, regardless of how many times I replaced it. Carved into my being, my very soul; I could not remove you any more than I could remove the engine beating as my heart. And I can not go back to how things were before you came here. Before you found me again.”

“Why not? You seemed perfectly happy in your solitude with your work.” Your voice is small, but genuine. And you almost squeak in shock, wind knocked out of you, when his arms come around your middle to hold you tight, almost too tight, flush against him as he buries his face into crook of your neck.

“Because you are in every fraction of skin, in every blood vein that still remains within me. In every bolt, every wire, every piece of metal I welded to myself. I do not… function properly unless I know of your whereabouts. Unless I know you’re safe and cared for. And it was maddening, to surpress it, to ignore it all these years; a clear error constantly rearing its’ ugly head, telling me that I will never get any further in my research, my work, my vision, unless it’s resolved. Constantly running on loop in the back of my head, reminding me that I am incomplete. I need you, you are an essential part of me, right down to my very atoms and it makes me, all of me, no matter what else I might become, yours.”

There’s fresh tears streaming down your face, because he sounds so tired. So desperate. So upset. So painfully human. You find yourself doing the same thing you’ve always done when you’ve had him in your arms, worried and anxious about something; gently thread your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp and lean your head against his carefully. “Viktor, if you want me to stay, all you have to do is ask. You know that; if you want something all you ever had to do was ask it of me. But I need you to ask me, all right? I need to hear you say it.” He doesn’t answer right away, only draws patterns into the small of your back in thought; a habit of his you remember all too well. This close, you can feel the heat coming off him, generated from the several engines powering him and a barely there hum and whirr of machinery against your chest; a sound that comes in regular intervals, akin to a heartbeat. When he does speak, his voice is weary. Conflicted. Unsure. Scared.

“I am not the man you fell in love with, my heart. Not gentle, nor kind. There is no coming back from the lines I’ve crossed and I don’t— I can not love you the same way I used to. The way you’d deserve. And yet… I want to be selfish.” He pauses for a bitter, ridiculing bark of laughter and shifts in your hold and it’s only then that you realize the skin at the slope of your neck and your collarbone is wet. Shame threatens to choke you when it occurs to you that up until now you didn’t think he still could cry. “I shouldn’t want for anything. Machines do not want or desire or long for things. But… they need all their components to operate as they’re supposed to; to perform at their full potential.” He’s rationalizing it, you know and you’ll be fucking damned if you interrupt him. “And I need you to stay. Here, with me. Then maybe in time you’ll be able to love me as I am now.”

Your chuckle is weak; you’re exhausted physically and emotionally. “What a silly thing to say. That’s assuming I ever stopped loving you in the first place.” It should be impossible, for his embrace to become any tighter, but it does and it’s almost starting to hurt - good, because the pain makes it real.

It’s in the way he buries his face against you further, a noise oh so very similar to a sob escaping him, and how your gaze catches on his mask left discarded on the ground that it finally dawns on you: he’s hiding. From you or from himself, you’re not certain, but you’re not having it any longer. “My love, let me see you.” He doesn’t move; if anything he freezes up. “Please?” You try again and are met with the same result, except for, “You will not like what you find.” Irritation flares up in your chest, manifesting itself in a harsh tug on his hair and, “That’s for me to decide.” It takes him a few very long, agonizing seconds, but eventually, he sighs in defeat and pulls back enough for you to be able to get your first proper look at his face after all these years.

No wonder you managed to break your hand, his jaw and cheeks are all solid, dark, smooth metal, connecting to the column of his throat. Your fingers are moving before you can stop yourself, trailing along his cheek bones where hard steel meets soft, scarred flesh. Still as pale as always, almost deathly so, faint blue veins under his skin now in plain view and the contrast to the two moles you adore all the more prominent. The ever present dark circles under his eyes have evolved into lasting bruises. And oh his eyes. The same beautiful gold you remember, except now they’re rimmed with a thin ring of bright pink, courtesy of the Shimmer you’ve seen in his lab no doubt, bright against the deep, dark, purple-ish black that now makes up his sclera. But dissimilar from your memory as they may be, the look in them is one you recognize: careful, poised for rejection, but the remaining tears betray him. It’s strange, how he can look so utterly different yet so hauntingly the same.

He had imagined this moment plenty of times, but never in his wildest dreams could he have come up with this. Yes, there’s several emotions at once crossing your face when you finally see him, yet none of them negative. It’s genuine, innocent curiosity at first, reflected in the careful fingers that reach out to touch him. And before he has time to fully register your touch against his skin, your expression shifts and it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated admiration and affection. “Still so beautiful. Still all mine.”

Just like that, all the tumult and chaos and noise in the back of his head that hadn’t once stopped in the last few years finally seems to silence and he can actually fucking think in peace again for the first time - and the first thing he thinks to do, the most logical thing to do, really, is to curse under his breath before crashing his lips to yours. It’s needy and filthy and all tongues and teeth, your back making abrupt contact with the door again as he shoves you against it, hands coming up from your waist to cup your face. The gesture is tender and sweet and entirely contrasting to the way he’s kissing you; to what he claims to have become. It’s more than welcome nonetheless, giving you a sense of security you didn’t realize you needed as your intact hand moves away from his hair to cover his. It just so happens to be the one that’s still mostly flesh and blood, warm against your skin, except for a thin, cold sliver of metal you feel that you can’t place at first. You don’t remember seeing any augmentations that would feel like this on his hand before. Curious despite the adoring, addictive haze that’s starting to cloud your mind, fingertips try to make out more detail and you find it in tiny little ridges in the metal sitting specifically on his ringfinger that feel suspiciously like letters. Letters that spell out one word: Unconditional.

Your ring. He’s wearing your ring.

It makes you kiss him harder, wanting him so much closer even though it’s hardly possible. You could stay like this for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t ever need for anything else. How unfortunate it is then that one of you both still needs air to fill their lungs to live. How unfortunate that that someone is you; personally you gladly would’ve suffocated against his lips, but he seems to have other plans as he pulls back to let you take some much needed deep breaths, chest heaving while he settles for leaving chaste pecks against the skin of your face.

“Still all yours,” he confirms and you mirror the smile you can hear in his voice. “Now and always.”

[loservillepopulationtwo]

BATFAM AU - LOA Tim au

-

Tim is prowling the streets looking for crime- sure Batman said no to him becoming Robin but the streets are a mess! Batman needs Robin! Gotham needs Robin! And if no one else is gonna step up then he is! He doesn't have a suit or training so it... has not been going the best so far! But he's going to get better! What Batman gonna do? Tell him to stop? Already didn't work the first time! Besides he strategically picked Crime Alley because Batman avoids this place!

It's not like he can just bump into Robin in the streets anymore!

Sounds of fighting! Just the thing Tim was looking for! He has his handy dandy camera to make evidence of crimes!

Tim edged closer to the fighting from the shadows- some poor guys about to get mugged! Then a fist went flying. But it wasn't his...

It was one of those guys off to the side who clearly had some tragedy lead them here who stare far off into the distance and don't seem all there... Fighting the clearly mentally ill guy- wait that's every Gotham rogue and vigilante- but you know what he means!

Tim was about to move when the guy took down the muggers with trained ease. Robin trained ease. Robin trained ease. He could recognize that fighting style anywhere!

Tim, out of habit, took a picture.

Robin finished up and started walking away.

"H-hey wait!" Tim followed him

Why was he pretending to be dead!?

Robin's head didn't even move towards him when he yelled.

"What-"

Robin stared at him blanky, not blinking, not responding.

"Wait are you okay?" Tim asked to no response.

Does Batman even know he's here?! He knows Batman doesn't know! Batman isn't anywhere near here!

Robin continued walking, almost walking into traffic. Tim shrieked and grabbed Robin's hand before he could walk off.

Oh my god!!! Is he a Zombie!?!? THERE'S A ZOMBIE ROBIN!!!!

They (Tim) waited for the road to be clear before walking.

Robin was going somewhere, what is he doing?

Robin went through the streets before going to what seemed like a condemned building.

Was this Robin activities?!

"For the last time get out of here you damn kids!"

It was not Robin activites

"You his keeper, kid?"

Tim wasn't but he nodded anyway, hoping to fish for information.

"Listen- I don't know or care what's wrong with that kid but keep him out of my house! I don't care if he used to live here."

-

Tim showed Robin his murder board photograph collection in an attempt to get any kind of reaction.

“They’re great photos right? You and Batman! Or Bruce I guess-“

Well. Robin did not like the photos it turns out! Because he froze for a second letting Tim yap before it processed and-

But it’s a win for Tim because he knows he’s right about Robin! Batman can just fix the rest and then he’ll be back to being Robin! Any reaction is better than the far off look right?

(Privately, Tim cried over his prized possessions)

(Jason felt something hearing that he can’t grasp enough thought to know what but his chest felt pain)

-

Honestly Robin being alive made Tim sigh in relief- he didn't want to take the burden of Robin but he couldn't see any other choice!

Now how to return to Batman...

If only there was a return to sender button

I know what you're thinking 'Tim you know Batman's identity! Just tell Bruce Wayne!' if only it was that easy... If only...

"Sorry Mr Wayne isn’t available for an appointment right now! He's currently-" off-world with the justice league "-In Paris!"

Tim sighed. Then double sighed when he saw Robin still sitting in the weirdest most uncomfortable looking position after 3 hours of calls.

"Why is it so hard to return you to Bruce!"

"Bruce"

"Yeah, yeah I know"

-

Tim casually leaned against the door to his room- why of all days was today cleaning day! He bartered off having a nanny when his photography (of Batman and Robin) took off but apparently he still ‘needed supervision to make sure he doesn’t kill himself’ from time to time! Disgusting…

His exnanny gave him a scathing look.

“Please I am only a teenage boy, I am just starting my teenagery as I am 13 I need my space you don’t want to go into my room right now!”

She sighed and Tim counted this as a win.

That’ll only work for one day though he’ll have to figure out something else tomorrow! Hopefully he won’t still be here by then so it’ll be moot point.

Thankfully Robin was malnourished and half dead so he wasn’t so big -hell he was just an inch and a half taller than Tim! though that makes sense since theyre only a year and half or two years apart! should he count the dead bit???- so he wasn’t hard to hide! The hard part was that he kept having panic attacks in small spaces… and then running off… and then Tim would have to find him again.

-

Tim wanted to go to bed. He wasn’t sure where to put Robin before that. He didn’t want him to be too far in case Robin runs off again! He can’t keep going back to Crime Alley! Or random park benches!

His bed is too small for the two of them though, as his parents were going to upgrade his bed to a teenager size one later this year…

“Hahhh, let’s just take my parents room it’s big enough.”

Wait oh god does Robin have enough mental capacity to change? Or take a bath?

-

Robin screamed and it jolted Tim out of his slumber.

“Bruce- Bruce-“ Robin was crying.

‘Nice to know he does remember’ a morbid part of Tim’s brain thought

“Hey- hey- it’s just a-“ this isn’t helping

“I’ll get you to Batman, okay? Soon- Just hang tight okay we’ll-“

Wait maybe that’s why he kept trying to escape at night! He’s following his old routine!

“Want to go find crime- Batman?”

Unfortunately Robin didn’t respond as he was still crying but Tim helped him up anyways.

Tim loves crime. Not doing crime- well doing a little crime- but mostly fixing it!

-

No luck finding Batman but Tim got to copy Robin’s moves live!

He also woke up as a undignified teddy bear the next morning which was not fun.

-

After the 15th call to Bruce Wayne’s personal number Tim was starting to get disappointed. Maybe a different route then…

Tim poked Robin's cheek repeatedly, in an annoying little brother fashion despite being an only child- spiritually he was an annoying younger sibling, "Hey do you know where Richard Grayson went underground to? Any place you two used to hang out?"

Robin grabbed his hand.

"Robin!!! I need that hand!!! How am I supposed to return you without it!!!"

Tim shrieked when Robin almost bit him

-

They were out and about in daylight this time so he couldn’t go calling Robin, Robin. Why on earth his brain defaulted to Brother instead of Jason is beyond him.

Probably that old lady on the bus who called him “such a sweet child for taking care of his brother.”

Thankfully (or not thankfully?) everyone would only stare for a minute before they saw Robin proper and realized and looked away. Which is probably how he wen’t unfound this entire time. No enemies but also still no allies…

Maybe he could try the police station! He’d try Batgirl but no one has seen anything of her in a long time… is she dead like Robin now?

Tim didnt realize his body clenched up at the thought until he felt Robin grip his hand back.

“Thanks Rob- brother of mine”

So they can’t just waltz in there and just ask to use the bat signal right? Besides the commissioner is there right now! If anyone were to catch him before Batman it’s that guy!

They did almost get caught by this red-haired wheelchaired civilian though- that was a close one! But thankfully they made it to the top…

“Whose there?!”

“Oh goddamn it-!”

Tim led Robin to the Bat signal, “Come on Robin! I have a great idea!”

-

“A rogue stole the bat signal?”

Gordon nodded, still feeling numb from the wrench to the back of his head…

Bruce felt a heavy wave of nostalgia and grief, “Jason used to steal from me and hit me with blunt metal objects…” Bruce sighed again. He misses his son. He wants Jason here. Jason would be laughing his ass off right now.

Gordon gave him a sad stare, “Hey if you need to take a step back I can handle this okay…”

Bruce can’t lose another son.

-

“WHY DID A POLICE SHOW UP INSTEAD OF BATMAN?!?”

Thankfully, he didn’t expect a child so Tim kicked him in the balls and ran.

-

“Okay so. It’s been a week. at this point I’m thinking we should break into Wayne Manor!”

Robin didn’t say anything but Tim felt Robin lean into him and that’s as good as he’s gonna get!

“If anyone has any objections to this raise your hand!”

Since Tim was presenting his solutions to his hoard of stuffed animals and a dead Robin no one raised their hand. Tim was satisfied with this!

“I rest my case!”

-

They only got halfway through the plan when they hit a stall.

Assassins!

Who even needs to send assassins against a half dead guy! He’ll die on his own without help!

Robin took one of them down but-

Tim shrieked as some tall lady grabbed him by the back of his shirt.

“This is interesting.”

Enemies found them first! Yayyy fun. Can you hear the sarcasm? because Tim is NOT HAVING FUN!!!

“My tails were following the little dead Robin when they found something of note,” she was looking down directly at him, “A child who out detectived the bat”

The other assassin successfully restrained Robin.

This would be a great time for Batman to appear out of thin air!

Unfortunately, Batman did have a track record for being too late to save his kids.

-

Tim tries memorizing every route they take at first, but as it becomes apparent he’s being taken outside of the country he isn’t sure what to do. Ro- Jason (Talia insisted) stopped being hostile as soon as the assassins stopped being hostile. Does he remember that they were hostile a few hours ago? Does he care?

Jason reached out and grabbed Tim’s hand like Tim did whenever they wen’t out in public, except there were no streets for him to walk into here.

-

Ra who did not want Tim at first but Talia persuaded

"Just the dead Robin would have been sufficient

"He will prove himself useful, father."

"He should hope"

Ra Al Ghul stared down at Tim. For some reason, Tim's spleen hurt. He isn't sure why exactly his spleen, but it hurts.

-

Tim is trained by the LOA, but his main role is gathering intelligence, and other detective-like things. His smarts is the reason he got noticed after all! Talia has a weird (proud) glint in her eyes.

-

Jason has been training as a bodyguard… nanny.

Jason has no clue but it’s really clear to Tim from the way Jason has been taught to swaddle this water balloon and hold it without popping.

There’s one thing Tim has found about Talia and it’s that she would go to great lengths to keep her loved ones safe. Like a baby.

Jason must’ve felt the eyes because he just said “Ball”

Another change with his training- Talia has been having him go through physical and mental therapy. He can say words now! But he has to be retaught them.

So far he has, “Ball” “Mine” and “Milkshake”

Tim’s tried explaining that all foods aren’t called milkshake but that just makes Jason stubborner. Thankfully Tim is even stubborner. Both of them will die on their hills.

-

“For being so smart you haven’t commented on that,” Talia said with amusement.

“Momma didn’t raise no bitch” well Momma didn’t raise nobody Tim’s mom was absent but still! He’s not gonna say that

“Ah, so you have true smarts, unlike my beloved- who can be so adorably dumb when it comes to women.”

Bruce Wayne worlds no 1 fumbler

-

Tim was on his first mission when Damian was born.

“Did Lady Shiva say yes?”

Tim nodded, “She also said congratulations.”

“And you, Tim?”

“…you look really good for having just had a baby?”

Talia huffed, “good, I would be disappointed if you couldn’t even find something like that out.”

She had not informed Tim, naturally. But he’s just a sneaky little guy.

“Come now, let’s go see Damian.”

Damian was swaddled and being held tenderly by Jason, “Mine.”

“Family, Jason we’ve been over this, Family. Remember this word, fam-ily”

“Mine. Family”

“Good enough.”

“He’s so tiny!” exclaimed Tim- he’d never actually seen a baby before. Only things like Richard Graysons baby photos!! This is so different from baby photos!

“Want to hold him?” Talia smiled at Tim

“Mine!”

Talia bonked him on the head, “Share!”

Jason, having long been program to listen to Talia and her progeny did not smack back like he would with anyone else.

Tim felt so nervous holding Damian but Talia and Jason were there so it’d be fine… or he’d get double murdered.

Damian spit up on Tim.

-

“What of the classics have you read?”

Tim shrugged, he kinda just skips school…

Talia looked pained.

“Jason Todd, allegedly, loved reading classical literature back in the day,” when in doubt, just drop a fact Tim shouldn’t be able to know.

Talia was too appeased to remember to force him to read any of them for a month.

-

Tim is starting to think Damian hates him.

He vomits on every one of his good shirts and he’s entirely certain it’s on purpose!

Jason doesn’t care about his poor shirts and keeps attending to Damian.

Tim continuously tries to teach Damian to throw up on Jason too to get back at him!

-

A shadow attacked Damian one night.

Jason tore the heart out of the shadow out, the movements were swift and graceful from training.

"Mine!"

Damian cried.

Tim didn't do anything, the shadows bore the signifiers of Talia's men after all.

Later he did raise an eyebrow when Talia asked them if they had a good sleep.

Seriously, she doesn't need to test them! Sometimes a guy wants a good sleep.

Talia's eyes held a hint of amusement at Tim's disgruntleness.

-

“Tim, if you see Jason letting Damian bite his fingers get Damian one of his teethers. I have no idea where Jason’s hands hand been.”

“Inside a guy’s chest as he ripped out his heart probably.”

“And where have those hearts been!”

-

“Come on Damian! It’ll be super funny! Mur-der”

“ummummummm”

“Mur-der”

“muragh!”

“That’s the spirit!”

Jason was sitting behind Damian, helping him sit up (even though Damian cat sit Jason is just a preprogrammed mother hen) while Tim desperately tried to steal first word from Damian before it could be “ball” or “mine” from mimicking Jason or “Mama” from Talia’s training. That’s why he needs this counter measure!

“Mur-der!”

“murrrr!”

A bird chirped and Damian was instantly distracted, crawling towards it.

Tim turned to Jason, scandalized, “Why’d you let him crawl away!”

Instead of Damian’s first word being the focus Jason went off to catch the bird for Damian leaving Tim with the Baby!

In the end Damian’s first word was “Robin” and none of them taught him this he heard it in passing when he. was chasing the bird as apparently it was a Robin bird?!?. It was the league of assassins version of a babys first word being “fuck”

-

Tim and Talia are on a mission. Tim informs Talia that his sources say that Damian has taken his first steps (towards Jason)

Talia is suddenly in a better mood for the rest of the day and the rest of Tim’s squad are very happy and keep thanking Tim for saving them.

Tim is climbing up this ladder fast, even without being a heavy hitter (he can still fight ofc he loves his Saintie, great for parrying)

-

Damian, Jason and Tim never really got out of the habit of sharing a cot, as Jason and Tim would have to protect more often then not at night- what between Ra’s and Talia’s own men. Tim still doesn’t trust that guy to sleep on his own.

Naturally, Tim and Damian have both gotten used to falling asleep to humming classic Crime Alley tunes.

Not for the first time Tim wonders what kind of things are going on in that brain. If he knows what hes humming.

He’s been here a while, he’s seen the lazarus pits. He wonders what would happen if Jason went in one. Would he be healed?

Damian has never known anything different.

-

Tim, chatterbox, Drake realized pretty quickly that Damian loved hearing stories. It was also helpful to trying to restore Jason's mind to say stories about the past- but the biggest thing was just that Tim's a massive Batman and Robin fan. Being in the LOA has not stopped him.

It's not like Talia minds- she just sighs dreamily at specific points.

Which is how Tim finds himself in the weird position of being inbetween multiple Al Ghuls and a dead Robin telling his stalker stories pretty often.

Talia keeps lecturing him on his format- as it's not good enough for her! Classic lovers...

-

Damian has started training, it's kind of funny to watch someone with such small limbs try to move

Wait is this how Batman felt watching his poor attempt to vigilante!?

Discreetly, Tim pictures for future making fun of purposes when Damian is 20.

Ra didn't even notice!

Tim adds this to his secret photos folder, still full of current Batman photos- oh and the new blonde Robin. He really want's to dig into it but Bruce didn't adopt this one.

-

Jason lost a lot of his ability to understand spoken word. But he can still understand emotions and body language. He's been thrown back to simpler mode of understanding, based mostly on instinct.

It's every human's first language before spoken language. Most forget but for some like David Cain's shadow, it is their first language.

They don't interact much but the few times they do is nice. Everyone else just sees two people sitting in silence and slowly leave.

Sadly, the shadow leaves soon. From the room and the league.

-

Tim really needs to do this.

He really needs do this work.

Why is Damian crying while he's trying to do work!?

Jason is holding him, which usually stops the crying.

"Bad training session?"

Damian sniffled, "I am the grandson of the Demon I never have bad training sessions!"

Tim nodded, "mmm really?"

"Maybe, you wouldn't know!"

Tim just stared at Damian until he caved. Tim's Very Done Look tm has gotten better these past few years.

"I couldn't kill MR- Mr.fluffy"

"Your favorite pet??"

Damian nodded.

"Well shit, I bet me and Jason couldn't do that either!"

Damian immediately scoffed "No need to coddle me Drake!"

"I'm serious"

"Really?"

"Dead serious."

Tim grabbed his hidden pile of photos and took out some Batman ones, "You know Batman thinks killing is shameful?"

Damian blinked, "Father?"

"Bruce," was Jason's helpful addon, which clearly means Tim's right.

"Yeah he has a no killing rule."

"So it's okay if I..."

"It's okay"

Damian didn't want to kill so he wouldn't.

No one else in the League of Assassins is okay with this but they don't matter. Besides, Talia and Jason would die before anything could harm Damian.

-

Tim's been on all kinds of international missions, so it's a bit of a surprise when Talia decides to switch it up a bit.

Jason's been sent to train internationally and Tim's stuck on babysitter duty for the foreseeable future.

Talia barely looked in his eyes. Something serious is going to happen and he's going to need to gather his forces. Thankfully, he's made many connections during his time here. Tim's just cool like that.

(League version of the Teen Titans consider guys guys-)

-

Damian’s aging in this is gonna be a little weird and I’m going to blame it on the lazarus water forcing him to physically grow quicker (because it speeds up healing and he's a kid, has the reverse affect on adults) while he’s being healed so my timeline makes sense. Oh maybe Jason too but he's only been like a few times so he just looks his chronological age. He’s just been in it oh so many times and its so sad and angsty and not all for the timeline! So it’s like 13-15-0 at the start and 16-18-6 physically for the sake of my sanity we dont need to think about things like “barely remembering anything after 15” or “being born 4 years ago” its not important

-

Jason wakes up in the lazarus pit very confused. He doesn't remember the last few years.

Tim and Damian try very hard to hide their dissapointment. They're very happy Jason is healthier-

"Do you really not remember?" the little kid stared up at Jason and Jason felt his heart pierce. Why does he feel so bad???

Why does he trust these people? It's hard to control his instincts with them- his instincts just turning into either putty.

-

A shadow comes near them and Jason instinctively growls and rips the shadow into pieces.

Okay so. His instincts is so different now?

"...are you okay?" Jason asked the two

Neither looked surprised or at all scared.

-

Something about his and Tim's height difference keeps making his thoughts fall into 'I remember when me and Tim were around the same height' before he goes 'WHAT???'

Damian walking and his stupid brain goes 'Damian's first steps'

What is this??? It's so weird!!

-

"So Jason clearly has some kind of memory of us it's just kinda buried," Tim informed Damian, thankfully they're two shadows Jason never notices.

-

Damian steals Tim's photo folder and shows Jason

It takes a while but Jason just gives up and accepts this is his life now

-

Jason stared at Talia with wide eyes, "Oh my god"

Talia tilted her head.

Jason gasped as clarity finally hit him, "You have an adoption problem like Bruce!"

"What?"

"He's right though," agreed Tim, who was conscious through the entire process. He's never actually known Bruce but that matches with his data that he'd be like Talia. They had to have somethings in common to have dated!

Maybe they broke up because Talia didn't know she was an adoptmaniac like Bruce. Tim looked over and made eye contact with Damian and they shared a little nod in understanding.

They could totally get Talia back together with Bruce and then he could be step son! It's one spot removed from his old wattpad fanfics but it's close enough!

Though he really wishes people would stop leaving hate comments about Batman's secret identity being Wruce Bayne...

-

Tim was telling another story to pretending not to be starry-eyed Damian and pretending not to be listening Jason.

Jason kept giving him the funniest look when Tim detective Drake knew things he shouldn't. Tim would just smile and Jason would grumble under his breathe.

It's going great even with Jason being such a drama queen after being bathed in Lazarus water.

Tim opened his mouth to continue when Jason stomped over in dramatic outrage, "Your format sucks! Have you ever even analysed books???"

Classic lovers.

-

Tim decided to force the classic lovers to talk to eachother instead of bothering him! At least Damian doesn't interrupt him!

-

Things are going on in the background that neither Tim nor Talia appreciate.

Talia doesn't need to tell him, Tim starts finding discreet ways to change locations.

-

"Come on guys! We need to go!" said Tim as soon as Jason snuck back into their room after a mission

"Uh-"

"Tim is right- it's no longer safe for you here," said Talia who was also here- shit it must be important then... Not just Tim being crazy...

Jason nodded and went to grab Damian when he noticed something off and paused, slowly turning back around, "Tim... where's your spleen?"

"Ra has it"

"...I have several follow up questions"

"No time- we need to hustle!"

And like that they're on the run from everyone, making their way to Gotham again. It's been years since Tim has been home.

-

"YOU TRIED TO BECOME ROBIN????" Jason turned to face the back of Tim's head, whisper yelling (he can't yell properly because Damian is asleep with them)

"You were dead!" Tim whisper-shouted in defence, "Batman needed a Robin! Everyone was too devastated after your death to Vigilante properly!"

"What do you even know about Robin?"

"So much-"

"You're a trust fund baby! You've never even slept on the streets!"

Tim turned to give Jason a scathing glare, "Were sleeping on the streets right now!"

"My point still stands!"

Damian rolled over in his sleep and hit them both in the face.

-

“Robin me could beat Robin you up,” declared Jason, the next morning.

Tim gasped in offence, “Robin me would beat Robin you up!”

“With what? your face being so ugly I die instantly”

“…I was gonna say crowbar-“

“WHAT”

“But I’m gonna go with doxxing”

“Too soon Tim!”

“It’s been 4 years!”

“It’s been like 4 months for me!”

Damian, who was casually eating his breakfast, looked up at Tim, “Wouldn’t doing that make you a villain not a Robin?”

Jason grinned, all teeth, “He’s right! It’s Robin vs Villain Tim!”

“It’s not villainous-“ “Villain Drake would win” “what?” “what?”

Jason made a wounded noise.

They went back to eating their breakfast.

Chomp chomp chomp

nom nom nom

chomp nom nom

nom…

Jason suddenly stood up, “WE NEED TO MAKE VILLAIN COSTUMES!”

Tim stared up with judgemental eyes.

“What??”

“For when we return to Gotham!”

“Why would we need Villain Costume’s-“

“I call the coolest costume!” Damian demanded immediately

Jason nodded placatingly, “We’re gonna be the coolest! I’m gonna call mine Red Hood!”

“Because your League outfit has a red hood?” asked Damian with innocence

“Wait why should we be villains?!”

Jason stared at Tim like he was dumb, “So we can make villain monologues- duh”

“Nerd.”

-

Staring at Gotham, as they got closer and closer. Tim wonders why he ever agreed to this.

This is the dumbest villain costume.

Why can’t they just be vigilantes!

[karmaajr]

guys not the way I cried over my mum getting pissed at me outside our flat earlier and calling me a chav

for context, she called me on my phone a while back n started yelling at me n I was SO lost n turned out she only wanted me and my relative to go downstairs and pick up the shopping

n I tried to get our relative to wake up but bro js got pissy with me so I started stressing out on what I should tell my mum JUST when she calls me on my phone again

the convo follows:

-> *name* where the hell are you? it's freezing, I'm not getting all of this crap myself

-> my bad my bad, I'm uhm trying to find clothes to change into?? also *relatives name* won't wake up so what do I do??

-> I don't know! for God's sake do I have to do everything around here? just get down here

-> im still in my pjs tho...

-> I DONT CARE just come downstairs!! stop overcomplicating everything for once

-> okayokay sorry, I'll be down in a min after I find my coat

-> it's fine, it's pretty warm

i was kinda confused CUZ SHE LITERALLY SAID IT WAS FREEZING LIKE A MINUTE BEFORE??? but like, whatevs!! I still go find my coat though because like....... homie my pjs is a tank top and some thin pyjama trousers so HELL NO LMAOOO 😭😭😭

n I get downstairs after a bit n mum starts giving me stuff while giving me dirty looks and I'm like whatevs, she's probs in a bad mood cuz I was so slow n then MY DUMBASS makes the mistake of tucking my hair behind my ear 💀

which then reveals my collarbone more clearly and my mum absolutely LOSES HER SHIT OMG?!?! like girl starts screaming at me to zip up and starts saying how I look like a chav n like a....... ✨️paid adult fun timer in the making✨️ to make it PG for yall 😍😍

anyways like two minutes later our creepy neighbour pulls up and makes everything SM worse n even looks me up and down with a smirk while offering to "help us out while (my) baba is gone" as if im not literally younger than his eldest daughter 🙏🙏 (only by a year BUT STILL HOLY SHIT?? WE USED TO BE FRIENDS AS WELL SO IT MAKES IT SM WORSEE)

n ya the walk back upstairs adds to the shittiness of it all cuz mums talking shit about like, everybody in existence once again AND TALKING SMACK ABT OUR RELATIVE WHICH IS COMPLETELY FAIR CUZ OUR RELATIVE IS SO FUCKING ANNOYING OMG 💀💀💀🙏

anyways like half n hour ago I went to the living room (where my mum and sister are cuddling on the sofa watching some film that i wasnt told they were gna be watching so thats whatevs ig :D) after putting the kettle on boil and tried to check with my mum if she said what she actually said (cuz this happens a lot n she denies it afterwards which makes me feel like I'm going mad omg) and she starts laughing for like 2-3 minutes straight with me standing in the doorway on the verge of teats n my sister like "amma what word??? what word is she talking about????"

anyways I give up, pour myself some hot water after basically getting the confirmation and go to my mums room (2 bedroom flat and my relatives taken over my room atp) to cry LOL

then locked in a few minutes later BCUZ WHAT AM I CRYING OVER TF?!??!? STOP BEING A LIL BITCHHHHH????!? then I remember her absolute loathing for chavs and them lot, get upset again and blah blah now im listening to AMAZING ass covers on YouTube (on my ipad) n writing this so I can stop feeling upset omg 🙏🙏🙏 ANYWAYS BAI YALL WHO ACTUALLY BOTHERED TO READ THIS WHOLE THINGGG

[alacants]

nadalcaraz as a dynamic is so interesting to me. rafa playing at the philippe chartier like always. He knows this place so well and this is probably the last time he is playing there and he going for the ultimate prize for his country which he has done countless times before but only this time. this time he isn't alone. there is this kid with him who wants it as much as he does only. he wants it for him. for rafa. he could etch history and focus on solidifying his name even more in the history books but no. he is here for his idol smiling and tussling and being a bit silly and lost but he is giving so much. for rafa. and then it doesn't happen. and the other thing doesn't happen as well. (credit novak djokovic but that's a whole other ghost and story.) but rafa is there for him after that in a way he wasn't before? cheering for him at the davis cup on his feet (again. he is doing it for him.) congratulating him on both instagram and twitter (in emoji code too mind you.) and just yeah. Nadalcaraz. sorry for the rant lol

NADALCARAZ. man there is so much there. because in a sense they're both trapped in this relationship imposed upon them. i'm not trying to imply they wouldn't have wanted to have one anyway, just that it's out of their control. the moment carlos won a grand slam at nineteen he became the new rafa and there was nothing that either of them could do about it. 

SO given what has been imposed upon you, you can fight the relationship or embrace it. and both of them have embraced it.

on rafa's side—i've wondered if his enthusiasm for carlos was a sign that he'd more or less come to terms with walking away. this is an imperfect analogy, but i'm always, always thinking of serena williams and sloane stephens, after sloane's ao victory in 2013, when everyone was like, wow serena must be like a MENTOR to you and the response from both of them was, "hell no. absolutely not."

and like yeah, that was about racism. obviously. but i do think the response was not just pushing back at the racism, but also the raw reaction of competitors in their prime. i'm not here to teach/to learn, i'm here to kill the pretenders and feast on their bones/i'm here to overthrow the queen and take MY place on the throne.

(got a great ask-essay about novak and jannik that touches on this idea, op i am slowly but surely making my way to it!) 

sure some of that is just, like, their personalities. i just doubt that the relationship would look exactly the same if carlos had hit the scene even like… 5 years earlier. to quote @oldlizzie's juanki tags that i am always thinking about, they're trying to bury you but you're not dead. until you are.

meanwhile, it's tough for carlos because yeah. you have to live up to THAT. and we see him and juanki doing their best to politely push back on the comparisons—which is a hell of a balancing act, "of course i love rafa, of course i'm flattered, please don't"—because i mean! this is a doomed comparison! for reasons that have nothing to do with talent, carlos is very probably not going to win 22 grand slams! (though, like, i can't see the future. who knows.)

don't let the comparisons get to you. don't let the hero down. don't let him down at his last olympics. don't let him down at his final tournament ever. (the way the stress manifested during those olympic doubles matches was actually so funny, iirc it went like—rafa would indicate something unintelligible and carlos would be like where do you want me to go senpai you have to tell me i don't understand.) it would be very easy to resent this person who is going to shadow you for the entirety of your career no matter what you achieve. but he doesn't. 

like you said, it would have been easy for carlos to want to focus on singles. it would have been easy for rafa to back away from sharing the spotlight and setting himself up for an unflattering side by side comparison. but they both wanted to live that experience of tennis together—to create a moment where pastpresentfuture collide.

so yes. nadalcaraz. :')

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Jak and Daxter

Loosely based on the song "God Games" from Epic: the Musical

It would have been so easy to leave. The subrails were right there. They could just step in, find out how far onto the mainland it went. It should have been so easy.

So why couldn't Jak do it?

"Uh...Jak?"

Daxter waved a hand in front of his face.

"Earth to Jak! What's the holdup, buddy?"

Just step down. That's all you have to do. It's so simple, Jak, why can't you do this one simple thing?

Jak stared at the tunnels for the space of three breaths.

And then he took a step

Backwards.

"Jak?" Concerned, Daxter leaned around to examine his expression. "What's the matter? C'mon, don't you want to get out of here?"

Shame slithered up his throat, but it couldn't stop the confession from slipping out.

"...no."

Dumbfounded, Daxter scurried to Jak’s other shoulder.

"No?! After how long it took to get down here, you wanna go back? We ain't gettin' a warm welcome, you know that, right?"

"I...can't leave. Not like this." Jak took another step back, then another.

"They'll think we're just, just weaklings who ran back to Haven because they couldn't cut it."

"They don't gotta know we went to Haven!"

"Dax, we barely escaped getting kicked out as it is! I- I can't go AWOL right now, what would Damas think of us?"

That was the wrong thing to ask. The ottsel's fur puffed up, and he bared surprisingly sharp teeth.

"He didn't think we could cut it anyway!" Daxter snarled, "Who cares what he thinks?"

But he knew the answer before he'd even finished the question. It was that sickening guilt in Jak’s eyes that drove it home.

I do.

Even after the man turned on them, called Jak "newcomer" like he didn't belong, Jak still wanted his approval? Daxter didn't understand.

But then, he'd never understood why Jak couldn't see right through Samos, either.

"I...I want to talk to him. Before anything else."

Jak prayed for some kind of perfect sentence or phrase to explain to Daxter why he needed to go back, but none were forthcoming.

Jak swallowed and added, "Sig should know about these tunnels anyway."

Daxter grimaced, but relented. "Fine. Fine. But I am not talking to Sandspurs unless he has one heck of an apology waiting."

No one was waiting in the vehicle pit. In fact, no one seemed to notice them come in at all. Jak told himself that was better, that he didn't have to explain himself if there were no witnesses. It didn't keep the whisper out of the back of his mind.

They wouldn't miss you if you left. They'd barely notice.

They were almost all the way past the forges when someone called out to them. Jak almost ignored them. But-

"Hey kid, you okay?"

But that wasn't a question he was usually asked.

Jak turned with a questioning expression to the gunsmith. He looked oddly concerned.

"You didn't show up yesterday. We were startin' to wonder a little. You didn't breathe in any of that gas, did you?"

Jak looked away.

"No."

"Good." The smith shook his head. "Poison gas-! They've never done that before. Sorry kid. Damas wouldn't have sent you out there if he knew."

"What would he have done?"

Jak didn't mean for it to come off aggressive. But he was just...tired. Tired of everything always happening to him. Tired of everyone else always having excuses.

If he heard the anger under the words, the gunsmith didn't let on. He picked up his tongs and shrugged as he got back to work.

"First offense, and you're a cadet- no, wait, two amulets, you're a scout. So scouts on punishment detail get either the 'pede larva cleanup or manual fishing net repair. Cadets have to clean the stables for three days."

Punishments that actually made sense?

Jak needed to talk to Damas. And at the same time, he did not want to talk to Damas.

At the elevator, Jak paused awkwardly.

"Da- Daxter? Can I- um. Can I do this...myself? If- if it goes south, I don't want you in the crossfire."

"If it goes south, you'll need me watching your six," Daxter retorted. But he reluctantly agreed.

Damas wasn't there, and that was somehow worse than finding him on that throne, glaring down at the intrusion. The water wheels creaked and groaned in an otherwise unnaturally silent chamber. Jak almost lost his nerve. What if Damas really didn't believe he belonged in Spargus? What was he going to have to do to prove him wrong?

Jak paced the lowest stair for several minutes, trying to rehearse his question. Trying to plan for every worst case scenario. If Damas got angry and threw him out, did they have a place to go? If Damas just shut him down, did he want to defy him again?

He didn't hear the elevator lowering down the shaft again. He didn't even notice it coming back up until it locked into place loudly.

Jak paused mid-step. His eyes flicked over to the elevator, but he didn't turn.

Damas was staring at him.

He didn't look angry, he looked surprised.

"I...did not expect to see you this soon," said the king in lieu of a greeting.

Jak couldn't quite make himself turn to face him.

"Why?"

"Ah." Damas sounded chagrined. Almost pained. "Because I...did not handle the debacle two days ago very well. I wouldn't have blamed you for wanting to put some distance between us. I put you and Sig in harm's way because I failed to fully read the artifact runners' brief."

Sounded like what the smith had said. Like Damas hadn't known about the poison gas.

"So you...weren't trying to kill me."

Damas’s ears stood almost straight up, and his shoulders stiffened.

"What? No! No, I wasn't trying to kill you!"

Jak nodded, but kept his eyes on the stairs and resumed pacing.

"Had to make sure."

Damas took the long way to the throne, along the outer edges of the pools. He didn't speak, letting the oppressive thickness of the air settle over them again. When he'd almost disappeared behind date palms in ceramic planter pots, Damas stopped to look out the windows, down to the sea.

"Is that why you came?"

"No."

"I see."

Jak thought he imagined a hint of hope in Damas’s voice.

"I don't have any work for you."

Damas glanced back down at him.

"It's not because of the...incident, you understand. You've just come after work has already been assigned for the day."

Jak glanced up. "I know."

courage. You can do this. And even if you can't, you have to.

"Well," the king sighed, "if you're here to lambast me with Sig for taking things too far, you just missed him."

Taking things too far. That was certainly...simplifying things. Jak clenched his fists and forced down acid in his throat. Don't get angry. Don't let him get under your skin. Remember why you're here.

Jak folded his arms across his chest and watched Damas’s face carefully.

"I...needed to- to ask...you. For something."

It was like pulling teeth to get even that out.

Damas turned immediately, eyebrows raised.

"It's not like you to ask for favors. Or help. What happened?"

He couldn't outright say that he'd met with Ashelin Praxis. Damas would probably shoot him on the spot.

"Got a call out there from-" Jak paused. "From a friend still stuck in Haven. It's- there's barely any city left. People I still care about are in danger."

"And?" Damas asked coolly.

Clenched fists and gritted teeth. Jak had to fight to force out the words.

"And I'm a- asking. You. For- for permission to go back."

Any pretense of calm fled Damas in an instant. His eyes darkened, and there was a promise of danger in his stride as he came to the edge of the dais.

"You're what."

"Just until they're safe. Just until I can destroy the new metalhead nest."

Damas flung out an arm as if gesturing to the offending city.

"You're asking me to allow you to leave Spargus, to give aid to our enemies. You want me to deal with Haven again. You want to go back to the people who betrayed you, again."

"If Haven falls, Spargus is next!" Jak argued.

"Spargus is not weak like Haven!" Damas snapped. "I had thought you had been among us long enough to know that by now."

"Apparently not, since I'm just the newcomer who doesn't deserve mercy!" Jak shot back.

He felt a tiny twing of guilt for throwing the words back in Damas’s face when the king lurched back like he'd been struck. But Jak couldn't stop now.

"The metalheads will raze Haven to the ground. Everything Mar built, they'll have access to. Even the subrails to the temple."

"The what?" Damas asked softly, almost threateningly.

"There are catacombs under the temple." Jak gestured sharply. "Daxter and I found them last night. Oracle says they have a subrail that goes right to Haven. How long do you think that's going to stay hidden if the city goes down?"

"We will fortify the temple." Damas turned away to march to his throne.

"You will remain in the city."

As he sat, he leveled a harsh glare at the boy.

"I strongly recommend that you heed instructions this time. I prefer not to revoke your gate pass."

Keira's life was on the line. Tess's life was on the line. And Damas was going to confine him to the city out of spite. Fury rattled in Jak’s lungs and loosened his tongue.

"I almost left," he growled at the king, "I almost went anyway without telling you."

Be grateful I told you anything at all ran unspoken under the statement.

"Then why didn't you?" Damas challenged him.

"You already think I haven't earned a place here yet. Well I'm not going to prove you right."

Jak's anger didn't burn hot enough to evaporate the lump in his throat. He should have known it would be useless.

"Jak-"

"This was a mistake." Jak turned his back on the dais and throne and stormed down the pathway.

"Shouldn't have asked."

He heard Damas stand in a rush, but ignored him. Why did he think this would go in his favor? Stupid. Stupid to hope.

"Stop."

He didn't.

Damas’s voice rose, bouncing off stone and water.

"Put one foot in that elevator and I put this tower on lock down."

He probably thought Jak was going to go to Haven to spite him. Jak weighed his options before pivoting on his heel to glare at Damas.

"What."

Damas was pretty fast for a man in armor. He had one arm outstretched like he'd been about to grab Jak by the collar. He settled a hand on Jak’s channeling ring -- not pulling, not yet. Just keeping him from leaving.

"You. Belong. Here," Damas said sharply.

"Not in Haven. Do you not know a trap when you hear one?"

You belong here.

Don't crack.

Jak cursed the catch in his voice. "You dropped everything to send rescue missions after just four scouts. You can't ask me to leave my friends behind enemy lines after that. Either you're a hypocrite, or I'm just doing what you taught me to do."

If Damas wasn't angry before, he probably would be now. Jak knew he shouldn't have called him a hypocrite point blank. Damas’s face went still, expressionless. His fingers tightened around the channeling ring, but his face was blank.

Jak closed his eyes.

"Sorry," he grunted.

"Convince me."

"What?"

Damas leaned closer.

"If this is that important to you, you'll have to convince me. You find five Wastelanders willing to go with you or support your mission, and I will consider letting you go."

Five?! Jak wasn't sure he could fine one!

"And if I don't?" he asked warily.

"Then you don't leave home, simple as that." Damas released him and stepped back.

"You have one day."

[xxplastic-cubexx]

[right to left]

finally finished This Wip from Ever ago and so now i ask you ever look into another dudes eyes and suddenly want to do whatever he wants

[bookinit02]

i really do think there’s a huge disconnect on here w/ people who have never used tiktok as to what it actually is and who actually uses it. the number of people i’ve seen call it a “teen dancing app” is actually insane. it has not been a teen dancing app since i was in high school, around 2016 - 2020. the main communities i saw on a daily basis were 1) black history/anti-racism educators, 2) high school & college teachers sharing in-classroom strategies and frustrations with the education system, 3) local/state political leaders giving real-time updates on behind-the-scenes government decisions, & 4) community activism & leadership. like tiktok is an adult platform. almost every person i interacted with was my age or older. and yes it completely depends on your fyp and how you interact with the app, yes there’s still teenagers and dance videos and literally anything else you can think of. but these communities of adults aren’t insubstantial at all, they have literally millions of interactions on a daily basis. there’s about a million other types of communities that i could name just off the top of my head, because the range of users was SO diverse and thriving. it’s a long-distance community tool, just like any other social media—and honestly much better than any other social media, because it relies primarily on the kindness of strangers. i saw at least 5-10 videos today of queer people in rural areas panicking because they don’t have any access to queer community on any other platform or in real life. and before i end this i do want to say i think tiktok is coming back, i think this is a highly orchestrated political move, etc., but i do know it won’t ever be exactly the same. people are panicking about free speech violations because tiktok was a place where people fucking SPEAK. i have never seen mass mobilization and communication in this same way for as long as i’ve been alive. it is the people’s app, not just a silly teenage thing. if you’re not on tiktok and never have been, please stop talking about it like you know anything at all😭

[apostaterevolutionary]

Okay can I be a bitter Anders fan for like. Just 2 minutes here lmao

Cause bioware released some game stats for veilguard and apparently 72% of players redeemed Solas which is like. Okay yeah the game kinda pushes you towards that. But when I think of all the shit I used to have to put up with just for enjoying Anders like at all and…

(This is not me being anti-Solas, I do not care if you love or hate him, but I am gonna say what he’s done is like. Objectively worse than literally every other companion so lmao. And that’s fine! You can still enjoy him! I’m not saying you can’t and it’s important to me that people understand that! I’m just saying he did in fact do objectively morally worse things in game than Anders did and I don’t think that’s really debatable. And I can’t really make my point here without saying that but I do want to make it clear this is not some moral condemnation of Solas enjoyers cause it’s not)

Getting anon hate on the regular, being told “oh you’re allowed to like Anders as long as you regularly talk about how much he sucks”, people gleefully describing how much fun they have killing him ON your posts about the fact that you like him, the devs making jokes about shitty fates for him when fans asked innocent questions about him, the absolute audacity of his writer to say half the shit she did in interviews (about bisexuality and mental illness, most critically), and then being beaten over the head again in inquisition about how Anders is the worst character to ever exist and there’s no redemption for terrorists who lie to you one time in the entire game and he deserves death or worse and that’s it

And now… 72% of people are down to redeem the guy who lies to you for 2 games straight and who did a lot of questionable things that includes creating the fucking blight and. Like. I guess I’m glad that Solas fans can live in a world where they aren’t constantly harassed and can give their ship like. A pretty damn good ending all things considered. And that the devs love Solas and actually give the option for that happy ending and have characters go to bat for Solas throughout the game and the most annoying thing they have to see are people making scrambled egg memes. I would not wish anyone to have to deal with the shit Anders fans had to put up with back then cause it sucked. It really sucked. And I’m glad it’s not being repeated with a different character, if nothing else

But like. Man there really is a difference when the writers actually like the character who does the thing, huh

[egophiliac]

Serious question.

Do you think we’ll see the parents/family of each of the guys???

Like, We’ve been TEASED with Ace’s brother, that I’m starting to think it’s just a reference to that Alice in Wonderland park character in Japan and nothing else….

Jack’s family, Ruggie’s grandma, Falena, Maleficia, Ms.Rosehearts, Just now Vil’s dad is in the picture which I am really happy but now I’m wondering about his mom, and so Deuce’s mom.

I mean, some HAVE a silhouette!! It could mean they do have a design in the making/ready to show. They could’ve shown us Falena in the Tamashina (hope I said that correctly) event, but didn’t (prolly to make Leona not so σ(▼□▼メ) and it’s understandable)

Anyhow, any idea/headcannon about this? Who do you want to see first?

I'm wondering if everyone might eventually get a travel event? like they've now introduced with Vil's that it doesn't have to be specifically hometowns, so that opens things up a lot! (especially if they have to figure out how to do three separate Coral Sea visits) (how would that even work otherwise)

but yeah, I hope everyone gets a chance! there's a lot of backstory characters I would LOVE to meet. :D :D :D though I do think some of them don't really suit the more light-hearted tone of the events (pretty sure you're right about that being why Falena wasn't in Tamashina-Mina, that would've just been. too much for Leona.) so like...we're probably not ever going to meet the Rosehearts. or Maleficia (although I maintain that this would be THE funniest possible way to introduce her outside of the main story, and actually I would love this a lot, can we please Twst) (I need to see her to put Malleus in a froofy little outfit and tell him what a handsome boy he is). but they've sprung surprises like Kifaji on us, and honestly anyone who shows up and tells embarrassing stories about characters' childhoods is good in my book!

characters off the top of my head who I most want to meet: literally any of the Zigvolts, Azul's mom, Ace's brother, Che'nya's grandfather (<- I think he would be a good one for Riddle) (please just any non-terrible adult in his life), any member of Rook's family because I need to see how they managed to produce him, and...really just whoever they can come up with for Silver.

[inkskinned]

you're grabbing lunch with a nice man and he gives you that strange grimace-smile that's popular right now; an almost sardonic "twist" of his mouth while he looks literally down on you. it looks like he practiced the move as he leans back, arms folded. he just finished reciting the details of NFTs to you and explaining Oppenheimer even though he only watched a youtube about it and hasn't actually seen it. you are at the bottom of your wine glass.

you ask the man across from you if he has siblings, desperately looking for a topic. literally anything else.

he says i don't like small talk. and then he smiles again, watching you.

a few years ago, you probably would have said you're above celebrity gossip, but honestly, you've been kind of enjoying the dumb shit of it these days. with the rest of the earth burning, there's something familiar and banal about dragging ariana grande through the mud. you think about jeanette mccurdy, who has often times gently warned the world she's not as nice as she appears. you liked i'm glad my mom died but it made you cry a lot.

he doesn't like small talk, figure out something to say.

you want to talk about responsibility, and how ariana grande is only like 6 days older than you are - which means she just turned 30 and still dresses and acts like a 13 year old, but like sexy. there's something in there about the whole thing - about insecurity, and never growing up, and being sexualized from a young age.

people have been saying that gay people are groomers. like, that's something that's come back into the public. you have even said yourself that it's just ... easier to date men sometimes. you would identify as whatever the opposite of "heteroflexible" is, but here you are again, across from a man. you like every woman, and 3 people on tv. and not this guy. but you're trying. your mother is worried about you. she thinks it's not okay you're single. and honestly this guy was better before you met, back when you were just texting.

wait, shit. are you doing the same thing as ariana grande? are you looking for male validation in order to appease some internalized promise of heteronormativity? do you conform to the idea that your happiness must result in heterosexuality? do you believe that you can resolve your internal loneliness by being accepted into the patriarchy? is there a reason dating men is easier? why are you so scared of fucking it up with women? why don't you reach out to more of them? you have a good sense of humor and a big ol' brain, you could have done a better job at online dating.

also. jesus christ. why can't you just get a drink with somebody without your internal feminism meter pinging. although - in your favor (and judgement aside) in the case of your ariana grande deposition: you have been in enough therapy you probably wouldn't date anyone who had just broken up with their wife of many years (and who has a young child). you'd be like - maybe take some personal time before you begin this journey. like, grande has been on broadway, you'd think she would have heard of the plot of hamlet.

he leans forward and taps two fingers to the table. "i'm not, like an andrew tate guy," he's saying, "but i do think partnership is about two people knowing their place. i like order."

you knew it was going to be hard. being non-straight in any particular way is like, always hard. these days you kind of like answering the question what's your sexuality? with a shrug and a smile - it's fine - is your most common response. like they asked you how your life is going and not to reveal your identity. you like not being straight. you like kissing girls. some days you know you're into men, and sometimes you're sitting across from a man, and you're thinking about the power of compulsory heterosexuality. are you into men, or are you just into the safety that comes from being seen with them? after all, everyone knows you're failing in life unless you have a husband. it almost feels like a gradebook - people see "straight married" as being "all A's", and anything else even vaguely noncompliant as being ... like you dropped out of the school system. you cannot just ignore years of that kind of conditioning, of course you like attention from men.

"so let's talk boundaries." he orders more wine for you, gesturing with one hand like he's rousing an orchestra. sir, this is a fucking chain restaurant. "I am not gonna date someone who still has male friends. also, i don't care about your little friends, i care about me. whatever stupid girls night things - those are lower priority. if i want you there, you're there."

he wasn't like this over text, right? you wouldn't have been even in the building if he was like this. you squint at him. in another version of yourself, you'd be running. you'd just get up and go. that's what happens on the internet - people get annoyed, and they just leave. you are locked in place, almost frozen. you need to go to the bathroom and text someone to call you so you have an excuse, like it's rude to just-leave. like he already kind of owns you. rudeness implies a power paradigm, though. see, even your social anxiety allows the patriarchy to get to you.

you take a sip of the new glass of wine. maybe this will be a funny story. maybe you can write about it on your blog. maybe you can meet ariana grande and ask her if she just maybe needs to take some time to sit and think about her happiness and how she measures her own success.

is this settling down? is this all that's left in your dating pool? just accepting that someone will eventually love you, and you have to stop being picky about who "makes" you a wife?

you look down to your hand, clutching the knife.

[the-bi-space-ace]

Forever thinking about this gif in particular.

It’s Echo confused and rambling while he’s still plugged into the Techno Union computer. How he’s still stuck in that moment in the Citadel.

It’s how Rex’s helmet is off so Echo can see his face for the first time in who knows how long. So there isn’t a barrier between them. So he can be as open and vulnerable as possible for Echo.

It’s Rex’s face, his guilt and shame passing over his expression. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s remembering exactly what happened that day at the Citadel when he lost Echo. It’s the sorrow there. It’s how fucking upsetting this must be for him.

It’s the way he grabs the back of Echo’s head to keep him from hurting himself. It’s his other hand as a grounding presence. It’s the way he looks like he’s trying to hold Echo together with his touch alone.

It’s all the history between them. It’s the shared loss of Fives. The grief. The pain. It’s the endless hours spent knowing and understanding each other. It’s the reminder that Rex met a shiny on the Rishi moon and watched him grow into a capable soldier and an ARC trooper. The same shiny he watched die at the Citadel. The one he can’t help but see even in this moment, after he’s been tortured and experimented on.

It’s how Echo puts all of his faith in Rex and always will. He’s never found a reason to doubt him even after everything he’s been through.

It’s the way Rex so very clearly loves Echo. The way he lets go so Echo can join the batch and learn who he is now. The way their trust transcends everything. It is woven through every story thread, every scene, every line said between them.

It’s a connection that can’t be severed because they’ve never stopped fighting for it.

[obsob]

here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud!!

✷(print shop)✷

[sabh0]

Also on the topic of Chuuya's mischaracterization - do yall also get annoyed when ppl keep saying he has extreme anger issues and reduce his personality to an angry Chihuahua 😭😭

Like i dont think that liking to fight = anger issues, not in his case. Also being grumpy doesn't equal anger issues either (and he isn't always annoyed or frustrated either). He's only really angry when something big happens and stresses him out (like when he was supposed to play the pm leader's role when Mori was out in the Cannibalism arc) (and tbh who wouldn't get angry/stressed in similar situations) or when Dazai is around (welp. Dazai just has this effect on people)(and in recent chapters we can see that's not always the case, either).

The only time where i see Chuuya having problems managing his anger is in storm bringer, where he actually beats the living sht out of people if they ask him a simple question like "where were you born". But these r the only cases he's actually harmful to people i think??? Most of the time his anger in the book is (imo) justified and understandable. And when he gets angry and realizes that maybe he shouldn't, he will stop himself too (i would say his conversation with Adam at the Flag's funeral is a good example) (tho imo who wouldn't get angry in that situation)))

Anger is a normal emotion humans experience. That anger is needed for one's survival at times. Anger issues become a problem when a person can't manage their anger and fo stuff they may regret later or cause harm. And I don't think Chuuya is an angry gremlin the fandom makes him out to be

[puppetmaster13u]

Have a small wip of Down in the Deep Au

(No Sebastian in this, but hey anonymous asker I might've lost your ask about if Danny dimension travelled or was the only one from DP, and the answer is yeah. At least currently)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

   Now, it wasn’t the best idea, but it was near instinctive in his exhaustion and panic, to open his mouth and wail. 

   And wail he did, the sound shrieking forward and tearing through the metal and charging ghost. Not that he saw, eyes clenched closed as he was launched back into the swirling greens of the zone. 

   If he’d kept his eyes open a moment more he’d have seen how unstable the area around him had grown, would have seen the portal sputtering around him. Natural portals were more rare than one would think, a relief to ghosts as the chance of one opening on one of them would be deadly. 

   In fact, for any other ghost, it would have killed them permanently. It would rip apart their very essence and leave the ghost nothing but a shade- they were referred to as unstable for a reason after all. 

   But Danny wasn’t just any ghost, he was one created by the opening of a portal, the blood sacrifice, accidental or not, that fueled that initial tear. No, this gnashing, wild thing would not rip him apart like it would anything else, not when he was made from the same tearing, fracturing force. 

[wiltingdecay]

"but why didn't sakiko just TALK to-" because the tragedy lies in the fact that she didn't!!!