#i can't remember when the last time was that i got to go out to a nice restaurant around the holidays

[theolliesaurus]

i'm so sorry,, op.

february this year will mark 10 years since i lost my dad - he passed away in his sleep from an aneurysm in his heart. yet i still remember when we got the phone call - it was the morning and my mum came to wake me up. the news didn't Hit until a later date. i didn't know how to cry when i first found it all out; that he'd passed 3 days prior to the call and was found face down in his bed,, that my sister was preparing to tell him the news of her then pregnancy.

i remember i got out of bed because my mum wanted me to follow her into my sister's room. my sister was sobbing buckets on the bed. and that was when my mum broke the news. i didn't outwardly react or start crying. i don't remember feeling much of anything. but my sister wanted me to come forwards when my mum left the room,, and she just pulled me in close and hugged me. but i still didn't cry.

the one thing i did was turn on my laptop and start watching a video to escape the news instead. but i still didn't yet cry.

but instead the funeral in march was where i broke.

what hurts the most is i never got to see him one last time,, nor did i ever get to say goodbye. and i still feel so guilty about not being able to communicate with him anymore because of the trauma of what he went through in past years,, with his sudden fall that lead to a triple heart bypass surgery,, to which he then would have to remain in a care home for the rest of his years as it excelled his huntington's to the point he couldn't live or care for himself anymore.

and because i no longer have him in my life,, i fear what will happen when i inevitably will lose my remaining parent or how i'll cope - my mum is my carer as i can't live independently due to disability,, there's things i can't do to take care of myself and skills i'm not able to learn.

which then sparks fears of what's going to happen to my sisters and to me,, because i'm planned to be transferred over to one if anything should happen to our mum,, and then transferred over to another if anything then happens to the sister who's first in line to care for me,, and so forth and so forth.....

but;

two or three of my favourite childhood memories that i look back on often include how my dad would take me shopping with him in the car into the next town,, and the shopping center had a little cafe next to it - the cafe had one of those coin-operated kiddie rides outside of it also (it was Scoop from "Bob the Builder"). so when we had finished shopping,, my dad then took me into the cafe and he bought me a cake to eat,, and then would let me play on that kiddie ride.

or there was a moment where we drove to the next town in the car,, and he stopped at one point to buy us a pastry each,, and we just sat in the car together eating our pastries.

or just the simplicity of being taken to the library to rent out a dvd on the weekends when he came to pick me up from my house. then we'd walk on down to his flat afterwards where i'd stay for a couple hours before bringing me back home. i'd play games on his computers,, or i'd take pictures with his photography camera out the back window.

or how when we'd make cakes down his flat,, he'd let me lick the mixture in the bowl and off the spoon. and how he'd let me help out with putting the roast chicken in the oven for dinner.

i still have a piece of his flat. a bit of his wallpaper that was ripped. and yet it's tucked away in a cupboard below my computer.

i have his photography camera that he left me. and yet i just can't bring myself to use it.

i had his computer from his care home that he wanted me to have - because i would always do drawings on it when i visited. it was the one physical thing i had left of him that felt alive. and yet i broke down when it suddenly didn't work anymore. now it sits tucked away in our storage cupboard downstairs; because i still can't part with it.

i still have some money that he inherited to me that i still haven't yet touched or done anything with.

it all still hurts.

and what hurts more is my mum offered for me to see his body in the coffin on the day of the funeral,, but i declined and said no.....

No one prepares you for how crippling grief is, last year my mom died of cancer. I watched her decline so rapidly that my brain couldn't understand who I was looking at by the time she passed. I couldn't understand who I was by the time she passed because I had to become a vessel who makes appointments, dresses, nurses, cooks and an entity who does not sleep. I did it all alone. The reality is that cancer eats away at everything, it lives on even after the patient dies. It ate away at every part of me, I couldn't get out of bed, I had sleep paralysis, I couldn't stop seeing her... like that. They asked me if she's my grandmother when they carried her out of the house. She was in her early 50s. Do you understand? In 3 months, she began to look like she was 80. Everyone wanted me to move on after a month, no one called anymore, not even a text. I thought I was alone when she was alive, but this was a new type of isolation. One that I barely survived. (thank you to my mutuals and tumblr for being an outlet)

It's been a year and 6 months, today I realized she's not the first thing I think of in the morning, or the last thing I think of before I fall asleep. I couldn't even call to do paperwork before, now I'm forgetting why it was even that difficult.

The sun's out, I think i'm going to get ice cream without feeling guilty that it's not something she can do anymore.

[inbabylontheywept]

go to the caverns, the kartchner caverns, roughly an hour southeast of tucson

in the throne room you shall encounter the great yuan

you must fight him, for it is your destiny

cross the fields of soda-straws and fried-eggs and shields. unleash your fury upon him. there will be those who try to hold you back. they will speak gibberish about your disruption of the delicate balance of the great yuan's domain. you must pay them no heed. you must destroy the great yuan.

we depend on you.

The first time I traveled to Tucson I was in a car full of zooted children. I would've preferred being one of those children, but alas, any medication that makes me sleep also makes me sleepwalk, and after an incident where I tried to climb out of the car while it was still going sixty (thank God for seatbelts) I was condemned to a childhood of car trip sobriety.

(You may think that's not such a terrible fate, but you've probably never experienced anything else. Ambien, used correctly, is time travel. And time travel is awesome.) 

Still, involuntary consciousness had its perks. It meant I alone got to spend some extra quality time with my dad, which was always something in short supply growing up. Until third grade or so he worked in the ER, which gave him an absolutely hellish amount of hours. He'd mostly just come home and sleep, which meant that I personally did not know him that well, but my mom hyped him up so much that I always really wanted to. 

So days like that were always kind of exciting to me. A chance to meet the myth. 

I can't remember exactly what me and my dad were talking about - something to do with our final destination in Mexico. But at some point, we awoke my little brother. 

(Waking people up when they're on ambien is always trouble.)

I remember starting when I felt one of his small cold hands reach up to grab my shoulder. The dad did the same, and it jerked the car a little bit - startling someone whose hands are on the steering wheel has its risks. We both turned to look at him, but he wasn't even looking at us. He was leaning over the console, staring into the red and purple sunset ahead, watching the rolling skyline of Tucson like it was drowning in dreams. Like he was drowning in dreams. 

We waited for him to speak. It took a while. Normal social conventions don't apply to people when they're unconscious. The fact that he could talk was just some broken line code in the fabric of the world. 

"Wow," he said at long last. 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" my dad replied. And my little brother shook his head like he just heard the silliest thing in the world. 

"It's terrible," he said."Awful. Is Mexico always like this?" 

"We're still in America" my dad said back. 

My little brother squinted into the sunset, doubt and derision etched into his face. After a few seconds, both emotions softened, and he nodded in wonder. 

"Eagle feathers," he said, chuckling softly. Like he'd just solved some clever little riddle. Then he fell like an angel into something deeper than sleep. 

---

(There is a word for angels that fall.)

---

The second time I went to Tucson, I hid from the sun. 

You'd be surprised how easy it is to do down there. Society accommodates it in ways you just won't find anywhere else. When it's 109 outside with single digit humidity, of course you stay indoors. Of course the outdoor markets open at 6 pm, and of course they don't close until 11. Of course. You make the sun mean enough, and everyone becomes a vampire. 

So I roamed the streets at night, kicking up red gravel, watching coyotes wander in between the sea of strip malls. Strip malls are such an Arizonan atrocity. Nobody builds up. The reason the city isn't walkable isn't sidewalks. It's the sun. And you can't solve the sun, so you might as well lean into driving. Mash the whole city flat and crawl through the dust like rattlers. 

(I met a man once, by the canals, that said the strip malls were some sort of American curse for our ancestors including Johnny Appleseed. There's one God in this world, he said, and it's the god of don't-eat-apples. But then we invented apple pie and gave it to everyone. So this is our hell.)

Still. It made the days long down there. Lurking at night and hiding all day gives you something like cabin fever. I needed something to do outside. Something that was outside, but also, somehow, inside. What's inside and outside at the same time? What kind of klein-flask ouroboros nonsense fits that bill?

Kartchner caverns. 

---

I wouldn't say the caves were like walking into Dante's hell - more like finishing the journey. At some point in my life, I'd blown past limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, and anger. I'd spent two decades plus change living in the fires of heresy. Every layer past would only get colder. 

And each step into that cave did. 

My tour guide and metaphorical psychopomp guide was a friendly old man. Familiar in the way that all old people feel familiar to me. I view the world more as a pile of metaphors. He viewed it primarily as water-soluble minerals. 

It was a good work dynamic. 

"These here," he said, gesturing to a long, slender series of impossibly frail stalactites, "are called soda straws."

"Hot damn," I said, and he nodded good naturedly. 

"They're pretty fun aren't they?"

I wasn't sure if fun was the word that made the most sense for it. But I was charmed, and we went further, and he pointed out more formations. 

"Behold!" he said. "Fried eggs!" 

And there were fried eggs. 

"Behold!" he said. "A shield!"

And lo, there was a shield. 

We kept walking, deeper, and deeper into the cave. At the surface, it had been hot enough for my sweat to dry into a stinging white powder. Down here it was cold enough to see my breath. The feeling of descending into hell was replaced with the feeling of being swallowed by some ancient, fossilized serpent. 

And then that began to show up in the formations. 

"We call this serpent-stone," he said, gesturing to an expanse of wall. 

And all I could see was the snake that was swallowing me. 

I don't know why or how that broke the spell. But it did. I'd been walking for hours in the dark, following that man. I'd recognized him many times. It just took that moment for that recognition to be allowed. 

"I've met you before," I said. "I met you on the canals once. Johnny Appleseed." 

He looked at me, and I saw what my little brother saw that first time. Something trapped here, in the dark. A feathered serpent ten miles long. Dead and alive, the same way my brother was dreaming but awake. The first apple-eater. Something more afraid of the sun than I was. 

"You are so close," he said. "It's only a few miles further." 

"Close to what?" I said, and he grinned teeth too sharp for a human mouth. 

"To being like us," he said. "To sleepwalking forever." 

Nothing good comes from waking the dreamer once they're asleep. At best, the dream ends. At worst, it doesn't. 

Running away would've required turning my back on it, and I knew - I knew - that my vision was the only thing locking it in place. I made it real by looking. I made it real by seeing. As long as my eyes were open, it was my dream. 

So I did not run. 

I grabbed the man. I looked him in the eyes, and my hands wrapped around his neck, and he fought like a beast. His teeth flashed as somewhere just out of reach, the flashright rolled, and his tongue stuck out, forked like a snakes, and where a normal man would've turned redder, and redder, and redder, he turned greener, and greener and greener. His neck narrowed and he stretched and wound and twisted until the hands beating against my arms were wings, and the man was a snake and I did not blink once until it stopped moving. Then, and only then, did I take my eyes off the thing and run, shivering, back to the light. 

---

I hadn't seen it before. But the cave was a dead thing. Inert. Like the sloughed off skins I'd find on hikes. A memory of something scary, but not the thing itself. I thought I'd be safe when I made it to the top. But the first thing I saw when I stepped into the light, the first thing I saw looking across the long, flat run of desert - was the other half of what I saw in the caves. 

I'd killed the body. But I hadn't killed the soul. That still danced in the sky. The dead part of quetzalcoatl lay in the dark, dreaming it was alive. And the living part flew in the sky, burning and bright and deadly. A fire unending. 

The month after that, I moved to Utah. And I've never looked back. 

[itadorey]

𝐁𝐄𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐓! — gojo satoru

pairing: gojo x gn!reader summary: little snippets showing how gojo satoru has always been a pain in your ass genre: fluff and angst #lol #soz word count: ~3k notes: sorry. spoilers for shibuya arc and onwards, mentions of jjk 236. also this is the only thing i've written in months so i'm kinda rusty

Gojo Satoru is a pain in the ass.

More specifically, he's a pain in your ass, especially once he discovered that you're so much easier to rile up than Utahime.

It starts in high school, with meaningless bets made between the two of you that all result in endless lectures and reprimands from your respective school principals. But it's hard for you to stop agreeing to these deals when Gojo offers you a week without his presence if you manage to win.

Victories for you have become more common in recent years, with you learning how to words your agreements in a sly way that makes Gojo huff out a little laugh whenever you manage to outwit him. But your losses far outweigh your triumphs and you constantly find yourself dragged onto missions or out to new restaurants whenever Gojo wins. Which happens to be pretty often.

"I bet that the first years can beat you in a fight," Gojo says, snickering when you shoot him a nasty look. He takes a step closer to you, pouting when you distance yourself from him and speed up.

"I bet you that they can't," you retort, unable to stop yourself from disputing his statement. You don't turn to look at him, merely grumbling under your breath when he easily matches your stride.

You have no idea how you've ended up here, transferred (against your will you might add!) to Tokyo Jujutsu High to teach alongside the only man who has ever made you feel feral. And not in a good way.

The very reason for your arrival is none other than Okkotsu Yuuta, an overpowered, meek-looking teen with a cursed technique that seems to be a little more trouble than you originally thought. That's the only thing going through your mind when you're introduced to him, leaving you inattentive to the way Gojo slings an arm over your shoulders and introduces you as his significant other to the first years.

You're only brought back to the present when Panda— yes, an actual panda— congratulates you loudly, causing you to scowl and push Gojo far, far, away from you. You're the only one who doesn't notice how you actually make brief physical contact with him.

"I am not dating him. I'm your new instructor," you say sharply, introducing yourself before turning and walking out the door. The first years all share a glance before following, Zenin Maki leading the small group as she eyes you with interest. You come to a stop in the middle of the training field before flashing them a grin that can only be described as dangerous. "Now, we're going to see how much combat experience you have, so give me all you've got."

You then proceed to take on all four of the first years, all too aware of the way Gojo's stare never leaves your figure. At the end of the day, you're the proud winner of a Gojo-free week.

Your first year teaching at Tokyo Jujutsu Tech is a tumultuous one.

You learn to treasure your friends a little more, and you find yourself thinking that you've become a pro when it comes to grieving.

(You remember Geto's defeated form as you arrived just in time to see the last smile he ever gave Gojo right before he took his last breath—)

The stress of everything even has you appreciating Gojo's presence in your life a little more, and when you tell Shoko this development, she merely snorts and pulls out a cigarette. You chide her for failing to break her habit even after she's promised you multiple times, only falling silent when you realize just how tired she looks.

You've become a pro at grieving, but that doesn't mean everyone else has, so you silently slide the cigarette packet back towards her and leave her to mourn in a way that seems to work for her.

The months that follow feel like a blur, and you get sent on plenty of missions to fill time. Your bets with Gojo seem to occur more often, and you find that you don't necessarily dislike hanging out with him whenever he wins. You wonder if the previous year has helped him mellow out, and you find yourself thinking a friendship with Gojo is possible. Especially after everything the two of you have dealt with.

Your appreciation for Gojo ends up fizzling out when you learn from Maki that he's been telling the new first year, Fushiguro Megumi, the same lies he tried telling the second years when you first arrive. It isn't long before you find out that Megumi is incredibly perceptive, and he doesn't fall victim to Gojo's lies about your nonexistent relationship.

Unfortunately, the two other first years aren't necessarily as... insightful as Megumi is, and all it takes is for them to see the way Gojo smiles when he's around you to believe that the two of you are meant to be.

Itadori Yuuji is a young boy that you think is a little wise beyond his years. When you hear about how he ate— yes, consumed— Sukuna's finger, you change your mind. He's seen a lot in the past few days, and it almost amuses you to see just how upbeat but jaded he seems. Seeing him interact with Megumi reminds you of sweeter times, back when you were their age and spent your afternoons sharing snacks and chatting with Utahime, and you feel an awful heaviness weighing down your heart when you realize just how small they seem.

You're tending to Megumi's wounds when you meet Yuuji for the first time, and you can't help but roll your eyes when you hear Gojo call out your name.

"This is my partner," he whispers loudly to Yuuji, lips turned up in a fond smile as you give Megumi the all clear. There's a mildly irritated huff that escapes you as you turn to greet the newest first year, but you can't help the way your lips twitch when Gojo tries to pinch your cheek and you swat his hand away. Megumi's suspicious eyebrow raise goes unnoticed by you as Yuuji bows in greeting, an easy smile on his face as he looks between you and Gojo.

"The two of you make a nice couple," he comments before his gaze drifts over to Megumi. You open your mouth to dispute Yuuji's statement but he makes his way over to Megumi before you have the chance to actually speak. "Woah! Fushiguro, what happened to you?"

The two boys walk into Megumi's bedroom, softly conversing as Yuuji pokes at the bandage on his cheek. You watch them fondly, sighing softly before turning around to leave.

"I bet I can also convince the third first year that we're dating," Gojo sings as he walks beside you, causing you to flinch away from him.

"I bet you can't," you respond automatically, feeling your stomach drop when he shoots you a cocky grin. He doesn't say anything before splitting off down another hall, shouting a quick goodbye to the two boys who are still wrapped up in conversation. You hope that Kugisaki Nobara is smarter than Yuuji.

Kugisaki Nobara is not smarter than Yuuji.

You have hope for the first five minutes you interact with her, fighting a smirk when you notice her immediate disdain towards Gojo. There's a judgmental look on her face as he introduces himself, and you can't help but straighten up when her gaze lands on you and her eyes sparkle with curiosity.

"It's very nice to meet you," you say softly, introducing yourself and giving her a soft smile. She smiles back at you, her expression becoming strained when Gojo pulls you into his side.

"We're dating!" he proclaims proudly, earning a quiet groan from you. Nobara looks between the two of you skeptically, and you feel confident that she's going to call out his lie until she turns to look at her fellow first years.

There's a bored look on Megumi's face, but Yuuji is nodding his head enthusiastically, his eyes shining as he glances at you and Gojo. You shake your head in response, and Megumi's lips twitch in amusement at your contrasting demeanors. Your embarrassed state is apparently proof enough for Nobara, and she gives you a sympathetic look as she turns to face you once more.

"You're so brave," she whispers to you, wiping a fake tear from her eye before turning to Gojo. "And you're punching above your weight."

She promptly turns around and walks off before he can respond, leaving you fighting back a giggle as Megumi and Yuuji follow her. Gojo wilts at her words momentarily before turning to give you a dazzling smile, lifting his blindfold just enough for you to see him wink at you.

"I win!" he declares, laughing when he notices the way your eyebrows furrow in frustration. He turns to follow after Nobara, casually reaching for your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours before pulling you along. "Come on! We can't stand here all day, we might lose the kids."

He smiles when you don't really make a move to pull your hand away from his and makes a mental note to take you to your favorite restaurant this time.

"I bet I can take out more curses than you."

Your statement is quiet, a familiar phrase meant to try and calm your nerves. You're met with a bored glance from Nanami, and you huff when he crosses his arms and shakes his head.

The atmosphere in Shibuya is unsettling, and even though you have complete faith in your abilities as a sorcerer, you can't help but feel a chill run down your spine when you think about what's to come.

"You should be making that bet with your boyfriend. Not me," Nanami says in response. You scowl at him in return, rolling your eyes when you catch sight of the amused smirk on his face.

"He is not my boyfriend," you mutter petulantly, all too aware of the way your statement lacks its usual bite. There's a quiet hum from Nanami before silence engulfs the two of you, and then—

"Are you sure about that?"

"Nanami!" you snap, feeling your cheeks warm as you turn to shove him. He barely moves, and you half-heartedly let out a string of curses as he chuckles. The tension you previously felt is broken momentarily, and you feel a brief moment of happiness as you joke with your friend. "Yes, I'm sure."

"I'm just saying," he continues, his tone even as he does his best to not give anything away. "Yuuji seems to think that the two of you are perfect for each other. I've heard quite a lot about how sweet he thinks the two of you are together."

"I can't believe Yuuji believed him," you mutter, shaking your head. There's a part of you that can't help but wonder what exactly it is that Yuuji sees that makes him think you and Gojo are a bona fide couple, but you tell yourself that now is not the time to dwell on that.

"Well, those younger than us tend to be more perceptive sometimes," Nanami says, unintentionally answering your internal question.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

There's another moment of silence between the two of you before Nanami calls your name, bringing your attention to him once more.

"I'll accept your bet, but when I win, you have to take Gojo out to dinner."

"When you win?" you ask mockingly, raising an eyebrow as you stare him down.

"Yes, when I win," he says, doubling down on his statement. "You need to take Gojo out. As in a date. Who knows? Maybe you'll finally understand Yuuji's point of view when it comes to you two."

"Deal," you say, eyes narrowing when he holds out his hand for you to shake.

That's the last time you ever have contact with Nanami, and later on in the night when you find his body, you can't help but wonder which one of you had actually won your silly bet.

But as you discovered a year ago, you're a pro at dealing with grief, so you give yourself fifteen minutes to collect yourself before setting out to find your students.

After all, you now have to figure out a way to get Gojo free from the prison realm and maybe even honor your bet with Nanami regardless of who won.

The relief you feel when you see Kurusu Hana unseal the prison realm is overwhelming.

When you get told by Shoko that she's giving Gojo a checkup, you act before you can stop yourself, bursting into the infirmary and throwing yourself into Gojo's arms. You let out a stuttered breath when he catches you effortlessly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as you hide your face in his neck, and when he laughs you can feel your throat tighten up as you try to hold back your tears.

"Missed me?" he asks, cocky tone still present in his voice. His actions present a stark difference to his tone, and you can't help but think to yourself that he's holding you so tightly because he's scared of being separated from you once more.

So much, you think to yourself. But you're as stubborn ever and so you resolutely shake your head, drawing another laugh out from him as turns his face to press a fleeting kiss to the crown of your head.

"I did," he murmurs, voice soft as he pulls you even closer. "Miss you, that is."

There's a moment of silence as Shoko pulls Ijichi away, attempting to give the two of you some privacy as she gathers up the necessary tools. There's a mischievous glint in her eye when Gojo gives her an appreciative nod, but she refrains from teasing either one of you for the time being.

You make a move to pull away from the hug, a soft gasp leaving your lips when Gojo's arms tighten around you and pull you flush against him. You fight against his hold, pulling back just enough to see the pout on his lips. A breathy laugh escapes you, and your hands come up to cradle his face as you take the moment to process the fact that he's finally back. There's a softness in his blue eyes that makes you choke up once more, and you impulsively pull his face towards yours and press a kiss to his forehead.

He freezes beneath your touch, eyes fluttering closed as his breath hitches. His arms loosen in shock and you take the opportunity to slip out of his hold, cheeks burning when you turn and see Shoko and Ijichi watching the two of you with matching smiles on their faces. Gojo's hand darts out to grab your wrist before you can get too far, and he gently pulls you to his side, resting his head on your shoulder as Shoko proceeds with her checkup.

The days leading up to December 24 are eerily calm, and you make sure to take time for yourself in order to properly grieve Nanami and pray for Megumi and check up on Nobara's condition. Gojo joins you most of the time, silent but always within reach, with his hand holding yours or resting comfortably along your back.

"You know," you randomly say, walking alongside Gojo on your way to meet up with everyone else. There's a pit in your stomach as you glance at him, the knowledge of his upcoming fight weighing heavy on your mind. "I actually made a bet with Nanami before he..."

"I thought that was our thing," Gojo muses. His eyes linger on you before he turns back to face the road in front of you, tucking his hands into his pocket with an air of nonchalance.

"Nanami said something along those lines too," you say, laughing softly at the memory. "He still agreed to it, but he said that if he won I'd have to take you out on a date."

"Oh?"

Your words have piqued Gojo's interest, and he comes to a stop at the top of a staircase. You can see Yuuji's tuft of pink hair in the distance, and you drag your eyes back to your companion as you come to a stop as well.

"Too bad we never found out who won," you say flatly.

"Oh," Gojo repeats, his dull tone matching yours. You turn to face the staircase once more, trying to ignore the way Gojo's stare burns into you. You don't think you'll ever get used to those eyes of him.

"How about we make a bet?" you say lightly. There's a twinkle in your eye that sends a thrill down Gojo's spine, and he smiles before motioning for you to continue. "I bet that you can't beat Sukuna. If I win, you leave me alone for longer than a week, even though I know that'll be hard for you. If you win, I'll take you out on a date."

"Sounds like an easy win to me," he comments, laughing when you toss him a sly grin over your shoulder. "Betting against the strongest? I think you're guaranteed to lose."

"Perhaps, but I can't imagine I'll be all too upset about it," is all you say, shrugging your shoulders before descending down the stairs. Gojo smiles dazedly for a couple more seconds before following after you, effortlessly scooping your hand and entangling your fingers the same way he did when the two of you met Nobara for the first time.

The two of you are greeted with grins from all the students, the sight of your linked hands a welcome reprieve from everything bad that's happened so far. You hold on tight to Gojo until the very last minute, now all too aware of how awful it is to truly have him missing from your everyday life. You are unaware of what's to come.

You thought you were a pro when it came to grieving, but winning the last bet you ever made with Gojo has proved you wrong.

ty for reading. rbs appreciated <3

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things : chapter twelve

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks, fingering

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

Sticky and wet. Your pants are sticky and wet. 

Pulling your panties up while still damp was a big mistake, you think as you walk back through the restaurant. The water you spilled in the restroom is all down your ass and is quickly cooling to an uncomfortable temperature, not to mention the absolute mess of cum and spit that's currently in the gusset of your panties-

And yet none of it manages to ruin your mood. 

Really, you should feel bad. Guilty, at the very least. You should be feeling bad about doing this to Touya, doing this in a public fucking space--

But, you don’t. Not in the slightest. No, you feel good. Better than you have in a very long time. There’s a levity in your step that you don't think you've ever had. It takes effort to tamp down your smile as you slide back into the table, adjusting your hair just in case. Your whole body is buzzing with post orgasm bliss, but you can't let Hizashi know that. 

“Oh my god, there you are!”  Hizashi slams his hands down and groans. “I thought you got lost!”

You never even got to pee. That’s a bit of a bummer, but you think it’s a worthy sacrifice. Fuck, you’ll never pee again if that's the alternative.

“There was a line,” you dismiss. God, you need to cum more often. This is great. Maybe you can masturbate tonight when you get back to the hotel room-

A tingle thrills up your spine as you remember the fact that you won't be alone tonight. No, Aizawa is coming back with you, putting that talented fucking mouth of his to good use. You should have tried this years ago; it certainly would have made work more tolerable. It would have made Aizawa more tolerable too.

 Fuck, you wish you could tell Hizashi that he was right; having fun is great. You had almost forgotten that being in love could be fun. 

Not that you're in love. That would be criminally insane. You're just high off of post orgasmic bliss. 

“Where did Aizawa go?” you ask, casually. Hizashi quirks a brow as he takes a sip of his drink. 

“Taking a call. Manufacturing had an issue, apparently.” 

“Again?” 

Manufacturing is always having an issue; it comes with the territory for biomedical companies. Production of the products is actually outsourced, including the computer chips needed for the bed. Most of the time, issues can be dealt with internally, but there are also times that it has to be elevated all the way to engineering. It’s a good lie, in theory, but Aizawa is going to have to explain why they are contacting a lead engineer and not someone lower on the food chain.

“Um,” you shift in your seat. The excitement inside you needs to come out or else you might explode.  “I got a text from the guy from last night.” 

“Shut up-- that’s why you were gone so long, huh? Sexting in the bathroom?”

Oh, he’d die if he knew the truth. Absolutely die.

“We weren’t sexting.” Not a lie! “But, I think I'm going to invite him over to my room tonight.”

Hizashi tilts his head down so he can look at you from over his glasses. It's a very Nemuri move, complete with her little smirk. 

“Are you gonna just make out again, or…?”

You tap your heels against the floor.

“No,” you hum, as innocently as possible. 

“No?”

“No, I--” Oh, you have to literally bite your tongue to kill your smile. It's like being sixteen again, giddy and giggly over nothing-  “I think I wanna do more.”

With a mouth like that, you might just let Aizawa do whatever he wants. Hell, you had asked to go slow, but now that you've had a taste, you don't know if you can keep the brakes on. You had forgotten how good it feels to be wanted, to be craved, to be touched… and Shouta seems determined to give you everything you need. 

 Hizashi physically reacts by grabbing the table and shaking it with a slack jawed amazement.

“Yes! Yes!” You have to grab your drink and Aizawa to stop them from spilling, but you're laughing all the while. “Good for you!”

“Hizashi, the waters!”

“Who is this guy?” Hizashi asks. “Is he cute? Is he nice?”

Is Aizawa cute? Not really. He's more… handsome than cute. Hardened, but soft. And he's certainly not nice. In fact, you’d label him as very not nice. Mean, even. Though, he did get you that sandwich this morning, which was really sweet. And he has those cats, which makes him a little softer than you first imagined-

“He's okay, I guess,” you settle on. 

Hizashi nods, a bit too solemn. It sets you on edge, the way he clams up as he watches you, eyeing up and down over and over. You can practically see the gears turning in his brain as he thinks.

“Shut up.”  He leans in on his elbows, sternly.  “It's Shouta, isn't it?”

Don't panic. You're pinned down, like a bug under glass, but you can't panic. Luckily, your brain is still stupidly swimming, so you're able to fight your institution and just stare back at him with what you hope is a bewildered glare.

“What.”

The man leans back and scoffs, then scoffs again, louder. His hand lies over his heart as if you've slapped him, indignant. The restaurant suddenly isn’t loud enough; you need the music to be turned up or for the crowd to get thicker to hide what’s about to come out of this man’s mouth.

“Oh my god, it's totally him! You’re totally boning!” 

Fuck. Double fuck. 

“I mean, you both just disappeared at the same time-”  Hizashi jolts up mid sentence. “Did you guys just fuck in the bathroom?! Oh my god, good for you! Is he good? He’s gotta be good-”

Oh, shit. Oh, damn. The room might be closing in on you actually. It's time to do what you do worst: lie. You push away from the table with a snort, lip curled up the way Aizawa's does.

“That's disgusting , Hizashi.” Oh, there’a vitriol in that. You almost smile out of pride, but you keep your cool. You have to-- you can't ruin this thing between you before it's even really started. “In a bathroom? With him? I'd rather die.” 

Your charade doesn’t seem to affect him.

“Oh, come on-” he laughs. “You're telling me you two don't have something going on? You both just magically found other people last night?”

“I wouldn't sleep with him if he was the last man on earth,” you insist.  “Aizawa is awful! Awful! Why would I ever-?”

A figure looms over you. “What did I walk into?”

Triple fuck. From someone who stomps most of the time, Aizawa certainly has a quiet step today. You swivel around, trying to flash a panicked look. Somehow, Aizawa seems to understand. His brow flickers up for a brief second, then returns to the usual unimpressed spot. Should you be worried that the two of you have figured out lying this easily? Usually, Touya just lies to you, not with you.

“Hizashi thinks we're sleeping together.” You wave a hand dismissively. You hope that no one else notices that Aizawa’s face is noticeably damp-- freshly washed.

“Ugh.” He rolls his head back as if he’s been slapped, sliding into the seat beside Hizashi. His foot bumps against you and you question if it’s on purpose. Is.. was that his good leg? Or the bad one? Maybe he’s kicking you accidentally.  “Her? What's wrong with you?”

Oh, ouch. That. Huh.

Logically, you know it’s just part of the lie you’ve started, but it still somehow stings. Rejection, even fake rejection, makes you ache. It falls too close to home, too close to Touya. (Not that you’re thinking about Touya tonight. No-- you’re allowing yourself to have fun. You’re forgetting him the same way he’s probably forgotten about you--)

 Swallowing down your pride, you adjust yourself in your seat, pulling on your still soaked pants-

“You aren't a prize either.” Again, your own bite surprises you. “I've been dealing with your shitty attitude for years and-”

“My shitty attitude? You're the one who stomps around when your boyfriend gets fired.”

Your jaw falls slack. Okay, you should be offended, but… there’s an edge of something attractive in the way his dark eyes narrow. The grit to his voice reminds you of moments ago, how he talks to you when you’re alone-

“That’s rich.” You’re watching his face. Oh, that sting? It’s changed. Now, there’s a simmering want inside you, begging to be fed. You need him mad, need him angry, need him riled up- “Where’s your girlfriend?”

There’s a freeze. Both men have mirrored expressions of surprise. Aizawa blinks, then tightens his expression. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, that’s right.” You lift your glass and pretend to inspect the liquid inside.  “You’ve been single since I’ve met you.”

Stunned, Hizashi opens his mouth to say something, but Aizawa beats him to the punch. He bends over the table with a glowering expression, those dark eyes boring into you. It reminds you of the fights you two had in office, but now that expression thrills you instead of terrifies.

“Oh, fuck you,” he seethes. “Sorry that I’m not whoring myself over the office with the interns.”

Oh, you kind of want to suck his cock right now. Obviously, you’ve always had a thing for red flags, but this is kind of ridiculous. He must have done something fucking magical or satanic to you pussy to make you act like this. Are you acting insane? You might be acting insane.

“Excuse me?” you ask through your teeth.

Oh, he’s riled up now, his eyes narrowed into slits. “ I saw those bruises you sucked into Kaminari.”

That steals a genuine laugh from you. Is that a genuine concern for him? You certainly hope not; Denki is… well, he’s Denki. He’s a sweet guy in his own regard, but you wouldn’t touch him with  a ten foot pole. He’s young and, clearly, you prefer older guys.

(Huh. That’s a new revelation for you. Touya is your age, but… There’s something unbelievably sexy about the grey at Aizawa’s temple, the wrinkles next to his eyes-)

“You think I’m fucking that kid? Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

Oh, you hope he does. You hope he absolutely ruins you. 

“Fuck-”

“Okay, okay,” Hizashi interrupts you, arms spread as if keeping you both from leaping over the table. “You people! What happened to the truce?”

“You happened!” 

Somehow the rest of dinner goes well. Hizashi makes sure the conversation steers towards work and his plans for the night. You do have to give the wait staff an extra big tip-- Hizashi may have said ‘butt plug’ a bit too loudly for the poor guy’s comfort.  

Occasionally, Shouta looks your way. He ponders a bit too long on your features, has a bit too much of a smile on his face. His leg bumps against your again, a silent reminder that he’s there. Honestly, thank god that Hizashi was convinced by your lies, because this man is being obvious.

And frankly, you’re living for it. 

You’re still vibrating with excitement by the time you all leave together. He’s coming back to your room tonight, coming back for more. You might be getting addicted to this feeling, addicted to being wanted, to cumming on someone’s tongue-

Maybe you should throw caution to the wind and fuck him.

Oh, that thought sends a chill up your spine. It’s been so long since you’ve been filled. Sex always came with anxiety before, but now, you might be excited. Especially when Aizawa’s cock seems so fucking thick-

“You all ready for tomorrow?” Hizashi’s voice shocks you out of your thoughts. God, you’re worse than him! One orgasm and you’ve devolved into a needy pervert. 

Aizawa groans, pressing his thumbs into his temples. The hotel lobby buzzes with life as you all enter. The tiles seems to get more dazzling at night, blue illuminated by the dangling chandeliers and air of excitement. 

 “No. It’s going to be a long night.”

Hizashi elbows his friend’s side. “No mysterious girl for you tonight, huh? Too busy studying?”

Aizawa is starkly quiet for a long moment, mouth screwed tight as if the question upset him. You almost worry that he’s considering it-- that he’s going to go back to his room  without you, and dread sets into your bones. The need has already built back up inside you, anticipation tingling all the way to your fingers. It’s a little alarming, how quickly you’ve gotten addicted to the idea of fucking him, to cumming with him-

Aizawa shrugs away your worries. “I’ll find time.”

Internally, you cheer.

“Aw, you dog. Now- Do I need to supervise you two?” Hizashi teases as he turns on his heel, walking backwards into the hall.  “Escort you to your rooms so you don’t murder each other in the elevator?”

“I think we’ll manage,” you say as you press the button. Hizashi leaves and the two of you are left in silence.

The elevator door rumbles closed behind you two after you both set in. Aizawa shifts back against the wall with a sigh, barely audible over the gentle muzak. He looks tired, but in a different way than usual: a gentle, content exhaustion, one that wears well on his features, but doesn’t deepen the creases on his brow. It suits him much more than the usual, miserable look he has. 

“I should stop by my room before-” Aizawa starts.

You press off of the wall and close the distance between you. It doesn't matter what he was going to say, because you weren't going to listen anyway. Instead, you press yourself up on to your toes and catch his lips mid sentence, moving fast and sure enough that you catch him completely off guard. You can feel his surprise in his inward gasp as you force him back against the cold steel wall. There's a moment of hesitation -shock, you realize gleefully- before he caves into you, hands on your waist dragging you in until your hips press against his. 

The quiet gives you space to enjoy the tiny moments he gives you: the hitch in his breath when you hold him tighter, the rumble in his chest when your teeth close around his lower lip, the sound of fabric against fabric as his hands drift lower and his hands grip your ass- 

“You really piss me off,” he mumbles into you. “You get off on lying, don’t you?”

Only with him, you think. Only with you. The door dings open and you loosen your grip, but Aizawa holds firm, holds tight. 

“Aizawa,” you mumble into his lips, but he just keeps going. “Ai-”

Another peck shuts you up for a moment. 

“Shouta!”

Finally, he reacts and lets you go, his touch trailing on you for just a moment longer. You have to jut out an arm to stop the door from closing again.

“Listen-”  he exhales. “I am going to my room. I’m going to shower, brush my teeth, then come to you. Okay?”

More than okay. Perfect. Excellent. Ideal. 

“Okay.” You try to play it cool, but his nose wrinkles in delight at the tremble in your voice. “I’ll be waiting.”

 Stepping out of the elevator, you glance behind one last time. It feels like you should say something, give him a goodbye, but instead you just watch the doors close in silence. His eyes never leave you, staring with a silent, hungering desire.

You might have to fuck him. 

Back in your room, you do the same as him. You brush your teeth, rinse the day off of your body, and contemplate yourself in the fogged reflection of the mirror. The buzzing in your skin is either anxiety or excitement, maybe a bit of both, but you can’t stop riding the high that comes with them. Being wanted feels good, too good, impossibly good- so good that you’re afraid it’s about to be taken away.

Logically, it will be. This… thing must have a terminating point somewhere. There’s no possible way that the two of you continue this into the workplace, is there? Everything ends at some point, everyone leaves eventually-

No. Focus. Have fun. Focus on having fun.

You didn’t pack any perfume, so you hope the hotel body wash smells alluring enough. Your hair still looks okay enough that you don’t need to bother styling it- but you still try to, just a bit. It’s normal to want to look nice, to smell soft, to be soft, but there’s also an embarrassment to wanting to be pretty. You hadn’t felt it before, but now, you’re suddenly concerned about the curves of your body and how it sits differently than you want. He’s seen most of you before, and yet you’re now caught up in the imperfections. Which underwear did you pack again? Nothing sexy, that’s for sure. Only skin tone bras too. Fuck-- you don’t actually know if you own anything enticing. 

Do you even own anything sexy?

What clothes should you even wear for him anyway? I’d be strange to put your clothes back on, right? What about pajamas? What will he be wearing? Hopefully not that fucking yellow sweatshirt he works in. You find yourself pacing around the room in only your towel, tidying up and trying to decide what the best option is. Maybe just a shirt? Like Winnie the Pooh?

No, that’s stupid. Ugh, you wish you were someone like Nemuri, someone bold and sexy and confident--

What would Nemuri do?

The dreaded knock at the door stocks you from your worry. You make a quick decision; turning out all of the lights, you tiptoe to the front door and peer out the peephole. Yes, it’s him, dressed in a simple white shirt, dark hair freshly washed. His expression is unreadable, as usual, but perhaps on the brink of anxious. 

Why would he be nervous? The thought makes you giggle. Maybe, just maybe, he’s just as jittery as you are over this-

But you doubt it.

Before you lose your nerve, you open the door, still in your towel. Aizawa’s eyes widen just a bit, then narrow with a keen excitement.

“Am I too early?” he teases.

“No,” you reply, “Just in time.”

And you let your towel drop.

A beat passes before he reacts. Aizawa’s jaw literally drops. Before you can revel in the satisfaction, he’s crowding you again, hands ghosting over your body as if he can’t decide where to touch first. His shirt is rough against your bare skin and you’re suddenly very aware of how your nipples have pearled up. The hotel’s air conditioning is rolling, much colder than you’d ever make your home, and your skin is goosepimpling under it, but you’re still so hot, so warm-

“Oh god,” he whispers, breathy, barely sane. “Look at you.”

The first kiss is wild, breath stealing, rough- it forces you back a step, just far enough that the door slams closed and leaves you in the dark. His touch has settled on your chest, cupping your tits up between his fingers in a boyish way, one that's so much less precise than his usual way of loving you. 

“God-” he says again. “God-”

Suddenly, his lips are gone and you can feel him hunched over you, breath hot against your tits. The gentle tug of teeth scares a gasp out of you, then floods your body with heat.

“I want to see you,” Aizawa's mouth closes around your nipple for a second, his spit cooling almost instantly. ”I want to touch you-” 

His hand wraps around your thigh and squeezes. Your body burns hot, your core tight, cunt wet- Hotel darkness, with the curtains drawn, feels deeper than home. Only the red numbers of the clock illuminate the nightstand. You can't see how he moves, how he looks, but you can feel it--

And you want to feel more, more, more, as much as he'll give you.

“Touch me,” you beg. “Please.’

He drops to his knees with a quick, labored exhale. Fuck- his leg. He’s already kissing the lower round of your stomach, trailing down to the curve of your mons, taking his sweet, sweet time. 

“Aizawa-” Your hands run through his hair and gently urge him back, but he just presses on, pulling your knee over his shoulder- “Your leg-”

He's not listening. He's too busy nudging your legs apart, bumping his shoulder into your knee until it gives to him. For the second time that night, Aizawa puts his mouth on you. This time, he inhales, embarrassingly deep. 

“Ah-” the sound escapes you involuntarily. “Don't-- don't smell me.” 

The hot press of tongue ignites something inside you, something innate. Your hips buck on their own, the ridge of his nose bumping against your still swollen clit. After earlier, your pussy is still puffy and well loved, and the pressure sends your spine straight. 

“I should have shaved-” you babble. His arm has looped around your supporting leg.  “I'm sorry, I should have-”

In the dark, every touch feels more. More powerful, more potent, more smoldering: his hand is drifting up, under your ass and in, in, in-

When his fingers join his tongue, spreading your cunt open wider from behind.

“God-” Your brain is soup, stewing in its own electric pleasure. You can feel the chill of his inhales again and it's all you can do to whine, to push away his forehead- “God, don't smell me-”

“Shut the fuck up.”  He rips his mouth away from you and you can feel his eyes staring up in the dark. “Just-- shut up and take it.”

Your jaw clamps shut. Aizawa’s back on you, huffing and sucking greedily. Every muscle in your body is perking and clenching, your knee wobbling. His hand digs into your ass, dragging you so firmly against him that his nose bridge digs into your skin. The way he kisses at you is overwhelming; it feels like he’s pulling pleasure out of you, dragging it out hand over hand like it's attached to a string-

You want to cry or plead or curse or something. but Aizawa’s stolen your words from you, so all you can do is silently whine. 

It's too much, it's not enough, it's-

His free hand is suddenly on your cunt, a finger pressing up and into you. The sensation shocks a gasp out of you. It's not a lot, but it's been so long since anything been inside you; the sensation only worsens your needs, tightens the want-

A second finger slides in. There's a stretch and you suddenly feel drunk, like the room has tilted on its axis. 

You're going to fuck this man. You have to fuck this man. You might go insane if you don't get that cock inside you.

When you cum, it flushes every inch of your skin with a lumbering heat, like he's raking you over coals. It's ugly and brutal, it almost brings you to your knees, but Shouta holds you steady. He doesn't miss a beat, still lapping at your folds like he needs you to live.  

It's horrendous. It's torturous. The air punches out of your body as he strokes your already overworked clit. Tension bunches in every muscle, pulling you over him, hunched and panting. Your fingers claw at his scalp, tug his hair, but Shouta doesn't stop.

“I came-” you protest, voice climbing higher than ever. “I came, I came-- aa--”

He pulls away to speak.

“I know.” His fingers curl and press into you again, right against a deep spot. “Do it again.”

And he's on you again.This time, he’s more forward, aggressive with how he licks and suckles. It's no longer hungry-- it's mean. It doesn't coax pleasure from you, it forces.  

“I can't,” you whine. Every flick of tongue shocks more pleasure from you, burning through your cunt deep into your gut. You're boneless, you're stiff, you're wobbling-

 “I can't, I can't-”

Aizawa rests his cheek against your thigh, his fingers working harder and harder. It’s much more intense in the dark, where the only thing you can focus on is the feeling and the sound of his fingers squelching into you.

“You can-” He insists into your skin. He kisses the crease of your leg.  “Let go.”

“I can't-”

Oh, a pressure is building inside you, one that's rolling and rabid. You think you might literally be drooling, but you can't tell anymore; all you can think about is his fingers drilling into your pussy, urging faster-

“I can't.” 

He's not telling you to shut up anymore. He just says, firmly: “You can.”

And you do. 

It's a lift, that moment where gravity forgets you when the roller coaster crests the hill. There's nothing, blissful nothing, a weightless second where you can finally pull in a full breath. Maybe this is it, maybe you’ll never fall-

Then, it crashes. 

You think you might have gone blind for a moment. Stars flicker over your vision and your brain just can't keep up. Earlier, he compared it to a computer resetting and you suddenly understand exactly what he meant like that: your body slumps over as if he's pulled your batteries out. Aizawa has to pull his hands from you and brace to stop the both of you from tumbling over. 

“Hey now,” he grunts. “Do not fall.”

“Shut--shut up,” you manage to say, still all twitches and kicks. There’s… you’re.. There’s a lot going on right now and you can’t pull your brain together enough to process any of it. For a blissfully long time, you just are: no thoughts, no doubts, no worries. 

When you finally catch yourself, Aizawa’s still down on his knees, patting your flank in silent support.

“Are you alright?” His cheeks are dreadfully wet with you, caught in his stubble 

“No,” you whine. “I think I died.”

He pats the side of your thigh again. “You're fine. Help me up.”

Oh, shit. His leg. You pull yourself together enough to stand on your own. Your thighs rub together with their own wet and you’re horrified at the amount of it all. It’s down to your fucking knees. God, you didn’t even think you could do that. Blindly, you reach into the dark and take Aizawa’s hand, hoisting him off of the floor.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“Peachy. I’m just old.” He pulls on your hand and brings you closer. When his lips find yours, your own taste shocks a gasp out of you. His face is as wet as your legs, stubble gritting against your chin. It’s surprisingly gentle and affectionate, as if he didn’t just change your fucking life with his tongue.

“I should get you a towel or something,” you say as you pull away.

Aizawa snorts, his grip on you only tightening. You try to imagine the look on his face. Maybe he’s licking the ridge of his teeth, maybe he’s glowering. Maybe he’s smiling, looking down at you with that almost loving affection.  “You don’t think we’re done, do you?” 

Uh oh.

Uh oh.

In the dark, he pushes you backward, both of you blindly bumping into walls and the edge of the tv stand.  Each bump and bruise steal a giggle out of you and him, but the laughter does nothing to diffuse the want you feel emanating from his touch. Eventually, the back of your legs hits the soft down of the bed and you pause, trying to hold him a bit farther away and failing. You had forgotten that he’s still fully dressed; his belt buckle is frigid against your skin.

“Shouta, my legs are shaking.” Your hands find the bottom of his shirt, fumbling with the edge. Maybe you can distract him, give yourself time to recover. “I can’t take anymore.”

Shouta is mirroring your motions, running his fingers across the soft of your stomach. The touch makes you feel shy and you wiggle away from the touch. Technically, he’s seen you completely naked, but touching feels like a deeper sense of knowledge, especially in the dark. 

“Two orgasms?” He squeezes your side again. “That’s really all it takes?” 

“Three…” you remind.

“Two.” He’s firm. “The second one doesn’t count.”

The air conditioning rushes back on and you nearly shiver. The heat of your orgasm still warms your cheeks, but you’re still naked, still exposed. “Why not?”

“Wasn’t big enough.”

“Felt big.”

He clicks his tongue against his teeth.  “You poor, neglected thing.” 

Hands find your shoulders and push, knocking you back on to the mattress with an ‘oof’. The bed shifts under his weight and you can feel him there, hovering over you in the dark, just a breath away. All you can do is lay there and try to make out the shapes of him. The red glow of the alarm clock catches his eye and you suddenly know he’s watching you, probably searching for your way in the same way.

“What-?”  you breathe. “What are you gonna do with me?”

You don’t know what you want the answer to be, but you aren’t expecting a chuckle. 

“I’m going to do-”  Shouta breathes, deep and dark and hungry, closer to a growl than a whisper. “Whatever I want.”

[siri-ike]

The spray was never supposed to last long. So when Tim came home and heard Dick say he'd sat there with "Bruce" for three full hours, he was concerned, to say the least. He can't still be in his fantasy. He can't still be this docile. Real Bruce wouldn't even be this docile, let alone "elementary school arson record" Bruce. But he just sat there. Staring at anyone who came into view.

His grip was tight, much tighter than he could pull off when he was high. And no way would Nightwing ever ask him to stop. He'd hold him forever if not for all their pesky human needs like eating and sleeping. Speaking of sleep, shouldn't he be getting tired? "Hey, Bruce?" Dick whispered so as not to disturb too much. "Are you tired? Do you want to go to bed?"

Bruce shook his head. "I fell asleep, during Gray Ghost." His voice was calm and low (for a child), and he didn't even try to un-bury himself from his dad's hold.

This is big. He slept and didn't lose his memory. Dick waved Tim over.

"What?" Tim spoke at a normal volume.

"He didn't forget dinner." Dick kept whispering, but his excitement shined through. "He woke up at 4:43 pm yesterday, we had dinner at 9, afterward, he got to watch some Gray Ghost tapes and fell asleep. At 4:43 am he woke up again because Phantom was destabilizing as usual, but when Zatanna asked him what happened, he told her about dinner. He Remembered Dinner." Dick really emphasized the last part.

"That's great," Tim brought his tone down to match Dicks. "So then he's stable?"

"Stable? Dude, no. He's aging backwards."

"Oh, right. I forget people are supposed to get older." Tim said, fully serious. "I'll run some tests, and we should keep monitoring him."

"How about we run tests, and you go to your room and take some melatonin." Dick suggested. Let's see if he knows how aging works in the morning afternoon.

One hour later, at 9, Bruce was willing to eat. Dick hadn't left his side and could attest that he was calm non combative and ate like he hadn't seen food in a month. "Please don't be Stockholm syndrome, please don't be Stockholm syndrome," He repeated in his head. "It's too fast to be Stockholm, I can't let him leave. He thought he was dead a few hours ago. Wait, did he ever say he didn't?"

"Hey B? I, uh, Bruce?" He addresses the boy across the dining table.

"Yes, Father?"

Crap, crap, crap. Other age appropriate swears. Dick doesn't look anything like Thomas. If anything, he looks like Martha. No, wait, he looks like his own parents. Unless.

"Bruce, what is my name?" Nightwing fiddled with the mask in his hands.

Bruce just sat there, confused. Like he didn't expect him to have a name at all. "You're... you're, uh," He looked shamefully down at his food. "I don't know." His voice quivered.

"It's ok, Bruce. My name's Richard Grayson, Dick for short." He reassured. "Just one more question, alright?" He gave Bruce time to consider and nod. Nightwing put his arms down on the table and looked Bruce in the eyes. "Are you alive?"

"No~" his guilty expression instantly turned to utter glee.

Nightwing thought for a moment. "Are you dead?"

"No." He giggled.

"Then what are you?" So much for "one more question."

"I am not bound by life or death."

Dick didn't recognize the language, but it sounded otherworldly, almost like a mix of TRAP music and demonic incantations with a hint of backwards English. He also needed a minute.

"Alfred?" Dick asked head in his hands, slumped over in a chair in a corner of the kitchen. "I'm starting to think my son might be the devil."

"Master Dick, all parents think their children are devils from time to time. I certainly thought it with each of you, and look how you turned out... raising more hellspawn." He joked, kind of.

Dick couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "I think we need to move up our meeting with Harley." He sat up, hands on his knees as if to brace himself. "Bring her here, rather than go to her."

"Isn't she in Arkham right now?"

Nightwing pulls out his phone. "I'll figure something out." He scrolls through his contacts and finds two Jim Gordans. He picks the one with the incognito picture.

"Commissioner Jim Gordon." Jim answers.

"Hi, this is Nightwing. Remember that boy, a month ago, who claimed to be a clone of Batman?"

"Yes, he showed up right before all of you dropped out of the world. Did he survive?"

"Yeah, he's... something. Look, I need Harley Quinn."

"Harley Quinn, the clown or Harley Quinn, the doctor?"

"The doctor."

"You know there are plenty of psychologists in Gotham."

"And none can handle these sorts of things without losing their minds, too."

-Silence-

"Alright, I'll see what I can do."

*click*

"Why do you need a doctor?" Bruce had innocently popped in, probably to talk to Alfred.

"Hey, buddy." It was impressive, really. Not many people can sneak up on him, especially not so casually. "Harley's a friend of ours. She's just going to talk to you. Think you could do that for me?" Dick has raised more than enough titans to know you can't force kids that age to do anything.

"M-hm." Bruce turned toward Alfred. "I had water and sleep and darkness, but my head still hurts. Can I have something?"

"Oh, dear." Alfred put his hand on Bruce's forehead. "Well, your temperature is normal. Where does it hurt?"

"Here, and here." He he presses on his forehead, then to the sides of his head just above the ears.

"I'm gonna give you one more Ibuprofen, and we'll do some tests after that." Alfred put the medicine box back on its top cabinet shelf. "How does that sound?"

"Good," Bruce placed the pill in the back of his throat with his hands like he was auditioning for a horror movie, then he downed the water like a normal person. He was about to head out but stopped. "Alfred? Can I have candy?" He pointed at the fancy glass bowl full of chocolate covered salt caramels.

"Last I checked, sugar does not remedy headaches... you can have one." Alfred didn't even look at the puppy eyes. He is not willing to put up a fight for something so small.

Bruce delightfully lifted the lid and, careful not to touch more than one, picked out a treat. He likes the ones with blue marzipan.

Nightwing watched him leave the room without a care in the world. "I think you just got played."

"The headache is real. And I believe more than just swelling. He may no longer be throwing up and seizing. But he's been asleep for almost a month, only waking up for an hour or less, always at the same time. Then there's the more recent confusion in identity. Those are not psychological symptoms. They are neurological." Alfred gave his most serious "listen very closely, I'm not even going to buffer this with sarcasm" face.

"I'll schedule a brain scan."

Clone Danny long post

The footprints lead Alfred out of the room and to the right but quickly dried up on the short hair carpet.

Alfred checked every room to the right of Danny's. He had to have left the family wing. 40 minutes of searching later, Alfred was about to go down yet another hallway when he heard faint music and metal clanging. He walked closer to the sound until he could make out some words.

🎶I- can hear the sound of violins🎶

🎶long before- it begins🎶

The gym. Someone is at the gym. He told Dick to relax. This is the opposite of relaxing. He stops for a moment outside the door to gather himself. People listen to empathy more than anger. When Alfred pushed the door open and looked down at the workout area, he didn't see a disobedient clown. No. Instead, he was forcibly dragged back to 1989, staring at a 13 year old Bruce doing chest presses. He always looked the most at ease when he was at the gym. The rest of the time, he would be looking for his parents' killer or discovering seacret organizations. Alfred used to cherish the time Bruce spent at the gym because he knew it was the closest he could get to calm. Shortly, Danny put down his 3 kg weights and addressed Alfred.

"Morning, Alfred. Breakfast already? Thought I had more time." He sounded like Bruce, more than just his voice. Danny had his own way of talking, but this was all Bruce.

"Young Master," best not to object to his perceived reality, whatever that may be. "It's almost seven in the afternoon, not morning." The sun would have spoiled that for him anyway. "And dinner will be ready in two hours."

"Oh, ok. I'll be there at nine then." Danny simply went over to the next station in his routine. Right as he sat down on the floor, something seemed to dawn on him. "Alfred? Did something happen to me?" He asked innocently.

Alfred remained frozen, staring at the young boy. "What would give you that idea?"

"I woke up in a different room than usual, I had to switch down all my weights, and the files in my father's office have been moved. And then you came in looking like you've seen a ghost." Ever the detective.

"Nothing gets past you. I'm afraid you had a rather bad fever and spent a few days in bed. I would like to examine your health, but it can wait. Let's say, eight-thirty? Before dinner?"

"Kitchen at eight-thirty, got it."

Alfred left the room and braced himself on the door. He thinks he's Bruce. He probably thinks it's the 80s or 90s, too. It's a good thing most everyone is out hunting down clues and/or committing extreme acts of violence.

Danny had changed into an all black suit (bowtie and kerchief included) before coming to the kitchen at 8:27. Hmm, he does like to be punctual. His temperature and heart rate were normal, for once he didn't have bags under his eyes, which responded in time to light. But, he was definitely younger than he was when he arrived. Dick wasn't imagining that.

"Can you tell me your name, age, and today's date?"

"Bruce Thomas Wayne, 12, almost 13, today is November, uh," He struggled a bit. "17th? Maybe a bit later, 1988." He avoided eye contact. "Just so we're clear, I wouldn't have known today's date even if I hadn't been sick."

Alfred smiled a little, remembering how much he used to care about getting good scores on everything. "I'll be sure to include that in the report." He retorted sarcastically, earning a small grin back. "Now go wash up, dinners almost ready."

As per routine, Alfred started by bringing out the helthiest dishes. They all knew it was a trick to get them to eat vegetables, but no one was ever willing to wait. Danny was so hungry, even the brussel sprouts were appetizing. Now if Alfred could just stop staring at him and actually put the container on the table.

"Alfred?"

"W, what?"

"Are you OK?"

Danny had combed his hair when he'd asked him to wash up. This was Bruce. This was the boy Alfred raised. The one who had fallen asleep in his arms every night for months because he refused to be alone in the dark. The one who used to "forget" to tell Alfred about the handfuls of peanut butter in his pockets, ruining thousand dollars dress pants on six different occasions. The one who wanted to keep street cats knowing full well he was allergic.

"Do you need a day off? Or maybe a week?"

"What? No. I'm alright master Bruce. Just, uhm, glad to see you have your appetite back. That's all." Keep it together now. He set down a steaming glass dish full of baked carrots, sweet potatoes, bell peppers, onions, brussel sprouts, broccoli, cauliflower, and mushrooms.

Danny took as big a serving as he could fit (vegetables can only go in the top right on his plate), making sure not to let the butter run too much. The next dish was steamed turnip. Crap. Another vegetable. Can't mix them. Can't put it somewhere else. The only option is to finish the baked vegetables fast.

By the time he finished his quarter of a turnip, six more dishes had already shown up. How many people does Alfred think live here?

At 21:11 Dick walked into the dining room. Dressed in a plain shirt and pants. The two boys looked like they were going to entirely different events.

"Hello." Danny invited. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"This gentleman is detective Richard Grayson." Alfred interjected. "Master Dick, would you care to join us for dinner?"

"Oh, where are my manners? Here, have a seat. There's plenty of food."

The dinner after that was awkward, but nice. It's good to have some company once in a while. Ever since his parents died, it's just been him and Alfred.

He did wake up late in the afternoon, so it shouldn't be such a surprise that he got to stay up and watch his gray ghost VHS tapes way later than his usual bedtime. Only interrupted occasionally by Alfred, making sure he's keeping all that food down. He had to have been really sick. He doesn't even remember throwing up recently.

He must have dosed off at some point because he was awoken abruptly at some horrid hour of the night by an ear pierceing scream. He hurried to its sorce in the family wing where he saw what looked like another Bruce, except this one had white hair and wore a black onesie. He appeared to be melting into a glowing green sludge. Bruce knelt down and grabbed the boy, who stopped screaming. Opting to bury his face in Bruce's chest instead.

Alfred came just as the gruesome scene was over. 4:50 am, same place, same time, every night. Alfred had hoped something had improved when the screaming stopped early. But rather than the typical gorey mess, there was Danny, inconsolable and covered in slime.

"Wh, wh, ah?" Who was that? What was that?? Why was that???

"Master da- Bruce." At lightning speed, Alfred was on his knees and holding Danny. "Come on, you don't have to be here." He tried to lift him up, but Danny resisted.

"...Why do you have the carpet cleaner?" He accused. "Did you know this would happen?"

[foolinthera1n]

✮ BORN TO DIE

─ dw x fem!reader

cw! angst, blood, break ups, fighting, mentions of death, slight religious aspects

dean didn't think. he didn't breathe, didn't blink, didn't even take his eyes off the road as he sped the impala down the highway, fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel. he hadn't taken his foot off the gas since he got in the car, not since he heard your voicemail, and he only stepped on it harder when bobby called.

the shakiness of your voice haunted him, the spluttering laugh that turned into a gut wrenching coughing fit echoed like a broken record in his head, only making him push the speed limit harder. bobby's voice had been calm, but dean could hear the undertone of panic in the old man's voice that reflected his own.

so dean drove as fast as he could without burning baby's tires, his heart in his throat as your last confession rang in his ears.

i'm just sorry i wont get to tell you i love you one last time.

it was dean's birthday, of all days─not that he ever really celebrated it. in fact sam had been out grabbing pie and a case of beers for the two of them, when dean had finally checked his phone after being caught up in a shifter case all day, his heart dropping as he saw you had left him a voicemail.

he knew you wouldn't call unless something was seriously wrong, you had told him as much the last time you called, which was mostly telling him to stop drunk calling you. so his hands had shaken as he lifted the phone to his ear, his whole body freezing as your weak voice and self proclaimed last words were spoken through the phone.

it was by some miracle that bobby's call came just as your voicemail had finished, because only god knows what he would have done if he had been left to his own devices after possibly listening to you die in a voicemail. a fucking voicemail.

the only thing that stopped dean from going insane was bobby telling him that he had you, that he thinks you're stable, but he can't be sure, and he thinks dean is gonna want to see you.

so he didn't hesitate, not for a second, to throw his jacket on and grab his keys, only leaving sam a curt note about where he was going. thankfully, they weren't too far from bobby's place in sioux falls, having just come from a pit stop there themselves, so the only thing dean had to focus on was remembering the exit to take in a few miles.

as he drove though, he thought about you. he didn't want to think about your weak, shortening breaths that could be heard through the speaker of the phone, or the spluttering of blood from your mouth that he heard when you had coughed, so he focused on the last time he saw you.

you were beautiful. even when you were angry, especially when you were angry, like you were then, you were beautiful. and although his own anger simmered under his skin, he found himself lost in the way your lips moved as you spoke, and how the dim lighting of the motel room you were staying in cast a glow over you that formed a halo around your head, making you look angelic.

dean hated angels, he really did. and ever since finding out what brainless dicks they really were a few years ago, he doesn't like to compare things to them, but you. oh, you. dean thought that if he went back to the first days of existence and asked anyone what they thought an angel was, they would draw a picture of you.

you, with your eyes narrowed and lips pursed, shoulders tensed as you yelled at him, calling him overbearing and accusing him of not trusting you. god, he had wanted to kiss you so bad. he knew he could, you'd said before with a giggle that you loved when he shut you up by kissing you, but he'd figured in that moment that he wasn't allowed to do that.

it was only when you suggested that maybe things weren't going to work out anymore that he snapped out of it.

"what?" he had asked, heart dropping to his stomach as his eyes went wide. "what the hell are you talking about? we just need to talk it out."

"that's the problem, dean," you had argued, and dean had never hated himself more than when he saw the tears welling in your breath taking eyes. "we always say we're gonna talk it out, but we never do. it ends with us in the sheets, and just builds until we fight again, because you're too afraid to face your goddamn feelings!"

that had snapped something in dean, the accusation hitting right on the money as the natural instinct to push you away bubbled to the surface, rearing it's ugly head. "oh, i'm too scared?" he had spat, taking a step closer to you. "well, sweetheart, you're the one who is so incompetent that i have to save your ass every goddamn time!"

every second of every day since that moment, he wished he could take that back. he had said a lot of things during your relationship, but the one thing that he never insulted was your ability as a hunter. that was something that you just never did. and he knew he fucked up as soon as he had seen your face fall, tears welling so thickly in your hurt eyes that he hadn't been sure you could still see.

"is that how you feel?" you had asked, your voice small and breaking slightly.

dean had swallowed, trying to force down the self sabotaging words that were crawling up his throat, but they spilled out before he could stop them. "yeah. it is."

you had just looked at him with a searing hurt in your eyes that had burned a hole in his weeping heart, a tear finally slipping down your flushed cheek. "well, if that's really how you feel, then maybe i should just leave."

his bleeding heart had begged, cried, and screamed for him to take it back, to grab you in his arms and hold you until you stopped crying, for him to get on his knees and beg for your forgiveness until his bones ached and you smiled at him again.

but he didn't.

he just looked away from you, fists clenched, nails digging into his palms as he fought off tears of his own and muttered through gritted teeth, "maybe you should."

dean hadn't looked at you, but he had felt the weight of your stare as it burned through his bones. he still hadn't looked at you when you had muttered a broken, "fine", and walked over to the bed, and threw your stuff into your beat up duffle bag without a word.

you had stormed past him, your shoulder brushing his, but dean didn't stop you as you reached for the door. he only turned to face you when he heard you stop, forcing himself to keep a stoic expression, even as his aching mind, soul, and body begged him to grab you and not let you leave.

you had turned to face him then, your hand lingering on the doorknob, and he thinks a piece of his soul was chipped away when he saw the tears streaming down your cheeks.

dean had never used the term devastatingly beautiful, but that's what you had been then. because although the pain he had caused you was written on the features he cherished so much, tears dragging your makeup down your face, you still looked beautiful. devastatingly beautiful.

and even though the next words you had spoken had torn him into pieces, the beauty of you, inside and out, never left his rotten mind.

"i wish it wasn't so easy to love you."

dean snaps out of it as a mile sign whizzes by, and his vacant eyes flick to the speedometer to see that he's doing about twenty over the speed limit. he doesn't care though, all he cares about is that your heart is still beating. whether it's for him or not.

dean bursts into bobby's house, not bothering to knock as he rushes in, slamming the door behind him.

"bobby?" he calls out, trying to keep his voice level as no answer comes. "damnit, bobby, where are you?"

he's about to completely tear the place down when there's a rustling followed by heavy footsteps and a familiar voice. "don't blow the house down, boy, i'm right here."

bobby comes around the corner, into the hallway, and though usually there's a comfort in seeing the man dean considers a father figure, this time there's still an aching panic in his chest.

"where is she? is she okay? what happ-" dean cuts himself off as his eyes drift down to bobby's hands, which are covered in blood. your blood. "oh god.."

the old man seems to notice the look of pure terror on dean's face, and follows his gaze down to his hands, sighing at the sight of the blood.

"she's okay, dean," bobby tells him, taking a step towards him, and dean thinks he might be shaking. "there was a moment where-" he cuts himself off, looking away for a moment, as if debating what to say before he meets dean's gaze again. "there was a moment where i thought she wasn't, but she pulled through. she's okay now."

the moment the sincerity and truth of bobby's words rang through dean's head, he felt like he could finally breathe again. he let's out a deep exhale, wobbling slightly on his feet as he runs a hand over his face, cursing to himself softly.

after he takes a second to collect himself and calm his racing heart, he looks up at bobby, brow furrowed as he swallows down the suffocating panic. "can...can i see her?"

the old man hesitates, a protective edge in his eyes that makes dean realize that you probably told him everything. he watches as bobby thinks it over, before the old man sighs, his shoulders dropping slightly as he nods.

"yeah..you can see her," bobby agrees, but as dean takes a step forward, he holds up his hand, stopping dean in his tracks with a pointed look. "but i'm not so sure she's gonna want you there when she wakes up, kid. so if she opens her eyes and freaks out when she sees you, then y're gonna have to leave."

that chips another piece of dean's heart away, the fragment falling further into the pit of self despair that has been building in dean's chest since he hurt you and let you walk away from him.

"please, bobby," he rasps, his voice breaking slightly as emotions blur in his head. "i just need to see her. i...i just need to see she's okay."

the old man looks slightly shocked at the desperation in dean's voice, and something softens in his gaze. "she's been through a lot, boy," he sighs, giving dean a pointed look, though this time it's less menacing. "and i love you like my own, but right now she's my priority and if you being here is gonna stop her from healin', then i'm sorry dean, but y'cant stay."

dean nods, forcing himself to swallow the lump in his throat that threatens to choke him. "i don't wanna hurt her," he responds, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "not more then i already have. i just- she called me, and hearin' her on the phone like that? thinkin' that might be the last time i ever hear her voice, on a fucking voicemail?"

he cuts himself off, averting his eyes from bobby as he forces the tears that burn behind his eyes to stay hidden. "i need to see her, bobby. please."

there's a moment of silence, and when dean lifts his eyes, bobby is staring right back at him, his expression slightly shocked at the rare display of emotions from him. but after a moment, the old man nods, stepping back and gesturing for dean to follow him.

at first he just stands there, but then he's rushing after bobby, each step determined but shaky as he follows the man into the main room.

dean's eyes scan the room, frantically searching for you, and when he finally does, he freezes.

you're laying on the couch, eyes closed and so pale. your skin is void of almost all of its usual color, your cheeks sunken and your lips chapped and sullen. the only thing keeping dean from passing out or falling to his knees in front of you and praying until you wake up is the shaky rise and fall of your chest that he can see under the blanket that bobby's placed over you.

said man places a comforting hand on dean's shoulder, but dean doesn't turn around, even as he hears bobby's footsteps echo down the hallway. he can't move his eyes from you, scared that if he does, you'll somehow slip from his grasp again.

he takes a couple hesitant steps closer and something curls in his gut, gripping his heart and wrenching it until it bleeds as he lets his eyes roam over your face. your familiar features are pale and sullen, but still, dean can't think of anything he's ever seen that's more beautiful than you.

devastatingly beautiful. that term pops into his head again, and this time, the words stab at something deep inside him, something he's always been too afraid to name.

because you are. and it's not just your features─though dean swears you could power a whole city just from smiling, the way it lights up your face─it's your mind, your soul, the way you laugh, the softness of your voice. it's everything. it's you.

you are devastatingly beautiful because you devastate him, crashing your way into his heart over and over again, making him high off you, making him never want to come down.

dean has to remind himself to breathe as he tentatively walks over to where you're laying, exhaling shakily before falling to his knees on the floor in front of you as if he was sitting in front of an altar, about to worship.

his now teary eyes scan over you, and before he can stop himself, he reaches a shaky hand out and brushes some of your hair out of your face.

lightning strikes through him as his skin touches yours, and he fights the urge to pull back, letting his fingertips lightly trace your cheek before his hand drifts down, finding your own and intertwining your fingers.

when he doesn't feel the familiar squeeze back of your hand, something in him breaks.

his head drops to your shoulder, his body shaking as quiet sobs tear from his chest, his teats staining the flannel you wore, his face buried into the fabric.

"i'm sorry,” he rasps through sobs, turning his head into your shoulder, burrowing into the skin of your neck, nausea creeping up his throat when he doesn’t feel your familiar warmth. he presses his lips against your skin, unable to stop the million apologies that spill from his lips. “i’m sorry, sweetheart, i'm so sorry. i love you, i’m sorry. ’m sorry, im so sorry.”

dean stays there, head pressed against you, sobbing quietly into your skin as he clings to you, praying to anyone that would listen that you would wake up. that you would come back to him and he could hold you in his arms and sob a million more apologies into your skin until you forgave him, even if he didn't deserve it.

he needed you to come back to him. he needed your touch, your kiss, your laughter, your stupid jokes that always made him laugh, your whispered words, and your loving stare.

he needed you.

and in that moment dean decided that when you woke up─not if, because he didn't know what he would do if he let himself think about that─he would try his damn hardest to get you back, because even though he doesn't think he deserves happiness, he knew he had it with you.

when you left, and took that piece of him with you, he broke. and all he wanted was to let you fix him again.

but you couldn't. because even as dean cried against you, you didn't stir, didn't flinch, the only reason he knew you were still hanging on was the shallow rise and fall of your chest under where his hand, intertwined with yours was rested firmly, and dean didn't know if he'd ever get that happiness back.

and as he sat there with you, at the foot of the altar he would give his all just to be worthy enough to worship, all he could think about was how he was begging for whatever God or being was listening that if they took you from him, they better fucking take him too.

because even if you hated him, even if you cursed him out, screamed at him to never talk to you again, dean didn't want to live in this world if you weren't in it.

bri's thoughts!: okay so this took me kinda long to finish, and was lowkey supposed to be out for my baby's birthday, but oh well. i don't rlly know if i like this, but i already started a part two, so lmk if anybody wants that! also my first time writing from dean's perspective and like angst so i apologize if this is bad, but i hope u enjoyed! (ps this is not proofread, and as always, was written at 1am, so this might be bad..)

TAGS!: (i don't rlly have a taglist so i just tagged some of my mutuals, but lmk if u wanna be added or removed) @ultravi0lence14 @bluemerakis @titsout4jackles @floralscented @soldiersgirl

[allllium]

Hi! I'm not sure if requests are open, but if they aren't feeling free to ignore this.

So my birthday was on the more recent side (the 19th) and, most my birthdays (this year included) ive ended up crying and with everyone doing more important things so I end up with like maybe 1-3 people who celebrate it like a week late, and as a result I just don't tell people my birthday,,

So I was thinking sirius x reader where they're still both crushing on each other and he finds out he missed readers birthday for the aforementioned reasons jdkdkdksjdk

I'm sorry if it's a odd request, and it's totally chill if you don't do this. thank you for your time, and I hope you have a good day/night and don't forget to stretch, eat and drink some water!

~ this isn't an odd request at all, I get this feeling a lot. I have cried on every single birthday I can remember so I definitely get you. Either way I really hope you had a good birthday and hopefully the next one will be even better.

~ Fluff, Hurt/Comfort

Time to Celebrate

~ Sirius is very offended he didn't get to celebrate your birthday

You don't even know how long you've been friends with Sirius. One day his friend James, got a crush on your friend Lily, and the rest is history.

That being said, you've never told them your birthday. Year after year went by and you thought there was no point to bring it up. Telling them your birthday meant pressure and expectations. It meant being possibly being ignored and being alone once again even though you shouldn't be.

Over the years of growing closer to Sirius, he's never even asked. You don't blame him. He has a lot going on. You can't expect your birthday to be on his list of high priorities.

Sirius feels different.

The only friend that knows your birthday is Lily. You should've known this would happen eventually.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you!" Sirius yells as he runs down the hall in your direction.

"Is that a trick question?" You ask, turning to face Sirius. "And is the running really necessary?"

"Why didn't you tell me about your birthday!?"

"You never asked." You say simply and wait as he slows to a walk and reaches you.

"That's a good reason and you know it. Explain please." He practically demands.

"I didn't think it was necessary. It's just a day."

"No it's not. It's a celebration."

"When's the last time you wanted to celebrate your birthday without James making you?"

"That's not the point!"

"It kinda is." You roll your eyes with a small smirk, and turn to walk away.

"But it's important." He follows right behind you. "You're important."

You stop walking for a split second, "It's just never been a big thing for me. I've never really had anyone to celebrate with." You shrug.

"But now you do." His voice has an upset tone laced somewhere in it.

"I know. I just- I didn't want to risk it."

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds. "Well come on then, we have a couple of birthdays to make up for."

He grabs your hand to pull you with him.

"Right now? We have class, Sirius."

"We have classes all the time, It'll be fine."

He takes you out of the school to get things like cake and decorations.

Something for every year he missed.

[bittersweet-jack-of-no-trades]

Stan gives the Mystery Shack to Soos, Ford ties up some loose ends that came of Stan using his name to commit massive tax fraud for thirty years, and then, finally, they take the Stan o' War II out on the high seas. Except...

They have no idea how to sail.

Sure, they had taught themselves (sorta) when they were kids, but that was... a long, long time ago. And sailing, especially sailing the 40' 'aged but beautiful' vessel they bought off the coast of California and refurbished, isn't actually... easy.

So they dock themselves up in the closest marina they could limp to on their little inboard engine, apologize to each other for the arguments that were sparked while fighting the main sheet in thirty-five knot winds and sideways rain, and shuffle their way to a sailing class.

And aren't they a sight: two sixty-somethings, identical twins, strangely haunted looks in their eyes, who seem to know everything and yet nothing about each other. Their classmates learn this quickly: Stan knows Ford's fingerprints, but not his favorite food. Ford remembers what Stan got for his fifth birthday, but not the name of his last ex. They're top of the class, of course (there's no official ranking, but everyone Knows Who's Best), and Ford keeps calling the twenty year old sailing instructor "kid," and we're pretty sure Stanley is... is that a gun? They're an entertaining pair of old men, for sure. Stan can't help it--- he's an entertainer at heart, he loves the attention--- and Ford finds he likes being recognized, but not for his oddities--- just his personality, and his stories.

Finally they feel confident enough to go out sailing on their own, and it's fulfilling, and fun, and they find a lot of cool shit. But as much as they love each other, and as much they learn about each other while sailing the deep blue, one just isn't enough company for two brothers who have always dreamed of being known. So, once or twice or four times a year, they sail back to that marina, check in on that class, and maybe do a little show 'n' tell. They become known in the area, two grunkles with a love for the sea but a heart belonging to land, and their visits are wild, fantastical things, with preserved mystical creatures and stories changing hands across each dock. Stan and Ford--- twins, but each their own personality, and appreciated for who they are. The Stan o' War II is their home, their purpose, and their future.

Fifteen or twenty or twenty-five or maybe, if we're lucky, thirty years later--- that's when the Stan o' War II sails into the marina slow and uncertain. And when they dock, it's not Stan and Ford who step off, but two young adults, a man and a woman. The sailing instructor, who is now a new twenty-year old, but has heard all the old stories of his predecessor, steps forward warily.

"You knew our grunkles, Stan and Ford," Dipper says to the suspicious crowd. He looks at the sailboat, and his face crumbles in the unmistakable folds of grief. "They... they used to say that their first breaths were by the sea, in a small Jersey beach town and--- and in order to top that, their last breaths should be on the sea. And they got their wish. And now... and now, well... Mabel and I, we don't know how to sail. We don't know how to keep the Stan o' War II alive."

It's natural, then, for Mabel and Dipper go to sailing class. They're twins who have fantastical stories and strangely haunted looks in their eyes; they're top of their class, even though there's no official ranking. When it's time, and class is over, they step onto the Stan o' War II and sail into the sunset.

The Dockmaster of the marina smiles sadly. He's not worried, though--- he saw how much they were like their grunkles while they were staying at the marina. And if he knows one thing about the Pines family, it's this: they'll be back, again and again, each discovery better than the last.

[annab-nana]

note: this is a blurb i wanted to write using a prompt from the winter wonderland sleepover because i wanted to add rooster to my masterlist.

prompt: “Don’t you ever do that again!”

warnings: not proofread, basically a rewrite of one of the scenes in top gun maverick but reader is taking maverick's place

❀ masterlist ❀

you first thought it was bad when rooster ran out of flares and you had to swoop in to cover him with your own. you then realized it got worse when you felt the impact of the missile slamming into your engine. it only continued to go downhill from there.

now, you were running through the snowy forest trying to get to rooster. you thought you'd lost him for a second earlier and your efforts had been for nothing when his fighter took a hit. however, relief soon found you when you saw his parachute. when you laid eyes on him, he was pulling off his parachute and beginning to bury it.

one second, you were filled with concern for him.

"are you okay?" you shouted as you ran closer to him.

"yeah, i'll manage."

the next second, you were angry.

your body showed no signs of slowing and you ran right into him with purpose, pushing him down.

he took off his helmet and looked at you incredulously. "what the hell?"

"what are you doing here?" you asked, your anger clear in your tone.

rooster had never felt more confused. "what am i doing here?"

"yes, what are you doing here? i didn't take that missile for you to be down here with me. you should be back on the carrier by now!" your eyes held a blazing fire that rooster had never seen before.

his brows dropped to a furrow as he tilted his head down a bit more to be at your eye level. "i saved your life."

"i saved your life," you challenged loudly, taking a step closer to him. "what the hell were you thinking?"

rooster inched closer as well, very much invading your personal space, but neither of you cared. "mav told us not to think!"

"i know!" you cried out, "why do you think i did that?!"

"i don't know, but don't you ever do that again!"

there was an intense moment between the two of you as you stared one another down. your breaths mingled together due to your proximity and your chests rose and fell quickly with them. both your eyes and his bounced between the others, each of you waiting for the other to do or say something.

it was ultimately you who broke the staring match.

it was like your body was acting before your brain could tell it what to do. you stepped the last little bit closer and wrapped your arms around his neck, letting out a sigh you hadn't realized you were holding in.

rooster wasted no time in circling his arms around your waist.

"you scared the shit out of me," you whispered, squeezing him a little tighter.

rooster's light chuckle made you feel a little bit better. "you scared the shit out of me first," he uttered before pulling back ever so slightly to look you in the eyes. "are you okay?"

"yeah," you tell him, trying to inspire confidence, though your voice doesn't match your intentions. you're scared and you know he is too, but you can't be scared right now. you both need to get back to the carrier. "so, any ideas on how to get out of here?"

"i was kind of hoping you had something," rooster commented, a small grin on his lips, "there's a reason your callsign is murdock. you're our daredevil. one of your crazy plans would be great right now."

a light laugh fell from your lips as you both pulled away fully from each other. your eyes search the trees around you while you wait for inspiration to strike. then, it hits you.

"if a crazy plan is what you want," you preface, reaching for rooster's arm to pull him in the direction you were going, "then a crazy plan is what you will get."

remember to support writers & reblog :)

turn on notifications for @annab-library to be notified when i post something new or join the tag list here!

tag list: @bradleybeachbabe @marjorie189 @fiction-is-life

[rita-repulsa-ke]

The Four Stages of Grief

She’s holding a body, a familiar body, still warm but not breathing, which is fine, because Rio often forgets to breathe. The problem is in every other detail, the way it doesn't move, the slackness of the skin, the way she—it—is dead weight in Agatha's arm

She's holding something impossible, something that cannot exist.

She's holding Rio's corpse.

This one is @dandelions4us' fault

Barring infancy, Agatha Harkness can remember almost every time she’s cried.

Not when they chained her to the stake.

Not when she killed them.

Not when Wanda made her forget who she was.

When her boy died. A few times after sex, which doesn’t count. Maybe once or twice when she was younger and more naive about how the world worked. Multiple times as a way to garner sympathy prior to committing murder, which also doesn't count.

In the time between Nicky's death and this present moment, she can’t remember the last time her eyes have so much as grown damp.

Even knowing it must be a dream, she’s crying now.

She’s holding a body, a familiar body, still warm but not breathing, which is fine, because Rio often forgets to breathe. The problem is in every other detail, the way it doesn't move, the slackness of the skin, the way she—it—is dead weight in Agatha's arm

She's holding something impossible, something that cannot exist.

She's holding Rio's corpse.

"You can't do this to me," she snarls into that blank face, her voice scratching the air like fingernails on dead skin. "You can't die!" She gives the body a few rough shakes, which is a terrible idea, the way the body ragdolls uselessly in her arms will stay with her forever. "It's one of your best features!"

This is a dream, she reminds herself. A stupid, ridiculous dream where Rio dies in her arms like some kind of tragic cliche, the kind of trope that makes her feel nauseous—or maybe that, too, is the crying, she hasn't done it in so long she's forgotten how physically unpleasant it is, how her head pounds and her cheeks ache and her stomach feels like someone's taken it for a boat ride on choppy water.

She just has to find out how to wake up.

She tries pinching herself, or rather, she tries pinching herself again, because her arm is a mess of inflamed red marks. This latest one she gets vicious, digs her nails in like she's got a grudge against her own body and maybe she can write these tears off to pain.

"Come on, come on," she says, but nothing's happening, she's still sitting on the floor of her living room in Westview holding the corpse of a woman she's sure can't die, except that Agatha saw her do it, a knock on her door and she'd opened it only to have Rio stumble into her arms, collapse like a scene from a movie she wouldn't have watched and mumble, "I love you, Ags," right before she did the one thing she absolutely, 100% could not do.

"Doesn't make any sense," Agatha murmurs to herself, and if she had any magic, any magic at all, she would be trying every spell in the book, but it's all gone, stolen by the Scarlet Witch. Still, there's always things she could try, manual spells that rely on ritual and components instead of innate magic, except that to do any of those, she'd have to let go of Rio's body and she can't actually seem to make herself do that. She's got it in her lap, the arm she's been pinching held under it, posed almost the same way Rio had fallen, keeping her propped up and hoping any minute she might jump up and yell 'Surprise!'.

Any minute now.

Minutes tick by and nothing happens, except Agatha's arm grows tired and her cheeks cold. She expects the crying to stop, but it doesn't, only turns pitiful and sniffly, the kind of sound she would have done a very funny mockery of, if it had come from anyone else.

"This is ridiculous," she scolds the corpse, trying not to look directly at it, not to see how empty it is, how its mouth won't curve to smile at her and its eyes won't light in her presence, how there's no semblance of her lover in the dead thing in her arms. "You're Death! You're immortal, you're a fundamental part of the balance, how can you possibly die?"

Agatha is intimately familiar with the stages of grief, she's cycled through them on repeat for centuries. This one's anger. The next—

"…Hey, Rio, look, I know we've…I know we've had our differences. You hunted me for centuries and I…I probably wasn't always that nice to you. Also hid from you with the Darkhold, which I do know you hated." Her free hand moves at an awkward angle, tries to pat down her former lover's hair in a way that only makes it worse. "I'm not sorry about most of that, honestly. But you know, you were right. I...ugh, I really did always still love you, all right?! I tried to stop, but I could never figure out how." And here it is, her desperate attempt at bargaining, at making a kind of peace between them she'd scorned when Rio was alive. "That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? Isn't it?! So stop this! Wake up already. ...Just come back to me."

The corpse stares, sightless, up at her ceiling and she knows this next stage too, she's wallowed in it for years and years. She clutches Rio's corpse tighter to her body, rocks with it, back and forth and depression is too weak of a word for the swamp of emotion she's sinking into, muck rising above her head and taking the last of the light with it.

These are the stages of grief Agatha Harkness knows.

There's another one she's heard about, but never reached.

Other people might simply accept things. Their fate, the deaths of others, the universe acting on them instead of them acting upon the universe.

Those people were weak.

"No," she starts the cycle from the top, right back to denial. "This can't be real. It can't, it's impossible, she can't die." She finally lowers the corpse to the ground, onto an ugly throw rug Agnes must have chose, then reaches down to pluck a hair from Rio's head, oddly stiff in her fingers. She has bleach and cinnamon, there's a half-remembered bit of ritual she can try—

"Stop," someone says and Agatha's heart almost obeys, because that's a familiar voice, the familiar voice, the voice of a woman she knew couldn't be dead.

"I thought this is what you wanted," And there's a second speaker, unfortunate in its familiarity. Wanda, she thinks, Wanda and Rio together, and her thoughts are going in frantic circles that might be confusion or might be a literal loop, placed there by the most powerful witch in the world.

"It was. I don't want it anymore. Make it stop. Now," Rio says from somewhere, somewhere where she is alive and not the dead, empty thing on Agatha's floor.

"So long as you remember what you promised me," Wanda says, and then the world snaps in half like a—

Like a broom, like the one that's lying on her floor, a proper wooden kind with twisted bristles, the one she'd thrown in the back of a closet ages ago in case she needed a quick escape, the one made from a branch Rio had grown specifically for her—

The agonized, furious sound that escapes Agatha's torn up throat is enough to make even Death and the Scarlet Witch take a step away from her.

Death.

Despite a fury that will burn the world down to avenge the last hour of her life, she can't help but stare at Rio, at how her eyes have moved to avoid Agatha's, how her jaw is held tight and her forehead wrinkled with discomfort, how alive she is regardless of whether or not she's remembered to breathe.

Agatha steps up to her, almost chest to chest.

"Agatha, I'm…" Rio starts, and then the rest of a sentence that would only make her angrier is lost, because Agatha Harkness is kissing Death.

It's a good kiss, too, even if there's salt from her tears in it, a proper kiss like they haven't managed in centuries, a brand of ownership, a claim, a reminder of who Rio belongs to, but most importantly, a way to make absolutely certain that she is not dead weight in Agatha's arms, not slack skin and unblinking eyes, but as alive as Agatha has ever needed her to be.

When she steps back, Rio is reeling, shaking, clutching at her with hands Agatha shoves away.

"Don't," she snarls. "Get. Go. I can't stand to look at you."

"Beloved…" Rio says, caught between her eternal fury at rejection and something that might have been guilt.

"Rio," Agatha says, and the tone in her voice freezes the protests in Death's mouth. "I know what you're thinking. I said something you've always wanted to hear, didn't I, while I was being unknowingly manipulated." Rio's eyes gleam brighter, and Agatha is never going to hear the end of this, so many more centuries of 'I always knew you loved me' to look forward to.

And maybe she won't even hate that, if it means she gets to see Rio smiling and blinking and pursuing her across continents instead of limp and lifeless in her arms. But she isn't going to put up with it today, not after what's been done to her. She means it when she says, "If you want even a chance that what I said will remain true, get out of my sight right now."

Like a candle blown out or a life ended, Rio Vidal is gone.

Slightly reluctantly, Agatha makes herself turn to look at the other participant, the person responsible for making her put on a one-woman show.

"…So," she asks the Scarlet Witch. "Any other ways you'd like to torture me?"

Wanda looks back at her, something unnervingly hollow behind her eyes. "She made me a deal," she says, almost emotionless. "About my boys. This isn't personal, Agatha." That might even be true, but the way the other woman is looking at her now—maybe she should have kept Rio around for defense, except she really couldn't have stood it for a moment longer, her former lover looking at her with an ugly mix of pity, guilt and adoration.

Still, Agatha recognizes the way Wanda is looking at her, like Agatha were something unpleasant on the bottom of her shoe. Like she might do something nasty just because she can. Agatha has looked at lots of other people like that before.

"I'll go away," she promises. "Somewhere you never have to see me again."

"I doubt that," Wanda says, and Agatha has the passing suspicion that the Scarlet Witch has been sticking her nose into a book, the book, her beloved Darkhold. Wanda's sanity was questionable when she was running a prison disguised as a sitcom, but the dark circles under her eyes and the way she doesn't seem to have expressions anymore is concerning. "…Letting you go was part of her bargain, though. I wonder if she'll regret that. I could have made you anything she wanted you to be."

Concerning, but so not her problem. Let the so-called superheroes deal with whatever Wanda was turning into. "Right," Agatha says, edging toward the door, her hand on the knob. "Well. Always lovely to see you, Wanda. Let's never, ever do this again."

Now she has to open the door.

All she has to do is open the door and walk out to freedom. Or at least anywhere but this suffocating house she wants to see burnt to the ground, the one with a nightmare currently standing inside it, watching her with all the expression of a corpse.

Her hand is wrapped firmly around the knob and she can't turn it, because if she does, Rio will stumble through the door, Agatha will catch her and then Death will die in her arms all over aga—

The door blasts itself to pieces around her, the larger chunks of wood somehow flying harmlessly by, though she's covered in a thin layer of wood dust.

Both she and Wanda blink, then Agatha Harkness turns, swishes her coat around herself and strides out as though this is exactly what she intended all along. She keeps her head held high and her shoulders back, ignores how raw her throat is or the redness on her cheeks, a lingering trace of scrubbed away tears. She can't even remember the last time she cried. She certainly hadn't sobbed hysterically while clutching a broom pretending to be the body of the woman she loved as her ex and her greatest enemy looked on

But if that had happened, someone would have to pay.

[telluriannovice]

Day 2: Hand Kiss

Danny glared at Vlad like he was trying to see through his skin. He'd been acting weird all day. First, Vlad took the day off work, which is fine, he's an adult and everyone needs time off. Then, he offered to take Danny to the park, the one with a playground, a skate park, and an open field. And then Vlad just so happened to have brought a picnic basket that had Danny's favorite sandwich (a BLT without the T) and Danny's favorite cookies. Then he just decided to "swing by" the arcade, that somehow didn't have any people in it, and the two of them got to play whatever they wanted for as long as they wanted. And now, Vlad was leading them towards the Pier Carnival, and Danny had a feeling he was going to suggest they "swing by" that too.

"What's wrong, Danny? Something not to your liking?" Vlad asked and seemed actually worried.

"No, it's literally perfect." Danny said, glaring at him more.

"Then why the death stare?"

"Well, the last time you were this nice to me, my emotions were tied to the weather."

"So what? I can't take you on a nice date without it being suspect." He didn't actually sound convincing.

"I mean, yeah," Danny admitted. "This feels like one of your old schemes."

Vlad made a disgruntled sound then quickened his pace. "I thought something that felt more go with the flow would suit you better, but if not, then come on. We're going to go have a good time and things will continue to be perfect."

Vlad did lead them to the carnival and they did have a good time. Well, Danny did. His main problem with the supposed perfect date was... well, they didn't do anything Vlad liked. Vlad dates were fancy dinners and museums. He'd spend hours dressing Danny up like a doll to make sure his outfit was perfect, and then they'd go somewhere that would kick you out for wearing shorts or burping too loud. The best date Danny can remember them going on was right in the middle - a fancy fundraiser dinner at the observatory. Vlad got to talk snob with the other rich guests and Danny got to see the new museum wing before the rest of the public. Sure, it wasn't the fanciest of dinners and Danny had to wear an uncomfy suit, but they both got to have their fun and spend time with each other.

Danny was still trying to figure out what Vlad's game was, when he realized they were alone. It was past closing time, but not past the time a security person would have asked them to leave. Vlad took Danny out onto the pier, where they could see the sun setting in brilliant color.

"Perfect." Vlad hummed in satisfaction and quickly took Danny's hands in his. "Danny, my beloved little badger. I have loved you from the moment we met, and through every fight we had, and I will continue to love you till the end of time. So I ask..." He pulled a small box out of his jacket and fell to one knee. "Will you marry me?"

Danny blinked at him, his brain still trying to process what Vlad just said. He just, proposed? After an entire day of doing stuff Danny liked, and on a pier at sunset. Danny was taking too long to answer, he could feel it. The ring box in Vlad's hands started to shake and Danny knows Vlad doesn't do well on his knees.

He needed to say something. He needed to say anything. He needed to tell Vlad how much he appreciated their date and how much effort Vlad put into their relationship. "Yeah, sure."

No! Come on! "No, wait, sorry. I mean yes."

Vlad sighed in relief and stood back up, taking the ring from its box and putting it on Danny's hand. Vlad kissed over it gently, then down Danny's hand and threatened to kiss all the way up his arm. But Danny was able to divert his attention, cupping Vlad's cheek and pulling him into a proper kiss. And you know what? Fuck it! He pulled Vlad into a playful dip kiss, like they were ballroom dancing.

Eventually, they stopped kissing. Danny gave Vlad a scheming look. "Alright, when's your next day off?"

"We can't get married that quickly, little badger. Weddings take-"

"Not for the wedding!" Danny interrupted. "For my proposal!"

"You don't need to-"

"Mines going to be way better than yours."

"It's not a competition."

"Sounds like you're scared you'll lose." Danny joined when Vlad laughed, but it wasn't a joke. His proposal was going to be way better than Vlad's!

[irenkaferalkitty]

The Chain Means Pack

(art credit: my dear friend Poppy! Thank you so much!)

In honor of my birthday month, I've decided to de-anon my massive Linked Universe fanfiction series I affectionately refer to as "The Behemoth". Welcome to...

The Chain Means Pack.

Chain Means Pack (or CMP) is an explicit ABO fanfiction series first published on AO3 on July 4, 2023. So - let me tell you more about it!

CMP is an LU Linkshipping & canon-shipping AU series born out of my frustrations with common ABO tropes.

I love these characters, I love this setting, and I wanted to take a stab at doing it justice with as much internal and game series consistency as possible.

Yes, I am aware of Jojo's post concerning fan-content for LU. I won't be parading this series before her. I originally started posting this series as an Anonymous work in order to minimize potential backlash given how hostile the LU fandom can be regarding Linkshipping content in general. However, as it has now been well over a year of receiving very positive feedback, I've decided to go ahead and de-anon this series.

All in all, I am delighted with how CMP continues to unfold! I've poured everything I know and love about The Legend of Zelda game series into it. The way the story has grown and evolved - without straying too far from the original story outline - makes me incredibly proud.

If you'd like to give CMP a try, here's where to start (links below the cut):

Series start: Alpha Challenge & Series Page link

Plot-focus story start: Involuntary Island Vacations

Chronological story start: Once Upon a Time (non-explicit story!)

Non-explicit stand-alone stories:

The House Beyond the Bridge Link bought a house. It's empty. Or, Link finds his new home weirdly upsetting, Wolfie has All The Concerns, and Bolson can't stop offering super discounted prices.

The Pain of Not Knowing Why "I left him," whispered Twilight. "Or rather, I was taken away. I was at his side when he stormed Hyrule Castle. It took us days to clear it out the monsters filling its halls. And right as we were preparing to enter the last chamber… I was dropped back into the spring feeling utterly shattered but I couldn't remember why." Or, Twilight is devastated without knowing why.

The Girl Burned by Malice The Calamity ends and the world changes. Sometimes in small ways. Or, Link brings home a girl who stinks of Malice. Post BotW.

You've Got Mail! There's a strange man in scant white clothing waving a letter at her. Or, Flora gets a letter.

Rain Falling Like Tears Guardian husks litter the plain outside Fort Hateno. And Link… remembers. Set during Breath of the Wild.

In the Wind Fish's Dreams Once upon a time, a girl named Marin lived with her sire in Mabe Village on the island of Koholint. She loved her home and all the people in her village, and happily joined in celebrating Mamasha and Papahl’s new baby. Up on Tal Tal Mountain Range, the Wind Fish slept in his egg and all was well. Or, Marin was created in a dream

[pompeiiiiiisaidso]

(Trying to lure Batclan/Batfam fans over to the Green Lantern fandom, day 1)

What rings I think each Batclan / Batfam members would have:

First, a quick rundown of each different colour:

Red: Embodies the emotion of rage / anger. Once the ring is in the user's finger it fills them with a murderous rage, that they only snap out of once they bathe in a sea of blood. They can't take the ring out, since it has replaced their heart and the user's blood with lava that they can spit out. They can't usually make constructs.

Orange: Embodies greed, but is not getting mentioned in the list because there is only one user.

Yellow: The user has to inspire great fear. Scarecrow has been offered one, I'm pretty sure. They get to make constructs.

Green: Strength of will. The originals. The middle of the spectrum. Green Arrow has used one in the past and was only able to conjure a single arrow with all his will, and it left him completely exhausted and out of commission. Users have to overcome great fear. They also get constructs.

Blue: Hope. They're mostly support (principally for the Green Lanterns), so their offense is not exactly great, but they can overcharge other people's rings and just overall make them stronger. Also, the only way you can take a red power ring off is by putting a blue one in its place immediately. Constructs positive.

Indigo: Compassion. They are made up of assassins and killers who have decided to change their ways and repent. Good vibes all around. Live laugh make constructs.

Magenta (Violet? Pink? Purple? I'm not sure honestly): The Star Sapphires represent love of all kinds. The second of this list to appear in comics, debuted by Carol Ferris, Hal Jordan's love interest at the time. They are all women, but men can also gain this title, as seen by Guy Gardner's brief experience as one.

Bruce: Has canonically been offered a Yellow Power Ring before (War of the Rings, volume 2). He has also been stated to be incapable of wielding a Green Ring due to his inability to surpass his greatest fears and regrets (namely, his parents' death) (Green Lantern #9, 2004)

Dick: Would have a Red Ring during his venture as Robin, and got offered a Blue one when he shed that mantle and took on Nightwing, to his great relief

Babs: She'd be a Green Lantern as Batgirl, and would give up the title after the Joker Incident. She would regret it deeply afterwards, but would stop once she got a Blue ring at around the same time she decided that if she couldn't fight alongside them, she'd be the eyes and ears that support the rest of the Hero Community. And so Oracle was born, though maybe in this universe she'd be Blue

Cass: As a general rule of thumb, children don't usually gain a Power Ring, so I while I don't think she'd have one as the One Who Is All, if she did it would be Yellow. Teenagers, on the other hand, have been known to wield a Ring, so I think she'd have either an Indigo, for her past state as a killer, or she'd have a Magenta(?) ring for all the love she has for her family

Jason: Maybe he'd be Blue while Robin. I don't really know, I haven't read enough of Jaybin to be able to pinpoint his exact ring. It'd be a cute little thing, maybe offering Jason a Hope Ring would be Dick's initiation process and offer both the closure and bond they needed at the time. He wouldn't have one as the Red Hood, mainly because he'd remember Dick's suffering and loss of control of his consciousness due to the Red Ring, and that was one of the only ones that presented itself to him at the time. The other one was the Yellow, and he didn't have the strength to have the same Ring as Bruce at the time. He'd then get an Indigo Power Ring somewhere during his healing process, and depending on what you go with Cass it could be angst material, since last I checked she didn't exactly like Jason because of his purposeful and spontaneous killing

Steph: Would start out with a Green Power Ring and maintain it to the end, though she would keep joking about how she wished she had a Love Ring to fit her theme better. She secretly would be very proud to be considered worthy of being a Green Lantern when Batman didn't think her worthy of being a Robin, and keep that title even during her darkest moments. Her and Kilowog got along like a house on fire, by the way

Tim: As the most like Bruce and unlike him at the same time, I feel he'd either have a Yellow or Green Ring, no in-between. During the Brucequest, he'd either gain a Green one, if he hadn't already, or a Blue one for all the blind Hope he demonstrated. He'd get very emotional once it finally sunk in that despite it all he was still considered pure enough to share a Ring colour with his hero

Duke: My heart wants to say he'd get a Fear ring to maintain his yellow theme, but I know it wouldn't be so. I also want to say that he'd get a Blue due to him being a Signal of Hope to the people of Gotham, but something in me doesn't feel it is right to put Duke, the only super powered bat, with the Ring meant for Support. Duke would get a Green Ring for all his resilience and Strength of Will and for his ability to not only overcome great fear, but inspire the same fire in other people around him.

Damian: Once again, children don't normally wield a Power Ring, and even if they did the League doesn't strike me as a Lantern friendly space, so Damian's ring would come in during his time as Robin. He'd await a Yellow one, as “is his birthright as the blood son” in his own words, so it would be a bit surprising (for him) when he didn't get any. Everyone saw it coming, but no one had the heart to tell him. He'd try to grow around it after some time, but it would still be a bit of a sore spot. His ring would come when he least expects it, as he's calming down a spooked citizen, or helping a hurt animal, and he'd jump in front of whoever he was with to protect them from whatever had caused the loud noise. Damian absolutely cried when he realised it was a Power Ring. He'd get either a Blue, which matches with Richard and that alone would make it Damian's pride and joy, or an Indigo, which makes a lot of sense to his character growth and interests for the future as hinted at by recent comics

[staticscreenwriting]

I took the good times, I'll take the bad times II Joel Miller

Summary: Joel doesn't think he's deserving of love after all he did and all he went trough. Or maybe he's just scared. Either way he can't let himself fall for (Y/N). Now if only she'd stop sending him those damn postcards.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (I always try not to describe the reader physically, if I missed something please let me know so I can change it and make this "applicable" to every reader. Thank you!)

A/N: This is my entry for the dear-uary challenge by @jolapeno . My prompt was "Character A keeps finding X and traces them back to Character B, who might be leaving them intentionally—or not." And I chose Postcards as my form of epistolary.

TW: This is mostly angsty fluff. There is some talk of self doubt and loss of a child but I think that should be it.

Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated. I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.

It all starts with a simple postcard tucked into the side pocket of his bag. Joel almost doesn’t realize it’s there, folded twice into a tiny square. It’s only when he’s looking for the list Maria gave him of all the things to look for on this run, that he grabs a hold of the card. 

His gloves make it hard to unfold the small paper but it’s way too cold to take them off. Joel was never big on winter and snow, even before everything went to shit. He doesn’t like the way it lingers, the way it consumes you from the inside out. Now, an unforgiving cold is all he feels as a thick blanket of snow has settled upon Wyoming. 

Bold bright letters scream out to him from the wrinkled paper “ Greetings from Tampa Florida. Wish you were here!”.

It’s one of those campy vintage ones where the letters are filled with drawings of landmarks and beaches. He remembers sending one just like this to his High School girlfriend when Dad took him and Tommy on a trip to Nashville when Joel was 16 maybe 17. It was a good trip, the last one they ever took together. Sometimes Joel wonders how his dad would deal with all of this. This new reality. This fucked up world. He always seemed so strong, so fearless. That man was unstoppable force and immovable object all at once. Every vulnerability Joel finds in himself, he’s sure was absent in his father. Maybe if he was a little more like his own dad he could’ve saved Sarah, could’ve spared Ellie the pain of living in this limbo of knowing and not knowing. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Joel moves closer to the fire, his only light source other than the stars. There’s writing on the back, blue ink on off-white paper. It’s not a handwriting he knows and for a second he wonders if the card has been there ever since he found the bag years ago, back in Boston. But he would know that, right? Would've found it by now. This must be new. This must be meant for him.

“ I know you hate the cold. I know it makes you sad and gloomy, well gloomier than usual. So let me tell you about the hottest day I ever experienced. I was a kid, maybe 7 or 8 and my mom took me to Florida. Not Tampa (it was the only postcard I could find at the library), but Orlando. We went to fucking Disney World!! We didn’t have a lot of money back then so mom must’ve saved a long time for this. Anyway, Joel, it was so hot. Unbearably hot. My clothes stuck to my skin and my hair got all frizzy. Maybe July wasn’t the best time to go. The air was so thick and heavy, so moist (ew). It felt like breathing in honey, syrup maybe. I still had the best time. I know it doesn’t take away the cold but I hope I can take you away to that hot and humid Florida summer for one small moment. If not, there’s a wool scarf at the bottom of your bag. Made it myself. You never told me what your favorite color is. I hope you like blue. xx 

P.S.: I wonder what happened to Disney World.” 

A chuckle falls from Joel’s lips and forms a cloud against the sharp winter air. He's never been to Disney World. The Millers just weren’t a Disney World kind of family. They were more of a local fair kind of family. All corn dogs and funnel cakes and first kisses behind the bumper cars. Sarah would’ve loved Disney World though. Ellie too. Ellie who doesn’t even know what the hell Disney is. 14 years and the girl has no idea who Mickey Mouse is. What a surreal thought. What a strange world. More than 20 years and it still feels strange. Joel wonders if life will ever let him settle in this new reality. If one day this feels like home and not a bad dream. Not a cosmic punishment. A bad joke that no one’s laughing at anymore.

His eyes travel back towards the blue swirly writing. It’s not Ellie’s bad chicken scratch, he could pick that out of a line-up any day. This looks much neater, more deliberate, and thoughtful. 

“There’s a wool scarf at the bottom of your bag.”

Quiet, as not to wake up the others sleeping just a few steps away, Joel opens the zipper on his bag and rummages through it with a gloved hand. There’s a bunch of stuff in there, food rations, ammunition, a second pair of gloves. Going on supply runs is not something Joel enjoys but it is a way for him to give back. To Tommy and Maria and the entire community. Jackson and its people have taken him and Ellie in as one of their own without much hesitation. They provided them with food, with shelter, with trust. He has so little to give in return. Going on a supply run to look for medicine and other necessities, that’s the least he can do. 

Something soft and squishy meets his hand and he pulls out a dark blue woolen scarf. There are so many holes and even in the dim light of the campfire, Joel can tell those holes are not there on purpose. Maybe it was Ellie after all, but then she never showed any interest in knitting, and the idea of her doing just that is far too ridiculous. No matter how imperfect it is though, Joel has to admit the scarf does make him feel warmer as he wraps it around his neck. 

“Hey,” Adam, one of the other guys on the run, speaks up from beside Joel, “you can catch some sleep if you want. I can take over the watch.” 

It’s a strange thing, how sometimes you don’t notice just how tired you are or how hungry you are until someone points it out to you. Until they offer to take it from you. Then it hits you like a brick to the face. A wave pulling you under. 

Joel feels his eyelids grow heavy and nods at the younger man. "Thanks". 

This mystery, it can wait until tomorrow. Until then he will bury his face in the warm soft wool of the scarf and think of that Florida sun. And though it most definitely is just his imagination, Joel could almost swear the night feels a little less cold.

His boots leave deep imprints in the white icy blanket as he makes his way past the Tipsy Bison and the community hall further towards his house. His home. 

No place has really felt like home in years. Not since all of this started. Everything was temporary. 4 walls and a roof. He wonders if this place will ever start feeling like home? Will he ever get to a point where he doesn’t wait for the second shoe to drop? It all feels like he’s Charlie Brown and life is Lucy pulling the football away at the last second. And it always ends with him falling. He’s so tired of falling. So tired of getting back up.

Joel almost expects the house to be silent as he steps inside. Ellie is slowly making friends with the other teens living in the settlement and is spending more time at their houses than she is at home. He can’t blame her. If he was more like his father he’d find it in himself to start conversations with people, get to know them, forge connections, make friends. Of the Miller boys, Tommy is the one who inherited their dad’s social gene though, Joel only got the snarl and the crippling inability to talk about his feelings.

Laughter echoes through the house as Joel rounds the corner connecting the entryway to the living room. Ellie’s laughter, loud and bright and light. As if for a moment all the horrors and the pain and the trauma have been taken from her.

When he steps into the kitchen, Joel understands. 

(Y/N) is standing by the counter, a smile on her face so soft and radiant it might just rival the sun. That joy she brings out in Ellie, it’s familiar to Joel because he feels it too whenever (Y/N) is around. Not always but sometimes. It’s a spark of warmth that starts in his chest and crawls up his spine. It settles in his lungs, his heart, his brain. Like a parasite. Like a virus. Like a wonderful dream. He doesn’t allow himself to feel it all the time but sometimes, sometimes he can’t deny himself this little bit of warmth.

Joel can’t even remember when exactly (Y/N) became a part of their life. It’s like one day she was there and refused to leave. And really that’s kind of how it went. She works at the library and the school, lives across the street from him and Ellie and for some reason, she’s taken pity on them. Joel isn’t sure if it's him or Ellie she pities. Maybe a mix of both. Either way, she brought over some soup one day and that’s the beginning and end of it all. She’s wormed her way into Ellie’s heart and by extension his too. Whether he likes to admit it or not. Doesn't hurt that she's so damn beautiful too.

“Joel, you’re back!” 

Ellie pulls him in a tight hug. It’s something Joel still has to get used to. Ellie isn’t a particularly affectionate person. She’s definitely not a hugger. And neither is Joel — not anymore at least. So when they do hug, it’s still a little strange. Not bad strange just unfamiliar. 

“Yeah, I’m back. 

“How did it go?” (Y/N) asks and meets his eyes over Ellie’s head. A silent conversation happening between her and Joel. It’s that thing she does where she doesn’t need to say a single word but Joel can tell exactly what she’s thinking just by the look in her eyes. He sometimes wonders if this is a them thing. 

“Did someone die” her eyes are saying. “Did someone get hurt?” 

“Did you get hurt?” 

He quickly shakes his head answering her unspoken questions. Not this time. 

“Good. It went good.” 

Maybe the relieved sigh he sees her let out is just his imagination. But Joel doesn’t think so. Joel thinks it's very real.

“Did you bring us something? “ 

He can’t help but smile at that. It feels good to smile. In a world that gives you grief and sorrow, you start to count the moments when it gives you a reason to smile. They are few and far between but the number has surely increased since Ellie stepped into his life — and since (Y/N) did. 

“I brought food and medicine. Isn’t that enough? “

A determined “no” falls from both their lips in a chaotic harmony. 

“Geez, you guys are demanding.” 

“Well — did you bring us something?” 

Joel just rolls his eyes and rummages through his bag for the goods. 

“For you— “ he says and throws the old wrinkled comic book towards Ellie who regards it with that endless sense of wonder she does possess. It’s the kind of spark that flickers and dies once you grow old. Or maybe just his did. Maybe grief leaves no room for wonder. 

Placing his bag on the ground, Joel moves into the kitchen and holds out his loot to (Y/N). Green background. White goats. Yellow bubble letters.

“Oooooh, you did get me something. Pet Sounds, nice!” 

There’s a spark in her too. Dulled and dusted from time but it is there and it flickers and grows every time Joel brings her a vinyl record from his trips outside of the settlement. In a world with so little joy, music seems to be one of the few things that hasn’t changed. In the face of immeasurable pain, humans turn to music. They have done so for a long time and judging by the world as is, they always will. 

“I hope it works still. Didn’t really have a record player to try it out.” 

“I’ll try it out as soon as I get to the library. Feel free to come by and listen with me.” 

“Sure.” 

“Thank you, Joel. I hope you didn’t have to do anything stupid to get this.” 

He didn’t. Not this time. He would’ve though. It scares him how willing he is to put himself in danger just to get her something that will put that radiant smile on her face. He’d walk to the end of the earth if he knew there was a record there she wanted. That thought scares the shit out of him. It’s bad enough he cares so deeply about Ellie, about Tommy. The more people you care about, the more you open yourself up to hurt. Losing either of them would tear him apart. Joel is not sure he can handle opening his heart to yet another person no matter how much his heart wants just that. 

“ Nah. No issues.” 

“Good.” 

She just looks at him for a moment. All soft eyes and gentle smile. There must be something she sees in him, Joel thinks, something he doesn’t see. A version of himself that he isn’t, that he will never be. A version he once was, maybe. A version he so desperately wishes he could be. For her.

“Well,” (Y/N) says and snaps him out of her enchantment “Ellie and I made some stew. I know you must’ve been freezing outside, some good warm stew might help warm you up a little.” 

“It smells great.” 

“You have impeccable timing because we just got done. So, dig in. And uh — I guess I’ll see you guys at the movie screening?” 

He doesn’t want her to leave. The devil and the angel on his shoulders are both screaming at him to ask her to stay. And if he was any stronger a man, any more like his own father and more deserving of good things, he would ask her. To stay for dinner. To stay forever.

But he isn’t. And he doesn’t ask. Just watches as she wraps a scarf around her neck and slips into the thick jacket that's a few sizes too big on her.

“I left the recipe by the fridge. Just in case you ever want to cook it yourself.” 

“Thanks.” 

And he really is grateful. For her. For everything.

“Oh Joel,” she says and stops in the doorway. “I like that scarf. Blue looks really good on you.” 

And then she’s gone, swallowed by the cold winter air. 

Joel hasn’t thought about his favorite color in forever. It’s something you stop thinking about once you start growing hair on your chest and fantasizing about girls in a way you haven’t before. Kids talk about their favorite colors all the time. Sarah did. It’s just once you grow old you lose that sense of self, define yourself through different things. 

Looking at the scarf now, all holes and imperfections, there is no doubt in his mind that his favorite color is blue. 

“Have you ever been to Paris?” 

The lights are dimmed in the big community hall, the movie playing on screen providing the only source of light as the people of Jackson have gathered for another movie night. 

A glimpse into a world that was but no longer is and never will be again. And for some of them, like Ellie, a world that never was to begin with.

Ellie is sitting in the front with some of the other teens, her friends, Joel supposes. She has friends now.

“Joel, have you?” 

A soft hand rests on his arm, shaking him from his gloomy thoughts. (Y/N) sits next to him, eyes focused on the pictures dancing across the screen. Ilsa and Rick, falling in love over and over again in Paris. The beginning of a love story doomed from the start. 

“I uh — no. Never.” 

“Me neither. I would’ve loved to go though. It looks beautiful.” 

He doesn’t know why or how it happens but the words just flow from his mouth like a waterfall. For the first time in a while, he finds himself wanting to talk more. About the past. About Sarah.

“My daughter, Sarah, went to Paris once. Some school exchange program. They don’t usually do it until later but her French class was above average and I guess they won some contest. I don’t know it was a long time ago.” 

“Sounds like she was a smart cookie.” 

"Oh, she was. Too smart for me, that’s for sure. Was hard letting her leave and fly to a whole different continent though. I was scared out of my mind until she was back home. Drove Tommy crazy for a whole damn week.” 

(Y/N) turns her face away from the screen and regards him with that infinite sense of something more. Soft and endearing. If he was a different man he would call it love. He would see the way she looks at him and he would kiss her stupid and life would be all sweet dreams and gentle touches. 

But he is the man he is. Not worthy of whatever she is willing to give.

“What’re looking at me like that for?” 

“It’s just sweet how much you care. About everyone. I think you don’t even know you’re doing it half the time.” 

“Do what?” 

“Care for others. For Ellie and me and all of us. You’re a good man, Joel Miller. I just wish you’d let someone take care of you for a change.” 

He doesn’t need to be taken care of. He can do it all on his own. And anyway, he is not as good of a man as she thinks he is. Good men don’t have the blood of their loved ones stuck to their hands. Good men don’t let their daughters die in their arms. Good men don’t kill. Good men don’t do all the things he did. 

Joel doesn’t want to be a good man. He just wishes he was good enough a man to allow himself to be with (Y/N).

“I ain’t a good man. And I don’t need someone to take care of me.” 

“You wore that scarf, did you not? You allowed me to take care of you then.” 

That damn scarf. He had a hunch it was her. The handwriting on the postcard matched the one of the recipe stuck to his fridge an awful lot. But it’s something else entirely to hear her say it outright. 

“That was you, huh? Had an awful lot of holes that thing.” 

“Hey, I never said I was good at knitting. You wore it anyway.”

Joel turns back towards the screen as Rick and Ilsa share a loving kiss. 

“Yeah, I wore it anyway.” 

And to the sound of bombs and tanks, (Y/N) rests her head on his shoulder.

That’s what you do for the people you love. Even if you don’t allow yourself to love them.

You wear the scarf anyway.

The mailbox flag is up. Bright red against the sharp white of the winter's day. 

It’s never been up. People around here don’t get mail. It’s but an ancient relic of a life they used to live. Remnants of a society long gone. 

But Joel is nothing if not curious. So he stomps up to the mailbox, leaving deep imprints in the freshly fallen snow. 

It’s another postcard. Only this time it doesn’t come with a mystery. This time it comes with that silly little feeling that makes his heart beat just a little faster. That makes his head swirl with stupid thoughts of stupid dreams.

“From Paris with love,” it says on the front. Fucking Paris, of course.

Sometimes the way he feels about her is infuriating, confusing, scary.

And sometimes, like right now, it feels like a ball of warmth settles in his ribcage and warms him from the inside out.

“Dear Joel,

We’ll never have Paris. Not in this life at least. And while I would’ve loved to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle with you and make you eat a croissant (which you would’ve pretended to hate but I think you would’ve enjoyed it secretly), I am glad to get this life with you at least. Or alongside you. Whatever it is we are, I am glad this life gave me that in between all the pain. Despite what you like to tell yourself, Joel Miller, you are a spark of fire, a light in the dark. You are more than the sum of your failures, you are more than your pain. All the good that is in you, that counts. That’s all that matters in the end. And there is so much good in you.

I wish you’d let yourself see it. 

We will never have Paris. But we’ll always have Jackson and that is enough for me. I hope it’s enough for you.

Here’s looking at you kid! ;) “

There’s a tragedy in knowing someone else sees all your good parts and none of the bad. A tragedy in knowing how much they like those good parts and being awfully aware that seeing all the bad parts would destroy them. 

A tragedy in still wanting to show them all of you, even the ugly soul-destroying parts.

But if she thinks he’s a good man, then Joel needs to be just that. A good man who keeps those ugly parts hidden and away from her. Even if that means denying himself the one thing he wants. 

“What’s that?” Ellie speaks up from beside him, a curious look on her face.

“Postcard.” 

“Like what people would send from vacations and stuff?”

“Yeah, how do you know about that?” 

She rolls his eyes at him and it’s one of those moments where he feels like a dad again. Those little moments that mean the world to him because he gets to feel like the old him. The Joel he thought was long dead and buried beside the bones of his own child.

“I watch movies? I talk to people? I read books? Take your pick.” 

“Wow, when did you become such a smartass, huh?” 

She shrugs his shoulders at him “Was born that way. Nothing I can do about it.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Hey, you’ve grown to love me! You wouldn’t want me any other way.” 

And she isn’t wrong. Ellie, with all her curiosity and her bravery and her lust for life, whatever that life may look like, is exactly what he needed. Which makes him wonder if saving her from the fireflies was ultimately more of a selfish act than that of a heroic savior. 

“Who’s it from?” 

“None of your business.” 

“Oh, so (Y/N).” 

His eyes flick up and he is met with that satisfied, mischievous grin that is so uniquely Ellie.

“What makes you think that?” 

“You always change the subject when I bring her up. And that way you just jumped when I mentioned her? Yeah, you’re not slick, old man.” 

“Hey! Who are you calling an old man?” 

“You! Old and scared!” 

“I’m not scared!” 

Like hell he is. Terrified even. But there ain’t no way in hell he’ll admit that to Ellie. She’ll never let him hear the end of it. 

“Then go talk to her! She likes you, you like her. Why do you have to make it so complicated?” 

If only she knew all the ghosts swirling around inside of him threatening to break free. Things could be so easy. Only nothing ever is.

“Mind your own business, kid! Anyway, don't you have someplace to be? Think Dina came by earlier asking for you. You two are getting along well, huh?” 

“Aaaand on that note. See you for dinner, old man!” 

She’s gone before he can even hurl a reply at her. It pulls his lips into a smile. There’s no better way to get a teen to shut up than to bring up their crush. Nice to see that some things never change.

Another run. Another record. 

Joel feels silly, standing here in front of her door with his heart beating fast and heavy as he clutches the vinyl record in his hand. 

If Ellie saw him now, she’d surely make fun of him. Tommy too. Sarah even. 

What happened, Joel? You used to be so brave. What makes you so afraid now? 

Life, he thinks. Life has made him scared and bitter and sad. 

“Did you wanna knock or — ?” 

Joel turns around as the voice calls out to him. There it is again, that softness, that smile. 

“Uh, yes.” 

“Okay, good. Did you come to see me? Sorry, I was helping Maria at the farm.” 

“Yeah no uh — don’t worry about it. I just came to drop this off” 

Her eyes grow wide as she catches sight of which record it is he’s holding up. 

“No way! The stranger! You found it.” 

“ I did.” 

He had to clear an old dilapidated bar full of clickers to get that record. Almost lost his damn arm in the process. But her smile, that god-damn, life-ruining, world-shattering, heart-beat-faster, smile of hers makes it all worth it. He would give both arms, all of him. He would give it all to see her smile.

“Do you wanna come in and listen to it with me? Got my player fixed so I don’t have to use the one at the library anymore.” 

Say no. Just say no and go home. Be a good man! Be a better man! 

But he’s not. For this one moment, he can’t be that man. He’s just as weak as the rest of them. 

“Sure.” 

This feels so — normal. So before everything. Different and twisted and warped. But normal.

It’s scary and comforting all at once. Like a tipsy dream when you know you’ll wake up with a headache for sure.

(Y/N) is twirling around her living room, a beer in hand and a smile on her face. Joel leans against the door connecting her living room and her kitchen and all he can do is stare. At this woman who means so much to him. Too much for him to ever put into words. If he even knew how to. He’s never been a poet. 

“I said I love you, that's forever

And this I promise from the heart, mmm

I couldn't love you any better

I love you just the way you are, right”

“I love this song. Can you imagine someone loving you enough to write something like this about you?” 

Yes, he thinks. If only he WAS a poet. He would write a hundred songs. A thousand. And all of them would talk of her smile and her eyes and the way there is no single thing about her he would change. 

But words fail him. They always do. 

So he just nods.

“Joel,” she says and moves closer. The bottle of beer now placed on her couch table, her hands find his chest. So warm. So soft. And all he does is stare. 

“I know you got my postcards. I know you know how I feel. And sometimes I think you feel the same. I see the way you look at me. I know the dangers you put yourself in to get me those records. I just — you never say anything. So am I making a fool of myself here? Please tell me if I — “ 

“You’re not.” 

Wow, so eloquent. 

“I’m not?” 

Her voice sounds so small. So unsure. He hates that he’s the one who put the uncertainty there. Be a better man, Joel! Be a good man for once! 

But all he does is stare. Words fail him. Again. again. again.

“Then can I — can I do this?” 

(Y/N)’s gaze falls to his lips then back up to his eyes. She is so close. He can feel her warm breath on his skin. Can smell the scent of her shampoo. Notices the tremble of her fingers as her hands rest on his chest.

And he wants to kiss her. Every version of him that ever was and ever will be wants to kiss her. But all he does is stare.

All he does is stare and pull away.

And it breaks his heart to see hers break in that moment. 

“I uh — oh I’m sorry Joel.”

Tears gather in her eyes, fill them with sorrow, fill his heart with rage. He can’t do anything right, can he? Everyone he’s ever loved, he’s disappointed. But how can he let himself love her, how can he let her love him, when he is so broken? When all he does is break things?  Taint them with this infinite sadness that lives and grows inside his bones? 

“It’s not you.” 

“Oh please, Joel. I made a fool of myself already. Don’t make it worse.” 

“I ain’t trying to. It just ain’t you. It’s all me. It’s always been me”

His palms are sweaty and he feels like someone has reached into his ribcage, cracked every rib on the way to his heart, and ripped it out with bare hands. Snapping veins and arteries and all.

“I want you. I want this but I can’t have it. You think I’m a good man but the truth is, I am not. I do bad things all the time, over and over again and time and life have made me so numb to it. But you, you are so good. You deserve someone better. Someone whole.”

It’s like once he’s started it all comes flowing out like a fucking waterfall. All his fears and insecurities and pain. It’s all there for her to be disgusted by. Because god knows there is no way she won’t be. He is. All the time.

“I have not been the same since this all started. Since Sarah — since she died. I live with this immense grief. It surrounds me. It IS me. All of me. And I so desperately want to claw my way out of it. Rip it apart and leave it behind. But at the same time, I want to bury myself in it. Because what if I do leave it behind and I start to forget? Her and all that she was? How is it fair that I have to remember her far longer than I got to know her? So if I get better, if I become the man I need to be to be worthy of your love, am I still gonna be the man she knew? Can I still remember? Because that is all I have. And that is not a burden I can put on you. Not you and not Ellie.”

Joel takes a breath then another but it does little to calm him down.

“You two mean everything to me and I am sorry I am bad at showing it. That I can’t say it. I need you to know, it’s all me that’s the problem. It was never you. I’m sorry.” 

He doesn’t wait for her to say anything. He doesn’t think he has the heart to hear a reply anyway. It’s like he just ripped himself open and spilled all his guts, his heart, his lungs, and all his inside out on her living room floor. 

If he was any better of a man he’d pick them up and try to rearrange them.

But he is not a good man. Maybe he never was.

“There was something for you in the mailbox” Ellie exclaims and slumps down on the couch next to him. “I was this close to opening it but I didn’t want to make you even more grumpy than you already are.” 

“I’m not grumpy” 

He has to admit, the tone in which he said those words does not do much to counter her point. Ellie knows too, judging by the way she raises her eyebrow “Sure, you’re not.” 

She drops a sunflower yellow envelope on his lap. ‘Joel’, it says in that swirly handwriting he’s become so familiar with.

It’s been a few weeks since he’s seen (Y/N). Since he spilled all his sorrows and worries to her and then ran. And, surprisingly, Jackson makes it very easy for someone to avoid another person if you only try hard enough.

Maybe Ellie has a point, maybe he has been exceptionally grumpy lately. No correlation to any recent events though. Absolutely zero.

“Sooo are you gonna open it?”

Ellie looks at him with curiosity and that little spark of mischief as if she knows something he doesn’t. 

“Not with you watching over my shoulder, I ain’t.” 

“Why?” 

“Cause it’s none of your business.” 

“Excuse me? I have to live with your grumpy ass because you guys can’t get your shit straight. I think it very much is my business.” 

“Jesus, Ellie. Language!" 

“Sorry,” she says and gives him that pseudo-sheepish look he’s grown familiar with. “You guys need to get your stuff straight.” 

He used to scold her for it but really, he isn’t one to talk. 

“Anywayyyyy, I’ll go stay at Dina’s tonight … just in case you decide to go over and apologize for whatever it is you did and you guys finally sort it out and need some privacy later.” 

“Why do you think I did something?” 

And there it is again that sassy eyebrow raise. The same one he’s seen on Sarah so many times before. It truly is a woman’s world and he’s but a fool living in it. And they let no opportunity pass to remind him of just that.

They are also absolutely right.

“My lawyer advised me not to answer that question. Anyway, be nice. Have fun. Byyyye” 

Her voice trails off as she grabs her bag and rushes outside leaving Joel alone in this big empty house with nothing but his demons and this mysterious envelope.

Carefully he opens the seal and shakes out the contents. A postcard, a photo, and a — cassette tape? 

His eyes find the photo first. It’s a polaroid of him and Ellie and (Y/N). All 3 of them smiling, yes even him. He remembers that day back last summer. It was one of those warm but not yet hot days. (Y/N) was wearing that agonizingly beautiful red sundress. The one that made his heart beat twice as fast. She brought over a whole basket full of cherries from the tree in her garden. A pie too. And that damn Polaroid camera. 

Of course, Ellie was enamored by it, wasted almost the whole damn film. 

“Come on Joel, let's take a picture together,” she had called out to him and pulled him to sit down next to her and (Y/N) on the blanket they had placed on the lawn. 

“I’m not a picture guy,” he had grumbled, “ ain’t nobody want to see my old mug.” 

“Oh shut up. Joel, you are so handsome, don’t even pretend like you don’t know that.” 

It was the first time (Y/N) had ever called him handsome. It was hard for him to believe it then, hell it still is. But she has done it a lot more since then. Calls him handsome and gorgeous and pretty all the time. At first, he thought she was just humoring him but slowly but surely it dawned on him that she meant it. Means it still.

“We don’t know how many good sunny days we have left. Ain’t no shame in trying to remember this one, right?” 

Her eyes held so much honesty then. Vulnerability too. And gratefulness for all they had then after all they had lost. It made him smile then and it makes him smile now.

The Postcard is next, big bold letters spell out TEXAS and in the corner, there’s a drawing of the Texas State Capitol in Austin.

When he turns the Postcard over, there it is again, that swirly writing he’s grown to love so much. 

“Joel, the ‘Postcards from around the world’ book I got from the library didn’t have an Austin one but it did have a Texas one so that’ll have to do. I’m not even sure if you're going to read this. I hope you do because you didn't give me a chance to say my part when you stormed off & I think I deserve that.

You're not the man you were in Austin, you lived through the worst thing imaginable and it changed you. But you are not just your pain. It is part of you but it doesn't define you. I know you see all the bad but none of the good but believe me I see it! Ellie does! You are your pain but you are also the smile on Ellie's face when you bring her a new comic or teach her a song. You're the guitar chords echoing through the air on a warm spring afternoon. You are those fluttery feelings in my heart whenever you look at me.

Joel Miller, I understand if you don't want to be with me but if it's only because you don't think you're good enough then I think that's a choice I get to make. Taking that from me is a dick move. 

You said you're bad at showing love but you're not. You showed me through all those records. Through all those songs. Now let me love you back.”

Joel can’t quite name the feeling spreading through him. It’s both foreign and familiar at the same time. Like an old friend. A hazy memory. Pictures blurred and dulled by time and age. 

Maybe he was wrong, and he hates admitting that. Maybe he ain’t a good man but maybe that is hers to decide. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

He takes the cassette tape in his hand and squints his eyes at the tiny writing on the label. God, he really is getting old. Those eyes ain’t what they used to be.

God only knows - The Beach Boys - Pet Sounds

You’re my best friend - Queen - A Night at the Opera

Just Like Heaven - The Cure - Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me (you should!) 

In Your Eyes - Peter Gabriel - So

Time After Time - Cyndi Lauper - She’s so unusual

Your Song - Elton John - Elton John

Can’t Help Falling in Love - Elvis - Blue Hawaii

Wonderful Tonight - Eric Clapton - Slowhand

The Book of Love - The Magnetic Fields - 69 Love Songs (!!!! LOVE SONGS!!!)

Just The Way You Are - Billy Joel - The Stranger

"You gave me all these records with all these songs and all these words to tell me you love me and I’m not sure you even knew.” 

And she’s right. He got her those records because he knew they’d make her smile. Because that smile means everything to him whether he wants to admit it or not. He got those records to show her that even when he’s gone on a run, she’s always on his mind. He believed it to be a curse, a ghost haunting him for all his past mistakes and taunting him with what he shall never have.

But maybe it’s not a curse. 

Maybe it’s a blessing. A sweet song to remind him that someone back home is waiting. A gentle reminder that life can and will go on and good things can come from immense tragedy. And moving on doesn’t mean forgetting, in fact, it means remembering. Remembering the bad and believing that there can and will be good and that it’s worth it to go on. Even if you are a different you. Not worse or better, just changed. And that you deserve love. And kindness. And warmth.

Joel drops the envelope and its contents on the table and grabs his thick winter jacket as he rushes outside. The cold feels only half as bad as it nips at his skin, he barely notices. There is a fire inside him now, burning away all the doubts and hesitation. 

He’s back at her door, only this time he doesn’t wait to knock. He’s spent so much time denying himself the one thing he wants that he can’t lose just one second more. The rapping of his knuckles against her door echoes through the winter day. Oh, how he can’t wait for the spring and the summer and her in that gorgeous dress. 

“Joel?” 

Back before — everything, Joel remembers a movie night with Sarah. She got to choose and despite being an avid fan of trashy action and horror movies, that time she chose a romantic comedy. All things considered, Joel can admit that when Harry met Sally wasn’t the worst choice but he still would’ve preferred Star Wars or Terminator. 

He does remember the ending though, the grand finale. He remembers Sarah trying to wipe away tears without him noticing. And he remembers Billy Crystal’s words “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” 

Back then he thought it was some silly, cheesy movie speak. No one feels that way, right? It’s grandiose and kitschy for the sake of movie magic.

But no, he’s sure now, that one is true. Because it’s how he feels.

“I love you!” 

That confession should come with ribbons and flowers and fireworks but it doesn’t. It comes with honesty and that is all that matters. It comes from the heart.

“Huh?” 

“I got your postcard. The photo too and the tape. And I love you.” 

“I know. Took you long enough to figure it out.” 

“I’m sorry. I — I still believe that I am not a good man and that you deserve better. But it would be selfish to punish you for my own insecurities. I love you and I want to let you love me. If you still want to, that is.” 

“Joel Miller?”

“Yeah?” 

“Please just fucking kiss me.” 

Joel remembers a lot of kisses in his lifetime. Some rushed, some clumsy. Quick kisses in secret. Long drawn-out smooches in smokey bars. Loving, fast, aggressive, and soft. 

This one is different, as cheesy as it sounds.

This kiss makes him feel like all he’s ever been and all he ever will be can live in peace with one another. This kiss makes him feel like none of it matters as long as he has her. 

She tastes like peppermint and sunshine and he’s sure he’ll never get enough of her. The feeling of her skin against his as he gently cradles her face in his hand. The soft movements on her chest as she breathes. The twitch of her lips as she smiles into the kiss.

For the first time in his life, Joel is sure that a kiss is more than a kiss. It’s a healing hand on a shattered heart. It’s a new path to a new future. It’s sunshine melting the ice from his bones.

It’s a promise to try every day and to be better and to be enough. ---

[kaybug88]

ʚ♡ɞ・"WHAT'S UP DANGER?" 0.1・ʚ♡ɞ

Something to address before you read!

(ʚ♡ɞ) means a time skip

Bold, Italicized  and in "Quotation marks" are thoughts

                                                            -

Dreams like these are always the hardest. You can't tell if the image playing in front of you is going to be delightful, something like a summer's warm day out on the beach, an umbrella overhead to block the imaginary heat of the sun. Nor can you tell if it's going to shift into something scary, scary as in a terrifying monster with razor sharp teeth that're serrated like steak knives and claws that gouge out eyes, or the monsters that walk past you at the mall, eyes trained on your body in ways people would say was your fault and that you were asking for it.

Today's dream though, is neither, you're met with a hazy black fog that shifts into the daycare room you haven't seen in only-God-knows how many years. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the wooden shelves that held all your things, such as lunch boxes and then to the colorfully decorated walls, covered from top to bottom in decor or drawings you remember doing as a young kid, even spotting a poor attempt at the pro-hero Mirko. You smile to yourself with a small chuckle, it's funny in a way, your favorite pro hasn't changed over the years, always has been the rabbit pro who always lives life to the fullest, and nor will it change. She's inspired you to be a pro, you want to live life like she does, fearless and knowing every day could be the last.

You remember a special interview you've held close to your heart, the one that inspired you to become a hero. "Pfft, I have to live life to the fullest knowing that any day could be my last! Especially now as a newer pro, I've got to fight my way to the top, and smashing through burning buildings and destroying villains is the way to do it. Plus, it keeps me entertained." She had explained to the interviewer, your mom had to turn it off when she began to get a bit extreme.

Before you can think further about the memory, faces you remember from that daycare class began to appear, most faces blurry but a few rather recognizable faces stayed perfect; a blonde boy with ruby red eyes and a timid looking boy next to the spiky blonde with unruly green hair and beautiful eyes that resembled emeralds. For a moment, everything was still, like holding a breath. Suddenly, more blurry faces appear from behind the recognizable faces. You smile at the little blue shirts with yellow stars in the left corner and white collars peeking out. You notice your own face on the other side of the smirking red eyed boy with your (e/c) eyes sparkling with excitement.

Suddenly, all at once, the memory resumes. The little kids clearly don't see you as the blonde's hands begin to spark and ignite with small pops. His mouth is stretched into a cocky smirk while students all around are oohing and ahhing at the quirk manifestation.

"Awesome!" You see your younger self say with clear excitement, you don't remember much from this memory, but you do recall your quirk hadn't manifested yet.

"You're so lucky!" The green haired boy said, his big round eyes trained on the mini orange explosions buzzing around in the blonde's hands. You see a kid with a blurry voice and a distant voice agree with the faint outline of black hair.

"Impressive! I betcha that's going to grow into an amazing quirk!" The male teacher said with an impressed smile, then it was the female teacher's turn to talk. "A flashy quirk for a future hero! It's perfect!" She said clearly happy for the boy you still can't remember the name of.

Then all at once, the people in the room shift, some disappearing. Students are now surrounding the green haired boy, students are mumbling and whispering, and you can't quite put your finger on most of the words. You see your little self with sad eyes squatting by the upset boy. You can see your mouth moving, but can't hear a single word, instead, you hear a select few comments.

"Hey, did you hear? Deku doesn't have a quirk. None!" One kid says before another replies in confusion. "Yeah, it's called being quirkless." Another snicker can be heard before more join in until it erupts into most of the students laughing. You rub your temples in frustration and confusion. Deku... Deku... Deku! His name was Izuku, but one day, people had started calling him Deku; and for the life of you, you couldn't remember why.

You take one good look at the face of the blonde and remember a small, but special memory you hadn't thought of in years until now. You close your eyes tight and remember being out on the playground, you were swinging higher than any other kid, and to four-year-old boys and girls, that's quite the accomplishment. When you had to go inside, that same boy had stopped you.

"You! (h/c) girl over there!" He had called out to you while pointing. Behind him were three blurry faces and Izuku. You remember turning to face him with a confused look while pointing to yourself. The realization dawns on you that his name is Katsuki Bakugo, or Kacchan as some called him.

"Me?" You asked while walking over to the little squad. "Yeah, you! Y'know, you're pretty cool for a girl, I guess. Join my Agency!" He had said to you with a proud look while pointing his little thumb into his chest, smile beaming. "Why would I do that?" You had questioned while putting your sassy little hands on your hips before he replied. "Because I'm going to be the number one hero one day!"

You smile at the memory before the world shifts around you once more, the same hazy black fog swirls around you before putting you to watch Katsuki's little friend group walking down a log. Your little self is walking behind Izuku, and you notice the same three blurry faces from before standing in a line from Katsuki to Izuku.

"Forward marching, here we go! Members of the Agency Bakugo, sou- ah!" You watched as Katsuki fell from the mossy log into the small creek below, the three blurry faces began to talk in a distorted voice, not being able to understand anything they said. You noticed your little face watching in horror while calling to Deku as he ran down the hill to ensure the fallen boy was okay. You watched Izuku's hand reach out to Katsuki before you woke up.

Sweat is beading on your forehead while your hands run over your face, lips letting out a small groan. The alarm on your phone blares at you, yelling to get up. You annoyedly take a look at the time on your alarm before glancing down to the name. "Get up hoe! Entrance Exams are TODAY!" You're about to think about saying fuck it and going back to bed, but remembering how long it takes you to get ready, you decide against it.

Basically rolling out of bed, you walk into your bathroom, phone in hand as you unlock the screen and scroll through your apps until you see your definitely most used app, Spotify. You decide on your morning playlist and play it at full blast remembering that your mom isn't home, knowing she's at the hospital for her job as a nurse.

Getting ready was enjoyable to say the least. You managed to drink a surprising amount of water, versus your usual Monster energy drink, and in complete honesty, it felt nice to enjoy some ice-cold water. You were able to sing in the mirror while blow drying your hair and even had enough time to make breakfast, which isn't something you have time to do often. By the time it was time to leave, you were satisfied with how your morning had gone. You were so, so, tempted to use your webs to swing across the city rather than take the bus, but you were within walking distance of the stop, and recalling your mom's scolding to not overuse your quirk before the exams even took place was convincing enough, plus, walking meant more time for music, who wouldn't want that?

ʚ♡ɞ

"What the hell?" You groan to yourself after seeing the massively tall concrete wall buildings. You shake out your arms a little, flex your wrists and stretch your legs dressed in black leggings. You're wearing something basic, really, simple black leggings, an old pair of red Jordans that are creased beyond repair, a black t-shirt, and a jacket with the zipper undone. You glance around at your competitors and can't help but silently judge some of them. You hear some people talking some small smack about someone and turn around to say something. You open your mouth to speak, but abruptly stop upon seeing messy green hair, you know you've seen it somewhere. It looked eerily similar to the kid in your dream. There's no way the quirkless green haired boy you knew growing up was here, right?

You turn your attention to the loud voice calling above you. "Alright let's start! Get moving! There are no countdowns in real battles. Run, run, run, listeners!" The announcer says, making you realize you really need to get a move on. You run before locking your sight onto the corner of a building and... fwip! You shoot a web to the corner of a building, flinging yourself forwards and a nice length ahead of people before landing on the concrete ground, immediately breaking out into a run upon feeling the floor. Dashing around a corner you notice a two-pointer bot. It's big, but not too big for you to take down without breaking a sweat. Its robotic voice says something as its beady little red camera locks onto your form.

"Alright, just one little bot, this can't be too hard, right?" You think to yourself before shooting a web strand at the bot's shoulder, flinging yourself up and onto the metal. You mess up your landing a bit but manage to hold on as you carefully shoot another web to tie around the bot's neck. You let out a heavy breath as you pull as hard as you can, and before you know it, wires bust and burn from your efforts. You hastily launch yourself off before the two-pointer falls to the ground with a big 'ol thud.

"Two points off the bat isn't bad, keep this pace up and I'll pass with flying colors." You say cockily to yourself before continuing your journey, launching yourself further around the city, and soon enough, you find more, and more bots, taking them all out with ease. However, by your fifteenth bot, you notice you're slowing down and have been for a bit now. "Shiiiiittt!" You drag out in a bit of a yell as the scorpion-like tail of a two-pointer bot nearly scratches your side. You hadn't been paying attention when the tail swung at you but ended up being able to swing a safe distance away.

"C'mon, (Y/N), no slowing down." You scold yourself before taking this bot down as well. By now, finding bots is a whole challenge on its own. You see countless bodies of mangled and destroyed bots and a few people here and there, but no robots you can take down. It isn't until you're struggling to swing around with weak webs you see the biggest bot of the entire day, it's fucking massive. The zero point bot, just your fucking luck.

People are in a whole panic, running away as fast as possible, some even crying. You begin to swing away but can't help taking notice of a few people hiding inside a building that's sure to get crushed. You look from the bot to the people hiding, there's only a few of them, and you know you're essentially guaranteed to pass from how many points you racked up, but remembering seeing your favorite pros on the TV changes something inside you. You think back to your Adrenaline Rush ability and decide that now would be one hell of a time to use it, so you do. Your body pumps and pumps with more adrenaline than your body feels like it can contain.

Biting down on your bottom lip until the metallic taste of blood seeps onto your tongue, you swing down towards the people and swing a few strengthened strands around each person. "Thank god I saved Adrenaline Rush until now. Who knows what would've happened if I hadn't?" You think to yourself before bringing yourself back to the task at hand. They all look terrified. You feel the sweet, sweet feeling of adrenaline flood in your body, and you can't help but let out a sigh as your hands begin to shake and your body feels the best it ever does. Fuck, you love Adrenaline Rush.

You run your tongue across your canines and use your unoccupied hand to swing away with the people flying close behind you. You know the robot isn't far behind, its massive shadow overcasting the streets. A shudder runs up your spine as you detach the first and quickly shoot another one at a random building farther up ahead. The people you're carrying to safety are screaming, but hey, it's a hero's job to still save people, even if slaughtering villains has got to be the coolest part.

You're shooting another string of web to the corner of a tall building before you hear a deafening crash right where that robot is supposed to be. You turn your head to see what the sound came from and see a massive indent in the robot's face. "What in the hell...?" You ask yourself out loud as you see every piece of green metal go up in explosions. You slow your momentum down and throw down a small trampoline like base you've used for entertainment as a child to catch the people on as you swing yourself down onto the ground. The people are sitting in your pool of webs, untangling themselves from the sticky strands. You still feel the intense adrenaline rush pulsing through your veins as you jog up to them, ensuring they're alright.

You're walking a bit ahead of the group of people you saved, and onto the next street over. You glance up as you walk to see the kid that had punched the zero-pointer falling from the sky. It feels like the dream all over again, you sit there just watching, just as it felt to watch Katsuki fall from that log into the water beneath, only this time, an actual life was at stake. Even with Adrenaline Rush still going through you, you feel like you can't move.

"Move, dammit! You really goin' to stand here like an idiot?" You scold, and before you can think yourself out of your stupid idea, you run over to where the kid is about to land, using a few strands of web to speed yourself up. You shoot the strongest web you can manage start forming a small landing pad for the boy, it isn't much, but it should soften the initial fall. The pad is completely formed when a girl on the head of a one pointer bot flies up slightly and smacks the boy across the face, his fall stopping immediately. His face no more than a foot away from the webbing you had created, just sitting there in the air.

You don't hear what she says, but when she taps her hands together, they both fall, the green haired boy falling into your webbing face first. You watch in horror as he tries to crawl off the webbing, but as the announcer from before announces time is up, you see people around you relax. You smile to yourself but as you feel the last bit of Adrenaline Rush release from your body you feel your eyes start to flutter shut and body weaken. Everything around you begins to go fuzzy and black before you pass out.

-

Chapter .02 teaser quote: "Hey... I think I recognize you from somewhere. Izuku Midoriya, right?" 

Chapter .02 will be posted on February 8, 2025 

[the-wanderer]

Netflix has seriously harmed it's reputation with how often it is now cancelling shows. What used to be seen as the go-to service for saving cancelled shows, has now become the very thing it swore to destroy {Hello There Obi-Wan Kenobi reference). Netflix likes to repeat it's standard line that they have never cancelled a successful show, but they conveniently never tell us how they measure success, because this doesn't ring true with their shows like Lockwood & Co and Shadow & Bone, that got to both Number 1 and Number 2 respectively in Netflix's own published streaming charts, and that still wasn't enough to save those shows from cancellation. Also Netflix clearly has favourites in terms of marketing, for example I enjoyed the show Everything Now, but you've probably never heard of it, and I searched Facebook - Netflix did one post about it when they dropped the trailer 3 weeks before it's worldwide release, and that was it; but other shows like Bridgerton, you can't fail to know it's there because they post daily about it on their socials for weeks up to and including release and for weeks after too. You even have actors in a new show saying they have to search their show to find it so they can watch and it's not even advertised on Netflix's own home screen, let alone anywhere else, so no wonder these shows get cancelled as they are never given a fair shot to succeed.

It seems unless you go viral or break Netflix's own streaming records, like Stranger Things or Wednesday, then even getting the number one or number two spot is not good enough to save a program from cancellation. Netflix needs to remember that not all releases are an overwhelming overnight success - even some of the best and most popular shows took a while to find their audience, like Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones, The West Wing, The Sopranos, but then when they did find their audience they became what everyone was talking about, and people who had never seen the show, still knew about them from it's impact on the cultural audience. Somebody else said, and I truly believe it, that if Netflix had made Breaking Bad today, they would have cancelled it after two seasons, and then think what great storytelling we would have missed out on, all because the show wasn't a record hit in it's opening week.

And now Netflix finds itself in a self-fullfilling loop where they have now trained their audience to not try new shows and get attached as they'll likely be cancelled. Think about it, how many new shows can you think of on Netflix that got renewed last year. It only seems to be people will tune in for shows like Bridgerton, Emily in Paris, Outer Banks, as they have had time to grow with the characters, so now Netflix has got themselves in to a model where customers don't try a new show, like KAOS or Everything Now, and they'll wait and see if it's renewed, and when after only a month since it's release, it does indeed get cancelled, the consumer hasn't wasted time getting invested in a show & characters that get cut short, especially nowadays when there is so much to watch across traditional TV and now streaming services too, that just because the audience doesn't come running to watch as soon as it drops, doesn't mean it's not there or interested.

2025 see's the return of some of Netflix's biggest shows like Squid Game, Wednesday and Stranger Things, but 2 out of those 3 also end this year too and then what shows will be left that are associated with the Netflix brand - they had Stranger Things, House of Cards, Orange Is The New Black when Netflix first got going, it'll be hard to say by the end of this year what big shows Netflix will have left to draw customers in

Unless Netflix, and the wider industry, change their perception to not only see massive, viral numbers as success and that shows with strong-moderate success are allowed to grow and widen their audience, then there will eventually reach a tipping point where they will cancel one show too many that either customers leave their service, or creatives will decide that Netflix isn't a good partner to work with where you put years of work in writing, filming, producing, editing a project just for it to be cancelled a month after it's release, so if you have a story that needs more than one film or a one and done series to tell it in, then Netflix probably isn't your best bet any longer.