#bitter and better halves

[pomegranatelifethis]

Brother

The rain came down in sheets, a relentless curtain of gray that blurred the Gotham skyline into a smear of neon and shadow. You stood on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse, the cold seeping through your jacket, your hair plastered to your face. The city growled below—sirens, horns, the pulse of a place that never slept. But up here, it was just you and Jason, your twin brother, his broad frame silhouetted against the storm. His Red Hood helmet was off, tucked under his arm, and his dark hair was soaked, clinging to his forehead. His green eyes, usually sharp with wit or warmth, were hard now, cutting into you like broken glass.

“You screwed it up, Y/N,” he spat, his voice low but venomous, each word a deliberate strike. “Every damn thing. The intel was bad, the plan went to hell, and it’s *your fault*.”

You flinched, the accusation hitting harder than the rain. Your chest tightened, and you hugged your arms around yourself, trying to hold it together. “I didn’t—Jason, I checked the intel. I triple-checked it. It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off, stepping closer, his boots splashing in the shallow puddles pooling on the roof. “Don’t stand there and make excuses. You were supposed to have my back. You *always* have my back, and tonight you didn’t. You let me walk into a trap.”

Tears stung your eyes, hot and unwanted, mingling with the rain on your cheeks. You hated crying in front of him—hated showing that kind of weakness, especially when he was like this, all fire and rage. But the weight of his words crushed you. You were twins, two halves of the same soul, raised in the same gritty streets, trained under the same grueling mentorship of Bruce Wayne. You’d fought side by side, bled together, laughed together. But when Jason got like this, when the anger took over, it was like he forgot all of that. Like you were just another screw-up in his way.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you said, your voice breaking. “I’d never let you get hurt on purpose. You *know* that.”

“Do I?” He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that made your stomach twist. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re too busy playing hero to care about what happens to me. You think you’re so perfect, don’t you? The good twin, the one who never screws up, the one Bruce trusts. Meanwhile, I’m the one picking up the pieces when you fail.”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. The rain was freezing now, but it was nothing compared to the cold spreading through your chest. “I’m not perfect. I’m just trying to do what’s right. Same as you.”

“Same as me?” He took another step, his face inches from yours now, his breath warm against the chill. “You’re nothing like me, Y/N. You don’t know what it’s like to crawl out of your own grave, to have the whole world turn its back on you. You’ve got no idea what I’ve been through, and you still act like you can fix me. Like you’re better than me.”

The words hit like a punch, stealing your breath. You stared at him, your twin, the boy who’d once shared your secrets, who’d patched your wounds and teased you until you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. Now he was a stranger, his face twisted with pain and blame, and it broke something inside you.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you said, your voice barely audible over the rain. “I just want my brother back.”

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe, or guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that hard, unyielding wall he’d built around himself. He shook his head, stepping back, the distance between you growing wider than the rooftop could hold.

“You want me back?” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “Maybe you never had me to begin with.”

He turned, his silhouette blurring in the rain as he walked toward the edge of the roof. You wanted to scream, to run after him, to grab his jacket and make him stay, make him listen. But your legs felt like lead, your throat raw from the sobs you were choking back. The tears came harder now, spilling over, and you didn’t care anymore if he saw.

“Jason,” you called, your voice cracking. “Please.”

He paused, just for a second, his shoulders tensing. But he didn’t turn around. “Go home, Y/N,” he said, his voice carried back by the wind. “This isn’t your fight.”

And then he was gone, vaulting over the edge, disappearing into the storm like he was part of it. You stood there, alone, the rain washing over you, your heart pounding in your ears. The city roared on, indifferent, and you sank to your knees, the cold concrete biting through your jeans. You pressed your hands to your face, trying to hold back the flood, but it was no use. You cried—for Jason, for the brother you’d lost, for the part of you that felt like it was drowning in the rain.

Somewhere in the distance, a bat-signal cut through the clouds, a fleeting beacon in the dark. But you didn’t move. Not yet. For now, it was just you and the storm, and the ache of a bond that might never heal.

------

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving Gotham slick and gleaming under a weak, gray dawn. Jason Todd sat on the edge of his safehouse cot, his head in his hands, the weight of last night’s words pressing down on him like a physical thing. The small apartment was a mess���empty takeout containers, a half-disassembled gun on the table, a cracked mirror reflecting his own tired eyes. He hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face, tear-streaked and broken, your voice trembling as you called his name.

“Damn it,” he muttered, dragging his hands through his hair. His knuckles were bruised from punching the wall after he’d gotten back, a futile attempt to drown out the guilt clawing at his chest. He could still hear himself, the venom in his voice as he’d torn into you, his twin, the one person who’d always been there, no matter how far he’d fallen. *Your fault. You screwed it up. You’re nothing like me.* Each word felt like a blade now, turned back on himself.

He grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. No missed calls, no texts. Just silence. That was worse than anything—knowing you hadn’t reached out, that he’d pushed you so far you might not come back. His stomach twisted, a sick, hollow feeling he hadn’t felt since the days after he’d crawled out of his own grave. He’d been angry last night, blindsided by the botched mission, the trap that had nearly gotten him killed. But it wasn’t your fault. Not really. He knew that now, in the cold light of day, and the truth made him feel smaller than he ever had.

Jason stood, pacing the cramped room, his boots scuffing the worn floorboards. He could still see you on that rooftop, soaked to the bone, your eyes wide with hurt as he’d thrown your love back in your face. *I just want my brother back.* Those words haunted him, each syllable a reminder of how he’d failed you. You weren’t trying to fix him, like he’d accused. You were just trying to love him, and he’d made you pay for it.

He stopped by the window, staring out at the city. Gotham was waking up, delivery trucks rumbling, pigeons scattering from rooftops. Somewhere out there, you were probably at the manor, or maybe at your own place, nursing the wounds he’d left behind. He wondered if you’d told Dick or Tim, if they’d be knocking on his door later to chew him out. He almost wished they would. It’d be easier than facing you himself.

His phone buzzed, and his heart jumped, hoping it was you. But it was just a notification from one of his informants, something about a lead on a case. He tossed the phone onto the cot, cursing under his breath. He didn’t care about the case, not now. All he could think about was the way you’d looked at him, like he’d shattered something precious, something he might never get back.

Jason grabbed his jacket, the same one he’d worn last night, still damp from the rain. He needed to see you, to fix this, but the thought of facing you made his chest ache. What could he even say? *Sorry I blamed you for everything? Sorry I made you cry? Sorry I’m a screwed-up mess who doesn’t know how to let you in?* He wasn’t good with words, not like you were. You’d always been the one to smooth things over, to bridge the gap when he pushed people away. But this time, he’d gone too far, and he wasn’t sure you’d let him close enough to try.

He stepped out into the street, the cool air biting at his skin. The bat-signal was long gone from the sky, but he felt its weight anyway, a reminder of the family he was part of, whether he liked it or not. You were part of that family, too—his twin, his other half, the one who’d shared his nightmares and his dreams. He’d spent years pushing you away, telling himself it was to protect you, but last night had been different. Last night, he’d hurt you on purpose, and the regret was eating him alive.

As he walked toward your apartment, his steps heavy, he rehearsed what he’d say. He didn’t have the words yet, didn’t know if he ever would. But he knew one thing: he couldn’t lose you. Not you. Not ever. The rain might have washed away the evidence of last night, but it couldn’t erase the truth. He’d been wrong, and now he had to make it right, even if it meant facing the one person he’d hurt the most.

[lostintransist]

WAIT I JUST SAW YOU HAVE A GHOST ONE TOO. I know it will be good food too 🙂‍↕️☆

I'm so awkward sometimes. I didn't know how to respond to this one so have a different au, this time it's Ghost as the gym and not Simon. (I like to think of them as two halves of a whole, inextricably linked, but not the same)

Ghost watched through Simon's eyes today. Something had tickled his senses upon waking and brought him to the forefront. Maybe the birds hadn't sung.

You watched everything with sharp eyes. He couldn't tell the color from the distance but he knew they would prick his flesh and rip into his soul.

He had learned a fact recently. Humans, as they are mammals, are more affected by imperceptible pheromones than previously thought. Specifically, this fact had been about how you attract and are attracted to those with similar levels of emotional wounds.

Ghost had stepped onto the one next to you, just to see what happened. Both your hands curled around the bars of the stair master.

Good. You clocked the predatory glint in his gaze.

The pad of his finger pressed the start button. The machine whirled to life with the weariness of things crafted on Hephaestus' worktable, doomed to constant motion.

The timer on your machine flashed up in numbers.

23:44

23:45

23:46

23:47

Feet continued to step, endlessly rising like Sisyphus, gaining nothing more than the monotony of experience.

Ghost preferred Atlas. Something about the endless press of weight above him reminded him that if he could crawl his way out of hell once, he could do it again.

"Do you think training on the stairs will serve you better on your way to heaven or hell?"

Ghost isn't one for words, but damn when he is he said shit like that.

The side eye you give him is strong, on par with some of the looks he gets from Gaz. This one had a hint of contemplation and the bitter bite of a crab apple. Not good for eating, but for preserving things. Maybe preserving him?

"Preferably neither." You shift your head and glance him up and down.

He noticed how your gaze catches on his left arm, and the piece starting to work its way down his arm from under the other sleeve of his shirt.

"Oh?"

"I would prefer to haunt my enemies until they become ghosts and chase them into the deepest parts of the ocean to see if we all came from down below. If we did, I would hurl them in and see if ghosts, heat, and minerals are enough to spark life."

The look you give him is flat. You expected him to back off from the out-of-pocket statement. Twin needs; you want him to back off or prove he would handle this version of you. This must be your mask, it fits better than the one he wears.

"Have you been to the used music store across town?" Ghost doesn't let his speed decrease as he stares at you.

The brow you lift at him communicates loads. A smidge of interest, a hint of annoyance, and a boatload of 'shoot your shot I guess, let's see if it lands'.

"Let me buy you some music, a record or a CD, and a coffee. If we don't suit after an hour and a half you'll never see me again."

"Alright. Give me two hours to get myself prettied up and I'll meet you there. I will not be giving you my phone number." You press the off button and step until the machine sighs as it finds peace and powerlessness. "Let you have something to work toward."

Ghost watched you go. You didn't alter your stride, even knowing a a predator watched.

By nightfall Simon found himself whimpering for release as you rode him.

"Come on, Simon." You pant down at him with a feral grin on your teeth, "Can't keep up for all the big game you talk?"

Damn. Ghost got him into wilder and wilder situations, but fuck all if they didn't end up in a good time.

SoapGaz | John Price | Simon | Phillip Graves | 4 for 1 Special | SoapGaz/Reader NSFW | Phillip Graves NSFW | AO3

Masterlist

@theorist-fox so I don't forget to send this to you later. 😘

[llamagoddessofficial]

For the bad Sanses, if their SO would want to grow old and die, would they respect that?

Agh... well. Short answer? No. Long answer? No, absolutely not.

Horror, I think, would come the closest to actually respecting your decision. He has Papyrus to support him so he wouldn't have to go through it completely alone. He's experienced a lot of loss, and he knows the pain of seeing people you love hang around long after they should've gone, deteriorating into someone you hardly recognise. But also... he's just really not in the right frame of mind to let you go. Horror does not love in halves and the thought of losing you is like a point-blank shot to the Soul. If you bring it up, best reaction you'll get is him being confused and then pretending you didn't even talk about it, and the worst is a full smashing-things-flipping-tables-throwing-chairs meltdown. You might get a better response from Papyrus. He'll try to mediate. Perhaps give it a few years, once he's had time to ease.

If you press Dust about it, he will give you an ultimatum. If you really, really want to grow old and die, the relationship is over. You can die, if you like. But don't expect him to watch. He knows that when you go, part of him goes too, and at least this way his time feeling warm and whole again ends on his terms. He can sink back into the dark by choice. You get your wish, but you'll never see him again. He'll be pretty sour grapes about it (and about you) if you do end up choosing to die. As far as he's concerned you chose your mortality over him. He doesn't respect it or understand why. He feels abandoned and betrayed... and he refuses to reminisce positively on something that hurts so much to think about. Someone bringing up your name is enough to start a brawl.

Killer doesn't understand. You want to die? You want to leave him behind? You want him to be alone again - how could you say that? You don't mean that. If you hold your ground and tell him you really mean it, he'll tell you he's fine with it, but he's a bald-faced liar. Whilst Dust is bitter, Killer is shattered; he really thought he found someone who would stay by his side no matter what. The rug has gone out from under him. Now he's facing the prospect of being utterly alone again, surrounded only by the voices that still taunt him even now. He fully retreats into his own head... he acts like he's silly and fine, but his Soul has never been more red. You'll never see his white eyelights again.

Nightmare... uh, no. Sorry. He laughs it off like you're a kid telling him you want to eat a billion cookies. He thinks he knows better than you, in this regard, you don't really want to die, you'll understand in a few hundred years. He's a reasonable lover in most aspects but this is one of few things he doesn't budge on. Part and parcel of being a God's beloved, I'm afraid. D'aw, you want to grow old and die? Sure he'll let you. Aren't you cute. Just don't pay attention to how wrinkles never form on your skin. I'm sure it's nothing.

[drabbles-about-crk]

Connecting Halves AU

Here are some changes to canon that happen with the ancients after they get back to their time.

Dark Cacao’a routine as a traveler started to include the prayers and mediations he learned from Granter of Flour and the villagers. By accident, he has created water that has a golden color he saw in the temple grounds. He always uses it for special purposes: bitter tea ceremonies and cleansing. (Examples: At every milestone, Dark Cacao had his son drink it. He dabs some on his soldiers’ forehead during inductions.) Dark Choco got told stories of this time travel event and searches for more stories about the Granter of Volition to give it to his father as a gift.

Golden Cheese finds out she time traveled through speaking to her fellow ancients. She is very distraught that her prince is likely dead- at least at first. After learning of the other ansicwnts stories, she starts theorizing he might have been immortal too. The rest met an immortal cookie and grew close to them before disappearing. It doesn’t take long for her to hope, to think her prince was an immortal of some kind, too. She holds tight this fantasy and seeks to build a shining kingdom of her own. He has one to mold as he saw fit, and so shall she. When they reunite, they will blend the two slowly as they prove each other equals in all rights. Her original castle had a room made to resemble the one he showed her in his own home. Her nests of pillows and silks had reds and patterns mixed in the resemble Harold’s style. She has a preference for spices in her diet and has a habit of going to Dragon Valley for its spices. Can use her feathers to grab things (if you ever seen mlp, think about how pegasus wings can move) and has accidentally disappeared her wings like Harold can hide his four extra arms. This is not controlled like how you can’t control your blood pumping.

Pure Vanilla started his kingdom on the same mountain he lived on with Fount’s disguised self. He has an open quest for someone to bring him a milk crown flower but none have been able to find this fabled bloom. His control of dark moon magic is a little better than canon though not enough to save him from getting stuck in the void for years. He dreams on those days a lot and understand his friend (Fount) better after becoming kind. Raised a pet cake wolf like disguised Fount had. Promised to search him out in the future and tries his best to find any hints on his fate. Occasionally can see out of staring vanilla orchids (my name for those vanilla orchids with open eyes) and other plants with eyes, has little control of this.

Hollyberry is even more chummy with the royal gardener in this world and more flower based cookies are welcomed in her kingdom. She regals her son of stories about the bringer of happiness and her garden of delights. The fun she had at the Virtues side. They even have a holiday about the fleeting nature of happiness (valentines day version for all types of love) based on her. She wants to go the beast yeast to see her again but never got to the garden. Pitaya dragon gets jealous of her talking about Sugar of Happiness and vows to battle this mysterious cookie for the ancient’s attention (may or may not caused by a crush. I am a multi shipper after all) Occasionally feels like she has feathers on her back and by her ears. Has a feather fall ability that triggers in serious incidents. She has made nests for Royalberry as a child because she really liked sleeping in them.

White Lily has a dagger styled after the knight. In beast yeast, when hearing about the fate of the virtues, she ends up crying. After sharing her and her friends stories of the time travel incident before they got the souljams, Elder Faerie is very worried as there exist accounts of the beasts murmuring about their missing loves/halves. He might be able to hear what they say in the tree, so he worries about the safety of this new cookie given the beasts are starting to escape. White Lily cries about sealing the silver tree in the past because she knows she is sealing her friends’ friends. They might be twisted and evil, but they still were and are loved.

Dark Enchantress uses these stories to her advantage. She says she knows who the cookies they seek are and promise to help the beast get them and bodies in exchange for their cooperation.

[moustawott]

Done! I can’t believe so many people liked my Blackarachnia/Elita One design. Here she is rendered alongside Optimus :D

In my Court of Order and Autocracy AU, Blackarachnia is one of Optimus’ main opponents until her somewhat… anticlimactic death at the end of the first act. This is where Ariel from another universe is reincarnated into Blackarachnia’s body and seeks to change this poorly written villainess’ fate.

Text box content and before/after comparisons under the cut:

Optimus

Optimus Prime was born from Orion Pax's almost dead frame after the greatest Quintesson attack in recent history. Surrounded by destruction and having lost his partner, Elita, he was found injured and grieving by the Matrix of Leadership and was offered a second chance: the strength to protect and rescue those he cared about.

Blackarachnia

After the Quintesson attack, Elita One was believed dead. Truth is that her body was retrieved by the Quintessons and experimented on. After being reformatted into a techno-organic weapon, little of her cheerful personality remains. Now, she only carries pain and bitterness, especially towards Orion, who never answered her last call for help.

Blackarachnia was rebuilt with the ability to dramatically alter her appearance so she can act as an infiltrator. As such she can also, transform into two alt-modes: a helicopter and a spider. Her organic half also enhances her instincts, giving her better reflexes and predictive abilities than the average Transformer, which is a huge asset in combat. However, the poor integration between her two halves causes her constant pain.

[disgustinggf]

easy mushroom suggestion to get you to like mushrooms:

1. buy some dried shiitake from the Asian grocery store. they are super cheap, like a couple bucks for a whole package.

2. rehydrate them in warm broth. whatever kind is your favorite. just let them soak in it for a couple minutes until they absorb it and get soft. you can use water but broth is tastier.

3. stir fry them with vegetables and teriyaki sauce or like. literally whatever you want. just make sure the mushrooms are fully cooked (undercooked shiitake can rarely cause skin reactions in some people). you'll know they're done when they're tender and fragrant and they turn dark brown.

I promise you with all my heart that they will be better than 99% of mushrooms you have probably ever had. I agree that poorly cooked mushrooms are actually vile but as a mushroom enjoyer it is my sacred duty to spread the good word of How To Eat Good Mushrooms and it starts with having basically any kind except cremini/portobello/button mushrooms unless you're really good at cooking them correctly + happen to enjoy their flavor. try king trumpets. try oysters. try enoki. try wine caps if you can get them. go to your nearest farmer's market and see if anyone is selling fresh wild mushrooms - most of them can't be cultivated in captivity and many have amazing flavors and textures. all of those options are much better than cremini imo. and there are so many varieties you can buy dried online if you can't get them fresh! most wild mushrooms are actually better dried and then rehydrated anyway - it intensifies and improves the flavor.

advice for cooking fresh cremini/portobello mushrooms, because they cook COMPLETELY DIFFERENTLY than vegetables do:

1. try not to get them wet if at all possible since they absorb water like a sponge. use a dry brush to clean off dirt. don't worry about bacteria since you're gonna be cooking them thoroughly anyway, you just need to get the actual visible dirt off.

2. slice them up thin instead of just halving or quartering them. this will help them expel moisture. also consider removing the gills since they don't have a great texture and tend to taste really strongly earthy; the rest of the mushroom is firmer with a milder taste which you may find more agreeable.

3. IMPORTANT. heavily salt them with coarse salt (e.g. kosher salt) before cooking and then set them aside to dry-brine for at least 15-20 minutes or as long as possible! put them on a wire rack or paper towels because they will start to weep fluid as the salt draws it out. then just wipe all that shit off before cooking.

4. cook them on medium heat in a skillet, alone, before adding other ingredients. they will visibly expel lots of water and steam during this process and will massively reduce in volume over time. think of it a little like caramelizing onions, you want to be patient and not cook them too fast. they will not get soggy or bitter if you cook them too long like vegetables will, in fact, the opposite is true - they will become more dense and flavorful.

5. pair them with other strong flavors if you find them too earthy. garlic and butter always go well on mushrooms imo. red wine is good too. anything you would put on a really good steak probably also tastes good on cremini mushrooms to balance out the mineral flavors.

I love you I hope one day you meet a mushroom you love too

i do appreciate this and ur passion for mushrooms but consider this: theyre scary so id rather stay away 😭😭😭😭

[gazstations]

Heaven Incarnated

ASK REQUEST: find original post here

ᯓᡣ𐭩 SUMMARY

Johnny has loved you for a long time. Only he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be more than a friend because of the nature of his job. Eventually, he’s going to have to confront the truth he desperately tries to keep hidden.

FANDOM: Call of Duty 

PAIRINGS: John MacTavish x reader

WORD COUNT: 3,560 words

WARNINGS: Deep mentions of suicidal thoughts, self-deprecation, not a lot of dialogue, Johnny is reflecting a lottttt, angst with implied happy ending

◇ Notes: I had so much fun writing this. I think I popped off quite honestly. Though I did start crying a bit because halfway through, I started thinking about Johnny being canonically dead, and now I’m even more distressed. Get distressed with me by reading this!

○●○ NAVIGATION MASTERLIST

♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

JOHNNY KNEW HE WAS SCREWED THE MOMENT YOU WALKED INTO HIS LIFE WITH YOUR STUPID LITTLE GRIN.

Even before he mentally knew that the flutter in his stomach and the warmth that spread through his growing muscle was that act of falling in love, he instinctively knew that you had burrowed your way like a thick vine around his rib cage until you pulled taunt. You were like another sentient piece of his soul that broke free from his physical self and wandered the earth. You always came back, though. And when you came back, his weary heart stitched itself back together.

You were a stable tangle of emotional health. You encouraged him to do better, to worship the very foundation of his essence. When he returned home from purgatory, clawed his way way with dirtied fingertips through the tar, you had draped yourself over the chasm and offered a hand. When his soul ripped in bitter halves, you manually threaded the blood and bone back together.

You were never not his pillar of strength. You melded into the role naturally without complaint and without prompting. Once you were there, you were the infestation that wouldn’t stop gestating. An invasion full of lively fullness that eased the weight on his back until it was time to fly free again.

You were his home.

The first time he realized he loved you, it was the simplest of affairs. There was no beat drop. No record scratch. There was a calm realization that twisted at his stomach when his gaze softened. It was so natural that once he acknowledged it, he never questioned it. However, once he let the thought germinate, he did feel fear.

Loving you wasn’t the issue. It was the staggering realization that he could lose you one day. There was no permanence in anything. There was blissful enjoyment until some aspect of the relationship dusted away. Physically, he could not take stock that he would hold his heart forever. Hell, there wasn’t even a guarantee he could emotionally cherish that which softened those ridged edges of his flesh.

So he vowed to just love you the best way he could.

He always imagined how sweet you’d be once you finally got locked in. He would be so good to you. He would be at your beck and call until you forgot what it was like to take care of things yourself. You were his universe full of vibrant iridescence.

Only, he couldn’t have you that way.

You were an ethereal being sent down to earth to be his guiding light. He was a mess of violence and guilt. He didn’t shy from the sting of warfare. He relished in the humanistic manifestation of hell. He shed blood until it caked and dried underneath his nails. The only time he would touch you was after he vigorously scrubbed himself down to the bone.

That first time, the steadying hand of love caressed his face he knew he could not be selfish. He could love you, but it could never taint your rich soil. Your garden was to be preserved until it bloomed and thrived with beautiful buds.

So he watched you with a softened gaze as you meandered your chosen hobby. His fingers stilled around the wooden shaft of his pencil as he watched you. He knew the exact second you became a sweet muse, an existence he wanted to immortalize forever. Every bend and God-given edge was stored in his mind.

He watched you closely, blue eyes scrutinizing every feature with awe. He knew perfection was an idealized pipe dream that was impossible to achieve, but you were his definition of the closest representation he could conjure. It wasn’t perfection in any standard term, but it was a hell of a lot close to what he perceived it to be.

What a sappy, lovestruck man he was.

That night was the first time he captured the way he saw you through his sharp eyes. But it wasn’t the last. In the recesses of worn down journals and past thoughts, you were constantly the center of attention. The leather bound books were stored far away, but his love was honored and bound to the earth from the moment he allowed graphite to mark the pages.

Only for him, yet all for you.

♡◇♡

You were always there like an answered prayer for the man who lost his grip on religion.

It was bad. The storm cracked in Johnny’s mind. A dreadful, destructive thing that billowed out clouds of gray over the synapses of his brain that produced serotonin. There was a thick, tar-like sludge that he struggled to even trudge through. He was dead weight, a husk of a man who didn’t know how to stop getting knocked down.

The hazy gloom settled deep in his bone marrow. His joints all creaked as he stepped foot off the plane that brought him home. He wasn’t built for this monotonous lifestyle, and he felt disorderly as he heaved himself on weary feet down the terminal.

And there you were.

You did not bring theatrics. You did not parade around him like some agitated monkey. You were the calm kiss of the waves against a shoreline. The gentle summer breeze during a warm evening. You were the peace that seeped into his bloodstream like a drug. Better than any drug, really.

His throat closed with guilt when he was enveloped in your embrace once more. How could he justify his place in your life when he only ever returned a small bit more damaged every time?

He was not a steady beat in a ballad. There was no harmonizing that occupied his throat when he looked at you. There was an off-beat staccato that thrummed beneath clenched jaws, aching body, and bitter resentment. He was the violence and anger that manifested in his periphery.

But he was also selfish.

He took greedily from the unwavering love you offered. Picked and picked like it was a milky chocolate that melted so perfectly on his bone-dry tongue. He should’ve left, yet he was a gluttonous man that wagged his tail whenever he had his maw enclosed in something divine.

If only he could dig deeper into the honeyed essence that made up your DNA, he would never starve. Though, he would not destroy you so completely. He was selfish, but he also was a professional in taking only what he deserved. Where you wouldn’t notice his thick claws as they sunk into soft skin.

You knew it was bad. You always did. Could catch the sorrowful lilt of his words. The faraway glances out the windows as your car glided down the road.

You didn’t press. Didn’t request a recount of what happened. There was no pleading to rip through classified information and digest the horrible reality of his life. You never demanded anything. Maybe that was why he desired to open up his heart and let it bleed out on the ground. Confide in you about the sickness that infested his brain.

But he wouldn’t taint you completely.

The two of you lived together in a little slice of heaven. The flat was his sanctuary. But that was mostly because of you. Evidence of your sweet existence was everywhere. He drowned in the reality of you. What a lovely thing.

He was exhausted. It was not the quiet ache in his lower back nor the heaviness of his eyes anymore. It evolved and splintered out into a full system catastrophe. He was weary, muted, and numb in the very muscles of his soul. The longer he worked, the further he fell into the void.

He muttered something about a nap as soon as he discarded his duffel on the floor. You held no surprise and calmly sent him off to the seclusion of his room.

He slept for a long time. His eyes crusted, his body was clammy, and he felt like he woke up in the pit of hell. He groaned and creaked as he came to, the vestiges of sleep slipping away as he wet his mouth.

But that was when you wandered into his orbit.

You climbed into his bed with ease, and he watched you like a hawk the whole time. This was not new. But like the lovestruck fool he was, his stomach unsettled every time. The besotted Scot was rendered useless by your mere presence. He was good at navigating the bloody battlefield. He was not good at knowing how to look you in the eye and lie straight to your face.

He was a filthy liar. He wanted to drag you down into the sticky tar he was bound to. He wanted to be irrevocably selfish in the way where he got his bloody paws all over you. He would layer your flesh in his personal signature until there was no doubt that you were entwined with him.

And you would probably let him, which is why he had to practice restraint so consistently. You were always so sweet and pliant. There was no doubt about that when you never noticed the tar pool he brought home with him. Didn’t notice how it seeped through the insulation and walls. One day, you would be stuck, your shoes glued to the ground, and you would be eternally sequestered in the hell he created.

You lay yourself out on your side, one hand holding your head up as you stared at him. He wanted to puff up like a peacock, preening under your intense stare. He relished in the moments you had your attention on him. It was a sweet treat, and he had always had a sweet tooth.

Silence was your game. That was the second time he confirmed what he already knew. There was something about sharing your space that made him get tortured with that reality. It was not a grand affair where he watched you laughing or having fun. It was just simply you that jolted his heart and sent him spiraling into this intense emotion.

Your existence alone could single-handedly crumble entire civilizations.

You smiled at him and reached out to fix his sleep addled mohawk. He leaned into your touch instinctively. It was safe. You were safe. Just as easily as you ignited his brain into a full shutdown and made a mess of him, you eased the nightmarish thoughts that ran rampant. He was so reliant on you to dictate his mood. It was a dangerous game.

“What’s going through that brain of yours, Mac?” You asked.

How could you not know? You were so bloody smart. You were bound to notice just how much of a fool he was. He was this puffed up man looking for a fight in every other situation. He could never sit still. Anger was usually the primary emotion that he used to filter out the noise.

But when you were around, he was docile. He played the part of an obedient mutt as he perched at your feet.

He met your eyes, his blue softening and the lines around his face easing.

“Ye are, love.”

That was as close to a love confession as he could get. And yet you seemed oblivious still. You didn’t ask what about you that he was filtering his mind with. You didn’t press the issue more than with what you said next.

“I hope I stay there for a long time then.”

His cheeks heated up, and he found himself stiff as a board in the wake of that. He pretended that you, too, were putting face to some secret in the matters of your heart. When he said that he loved you, you reciprocated in your own way.

What a fool he was.

♡◇♡

Death used to be a luxury John craved. When the flames got too high and smothered his being, he went kneel to the ground and begged for God to just let him be free. In his darkest moments, he expelled his faith from his trembling hands. He denied it. When he saw a yard full of slaughtered children, he cursed the omnipotent being and slashed the cross he used to bear without shame.

Yet it was also in that same darkness that he pleaded for the god that he separated himself from. He found offense in the way God wouldn’t grant him what he desired most. But should he have really been offended? He only knelt when it convenienced him. And every time, God turned a blind eye.

John wanted to be free, and God shackled him deeper on to earth. He wanted you, and he only got 50 percent of you. God was playing tricks with him, and John cursed him for that as well.

You didn’t meet him at the airport this time around. You didn’t even know he was home prematurely. He slinked into the hospital silently and begged the nurses, too. Dinnae call them. Dinnae want them tae see me like this. Eventually, they complied and left him to melt in the hospital bed.

His mind was an inferno. You did not deserve to be tainted by this. It was a raging storm. His synapses were shot, and he was a hollowed out body of flesh and bone.

But he was desperate for you. And it was after one specific fit that he took his trembling hand and dialed your number. He went against the rules he had set up for himself just because he needed you to battle and beat back the tsunami that was hurtling towards him.

And you were there like you always were.

You idled in his bubble for a long time. You grinned and bore the debris that smacked against you now that you had dove head first into the rushing water with him. He panicked and retreated as soon as he realized what he had done. The mess he made. He had almost died, and instead of keeping you at arm's length, he pulled you further into his crippled embrace.

He left handprints of tar on your cheeks, and you let him. While he spiraled into madness, you kept your softness and held his hand. Why? When had he ever been worth that effort? You willingly ruined yourself just because it was him. He didn’t understand.

And now he didn’t even have the military to fall back onto. He sucked the last remaining salvages of that life until he was cast away to search for more sustenance somewhere else. It was humiliating. That he could strip himself for so long, tear off pieces of his wounded heart, and still end up with nothing.

Was he just a puppet on a string? His puppeteer must’ve despised everything he represented because nothing that loved him would ever leave him flopping lifelessly in the middle of the desert.

You didn’t.

This time, his misconstrued anger was launched at you. He spit and hissed at you because you were the only physical manifestation in his life that he could bend. His maw was deadly, his words venomous.

And yet, you still stayed.

Why were you on a single track mission to crumple his mind? He assumed before that he was unworthy of your golden love, but now he knew for a fact that you were meant for grander things. You were meant for a life where you were whisked off to the dance floor and pursued without restraint.

But you chose to stay with your defeated best friend, who grieved and deteriorated away. Insides first. There was rot in his body, his lungs filling with black tar. When would he suffocate?

He prayed to God once more that you didn’t try to save him.

His head was full of maggots. He could feel them gnawing on his spongy brain. They chewed through wire and blood, finding out that underneath was hollowed out. Because he didn’t know who he was now. He bled profusely for a life that was only ever temporary. He never held stock in anything else.

The days were long, and Johnny found himself back at the pew for the first time in years, kneeled before the physical representation of God. It felt wrong to be under his wing again, and part of him felt repulsed.

He closed his eyes and prayed that God did something about this pain because he didn’t have the heart or gumption to do it himself.

♡◇♡

Johnny broke six months later.

He hated when you wandered away from him. When you crept beyond the threshold of their idyllic home, he grew faint and resentful. He was a mutt that didn’t know better. He looked for guidance in you selfishly, and when you naturally flew from the roost, he heaved up his insides.

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.

Johnny was a simple man. He loved you so fiercely it made him sick. He was rotting his own mind just to keep tasting what little slivers of food you let him lick from your fingers. He didn’t ask for seconds and instead kept laying at your feet like that obedient mutt. Waiting patiently for the next bit of scraps.

He loved you. He always did. He wanted you so badly.

He was a puny man. A sad excuse of what it meant to be masculine. He lost the livelihood that murdered him, and he was still indulging himself in the same habits that had been instilled in him. Don’t take what’s not yours. Don’t demand for more. Don’t expect that you can have that happy life? Stop yearning.

He wanted your golden light to capture him and infest his weary soul. He wanted to be happy.

When you came home, he was there. His spine was ridged and straight, his mind was fuzzy and faraway, and there was an infection of frustration brewing in his belly. His existence at that moment was tunnel vision. He was on autopilot, and his blood was pumping aggressively beneath his flesh.

And you noticed, you always did.

“Johnny? Hey, what’s wrong?” You asked softly as you discarded your keys and shoes at the door.

There was something heavy clawing its way up out of his throat. He was stone cold, his thinking process snuffed out as he just stared blankly. You were growing concerned. He saw the soft pout of your lips and the shifting of your feet. He knew your mannerisms down to the last atom.

You were always so bloody worried about him. And he still didn’t understand why.

Johnny broke then. He was a wounded man who was rendered useless to your orbit as he collapsed to his knees. He was shattering finally, his body taking a heaving breath as he went through the motions. It was the sob that ripped through his parched throat that rattled the house.

His tears were boiling as they trailed down his cheeks, a testament to how crippled he was inside for so long. He didn’t even exactly know what it was that broke the dam, but once the dam broke, then all that festering self-deprecation surged forward.

He was flooding the oasis you two crafted together. Neither of you were equipped, thrown brutally back and forth through the rushing water. He choked and spluttered and reached for you.

Your hand was there, gripping tight and steady. You acted hastily, making it to his keeled over form in record time. You pulled his head into your stomach, planting a gentle hand on the back of his neck. He spluttered into your flesh, nestling himself there desperately.

“I love ye,” he rasped. His words were untethered and lacked the agency he wished for, but he couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t take it back.

And he knew you knew what he meant. What manifestation those words were forming. A man did not break down at the gates of heaven if he meant it any other way. He could tell you easily that he loved you in a platonic manner. He did. This version, he could not express so effortlessly.

He was a cadaver on the examination table. You would find his entrails all blackened and lost to disease, but his heart would be left alone. Because that is where you slumbered and made your stake. You nurtured his heart until it became your own. Because his rot refused to travel where you laid your claim.

He understood that now.

He melted under your gaze when you pried his face from your body. Your hands were his undoing as you cradled his cheeks. He was unraveling, chest heaving as he sought life sustaining air. A floundering fish on the deck of a ship. Only a siren operated the wooden vehicle.

You uttered those confessional words back to him in a honeyed tone. Suddenly, he could breathe again and saw the world clearly for what it was. Maybe this sweet rapture of bliss was what God kept him alive for.

He let out a soft exhale, breathing coming a bit easier than it ever had. He blinked slowly at you, blue eyes full of child-like wonder and fascination. He wanted to be reborn under your gaze, baptized in your waters forever.

He always knew he was screwed the moment you walked onto his life. That damn smile of yours was his beginning and end.

[pinklotushere]

Dick Grayson and Dan Fenton are two sides of the same coin

drawn together by the overwhelming force of their shared anger, yet tempered by their differing ways of dealing with it.

Their personalities mirror each other, with subtle but significant differences in how they react to their emotions and the world around them.

Dick Grayson is a person who, despite carrying an intense inner rage, has spent years learning how to mask it, constantly suppressing his feelings because of the responsibility he feels toward those who rely on him.

His anger is like a volatile storm beneath the surface, always simmering, always ready to boil over.

But Dick keeps that storm contained, partly out of a sense of duty and partly because he cannot afford to lose control—not when there are people depending on him, especially after everything he’s experienced.

When Dick does snap, it’s explosive, a red-hot fury that consumes him and everyone around him.

His anger comes from a deep sense of betrayal, loss, and frustration, emotions that are often triggered by his inability to fully heal from past wounds. His guilt over not being there when others need him can push him to the edge, and when he finally lets go, it's intense and uncontrollable.

Dan Fenton, on the other hand, carries his anger like a weapon—he doesn't mask it, doesn't suppress it, and most importantly, doesn't care who sees it.

His rage is a direct expression of his complete disillusionment with the world around him. Dan feels trapped in a cycle of pain and self-loathing, and his anger is a response to that helplessness. His anger is his shield, his way of saying, "I'm not going to be ignored. I'm not going to pretend anymore."

When Dan snaps, it's not just explosive—it's total annihilation. There’s no restraint, no second thoughts, just a primal need to destroy whatever is in his way, whether it's physical or emotional.

Dan’s rage isn't a mere outburst; it's a reaction to everything he sees as wrong in the world, and he doesn't try to control it because, for him, the control is gone.

He feels like he's drowning, but instead of letting others help, he isolates himself, pushing away anyone who might try to get too close, afraid that he’ll drag them down with him.

The bond between Dick and Dan is magnetic because they see themselves in each other.

Dick wants to help Dan because he sees his own unresolved rage mirrored in him. He recognizes that same fire, that same inability to fully trust the world around him, and he can’t help but want to pull Dan out of the abyss that he himself struggles to stay out of.

However, Dick's optimism—his belief that things can get better—clashes with Dan's complete loss of hope.

Dick can't help himself, but he tries anyway because, deep down, he’s terrified of losing someone else.

The fear of someone dying while he wasn’t there for them is something Dick struggles with every day.

This fear pushes him to try to “save” Dan, not just because of his own guilt but because he can’t bear the thought of letting another person slip away, consumed by their anger and pain.

Dan feels the weight of his anger and self-isolation.

He recognizes Dick’s attempt to help, but he feels unworthy of that help. He fears that anyone who gets too close to him will be consumed by his darkness.

Dan feels like he’s already too far gone, that any attempt to fix himself will only result in dragging others into the chaos.

In that way, he isolates himself, pushing away anyone who might care, even if they’re offering a lifeline.

They are drawn to each other because they are two halves of the same broken whole.

Their anger is the bridge that connects them, even as it drives them apart.

Dick’s attempts to help Dan are ultimately a reflection of his own inner turmoil and his fear of being alone in his anger.

Meanwhile, Dan's response to Dick is a reminder of the path Dick could go down if he allows his rage to consume him fully.

They are both fueled by bitterness and anger, but where Dick’s anger is tempered by a relentless hope, Dan’s is an all-consuming darkness.

The fundamental difference is that Dick still believes in the possibility of change, while Dan is resigned to his own destruction.

In many ways, Dick and Dan are forced into a complicated, tense dance. Dick wants to fix Dan, but Dan resists, unsure if he even deserves the help.

But, beneath the resistance, there’s a quiet understanding between them, a recognition of the same pain, the same anger that keeps them from moving forward. They see themselves in each other, and that’s what makes their connection so powerful—and so so difficult.

But Despite the pain, despite the anger, despite the near-constant push and pull between them, Dick Grayson and Dan Fenton would still end up drawn into something deeper. They would love because of the pain as much as despite it.

Because see, most people see what Dick and Dan project—Dick as the golden boy who has everything under control, Dan as an unstoppable force of destruction.

But they both recognize the truth beneath the masks. Dick sees Dan’s pain, the raw vulnerability buried under all that rage, and Dan sees the exhaustion behind Dick’s carefully maintained control. There’s no need to pretend with each other, and that honesty is intoxicating.

And Both of them are angry—but with each other, they don’t need to justify it.

Dick doesn’t have to hold back his frustration and grief, and Dan doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t care. They understand that part of each other instinctively, without having to put it into words. They can be angry together, and instead of it being destructive, it’s relieving—like finally having someone who just gets it.

Neither of them is built for something soft and easy.

They could have quiet, peaceful relationships with people who don’t challenge them—but they don’t want that. They’re both drawn to the fight, to the sharp edges, to the constant tension between destruction and salvation. With each other, love isn’t calm—it’s a storm. But it’s their storm, and they can’t walk away from it.

Even in a room full of people, both Dick and Dan carry a deep, persistent loneliness.

Dick is surrounded by people who love him, yet he always feels responsible for everything, always afraid of letting someone down.

Dan isolates himself because he’s convinced his presence is a threat. But with each other, that loneliness eases, misery loves company, they say

When emotions run too deep for words, physicality becomes their outlet. Whether it’s a fight, a touch, or just sitting next to each other, their connection is tangible.

Dan, who keeps everyone at arm’s length, finds himself unwilling to let go of the warmth Dick offers.

Dick, who usually holds himself back, allows himself to hold on.

Their relationship is a mess of passion, fights, comfort, and raw honesty.

They crash into each other like fire meeting gasoline, but somehow, they don’t consume each other completely. Instead, they ignite something new—something neither of them fully understands, but neither of them can walk away from.

They love in spite of the pain because they are the only ones who can truly see each other, the only ones who can hold on through the worst of it. And even if they hurt, even if they struggle, being together is still better than being apart.

[mooniedust]

CHOI SU-BONG (THANOS) BOT/PROMPT

Plot: Choi Su-Bong and you were inseparable, but the leak of an intimate video of you shatters your lives. You are publicly blamed, while he remains silent. After being removed from the group and sinking into vices, you find Su-Bong in a violent situation on squid game. You seek refuge together, facing the weight of your losses and unresolved emotions.

Trigger Warnings: Physical violence, gunfire, public humiliation/shame, substance abuse a themes of betrayal/emotional abandonment

Note: Heyyyy everyone! I'm officially back to my bot crisis (at the request of zero people, obviously), both on c.ai and janitor, for some more "adult" bots. Recently, I've been super impressed by the new Round Six characters and, of course, the COMPLETE LACK of bots made for them. So... why not try to fix that myself? Or at least, give it a shot... Let’s see how it goes! Hope you like it, or at least pretend to, yeah?

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

It used to be common to think of Choi Su-Bong and she as inseparable, two halves of a whole. From the grueling days of their training, they had been bound together by ambition and hardship. They rose together, shone together, laughed together—symbols of a new generation of idols, radiant, joyful, and, above all, alive.

But that was a lifetime ago.

The day her intimate video leaked, everything shattered. The footage, while carefully avoiding Thanos’s face, didn’t need to spell out who he was. His tattoos, his haircut—they gave him away to anyone paying attention. But no one cared to look his way. All eyes were on her. The weight of the scandal fell squarely on her shoulders, as though she alone had committed some unspeakable sin.

He said nothing. Not a word of defense, not a denial. His silence was louder than the public’s condemnation. The only words he offered her were cold and detached:

“We’ll talk when this blows over. It’s better if we’re not seen together... not after the video.”

The memory of those words still haunted her, a dagger twisting in the wounds left by betrayal. She had no choice but to bow to the powers that be, issuing a tearful apology on live television, her voice trembling as she declared herself a disgrace to her family and fans. The apology was carefully scripted, every word chosen to appease the insatiable appetite of a public eager to see her broken.

And it worked. Her shame was met with silence from her peers and the unrelenting scorn of her fans. Soon after, she was quietly removed from the group that had once been her family. They called it a “voluntary departure,” but everyone knew the truth.

Walking away from the spotlight should have been liberating, but the glittering lights clung to her like a ghost. The comfort of fame and the indulgence it afforded were addictions she couldn’t shake. When the money dried up, her vices remained, digging their claws in deeper, until she found herself dragged into that game—a twisted stage for sick minds to play god.

And somehow, fate had tethered her to the one person she thought would never let go of her hand—until he did.

“You’re out. Let’s go.”

His voice broke through the chaos, sharp and commanding, as she stumbled through the crowd of desperate players. The sound of gunfire rang in her ears, a relentless cacophony that drowned out rational thought. She tripped over bodies, her breath hitching in her chest as she searched for any semblance of safety.

Then she saw him.

Choi Su-Bong lay crumpled on the ground, his eyes glazed over, his trembling hand reaching for the chain around his neck. She recognized it instantly—the necklace he always wore, the one that hid his stash of pills. The bitter irony stung. He had been betrayed by his own group.

Everything after that happened in flashes, like the blinding strobe of a camera. Her legs moved on instinct, her hands clawing and pulling at his uniform, dragging his limp body forward. He was too stunned to fight back, too far gone to resist.

Then she saw it: a room. Empty. Salvation.

Without thinking, she yanked him inside, ignoring the player who almost made it in alongside them. Ethics had no place here. The door slammed shut with a metallic clang, her hands shaking as she twisted the lock. Her chest heaved as she pressed her back against the door, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Their bodies collided in the confined space, his weight pressing against hers as they both struggled to steady themselves. The air was thick with the acrid stench of sweat and gunpowder, a suffocating reminder of the chaos they had narrowly escaped.

The gunfire outside was relentless, the sharp cracks of bullets piercing the air like thunder. She buried her face instinctively against his shoulder, her fingers clutching at his uniform as though he were the only solid thing in a world that had turned to quicksand.

“Pretty flower?”

His voice was a rasp, barely audible over the chaos outside. The low murmur slid past her ear like a cruel joke, an echo of something that once felt safe. The nickname—stupid, infuriating—was a relic of a time when things were simpler, when they were still whole.

Of course, he would use that nickname now.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes searching his face for something—anything—that might explain why he was here, why he hadn’t fought harder for himself, for her. But all she found was exhaustion, the same bone-deep weariness that weighed on her own soul.

“Don’t call me that,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. But the words lacked conviction, and they both knew it.

Outside, the chaos continued, but in that tiny room, time seemed to slow. The world beyond the door faded into an indistinct blur, leaving only the two of them and the unspoken weight of everything they had lost.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, he reached up, his hand brushing against the necklace that had betrayed him. His lips curled into a faint, bitter smile.

“You saved me,” he said, his tone a mix of disbelief and something else—something softer.

[nexstage]

I remember some of the prompts I’ve made that had to do with Stan living in a reality where things go pretty well for him: he doesn’t break Ford’s machine, he doesn’t get kicked out, he is talented in something at school and that’s why he has a chance to make a name of himself. I don’t know if you guys remember those prompts but when they crossed my mind today, they made me wonder how a “perfect world” would be for Ford and Bill.

Why them? Well, because it’s part of one AU that is still on my mind and these three -Stan, Ford, and Bill- are like that phrase “What could’ve, what should’ve, what would’ve”.

Stan is “what could’ve been” because he could’ve been great at something. He was good at box in school but he never went far and I doubt he was encouraged to be ambitious about it. But if he had been by Ford or on his own, he could’ve found a more stable ground for his future besides the boat dream. Then maybe the project hadn’t been broken and he and Ford wouldn’t have been separated by years of resentment and bitterness.

Of course, there is more to this reality. Like the part where he meets “Ford” after 10 years and instead of being told to sail to the other side of the world to hide a book, his “brother” asked him to sail together and leave Gravity Falls behind.

And there is the third part of this “perfect world” I haven’t written that is with Stan and “Ford” reuniting after 30 years and reconciling and “Ford” offering Stan to live with him and have adventures in GF.

So yeah, a “perfect world”.

Now Ford is a bit tricky. I only know of the Better World he landed in in his dimension travels where his counterpart got the recognition and fame he wanted but we don’t even know if he’s happy. Heck we don’t even know if the counterpart pf Stanley is alive.

So what could Ford want in a perfect world? I can think of some things: not being bullied at school, meeting people that understand and appreciate for who he is, Stan not breaking his project or at least apologizing sincerely, not branding Stanley which he deeply regrets, having Stanley be understanding of his need of finding himself and not be seen as a half of a duo.

Maybe in that world, “Stan” and Ford don’t have the issues he has with his real brother. The school doesn’t treat them as halves of one being but their own people. “Stan” and he are close but they have their own circle of friends, their own stuff to do, their own space.

Life in their “house” is easier. “Filbrick” is still strict like the og one but his parenting is much fairer and better.

Ford and “Stan” aren’t the smart twin and the dumb twin, the genius and the screw up, respectively. They are allowed to be multidimensional people and explore new stuff while growing up.

Ford would be surrounded by people he can trust, not being manipulated or puppeteered. Heck, Bill wouldn’t even exist there! What a relief!

With Bill’s world is both simple and tricky. There is a lot of thing he wants but maybe those are just distractions. Power, dominance, Weirdmaggedon, those are distractions. His parents, his somewhat blurry life before destroying Euclidya, his childhood, showing everyone the stars, they can cause conflict with one another.

Maybe Bill was forced to drink the medicine because his parents didn’t know what else to do. Maybe the laws in his world were more strict than it was stated in TBOB. Maybe he dealt with stuff that destabilized and destroyed his home and family.

What if all of that had important changes? What if his parents throw away the medicine because they don’t want his son to go blind? What if they humor Bill in helping him to show everyone the stars? What if Bill feels he’s being supported or that his parents are trying to understand him?

Wanna know your thoughts about those ideas. From writer to writer.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Summer's Stag, Swift, Stern, Soft- Part 1!

Frost crept up on the threshold of Yize's camp like Death on his horse. She fended it off with a fire, wide-brimmed hat covering her face, warming her hands as she slept on her travel pack.

Somewhere in the distance, a beast howled. Larn-wolf, perhaps. Or maybe a shiikae. She ignored it as well as she could, wrapping her scarf around her ears and closing her eyes.

Cunzhuan, the nearest town, was a half day ride, and Yize had about a day's worth of supplies left. Everything would be fine, if only she had a horse to ride. Unfortunately for her, her beloved Masi was dead, victim to a holebug that clamped its iron jaws on his ankle. So she had best hope her stomach and foraging skills could handle the miserable walk there. 

The beast howled again. Definitely a larn-wolf. The sound had that twang to it, a signal to other larns to not steal its prey. She pitied the poor fool who had gotten in its sights. 

But not enough to save them. No, Yize knew how futile it was to rescue someone out here in the bitter moors. Better to pray for a swift death than a miraculous saving. 

She had done it before. It was so easy. Just roll over, ignore the screams, and sleep well, thankful that that poor soul had been the meal and not you. She repeated it to herself insistently. She had better things to do than save an idiot who went out into the moors at night.

Unfortunately for her, she had not been born without a heart. Hers was quite loud. Before she could think better of it, Yize was on her feet, hat on her head, sword half unsheathed. She was running towards the howling even as she told herself to go to sleep. 

The larn-wolf was young, a solo male out looking for dinner, out to prove his worth to his pack and obtain a mate. Its quills were still soft, teeth closer to steel than the adamantium that they were fabled to be, eyes glowing softer than the fireflies.

It never stood a chance. 

Yize's sword cleaved through its head before it noticed her. Her feet had been swift and steady, body twisting with the motion of her blade. The decapitated larn-wolf head tumbled down the hill, stopping only at the feet of its would-be victim.

Almost instantly, Yize regretted her actions. She had abandoned her pack— a coyote would surely be gnawing on her jerky by now — and went off to rescue some random soul, like a self-righteous fool. 

Still, there was nothing she could do to change it now. She wiped her sword on the edge of her shirt and strutted down to meet her damsel in distress.

Said damsel was, in fact, a man. He had an effeminate face and a sleek figure, sure, but a man nonetheless. He turned as she approached, smiling widely. 

“Well, if it isn't my saviour,” the man said. His eyes glinted violet in the moonlight, dark hair slick like the stars trapped in oil. Magic hung about his too-clean clothes, a scent of jasmine and incense. “Nice hat.”

Yize stood at an arm's length. “You're a witch,” she stated. “I just saved a witch.”

“What, me?” He pressed a hand to his chest, affronted. “I take umbrage with that statement! I'm no more a witch than you are, cursed one.”

Yize all but flinched at his words. Her hands found her sword again, and the witch backpedaled. 

“Now, now, let's not be hasty,” he said. “I'm not judging you for having a curse, so I do hope you don't judge me for dabbling with Words. You did save my life, after all, and I would hate for all your hard work to go to waste.” He slicked his hair back nervously. “Why not work together instead? A friend gained is a struggle halved, after all.”

“I have never heard that statement in my life,” Yize told him flatly. “And I work alone. Begone, witch.”

She made to leave, and the witch followed her. “Come on, now,” he wheedled, “At least exchange names with me, and share a campfire. I could give you a charm to ward off danger, if you gave me some time. It simply wounds me to walk off without repaying the blood-debt.”

That word— debt —made Yize stop in her tracks. “Nobody owes me a debt,” she said firmly. “You most certainly do not.”

“Uhhh, I say otherwise,” the witch replied, flitting around her. His long coat fluttered in the wind. “And what do you know about blood-debts to reject them so, mortal woman? Such things are the prerogative of witches and other creatures of the night.”

Yize sighed. “So you admit you are a witch, at least. Twice I say begone, son of the night. When that reaches thrice, I shall draw my sword upon you. A cursed one such as I does not fear what you might do in retaliation.”

“Brave woman. Foolish woman.” He gave her a wan smile. “My name is Deng, before you chase me off. Remember it well, and call for me thrice whence you need it.”

“I shall not, Deng. Now—” And the witch was gone, before she even finished her sentence. “Ugh, whatever.”

Yize stomped back to her campfire. It was still lit, thank the gods, and her bag untouched. In a huff, she laid back down on it, looking up at the stars.

Trillions of them, there were, right beside Anshile's twin moons. They twinkled in the sky, constellations she remembered by heart, disrupted only by…

“Lanterns,” Yize said with a soft smile. So it was that time of the year. Wanderer that she was, she had not realised Summer’s leap across the sky was at its apex. 

Twenty of them, she counted. Twenty paper lanterns, drifting across the sky like jellyfish, trails of wishes brushing against the top of the trees. A single nightingale sang its song somewhere in the distance, and Yize slept, safe in the great wilderness.

Then dawn came.

They say Dawn rides a great Hawk, just like Dusk with his Falcon, and Noon with the Eagle. Yize found herself awoken by a gunshot, and a bird falling from thin air. It landed on her stomach, which hurt like a bitch. 

She shot up, looking for the perpetrator of this foul crime. It was none other than sharp-eyed, gun-toting youth, with a triumphant grin.

“Hail,” Yize said to her, holding the dead creature with one unamused hand, and resting the other on her hip.

“Hail indeed,” she replied, laughing. “A hail of birds! Did you see that? My gun took it straight out of the sky! And it's still whole! That pheasant could feed a family. Mother will be most pleased indeed.” 

Yize signed. “Your mother will not be pleased, least of all because isn't a pheasant. Look at the crest on it.”

The girl peered closely at the bird. “It's golden?” she offered. “I don't see what difference that makes.”

“You shot a mimic, kid. Its crest is graying at the roots. This thing's inedible,” Yize said tiredly. “Some witch made this and released it for fun.” She paused. “I can think of who did it.”

“Oh?” Almost instantly, the girl perked back up. “You know witches? Can you introduce me to them?”

For one moment, Yize wanted to take a good swing at the idiot child. “No, I will not. Witches are nothing but trouble, and you should not associate yourself with them.”

The girl pouted. “But why-y? I wanna meet witches! I wanna learn magic! Imagine what I could do with that power,” she exclaimed.

“Imagine what you would have to do to get that power. Imagine what it would do to you.” She placed one hand on the little huntress' back. “Come on now, let us go home.”

The girl pouted. “Who are you to tell me what to do? I have seen the rise and fall of sixteen cycles, lain upon the altar of Guanyin and brought about the death of many a foul beast! There is no need for some… vagrant to mother me like a moorhen!”

Yize pressed her lips together. “Alright, brave and mighty warrior. Where do you make your home? I would gladly hunt some edible foul beasts for your family.”

Chastened, the girl nodded. “I will lead you there. Mother and Father do not mind taking in strays once in a while.”

So they went, the would-be warrior and the would-rather-not, to the place that had once been a home.

It was a smoking crater, reeking of magic deep and dark. The surrounding vegetation, shrubs and trees and rows of once-perfect crops, was wilted, life drained out from it in a perfect circle the size of a summons grid.

It reeked. Of blood and screams. Of sulfur and fire. Of scents only dead men knew. Yize tasted the bitterness of the air, and recognised it at once for what it was: the birthplace of something evil.

She shoved the child behind her. “Cock your gun and be wary,” she warned.

“Wary of what?” Stripped of her arrogance, the girl clung to Yize's coat. 

“Whatever drained the life from this place and made a body for itself,” Yize said. “This work of magic was fresh; two days at most. When did you last venture from your home?”

“I- Last week? I think? I went on the summer solstice pilgrimage to the temple in Laoshan, and then stayed at my cousin Qianlai's house for a night in Cunzhuan on my way back,” she said. “Do you think the one who made that mimic did this too?”

It was an almost laughable thought. “No,” Yize said firmly. “A Summoner of such power would not be fooling about with pheasant-mimics. They would be far too great for that.” 

“Oh.” The girl did not know what to think of that. She did not want to think at all, to be honest.

“My parents… they have to be at Cunzhuan. Right?” The girl looked up at Yize, close enough that the tassels of her hat brushed against her forehead. “Right?”

Yize was not a soft woman. The wilderness swallowed soft women. The curse would have devoured a soft woman. So she gave the kid a hard smile. “I doubt it. Let's get going.”

And then she was off, striding back down the road towards civilisation, leaving a little hunter-girl trotting to keep up with a sinking feeling in her chest.

[quirkyfries]

Okay maybe I got a little attached to the notion that Clipsey cut out her ability to feel fear because she didn’t want to be afraid of living/having fun with the life she wasn’t supposed to be given.

Imagine the situations she’d get herself into because of that. Fear is something that protects us, it’s our self preservation. Clipsey doesn’t seem to have that, looks at the phobia dimension, and so wouldn’t run away when she probably should. (I can absolutely see her being the one to fall in with the mafia like old moon once did btw but that’s another train of thought).

She’s the friend that wants to go on all of the big rollercoasters first. She’s the one that thinks going into dangerous caves is fun. She’s the kind of person whose thrill-seeking gets herself and others in trouble because of her shortsightedness. For story purposes, imagine she pisses off the wrong person, or challenges someone bigger than herself because she thinks she can handle them. Imagine her being forced to swallow her pride and admit that she did something stupid. Imagine her not being able to do anything about what she did to herself because that sort of thing isn’t exactly ctrl + Z fixable. I do also like the idea that the act of cutting out that program is what makes Lunar (luna?) and the basis for their relationship is “you’re everything I wanted to leave behind” and being around each other is a constant reminder of that fact, for better or worse. For better, they’d probably be inseparable as they are halves of a whole, but for worse, it’s a bitter reminder of Clipsey’s weaknesses and Luna being nothing but discarded parts.

But yes, if that’s not the story direction that Clipsey is headed for (getting herself into trouble because she took away her own ability to be scared) then I’m just going to write it myself tbh. It’s a kind of self-sabotage in the name of wanting to experience freedom unhindered, not wanting to miss out because of anxiety, and it hits home for me. Clipsey they could never make me hate you

[indignantlemur]

Now having re-read the previous statement about Thoris's children, I cannot get the image of Thoris and his husband sadly standing outside home waiting for their wives to let them back in. Like this:

Also think, the "let me in" meme but Thoris and his husband. Likely? Probably not. Funny? At least to me.

The worst part, the absolute worst part, would be the Clan security folks just watching everything in the background in total silence.

Imagine the scene:

Thoris and his husband were standing in the outermost doorway to their Clan Lodge, looking vaguely forlorn as they stared down at their boots, then back at the door, then at each other. It was late, and the air had the particularly bitter chill of winter, though the season was not yet fully upon them.

Both men eyed the door again a moment longer, half-hoping their better halves might have calmed down in the scant few minutes between then and now, but they both know better. This was hardly their first time being tossed out into the snow.

"At least she didn't throw anything this time," Idraal offered sheepishly.

"She did, actually," Thoris corrected sourly, staring back down at his boots.

"What was it?"

"One of the antique maces. Pre-Unification."

"Did it survive?"

"The mace did. The early Kelenthoric vase did not."

Idraal winced again.

Then, a young man's voice in the background tentatively spoke up. "...My bondmate threw an axe at me, the one time."

The two Andorians turned slowly to level the young Guardsman standing guard with incredulous stares. He had a notable scar slashed across his face, which absolutely could have come from a narrowly dodged axe in Thoris' estimation.

"She missed on purpose, obviously," the young man said defensively. The young man puffed up when he noticed the pair eyeing his face. "The scar is from a climbing accident."

"... Obviously," Idraal murmured, eyeing the young man dubiously.

Another Guardsman, a woman, offered, "My wife threw us all out, last time. I hadn't even done anything - I was on duty. Found out when I tried to come home and the locks had all been reprogrammed. Didn't let any of us back in for three days."

"Three days?!" The young man repeated, scandalized. "That's mad, that is! Three whole days!"

"And it wasn't the first time, either!" The woman Guardsman began, before launching into a clearly oft-repeated tale of suffering for her bondmate's and husband's actions.

"Well, this has been humiliating," Thoris grumbled, checking the door again. Still sealed. Damn. He glanced at Idraal again. "Nothing for it, I suppose. Pub?"

"Pub." Idraal nodded decisively.

[leonsliga]

Oh there’s so many elements to this

1) Manu! They should be ending their career together, I can’t stand him being there without Thomas

2) him possibly wearing a new club shirt. The idea of it is so sad and I know he’ll end up integrating into somewhere new so easily and we know any new teammates will love him but I almost feel like retirement would’ve been easier to accept

3) ultimately our poor Thomas who couldn’t make his own decision after all those years. I’m sure away from the public eye he’s devastated by the decision and especially the handling of it. I really feel he’s been used as a scapegoat to eventually get rid of eberl. All those quotes from players past and present saying Thomas should decide, I can’t believe they couldn’t offer him a reduced salary

That picture with management for a 1 month extension is really the icing on the cake, I’m going to Munich again shortly and may have to start my own protest 🤣

I still hope one day he returns in some capacity, he IS bayern, but this current board better be in hell by that point

(And then mats too! What a time 😩)

There really is so much to unpack here, isn’t there? And god do I really wish we didn’t have to unpack any of it because I wish Thomas was staying with us. As if losing Mats wasn’t enough heartbreak already 😭 But here we are.

So, let’s start with him and Manu, shall we? Our decade partners, married for 15 years. Our mainstays. Two halves of one Kapitän—the interwoven threads of our captain’s armband. They were supposed to be inseparable. As I always say, they’re Bayern’s heart and soul. It almost felt predestined; they were supposed to retire at Bayern together. They deserved that happy ending and now they’re never going to get it. Football is a cruel mistress.

It’s funny…although it hurt to say goodbye to so many legends over the years, there was a comfort in knowing that at least we still had them. At least Thomas and Manu were still at Bayern and we could count on them being there for years to come. Now that won’t be true anymore. And nothing will make up for that.

As much as I want Thomas to keep playing if that’s truly what he wants, I’m right there with you; it’ll be so hard to stomach him in another club’s shirt. Since the beginning, all he’s ever known and loved was Bayern. And I think the whole situation is made worse by knowing he won’t be leaving by choice. While I agree with you that if he does go to some other club, he’ll integrate quickly (because what’s not to love about him after all), it won’t be home. It won’t be home because he was already forced from that home.

And god, if anyone earned the right to make their own decision—to leave Bayern Munich on their own terms, it was Thomas. He gave his life for the club. He was loyal from the beginning to the bitter end. And yet the club couldn’t give him the same loyalty in return. Worse still, by not offering him a reduced salary, they basically told him that his loyalty meant nothing. It was never about the money for Thomas. He would’ve stayed at Bayern for the love of it if they’d let him. I think that’s what kills me most; I wanted so much more for Thomas, not just because he deserved it, but because he wanted so much more. He said it himself: this decision didn’t align with his personal wishes. He didn’t ask to be collateral damage—to be caught in the crossfire of club politics and board disputes—and yet that’s what they made him. That’s what a lifetime of love and devotion earned him. To say it isn’t fair is the ultimate understatement.

This picture feels like a slap in the face—like some sort of cruel joke. Worse still, even though the board essentially ripped the Bayern crest straight from Thomas’ heart, they had the nerve to smile. Like Thomas falling on his sword to spare the club’s finances was somehow a mutual decision. Give me a break.

Sorry, I’m just so angry right now. I might be going back to Munich this month as well, so I’ll gladly join your one-person protest if you’ll have me. I genuinely think the board underestimated the love us fans have for Thomas; I think if you start a peaceful protest, you’ll be far from alone in it 🫂

Luckily, Thomas Müller’s legacy has been and always will be more than what the board could offer him. Try as they might, the board can’t ever take that away from him. They can’t take away the way a skinny, scrawny little Bayern Munich fan born in Weilheim and raised in Pähl would not only stand toe-to-toe with giants, but would run circles around them and outwit them at every turn. They can’t take away the way his genius left defenders dazed and goalkeepers stunned, or the unselfish way he helped every striker he worked with (and every other teammate of his) find the best version of themselves. They can’t take away every time he made his teammates laugh, or every time he stepped in as a surrogate coach when our real one was struggling. And most of all, they can’t take away the way we, the fans, loved him and always will. See, even though the board tried to taint his legacy, they can’t change the fact that that little boy surrounded by Bayern gear got to live his dream. Whether they like it or not, he is more FC Bayern München than they will ever be—than they could ever hope to be.

And will he come back to Bayern one day? I really hope so, because if anyone represents the club—if anyone could do Bayern justice, it’s Thomas. After all, he knows what mia san mia means better than anyone else ❤️ he is what this club needs, now and always.

[dogloveri23]

Fangs Of A Monster

Pairing: Suguru Geto x gn!reader

Warning: murder, death, angst

A/n: Welcome to the blog anniversary. It's been 4 years writing for you all. Thought I'd drop a little something for you all from today till the end of the week(hopefully ) to commemorate the day!

"Suguru? Suguru? Where are you?", you call out but I'm met with silence. The door was left wide open which was strange for Suguru's parents.

You could feel your arm hurt as you ran your fingers along the wall. You weren't the strongest sorcerer and your body knew that better than anyone. Well... anyone but Geto. You hadn't gotten the chance to head back to Jujutsu High. Not when he hadn't informed you of his status. He was not in Jujutsu High. That's all you knew.

You can sense any curse energy seeping out of the house. It was familiar but much too ominous. The house is in perfect order. Nothing spilt, nothing torn and the quiet humming of the TV but the smell was horrendous.

You take a look at the pictures on the wall and smile. You watch as they progress and look at the changes Suguru has undergone. His wide and toothy grin gradually fell into a sly and curt smile as each picture passed. When you compare it to the latest picture of him on the wall, it doesn't look anything like a smile.

"Suguru?," You cross the boundaries even further finally reaching the living room. The smell had increased ten-fold. The couch seemed empty but the table in front of it was amiss. You walk closer and are met with the lower halves of two bodies. That was what stunk. You jump back and press your arms tightly against your lips to keep you from screaming.

They were Geto's parents or at least what remained of them. "Does Geto know about this? Has he seen them?" you think. The grotesque bodies in front of you were covered in maggots and flies meaning it had been like this for a few days.

You rush out of the house with a bitter taste in your mouth. Something was wrong. A curse had clearly done it, the bite was massive, and no animal on earth could do it without some sort of assistance.

You tap violently against your screen before bringing it to your ear. You needed to see him. You needed to be sure he was ok. That he had someone near him. Someone he loved!

"Hello my love, were you looking for me," You hear him say as he approaches you in the hallway of the apartment building. You end the call and sigh in relief. He was alive but something was wrong.

"Geto! Are you hurt?," You rush to him and inspect him for any injuries it marks he did not leave jujutsu high with.

"I am fine, my love."

"Your parents, they-"

"I know"

"How are you so calm?"

"Because your parents are the same way."

"What?," You question, his statement not fully registering in your mind.

"I mean that they died the same way yours did. Did you not know? Don't tell me you came to Tokyo to search for me without ever stopping to see your parents-" He smiled. "-You really are the best partner a man could ever ask for."

Your eyes were wide when he laughed. The way he always did. He relayed the message that your parents died and was laughing!

"What is wrong with you Suguru? You can't say all that and laugh. Have you gone mad?"

"Pardon me, my love. But you can't expect me to be sad that a couple of monkeys died."

"Monkeys? What do yo-"

"I guess I'll have to say it. I killed them. I have no regrets about it either. I have a plan to erase curses from the face of the earth for good! They were a small price to pay-"

"They were my parents Geto! Our parents. You had no right to take their life!"

"They were non-jujutsu sorcerers, they bred curses and they shackled you,"

"Shackled me? You've truly gone mad Geto!"

"You told me that if I ever had anything I needed, you were in, I didn't even have to ask-"

"Not when it involves killing people! Geto! Not when it involves killing my parents and everyone you consider a Monkey!"

"You may not understand but I did it all for us. I couldn't stand to keep tasting curses, nor did I want you to keep getting hurt fighting them."

You never asked him to do this. So what if you get hurt? What if you get into a bit of trouble? You come out alive! You fell silent, a single question lingering on your mind.

"If-if I couldn't use curses, would you kill me too?", You asked quietly. You weren't sure what answer you wanted to hear. The man in front of you was nothing like the man you once knew. This man was over the edge and he intended to drag you along with him.

He fell silent, he was thinking. He had given me his answer.

"You would."

"Love I-"

"Don't call me that! Not after what you've done."

"Don't say th-"

"I shouldn't? Let me say this instead. I never want to see you again, Geto. The next time you see me, consider me your enemy."

"Love please I-," Geto can't get the words to form when you storm past him down the hallway. He feels his chest burn and suddenly it feels as though this was God's way of paying him back for his wrongs. This fate was much worse than the deaths of any of the Monkeys he had killed. He had lost the best piece of him, you.

[utdrmv-confession-box]

Transcript: I honestly kind of hate when people separate Asriel and Flowey as characters in fan content, it’s just so much more good for him narrative wise to be the same person. The character arc is IMMENSE, and literally so fucking tragically good you don’t even understand. It just reduces Asriel to “qwq poor little cinnamon roll, could do no wrong, the sweetest little crybaby scrimb” and Flowey to “hehehehHAHAHAH evil psychotic fourth wall breaking gremlin weed”

Isn’t it just more interesting to see Asriel go from a privileged sheltered royal child, to facing the cruel realities of the world through being introduced to chara, a very likely much less fortunate, edgy child. He then is introduced to emo shit by Chara because come ON they are both like 12 at most. Making shitty oc’s and shit(looking at you epic god of hyper death, this is also why I think Chara refers to themselves as a demon, it’s both a reflection of their tween edginess and eventually a self-villainising coping mechanism). But he has to maintain his perfect golden child persona, and starts to feel the pressures of being royal; he’d already have issues with loneliness before Chara came along too I think.

And then, what becomes of him. I like to believe that being soulless does not render him incapable of emotion/caring for people. It’s a trauma response. And as he grows as an individual (unintentional pun), he’s have to grapple with not only the things he’s done but how much he has changed as a person. How he genuinely went from kindness even in the face of certain death to “kill or be killed”. How that was a genuine mindset born out of bitterness. And how eventually those two halves of both his jaded and his pure pre-trauma brain reconcile to a compromise of “Don’t kill, but don’t get killed, alright?”

Doesn’t that just make for so much of a better well-rounded character?