#but its still horrifying seeing it happen

[flawseer]

Hi! I’m a big fan of your art and work over all

I’ve been wondering, since I’ve seen you give your thoughts on some other dragons, what are your thoughts on Clay?

On Clay...

Clay. I’ve talked about him for a bit in a previous post somewhere. He is the first protagonist in the entire series and thus serves as our introduction into this world. While he enters the story with his own emotional baggage, he pretty much resolves all of that within the first book and mellows out from then on, fading into the background as a quiet support character.

Because of that it is maybe easy to dismiss Clay as that big guy who talks about food a lot and doesn’t do much else. But I do think he’s a bit more complex than that and is a well-rounded character with things going on in his own right.

CW: Discussion of physical abuse.

Formative Years

Clays early years were molded heavily by his belief that he almost killed Tsunami while she was hatching. He believed this because his guardians, mostly Kestrel, insisted this is what happened. Of course at the end of the first book we learn that this wasn’t the case and that they were just misinformed about how Mudwings work.

To us, this may all seem absolutely ridiculous. We look at Clay and see this obvious gentle giant without a malicious bone in his body angsting about being a blood-crazed monster. But for Clay himself, this was a very real, very horrifying situation. Suspend your disbelief for a moment. His entire childhood was marred by the crushing guilt of almost having murdered his surrogate sister at birth, and he couldn’t remember why he did it. He understood nothing about this situation, and didn’t know if this secret violent side could even resurface one day. Basic things like going to sleep would become terrifying; he may have laid awake, wondering whether his body might act on its own as soon as he fell unconscious. Just like back then, when it acted before he could even form coherent thoughts. The fear of losing control to the monster and waking up on top of a loved one’s mangled body was always there.

This perception of himself as a violent killer was at odds with his social nature as a Mudwing. He loved his surrogate siblings with the same intensity that any Mudwing would love their own, and thus he hated the part of himself that threatened them. As a direct response to this dissonant view, Clay developed a desire to protect them. If he willed himself to shield them from getting hurt with all of his strength, he would never be able to harm them again. This was his way of coping with the fear.

It is pretty apparent from the text that at least Kestrel was physically abusive towards them. Dune was possibly too, Webs I don’t think so, but he also didn’t do anything to stop it. As Clay grew older I think he began to recognize the patterns. He would start deliberately acting in ways so that most of Kestrel’s ire would be redirected towards himself instead of the others. This is why all the Dragonets of Destiny have such deep respect for Clay; they remember him always standing between them and Kestrel, even as he ended up with more and more scars for it.

Luckily, he is able to reconnect with his Mudwing heritage at the end of book 1 and learns that he never was that blood-crazed murderer the guardians insisted he was. But even so, the scars and memories would never fully fade, and he’d never lose sight of the need to protect his loved ones.

Personality and Interests

Clay’s love of food and eating is well-established, to the point where it sometimes seems like it is his only character trait from book 2 onwards. This is normal; he’s got a big body and I assume the self-regenerative properties inherent to Mudwings burn a lot of calories, so he needs to eat a lot to refuel them. I think there’s a bit more to him still though.

Clay is at his happiest when he can either prevent someone else’s pain, or take it away. Conversely he becomes distressed when he sees someone suffering. I believe he is incredibly earnest and built close to water. He cries easily, though never in response to his own pain or suffering. He feels positive emotions very strongly and can get overwhelmed that way, especially when he sees his loved ones happy. When he cries, he does so openly and without shame. It is very unsatisfying to tease him because he will usually just take what people say to him at face value and thus make them feel bad.

He’s also very physically affectionate and huggy.

People who meet Clay often get the impression that he is book dumb, or just stupid in general. This is not the case, as Clay does have a capacity for learning even complex subject matter. I just think he struggles with subjects he can’t see a practical application for, or aren’t relevant to things he wants to do. He has little interest in memorizing ancient figures or learning how to measure the sides of a triangle

When Glory fights Deathbringer in book 3, she makes mention of a “dragon anatomy class” which I assume was taught by Webs. Clay, as much as he struggled with history and numbers, excelled at this particular class because its insight could be used to keep people safe. As such, whenever the need for it arises, Clay is usually quick to act as the group’s primary healer/medical advisor.

(Excerpts from WoF graphic novels 2 and 3, censored for blood.)

This notion is further supported by the fact that, once they all become teachers at the Jade Mountain Academy, Clay is the one to lead an anatomy class, just like the one he attended before.

In conclusion

Clay is pretty much everyone’s big brother. While he isn’t as eccentric and colorful as the people he is surrounded by, his earnestness and general benevolence make him the backbone of the Dragonets of Destiny. Whenever anyone has a deeply-rooted, serious problem they are hesitant to bring up with others, Clay will usually be the first person considered as a confidant. Tsunami and Starflight know he would never judge or shame them no matter how ridiculous the thing they approach him with. Glory trusts him with her emotions whenever her stoic facade cracks. And Sunny has an incredibly strong bond with him.

I think that makes him pretty cool, even if he doesn’t really have much to do anymore once he overcomes his personal demons. I’m happy that he gets to be happy in the end.

[queenwille]

Hey, as a non Jewish person I have found your blog rly educational on the conflict and rly appreciate it! I've seen a lot of diff debunking posts related to Hamas and the war but not a lot on the whole Israel stopping aid or Israel supposedly being the ones to violate the ceasefire thing. Do you know a) if there's any merit to those claims b) if they're being misconstrued and/or c) if they're based in antisemitism at all that I should be calling out? Ty!

hey there, missed this amongst all the spam. sorry. i guess you’re no longer here, but i’ll answer anyways, just in case.

i’m glad you’re finding it useful and i appreciate you letting me know, it means a lot! 🫶🏽

a) well, it depends on how you look at it. for example, hamas didn’t go through with literally one of the hostages exchange as agreed. obviously literally no one, but israel, cared and israel was expected to be the bigger man and just “let it go”, as if it didn’t matter and didn’t have real significance to its people. well… israel did consider it as a ceasefire violation each and every time and ,ofc, per usual it was frowned upon by the woke west when israel very carefully reacted to it (worried to lose the remaining hostages of phase A, not of what the west thought, even though it felt ridiculous each time to see them turn the blind eye). then phase A ended and as we all feared, they went into another “yeah ofc we want a deal” and nothing happened for a long while and both sides kept teasing each other until yep, israel officially broke the ceasefire and cut the aid. the israeli government claims that pressuring hamas with military and aid, will force them to take a deal quicker. as an israeli, i do find it extremely important to add that the renewal of the war happened during nighttime (local time) and we literally woke up to the news and were as horrified to learn it. a very large portion of israelis are against what’s happening due to how dangerous it is to our 59 hostages, many of them struggling to stay alive 556 days today. we do believe that a deal is the only way to go.

b) well, the short answer is yes. as i said, some of it is true, but just not accurate. for example, food trucks not reaching in certain parts of gaza due to hamas soldiers taking over the aid trucks once they entered the strip, there were literal videos of it. israel was still blamed for how much aid it lets in, even though it literally didn’t matter bc armed men would stand on it and shoot anyone who’d get anywhere near it. the narrative is so messed up at this point that i’m not sure if they bother trying to check for the truth. what i find amazing is that they usually think we’re uninformed or indifferent over what’s happening over the other side of the border, which is incorrect, but they simply never bother asking for our opinions.

c) idk if it’s rooted in antisemitism, but they sure use it all the time. when they use jewish rhetoric or jewish history such as the holocaust and nazis to offend us, it’s antisemitic. when they cancel jewish history and mock it, it’s antisemitic. when they cancel mizrahi, spharadi, ethiopian, shomroni & other jews by calling all jews europeans its… can you guess what? i could go on, but i guess you get my point.

hope i stayed on topic and didn’t let my adhd take me away, thanks for asking 💙

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Charles representation enjoyed here again! I’ve not read much of the comics bc I can’t afford them but I just rewatched FC and I was wondering if Charles being paralyzed is the same in the comics (Erik doing it)? Do they often include that part of his story?

hello my inquisitive friend :] !!!! im more than happy to give some more info bout the origins charles' disability in the comics- to the best of my abilities that is !

while they don't include an origin for his paralysis in EVERY story/run, as far as i know there are three major ways charles loses his mobility (though like yourself, i havent read many of the comics so far, so i could be missing a few. this is the part where i invite readers to submit additional info if im leaving any out)

the very first manner of charles losing his legs was relayed to us in the original X-Men run of the 60's in issue #20

(X-Men #20: "I, Lucifer!")

before magneto was regarded as charles' main adversary there was the extraterrestrial lucifer (who sported the same color scheme, ironically. it wasnt as though lucifer came before magneto so it was definitely A Choice..) who charles would have a semi-reoccurring feud with for a bit early on in the series. during their first encounter, charles would corner lucifer in his lair only to have a stone slab dropped on him, disabling his legs indefinitely

the second manner in which charles loses his mobility- and the time where erik is the most involved and is most deliberate- comes from. Our Favorite Universe in 2001: The Ultimate Universe

(Ultimate X-Men #1: "The Tomorrow People")

as is typically how charles x magneto team-up arcs go, while charles and erik worked together for some time it wasn't very long before erik wanted to pursue more Dramatic Measures for mutantkind. and As This Story Goes, amidst trying to escape the savage lands sanctuary he and erik built, erik drove a metal spike through charles' spine, leading to his disability in this verse

lastly, we have the House of M- or more specifically its prequel miniseries, Civil War: House of M- verse in 2008:

(Civil War: House of M #2: "Revolution")

(Civil War: House of M #3: "Reign")

similar to Ultimate and the movies, this is another timeline where charles and erik team up. this time however, charles is more willing to follow erik's ideas after seeing the horrors of genosha upon reading the mind of a mutant who escaped the island, and the two seek to liberate the other mutants left behind. unfortunately, during their mission, a sentinel collapses the building charles and co. are infiltrating, leading to the loss of his legs

hope you had fun reading- i had fun typing up everything and looking back at these issues :] !

[pkmoth]

having swap au thoughts. *slaps roof of claus* there's so much mental illness in this guy. im gonna blow up everyone in the room and then myself

[suffarustuffaru]

arc 8 ottosuba and mutually assured destruction (devotion)

basically i wanna talk about this again but more Specifically bc they are gonna fuck each other over so fucking bad. like this is the most disastrous combo of all time. you got natsuki subaru who has rbd AND a suicide pill in his fucking mouth that he can use at any time AND he will die as many times as it takes to save Anyone he cares about. and then you pair him with otto suwen, aka a devoted little freak whos willing to let entire countries and millions of people, including people subaru cares about, die to save subaru. and otto has died for subaru twice now and will gladly do so again on top of that. they are the absolute worst combo of all time bc natsuki "ill save you no matter how many times i die" subaru and otto "i would let anyone and anything die to save you" suwen are inevitably going to come into conflict. otto wont let subaru die at any cost but subaru having rbd means that hes gonna win no matter what. hes gonna get what he wants. hes gonna die and theres nothing otto can do to stop it. and even if otto does stop subaru, its a lose lose bc either subaru dies and uses the info he got to beat otto next time, or subaru and otto end up having more fights with each other anyway, or otto does end up stopping subaru in some way (example: otto wanting louis to die) and subaru gets pissed at him over it, or all the otto permadeath flags end up being real and otto dies permanently and subarus gonna be destroyed and i bet ottos still gonna be like "i told you we shouldve left vollachia when we had the chance" on his literal deathbed bc him permadying proves his literal point this whole arc. and subaru can save otto all he wants but if otto ever figures out this hurts subaru in any way ottos never going to get over it. hes gonna be upset and pissed forever. there is no winning with these two. their devotion is violent and theyve literally found their match in each other. bc their devotion strips the other person of their own free will and choice in the manner bc they keep saying "no. i have to save you no matter what, even if you get upset at what im doing and even if i do all of this behind your back without ever telling you." and if they keep being stubborn theyre just gonna end up dragging each other down - which is the exact opposite of their goals to save each other. they are likely going to kill each other by the end of this, metaphorically or not. and its going to be because of love. do you understand. how do you save someone who wants to save you first. how do you save someone whos devoted themselves to you, body and soul, in the most violent way possible.

also if otto manages to read the tome once its restored... he's gonna figure out rbd.

[hiddenbeks]

oh also in other news. i finally finished leviathan the other day

[woodsborostabathon]

when a piece of media lowkey kinda seems funny as fuck sometimes but u got a severe lifelong phobia of it that u have Tried to get over to really almost no avail so u gotta just mind ur business

[toestalucia]

got a friend request whos profile comment was just "belial..."

[caterwaul-of-crows]

I was able to find a Smithsonian article about the dna findings for free & it brings up some interesting commentary about our modern cultural perceptions impact how we conduct anthropological understandings !! + how a handful of these individuals aren’t “European”; their casts possibly been artistically edited to exaggerate certain features of their imprints back in the later 1800’s . A very fascinating insight into the before mentioned modern interpretations impacting science but also an equally upsetting and intriguing look into the initial point of this post . Certain bodies will be on display to be gawked at but it’s controlled how they’re presented . People’s lives & bodies become a mode of artistic liberty’s & something to have viewers interpretations of them being projected onto instead of respected as their individual culture & lives outside of our own . I dunno it’s facilitating highly recommend giving the article a read !!

I was rambling on the issue of museums and human remains and how certain populations are more likely to have their bodies put on display to be gawked at and then went "well I guess the Pompeii casts were of Europeans. there are bones in there right?" and Googled it to make sure, at which point I confirmed that yes there are bones in there, but more interestingly DNA testing revealed that a cast of an adult holding a child everyone assumed was a mother and child were, in fact, a man and a kid entirely unrelated to him. Honestly that's more moving to me. Maybe they were connected in a way other than blood, but maybe a stranger saw a child when the world was ending and thought the one thing he could do was hold them.

[bobcross1010]

Guys World Link Tsukasa and Colfes Tsukasa are in the same fucking month. What the fuck do I do.

[solsticehymns]

liar, liar: oneshot

james potter x f!reader / fluff / romcom vibes / truth serum shenanigans

summary: James Potter doesn’t mean to confess his feelings. Or overshare. Or humiliate himself in front of the girl he’s in love with. But when a truth-telling potion takes hold, he doesn’t really have a choice.

a/n: recently rewatched liar liar. EXCELLENT MOVIE. even though jim carrey’s face makes me irrationally angry, the plot is so good and heartwarming. this fic was heavily inspired by those vibes, and kinda just that 90s romcom vibe in general! really hope you love it <333 xoxo, sunny ☀️🌻💞

wc: 3963

"You know," Sirius began, his voice thick with scrambled eggs, "if they can't manage to cook bacon properly, they really shouldn’t be serving it at all. It’s practically criminal."

Remus, barely glancing up from the Daily Prophet, replied with practiced indifference, "You say that every morning."

"And every morning, I’m still right," Sirius said, stabbing at a charred piece of bacon with melodramatic flair.

James Potter, seated between them, was only marginally involved in the conversation. The bulk of his attention—an alarming, disproportionate amount—was focused a few seats down the Gryffindor table, where you were nestled beside Lily Evans with a steaming cup of tea cradled between your hands. You laughed at something she said, a sound so soft and clear that it reached him easily over the low hum of breakfast chatter. James didn’t even hear the joke. The moment you smiled, his brain short-circuited—something sparked, overloaded, and went still.

He lifted his goblet of pumpkin juice, took a slow sip, and set it back down carefully. A droplet slid down the rim, clinging to his finger. He wiped it away absently, still looking at you.

There was something specific about mornings and you—a quiet kind of softness. Your hair was still slightly tousled from sleep, your oversized jumper hung loosely on your frame, and your hands gripped the mug as if it anchored you to the table. You leaned in, laughing again, and the sound caught in James's chest like a hook.

You weren’t trying to be radiant. That was the worst part. You didn’t angle for attention—you just had that gravitational pull, the kind of beauty that rearranged a room without asking permission. And James was, academically speaking, utterly and irreversibly besotted.

This wasn’t new. It had been happening slowly, over months—maybe even years. A quiet, resigned sort of yearning that made itself at home beneath his ribcage; a second heartbeat. He realized he was in too deep when he stopped fantasizing about declarations and started yearning for the ordinary. Sharing a table in the library. Catching your eye across a hallway. The occasional accidental touch that felt far too meaningful.

He’d made peace with the ache. As long as he got to see you every day, he could live with it.

Peter nudged him with a mouthful of toast. "Did you finish the Transfiguration essay?"

James’s jaw tightened. He was about to deliver a casual, harmless answer. Something that passed as effort.

Instead, what he said was, "Didn't even open the book."

Silence.

James blinked.

What the hell?

He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t even consciously thought it.

Remus slowly lowered his newspaper. "Come again?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "That’s not the James Potter we know and grudgingly tolerate."

James felt a prickling heat crawl up his neck. He tried again.

"I meant to, but I got distracted. By a leaf. Or a bird. Something shiny. I don’t know."

The words tumbled out uncontrollably. He slapped both hands over his mouth, a feeble attempt at containing the damage. His cheeks were already burning, and his eyes darted around as if he could chase the words down and pull them back.

Don’t speak. Don’t even breathe, he warned himself.

Sirius grinned, delighted. "Did you just involuntarily confess to procrastinating?"

James whispered, horrified, "I didn’t mean to. It just—happened. Like my mouth’s operating on its own."

Remus's smile faltered. He looked mildly concerned now.

Before anyone could respond, your voice cut through the moment.

"Did you hit your head this morning, Potter?"

You were looking at him, bemused, your head tilted slightly. You were clearly unaware that James was in the middle of a full-blown crisis.

He turned toward you with the intention of brushing it off—something witty, something safe.

His brain screamed: Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it—

"You're the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen and I think about your smile at least three times an hour."

Dead silence.

Your eyes widened.

James felt as if someone had suddenly electrocuted his nervous system. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

You blinked, once, then twice, and let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. "Right. You definitely hit your head."

You stood, tucked your book under your arm, and offered him one last look—a half-smile, curious and a little amused. An unknown emotion flickered in your expression before you turned away.

Gone.

James’s hand froze mid-air, toast still suspended as if caught in a still photograph.

His stomach plummeted.

Across the table, Sirius collapsed forward, laughter shaking his shoulders.

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly regretting every decision that had brought him to this moment.

Peter leaned in cautiously. "Mate, what the hell was that?"

James turned to them slowly, wide-eyed and pale. "What did you do?"

Sirius beamed and gestured vaguely to the cluster of goblets in the center of the table. One still held a faint swirl of orange juice.

"This," he said reverently, "is the single best moment of my life."

James’s voice came out sharp and panicked. "Tell me. Now."

Remus hesitated, fidgeting with the edge of his paper. "We might have… accidentally tested something. On you."

James stiffened. "Tested what?"

Sirius leaned back smugly. "The pumpkin juice. We brewed a variant of Veritaserum last night. Just for fun. You drank the one we spiked. Or maybe it was the goblet next to it. Jury’s still out."

"Lucky you," Remus added, not meeting James’s eyes.

James dropped his toast. It landed butter-side down with a soft, tragic thud.

He didn’t blink.

"Oh," he said flatly. "Fuck."

James spent the subsequent hours engaging in a masterclass of avoidance tactics. He deliberately skipped lunch, took unnecessarily long routes between classes, and at one point, concealed himself behind a seventh-floor tapestry for seventeen excruciating minutes while you stood just a few feet away, engrossed in conversation with Dorcas Meadowes.

It was not dignified. But then again, dignity had abandoned him somewhere between blurting out "you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen" and letting his toast fall like a tragic Victorian heroine succumbing to fate.

Remus assured him that the potion’s effects would wear off by mid-afternoon. James clung to that prediction like a drowning man to driftwood, crafting mental versions of the day in which he might make it through without hemorrhaging any further fragments of pride. Yet with each step he took toward the next class, doubt clawed at him—what if the potion lingered just long enough to obliterate his remaining social capital? The uncertainty scratched under his skin, carrying a similar feeling to an irreversible hex.

Sirius, on the other hand, made it his personal mission to test the serum’s potency every fifteen minutes.

"Prongs, mate, how do you really feel about Filch?"

"He smells like cabbage and despair, and I once dreamt he chased me with a ladle."

Sirius erupted into delighted laughter.

James groaned into his hands. "This is it. I’m going to die of Veritaserum-induced emotional exposure."

"You’ll survive," Remus said, although his tone suggested he was still conducting the risk assessment in real time.

They scraped through Herbology with minimal disaster. James uttered only one vaguely mortifying remark—"She hugged me once and I still think about how she smelled"—which he managed to reframe as a Weird Sisters lyric. Barely.

But Transfiguration? That was a catastrophe waiting in slow motion.

With exams approaching, McGonagall had declared the day a review session, which in practice meant organized chaos. Students clustered at scattered tables, muttering incantations under their breath, cross-referencing spellwork, and trying not to Vanish their self-respect alongside practice objects. James sat toward the back. You were near the front, half-turned toward your group so that he could see the slope of your shoulder and the line of your smile when you laughed.

You were surrounded by Lily, Dorcas, and Marlene—quills scratching, parchment rustling, the occasional gasp of horror as someone’s Vanishing Spell rendered an entire desk legless. James was meant to be revising. Instead, his hand trembled and his heart pounded like it had something to prove.

His notes were illegible. The phrase "turn to smoke???" appeared multiple times, alongside a sketch of a teacup that looked suspiciously like it was weeping. His quill tapped an erratic beat against the parchment.

Across from him, Sirius arched an eyebrow, already grinning.

"So," he said, low and gleeful, just loud enough, "how exactly do you feel about her again?"

James didn’t even look up. The words left him instinctively.

"She’s a walking daydream, and I’ve got about four essays overdue because of her face."

It echoed.

Not quietly. Not subtly. It was loud enough to carry over to three tables in the vicinity

Heads turned. Someone choked on a cough. Sirius bit his fist, shaking with the effort not to fall off his chair.

James froze.

His entire body went rigid—quill suspended mid-air, lungs locked in his chest. It was as if the very fabric of time had paused to acknowledge his downfall.

Then—movement.

You paused mid-sentence. Lily tapped your shoulder with subtle urgency. Dorcas leaned in, her expression intrigued. Marlene glanced over her shoulder with the kind of grin reserved for front-row seats to emotional train wrecks.

You listened. Blinked slowly.

Then—deliberately—you turned.

The entire table held its collective breath.

Your gaze found James’s like a targeting spell—brows raised, eyes wide. Not offended. Not amused. Just... intrigued. Like you'd heard something strange and didn’t know what to do with it yet—but wanted to.

James wanted the floor to open beneath him and deliver him mercifully into the void. He briefly entertained the idea of self-immolation.

But then—you smiled.

A small one. Tentative. Surprised, maybe. But not dismissive. Not cruel.

You turned back around, and chaos resumed. Lily covered her mouth. Dorcas said something that made Marlene snort into her sleeve. Whatever it was, it was very clearly about James.

James stared at the back of your head, wondering if it might offer a second chance if he looked hard enough.

Sirius was wheezing. Remus had buried his face in his hands. Peter knocked over his inkpot in the ensuing shockwave.

James slumped forward with a groan that seemed to exit his soul before his body.

He was, by every available metric, completely and irrevocably screwed.

He had barely taken ten steps from the classroom when a voice behind him called out.

"Potter."

He turned too quickly—jerky and obvious—and almost collided with you as you stepped directly into his path.

You didn’t flinch. You simply stood there, arms folded loosely, head tilted, gaze calm and inquisitive. The corridor had mostly emptied by now, the background noise reduced to the distant echo of footsteps and muffled voices behind heavy wooden doors.

James’s heart performed a complicated sequence of flips before lodging itself somewhere uncomfortably near his throat.

You met his eyes with an unreadable expression—curious, composed, lightly amused. Like you’d opened a door and were standing on the threshold, waiting to see if he’d walk through it.

"Quick question," you said, tone airy but precise. "Was that... about me?"

His mouth opened. Instinct surged to the front of his mind—sarcasm, a joke, maybe even a clumsy attempt at denial. But his thoughts lagged just behind his reflexes, and before he could intercept them, the words had already spilled out.

"Yeah," he said plainly. "And by the way, you’re absurdly pretty. Like—genuinely hard to function around. Painfully so."

Silence fell with the weight of a dropped textbook.

You blinked. Once. Then again.

James stood frozen, every synapse in his body firing off simultaneously, as though his nervous system couldn’t decide between fight, flight, or faint. His ears were burning. His hands twitched at his sides, completely useless.

Finally, you let out a soft laugh. It wasn’t cruel, or mocking. Just surprised. Genuine.

"You’re strange, Potter."

James flailed—just barely—before shoving his hands into his pockets like it might prevent further disaster.

"No—I mean, not in a creepy way. Or, alright, maybe slightly weird, but not bad-weird. I just think you’re... brilliant. And kind. And I notice when you wear that jumper with the rip in the sleeve because it makes you look comfortable. And I should probably stop talking now."

You looked at him for a moment that stretched longer than it should have. Not unkind. Not amused. Something else—curious, thoughtful. As if you were seeing him clearly for the first time and hadn't yet decided what to make of it.

Your lips curled slightly.

You tilted your head. Evaluating. Deciding.

Then, finally, you smiled.

It was mischievous and warm, soft-edged and self-assured—the kind of smile that could level a person without trying.

"See you in Charms, heartthrob."

You turned and walked away with unhurried confidence, like you knew exactly the mess you were leaving in your wake.

James remained rooted in place, too stunned to move, like the rest of his body hadn’t caught up with what had just happened.

Crunch.

Sirius appeared beside him, seemingly conjured out of thin air, munching loudly on an apple with the casual demeanor of someone watching a soap opera.

"You’re done for, mate," he said cheerfully. "She’s gonna marry you."

James emitted a sound that hovered somewhere between a gasp and a wheeze.

Sirius thumped him on the back with unearned confidence. "Better start writing your vows."

Charms was an unmitigated disaster.

James had spent the walk to class muttering desperate prayers to any higher power that might take pity on him. Maybe Flitwick would assign partners alphabetically. Or by wand length. Or perhaps he’d adopt some arbitrary sorting system blessed by divine chance—anything to keep James from sitting next to you.

No such luck.

The universe, as it turned out, had a cruel sense of humor.

You slid into the seat beside him, entirely casual, like his whole nervous system hadn’t just tried to exit his body at the sight of you.

“Hi,” you said simply.

“Hi,” he replied, voice cracking like a prepubescent banshee. He cleared his throat. “Hi.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You doing alright?”

He gave a thumbs-up. Then immediately regretted it. Who does that?

Sirius, two rows back, made eye contact and mimed a halo over his head.

Flitwick launched into a lecture on the Cheering Charm, but James only caught every fifth word. Something about “light-hearted energy” and “proper wand movement,” none of which applied to the doom currently devouring his insides. His palms were damp. His quill was trembling slightly. His knee wouldn’t stop bouncing under the desk.

You leaned closer, one elbow resting casually on the table as you peered at his parchment.

“Is that supposed to be a diagram of a wand or a tree?”

James blinked at the mess of lines he’d drawn. “It’s—neither. Abstract art.”

You grinned, wide and easy, and he felt it as a punch to the sternum. His heart lurched so hard it practically knocked the air out of him. You had no idea what that smile did to him—how it short-circuited whatever logic he had left.

You turned your attention back to your notes, but your voice was light. Curious. Teasing.

“Do you always talk like this to girls, or just me?”

James didn’t even have time to panic.

“It’s just you. Always been you.”

The words hit the air like a dropped pin in an empty room.

You blinked.

He stared at the table, mortified. His ears burned. He could feel Sirius’s psychic scream of glee from two rows away. He’d said it. Out loud. He’d said it out loud.

But you didn’t laugh, tease, or mock, as he had feared.

You only looked at him. Really looked at him.

Your expression held something quiet. Not surprise. Not pity. Something gentler—measured and soft. A flicker of understanding that warmed rather than burned.

James’s breath snagged in his throat. His fingers curled slightly around the base of his quill as he struggled to keep himself grounded. For one agonizing, wonderful moment, he thought he might cry—out of embarrassment, yes, but also because the moment was real.

And then—

You turned back to your wand.

Said nothing.

Your cheeks were slightly pink, your smile just barely visible as you bent over your parchment again. But you didn’t move away. You didn’t laugh it off. You stayed close, like the moment didn’t scare you the way it terrified him.

James blinked in the echo of it—your kindness, your quiet acceptance—completely undone.

He didn’t hear a word Flitwick said for the rest of class.

After class, James moved quickly—too quickly—trying to pack his things before reality caught up with him. If he kept his head down, avoided eye contact, and exited fast enough, maybe he could outrun the emotional catastrophe he’d spent all day teetering on.

But you didn’t leave.

“James.”

His name stopped him cold. Charms book half-shoved into his bag, his spine went rigid.

Your voice was quiet—not sarcastic, not amused. Measured. Sincere.

He turned slowly, bracing for the worst. You were standing a few feet away, arms loosely crossed, your bag hanging off one shoulder. There was nothing smug about your posture. If anything, your presence felt... gentle. And somehow, that made it harder to bear.

Your expression was hard to read, but it held no sharp edges. There was a softness in your eyes, something patient and open, like you were holding back the question that had been building all class.

“Are you okay?”

The simplicity of it landed with an almost disproportionate weight.

Because you meant it.

James blinked, unprepared. His brain scrambled to summon a joke, a quip—something light enough to float him out of this moment.

But the truth arrived first.

"No," he said. "Not even remotely."

The honesty stunned him. It left his mouth before he could restrain it, like the words had slipped from a part of him he couldn't control. He winced as soon as it was out.

Desperate to recover, he backpedaled.

“I mean—I’m not sick or dying or anything. Just…” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Emotionally compromised. Mildly feral. Truthfully unwell."

He offered a crooked smile. It held, barely.

Your brows lifted. Not out of judgment, but consideration. You looked at him like his words were puzzle pieces you were quietly fitting together.

“Truthfully, hm?”

James looked away. Embarrassment bloomed hot across his face.

It was absurd how much weight that single word carried. He fiddled with the zipper of his bag as if the act could insulate him from further exposure.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me today,” he muttered. “My filter’s gone. I think something and then—I say it. And somehow, it’s always when you’re standing nearby.”

Still, you didn’t laugh. You didn’t mock. You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you took one small step closer.

And then, without saying anything else, you reached forward and gave the sleeve of his robes the gentlest tug. Just once. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t performative. But it said everything: I see you. I’m still here.

James swallowed hard. His throat tightened, but this time not with panic. Something else. Something quiet. Something close to relief.

You turned and walked away, unhurried, the last rays of afternoon light catching in your hair as you rounded the corner.

The classroom was silent now.

James stood motionless for several seconds before lowering himself into the nearest chair like someone had been holding him upright all day and finally let go. His bag hung off one shoulder, forgotten. His hair fell into his eyes.

He tipped his head back and groaned—long, dramatic, utterly defeated: “I am so fucking doomed.”

The Gryffindor common room was silent—eerily so.

James had barely stepped through the portrait hole when he sensed it. The stillness felt curated, like a scene hastily arranged moments before he entered.

He pivoted to leave, but Sirius materialized in his path, smiling with far too much innocence to be trusted.

“Where are you off to, Prongs?”

James squinted. “Nowhere. Anywhere. Just—not here.”

“Perfect,” Sirius chirped. “Come sit.”

Before James could object, Sirius ushered him toward the fireplace with the gentle coercion of someone leading a lamb to slaughter.

That’s when James saw you.

You were already seated on the sofa, legs folded beneath you, a forgotten book resting in your lap. The firelight danced across your features, softening the angles of your face in a golden glow.

James froze. "You planned this."

Sirius thumped him on the back. "Me? Never. Just a wildly convenient coincidence, right?"

You raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Well, would you look at that,” Sirius said, clutching his chest like he was moved to tears. “Two of my dearest friends. Alone. In the same room. Under the same roof. By sheer happenstance.” He turned to you. “Don’t mind me—I’ll just be over here, not spying and definitely not listening in.”

He took a single, dramatic step back.

“Actually, no. I should go. Destiny awaits.”

James whipped around. “Sirius—”

“Good luck!” Sirius called over his shoulder, already ascending the stairs. “Also, feel free to profess undying love! Or don’t. But you probably should.”

The portrait hole sealed behind him.

James turned to face you. You had closed your book.

“That wasn’t subtle,” you said.

James exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Not even a little.”

You rose, slow and deliberate. Arms folded—not defensive, but inquisitive.

“One question,” you said. “Why?”

James blinked. “Why...?”

You softened your tone. “Why have you been acting so strange today?”

That was all it took.

“I was dosed with a homemade version of Veritaserum,” James admitted, words tumbling out. “Sirius and Remus spiked my pumpkin juice this morning. For fun. That’s why I’ve been blurting things I’d normally take to the grave. Especially around you.”

He hesitated. Took a breath.

“Even so—I meant every word.”

You didn’t interrupt.

James’s voice quieted, like he was running out of room in his own chest.

“I don’t think I’ve ever outright lied to you, not really. It’s more that I’ve been pretending. Like saying 'morning' without letting it mean anything. Sitting near you and pretending I wasn’t waiting for you to notice.”

He let that hang between you.

“I can’t believe it took a bloody potion for me to admit I’m in love with you. I think I’ve known for ages. Maybe since third year, when you lent me your notes and smiled like I hadn’t just failed spectacularly. Or maybe fifth year, when you hexed Mulciber for picking on that first-year and shrugged it off like it was nothing. I’ve carried it for so long it stopped feeling urgent. It just became part of me.”

The fire crackled. James stared into it, hoping he would vanish.

“I didn’t plan to say that either,” he murmured under his breath.

You studied him.

Then, voice barely above a whisper: “You’re in love with me?”

He nodded, completely genuine. “Madly.”

And when you kissed him—softly, surely, like you’d already decided—James forgot how to stand still. One hand found your waist like it had always known where to go; the other hovered, then gently cupped your cheek, as though the moment might dissolve if he wasn’t careful.

Your lips were warm and real, and James felt his entire body lit with quiet flame.

You kissed him like it hadn’t scared you off. Like maybe it had pulled you closer.

When you broke apart—just enough to breathe—your forehead pressed against his.

“You really are strange, Potter,” you said.

James let out a shaky laugh. “You kissed me anyway.”

You smiled. “I suppose I like strange.”

And for once, James Potter didn’t need to speak. But if he had to, he’d spend the rest of his life figuring out the right words for you.

By morning, Remus and Sirius had double-checked the potion’s timeline. It had likely worn off sometime around Charms.

Everything after that? All James.

☀️🌻 masterlist

[tinydefector]

Do you think cybertronians ever get a bit freaked out on how tough we are? Yes they can break us like toothpicks but humans seem to be able to take a good beating as well with adrenaline helping. Even our own body and oxygen trys kills us and yet we stick around like roaches. We're fragile in some reasonable and dumb ways and then resilient in the most dumbest ways.

Oh definitely, alot of the bots are very off put by how fragile humans are just in general and tend to avoid them.

But then there's the moments like Ratchet working a late shift and a small knock on the door alerts him someone's there, he turns around expecting it to be Rodimus or Whirl who he's about to scold but instead it's one of the humans and they look worse for wear. After fussing over them for a moment, detailed scans relay fractured ribs, a broken collar bone, and a heap of bruises and yet the humans just like. "Can I have some Panadol, Nurophen, and a glass of water?" Because they don't know what else to do its what they would get. Most of the times they ended up in the hospital. Ratchet is losing his God dawn mind as he rushes around looking for the best painkillers he can find for orgaincs in the smallest dosage he can give, hoping to primus it doesn't shut their heart down. In the end, they end up on a medication that makes them extremely drowsy, almost like the green whistle/ Weed.

Ratchet ends up doing alot of study on the human body and realises just how fucked up little monsters we are. We literally need oxygen to survive but he we have to much pure oxygen it will kill us. Water, we need a certain amount of it, if we don't have enough we will get dehydrated and die, if we have to much we will get water poisoning, intoxication, or a disruption of brain function. This happens when there's too much water in our cells, such as the brain and blood cells, causing them to swell. When the cells in the brain swell, they cause pressure in the brain, resulting in death. The issue is that it can become an addiction to drinking too much water for the effect it has on the body. Same with nearly everything we consume, it can kill us, but we need a lot of it in moderation.

Human: "I just need some basic pain killers and a nap"

Bot: "No, you need full surgery, sedations, and 3 weeks of recovery!"

Human: "nah she'll be fine!"

Bot: "Absolutely Not, bed now before I cuff you"

____________

Following that imagine a first contact AU where Cybertronians and humans are just slowly getting to know how the other works and next thing a human is kneeling over in horrific pain and it send the bots all into panic mode trying to help them, wondering what's happening and thinking they are dying. And the human after about ten minutes some pain killers still looking rather pale and unhealthy just go. "Sorry about that fuck I hate, Cramps/palpitations/ phantom pains/ and such" and the bots are just looking at them horrified like.

Bot: NOT NORMAL!!!"

Human: what you talking about?

Bot: everything that just happened you literally just short circuited!

Human: nah that's causal wait till you see the really funky shit.

______________

Human pet AU

Cybertronian's keeping humans as pets is like humans keeping hamsters. Humans are some of the most homicidal, suicidal and just deranged creatures that Cybertronian's could keep as pets. It's gotten to the point that they are a luxury/ exotic pet because if you do not feed them the right stuff, give them the right amount of light and socialising, and they will just die. There are so many Cybertronian's who take their human into clinics worried as and its just the human being a little bustard because they didn't get the treat they wanted 2 weeks ago and are still holding that grudge. Not to mention, we are prone to causing as much trouble and issue. We are like cats.

But we are also very easily sick and primus forbid a human gets sick because to a bot they think it's a death sentence for their sweet little spitfire of a human who they have had now for ages. And the human looks ready to die, and the next day, they are up and about like nothing ever happened.

Human: if you don't feed me the meals I want I'm going to pretend to die. If you do feed me what I want I might actually die because I shouldn't be eating it.

Panicked bot: "MY HUMAN HAS GOTTEN SICK. HELP!?!"

Human: totally worth it.

_________

In conclusion, the cybertronians are rather wary/ concerned about how resilient humans really are.

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[josephandrewstarkey]

beach fight - part 1

warnings: angst, mentions of blood, cussing, topper, fighting, mentions of cheating, Ruthie

disclaimer: this is so satisfying to read — requests are open!!

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

The Pogues were lounging on the beach, enjoying the rare moment of peace. Y/N tried to relax, but the air felt tense, like something was about to go down. She couldn’t help but notice the Kooks pulling up in their flashy cars, parking way too close. Rafe, Topper and the rest of their stupid crew stepped out, making sure everyone saw them.

The last thing Y/N needed was to see Rafe. After everything he did— cheating on her with Sofia. it still stung. they had a thing going on for a while, he changed when they were together— but that all went away when Sofia happened. And now, here they were, together, acting like nothing had happened

Topper and JJ had made a quick agreement not to start anything. Both knew things could get messy fast, so they decided to keep it chill for the day.

Everyone settled back into their spots, but Y/N could feel the tension in her muscles. She couldn’t help glancing over at Rafe, who looked too comfortable around Sofia, his arm draped lazily over her shoulder. Her stomach twisted with a mix of anger and hurt.

Suddenly, Kiara gasped. “Guys, look!”

The Pogues’ attention snapped to the tiny turtle hatch making its way to the ocean.

Everyone gathered around, watching as the turtle moved slowly through the sand. It was a rare moment of quiet wonder, the kind that reminded them why they loved this place.

But then the loud roar of an engine shattered the peace. Ruthie’s truck tore through the sand, heading right for the turtle, swerving dangerously close to the Pogues.

“Watch out!” JJ yelled, grabbing Kiara and pulling her out of the way.

The truck barely missed them, the tires kicking up sand. Ruthie laughed from inside, clearly amused at the chaos she was causing.

“She almost killed them!” Kiara said, horrified, looking back at the little turtles still struggling through the sand.

Y/N clenched her fists, biting her tongue. Her heart raced with anger, but she tried to hold it in. Not yet, don’t explode yet.

But Ruthie wasn’t done. She spun the truck around, her laughter echoing through the air. As she drove past them again, she leaned out the window, holding a drink. Without warning, she tossed it right on Kiara, drenching her in sticky liquid and ice.

Kiara stood there, frozen, dripping wet. “Are you kidding me?”

Y/N felt the last thread of control snap. “Don’t” John B muttered, trying to keep the peace.

But Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. She stormed toward Ruthie, eyes blazing with fury, not caring what anyone said.

“Y/N, don’t!” John B called after her, but it was too late. The anger that had been building for months—Rafe’s betrayal, seeing Sofia here, Ruthie’s blatant disrespect—had reached its breaking point.

Y/N marched right up to Ruthie, who was standing by her truck now, smirking at the mess she’d caused.

“What’s your problem, you bitch?” Y/N spat, her voice shaking with rage.

Ruthie sneered, completely unfazed. “What’s yours, Pogue? Go cry about it with your dirty friends.”

That did it. Without a second thought, Y/N grabbed Ruthie by the shirt and shoved her back, hard. Ruthie stumbled, caught off guard, but before she could react, Y/N swung her fist, landing a solid punch to Ruthie’s face.

Ruthie shrieked in pain, clutching her nose as blood started to drip. “You psycho!”

The Kooks looked on in shock, unsure of what to do. Sofia’s eyes widened as she watched Y/N completely lose it. But she noticed something else—Rafe wasn’t running to Ruthie’s defense. Instead, his eyes were glued to Y/N, a mix of anger and concern flashing across his face.

Ruthie tried to fight back, but Y/N wasn’t having it. She grabbed Ruthie’s hair, yanking her down toward the sand as Ruthie let out another scream. Y/N’s fists flew, fueled by months of pent-up rage.

“Y/N!” Rafe’s voice finally broke through, but she didn’t stop. He rushed over and grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her off Ruthie. “That’s enough!”

Y/N struggled against his grip, still fuming. “Let go of me!”

Ruthie lay on the ground, crying and holding her bloody nose. Y/N had done enough damage, but the fire inside her wasn’t out.

Rafe held her tight, his breath warm against her neck as he tried to calm her down. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Get your hands off me, Rafe,” Y/N snapped, finally breaking free of his grip. She spun around to face him, her chest heaving. “What am I doing? I’m doing what you should’ve done—keeping your bitchass friends in check.”

Rafe narrowed his eyes, but Y/N didn’t give him a chance to respond. “You’ve been running around with these Kooks, pretending like nothing matters, while you’re just as bad as them. You cheated on me with her!” Y/N’s voice cracked as she pointed at Sofia, who was standing frozen, watching the whole scene unfold.

Rafe clenched his jaw, but there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “That’s not—”

“Don’t even try to defend yourself,” Y/N cut him off. “You lost that right the second you chose Sofia.”

Sofia, who had been silent this whole time, shifted uncomfortably as Rafe’s attention stayed focused on Y/N. She could see how much Y/N still affected him, how his whole demeanor changed around her. His concern, his frustration—it was all for Y/N, and that realization stung.

Y/N turned her back on Rafe and marched back toward Ruthie, who was still sitting in the sand, clutching her bleeding nose. Before anyone could stop her, Y/N grabbed Sofia’s drink from the hood of the truck and dumped it right over Ruthie’s head.

Ruthie gasped, soaked and defeated, blood and soda dripping down her face.

“Don’t ever mess with my friends again,” Y/N hissed, her voice low and dangerous.

Rafe watched in shock, still standing frozen in place, as Y/N walked back toward the Pogues. He barely noticed Sofia next to him, her face twisted in jealousy and confusion as she realized how much control Y/N still had over him.

The Pogues erupted in cheers as Y/N rejoined them. JJ slapped her on the back, laughing. “Hell yeah, Y/N! That was awesome!”

Kiara, still wiping the drink off her, grinned. “You really know how to handle things.”

But as the Pogues celebrated, Rafe stayed behind, his eyes locked on Y/N, conflicted emotions swirling inside him. Sofia glanced between them, noticing the way Rafe’s attention was fixed on Y/N, and it was clear: no matter what had happened between him and Sofia, Y/N still had a hold on him that Sofia could never break.

part 2 here

[frogmascquerade]

.

[pencil-n-pen]

HANDLE WITH CARE

₊˚⊹

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hotch x fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: spending the night at aaron’s usually puts you at ease, but not tonight. A broken mug brings up old memories, but he still has a way of soothing away old hurts.

cw: implied/referenced past abuse

a/n: honestly idk i just wanted to write hotch comfort. this has been in my drafts since like day 1 of this acc

──────────────────────

⊹ .

It’s really stupid, in hindsight.

In the moment though, it was really, really scary.

It was late. This is mistake number one.

You were trying to quietly make tea and whatever odd hour it was. You can’t check the oven timer. It just keeps flashing 12:00.

Making tea quietly is hard, though. Every sound seems to echo and all the shadows seem to crawl. You’re this close to closing the living room curtains you can see from the corner of your eye. You don’t, though. Not being able to see would be worse.

Anyway. You’re trying to make tea quietly. You’re staying over at Hotch’s —Aaron’s, as he insists you call him when you’re alone— Jack is away at a sleepover. It’s just the two of you.

You couldn’t sleep. Usually, being with Hotch is the strongest sleep aid in the world. You tend to conk out the second your arms find his in bed.

But not tonight.

Tonight you slept in fitful bursts. Your skin prickled and crawled with restless anticipation- of what, you’re not sure.

Not wanting to disturb his sleep on such a rare day off, you got up. Tried to do what you did when you had nights like these before him. Only watching tv is too loud and you don’t have any books here.

Thus: tea.

It started raining a little while after you got up. The pattering of the droplets against the roof and the windows helps drown out the racket you’re making.

You’re not really making a racket, you tell yourself. It just sounds like you are because it’s night. This would all sound normal in the daylight.

It’s the mantra that keeps you going on nights like these. You’ll feel normal in the daylight. It’ll go away in the daylight. You won’t feel so haunted in the daylight.

In the daylight, in the daylight, in the daylight.

You get lost in your thoughts. It happens fairly often on nights like these.

Only Aaron’s stove is newer than yours. It heats up faster.

The teapot lets out a terrible, wailing hiss, shattering the fragile silence.

You lunge for the kettle, hands moving too quickly and too clumsily to move it off the burner. Your fingers slip. The side of the kettle slams into your forearm, and you don’t quite manage to stamp down the pained yelp that rips its way from your throat the second the searing pain registers.

Your nervous system reacts before you do. It jerks your arm to the right, away from the kettle.

And into your empty mug.

You watch in horrified slow-motion as the cup is swiped off the counter, falling to the floor in an explosion of porcelain.

Your arm is screaming in pain. There is boiling water and a hot tea kettle on the floor. There are shards of mug everywhere.

You hear a thump. The creak of a door opening that signifies Aaron coming out of the bedroom, Aaron being awake, Aaron coming to you.

For a moment, your brain just… catches. Sort of like it gets stuck in this web of fear-induced indecision.

The footsteps sound rushed. They come closer.

To compensate for the momentary freeze, your brain kicks into its highest gear.

You drop to your knees on the floor of the kitchen so quickly they crack on the linoleum. You can’t tell if the sting is from the fall or the boiling water. Would it still be hot? Is it still hot?

The footsteps stop. You scramble to get a hold of the pieces of the mug, shaking fingers grabbing, grabbing, grabbing. They’re clutched tight in your palm when you speak, words rushed and tumbling out of your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, please go to bed, I’ll clean this all up—“

A hand reaches out for yours and you flinch. Not a full body one. Just like what happened with the burn. Your nervous system reacts before your brain can process. Takes your hand away from the threat.

Only the hand stills. Stops, right where it is, and your entire body feels funny, and something doesn’t seem right.

Then you stop too. You don’t move. You don’t grab more pieces of the mug, but you don’t drop the ones you have either. Your knees are throbbing. Your arm is burning, stabs of stinging pain pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

The hand retreats and the person crouches down, and you recognize those pajama pants, that hand, those feet.

“Honey?”

You keep your eyes trained on the mess. On the wreckage.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks over the words.

“Shh,” He hums, and the hand reaches out again, slower, closes over your wrist and turns your hand over. A second hand pries your fingers apart and gently shakes your hand, the mug shards dropping to the floor, tinged scarlet. They mix with the spilled water, washing the kitchen floor a kaleidoscope of linoleum and sharp edges and pinky-red water.

He gently pulls you up to your feet, strong arm going around your waist. It doesn’t cage you, doesn’t box you in. Another hand turns your head away from the kitchen floor and all at once a switch flicks in your brain, and you remember. Where you are, who you’re with.

If Aaron notices your sharp intake of breath, he doesn’t say anything. He leads you to the bathroom, sits you on the toilet lid, and pulls out the extensive first aid kit he keeps under the sink.

“Can I see your arm?”

You hold it out to him, looking at his face only when he’s not looking at you.

He doesn’t look mad. You still have the vague urge to run.

He examines it carefully. “It’s only first degree, but it’s fairly big. We’ll need to run it under cool water for at least ten minutes, and then apply some burn cream and bandage it.”

He’s telling you exactly what he’s going to do. Talking you through all the steps. So you won’t be caught off guard by anything.

“Sweetheart,” He crouches down in front of you again, and you feel bad for his knees, “I’m going to need some sort of confirmation.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah,” Your voice is raw, “I think I bruised my knees when I— when I fell.”

Your pajamas consist of an oversized shirt —one of his— and a pair of pajama shorts. It’s helpful because he doesn’t have to roll up any pant legs to check your knees. It’s unhelpful because in the adrenaline crash, the bathroom is cold, and so is the toilet lid.

Your shivers of fear are replaced with ones of cold. A small but marked improvement.

He examines your knees, thumbs brushing deftly over the skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Looks like you might’ve cut one of them on one of the pieces. It’s not too big, though. Better than your hands.”

You wince at the mention.

He stands, pulling you up with him.

“What hurts the worst?”

“Burn.”

“We’ll take care of it first.”

He turns the sink tap on, checking and double checking the temperature is to his approval before gently guiding your arm under the water. It stings on first contact, and you bite your lip through the pain. You’re sure you’ve made enough noise for the night. The pain mellows, relief following hot on its heels.

Aaron stands behind you, his presence a solid weight. One hand holds your arm in place under the water, the other hovers over the faucet, ready to make any adjustments to the temperature at your word.

You don’t make any.

You’re tired, abruptly. Your hand still stings and your knees ache, but without the sharp stabbing of the pain in your arm, the exhaustion of the past five minutes rushes into you all at once and you sag, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Aaron catches you, hand over the faucet leaving to place a steady hand on your waist.

“You’re not going to hit me. Or yell at me.”

He presses his face into the back of your neck, not so much as kissing your nape as just pressing his lips against the skin there.

“I’m not.”

“I know that,” you say, going for confident but tripping and falling into desperate, “I know that. I was just. I forgot. In the moment, and I got scared.”

The hand on your waist squeezes once.

“I was scared too, you know.”

“Why?”

“Because you were scared,” You can feel his chest vibrate as he speaks, “And you were hurt. And for just a moment, I didn’t know how to help you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to be sorry for. I was scared for you.”

“I know, I’m just. I know how rare days off are for you, and I was trying to be quiet, so you could sleep but I—“

“Hey, hey. Slow down. Don’t work yourself up.”

He moves your arm back and forth under the water, slowly working the angles of the burn so it all gets evenly cooled.

“Sorry,” You say again, both for lack of anything else to say and just to make sure he knows that you are. Guilt pulses and pounds to the same beat as your heart, to the same rhythm as the pain in your knees and your hands.

“I know you are,” He murmurs, voice a gentle wash of concern and something tender. He always knows just the right thing to say, especially when you’re like this. “But you don’t have to be. I’m not upset.”

“I know,” You answer, and this time he doesn’t respond. He probably knows that your words weren’t for him.

He works methodically through applying the cream and bandages, and then as he fixes up your hands and knees. You’re careful to keep your eyes trained on his, focusing on the feel of his hands and not the fear that jackrabbits in your chest every time your focus slips.

Once finished, he guides you to your feet, and there’s still concern etched in the lines of his face, right in between his brows. That’s where he always keeps it— his worry.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

You could. You should. He’s tired. He deserves to sleep in and you should be able to fall asleep again, because he’ll be there, and everything is fine, and you are fine.

But there’s still pieces of mug on the floor and you feel like there’s pieces of you stuck there too, and your mouth goes dry, and you never did drink that tea, and what’ll happen to the mess? What will things look like in the daylight?

Foolish? A foolish girl, yes— always overreacting.

“Honey?” He says for the second time tonight.

Your face crumples. “I’m sorry.”

He folds himself around you again, easily. His arms slot into place like a puzzle piece- always the right angle, the right feel, the right amount of pressure. He holds you together as you cry, frustrated and tired and all the things you’d tried so desperately not to let show.

“You’re okay,” He whispers, hand smoothing over your neck, your back. All those vulnerable places that itch. “You’re okay.”

He repeats the words as your cries quiet to sniffles, as you start to think he might be right.

You pull away, wiping your hands across your face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what— I’m okay now, I think.”

His eyes search your face, looking for any signs that isn’t true. “It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I know,” You say, and you really do believe it this time, “I just… it’s frustrating. That this still happens. That you still need to do this. It happened so long ago, and I don’t even think about it anymore, really. It’s weird, it’s just- the mug. It broke and I just… I don’t know.”

Aaron listens attentively to your rambles, no sign of being annoyed or exasperated or anything. “I understand. Healing isn’t linear, sweetheart. There are things that happened to me many years ago that I still think about.”

He dips down, pressing his lips to your forehead. “And I will always do this. Always.”

For the first time tonight, you believe him, fully.

You’ll be okay. Maybe not now, but you will be.

۫ ꣑ৎ

[demonic0angel]

Due to a lifetime of exposure to the Lazarus Pits, Damien can kind of see more of Danny than most people can. It freaks him out whenever Danny comes over to flirt with Cass or work with Bruce.

Part 1, Part 3

Damian did not breathe.

He could not breathe.

One was already enough. Now there was another?!

Damian unconsciously reached for the nearest point of safety. Tim looked at him as Damian pressed against his back, but didn't say anything.

The other being in the room unfurled the more it relaxed within the confines of the Batcave.

It chatted with his father, both of them calm and almost excited as they had a conversation over a case. His father did not react, even as a claw curled around his ankle and the horns of the demon grew over his head, points almost long enough to stab him in the eye.

Damian shuddered and did not look at his father, who stood so close to that other being.

The one who was dating his brother, Jazz, was still and silent, stretched out and curled around Jason. She leaned over him like a guardian, protective and haunting, as Damian's brother obliviously acted as normal. Her skinny, long form resembled a withered tree as her red hair scattered across the floor like a river of blood.

No one knew what he saw.

The eyes that followed them all.

The teeth that flashed and curled into leering smiles.

The shadows that curled around them, the limbs and tentacles that touched and explored everything.

The large, stretched out, elongated, broken bodies that took up space within the room like a black hole, absorbing all light and happiness.

Jazz was already so big and the other one was even bigger, like darkness incarnate.

Damian clutched at Tim tighter, tucking his face into his back.

"Damian?" His father called. "You haven't greeted Phantom."

"Or Jazz. Again," Jason deadpanned, sounding annoyed.

Jazz, with her deceptively sweet voice that contrasted sharply against her horrifying looks, said, "It's okay, Jason. Please don't yell at him again."

The other being was still. Its blooming edges began to sharpen like knives, twisting into points that could kill any of them at any moment. Jason did not see it, continuing to complain and gesture at Damian.

"I'm not gonna! He's being rude!"

Damian ground his teeth together. How could no one but him see the monsters in their home? The disgusting beings that so easily hid underneath their noses and masqueraded as humans? How could no one but him see the danger that they just allowed inside?

Suddenly, a dark claw entered his vision. Damian froze and stiffened.

If he looked too closely, he knew what would happen.

He would die.

The claw approached him and then tapped him on the nose. It did not feel sharp, but a hard shiver still shook his entire body as Damian grabbed at Tim, who jumped at the sudden grip. Damian kept his gaze down, terrified to look into the face of Death itself.

A gentle voice then filled his ears. Once again, it contrasted with the horrifying visage of the demon in the room.

"You can see it. You can see us, can't you?"