#he wants to be seen as a good person while making the choices he always has: the ones which benefit him specifically

[plethorawrites]

So we’ve seen all of the batbros as cats but what about the reader? What would happen if they were turned into a cat?

This took forever, sorry! But yes, I totally can!

Bruce: Weary and worried.

• Before all else, he's concerned with making sure you're alright. He calls Zatanna immediately to ensure it's not permanent and then after he knows it's not, he can relax enough to try to comfort you.

• He was never a cat person, only ever owning dogs, so he really has no clue how to take care of a cat. Let alone a cat who's really the love of his life. He tries, though. He gets Alfred to make you dinner, something that's fresh and not gross Tuna or Salmon from a can. He gives you your choice of every throw pillow in the manor to tear up when he sees you get antsy, your claws flicking in and out in stress. And of course, everything poisonous to cats like the peace lilies in the living room are moved far away.

• Bruce still has to go to work, unfortunately and with no idea how to keep you entertained, puts on those "Soothing cat videos" on the big TV in his bedroom for you to watch. A six hour loop of a fishtank is less than ideal but seems to work well enough.

• You're in the same place as when he left you, so he assumes you didn't mind too much. He notices you grooming yourself, not because you want to, but out of some strange instinct you've developed and he can tell you're grossed out by your own actions, so he does his best to clean your fur himself. You might be a cat, but you seem to like water so he puts you in the bathtub and scrubs your fur with your normal soap which makes you pur.

• Until he takes you out of the warm water and you're absolutely freezing, shivering from the cold. He wraps you in a towel and holds you to his chest until you're mostly dry, then, despite the dampness of your fur, let's you curl up under the covers since you're still a bit chilly. It makes his own skin wet, but he doesn't mind since at least you seem a bit happier.

---

Dick: Amused and empathetic.

• He tries not to laugh. He really does. It's just...so much harder than it should be. You look so small, so adorable, so fuzzy. You have a tail, for God's sake. How could it not be hilarious? He only stops chuckling when you swat your paw at him, catching him with sharp claws, cutting him. He doesn't get upset since he knows he deserved it.

• Goes to the pet store with you, letting you sit in the cart and pick out your own things, which, he can tell you dislike but reluctantly comply—otherwise he'd buy you a rat themed toy instead of the feather one you wanted. You gurgle and growl repeatedly when he picks up those stupid cat costumes, but he still buys them anyway.

• And yes, he does force you to wear them. You resisted, at first, of course, but eventually gave up when he gave you those puppy dog eyes. If you thought being a cat was humiliating, you couldn't have prepared for being a cat wearing a sombrero and poncho. "Those are our Christmas cards this year," he tells you, kissing the top of your head while you meow in protest.

• Despite that, he's still sweet to you, apologizing for you having to go through this and swearing he'll fix it. In the meantime, just try to stay positive. He'll say you can rip up the drapes if it makes you feel better. You do and it does. You always hated them and he refused to get rid of them, but now there was a valid reason to.

• He sits on the floor with you, swinging the feather toy around as you chase it, gaining a good amount of height the longer you play. His arm gets tired but you're clearly not, so he sits there until you eventually get sick of it and he sets it down while you crawl into his lap for a nap. He was going to make something to eat, but he supposes he can wait.

---

Jason: Paranoid and terrified.

• His initial response is to reassure you that you'll be fine. He'll do whatever it takes you turn you back into a human, no matter what. His second response, is to freak out. He has no idea how to take care of a cat, let alone his partner who's a cat! What if he hurts you? What if he can't fix it?

• Being a cat, you, unbeknownst to him, sense him apprehension and almost immediately start rubbing against his legs until he hesitantly picks you up, cradling you in his arms as gently as possible. You rub your head against his jaw, trying to soothe him and he takes a few deep breaths, relaxing and nuzzling your fur.

• It takes him a while, and a lot of trial and error to figure out how to take care of you, be it buying food you don't like, to accidentally leaving the window open and panicking that you escaped (you were under the bed, because it was warm and safe) but he eventually calms down once the day is finally over.

• Cuddling with you on the couch, he can barely even feel your claws kneeding on his arms because there's so much scar tissue it's too hard to scratch and hurt. Your purring is what calms him down the most though, after an extremely long, stressful day. You sitting on his lap, his hand resting on your back as he slowly and accidentally falls asleep.

• When he wakes up, you're still a cat, still sleeping on him. He picks you up carefully, taking you to the bedroom so he can sleep in his bed and you aren't left alone in the living room. He has a feeling you'll be yourself soon enough, even if he doesn't know exactly when. He'll keep you safe until then.

---

Tim: Shocked and Frantic

• He immediately starts to panic. You're a cat. A freaking cat. How? Why? What does he need to do to fix it? He has a million questions and no answers. But his stress only adds to your own and he quickly tries to calm down before soothing you: "No, no, no. It's fine. You're gonna be fine. I swear."

• Still, the second he gets you out of the room, convincing you that you'd be more comfortable in the living room than in the batcave, he starts to pace and freak out again. It's actually Damian, of all people, who gets him to snap out of it, literally slapping him across the face and telling him to be there for you instead of worrying about the details.

• He listens, to an extent, going back upstairs to where you were chewing on the fern in the living room, ripping a leaf apart. Pulling you away from it as you meow in protest, he cradles you in his arms, apologizing for fretting and promising he won't leave again.

• And he doesn't. He does, however, keep working on a way to fix you. He tries to be annoyed when you start knocking things off his desk, pushing stuff into a water bowl, jumping into his bottom drawer, laying on his papers, but he can't do it. You're just acting too cute to genuinely be mad. Eventually, he takes a break, closing the drawer you were sitting in and hauling you to his bed.

• He'll admit, he threw you with a little less caution than he probably should have, but you didn't mind, crawling onto him the moment he laid down, eager to close your eyes after being awake for far too long. Aka 5 straight hours, which, for a cat, was a lot. He didn't quite realize that, but notices almost immediately how fast you fall asleep once you lay down, curling into a ball, tucking your nose under your tail to keep it warm.

---

Damian: Is both fascinated and prepared.

• He has over a dozen pets, so when you're turned into a cat, he already knows everything there is to know and gets you anything you could possibly need. A nice cat bed, toys to keep you entertained, a post to scratch so you don't ruin any furniture.

• His others pets want to play or chase you, but he scoops you up before any of them can get even close to you. And he insists you stay close to him and not wander off, because you could get lost, kidnapped, or hurt.

• You always knew his knowledge of animals was extensive but didn't realize how much so until he was petting you, explaining how the hair follicles on cats work, which is why they never like to be pet in certain areas.

• Despite having an extremely nice bed, you'd really rather prefer his and he allows it, reminding you not to scratch the pillows or the sheets. "They're Egyptian silk. Don't ruin them." Still, when he catches you clawing at them in your sleep, unaware you were doing it, he doesn't stop you.

• In the morning, he switches feeds you breakfast, in a human bowl so it's not so degrading and takes you with him while he works on a way to fix you. He quickly gets distracted, though, by how you're looking around at everything like it's the most interesting thing ever.

[thekitsandthekats]

i don't see the point of season two being to set up season three. i genuinely think that the writing is good and the choices made in this season add to the overall story while also being something that can stand on it's own.

season two, to me, is about three things: the collective, consequences and human nature. outside of red light green light, every game we've seen has been a team game. every game is designed for multiple people to win. the voting is a group effort. people have to come together to vote to stay or leave. it forces everyone to be involved and encourages them to think of the person next to them. this is where the focus of the collective comes in. when spend so much time with the games and the team's playing because the season is about their grouped success. its also an incredible tool to use to show the split in emotion. how people who were cheering to play one more game in hopes that more people die, turned around and hoped for their success. and to speak metaphorically, its about the power of the people fighting against a system. the great evil system of capitalism.

the voting system and the illusion of choice fall into the idea of human nature. inho talked about this in the limo before taking gihun to the games. he said that the players chose this, that they will always choose this. they will always chose to play the game because it is human nature to gamble, to be selfish. the season is about looking at the nature of humanity and what people will do when you put them in an impossible situation. gihun thinks they would chose to save themselves and everyone, inho thinks they will chose to serve themselves and forget everyone. this is why inho joined the games. to prove a point to gihun that look this is humanity, this is how they are and how they always will be, selfish.

then this brings me to gihun and his revenge trip . one of his biggest character traits is that he is always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt, to trust that their intentions are pure. and as we've seen that is almost never the case. twice now he's been fooled by someone wearing a 001 number, and it doesn't dawn on him because he naturally looks for the good in people. on top of this, gihun believes he's doing the right thing. by trying to stop the games for good, he believes that people’s lives will be better, that they will no longer be under the thumb of capitalism and greed, that they will be free. but he is also out for retribution. not only does he want to stop the games, he wants revenge, he wants those in charge to pay. to do this he needs everyone. he needs the collective, and he needs to trust in their nature to be one of wanting to do the right thing. again, to get metaphorical, to take down a system like capitalism, to fight against the rich to live to exploit the poor, then the poor need to band together and rise up. or at least that is what gihun thinks.

that's why we focus so much on the ensemble of characters in the story, all of whom are different, endearing, frustrating, and so on, and yet we care. we care about all of them getting out, we care about their collective survival because the season has pulled all of us in to care. we're a part of the revolution because we as the audience have been roped into gihun plans too!!

that's why i think consequences are a big idea too. we know that the consequences of squid game are the deaths of thousands of people. we know that inho thinks this is a small and necessary sacrifice to make. we know that gihun disagrees. until he doesn't. inho asks him before the rebellion if he's willing to sacrifice the few for the many and gihun says yes. he contradicts his own ideals in the moment and so inho must show him the consequences of that. this is to speak to the consequences of trying to fight against oppression, almost to say that no the system will always win. it will tighten its security, crush you under its booy and always come out on top.

i think 011's story is really the only part that explicitly feels like a set up for season three, or like a sleeper agent kind of thing, where she'll pop up exactly when she's needed.

with inho and the boat crew, i actually really love what they did there because the whole story line was a waste of time. you're supposed to feel like it was a waste of time because it literally is. the captain is wasting their time sailing them in circles, never coming to the island. they go around and around and so the plot itself goes around and around, and by the end, even the reveal of the captain reads as flat and expected, and i love that. i think it's really interesting story telling, and granted i might be reading into it but that is the beauty of media and interpretation. i like to think that the writer did that on purpose so we feel exactly what the boat crew are feeling, that all of this is a waste of time.

i also understand that the season isn't flawless, that there might be some things that could've been done better but i honestly believe that season two of squid game is just brilliant.

twitter is actually so frustrating because i think people are deliberately misunderstanding what squid game is and what it's supposed to be doing. of course the pacing, the tone and everything about season two isn't going to be the same as season one. because things are different now. gihun is suffering from incredible trauma, junho was shot by his brother and is desperate to find him, it's been three years since gihun's games, of course things are different! it's not going to just be games and death, it needs to be a story, a JOURNEY, like we need things to develop, grow and be different! like is that difficult to understand?

nothing about season two is boring because all of it is deliberate. yes, all that stuff in the first two eps before the games is deliberate! the attention given to the voting system is important and deliberate! junho and his suspicious captain and his band of military men on the boat is important and deliberate! because as we've seen with season one, the writing is incredible and i don't see that changing for this season and the final season. if you just wanted dramatic games, death and all that then idk go watch season one again. or maybe ask yourself why you wanted just deaths and games and all that because its giving vips, its giving a refusal to understand the bright, glaring metaphor

[pleaseinsertwittyurl]

There are always 2 sides.

The discourse around Louis and Lestat being a victim and abuser and nothing more drives me insane.

Something i don't think enough people remember is that the very same reason the fight began in 1×05 (lestat grabbing claudia by the throat when she tries to "take louis away") we see Louis himself do to her in 1×07 when she tries to get Louis to burn Lestat.

They BOTH would harm her rather than live in a world without the other. They are both guilty of abusing her and each other.

There is an implication that a good deal of time passed between Louis and Lestat meeting and the church. Louis expresses that he shares himself with Lestat in a way he only had with Paul. I would assume that goes both ways, to a degree. We know Louis knows at least enough about Nicki to discourage Claudia poking that wound. He also clearly knows that the threat of leaving is his most powerful weapon against Lestat.

Mental abuse is abuse. And Louis abused Lestat mentally for years. Shaming him, ridiculing him, shutting him out, manipulating him into making Claudia (a traumatic moment for him, whether Louis understands the depths of it or not) by promising to give him what he's being denying him, promising to never put him through what he fears the most.

Louis admits to purposely making Lestat suffer. He admits he was warned that Claudia would suffer and he wanted her anyway because he needed to feel redeemed. He is not innocent. He is not a trapped, weak victim. He made choices to hurt both Lestat and Claudia time and time again.

Does this justify Lestat's actions in 1×05? Obviously not. But we now know Louis was not willing to stop the fight. He taunted Lestat the same way he taunted the Alderman. He was unleashing years of frustrations just as Lestat was. His priority was not to protect Claudia, it was to hurt Lestat, consequences be damned.

I hate the drop scene as much as the next person and Lestat has admitted he will never earn forgiveness for what he did. But if you view Louis as some squeaky clean victim who was manipulated, trapped, and abused by Lestat you are missing so much of what this show is conveying.

We will always tend to paint ourselves as the hero of our own story. It is hard to accept your faults or that you hurt people you love. It is much easier to shift that blame on to someone else, to frame them as the villian. But life is not usually that black and white. Claudia had harsh words for them both in her diary, even before they got to Europe, for a reason. They both made hurtful mistakes with her, both treated her like a pawn in their relationship instead of a person, both harmed her, took away her choice, never prioritized her.

That is the great tragedy. That she never had a choice and was not allowed to be her own person. And in the end, they both are responsible for her misery and her death. That's what makes the reunion scene so important. They have been grieving her and carrying that guilt alone, all the while longing for the comfort of the other for 70+ years. Louis has found clarity in his memories, he has accepted his role in their suffering, he has seen Lestat's perspective more fully. Lestat is broken, totally consumed with that guilt and grief. Both know that although they cannot change what they've done, they can forgive the other, even if they can't forgive themselves. They can love each other despite everything they've done to one another because they cannot stop loving each other. But now they can try to rebuild that love from the rubble.

[weebsinstash]

Sort of a specific idea but

Bruce Wayne returns to Gotham to become Batman in his late 20s and he doesn't retire (at least from working in the field) until I believe he's in his 60s, so

It's entirely plausible to think of a platonic yandere Batman scenario where, you were a child involved in a disaster that he rescued, and some 10, 15 years later he runs into an adult you by whatever means and he can see you're struggling to make ends meet and you're having issues that ultimately stem from the trauma caused by that incident all those years ago, and he wants to help you, save you from your current situation, and maybe even finds out you've fallen to the dark side in all this time you were out of his sight

Like, the added drama if, in a way, he feels partially responsible for your current situatuon; he was still kind of green when you went through your accident. Maybe he feels like he should've kept a closer eye on you after the fact, helped make sure you were OK; you were just a little kid clinging to him in fear, so small you fit into his arms to be picked up. Could you even imagine it's something like, you lose your parents in a villain attack and you're just this frightened little kid and some 10 years later Bruce meets you as an adult and you're either an addict, a criminal, both, and potentially even a metahuman on top of everything else so you have the capacity to be legitimately dangerous

See, a lot of the thematic elements of Batman as a franchise itself is that many of the Batman villains were sort of just, normal people that had horrible things happen to them that, while not being justified, may be understandable. A lot of Batman villains carry underlying themes of, being victims of abuse, victims of society, victims of disability or mistreatment for that disability, so, from a narrative standpoint, you then have Batman seeing you as not just someone he feels he failed to fully save, but now, you could potentially end up going down a dark path like so many others he's personally seen spiral, and he doesn't want to have to put you in Belle Rev or Arkham.

Batman loving you and wanting to protect you but for your own good he ultimately feels has no choice but to contain you until he can either convince you to control your powers or he finds a way to suppress them by force. Then, he wants to take you under his wing; you're broken and hurting, just like a part of him will always be. If you've got no one else to look after you anymore, he can be your new family.

Batman going into full helicopter Batdad mode where he's just, fully convinced that just about every negative action or choice you make is just stemming from trauma or some other problem he has to fix and basically, kind of in a way robs you of the autonomy and accountability that you have making your own choices as a whole. Oh, you haven't had mental healthcare all these years? Prepare for him forcing you to go to therapy and promising you he doesn't know what you talk about which is a lie because he has spy equipment to listen in on your sessions anyway. Hope you like being forced to take medication for conditions and disorders that you're not sure to believe you've even been credibly diagnosed with.

Then of course you have all your new "siblings" and comrades in arms watching over you, ESPECIALLY once Batman becomes convinced that fighting crime with him and the others will be the outlet you need for your anger just like it is for him and most of the others in his traumatized gaggle of adopted children. NOW you've got this entire, basically half dozen or so prodigies with their own sets of skills, traumas, obsessions. Some see you as a playful rival. Others see you as more of an equal. They ALL see you as "sweet cinnamon roll, must protect"

Batman having to keep you from becoming radicalized. Batman dealing with this super-powered angry version of you that wants to take justice into your own hands, in YOUR way, which yeah, involves a lil killing, as a treat. Bruce absolutely convinced, and perhaps being right, that he's the only one that can save you from doing something that will ruin your life forever

You'll don your new costume and you'll like it. You'll have his symbol on your chest marking you as his family and you'll like it. You'll spend basically every waking moment either in his home, with a member of his found family, or with him, and you'll like it. Hell, maybe you'll even be finding your last name was legally changed to Wayne without evem being discussed with you, and guess what? You'll have no choice but to learn to like that, too :)

[studiogrimm810]

Dreams Come True

pairings: (pining) sam winchester x gn!reader, dean is kinda there

summary: the brothers request your help with hunting a djinn and after being under its manipulation, you realize you can't ignore your feelings for sam forever

warnings: angst, graphic depictions of crime scene images, open but happy ending, unspoken feelings

word count: 5,138

A/N: i don't know how to write shorter stories. pls send help, thx

———————

As you pulled into the parking lot of some dingy diner you scanned the area in search for a particularly sparkling Impala that stood out like a sore thumb. Upon the confirmation of the vehicle, you knew Sam and Dean were waiting for you inside. It had been a few months since you'd last seen the brothers and it caused a low churning in your stomach, a sickening curl to your intestines that made you nauseous. You love the Winchesters, you truly do, and you would drop everything if they needed a hand like now, but your problem was in fact that you loved one specific Winchester a touch too much. It was exhausting.

Ever since you could drive, you have been on your own. Your parents weren’t much help to your development, and honestly the only real reason you’re as functioning as you pretend to be is because of your Uncle Rufus who stepped up in raising you. He kept an eye on you when his brother failed but you had always had a sharp sense of independence. So, the second your uncle's friend, Bobby, fixed you up a car to claim as your own, you were gone.

And you pretended it didn’t hurt when Rufus didn’t put up a fight.

The forced and minimal choices of your life lead you to be fiercely independent and taught you not to rely on anyone for a thing. You had your own car, your own way of living, and your own set of personal, strict, rules that you follow to a T.

Rules that come so close to being bent in the presence of one, Sam Winchester.

You force yourself out of your car and through the parking lot to the lightly rusted doors smudged with greasy finger-prints. That’s it, next time you get to choose where you and the boys meet up. Surely the food here is good, and the waitress who is taking Sam and Deans drink order looks kind enough, but being on the road most of your life leads you to have a distaste of cheap and greasy spots where their healthiest item on the menu is probably the tomatoes that top their hangover burgers.

Sam and Dean have sat on the same side of the booth and they both smile warmly as they spot you enter the diner. The stale but warm air laced with french fries and left over maple syrup from breakfast washes over you and your mouth waters at the thought of a sweet dessert topping that’s become socially acceptable first thing in the morning.

Eh, maybe this diner isn’t so bad.

Making your way to their delicately selected booth, your stomach twists in a tight knot again at the sight of Sam. A beautiful splitting smile that cracks his face to allow little beams of whatever the fuck makes him so stunningly happy at this moment is partnered with a trademark dimple threatening to suck you in and never loosen up. You smile back at both of them.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean beams as he and Sam stand in unison to greet you. Dean hugs you first, a firm grip that’s a little too tight because he knows you can handle it and he doesn’t really want to help himself. “Missed ya,” he pulls away to ruffle your hair and you try to glare at him while swatting away his hand but you can’t wipe off the smile these two have infected you with.

Sam is next, wrapping his strong arms around you. “Been too long,” he utters out with a slight groan that often accompanies a hug like this, but maybe it’s also because you can tell he had more to say. His arms are big and encompassing, wrapping around you like a cloak that shields away just enough of the outside hustle and bustle to let it just be you two in this moment. It’s so protected and safe in this moment that you can’t help but reply with an equally weighted echo of, “too long.”

After warm hugs that seem to stop time, the boys sit back in their spots and you take the roomy booth opposite of them. Dramatically stretching out your arms, you shoot them a sly but innocent smile. “Good choice in table, boys. ‘S comfy,” you yawn involuntarily.

“Glad you’re livin’ it up, your highness,” Dean teases, tapping the table idly as the waitress returns. You control the attitude threatening to manipulate your face as Dean gives the poor woman googly eyes masked with a quite dashing smirk.

After a harmony of simple orders, the waitress smiles out of obligation for a tip and heads to her next table.

“How’ve you been?” Asks Sam, and damn him. He just has to keep watching you with eyes that are warmer than the coffee Dean insisted on having this late. You settle in your seat, leaning back and running your nails along the beveled edge of the table.

“Good, same old, same old,” you shrug. It really has been quite boring with you recently. You worked a case a few states over, then picked up a few odd jobs to rake up some money again to get you through another case.

“How’s the Toyota?” Dean looks out into the lot for your white sedan parked across the lot. It had been an inside bit between the two of you, he liked to tease you for sticking to such a confident opinion that your little ‘match-box car’- as he coined it- was in fact a more comfortable and reliable ride than his baby. You really didn’t have such a strong opinion, but for the way it ruffles his feathers, you’d die on this hill.

“As good as ever, and grandpa?” You tick your head to the 40 year old car in the lot. Dean clutches his chest with an offended inhale and twisted look of hurt at the Impalas nickname, gifted by you.

“Immoral,” Dean’s face is straight with a flash of cocky know-it-all holding his chin high.

One day you’ll admit that the common denominator between the two cars would most definitely be the servicer of Singer Auto Parts. The man performed miracles on any old hunk of metal you took him.

“Okay, okay, put the measuring tape away,” Sam chuckled, enjoying the bickering between you two. Dean bit back a ‘they started it’ and just took a far too big gulp of his coffee to shut himself up.

“How ‘bout you two? What made you call me out here tonight?” You ask, looking out the window that overlooks probably 80% of the town that is really only a grocery store, a main street with a handful of vendors, and a couple other buildings that you didn’t take the time to specifically identify at the moment. Sam’s warm smile that tore all eyes from the moon cast high in the sky melts down to his polite not-so-fantastic-news smile.

“We’re tracking a Djinn,” Sam explains, pulling out a few books, topped with John's journal, from his computer bag. He sets out the books and snatches one specifically to flip through and turn for you to look at. You scanned the page: silver, lambs blood, poison, dreams? You had vaguely heard about Djinn before but you never really took them seriously. It was one of those creatures like fairies that just seemed so out of your league that you never put too much time or effort into researching it.

“Thinking it’s going along I-81, collecting victims where it can and bleeding ‘em dry,” Dean explains, his own expression turned serious as well. He tracks his finger along certain lines in the text that highlight an important note: ‘Djinn use a poison through physical touch to incapacitate their victims and keep them in a comatose state as they drain their blood over any given period of time. Djinn often give their victims a false reality that some describe as “too good to be true” to keep their bodies calm, stable, and comfortable in such a neglected state of being.’

“They feed on blood? Like vampires?” You ask, cringing slightly. Although you envision yourself to be a strong, smart, quick hunter, blood is your downfall. You make a point to avoid vamps by yourself for this very reason and the boys know this, so they must really need help if they’re asking for your assistance in a case like this.

“Kinda, yeah. Same diet, different harvesting,” Dean shrugs, making the connection for you that makes you want to gag. You force down a few sips of water to settle the tickle in the back of your throat before continuing.

“So how are you tracking this thing? Like how do you know someone has been its victim?” You ask, wondering what the physical proof left behind on a person was inflicted by such a creature was. Sam shuffles through the stack of literature, pulling out a dull, manilla folder and setting it in front of you.

“It’s sloppy, doesn’t clean up after itself at all,” Sam’s hand rests on the top of the folder, holding it closed so that you don’t open it too fast. “It leaves its victims strung up,” Sam explains, removing his hand but still watching you with a silent warning at the contents behind this thin veil. You open the folder and immediately cringe, your head turning to look away but your glued eyes prevent you from turning too far. The first image is a young woman, probably couldn’t even legally drink, with her wrists tied above her head. She’s dirty, bruised, decayed. An IV still connected her neck to a metal frame next to her that would supposedly host plastic blood bags. “Some Djinn passively feed, others drain to save for later.” You swallow thickly as you realize the IV was to rid her of her own blood.

The thought is sickening.

The image is beyond words.

But you persist. Your now unsteady fingers reach to flip the image, finding a police report behind it. The woman was 19- just a girl. Your chest aches, this really is the hardest part of the job- the loss. Her name was Amani and she was going to college for journalism. She was reported missing when she didn’t show up for her editorial meeting on campus. Her boyfriend reported it. Her parents followed up. There was an image attached, from her and her boyfriend on Valentines Day. She looked so happy and so full of life.

You close your eyes to get a hold of yourself. You swallow down your emotions, opening your eyes again to flip the pages again.

The next picture was of another woman, displayed in a similar manner. Her blonde hair stained with rotted blood and you almost mistook her for a brunette. Smeared makeup lined her vacant eyes and a beautiful necklace rested along her clavicle. Turning the page, you learn this woman's name was Eliza, a 39 year old mother of four. A portrait framed a lovely family. She wore the same necklace and you assume it was a gift from her husband who stood tall and proud next to her.

You closed the folder, unable to take in any more. You nodded lightly, looking between the boys. “I’ll help, just tell me what I need to know,” you state. The hardest thing about this job was also your biggest motivator. Preventing this awful fate from befalling another innocent family.

You felt that it was too late for your own chance at love, life, happiness, but that it was now your responsibility to make sure that was an option for as many people as you could save. You felt it was your one true purpose.

This was something that Sam admired about you, your relentless need to help others. To use your knowledge for the betterment of others. Yet, it was still something he wished you were more selfish with. He could tell the effects that the stories and images of these poor victims had on you but you ignored your own limits and boundaries to fight for those who still stand a chance. It was a horrible hero’s curse, really.

Sam’s smile reassures you, even if it’s the sweet, pitying one that he offers those in distress, because something in the glint that shines in his eyes tells you a truth you want to ignore.

“We can kill it with a silver dagger dipped in lamb's blood. We just need the blood,” Dean pulls out his phone to check his messages. “Which is ready for us, courtesy of Frankie,” Dean tips up his phone as if to cheer. Frankie was another hunter friend in rotation, he wasn’t really someone you would team up with, but you’d accept his tools and supplies anytime.

Sam packs up his stack of books, stuffing them in his bag. “Dean has to drive out about an hour to meet Frankie, you and I can stick back and I’ll catch you up on the lore.” Sam offers, zipping his bag up and shoving it aside.

———

The rain outside was persistent, heavy, and unforgiving. You stood at the motel window, glaring out to your car getting a half-assed wash that it so desperately needs. After packing in as much Djinn knowledge as you could get, you and Sam decided to call it quits for the night and wait on Dean.

“So what’s the plan? Do you know how to find where this thing is going to be next?” You asked, turning over your shoulder to spot Sam who was cleaning up his gun, shiney metal parts lined neatly on a cloth next to him.

“We have a hunch, another woman disappeared from her workplace last night. Amani, the college student, was found in an abandoned greenhouse that no one used anymore on campus. The mother, Eliza, was found in some old stock room at the animal shelter she volunteered at. The woman who disappeared last night, Carmen, worked at a museum as a tour guide. There’s a ruined exhibits graveyard in the basement, I’m betting she’ll be there,” Sam explains, continuing to clean his gun. His hands flow in precise motions over the weapon, cradling it and caring for it like a delicate piece of glass.

“Are we checking it out tonight when Dean gets back?” You ask, moving to sit on the free couch that will end up being your bed. Sam glanced out the window that you no longer silhouette, checking for headlights, before returning to finish reassembling his gun.

“Yep, that’s the plan,” Sam nods, setting the pristine gun on his bedside table and putting away his kit.

Once he’s finished, he stays sat on the edge of the bed, glancing over at you as you pick at the tears in your jeans. You couldn’t get those images out of your head and you itched to save Carmen before it’s too late.

“How’re you feeling?’ Sam asks with kind words that don’t mean to pry but just to chip what he can. He knows how much time you spend alone on the road. You’re such a sheltered and lonely person but he doesn’t want that for you. Sam can see past the tough exterior and into the shell of just a person who craved to be loved and taken care of. He wanted to be that person for you.

“Antsy. Dean should be back by now, no?” You ask, continuously picking at your jeans but gazing out the window once more. Sam follows your lead, nodding in agreement but returning his main focus back to you.

“He’ll be more careful in the rain,” Sam explained, his soft eyes holding room for the tension he captures behind them. “The others had been missing for at least a week before they passed, we have time,” Sam assures, hoping that you don’t stress yourself out too much over this.

“Talk to Bobby recently?” Sam continues, missing the small talk that you two haven’t really shared yet. He can tell you’re more tense than usual, it’s like you’re distancing yourself. You look up from your knees, the messy pit that makes you sick stirring in you yet again as his eyes match yours.

“Last week, just to check in,” you said, offering a suspiciously less amount of information than usual. Your leg bounces against its prop on the coffee table before you.

“You can talk to me,” Sam urges, keeping his eyes on you as you dart from your knees to the window and then to him. You don’t know what’s with you right now specifically, but the tension of the unspoken feelings bubbling under your ribs is becoming a real bitch.

“Just a stressful few weeks, nothing I can’t handle,” you smile assuringly. He can see right through it, but he decides to let it go for now since the familiar rumble of the Impala growls outside, awaiting its two passengers. Sam lets out a defeated breath, standing and grabbing his coat and gun. You jump to your feet, ready to get this show on the road. You slip on your own coat and check yourself over to make sure you have everything you need.

“What’s a little more stress, huh?” Sam jokes sarcastically, making a mental note to keep an extra close eye on you. You scoff a dry laugh, leading the way to the Impala while Sam locks up the room. The ten feet to the vehicle being enough to soak halfway through to your skin.

“Fuckin’ rain!” You exasperated, sliding into the back seat and letting the comforting heat of the Impala warm you right back up.

“Tell me about it, can’t see a damn thing,” Dean complains, his wipers on full blast and his defroster bellowing a low hum through the car that you had to speak over.

Dean’s years and years of constant driving cause for good reflexed and skilled roadwork as he navigates the slick roads, leading you three to the main event.

After a pop-quiz and mostly dried clothes, Dean pulls the Impala around the museum and to the back entrance that neighbors cellar doors that lead straight down. Once everyone is caught up, loaded with the proper weapon, and ready to get soaked again for a measly few feet of travel, they pile out of the car and to the latched and locked doors. Dean skips the pleasantries of Sam simply picking the lock and just shoots straight through the already rusted metal.

Dean descends first, followed by you, and finished by Sam.

The room is inky black and thickly dank, the moisture almost making it difficult to breathe. Echoing drips of supposed leaks from the rain sing around the trio, making it nearly impossible to locate one specific stream. Dean kicks on his flashlight and you and Sam follow.

“Stay close, stay alert,” Dean instructs, going to look up a nearby hall while Sam checks a few closets and you scan the main area for clues. There are dozens of totes down here full with scrapped art supplies, broken furniture, and piles of betrayed books. Nothing is standing out, though, so you follow behind Dean who has progressed up the hallway. Sam watched both yours and his brother's backs.

A loud clunk echos from the opposite side of the basement but the echo makes it bounce around to the main room you three had landed in. Sam jumps to double check to make sure that behind them was clear and Dean retreats from the room to see what’s going on. You shrug at Dean's raised brow and progress further into the hall, taking the lead.

You turn down a corner to find an even longer hallway with more off-shoots that basically make this place a maze. You sigh heavily, dropping your light a tad and look back at the brothers who have closed the distance between you surprisingly fast.

“There's too much ground,” you whisper to them both. Sam’s face contorts into a ‘no way, don't even think about it’ but Dean's interruption stops Sam from speaking his protests.

“They’re right, Sammy, we’ll cover more ground,” he whispers, trying to reason with his brother, “just stay close, no more than shouting distance,” Dean lays it out like he’s your father, but you listen because you trust his judgement. At the moment at least.

You have a hard time being too far from Sam, though. Seeing the aftermath of the Djinns' torment makes the uneasy swirl in your stomach worsen, but this time it isn’t at the ball of nerves that Sam's presence tweaks, it’s the thought of him being strung up there like a piece of meat. You have to rationalize that Sam is a grown man. You have to take a deep breath and assure yourself that he can handle this. After all, it is him and his brother who invited you to this hunt. You were the novice here.

After scanning over a few rooms, you progress further down the hall, and the further you go, you start to hear it. Soft whimpers, like helpless cries, sirening you to a room at the far end of the hall. You know you should grab one or both of the brothers’ attention, but you can’t help yourself. The images flash again- desiccated husks of once lively people dangling like a crude ornament. This has to be Carmen and you have to help her.

Your heart races as you get closer to the cracked door that pours out the skin-crawling whines. As you turn the corner, there she is. You're halted for a moment, frozen as you take in her state. A poor woman with her hands bound above her head and a dried trail of blood staining her temple. She has a similar IV but she isn’t still like you imagined, it’s almost like she’s experiencing sleep paralysis.

The poison is running out. Sam told you about this, you remember. The poison inflicted by touch only lasts so long and the Djinn needs to come back to dose its victim again. The Djinn will be back soon if it isn’t stalking around already.

You really should’ve grabbed the boys’ attention.

It’s too late for that now, though. You fish out your pocket knife, flicking it open and approaching the zip-ties that cinch Carmen's wrists.

“You’re okay, I’ve gotchyou,” you murmur quietly, hoping to god she can hear you just a little bit. Just enough to know that she’s safe now. You look around the room, keeping an eye out for the Djinn. You support most of Carmens weight into your side, stepping cautiously back out into the hallway. You almost make it past the barrier but a low growl from behind you makes you jump.

The figure behind you is a dark frame, shadowy and devoid of any light under the glowing blue tattoos and beams of eyes. It’s like the creature is pure nothingness despite its veins of sapphire lining its figure. As it steps out into the light, moonlight floods in just enough that you can actually see past the light-polluted skin of what looks to be just man. Well, a man that’s almost eight feet tall and glowing like he just stepped out of the Chernobl blast.

Carmen starts to stir, muttering something incomprehensible, but you ignore it because there is no time anyways. You stumble back, the Djinn looming over you. You manage to set Carmen down gently enough to leave while you lead away the creature that lurks closer and you can tell it’s furious with you. You can see it in his eyes. The cool blue that should be a calming, and if anything- dull, color instead pierced through your chest like an alarming red. You take bigger steps back before flipping a table in your path and darting the opposite way.

The piercing metal followed by an angry growl was definitely enough to get the boys’ attention and startle Carmen to be fully conscious again. The brothers call after you, their words dying in their throats as they round the corner to see Carmen on the ground. Somehow, during your short-lived rescue mission, you managed to settle your coat over her shoulders. Sam instantly recognizes that it’s yours and while Dean quickly crouches to her aide, Sam flashes his light to the mess of a spilled table on the floor. A few paint bottles are still rolling along the cement.

“Dean, get her out of here, I’m going after them,” Sam says without looking Dean's way at all. This time it’s Deans protests that go unspoken.

—---

Freshly ground coffee is Sam's specialty after being gifted a gourmet coffee bean grinder for Christmas. Ever since then, he’s gotten up before you, just like usual, but spent the better half of his morning crafting the perfect blend of coffee that you got to taste test along with blueberry and lemon muffins that Dean and Cas brought last time they visited.

Your guilty pleasures usually starred your mornings, overly sweet breakfast items followed by way too much caffeine from many taste-tests, and even a special morning delight from yours truly.

Your mornings were the absolute highlight of your day and a great way to start the day too.

Comfortable footsteps climb the steps outside of your bedroom door, and soon, Sam’s large figure spills through the frame, filtering in like an early sunrise. Sunshine that is hopeful, trusting, blindly accepting of things to come. His eyes rake over your body that’s half out of the blankets due to overheating from the night and he looks along the sleeplines you have acquired on your thigh, up your hip, and stretching out to your lower back. Exposed, lush skin, calling him in like a lustful sin.

“Good morning, my love,” his voice wakes you up enough to smell the mouth-watering blend of fresh coffee and warm muffins. You prop your head up just enough to smile fondly at him as he sits on the open bedspace by your legs. He sets the muffin wrapped in a paper towel on your bedside table along with your steaming coffee.

“What’s the concoction today?” Your sleep-dampened voice makes Sam smile a bit brighter. His hand rests on your exposed leg, running his palm up your thigh, over your underwear and back down.

“I mixed some of that Brazilian blend with the last of the hazelnut dark roast,” he tilts his head so his face is level with yours, still running his lightly calloused hand up your skin, untainted from the survival of The Life. You hummed in delight from the goosebumps that blessed your silky skin and also in anticipation at the mention of one of your favorite flavors.

You close your eyes to stretch and Sam just watches as your body twists to land on your back, but as you go to sit up, his face falls into a grimace as his hand quickly comes up to pin you down. You’re fully alert now, heart racing.

“S-Sam.?” You test, unsure of why he’s acting this way so suddenly.

“N-No, don’t go, you can’t leave me,” he shakes his head, a heartbreaking expression painting his gorgeous face.

“I’m not going-.”

“You need to wake up!”

Another Sam echoes in your head, and your own face contorts in confusion. Your heart is aching.

“Don’t go, please,” the Sam that pins you down begs.

“Please come back to me…”

He sounds broken, scared, so lonely. You shake your head, shoving Sam off of you. He looks offended, hurt. But this isn't right. No, Carmen, The Djinn. No.

No.

The poison.

The facade.

No.

The poison.

“C’mon, you’re okay. You have to be okay,” roughly calloused hands run over your cheek, a thumb tracing under your eye. You’re dizzy and disoriented, but you already can tell that this is what’s real. This Sam is real. The fogginess in your ears clear up as the pattering of rain fills the noise. When you can pry your eyes open enough, you see Sam crouched in front of you. He breathes out a heavy puff of air, a soft laugh escaping his lips. An expression that is strictly joyous lights up his face like a guiding moonlight in the dead of night. The kind of light that exposes the danger of things, and the price at which they come.

It’s the kind of light that floods everything about your dream downstream, carrying away the silly scenario. The kind of life that people like you and him never get.

“You’re okay,” he repeats, but this time he believes it.

A crack of thunder lights up the sky. A shocking mix of light you don’t quite understand. It’s not a beacon you can fizzle down to some self-justifying reason because it’s just a simple flash of electricity. It’s a crack in the storm above. It’s not some metaphor to make you feel better about your choices. It is a singular bolt that shatters through the night sky, starting you because you didn’t expect it.

Just like you didn’t expect the man in front of you to be the man that he is. He isn’t some ignorantly blissful lazy morning, and he certainly isn’t some moody, grey reflection of light that pulls at your dread. He is simply the split second vein of light that came out of the nowhere storm that is your life. But unlike the crackle of light in the sky that disappears before it’s even heard, he’s not flickering away because he found his conduit that will house his stay.

It’s him.

It’s you.

And you realize that you’ve been a fucking fool.

You push up to hug him tightly, eyes wide and heart still racing.

“Sam.” His name blesses your lips for the first real time. This time you’re accepting it, you’re allowing it.

His arms secure you close and he buries his face in your neck, taking in your scent. You can’t pinpoint the exact moment the boundaries between you two broke, but you knew they were crumbled to dust by the way he held you.

One of his hands wrapped all the way around your back to rest against your ribs on the opposite side and his other cradled the back of your neck.

This wasn’t a hug out of just a close call, this was a hug that made up for lost time. It wasn’t just the rush of saving your life, it was the flood of allowing yourself to feel what you so desperately have been hiding for too goddamn long.

This was a brand new hug with murmurs of brand new names and a brand new set of rules for the both of you.

This was the start of you.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

[lgvalenzuela]

And here's the first part of a companion fic I made for this great piece of writing

He woke up in the most familiar of unifamiliar places. He had seen it many times at this point, but never quite grasped the severity of the situation until he was surrounded by those hues of grey. Voices whispering in his mind, familiar voices. The voice of his father, long passed, long forgotten to time as he could only place the face of the man who raised him. The voice of a woman who gave him a chance when he never could do the same for her. The voices of the people in Dock Town, and the Grey Wardens he wasn't able to save…

The voice of Bellara…

The voice of Lace…

Lucanis…

LUCANIS.

He remembered now, the body of his love laying on the floor. He couldn't reach him and now. But he wouldn't…he couldn't…

He quickly stood up as a pang of pain from his abdomen to his head. He fell as quickly as he rose, he couldn't even scream he was in such agony. He tried to breathe as he reached his side, he wasn't bleeding anymore but he could still feel every ounce of pain, he could recall the feeling of Ghilan'nain’s stab perfectly. And yet there he was, alive, while Lace…

He grunted, as he tried clawing his way forward. He had to do something, anything. He needed to know if everyone got out of Tearstone Island. But he wasn't going anywhere while staggering through the floor like a worm.

He cried out a silent scream as he regained his composure as best he could, slowly getting up and limping his way forward. If wherever he was going was forward to begin with:

“This is something I've always admired about you, kid. You don't know when to quit”

“Varric?”

But Varric couldn't… he couldn't be there.

Then why was he speaking to him?

“I told you the enchantments were dangerous! And you chose me anyway! You picked me to die!”

The voice of Bellara blew a hole through his heart. Like an arrow… like Lace…

“I died because you chose me. You want see the rest? Like you don't know how Taash is going to look at you…”

“Lace… Bellara… I-I didn't mean to-”

But it didn't matter what he meant to do. Because he chose anyway. And at every turn.

It was the wrong choice.

Neve got a scar within minutes of meeting him.

He chose to help Treviso for selfish reasons while he left Dock Town to its own devices.

He couldn't help at Weisshaupt.

He couldn't help Ferelden.

He didn't save the only chance of his family’s legacy to survive.

He forgot his father’s face.

And he couldn't even get to see if his friends were okay.

He fell to his knees, grabbing the sides of his torso in torment.

He felt himself being swallowed, the hands of the ghosts he had gained along the way dragging him to the ground as if it were the water destined to drown him…forever…

“Finn…”

He couldn't look up, he couldn't face him. What if he… what if he got him killed too?

Lucanis placed a hand on his face, softly, tenderly:

“Don't go where I can't follow”

“Lucanis I-”

“No, don't say it. You have to tell me in person…”

He finally looked into his eyes, he smiled so delicately. Caressing his cheek. This wasn't his Lucanis, he was… an idea, a little regret. He leaned into the touch just as he disappeared:

“I have to tell you in person…”

But for that he had to get out of there.

Varric extended his hand, with a sympathetic smile. A melancholic gaze:

“Come on kid”

He held his friend’s hand, as Varric helped him gain any sort of composure while he could feel his body giving up on him:

“Varric…since when…?”

“I think you know…”

He cried out on his friend's shoulder, maybe he always knew.

But even this Varric was too awkward to just hug him, he patted him on the back:

“Come on Rook, it's fine. It's fine…” Varric choked a little “I had a good life…”

“I should've- I could've-”

“Don’t carry my mistakes Rook, I chose to talk to Solas. It was my decision and you don't get to make it about yourself”

“I-”

“Neve chose to go with you that day, and she knew the risk”

“But I-”

“Look at me, kid” he grabbed his shoulders, looking into his eyes deeply “Every decision we make has consequences… sometimes they're small, sometimes… they're not…

And I've been around enough to know when someone choses, trying their best…

When you went to Treviso, didn't you send the rest of your team to help in Minrathous? When you went to Weisshaupt, did you know Ghilan'nain and her Archdemon were going to be there?”

Finn stood there in silence.

“When you told Violet to leave, didn't you think there was going to be someone there who would love her? And don't you think of your father, even if you can't remember him?

What do you think the Hero of Ferelden thought when there were only two Wardens left to defeat the Blight? What do you think Hawke did when they were left alone in a city that hated them? What about the Inquisitor when he had to fight for an organization that cursed him, when he only wanted to help having the mark on his hand?

You know these people… and you know they tried their best… just like you…

Just like your team…”

“But Solas… what if he tried his best as well?”

“Maybe he did, maybe he thinks he did. But he did choose to sacrifice other people at every turn” Varric put a hand on his chest, where Solas plunged the dagger “Did you? Can you really say you sacrificed anyone willingly?”

Finn thought about it for a second, but Varric didn't let him dwell on his regret for too long. He signaled with his head.

Finn looked up, an eluvian.

He tried to reach it, until the pain shot threw his body like lightning again.

Varric put Finn's arm around his shoulders, carefully wrapping his arm around his back and together they climbed through the steps to the eluvian. One by one:

“This is the last thing I'm ever going to be able to do for you…”

“Varric… Thank you for everything… you were a good friend…”

He didn't know if this was another figment of his imagination but it felt real… real enough to say goodbye.

Finn could feel his vision getting blurry as he got nearer the eluvian. But if he could just… see them one last time… that was enough…

Just enough…

—------------------------------------------------------

They could've felt their heart skip a beat when they saw that handprint on the eluvian. They jumped out of their seats, to pull him towards them.

Finn fell into Lucanis' arms, and smiled slightly. Lucanis cup his face on his hands, getting his hair out of his face. Spite pulled out his wings embracing their Rook.

He was back. They got him back.

And then Finn's wound started bleeding again, it had been so long they had forgotten the state Rook was dragged to the Fade in. He gave his friends a teary smile, as he buried his face on Lucanis' chest and his body went limp:

“No! No no no no” Lucanis grabbed his lover before he fell to the ground “Please! Please no!”

Neve and Emmrich rushed to their side, Taash gave Lucanis the first piece of cloth they found so they could stop Finn's hemorrhage long enough for the mages to remember any healing spell that might work.

Healing wasn't Neve or Emmrich’s speciality but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that Finn wasn't breathing, at all.

His own words hit him like a boulder.

All I know is death.

All he knew was death.

He didn't know how to help. He couldn't save him.

He got him back just for a second.

Just for a goodbye.

All I know is death.

And yet, as if guided, he ripped Finn's chestplate and started pushing on his chest. He didn't know where he learnt this, and there wasn't time to think about it now. The memories were foggy, of family long gone.

He opened Finn's mouth and breathed life into his lungs. He would lie down on his own if that's what it took for Rook to return again.

He placed his ear on his chest. Nothing.

Next thing he knew Davrin was next to him, he pushed on his friend's chest waiting for Lucanis to continue breathing. As the mages closed the wound on his torso.

He breathed. A quiet gasp.

Lucanis placed his ear on Finn's chest again, hearing his heartbeat might have been the most relieved he'd ever felt.

He was still unconscious and heavily mangled, but he was alive. And he could get through this:

“We need to find an actual healer” said Neve, whipping some sweat of her forehead

“We must take haste, our dear friend is stable but…” added Emmrich

“There were some people stuck on the Crossroads. I'm- I'm sure we can find someone quickly” said Davrin, he was breathing heavily like he had just remembered he could “Neve, Emmrich, you should stay near Rook. Taash, I need you to search with me”

Taash picked up Finn as if he weighed nothing:

“Come on, I'll take him to my room first, I have the closest bed”

Lucanis followed closely.

—------------------------------------------------------

He couldn't even believe it when he woke up. The fact that he was opening his eyes at all, alive and breathing. He instinctively drew his hand to the side of his torso, a certain level of pain was still there but at least the wound was closed. He could feel his body covered in bandages, somebody had done a thorough job of taking care of his aching body, probably Emmrich.

He took note of his surroundings, Taash' room. They must have taken him to their bed to rest. A good bed was more comfortable than the infirmary, he had to give them that. How was he supposed to face them?

As his eyes accustomed to light he sighed. It was gone now, the vision from his left eye, from the scar he got at Weisshaupt. Gone, after all that time.

It was okay, they knew it would happen… and he had a master assassin at his side… always on his left side…

He searched carefully through the bed, he couldn't see him, or barely move to face him. But he knew he would find him if he searched.

His hand reached him crouching down at the side of the bed, resting until his lover woke up. Lucanis flinched at the touch, and incorporated himself so Finn would be able to see him:

“Finn!”

“Lucanis”

Tears swelled as he opened his arms, Lucanis wrapped him in a tight embrace. Soft enough as not to hurt him, close enough as to never lose him again. He buried his face on Rook's neck, caressing his hair tenderly. Finn could feel his tears dripping down his shoulder:

“ROOK.IS.HERE”

Finn chuckled:

“Hello Spite…”

Spite’s wings wrapped around them, protectively, warmly. Who might have said that he'd be loved by a demon:

“Lucanis… I know you don't want to hear it but…”

“No… Finn… I-”

He looked at him with those big, sad eyes. He never thought someone would ever look at him with so much love:

“Say it… say it as many times as you need…”

Finn choked a sob, and Lucanis placed kisses on his face:

“I love you… I love you…”

In the Absence of Everything

I'm very happy to share my first gift fic for my graphics challenge! Thank you @lgvalenzuela (whose commissions are open) for the beautiful art you did for the contest! Here is your angst Post-Tearstone fallout where Davrin and Lucanis try to pick up the pieces. Click here to see it on AO3 Preview under the cut:

Davrin had carved Lace, taking the time to capture the embroidery on her armor best he could. Debated giving it to Taash but hung onto it in his uncertainty. Bellara had been next, and Davrin would kill Elgar’nan for that, personally. Rook, he did again, capturing him in his Warden armor, placing it next to the others.

Lyra’s was the hardest. Every time he started, he couldn’t get it quite right. It had turned into an obsession when he wasn’t around the others. This time, he got almost to the end, eyes burning as he got to her face. His hand cut too deep and he growled, throwing the carving into the fire and going to bed. Assan chirped and climbed onto his chest, weighing him down, trying to urge him to sleep. Davrin smiled and stroked a finger down his beak, humming to calm him.

Something about it worked, and the griffon closed his eyes. Davrin followed him soon after, if only for a little while. 

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

give summer a character arc challenge

[lymtw]

All Is Forgiven

Thinking of an argument with Toji that leaves you mute by choice towards him. He still talks to you and asks you questions, and while you don't turn away from him, you don't respond to him either. He ends up having to figure out whatever he needs on his own because after a minute or so you huff and walk away from the conversation.

"Mama," Toji calls from the bedroom, rummaging through his clothing drawers. "Have you seen my gym shorts?"

If he was able to get a word out of you, he would know that you washed them for him. Though you were still sizzling with anger towards him, you pulled them out of the dryer and walked them over to the room. He could hear your little footsteps as you approached the room, and when he turned to look at you, he noticed you were holding his shorts in your hand.

Your eyes were vacant towards him. You didn't want them to be because it sucks when you can't look at him with the endless amount of love you have in store for him. It's still there, but it's being masked by a poker face.

You toss the shorts onto the bed and leave. Toji sighs, irked by the fact that it's actually starting to sting now. Your disregard for him because you're ruled by your emotions and he lets things go too easily because he can't hold a grudge towards you, even if he feels you're in the wrong.

Toji never knew how much he depended on your voice until you wouldn't let him hear it. He depends on you to tell him where things are because without you they would be scattered all over the place. He doesn't know your method of organization, but somehow when he needs something and looks to you in order to find it, you pull it out from right under his nose. He depends on you to tell him he's doing a good job, and to tell him you love him, and just reassure him in general. It makes him feel good to know that someone thinks he's good enough, but recently the one person who feeds him affection like it's as important as food and water, has left him to starve. You haven't said a word to him in almost two days, and he feels like he's starting to go crazy. The sound of his own voice is driving him insane. It's gotten so bad that he had to make a mental note of how he's going to get you back that same night.

Toji leaves for the gym and texts you during his time there. He includes some images because it's now an unspoken rule that he always has to send you gym pics.

[ Attachment: 3 Images]

... 😳🤐

Yeah, I know you like those. I'll be home soon.

You take the time to doll yourself up while he's still out. It's for him, but you won't tell him that until you come back from your "night out". Really, you're just gonna go get dinner for both of you from his favorite little restaurant. You just want to see how far he's willing to let this go, because you're caving. You're ready to apologize even when you know he's not upset at all. You're ready to spoil him in order to make up for those severe feelings you held towards him. You're ready to hear about how stubborn and unbelievable you are for this little act you pulled.

You spray on some perfume and walk out of the bathroom, just in time to catch Toji walking through the door.

"Woof, where're you going, ma?" He asks, setting down his gym bag before absorbing everything you were gracing him with. His eyes flit up and down your body, lingering on the very bare skin of the legs that come out from under your skirt. He can smell your perfume from where he stands, its elegant scent masking even the smell of his own potent sweat.

You didn't answer his question, and left him to wonder why you're all dressed up at seven o'clock at night. Was it a girl's night or were you openly showing him that you have options? Did he miss a message or a call from you?

You grabbed your wallet and scooted past him. You walked halfway down the corridor of your apartment building before realizing that maybe this was a bit much. You would make him worry over you going on a five minute walk to grab some food? All so you can show him you're mad? You cracked.

🥟🥡🍜.

Toji was staring at his screen, waiting for anything from you. The screen flashes like some sort of miracle and your message is seen by him. He chuckles, feeling a sense of relief wash over him at the sight of your little emoticons.

You came back home as fast as possible, bags of food in hand as you patiently waited for the elevator to bring you up to your floor. You took your time walking through the corridor, this time, not knowing how you would react once you saw Toji or if you would immediately say something to him. You're ready to talk to him, you want to talk to him. You miss him, you love him, and you hate the passiveness you threw yourself into around him as an act of retaliation.

There you were, standing in front of the door, nervous beyond belief for what was behind it. You collected yourself and twisted the doorknob, ready to face anything that came to you.

Toji stood from the couch and walked over to you to take the bags from your hands. The smell of his body wash wafted into your nose. There was an imaginary white flag hanging out of your pocket, and it was about to fall out to signal your surrender to Toji.

He pecks your cheek and watches in real time as color floods into your face. It's one of the most adorable things he's ever seen—you standing there so rigidly afterwards. He gives you a soft smile and resists the urge to coo at you for being so cute. Instead, he heads to the table to put the bags of food down.

You shut the door, and within a split second, Toji was in front of you again. "Ma," he says, sounding a little more desperate than he thought he would. "Say something." You stand there like a statue—unmoving, but unlike a statue, you are easily moveable. Especially, by Toji. "Anything, mama, please." He crouches down at your feet, his warm hands resting on the backs of your knees and his cheek resting on one of your thighs. This position made it look like you were being worshipped by him, and anyone who ever saw him do this would know that it was true, because he worshipped everything about you. From the top of your head, to the ground your feet stood on.

"Don't you miss having my hands on you?" They glide up and down the backs of your thighs. He looks up at your stunned expression. You won't look down at him, so he gets to see the way you swallow the words dying to leave your mouth, and the slight widening of your eyes as he lets his hands roam your lower body. "I know I do. I've been in hell these past couple days." He presses a soft kiss to your knee, then one more on your thigh. "I didn't mean what I said. I don't think you're selfish, baby. Maybe i'm just a greedy asshole," he says, rekindling the subject of what led to your silence towards him. His hand maneuvers around your leg so that his palm is on your thigh, making its way up towards the inner part of it. "But, I know something," his lips trail further up your thigh, softly kissing your skin. "I'm greedy about you. That can't and won't be changed, even when we argue like idiots."

You put your hand on his head as he starts kissing up your inner thighs, making his way even further up beneath your skirt.

"Come on, my sweet girl," he murmurs, his lips meeting the front of your underwear. "Tell me you want me to stop. Tell me you hate that my filthy paws are on you, right now."

Your legs tremble at the lightness of his touch, and you internally cringe at how sensitive you've always been for him.

"Toji..." you gasp. You feel his warm tongue flatten between your legs, a slow upwards drag of the muscle makes your thighs quiver before him. You whimper at the damp warmth his saliva leaves on your panties. "Fuck..." you moan, breathily. "Don't stop. Stay there, please."

The first word you reintroduced yourself with being a moaned out rendition of his name was heaven reaching down to pat him on the back for knowing exactly what to do to get you to talk again.

"Open wider for me, baby. Let me see," Toji says, your skirt still veiled over his head. You take a step back so that your back is against the door and widen your stance a little more. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and you shudder when his tongue returns to slide through your clothed folds. He doesn't even need to produce that much saliva to drench the fabric of your underwear because you've done that for him already with your leaking arousal.

You shut your eyes and rest your head against the door as Toji continues his act of filth between your thighs. You can hear him panting below you, your taste pleasantly coating his tongue every time he sucks on the garment that clings to you.

You cry out his name with sharp breaths following, your fingers tangling into his locks, gripping and tugging as his lips catch onto your cunt. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," you grit out, whimpering at the contrast between his mouth and his hands. His hands offer a gentle massage to your thighs, softly kneading the plush between his fingers. His mouth moves purposefully because he knows exactly what it takes to make you fall apart with it. He coats his tongue with your essence every time he laps at the wet patch on your underwear, sticky webs of arousal connecting him to you.

"T-Toji!" You squeal, your cunt throbbing with every brush of his tongue. "I'm gonna cum... Fuck, i'm gonna cum..." you whine.

Toji pushes your underwear to the side, and glides his tongue through your generously slicked folds once and you're instantly arching your back off the door, squirming in his hold and moaning carelessly as he sloppily makes out with your cunt. He desperately chases the sound of your pleasure-ridden voice, wanting to hear the way it raises in pitch when he strokes you just right. He doesn't want it to stop, it's been too long. Two days way too long. You tug at his hair with one hand, dragging the nails of your other hand down the door. You breathe heavily as Toji manipulates your pleasure until your thighs are trembling.

Toji pulls away and lifts your skirt off his head. He lowers your leg back down and stands up from his crouched position. He faces you with glossy lips that shine with all the juices he collected from you, some of it drooling down his chin to give him an even more messy appearance. He presses his lips to yours, making slow movements to allow you to realize what is happening while your eyes are closed. You can taste yourself on his lips as you catch the rhythm.

There's a loud smack in the last kiss before he releases you, a feral look in his green eyes as he dotes on your blissed out appearance. You look too pure for someone who's just experienced something so sinful. "Hey, look at me," he coos, cupping your cheeks in his hands. "Look at me," he repeats, staring at you as you try to catch your breath with closed eyes.

You hum, rolling your eyes open to lazily stare back at him. Your eyelids felt so heavy as you looked at him, but you liked how vigilant he was being. It made you crack a grin, a small gesture that had Toji's heart thudding a little quicker, now.

"I wanna fuck you so bad, mama." His eyes trail yours as they look away from his gaze. "If this is your reaction to my mouth, I don't even know what to expect for when I'm inside you."

You look down to see what's been poking your thigh for the past minute or so, and it's the monster in his pants, outlined for your eyes to quickly spot and everything.

"Come on," you say, reaching your hand out to him. He takes it and allows you to lead him to the bedroom.

Toji shuts the door and locks it to give the situation a deeper level of intimacy. There's no one there but the two of you and yet you feel even more secluded by the gesture.

He wasn't aggressive in the way he bared you for his eyes. He pulled you close to him by the waist, your body against his as he peeled your layers of clothes off.

"Stay," he says, when you take a step back. He takes that step towards you again, placing his hands on your hips, and snaking them around to your back to locate the zipper for your skirt. He exhales through his nose, lidded eyes watching the longing expression on your face closely as he pulls down the zipper and allows the article to fall on the floor. His fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt before he fully slides his hands beneath it, and raises it up your torso higher and higher. You put your arms up and allow him to slip it off your head.

He makes haste of getting his own clothes off, a sly smirk decorating his face when he sees you admiring him from where you sit on the end of the bed as you take off your bra and underwear. You're forced further up the bed by Toji as he inches closer and closer to you. You reach a dead end and welcome the suffocating warmth of his body as he cages you onto the bed.

"Don't do that to me again, mama," he murmurs, before leaning down to peck your lips. "Don't let me talk to myself for that long when you have such a pretty voice to respond with."

You laugh, pulling a small grin from him. "I didn't think you'd care, to be honest. I thought you'd tell me i'm being childish or ridiculous."

"Nah, princess. I thought I was gonna die."

You giggle, pulling him close again. "You're exaggerating."

"You wouldn't let me touch you. Not even when we went to bed, so it was like we were friends instead of lovers sleeping together. Especially with how far on your side you slept."

"Oh, baby," you coo, pressing multiple quick apologetic kisses to his lips. He chuckles at the affection, and his eyes close instinctively as your kisses become more widespread on his face. He missed this more than anything. "What can I do for your forgiveness, my love?"

"Just let me fuck you, ma. That's all. Give me my privilege to all of this, again." His hand slowly trails from your chest to your stomach, a touch you longed for dearly during those two days that you verbally ignored him.

"It's yours," you whisper to him. You peer up at him with your constellation eyes, silently begging him to realize how much you need him. "I'm yours, so show me the use you have for the privilege over my body, baby."

He leans down to kiss you, softly. He's desperate for you, but his lips don't falter their delicate synchrony because of it. He guides the tip of his cock through your folds, rubbing up and down the slickness a couple times before slowly sinking into you. Your ability to tangle with Toji's lips slowly deteriorates, and your focus strays to the stretching happening lower down your body, so Toji picks up the slack and feeds you his kisses.

"Come on," he groans out. Not even he is immune to the rebirth of sex with you. You're warm and inviting, and you embrace the pain and comfort he offers every time he craves you or you crave him. This time is no exception. "Kiss me back, sweetheart. Give them all to me," he mutters, before attempting to connect his lips to yours again. You dig your heels into the mattress and your toes curl as you feel his girth continue to submerge inside you.

Toji cups your chin and uses his fingers to squish your cheeks together into a makeshift pout for him to kiss. He can hear your hummed little whimpers in response to him sheathing himself further into you. He was being gentle, because hurting you is a crime in his world.

"Fuck, I missed this, mama," he says, goosebumps rising on his torso as he drags himself out of you halfway and pushes himself back in again. "So warm..." he says over the sound of your pleasured moan. He sighs, a grunt following as he starts a careful rocking rhythm into you. "I could stay inside you forever."

"I could keep you here forever," you rephrase, gazing up at him with those eyes he unequivocally loves. They've reverted back to the default loving expression you hold for him, the vacancy of your previous gaze now filled with love, excitement, lust, and overall enchantment. It's a beautiful thing to see your hurricanes subside.

He leans down to kiss you again, distributing the kisses on your face and leading them towards your neck. You could feel his abs dragging up and down your stomach with every roll of his hips against yours.

"Mmm... Toji," you moan, bringing your hands to his back. One of them moves up to the nape of his neck, threading through the dampened locks of his hair, the other traces his spine to distract you from how badly you want to dig your nails into him.

"I know," he coos, kissing the spot beneath your ear. "I know, doll. It's always this good with you."

You gasp at the feeling of his cock prodding the more sensitive area within you. "Right there, right there... Oh..." you moan out, inevitably digging your nails into his shoulder blades while Toji directs his kisses back up your neck and towards your face again so he can see the honest expression on it. You're lost in pleasure, vibrating as another orgasm rushes through you.

"Fuck, mama.. let me-" he groans, outwardly losing it at the overflow of your juices. "Let me see those pretty eyes," he pants, gripping your waist a little more harshly as he feels his cock on the brink of expelling into you. "Need you to watch me," he says, taking in the way your lips part to release your sounds of utter satisfaction. Your eyes flutter open to center on his greedy eyes. You mirror his lustful, lidded gaze, the look enough to make him spill inside you, making your cunt even sloppier. "You're gorgeous, ma," he says, mindlessly, as he fucks into you with a little more fervor. "Fucking stunning," he mutters through pants, to which you respond with a sly smirk. The gesture lured a groan out of him and made his cock twitch as he finished releasing into you.

You giggle when he stills his hips. Your combined attempts to regulate your breathing fills the silence that follows. "What're you laughing at?" He asks, massaging your hip with his thumb.

"You tell me that all the time like you're obsessed with me or something."

"And if I am?" he says with a voice so deep you have to blink to see that it's still your gentle giant of a man. "Is it too much for you? Can you handle it? Am I suffocating you, baby?" he purrs, cupping your cheeks while leaning in close to emphasize his points. All it does is allow you to closely admire how handsome he is and really think about what's happening in this moment. This green-eyed, raven-haired man, with the prettiest pointed nose and the most attractive scarred lips, is bedding you, and doing it so well.

"Never. Come closer and bite," you murmur.

He takes your lips in his again, a little more aggressive than before. You asked him to bite, and that's exactly what he's doing. The make out has him rocking both of you a little faster, working you towards yet another orgasm. You nip at his bottom lip and run your tongue over it when hisses. You hum out a little giggle, and moan into his mouth when he jolts into you.

"God, i'll bust again if you keep doing that. I'm serious, mama" he groans, swiping his tongue over his stinging bottom lip. You think he's being dramatic so when he leans down to kiss you again, you bite his bottom lip and suck on it. You gasp, releasing his lip and stare at him with wide eyes as his excessive warmth spurts into your cunt, filling it to the brim and beyond, to the point of leakage.

"F-Fuck... you're terrible," he groans, shuddering with tense abdominal muscles as he lures the entirety of his orgasm out. "Cum," he says, panting as he picks up the pace of his rutting to get you to follow his orgasm. "I can feel you clenching around me like hell. I know you want to," he says, reaching a hand between you and him to stimulate your clit.

Your already labored breathing picks up and your heart is pounding in your ears aggressively as you roll your hips back against his. You whimper as you feel your peak get closer and closer, a cried out and breathy "fuck!" leaving you when it arrives, followed by high pitched moans that make Toji's heart race. You arched your back off the mattress as you reached the zenith of your orgasm with the help of Toji's finger rapidly rubbing your clit while he maintained his satisfying pace inside you.

You whimper, slapping a hand onto Toji's wrist to stop his movements on you. He smirks at the sight of your trembling thighs, your heaving chest, and the sound of your dazed hums. You always were such a delicate thing. So fragile that even with just enough of his attention, he could break you.

"Tired yet?" He asks, admiring your relaxed facial features. You nod with your eyes closed, your lips parted to release little puffs of air. "Thought you'd be. I'll go grab some towels for us to shower." He pulls out of you, taking a moment to admire your collaborative masterpiece.

"Baby..." you whine, sitting up when you feel his weight lift off the bed. "I can't get up." You dramatically let yourself fall back on the bed and stick your tongue out to portray your exhaustion.

"Get up, you faker. That's all you have to do and i'll take care of the rest."

"Too tired to wash myself right now..." you say, waking up for a second before closing your eyes again. Toji can see the sly grin on your face and the little shake of your stomach as you stifle your giggles.

"Guess you're too tired to eat, too, huh? You know i've got a huge appetite, and I could eat all that food you brought by myself."

"You wouldn't," you say, abruptly sitting up on the bed and squinting at him. "There's enough to feed three people in those bags."

"I've got the stomach of three people in one, so you better catch up before you're left with my seconds."

You sigh, too tired to move, but you get up anyway and trail behind Toji. "Baby, can you pleeease clean me up? I'm beat."

He puts his hands on your shoulders as he now walks behind you. "Sure, but don't complain when I take longer on certain areas."

[timmydraker]

When patrolling together, Red Robin and Robin get cornered by the Joker.

They aren’t too worried at first considering he’s seemingly only got a dozen men and others are on patrol, but then they see what the men are holding.

Joker had made a new Joker venom and they are seemingly the test subjects.

Damian is instantly ready to fight, but Tim is running the odds through his mind and it’s not good. They have a good chance of getting out, they are trained after all, but not without one or both of them getting the venom and who knows how long it will take to make a cure of a new concoction.

Tim can’t let that happen.

Jason, Barbara, himself…

Damian will not be added to the list of people of people tormented by this mad man.

With coms being out of reach as the two went into a private channel so they wouldn’t get in trouble for bickering, and their every move being watched, Tim had few choices.

Tim swallows and pushes Damian behind him, standing tall with his chin up even as his hands start to shake.

Damian starts to protest but Tim is speaking first, “Let him go and you can-… can have JJ back.”

The way Joker starts to grin even wider, slow and painful, is the most unnerving sight Tim has seen in a long time.

Joker laughs loud and starts clapping.

“Oh joy, oh joy! This is more fun than I thought! Always so good at surprises, JJ!”

His laughing doesn’t stop as Tim shakily turns to his little brother, who’s almost eighteen but still little even as he grows taller than him, and holds onto his shoulders.

“Robin, I need you to listen to me. You have to let me go with them or you’ll get hurt, okay? You have to promise me you won’t follow us because I can’t let you get hurt like me and-“

One of the goons takes the chance to knock Robin out and lets him slump into Tim’s arms.

Just as he begins to panic about them hurting Damian or bringing them with him, Joker comes up behind him and wraps an arm move his shoulders, “Don’t worry about him, JJ! Little Robin number… whatever, will be just fine! Batsy will find him and take him back to his nest, while we…” - Joker leans in so he can whisper in his ear - “have a little family catch up!”

Tim nods, not finding it in himself to smile or play along yet, but keeping up his end of his offer.

It takes one day of shocks after his forced make over for him to settle back into the role he learnt the first time. Last time it took two and half a weeks for him to give in and learn his part properly, and then a few more days before he was rescued, but this time it feels almost natural as he puts on a big grin and starts a familiar giggle.

He thinks of Damian, who may have been turned into Joker Junior Junior or some other absurd name, and tells himself it’s worth it to protect him from any more trauma.

Tim is kept for a month, playing house with a mad man who makes rants about JJ’s mother leaving him for a woman and being tortured every time he doesn’t laugh quick enough or seems just a little distant.

When he’s found he doesn’t realise. He’s just sitting there at a dinner table with straps on the chair keeping him down. He’s laughing loudly, knows if he stops he’ll be hit or shocked or forced to drink some kind of toxic chemical until he pukes up blood. He can’t stop, because Papa will be mad and he’s scary when he’s mad and mama isn’t there anymore.

When he process the change of scenery he finds himself in a hospital bed in the cave.

JJ and Tim are so blurred into the same person that when he sees Damian he has no idea who he is at first. He almost expects someone younger, the little boy who first showed up, because that’s the little boy he gave himself up for.

But when Damian stared back at him and starts to tear up Tim finds himself remembering who he wants to be.

He pulls his little brother into his arms, jostling Alfred the Cat, and sobs into his hairline while ignoring the green in his periphery and praying he doesn’t start to laugh.

He fails, but Damian doesn’t give up on him.

[lilislegacy]

Okay, I’m so gonna get hate for this. And it will probably get about 4 notes. This is, by far, the most opinionated thing I have ever posted on here. If you can’t tolerate criticism towards Rick Riordan, the books, or the TV show, please keep scrolling. My goal is NOT to change your mind or start arguments.

I also want to preface this by saying that I love and respect Rick Riordan (even if I disagree with him on things and don’t like some of his choices) and fully acknowledge that he has the right to do whatever the hell he pleases with his own series. I also want to say that I love Annabeth Chase (both the book and tv show version) with my entire being and you will never find me being an Annabeth hater. She’s my girl.

We good? Okay cool. So here’s the thing: I’ve seen a lot of people on here saying things like “If you didn’t like the books, you just don’t know how to have fun,” and “The new book haters are just mad that they aren’t the target audience anymore,” and (my personal favorite) “Nothing in the books has changed, only the readers have.”

And while I see your points, and I respect you, allow me to show you something. Because of the 10 picture limit, I am only going to focus on one specific change: Annabeth’s view of Percy.

WOTTG: Annabeth is surprised to be comforted by Percy

Past Books: Percy is constantly comforting Annabeth

WOTTG: Annabeth is shocked when Percy is smart

Past Books: Annabeth often points out that Percy is intelligent

WOTTG: Annabeth thinks Percy can’t do anything on his own, and Rick communicates that Annabeth is always saving his ass

Past Books: Percy is ALWAYS watching her back, and saving her ass just as much (and Annabeth admits that)

I could put a hundred quotes in here. I could go on and on and on. But I can’t, and I won’t.

My problem with this new book is NOT that it is more goofy than serious. My problem is NOT that little things have changed. My problem is NOT that it’s just for fun. My problem is NOT that it’s much more childish. (And by the way, I’ve read PJO and HOO as an adult, so it’s not like I was a child when I read everything else and am now an adult reading the new ones.) I really did like and enjoy many parts of this book.

My problem is that the characters (especially Annabeth) have flat out changed—in bad ways—and we have no choice but to accept it as canon. My problem is that Rick, while trying to merge his books with his new TV show project, is changing the entire personalities and past behaviors/ tendencies of the characters.

I loved Chalice of the Gods. You know why? It was fun, goofy, and showed the characters that we know and love being happy and adorable. I strongly dislike Wrath of the Triple Godess because the characters—no matter how adorable and happy they might be—are no longer the ones we know and love.

My problem is that Rick Riordan fully admitted that he no longer considers the old book characters when he writes the new books. He is now purposefully incorporating his own personal mixture of the book characters and tv characters and writing those versions instead. Because of his desire to change and transform the series, I doubt he’s even read the original PJO or HOO books in years, which is why everything is so inconsistent. The old book characters—the ones who made the series what it was—are gone. And that is not my opinion. Rick fully admits that he doesn’t imagine them when he writes anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE the tv show actors. I adore Walker and Leah and Aryan with my whole heart, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. But the fact is: they will never be exactly like the book characters. It’s impossible for actors to become the words on a page. They’re their own unique version! And likewise, you cannot turn actors into print. It doesn’t work! And why would you try? The books versions were perfect as they were. And the disney kids need to make the characters their own. The two versions can exist side by side, equally as wonderful, and still be gloriously different. We should celebrate the uniqueness of both. But instead, Rick is attempting to merge them into one. And in my opinion, it’s just hurting them both. And I’m gonna get real brave by saying this, but do you want my honest prediction? If he keeps doing what he’s doing now, the TV show is going to get cancelled and the books are going to turn into a joke. I so, so badly hope that this doesn’t happen! I have loved Rick and PJO for many, many years. I badly want both to thrive. But what is going on right now… it is not working, no matter how much we all want it to. And speaking as someone who knows people in the TV/Film industry, I am sadly not the only one who thinks the show is gonna flop. Which is devastating, because Rick Riordan deserves a redemption on the big screen, and the incredible actors deserve to bring this series to life in a new way.

I am not trying to force my opinions onto anybody. You are welcome to disagree with me and move on. I am not saying that I’m right and you’re wrong. If you disagree, that’s okay. If you agree but you don’t have a problem with it, that’s okay. In fact if other people have literally no issues, that makes me somewhat happy. And if you loved the book, I’m honestly so stoked for you. Feel free to just keep on scrolling, my friend.

But me? I’m sad. I’m really, really freaking sad. And I’m a little angry too, even if I don’t have a right to be. I can’t help it because I’m only human. But this is how I—and a lot of other people—feel. And you know what? That’s okay too. Because the fact of the matter is:

Annabeth isn’t the same Annabeth anymore. And Percy isn’t the same Percy anymore. And it’s not because they went through trauma, or because time has passed. It’s because Rick Riordan doesn’t have any interest in writing those versions of them anymore. And I think the comparisons between the old and the new show that fact pretty clearly.

[darkmatilda]

𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: when spencer was dealing with a migraine, he definitely preferred staying home with a good book or just going to sleep. but after losing a bet to morgan, he couldn't escape—he had to show up for a blind date.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid (s6-7) x diva/bombshell!female reader, spencer's pov, alcohol consumption, suggestive content comes back in flashbacks, scratch marks.

𝐚/𝐧: okay, question for you — what kind of bet could spencer possibly lose to morgan?

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6.5k

Spencer could offer anyone one piece of advice.

If, at any point during your— let’s face it, pathetically short — lifespan (the average human life expectancy is approximately 73 years, though this varies depending on environmental factors, lifestyle choices, genetics, and a laundry list of other variables you probably skimmed past in some middle school biology textbook) you ever get the idea to make a bet with a man like Derek Morgan, stop yourself immediately.

Seriously.

Tuck your pride deep into your pocket, crumple up your honor like a piece of paper, and toss it straight into the trash. Not every moment of your life has to be spent proving to the world that you’re always right. Especially when there’s even the slightest chance you might not be. Save yourself the humiliation.

You could spend this Friday night at home, nose buried in a book, instead of perched on a stool in some dimly lit, cramped bar, the kind where you keep glancing over your shoulder, half expecting someone to jump out and stab you in the ribs. Okay, maybe that’s dramatic. Spencer just really didn’t want to be there.

On this date. This blind date.

This blind date with some friend of Morgan’s whom he had never seen before, didn’t know what she looked like, what her name was, or what she did for a living…he knew nothing about her. And that, among other things, made him feel like the meeting could only go terribly.

The second reason was his migraine, which decided to strike that day, bringing that awful pressure back to his temples and turning him into a snappy, irritable jerk. The third reason was that his date was already twenty minutes late. How could he expect to spend meaningful time with someone who didn’t even respect him enough to show up on time?

At least he was in a relatively quiet bar instead of some nightclub bursting with lights. He probably wouldn’t have survived that. At least here, he could lean his elbow against the bar and press the cold glass of his drink to his temple, hoping it might soothe the awful sensation pounding in his head. He had specifically asked for the drink to be served with as much ice as possible.

He glanced at his watch. Twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds...

Someone slid onto a barstool. Not right next to him—there was one empty seat between them. Spencer cast a fleeting glance at the woman and almost snorted. That definitely wasn’t her.

Sure, he didn’t know what she looked like, and she didn’t know what he looked like. But Morgan wouldn’t have set him up with…someone like that. He wouldn’t be that cruel.

This woman looked as if someone had just fallen to their knees in front of her, begged her to step out of the pages of a high-fashion magazine, and graced the room with her presence. Or like the kind of person you stumble across while flipping through profiles of major mob bosses on Garcia’s computer and click on the tab labeled wife. Calling her pretty in this context would have been the greatest insult, a blatant lie, and a complete disregard for her actual presence.

No one in their right mind would have set someone like him up with a woman like this. An average-looking brainiac, often losing his train of thought and completely getting lost in his own words. Awkward. Currently also irritated and exhausted, but that’s beside the point.

Besides, the woman didn’t look like she was waiting for her date to show up. She sat facing the bar, not looking around, not scanning for anyone with her eyes. In fact, her gaze was fixed on one spot. On her phone, which she kept tapping on with her long nails. It couldn’t be her.

However, there was no other woman in sight. So, his date was already thirty minutes and twelve seconds late…wait, hold on. Had he really been staring at her for six seconds and twenty-five minutes? That was almost creepy. He was really being strange that day.

He shook his head in pity at himself and…still waited.

And waited.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her adjust herself in her seat. Her posture straight as an arrow, her thighs widening from the pressure on the seat. Long fingers with long nails, incessantly clicking away on her phone. Her jaw slightly clenched. What could be so important that she was completely ignoring the world around her? Some exciting gossip from her best friend? Or maybe when you look like that, you simply stop paying attention to your surroundings because it doesn’t deserve it? Or perhaps he was just projecting the irritation he had built up onto a woman who hadn’t done anything to him, creating degrading assumptions about her based solely on her appearance?

He placed the untouched glass with his drink on the counter. The ice clinked. Since he’d already wasted so much time preparing and leaving his apartment, it would be foolish to waste it even further without saying a word to his, well, potential date? Besides, he already felt humiliated. Why not embarrass himself even more?

"Hey," he said, fixing his gaze on her again. Damn, his voice sounded weak. She didn’t even flinch, probably hadn’t heard him. He cleared his throat and restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Of course, she hadn’t heard, she was too absorbed in her phone. "Hey, are you…are you maybe Morgan’s friend?"

Without rushing, she finished typing a message on her phone, then rested her chin on her hand, stretching her long fingers over it. Spencer tried to decipher what that unfazed look in her eyes meant. Boredom? Disdain?

"Spencer Reid," she said after a moment, nodding almost imperceptibly to herself. Her gaze drifted over his figure, leaving behind the faint trace of something—some kind of shiver—that he worked hard to ignore. He preferred to focus on something else. She knew his name, but he didn’t know hers? “I was starting to think you wouldn’t speak up.”

He frowned, and an unidentifiable sound escaped his throat. Somewhere between a startled sigh and a derisive scoff.

“You knew it was me?” he asked, immediately regretting the stupid question. She had just made it blatantly obvious! For reasons he couldn���t quite grasp, he felt as though there was a strict limit to the number of sentences he was allowed to exchange with her. And he’d just wasted one of them. “So why didn’t you say something first?”

She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was tapping something else into her phone. He rolled his eyes, not even bothering to hide it. After all, she wasn’t paying attention to him anyway.

“I saw that,” she said, still not looking at him. “It’s rude to make faces behind someone’s back.”

Spencer had this particular trait: he was quick to form opinions about people. His job, after all, involved noticing patterns in others’ personalities and using that to predict their next moves. This time, though, he abandoned the idea of a deep psychoanalysis and focused on one simple thing.

Her insolence just plain pissed him off.

To the extent that, instead of getting up from his seat and leaving the bar with a sarcastic thanks for the date, he slid off his stool and onto the one that had been separating them. His drink stayed in its original spot. Not that it was doing anything for his headache, anyway.

“It’s also rude to be late for an agreed-upon meeting time and ignore the other person in favor of your phone,” he shot back, this time without a hint of hesitation.

Either he imagined it, or a brief tremor took control of the corners of her lips.

She turned off her phone and placed her hand over it, as if to show that while she wasn’t using it at the moment, she could always pick it back up whenever she felt like it. Once this fleeting interest in him had run its course. It was like throwing down a challenge to the court jester. Entertain me.

“You’re right,” she admitted, without a trace of remorse. “It is rude.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other in complete silence. He tried not to swallow at all, even though saliva was pooling in his mouth. She seemed like an incredible observer, the type who would notice the slow, too-slow movement of his throat if he dared to let it happen. He had no idea what to say. No clue why he’d even joined her, why he was prolonging this conversation. He felt that if he spoke first, he’d seal his defeat in this interaction.

Not that he wasn’t already standing on that losing ground. And though he couldn’t believe he was actually saying it, sitting under her gaze was somehow worse than the potential humiliation. He cleared his throat.

“Morgan set us up,” he said.

“A blind date.”

“You lose a bet, too?”

She laughed. With that slight raise of her brow, it seemed like a genuine reaction. To his surprise, Spencer regretted his words. Maybe he shouldn’t have admitted to the woman he was on a date with that this was just the result of a wager. No matter how brazen or mean she might have been.

“Don’t worry,” she said, catching the look on his face. “It’s new. A completely exciting novelty, really. To be on a date with a guy and know he’s only there because he has to be. Not because he just wants to fuck you.”

Spencer shifted slightly in his seat. Once again, she was putting him in a position where he had no idea how to respond. For a moment, she watched him, her gaze piercing, her lips slightly parted to reveal hints of her teeth. But when he hesitated too long to say anything, she turned back to her phone. He’d lost her attention. Not that he particularly cared to keep it. Well, maybe he cared a little, but not in the most obvious sense. He saw it more as a game, a test of who she was.

She might not have been the most pleasant type of woman, but there was something undeniably fascinating about her. With that appearance, with that magnetic aura, she had to be used to crowds of men trailing after her, trying to impress her. He wondered how long it would take before she completely stopped paying him any attention. How susceptible to boredom she really was.

In the meantime, he let out a quiet sigh, turning to retrieve the drink he’d left at his previous spot. When he returned to his seat, however, he nearly spilled it on himself. She had shifted. Where before she had been angled toward the bar, only glancing at him sideways over her shoulder, now she was directly facing him, her knees nearly brushing his. She was entirely exposed to his gaze.

Earlier, Spencer had mostly registered the aura she projected—commanding, cool, utterly detached. Her beauty was breathtaking, but it had felt... out of reach. Untouchable. Now, up close, with more time to truly look at her, she became tangible. A shape—every curve and detail of her figure. Her lips, which, despite the sharp-edged words they formed, looked incredibly soft in texture.

He felt a bit pathetic for the fact that the first two things he noticed were her figure and her lips. But, in his defense, he’d already dissected everything else about her earlier.

“Sorry,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. She gestured vaguely toward her phone, the motion dismissive. “People won’t stop bothering me. My subjects.”

She uttered the word with a hint of sarcasm, her face lighting up as if she were joking, but considering her earlier behavior, Spencer found it genuinely difficult to tell whether she was serious about calling them that.

His mind should have been focused on sorting through the information, filing it neatly into the overstuffed yet impeccably organized shelves of his thoughts. He should have added the detail about her being someone’s boss to the appropriate folder, then used it as a springboard for conversation. After all, he didn’t know a single meaningful thing about her yet.

But instead, he was far too preoccupied with staring at her exposed knee like some pathetic fool.

Another second of silence, and she’d stop looking at him again—he’d already learned that pattern. He didn’t hold back and let out a short laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, shaking his head. But then he added, “Do you call your employees subjects? Like you’re, I don’t know, Catherine the Great on the Russian throne?”

“I knew you’d latch onto that. Just didn’t think you’d compare me to her.”

“Were you hoping for Cleopatra?”

The sound of her laughter caught the attention of the men at the table in the corner of the bar. Spencer wouldn't have been surprised if one of them approached her right then, completely ignoring his presence. Her head tilted slightly back, exposing her neck. He hurriedly took a sip of his drink, hoping the alcohol would dull his perception and stop him from paying such religious attention to such details. At that moment, he wasn't sitting there because of the lost bet. He was there because the chair physically had a grip on him.

“You’re cute,” she said.

Another surprising choice of words. A buzz filled his head, possibly a mix of his migraine and alcohol, or maybe something else entirely.

"Weren’t you supposed to say funny?" he muttered.

"I know what I wanted to say. I’ve never been on a date where someone compared me to two such powerful women."

He felt strangely pleased, and tried to push that feeling away as far as he could. She’d said one nice thing, and he was forgetting about the rest.

"But once, I was called the leader of a group of real angels," she added almost immediately, glancing at him with a small smirk. "So you could always try harder."

So many potential sarcastic replies flashed through his mind that he ended up saying nothing at all. Their knees were touching now. When did that happen? There had been a few inches of space between them earlier. Had he moved closer to her, or had she moved closer to him?

He considered pulling back, but that would have been an admission—both to her and to himself—that her touch was making it harder for him to think clearly. And after all, one of the defining traits of Spencer Reid was that nothing could cloud his intellect.

"Well, considering how biblically accurate angels look, I’m not sure if that was a compliment," his lips answered for him, without much consultation with his brain. They consulted instead with the center of humiliation, and received its approval.

Her eyebrows rose again as she slightly leaned toward him.

"Are you saying it was an insult?"

Being this close, she didn’t even need to raise her voice. Her words barely brushed the air, yet they were still audible. She was preventing him from interrupting her. How could he do that when he was barely able to come up with anything reasonable?

Without taking his eyes off her, he reached for his drink. The glass appeared between them, becoming an object that separated them, allowing him to—what a paradox—clear his thoughts for just a moment. He took a slow, tiny sip.

"Maybe the guy had good intentions," he replied with a feigned, dismissive shrug. "It’s just that his execution kinda gave him away. What I’m saying is, you should appreciate my compliment more." A bit of the drink remained on his lower lip, which reflected in her eye when she turned her gaze toward it. Spencer felt like he was on some kind of roller coaster, speeding in an unknown, slightly dangerous direction, not knowing how to stop it. Did he even want to stop it? He definitely needed to slow it down somehow. Before it crashed. He inhaled deeply, thinking of something that could, if only for a moment, give him control over the conversation. "Although maybe it shouldn’t even count, since this isn’t a real date."

"A compliment is a compliment. By the way, in your case, it was the other way around. The execution turned out well. The intentions, not so much. You didn’t want to make me feel good, right?" She tilted her head slightly to the side, curling the end of her sentence.

"I’ll leave that up to your interpretation," he replied after a moment. He was staring at her so intently that he almost unconsciously copied her movement. Control over the conversation, yeah, right! It was a struggle to swallow. "Does...does this not bother you at all? That this isn’t a real date?"

Constantly reminding her of that fact felt like clutching a damn sharp razor while drowning.

Her short huff synchronized with a roll of her eyes, a flash of white.

"I’m devastated by that fact," she groaned theatrically, tapping him seriously on the knee for dramatic effect. A shiver ran from his leg all the way through his body, the glass trembled in his hands. "I’m falling apart, I swear. Will you let me rest my head on your shoulder so I can cry?"

She looked at him from under lowered lashes, pretending to beg. Spencer was finding it increasingly hard to resist the buzz in his head and the thoughts that often wandered in strange directions. The tips of her long nails were still brushing against his leg through the fabric of his pants.

"Sarcasm," he muttered, struggling to tear his gaze away from them. Struggling to breathe. "How original.”

"I know this isn’t a real date, you don’t have to keep reminding me, Mr. Grumpy," she said, ignoring his mumbling remark that didn’t really mean anything. "By the way, even if it wasn’t obvious that this was a lost bet, I would’ve figured it out right away. All it took was one look at you when I walked in."

For a moment, Spencer managed to ground his feet in the reality beneath him. He furrowed his brows.

"What do you mean?"

She made some gesture with her hand.

"You were sitting here like you were being punished. Head down. Irritated look. Posture suggesting people shouldn’t approach you." She tried to demonstrate, slumping her previously perfectly straight back. It looked incredibly unnatural on her. "I’m so glad Morgan invited me here instead of some sweet, affectionate girl. She would’ve run away crying."

"That...is not true," he blurted out, shaking his head. "Okay, I admit, I didn’t want to be here, but I definitely didn’t suggest people should stay away from me."

"Maybe not you," she shrugged. "But your body language did."

He snorted.

"Look who’s the expert in reading body language."

“So now you want to be here?"

"What?"

"You said you didn’t want to be here. So, do you want to be here now?"

With some refined calmness, she followed his face. Their knees were almost touching, one of her legs was practically between his. Their bodies were facing each other, heads leaning toward one another. A glass in his hand. He tightened his grip on it, slightly pulling his shoulder blades together. He tried to escape the sphere of her scent, her gaze, her overpowering presence, which he was still relentlessly sinking deeper into. He couldn’t stay in that separation for long and soon returned to his previous position, placing them closer than ever before. Something in her eyes flashed with challenge.

"Apparently, you know a lot about body language," he said slowly, watching the flash in her eyes with the same breath. Surprisingly, he sounded quite confident. "Won’t you figure it out yourself?"

She hadn’t blinked for so long, yet her eyelids didn’t even flutter. After his question, there was a moment of silence, during which the corners of her lips curled up progressively. During this relatively short meeting, he’d barely seen a smile on her face, and none of them were like this one. In its way, it was ruthless, victorious, in its way cruel, in its way addictive.  It made him want to take some kind of action, to tear it off her face in a radical way.

He felt the drink slipping from his hands. For a moment, he was afraid he’d lost control over his limbs, and it would fall to the floor. But soon it dawned on him that her fingers were slowly beginning to wrap around the glass. Slowly, but surely, she took it from him.

"I could," she admitted, taking a sip. Spencer stared at the movement of her lips as they slowly embraced the glass, leaving their mark on it. "But why should I bother when you can tell me yourself?" she asked. She tilted her head slightly, and the next statement that came from her mouth was almost amused. "I don’t chase."

In the silence that fell, he felt as though she was listening, in some wicked way, to the sound of his heart beating. Like in some movie, where the world around fades into insignificance, other sounds melting into the atmosphere.

It seemed to Spencer that his voice had caught in his throat in some defensive gesture, trying to stop him from responding before properly considering his words. At the same time, so many sentences rushed to his lips—not just those that made sense. His mind was veiled by a black curtain of unbreathable fabric. In that moment, he could’ve just as easily recited the formula for the sum of an arithmetic sequence.

He swallowed hard.

"I don’t chase either," he finally replied, not breaking their gaze.

For a moment, she continued to stare at him. Her expression unreadable, the smile long forgotten. She shifted the glass in her hand, then tilted it to her lips, drinking the rest of its contents in one go. She set it down on the counter again, with force.

"Fuck you, then," she said indifferently.

For a moment, Spencer had no idea how to react; he couldn’t process it. His jaw slightly dropped, but he had no words to follow. And before he could add anything, she simply stood up from her seat, effortlessly untangling herself from their complex positioning, then walked away.

He sat there for what felt like an eternity, unmoving, until he was finally forced to take a breath. It was only with that rush of air into his lungs that he was able to somehow, in a distorted way, begin to rationalize everything.

First, he felt strangely disappointed.

Then, he found himself swept up in a wave of ordinary irritation towards her. The same kind of irritation he'd felt at the beginning of their conversation, which had subtly slipped out through the back door as the talk continued. And now, it had returned with double the force. He remembered her face, and when he imagined looking into those eyes, all he saw was the grotesque expansion of her inflated ego.

In its own way, it was justified. She was damn attractive, unattainable. Some level of excessive self-admiration was almost natural for her. At least, not surprising. That didn’t make it any less frustrating.

Spencer rubbed his eyelids as if waking from some dream. And then he saw it. Her phone on the bar. Left behind by her.

And although he grabbed the phone and even turned his body toward the door, he hesitated for a long time, unsure if he should follow her. She’d practically ignored him during the first few minutes of their conversation, absorbed by that very phone. On the other hand, it was supposedly some business matter. On yet another hand, he didn’t care in the slightest. When he left the bar, it wasn’t out of some deeply ingrained sense of altruism. He did it because his legs demanded it. His subconscious. The blood pulsing in his temples and the rapid breaths nervously coursing between his nose and mouth.

He stopped outside the bar, surrounded by the nighttime quiet. A yellow cab zipped past him, so close he could feel the air ripple in its wake, as he wondered which direction she might have gone. How was it even possible that she’d vanished so quickly? For a moment, he stood there, feeling a growing sense of pity for himself. He slowed his breathing, as though that might help him catch the faint sound of her heels striking the pavement somewhere in the distance. He wanted to hear it.

His grip tightened on the phone as he turned back toward the bar. He’d leave it there, hand it over to the bartender, and then go home. She’d figure it out eventually, realize where she’d last used it, and return.

But just as he took a single step, he noticed a silhouette leaning casually against the building.

Watching him. And smiling with triumph.

*

"Once again, why exactly are we, profilers, being called in for a contaminated water case?" Spencer asked, clearly frustrated with himself.

He couldn't focus. And he was hungover. Well, no, he wasn’t. He’d had less than one drink two days ago on Friday night, and now it was the start of the week, and he was at work. He’d gotten a decent amount of sleep last night, had an excellent coffee, and even eaten breakfast. So why did he still feel like there was some dull, persistent throbbing buried deep in the recesses of his skull?

The entire team stared at him for a beat too long in silence.

"This is the third such incident in the past two months," Hotch finally spoke, his tone patient. "The first time, a chemical contaminant got into the water supply of a small town, causing mild poisoning symptoms in a handful of people. The second incident was nearly identical, except more people were affected. The third time, it happened in a different, more populated area, using a much more lethal toxin. And now, we have fatalities."

For a moment, Spencer stayed silent, processing the information. In front of him lay a case file, its contents neatly compiled. He focused his gaze on the first page, his expression thoughtful. But as he read the words, they seemed to blur together, offering little clarity and yielding no significant conclusions. A bitter urge to scoff at his own incompetence bubbled up within him. He was distracted.

“You forgot to mention this is a top, top, top-secret case,” Rossi chimed in, breaking the silence.

Spencer furrowed his brow. Was there a hint of irony in Rossi’s tone, or was he imagining it?

“Sorry, man, but what planet have you been on for the past thirty minutes while we were going over this?” Morgan asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head, his tone light but teasing.

He tried to avoid his gaze. He had this strange feeling that Morgan could see right through him. After all, he was the only one who knew about his date. Well, in theory. The details and the outcome were still unknown to him, and they were meant to remain that way.

“There’s suspicion that all these contaminations are the work of one person or organization,” JJ spoke up, glancing at him from the corner of her eye with some pity. Not mockery, it’s worth specifying. “They’re testing the effects of various poisons, their toxicity, as well as gathering data on the response times of emergency services, procedures, and residents' reactions. And that, in turn, could mean…”

“Mass panic,” Prentiss finished.

JJ nodded at her, agreeing.

Thanks to this explanation, everything began to slowly form in his mind. Another case shrouded in secrecy, meant to be kept hidden from literally everyone, starting with the public, and even ending with other agencies.

“We’ll meet at the jet in fifteen minutes,” Hotch informed them, standing up from his chair. “We have a field interview to conduct. A chemist will join us to collect samples of the poison.”

Spencer dragged himself up from his seat, but before he could follow the others out of the room, Morgan stopped him with a gesture.

"You're staying, man. We need to talk." He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression full of curiosity.

Spencer sighed.

"Hotch said—"

"Fifteen minutes, if I heard right."

"Well, fifteen minutes is more than enough time for someone to drink contaminated water and end up six feet under."

"The water system's been shut off, so slow down with the doom and gloom. Besides, this conversation wouldn’t be happening if you’d called me back over the weekend," Morgan said, his tone firm but without any real anger—just pure, friendly curiosity. A grin spread across his face. "So, how was it? Did you have a good time? Did you like my friend?"

He knew that question was coming, yet he hadn’t prepared for it. He had no idea how to answer, no clue how to summarize an encounter that had somehow lodged itself so deeply in the recesses of his mind. It kept surfacing, unbidden, pushing certain images into his vision—and sensations into his awareness.

Spencer hit the doorframe with his shoulder.

Or maybe it was her? Either way, there was a sound of impact, one of them must have collided with something on the way. The way they both traveled, immersed in each other's faces, bodies heading out on a trip despite the layers of clothes separating them.

It was probably him after all. It was from his mouth that this short, sharp sound escaped. It didn't take them long to cover the distance between the bar and his apartment. They needed little conversation to shift from the topic left in the phone to the joining of impatient, curious lips. Curious whether they could once again tap into the tension created just moments earlier, when they sat across from each other on the bar stools.

And when the initial curiosity was satisfied, they couldn't stop. It was replaced by a need, driven out by the surging desire, as if they both had drunk a poison that clouded and darkened their minds.

How else could one explain that, despite barely knowing each other, going to bed together had suddenly become an unquestionable priority, one that didn’t concern such mundane things as doorframe or furniture?

Even now, his hand twitched as if instinctively reaching for his chest. Beneath his buttoned-up shirt and vest, his skin bore faint, fading marks that, while diminishing with each passing day, were still visible. Sometimes, they even felt tangible. When he thought about them long enough, he could almost feel the stinging sensation of sharp nails dragging across his body.

He shrugged slowly. Something he’d learned in the past few days—sometimes the best way to deflect was to redirect the question right back.

“Morgan, why did you set me up with her specifically?” he asked, his tone serious, genuine curiosity lacing his words. His friend furrowed his brows slightly in response.

“I mean, what was the goal here? I bet you have plenty of friends, but you chose her specifically,”

When he referred to her with that pronoun, it carried a weight of unspoken adjectives. Her. So attractive, so alluring. Confident to an intimidating degree, capable of making him feel like the most extraordinary man in the world and a complete nobody—all with a single glance.

Morgan didn’t get a chance to respond before Spencer continued, diving headfirst into what had consumed far too much of his thoughts lately.

“Did you hope I’d, I don’t know…embarrass myself in front of her?”

“Did you?” Morgan countered, his brow twitching upward. He quickly sobered, though, when he noticed Spencer’s serious expression.

“Listen, man. I don’t know why you’d think that. We’ve known each other a long time. She set me up with her friend once, so I figured she’d be open to it. Besides, I had a feeling you two would get along. She’s incredibly smart. I just wanted you to have a good time—you’ve been so…withdrawn lately.”

He felt a little guilty for snapping at him like that. After all, Derek could have used his lost bet for far more devious purposes instead of trying to give him a good evening. Spencer sighed, apologetically.

“Okay, sorry, I was just curious.”

He shifted uncomfortably, hoping this would be the end of the conversation.

“No harm done, man. But now spill—did you have a good time? Was it worth crawling out of your den? What did you two do? Stay in the bar the whole time, or did you end up taking her somewhere—or maybe she took you…”

“We…” Spencer hesitated, swallowing hard. He didn’t know why it was so difficult to admit it—especially to Derek, of all people. Maybe because casual, one-night encounters with people he barely knew had never been his thing. And this one…this one felt different. She lingered in his mind so vividly, and he was terrified that saying anything out loud might make her slip away, like a fragile dream dissipating at dawn.

“You are—”

His fists clenched from the feeling that lingered within him, a feeling so intense that he doubted he could physically find any outlet for it.

“I am, what?” she asked, her words a mere murmur between rapid, heavy, and loud breaths. But despite their softness and their blending with other sounds, she managed to imbue them with a tone of unmistakable assertiveness. 

Spencer couldn't respond, his forehead resting momentarily on her collarbones. He felt a shiver rising up his shoulders and then his entire back as the tips of her nails barely perceptibly sank into his hair. They gently glided through the strands until they tightened around them when a short, hiss-like moan broke out her lips.

"What, you won't even say it out loud?" she asked, sliding her fingers down his neck. The trail she marked caused his back to straighten, tension building from the delicate, burning sensation of her touch. "You were more willing to compliment me earlier. Or maybe you wanted to say I'm rude again—"

"You’re incredible," he interrupted her with a sudden exhale, lifting his head finally to meet her gaze. Her lower lip stayed slightly parted the whole time, and he couldn’t ignore the invitation, nor refrain from placing a chaotic, messy kiss on them. "And rude, but I feel you so well..."

She laughed into his mouth, which turned into a sudden, pleased sob when he accidentally bit part of her lower lip. 

"Sorry," he muttered instinctively, before it dawned on him what a wonderful sound had escaped her when he did it. Before it dawned on him that he wanted to hear it again.

She gently shook her head, as if in disbelief.

“You’re cute,” 

"Yeah, we stayed at the bar," he finished his thought, briefly rubbing his forehead. Lying was so incredibly stupid in this situation. She was Morgan's friend, for crying out loud. He’d undoubtedly ask her the same question, and she’d give an entirely different answer—because unlike him, she wasn’t an idiot afraid to admit they’d slept together. Where had his so-called brilliance gone? “And it was fine. It was a good night. And you’re right…she’s smart, interesting. We had a good conversation.”

If only he sounded believable. Derek’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, he stayed silent, watching Spencer intently.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” he said briefly. For a moment, they stood there, Spencer certain that Derek would say something else, waiting for it. But he just merely nodded toward the door.

“Okay, time for us, I guess. Before anyone decides to brew themselves a cup of tea, unaware of the special ingredient.”

Spencer watched him head toward the door.

“You said the water supply’s been shut down?”

“In small towns, you never really know.”

*

“I don’t want to say anything, but we should probably get going,” he started, glancing at his watch. The fifteen minutes that Hotch had mentioned were still firmly planted in his mind.

Even though Hotch stood right next to him, waiting as well. It was hard to tell if he was starting to feel impatience with his stoic expression.

Prentiss sighed, her hands resting on her hips. The rest of the team was already on the jet, with only the three of them left waiting for the arrival of the last passenger. The most crucial one for this case.

Spencer understood, though barely, that people could be late for personal reasons. But at work? That should always be a priority, to get there on time and do the job. His mind wandered back to when he’d been leaning over the bar, counting the minutes and seconds, with a cold drink in front of him…

“Is that her?”

He looked at Emily, unsure why there was such surprise in her voice. Then he glanced toward the person they’d been waiting for and asked himself why the universe seemed to enjoy playing tricks on him so much.

Of course, it was her.

Hotch, as the head of their team, extended his hand towards her. Her gaze never fell on Spencer, but not because she was avoiding him, rather because… she seemed lost in thought? Dressed in formal attire, just as striking as that evening, with a slightly furrowed brow and a less playful expression on her face.

“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” he introduced himself briefly, shaking her hand. Then, he gently shifted his gaze towards the two other members of his team. “Special Agent Emily Prentiss and…”

“Can someone explain to me why I couldn’t bring my team with me?” she asked in a firm tone, as always standing perfectly upright.

She looked at each of them in turn, this time not skipping over Spencer. But her face didn’t even twitch when their gazes met. Something that couldn’t be said about him.

Just to be clear, it wasn’t that he was staring at her like some lovesick puppy. After all, they shared only one night, not a twenty-something-year marriage. It was simply that reconciling such a twisted turn of events took him a moment. Her pretentious tone didn’t even irritate him that much. He was too busy staring at her face, comparing the sophisticated silhouette in the daylight to the one that stretched beneath him when the space around them was still consumed by the night.

He cleared his throat, trying to return to the present moment. And once he did, his lips almost spoke on their own.

“This is a matter that requires particular discretion,” he began to explain. He tried to adopt as neutral a tone as possible, but inside, a sense of amusement began to fill him. The whole situation was almost theatrical, as were their actions and glances. He analyzed her face, still unmoved, listening to his words with complete focus. Wow, she was definitely more professional than he was.

“We're dealing with contamination in the water supply. The information about this could cause widespread panic among the public, something we certainly want to avoid. That’s why you’ve been assigned to this task, and only you. Without your subjects.”

He saw it, that barely noticeable movement at the corners of her lips. When he caught it, a sense of euphoria surged through him. But it was quickly replaced by nerves, as it suddenly hit him that they'd be spending the entire day together. How should he talk to her? Should he treat it all like a regular day, as grown adults should, or pretend it never happened?

As the amusement faded from his face, hers seemed to double. Emily watched their expressions like a tennis match, glancing from one to the other. Hotch, as always, remained stoic, but it was likely that questions were swirling in his mind as well.

“Thank you very much for the clarification, Dr. Reid,” she responded with an overly polite tone, nodding at him as though granting him an honor. And, well, he couldn’t help but feel that deep down inside, that’s exactly how he felt when faced with her smile. “It’s good that you’re here to dispel any potential doubts this case may undoubtedly raise for me. I’m sure I’ll consult with you further. Now, I suppose we should get going.”

She said it as if she were the only boss in the entire operation, giving one last glance over all three of them before walking confidently toward the jet.

They were, more or less, confused.

Hotch was the first to shake himself out of it and followed her footsteps.

Prentiss slightly parted her lips, casting a look of full suspicion at him.

“Wait a second,” she began, pointing at him with a finger. “How did she know who you are, when Hotch didn’t have a chance to introduce you?”

He hesitated before answering, still watching the figure disappearing aboard the jet.

“I guess my scientific accomplishments have finally made me famous,” he replied flatly.

Spencer couldn't deny it. An incredibly interesting day was coming. 

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling @cynbx @penelopegarciaismygf

[cursedhaglette]

Solavellan fic recs please I’m so hungry 🥺🥺

oh I'd love to provide! these have been my personal favorites so far (also fair warning, I am a solavellan fucked in DAI truther and that is reflected in my choices below so your mileage may vary)

Everything by niceasspavus - especially their fic Servitude which is an absolute masterwork. The prose is succinct but spectacular, the smut is excellent and never feels out of place (smut sometimes can with solavellan okay) and they dig into Solas' mind in a really beautiful way. They also started a modern AU fic and while that's not usually my trope at all, I've actually read what they have posted so far like three times because it's so good. Can't wait to see if they grace us with more.

Fellchaser by @rosieofcorona - Okay make that literally anything Darcy touches I recommend but Fellchaser is...I want to plaster my walls with it. The walls of my mind prison at least. The first time I read it, I literally read it five times back to back to back (I was admittedly very high but that's NOT THE POINT) because I was so taken with the prose and every detail. It is absolute perfection, seriously, the only thing wrong with it is that it isn't 100k words

What He Wouldn't Give by sugarhihello - a devastating take what happens immediately after the Crestwood scene we know and hate to love. I'm scared of writers who can make me want more of a scene like that and yet this fic gives me that

The Waiting by say_lene - solavellan thigh riding, need I say more?

Even Gods Need Miracles by callmebecks - A study of Solas' mindset from DAI to now include the DAV ending.

A Field as Wild as Your Heart by lillith_morgana - An exceptional take on the solavellan ending/post-DAV with gorgeous prose

Dreadful Recollections by @scaryanneee - if you know me from the bg3 era at all, you know Think of Me is a smut of all time so scaryanne joining us in solavellan hell has been SO FUN (for me personally at least eheheh) This little smut is so brilliant because it truly gave me so many ideas to play with for my own ship during this time period while also being so hot??? Also just read the tags on this and you know you're in for a great time

Handle With Care by feynite - I'm sure you've seen feynite if you've looked at solavellan fics because Looking Glass is the biggest one but I think this is just a really excellent little fic of theirs. Sad AND sexy - what every Solas fan is looking for I think

solavellan moots, please feel free to add on - I'm always looking for more and I'm sure others are too! anon - hope this gave you some tasty morsels and feel free to come back if you need more! xoxox

[ainspams]

Y’all liked my “actually Emmrich is a good bf choice” analysis so here’s one for mi vida Luca

Yk how people say cats liking you is the perfect test of understanding consent? That’s what Lucanis is.

Man was literally in the trenches, had the threat of his blood taken hostage over his head AND a Spirit implanted into him. Of COURSE he would take a hot minute to trust anyone.

I believe The Rooks who truly romance him must have a special archetype of being outrageously patient but also very communicative.

As one of the best Crows, Lucanis is used to making clever assumptions. It’s how he knows the team disturbingly well. Because of this, he knows people don’t trust him, shouldn’t trust him.

And to a certain extent, he would be right. Most people would be offended that he seems to flirt but keep turning away (see the almost-kiss scene).

But we all know Rook isn’t most people. Rook can be irrationally unhinged but Lucanis’s Rook can also see through and accept Lucanis’ need for space.

The whole first half of the “romance”, Lucanis tries to flirt while also second-guessing his actions and Rook’s reactions. He overanalyses and smacks his own head when he reviews his self-rejections and realises Rook IS responding positively.

And every time, he comes closer to believing Rook does reciprocate his flirting. It comes out in his expressions, it comes out in his speech.

Making Rook’s favourite dessert was the first time he genuinely tested his theory that maybe Rook does like him. But at the same time, he makes enough dessert for the whole team so if Rook does reject him, he can settle for having AT LEAST made something nice for the whole team.

When Rook spells out that they see Lucanis making their favourite dessert, Lucanis still tries to wave it off as they also made it for the team. But then Rook specifically mentions that obviously they know Lucanis would make enough for the team, but he made Rook’s favourite dessert.

Remember how he is still struggling to accept Spite himself? Rook and Emmrich are the few people who accept Spite as a part of Lucanis, that Spite exposes the rawest emotions of Lucanis. Although Emmrich does see Spite as its own being like Taash, Emmrich treats Spite like its own independent person.

Meanwhile, Taash treats Spite like a petulant child that needs taming, Harding and Neve are confusedly anxious, and Davrin is only half-joking about killing Lucanis if Spite takes over. (Expanding on the Neve-Lucanis romance later)

The coffee date where we “confirm” the romance? Rook sees Lucanis serving Spite his own cup and is pretty much like “yk what? hell yea”. Rook has always treated Spite as a part of Lucanis, and has partially made Lucanis Lucanis. I like to think the Lucanis who accepts Spite is the best one.

This is also what sets Rookanis separately from Neve/Lucanis. In the love scene, Spite brings out the wings. It’s a part of the love scene. Rook reassures Lucanis later that if Spite does come out when Lucanis is sleeping, Rook is more than comfortable entertaining/socialising with Spite.

In contrast, Lucanis sends Spite away if he and Neve spend spicy time together.

Yes, Rook sees Lucanis as a talented rich kid who deserves his Demon of Vyrantium reputation. But Lucanis’ Rook also sees him as the orphaned grandson of the most powerful Talon who feels like he had to perfectly embody the Dellamorte name at all times. Lucanis’ Rook has seen how Spite takes over, Spite’s powers especially nearly killing Illario, and still goes “that’s my man 🙂‍↕️”

One Emmrich-Lucanis banter moment has him confessing he has NO IDEA what Rook sees in him. Him - First Talon, Dellamorte’s favourite grandson, rich enough to have an in-house opera house, with all the charm and fitness of being the Demon of Vyrantium - confused that Rook allows him to feel like he is losing hours of his life because he wants to spend even more time with them? 😭

Unlike most romances (most similarly FenrisHawke and EmmrichRook), Rookanis has to work through the male LI’s traumas/flaws because that sets the foundation for the romance to bloom. The male LI’s main flaw (Emmrich’s age, Fenris’s lyrium-related slave past, Lucanis’ kidnapping + Dellamorte name + Spite) has made them believe it would be near-impossible to find someone who loves them at that point. But Hawke/Rook does anyway.

[bingsoo-jung]

I do Not write video game analysis. However, one thing that I loved about Veilguard that I hadn’t seen people talking about, is that all the companions personal quests mirror Solas’s regrets.

Like Taash is struggling with their mom and identity and what to choose to be in their future. Do they be what someone else wants them to or make their own identity?

Emmrich is trying to deal with a fear of death and if sacrificing the things he loves is worth is for a better future. What’s the cost of never having to experience your greatest figure worth to you?

Davrin’s trying to figure out how to live when he’s always expected he would die. The duty he’s pledged himself to vs following his own nature. Should you sacrifice your life for the duty and happiness of others?

Bellara’s both dealing with the regret of not doing enough to prevent her brothers death, but also trying to decide if progress is worth the price it came at. How do you forgive yourself for your sins and carve a new path forward?

Neve is trying to be a good person in a system literally built for people like her while she has immense amounts of privilege. Do people need someone who will do anything for them? Or do they need a hero to look up to?

Lucanis is figuring out how to deal with the betrayal of someone who you not only trusted, but was your family. The closest person to you. At what point is family who hurt you no longer worth your forgiveness?

Harding is trying to both honor but let go of the trauma and create a future in light of that hurt. How do you create a future despite the trauma of your past?

And Rook! Rook’s entire thing is that they’re self-isolating. They never talk to any of their companions about their stress… except they do talk to Solas, the Inquisitor, and Varric, people who all have power or they see as their leader. They’re actively trying to withdraw from their community and take on whatever mistakes the team makes and whatever consequences will arise from the conclusions of the companions missions.

And this is all wildly clever thing because it creates a really effective way of commenting on Solas and his issues. This is not to say that they were crafted solely to comment on Solas, or to be pale imitations, but by making them have similar regrets and problems to him, it provides this really fantastic bit in the narrative, especially during the team meetups to discuss the murals, where they’re really able to both relate to, or disagree with Solas in some interesting ways because of their issues. It also makes the story much tighter than it would be otherwise, because nothing in this story doesn’t serve this very character-driven narrative about the choices, guilt, and fear and how that hampers or helps your decision making. And I really like it! You can see it in their dialogue around the murals too. Taash for instance specifically talks about the regret of not being able to tell someone you love stuff because you waited too long and now they’re dead. 10/10 bit of character introspection.

[alchemistc]

Buck's halfway through his third cup of startlingly bad coffee when Josh pushes the door to the breakroom open, looking mildly concerned in the half second before someone else looms over his shoulder.

He's too numb to do much more than take another sip of coffee as he watches Josh usher Tommy in.

The door clicks shut behind him. Buck wonders for a moment if Tommy's ever actually been to the new dispatch headquarters before. If he ever went to the old one, charming grin on his face while he waited for Abby to finish up so he could take her out, drive her home while her car was in the shop - but no, Tommy would have worked on it himself, maybe.

Had Josh recognized him, that first time, with half of his soot on Buck's face, and just never said anything?

The silence is tense. They're in a fishbowl, no room to lash out even if either of them wanted to because more than half the people working in this place can see them if they just tip their head to the side.

"How can I help?"

It's - his voice is strained, scared, worried. Buck doesn't have a single guess as to how he knows. Maybe Bobby. It's the only person he can think of who would have -.

Buck snorts. "I rebounded with a serial killer who just kidnapped my sister and my baby niece or nephew. I don't - I'm not sure what you want."

He glances up just in time to see the end of Tommy's grimace. Good. He's not sure how much more disastrous of a choice he could have made to try to get Tommy out of his system, but at least it hurts him to know. At least...

"Do you want me to go?"

Buck can't remember anyone asking, before. Usually they just... leave. Get up, walk out, disappear. Tommy bubbled Buck five times in three months. Buck went through seven bags of flour before he drove Eddie to the airport.

His voice shakes on his "No," and Tommy is there, all of the sudden, his hand hovering just over Buck's shoulder, like he realized halfway there it might not be welcome. "Do you still think I need to keep looking for someone better than you?"

It'd been seeing Tommy out with a guy that'd prompted him to stop fucking baking and make an effort to just...get over it But with Eddie away, and the rest of the 118 so wrapped up in their lives, there weren't a whole lot of outlets for that. And it's been easy to willfully misinterpret Tommy's breakup speech. Or - interpret it in the most hurtful way possible.

"Is this what you want to do right now?" Tommy asks, even and measured. "Will this help?"

"I want my sister back!"

Tommy takes a step back. His hands shift to his pockets, and Buck just wants -

"Why are you here?"

He tips his head up. Holds Tommy's gaze. Tommy flounders in a way Buck's never seen before.

He looks - tired. Good. White Henley under a flannel Buck had always told him brought out his eyes. The jeans Buck had stolen once or twice because they made his ass look good. His hair's grown in at the sides, and the sprinkling of greys are more obvious than the last time he'd seen it this length.

"I just... didn't want you to be alone."

Tears threaten at the corners of his eyes. He wants to laugh, but he's terrified if he starts he won't be able to hold in the fear. "When did that change?"

Tommy gnaws on his cheek. "You have so many people, Buck. You have -."

"I don't want emotional repression Tommy here, so if you're just here to keep me distracted until someone else can be here you should just... go."

Something flashes in his gaze. Anger, maybe. Terror.

"Please let me stay."

It hurts, to hear it. It hurts to hear the trepidation in his voice as he says it. Buck just wants to pull him in, tuck his face into the curve of his neck, soak in the warmth of his arms.

Buck spends too long staring at his knees. Long enough for Tommy to shift, to sigh, to nod his head decisively out of the corner of Buck's eye.

The word is stuck in his throat. Has been for months, since Tommy looked at him with teary eyes and walked away.

"I won't be able to let you go again."

He's already half turned away. Buck can only see half his expression as his eyes dip closed. He swallows. Nods, again.

Buck can't watch him push back through that door, so he stares at the toes of his boots until his vision starts to blur.

A second pair of toes swim into his eyeline. A hand shifts through his curls, snagging on knots, digging towards his scalp, and he can't quite bite back the sob. The arms that reach for him are warm, big and familiar, and Buck gives himself over to the panic and the fear that have been clawing at his chest for hours now. Tommy says something - whispers it into the air above Buck's head over and over, but Buck can't - he just -

He presses his face into Tommy's stomach, digs his fingers into the back of his shirt, sucks in horrible, gasping breaths. It's not enough. Nothing will be until he's got Maddie in his arms.

But it's more than he had an hour ago.

"Stay," he manages, and Tommy's fingers curl around Buck's neck and hold.

[yesimwriting]

Normalcy

A/n deadpool and wolverine drabble bc the movie was a little too good

Summary: Still reeling from the loss of your powers, you struggle to hold it together inside the TVA's void. Thankfully, you find an uncharacteristically peaceful distraction in your old friend Deadpool and in the wolverine variant who wants nothing to do with you.

Warnings/info: reader is a (former) avenger (bc i love the avengers <3), reader is described as having similar powers to wanda and having trained with her (bc i love wanda), implied beginning of an accidental love triangle if you squint ig, maybe too much lore for a drabble (?), me writing for characters for the first time so be nice 😭

----

The lines etched into your palms do not bend and twist to spell out secrets, there are no messages worth decoding pressed into your skin. Knowing this is not enough to stop you from staring at your hands like if you could just think about it hard enough...

"There you are, Peanut." The words are so warm you're briefly pulled out of your internal angst. You straighten, head lifting slightly and arms crossing in front of your chest. "Thought I lost you."

Wade continues forward until he's directly in front of you. He pauses, watching you with an unabashed openness that you'd only ever allow him to get away with. "Kidding," he tries, "I'd never lose you."

The familiarity of the casual affection eases you further, the corner of your mouth tugging itself upwards. "I was like 15 feet away from you."

"Sorry for caring." It's his go to comeback when it comes to defending the displays of affection you have the audacity to find overdramatic.

You blink, lips parting despite your lack of response. The world has felt a little slower these last few days, moving at a pace that leaves you with no choice but to reflect. Maybe it's the void.

"Hey," his voice feels a little flatter without his usual humor, "Are you okay?"

You let out a breath, shocked by this new low. Sure, you've known Wade for awhile and you've both seen each other through plenty of stages, but he's never felt the need to attempt a genuine pep talk for you. He's never struck you as the pep talk sort...for anyone. Do you really seem that off?

It's bad enough that your identity crisis has stolen the abilities that would have helped your trio pop out of the void with no real fanfare, you can't also make your insecurities everyone else's problem. "Yeah." The response doesn't feel convincing, but with Wade wearing the Deadpool mask, it's hard to be sure. "Just y'know...we're in a void and our reality might be ripped apart, so I've been better."

He's still watching you with a level of focus that's unnerving. You've gotten used to his familiarity, his lack of care for personal space or the social rules around watching people. "You're doing it again."

"Seducing you with my ability to have a heart to heart while looking this good in my suit?"

You sigh in an attempt to dismiss your slight smile. Happy or sad, superhero that once fought Thanos or regular person that can't regulate their emotions, Wade always treats you the same. "The staring thing. You said you'd stop."

"No, you said I'd stop." The correction is a return to what you're used to. He takes a step towards you, his proximity now forcing you to tilt your chin up slightly to look him in the eye. "I'd never promise to look at you less."

"Comforting."

He angles his chin downwards, making the limited distance feel more significant. "I thought so." For a moment, he's quiet in a way that doesn't feel very him. "Are you sure you're...good?" His hesitance is another reminder that this is far out of his element. "I know this is your first..." Wade's rarely careful, only ever treading lightly on the one subject you never want to bring. "Outing, since..."

"I lost my powers."

Wade goes quiet again. If this conversation is as inevitable as it seems, a part of you wishes it could have come up elsewhere. Maybe in your shared apartment, definitely without the mask so you could better interpret his reactions. It's not often you keep secrets from him, but the hollowness you feel knowing the part of yourself you've lost isn't something you can just share.

It's more than just about missing your party tricks, it's about losing a part of yourself. They were all that was left of your time with the Avengers, of what Wanda taught you before Westview.

He lets out a breath. "They're not lost." You raise your eyebrows slightly, giving him a look meant to caution him against sympathetic optimism. "We don't know that."

He seems so happy to be able to tell you that there's no proof that any and all magical abilities have been flushed out of your system, you don't have it in you to remind him that that's mainly because you have no one to ask. What's left of the Avengers and your government connections either barely understand what you were or are untrustworthy.

"Educated wish?"

His mask muffles a slight gasp. You press your lips together in an attempt to resist smiling. "The last one worked out great."

Your eyebrows pull together skeptically, a reminder that the two of you are still technically in the middle of the last educated wish he attempted to speak into existence. "Didn't Wolverine stab you multiple times--"

He cuts you off with a heavy sigh. "If I took getting stabbed personally, do you know where we'd be?"

In a reality where Wade holds grudges over those kinds of things, you wouldn't be anything to each other, except maybe enemies. You've never pulled a knife or sword or anything sharp on him, but when you first met he did startle you before you had a total grip on your abilities, which resulted in him getting thrown through a wall.

"I never stabbed you."

His hand finds your shoulder. You let him drag his thumb against against the fabric of your suit. "And that's how I know you really love me, Peanut."

You roll your eyes in an attempt to dislodge the warmth that settles in the pit of your stomach. The last thing Wade needs is encouragement. "I mean, I do go around stabbing everyone I like less than you."

He lets out a sound that feels like a scoff attempting to mask itself as a dry laugh. "There's the sense of humor that'd hurt me if I knew you less."

"Well--"

He squeezes your shoulder, "I know you." Okay. You'll let him have this one because maybe there's some truth to what he's saying. "I'm going to go check on the car, because a fucking Honda Odyssey would break down on us for no reason before we got to the fight."

"For no reason or because of the bitch fight you and Wolverine had in it?"

There's a beat of silence in which all you can do is try to imagine Wade's expression behind the mask. You'd like to think that he's smiling. "Oh, Pumpkin." He sighs as if you've stumbled onto saying something terribly naive. "It wasn't a bitch fight, it was awesome, and probably turned you on."

You deadpan a flat, "You caught me." He hasn't let go of your shoulder, and a part of you is oddly glad for it. "I'd offer you help with the car, but..."

You're self aware enough to acknowledge your strengths and weaknesses, car maintenance being the latter. Wade doesn't even let you get your oil changed by yourself anymore.

"I've met you." He squeezes your shoulder again, the gesture weirdly stabilizing. "Give me 15 minutes to actually look at the car and then I'm all yours."

Wade lets go of you, his arm falling to his side. "Aren't you always?"

He lets out an exaggerated gasp. "You're making me feel cheaper than my usual rate, Peanut."

You smile as he turns away. Things are always a little easier with Wade. It's more than just distraction, it's his way of making things feel a little lighter. You're not sure what to do with your 15 minutes of solitude to avoid falling back into self pity.

You originally broke away from the group of void trapped heroes under the premise of needing fresh air, but even here, with the expansive, sparsely wooded area at your disposal, the oxygen in your lungs still feels flat. If Wanda were around, you'd be able to ask if she felt the strangeness of this other plane of existence as well. At least then you'd know if your dislike of the void is only mental or an actual sign of life from your abilities.

You begin to walk forward, hoping to shed all thoughts of both your former self and the eeriness of this other world. There are other people you could talk to you. The others have been polite enough, or at the very least, passionate enough to be talked into facing Cassandra.

The trees you've been wandering through grow in their sparsity, the edge of the woods revealing a patch of grassland highlighted by a fire's warm glow. You squint past the tree line, attempting to make out the figure sitting in front of the flames. Wolverine.

Secluded from the group and staring at a campfire. Surprising. Though, you guess it's not fair to judge him too harshly, you left the group to brood as well.

He doesn't like you, doesn't know you well enough to dislike you, but it took him no time to find a way to get around that. Maybe it's your proximity to Wade. You've done your best to take his hostility as un-personally as possible. You've seen enough people you really care about go through the guilt ridden, fallen hero thing to know how deep that kind of hurt runs.

You've never known a Wolverine or Logan Howlett variant, so you have no way of knowing what he was like before. Sure, you've heard stories, but you're also overly aware of how the media can twist and turn those stories to fit their narrative. One day, a superhero is the world's greatest protector, and the next their the greatest menace. Maybe he was always a little dark, or maybe he wasn't.

"Don't just stand there." The gruffness of his voice startles you more than it should.

Heat crawls up your neck, a part of you more embarrassed than you should be. You weren't lurking, or at the very least, you weren't trying to.

You sigh as you abandon the safety of the tree line. "Sorry." He turns his head away from the fire. "I wasn't--I was just walking."

He's quiet for such a long moment you almost expect him to not respond at all. "Without your shadow?"

Wow, only a halfhearted dig at Wade. You must have caught him in a good mood. "Friend, and he's looking at the car. I'd be looking at the car with him, but I figured the odds for tomorrow are bad enough as is."

Another uneasy stretch of silence. "Yeah." There's not much, if anything, to take from the comment. "If you're here to convince me to go with you guys tomorrow--"

"I'm not." It's an honest answer. You had been walking around aimlessly and happened to stumble onto him. "I'm not into the pep talk thing." He scoffs, the sound lacking in genuine aggression. "What?"

He lifts his gaze from the fire, his eyes settling on some point past the horizon. "I thought you were an Avenger."

You're not sure what bugs you more, the fact that he's so sure he has you all figured out or the implication that the Avengers spend their days encouraging each other instead of actually doing things. What the Avengers are--or maybe were--is so much more than that.

You step forward, further separating you from the cluster of trees. "The Avengers are about a lot more than that."

His attention briefly shifts onto you before returning to the flames. If the silence is meant to be dismissive, it doesn't feel that way. There's a patience there that doesn't suit his usual brooding.

"Do you care if I sit?" The question is forced out before you can overthink it. "I promise no inspirational speeches or small talk."

After a beat, he dips his chin downwards in a nod so subtle you would have missed it if you had been watching him any less carefully. You're more relieved by his acceptance than you should be, your feet carrying you towards the campfire.

You sit at a polite distance, knees bent in front of you. His silence seems to push against the void's sluggishness. Maybe the issue has been you fighting this world's momentum.

"Why are you with him?" You're not sure if you're more shocked by the question or the break in silence. When all you can do is blink, he continues, "You seem--" He subtly clears his throat, as if struggling to admit this next part, "Nice, normal."

Oh. If you had been focused, you likely would have got what he meant without the clarification. "I know Wade's a lot--especially to you." You place a hand against your knee, thinking about that very specific safety you only feel with Wade. You don't have to try at being anything, or worry about earning your keep in any capacity. "But once you get to know him, he's a good friend."

You look away from the fire pit in time to see the skeptical look Logan throws in your direction. "I'm serious." His expression doesn't change. "He um--after I stopped being important to everyone else, he still liked me ." This isn't the conversation you wanted to stumble onto, especially not with someone who you barely know and actively dislikes you. "That sounds kind of dumb, but the point is, he's loyal."

He turns his head back towards the fire. "You always call him by his name." The observation is so stiff you'd consider it hesitant if it came from anyone else.

You've never thought much about Wade's name. Part of it is familiarity, and the rest of it is a force of habit. Even when you were with the Avengers, you preferred using actual names when off duty. It's easier to separate the mask from the person beneath it when you make an active effort to.

You shrug. "I'm not into off duty superhero names, Wolverine."

He falls silent again. You concentrate on the flames, the way they illuminate the world around you. "You can--" He cuts himself off, attention never wavering from the fire. "You can call me Logan, if you want."

An unsteady warmth roots itself in your chest. You didn't expect any sort of kinship between you and the wolverine Wade stole from some other timeline beyond him occasionally accepting your attempts at creating peace between him and Wade.

"Okay," you focus on keeping your tone measured, avoiding any emotions that might startle him, "Logan."

There's no tension in the quiet that follows. You let the minutes pass until you're certain that Wade's waiting for an interruption disguised as an attempt to help. "I should go, Wade's probably waiting for me."

You push yourself to stand. You let yourself glance at him one last time before turning towards the trees you emerged from.