#does she know she can’t do that to a child?

[timmydraker]

Tim begins to distance himself from his family after Damian becomes Robin.

It was obvious in the way he ran off to rescue Bruce, but that was more of a physical thing at the end of the day. He was desperate and had lost any kind of safety net and support he had after Dick threatened Arkham and how badly he hurt Alfred with his instance that Bruce was alive.

Either way he was going to get Bruce back, if not because he felt like he was an aimless, nothing human being without Batman then there was that he wanted to be believed.

Then Dick handed over Robin to Damian who at that point genuinely despised Tim, though there was also a level of jealously in the young Wayne’s mind at the intelligence and analytical Tim.

It was then that Tim decided he would bring Bruce back and then do his own thing, outside of Robin and outside of Batman.

He clearly had done his job hadn’t he? Sure Bruce was dead, but Dick was acting as Batman and that Batman had a Robin, so his reasoning for being Robin was extinguished.

Tim brings Bruce back and the older man praises and thanks him for several days and then, like everything else, the attention moves away. It goes to him connecting with Damian on a vigilante level and catching up on the last several months of him being ‘dead’. It goes to Jason who, now that he’s lost his foster father has decided that maybe he could try a little harder after all.

It goes to everyone and anyone other than Tim and this time? That’s actually the plan.

Tim isn’t as good of a hacker as Barbara, but she’s basically a god at it so compared to others he might as well be master level, just not against her. This he uses to shift around peoples schedules so Alfred has no choice but to let him go to school on his own (Tim may have also invented an early morning ‘club’ that was totally legit and not at all a fabrication). He makes it so when Dick is over or Jason takes the rare opportunity to visit he had to work at WE or DI, something important he can’t neglect.

He never has to walk Ace or Titus because he’s busy with his team mates.

Team mates who think he’s busy helping out Batman.

Tim still does work as a hero, but it’s entirely through his businesses after a while. A few times he has no choice but to go out in a boring black suit with a full face mask and hoodie. It’s got nothing on it, no symbols or gadgets. Nothing to connect him to anyone.

He starts with the homeless, dishing out vaccines like candy without even doing a campaign to showcase it.

Then he changes Bruce’s rather naive approach to orphanages and makes it so every single child who is put through is given a small amount of funding. He makes it so kids have more chance to stay with siblings, makes sure everyone who even so much as enters the ground of a orphanage have a real background check and sure the adoption rate drops, but so does the missing kids and DV cases.

Tim steals over fifty million from people like Luther and Penguin and all kinds of corrupt rich assholes for the majority of the funding and not even a cent of it is traced back to Wayne or Drake businesses. Whiles he’s digging into Lex be manages to get enough evidence to put a sizeable dent in his reputation, even if Lex manages to smooch a fair bit of it back.

He’s manages to take out a large sized trafficking ring and helps get the victims into a real recovery home that he hand picks out security for.

Later, as in a few days afterward, he discovers a dog meat farm and everyone medical veterinary student suddenly finds themself free of student loans and debt and with multiple work opportunities available and volunteer work being down right pleased for.

Tim knows he’s being noticed but given that he basically lives in his office in the heart of the city, he isn’t there to hear his old teammates and ‘family’ talk about the mysterious Dread.

Dread who was named that after a report came out about a theory of an unknown hacker or ‘cyber vigilante’ who was stealing money and information from rich folk and giving it to the poor, giving all of the 1% dread that he would hit them next.

The exact quote was ‘Those with money deeper than their pockets dread the hackers next moves. And they should feel that dread as a warning for this Robin Hood like legend seems to be getting braver.’

Dick was sure the hacker would have been called Robin if he hadn’t chosen that name already, to which Barbara responded with grumbles and growl because she couldn’t find anything other than holes and traps left by the hacker. It was like they knew her every move before she even made it!

Tim, obvious to his growing reputation until it fully took off, hadn’t even considered that his actions would be framed a threat by Batman. He would say it was because he didn’t think Bruce would ever really target him like that, but in actuality it’s because he knew Bruce was one of the few good rich folk. Surely he would be on the side of a secret vigilante hacker trying to use horrible people to do good? He embraced Dread quickly and was happy he make the rich squirm and brought a sense of hope to people, it was just like Robin but instead of them being safe and given light they were given a peace of mind in a mix of revenge and justice.

What Tim doesn’t know is that Bruce is still too far into his whole image of black and white, good and evil, that he tends to forget there’s grey areas.

At least Jason is on the side of Dread, even if he still thinks the myth of a story is just that, a myth.

It’s when Tim blows up a bank when everyone has gone home for the night just so people will find the underground money ring that and he visits the manner to get a few things that he hears them talking about it.

By that point it’s been around two years since he dropped Robin and as usual Dick always greets him with a look of a desperate puppy, “Tim! Hi, you’re here. I haven’t seen you in months, how have you been?”

Tim smiles at Dick even if he hasn’t gotten over his anger at his oldest brother and moves to sit at the breakfast table with everyone (Alfred, Bruce, Jason and Damian).

“Good. Busy, we’ve had a lot of donations lately.”

Jason snorts, “No shit. Isn’t Wayne Enterprise one of the few ones not hit by Dread?”

Bruce grumbles and shakes his head, “I wouldn’t say that. They’ve managed to get into our system and completely changed the Jason Project.”

Jason grins and laughs happily, “you mean improved! Crime Ally is doing great now. Not the best, but still a fuck of a lot better.”

Smiling at the man who once beat him to an inch of his life, Tim takes a sip of his tea and casually says, “You’re welcome.”

The whole table goes quiet as Tim continues to casually sip his tea.

The silence carries for a total minute before Bruce puts down his cup and leans forward with a slight growl in his voice, “Explain.”

“Explain what?”

Bruce stands over his son even from halfway down the table and very obviously tries to calm himself with a deep breath, “What do you mean ‘you’re welcome’?”

Tim makes an ‘oh’ expression before cocking his head to the side in confusion, “I was the one who fixed the Jason Project? Wait, did you guys not realise I’m Dread?”

Damian shouts out a ‘what?!’ That makes Titus jump and Tim laughs under his breath, “What did you think I was doing?”

“Running the business! Not stealing from people and black mailing politicians!”

It’s Tim’s turn to growl now and he stands up himself with a glare at Bruce that is as close as any of them have gotten to the famed Bat-Glare, “Are you fucking kidding me? Like are you a Tully kidding me with that horse shit?”

Bruce looks stunned and Alfred doesn’t even tell him not to swear.

Tim slams his chair into the table.

“What the fuck else would I be doing, Bruce? I’m not Robin, that was taken from me, so what else was I gonna do? I finished my job, not only keeping you from killing anyone but bringing you back, so I had do pick something else. I’m not stealing from the rich, I’m stealing from selfish cunts who ruin peoples lives for no reason and giving it to people like Jason. So, don’t you fucking yell at me and don’t try to make me feel bad for this, not when I’ve done more in two years than you ever have and- don’t you fucking speak Dick, not when you were the one who took my place here away from me! Now, I have a trafficking ring I need to expose so good. Fucking. Day.”

Jason is the only one who follows him.

[clockwayswrites]

A Bird and a Menace of Bats - Part 17

masterpost

“We could always look up where he lives,” Tim suggested.

Bruce gave his son a tired look, turning slowly that he was sure not to jostle the sleeping man on his shoulder. “No, we can’t.”

“Sure you can. WE has to have it on file.”

“That would be a gross misuse of my postilion and an invasion of privacy,” Bruce said. “As in something Danny could very well sue for as us taking him home has nothing to do with his work and why we would have his address on file.”

“What about his driver’s license?” Duke suggested.

“He doesn’t have one, or at least not on him,” Dick said. He had Danny’s jacket pulled open and was carefully feeling inside for pockets.

Next to him, Jason was going through the card pocket on the back of Danny’s cellphone case.

“He does have a rewards card for Lacey’s though, so good taste there.”

Bruce rubbed tiredly at his face. “Dick, stop looking for a wallet. Jason, put all the cards back where you found them, please, and no hacking the phone.”

“You’re no fun anymore,” Jason said in a mocking whine.

Stephanie stifled a snicker.

“Stephanie, stop stalking him on social media and Babara, stop using what she’s found to try and triangulate where he is from,” Bruce said.

“Jason’s right,” Stephanie said as she slumped dramatically back into the seat, “you’re no fun anymore.”

“Yes, how boring of me,” Bruce drawled, “not invading the privacy of a man so unwell that he fell asleep in a noisy limo full of near strangers.”

Cass leaned forward at that.

Bruce quickly shifted gears to try and reassure her. “He’ll be alright, Cass.”

“Breathing is shallow. Heart?”

Bruce nodded. “He said there was an accident when he was a child that affected his heart and pulse. It was very slow and weak early after he stood up from his seat and had to sit back down. But he also said that it wasn’t unexpected and that he’s been to his doctor recently.”

“He did take this week off.”

“Tim.”

“What?” Tim said defensively. “He befriended my sister, I had to check him out.”

At least that was a reasonable excuse in case Danny was hearing any of this.

“If he’s doing badly, he shouldn’t be home alone, right?” Stephanie asked far too innocently.

“Not that we even know where he lives without waking him. Shouldn’t we let him rest?” Tim added.

“I shall start to the Manor then,” Alfred said, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion so suddenly that was that.

For what felt like the millionth time that night, Bruce sighed heavily.

-

It rather said something about the family that they were both efficient and graceful in getting an unconscious body out of the car. Bruce, with Dick’s help, passed Danny to Jason who held him out of the way as the rest of the family climbed out. Bruce was surprised to have Danny passed to him the moment Jason was able, but Bruce was quickly distracted.

“Right?” Jason asked.

“Hn.”

“Hn? Hn what?” Steph asked, popping up at Bruce’s elbow.

“The guy’s too light,” Jason answered. “It’s like he’s got bird bones.”

Tim stifled a snicker. Bruce, once again, sighed.

“Tim, take Steph and go help Alfred make sure the room is ready,” Bruce instructed. “Dick, help wrangle. Cass, darling, go rest. Jason, manage the doors for me, please.”

There was a coarse of agreement and the children were off. Bruce and Jason followed more sedately to be gentle on Bruce’s sleeping cargo.

“Jokes aside, he’s too light,” Jason said, keeping his quiet words between them. “This might be more than just a weak pulse.”

What Jason didn’t say is that they knew it was more than just a weak pulse—or at least it had been that night. It was concerning to think what lingering effects the transformation might be having on Danny. Especially concerning because…

“Cass is already attached,” Jason said, as if finishing Bruce’s own thoughts.

“I know.”

“And now the others are curious. Well, more curious.”

“I don’t suppose I could pay you to keep them in line?”

Jason snorted. “Even you couldn’t afford that, old man.”

“I was afraid not,” Bruce said as he fought back a smile.

Despite Jason’s refusal, Bruce knew that his son would keep his eyes others. Jason wouldn’t likely stop them, but he would keep an eye on them. Danny was still enough of an unknown that Bruce couldn’t help but be wary of the man’s presence in the middle of the family.

At least the guest wing was on the other side of the Manor from the family wing. The spaced eased the anxiety, a little. Alfred was just finishing shoeing Stephanie and Tim from the guest room as they approached and Jason peeled off to take his leave with them. Bruce entered the room with Danny on his own.

And apparently it was going to stay that way as Alfred said, “I trust you to see our guest settled,” and closed the door.

Bruce resisted the urge to sigh one more time.

At least Alfred had already folded down the sheets.

Bruce laid Danny down and started with the dress shoes, mostly to delay having to decide just how much clothing was appropriate to strip a near stranger of. After all, Danny didn’t know that he had slept curled up with the whole family once before. Bruce was also aware that he had less propriety than most people, given his unusual night life.

By the time the shoes were off and set aside, Bruce decided that the bare minimum would likely be most comfortable for Danny in the morning. The tie and belt went onto the seat of the nearby arm chair while the suit jacket was draped over the back. Danny’s phone was set on the nightstand. Alfred, of course, already had clothing set out for Danny to change into in the morning, should he wish. Bruce left it at that and covered Danny lightly with the sheets before he took his leave.

[helen-with-an-a]

it’s my birthday!! Could we get some amor and alexia hcs?? No worries if not

Happy birthday sweet anon - wishing u all the best. So I have a specific birthday hc coming out for my birthday in November but here’s a mix of ideas

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Beautiful Girl Masterlist

They play footsie under the table whenever they can

Ingrid is Amor’s best friend - they played together at Wolfsburg before they came to Barça

Amor doesn’t tan like ever - she tries really hard but either just stays her normal skin shade or burns

Alexia finds it hilarious that Amor can’t tan

They read a book together before bed - Amor reads out loud with Alexia on her chest, playing with her hair and legs tangled together

Alexia once gave Amor a black eye from rolling over in the night and whacking her in the face - Ale was inconsolable when she woke up in the morning and saw what she did

Insta photo dumps are a must - Amor does them monthly (excluding the game day ones and promos etc) and the caption is just the month and year; Ale does them less often (usually ever 3 ish months or if they’ve been on holiday etc) and her caption is a either blank or a load of emojis

Birthday photo dumps every year - Amor’s photos for Ale are usually candid ones Amor has taken, a few photos of the Polaroids from their dates and then a few selfies of her and Ale, the caption is usually something she finds really funny like “everyone say thank you to Eli” or “she’s officially old” ; for Ale’s photos for Amor’s birthdays it’s pretty much the same vibe (maybe a few slightly more unflattering ones) but the captions are always mushy (e.g., so grateful to spend my life with you, mi amor. I love you to the moon and back. Wishing you the happiest of birthdays) - it’s the one time fans see how sappy Ale truly is (it’s nothing compared to the speech she gave Amor about just how much she loves her)

When they eventually do have kids, they break the internet again by just posting a black and white picture of Alexia carrying a baby car seat out of the hospital and a the caption, Baby Putellas (date of birth) [they actually post the photo about 6 months after the baby’s been born] and never mentions it again - they are never spotted with kids or anything at games and everyone is so confused how they are hiding a whole ass child

Amor and Ale go on to have 3 kids - a boy first, a good 6 year age gap then twin girls (no one besides friends and family know their names or genders or anything actually - each birth announcement was 6 months after they were born and was just a black and white photo of Alexia carrying car seats and the date and they never addressed it) - they have never been spotted at games or anything like that (they hire 3 very trusted baby sitters and use them on rotation and make them essentially just random kids in the crowd and they only ever go to important matches in person and there’s no interaction until Eli and/or Alba collect them from the hotel/their house)

Ale just has to be touching Amor in some way if they’re in the same room - either legs touching if they sit next to each other, or they hold hands, if it’s in private (but not alone) it’s either Amor in Ale’s lap or Ale’s arm around Amor’s shoulder and Amor holding that hand, in private (completely alone) Ale is holding Amor (either she’s got her head on Amor’s chest) or her arms are around Amor’s waist if they’re standing up

[taemcains]

your faith between my teeth — cainlane

a night, a dawn, and so a different night. ao3

🎧 julia shortreed - taste

The world doesn't die in Rotkov.

It lurches after them like a wounded beast, lugging the guts and gore of all that they've witnessed there. The pursuit is slow but ceaseless on a road laid in blood. It can’t let them go; it will not rest without gagging on their last cuts of sanity.

An abandoned railroad station mercifully swallows them first, housing them in its hushed ribcage, offering them a few swigs of safety, and a tattered blanket of quiet to settle over their shoulders.

Well, it was quiet, Lane thinks sourly, too exhausted to forbid herself this indulgence in petulance.

Night had been washed away like ink, fading without notice, leaving behind a blanched dawn stained by voices of every color. Even the most muted members of the squad argue their case along with the familiar, intense tones of Anna and Noah.

In the end, survival is an individual instinct, and each member had to ensure theirs. Lane's mouth lifts faintly. Does the General know it wouldn't take all that much for his leash to fray?

A tall, muscled woman speaks up, frustration further twisting the scar cleaving the deep brown of her face. ‘We have no way of powering the snowmobiles. Setting off with barely any charge left is suicide.’

A retaliation of ‘We have two injured people with us!’ flung, knocked away by Noah snapping ‘Do you think they give medals for dying ten miles closer to Adam?’

Anna looks up sharply, hand clenched by her side, and Lane sighs inaudibly, falling back into her mind as another bout of squabbling begins anew.

Roused minutes before dawn with a stiff neck and a dull, throbbing ache in her body, Lane has been quietly leaning against a table, haggling with her mind whenever the squad's deliberation went off course. To dissolve every touch stinging like salt on her skin, to send them rippling over her body when moonlight is the only voyeur, to not have them cresting over every moment, eroding the present.

But the material is precious, rarer than a memory untainted by its future, and just as unrelenting. It slithers between the muffled din of the squad, burning fingers tracing her collarbone, the cold of a cross sliding down her neck, so vivid and real she nervously glances at the corner of the room as if his intent eyes are watching her from the writhing shadows.

Her eyes snap back to the squad as Greg rises from where he's been crouched on the floor and squares his shoulders, adopting an unfaltering stance. Though it's a weak specter of the General's vulcanized presence, the squad quietens, their bickering dying to a whisper here and a jab there.

‘Getting stranded without shelter around is riskier. For the injured,’ he swallows, ‘and the rest. The safest option,’ for most, goes unsaid, ‘is sending the coordinates of this station and waiting for the base to get us.’

Calls of protest cut through a fog of relieved sighs, mollified when Greg turns an affable smile on them. ‘Why don't we check out the snowmobiles again if it'll satisfy you?’

The smile cracks when Anna stalks out of the room with a venomous look as goodbye. The tall woman who'd spoken earlier claps him lightly on the shoulder. ‘I'll come with you, let's go.’

Guilt adroitly plastered and painted over in hardly a few seconds, he meets her with a winning grin, draping an arm over her shoulder. ‘Why freeze out there? Imagine the kind of things you can find in these drawers.’

‘Of a station? Get out of here,’ she says, laughing as she pulls away.

Watching them, Lane recalls an old feeling; her first friend, the most loyal of them all, of being wrong. Born too cold, too aloof, too asleep to this world, she could do nothing but peer like a berated child from the back rooms as the rest of them tangoed through life, switching between partners, comfortable in the arms of pain, misery or happiness.

As she'd grown older, she'd managed to snatch a table for herself, watching with shark eyes as her peers stole away into the crowd, dancing and fighting and falling, and she convinced herself it need not matter to a person with ambition like hers.

But someone had come for her, come to her, graceless and inept that she is, holding out a hand with the promise of a turn around the sky itself as their ballroom. Who had seen her among a bevy of buoyant dancers, who had picked her out from a cast of white capes, who had sat by her side, looking ahead as their boots quietly kissed and kissed.

Lane sighs irritably as self-awareness oozes in like rancid oil, blistering under her skin. He can't allow her a single thought without tailing it like a comet.

She pushes herself off the table, intending to find a spot obscured to all but sunlight, when she pauses, eyes snapping up in unison with the squad, as an abrupt thud sounds from the floor above. Hands creep to their sides, relaxing as feathers sweep past rusty walls, an eerie shushing noise echoing with every step.

Wings large enough to brush the walls. Her heart misses a beat. Not Anhea.

She swallows, mortal eyes vainly trying to scatter the dark of the doorway as her heart skips impatiently, zero point eight seconds lavish when he’s not around. A new shadow bolsters the existing gloom. She inhales sharply, lungs taking in the last sips of air before his presence siphons them, only to deflate as the immortal steps inside.

Red is garishly bright in a room abandoned so carelessly.

Lane watches with distaste as Pileon saunters upto Greg, ignoring the squad who visibly shy away from his path. ‘Anhea and I are done with our shift. I hear you're choosing to stay?’

Greg nods. ‘We'll be sending the coordinates after checking on the snowmobiles. Tell Cain to take over patrolling.’

Pileon eyes him disdainfully. ‘Do I have any more duties after an entire night of flying?’

A short, obtrusively muscled man grumbles as he gets to his feet. ‘We spend half our time looking for that angel.’

Cain's deadened eyes, the labyrinth of his mind they invite her into locked and shut, and the exhausted set of his shoulders jostle their way to the front of her mind, and an odd sting of irritation shoots through her, shoving past reason or rationality.

She speaks before she could think. ‘I'll let him know.’

Greg turns to her with a confused smile, pleasantly surprised and vaguely suspicious of her volunteering for a cause that does not concern her. Pileon looks at her with mocking amusement, going as far as to gallantly sweep an arm out.

‘Go on. The prince needs his frog. Or is it the other way around?’

Ears burning in humiliation, Lane does something she wouldn't have dared to under the General's sovereignty, and dismisses herself, wrenching past them without a second look, chased into the shadowed passageway by the demon's knowing gaze.

The further she retreats, the more her shoulders slump, until she pauses, exhaling soundly as the squad's chatter dwindles to a faint buzzing. The relief doesn't last long; on her subsequent inhale, the dust motes from the air transmute into hundreds of moths inside her, fluttering in anxiety, scattering the words she had torn apart and thrown away.

Remember this. Look and don't forget.

She scoffs as she nudges a door open. She hadn't ever forgotten. How does one forget divinity, when it glints through gleaming white feathers and eyes laden with the weight of time? It had simply… faded into the background like the hushing of the sea to a coast dweller. What would be a staggering roaring to the others, terrifying in its unknowable depths, was a quotation hum to her.

But to get used to the sea is a fool's wisdom. His rage crested over them, and she was left blinking through the fear drenching her at the savage aftermath. But maybe the destruction wrought by three pairs of wings and incinerating eyes is not more than what he broke in her, for her to look at a seraph and see a metamorphosis instead: Beautiful. Petrifying. Beautiful.

She peers into yet another ransacked room, reliving last night. Gone. Here. Gone, she'd thought, still as a sacrifice, left at the altar of his hands. Humanity is scant in her, but his fingers were greedy on her skin, leaching what he wanted, and thoughtlessly, callously brimming her with need.

No, what she had forgotten is this: that for all his sins, he is still an angel, and for all of hers, she is only a mortal.

The last door in the hallway springs upon her as if in ambush, cracked open and leaking dark like the waiting maws of a wolf. She's allowed a fortifying breath before it swallows her, and spits her out onto a chessboard of shadows and struggling daylight, with archive boxes, overturned chairs, and her, she supposes, the pawns to the angel lucent and quiescent in the corner of the room.

She makes her move, cautiously stepping around office paraphernalia like a thief in the night, trying to think ahead, not to win, but to challenge, to put up a fight, only to slow and then stop entirely.

He's… sleeping.

A few ghostly steps and she's in front of him, close enough to coax out deception, close enough for her knee to brush his in a way that an excuse of ‘accidental’ would be met with pinched skepticism. She gets to work, casting her scrutiny on him.

The sun falls back in its rising, to linger and worship him in a pour of light like white wine. Unmoved by its adoration, he dreams in a bare office chair, legs crossed carelessly, wings arcing over the armrest and flowing to the floor like a heavy veil. Truly, assuredly asleep.

The verdict lays out the next course of action. Step back to a safe distance, rouse him, deliver the message, and leave. Clear, efficient, and rational, all of which would appeal to her in any situation, so why does she hesitate now?

She glances to the side, as if sharing a look of disbelief with a stranger over an act of public idiocy, except both the idiot and the onlooker in this scenario is her, before sighing softly, stirring the wisps of his hair as she leans down.

Just this once, she thinks in a heedless rush of curiosity-apprehension-longing, inflamed by an achingly familiar voice laughing in the back of her mind. I just need some ammunition, anything.

The first shot is fired at her, by her own useless observation that Cain is almost too beautiful to bear from this proximity, too beautiful to watch and not want.

Strands of silk-white hair fall over his eyes, fitting them with a frayed blindfold, shrouding the webbing of translucent blue veins on his eyelids. His temple rests on an uncurling fist, fingers skimming his cheek like slender branches. His lips part innocently for steady exhales, oblivious to the kind of thoughts they set off in her.

Despite his unearthly beauty, catching him in such a vulnerable position almost feels like evidence. For all his perilous power, he too requires rest, implicating him in the same weakness that plagues mortals. Almost human, she thinks blasphemously.

Her mouth twists wryly. What is she doing? Her hand rises of its own accord, fingertips hovering over the spill of moonlight over his ear. Trying to knit his veins to hers, to make them of the same blood? Her finger follows the orbit of a stray lock of hair, silk sliding against her skin. Trying to make him human? It slips and grazes the delicate shell of his ear, her touch so light she can only confirm its reality when her entire arm trembles.

So close, she thinks, suddenly hollow, empty. Close enough to feel you breathe, mind eons away.

His eyes slit open.

Her heart leaps and she almost follows its wake, too panicked to worry about tripping over his feet, before going boneless, meek as a rabbit sagging dead between the jaws of a fox, when Cain lifts his hand, lazily catching her wrist.

The seconds draw out as if slogging through honey, and it's twice as sweet when he leans his face into the palm of her hand, nuzzling into it like a sated stray cat with a soft sigh of reprieve.

She stays limp in his feather-light grip, mind and body in agreement for once, to be a mute witness to his tender spot, his soft underbelly, the way the faint heat of his skin leaches into her cold palm.

Miraculously, her mind tolerates the warmth budding through her veins and blossoming in her chest for all of five seconds, before hissing and clamoring over why, to stretch the moments of his weakness, or to memorize the feeling of his skin, her softness?

She can tell the exact moment his scheming mind catches up to his gentler body, and sweeps away the last vestiges of sleep, already spinning new webs. His lashes flutter like a baited bird, tickling the sensitive skin of her fingers, sweetening the parting as he draws his face away.

He releases her hand like an afterthought, so nonchalantly it could be nothing less than calculated. An insouciance mirrored in the slow routine of running a hand through his hair, and shaking off sleep, silver cross briefly catching fire in the sunrise.

‘What?’ He doesn't grace her with his gaze as he speaks, voice lower and rougher than usual, dredged from his throat where sleep was holding it in shackles.

‘The squad asked you to take over patrolling,’ she replies, mouth emptying words mechanically, even as her mind scrambles, grasping at the fire illuminating what she had assumed to be a shameful fantasy.

He sighs, dropping his head back. Distantly, she admires the strong, graceful line of his throat, a serene backdrop against her violently overspilling thoughts. When he straightens and his eyes finally catch hers, it's not by being garbed in one of his thousand disguises, but honestly, tiredly.

He lifts a brow when she stays rooted to the spot, still blindsided by her dream confessing to be a memory. ‘Planning to let me go?’

She shoves what would be a deeply satisfying retort into an armoire of other worse things she's held back around him, and wordlessly steps aside, her real gratification the brief, confused flit of his eyes as he rises, strolling to the center of the room.

His wings stretch out, curling and uncurling, a field of moonflowers blooming in front of her eyes with every motion, as their owner twists his shoulder with a hand, wrestling with the consequences of a night spent in discomfort.

Lane watches his back, the familiar loose, languid lines now distorted as in a nightmare, shoulder blades pressed high and tight together, tensed.

Did he realize that I remember? The mystery of why, or how, her flimsy, threadbare blanket had held her tightly till dawn, entrusted to her to solve with only the barest wisps of hints. A flash of white spiked through her lashes, a kiss of cold against her neck, a whisper of feathers in drift.

She'd thought it was a dream.

‘Better not linger.’ His voice steals into her memories. She looks up as his head turns slightly, offering her the slashes of his cheekbone and jaw blade first. ‘I might’ve heard squeaking.’

He doesn't look at her.

Lane has always felt curiosity like an itch, aggravating and intolerable until she could find an answer she deemed satisfactory. But this feels new. Different. Sharper, stronger, violent like the sea, more useless than the anger it cowers behind.

But no. She's only curious. Curious about why her mind follows him like he's North Star. Curious about why she needs to look for him in every room. Curious about why she's always the fool here, on her knees to a god deafened to all but his own solitude. And angry, angry that her heart won't beat for her own pain but twinges when he's discomforted, his unease echoing in her chest.

She just has to know–

Maybe that's what possesses her.

‘Cain-’

He swivels around in a sunburst of feathers and as her vision clears, her stomach plunges. Wings fanning out behind him like a crucifix, the sunrise lending a lethal blade of crimson to his eyes, his image is of deity, angel, and sinner in synchrony. If God still lived, he would’ve walked in his shadow. Her fingers snaked around his wrist almost feel like desecration, if only she had the power to touch him.

Reverence settles over her like the hush of first snow, smothering all her gasping worries, soothing all her lacerating feelings. Her insignificance isn't a burden, but a nave she walks to faith. Her fingers slacken, unable to bear the burning perfection of divinity, when he speaks.

‘Yes?’

His voice is low, wrong, disorienting as a note missed in a fervent oratorio. Her knee jerks and she takes an unconscious step back as he arches his hand, sending her fingers sliding over a swathe of bare skin evading his sleeve. His wrist bones strain to kiss her fingertips through ludicrously soft skin, and his eyes anchor to her face, twin wreaths of fire hardly quelled by the snow of his hair falling into them.

‘What is it?’

Her nail snags on a seam, and she watches with horrifying desire unfurling claws in her stomach as his sleeve inches back. A flash of tantalizingly smooth skin marbled with sculpted blue veins, hot to the touch. When it's swallowed by night-black fabric, it feels like punishment.

When her eyes rise back to his, she finds them still, still as the air before lightning. Dimly, she realizes she should be afraid. Killing her isn't the worst of what he can do to her. He could hone and hand over her own desire like a dagger, annihilation without a touch of blood on him.

‘You're not answering me.’

His tone remains carefully flat, a void coming up to meet her hands when she reaches for a clue to predict his next move. A drop of disquiet finally rolls down her spine and this time, she's overly conscious of the distance between them as she shuffles back, stretching like a fraying cord long past its limit, a sharper tug from either side enough to snap it irreparably.

He tests it.

Lane's eyes widen as he follows her lead, a slow, perfectly overestimated step barely grazing her knee with his, before drawing back to position, locking them in a strange dance. She doesn't know the steps, but she knows she's tithing her hand to a cunning partner. She knows her body will only glide to the melody his fingers play.

She jolts as he resumes their game, forearm gliding against the loop of her fingers, firm muscle and chiseled veins straining against the obscenely thin material. His rapt eyes track every twitch and exhale of hers, pulled by the allure of even a simulation of his skin and all of it just verges on the edge of too much.

Cain tilts his head in an uncanny imitation of genuine curiosity. ‘Should I take your silence as an invitation to guess?’

He doesn't wait for her reply, accurately assuming she would need far more than a few minutes, or the distance of more than a day, to pry out coherent words.

‘You want something from me.’ The hypothesis, spoken so plainly, spoken like the truth, is shockingly crude from the mouth that spins half-truths and full lies with the prosaic ease of a spider. He cocks his head, considering her without seeing her at all.

‘No, not want.’ He leans closer and she tenses, praying his teeth would be gentle on her neck, conned into faith by his intoxicating scent. ‘Something worse.’

The sun, now seething and glorious, bleeds all over him. Two memories twine in her head, backlit by flame; the two times he's alluded to his priesthood, but only now does she see. His eyes are enough to extricate your worst sins from the bars you trap yourself in, to lay them bare on your body and flay them with a single word.

He wouldn't need to do much, she thinks, lightheaded, flushed down to her throat. Anyone would willingly sink to their knees if condemnation sounded like this, voice dipping suggestively, almost rasping the words out. ‘Need, maybe?’

Hardly able to think past the dizzying fog of something both heady and subtly sweet emanating from his skin, she makes a miserable attempt at shaking her head, silenced by his hand arcing up to brush her cheek, fingertips sliding into her hair.

Silver ensnares her peripheral vision. Though her eyes flit back to him when he draws in a silent breath, uneven around his own abstinence, a thought won't let her go, provocatively dangling in her mind.

The crimson of his eyes deepens to sanguine. Lane swallows painfully, stomach folding it on itself, anticipating the climax, the crescendo, the cuts his cunningly bladed tongue would leave.

She'd expected words. She should've remembered his touch, its fatal softness.

She jerks minutely, stifling a gasp as his hand lightly trails over her hip. ‘Are you confused?’ Waist, ribs—her heart stops—the faintest brush over the side of her breast. ‘Hopelessly excited for nothing?’ Higher still, till his slender fingers collar the side of her neck. Eyelids slipping, he presses slowly, until her pulse is whimpering against his fingertips. ‘Is your godless body always starving?’

In dazed snatches, she wonders why. Why no blood wells up now. Why, if he meant it to hurt, it feels like a confession instead, given to be absolved by her own whispered sins.

The idea of Cain miscalculating a single word, look, or touch, much less a bacchanalia of all three is what gives her pause.

He wouldn't. He wasn't.

She slumps in his dreamlike hold, delirious and preening from the victory of finally, finally sneaking up to where he schemes, the second wave of intoxication sent by the thought of what he was insinuating exactly, submerging her inhibitions, suspending the consequences.

She twists in his grip. Lightly, just enough to turn her head and catch the drooping cross in her mouth, feeling it sink into her bottom lip and indent it.

He stills.

His wings shrink and flare, flare and shrink, but he remains frozen like a god amidst the myths that keep him alive. He exhales slowly, a sigh of soundless agony, rippling the air anticipating them.

Her teeth instinctively bite down on the metal clutched between her lips as his thumb brushes her jaw, turning her back to face him, interrupting her hazy fantasy of tasting the skin it kisses religiously.

Under half-lidded eyes, she watches as his eyes rove over her face, brow furrowing in a look of almost pain. She wonders if this is his one face that isn't painted on, naked as it can only be in a moment of undiluted agony or unrestrained ecstasy, and shivers.

His thumb slides over her bottom lip, hot against the warming metal, as his tongue snakes out to wet the corner of his mouth. Watching her eyes track the movement, lips parting unconsciously, he murmurs, gentle. ‘You might be.’

Tenderness was his mistake. She could reluctantly accept her body betraying her for the worship of an angel—understand it even, when she treats it like a tool at the best of times—but the quiet affection in his voice, real as blood, nothing like the cloying pity they'd glazed as love, sends something in her skittering.

Maybe it's fear. Scared of what lurks in his eyes, scared of what she would have to dredge up within herself and hold to light. Scared enough to stumble.

Lane flinches as a storage box home to obsolete equipment skids across the floor, clattering like her mind trying to process that it was her who was the catalyst for this turn of events. Even Cain starts, looking so much like a lover booted out mid argument that she lets out an entirely inappropriate breath of laughter. I’m definitely in shock, she thinks as his unblinking eyes fall on her.

He looks at her for a long moment over the rabid pounding of her heart, before stalking out of the room and taking the sun with him, wings shooting past her like neat rows of white-flamed arrows.

She moves to follow him, body and mind working on autopilot, but staggers, identifying, recognising his parting look.

Because he didn't look like the deity from last night filled with empty curiosity, or the angel from dawn reaching for her to rest, or even the priest from sunrise touching selfishly for once. The table catches her hip, steadying her. He looked like a common sinner, just as lost as her.

✟

The night is a courteous host to whoever knocks at its door. It welcomes her into an alcove of time where obligations cannot find her, taking her worry lined coat and hanging it onto the next sunrise's hooks. Lane sits on the edge of the roof, letting the wind titter and caper around her dangling legs, playful in her fragile, exquisite peace. Silence isn't the same as emptiness apparently.

So spellbound by the tranquility drifting through her like snow, she only notices her deification, the shadow-feathered wings resting on the ground, a second before he speaks. ‘What is it about this bleak view that inspires brooding?’

He sounds less far away than last night.

Her body straightens subtly, not moths, but fireflies flitting about her spine, tiny flash fires set where his fingers strayed.

‘I wasn't,’ she replies, eyes trained onto the star-pricked sky.

‘Already have your answers then?’ His voice is blank as glass, glued together from words like shards, warping the real meaning behind them.

She inhales slowly, siphoning courage from the unsuspecting stars, before raising her head, turning to look at him. Standing against the night, all of him in shadows. The god, the man. The angel, the sinner. She gives him the only truth she can afford.

‘I might.’

She does. She'd been so desperate to fill the singular blank in her mind, furiously circled and underlined in red, so as to shelve it and let it fade forgotten, that she overlooked what has always been right in front of her eyes: Cain exists in duality. Helping and hindering, savior and ruinous, the holiest thing her hands have held, and sometimes more human than she has ever been.

Not her perfect answer, not an answer that will allow itself to be shelved and forgotten, not an answer at all, but so right it could almost be called the truth.

Lane can't read his eyes through the veil of dark.

He's still for a heartbeat, two, before dropping down next to her, wings fanning out and sinking into the dirty snow, in a motion so smooth she wonders how she wound up in his distant embrace again. He leans back on his palms, tipping his head up to the sky, and heaves out a soft sigh, heavy as time. ‘Good for you.’

‘You sound bitter.’ She peers at what he offers of his face, a flash of an eyelid, the slope of his nose, soft pink lips, all caressed by moonlight's pearlescent sheen. ‘Are you still struggling?’

‘Not in the way you're thinking.’ His words float to the mirthfully twinkling stars, following the line of his stare. ‘More so with how I chose to be blind for such a long time. And of course, the consequences taste bitter now.’

She considers him thoughtfully, angling her body to his and tucking her knees to her chest. Rare that Cain pouring words like water into her hands is, she wants to savor it. Underneath that, a smaller, stupider reason. She just… liked listening to him.

‘Long, even to an immortal?’

‘Time doesn't always exist in a straight line.’ His head tilts, gaze sliding to her. Not empty, but haunted. He looks through her, at a past neither can touch anymore and when he speaks, she's not sure if it's to the her trapped in the present. ‘Some moments run in circles, for all of eternity.’

Lane thinks of her own life. She thinks of the glowing, heatless thing in her chest after an achievement that she named happiness. She thinks of the silence ringing in her childhood house, the gaze that seemed heavier when it was turned away. She thinks of the daze of awakening as something new and seeing him, not knowing a thread of blood and snow bound them. She thinks she understands.

‘I see,’ she says quietly.

His gaze sharpens, red splintering the opaque ice of his eyes, emotions finally whirling up in them. ‘Do you now?’ he bites out, almost accusatory, somehow brittle.

Her first contention is that she understands now, what he's really asking.

Her mind reminds her that one cannot understand someone without knowing them. And how can you know a person who disappears like a card trick between your fingers, there and then wholly new when you flip it?

But a smaller, startlingly insistent part of her tells her to wait, to look. And so she does, catching all that sloughs off of him like raindrops in her hands. When they flower open, in lies a mirror, reflecting what haunts her own nights.

Forsaken and forsaking their own kind, nowhere and never to call home, the humanity gouged out of her heaped onto him. Sometimes, in her weakest moments, she believes they'd fit like two halves of a pomegranate if they let each other.

Or perhaps—her eyes flick to him—it's only the strange logic Cain lives by, and therefore pulls her into.

Leaving her cold, and then burning. His fingers on her forehead, gently chilling the feverish skin, and the heat radiating off him in an inferno, hands reaching to crush her head. The closest anyone has come to the rotten thing inside her, and so far her hands would only brush air if she reached out.

So impossibly sweet and so inexorably dangerous.

She has him—her eyes flutter shut briefly—and she doesn't.

It's so quiet. It's only the two of them in the falling universe when she speaks. I want to. ‘I can.’ Better presumptuous than incriminating.

His eyes narrow. The only warning she's conceded before he's leaning in slowly, bracing a hand dangerously close to her thigh.

‘Anything?’ he asks, red eyes boring into hers, impenetrable to the moonlight hammering weakly against them. ‘Whatever it is?’

He's turning the same look on me, she realizes with a bolt of recognition. Rooting for the trick in her words. Absurdly, her next thought is I want to touch him.

Cowardice cannot be shed in a day. Lane only gazes back into his hollowed eyes steadily, hoping what she can give would be enough for now.

Adequately chastised, he sighs, lowering his head, and she counts his breathing silently. She blinks when the rhythm breaks, stopping with a faint shudder. Her eyes follow his line of vision and her own breath catches, an odd intermingling of shame and something hotter coiling in her stomach.

She'd needed to cut into something, cling onto someone, to draw out the restraint to hold still and not surrender a single gasp last night. The aftermath of which manifested on her palm, in a trail of half-moon red marks.

When he falls back, it's with the loot of her hand with him. Cradling it delicately in one hand, he traces the testament to his effect on her, written plainly on her skin. A barely there touch, half apology, half prayer.

He speaks when the motion has eased from stirring to soothing, still watching their hands.

‘Another promise? Besides my protection and kindness?’ Lane barely has the time for incredulity to rear its head before he continues, eyes shadowed when he glances at her. ‘Don't you know greed is a sin?’

Her eyes fall to the rosary guilelessly skimming her palm. Not my worst.

Cain smiles. While it's not his usual infernally soft one, there's a tremulous quality to its edges, a frailty in his eyes too light for her to recognize. ‘I'm joking.’ He squeezes her hand gently, yielding to her more than just his words. ‘You'll have to teach me this too.’

The idea of him entrusting her with teaching something she hasn't even crawled up the steps to makes her breathe out laughter, along with real honesty. ‘I'm not the right person for either.’

His reply comes soft as a breath held, swift as a hope dashed, both impossibly full of possibilities like raindrops suspended in time. ‘Then we'll learn together.’

Lane isn't quite as delusional to believe this isn't an aftereffect of needing her in his own esoteric pursuit; not his path, but only a detour. But leeched from that look he let slip like porcelain, shattering at her feet and dissipating the haze she was wandering in, she knows that if his words bloom like wisteria in her lungs, she'd at least be a thorn in his heel. He wouldn't be able to stagger away from this untouched either.

Even so. The thought that however briefly it, this, lasts, it wouldn't be Cain, or Lane, but CainandLane is tart and bright as biting into a berry, bursting sharp on the tip of her tongue.

Together.

She turns her hand in his wordlessly.

Not his perfect answer either, but his shoulders relax minutely, fingers tightening around hers, the rosary kept warm between their skin, and she wonders if summer will be sweet this year.

[igetthedisneybox]

Beatriz Madrigal

Inspired by @hannahhook7744's Encanto AU, and her own character headcanons.

Third image made using https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1558575

Fourth image made using https://www.dolldivine.com/la-colombiana

Fifth image made in Disney Dreamlight Valley

Beatriz’s full name is Beatriz Estefanía Madrigal.

Her first name means “traveler” and her middle name means “crown”. 

She is the second child of Mirabel Madrigal and Bubo Marquez.

She greatly resembles her mother, and has her brown skin, nose, and hair. She does have her father’s facial structure. Somehow, she did not inherit either of her parents' need for glasses.

She is seventeen years old.

She has a triplet brother, older by fifteen minutes, Óscar, and a triplet sister, also younger by fifteen minutes, Lidia.

She is uninterested in romance or sex.

Her gift is the ability to tell when someone is lying, and it manifests in a gut feeling. She feels compelled to out the liar, and if she doesn’t, it causes her major anxiety. She’s very mixed on her gift, as it makes people not trust her, but she’s always hated liars anyway, and likes knowing exactly how things are.

Her door portrays her in a position like Dolores’, with one of her hands cupping around her ear, and the other has her fingers crossed.

Her room is a basic bedroom resembling the nursery, with teal walls and a wood floor. There’s a bookshelf for her magazines, a record player, and a miniature stage, with all the instruments she can play. 

Her symbol is a hand with its fingers crossed.

Mirabel loves her daughter, but also thinks that she needs to slow down a bit, and maybe focus on minding people’s business.

Bubo is a Beatriz defender first and foremost. He’d do anything for his baby girl, and if she wants to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong, fine by him.

She loves Óscar despite his gift, and they get along alright.

Lidia annoys her with her very loud personality, but they don’t fight.

She mainly hangs out with Amelia and Princesa, and occasionally Carlos and Leta.

She gets along best with Pepa, Dolores, and Amelia.

She considers herself a “modern woman” and likes to do things and wear fashions from the city.

She likes performing, and can sing, dance, and play several musical instruments.

Sometimes she can lessen the side effects of not outing lies by writing the lies in her notebook. She has a lot of dirt on everyone in there.

Because she can tell when others are lying, she can’t lie herself. It makes her puke.

She’s very nosy, and likes to gossip, which adds to people not liking her very much. She runs what is basically a gossip magazine for the Encanto.

Her favorite colors are teal, turquoise, green, and purple.

[walder-138]

Questions for Annika, Jack, & Oswald:

What's this oc's biggest fear?

What's this oc's mental health state?

What's your favorite thing about this oc?

How does this oc feel about physical affection?

How does this oc get along with people they just met?

VICE!!!!! WHADDUP GIRL!!!! TYSM FOR THE ASK!!!!!

1) What’s this oc’s biggest fear?

Annika: People. Not in a social anxiety typa way (scared of judgement etc), but of what they are capable of. Annika has been exposed to human cruelty from a young age, growing up as a child soldier in a terrorist organization convinced her that every single person around her wanted to hurt her.

Over the years, her fear manifested into hate for humanity. It was never real hate, but ‘hate’ was the only label she could put on it without feeling like a coward. Fear is weak, Anya. Fear is weak. Hate and anger protected her; who wants to pet a rabid dog?

Jack: His scientific ‘research’ being exposed to the public. Jack is incapable of fear or anxiety; he’s a textbook sociopath, but he really doesn’t wanna stop performing his research and experiments (he worked on MK Ultra since he became a doctor) Seeing it flourish due to his involvement has been his greatest achievement, that being taken away from him would tear him apart.

Oz: Losing his daughter, Jenny. I’ve said this before and I’ll say this again; she’s the reason why he got off drugs following Vietnam and stopped being a verbally abusive misogynist to almost every single woman in his life. Oz knows that if he lost her, he’d most likely have a pretty bad relapse and fall back into his old bad habits.

2) What’s this OC’s mental health state?

Annika: Take a wild guess.

Jack: He’s balling honestly 😭 With everything that happened with Bell being a complete success, (assuming Annika isn’t Bell; she detonates the nukes) he basically saw his top project take off. Sure, the dumbasses in the safehouse didn’t listen to him about keeping Bell under that trance or whatever, but he can always start again; make another one.

Bro’s walking on sunshine!

In reality, Jack can’t feel anything. All of his emotions are fabricated. There could be a spark; of hope, or pity, or amusement, or some kinda love, but it’s never enough. He’s almost completely numb. He hates it sometimes, but Jack can’t miss what he’s never had.

Now about the state of his actual brain… uh ask Abbey about that. She fed him the curb

Oz: Shitty. He is constantly haunted by visions from his past. He can barely sleep at night without seeing his men -his sons- dead around him. The heroin, the morphine, and the LSD were the only things keeping him from having to see their mangled bodies scattered every time he blinked. Rehab helped him get over his addiction, but he hated talking to those damn prissy ass shrinks. But now that Jenny’s around, he can’t be high all the damn time, so Oz has to deal with it without any assistance from anyone but his ex.

He’s stressed, and he thinks he can’t do it anymore, but he wakes up every morning and does.

3) What’s your favorite thing about this OC?

Annika: How far her development’s come along. I based her off me when I play video games (I rage a lot 😭) and had to think about how, realistically, someone with an erratic fighting style would come to develop it. Since I die a lot, I figured Annika wouldn’t have any formal military training except by the terrorist organization she was raised in. I really wanted to make her a reflection of my video game playing style, and I’m happy to say that she does. Just with more depth now.

Jack: He’s not far along in his development process, so this will most likely change but so far, it’s how two-faced he is. When you talk to Jack, he genuinely seems like a nice guy that you’d wanna crack a couple cold ones with on a nice, hot day, while all of his ‘patients’ are horrified of him. Dudebro’s the reason Abbey doesn’t like British people 😭

Oz: I’ve got two things. How real he is. I’ll admit; a lot of my ocs are over exaggerated, but at least in my opinion, he’s the most realistic. I’ve made a post going slightly more into depth about this a while back. The other thing is that Oz is somehow my 2nd most morally stable character after all the shit he’s done 😭😭😭

4) What does this OC feel about physical affection?

Annika: She yearns for it. Annika’s never felt the loving touch of any individual that wouldn’t later be used to hurt her. Now, I’m not saying it’s a smart idea to abruptly give her a hug, unless you wanna pull back a bloody stump or you’re her girlfriend, as that scares her, tying back to her fear of people.

Jack: He doesn’t particularly care for it one way or another. Jack might tuck someone’s hair behind their ears if he’s being patronizing, or pat them on the shoulder to reassure them, he doesn’t really get anything from it. He won’t provide any physical contact if it doesn’t benefit him, unless it’s with his partner. Everyone else, even Jack’s own kids, can go to hell.

Oz: Oz is touched starved. At this point, he’d take any form of physical contact from anyone. The problem is, he doesn’t feel like he deserves it, so he recoils from it at every opportunity it’s shown. He says it’s unmanly, but if a woman even patted him on the cheek, bro’s getting a bit excited 🤭

5) How does this OC get along with people they just met?

Annika: Not well. Annika already hates the people she actually knows, introducing her to a person she doesn’t know will ensure hostility. Unless you’re going on a mission with her, she doesn’t want to know anything about you. She doesn’t want to know what you think about the weather. Her life wouldn’t be impacted if you lived or died, and she wants you to know it 😭If she can, Annika would just walk away after the initial greeting.

Jack: He’s the opposite of Annika, at least on the outside. He introduces himself, shakes your hand, and offers to take your coat. Very gentlemanly, especially to women and children. He presents himself as a genuine caring and kind man, giving gifts and offering to listen/help anyone around him. So whenever people (Abbey) accuse him of doing something, everyone tends to be like “Not Jack! He helped me sort through my divorce!” even if they barely know him, cause Jack’s just so damn polite.

Oz: Oz is extremely awkward. Most of the times when he’s meeting someone for the first time he just kinda stands there like🧍‍♂️waiting for his friend to finish talking so he can go watch the Patriots game. He isn’t rude about it though; he’ll smile and wave but he isn’t too good at small talk. Only when he starts to open up more will he start being the asshole we all know and love.

[iguessitsjustme]

Mollie, a good person: I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bad mouth your girlfriend.

Me, yelling at my screen: I DO mean to bad mouth your girlfriend. She fucking SUCKS.

[quietwingsinthesky]

thirteen is incredibly aware of how her actions are perceived and incredibly unaware of how her identity is perceived. like. that’s the Point of her meeting the fugitive doctor. that she can stand next to herself and not know herself. but she knows her own actions. the real recognition of herself in fugitive isn’t when she unearths the tardis or when fugitive calls herself the doctor. its when fugitive hands someone a loaded gun that will backfire and kill them only if they shoot at her first. because that’s what thirteen would do. you know?

[oh-my-bindery]

To this day I believe wholeheartedly that JKR decided not to write Draco switching sides when offered by Dumbledore or asking Snape to help him switch sides, because she knew she’d write Draco and Harry falling in love with each other (intentionally/unintentionally). She would have a hard time writing them as the characters she created for them and not having feelings of care and understanding for each other. It would be simply impossible unless she obliviated them both lol.

[amummy]

This is a miquella supporting blog, miquella haters don’t interact (I’m kidding idc who or what you like or dislike)

[milflewis]

.

[sassyandclassy94]

The youngest child can say whatever he wants and be as rude and disrespectful as he wants but my dad NEVER deals with him. Instead, he says I’m the mean one. Even though I was only trying to explain why good handwriting is important in life.

[the-faultofdaedalus]

some very funny things i’ve realized about kat and people’s perception of her is that a) for a While everyone just thinks that she got her powers because her parents were doing unethical human experimentation on her before their death because tony over-related and his arguments were convincing enough and because no one has mentioned this in front of kat she can’t ever correct them and b) it’s very possible that it takes a LONG time for anyone to even realize that i) she has two different powersets from two different sources ii) what one of those powers even IS (her sight, because she just. doesn’t talk about things. again. and the things she notices that no one should notice could just be really good hearing or smell or smth?) and honestly the longer no one realizes any of these things the funnier it is

[evansbby]

.

[theamazingannie]

Me: Hey, we don’t need negative commentary right now. We need to be more encouraging.

Mom: Well, I guess I’m a terrible mother and am of no use to any of you and I guess you can be your brother’s mom now since I’m so bad at it. *storms off*

Me:

[intelligent-space-gay]

I still can’t get over this girl I know with a whole ass psyc degree and her husband with a whole ass masters haven’t vaccinated their 2 kids. HUH. I know everyone has a right to their own choice but I’m ready to fight these parents bc those poor kids