#as a kid whose body matured fast

[theplushfrog]

so you know those "gratuity journals" and "gratuity meditations" that are very popular among influencers?

I HATE them.

I've never been able to pin point while until lately when listening to the song All-American Bitch by Olivia Rodrigo. The song is a kind of parody/satire about being an American woman and all the conflicting sexist values imposed on you.

The song ends with her softly singing "All the time, I'm grateful all the time" and has a line in the background saying "all the fucking time" underlining how much bullshit these expectations are.

Before this, I thought maybe gratuity was just a practice that didn't jive with me personally, but when I thought about the expectation of gratuity, I started to understand why I disliked it so much.

See, does anyone else remember the posts about The Giving Tree and The Rainbow Fish and how they related to common gifted kid experiences?

As a "gifted kid" (likely just a bookish autistic kid tbh), I loved The Rainbow Fish, but not the story. Just the fish itself. I hated the story with a burning passion. Same with The Giving Tree. I related HARD to both the Tree and the Fish.

I know both books are ideally meant to teach about generosity and sharing, but as a tiny child marked as a"gifted kid", those stories taught me that people will ask of me for everything special I have until I am nothing else but a stump in the ground. And then they'll continue to use me to suit their needs, without respect for mine. They'll take all of my scales (parts of my body even) and leave me with nothing for myself.

I remember growing up Catholic and being told to be grateful to God for everything. Literally everything. Not only grateful to him for the sun in the sky, but grateful too for the A+ on my paper and for learning to ride my bike without training wheels. My own accomplishments weren't even mine, they were God's, apparently.

Told from every angle that people (even deities) were hungry to take what I worked hard for, to take every little thing that was special about me and hoard it for themselves. It's no wonder I hate being told to be grateful.

Fuck you, -I- did the work, it was MY blood, sweat, and tears that got me to the place I am today. I don't need to be grateful. I need to be PROUD.

For me, as a perfectionist and someone with low self-esteem, being proud of myself and my work, that is self-care.

It may not be that way for everyone. But for me, I worked hard to even be able to be proud of myself.

[kydrogendragon]

Monochromatic

Monochromatic for Day Six of Dreamling Week

Relationship: Dream/Hob Rating: Mature Words: 2060 Warnings: Forced Relationship, Teacher-Student Relationship, Age Gap, Body Horror and Dubcon to be safe. Ao3 Link

Thank you to @gabessquishytum whose ask here inspired this!

Hob should have known that something was gravely wrong when he opened his apartment door to see Dream perched on his kitchen counter. The young student smiles at him with eyes too sharp and knowing.

“Dream?” Hob asks, setting his bag on the floor, propped up by the wall. “What’s wrong? How . . . how did you get in here?”

“Any door can be unlocked if you’re determined enough,” he replies, curling a finger to beckon Hob closer. He keeps his feet firmly planted instead. The smile falls from Dream’s face.

This was getting out of hand and fast. Initially, he’d thought Dream was simply one of the occasional students of his that developed a crush on him. And that isn’t a terrible thing by itself—flattering, in a way—but, of course, a crush was all it could remained. And he had to give Dream props for actually asking him out on a date in the beginning rather than asking for “extra credit” as other students in the past had.

He’d said no, of course, but that hadn’t stopped Dream. He was still Hob’s student so it wasn’t as if he could ignore him, especially when he would drop by with questions during office hours and just happened to have extra treats to share. Sometimes it was coffee, other times it was cookies or pastries, but it grew further to actual gifts and finery, of all things. When Dream had tried to give Hob a golden bracelet that looked like it costed more than Hob’s life savings, he’d refused. Said it was unprofessional and that perhaps Dream should look into other classes than his in the future.

Well. That only made things worse.

When the gifts weren’t winning Hob over like Dream had expected, he changed tactics. He’d come to class with clothes far too tight and far too short that displayed every part of his body perfectly. Hell, one day he’d come to class in a mini-skirt and sat in the front row only. Which that alone would have been . . . fine, but when Hob turned back to talk to the class, he looked towards Dream and was met with spread legs and a view of the ruby red plug buried in his arse. Class ended early that day so Hob could hide in his office and lock the door to jack himself off before his next lecture. Something that Dream apparently noticed because he did it three more times after that, each with different colored plugs. Once with a cock ring and Hob swears there was a piercing on his cock (something he, begrudgingly, found out later was true. He’d gotten it pierced just the day before, specifically for him).

Hob’s not blind. Dream’s incredibly attractive and if he wasn’t his student and was a few years older, he’d have bedded him in a heartbeat. But he is Hob’s student. And he is younger—fuck, he’s fresh out of secondary school, just barely eighteen. Hob has an easy twenty years over him, not that Dream seems to give a shit. 

He wishes he could say Dream had just stopped at shamelessly flashing him in class. Christ, life was easier when it was just some kinda crazy kid going after him, but no. Dream’s apparently not just any kid. He’s the fucking son of Chronos and Nyx. He’s an Endless child. And when his bodyguard (and quite possibly his hitman as well) told him to give Dream whatever he wants with a knife pressed to Hob’s throat . . . well.

Hob likes his life. He likes living and teaching and enjoying all the small things that make it worth being here. And he’d quite like to keep doing those things, so he wasn’t left with much of a choice after that. And when Dream came to his office the next day and planted himself over Hob’s lap, he let him. And when Dream pressed his lips to his, Hob let him as well.

But he should have known it would only get worse. Should have known there’s no way Dream would have been satisfied with just simple kisses and knowing he’d won.

Dream carted him away for date nights after classes. He drug him to the fanciest joints in London, gifted him suits and jewels and other adornments to wear, most often delicate lace lingerie to wear under the fancy suits so there would be something pretty for Dream to find when he unwraps Hob at the end of the night. Hob thought, maybe, that Dream’s obsession would start to fade. That, given enough time, he’d realize that Hob was just a boring old maths professor and would drop him in favor of something else—or someone else—soon. But it’s been four months now since that guard of Dream’s threatened him and almost a year since Dream had first stepped into his class.

And now Dream has somehow found himself a way in to Hob’s flat.

“Dream, you can’t just break into my place! Good partners don’t do that kind of thing.” Dream’s eyes narrow as he slinks off of the kitchen counter. The edges of his classic black overcoat trail just above the floor as he glides closer to Hob.

“No,” Dream says, reaching for something in his pocket. “No, good partners wouldn’t break in, would they? But it’s a good thing I didn’t need to resort to something as petty as that. You gave me a key after all, didn’t you?”

Dream tosses whatever was in his pocket at Hob’s chest. He scrambles to grab it, only to see a set of brass keys on a ring. These, he knows for a fact, never came from Hob’s hands. However Dream got ahold of a copy of the keys to his locks didn’t matter. He had them know. And could easily get more, he assumed. And if Dream says Hob gave them to him? It’s as good enough as the truth now. That’s a lesson he learned early on.

“But—” Dream swiftly turns heel and steps back towards the counter where Hob can see something small lying on top by where Dream had been sitting “—you haven’t been a very good partner to me lately, have you?”

Hob blinks. Christ, Dream’s probably not wrong, if they were going by healthy relationship standards, but he thinks he’s been doing pretty damn well for feeling like he’s about to be shanked if he makes the wrong move. But that doesn’t matter to Dream. This is his story and Hob’s merely a character in it. And apparently he didn’t play the part right.

“No, you’re right,” he replies, stepping closer. He rests his hands on Dream’s hips. If he plays sweet and sorry, then everything should be fine. “I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?”

Dream hums, fiddling with whatever was on the counter in his hands. Hob tries to peer over his shoulder, but all he can make out is the plastic bag but not what’s inside of it. “Do you even know what you are apologizing for?” Dream turns his head and meets Hob’s gaze with those calculating blue ones of his. He’s pinned in place under them.

He swallows, mentally running through the past week, trying to figure out what it is Dream’s referring to, but he comes up blank. He thought he’d done pretty well lately, but apparently not.

Hob sighs and shakes his head. “No. But if it upset you, then I’m sorry. Tell me what it was? I’ll be sure not to do it again.”

“You cheated on me.”

Hob’s eyes widen as Dream turns in place, cradled between the countertop and Hob. over the months, he’s gotten good at reading Dream’s face. He had to, it was a survival skill at this point. And the tightness around his eyes, the clenched jaw, and the fire in those blue eyes of his are all signs that point to danger.

Fuck.

Hob’s eyes dart around the room, trying to find wherever that damn bodyguard of his is. This is how he’s going to die, isn’t it? Stabbed because Dream thinks he “cheated”. Maybe he can still save this.

“Dream,” he says, holding his hands out. “I would never cheat on you! Why do you think I did?”

“You were flirting.”

“With who?” he asks, because he genuinely can’t think of who he might have been “flirting” with.

“With her,” Dream says, opening the small bag he was holding. He pulls out something cream-ish colored with splots of red and—

Oh . . .

Oh god . . .

Hob stares down at the bloodied finger between Dream's, his eyes feeling like they’re going to pop out of his skull. His heart is racing in his ears yet his body feels ice cold. There is a finger here. A severed finger. And Dream holds it in his hands with such ease and comfort that it might as well be a piece of candy.

Dream is smiling. He's talking. Hob faintly hears him through the muffled silence that weights down on him. He can't stop staring at the finger, at her finger. He can't stop staring at the green lacquered nail, the polish chipping at the base. He can't stop staring at the congealed blood that coats her skin.

Christ . . . What is happening? What is this life he's gotten wrapped up in? He's just a maths professor for fuck's sake! And now he's staring at the bloodied severed finger of the girl from the coffee shop who he’d chatted with because she was an old student of his. Fucking hell, he’s the reason she’s without a finger. His heart sinks.

Or worse. God, is she dead? Did Dream kill her?

"Hob." Dream's voice calls to him. He shakily lifts his head, meeting darkened blue eyes narrowed in displeasure. And there, just on Dream’s cheek, he sees it. Doesn’t know how he missed it before amidst the sea of white and black that is Dream: a streak of dark red. Of blood. God. He did this himself, didn’t he? It wasn’t even that guard of his that did this. This was personal. "Did you hear what I said?"

Hob blinks back the flood of tears as the reality of his situation crashes down on top of him. It doesn't help. They still fall and he thinks that Dream might even like it that way, judging by how his face seems to relax at the sight.

"No," he says, voice strangled. "Sorry, I'm so sorry, um—" he swallows "—what was it you were saying?" Dream tilts his head to the side. "Love! Um—what was it you were saying, love?" he corrects. Hob's hands shake.

“I said, you wouldn’t be foolish enough to do such a thing again, would you? Not when you have me.” Dream lowers the finger onto the kitchen island beside them as he closes the distance between the two of them. “Now, I can be forgiving. I know it’s natural to be curious about others, especially if . . . one is considering proposing. It’s understandable, the want to be certain of who you’ll spend the rest of your life with, but even so, what you did was unacceptable. But I can forgive you this once.”

Pale hands wrap around Hob's neck, slowly pulling him in for a kiss. Hob moves, afraid of what would happen if he didn't. He lets Dream's mouth meet his, parting them, and letting the younger boy's man’s—mob prince’s—threat’s tongue explore. His body goes on autopilot as his mind races through what Dream said about proposing and the not so subtle threat that if he ever so much as looks like he might be flirting, then that person is going to end up dead. And him too, quite possibly.

Fucking hell . . .

Dream parts with a happy sigh, nuzzling into Hob's neck. "Now, isn't that better? You belong to me, after all. No need to let anyone else get between us, is there?"

Hob can hear the threat laced over Dream's words. So much for thinking Dream would grow bored of him. Now, it seems, he's stuck with him and the only way out is death. And Hob, well. Despite everything, Hob still does love living.

"Yeah," Hob hears himself reply. "Much better."

It seems he’s got a proposal to plan. One that makes Dream happy enough not to murder him. To death do us part, indeed.

[timdrakemybeloved]

Snape makes me so fucking mad holy fuck, I’m incapable of thinking of him positively. I don’t even like Draco and I think of him 10x more positively than I think of Snape.

What kind of person gets bullied as a child and then grows up and bullies the child of his bully like that makes him way worse than James (btw I love James and I fully believe he matured and grew up and is a good person who deserved more than for Snape to tell a literal Nazi terrorist to kill him and his infant son but to leave his wife alive). Snape had way more power over the kids he taught than James did over him and what did he do with it?

He made fun of their appearance and scared them to the point that he was Neville’s boggart (which when you think about it is so awful because 1, Neville’s parents got tortured into insanity and I’m pretty sure he was there, and his boggart probably should have been Bellatrix or his uncle even, and 2, he did it because Neville was the other possible prophecy child and Snape was upset that Voldie didn’t pick him to kill when HE GAVE HIM THE PROPHECY IN THE FIRST PLACE).

He said shitty things about Harry’s dead parents and orphan-hood, was glaring at Harry literally right off the bat so don’t say it was because he got into trouble a lot, asked him questions he couldn’t possibly know, told Draco to summon a serpent during duelling club??? How irresponsible is that???

Literally lied to the minister just to get Sirius killed, which atp is ridiculous (I think Sirius was dumb as fuck, careless, possibly malicious, to tell snape where to go to find moony, but snape literally already suspected that Remus was a werewolf so idk what the fuck he thought was gonna happen if he found him during the full moon, and calling it a murder attempt is a stretch), like grow up please this man was in Azkaban for 12 years which is a hugely disproportionate punishment for anything he did do to you, and the reason he was there in the first place was literally fraudulent, which he knew and he lied anyway.

And honestly the Legilimancy lessons were fucking joke, who looks through an abused kids memories and makes fun of both the abuse and the few good memories he has?? And then he’s surprised that Harry tried to equal the playing field between them?? Snape had way more power than Harry did, and obviously it wasn’t the best thing to do to a person but yk what I’m not going to judge Harry’s actions, Snape was abusive and the victim isn’t to blame for their reactions to their abuser.

And he threw Harry across the room for seeing his memories?? Abuse. To be honest even seeing the memory about James being a bully felt like JKR trying to make shit up as fast as possible to make Snape seem more redeemable, which apparently worked for some people who think abusing kids is okay as long as you have a tragic backstory and an abusive parent. And it actually makes me really mad that he thought Harry was treated like a prince so decided to treat him like shit so he wouldn’t get any ideas about having self esteem or confidence, then found out that he was abused and then just did nothing and tbh treated him worse. And the lessons themselves were actually painful to Harry?? They definitely made his mind more vulnerable, he had more nightmares.

And let’s not forget that he joined a Nazi group that wanted to exterminate people like his best friend, called his best friend a slur, viewed Lily as an exception to the other muggleborns, and invented sectumsempura for his enemies IN SCHOOL which means the Maurauders.

And it makes me sick that he looked in a room with a crying baby whose parents just got murdered, his mom right in front of him, and a dead woman who was killed by his Nazi leader like directly because of his actions, and then he ignored the baby and went to hug the woman’s dead body. Like if I was Lily, I wouldn’t want him near either my body or my child, but if he was my only option, then he better be fucking taking care of my living son. Like she rejected him his weird obsession for her freaks me tf out.

And I get that without Snape asking for Lily to be spared, Voldemort wouldn’t have asked Lily to stand aside and the blood protection wouldn’t have been activated, but literally once good thing happening because of a tragedy he caused doesn’t make him a good person.

Anyway. Think I got it out of my system for now. Fuck Snape. :)

Edit: Just to be clear, I actually find his character really compelling, even though I dislike him and his actions. And of course I’m not saying no one can like Snape.

[bird-inacage]

Love Sea: Fortpeat's Letters to Mahasamut & Tongrak (Q1 - Q10)

Here I go again into detective mode. I've been searching through the letters that the cast have written to their characters, to see what further hints are to be found on Mahasamut and Tongrak.

🌊 Maturity through Hardship

Mahasamut may be the younger of our two, but he's been through a lot. "Your life has never been easy", which indicates overcoming odds that are stacked against you. It's those life experiences that have led Mut to become very mature, someone who is both "reasonable" and "thoughtful". He can come across wiser than his years, to the surprise of those around him (including Fort himself apparently). He notes Mut's ability to "see through people's true nature", which alludes to insightfulness and a good judge of character. It could also mean the ability to see the good in someone, despite how they present. It's easy to forget his real age. Someone whose had to grow up too fast may need a support network that embraces his big kid at times.

🌊 Determination in Adversity

The fact that Mahasamut has already been through so much and continues to experience "heartache and body ache" during the series - which Fort playfully quips 'is that enough for you?' indicates a person whose is astonishingly resilient and welcomes tough trials. (I assume this is in reference to the BTS clips of him looking bruised). It takes real strength of character to constantly pick yourself back up, without becoming defeatist or jaded. To see these obstacles as opportunities rather than setbacks, something to take in your stride as best you can.

🌊 'Live, Laugh, Love': Being True to Yourself

Fort mentions Mahasamut's honesty and his humour. As cheesy as the above motto is, I do get the sense that Mut is a person who strives to live fully, passionately and freely. Who really values life and being his authentic self. And by all means, when you're dialled up to 100 all the time, you could be a lot for some people. Too much of a good thing may be what gets on Tongrak's nerves initially.

✍️ A Lonely Existence

One of the initial theories I made about Tongrak as a writer is that this could indicate a very solitary lifestyle. Peat mentions if Tongrak feels lonely because he lives alone in a big house. This could explain why he has flings, because he's trying to fill a void. Loneliness can be due external factors that are hard to control (such as your career or upbringing causing isolation), or internal (pushing others away or feeling like no one understands you).

Peat makes a point of saying Tongrak deserves to be cared for. He may deem himself undeserving through his own perception of self or via the judgement of others. Aya's letter to Kaimook also mentions that Tongrak needs someone like Mahasamut by his side, as she was running around taking care of him. This seems to imply he doesn't have many he can lean on or turn to.

✍️ A Guarded Façade

Peat mentions how nice it was to play a more relaxed and cute side to Tongrak. A side that clearly isn't privy to everyone. Tongrak may be a bit uptight but it's very likely that his confidence and assuredness is just a persona, and he needs to learn how to let those walls down once in a while. "Everyone can be weak sometimes" can be interpreted as Tongrak feeling ashamed of weakness, or being unable to project any vulnerability.

I think it's natural for creators and artists to seek a little validation. And with that is the pressure of meeting people's expectations, of proving yourself, of opening yourself up to criticism. Perhaps this is also why Tongrak seeks comfort in people finding him attractive. It might be the one characteristic he knows he'll receive guaranteed positive reinforcement for, but it's ultimately not because of who he is underneath.

THEORIES: DYNAMICS TO BE EXPLORED

Optimism vs Pessimism

It seems to me like one of the potential differences between them is Mahasamut's positivity (optimism) vs Tongrak's negativity (pessimism). I just get 'Why?' and 'Why not?' energy from these two. Mahasamut doesn't allow knocks to easily break his spirit or his ability to bounce back. And if we're being cliché, those who grow up in more rural surroundings, whose livelihoods rely on the elements can be more hardy because they've had to be. Whereas Tongrak seems much less secure emotionally. Peat specifically reassures Tongrak that he will get through the hard times even if he is struggling right now, which sounds like a rather disheartened mindset.

Preserving Spiritedness

I have a hunch that Mahasamut's boisterous nature will be what injects some much needed relief or liveliness that Tongrak may be missing in his life. And in response to that, it would be natural for Tongrak to develop a really protective streak over Mahasamut's rare brand of vivaciousness. This would also play into the age dynamic well.

[frickityfrackityfuckingshit]

He drags the ‘hero’ by the scruff of their collar. They stumble along beside him.

Office clerks and heroes alike stare and gape at the hooded figure, before the off-dutys frantically leap to their feet, pulling out weapons and powers alike.

With a fast movement and an audible click, the figure points his own weapon at the hero in his grasp.

He is immediately recognisable as ‘The Shadow’, by the dark aura and sense of dread that trails his steps. He may not be the most destructive of all the villains, but he’s elusive, and certainly the most feared.

He continues walking towards the reception desk, his cloak grimy and soaked at the bottom from the wet footpath outside, out of place in the pristine foyer of The Headquarters. Tension hangs in the air as the heroes and civilians alike wait in confusion and hesitation, not know whether to act or wait by.

The clerk shakes under the purpose of his movement. Towards her.

Surely there were security measures towards such a scenario. But the anger that leaked from his body, waves of his power, seeped further into their bodies with every second that passed. An ever growing fear that could not be fought with a weapon.

He stopped in front of the desk, silent. The room held it’s breath.

She cleared her throat, a small sound that echoed in the space.

“What can I do for you today?” Her voice shook. She attempted a smile, but it flickered out under the cold weight of his presence.

“I’d like to see the boss,” he breathed, voice like a low hiss, rusty and deep.

The clerk cleared her throat again. All eyes watched her.

“I’m sorry I-”, she swallowed, looking around desperately. “The boss is unavailable right now.” She swallowed again.

“If you’d like you could-” a quick breath, as she become to overcome to speak. He attempted to loosen his grip on her, but his fury rose in such waves, that he had less control over himself than he had since he was a teenager, stalking the streets.

“You can fill out a compliments and complaints form,” her knuckles gripped the arms of her chair, and still she shook.

She stared as he took in a slow breath, released it softly. Part the power, allow him to talk to her.

“I’ll do that,” he said sharply, lips pulling apart to reveal all teeth and no smile.

Though she still shook, she quickly pulled out a paper from a shelf, and produced a pen.

“Will it be- will it be a complaint then?” She asked.

“What does this look like to you?” He asked seethingly, lifting the hero who, previously still, started squirming now that their feet were no longer touching the ground.

The clerk’s pen hovered hesitantly.

“That’s um-” a pleading glance around the room. “That’s level two hero Spoonbill?”

A bird name. The Shadow knew that the animal classifications related to their roles. Maybe he could let it go if it was a rodent, as they were simply observers, but a bird was not a watcher, and he didn’t care any further than that.

“And how old do you think this Spoonbill is?”

The hero in his grip spoke up for the first time.

“I am a month away from 15! I’m not a child!”

The clerk glanced between the hero and then villain.

“He’s of legal age to work…” she trailed off, as if she seriously didn’t see the problem.

“Hey man come on,” the child whined at his side. “I need this gig for the money, my ma can only make so much working the diner.” Left unspoken was the plea.

I have no other option.

Obviously this kid had developed a power early, and quickly been snapped up by the agency. The Shadow growled.

“Well let this be my formal complaint. I will not let an undertrained child, whose power hasn’t even matured, fight the city’s best villains.” He quickly recalled the flickering and spluttering of the young hero’s fire. So much potential, nearly wasted. He could have killed them so easily.

“And if I find you do, next time I’ll do much more than file a complaint.” He let his malice extend once more, uncaring about the trauma he could inflict on those around him. Let them dream of this moment in the years to come. Let it interrupt their waking hours too. Let the fear grip the forever, and let them remember.

He spared his mercy only for the one in his grip. He strode back out of the building, focusing his power on slipping from citizens notice.

“What’s your name?” He asked them.

“Spoonbill,” they said stubbornly.

“I meant your real name.”

“I don’t know why you need to know that.” They were starting to talk to him like they’d forgotten he was a top villain.

The Shadow stopped and turned to them. His grip loosened on their coat, an obvious hand-me-down through the heroes association. It barely fit, and obviously did nothing against the wind. With their power it shouldn’t be a problem, if not for the evident fact that they didn’t know how to use it.

But their decisions were their own, now that his point had been made to the association. He just had to give them a choice.

“Usually when you seek to employ someone, you want to know their name.”

They startled, looking up at him with calculating eyes.

“You’re a villain. You’re evil.”

The Shadow winced. He brought his hands up to his hood, pulled it down to reveal the disfiguring scars that stretched down the left of his face.

“I oppose the heroes association. They are my enemy. I believe an evil person finds an enemy in all others.”

Their eyes widened at his scars, obviously stricken. The unspoken question hung in the air.

“I once trained with the heroes association,” he said coldly. “They tried to use my power for good. Were not happy when I couldn’t control it properly.” When they couldn’t control it.

A flicker of something, understanding, went over their face. The kind of understanding that came with experience. He saw them rub their upper right arm subconsciously.

“I was 17.” It slipped out, but he wanted the kid to understand just how young they were. He shoved his past weakness to the side, and powered through.

“I would see you employed under my care. Properly trained you would be a powerful asset to me. You would be paid well for training, and would get a raise when I deem you ready for the field.”

He could see the glimmer of temptation in their eyes.

“But my ma-”

“Would receive sufficient protection if needed. I could also employ her as one of my household staff, if you wanted her closer.”

Their jaw dropped. They closed it quickly and swallowed.

“I don’t even know your name, how can I entrust you with mine,” they said with a nervous laugh.

He grinned, and the kid didn’t even wince as the scars on his face twisted.

“My name is Simon.”

The kid was silent for a second, before bursting out laughing. The laughter continued, until Simon’s patient amusement started to wear into annoyance.

“You sure don’t look like a Simon,” they finally said with a grin.

They held out their hand, expectant.

“I’m Mars.”

He shook it.

“Good to meet you Mars. I’m sure you’ll be a great addition to the team.”

A villain has entered the Hero’ main headquarters… to make a formal complaint.

[life-in-the-monster-haus]

Some people have pointed out you can extremely easily pick the lesbian flag out the leaked howleens hair. While this is probably a delightful coincidence I’m wondering how you feel about howleen being the lesbian rep instead of clawdeen? Would it be a nice treat or a cop out?

You super can! Her hair looks like the sunset flag just upside down.

I want GOOD queer rep in Monster High! I want it almost as much as I want diverse body types. I want it so badly. I’ve DUG deep and unearthed some some queer rep crumbs. Zomby Gaga was technically our first Bisexual Doll, Greta Gremlin is technically our first trans doll with Frankie being the second, Neighthan & Valentine we’re both intended and coded to be gay men written by a gay man. But where or… should I say were was our lesbian rep? Garrett proudly declared Clawdeen as a Lesbian and because he was the creator most fans took his word as law… but this didn’t feel like a victory to me, it felt hollow. It bothered me & I couldn’t figure out why, after being called Lesbophobic by a dozen people on Twitter for daring to disagree with Father Monster it hit me! Years prior Garrett was asked outright if he wrote Clawdeen to be a lesbian & he said it was never intended her to be that way but he supports people who see her as gay. NOW fast forward like 2-3 years? Garrett left Mattel, he was not fired he left. Garrett declares Clawdeen as a Lesbian. The timing is important because not only did this come after admitting she was never written to be a lesbian, he said it years after he left Mattel and no longer had any influence on Monster High, Clawdeen was no longer his character. His word now means nothing. This? Was messy and unfair to lesbians who deserve to have good rep! Not just a sloppy afterthought tagged on later. Mattel clearly did not agree & hammered it home in G3 that Clawdeen’s hobby is “flirting with boys” and in the live action movie Deuce is crushing on her and the feeling is mutual. This had to hurt lesbians who see themselves in her and that? Was cruel. (I’m keeping my fingers crossed for Bisexual Clawdeen).

Now! I told you that story to tell you this story: Howleen has never had a canon love interest, she is also 14, these two things are related because in the episode Fierce Crush there is some type of full moon event going on that is making all of the werewolves lovey-dovey. (It’s probably mating season, but this is a kids show.) it's the first full moon of the lunar leap year.

There werewolves are giving their lunas a token of their love, This Crescent Moon High boy gives his ghoul his class ring.

Clawd gives Draculaura his varsity jacket. (someone please draw her absolutely swimming in that jacket pls)

Dee O'Gee gives his luna his... flea collar... how sweet of him...?

and Clawdeen tells Howleen not to fall into that “I gotta get a boyfriend” trap because she is too young. Howleen takes this as great personal offensive & says she’s not in a manner very fitting of someone whose obviously not mature enough to be dating yet. On cue Romulus helps Howleen with her stuck locker & she makes goo goo eyes at him, Clawdeen instantly tries to curb stomp that by gently reminding Howleen that Romulus used to puppy-sit her.

She tells her friend Lothar who...is someone we have never seen before this moment and we will never see again... That she "Really Likes" Romulus. As her friend, he tries to give her good advice and the advice he gives her IS good advice but she messes up and sets Romulus on fire.

But her attempts to impress Romulus are all in vain because apparently he's into.... The Create A Monster Wolf girl!?!?

Sure... Why not?

Anyways Howleen is kinda bummed by this and Lothar comforts her telling her that "If he can't see how furrific you are? then it's his loss"

Which is once again, really good advice. Lothar is pretty wise for someone we've never met before and we will never see again... Pity, we could have used a wise chubby little brother troll doll.

But then oh no! he likes Howleen! but she only see's him as a friend and the episode ends with narration from Frankie that "Romance can be pretty tricky sometimes. For every Monster who wont notice you, There's someone behind you, you're not noticing and someone right behind them" implying this slug girl has a crush on Lothar. WTF she's cute too! give us slug girl little sister doll!

Now NORMALLY I would say this is Howleen expressing an attraction to boys. That's usually my M.O. of ringing that cow bell that she's into boys and that automatically rules out Lesbian but still keeps the door open for her being Sapphic And OH BOY! I’m gonna eat my own words here but part of being being emotionally mature is admitting when your wrong and I don't think this attraction to Romulus is genuine. I think she is just trying to spite Clawdeen which is her usual M.O., Seem more mature than she is and she's probably feeling pressure from this lunar new year thing, I don't think she's actually into Romulus considering It has never come up before this episode and it never comes up again.

And I'm glad it never comes up again because it's fuckin' gross. He's way too old for her and I mean that in a serious way not in my usual "Romulus is absolutely a 45yr old grown ass man" way. He's gigantic and more than likely a High School Senior or even a Super Senior which puts him around 18yrs old and I know 4 years might not seem like much the older we get but that is a huge maturity gap for teenagers and totally inappropriate and possibly illegal I'm not really sure.

SO! Since that is really the only time we see her show an attraction to boys and no, I'm not counting her kissing the eyeball boy in "Why do Ghouls fall in love" that was her under the influence of Cupid's love spell and not real. it doesn't seem like she's into boys, but once she becomes friends with Twyla? they are never apart! and that is freshman shorthand for "I like You" could I be reaching? could be, maybe, it's possible... I'm not a fan of "they're dating just because they hang out a lot" but Twyla is literally the only person she trusts whose not family.

However, this is all circumstantial evidence, she's 14 and may not be into anyone! despite her protests she is still a baby.

But I don't think her being gay would be a "cop out" I think it would be wonderful lesbian rep if they plan her this way! her and Twyla is a huge ship and I find it adorable. there's gotta be SOMETHING there if so many people ship it. normally I don't go with the flow with ships I need something there.

But a lot of gay kids see themself in Howleen and if anyone could be the one to show them it's okay? it would be her. Howleen spent the entirety of G1 trying to find herself.

I think it's time she does.

[givemethatgold]

Fix’er Upper - Part 13

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Fem! Reader Warnings: Talk of parent death Length: 2.1k words Notes: Okay bitches here we go. I’ve got 3 kids doing online schooling, a desk chair that just broke while I was halfway through typing this out, a raging headache, and couldn’t be fucked to edit. I love you al, thank you for sticking with me and this little brain baby of mine. My guidance counselor from high school can suck my dick, “You’re not a creative writer, Cher, you should considering taking Home Ec as an elective instead” I digress....

Series Masterlist

"No." You glared at him and squeezed his hand harder, "You're doing that thing again.

Frankie's head whipped over to stare at you, shocked by your assertive tone.

"You're pulling away. You're stressed, out of your depth, don't know how to deal with it and so you're pulling away again-"

"You don't understand," Frankie interrupted you, shaking his head and trying to pull his hands out of your grasp. This only served to strengthen your resolve, and your grip on him.

"No." You declare again, trying to stay calm and have a mature conversation despite the tension and running emotions. "You told me to give you time to get your thoughts straight and vocalized. I can't do that if I'm not here to hear them. I can't understand your predicament if I leave. So," You moved so you're sitting cross-legged in front of him, making eye contact in an effort to show him he had your full attention. "Why don't you tell me what that phone call was about so we can start figuring it out, together."

The situation was more complex than you ever could have imagined. Frankie's ex-wife, Karla, had died. Her car had been hit by a drunk driver. Annie, thank the gods, hadn't been in the car at the time. Before she'd died at the hospital, Karla had managed to say a few words to the paramedics. At the time they didn't make sense, however, the paramedic had taken the time to write the words down and included the scrap of paper with the patient's chart. This evidence, as it turned out, had been monumental during the resulting legal battle for Annie, all of which took place without Frankie even being notified.

Child services, lawyers, extended family, and even doctors had been involved in the court proceedings. All arguing over the future of the six-year-old girl. All believing that they knew what was best for her, most believing that she should live with them, some having the gall to pretend that they weren't aware of the sizable life insurance payout she was about to receive.

Eight words. Eight simple, beautiful words whispered through the broken, bloody lips of a woman who knew she was about to die. A young girl's future was being held in suspense, and as fate would have it, a wise and sentimental judge was overseeing her case. Eight words were all it took to convince him that Annie's mother knew what was best for her own child.

"Francisco Morales. Trust with her, he's ready now."

From the time Frankie had received the phone call from Karla's family lawyer, the two of you had two days to prepare for Annie's arrival. Frankie worked his magic and erected a wall across the bedroom portion of his loft, allowing for the little girl to have some privacy but not feel like she was being closed in. 

He had fretted for a least twenty five minutes over colour swatches at Hank’s Hardware before coming to the conclusion that he should leave it white and have Annie chose her room colours once she had settled in. He bought himself a new couch, as well, that would convert into a bed and serve as his bedroom for the time being.

The conversation you never had a chance to have with him was still in the back of your mind, but you understood that moving in together as a couple was hard enough. Moving in together with a kid neither of you knew, whose life had just been turned upside down against her will, would be catastrophic. Instead, you focused on being as much of a rock for Frankie as you could.

You made a trip to the city and bought girls bedding, some stuffed animals, and a few little decorations to help Annie feel like the new space was special for her. You also thought to pick up comfort food that a kid might crave, knowing that when you were six the best way to your heart was chocolate. Just before you left the city, a sign caught your attention and had you swerving to change lanes, normally you'd feel slightly bad about your obnoxious driving but today you just waved your middle finger at the rear window in a mock salute.

The flower shop had so many bouquets and you had no idea what kind of flowers the little girl might like. You also had the morbid realization that bouquets might remind her of all the flowers she surely saw at Karla's funeral. Just as you began to second guess yourself, a stand near the back caught your eye and made you smile.

The day of her arrival came quicker than you felt prepared for, never mind how Frankie must be feeling. He hadn't had too much time to worry about how having his daughter would change his life, but once the two of you were standing in his driveway doing nothing but waiting, the nerves had finally settled in. You could see deep, calming breaths he was taking as they condensed into little clouds in the freezing air.

Grabbing his clenched fist, you felt his fingers relax enough to allow your gloved ones to slide through them.

"It's going to be weird for everyone, she's probably nervous too." You weren't sure if the words were reassuring or not but nervous talking seemed to be your forte so you ran with it. "I mean, she's probably sad that she's leaving everything and everyone she's always known, excited about moving to a new place, then feeling bad that she's feeling another emotion besides grief. It can be hard to juggle loss and hope. Just show her how much you love her and be honest about why you couldn't be with her before. Kids are smart and are aware of way more than adults give them credit for."

A few moments later a black sedan slowly crept up the driveway. You wanted to stay, to meet the little girl but had the feeling that Annie and Frankie were going to need time to figure out their relationship without another person in the mix. Suddenly having a new parent was going to be hard enough on the little girl, you were afraid that she might see you as trying to replace her mom and push you away.

Rubbing Frankie's back for one last show of reassurance, you kissed his shoulder then took a few steps back. You figured this was the best way to be there to support him but also staying in the background for the time being. Before the car could fully come to a stop, the rear door was flying open and, in a blur of movement, a little body was flying out of it towards Frankie. You know how people will say that there are times in their lives where important moments fly by so fast they barely have time to enjoy them? Well, this wasn't one of them.

As Annie barreled her way towards Frankie, you saw in slow motion how his handsome face went from being creased with worry, to eyebrow raised shock, to breaking out in a teary smile. He had just begun to crouch down and open his arms in anticipation of holding his little girl when instead she ran right past him and locked herself in one of the sheds.

Time continued to move in slow motion, making it all the more heartbreaking watching your boyfriend's face crumple, the tears of joy turn to tears of pain as he recovered from his initial excitement and realized that his child didn't want to see him.

Tiny, muffled sobs broke the moment and brought time, and the horrible situation, back into focus. The Child Protective Services worker who had accompanied Annie from California was calling apologies to Frankie while running after the little girl, trying not to slip in the snow in her hurry.

You wanted to go to him, to lend him some form of comfort, but you were also aware that some types of grief don't appreciate witnesses. Deciding to stick around and be helpful in the background, you made your way into the loft and started making coffee and sandwiches, foreseeing a longer stay for the caseworker than initially thought.

Nearly forty minutes had passed before you emerged again with food and drinks on a tray and the two adults were still talking to Annie through the cracks in the door. She had stubbornly refused to come out, demanding that she be returned to her home at once and that she hated snow.

Once you had set down the tray and cleared the snow off a picnic table, Frankie thanked you with a kiss to your temple and introduced you to Sharon after he convinced her to take a break from the negotiations. Sharon, who had been with Annie since the day of the accident, began filling Frankie in on what had happened to his daughter in the past month between sips of coffee. He was given a folder with notes from child psychologists, doctors, a letter from her maternal grandparents, and a journal Sharon had kept that described the ways Annie had been processing her grief.

While they talked, you decided to walk over and sit next to the door of the shed, laying a wool blanket down to protect your butt from the cold. You had no idea what to say to the girl but you figured she might like to be reassured she wasn't alone. Settling down, you dug into your own sandwich and hummed quietly to yourself.

You nearly choked on your next bite when you heard a soft voice singing along with the tune you'd chosen.

"Lavender blue, dilly dilly. Rosemary Green, if you are king dilly dilly, I'll be your queen."

After you'd repeated the song twice more, you stopped the tune and said softly,

"I've never heard those lyrics before, they're different from how I learned them."

A long pause followed, making you worry that you'd offended the child back into silence.

"How do you sing it?" Came the sweetest little voice, made all the more adorable with the barest hint of a lisp.

"We always sang, 'Lavender green', for one. Which never made any sense to me so I really like how you did it-"

"Yeah, cause lavender is another name for purple," she interrupted you with a matter-of-fact tone, "saying it's green is just weird!"

"Hmmm, it might be different," you conceded, seeing the opportunity for a lesson. "But either way you sing it, it's still a really pretty song, isn't it? Things can be different but it doesn't mean one is only good and one is only bad. Each version just had different good things."

Annie went silent again but this time you didn't worry about it, you knew she was thinking about what you said and needed time to apply it to what was happening right now. You eventually heard the shifting of metal and the creak of wood and had to will yourself to sit still and calm. The way you had let her approach you had worked so far, jumping up out of excitement could possibly erase all the progress you'd made so far.

Your patience was rewarded when Annie stepped out of the shed and lowered herself so that she was sitting on the blanket right next to you. Turning your head just enough to see her in your peripheral, you noticed how dull her eyes looked. Her hair was a mess and her skin looked pale for a kid who had been living under California's sun.

"My mommy is dead."

The way it was stated as a fact, with very little emotion, broke your heart. She was so little, so young, and so unable to fully grasp what kind of future had been ripped away from her.

"I know, I'm sorry that that happened to your mom."

"That man is my daddy." She was pointing at Frankie now, who was still engrossed in his conversation with Sharon.

"He's a pretty lucky guy to have you."

"That's the lady who has been taking care of me, she's been nice."

You were a bit out of your comfort zone with the conversation but there was no way in hell you were going drop it so you cautiously trudged on. Maybe verbalizing relationships and titles was helping her process?

"I'm very happy to hear that you've been staying with someone nice. Your dad is a really nice person, too, ya know? You should see the nice bedroom he's set up for you! I even helped him bake you an apple pie. Do you like apples? Or pie?" Her eyes went wide and a spark of happiness suddenly lit her face, making her appear more childlike than before.

"Is this an apple farm?" She practically squealed. “Like in My Little Pony?!”

Her outburst had finally drawn the attention of the other two adults, who were now only realizing that Annie had exited the shed. Frankie's heart skipped a beat at the sight of his two girls, beaming at each other. The twinge of jealousy from knowing that it had been you to draw her out was quickly squashed by how proud of you he was. He had been a little worried, although he hadn't voiced it, that his kid wouldn't take kindly to having a woman around but those fears were obviously for naught.

Part Fourteen 

[witchysolfan]

How about instead of the kids in TFP being assigned to one Cybertronian to each, they were just taken care by all of them, no assignment, and every Cybertronian got different turns in picking up the kids, taking care of them, and making sure they stay out of trouble.

It just all depends on whose available.

Of course they gravitate to those they feel more of a connection with.

While I enjoy the kids having a special bond with their guardians, I always wanted to see them interact and bond with other members as well. And it would be more fair in handling different temperaments and could add to the story that the kids get away with more from one guardian but are totally grounded with another.

Bumblebee is actually the weakest

Bulkhead wised up pretty fast and is actually very inventive in coming up with ways to keep the kids outta danger

Arcee is their toughest cookie

Ratchet is grumpy

Optimus is Dad and he would not hesitate to bring on the “I’m disappointed in you” line if the kids really messed up. Otherwise, he’s actually pretty chill

It’s only when the kids actually show they can be mature over the serious situations and help in their own way without getting into too much danger that Optimus hears them out more.

Optimus stopped any outside missions after the fateful day Miko was thrown off cliff and died. If it wasn’t for her cat Ravage, reborn as the King of Cats and giving up one of his remaining lives to bring her back, Miko would’ve been gone forever.

She still wasn’t the same after that.

But she sought out Optimus weeks later, when the suddenly very quiet and very distant Autobot leader sternly shut down any discussions of the children going out with them in a mission again.

Miko had noticed him avoiding looking at her. And when he does see her, there’s this pained look in his eyes. His faceplate has been up the whole time since and he hasn’t taken it off.

“Boss bot…hey…” the girl looked up at the Cybertronian in the empty room, coming to stand by his leg. “Hey, Optimus, can I talk with you? Please?”

He carefully kneeled down and reached out for her to step on his hand as he lifted her up, standing again. His optics still focused on the wall and not on her.

“……are you okay?”

A shudder.

A flicker of his gaze on her finally.

“I should be asking you that, Miko.”

There was something odd in his optics. Something glistening at the edges.

It would be a lie if she said she was fine.

Even after all this time, she was most definitely not fine. But she managed and kept reminding herself she was alive. Ravage’s curled up furry body against her confirmed it every night.

He saved her.

The King of Cats saved her.

It still hurts.

“……not really.” She said quietly, holding herself. “And you’re not okay too….can we be not okay together?”

The sound of his mask sliding back alerted her and she looked up to a strange sight. There was a dripping noise. Turquoise liquid falling down a metal faceplate.

“….I would like that.” Optimus said softly, reaching up with his free hand to brush her cheek with a gentle finger. Miko blinked, not realizing she had been crying.

She grabbed the finger and hugged it, shuddering as her throat ached and closed up. Smiling through her tears as she relished in the feeling of air in her lungs and someone holding her.

“I am…glad…you are alive.” Optimus’s other free fingers curled around her and he did not look away from her. He wanted to reassure himself that Miko Nakadai was indeed alive and not a crumpled corpse on the canyon floor.

She was happy to be alive too.

[ganyuslily]

ELECTRIC LOVE.

you’re coming back to your hometown and the only thing u can focus on is that oh my god your best friend is hot now and oh fuck your crush on him is coming back with double the force and oh fuck you just confessed.

pairing: kaeya/gn!reader (romantic)

category/extra notes: implied childhood friends to lovers, fluff, your crush on kaeya is HUGE, awkward love confessions, kiss !! wooo !!, uhh kaeya calles you babe??, swearing

note: song is “electric love” by børns!

you’re nervous.

well, nervous isn’t exactly the best word. it’s not the worst one either though. you’re clutching your handbag so strongly the knuckles turn white and your hand is just a couple centimeters from the door. you’ve been getting yourself to knock on it, but you just... can’t.

maybe you would be able to do it if you didn’t hear kaeya’s voice from the inside. you internally think that it’s your mom’s doing — getting him here without telling you, on the first day of you coming back. of course she wouldn’t tell you. she knew you’d try to stop her.

you quickly wonder if maybe you’d be able to catch the train back and after that sigh in frustration, mentally preparing yourself to finally bring your hand and knock, but then, the door opens.

and of course, in the doorframe, stands no one other than kaeya.

you briefly think that you have to look like an idiot, but you don’t make any effort to move. your hand hands closely to his chest and you wonder when did he start to work out?

“missed me, babe?” he asks with a sly smile. you try to look at his face, but you can’t, because making eye contact with him makes your heart skip a beat.

he’s not dressed in anything fancy, but fucking god does he look pretty.

“absolutely,” you answer after awkwardly clearing you throat. “now move, i need to get in,” you add and he does just that.

he laughs and you think it’s the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard. you hurry inside and head towards the kitchen. you meet your mom and the first thing you do is mouth how could you?, dropping your bag onto the floor, to which she only answers;

“nice to see you again too, dear.”

you stare at her with disbelief before you feel kaeya standing behind you and it takes everything within you to not do anything you would regret later.

she looks at you with a little smile.

“do you need help with anything?” you try to keep your composure, desperately trying to ignore the feeling of kaeya’s body almost pressed against yours. you can feel his breath your neck, slightly tickling you.

“no, no, i’m fine! your dad told me he’ll help me! he’s sleeping now though, so don’t wake him up. he’ll come down and cook the food later,” she answers, putting out the dishes on the table.

you think to yourself that you need to get out again, because the close proximity in which your standing next to kaeya is gonna drive you insane.

“i need to catch my breath then,” you murmur, slipping yourself out of his embrace and walking out to the garden. you hope you’re gonna have a moment to yourself, but that hope is ruined the second you hear footsteps behind you. and you know exactly whose footsteps they are.

“your mom told me to join you,” he says nonchalantly as if he didn’t make you extremely nervous just a couple of seconds ago. it reminded you of when you were kids. he was still the same, but also not really. he matured, of course he did, but there was still this familiar something about him that made it feel like home.

“you look beautiful,” he adds after sometime and you wish it didn’t make your heart beat si fast again. you were supposed to calm down, damn it, not for him to make you feel butterflies again.

“shut your pretty face for once,” you murmur, thinking that you’re not gonna handle it well if he keeps on complimenting you. he chuckles.

“well, that’s for sure a way to take a compliment— wait, you think i’m pretty?” he asks, his voice filled with a hint of surprise. (of course he is. he is the epitome of beauty in your eyes, because how could he not?)

you slowly mull over your words, internally cursing yourself. you sit down on the bench and he does too.

“yes, and i hate it,” you suddenly say, “i hate your pretty face and your pretty laugh. i hate how you get along with my mom, i hate how much you belong in my house, i hate how much i missed you,” you throw out of yourself, “i hate how i’ve been in love with you for so long and i can’t do anything about it, because you’re you and even looking at you makes me fall in love with you over and over again,” you spit out.

there is silence between the two of you. you’re not sure why you said it, but you’re sure you’re gonna regret it very soon.

“oh my fucking god, i can’t believe i said it. can we just please, please, please pretend it didn’t happen,” you say in a panicky voice, the realization of what you did slowly settling in. you don’t know how he reacted, embarrassment not allowing you to lift your head. in this moment, your shoes were the most interesting thing in the world.

“well, to be quite honest, i thought i’d be the first one to confess. i can’t believe you beat me to it,” he finally answers humorously and that makes you snap your head up.

did you hear him right? did you understand it right? did he mean what you think he means? no, no, it has to be a mistake, because how could he fall in love with you?

“what?” you breath out and he moves his head closer to yours. your noses are almost touching and his hand is resting on your thigh. you swear your heart stops for a moment when he cups your face.

“let me rephrase that; i’m in love with you,” he says. you can’t avoid his eyes now and you swear that they seem to sparkle. they’re so pretty. he is so pretty.

“oh my god,” you murmur out. you scan his face, searching for any signs that he might be joking, but not finding any. “you’re serious?” you need a confirmation, because it seems too good to be true. he nods his head and you feel giddy. “like, actually? really, really? you promise? oh my god. oh my god—”

“can i kiss you?” he interrupts you and you swear he seems a little bit nervous. slight blush is adorning his cheeks and you think he looks breathtaking.

“oh! yes, sure— absolutely—” you mumble, stumbling over your words. you’re surprised, so surprised, because it all feels like a dream and you’re too scared that you’ll suddenly wake up and oh!

when you finally kiss, you swear you can feel the electricity cackling around the both of you and you think that you’ll never be able to get enough of him.

[detectivedamian]

As usual, following Jon unintentionally breaking Damian’s heart, Jon realizing he’s head over heels for his best friend, and the ensuing miscommunication:

Damian approaches Jon with a ticket to an expensive, exclusive cruise. Jon is skeptical at first: who else is coming along? Nobody, Damian assures him. This is strictly between the two of them-- and he needs to keep it quiet. Jon, of course, is elated. A cruise! Over summer break, their most sentimental, important season! How romantic! He’s swooning the whole trip over, imagining all of the adventures they’re going to go on and all of the memories they’re going to make.

And then they get to the cruise, and actually their tickets are complementary as they’re meant to be masquerading with an all-kids group whose members keep going missing. This is a mission. Damian is very confused about why Jon is snippy and moody the whole trip.

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

At some point, Jon gets into trouble as Superboy. He gets his body swapped with some female artist visiting Metropolis. This chick is somebody Damian has told him time and time again that he appreciates, that her art is dark and it feels like she understands where he’s coming from, she isn’t a “simpleton”, and he can sense the maturity and artistic integrity in everything she does. Jon, of course, is jealous, he’s totally convinced Damian likes this girl. So while Kon and the girl (in Jon’s body) are looking for a way to undo this, Jon decides to go mess with Damian a little.

How funny would it be if the “mature, poetic, distinguished” girl of Damian’s dreams shows up and acts more like Jon? Hah!

Well, not very funny, actually, because Jon quickly finds that, while put off and confused, Damian kind of seems to like her-- him? Jon her. He suggests the same things he did as Jon, the paddle boat, sitting closer, reading romantic Shakespeare pieces together, and Damian goes pink, but does it all without complaint. When Jon reaches across the boat the take Damian’s hand, Damian actually squeezes it and looks into his (her) eyes. Jon is actually starting to get a little upset that this was so easy, and not to mention, he’ll have to return to his own body sometime.

But then again, this is everything he’s ever wanted. To be with Damian, to be in a romantic setting, to have Damian looking at him like that. He pulls Damian closer, and he leans in.

Then Damian presses a finger to his lips. Jon’s eyes pop open in surprise, and behind the finger, he mutters “something wrong?”

Damian looks sad and says “You understand pain better than anyone else, any competent artist could tell as much from your portfolio.” Jon is confused. Damian’s eyes become dark, and he lowers his head. “I was drawn in by your work, you know why?” Jon blinks and laughs nervously, because no he has no idea why? And Damian sighs and says “That collection you debuted in Metropolis was inspirited by a broken heart, was it not?” Jon, of course, agrees, because what else is he going to do? So Damian continues to say: “That is where my heart is, too. I do not usually speak of these things, but my love has been unrequited for some time, and the longer it goes on, the more I fear myself a fool.” And Damian explains-- how upon meeting her, he was shocked to find she was in fact cut not from his cloth, but his... friend’s, that being with her today has given him a taste of what could have been. But, he laments, this person is his friend, only his friend, and the closer they get, the harder it is to hide how he feels. Things keep happening that get his hopes up, but he knows it’s all in his head. This friend could never see him that way.

Jon takes both of his hands, asks him who this person is, because he’s pretty sure it’s him but he needs to know. Damian opens his mouth to respond, but the creature responsible for this little body swap intervenes before Jon can hear his confession.

From here, Jon now has to fight this thing in a totally human body, and Damian has to protect him (her). It’s in the midst of this fight that Kon and this girl (in Superboy’s body) show up. Damian starts barking at her to do something useful, and she’s very confused about why this random kid is talking to Superboy like this. Meanwhile Jon in her body, next to Damian, is gesturing for her not to respond, and he yells out “Grab it by the tail!” Which she does.

Damian takes this as an opportunity to end this, while it’s distracted, but unfortunately for him, this thing is a little too aware of what’s happening-- Damian gets  hit or two in with a tree branch he found, but it’s useless. It grabs his body and throws him across the park. Jon helplessly watches, hand extended, as Damian gets flung a football field’s distance, and the girl flies after Damian.

This is when the body switch happens again. In his panic, and with the willpower only a super holds, and her urgency to not have the traumatic experience of watching somebody die, Jon and this girl switch bodies again.

Damian’s flying through the air, wincing, trying to grab any tree that passes by just to slow himself to a halt. But then there are arms around him, and he’s pulled into somebody’s chest. Jon, now back in his body, takes the brunt of the damage, which is nothing at all to him. They roll around a few times, until they land with Jon on top of him. Damian slowly opens his eyes to see Jon, who is smiling down at him. Damian is breathless as Jon looks over his face and says: “You okay...?” He can see the red in Damian’s face, and he just kind of... knows. It’s him. Damian’s in love with him.

Damian blinks back to life and wacks him on the chest, yelling, “We’re in the middle of a battle here, Superboy! Head on the field!”

With Superboy back in his body, and Kon there to help, the creature is taken care of pretty fast. Superboy lands with Damian on his arm, and the girl, now back in her body, comes running over. Her entire personality has changed, Damian notices with some bewilderment; she’s a lot more monotone and smooth, charming but the way a witch in the forest is. Nevertheless, Damian takes her hand and presses a kiss to it, thanking her for her time, today. She’s amused, Jon is twitching behind Damian’s shoulder, fuming. Jon crosses his arms and pouts while Damian says the last of his goodbyes.

Jon decides to keep this whole thing his little secret.

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

From here on, though, Jon is more sure of himself when he tries to get mushy with Damian.

Instead of turning around for Robin to climb on his back, Superboy wraps an arm around Robin’s waist and pulls them flush together. (Damian sputters and gets snippy and demands not to be manhandled. Jon ignores him).

When Damian’s lifting weights, Jon will spot him-- but instead of messing with him by putting a finger on the weights, he sets his hands over Damian’s and counts with him. (Damian quickly grows flustered, the most Jon has ever seen him. He refuses to look him in the eye.)

When there’s a pretty girl in distress, Jon still does get a little pink, but the moment he sees Robin withdrawing to give him the space to flirt, Superboy will wrap his arms around him from behind under the guise of flying them back to base. Robin hates being restrained this way and ends up squirming enough to wrap his arms around Superboy’s neck so he feels more secure. He WILL avoid conversation unrelated to the mission, and he WILL avoid looking him in the eye.

At Christmas, Jon will purposely catch Damian under the mistletoe, and while Damian is going on a rant about how they are not the target of the tradition and how it’s a poisonous plant, Jon will lean in and squeeze him tight and blow raspberries into his cheek. Damian squeals.

Jon stares more openly at him, and it makes Damian nervous. He demands answers, but Jon won't give him any. He just evades and talks about their current mission, or pretends to be curious about something Gotham-related.

Jon will rest his head against Damian’s shoulder when they’re lazing in their fortress. Damian tells him to get off, but he doesn’t, and Damian relents because he does, in fact, crave this contact from Jon.

Jon will sometimes mess with him and get a little too close, lips a little too near, and Damian will push his face away with his whole hand, loudly proclaiming him to be in his space. Jon can see the pink under his mask.

Jon will ask for a reward for saving Robin on a mission, then pointedly poke at his own cheek, indicating he wants a kiss. Damian is convinced he’s joking and not at all serious, so he laughs at him. Jon sighs. He’ll make Damian realize this is mutual eventually.

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

At one of the galas, an extravagant wedding announcement, a slow song plays, people are holding each other close, looking into each other’s eyes. Even Bruce is on the floor with some beautiful rich woman. Jon inches his way across the floor and taps Damian on the shoulder. Damian turns around, eyebrow raised, and Jon coughs into his hand, cheeks turning pink: “I guess we should probably dance or something, huh?”

Damian frowns and responds, “You’re here as my friend, Jon. I don’t need a pity dance. If I wanted to flit about with a high-class harlot, I would.”

Jon sets his hands on his hips: “I was asking because it looks like fun, but I guess you’re allergic to that sort of thing, aren’t you?” And that will not fly, because the only reason he declined was because he could, because the media won’t care about him rejecting his friend’s dance.

Damian glares at him and goes to grab Jon’s hand, only to find Jon is already reaching for his. To his surprise, Jon pulls him close, one hand at his waist, the other holding the hand Damian hasn’t set to Jon’s shoulder. Jon leads pretty easily, despite Damian knowing the steps more fluently. Damian expects Jon to dance a little goofier, but this is... tender. (That was, of course, Jon’s intention.) Jon’s eyes won’t leave his, and that look in his eyes is making him nervous. He hides that he’s swallowing and says, “Jon...?”

Jon’s smile just softens, and he pulls him closer. To Damian’s surprise, Jon sets his chin on his shoulder, dance turning to a light sway. It makes his heart stop, and Damian can feel his whole body melting at the touch. He wants to pull away, to push Jon off and make a show of how perfectly platonic his feelings are-- but this may be the only time he ever gets to hold Jon like this, with an excuse like this. He leans his head against Jon’s shoulder and slides the hand at his shoulder down to rest against his heart. He can feel it beating against his hand. (Jon can hear Damian’s, and he’s tempted sorely to bury his nose in his hair, but he doesn’t. That would be weird. So he turns and smiles into the side of his neck. He knows Damian can feel it because his heart skips a beat.)

[lovelivingmydreams]

Aparently writing fanfics about Sanders sides AU’s is a thing that I do now

So some of you might know  @rondoel made this really cool comic thing about king creativity. Master post here for those who don’t. The internet was given permission to do whatever they want with it. So this is not ‘canon’ to that comic, but an idea that won’t let me be until I write it down. So here’s part one of two:

Lost in thought

Virgil took a deep breath as he wrapped himself around baby Patton and looked up to Janus and Logan expectantly. They were both bowed over a desk with several memories and notes scattered all over. They hadn’t even noticed he’d left the room, and that might’ve been for the best. His attempt at talking to the king hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped. He hadn’t been optimistic enough to think that upon his apology the king would split and Roman would run over and embrace him and get everything back to normal. But he’d thought something might change, anything at all. But now all he’d accomplished was making himself feel even worse.

Was Roman really gone gone? Forever?

And Remus? Sure he was a pain to deal with sometimes, but… they’d grown up together.

Virgil wanted them back, even if this new guy- well new to him- hadn’t been so scary, he wanted his friends back. Thomas was sleeping and likely wouldn’t get out of bed until he really had to in order to eat and drink tomorrow. They had survived a day in this chaos, only because Thomas was taking a break. Their host was still exhausted and would likely not be overly active for the next week. And with things being how they are, that was a good thing.

With his coherent thoughts muted, his moral compass and emotions reduced to a non-verbal child and his anxiety incapable of properly analyzing the situation out of fear of causing absolute chaos in the mindscape… None of that could be good. At least Thomas wouldn’t call for them unless king gave him a very urgent reason to. Virgil took a deep breath and returned his attention to the present. Hopeful that Logan and Janus had come up with something after a full day of sitting in this library. Just because Logan was mute, didn’t mean he wasn’t the smartest among them anymore right? And Janus, no matter what else Virgil thought of him, was very clever too. Surely they’d know what to do… Or maybe Virgil could still do something? Logan had once told him that he was needed to get them out of sticky situations when they do come up.

This situation was very sticky.

“Lo? Janus?” he asked softly, mindful of the fact that baby Patton was all tuckered out in his arms.

He gently got up from his spot against the bookcase and readjusted his grip, feeling the way the luxurious fabric moved around his body. The material was soft and warm, but the uniform was nowhere near as comforting as he’d like. He missed his hoodie, but he didn’t dare risk going into his room  to look for it in his current condition. Still… maybe he could ask one of the other’s to see if they could find one, even if it was his old pre ‘fitting in’ hoodie… It always made him feel safe. Big enough to hide away in when the world became too much and to hide how small and weak he looked. This outfit made him look like a child next to the others. He never liked that about his appearance. Despite being a nearly thirty year old adult like everyone else, he still looked like a teenager whose body hadn’t fully caught up with his new height. No wonder the king looked down on him. In his eyes, he was probably just a kid. King clearly felt like he was older and wiser than all of them…

He shook himself out of his thoughts. He has to focus on here and now.

“What should we do?” he asked.

The two older sides exchanged a glance, Logan nodded and Janus cleared his throat uneasily.

“We can’t do much…” he admitted reluctantly. King had apparently been right, with everyone else out for the count, his ability to lie was near nonexistent.

“Neither of us are strong enough to stand up to him., he has made sure of that. And even if we were all at full strength, I don’t think me or Logan, even if we were to work together, would be able to match him now. Not even if Patton helped us. Creativity has matured with Thomas and grown stronger. You might stand the best chance, but in your current condition…”

“Me?” Virgil asked shocked. He was only ‘powerful' when Thomas was really overwhelmed or in imminent danger. That is when he could shut everyone else up, or focus them on a single task. And even then he had little control over even himself.

“Yes Virgil,” Janus insisted looking at him like the words held the key to world peace. “Like I explained earlier, he has nothing against you personally.

This is about me, Logan and Patton. But he knows you can shut his ideas down with just a few well-placed doubts in Thomas’ head, as he himself acknowledged. And he is right to fear you Virgil. You were a great source of motivation for Thomas to get creative, but you can take that motivation away just as easily.”

Virgil shook his head. Shutting creativity down completely? Even if… well no, Janus was right. He could. He had told Roman no so often in the past and despite Roman’s promises to strike him down he never even tried. When Thomas asked to get rid of him that first video, Roman hadn’t even tried to confront him head on, pretended they weren’t in the same room… Had Roman been afraid of him? Could he truly hit the brakes? No out of the question.

“I get that we can’t let him just run the place, but Thomas… I can’t hurt Thomas like that. He needs his creativity too much, especially now with everything… It would be devastating,” he insists as he gently runs his fingers through baby Patton’s hair. Creativity helps Thomas cope when life becomes too much.

He catches sight of Logan looking down in what he believes is shame. Why? What was everyone’s deal with this creativity?

“Maybe, if I knew what happened, before me, before the split,” he tries. “Maybe I could try talking to him again? See if he can see it our way?” he suggested. He wanted Roman and Remus back. But his priority had to be with the others. Who knew if the brothers would be able to reverse what the king did? Or if things would go back to normal once the king disappeared? He couldn’t risk that. So first, help everyone else and then see if they can get the twins back. He hated prioritizing like that, but it was for Thomas.

Janus and Logan exchanged another look and then, as one, shook their heads at Virgil.

Logan silently cleaned up their research and turned away to head to his room without another wo… well, glance. It was so fast Virgil couldn’t even decipher the emotion that had flashed underneath the surface of his stoic mask.

Janus on the other hand put on a comforting smile and patted him on the shoulder in an overly friendly gesture. “This is not your burden to carry Virgil. It doesn’t matter anyway. We’ll think of something. You just focus on staying calm and looking after Patton, alright?”

Without waiting for an answer Janus hurriedly followed Logan and left Virgil alone and slightly frustrated in the library. Great. Just great. It wasn’t the first time he asked about the king. Even before this whole mess, he'd been curious for ages. But he was always dismissed with “it's in the past" and the like. But now it wasn’t in the past anymore and the other’s were still leaving him in the dark. What were they hiding?

Virgil sighed and started wandering. Or he wanted to wander but his “promotion” seemed to lead him to his “ boss’ ” domain the second he lost focus. Soon he found himself stranded in the never ending fields of imagination. Virgil stopped walking, not wanting to interrupt his majesty again, and tried to focus on Patton's steadily moving chest.

He was scared. Without much else to distract him, even the task of protecting baby Patton would soon seize to keep the bad thoughts at bay. Especially with everything being so terrible.

He wanted Roman to be here. He'd know how to distract him. At the very least he wanted his music so he could agonize in peace for a little while. When he listened to music, he could sort through the feelings without them actually translating into thoughts. Just then he saw something appear at his feet.

Curiously he sat down Indian style and noted to his delight that it was his headphones and a music player. He eagerly put it on and scrolled trough the lists. It had all of their Spotify lists downloaded as well as a list that just read ‘TSS’. As he scrolled trough it he learned that it contained all of their lists combined into one along with every song Thomas had ever created and/or performed.

Well. That would do it. He put on the phones, curled himself around Patton once more and started humming.

[mrslilyrogers]

Second Chances

Sequel to Not Enough (could be read as a standalone)

Pairing: Thor x Reader, OC x Reader

Summary: Years after Thor left you for Jane, he regrets his decision. While he trudged through life, you moved on, finding happiness until a chance encounter sees you both reconnected and he meets an unexpected surprise. 

Author’s note: I’m so sorry it took so long to update! Really trying my best to write but the words just keep eluding me. I was hoping I could wrap the story up here but looks like I’m making a next chapter, which would be the final one. 

You hurriedly pushed the cart in front of you with one hand as you shoved a bag of tomatoes onto it with the other, half-jogging to follow the little boy in front of you who was bouncing with energy, his imagination getting the best of him.

“Harry, stop! What did I say about running?” you warned your seven year old son who was now battling an invisible force with his shield, pretending to be his favorite superhero. He turned back to you with a mischievous laugh before zooming off, the face he just made instantly reminding you of his father and what once would have made you cry to remember was nothing but a distant, hollow memory now. Just another fact of life that happened to you, a fact that you’ve fully accepted and embraced, the very fact that made you who you were today. Stronger. Better. Happier.

The first few years had been hell, you literally saw him everywhere you went. From social media and TV to the billboards and posters strewn on the streets, it had felt like you would never be able to escape him. Even your happiness at seeing your son for the first time had been stabbed by your longing for Thor, longing for the family you once thought you would’ve had. But slowly and surely, over the years, you began to heal. The likeness and little quirks Harry inherited from his father no longer bothered you. That didn’t matter anymore, he was yours and you were a family. It didn’t matter that Thor’s smile was always written on Harry’s face or his booming laughter always echoed from Harry’s lips. You supposed it all came down to the godly Asgardian blood pumping in his veins. And that was something you didn’t even really want to dwell on now.

“Harry! If you don’t get back here, I’m putting you in this cart!” You shrieked which immediately had him backpedaling.

“Mom, I’m too old for that!”

“Then stick with me,”

He begrudgingly walked back to you, reaching his hand up to rest on your arm on the cart’s handle while he moped. You smiled, despite his protests and playful energy, he was always respectful enough to follow you. But still, you tried to grocery shop as fast as you could with a kid as impatient as your own. Soon, you were in line for the cashier, texting Aaron which lane to meet you at, barely even having your eyes off Harry when suddenly, he surged with excitement and dashed off without warning. You felt your heart drop as you went after him, leaving your cart unattended. ‘This kid is going to be the death of me’ you swore to yourself, following him to the aisle he ran into before he disappeared. Damn, that stupid Asgardian blood for making him so quick. You finally spotted him talking to a man, his neck bent way back as he looked up at him, amazement in his eyes. You didn’t even bother looking at the man’s face, all you felt was relief while you frantically called out his name.

“Harry!” Your voice rang out, laced with irritation, making Thor stiffen. Had he heard right? That sounded an awful lot like… “Y/N?” His breathless voice whispered, barely even audible as he watched you stomp down to them, shrieking what he assumed was the boy’s name.

“What the hell were you thinking? What did I say about running off?” You knelt down to the boy, shaking him, unaware of the hulking man’s presence whose mouth was opening and shutting at the mere sight of you. He couldn’t believe it. After years of searching, you were finally in front of him, alive and well with… wait, was the boy your son?

Scolding Harry, you didn’t notice how giddy he was as he tried to shut you up to tell you something important. You didn’t notice Thor’s eyes burning into you, taking into account how well and healthy you looked. You lost some of the weight you had when you were younger, making your face a bit more mature than he last saw, the barely visible crinkles by your eyes were a bit more pronounced too but you were just as lovely, if not, even more so than he remembered. His heart swelled at the sight of you and there was nothing more he wanted than to crush you into his arms and apologize for all that he has done, hoping against all odds that he could still make things right again.

“But Mom, look! It’s Thor!” Harry’s thrilled voice interrupted you and you felt your blood run cold. The same blue eyes you’ve dreamt about for years stared back at you, confusion marring their icy depths.

“Mom? Y/N, you have a son?” Thor heard himself ask. He had no right to be disappointed, no right to feel betrayed and yet, he was selfish enough to be so. He knew deep down, you deserved a family, deserved to have a life. Unlike how he’d been ever since he broke things off with you.

You couldn’t find the words to speak. You had this scenario in your head for as long as you could remember and yet, nothing could compare to the real thing. You felt your mouth open and close, your body knowing you had to say something even when your brain couldn’t comprehend. What did people really say in these things? You could feel your breaths coming faster, your head shaking at him as you took a hold of Harry. What if he recognized him? What if he wanted to take him away? 

“I have to go,” you spoke hastily, turning your back to him and dragging Harry along with you despite his protests. He used his weight to pull you back to the superhero, whining the whole time but determination must’ve gotten the best of you, his tries falling short as you kept walking, your heart heavy.

“Y/N, wait,” you could hear Thor shout, his hand suddenly coming up to your elbow to stop you, turning you around to face him. Harry huffed at your side, his brows furrowing at you, “Mom! Why are you being so weird?”

“Please don’t go,” Thor pleaded with you, completely ignoring the kid who matched his very own frown. “It’s been so long, darling. How have you been? Could we talk?” He asked in a desperate rush, worried that you’d walk out on him again.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Thor,” you yanked your arm out of his grasp, glancing nervously at Harry while his eyes went wide with astonishment.

“Mom, you know Thor?” His gasp was so loud, it made Thor look down at him again, his brows wrinkling in confusion as he stared at the boy, those locks eerily looking like his own, the familiar set of his chin and jaw, the spark in his eyes… it couldn’t be. Shaking his head, he could suddenly hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his palms starting to sweat as his breath came in rapid bursts. You felt your heart drop to your stomach the moment realization dawned on his face.

“Thor,” your voice betrayed your nerves as you shook your head at him. Not here, please. Not here.

“Y/N, how old is your son?” He asked, his voice unmistakably low and lethal. The tick in his jaw and his clenched fists, an indication of just how close he was to losing control. You opened your mouth to speak when Harry replied for you, oblivious to the tension, quirking an eyebrow up at his father.

“Seven, but my mom thinks I act younger when she’s mad at me.” His innocent voice punched Thor right in the gut. Seven years since you’d been gone. Seven years, he’d wondered where you were. Seven years, he’d wondered why you didn’t even say goodbye. He didn’t need any proof, the more he stared at the boy, the clearer the picture became. Here you were, in an obscure, small town living your life with his son, while he had been going through life with no direction of his own, just following orders and saving those who needed it with barely a break. Burying himself in work to forget the guilt and regret of the past. Mission after mission without anyone to look forward to. To think he used to trust you with his life, he scoffed to himself. If he weren’t so devastated, he would’ve laughed. Would anyone be able to imagine the irony? A week before his wedding, he broke it off with his intended bride, breaking sweet Jane’s heart because he realized his abiding love wasn’t for the woman he had pined for, the one he thought had gotten away but for you, the only one who had seen him at his worst but stayed by his side through it all anyway. He looked for you afterwards, only to find your empty apartment, your old employer and friends having no idea where you’d gone to.

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed his pride, already feeling his seething anger bubbling below the surface. He turned away from you, his jaw clenched as he focused on his son, easily getting entranced by the way he engaged him in conversation. 

“My mom got me his shield for Christmas. Look! I always bring it with me now cause I wanna be like him when I grow up even though mom always says you’re the strongest Avenger,” Harry continued to talk, nonchalantly ratting you out. You felt yourself flush as Thor glanced at you briefly before he kneeled to your son’s eye level. 

“Is that so?” He asked him, his eyes drinking him in, observing how alike they were and noticing the little quirks that was unmistakably yours too. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve had a witty return, and joked about proving his prowess but now, he was so quiet, so fascinated with whatever came from his tiny mouth that it wouldn’t have mattered if he had spoken gibberish. All he wanted was to hear his voice.

“Mm-hmm, Aaron thinks it’s the Hulk but mom always says it’s you,”

Hold on a minute.

“Aaron?” Thor had no idea he said that out loud, his face twisted into pure disdain. Who the heck was this Aaron now?

“Yup, mom’s—”

Just when you were about to warn him to stop talking, Aaron’s relieved voice rang loud and clear, 

“There you guys are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” He strode to your direction, a smile on his face as he pushed a cart full of repair tools when suddenly, he recognized the man who had just stood up, making his smile fall and his back stiffen. Thor watched Aaron with a deep scowl on his face, squaring his shoulders. He had just about too many revelations in one day, he certainly didn’t need to see the man you’ve been with these past few years.

Any other man would’ve cowered under his gaze but not this one. Instead, he looked to you with sympathy, putting a hand on your lower back to lend his support. 

And somehow, that hurt him even more.

“Aaron! I was just telling Thor about you!” Harry beamed up at him. Thor felt the unexpected twist of jealousy coil in his stomach. This was supposed to be his family. What the hell had he done to deserve this?

“Oh yeah, Buddy?” Aaron answered back, keeping his voice light as he ruffled the boy’s hair, the tension on shoulders still visible to anyone watching. 

“Uh-huh. Tell him about—”

“Harry,” you cut your son off before this awkward situation grew longer. 

“Sweetie, why don’t you go with Aaron first and help him find the cart we left?” You smiled down at him sweetly ignoring the dread creeping up your veins at having to face Thor alone.

“But Mom, I’m still talking to Thor,” Harry whined back.

“Don’t worry. I’m not leaving,” Thor told him sincerely, the words holding much more meaning than what his son realized. Harry dragged Aaron off quickly, promising they wouldn’t take long. Thor didn’t miss the concerned looks you exchanged and the little nod of reassurance you gave as they scrambled off. His jaw twitched at the sight of it. He squared his shoulders and crossed his arms as he tried to control the temper brewing inside him, his deadly gaze almost making you cower. Almost. But you stood your ground and lifted your chin up at him instead. The determined look on your face instantly causing him to unravel and before you could say anything, his shoulders sagged, arms dropping as he let out a defeated sigh. 

“Why?” He asked you, his voice disbelieving and quiet. His eyes searched yours without the fight you were expecting, looking at you as if you had just stomped on his dreams, making your resolve waver. What did he mean by that?

“I made a life for myself, Thor. What did you expect?” You replied accusingly, justifying to yourself that you had the right to get mad. 

“What did I expect? What did I expect? You’re really asking me that when you never told me we have a son?” His voice rose questioningly, looking at you as if he didn’t know you. You felt your anger burst forth, shaking your head. 

“Don’t,” you threatened, your eyes cold. “Don’t you dare put this on me when you never bothered to answer any of my calls. You’re the one who made it very clear you didn’t want anything to do with me,” your voice was calm and steady, devoid of the roiling emotions you felt inside, even as your hands shook. Taking several deep breaths, you tried to control yourself, not wanting to give him the chance to break you down so easily again. He shook his head incredulously, confused about what you just said. 

“What? What calls?” He asked, pulling his hair back knowing damned well he didn’t receive any calls or even any indication that you wanted to reconnect. As far as he was concerned, you had fallen off the face of the earth, not wanting to ever be found. You shook your head, not believing an ounce of what he said. 

“Stop pretending, Thor. It’s pathetic,” you scoffed at him, disgust clearly written on your face. Not being able to stop yourself, you turned around and walked with purpose, away from him and his stupid excuses. You knew it was pointless, he wasn’t ever going to let you go now that he knew the truth. You knew he would fight to be in Harry’s life but you couldn’t seem to stop your feet from moving. How could he pretend to be the injured party here? As if you were the villain who took his son away. As if he gave you any other choice! You still remembered the night you stood outside the compound, alone and pregnant, drenched in rain and still, they turned you away. 

“Y/N, please,” he pleaded behind you, his voice holding a kind of desperation you never heard before, his footsteps quick and heavy as he trailed after you. This time, grabbing your hand to turn you around, hoping the small, familiar intimacy would bring you back. Your jaw clenched as you looked down your intertwined hands, pulling yours away from his as quickly as he caught it.

“Y/N, please don’t leave,” he begged, having lost all of his pride. 

“I never wanted you out of my life! I don’t even know what calls you’re talking about! Darling, please. Harry deserves to know his father, I need to be in my son’s life,” His voice broke off at the last tone, piercing your heart. He looked to you as if you held all the power to dictate his life, his happiness in the palm of your hands. You had never seen him so vulnerable, the desperation in his eyes simmering your anger and frustration that you found yourself softening up. 

“I can’t promise you anything, Thor. I’m not letting you walk in and out of his life whenever you please. You can’t just leave because you need a change of pace, do you understand that?” you willed him to back out now before he promised anything he couldn’t commit to. At least this way, it was only you who was going to get hurt, sparing Harry the future heartbreak.Your words pierced his soul. Is that what you thought of him? That he just left you because he got bored? 

“I give you my word, Y/N. I would never do that to him,” he vowed, his voice solemn while his eyes concealed the guilt and hurt he felt at what he’s done to you. Gone was the carefree girl he knew, in place was this woman who built up walls around her heart. Even now, you looked at him suspiciously, weighing your options, wondering if you were doing the right thing. 

The sound of Harry’s excited cheer and Aaron’s thwarted attempts at stalling him grew near, making you jump out of your hesitation. You quickly gave Thor instructions to meet you at the local cafe tomorrow before you changed your mind. He nodded his thanks to you, his eyes soft as he watched you whip out out a smile for your boy, all traces of anger and hurt wiped out. You were magnificent; strong, protective and caring, all of the things he knew you would be when you became a mother. A sad smile formed on his face, if only he was there with you through it all. 

Harry ran straight to Thor, arms wrapping immediately to his waist. “You didn’t leave!” he giggled, giddy with excitement. Thor was taken aback by the moment and froze. Here was his son, hugging him for the first time. The weight of the moment almost overwhelmed him, his tears threatening to fall as he wrapped his arms around the boy’s back.

“No, kid. I wouldn’t.” he spoke, his voice low and serious, holding more meaning than Harry understood. His son squeezed him tighter, strength he didn’t think a normal child would possess coming from his tiny arms. Thor’s brows furrowed as he looked to you. You escaped his curious gaze, clearing your throat, “Harry, Thor has to get going. Come on, sweetie, say your goodbyes,” you coaxed, having had enough for one day. You needed a rest before you met him again tomorrow to set up the ground rules. He had to understand you were moving in Harry’s pace, you weren’t going to rush him to something he wasn’t ready for. 

“But Mom, I just got back!” Harry frowned at you while Thor looked hopeful and all you could do was sigh. 

“Harry, come on. We gotta get going if you still wanna help me fix your door,” Aaron smiled at him, hoping he’d catch the boy’s attention but Harry just whined. “Your ice cream will melt, buddy.” he continued to no avail, meeting your resigned eyes. As much as it pained Thor, he knew he had to let him go. He didn’t want to push his luck for today. He already trusts you, he just needed you to trust him back. 

“I do have to go, Harry. But do not worry,” Thor paused, his eyes meeting yours, a silent permission before he continued. At your nod, his shoulders relaxed in relief. 

“We will see each other again, I promise.” 

[nyaagolor]

Astral / Puffball / Orb / Kirby Headcanons

- They’re born from dying stars! In the Kirbyverse, when a star dies, it doesn’t explode in a supernova, rather its stardust condenses and becomes a Kirby (or whatever his species is called)

- The superdense core of the star becomes the heart of the Kirby (in a star shape), though for its infancy and childhood the heart and body remain separate (see the description from Mass Attack below), with the heart transporting the Kirby around and protecting it the best it can-- kinda like the Kirby’s own personal warp star! This heart also takes the newly formed baby and flies them to whatever the nearest safe planet is, which is why Kirbies don’t really have a set culture or range: they just adapt to the planet they get dumped on

- When the Kirby reaches maturity and can truly understand / master their powers, the heart fuses with them, becoming their heart proper and filling them with its powerful magic. Because the heart can no longer fly the Kirby around, it transforms into a new kind of transportation: wings! The reason Meta Knight and Galacta Knight have wings is bc they’re adults, while Kirby is a kid whose heart hasn’t fused with him and become wings just yet

- The type of star that a Kirby is born from determines their power levels and their colors: Galacta Knight was a red supergiant, Meta Knight was a blue giant, and Kirby was a red(ish) Hypergiant (which explains why he can go Hypernova in TD). The bigger and brighter the star, the more powerful the Kirby it becomes is! Hotter stars turn into pinker Kirbies while cooler ones turn into blue ones. 

- The energy surrounding a Kirby while it forms from a dying star influences what it looks like and how it behaves. Pure negative energy creates something like Void, Zero, and 02, pure positive energy creates something like Kirby, pure Neutral energy creates something like Galacta Knight, and more positive energy than negative creates something like Meta Knight. 

- Kirbies have an impossibly fast metabolism. When they eat something, it is immediately and perfectly turned into energy. No waste, no digestion time, just boom. Energy. This also means they need to eat a LOT to have enough energy to get through the day. Flying in particular takes an incredible amount of energy that needs to be burnt fast, which is why Meta Knight houses sugar like it’s the end of the world

- Part of Kirby’s abilities is that his stomach is basically a pocket dimension. The things he eats and doesn’t digest (aka anything that isn’t food) are stored in there as clusters of energy which he can spit out at will (when in this pure energy form, they look like stars). Being converted to energy doesn’t destroy the object / enemy or even hurt it, so anything that Kirby inhales and spits back out just reforms immediately after (so no, Kirby is not randomly murdering everyone he inhales). If he “swallows” the object it doesn’t die either, it just gets teleported somewhere nearby

- Kirby’s copy ability stems from his ability to tap into the power of whatever is in his pocket dimension stomach at the time, which includes enemies. In that sense, he’s not really “absorbing” their powers-- he’s literally just copying them for a time. When he loses the copy ability he loses the enemy so the enemy can reform and just go on their merry way, albeit a little shaken. I took this idea from the light novels, which @/friendship-ended-with-pokespe translated! I highly recommend them : ) 

[haloud]

things we could burn in one go (eminence) - chapter 6

also on ao3

Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Forrest Long/Alex Manes Additional Tags: post-s2, Canon Compliant, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, starts forlex ends malex, other characters may appear - Freeform, tags subject to update

Chapter Summary: Alex comes home to find his world turned upside down; Max and Isobel struggle to save Michael’s life.

Excerpt:

How close did they come to that chest being stilled forever? The answer was clear, splashed rust-red across Michael’s clothes, and Alex couldn’t stand it, couldn’t reconcile it, couldn’t balance the equation made by Michael this morning and Michael here, now, this.

Alex stood sharp, with a purpose, stood over Michael whose eyes moved rapid behind his lids, Michael who flushed with life but hadn’t lived since being healed, Michael who could so easily be an illusion of hope, snatched away in a second, snuffed out. Jerkily, Alex shot out a hand, then yanked it back, checked over his shoulder for Max or Isobel or—anyone—like a kid with a hand in the cookie jar. A touch so innocuous, necessary, even; Michael shouldn’t be forced to rest with dirty clothes; but. Was he allowed? Was the universe watching?

His hands were heavy; purpose and gravity worked on them, yet with a weightless almost-faith they remembered the hill and valley of Michael’s chest, the texture and temperature of his skin, the cartography, topography of loving him and being loved.

-

Rain pounded the windshield, and pain pounded Alex’s head, from the back of his neck to behind his eyes. He huffed out short relief when he finally turned down his quiet street and settled back against his seat, no longer needing to squint through the panicked flutter of the windshield wipers at the too-bright lights of other cars as he coasted into his driveway. Parked, he rolled his shoulders back and stretched, heavy eyelids opening and shutting, brain ticking over slowly as it tried to marshal signals to his body to get him out of the car and to the door.

Exhaustion didn��t cover the way everything wore on him. Work, other people, the Project hanging over him like Damocles—how much longer could he hold Fields off without an answer before she took drastic action or moved on, maybe even called Flint in? He had a calendar in the drawer by his bed counting down the days to the end of his contract, hidden away so he didn’t have to explain himself when Forrest stayed over. Not that he relished everything about a return to civilian life, a life he’d never lived as an adult…

Even his loved ones wore on him sometimes. Guilt was another chain around his shoulders, from the way he’d ghosted Kyle for weeks, to shooting down offers from Maria to hang out, to letting his morning call with Liz this week slip from a real conversation to a perfunctory text confirmation that Arturo and Rosa were fine. On top of that, he still hadn’t texted Forrest since he landed, and now Alex was avoiding his phone, the tension of expectation he imagined on the other side of the line too much to bear.

And then there was Michael. Brilliant, stubborn Michael, who reminded him without meaning to how wide a gulf he still had to cross to regain his trust, the trust that Alex would always protect him, no matter what.

But—one day at a time. Hour by hour if he had to. Old advice from the counselor he saw after his injury, but no matter how high the papers piled up in his mental inbox (call your therapist), he hadn’t been able to get himself to book a new appointment with a new one, so he’d do what he could, and fall back on the somewhat insufficient tools he had in his outdated toolbox.

And one day at a time meant getting out of his car, carrying his groceries through the rain, and getting in the front door. Okay.

As he turned to leave the car, something moved in his peripheral vision, and he whipped his head around to chase it. Squinting through sheets of rain and twilight-gray haze, he could just make out a dark shape huddled beneath the overhang, but whether it was human, animal, or object, it was impossible to tell. Through the thundering static downpour, Buffy howled behind the door.

Moving slowly, he retrieved his combat knife from the glove box and cracked the door open. The rain rushed up from a rattle to a roar, loud enough to cover the scrape of his boots against concrete and brick as he crept toward the porch. He was soaked cold within moments, blinking water out of his eyes, still and smooth as a cat after decades of conditioning, every muscle locked to avoid tremor. The closer he got, the louder Buffy grew, barking and slamming herself against the door. A few feet closer, and the shape took form—human, definitely human, adult male by size, but whoever it was, they were slumped beside the door, not crouched, not lying in wait, so Alex lowered his knife.

Still creeping closer, he spoke up, “Hey! Do you need help—”

But before he could get out a single word more, the person lifted their head, and—

“Michael?”

Alex bounded forward the last few feet, dropping his knife with a splash, flinging himself to one knee beside Michael’s huddled form, grasping at his sopping clothes, seeking injury, something, anything.

“Michael, what’s wrong? What—”

He tipped his face up and his head lolled back; his breath rattled in his chest. The only color between his ashen face and rain-black hair was an ugly streak of red from the corner of his mouth across his cheek and chin, and a gust of wind blew the storm against them, washing his blood pink, and then it was gone.

“Michael!” Alex repeated, more urgently, frantically. How did this happen? Who could have done this? Alex’s mind shot straight to his own earlier question—how long would Fields let him go without answering. Was this his answer? Tripp’s dog tags hung leaden around his neck. He could choke on them, on the cold tin symbol of his own inaction, even now.

“Max is already on his way,” Michael said, voice breathy and labored, then laughed, a bizarre and throaty caricature of his normal laugh, and his elbow bent robotically to let him tap his temple. “Called him.”

“Why didn’t you go straight to him so he could heal you? Michael? Michael!”

But he was gone; his eyes rolled back to whites, and he slumped strings-cut so Alex almost dove to catch him in his arms; his hand fell from his head to the brick patio and struck the ground with the force of gravity, skinning his knuckles.

It took seconds for Alex to process his shock—seconds Michael might not have to waste, but nonetheless--the rain had his hands slipping on his skin, so Alex held on tighter, clutching Michael’s head to his chest, curling his body around him on the most animal instinct to shield, shelter, protect.

Despite the cold downpour, Michael’s skin was feverish, his breathing bad and worsening, his pulse fast and weak. Bracing his weight on his good leg, Alex pulled Michael over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and stood and unlocked the door.

Buffy’s barking stopped as it swung open; she scrambled around Alex’s feet, pawing at his legs, herding him inside, sniffing at Michael’s fingertips that dangled inches from the ground. Panting, Alex hauled him to the couch and set him down.

Inside, out of the rain, Michael somehow looked worse. His entire front was soaked with blood along with rain; he stank of it, all copper and salt, and bile rose in Alex’s throat. He held his breath and grabbed a towel.

“Gonna ruin your stuff,” Michael rasped. “Gonna ruin…”

Milliseconds before pressing call to figure out how far away Max was, Alex dropped his phone from numb fingers as Michael—there was no word for it, for a second, a heartbeat, Alex lost all faith in his own eyes—as Michael blurred and disappeared and blurred and reappeared a few feet away, whining like a shot doe.

“What the f—Michael!”

“Alex!” Max’s voice bellowed. A fist pounded on the door, shaking the entire frame.

“It’s open!” Alex called back, dropping to the ground beside Michael again and lifting his head into his lap. “Michael,” his voice broke as Max threw the door open. “Michael, what happened? What’s happening?”

His only answer was a babble, words Alex couldn’t understand, words that doubled, tripled in on themselves, moved backwards to forwards and slid out of Alex’s mind the second he heard them, alien, unknowable.

“Michael!” The word wrenched out of Max’s mouth. Buffy paced behind him, whining, letting out a single loud, anxious bark that went unanswered as all the energy in the room funneled toward Michael.

“Hey—[][][][][][][],” Michael said, a horrible, gasping laugh rattling out of his chest.

As the words left his mouth, he groaned and curled in on himself, choking, splattering himself with more blood as it bubbled up between his teeth; then Alex had to strain to hold him still as his back snapped into an arch. Light flashed, then flashed again, and Alex’s logical mind wanted to call it lightning but—but it wasn’t. It came from inside Michael, as all the strength left his muscles and he collapsed, again, limp against Alex. He was so feverishly hot, even for him.

“What the fuck,” Alex whispered. His mind came up blank for anything else to say; his hands tightened, one hand’s nails digging into his bicep, a fistful of bloody shirt in his other. Michael tipped his head to the side, nodding against Alex’s chest.

“Alex,” he croaked.

“I’m here.” To Max, he repeated, “What the fuck? I saw him just a few hours ago, what the hell happened?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Max said, reaching out to grab him.

Alex’s hands tightened more, on pure instinct, clutching Michael to his body, but then he forced himself to let him go, to let Max lay hands on him.

Max continued, “I heard him in my head, like he screamed in my ear, and I just—knew he’d be here, somehow. It’s not normal, it’s not—we never hear Michael, he’s always closed off. I don’t know what happened.”

As he spoke, his hands wandered over Michael, across the bloodstains on his chest and neck. His brow furrowed; he moved as if on autopilot, until his hands found purchase on Michael’s temples, and he closed his eyes. Softly, his hands began to glow, and Alex held his breath.

If Max couldn’t fix him…

No. He wouldn’t even entertain the thought for a second, not when his body still tingled with the sense memory of Michael’s living heat. He couldn’t die; it went against nature.

Max grunted, and his exertion pulled Alex back down to earth. He couldn’t do anything for Michael that Max couldn’t right now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be helpful. Levering himself to his feet, he headed for the bathroom, Buffy following, barking anxiously. Wrenching open the medicine cabinet, he downed two Tylenol dry to head off the pain in his leg and hip he knew was coming, then from under the sink he snatched a fresh bottle of acetone and marched back to the den.

There, it was something out of a horror movie, rain lashing the windows, lit only by the artificial twilight of an afternoon storm, Michael spread out, skin grey, blood red, Max hunched over him looking half as sick, and Alex thrust the bottle at him.

“Drink,” he ordered, and as Max obeyed, guzzling the acetone, gasping between gulps, Alex returned to where he belonged—at Michael’s other side, holding on to him as if their bodies touching would be enough to keep his spirit tethered to this world—the only world—that is, the world they shared together, rendering all others that may exist utterly meaningless.

As nightmarish a scene as they made, Alex let out a sigh of relief when he clutched Michael’s wrist and felt his pulse strengthen. His eyes moved rapidly under his lids; his breathing was regular.

“It’s working,” Alex said, voice croaking out through a thickened throat.

“I hope,” Max groaned. “His mind is like—it’s like an animal fighting back. I need Isobel, I called her, but I’m afraid if she went in we’d lose her too. I can’t think—” his eyes met Alex’s, terrified. “It has to be Jones. Jones did something, I can’t think of anything else that might have done this.”

Alex could. But he seized on the opportunity to have an enemy he could exact answers from, one that didn’t lie at his own front door.

Absentmindedly, searching for soothing and knowing on a base level where it lived, Alex ran his fingers through Michael’s rain-soaked, sweat-soaked hair, stroking it away from his forehead. Blood was drying in rivulets now on Michael’s face and neck, and Alex followed the path of one with the tip of his finger, from the corner of his eye down his cheek.

How close had he come to losing him? If he’d been stuck in traffic, if he’d stopped for coffee on the way home, would it have been too late?

No. No thinking like that now. Stay in the moment.

“What do you need?” he asked Max, who finished off the acetone and tossed the bottle aside, reaching for Michael again.

“I think I won’t know until Michael wakes up again. If he does. If not…Isobel will be here soon.”

“When you heal, can you feel what it is you’re healing? Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

“Sort of?” Max’s hands began to glow again. “I’m healing burst blood vessels—all over his body. Internal scarring, almost like burns, it’s—bizarre.” He shuddered. “What I can feel from his head is separate, and I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

Michael shivered in Alex’s arms as Max placed his hands on his head again and filled his body with light, and Alex kept his eyes on Max, watching for any sign he was hitting his limit.

“How’s your heart?” He asked, though the concern flowed bitter and false over his tongue. Even at his coldest, most calculating, he wouldn’t bring himself to sacrifice Max outright, but if Max had to give his life to save Michael’s, would Alex truly stop him?

“I’ll live,” Max replied through gritted teeth.

Over by the door, Buffy rattled off a series of barks, getting louder and louder until the door slammed open. Alex flinched at the sound, hand flying to where his gun would be if he was wearing it, even though he knew with near-certainty who it would be.

“Where is he?” Isobel shouted, red-faced and panting as she rounded the corner into the living room, Buffy jumping and barking at her heels. “Michael!”

“Iz!”

The glow from Max’s hands faded, and he struggled almost to his feet, but Isobel was there before he stood fully, folding him into the hug he was trying to give her. Then Isobel reached for Michael, shoving Alex aside so she could cling to her brother, and Alex went.

She made a strangled noise when he was in her arms, limp and lifeless even after all Max’s effort.

“I’ll get more acetone. Maybe he’ll drink some,” Alex said, using the couch to pull himself to his feet.

Isobel continued to ignore him, but Max grabbed Alex’s wrist and said a quiet thank you as Alex left the siblings alone.

The bathroom door snicked closed behind Alex before he turned the light on, and in the dark he breathed in deep and deliberate until his lungs no longer caught on every inhale against his aching ribs, his galloping heart. He white-knuckled the sides of the sink to keep himself upright until the shaking stopped.

And when he checked all his welds and seams and found himself still watertight, he turned the light on, met his own eyes in the mirror, just once, and got back to business, grabbing the rest of the eight-pack of acetone.

Before he opened the door, his phone buzzed, and he flicked it open. It was a text from Forrest.

 Hey! Just got back to the hotel after dinner. Having a great time so far…but I keep thinking I’d have more fun with you here. How’s my girl doing? And how’s my man?

Alex’s thumb hovered over the keyboard for a few seconds, lips pressed together, head blank of anything to say. Then, a lump in his throat, he shut it down without replying, and headed back to Michael and the Evanses.

He breathed a little easier when he re-entered the room and was met with a different scene than before. Max and Isobel had Michael laid out on the couch—and Alex’s mind flashed back to the way Michael had disappeared and reappeared and what the fuck was that?—and he rested more peacefully than he had before. Color was coming back to his skin.

Isobel sat on the arm of the couch, stroking Michael’s hair off his forehead, while Max sat on the floor at the other end, back against the couch.

“Thank you, Alex,” Isobel said, acknowledging him for the first time.

Alex acknowledged her back with a nod, as Buffy paced from the couch to the door and back again a few times, finally settling with a whuff against Max, resting her head on his thigh, looking up at him with huge, soft eyes.

“Hey girl,” he said softly, petting her ears.

“How is he?” Alex asked.

“Alive. Sleeping.” Isobel ran her hand across his forehead again. “We’ll see where his mind is when he wakes up.”

Alex sat on the piano bench, folding his hands between his knees. “Max kept saying he’d never felt anything like this before. Can you describe it to me?”

She groaned and rubbed her temples, and Max nudged a bottle of acetone closer to her. “It’s almost like interference, but not. There’s nothing in there that isn’t Michael; he’s not possessed. But it’s like Michael’s been repeated. A thousand different Michaels all shouting at once. He’s quieter now. But…I don’t know.”

Watching Michael’s face, approaching peaceful in an unconsciousness Alex was too fearful to be fooled by, Alex spoke slowly, uncertainly.

“When you discovered you could use telekinesis alongside your other powers, what was that like? Was it spontaneous, or…?”

“Not really? Noah said that we all had the potential for much more than we imagined, and—after—I was so angry, I thought, if Michael can use his anger this way, why not me?” She shrugged an elegant shoulder. “So I wouldn’t call it spontaneous. I could always have done it, I just never thought to, until I did. Like knowing how to swim and learning a new stroke. I was clumsy at it at first, but I was just doing something I already knew how to do in a different way.”

“Hm.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Before you both got here, Michael was…”

“He called me. Like your psychic scream, Isobel, except he’s never done that before. And he kept emitting light. While I was healing him,” Max said, looking up at Isobel. “Flashes of light. Not electricity.”

“And before you got here, he—teleported. Only word for it. Something none of you have ever done.”

“What?”

Isobel grabbed Michael’s shoulder tightly, like he might disappear right in front of her, like she could stop him. Max just shook his head silently. He really did look awful, eyes red, dark bruises beneath them, a shakiness to him that hadn’t been there last time Alex saw him, some random Thursday when he brought marshmallows to Michael’s because he’d never actually had a smore that wasn’t made in the microwave. Maybe his condition came down to the rigors of saving someone’s life with your own, but considering how worried Michael had been for weeks, Alex thought not.

“I don’t know,” Alex said, dragging his hands over his face. “None of us know. We’re just talking in circles.”

“I guess we just have to wait for Michael to tell us,” Max said.

“Or we go beat it out of that bearded f—”

“No, Isobel.”

“You can’t keep defending him.” Her voice went high and loud, zero to a hundred. “Look what he’s done! He almost killed Michael, what is wrong with you?”

“I’m not defending him!” Max shot back, wounded. “I’m telling you not to go running off on some half-cocked vengeance scheme when Michael still needs you here! If he’s lost inside his own head somehow, there’s no one who can help him but you. We’ll deal with Jones later, when we know Michael is safe.”

Isobel growled but capitulated.

Not letting any ugly silence settle, Alex got up and said, “I’ll put some coffee on.”

They watched over Michael for all the rest of that evening and into the night, as the storm quieted and the sun set and Michael’s hair dried into a familiar halo of curls. At some point, Isobel brought Alex’s groceries in, half-ruined, and Max made dinner with whatever could be salvaged. While they worked, Alex sat with Michael in a chair pulled up to the couch where he lay, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

How close did they come to that chest being stilled forever? The answer was clear, splashed rust-red across Michael’s clothes, and Alex couldn’t stand it, couldn’t reconcile it, couldn’t balance the equation made by Michael this morning and Michael here, now, this.

Alex stood sharp, with a purpose, stood over Michael whose eyes moved rapid behind his lids, Michael who flushed with life but hadn’t lived since being healed, Michael who could so easily be an illusion of hope, snatched away in a second, snuffed out. Jerkily, Alex shot out a hand, then yanked it back, checked over his shoulder for Max or Isobel or—anyone—like a kid with a hand in the cookie jar. A touch so innocuous, necessary, even; Michael shouldn’t be forced to rest with dirty clothes; but. Was he allowed? Was the universe watching?

His hands were heavy; purpose and gravity worked on them, yet with a weightless almost-faith they remembered the hill and valley of Michael’s chest, the texture and temperature of his skin, the cartography, topography of loving him and being loved.

They started slowly. He eased up the hem of Michael’s ruined t-shirt with a pinch of fabric, without touching his body at all; he inched it up his back where it rested against the couch, until he ran out of room to work with cloth alone. The shirt bunched around his underarms.

Alex had no choice but to touch, so he did.

His hand still fit the circumference of Michael’s arm, and he lifted it. Michael moved without resistance, idle art in living warmth, velvet skin, liquid veins. Alex moved as if he was as delicate as glass. The second arm was no easier; Alex worked just as tenderly, every inch of his skin lit up with sensation. Leave no trace, like Michael’s body was some untouched scrap of woodland in Alex’s brief custody rather than the sweetly historied path toward home. But that was where Alex was right now, what time and choice made of them.

He pulled the shirt over Michael’s head, and it came away easy in his hands, and he went to his bedroom to get a new one.

The whole thing took less than a minute.

Michael slept on.

“Any change?” Max asked softly, handing Alex a plate of the dinner he’d already forgotten about. Buffy followed him from the kitchen, but she didn’t go after the food, opting for her bed beside the piano, where she continued to watch Max with adoring eyes. He didn’t comment on Michael’s shirt, for which Alex was pathetically grateful. In the kitchen, the water ran as Isobel did the dishes.

“No. Can…you sense any change? Through your bond, or through a handprint?”

“No. Maybe? When I first got here, he took up so much space, metaphorically, psychically, that it was almost hard to breathe. He feels more like himself now. Like he fits inside his body. So that’s probably good.”

“Probably,” Alex agreed.

The water shut off, and Isobel appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “I’m going in,” she said flatly.

“What?” Max asked.

“His head. I’m going in. I need to see what he’s seeing; to try and pull him out. This?” she waved a hand at Michael. “Isn’t normal. Liz died and she wasn’t out this long. I’m going in to get our brother back.”

Take me with you? Alex almost said it, almost begged, as much a violation of trust as it would be to walk Michael’s mind uninvited. But as Max healed his body, as Isobel healed his mind, Alex was helpless to do anything, and he never wore helplessness well. It clawed its way out of him. It destroyed things if he failed to catch it in time.

But he held its leash tight, for now, and gave Isobel an equally tight nod.

“What do you need?”

“Space. No interruptions. It seems like you’ve got enough acetone”—five bottles were still left at the foot of the couch—“so I just need time.”

“You can have the guest bedroom,” Alex agreed.

He and Max carried Michael between them, sharing his weight. Some rearing and needy part of Alex wanted to do the work himself, bundle Michael in his arms and hold him close, but he’d already carried him once today, and Tylenol only went so far. Once he was situated on the bed, Max went to get acetone and water for Isobel.

Weak in the legs, Alex sat beside Michael’s head, never taking his eyes off him. He couldn’t; he wouldn’t. And neither was it a possibility for him to reach out and touch his hair, his forehead, his cheek, so he only watched.

In the door, Isobel cleared her throat. She held both liquids—Max had put them in different-colored cups—and set them on the bedside table before sitting on Michael’s other side.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Alex said, but made no move to go.

After a few seconds, Isobel made a frustrated noise and tossed her hair. “Whatever. You can stay.”

“I—really?”

“It’ll be boring, and if it freaks you out, you can’t interrupt. But yeah.” Alex opened his mouth to respond, but Isobel just held up a hand. “I don’t pretend to understand your weird alien soulmate bullshit. Yours or Max and Liz’s. And I don’t really care what your deal is with Forrest Long, but if you mess my brother around, I’ll end you.”

“I’m not—”

“Again, don’t care. I just know…” she softened. “…I just know how much you mean to Michael. So you can stay.”

Alex swallowed, the lump in his throat too big for him to answer with words, so he nodded, and Isobel nodded back.

“Okay. Starting now.”

Her eyes slipped closed as she lifted Michael’s hand and pressed it between both her own.

The world didn’t change; no power within Alex’s senses rippled between the two of them. Isobel wasn’t wrong to call it boring, as even the uncertain anxiety of what was transpiring in Michael’s head couldn’t keep his attention from wandering. Half an hour in, Max came into the room to stand beside the bed as well, and he clapped a hand on Alex’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, an attempt that reassured neither of them. But it was a brother’s touch, and that meant something.

In that room, throughout that silent ordeal, they were family. Alex was part of that family. It was a feeling he had no room on the shelves for; it fit in none of his boxes. He could barely comprehend it, so it sat in the center of the floor, and for a few hours, everything rearranged itself neatly around the new centerpiece of his world, like it was meant to be there all along.

The night deepened on, pain and exhaustion graying Alex’s vision. Discretion and strategy overtaking his determination, he was close to calling it quits and attempting a few hours of sleep when Isobel surfaced, bone white and nose bleeding as Max scrambled to hand her the acetone.

“Did it—”

Max didn’t even finish the sentence before, with a drowning, sucking gasp, Michael followed her out. Alex shouted, elation, shock, fear, everything, as Michael coughed and coughed until a clot of blood dislodged from his throat, guzzling the water that Alex passed him. His bloodshot eyes met Alex’s over the rim of the glass, confused and shocked, and Alex just nodded, trying to say without words everything that…just everything.

Everything.

On Michael’s other side, Isobel was laughing, breathless and triumphant.

“I’m going to kill you! I’m going to fucking kill you,” she wheezed, throwing herself into Michael’s arms.

Michael’s eyes fell shut as he rested his head against hers. “I know,” he rasped in return, but his lips pulled into a smile anyway. “I know.”

“Michael,” Max said weakly.

And Michael replied, “I know.”

Max rounded the bed to fold the both of them into a hug. Alex might have even joined them, if he wasn’t—he realized only now—shaking too badly to move. But in the midst of all the sensory overload, the misfiring nerves electrifying his helpless flesh, one sensation rang true.

Alex’s hands rested on the bed, stiff and motionless, until one of Michael’s crossed that untouched skin, light at first then more firmly, finger atop finger, knuckle nestled into soft palm, and Michael held his hand and gave it a squeeze, and Alex squeezed him back.

[woeismyhoe]

Rachel Amber, The Broken Angel Who Demonized Herself

Fair warning, please bear with this probably incredibly **longass** (I’m not kidding it’s rlly long) analysis of one of the fandom’s most controversial disliked characters, Rachel Amber. This is just my attempt to analyze her character based on observation from BtS to LiS so by no means do you have to accept them. Productive discussions are obviously very welcomed :D

In LiS, when we asked about Rachel around campus, most of them had nothing but compliments and praises for the missing girl. She was essentially an honorary Vortex Club member who socialised with the snobs, yet she also hung out with the skater stoners and was friendly with those at the bottom of the social hierarchy. Then we see those graffiti around where it hints at Rachel’s promiscuity, debts and conflicts with other people. That’s the first sign we see that Rachel Amber isn’t as perfect as everyone was making her out to be. Afterwards we discover that Rachel was a stoner herself and into whatever drugs there were, partied harder than anyone else, promiscuous, entered a relationship with local drug dealer Frank Bowers while having a secret relationship with Psycho teacher Mark Jefferson— all while maintaining a 4.0 GPA in her studies and being considered perfect and adored by practically everyone in her school. The girl’s incredible, obviously, or maybe scary for someone to be so spread out in everything.

Rachel was a straight A student with a 4.0 GPA, an administrative assistant to the Principal, beloved by students and faculty alike, literal goddess beauty, had ambitions to be a model and study international law, daughter of the DA and was the closest to perfection anyone would ever be— so what went wrong? What made her romanticise the idea of running away from a town where everyone loves and adores her?

Because of the above.

Yes, it may sound whiny and dramatic to feel tired of being loved and being the center of attention all the time, but there’s no point to it if it’s not you who they adore, but the person you’re pretending to be— (“I was feeling angsty and reckless. Tired of living up to the perfect image everybody expects out of me.”) —especially when you have to do so much just to maintain the lie.

Throughout LiS and BtS, Rachel’s ability to get along with everyone was always mentioned. At face value she was akin to a social butterfly. She hung out with stoners regardless of their social status (skaters or the vortex club), was friendly with anyone regardless of their place in the social hierarchy (eg; Daniel/Evan/Steph/Drew/Nathan) or even to strangers others usually ignored (Samuel/Homeless lady). Like Evan said, Her friends were her friends. She wasn’t one to let peer pressure affect her relationships so she wasn’t afraid to make all those acquaintances.

However, for those who knew her closely (Chloe and Jefferson), she was referred to as a chameleon, someone who blended in with everyone and everywhere seamlessly. This was an important detail regarding who Rachel was and her intimacy with others. To be able to make that comparison, they would’ve needed to know who the person Rachel actually was underneath the masks she’d created over the years. Chloe was the first to truly see and accept her for who she was. Jefferson was the one who exploited her for it.

For most, being a social chameleon would count as a beneficial social skill if they’re subtle. So long as the person doesn’t lose themselves in the process and is able to separate their personas from their true self, it remains a skill and will be used as such.

The problem with Rachel was that it transcended beyond a skill. A social chameleon was *what* she became, and that led to losing her own sense of identity, to becoming a stranger in her own body.

We see her confiding to Chloe about this feeling in Brave New World: (“Do you think there’s a point when you’ve been acting so much that you don’t even have your own personality anymore? You’re just whatever you think other people want you to be?”) —to which Chloe tells her she does have a personality because she assumed Rachel was talking about herself. But Rachel apparently wasn’t and clarifies she was talking about her father. She then elaborates on how her father doesn’t really exist, that how he was in the principal’s office was a mere performance and then the actual truth— that she’s afraid she’ll end up like him.

No matter how you interpret that scene, the conclusion is that one of Rachel’s fears was becoming like James— someone who’s been so wrapped up in all the lies and manipulation that he no longer seemed recognisable to even his own daughter.

At that point her defence mechanism of deflection and avoidance came into play after Chloe got a little too close to home. We first see this on the train scene when they play Two Truths and a Lie. Rachel gave factual statements as opposed to Chloe who gave facts that elaborated into her personal life. At one point Chloe can ask how Rachel knew about having a distal radius fracture and It’s a very minor detail, but when she explains that it’s because she broke her wrist when she was 10, she says it extremely fast. When Chloe is about to press for more info about something personal no matter what option you choose, Rachel dismissively turns around the conversation from herself back to Chloe again.

The next time we see her deflecting is right after witnessing her father cheating. When Chloe asks about her, Rachel deflects and guilt trips her into somehow thinking she’s at fault for failing to get them wasted and then proceeds to drown her sorrows into alcohol instead of opening up. Afterwards when they find the junkyard, Rachel chooses to isolate herself from Chloe and withdraws to the corner, getting irritated if Chloe chooses to invade her space. When Chloe confronts her about her sudden moodiness, Rachel yet again deflects and shifts the attention to Chloe by essentially telling her she’s self-centred. This scene was classic Deflection 101 brought by Rachel’s defence mechanism to cope with her father’s betrayal.

Rachel uses deflection and avoidance as a defence mechanism, a habit which stems from the dynamics of the Amber family. When you have a Politician as a father whose life work is to manipulate and lie, and a Stepford Wife as a mother who wilfully acts like a servant to her husband out of sacrifice and duty— an environment of deceit and suppression of one’s feelings will be fostered. This is what shapes Rachel to be distrusting and unhealthily altruistic as we see in BtS.

And so Rachel’s deflection is driven by 2 things: mistrust (James) and her unhealthy altruism (Rose).

As a district attorney, James unfortunately carried his work persona into his personal life and can be presumed to lie to even his own family on a daily basis to the point that Rachel can tell when he’s lying: (“When your Dad is the District Attorney, I guess lying is...something you're used to.”) (Why can't you just tell me the fucking truth?! Stop lying! Stop being a politician for one fucking minute! Can’t you just be my Dad?”) What that tells us is that Rachel’s actually used to being lied at and treated with cynicism, so naturally that would make her guarded around others. Not to mention since James often exercised his professional prerogative (just recall how he spoke to Chloe and her comment about his micro-aggressions towards his own family), it’s most likely that he was also cynical towards people in general and carried that mindset forward at Rachel as well.

As for Rose, you have to really observe how she carried herself and her choice of words. A lot of people pointed out how robotic she sounded and blamed it on bad voice acting, but I think that was actually intentional. She was too mannered, too submissive and too robotic as a person. It’s not exactly a bad thing, but a lot of her personality seemed to be too... *political* for the sake of her husband’s political career. It was altruistic in the way that she sacrificed her own needs for her husband’s and was unfailingly supportive (eg; preparing dinner all by herself, *respectfully* asking James for his drink, even going so far as to excuse James for kissing Sera like wtf). Point is, Rose was the stereotypical political wife whose job was to shut up, look good and smile for her husband while he does the talking. At one point in the dinner scene when they start fighting, James even dared to say ‘Rose, let me handle this’ as if Rose’s voice was irrelevant and unimportant to the table (when he literally just got exposed for cheating lmao).

So what happens when your family environment consists of a father who actively lies and uses manipulation to twist facts, expects you to be compliant in exchange for rewards (birthday money), has the ability to read people, and a mother who does too much for someone who does the barest minimum for the family and represses herself for the sake of others? An environment of deceit and suppression will be fostered, and you develop all of their qualities, for better or worse. That’s difficult to change when your own family dynamics molded you to be that way and then reward you for it. If you recall, Rachel’s mannerisms changed completely when in front of her family and if Chloe complained about having to play the goody two shoes formal well-behaved humorless girl, Rachel would say: ‘try doing it your whole life’. So not only was she playing different roles in school but evidently at home as well.

But It’s not as if the Amber family was aware of the toxic environment they’d created. That’s just what their normal was: to be well-mannered, formal, professional, mature and well-articulated.

This is where Rachel’s social chameleon tendencies develops. Social chameleons usually have reasons for blending in when it comes to personal relationships:

1. Being liked is important for them (they value what people think of them).

2. They want to blend in so as to not stand out (they don’t like attention).

3. They’re doing it to make the other person comfortable (the needs of others come first before theirs).

Considering how Rachel was extremely popular, active in all sorts of school activities and enjoyed the attention of being the star, no. 2 is out. She confessed to wanting to stop being a social chameleon and didn’t seem to care much about Victoria’s dislike of her + she also did it to her family so no. 1 is out as well, which leaves us to no. 3— doing it for the comfort of others. In other words, because she *gave too much shit about other people all the time*.

What further supports the point of Rachel’s unhealthy altruism is what she says to Chloe at the junkyard— (“Maybe you should try giving a shit about other people for once.”) —which essentially tells us that she’s been doing exactly that to be able to lecture Chloe into following her own perspective. Another example would be what she tells Chloe during their therapy session: “—Because she was tired of having to give so many fucks all the time.”

One thing however that all *extreme* social chameleons share is the fact that they **loathe** themselves, or at the very least— dislike who they are. Why else would they go all the trouble of creating different personas for everyone to the point of forgetting their own, if they actually liked themselves?

One of the many things that Chloe and Rachel shared in common was their self-awareness in how undeniably shitty they can be, and that they hated who they were. Whereas Chloe embraced that whole part of her down her self destructive road, Rachel tried to cover hers up by playing other roles for people. Both girls played their sides to the ends of the spectrum; Chloe being selfish (causing problems for everyone in general unnecessarily) and Rachel being selfless (posing no problem for anyone in general even if there was a problem). They had no healthy balance and their unhealthy mindset ultimately drove them down a self destructive path.

Rachel knew she was selfish by nature, and that she’d take it out on Chloe in Ep 1. That’s why instead of talking about what was wrong, she chose to drown herself to alcohol and distance herself from Chloe. When Chloe confronts her about it, she either tells her that not everything revolves around her or that she should try giving a shit about people for once. In other words, ‘Other people have bigger problems than you so shut up and don’t make it worse for them.’ That was Rachel’s mentality and in that moment of poor lapse in judgment, she applied that logic to Chloe expecting her to think the way she does— to put others before yourself.

With Rachel, she always had her walls up and couldn’t help it even if she wanted to because it's practically second nature to have her guard up (“I never said how dearly I hold thee; my habit's been to keep my soul well-draped.“). It’s only in her lowest vulnerable moments is when she finally let her walls down because that’s when she’s too tired to keep them up.

Luckily (or unluckily) for Rachel, she recognized her problem. The only thing is that she didn’t know how to solve them. She confided to Chloe about feeling like she doesn’t exist, but then backtracked and clarified she was talking about her dad instead when Chloe got too close to home. Even IF she was genuinely talking about her father, it doesn’t erase the fact that she believed there was a possibility she was going to become like him— because she already saw the signs and made the comparison between them.

Remember her infamous outbursts in Awake? Unlike Chloe, she’s the type who keeps everything bottled in until it’s too much. Seeing her father kissing another woman was the breaking point and that’s why she reacted badly. And then when she kicked that bin, that was equivalent to Chloe smashing up the junkyard. And then that scream. That scream was the result of years bottling her pent up frustration, stress, anger at everyone including herself. Because she did everything to make her family proud, to please everyone to the point that she felt so empty and hollow, only to realize that it was all for nothing because her father was destroying her family. It wasn’t just a betrayal from her father but a betrayal to herself.

And then there’s Chloe Price. The girl who is the total opposite of her, yet who she can somehow still connect with at the same time. While she cared too much about what others thought, Chloe gave absolutely no fucks. That was her most attractive and admirable quality for Rachel. So what does she do? She latches onto Chloe to do exactly what she knows best. Become the ideal version of whoever wants her to be. In other words, the Rachel Amber who would finally give no fucks.

Rachel was the closest to her truest self when she was around Chloe. Just as she brought life and hope back into the girl’s life, so did Chloe for her. Chloe broke the walls she put up, and she’d seen her vulnerable enough times to let her mask slip. Chloe saw her at her lowest, ugliest self even when she wasn’t doing her usual thing of keeping everyone around her happy, yet she didn’t mock or leave her for it. For the first time, she was selfish, and *still* Chloe came back. That was a BIG reason to trust each other for the both of them. And that’s ultimately what bonded them for so long— the fact that they could be the shittiest people on earth, yet still see the best in each other even if they only see the worst in themselves.

Chloe was the first one to see through her social chameleon act because she slipped, and she continued to let her unmask who she was because that night Rachel just didn’t care enough to hold up the act any longer. This detail of Rachel’s chameleon act slipping *only* when something was wrong is a vital part in understanding the context around her. The first time was when she witnessed her whole world crash, the second was when she realized she was becoming like James, and the third was when she discovered what a monster James was. The fourth— when she asked that trucker for a drive out and didn’t bother to be her usual social chameleon self. We may never know what happened, but something wrong was going on in Rachel’s life that she didn’t want Chloe to be a part of— because why would she put the girl who stuck by her during her darkest hours through her bullshit again?

But at the end of the day, that wasn’t enough. Chloe wasn’t enough. And that’s understandable because a teenager truly can’t and shouldn’t have to be responsible for someone else’s happiness. No matter what choice Chloe makes at the end of BtS, the truth inevitably gets out and leads to Rachel having a fall out with her parents. When that happened, she lost a big pillar of her support system which only leaves her with Chloe who’s another emotionally damaged teen that’s on the road to self-destruction. Chloe can’t help others without helping herself first. But still, who else is there to make them feel a little less shitty except each other?

After her fall out with her parents and her father in particular, she seemed to have developed a taste for men twice her age: Frank Bowers (32) and Mark Jefferson (38). Whatever the reason her relationship with Frank was, she still wrote him those letters and seemed to have cared for him to some extent. Not only was he the source for drugs for her very much needed escape, but he was also the man who helped save her life in one of her most vulnerable moments, and a possible lead to find Sera. It’s not that surprising she’d seek comfort and safety in his arms when he already proved himself once. But clearly it wasn’t serious because she was fooling around with Jefferson at the same time (and Frank knew they wouldn’t have lasted anyway).

Now, Jefferson. The devs confirmed that Rachel was in love with Jefferson and honestly, that’s the least surprising thing ever considering how he basically had the female population of Blackwell head over heels for him. Even Rachel wasn’t immune to that psychopath’s charm. He was a well reputable photographer, had the connections to propel her modeling career, was attractive and mysterious and apparently a damaged soul. He was the perfect one way ticket out of Arcadia Bay. He was her photographer and she was his muse. He was basically the perfect solution to her problems.

The girl clearly had deep rooted daddy issues and was ashamed of it herself since she couldn’t even share her secret relationship to the one person she trusted the most despite sharing her other relationships with her (except Frank).

This is where the drugs and partying come in. They’re a way for her to escape the bullshit in her life for a few hours. Chloe was what made her feel real, but the drugs and partying was what made her forget— forget that her biological mother chose drugs and money over her (twice), forget that her own father was so despicable that he was planning to overdose Sera (this is what Chloe said in the silent dialogue), forget that her biological mother may just be dead somewhere because of James, forget that her own family was a lie, forget all the expectations placed upon her, forget that she herself was a lie, forget that she was so insecure that she had to seek warmth and safety in the arms of men twice her age, forget the guilt of knowing the girl who would die for her was still not enough, forget that at the end of the day all her problems is caused by her own mind and that her own fears had come to reality. And she hated herself for that.

But still, Rachel wasn’t a total junkie or outwardly self destructive to the point that she abandoned her studies like Chloe did. She didn’t let the drugs and partying dictate her life, hence the 4.0 GPA. After all, she still had a reputation to maintain. She was still the DA’s daughter, and getting into college was still a way to get out of Arcadia Bay.

BUT SEE, that was exactly Rachel’s problem. She could never choose which to be; The Problematic Junkie of a Disappointment (Sera), or the Golden Child (James & Rose) everyone expected her to be. She wanted to be as free as Chloe, but she also didn’t want to be a disappointment. She was tired of everything but couldn’t allow herself to fall because it was her nature to demand the best of herself for others as long as she could do it. But what happens when it’s your very own nature you’re going against? It gets really complicated. So instead of choosing, she doesn’t and becomes both. That was ultimately the worst decision she ever made.

Make no mistake, Rachel was an absolute idiot for being so indecisive. She could have easily solved her problems if she just finally gave no shit and did whatever she wanted to. But that’s the problem with people who’re labeled as perfect growing up. They eventually believe it and demand perfection of themselves. They care too much about everything because if they have the ability to be perfect, then why would you choose not to be? When someone is seen to be perfect, disappointment is 10x worse. Even Chloe was guilty of idealizing Rachel to be this perfect girl and was disappointed when she realized Rachel was just like everyone else who puts in hard work—(“Rachel's always made being an A student seem so easy. Almost sad to see all this... effort."), but it’s Chloe accepting Rachel for who she was despite no longer being the perfect girl she believed her to be that mattered.

With being seen as perfect usually comes with the assumption that your whole life is. Just as everyone invalidated her problems because she’s Little Miss Perfect with the perfect grades and the seemingly perfect family, so did she.

‘Cause hey, what does she have to be mad about when she’s a rich white girl who’s been given everything she’s ever wanted, right? (James basically said that). At that point the only problem Rachel had was that she was acting as the perfect daughter and perfect friend and perfect student at the expense of her own happiness, and then throw in the sudden slap in the face that it was all for nothing because her father was destroying the family she’d tried so hard to do proud.

But then again even if that wasn’t enough reason to spiral, it really would mess you up if your own father told you that your biological mother chose money and drugs over you, that everything you’ve done so far was all for a lie and worst of all, that your own father was going to kill your biological mother and there’s nothing you can do to change that. I mean really, I’m not a therapist or anything but I wouldn’t be surprised if Rachel’s mental health was suffering by that point.

I mean get this: she abused drugs and partied harder than anyone else and got wasted even though she knew they were wrong (Sera would’ve been a painful reminder), slept around with older men who undoubtedly took advantage and controlled her, continued to act like the perfect student and pretended to be someone she’s not just to keep everyone happy even though it was causing her to question her own existence— it’s almost as if she was punishing herself for continuing down that path.

Ultimately what Rachel was running away from was who she had become in Arcadia Bay. Once she’d be out, she wouldn’t be Little Miss Perfect anymore. She wouldn’t be the DA’s daughter. She wouldn’t have to keep lying. She would be able to start over. She would just be Rachel Amber, the nobody.

She cared too much in contrast to Chloe’s ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude, and that’s why she still managed to maintain her perfect image even when she was already so broken. Whereas Chloe’s first instinct was to blame others, Rachel’s was to blame herself. Both never had a healthy balance when it came to accepting responsibility and that’s what connected them so well together.

Call it selflessness or selfishness or stupidity or melodrama, but at the end of the day Rachel tried to keep everyone around her happy, just like Max tried to do with her powers except Rachel used lies to do it. She was greedy and selfish, no disagreement to that, but she also tried to be selfless for most of her life. She was her own enemy and she demonized herself for it. And that got her murdered, thrown and buried away like the used rag doll she treated herself to be.

She was Chloe’s angel and Chloe was hers, but she was also her own demon. And there’s only so much two broken angels can do against a demon.

**TL;DR:** Idealizing her to be the Perfect Girl was what made her want to run away. Her family was what broke her. Desperation for escape was what killed her. Her family just *really* suck.

Now, I’m not trying to justify Rachel’s actions but merely rationalizing her character. I acknowledge that she was capable of being a shitty person at times, but just as Chloe had her issues, so did she, and so I choose to see them both for what they tried to be. Good hearted people just trying to make their shitty life a little easier. At the end of the day, Rachel Amber was a deeply flawed, insecure and emotionally damaged girl that pretended like nothing was wrong to forget about her troubles for a little, and was just dealt a bad hand in life. Literally.

After writing all of this, I realize that holy shit this girl was fucking complicated and a single post doesn’t do her justice nor explains her character properly enough. I thought it’d be simple enough to word it out, but then again, someone who was basically a junkie yet still managed to maintain her perfect reputation amongst her peers and the faculty is bound to be this complexed. Also as you can see I got very lazy at the middle of the elaborations and repetition has probably made this unnecessarily long but thank you for reading and finishing this overall confusing and messy essay.

[justmaybee]

To Stop a Fight (Before It Starts)

Summary: Jiro and Saburo have been acting strange recently. Ichiro is about to find out why.

A/N: Y’know when you get an idea that just won’t leave you alone till you do something about it? Yeah, that’s this. Buster Bros too, who would’ve thought?

———

Ichiro is confused — very, very confused.

Like, he can’t pretend he understands his brothers all the time, twenty four-seven. Sometimes Saburo gets all technical, talking jargon Ichiro’s never heard of. Sometimes Jiro gets overexcited, speaking so fast that his stories get jumbled up and hard to follow. It doesn’t matter, Ichiro will always lend an ear and hear them out.

But he can’t do that if they’re...hiding something from him.

The thought inches its way into Ichiro’s head, and it makes his stomach turn. He presses his lips together against the small wave of nausea.

It just doesn’t sound right. Jiro? Saburo? Hiding something from him?

He may not understand his brothers all the time, but they’re everything to him. He knows them better than anyone, and vice versa. It’s them against the world.

So the idea that they’re keeping something from him is...off-putting.

He links his fingers, pushing them up over his head. The crack in his spine alleviates a load of pressure on his back and the relief is audible in his groan. He’s not cut out for all this computer work. Saburo really is a talented kid.

He stands up, wobbling for a second, before stepping out from behind the desk. Research can wait, he needs a snack.

He steps over to a cabinet, stuffed full of junk foods. Not the healthiest thing, but you grab what you can when you’re working on a job. He stares blankly at the bags and boxes, slipping back into thought.

He’s definitely being a little dramatic. They still get together and throw around some lines for practice every night. His brothers still come to him whenever something’s happened at school or during a mission. They live together, of course, and if it were a really big deal they’d have a hard time hiding something even if they wanted to.

Sometimes Ichiro can get a little tired of their bickering and back and forth, but he likes to think he’s become someone reliable, especially to his little brothers.

So no, he’s not that worried.

But then what has been up with them recently?

He only started noticing this last week, but a part of him thinks it could be stretching back further than that. A bunch of separate events, but he knows they have to be connected. Call it a hunch. It just all revolves around those two fighting and then going silent.

Like a week ago, Ichiro remembers them kicking around a soccer ball on the street. The way Jiro’s eyes lit up when they saw it, a little deflated and worse for wear off to the side, made Ichiro laugh. And neither him nor Saburo could even dream about outplaying Jiro, but that wouldn’t stop them from trying.

It was a lot of fun, more fun than Ichiro could’ve thought really. And by the time the sun was getting low, and Ichiro was calling out that they’d have to head home, both him and Saburo were feeling a little worn out. Jiro was still dribbling the ball like he could do it all night.

And of course, Jiro decided to shoot a cocky comment to Saburo, who lashed back immediately, always ready for a fight. Ichiro’s lived through a million of these squabbles and he’s sure to see a million more, so he didn’t give it much attention, heading down the street back to their place.

He had no doubt that they’d follow behind, but he did turn to peek when he heard a shout from Jiro. He was afraid Saburo had started pinching him again, but that wasn’t the case. At least, he didn’t think so.

Because what he saw was Jiro doing a fast jog to catch up to him, while Saburo stepped at a leisurely place behind. Not weird, but the wide-eyed expression on Jiro’s face and the satisfied smirk on Saburo’s made Ichiro a little suspicious.

Fast forward to the weekend. Two? Maybe three days ago? Jiro and Saburo were giving Ichiro the run down of a job they had finished up. Nothing too crazy, but enough that Ichiro felt more comfortable sending them out as a pair.

The job itself went off without a hitch, as expected, but the debrief was chaotic in its own right. Jiro gave most of the points, but Saburo was very generous with his corrections and notes. Sometimes they were helpful, more often than not they were nitpicks that had Ichiro wanting to laugh and sigh at the same time.

Jiro was starting to get a little flustered, eyes narrowing in annoyance by the end. When Saburo gave another quip, it looked like Jiro was really ready to grab a pillow off the couch and slug him with it.

Instead...

“Nii-chan, I think my phone’s about to die. Could you hand me the charger?”

Ah, yeah. Jiro’s phone did have a battery issue. They should really think about upgrading it.

Ichiro spun around in his chair, looking over the back desk for a charger and jumping in his seat at a pitchy yell from Saburo. He rolled his eyes and grabbed the cord, ready to lecture Jiro on why smothering Saburo with a pillow is not a good comeback but—

Jiro...wasn’t smothering Saburo with a pillow. Surprisingly. No, he was sitting back against the couch, arms crossed with a smile on his face that made Ichiro immediately check up on their youngest brother.

He was...fine.

A little pouty, hair maybe a little mussed up. Also leaning back against the couch, but his posture—

He was almost—how to put it—curled up?

Ichiro can’t remember if he had his feet up on the couch before, but between his knees being pulled to his chest and his arms wrapped tight around them...

Jiro chose that moment to keep explaining, so Ichiro gave him his full attention. But he started picking up on their pattern.

The three of them are together. Either Jiro or Saburo starts picking on the other (nothing new there). Then one of them shouts, like they’re about to start yelling at each other, but—

Nothing. Silence.

They break up the fight before it’s even happened. And Ichiro doesn’t have to say a word.

This should be a good thing. It is a good thing.

Right?

It means they’re maturing. Growing up. Taking Ichiro’s words to heart and moving past their constant bickering and fights...

Ichiro shuts the cupboard. With a little more...force than necessary, if the avalanche of snacks he can hear means anything.

Okay, so he’s not exactly sure what any of it means, but he is sure of one thing.

He spins around to shut the computer off. Everything is saved, and Saburo can get back anything that isn’t anyways. He kicks the chair in place and grabs his keys, spinning them around one finger as he steps towards the door.

He needs to see his brothers.

———

Ichiro loves their city, loves Ikebukuro with all he’s got, but there’s nothing quite like their own home. It took a lot of time and money. It took doing things he hopes his brothers will never have to stoop to. But it’s theirs, and Ichiro can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief whenever he steps through the door.

Tonight though he’s cut off by a scream that has his blood running cold.

He doesn’t kick off his shoes. Doesn’t shrug off his jacket. He sprints towards the noise, grabbing at his pockets until his fingers stop fumbling enough to hold his mic.

The rubber of his shoes catch him from sliding on the floor when he stops dead in front of their living room.

“Ji-Jirohohoho! Would you—ack—quihihiHIHIHIHIT!”

It’s, um—

They’re—um—

Ichiro’s sigh of relief is a lot louder this time, slipping his mic back into his pocket.

It’s loud enough that it’s somehow heard over Saburo’s squealing, and Jiro turns to see his older brother leaning against the entrance.

It’s kind of funny, now that Ichiro’s adrenaline has calmed down.

Jiro looks like he’s been caught red-handed, even though Saburo is the one with a tomato for a face right now. He pulls his hands out from under Saburo’s sweater, fiddling with his fingers in his lap.

Saburo takes the chance to roll onto his side, hands clutching at his stomach. The shrieking Ichiro heard when he came in dulls to tired giggles.

“Oh, uh, hi.” Jiro waves. He tries to act nonchalant, but he looks more embarrassed than Saburo whose hoodie is still bunched up at the waist.

Ichiro smiles back, “Hey.”

Jiro is yanked from the one-sided, awkward conversation, but Ichiro can’t say it’s the better choice for Jiro.

Jiro yelps as he’s full-body tackled, falling backward over the other side of the couch. Saburo’s panting for breath, and he probably can’t see much past the mess of his bangs, but he doesn’t seem to have any trouble latching a hand onto Jiro’s knees and squeezing.

“Ah, wha-! Sabu—no! Saburohohohoho!”

Suburo’s response is the same treatment on the other leg, and Jiro makes a squeaking sound before he’s cackling. He twists against the cushion but he can’t seem to get himself up enough to push Saburo away from where he’s straddling his shins.

Like Ichiro isn’t even there, they treat it like a war zone, going back and forth with a familiarity that has their oldest brother shocked.

“No—no! Jiro, dohon’t! You’re gonna stretch out my—my shihihihihihirt!”

“Ouch! Not fair, Saburo! No pinch—ah! No PINCHIHIHIHIHING!”

“JIRO! No, I-I swear, I’m gonnahaha — I’m gonna kihihiHIHIHIHICK YOHOHOHOU!”

“Nah! No! I’m—I’m sorry! You win! Just—No! Not thehehehehere!”

At some point Saburo’s head is hanging off the arm of the couch while Jiro drills his thumbs into his ribs. Through watery eyes, he finally sees Ichiro, watching them like they’re the entertainment for tonight. He’s can’t possibly be in the right state of mind, and that’s probably why he makes the biggest mistake possible.

“I-Ichi-niihihihihihihi! H-help!”

Ichiro coughs to cover his own laugh, though Saburo’s scream when Jiro’s hands find their way under his arms does the job pretty well.

Guess it’s his turn to join.

Jiro’s confused noise gets cut off when his back hits the couch, bouncing once off the cushions. Saburo is still giggling weakly beside him, so that means—

He gasps so suddenly he almost chokes on it, and only a garbled version of Ichiro’s name comes out before he’s squealing louder than even Saburo could.

His hands push, pull, grab weakly at Ichiro’s hand latched onto his hip. He didn’t even know he was ticklish there, but the bright laughter that bursts from his mouth and has his eyes watering makes that so clear so quickly.

Ichiro chuckles, watching Jiro shake his head back and forth, red cheeks hidden by his wild mane of hair. Ichiro’s only using one hand, but Jiro might be the loudest he’s been all night. Even as he sinks against the couch—slipping down because of weakness, gravity, maybe both—Ichiro is able to keep him in stitches.

Speaking of one hand.

With Saburo laying back over the arm of the couch, it’s pretty easy for Ichiro to slip a hand under the gap in his shirt and start vibrating his fingertips into the taut skin of his stomach.

Saburo again proves how good he is at everything he does when he shrieks, loudly. His lung capacity is really something. His head flies up for a moment, but the weight of gravity and his own exhaustion keep him from getting all the way. He has to settle for wrapping both hands around Ichiro’s wrist and kicking his heels against the couch, as if that’ll help calm the ticklish buzzing of Ichiro’s fingers against his skin.

It’s something like fate when they both call for mercy at the same time, cries of “Nii-chan!” and “Ichi-nii!” just legible through the hysterical laughter.

Ichiro pulls his hands back with a little pat against the prickling skin. The pair droop so quickly, Ichiro has to be quick to catch them before either slip to the floor. He drags Jiro upright, and moves Saburo to sit against the couch properly.

He ends up leaning against Jiro while they catch their breath. Ichiro tries not to smile, like they’d even notice if he did.

“Okay. Two questions,” Ichiro starts once his brothers look a little less ragged. He knows they’re good when Jiro nudges Saburo off him, Saburo shooting a stink face his direction.

“How did this happen, and why wasn’t I invited?” The way his brothers avoid eye contact at his second question is too funny.

“...Well,” Saburo starts, fixing his bangs to look at Ichiro properly. “You were upset the last time we got ‘too violent’ with each other, so next time Jiro said something stupid I just—“

“—decided to be a smartass and do something that ‘wouldn’t hurt,’” Jiro scoffs, finishing for them.

Ichiro laughs aloud at that one, and—even after everything—it isn’t long before the other two join in.

“And we—um—didn’t ‘invite you’ because we didn’t think you’d want to,” Saburo mumbles.

“—or that you’d be so good at it,” Jiro mutters, hand rubbing subconsciously at his hip.

Ichiro claps a hand on both of their legs, only smirking a little when it makes them jump in their seats.

“It’s been a while, but I do have some experience in tickling you both to tears,” Ichiro smiles.

“That makes sense,” Saburo mumbles. Jiro nods, looking at the carpet.

“But Ichi-nii,” Saburo asks, always thinking one step ahead. “Are...you ticklish?”

Hm, all the times Ichiro had tickled his brothers when they were younger, he never had to worry about taking what he dished out.

But now, it looks like Jiro and Saburo have found something they’re willing to work out together.

Um, g-good for them.