#because they're pathetic and nothing to be afraid of | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

robinvomit · 2 months ago

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† i'm home : various.

♦ request: yes - part two of "The Final Call." ♦ recap: you sleep through several calls and awake to their last voicemail, believing they are now gone. ♦ a/n: i'm pretty sure this one doesn't need a t/w? if im wrong, please let me know.

+ taglist: @myrachondria - @oohyasumi - @sept3mberchild - @kathiebernie ( I think this is everyone? )

𝐃𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 —

voicemails aren't supposed to be final words. they're supposed to be casual, fleeting - hey, don't forget to pick up milk. hey, i'll be home late. hey, i love you. not i don't think i'm making it out of this one. not i'm sorry. not i love you. god, i love you.

but that's exactly what dick left you.

and now, he's standing in front of you, alive.

and you. you look like you've seen a ghost.

for you, it has been days. days of grief, of silence, of waiting for confirmation that never came. days of carrying your phone like a lifeline, unable to delete the message, unable to stop playing it back over and over until the words blurred together into something unreal.

for dick, it has only been hours. hours of clawing his way back, of defying fate, of sheer, reckless determination to return to you.

but time doesn't matter.

because right now, you're just staring at him, frozen in place, like the moment you move, he'll disappear.

his throat tightens, guilt settling deep in his ribs as he watches the way your hands clench at your sides, fingers trembling slightly, barely holding yourself together. he should say something. god, he should say something. but the words catch in his throat, because you are looking at him like he is both a miracle and a betrayal.

and that? that kills him.

"hey." his voice is hoarse, quiet, pathetic, really. like that single word is enough to undo what he did to you. like it's enough to erase the hours you spent believing he was dead.

you inhale sharply, a quick, fractured sound, and then you move.

you collide with him, hands grabbing at his jacket, at his shoulders, at his face; desperate, frantic, shaking. like you need to feel him, need to know he's real, need to hold onto something solid before the moment slips away. and dick? he lets you. he lets you pull him down, lets you bury your face against his chest, lets you breathe him in, lets you fall apart in his arms because he knows you have been holding yourself together with nothing but sheer willpower since the moment you heard his voice say goodbye.

his hands come up, arms circling you, holding you tight, grounding. he presses his lips against the top of your head, murmurs your name, soft, careful, reverent. he doesn't tell you it's okay - because it's not. he doesn't say it's over - because for you, it's still happening.

your grip tightens, fists curling into his shirt, pulling at the fabric, voice raw when you finally speak. "i thought you were dead."

he closes his eyes. god, he hates that. he hates knowing that for hours, that's all you had. that there was no closure, no relief, just a voicemail and silence.

"i know." his hands slide up your back, steady, solid. "i know, baby."

you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red-rimmed, lips trembling, a million emotions fighting to surface all at once. and then you hit him.

it's not a real hit, just your fist against his chest, weak, barely enough to be called a shove. but it knocks the breath out of him all the same, because he knows exactly what it means.

"you-" your voice breaks, thick and uneven. "you told me you weren't going to make it."

dick winces, because yeah. he did. he whispered those words into the phone, voice shaking, breath unsteady, leaving you with nothing but love and loss tangled together in the worst way possible.

"i know." his forehead drops to yours, his hands covering yours, holding them tight like he's afraid to let go. "i thought.." he swallows hard. "i thought that was it."

your breath stutters, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt, knuckles white.

"i played it over and over."

dick's stomach twists, guilt settling deep in his chest like a bullet that won't stop bleeding.

"i'm sorry." the words are barely a whisper, and he knows it will never be enough.

your hands shake against his chest. then, slowly, your grip shifts.

"you came back." it's quiet, fragile, disbelieving.

dick exhales, his hands sliding up, framing your face, his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones like he needs to memorize every detail of you all over again.

"i came back." his voice is hoarse, his lips ghosting over your forehead, breath catching on something raw, something unspoken. "i always will."

and when you pull him into a kiss - desperate, aching, deep - he lets it say everything neither of you can.

because this is not a second chance.

this is not a lucky escape.

this is a promise.

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 —

jason todd has cheated death before.

he has clawed his way out of the abyss, gasping for air that didn't feel real, stumbling through the wreckage of his own existence with shaking hands and a pulse that beat just to spite the universe. he has felt the cold edge of death press against his throat and come back with bloodied knuckles, with bruises that never faded, with the knowledge that some part of him would always belong to the grave.

but, it's different. standing here now - bruised, aching, alive when he shouldn't be - he watches as your entire world crumbles and rebuilds itself in real-time.

he sees the way your body locks up, the way your breath catches, the way your eyes widen with something too raw to name. you don't move. not yet. not like last time, when you would've already had your arms around him, when you would've pressed close like you could hold all the broken pieces of him together just by touching him.

this is hesitation. this is disbelief. this is grief still fresh in your bones, still etched into the way you hold yourself like you are trying to keep from breaking apart.

and jason?

jason did that to you.

his chest goes tight, breath catching, throat burning with the weight of every second you spent believing he was dead. he doesn't know how to fix this. he doesn't know how to undo the days you spent drowning in silence, in an ending he left you with, in words that weren't supposed to be the last thing he ever said to you.

he should speak. should say something, should soften the sharp edges of this moment, should tell you that he's here, he's real, that it's over.

but the words never come.

because you move first.

it isn't slow. it isn't careful. it's a collision.

you crash into him, fingers twisting into his jacket, into his shirt, into the solid weight of him like you are trying to pull him inside out, like you are trying to prove he won't disappear this time. there is nothing delicate in the way you grip, clutch, anchor yourself to him. it is desperate, it is brutal, it is the kind of touch that doesn't just ask if he's real - it demands it.

and jason lets you.

he lets you pull, lets you press against him with shaking hands and too-tight fingers and breath that hitches against his collarbone. his arms come up instinctively, wrapping around you, crushing, steady in a way he doesn't feel. his pulse is unsteady, erratic, the pain in his ribs forgotten in the wake of the way you tremble against him.

his hands slide up your back, slow, deliberate, because you are shaking and it's his fault.

"i thought you were dead."

your voice is wrecked, muffled against his chest, the words barely holding together.

jason exhales, something breaking deep inside him. he wants to lie. wants to tell you that it was never that close, that he wasn't actually dying, that you never really had to grieve him. but you would see right through it. you always do.

"i know." his voice is rough, guilt scraping raw against every syllable.

you pull back, just slightly, just enough to look at him. and fuck - the look in your eyes nearly kills him all over again.

because you don't just look relieved. you look furious.

then, you hit him.

not enough to hurt - not really. just a weak, shaking fist against his chest, a barely-there shove, but it knocks the air out of his lungs anyway.

"you told me you weren't coming back, asshole!"

jason winces.

because yeah. he did.

he had said those words into his phone like they meant nothing. like they weren't going to tear you apart. like they weren't going to be the thing that echoed in your head for the rest of your life.

his jaw locks, his hands gripping at your arms, keeping you close. "i didn't think i was."

your breath shakes. your fingers curl against his chest. tears still shine along your lashes, but you aren't crying.

not anymore.

"i played it over and over." the words hit like a gunshot, like a knife twisting, like something he will never forgive himself for.

jason's grip on you tightens. too tight. "i'm sorry." his voice is low, hoarse, heavy, filled with every single second of your suffering that he can never take back.

your hands are still pressed against him, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. then, slowly, you shake your head.

and then you pull him back in.

this time, it's different. less desperate, but just as deep. your hands slide up, past his collar, fingers tangling in his hair, and jason lets his forehead drop against yours, lets himself breathe you in, lets himself steady his shaking hands against your skin.

"you came back."

it's not a question.

it's a realization. a soft, exhausted, unbelievable realization.

jason huffs out something close to a laugh. not because any of this is funny, but because it's the only sound he can make that won't choke him.

"i came back." his lips brush against your temple, the words warm, steady, unshakable. "i always come back to you."

and when you kiss him - deep, raw, spilling every emotion you have into it.

because this isn't just another night.

this isn't just another close call.

this is something neither of you will ever be able to forget.

and jason todd doesn't waste second chances.

𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 —

tim always knew he would die young.

it wasn't pessimism, wasn't melodrama, wasn't some self-destructive acceptance of his fate—it was just the truth.

he had done the calculations. the probability of survival in this line of work was dismal at best. he had watched it happen over and over— - bodies buried, names carved into stone, the world moving on without them. it wasn't a matter of if. it was when.

and yet, somehow, he survived.

the night air is cold against his bruised skin as he stands there, barely inside the doorway, still reeling from the sheer fact that he made it back at all. his ribs ache, his stitches pull, his limbs feel heavy, like they're carrying the weight of something unseen. his hands are cold, fingers stiff from too many hours spent in darkness, clawing his way back to this moment. back to you.

but you aren't moving.

you are staring at him, frozen in place, breath shallow, eyes wide. your hands are curled at your sides, twitching slightly like you don't know whether to reach for him or hold yourself together.

tim feels it before you even say a word - the wreckage of what he left behind, the aftermath of what his disappearance did to you. he watches the slow realization sink into your body, the way your posture stiffens under the weight of grief that never got the chance to settle, the way your eyes flicker between disbelief and something else, something sharp, something close to anger.

and suddenly, he understands.

because for him, it has only been hours. for you, it has been days.

days of silence. days of staring at your phone, waiting for a text that never came, waiting for an update that never arrived. days of replaying his last voicemail over and over, clinging to the sound of his voice because it was all you had left.

he doesn't know how to fix that.

he doesn't know if he can.

his throat is dry when he finally tries to speak, voice cracking slightly from exhaustion. "it's me."

it's stupid. you know that. you can see him, you can hear him, and yet—

you don't respond.

tim sways slightly, exhaustion clawing at him, vision still adjusting to the way the world feels too real, too sharp. too much. he barely registers the way your breath catches, the way your hands start to shake, the way you finally - finally - move.

and then, you're in front of him.

not gently. not cautiously. it's a forceful, stumbling motion, like your body doesn't quite trust what your mind is telling you. you grab at his jacket, tugging him closer, fingers curling into the fabric like you need something to hold onto.

and tim catches you.

he doesn't breathe, doesn't do anything but let you touch him, let you prove to yourself that he's real, that he's solid, that he's not slipping away.

then, just as suddenly you shove him.

it's not enough to hurt, but the message is clear. your breath is shaky, shoulders rising and falling too quickly, hands still clenched in his jacket like you don't know if you want to pull him closer or push him away again. your lips part, but no words come out, just a sharp exhale, an uneven attempt at keeping yourself together.

tim exhales slowly, his hands coming up cautiously, hovering, unsure. he has seen you in every state of being - happy, exhausted, furious, broken - but this? this is different.

this is grief. still fresh. still burning.

"you were gone." the words barely make it past your lips, raw and frayed at the edges, like you've been holding them inside your chest since the moment you thought he was dead.

tim swallows hard. he knows.

he knows because he left you with nothing but a voicemail; his voice shaking, his breath ragged, his words nothing but an apology and a plea.

he knows because, in his mind, he was already dead.

and now he's here.

and that means you had to go through all of it for nothing.

"i know." his voice is quiet, hesitant, because he knows there is no right thing to say. there is no apology big enough, no reassurance strong enough to undo what he put you through.

your hands tighten, knuckles white.

"you didn't tell me."

his stomach knots. "tell you what?"

"that you were going to die." your voice shakes, something sharp creeping in beneath it. not just pain. not just relief. something worse.

he knows what's coming before you even say it.

"you didn't let me say goodbye. you just-- you just said you're sorry.. you asked me not to forget you! but you didn't let me say goodbye.."

tim's breath catches.

he left you with only his words, only his voice, only the last pieces of him recorded in a message he never wanted you to hear.

your throat tightens, your eyes flickering away for a split second - just long enough for him to see it.

the exhaustion. the heartbreak. the look of someone who already lived through losing him.

the reality crashes into him like a cold wave. you aren't just reacting to his return—you're reacting to the loss that already settled into your bones.

for you, he's not just coming home. he's rising from the dead.

tim's hands finally move, cautious, careful, sliding over yours where they still grip his jacket. his forehead drops against yours, his breath unsteady, his pulse hammering under his skin.

"i'm here," he whispers, voice barely holding together. "i'm here, i'm alive."

it doesn't feel like enough. not after everything.

but then your grip tightens.

"you better be," you murmur, and for the first time in days, your voice holds something real, something warm, something that sounds like you.

tim exhales.

because you aren't letting go.

and neither is he.

𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 —

damian wayne does not believe in miracles.

he does not put his faith in luck or fate, does not wait for the universe to show mercy. survival is not granted—it is earned. it is fought for with bloodied hands, with sharp steel, with a will so unbreakable that even death hesitates before taking its claim.

and yet, standing here now - bruised, bleeding, alive - he knows that his survival does not erase what he put you through.

the doorway feels smaller than it should. the space between you is too wide, too heavy, filled with a silence that he cannot read. your posture is rigid, your breathing shallow, your fingers curled at your sides as if the only thing holding you together is the sheer force of your own restraint.

he sees it instantly; the devastation that still lingers, the grief that had already settled into your bones. because for you, it has been days.

days of waiting. days of unanswered calls. days of replaying his voice, of clinging to words that should have never been his last.

and he did that to you.

the realization cuts deeper than any wound.

he is used to assessing damage, to reading the battlefield, to calculating the weaknesses of those who stand before him. but now, the battlefield is you. the damage is him.

his throat tightens, his body aching from injuries that feel insignificant in comparison to the weight pressing against his chest. his voice is quieter than he intends when he finally speaks. "beloved."

the sound of his voice is what breaks you.

a sharp inhale, your body jerking like he has struck you, like his words are something physical, something you weren't prepared to endure. your head tilts slightly, your lips parting, but nothing comes out. you are still processing, still trying to reconcile the damian in front of you with the one whose voice bled through your phone in the dead of night. the one who told you he was dying.

then, before he can say anything else - you move.

it is not a slow approach. it is not careful, not hesitant. it is a forceful, desperate motion, your body colliding into his with more strength than you likely realize. your hands grip at his shoulders, at his chest, pushing against him, pulling him closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his torn uniform.

damian does not react immediately; not because he does not want to. but because he does not deserve to.

he lets you press against him, lets you feel the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, lets you prove to yourself that he is real, that he is here. that he is not a ghost, not a voice frozen in time, not a memory.

and then your hands tighten.

your nails dig in, sharp and shaking, your breath uneven as it rushes against his collar. your body is trembling.

he hates it. he hates that he is the cause.

"you said- " your voice cracks, unsteady, but filled with something sharp. something close to anger. "you said you refused to say goodbye."

he exhales slowly, his head tilting forward, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his hands coming up but he stops himself from touching you. he doesn't deserve to hold you yet.

"and i meant it." his voice is quiet but firm, the words low, steady, unshaken. a vow. a truth.

your breath stutters, your grip tightening before you shove him.

it is not enough to move him, not enough to actually push him back, but the force behind it makes his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with his injuries.

"i thought you were dead." the words are not just grief, they are betrayal.

his jaw tightens. he does not look away.

"i know." the admission is quiet, restrained, guilt threading through his words. because what else can he say?

you are shaking, your body locked between relief and fury, between the instinct to fall apart and the need to hold yourself together. "you left me with nothing but your voice."

he does not flinch, but he feels the weight of it settle deep in his ribs.

"i fought." the words are not a defense, they are a statement. a truth. "i fought my way back to you."

your breath is sharp, uneven, your hands still gripping at his uniform like you don't know how to let go.

"and if you hadn't?" the question is quiet, but there is a storm behind it.

he inhales, slow and deliberate, his fingers twitching at his sides, his control razor-thin. he does not lie to you.

"i would have died with your name on my lips."

the breath you let out is shattered. then, you do the only thing you can.

you grab him by the collar, yanking him down into a kiss that is not soft, not sweet, not delicate.

it is desperate. it is furious. it is relief and anger and love all wrapped into one broken, breathless moment.

and damian lets you take what you need.

because this is not forgiveness.

this is not an ending.

this is a beginning.

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 —

stephanie brown never stops moving.

even when she's hurt, even when things go sideways, even when she's on the edge of disaster - she keeps going. that's who she is, that's who she's always been. she doesn't stop, doesn't falter, doesn't let the weight of the world keep her down.

until now. now, she stands in the doorway, bruised, aching, still running on the last fumes of adrenaline, watching the way you go completely still at the sight of her.

and suddenly, she doesn't know what to do.

because for her, it hasn't been that long - just hours, maybe less. hours of dragging herself out of the wreckage, of crawling her way to safety, of fighting to make it back to you. hours of holding onto the hope that if she could just keep moving, just keep breathing, then maybe she could fix this.

but for you? for you, it has been days.

days of silence. days of nothing but a voicemail that should have never been her last words. days of sitting with the weight of knowing that she had been dying somewhere out there, alone, leaving you with nothing but a shaky, panicked confession over the phone.

and now, she's just here. standing. alive.

like she didn't just rip your heart out and leave you to put it back together alone.

your hands twitch slightly at your sides, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something raw, something like fury, something that looks like you don't know whether to cry or scream.

stephanie shifts on her feet, tries to make a joke - that's what she always does, isn't it? just some dumb, sarcastic quip to break the tension, to make it easier. but nothing about this is easy. because she left you.

because you had to live through her death, and now you don't even know how to look at her.

her voice is rough, uneven, when she finally speaks. "heeey…"

your expression cracks. just slightly. just enough for her to see it.

but still, you move.

not carefully. not gently. it's a forceful, desperate motion, your body crashing into hers so hard it sends a sharp spike of pain through her ribs, but she doesn't care. she barely even notices because you are gripping her jacket so tight she can feel your fingers shaking through the fabric.

and then, you push her back.

not far, not enough to hurt, but enough that she has to look at you - really look.

"you-" your voice catches, throat tight, words barely making it past your lips. "you called me."

she knows where this is going.

you don't stop.

"you told me you weren't coming home." your breath is sharp, uneven, your whole body locked between wanting to break apart and forcing yourself to stay together.

stephanie's jaw tightens, her fingers twitching at her sides. she doesn't know what to say. what can she say?

that she thought she was dying? you already know that. that she was scared? you heard it in her voice. that she hadn't meant to leave you behind with nothing but a voicemail full of words that were supposed to be enough?

you inhale sharply, shaking your head. "i thought you were dead."

her stomach twists violently.

she should be better at this. she should have something to say - something to fix this, something to make it hurt less. but she doesn't.

all she has is this moment, standing in front of you, knowing she broke you.

"i'm sorry." the words feel weak, feel like they could never be enough.

your hands fist into her jacket again, knuckles white, like you're still waiting for her to disappear.

and then your breath shudders.

"you told me not to let it wreck me," you whisper. "but it did."

that. that is what breaks her.

her fingers come up, careful, hesitant, brushing against your cheek, against the dried tears left behind.

"you were the best thing that ever happened to me." she barely hears her own voice over the rush of blood in her ears, the way her heart won't slow down.

your fingers tremble. you pull her down into a kiss, deep and aching, something that tastes like grief and anger and love all wrapped into one desperate moment.

and she lets you.

because this isn't just about relief.

it's about coming back to each other after almost losing everything.

𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐧 —

cassandra cain has always lived in silence.

she was raised in it, trained in it. she knew how to exist without words, how to communicate without speaking, how to say everything and nothing in a single movement. she never needed a voice to make herself understood.

until the moment she thought she was dying, and there was no one there to listen. until she called you and you didn't answer.

now, standing in front of you, she sees it all. the tension in your body, the breath caught in your chest, the way your hands twitch like they don't know whether to reach for her or hold yourself together. you are frozen.

she understands.

for her, it has been hours. for you, it has been days. days of emptiness. days of waiting. days of holding onto nothing but a voicemail that should have never been her last words. days of grief that already settled into your bones.

cass knows how to read people. she always has. but she has never needed to read you—not really. she always knew what you felt, always understood you in a way no one else did.

but right now, you are a storm she cannot predict.

and she hates it.

she should move. should say something. but she doesn't. because she doesn't know how. she doesn't know how to fix the way you're looking at her like she is a ghost, like she is a memory still playing tricks on you.

your lips part - a shaky inhale, like you want to speak, like you can't.

but you move.

it's not slow. not careful. it's desperate, frantic, raw, your body crashing into hers like impact is the only way to convince yourself she is real. your hands grip at her arms, shaking, your fingers tightening against her skin like you need to feel the solid weight of her beneath them.

and cass doesn't move.

she lets you pull at her, lets you press into her, lets you shake against her, lets you breathe her in, lets you hold onto her like she is the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

then, just as suddenly, you shove her back.

it's not enough to hurt. not really. but it's enough to force space between you, enough to make her see the way your body trembles, the way your breath shakes, the way you are barely keeping yourself upright.

"you called me."

your voice is wrecked. shaky. strained. barely holding together.

cass doesn't breathe.

you swallow hard, your hands curling into fists at your sides.

"you said you didn't have enough words." your voice cracks, but you don't stop. "you said you wished you had more time."

cass's throat is tight.

because she remembers.

the way her voice had broken, the way her fingers had been too weak to text, the way she had listened to your phone ring and ring - the way she thought she would never see you again.

your breath shudders, your hands shaking.

"i lived with that."

three words. three words that carry the weight of everything she put you through.

cass's jaw locks. she hates this. hates that she did this to you. hates that you had to sit in that silence alone, waiting for something that never came.

your shoulders rise and fall, unsteady, your body caught between grief and relief, between fury and something too fragile to name.

then your hands move.

fingers shaking, you reach for her again, gripping at her shirt, at her arms, at anything solid. and she lets you.

her hands come up, gentle, steady, slipping over yours, anchoring you there. she presses her forehead to yours, breath warm, pulse too fast.

"i'm here," she whispers, voice soft, barely above a breath. "i'm here."

your hands tighten and you kiss her.

it's not soft. it's not careful. it's aching, raw, desperate - your fingers curled into the fabric of her uniform, your breath shaky against her lips, like you need to steal the air from her lungs just to convince yourself she is real.

and cass lets you.

because this isn't just relief.

this is rebuilding.

this is coming back.

𝐃𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 —

duke thomas has always been the one who makes it through.

he survives. that's what he does. no matter how bad things get, no matter how dark, no matter how much the world tries to strip him down to nothing - he finds a way.

this time should've been no different.

except for the part where he had to leave you with nothing but a voicemail that should have never been his last words.

and now, as he stands in the doorway, bruised, aching, breath catching in his chest as he sees you freeze at the sight of him, he realizes - survival doesn't erase what he put you through.

for him, it's been hours. for you, it's been days.

days of waiting. days of staring at your phone, replaying his voice over and over because it was all you had left. days of grief settling into your bones, of thinking you lost him.

and now, just like that - he's here.

your breath catches, your hands twitch at your sides, and your eyes burn with something he can't quite name. not yet. not until-

"you said ‘never mind.'"

your voice is sharp. furious.

duke stills. that wasn't what he expected. he thought - relief, maybe. maybe even anger. but this? this is something deeper.

"you were dying, and you just-" you exhale, ragged, frayed at the edges, barely holding together. "you just said ‘never mind' like- like that was supposed to be okay?"

your breath shudders, your hands curling into fists, knuckles white. your entire body is vibrating with tension, like you are holding yourself back from either breaking apart or breaking him.

and duke gets it.

he left you with unfinished words, with a sentence that should have never ended like that.

he made you live with that.

"i-" he stops, his throat tight, his ribs aching with the weight of everything unspoken. there is nothing he can say to fix it. nothing that will undo what you went through.

so instead, he moves.

it's slow, cautious, like approaching something fragile, something dangerous. his hands reach for yours, not to pull, not to take - just to offer.

and for a second, you don't move. then you take it.

your fingers clutch at his like they're the only thing keeping you tethered. and duke lets you.

he pulls you in, arms wrapping around you, breath unsteady, body aching, but he doesn't care. because this? this is real.

and when your breath stutters against his collar, when your hands fist into his jacket, when your entire body shakes against him - he just holds on tighter.

because he made it back.

and now, he isn't letting go.

𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 —

you have done this before. you have lived through this exact moment; the grief, the silence, the weight of waiting for a confirmation that never comes soon enough. you have stood in this very place, body frozen, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and devastation, staring at bruce wayne like he is something impossible.

like he is a ghost standing in your doorway, back from the dead.. again.

the first time nearly killed you.

the second time unraveled you.

the third time- you swore you wouldn't survive it.

and now? now, after all the pain, after all the nights spent gripping onto your phone like it was the last piece of him, listening to the sound of his voice tell you he was never coming bac, you don't know if you can do this anymore.

you don't know if you can keep coming back from this. from him.

bruce doesn't move. neither do you.

he watches you with careful, measured stillness, but you don't need to read his body language to know what he's thinking. he can see it in you. in the way your fingers twitch at your sides like you're restraining yourself from touching him. in the way your chest rises and falls too fast, breath sharp, like you're on the edge of something dangerous. like this moment is the one that might finally break you.

his lips part, a slow inhale filling the silence. preparing. bracing himself to speak.

but you break first.

your hands slam into his chest, shoving him back - not enough to move him, not really, but enough to make him feel it. enough to make him understand.

he lets you.

lets you shove him again, fingers curling into his jacket, barely restraining the urge to grab onto him instead of pushing him away.

"you said it wasn't my fault." the words are jagged, torn straight from the rawest part of you.

bruce doesn't react.

not outwardly. not in a way anyone else would see. but you know him. you know the slight twitch in his jaw, the flicker of something behind his eyes, the way his breath leaves him just a little too slow.

"i heard you," you continue, voice shaking, anger curling beneath the grief like something waiting to consume you whole. "i listened to every single fucking word. i memorized it. i let it sink into me, let it rip me apart, let it be the only thing left of you. and you-"

your voice catches, breaking under the weight of your own fury.

bruce waits. because he knows.

he knows what comes next.

you shake your head, fists tightening against the fabric of his uniform, eyes burning.

"i can't do this again."

his breath shudders just slightly.

it's the smallest thing, the most imperceptible crack in a man who has spent his entire life keeping himself untouchable. but you catch it. because you are the only person who ever does.

you inhale sharply, hands trembling now, the fight in you cracking under the unbearable weight of reality.

"i can't keep losing you."

bruce doesn't break easily. not in battle. not under threat. not when he's been pushed to the edge of death itself. but now - standing here, listening to you say those words - he feels something in himself shatter.

"i know." his voice is rough, low, carrying the weight of an apology he doesn't know how to say. "i know."

your breath catches, a sharp, broken sound.

your hands stop pushing; they pull.

desperate, aching, yanking him down, fists curled into his jacket, dragging him closer because you don't know how else to convince yourself that he is real. that this isn't just another cruel trick of your mind, another night spent dreaming of a reality where he made it home to you.

bruce moves then. finally.

his arms wrap around you, secure, unshakable, unwavering. his breath ghosts against your temple, his grip firm, like he needs to hold you together because he knows he is the one who keeps breaking you.

for a long moment, neither of you speak.

because there is nothing left to say.

he has already told you he loves you.

and you already know.

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pankowcrumbs · 1 month ago

Text

Regret X Harry Styles

MasterList

Harry Styles Masterlist

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands, unable to look up. The silence in the room felt suffocating, pressing against my chest like an unbearable weight. I could hear Harry pacing in front of me, his footsteps restless, his hands running through his curls the way he always did when he was overwhelmed.

"Say something," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

I swallowed hard, blinking away the burning in my eyes. "What do you want me to say, Harry? That I'm fine with this? That it doesn't hurt?" My voice cracked, and I hated how weak I sounded.

He exhaled sharply, stopping in his tracks. "You know this isn’t what I want, Y/N. But I can't give you what you deserve right now. I'm in the middle of launching my solo career, and I can't..." He paused, shaking his head. "I can't slow down. Not now."

I nodded slowly, finally lifting my gaze to meet his. His green eyes, the same ones I had fallen in love with four years ago, were filled with sadness, regret, and something else something that mirrored the ache in my own heart.

"I get it," I whispered. "I really do. But it doesn't make it any easier."

He knelt in front of me, his hands hesitating before resting gently on my knees. "If things were different..."

I let out a soft, bitter laugh, cutting him off. "But they're not."

His jaw clenched, and he nodded. "No, they're not."

We sat there for a moment, neither of us moving, both afraid that the second we let go, it would all be over. I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his one last time. "So, I guess right person, wrong time really does exist."

His lips parted as if to say something, but he stopped himself. Instead, he gave me a sad smile, squeezing my hand before letting go. "I guess it does."

And just like that, the love we had built, the memories we had made, all came down to this the quiet, heartbreaking acceptance that timing had never been on our side.

The days following our breakup were a blur. My phone buzzed with messages from friends checking in, but I ignored them all. I knew they meant well, but I didn’t have the energy to pretend I was okay. Because I wasn’t.

I went through the motions waking up, going to work, coming home each day blending into the next. But at night, when the world quieted down, that’s when it hit me the hardest. The absence of Harry’s presence in my life was like a missing limb, a phantom pain I couldn't shake.

I caught myself scrolling through old photos, rereading messages, listening to his music just to hear his voice. It was pathetic, really. But how do you move on from someone who still owns pieces of your heart?

Harry, on the other hand, seemed to be everywhere. His career was skyrocketing radio interviews, award shows, late-night performances. Every time I turned on the TV, there he was, smiling, laughing, being the version of himself the world adored.

I hated how much I missed him.

Three months passed.

It still hurt, but I was managing. I had started saying yes to friends again, going out, finding distractions. I even convinced myself that I was getting better.

And then one night, as I walked past a newsstand, I saw it.

Harry’s face plastered across the cover of a magazine, standing beside some model, his arm draped around her waist.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That he was allowed to move on. That it didn’t change what we had.

But the lump in my throat begged to differ.

Five years had passed since Harry and I had said goodbye. Five years since I had walked out of his flat, our flat, with my heart splintering in my chest, knowing we weren’t ending because we didn’t love each other but because the timing just wasn’t right.

I had tried to move on. I really had. There had been dates, relationships that seemed promising at first, men who were sweet and kind and maybe could’ve been something if my heart wasn’t still stitched together with the memories of a love that never truly faded. But nothing ever felt the way it did with him. No one had ever made me feel like he did.

Harry, on the other hand, seemed to be doing just fine. His career had skyrocketed albums, world tours, films, magazine covers. Everywhere I looked, there he was, smiling and thriving. And the women… There were always women. Actresses, models, singers, socialites. His name constantly tied to someone new, never for long, but long enough for the headlines to make it clear he wasn’t spending his nights alone.

It shouldn’t have hurt. He had moved on, just like I had tried to. But every new name linked to him felt like another reminder that maybe it had only ever been me who had held onto the past so tightly.

One evening, I found myself at home, curled up on my couch with a book in my lap, but my mind wasn’t on the words. My phone sat beside me, the screen lit up with an article I hadn’t meant to click on but couldn’t seem to look away from.

“Harry Styles Spotted with Latest Flame, Supermodel Amara Hartley in Paris.”

There was a picture of him and a stunning woman, all legs and effortless beauty, walking side by side. He wasn’t holding her hand, but the look he gave her in the photo was too familiar. I had seen it before back when it had been me standing beside him.

I turned off my phone and exhaled shakily. Maybe it was my fault for keeping tabs on him, for allowing myself to feel things I had no right to feel anymore. He was living his life. I was supposed to be doing the same.

But no matter how much time passed, there were still nights like this, where the ghost of our love still lingered, and I wondered if he ever thought of me too.

Harry sat backstage in his dressing room, scrolling through his phone as he waited to go on. The show was sold out, another stop on another tour that was bigger than the last. He should’ve been buzzing with excitement, but instead, he felt that all-too-familiar ache settle into his chest.

His finger hovered over an old contact, one he had never deleted. He knew he wouldn’t call, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go completely either.

His manager knocked on the door, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Five minutes, H.”

He nodded, standing up and slipping his phone into his pocket, shaking off the thoughts threatening to pull him under. The crowd was waiting, and he had a show to put on.

He always had a show to put on.

It had been a long week of work, distractions, and forcing myself not to think about him. Not to think about the past. My friends had been on my case about getting out of the house more, reminding me that it had been months since I’d agreed to a proper night out.

“It’s just a birthday party, Y/N. You can come out for one drink,” Amelia pleaded over the phone.

“It’s not just any birthday party,” I sighed, already knowing where this was headed. “It’s Jake’s party, and you know how close he was with Harry.”

“Yeah, and according to the internet, Harry is currently living his best life in Italy, so unless he’s figured out how to teleport, he won’t be there,” she reasoned. “Come on, you deserve a night out.”

I hesitated, gnawing on my lip. It wasn’t that I thought I’d run into Harry it was just the memories. The people. The reminders of a life that used to be mine. But before I could talk myself out of it, I agreed. One night wouldn’t hurt.

Getting ready was an event in itself. My friends were practically buzzing with excitement as they helped me pick an outfit, making it their mission to make me look like I was thriving. Not just surviving.

“Wear this dress,” Amelia said, holding up a sleek black number that hugged in all the right places.

“Bit much for a birthday party, don’t you think?” I laughed, though the excitement of dressing up again felt nice.

“It’s never too much,” Clara added, tossing me a pair of heels. “Trust me, you’ll thank us later.”

I rolled my eyes but gave in, letting them doll me up like some kind of post-breakup revenge fantasy. Maybe that wasn’t the worst thing.

The party was already in full swing when we arrived, music thumping through the walls of the packed venue. Familiar faces filled the room, some bringing back fond memories, others making my stomach twist with a pang of nostalgia.

“Drinks first,” Clara said, pulling me toward the bar. “We can do the small talk later.”

I laughed, appreciating the way my friends were determined to make this night good for me. I sipped my drink, letting the music and atmosphere ease my nerves.

“Y/N! You actually came.”

I turned to see Jake grinning at me, arms outstretched. He pulled me into a quick hug. “I’m surprised you agreed. Figured you’d still be in hiding.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” I said with a soft chuckle, though we both knew that wasn’t entirely true.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. And you look amazing, by the way,” he added, his voice teasing but kind.

“Thanks, Jake. Happy birthday.”

He smiled and nodded toward the crowd. “Go have fun. Dance, drink, make some bad decisions.”

I laughed but didn’t argue. Maybe that was exactly what I needed.

An hour in, I was actually enjoying myself. The night was full of laughter, good drinks, and shameless dancing with my friends. I’d almost managed to let go of the past, to stop thinking about him.

But then, as I turned to grab another drink, I felt the air shift. A strange hush in the space around me.

And when I looked up, my heart plummeted.

Harry was here.

Standing by the entrance, his green eyes scanning the room. Looking effortlessly good in a simple button-down, sleeves rolled up, hair messily perfect.

And then, as if he could sense it his gaze locked onto mine.

I turned quickly, heart racing, and grabbed Amelia’s arm. “He’s here.”

“What?” She frowned, following my gaze. “Shit.”

“I need to go,” I muttered, already backing up. But before I could make a move, he started walking toward me.

Panic surged through me. I couldn’t do this. Not here. Not now.

I turned and pushed my way through the crowd, weaving between bodies, keeping my head down. Every time I glanced back, he was still coming. Determined. Unwavering.

I spent the rest of the night dodging him, slipping through conversations, pretending I didn’t see him moving closer. If he stepped into one side of the room, I disappeared into the other. If he tried to catch my eye, I turned away first.

I needed air.

Slipping through the back doors, I stepped into the cool night, the noise of the party fading behind me. A small swing set sat in the corner of the garden, and I sank onto one, gripping the chains, trying to calm my racing heart.

For a moment, I thought I was safe. That maybe I had finally lost him.

But then I heard footsteps crunching on the grass.

I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Harry beelined straight for me, his voice low and firm. “Y/N, stop.”

I swallowed hard, staring at my lap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve been avoiding me all night.”

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “What gave it away?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I just… I just want to talk.”

I finally looked up at him, taking in the way his brows furrowed, the crease between them deep with frustration and something else something softer.

“I don’t know what there is to say, Harry,” I whispered.

He stepped closer, voice gentle. “Then let’s just sit. Please.”

For some reason, maybe because I was too tired to run anymore, I nodded. He sat down on the swing next to mine, the silence stretching between us, heavy and fragile all at once.

Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved.

Just two people sitting in the quiet, caught somewhere between the past and whatever this was now.

The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy like the humid summer air. The weight of unspoken words pressed against my chest, making it harder to breathe. Harry stood just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his jaw tight as he watched me carefully.

I hated this. The tension. The distance. The way we had become strangers who knew each other too well.

So, I did what I always did when the silence became too much. I broke it.

"Congratulations, by the way," I said softly, wrapping my arms around myself. "On everything. You've done so much. Achieved so much. I'm really happy for you."

A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and humourless, making my stomach twist in confusion.

I frowned. "Why are you laughing?"

He shook his head, looking down for a moment before meeting my gaze again. "No, no, it's great. Everything I've done is everything I thought I wanted."

I caught onto the way he said it. Past tense. Thought.

"Thought?" I echoed, tilting my head slightly.

Harry let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I thought this was what I was meant to do with my life. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to come across as ungrateful my career, the success, the tours, the awards it’s all incredible. But it’s not everything it’s cracked up to be."

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. "Right. Because all the awards, achievements, and not to mention the beautiful women you’re always seen with that must be such a struggle."

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at me.

His expression was unreadable, but I knew him too well. I could see something in his eyes, something I hadn't let myself believe before.

Regret.

I swallowed, my heart thudding as the realisation set in.

Harry wasn’t laughing because he was amused. He was laughing because the life he built the one that looked perfect from the outside hadn’t been enough. Because he had spent all this time trying to fill a massive, gaping hole in his life.

A hole that had been left by me.

"The women, the parties, the distractions they were never enough." he started

"You were my person, Y/N. The one," he said softly, voice strained with emotion. "And I regret every single second I spent without you."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I was too stunned, too overwhelmed. My chest tightened as I searched his face, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

"I can't do this anymore," he admitted, stepping closer, his green eyes desperate. "I can't live any longer pretending like I’m fine without you. Because I'm not. I'm fucking miserable. And I know it's selfish to ask, but... can we try again?"

His words sent a sharp pang through my chest. I had spent years wondering if he ever thought about me, if he ever missed me the way I missed him. And now here he was, telling me everything I had wanted to hear for so long.

But I hesitated. Because loving Harry had always been easy. Too easy. But the pain of losing him once before? That had been the hardest thing I had ever gone through.

"Harry..." I whispered, unsure of what to say.

He reached out then, fingers brushing against my hand. "Please, Y/N," he pleaded, voice breaking slightly. "I made the wrong choice before. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice. Tell me there's still a chance for us."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, my heart at war with my head. Because deep down, I knew the truth.

I had never stopped loving him.

A shaky breath left my lips as I slowly nodded, and the moment the small gesture registered, Harry exhaled sharply, as though the weight of the world had just been lifted from his shoulders.

"Yeah?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper, almost as if he was afraid I’d change my mind.

A soft smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "Yeah."

His expression crumbled in relief, his green eyes turning glassy. Before I could say anything else, his hands were cupping my face, his touch so gentle, yet so desperate, as though he needed to make sure this was real. And then, he kissed me.

The second our lips met, everything else faded away. The years apart, the pain, the regret it all dissolved into nothing. The world realigned itself, shifting back into place as if it had been waiting for this moment all along.

Harry pulled me closer, deepening the kiss, pouring every ounce of emotion into it. When we finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine, his breath shaky, his hands still holding onto me like he never wanted to let go again.

"Thank you," he murmured, a single tear slipping down his cheek. "For giving us another chance."

I wiped the tear away gently, my own eyes stinging with emotion. "Just don’t break my heart again, Styles."

He let out a soft, breathless laugh, pressing another kiss to my forehead. "Never again, love. Never again."

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actual-changeling · 2 years ago

Text

"It would have been you."

It's raining.

Of course, it's raining.

A soft, constant drizzle leaving his hair a damp, curly mess that falls into his face and clings to his skin. Even though the cold is slowly seeping into his clothes, Crowley stops and turns around. Condensation is collecting on the inside of his shades where his breath drifts up, warm and too fast, and even if it hadn't been late at night, if the street hadn't been empty, he would have still taken them off.

Aziraphale is licking rain drops from his lips and blinking with dark, heavy lashes.

"What?"

His voice is rough, almost drowned out by the noise of rain hitting the pavement, collecting in small puddles around his feet.

"If it had been a choice, a real one, it would have been you."

The world did not end, questions were answered, apologies spoken, but their last conversation before everything went to shit is still a sharp splinter lodged in his chest, cutting him open more and more with every heartbeat. All of the fears he had left unsaid, the viscous doubt pooling in his lungs and weighing down his breaths—the truth might tip the scales and finally destroy him, and yet he cannot bring himself to stop Aziraphale from talking.

"It has always been you, Crowley. You must know that."

"I don't."

Bitterness laces his voice despite his best intentions, a drop of oil tainting an entire river, six thousand years of history, and it hurts because it's the truth, because they both wish it wasn't.

He doesn't know, couldn't know, because Aziraphale always needed him to stop them, to step back when they got too close. Every single time he had tried to push, gone too bloody fast, the angel had recoiled, scared for him, scared for the both of them. Crowley knows, and at the same time, he doesn't, because he still has hope and there is nothing more dangerous than allowing it to bloom; it's small, withered, brittle, on the verge of death and has been for centuries.

(It's still there, though. It keeps fighting, keeps trying. Keeps hoping.)

They're drenched to the bone, wet and pathetic, and there is nothing romantic about any of it when Aziraphale retraces his steps and closes the distance between them; there is, however, love.

There has always been love, whether they could admit it or not.

"I'm sorry. For- for everything, for making you think that I don't care about you."

"Angel, don't lie-"

"I'm not lying."

Crowley stares, frozen to the spot when Aziraphale presses cold, wet palms to his cheeks, his breath a ghost of warmth on his skin. This is too much, too close to 'our side', and if he didn't know better (does he know better? does he really?) he would think that he is about to—

"I'm not lying," he whispers, broken, truthful, "I love you. I won't leave you."

The rain stings in his eyes, masking the tears—hot and wistful—meeting Aziraphale's skin where it is touching his.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, angel."

His voice cracks and so does his heart, and he can feel the walls they have built together crumbling to dust under their feet. It's not real, it can't be real, and yet the truth is shimmering in storm-blue eyes he has been carrying with him since the moment he first put stars into the sky.

"It's you, always has been, always will be. If you let me."

Crowley kisses him as he falls apart, barely healed fractures reopening as his essence spills over and out, drowning him in please, please be real, please let us have this, please, God.

Just this once.

Aziraphale holds his face so incredibly gently, as if it's something worth keeping, something to protect, something he is afraid to lose. When the ground doesn't open up and swallow them whole, when the sky doesn't reach for them with greedy hands, he allows himself to seize Aziraphale's face in turn, cupping his jaw and kissing the rain drops off his lips, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, tasting his tears when they begin to fall.

"It's always been you. God, of course I will let you."

Sapphire blue eyes blink up at him, a smile pressed against his lips, a smile he can feel, a smile that is for him, them.

"Perhaps you could let me somewhere less, ah, sopping wet?"

"I was right, though. It's the rain that did it."

Aziraphale laughs, bright and happy, and infectious enough to make Crowley laugh too, and grabs his hand to pull him back towards the bookshop - back home.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #this has been in my tumblr drafts forever i swear ugh #finally finished it

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ratlover256 · 2 months ago

Text

it has always been about escapism by the way. kittycorn can not distinguish the sour reality she lives in from the fiction she has. the moment kit is told "no"- straight to suicide baiting. it's this immense fearmongering she puts up that every fucking person i have seen come forward about their experience with her has brought it up. it is not surprising she placed herself in a situation full of "yes-men" who she feels she is most suited with, one full of people who also get off to the dangerous nature of playing with people and their feelings, claiming nobody has the same trauma because they don't cope as hysterically. and that's disappointing.

people who support kittycorn's actions: you are the problem. you think you're coping when you set yourself up for reminders. it's all about "oh but you're silencing trauma survivors" until the vast majority of trauma survivors call you out for straight up getting off to what has ruined them. and you think that coping makes everything okay. everyone knows themselves best, clearly everyone copes differently! get help. you live in such a world full of people who are too afraid to tell you shit, leaving you with an echo chamber full of enablers. the moment someone calls you out for it or pulls you out of that reality; you snap. your own parasocial relationship with a creator of the same old puppycorn you've came to know and love is shaping the way you are with your own sexually depraved and frustrated reality that you would rather ride or die than help someone surface the feeling of drowning in their guilt or what has happened to them. you are what enables future incidents, you are the downfall of future victims. you are not the solution. you are giving your trust in the person you felt an unhealthy connection to in the first place.

to kittycorn or anyone that needs to see it: escapism is hard to escape, but the first thing you have to accept is to stop high tailing oppression and being curious why it happens when it does. you've become succumbed in the way you live that it is essentially second nature for you. this therapist knows better than your therapist, cause this one said that they're okay with incest!

you cannot have one and the other without your interest in the one you succumb yourself in the most eating away and finding itself in the other.

you cannot say you wanted it to be private when you shouldn't have begun in the first place.

you'd rather eat dirt and humiliate yourself than accept that you are responsible for your actions. it doesn't matter what made you this way when you've applied such a hurt on others, you want a reason to stop feeling so guilty about what you do. being unusual seems like a way out, better than what those "antis" want, a life they think is normal and is better for me? pfft. fucking pathetic. i wanna hang out with a crowd of people i feel heard in. sure, they may enable and sexualize what i do, but it's as long as i am not denied and i am rewarded for what they find hot!

you've sunk yourself so deep in trying to find people that you think hear you that you are ignoring the people that do want to help. because you are actively trying to silence out everyone for the group of people you think have best selected you.

i'm disappointed in you, but that probably doesn't mean much, because the people you surround yourself with aren't.

and i want you to get better. but you have to put yourself in the face of change, and you have to surround yourself with people instead of listening to the same few that have never told you no

i'm upset that the situation and circumstance has hurt me this much. fuck you. nothing could ever make this okay.

#sparklecare

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lucystark12 · 9 months ago

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milevens are insane

warning now - i get extremely heated in this so if you're going to tell me to calm down leave. before any of you weird bitches tell me to go do something more productive or to touch grass- no. i'm fifteen, it's summer, and i'm a highly involved high school student. i'm not here because i have nothing better to do, i'm here because i understand good writing and am able to have hobbies ❤️

anyways

was on the mileven endgame hashtag just now and because i don't choose violence i wont be addressing any of them directly, but i will be addressing some of the ridiculous bullshit on there. term bullshit used intentionally

the love confession came as a result of mike "gaining the confidence" to tell el how much he loves her because he was afraid that he loved her more than she loved him.

are you listening to the words that are coming out of your mouth right now? i want to sit down and get a coffee with you and dissect what the fuck you meant by that. sure, right, yeah, he gained so much PRODUCTIVE confidence from his conversation he had with will where will was using eleven to mask his own feelings for mike. it makes so much sense narratively that this end all be all mileven event is sparked from will's feelings and not mikes! sure! right! this is such an idiotic piece of reasoning. you are literally saying that you are okay with your endgame ship only being endgame based on faulty communication and lies. are you joking? "you just gotta improve your motivation" ass piece of evidence

also, mike being insecure about loving her more than she loves him is complete, total, utter bullshit. el frequently expresses her love to mike via letters and youre here to say that mike would have any problem with doing the same thing if he were insecure about her love for him? that literally makes no sense. i wouldn't be afraid of loving somebody more than they love me if they are actively putting more effort into insuring me that they love me than i am to them. like, what does that even mean?

“Will Byers is a pathetic loser annoying character and contributed little to the plot of ST. "

yes that is a direct quote. no i'm not kidding.

what kind of fucking neanderthal watches stranger fucking things- a show about a kid who disappears- and thinks the kid who disappears isn't a central part of the narrative? the first episode of the goddamn show is called "the vanishing of will byers"! maybe this is hard for you and your confused brain to get your head around, but el and mike met when mike was out looking FOR WILL. mike and el are still together because mike gained courage from WILL'S LOVE FOR HIM. what a fucking idiot you must be. i would try to explain to you the myriad of other reasons why will is absolutely central to the plot of the show, but since the show itself has clearly gone in one ear and out the other, i probably wont be able to get through to you either.

“what if we learned to cope with world that doesn’t accept us as individuals by embracing each other completely?” said about mileven

um.. what. that's literally byler. closeted gay guys in the 80s. but sure, the ones that aren't being accepted are the two white and allegedly heterosexual individuals. the "world that doesn't accept us" in question is a few high school bullies in comparison with the stigmatization, violence, and ostracization that has longstanding been a part of what it means to be queer. be so serious right now. mileven is not important for being non conformist, the GAY SHIP IN THE 80S IS!!

“The only people who queerbaited, was byler fans themselves lmao.”

even if we're ignoring the horrible grammar there are still SO many things wrong with everything that was just said. what they're saying above for anybody who can't decipher the weird medieval english code this person is using is that bylers actively queerbaited themselves which inherently makes no sense at all.

below i have included the oxford dictionary definition of queerbaiting: "the incorporation of apparently gay characters or same-sex relationships into a film, television show, etc. as a means of appealing to gay and bisexual audiences while maintaining ambiguity about the characters' sexuality."

how is it possible that byler shippers themselves are the ones doing the queerbaiting? are we running the show? nope! before you come on and post something as offensive as this- which i will get into- at least make sure you know what you're saying. xoxo

to insinuate for even a second that mike wheeler not being gay would be anything other than deliberate queerbaiting is insane. there is something wrong with you. aside from the parts of the show where his queerness is deliberately alluded to like music, costuming, analogies, allegories, and set design, netflix has been, weather you like it or not, actively marketing in favor of byler and mike not being straight. all below come from official netflix accounts-

how is this not queerbaiting? genuinely what are you on about. this is literally textbook.

“will is fruity but mike didn't like the fruit on his pizza”

you seriously are basing your argument about mike not being gay on him not liking fruit on pizza? you seriously think that some of the most commended and celebrated writers of the last decade would use symbolism involving a word that can literally be interpreted as a slur when their show has two characters who are canonically a part of the group affected said slur? are you fucking stupid? that was harmless banter used to communicate the differences in habitual action across the country. it wasn't the duffers trying to do for you what they do for us in deliberate, straightforward NON-OFFENSIVE symbolism.

i saw somebody claim that mike's character arc in season four was inherently about not believing in his self worth nor in his competency to be in a relationship with el

while i do for the most part agree with you, i'm going to ask you a question- mike was never anxious about his identity and self worth involving el before season four. why do you think that just came up now if not for the fact that he's been having insecurities involving his sexuality and romantic attraction to women as a whole? in my opinion, mike realized that he might not like girls in that way circa the end of season three- a realization that only festered and grew through the absence of not only the boy he loves that is causing this insecurity but the girl whom he is using as a way to say hey, i can't be gay, i have a girlfriend! mike was clearly going through some serious emotional struggles as we can immediately see in this scene with how suddenly awkward he is with will and the immediate emphasis that's put on the "from mike" on the flowers.

i agree that his season four and part of his season five arc are about his feelings of insecurity about being in a relationship with el, however, i don't think he's insecure because he thinks she's better than him in the sense that she's some superhero, i think he thinks she's better than him because he knows that he'll never be able to love her the way she deserves to be loved. he's not going to outright come and say to will that he doesn't think that he can love her in the way she deserves to be loved. he's closeted. what he says in the van scene is the only way he knows to express his feelings. it's very similar to what will does in the same scene. it makes no sense for this insecurity to randomly manifest in him if it wasn't for an external factor that doesn't involve el, because nothing has really changed with the dynamic of their relationship other than the move. one could argue that mike is feeling insecure over el's supposed popularity she claims to have in her letters, but mike's arc has never been about caring about popularity in school. that's not something on his mind so much as the grand scheme of the world is. lets not forget that he joins hellfire in season four.

“When Mike didn’t say “I love you”, By*ers twisted it to their narrative. When Mike did say “I love you”, By*ers twisted it to their narrative.”

you literally sound like trump going on about the democrats. listen to what your saying right now. also, it's a ship name. there's no need to censor it you fucking weirdo.

wasted time building up mileven

i'm sorry, what build up? i'm confused. there's no "build up". THIS is build up:

above is will, possessed by a monster who feeds off of those lacking love in their lives, only being able to be broken out of possession by a heartfelt monologue by the PERSON HE LOVES detailing how the best decision he ever made was to befriend him.

above is will claiming he will never fall in love, then his love for one of the other main characters becomes a central plot point of the two seasons to come. joyce and i see through will and all of you weird milevens

mike telling will how it's not his fault will doesn't like girls only after he loses the person he's been using to cover up his own insecurity about the same thing- not liking girls. suspicious.

will's LOVE FOR MIKE being the thing to give him the confidence to help el SAVE THE WORLD, only episodes after we establish that mike is bound to be pissed that he was lied to. and theres no buildup? THERE'S REALLY NO BUILDUP?

if you don't see buildup i fear you are literally just a lost cause because it is so painfully obvious to anybody who made it past seventh grade english class that there is something deeper and more intimate than friendship going on between will byers and mike wheeler.

“Women can be independent while being in a relationship guys😭!!”

OBVIOUSLY! i am literally the biggest feminist on the entire western seaboard. i couldn't agree more with this, which is why we have arcs like nancy's where she actively becomes more independent while still maintaining a relationship with jonathan. the difference is that mike and el have been together since they were like thirteen. when el was immersed into the real world for the first time in season two she immediately leaned on mike for support in that. it's not that she can only be independent on her own, it's that mike is directly symbolic to her of a time when she was stumbling around the world with naivete and not quite knowing how to navigate that. by spreading her wings away from that relationship, it will not only give her independence, but also a way to see beyond the barriers of hawkins and a life where she was valued mostly for the qualities she brings to the supernatural equation. el's arc is one of my favorites. i would never claim such a thing and discredit the essence of what makes the emotions behind her character so interesting. she's somebody who was literally raised in a lab. she shouldn't be held back by somebody she is quite literally dependent on.

last but not least, i saw a post that said milevens always win.

"are you sure about that?" i ask, noah schnapp's most recent instagram post open on my phone, finn wolfhard's spotify playlist in my headphones, my mike holding will's painting funko on the desk in front of me, wearing a yellow shirt with a blue sweater over it.

thank u for listening to my ted talk 💙💛

#stranger things #byler #mike wheeler #will byers #byler nation #byler is endgame #stranger things 4 #byler brainrot #stranger things 5 #anti mileven #milkvan is bones #i hate mileven #el hopper

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madamefeu · 8 months ago

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Hi! Here’s what your favorite Hazbin Hotel ship says about you!

Radiodust: You're an old-timer who's been around since the pilot. One off-handed joke about Angel Dust wanting to suck Alastor's dick was all it took for you to start shipping them. You always ship the two most attractive male characters together in your fandoms, even if they have no real connection

Huskerdust: I’m not going to touch this one because I’ll probably get death threats if I don’t tell the Huskerdust fandom exactly what they want to hear

Radiorose: Hello, aro-ace community! You love this because they're the closet thing to a canon queerplatonic couple that currently exists in mainstream media, and as a fellow aro-ace, I’m in the exact same boat

Chaggie: You like the idea of forbidden love, but you're not interested in handling all of the social/political ramifications of it, and would prefer to conveniently gloss over both of those things just like in the show. This ship has the flavor profile of vanilla ice cream with chocolate chips, and so does your personality

Lucifer/Lilith: You only want one thing in this life, and that is for a powerful woman to step on your neck. You are a bottom to end all bottoms

Radioapple: Daddy kink, but in a voyeuristic way. You like watching two dads doing each other, but there is no way you’d ever let them touch you, no, all you want is to watch them go at it

Rosiemilla: Mommy kink, but in a voyeuristic way

Radiohusk: Oh, you would let a man do unspeakable things to you if he was hot enough. You read dark romances and you want a dark romance to happen to you in real life

Cherrisnake: You are absolutely terrible at handling your feelings for everyone you've ever crushed on, and will try to convince yourself that you hate the object of your affections because you lack the courage needed to make a move on them. It would take a life or death situation for you to tell your crush how you really feel about them, and even then you'd be more afraid of telling them than of dying

Guitarspear: Hello, Adam simps! You binge-read workplace romances and you fantasise about dating your boss even though he's a dick 90% of the time. Strangely, the fact that he's a dick makes you even more attracted to him

Staticmoth: Your ideal ship is two horrible people who deserve each other. You want what they have, but at the same time you don't

Zestmilla: Your preferred aesthetic is old married couple core, and I respect that. You binge-read found family fics on AO3, and your favorite tag is hurt/comfort

Radiostatic: You love the idea of someone being obsessed with you when you have no interest in them. You like to laugh at their, quite frankly, pathetic attempts to get you to notice them, and you're waiting for the day when the penny will drop and they'll realise that they are nothing to you, and never will be

Arackpentious: You have never cared about canon, and you don't intend to start now. You probably simp for Sir Pentious and use Arackniss as a self-insert. We know barely any canon information about him, so it's easy for you to project yourself onto him so that you can get doubly-dicked down by the Victorian snake man

Charlastor: You're all about the aesthetic. You got into this ship because there's an abundance of gorgeous fanart for it, even if there's no chance of them being together in canon. You don't care about that, however, because they look beautiful together and that's all that matters to you

Radiomimzy: You wish that the old canon of Mimzy being Alastor's girlfriend was still canon

Royalhalo: You hate Vaggie and you think that Charlie deserves better than her, and who better than the sugary sweet angel who was the first to hear Charlie out and argue in her favor when she found out the truth about the exterminations?

Cherridust: You are aggressively heterosexual and you believe that it is impossible for a man and a woman to be friends without one or both secretly harboring feelings for the other. You binge-read friends to lovers fics on Wattpad, and if a man so much as says hi to a woman, you will ship them

Cherrimoth: You like enemies to lovers, but in a bitch eating crackers kind of way. You either have a crush on someone that you love to hate from afar, or you want to fall in love with someone who hates you from afar

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megtrns · 3 months ago

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Hey there, hun!!! Congrats on 100!!! 🥰♥️ Would you be down to maybe do something with Swerve??? (SFW or NSFW, completely up to you!!!) I fear he’s quite underrated, and I feel like he’d be so wonderfully pathetic and lame around his partner/SO/romantic interest!!! It’d be utterly adorable haha!!! Happy New Year’s!!!

a/n : ahh i'm so late with this, sorry for only getting back to you now ! happy new years and i hope the first month of the year has been kind to you. thank you for the well wishes <3 i notice that you've been supporting me on tumblr for a while now and i hope you know i appreciate your presence !!! i hope you don't mind some angst and pining featuring our sweet boy !!

and then i go and spoil it all by saying something stupid (like i love you). swerve / gn!reader. sfw. angst.

swerve thinks you're beautiful. he knew from the moment he saw you from a distance. ever since then, swerve's become — as skids called it — a 'secret admirer'.

chromedome's been telling him that the whole 'staring from afar' thing is getting really creepy. rewind thinks it is creepy, period. but they just don't get it. everyone hates humans just because they're organic. getaway thinks they're abnormal. first aid was kind enough to settle with 'unusual'. but swerve thinks they're all just a bunch of bigots missing out on the fact that you're hardworking, smart, and very, very nice to look at.

(whirl once interjected his rambling to say that he has a sick fetish, but swerve thinks the ex-wrecker's just jealous that you liked to spend more time with him than anyone else.)

it's lost on him how someone as kind and helpful as you have been rendered into nothing but background noise for everyone else to ignore. slag, some people even don't know of your presence aboard the ship! as if earth had not made a big show of sending their liaison and the crew off the night before their voyage — just shows how very little these bots think of humans.

but swerve believes the little guys should stick together, because he knows a little too well what it feels like to be ignored. so the two of you have formed a sort of camaraderie that quickly grew into friendship. you'd wrap up your duties as quickly as possible to end the day with a drink at his bar, cocktails always on the house — he finds experimenting with human liquor fun, except for when you have to spit it back into the glass because he read the instructions backward.

he knows he's a motormouth but swerve just gets so excited when you're around; captivated by how your eyes glow under the dim lighting of the room. the best part of it all is that you always listen to him. and he knows when you tell him he's funny, you mean it.

(one time you told him that he's the kind of mech that can make anyone smile. and swerve is sure he's burned the sound of your voice into his processor from all the times he'd replayed the compliment in his helm.)

but your little get-togethers and movie nights have grown to become a little...dangerous. he finds himself getting worked up over every interaction with you, going as far as losing recharge and appetite for his daily rations. these days, he also gets distracted a lot whenever you talk, catching himself listening less and staring more.

the sinking realisation that he was in love with you didn't hit him like a ton of bricks. it came to him like the first lull of recharge; slow, steady, and inevitable.

he spent days and weeks trying to come up with a clever way to tell you, afraid that he was going to ruin it by saying something stupid. going so far as to practice in front of tailgate. enthusiastic as ever, the white and blue minibot insisted that everything would go perfectly, urging swerve to — as the humans say it — 'throw caution in the wind.'

hence, during a quiet part of your movie night — when you looked so beautiful against the projector's glow — swerve found himself confessing, spark was racing and optics glued to the servos twiddling atop his lap.

for the first few seconds, he felt newfound relief wash over him.until you had reached to touch one of his servos, urging him to look at you.

swerve thinks you're beautiful when you smile, like when you throw your head back to laugh at one of his jokes or when you snort into your hand at a funny part of the film. you're even beautiful when you're angry at him, with your cheeks all red and lips curled to a scowl. so it's not a surprise that to the bartender, even as a single tear slides down your cheek, you were still beautiful.

" i'm sorry," you whispered. voice small and guilty.

there were a lot of commands going around his central processor, but nothing was more important than the need to make you smile. it was reflex, 'muscle memory' as you once said. and he knows he can always make you smile, even when it feels like his spark chamber's going to collapse in itself — because that's just the type of mech swerve was.

and for you, the minibot gave the biggest grin he could muster. reassuring you that there was nothing to be sorry about.

(he knew this was stupid, he grimaced to himself, stupid.)

and when you pulled him into a hug, pressing your face against his neck cables to comfort him as best as you can, swerve tries not to look at the movie playing on the screen — the sight of the protagonists kissing under the moonlight sucker punching him in the tank.

everyone tells him this was for the best. human lives are short and fleeting; his and your existence are like two passing ships in the night, never to cross again at the end of this voyage. it made more sense now, why everyone kept the tiny human at arm's length.

but to swerve this still changed nothing, you were still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

but maybe beautiful things are better admired from afar.

#based on the song 'something stupid' by frank sinatra #i promise i love swerve #swerve #swerve x reader #transformers #mtmte #lost light #the lost light #more than meets the eye #transformers idw #idw swerve

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mostlymihawk · 9 months ago

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First Smile!

Buggy, Mihawk, Koby, and Shanks x GN reader

Prompt: The first time you make them smile.

CW: None

Buggy:

You hear puns on the word 'shit' all day long.

"Shit-tastic", "shidiots" "supershit", you've heard them all, and they're almost not even funny anymore.

(To Buggy's absolute dismay; getting you to laugh was the highlight of his day.)

Truth be told, it wasn't even the way you so casually said "Thanks to that little shit-bit of information you assured us was worth looking into, we've been sailing around for nothing!"

It was the way your face screwed up right after when you realized what you'd said.

He's laughing for a solid five minutes after.

"Ahh, that was good...What? Oh, just kill him. I've got better things to do than go on another wild shit chase."

Mihawk:

How to piss off the world's greatest swordsman in one easy step:

Kidnap the person he drags around for amusement.

Life is boring without you, therefore Mihawk is going to rescue you, no matter what.

You'd been an angry mess when Mihawk had first picked you up, but now, with a literal knife at your throat, your face is completely blank.

You know exactly how this is going to end, why bother pretending to be afraid when you know you're in absolutely no danger?

"Now, either you promise to back off, or-"

You yawn, and you only realize the script has changed when you feel more than see your kidnapper's head snap over to look at you.

"...Sorry. It's been a long day," you excuse.

Mihawk can't help it; he grins at you.

"How do you feel about marriage?"

Coby:

It's the compassion that gets him more than anything.

Having been captive on a pirate ship dreaming of being a marine, he does tend to have a "Criminals: bad. Marines: good." mentality.

You're a thief, sentenced to a few days' prison only, but you're on That side of the bars and he's on This side of the bars.

So it comes as a complete surprise to him when he's relieved of duty and he hears you say, "Have a safe trip home."

He can't find any deception in your eyes; you actually want your captor, your jailor, to make it home safe.

You explain that it's just common decency, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and he's completely, helplessly touched.

He smiles at you.

"My...my name is Coby. Look...look me up when you get out."

Shanks:

Shanks is having a remarkably bad day.

Dead civilian in a brawl, another mistake he can't take back.

It's frightening how used to it he's become.

He looks up with a confused frown when you come in, plunk a glass down on his table, and start filling it with booze.

"...How'd you get in the hold? Alcohol is forbidden without my express permission."

You make up the pathetic excuse that because the captain's morale was suffering and the entire ship's morale would suffer because of it, you taking the alcohol was for the betterment of the ship and its crew and therefore didn't need the captain's permission.

He can't help it: he smiles.

#mihawk x reader #opla imagine #koby x reader #shanks x reader #buggy x reader

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altocat · 9 months ago

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FFVII FANDOM PSA

I've seen several of my mutuals being accosted by the same loser troll that's been stalking my inbox. They have a distinct way of typing and bizarre no-context fixations that make them very easy to distinguish. They will attack you over nothing. Sometimes they'll go after you over random posts you made weeks ago. And they are not afraid to get personal. I've had them literally stalk and document my active hours online so that they could make a low-effort comment about the kind of person I must be irl. They've commented on my home life, my pets, my tastes, my presumed relationships, everything. All without actually knowing me. All in an effort to be malicious. Just really weird, creepy behavior.

Anyway, I'm telling you all this because it's likely they will eventually show up in your inbox. And yeah, at first it's cute to flash a snarky comeback or two. I did that at first. But I can assure you that that's exactly what they want--attention. Your best course of action, regardless of what they say, is to IGNORE them. Don't engage. Don't acknowledge. They are liquid filth beneath your feet. They don't deserve your attention. They are a cowardly troll hiding behind the anon setting. They are not worth your time, energy, or talent.

I hate that it took me this long to figure that out. I hate even more that I have to post about this in an effort to bring attention to this issue, thus giving them their fifty seconds of fame. I TRIED to be diplomatic, wanting to settle the issue privately over DMs. They don't want to talk, nor are they genuine, even if they claim to be. They're a troll. That's all they are, and all they ever will be.

Please stay safe out there. Everyone deserves a safe, fun, and welcoming atmosphere here. You are all worth so much more than whatever pathetic insults they're able to squeeze together. Keep an eye out and take nothing they say to heart. They deserve nothing.

Love you guys. Stay awesome.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephcanons #crisis core #final fantasy vii #PSA #Trolling

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nikalaeva · 4 months ago

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"Gray Rhysand", or Dreams that didn't come true

Reading posts and comments from Rhysand's fans, I mostly see two arguments:

1 - "well, what did you expect, Rhysand is morally gray, he shouldn't do good things"

2 - "Rhysand did it for the sake of family/love/the common good/the future...!!!"

Rhysand fans are as cowards as SJM. They don't have the guts to admit that their blue-eyed boy did terrible things, so they're willing to curl up into a Mobius strip to fix it. SJM was scared no one would accept Rhysand as Feyre's endgame after the UTM shit. These people have no idea what "morally gray characters" are, just use the term when it suits them.

ACOMAF was a complete disappointment to me. I knew before reading that Feyre would end up with Rhysand and I was excited about how that would turn out, and it turned out... sucks. I think even a failed attempt to continue ACOTAR-Rhysand would have been more enjoyable than this ridiculous retcon.

I wanted to see Feyre make Rhysand answer for what he did to her.

I wanted Rhysand didn't make excuses and not even think of apologizing at first, 'cause he is not human.

I wanted them to be at each other's throats, afraid to admit to themselves they in love.

I wanted Rhysand try to buy Feyre's forgiveness, but she would accept nothing less than a honest apology.

I wanted Rhysand, who was a terror to the High Lords, whose cruelty Amarantha had appreciate, became pathetic because of Feyre. For Feyre to bring him to his knees with her die-hard will and the courage Rhysand lacked.

I wanted him to say: "I offered myself to Amarantha to save my own skin. I didn't care who called me a coward - not until you. It makes me sick to think that some human girl saved my homeland, my future. I thought love that would save the world was a fairy tale, but you became living proof. And now I want that power. I want love. Your love." Sorry, I'm not a writer, but I think you get the point.

Their relationship and Rhysand's personality was meant to evolve throughout ACOMAF and ACOWAR, changing with Feyre's role as Cursebreaker in Prythian's fate, problems with Illyria and CoN, the war with Hybern... but no. SJM literally had to ruin Tamlin to get Rhysand and Feyre together.

How much so you have disrespect yourself to accept such a lazy writing?

#sjm critical #anti acotar #anti acomaf #anti acowar #anti acosf #rhysand critical #feyre critical #bad critic

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yuri-is-online · 9 months ago

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TDB Episode 7 Thoughts

So this episode sort of felt like a filler chapter between "Meeting the Ghouls" and "the Laurel Crown" arcs of the story. I didn't mind since I really like Yuri and Jiro's dynamic, but the pacing of the story was very quick and not a whole lot happened, after an Episode as loaded with action as Obscuary's it can feel a bit like a let down.

Now as for specific thoughts:

I want to start by saying I appreciate how Yuri doesn't believe in the prophecy because it isn't scientific but 100% thinks he is the chosen one, the champion anyway. Yes, have that self confidence that is nothing but a paper shell built on lies to cover your insecurities king! We love a pathetic meow meow in this house!

His connection to Frostheim... I have had this crack theory in my head that he is related to Jin somehow, like maybe he's his brother or something, but I do think how he talks about Frostheim makes me think he is either a transfer to Mortranken or used to be closer to Jin than he is now. We all are pretty sold on Haku being the one who sold Jin out, but there is a chance it could have been Yuri too I suppose.

We were right! Zenji and Jiro are brothers! And we have Zenji's real name, Taro Kirisaki! He doesn't seem to hate it or anything he is just really proud of his role as a man of the quill so he uses a pen name.

Zenji really loves his brother huh. "If anything were to happen to him I might not survive it this time round" I'd be willing to bet that whatever happened to the Krisaki brothers was connected, it's just that Zenji got dumped at Darkwick General while Jiro was taken in by Yuri. Zenji's voicelines about a brother "in his rebellious phase" and his struggle to express his love for his older brother makes me think they might have been at odds before the clash... maybe Jiro hated how laid back Zenji was when he literally made a deal with a demon? Of course he did too... but maybe Zenji's was related to trying to make Jiro healthy? He seems to have some sort of auto-immune disease and while that could be a side-effect of the coma but it could also be something Jiro's always struggled with and explain why Zenji is so protective of him. I bet they were killed by the same anomaly...

Sorry I have a lot of feelings about the Kirisaki brothers... what happened to them? Why does no one care that they're dead and dying other than Yuri? I don't think Zenji cares that much that Jiro doesn't remember him so long as he's alive... but would it bother Jiro if he could remember? Does he ever find himself making tea and turn to scold someone for talking too much, he's being annoying again but there isn't anyone there and he doesn't know who he's scolding because it wasn't Yuri... does he know how to make tea because Zenji insisted on teaching him? Is Zenji the one who he would tease about being afraid of dead bodies before MC?

Right on not simp notes: we have more information about the murder, the victim was from Ultio! And the murder predated the Clash so it's pretty safe to say the inability of the school to find the murderer is probably what kicked things off.

We also have hints of a mermaid student, so be patient fish fuckers we- I mean you will be getting fed soon. This student seems to be known to Yuri and Haru, and Haru's reaction suggests he might think of him as a friend? He's not beating the Steve Irwin allegations is he, I'm surprised Ed isn't obsessed with him at this point. Then again I think Ed would resent me implying he's an animal, but we've seen the inside of his room so I rest my case.

Nicholas appears to be in hot water with the Institute, and he is not trusted by Yuri. Cornelius references something he calls "the Dionysia breakout" as being Nicholas's fault to contain... given that those students are missing and Nicholas has only recently found them... I want more information before I say anything but Yuri's explanation of how he sees anomalous anything illnesses I think it makes sense to say an anomaly outbreak occurred in the Dionysia dorm that was not contained by its ghouls, something the school blames Nicholas for.

The school knew the MC was going to turn into an anomaly and did not tell her "for her mental health." I like MC's mixed feelings on this. On the one hand I don't think she would have handled it well if we had learned it immediately. On the other, I am a firm believer that information is not something that should be gate kept, and hey. It's the MC's life she deserves to know what happened to her. I think I land on not trusting Darkwick but I do trust Yuri, I want to know why he's so determined to cure MC but I don't doubt his sincerity in the slightest. If I had to say who is most determined to see MC cured, I'd say its Yuri and Haru. And Zenji but he's out of commission at the moment. Yuri has an ego the size of his forehead, but he does seem very passionate about curing anomalous diseases and takes failures a bit more personally than he'll ever admit to. Haru is just a stand up guy who seems like he wants the best for those he loves, and he really does seem to love MC! He says he'd trust her with his life! That's my dorm captain he's literally the best <3

The tree is curious, one of the fruits looked a bit better, but then it shrunk after the announcement of the Laurel Crown and the Gala coming back... which I guess makes sense? The ghouls are fighting again, technically, and if their hate for each other is what makes the tree sick then I don't think it is going to get better. Speaking of the tree... poor MC.

Yuri's description of an anomaly that could destroy the world does match up with how Ed describes the Kyklos. Dani and I talked about this already, but that name (in addition to being super similar sounding to cyclops explaining why she has one eye) is ancient greek for cycle. It is typically used to refer to a theory about human history that depicts it as being a cycle between Dark and Golden ages, how this monster came to be is something I'd be super interested to learn about... I have some theories but they're 100% pure Colombian crack with no evidence.

That being said, Ed knows what it is but Darkwick's staff does not... Ed revealing the MC is going to turn into a monster to the whole student body makes a lot of sense for him to do actually. He sees it as him helping the MC because he wants the ghouls to compete to cure her, and knowing how he thinks of humans he probably assumed they wouldn't do so unless there was an incentive so that's why he made that the goal the dorms would have to meet to win the Laurel Crown.

Speaking of which... Sho. Shohei. Hyde has him doing a special mission, wonder what that is huh? Whatever it is, that's suspicious. That's weird. I've got both my eyes on you Mr. Playboy, Lyca wouldn't do this to me maybe he should get to keep the babygirl title.

... also I really love the "if it were not for the laws of this land I would have killed you" vibes Rui, Tohma, and Haku had during their little conversation. I was dying, "oh hiiiii Rui :D so nice to see you NOT IN THE SHADOWS STALKING ME. DID YOU KNOW HE CAN DO THAT MC? GO INTO SHADOWS AND STALK YOU? NO???" Haku just being like "teehee maybe MC and I are a thing Tohma" and Tohma leaving that on read because who cares? Not him his interests are classified but I swear its ntr- *i am shot and dragged from the premises*

#tokyo debunker #tdb #tdb spoilers

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cassiebones · 4 months ago

Note

What are your headcanons of what Agatha and Rio do everytime they break up?

They yearn for each other.

The first time they broke up was well before Nicky died. Agatha lashed out after Rio got too soft with her. She's not used to that much softness. It terrified her. And this was Death being soft with her. It had to be some kind of trick, didn't it.

But when Rio left (because Agatha told her to leave) she was alone again. And she hated to be alone.

She lasted like two days before she killed another witch just to see Rio again, throwing herself into Death's arms. She didn't apologize for lashing out, not in words, but Rio understood.

Rio has become an expert in human behavior after watching them for so long, so Agatha's lashing out didn't exactly surprise her, even though it did hurt a little bit. So she welcomes Agatha back into her arms, not caring that nothing really got resolved. She is so in love with this human, she doesn't care if it makes her look pathetic.

Their breakups don't happen very often and they don't last long. Agatha learns how to let herself love and be loved by another. Rio keeps coming back. They find the balance.

Then Agatha falls pregnant and Rio has that "oh shit" moment because she knows this child isn't going to survive. Not if he's her child. That goes against the universe's rules. And the universe is a Bitch. Rio tells them so every day.

When she warns Agatha about this, though, Agatha doesn't want to listen. She wants this baby. She wants to prove that she can be a better mother than hers ever was (babe, aim higher please) and this baby is a mix of her and the love of her life. She keeps Nicky alive inside of her using her own magic, but she knows that as soon as he leaves her body, she won't be able to do that.

She leaves Rio several times during her pregnancy, but she always comes back. Rio holds her hair while she's sick, gives her whatever she needs and craves, comforts her when she cries. Agatha begs the entire pregnancy for Rio to let their child live. Rio is the one who tells Agatha that he's a boy. Agatha is elated, then crushed. She wants her son, wants to keep him and raise him with the woman she loves.

Agatha goes into labor alone, running away from the cabin she shared with Rio, desperate to keep this child alive. Rio is there, anyway, and it's not to support her through her labor.

Rio gives her time, desperate to make Agatha happy. But Agatha doesn't want to see her during their son's lifetime, she knows that. So she watches from a distance, watching her son grow up during the daytime, getting smarter and sweeter and sicker. She visits him at night, but she doesn't touch him, afraid that it will force her to take him away too soon. She tells him stories and tells him that she's his other mother, that she loves him and she'll take him on a trip soon, when he's old enough. She doesn't want him to be scared when she finally comes back to take him to the other side.

When she does, Nicky goes willingly. He knows what it means to go with her. He knows that it means he needs to leave Agatha. Rio never told him, but he knows. He'll miss her, but he knows that he'll see her again, someday. Rio cries when she takes his hand because she knows this is the end. Not just of her son's short life, but of her relationship with Agatha. The lasting part.

Agatha will hate her forever after this.

Nicky stays with her in the afterlife. She gets a chance to spend time with her son, more than she ever got before. She tells him about her work and all the people she's met. She tells him about the history of humans. He's so smart and inquisitive, he reminds her of Agatha. He soaks up every bit of knowledge she gives him.

He never got his powers while he was alive, but he gets some after death. They're very much like Rio's. He can make plants grow in his hands. He can heal wounds with his little fingers. He can make his face into a skull, which Rio finds adorable.

Agatha and Rio meet five years after Nicky's death, over a coven that Agatha has just killed. She didn't leave quickly enough, which may have been purposeful. She and Rio lock eyes over the dead bodies. Rio's face is full of longing; Agatha's is full of hatred, but there's hurt and longing there, too.

They embrace and it's like a hurricane as they kiss and tear at each other, unable to stay apart. They lay together on the ground afterward, their fingers brushing together in the grass, dead bodies just feet away.

"He misses you," Rio says, grasping Agatha's fingers. Agatha tears her hand away.

"Don't tell me about him," she hisses, getting up. She's dressed in a snap of her fingers. "Don't ever talk about him to me." Then she's gone, leaving Rio alone again, missing a part of herself.

That's how their reunions go for centuries after. They meet at least once a decade, reunite passionately, then Agatha leaves. Rio never leaves her. She can't.

Then Agatha gets the Darkhold and Rio doesn't see her for over half a century. She hides from Rio. When she kills witches, Rio can't go to them until Agatha has gone, bending the rules of the universe, disrupting the cosmic balance.

Agatha misses her, but she would never admit that. She throws herself at other women to ease her own pain. She enters a casual relationship with Jen Kale in the 20th century, but that ends after Jen catches feelings. Then she never sleeps with the same woman twice.

When she's trapped in Wanda's spell, she finds herself thinking of Rio, wondering what she would think of all this. Would she find it hilarious or tragic. Wanda is an untrained witch with way too much power. She can bring the dead back to life with a flick of her wrist. Agatha wants that power - needs that power -- so she can bring her son back. She doesn't even care if Rio hates her for it.

She hopes she does, because then at least they'll be even.

#agatha all along #agathario #headcanons

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milswrites · 1 year ago

Text

The world belongs to dreamers

~ Rhysand X Reader

Summary: Whilst struggling to cope with the loss of his mother and sister, you show Rhysand what it means to dream once more.

Warnings: Serious angst (loss of family) but a fluffy/hopeful ending?

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”

You spoke the words softly, afraid to startle the young High Lord as you slowly approached him from behind. Rhysand providing you with no sign of acknowledgement as you came to sit beside him on the roof of the Town House.

Rather, the males expression remained as cold as stone. His empty violet eyes free from the shackles of human emotion as Rhysand icily stared off into the vast oblivion of the night sky.

You were sat beside a broken man.

One who had lost everything; everyone. He was a male who had nothing left to live for and yet that was exactly what was expected of him - to continue living. The sweet kiss of death being a mercy that Rhysand would not be allowed to receive, not whilst he had his duty to the court.

It was impossible to know what to say in the face of grief and you were certain that whatever meagre words of comfort you could provide Rhysand would fall deaf upon his ears. Besides, what was there to say that hadn’t already been spoken?

And so you offered him the only thing you could think of; your company. A silent companion in Rhysand's time of need. You wouldn't allow yourself to be the one to lure him into a false state of happiness with empty hope and useless reassurances. You would be a grounding presence, an open ear. Silently shouldering your friend’s burden to help carry the weight of his sorrows alongside him.

It took an hour for Rhysand to notice you, a seconds glance in your direction accompanied by grunt of acknowledgement before he cast his chilling gaze back to the stars. Then another hour of silence was needed before he could find the words to speak to you and when he finally did, it was difficult to ignore the way your heart shattered at the rawness of his vulnerability.

"They're really gone, aren't they?"

It was a question with only one answer, yet it was one you couldn't speak. Rhysand needn't hear the truth because he had already seen it. Your friend having witnessed the unthinkable, having seen things that no son - no brother - should ever have to see.

Rhysand's brows knitted together at your failure to answer him, turning his violet eyes back to the stars in defeat. A low growl rumbling in his chest as he finally allowed his festering anger to consume him, the darkness which plagued his splintered soul breaking free from its constraints.

"It should have been me" he hissed, a bitter mask of fury marring his handsome features. Rhysand's usually bright eyes now dark and unforgiving. Despite the fact his wings were hidden, you didn’t fail to notice the daunting presence of shadows which commanded your attention in their absence.

All you could do was helplessly shake your head in disagreement, tears beginning to sting your eyes as you pathetically replied, "You don't mean that Rhys, not really."

An empty laugh escaped from his lips, the rolling of his eyes a stab to your heart as he retorted, "My mother is dead. My sister is dead. My Father. . . Are you going to stand there idly and foolishly believe that everything is ok? There's nothing left for me now but ruins. I have no one.”

“You have me” you answer, pained eyes meeting Rhysand’s own lost ones, a hurt whimper leaving your mouth before you continued, “And Cassian, Azriel, Mor. Rhys you’re never alone, not as long as you have us.”

His shaky sigh and wavering shadows gave you the confidence to continue, “This isn’t what she’d want Rhys. What they’d want. Feel, allow yourself that. But don’t allow your emotions to destroy you.”

The violet glow began to return to his eyes, the anger now seeping away as a heart wrenching wave of devastation took its place.

Rhysand’s hollow voice replied, “But we’ll never know what she wanted because of him. We’ll never know what she could have become or what she might have offered the world. Every night I look to the stars and all I can think is that it’s a sight she will never be able to see again, all because it was stolen from her, and it’s not fair.”

“It never is” you comfort, coming to rest a soothing hand on the males shoulder causing his rising tide of shadows to finally dissipate, “Rhys she needn’t look to the stars anymore because she is one. They’re up there, your family, watching over you, all you have to do is look up.”

“And what if they don’t like what they see. What if they look down and only see the broken High Lord and his broken court” Rhysand consciously asked, spitting the cursed words out as he cast his eyes to the glowing city before him.

“Is that what you see?” You questioned, wondering how Rhysand could look down upon the illuminated streets and see anything but hope, “a broken court?”

“All that’s left after the war are crumbling foundations and hollow people” he bitterly scoffed, failing to see the embers which still remained.

“Foundations can be rebuilt. . . Rhys I look at you and I fail to see how our future could be anything other than bright. Build a court of dreamers Rhys, build it from hope.” You encouraged, fighting the desire to drop to your knees and beg for the future you knew only the male had the power to deliver.

“I don’t think I know how to dream anymore” he quietly spoke, words releasing as a whisper, Rhysand afraid that his lack of dreaming made him unworthy of being your High Lord.

“You really see no future for your court?” You ask, probing eyes searching his thoughtful expression for answers.

“I used to. . . Before all this. But I’ve never had to dream of a future without my sister” he gulped, pearlescent tears beginning to run down his gaunt cheeks.

You lifted a comforting hand, gentle thumbs working to brush away each tear as they came, a sad smile taking its place on your lips as you spoke, “You really think she won’t be there Rhys? Your family will never leave you, they’ll always be right here,” your hand moves to rest against his chest, delicate fingers pressing right above the steady beating of his heart, “carry them with you and they’ll never be far away.”

“And the dreams?” He presses, seeking more reassurance from you, “when will they return?”

“You never stop dreaming Rhys, not whilst there’s still hope. . . Take a breath” you order, entwining both your hands with his own as Rhysand did as you asked and drew in a deep breath, “Then just close your eyes and dream.”

“Dream? Just like that?” He nervously queries, not quite believing in your unusual methods, yet fearing he’d break the spell by opening his eyes.

“Think of everything you’ve ever wanted to change about this court, about your life. Every stupid rule you’ve never liked, every choice of your fathers you’ve disagreed with. The world is yours to mould now, every wish, every dream, they’re yours to chase after. Dreams are the foundations for our future Rhys, you just have to have the courage to make them a reality. All you have to do is believe in yourself.”

“And do you?” Rhysand asked, opening his calm violet eyes to look deeply into your own, “. . . Believe in me.”

“The world is full of dreamers Rhys, but there's only one I’d choose to follow" you answer honestly, your reply bringing a small smile to the new High Lord's lips.

"And if I tell you I dream of building this future together, what then?" he asks hopefully, his steady gaze overflowing with anticipation of your response.

"Then who am I to deny you of your wishes? You just let me know when you're ready to start."

You grin at the familiar face smiling back at you, the face of your High Lord, of your friend. Failing to quell the fluttering which grew in your stomach as Rhysand answered you, "I think we've already started Darling, my first dream just came true."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: Every time I write Rhysand I always say it’s going to be smut next and it’s always angst… anyways, smut next time?

Big thank you to @illyrianbitch and @sarawritestories for their help with this one, they saved me from describing Rhysand’s eyes like aubergines 😬

#acotar #fanfic #acotar imagine #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand angst #rhysand x reader #rhysand imagine #rhysand fanfic #rhysand acotar #rhysand

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