#i don’t need a useless parallel

[juniorfor2]

The amount of fans who say that they wanted the Team Black family, specifically the kids, to have more arguments in order to make them more interesting like Team Green are confusing.

First, saying that Team Black should be ‘complex and interesting’ in the same way Team Green is, is the least complex and interesting development ever. It would be repetitive, with absolutely nothing new. No characterization, just a useless parallel that would contribute nothing besides another both sides are bad argument. Which we’ve all heard a thousand times by now, we don’t need to hear it again.

Second, that’s just too easy. Team Black is a very messy family - it’s got an uncle/niece relationship that’s been separated for 10 years, illegitimate Velaryon siblings that look nothing like the rest of TB, two black twins that haven’t been raised in Westeros, who all have to juggle being both step-siblings to each other and betrothed pairs, two very new half-brothers, and absolutely none of them have a very similar personality, except perhaps for Daemon and Baela. That’s got to be one of the most confusing and chaotic families ever made.

So the expected development would be for them to break apart. To have arguments. To never get along. That’s the easy route, because writing it would come without thinking. Jace doesn’t like Daemon? Super easy. Daemon wants to kill the Velaryon boys for his own sons while being sexist towards his daughters and their prospects of becoming Queen/Lady of High Tide? Boring and easy, no effort required. None of the siblings have a relationship with each other unless forced to? Don’t even have to write a line for that.

It’s simply not complex by a writing standpoint, because all of it can be written without putting in effort. The lines will write themselves, without needing to think of how everything affects the characters. In fact, nothing would affect the characters, because none of them would make the effort to be with or interact with each other. Nothing could develop or characterize them in a new way.

The better development would be for them to all come together despite those differences. To care for one another after having their initial families torn apart. The development as they all try to get along can result in arguments, and it won’t be perfect. However, everything that could happen would come from a place of love, and trying one’s best even with an odd and imperfect situation.

Jace might be uncertain about Daemon’s feelings toward his illegitimacy, but couldn’t they both be dedicated towards protecting the family? Daemon might want his blood on the throne, but shouldn’t it be easy for him to pass it through his daughters - it’s not like Baela is about to be submissive and take orders she doesn’t like from Jace. Joffrey isn’t Daemon’s son, but he will be raised by him his whole life - what’s that dynamic like? Rhaena doesn’t have a dragon, but could she be willing enough to learn diplomacy and politics and fashion from her stepmother? How does Rhaenyra even take being a stepmother, after such a bad relationship with her own? How did Rhaenyra and Daemon fully get back together - what arguments did they have, how did they resolve them, what were the better times they had together before the war? How did everyone take Rhaenyra being pregnant with Aegon after Laena just died of childbirth?

Exploring development like that would be better, and it would also be new. Not just ‘oh I wish Team Black wouldn’t get along so well and it’s so uninteresting, look at what it does to Team Green.’ We don’t need the exact relationship repeated.

It would also be nice to see a family that shouldn’t work at all, make it come together because of how dedicated they are to protecting and loving each other. That would actually be complex and interesting.

[neixins]

[ID: a panel from “yona of the dawn” of gija punching hak in the face with his dragon hand while shouting, “you absolute jerk!!!”. there’s blood gushing out of hak’s mouth from the impact. end ID.]

Next chapter I need zeno to meet the other dragons in whatever spiritual limbo they're stuck in right now only to be greeted with kija's swift right hook

it can literally be an exact redraw of this scene, same text and everything (though minus ao, of course)

something something "if you turn violent, i will stop you, i will protect you"

[redflagshipwriter]

Nest Swap 9

masterpost

Having a mission changed everything. 

Tim took full advantage of his new knowledge of the holy manuals. The first rule that he took to heart was that he was meant to be armed. Of course! It made sense.

Unfortunately, he was also not meant to take any weapon onto the field that he hadn’t trained with. Tim thought hard for a while whether or not a suburban house counted as ‘in the field’, but it seemed like he should pay lip service to Batman’s rule. So he got some sharp things that seemed interesting and spent some time throwing them at a target. They kind of looked like Batarangs, but… different. 

“I don’t think bats change shape in the next ten years or so,” Tim muttered. He gave another half hearted throw. The thing dinged off the wall below his target. “So this isn’t meant to be a bat shape. Did Batman rebrand to the Birdman and no one fixed his wiki page yet? Is this a parallel universe and not my actual future?”

It occurred to him that it might be a bird because of Robin. But come on, Robins didn’t use sharp things. Robin was a child. It was irresponsible for children to use blades. 

Tim sent another thingy into the wall. It hit with the pointy end first this time and sank an inch into the wall to the right of the target. He held his breath as it wiggled for a moment. Then it went still without falling.

“Yes!” He punched the air. Thank gosh! He was getting bored with that. It was good to be done with training. It was kind of dull.

Steps one and two were finished. He had a weapon and he had trained with it. Tim went back to his list. The next technical skill set was lock picking. That was super easy and fun! Tim enjoyed the clear diagrams and explanations. There wasn’t anything to practice with, but he thought that he had the concept down handily. He grabbed a set of lockpicks for his khaki pockets. 

He needed to do a little more to understand the patterns of the target, as well as their background. Tim considered asking Jason for any information, but he probably didn’t have any. Maybe he wasn’t very good at googling. So he just did it. The Sausage Guy was more commonly known as Benedict Orange, a name that Tim really liked and mentally stored away to use as an alias when he was a superhero. 

Anyway. Tim figured out how old the guy was, where he’d gone to school, and a bunch of other stuff like the record of his marriage ten years ago. 

“Huh,” Tim said, brows furrowed. “I didn’t find a divorce record. But he’s single now?” Mr. Orange had accounts on a lot of dating sites. He was using his engagement photo for the profile photo, with his wife cut out.

That was weird. He tried to find the wife, but there wasn’t anything more recent than 8 years ago, when she’d announced that she was quitting her job on social media. 

…Tim had kind of a bad feeling about that. 

He put a pin in it for now, but he had a small theory at the back of his mind that started with ‘I think this guy killed his wife.’

Maybe that was how the human sausage thing started. Maybe he’d killed her on impulse and then needed a way to get rid of the body. And then maybe he’d gotten a taste for it.

Tim shuddered. Okay, okay, he was for real done thinking about this! Big yucky.

Benny Orange was an office worker with a title that Tim didn’t really understand. It seemed vague to the point of uselessness, but then again, that was office work. The relevant thing was that he got home around 6 pm, and he left at 8 am.

It was 10 in the morning. Tim could get over there and toss Benny’s home before the end of the workweek if he hurried. The manual said that you should never spend more than an hour investigating an unsecured location. It also said that you should file a report or directly inform someone of where you’d be. 

That part made Tim pause for a moment before he remembered that he’d told Jason. Jason would probably check on him when he woke up, or whatever.

Tim found an equipment belt that he could wrap around his waist twice to buckle on. He put his sharp things in it. Then he untucked his shirt, because he had tucked it in out of habit and that would make it harder to access his weapons. He frowned as he did it. It just felt wrong.

He put on his shoes and got out the door. He didn’t have a lot of time to waste if he wanted to be able to take his time, so Tim hailed a taxi to cross most of the distance this time. He was grateful that Mrs. Henderson was gone and there was no chance of seeing her. Last time had been a little bit of a disaster. Needing civilian help to get into the building was not a winning move.

He had bat-approved lockpicks this time. He went to the front door and did his best. 

It turned out that maybe he should have practiced? Tim started to sweat out in the open. It felt like someone was staring at his back. He looked at the houses around. No one was at their windows or walking outside. He started jumping whenever the tall herbs in Mr. Orange's garden swayed in the breeze. He had a lot of plants.

His hands were shaking. The sweat made his shirt stick to his back. He was going to get caught and in so much trouble.

When the door finally opened, Tim offered up a thanks to Bast, because he assumed the cat goddess was more likely to be pro-breaking and entering than other gods. That logic was just based off of what he knew about Catwoman, honestly. 

The first glimpse into Benedict Orange's home was disappointingly normal. He had vinyl flooring (easy to clean!), leather furniture, and a big flat TV high up on the wall. He didn’t have enough knickknacks and there was no art. There was a wood and glass case that was full of identical, unlabeled bottles with something red in it. Hot sauce? Was he a hot sauce guy?

Tim mentally reclassified Mr. Orange further down the list of ‘people I could talk to at a cocktail party.’

The place had the same layout as Mrs. Henderson’s place, just in reverse. Tim beelined to the kitchen because.. Well.

He just did.

The counter space where Mrs. Henderson had a hot water kettle, a big stand mixer, and a toaster was mostly clear here. Mr. Orange only had one piece of cooking machinery. Tim didn’t know it. He squinted at it. It was a big shiny stainless steel thing. It had a metal tray, a wheel, and like… a nozzle. When he climbed on a chair to look down, he could see there was a little tunnel tube thing where you could put stuff inside the body of the machine.

Weird. Moving on!

He checked inside the fridge. He stared for a moment of aghast silence. There was a stack of takeout containers, a bunch of seasonings in the door, and a stack of tupperware with something red in them. 

Cautiously, Tim dug one out and opened it.

“That’s raw meat,” he said, voice high. He put the box back in and then hesitated. Maybe he should be like, taking it? Or taking a sample? To see what animal it came from?

“I’ll think about it.” Tim shut the fridge a little harder than he needed to and beat feet out of the kitchen. He started checking the other rooms. He found the master bedroom. His nose wrinkled. “I don’t think he’s restyled this since Brenda died,” Tim complained. He looked at the curtains with extreme judgment. They were so outdated it wasn’t even funny, but they also weren’t retro yet!

Oh. Wait. Belatedly, Tim remembered that it was ten years into his future. So, maybe they were retro now. Anyways, Brenda had liked the trend for chickens and roosters. There were chickens and roosters everywhere in the decor, including a cute print of what was obviously intended to be a husband and wife pair snuggling on a sofa.

His heart hurt a little. He looked at it a little too long. 

Tim took a deep breath. Then he went back to looking for evidence. There wasn’t much in the bedroom, so clearly Mr. Orange had a personal office elsewhere. There were two more rooms in the apartment.

Tim opened the next door. The room was mostly a guest bedroom, with the notable exception of a huge chest freezer and a weird long wooden bar across the room.

Tim shut the door.

The last room was the office. There was a desk, a file cabinet, and a lockbox full of women’s drivers licenses.

“Yeah, okay,” Tim said under his breath. “He’s a serial killer.” He took photos and sent them to Jason immediately with the subject line “Yeah he’s a killer!!!”

Then he got down to sorting through the papers to see if there was anything else. Jason was a Robin, Tim supposed, so he’d need the evidence to show the police. It would be helpful if he just went and sorted it out now. He found warranties for the TV, the new freezer, and he presumed that ‘Meat Grinder’ meant the thing in the kitchen.

“I appreciate that he’s so organized, actually,” Tim muttered. He was hunched over digging through the bottom drawer now.

A key went into a door. 

Tim froze stock still. He slowly, silently shut the drawer. He stared at the closed door to the living room. On the other side of it, Mr. Orange unlocked and opened the front door. Tim slowly looked up, saw 12:14 on the clock, and vaguely registered that sometimes people come home on their lunch breaks.

The front door shut. There was a quiet metal sound that Tim thought was probably the chain lock. The chain lock that was too high for him to move without a chair to stand on.

Okay. Uh. He looked around for a place to hide. The best option was under the desk. Tim crawled through the legs of the chair, heart beating furiously.

He weighed his options. Wait it out and hope Mr. Orange didn’t come in?

…Seemed risky. But there was no way he was going to run out past the guy to the front door. At least, the odds that he’d get grabbed were just not good, not when he didn’t know where Mr. Orange was. 

Alright. Tim knew reality. He might not be able to get out of this on his own. At the very least, he should let Jason know what was going on so that they could add his murder to the list of charges. And maybe Jason was close by to help? Wayne Manor was awfully far away, so probably not. But it didn’t hurt to try.

He got his phone back out and was silently very glad that he had it. Jason had responded to his message. Tim didn’t take the time to read it, instead typing up a blank email with the subject line “um might need help asap :( he here”. He sent it. Then he huddled down to wait.

Noises came from the kitchen- the suction as the fridge opened. The beep of the microwave. A man’s voice saying, “What the fuck? Did I leave this here?”

His blood turned ice cold.

‘What did I do?’ Tim desperately tried to remember what he’d touched in the kitchen. Had he really moved something around? He didn’t remember anything! His heart rate went up like crazy.

The door opened. Tim flinched. His whole body started shaking uncontrollably.

Oh. No. It wasn’t this door yet. It was the door to the next room, the spare bedroom. He heard the weird squelch of the chest freezer opening. Then the closet door squeaked open. Something heavy moved around. 

“Well, it wasn’t you,” said Mr. Orange. There was a mean satisfaction in his tone. The heavy thing moved again.

Tim’s brain went a bit blank.

Who was he talking to? Was there someone in the apartment? Hidden behind something heavy?

He opened up another email. Jason hadn’t responded, so there was no way to know if he’d seen. Tim hastily typed up, “I think there’s a living hostage in the house” and sent it as the door to the office opened.

He hugged his arms around his knees and squeezed his eyes shut. Oh gosh. Oh heck. Oh no, oh no. He bit his lower lip and broke skin.

‘No. I can’t be a baby about this.’ 

It was really hard with how stiff his fingers felt. But Tim put the phone in his pocket and wrestled the sharp bird weapon out. He held it clumsily. And he watched Mr. Orange’s feet move around the room. They walked around the room. He saw the curtains move as Mr. Orange pulled them to check no one was hiding there. Then he knew that Mr. Orange was coming to his hiding spot.

Tim swallowed. He waited until Mr. Orange’s feet were in sight. He stabbed his sharp thing down through the top of Mr. Orange’s sock.

Mr. Orange bellowed and fell back against his filing cabinet. 

Tim scrambled out and ran.

He went towards the front door on automatic and nearly got there before he looked up and saw that yes, the chain lock was on. He couldn’t reach it. 

“You little shit!” Mr. Orange bellowed. He lunged at Tim. Tim barely dodged. He jabbed at him again without looking and barreled towards the door to Mrs. Henderson’s apartment. It only had a doorknob lock. He unlatched it, praying that she had not changed her ideas about the open door policy. The door handle turned.

He threw himself into the room and slammed the door shut. He clicked the little button lock.

Mr. Orange hit the door, hard. It shook. He wasn’t saying anything anymore. There was something about that which struck Tim as absolutely terrifying. Didn’t people bellow and yell when they were mad? 

He looked towards Mrs. Henderson’s door. The door shook again as Mr. Orange hit it.

Wood splintered.

If he went out Mrs. Henderson’s front door he could sprint for it. What were the odds he could outrun a grown man? If he did, wouldn’t Mr. Orange just get in his car? Potential witnesses had made Mr. Orange back off before, but he was more invested now in silencing Tim. And there was no one around. Tim had checked. 

The door splintered again. He could see Mr. Orange’s shoulder. Then a socked foot.

‘I don’t think I stabbed his foot well enough,’ some distant part of Tim’s brain catalogued. ‘He’s still moving on it. If I live past this, I’m going to commit to the next stabbing with more enthusiasm.’

He bolted for the stand where Mrs. Henderson kept her mace. He was just out of sight from Mr. Orange’s hole in the door. His heart thudded so loud. His shaking had stopped. The mace didn’t  feel heavy. 

‘If I was taller, i’d aim for the face. I can’t pull that off. I’ll aim for center mass. He may block with an arm, but theoretically his arm will be hurt enough that I’ll be able to pull back and make another swing.’

There was a catastrophic smash from inside Mr. Orange’s apartment. 

Then a “What the fuck-” that got cut off a little early. Mr. Orange sounded mad and confused. 

A thud. Two smaller thuds. A clicking. Tim wanted so badly to know what was going on. 

A hand reached through the hole in the door and unlatched the lock. 

Tim swallowed. He readied a swing. 

The door opened.

Tim took a step forward and swung Mrs. Henderson’s antique mace with maximum strength directly into the armored center mass of a guy who was NOT Mr. Orange.

“Oh my gosh,” Tim said, horrified, at the instant he connected. The guy was looking forward. He looked down too late, just as the mace hit.

There was sort of a bounce. The mace bounced back off the tummy armor without digging in or drawing blood. Half of Tim was relieved, and half was terrified that his plan had failed. 

The guy doubled over and made a sound that was a lot like GURK. He clutched at his torso with one arm and pointed a gun at Tim with the other.

Tim put his hands up.

The guy looked at Tim. Presumably. It was hard to tell through his ugly red motorcycle helmet.

“I really should have known.” 

His mechanical voice was scary.

Bad guy! 

Tim took his chances and another swing before the guy could shoot him. He expected to hear a shot as he smashed his mace again. The guy yelped and jerked backwards to avoid getting hit. Then there was a thud.

Tim peered through the door cautiously. The guy had tripped over Mr. Orange. Mr. Orange was laying on the floor facedown, arms zip tied behind his back. 

“Oh, sorry,” Tim apologized. He took a couple steps over to put the mace back away. He gave Mr. Orange a wide berth.

“I never would have guessed that the Red Hood used kids like this,” Mr. Orange said meanly. He narrowed his eyes at Tim. “Small, even for bait.”

The Red Hood guy pointed his gun at Mr. Orange’s head. Tim shrieked.

The Red guy stopped. He seemed to look at Tim again. He had some really bad words. “Alright.” He got back up to his feet and put the gun away.

Right. He’d probably just been joking or something. Tim belatedly registered the control it must have taken to not accidentally shoot while being attacked and falling over. 

Oh. Wait. It was a huge coincidence that a hero came right now, unless-

‘Is this Jason?’ Tim felt his eyebrows go all the way up. He wanted to ask a million questions. His mouth was firmly glued shut, though. Partly it was infosec. But it was also embarrassment.

[moodymisty]

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙| 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author’s note: Send help. Send a therapist I don’t know I just need some form of mental health assistance.

Relationships: Typhus/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW (god save me), Disgusting Nurgle stuff, Fingering, Like 72 degrees of unsafe sex, Implied sex pollen/aphrodisiac, Noncon, Stockholm syndrome, Tentacles,

It’s a massive room, at one point it might have been a cathedral; To Mortarion, to the Emperor, or who else else the Death Guard worshiped before falling to Nurgle. Slime leaks from the walls and rusts away at the metal, eating holes in piping and supports alike. Tentacles, spores and other types of biomass litter it, with little botflies fluttering about. What they're doing you don't know, but they catch your eye every now and again.

It's not as if you can do much else. He's taken your hope, your energy, your home.

In the center of all this rot and decay is your place; A flowerbed of sickly blossoms and blooms, moss and mushrooms all infected by Nurgle.

A beautiful flowerbed for his own little Isha, Calas had said. Though he’s no longer Calas, is he? Typhon has become Typhus, and you've become prisoner.

You now lay on your bed of rotten blooms, picking at flower petals. You can’t escape him- even if you escaped this massive rotten cathedral, where would you go? This ship is his, and you’re deep in what is now heretic space.

He won’t let you die; He won’t let you leave. Bare skin lays against the sticky moss, spores brushing against you.

He’d taken your clothes after the last time, other than the thin cloth that serves as a near useless, dress. You suppose he finds a sort of elegance to it- a maiden in white amidst a pit of disgust. Another parallel to Isha. He's been meticulous in recreating it all so he has his own glimmer of light betwixt a defiled cathedral and a ship of the most putrid diseases.

You can only lay hopeless, displayed on your flowerbed underneath corruption forming a mockery of trees with budded flowers, rotten petals falling to the floor. Typhus’ own altar to whatever desires he has in his head.

Suddenly movement causes you to raise upward, restoring your sanity and consciousness. You’ve never heard even close to this much noise before, not even when the Death Guard were forming up to invade a poor, hopeless planet.

“In here!”

You turn your head to the massive cathedral doors, watching them shake before giving way and pushing apart with loud creaking. Your heart pounds in your chest with more hope than you’ve ever had before, at the sight.

It’s Astartes! A squad of them. You don’t know where they’re from or what they’re doing here, but they’re here to save you from this. Save you from him. To finally either pull you from this rotten ship or kill you here, and finally end this state of undeath Typhus has you lingering in.

One of the Astartes comes closer and reaches for you, and you weakly reach out a hand for him. You try to touch it, but you don’t make contact; it’s like your hand nearly falls through.

“What happened?”

He says, and you wish you had the ability to explain. How Calas has changed, the ship becoming nothing more than a vessel of disgust and disease.

“Help me,” You weakly say, but it feels like you’re trying to speak underwater.

Where did the other Astartes disappear to?

The marine’s armored hand reaches down to grasp your bare arm, and you think you hear him say your name. But how would he know it?

He says it again, and again…

And then your body jolts, legs straightening as your eyes open. Your lips part as you gasp, taking in so deep a breath you almost choke on the air.

“There you are, my girl.”

The man once called Calas looks over you while on his knee, the grill of his helmet hiding what is left of his face.

You’ve seen it; How the Nurgle infection has eaten away at his skin, changing was left to sickly yellow, green and purple. His armor seems entangled with his flesh, becoming one and the same. His appearance horrifies you, and makes you yearn for what once was.

“Were you having a nightmare?”

His rusted gauntlet scrapes across your skin, nicking your cheek. You try to avoid shivering, hands pressing against the ground below you.

It wasn’t a nightmare, it was the brightest glimpse of hope you had since Typhus doomed all of the Death Guard, and it was little more than your imagination.

“My sweet girl, you were asking for help.”

His hand drifts from your face, you wonder why it smells sweet, down your neck then the rest of your body and you whimper, trying to move away from him. His armor feels warm like it's almost alive, and perhaps it is- they're one and the same now.

His massive gauntlet slips between your legs, armored fingers diving between your folds as you writhe and attempt to pull away from him.

“I can grant your every desire much like grandfather does with Isha, you only need to let me in.”

He already is in; You feel his rusted gauntlet prod at your entrance. Your whimper and push at him, in some futile attempt to escape.

“Stop, please stop,”

Calas- Typhus, forces his armor finger into you and feels the way you tighten, pressing your hips down into the mossy flowerbed. Tears prick your eyes as you feel him sink into you deep, cold armor pressing against your cunt.

“You don’t want me to stop; I can smell you. The honey you’re making.”

You want him to stop, you want your skin to stop buzzing and heating up, as you feel your body begin to betray you. The flowers, the spores, Typhus himself, you don't know what he does that makes you lose control over yourself, but you hate every moment of it. It makes tears roll down your cheeks as your stomach tightens in knots over the feeling of his now two fingers deep inside of you, the palm of his gauntlet pushing against your clit.

“Please…. Stop…”

You try to turn away from him but his other hand grasps your jaw, turning you right back. Your body feels so hot, you can feel the brushing of little tentacles across your inner thighs, your breasts, your neck. Whether they’re from him or the flowerbed you don’t know, but they only serve to spark trails of fire as your body heats up like a furnace.

Typhus removes his hand from your cunt to push your thighs wider apart, the bottoms of your feet almost touching. They stay fallen apart, and your hands reach down to grasp at his decayed gauntlet as he pushes his fingers back into you.

Just finish, give him what he wants and then he'll leave. Ignore how good he makes you feel.

He hears you let out a whimper, finally broken. He laughs, the fingers of his other hand stroking your cheek.

“Good girl, just let me gift you all that you desire.”

You can hear the wet squelches of your own cunt as you leak over his rusted, decayed armor, weeping for more without your permission. You can hear in the back of your mind the no no no no no, but it's so chained by whatever sweet scent had filled your nostrils that you can't touch it.

You just want to be filled, by anything.

Your thoughts become your own for a moment as you feel how much you hate when he does this; It’s like your body and mind detach and you can no longer control yourself.

Your hands grasp his gauntlet tighter and try to pull him closer, arch closer to him, begging for more. The disgust of mushrooms and slime and rotten petals falling on your skin fades as he fills your mind with nothing but forced desire for him.

“It took Isha many years to realize Grandfather was her savior,” He pulls his fingers from your tight heat to tease your clit and make you gasp, before sinking them into you again. Your hips jerk upwards, tears in your eyes from how much you want this and how much you don’t want this. “And now you see, as well.”

You feel the tickle of flies landing on your skin, it makes you want to vomit. They always hover around him like he has a gravitational pull.

You cum against his hand as he thrusts his armored fingers deep into you, crying out with a voice now hoarse from your whimpers and cries. He hums pleased behind his helm, as you lay limp in front of him. Your inner thighs are slick, and you feel something tickle against them that isn't his hand.

He pulls his soaked hand from between your thighs, putting it on your stomach as his other hand slips underneath your shoulderblades. He raises you slightly up off the flowerbed removing his hand from your stomach to take off his helmet.

You want to look away, to preserve the memory of Calas. But he’s gone, rotted away. You feel his hand cup your jaw to force you to look at him, your lips brushing against his dried, rotten mouth.

His hand returns to your stomach again.

“My beautiful little flower in her beautiful little garden; Begging to be pollinated.” You feel your mind returning from its foggy state and you weakly kick your legs wanting to get away.

“You are in bloom, my beautiful little flower. I can’t wait to make so many more.”

[withonly-sweetheart]

Only Love Can Break Your Heart

You've had enough of not being your own person. You aren't a division of him, your husband, nor the women he sleeps with when he's bored of you.

a/n: if you haven't read the book by katherine webber GO READ IT NOW ITS SO GOOD I CANT EVEN WITH YOU !! this is inspired by that except married couple divorce not really uh yeah i needed to get those out of my system to work on requests!

tw: angst, no happy ending, mentions of smut, non explicit nsfw, mentions of drinking problems, alcohol, stuff yada yada

wc: 1.7k

When you called him from the city, you knew even despite his grumbling of the long drive, he would still make it. Still take his rusty old car all the way out here, just for you, to plead for your forgiveness. Without meaning to, you’d memorized every part of him.

That’s how you knew he’d changed.

The man sitting next to you, hands gripping the steering wheel tight, jaw set in parallel to the tight lines around his lips, pain coursing through the burnished planes of his cheekbones, setting flame to the skin you once longed to touch.

As you watch him drive, the silence between you feels heavy with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. You can feel the distance growing, like a vast chasm separating the two of you. His eyes, once the most gentle shade of the sea, now seem distant and guarded.

“Stop looking at me,” he grits out from behind his teeth.

“I’m not,” you say softly, gaze fixing on his hands.

“I can feel it.”

“Do you feel guilty yet?”

The edge of his lip curls. “No, because I don’t know why the fuck you’re mad at me!”

But he knows he’s lying.

He knows exactly what he did.

<><><><>

You thought it would be just another casual Sunday afternoon, popcorn punctuating the muffled TV in the other room. You kicked off your slippers, lounged carelessly on the couch, waited for Leon to come home.

But he’s three hours late, three thousand ticks of the clock away from when you expected him, and when he stumbles through the door, the only way you can tell he’s drunk is the slight lean he has, wobbling to the left as he slumps into your arms.

Your foot taps a rapid pace on the wooden floor, arms crossed, uninviting. You’ve been awaiting a drinking problem, you know his past, but you weren’t expecting it so soon.

First come the tears. Your husband is a dramatic man, and although you’ve waved off an occasional drink or two, the heartfelt apologies whispered between your thighs, he’s wasted enough to let those walls come crashing down, tumbling all around you, leaving only the remnants of the sea pooling in your sweatshirt.

Then, after he’s wiped his eyes and gained enough courage to look at you, come the profuse apologies that slip past his lips, wind down your shoulders and prod your chest, seeking forgiveness from your heart. So accustomed to the quiet, obedient life you had both been living, you don’t give it easily.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to, I swear. I just couldn’t stop thinking that maybe it was you, and maybe our life is a bit boring, and maybe you do the same things sometimes and don’t tell me, and she said it was all okay-”

“She?” you interrupt, voice far too gentle. “Who’s she?”

"She... she was just a distraction," he stammers, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I didn't mean for it to happen, I swear. It was stupid, I know, please, don't leave me. I love you, I'm so sorry."

His words echo hollowly in the empty space, each syllable a dagger twisting in your bloody chest. Tears trace paths down your cheeks, rivers of sorrow as you look up at him, bleary eyed, trying to comprehend why he would ruin everything.

"I trusted you," you whisper, your voice barely above a broken sob. "I thought we had something real, something worth fighting for. How could you do this to us?"

His silence is deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of emotions that swim through your legs, rendering them useless. You feel lightheaded, dizzy, and some small part of you wants to blame yourself.

It must be your fault, the voice taunts, pleads, even. You were just too boring for him. You can change, can’t you?

You find yourself standing on the precipice of what could change your life, a rocky cliff, toes poking out against the edge. What would your life be without him?

"Please, it won't happen again," he pleads, his voice cracking. "I swear, I'll do whatever it takes to make this right. I love you more than anything, and I can't bear the thought of losing you."

A part of you longs to believe him, to cling to the hope that this nightmare could be just a momentary lapse in judgment, a cruel twist of fate. His fingers are creeping around your waist, snagging you like a fish on a hook.

In a way, you assume, you are as gullible as that.

With a heavy heart and a trembling voice, you whisper, "Okay, I trust you." The words taste bitter on your tongue, a bitter pill swallowed in the idea that you’re only trying to salvage what’s left.

But deep down, a seed of doubt blooms into a thorny vine that wraps itself around your wounded heart. Can trust truly be rebuilt from the ashes of his thin apologies, or are you simply setting yourself up for more heartache down the road?

You shake your head as he disappears into the bathroom and the sound of running water covers up your soft sniffles. There’s a determined, confident, trustful smile on your face that only seems slightly forced.

Leon’s a good man.

It won’t happen again. 

<><><><>

But it happens again, and again, until all you come home to is the draft blowing in through the vent and a cluttered house. You suppose you should be grateful you’ve never had children. It’s happened so many times.

And every time, you forgive him like a bitch in heat, like a teenage girl so desperate for him, for your fake image of love, even when you know he’s toying with you. Did he ever care? You fool yourself into believing that when he pushes you into the wrinkled, old cotton sheets, or when he buys you those fragrances you eye whenever he takes you out to shop.

You’ve forgotten the meaning of love, what it means to be cared for, how it feels to be cherished. In his eyes, those beautiful, sullen eyes, you are nothing but another responsibility, another burden, another chore.

You want it to stop. You want to stop feeling this way. So you turn the tables on him, that night, when the door creaks open and his footfalls echo through the house, it's empty.

There’s a note left on the table from you, signed in that sweet, loopy handwriting you thought he admired. Leon… blah blah blah, visiting friends, need some time to myself… all just empty thoughts from a mind that knows nothing but pain.

The letter ends up in the bin that day just before he calls one of the numbers saved in his phone. It lies there, forgotten, as the sounds of muted kisses seem to crinkle it even more.

<><><><>

You watch them in the taxi, through the camera you had set up in the houseplant that you knew Leon never bothered to look at. Is that all you are to him? A drooping aloe vera, lost all its nutrition and sun, useless?

They make out wildly, planting kisses everywhere, and you realize that maybe he never loved you to begin with. Maybe this was all just a joke to him. You can see the tray of cookies you made last Christmas, when everything seemed fine.

He had pushed you onto the island, crowding between your legs, grinning up at you. “You know I hate all that sugary shit,” he had whispered, nosing the area between your neck and jaw.

“Should’ve replaced it with salt, then,” you mumble to yourself, biting your lip to suppress the sob that claws at your throat. You exit the app, then delete it. 

You’re never going back.

Leon’s not a very good man.

<><><><>

Your nights are restless, tossing and turning, when your friend groans and flicks on the lamp, expression immediately softening at your pained eyes.

She gathers you in her arms, lets you cry into her, soaking up your agony. You’re glad she doesn’t chastise you, tell you how she had seen this coming ages ago. Maybe you should start listening to your friends when they warn you about men.

He tries to reach out to you, to bridge the gap that has formed between you both, but each time you pull away, walls impenetrable with your friend standing guard behind them. The ache in your chest grows with each passing moment, a constant reminder of what once was and what can never be again.

You start taking classes again. He had stopped you, deemed it was ‘unladylike’ to be studying. You had agreed with him like a fool, stupidly nodding your head to whatever came from his mouth.

Your friend is there through everything. You only wish you had told her how much you appreciated her help when you call Leon, ready to pry him from your thoughts.

<><><><>

You finally reach your destination, the weight of the unspoken goodbye hanging heavy in the air. You know that this is the end, that the love you once shared has turned to ashes. 

“We could’ve made it work,” he argues, once again, running a hand through his darkening hair. Everything about him seems somber now, more depressed. You suspect that the alcohol has finally caught up to him.

And faintly, with pride, you realize that you don’t care.

“You and I both know that’s a lie,” you seethe. “We were never going to work, because I will always be too boring for you. Just a toy, right? I’m done with your shit!”

You don’t let him get the last word. That would nag you far too much. So you walk away from him, from the image of you that clung to him every waking moment, your back a silent farewell.

If he had broken up with you, what, a week ago, you would be left alone with the shattered pieces of your heart, knowing that you might always be missing a piece of yourself.

But now…

Now?

You are whole.

[maryfailstowrite]

Rose's quote in the crossword of the literature insane girl MV will never not fail to amaze me. I absolutely love it and here's why:

"Ego cogito ergo (turbatus) sum."

First with the basics: "Cogito, ergo sum", the original (not really, because the real original was in french, but whatever) quote by René Descartes, translates into "I think, therefore I am". I don't think the meaning needs much explaining, because it's just... that. It's one of the first principles of Descartes's philosophy, and it states that one's existence is certain because to think, beforehand you need to exist. You can't doubt your own existence because to doubt, you need to exist. It's as simple as that.

But this interpretation of the phrase has little to do with Rose's character. There's a word (or maybe two, but I'll get to that later) that the MV adds, and that changes the whole meaning of the phrase.

“Ego cogito ergo (turbatus) sum.”

Rose’s quote translates into “I think, therefore I am (troubled).” This is not her doubting her existence or whatever, this is about her memory. “Thinking” here isn’t meant as in literally just thinking, but as in Rose’s thought processing and reasoning. Her photographic memory makes her have an overload of information to process at all times, and after processing it, she’s unable to discard it no matter what. She’s troubled, troubled because no matter what, she can’t forget. Every murder, every drop of blood, every gasp, every word is engraved in her mind, and no matter how hard she tries, she’s doomed to remember it all for the rest of her life.

A lot of people see having a photographic memory as a blessing. Almost like a superpower. They think of detectives solving murder cases because they remembered the exact position of one of the curtains at the victim’s house, or in Rose’s case, they imagine her making perfect replicas of a painting just after seeing it once. And, sure, maybe she can do that. She is the Ultimate Art Forger, after all. But I still think her photographic memory is much more a curse than it is a blessing for her.

Humans aren’t made to remember. We are made to forget a very big part of our lives, in fact. Do you remember exactly every meal you’ve ever had? Every shower you’ve taken? Every outfit you’ve worn? No, of course not. You don’t. Just like you don’t remember every single time someone has given you a strange look, or every time you’ve done something embarrassing.

Do you see where I’m going with this? Forgetting is a coping mechanism. Not only does it prevent our brains from overloading with useless information, it also helps us heal from bad experiences. If we remembered every single detail from all of our bad past experiences we would go insane, we would never heal from those memories and emotions. We could replay the memory over and over and over again to analyze what could’ve been different, what we could’ve done in another way, and what we could’ve ultimately done to avoid the situation. But as humans, we forget. It takes time, but the details start to fade one by one, and by the end, the bad experience is just a foggy distant memory, a mix of lingering feelings and a blurry outline of what happened, an outline that can’t hurt us anymore…

Except for Rose. Rose remembers everything. This is why the world is so overwhelming for her (let alone the killing game). She dozes off half of the day because if she wasn’t sleeping, she’d have to remember everything that happened at that time. I think it’s easier to picture it if you put it like this: Imagine if you were forced to memorize every single thing that happened around you for a day. Not just what you do, but what everyone in your view and hearing range does. It sounds exhausting, right? Well, welcome to Rose’s mind.

Rose is troubled because she can’t forget. Or rather, she remembers, therefore she’s troubled (see the parallelism I did there with the quote we’re analyzing???? see it????). She’s condemned to remember every detail of everything that has ever happened to her, to replay moments like movies and analyze them until she finds out what could’ve been better, what could’ve been worse, what she could’ve done different. The problem is, the past is the past, and no matter how much you replay it, it never comes back. It’s just an illusion, a nightmare that appears in front of you, and yet you can never reach. You can just watch as it unfolds, unable to change it, unable to do anything, unable to look away. She can never look away.

As an ending to this post, I’d like to take a closer look at another detail. The original phrase is “Cogito, ergo sum”, as it’s already been stated before, but the version used in the MV is “Ego cogito ergo (turbatus) sum.” “Ego” simply means “I”, so it doesn’t add much meaning (in fact, the original French is “Je pense, donc je suis”, so the pronoun was already there from the beginning), but I still think adding it emphasizes the meaning they want to give to the phrase. It refers to Rose’s personal experience, so instead of making it a general quote anyone can say “I think, therefore I am (troubled)”, they emphasize the personal meaning of it by adding the “I”, which can be perfectly omitted in Latin without losing the phrase’s meaning. It’s something more like “I think, therefore I am (troubled)”, and I think it’s a great detail to see how different Rose’s experience of existing is compared to everyone else’s, or at least, how different she considers it to be.

In conclusion, I’m a nerd that loves looking too much into things. Thanks for coming to my TED talk 🫶🏻.

[electronix-arts]

i have the urge to ramble so why not ramble about murder drones

i have many fears over episode 8, my biggest one being is that everyone is going to fucking die, and since im now considered the khan guy, why not talk about him (THIS IS SO LONG HOLY FUCKING SHIT)

ok so funnily enough, im prepared if he does drop dead in ep 8. people have teased me going “oh lol what if khan dies in ep 8” but little do you all know ive been prepared since ep 7 dropped, my wife has improved so much he’s bound to be sniped by liam. i’d be upset as hell and act like a wife who lost her husband at sea but i would not be too surprised if he is killed off

before it was confirmed ep 8 is the series finale, i was a s2 believer and i held onto hope that they wouldn’t kill khan because it’d make his character feel worthless. you see this man improve so much to be a better father to uzi and grow a pair to actually do something; to me, him dying would have made all of that useless, the hypothetical season 2 could have grown his character more if he lived, hell, maybe even show flashbacks of him during his ‘kill all humans’ phase. ep 7 shows khan has nowhere to go but up (or go insane, like the ep 8 teaser showed us)

but since season 2 is not real, i have to accept the fact that yeah, khan might die. so instead of being upset over that, why not speculate how he’ll fuckin die even though him being in the teaser looking batshit insane makes me think he’ll be a survivor. look at him. he will live off of pure adrenaline. anyways.

it’d 100% be a sacrifice, his apology for everything he’s done (which i fucking HATE i wanted him to grow more to become more redeemable to others not [death = hooray your sins are mostly forgiven] but i just gotta suck it up for now)

it’d definitely be for uzi or nori, make sense if he sacrificed himself for both of them [“Turns out, I’m not who either of you needed”] buuut i think it’d be more uzi focused. he was the one who raised her for the entirety of her life, actually tried to become better and changed his main focus to her and tried to help whenever he could after that, he would take a hypothetical bullet for her. it could even parallel to pilot when he left her for dead, now he’s the one dying and telling uzi to leave him so she can save herself and the others (it could even reference heartbeat where she thought he actually died, i don’t know how they’d do it, but yeah. i like that scene in heartbeat, i enjoy characters i love oh so much in severe pain.)

while i like this a lot, i would want khan to sacrifice himself for someone else more than his own wife and daughter. shocking, i know. i make my entire personality based off these idiots why wouldn’t i want a doorman family reuni-

n. if khan dies in ep 8, i want him to die sacrificing himself for n. i want n to be in horror at what has happened as khan is slowly dying in front of him, basically giving n his blessing to date uzi even though the entire planet is doomed.

it parallels nori’s disapproval of the relationship, shows that khan’s views on the dds (mainly n) have changed [killing machine -> bad influence on uzi -> someone who genuinely cares for her, someone who she needed] -and i guess nicely ties up the gift that is his redemption arc.

it makes sense for him to give said blessing, he’s seen how close uzi has gotten with n as well I’m pretty sure when he reunites with nori (plsplspls) after they calm down she’s definitely gonna be like “YOU LET OUR DAUGHTER “HANG OUT” WITH THE THINGS YOU SAW KILL ME” so that’d be fresh on his mind when he hypothetically drops dead.

also i’d feel like him sacrificing himself for uzi is like. too perfect or easily guessable, maybe they could hint “oh yeah khan’s def gonna die to save uzi & nori” when haha sike he’s dying to save the future son-in-law (if there is a future)

anyways that’s it. im bad at wrapping up things so here is what i call my conclusion. if you actually read this i love you so much you will be in my will

[cameronspecial]

Begging for more Zach content pookie

What Is Love?

Pairing: Dad!Zach MacLaren x Reader

Warnings: Really bad science

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.7K

Masterlist

Zach stands in front of the hot oven and reaches in to grab the finished pizza from the oven. He has no idea where his children are in the house, but he knows his wife is having dinner out with friends and that his eldest son should be home from his girlfriend’s house soon. Right on cue, the front door opens and in comes Isaac. The teen boy's normal quick pace is replaced with a slow one. This causes the father to turn toward the kitchen entrance with worry. “Are you okay?” The son doesn’t answer right away. There is a lost look in his eyes that tells Zach Isaac is lost in thought. “Are you okay?” he repeats his question. Isaac finally snaps out of his head and looks at his dad with a straight smile. Silence falls over the pair. Zach assumes he isn’t ready to talk about it and goes back to get dinner ready. “How did you know you were in love with mom?” Zach freezes, not expecting that question. It’s a hard question to answer because it is impossible to explain. “I… I guess I just liked her,” he tries to explain. His carbon copy tilts his head, “What does that mean?” Zach strokes his chin in thought of how to make sense. “Let me tell you about when your mom and I first said I love you,” he elucidates. “Well, more like when I told your mom I love her for the first time…” 

———

Her hands were a little cold as she took the nods off of his head. He stared up at her with wonder in his eyes. Her study had been going on for three months now and while he found it to be a useless study, he was thankful for it because it led him to meet her. It is ironic for him to find love during an experiment meant to demonstrate that love is merely a rush of endorphins that fool one into doing crazy things. Her belief in love parallels what she was researching and he accepted this view, much to his disappointment. It was the small things he noticed that made him fall for her. The way she played with her earrings while examining his brain scan. The way she always tried her best to go past small talk. The way her jokes were always so corny, yet her laugh was contagious. “As you know, this is the last test we need for this experiment. I would like to thank you for participating in the study and you will get your payment when you do the exit survey,” she got the protocol out of the way before continuing. “I want you to know that you were my favourite brain to observe.” A blush reddened his cheeks at her flirting.

“I bet you say that to all your participants,” he brushed off, looking down with his palm on his neck. She shook her head, “Nope, you are a great conversationalist and you are the one that proves the hypothesis of her study. You said you weren’t in love and you didn’t have any brain activity.” His smile dropped at her words. He may not be great at science, except he understood what a hypothesis is and what hers is. He didn’t like that he confirmed her disbelief in love. “Ooh,” he huffed out. She looked down at him in concern as she put away the pads that were scanning his brain. “What’s wrong?” she worried. He took a wild chance he didn’t know he was going to take, “I love you.” She reeled back, stepping away from him. “Wh-what? What are you talking about?” she questioned. 

“The time we’ve spent together all these months has made me fall in love with you.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about. That can’t be true. Your brain scans didn’t show any endorphin activity. It’s impossible.”

She is backed up against the desk with her arms crossed. “Maybe your test is stupid then,” he argued and quickly regretted. Anger flushed her. He just called her an academic career stupid and being nice didn’t mean she would let him talk to her that way. She scoffed, “I guess it is a good thing you don’t need to participate in it anymore.” She stormed out of the room, commanding that one of her peers finish taking care of Zach. 

———

“Wow, that did not go well for you, Dad,” Isaac comments, shoving the guac-smeared chip into his mouth. “If you and mom have such opposing views on love, then how did you guys get together.” Zach cringes at the memory. Worry takes over him as he imagines what could’ve happened if it didn’t go the way that it went. “I would say it was when I went on a date with Becky,” he thinks out loud. His son raises his hand, “Hold on, Becky. As in Aunt Becky, Becky?” The older man raises his finger to his lips. “Let me finish my story. So it all started when I went on a date with your Aunt Becky…”

———

It probably wasn’t the best idea to go on a date with the best friend of the woman he loves; however, she asked him and he let out a panicked yes. So now, he was sitting in front of the black-haired woman, tapping his foot like crazy. Her eyes met his over his glasses and she laughed. “I only asked you on this date as a cover. I need to talk to you about Y/N,” she informed. Zach’s eyebrow raised, “What is there to say about her? I love her, but she doesn’t love me or even believe in love.” “That’s because she is scared,” Becky explained, boring her green eyes into his. “Her home life sucked, so it led her to use science to explain away a sensation she never experienced. She may not think she loves you, but I know otherwise and I’m here to help you two idiots.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she gets all flustered when you come up in the conversation and I have been to more soccer games than I have ever been to in my life in this past semester alone.” 

“Really?”

“Yes, so listen. This is what you are going to say.”

———

“So you didn’t actually date Aunt Becky,” the listening boy verifies. The storyteller nods, “I suppose I never did. It could be better explained as a friendly meet-up. Can I finish my story?” The teen stops talking and indicates to continue. “I followed Becky’s advice and tried to confess my adoration to your mother again…”

———

He knocked on the door with uncertainty, holding the tulips up in front of his chest. The front door swung open and the person of his desires stood there shocked. The shock turned to anger. “Are you here to continue the discretization of my academic career?” she grumbled. Her right arm crossed over her left one as she leaned against the door frame. “What is love?” he began the conversation in the manner he was instructed. His face scrunched once he realized he didn’t address her question. He wished he could restart to avoid the embarrassment. He couldn’t. “What?” she puzzled, head tilting at an angle. He pressed on, “You say that love is only a chemical reaction in your brain. I say that it is simply a feeling that you have for a person. It’s just liking someone. Simple as that. No explanation. No physical correlation to your brain. Even though we have different views on love, there is one thing in common between the two. Do you know what that is?” 

Her head moved from side to side and he stepped forward, handing her the bouquet of flowers. “We both have a definition of what love is, but we’ve never experienced it before. So scientifically speaking, how can we know if either of them is true,” he contended. Her hand flew to her earring and she began tugging on it. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to show you why we are meant to be together.”

“Why are we?”

“Because we can use each other to learn what love is and once we determine a definition, we can compare and determine who is correct.”

She chortled, “That’s ridiculous. If we go into an experiment with the expectation of falling in love, then it would be biased and-.” “Um, can we stop with the science analogy? I’m not going to lie, I can’t keep up,” he interrupted. Her eyes rolled in their sockets. “Fine. We can’t be in love because it’s just not possible.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because it isn’t there?”

“What isn’t there?”

“The science!”

He groaned, “Science doesn’t have all the answers. It’s why people still have to do research, right? So why can’t love be something you can’t explain?” At this point, tears had begun to well in the corner of her eyes. “Because if love isn’t something scientific and it is something that just is, then how come my parents didn’t love me? How come I never got to feel it? If it is something so easy to have, how come I was deprived of it.” A pain shot through his heart at the sight of her distraught. He finally understood her resistance to the idea and stepped forward, dropping the flowers to the flower so he could pull her to his chest. “The universe hasn’t been fair to you. This made you decide that you had to use science to explain why it wasn’t unfair because it made it easier for you to process. Nevertheless, it’s okay to admit that you don’t know something and I’m here to help you learn.” She cried into his shirt. “What if I’m not capable of love?” He could sense the worry she felt and smoothed down the hair on the back of her head. “Then I’ll have enough love and endorphins for the both of us because I know that love can simply be there and doesn’t have to be anything physical.”

———

“In that moment, I knew what love was. It isn’t one thing or another. It is in the eye of the beholder and up to you to figure out what you define it as. If you are questioning whether or not you love Kira, then listen to your heart because it will tell you what it thinks,” Zach guides, getting up to call his other children for dinner. He leaves his eldest child to think over the story he just recounted. He is glad for the question because it gives him a chance to go down memory lane. 

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @magicalyoura @rubixgsworld

[bagopucks]

T. Zegras - Disheveled Duckling

✄————————————

Trevor Zegras x Reader

Requested✨

Word Count: 4.2k

Warning(s): Insecurities, and a tiny tiff

—————————————

“Whose decision was it to make Zegras the cover of NHL 23?”

“Tried and failed to make the new face of the league Trevor Zegras.”

“What an absolute joke.”

“Too flashy. Not enough skill.”

“Good thing the Ducks hired another useless player. I was afraid they might actually make the playoffs.”

“Wonder if he has to hold onto sh** when the wind blows”

“His girlfriend need a man’s man?”

“Holy shit!” I slammed the door to the house I’d slowly grown to love. Trevor and Jamie’s.

Jamie’s head shot up from the couch, startled and frightened by both my abrupt arrival and my anger.

“You good?” I heard him chuckle. No doubt nervous. I took my shoes off, locked the door, and turned to look at my boyfriend’s best friend. Silence filled the air around us. Jamie’s nervous smile immediately disappeared.

“It’s impossible.” My shirt was dripping with water, as were my hands. “And you didn’t even come outside to help!”

“Trevor’s car is really that unclean-able?”

“It’s yours! It’s your Jamie! What are you driving through?” His cheeks turned red. Trevor was out for a hockey game, but when I informed him that my work place was trying to schedule a late night meeting, and we hadn’t known how long Jamie was going to be at the doctors office, Trevor said he’d simply take an Uber. I felt bad when Jamie came home five minutes after Trevor had left. So I decided to go out and wash their cars for them. It was a nice day anyway, a little outdoor time hadn’t hurt.

“I don’t know?” I had managed to get Trevor’s car practically spotless before I had waxed it. But Jamie’s was something else. It had tiny asphalt pieces all over. Which was usual on a car, but I couldn’t scrape them away without chipping paint, and they wouldn’t just wipe away either.

The sun had begun setting mere minutes ago. I had given up on Jamie’s car. I was tired, I’d missed more of the hockey game than I wanted to, and now I was simply angry.

“You’re lucky I have a moral compass that says I shouldn’t hit injured people.” I grumbled as I left the living room, walking through the house to find mine and Trevor’s bedroom. I needed a change of clothes. Something comfortable.

I had been getting notifications for a while on my NHL app. I had only stopped to look at a few, but from what I’d seen, the Ducks were losing. Another reason to be stressed. Another reason to worry about my boyfriend.

I met Trevor when he played for the USA hockey team. We just happened to be in the same town and in the same pastry shop the night it happened. He was trying to order a bear claw, and I had let out a rather exaggerated sigh over the fact that it was the last one. We shared it over two cups of iced coffee.

After that, we became friends and remained so for a long time. The year he got drafted into the NHL, it seemed he’d been on enough of an adrenaline rush to ask me out. I said yes. He pursued his dreams while I pursued my own. Our paths of life ran parallel, but close enough to hold hands along our walks.

I’d been around long enough to see Trevor make records in USA hockey, get drafted, play in the AHL, and eventually join the league permanently. I’d also seen the rise and fall of his mentality as those years went by as well.

I couldn’t pinpoint when it truly started, but I would certainly say when the media began pushing to make him the new face of the league. That was when Trevor began to feel the anxiety.

To everybody else, he loved it. To everybody else, he ate up every second of attention he got. He loved the videos online, the commercials, the sponsorships and free stuff. And part of that was true. Trevor did love all of those things.

But people put so much pressure on you when they expect you to be the poster child of anything. It can change people. Hell, Sidney Crosby’s first year in the NHL was spent screaming at any ref he could over a call he didn’t like. Getting misconducts and penalties he ought not to. Good men can fall long ways under immense pressure. But when the spotlight is on you, all people want is to see you fall and fail. People want to see the hero bend and bend and eventually break.

Trevor loved the attention, but he despised the hate. He didn’t like opening his sports news apps to find articles on himself, and not having the impulse control to not read them. He hated posting something on Instagram, and going back to check a comment from a friend, only to find hate surrounding it. He hated hearing people he looked up to all his life’s putting him down left and right. He hated being misunderstood, but not given the platform to express his grievances. He had no right to discuss his feelings. Nobody would listen.

Perhaps that had been what made him feel like he couldn’t come to me. What made him pull away when I could tell he was tense and disappointed. It took me forever to really understand why he would come home looking so defeated. Looking like a parent who should have expected better from their kid. It took me forever to realize how much Trevor hated himself.

I blamed it on the publicity over and over again. They built him up so much, just to tear him back down. And I knew with each loss, there was a new article. A new post. A new video. A new comment.

My hopes were whisked away when I opened the NHL app to see the score. 5-1. Not a good look for the Ducks. Then of course, upon further inspection, opening the live summary of the game, I realized Trevor had his own ten minute misconduct.

I was never happy that he fought. That he got in people’s faces and picked fights with guys who could have pinned him down to the ice in one shove. But I understood somewhat. Trevor was just trying to look out for himself. Trying in his own short tempered way to be heard in a league that would not listen to him. But we both found through time that nobody was on his side other than his team and few friends.

“Jamie!” I tossed my phone down onto the bed as I grabbed a spare shirt and a pair of shorts. I quickly changed, the lack of response leading me to assume Jamie was ignoring me. I rolled my eyes as I walked back down the hall, stopping once I was in the living area and over the couch.

Not ignoring, somehow asleep. I worried sometimes about him and his pain medication. He was responsible with it, but I still worried. I gently nudged him. Easy to wake, per usual. And he couldn’t have been out that long.

I nudged Jamie again, watching his eyes flutter open. I gestured for him to move, and he quickly cleared a space for me on the edge of the couch. I sat and took the tv remote, turning the screen on.

“Have you had the game on at all?”

“No.. it’s been.. kinda- stressing me out.” I nodded.

“Trevor got into another fight.” Jamie wasn’t surprised. But he knew as well as I did that Trevor was struggling. On his own little broken sailboat, refusing help because he didn’t want anybody else to be caught up in his storm.

“It should be over by now.” Jamie shifted and sat up, leaning against the arm rest of the couch.

I found the channel and flipped it on. Sure enough, Jamie had been correct. I crossed one of my legs over the other, eyeing up the tv in search of my boyfriend. When I couldn’t find him, I assumed they had kicked him out of the entire arena for the last ten minutes of the game. Banished to the locker room.

I used to love games that took place in the middle of the day. Trevor would come home and we’d have dinner together. Then we’d curl up in bed and whisper for hours until we fell asleep. Now, games in the middle of the day meant there was extra time to avoid aggravating Trevor.

We sat in silence until the goal horn sounded, frustrated Ducks players exiting the ice. It was a waiting game now. One Jamie and I were happy to do together, so neither had to worry about Trevor alone.

“He’ll probably be fine.” Jamie broke the silence with a statement we both knew to be false.

“He hasn’t been fine.” I knew that in my mind, but my heart broke at the first confession of the fact. Trevor had been a wreck of emotions and I hadn’t been able to fix even one of his problems.

And he hid it all so well underneath that big smile. And all those jokes.

Jamie and I returned to silence not long after, but when we caught the headlights through the window, he had been the first to get up to leave.

“You should handle this one.. right?” I gave a nod in approval to his suggestion.

“I’ve got him.”

Jamie retreated to his room after that. Always only one call away if Trevor or I ever needed him. I was supposed to be one call away for Trevor too. Why didn’t he ever dial my number?

I waited for what felt like hours for Trevor to come inside. He never did. So I decided to see what was going on. I unlocked and opened the front door, surprised by the sight of Getzlaf’s car in the driveway. I could just barely make out the silhouette of two figures, one pointing at the other in a manner that looked tense.

I leaned in the doorway, and waited patiently before I was spotted. Getzlaf gestured, and Trevor climbed out of the car. He grabbed his gear from the back, and I heard his voice shout something to his old captain before making his way up the short drive to the door. I wasn’t sure what to say, so instead I stood there, staring at Trevor as his eyes met mine. He looked like he was waiting for something.

“Can I come in?” I was surprised by Trevor’s tone. Playful and lighthearted. I looked skeptical, but I nodded and stepped aside nonetheless.

“I was thinking we could do dinner? I miss that. Maybe- we could try.. like steaks? I know Jamie just got a pack the other day.” Trevor’s always been talkative, but this time it feels off. There was a sound in his voice I didn’t know how to place.

“Trevor I can’t cook steaks.”

“Let me do it.” I stared at him as he shut the door. He hated cooking.

“Come on! It’ll be fun! Let me take care of you.” I shrugged. What’s the worst that could happen?

Trevor insisted I sit at the table while he did his thing. I was hesitant, but I allowed him space nonetheless. Trevor tried to talk about the game a bit, but the bitter laugh that occasionally fell from his lips, and the sad sound in his voice usually caused him to stop before he got into any good details. He often stopped his own comments with something like, “guess it doesn’t matter anyway.” And the repetition of the phrase made me feel like it was a media interview. Like he was repeating and repeating just to get me to go away and stop asking questions. I hadn’t asked any in the first place. That’s what he was hesitant about.

“And the misconduct?” I hoped to look disinterested. Like it didn’t bother me, so I looked down at my phone. Trevor never turned to look at me.

“It was bullshit.” I glanced up at him. His shoulders rose slightly.

“What was it on?”

“You didn’t watch?” Trevor turned to look at me, and I don’t know why, but this time he seemed upset. I had missed games of his before… but this was the first in a long time.

“I was a little busy.” I smiled at him, hopeful to keep the clean car a secret until he could see it in the morning.

“No that’s cool..” he shrugged it off and turned back to the stove. It was definitely not cool, not to him, but he wanted to move on. So we moved on.

I listened to Trevor occasionally mumble under his breath about whatever he was making, the sweet smell of cooked meat filling the kitchen along with the sound of the sizzle of two steaks on the pan. I was certain I hadn’t missed out on Trevor learning how to cook.

Once they were finished, my boyfriend beckoned me over, and I was quick to join his side. He cut a piece and I waited for it to cool off before biting the tender piece of meat off the knife he held. At first it was perfect. Then it was oddly sweet. I made a face. Trevor noticed.

“What’s wrong with it?”

My eyes searched the various items and ingredients strewn across the counter. When I noticed it, I giggled.

“Trevor,” I nodded my head toward the container I used for sugar. I never labeled it because I knew what it was, and the boys didn’t use the big box of sugar I had set aside for baking.

“That’s sugar.” His face fell for a split second. Then he started to laugh. I thought about joining him before it all just felt off. Trevor’s eyes quickly adopted a glazed over look, his smile falling into a frown as the laughter ceased and an overwhelming look of grief overcame his features.

Trevor shook his head before turning the stovetop off. I reached for him while he reached for his keys in his pocket.

“Where do you wanna eat?”

“Baby no. We’ll fix this.”

“I don’t want to. Where do you want to eat?”

“Trevor.”

“I said I don’t want to!”

We didn’t get into fights much. We didn’t like to, but I couldn’t keep disregarding his feelings for his comfort. Something had to give.

“I love you, but you’re gonna sit your ass down and talk to me Trevor.”

“Fuck this.” He shook his head, tossing his keys onto the counter and turning to walk away.

“Trevor!” I snapped and followed him. “I am so sick of seeing you so- so sad! You have to talk to me!”

“I don’t!”

“Then who are you going to talk to? Huh?” Because I knew he was horrible at opening up.

“I don’t know! Nobody fucking listens!” I followed him all the way into our room, pushing the door shut behind myself.

“I’m listening!” I was desperate. “Trevor, I’m right. Here.” He turned to look at me. His anger eased into a blank stare, and it seemed my offer brought everything crashing down at once.

We stared each other down. Both waiting for the other to give up or make some kind of move.

“I’m so tired.” Trevor’s voice quivered, his lips pulling into a frown I hated to see. His eyes fell to the floor.

“Everybody’s so…” he drew in a breath. “Too much- it’s all too much.” Trevor sat down on the side of our bed, his head fell into his hands. “They hate me.”

There was a little kid in there. Devastated. Heartbroken that his heroes wanted him gone. That kids parents didn’t deem him a good role model. That he was ruining his own track record by trying to stay afloat. Trying to survive when nobody respected him. When refs pushed him around and legends dragged his name through the mud. Trevor just wanted to live his dream. He had fun before all the publicity. He didn’t need it, but it was forced on him.

“Nobody hates you.” I slowly made my way over, raking my hands through his hair. Trevor lifted his head to look at me, his brow furrowed and his cheeks red.

“Everybody does! I don’t want to be the guy everybody hates!” Trevor raised his voice, but I couldn’t be bothered to be upset. This was only the tip of the iceberg.

“They liked me..” his voice dropped to a mere whisper. My brow furrowed as I rested my hands on his cheeks, prepared to wipe tears as they began to fall.

“Huh?” I met his volume, Trevor closed his eyes tightly, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“They liked me.. and I ruined it.” Sure, he hadn’t been perfect, but even the aggressive egotistical asshole players had fans. This wasn’t Trevor’s doing. This was the media realizing they failed and then deciding to spin his story. To make him a villain.

“It’s all my fault.” His words were interrupted by a broken gasp, I guided his head to lean against my stomach, pushing a sigh past my lips as I tried not to get too emotional.

“Trevor, this is not your fault.” I ran one hand through his hair while the other held his head.

“I just can’t- fuck!” His voice was muffled in my shirt. “I don’t want this.” I glanced down at him again, my hands travelled to his jaw to move his head from my body.

Trevor’s eyes met my own. So sad. So lost. So broken.

“I don’t want hockey if it comes with all this shit.” He tried to bury his head back against my body, but I held his jaw tightly.

“Trevor.” I carefully moved forward, resting my legs on the bed on either side of his own. I sat on his thighs and pulled Trevor in for a tight hug. His hands gripped the sides of my shirt.

“You just have to be patient. They’re gonna test you.” I whispered against his ear as his head buried in the crook of my neck.

“They test me every day.” I sighed. I didn’t know how to help. “I mess everything up.. they don’t want me. They want somebody who can actually get shit done. They want somebody bigger and faster.. and stronger. They want what I’m not.”

I rubbed at his back with one of my hands.

“Trevor, nobody gives a shit about your weight.” I had never heard a single thing on it before. Sure, maybe his mom made a comment or two about how skinny he was, but it was more so commentary when she was trying to feed him. It never had anything to do with his job.

“Yes they do.” He was insistent. I knew this was a projection. Him trying to find a reason to blame himself for something he couldn’t help. Not everybody gained muscle easily. It wasn’t a bad thing. But to him it was. To him, it was embarrassing.

“I think you look great already. If you get too big, then you can’t lay on top of me any more.”

“That’s not the point.” My joke crash landed. It only seemed to frustrate Trevor more. “People just.. they say shit.” I rested one of my hands on Trevor’s forearm while I worked the other through his hair.

“Like what?”

“That I can’t keep up.. that I’m too scrawny. I need to ‘build up.’ But I can’t! I try and I can’t! I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” He sounded desperate. Desperate for answers I didn’t have.

“It’s genetics Trev. It’s not something you can help.” I knew he tried a million different things. Nothing ever worked. And I knew how hopeless he could get when he’d go to take a peek in the bathroom mirror, and see absolutely no progress. Trevor never had an issue with his body until people started saying things about it.

He’d always wanted to get bigger, but he was patient before. He was willing to really take his time. Now one comment could leave him in the gym for more hours on end than he ought to be in there for. One chirp left him laid down next to me in bed with a shirt on and a pair of pants, curled in on himself like it would somehow make him and his insecurities any less noticeable.

“Or maybe I just shouldn’t be playing hockey. Maybe I’m just not cut out for it.” His sadness had shifted into acceptance. Like he was ready to give up.

“They drafted you Trevor. People talked about you forever. People were elated to have you in the league.”

“Yeah. Were.“

“They still are.” I sighed. “So you have an attitude? They’ll get over it. You know how many people have said they love you? They love your personality, and your talent? You’re a new version of the game. A new type of style everybody is going to know you for.” I moved my hand from Trevor’s hair. I gently traced his jawline with my fingers, holding my breath at the sight of my disheveled duckling.

“What if it never gets better?” Trevor had thought about this more than I realized. I shook my head.

“It will. There’ll be some new hotshot they’ll idolize and attack. Some new player who takes a downward spiral that they decide to torture. This won’t be you forever.. you just have to stay strong while it happens. Okay?”

“I just wanted to play hockey..” exhaustion was evident in his tone. I allowed Trevor to rest his head on my shoulder again, his breaths were heavy from trying to hold back the tears that hadn’t fallen.

“It’ll all work itself out, Trev.” My voice lowered to a whisper. “They did the same thing to Jack.. they did the same thing to Crosby. You just have to handle it better.. that’s all. You know I love you, I just think they get under your skin too easy.”

“I know.” Trevor sighed.

“You have to remember to calm down sometimes. Nobody’s ever going to listen if all you do is yell and fight.”

“That’s what Getz said.” I had been curious, but at no point did I consider asking what Getzlaf had said to Trevor. It hadn’t been my place. But I was happy Trevor told me nonetheless. It was reassuring to know somebody else was telling him the same things.

“You need a stress ball out there or something.” I joked softly, running my hand through Trevor’s hair one last time before I rested my hands on his shoulders, pushing him back so I could see him.

Trevor mustered a sad smile at my words.

“Maybe you just need to chew on your glove like Jack.” I added, trying to go two for two. It seemed that comment earned a giggle from him.

“Or reach out and talk to him.” My tone took up a more serious sound. Trevor pursed his lips and nodded. “You guys don’t talk as much as you should. He probably gets jealous of Jamie.”

I went three for three the second I noticed Trevor’s smile widen, his eyes squinting as well when he laughed.

Silence enveloped our own little world. I tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear. Trevor seemed to finally relax.

“We’re gonna be okay,” I whispered as I gently placed my hands on his chest. Trevor picked up the cue to lay back as I propped myself up over him.

“And I love you.” I added softly, pressing a kiss to his collar. “And Jamie loves you,” Trevor smiled again. “And your mom, and your siblings, and your dad. And all of your friends all scattered about.” I climbed off of Trevor and slipped off the bed. He looked confused before sitting up to look at me, eventually standing as well.

“You don’t have to be perfect.” He stepped closer, resting his hands on my sides as my own slipped beneath his shirt to hold his hips. “Nobody needs you to become a body builder.” I continued. Trevor nodded slowly. “And nobody needs you to lose that attitude.” I wrapped my arms around his body beneath his shirt, gently scratching his back. His weakness. He loved back scratches. “Just keep being the Trevor I know and love. Just be yourself, okay? Everything comes after that.”

And everything did come after that. I didn’t want Trevor to lose himself or his confidence because of others.

After I got him settled, Trevor and I had cleaned the mess in the kitchen and I took him out for a quick dinner. We ate on some curbside, talking and laughing over nonsense. When we did get home, I had checked up on Jamie, prepared to ask if he was hungry before I found he’d been asleep. After that, I slipped back into our room and got settled in bed with him, flipping through streaming services until we found something to fall asleep to.

✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾

[gold-rhine]

ok as i said repeatedly, my biggest problem with Inazuma rewrite is that I can’t figure out how to make Signora death be good or at least make sense, but I’m realizing its useless to try fitting square peg into a round hole when the perfect option for it already exists. Signora has nothing to do with Inazuma, thematically, narratively or in any sense. She just should not be here at all.

If we have to to write Signora’s death, it should OBVIOUSLY be in Venti’s second story quest set in Mare Jivari, a place referenced in venti’s first quest, “sea of ashes where the wind does not blow.”

she became crimson witch bc she lost loved ones in cataclysm, was angry and disappointed in barbatos for not protecting Mond and those she became powerful enough to do it herself, at the cost of becoming a monster. Before fatui recruited her, she was hunting down demons and never hurt innocents, despite ppl being afraid and ungrateful to her. her first appearance in the game is confrontation with venti. this is her theme.

traveler and venti should be in here with some mond expedition or whatever, diluc should also be there due to Crimson Witch Parallels and also bc there is apparently a phoenix in Mare Jivari and thats thematic for them both. mb signora and venti both trying to get phoenix, idk whats the plot is, the important thing is that signora and venti are confronting each other again and hurling insults, mb there is a boss fight with her

but later like corrupted beasts or whatever attack mond expedition and signora is at first gleeful, she laughs when venti and co are fighting, but then like Uber Lava Dragon or smth shows up and beats venti up and its clear that it will destroy the expedition if not stopped. and there are just normal simple mond ppl there, terrified. and on paper all signora has to do is just let this happen, have her revenge on barbatos, achieve her goal, win and leave

but! she became crimson witch precisely bc of the situation like this! deep down, underneath it all, she is not just a fatui agent, she is a woman who wanted to protect mond when its god failed to do that. so she curses, yells about useless vermin god and steps up to fight the beast.

she defeats him, but is mortally wounded. as she’s dying, venti comes up to her. souls of people who die in Mare Jivari are trapped, because this is the place where the wind does not blow. but today there is a single breeze here.

i never asked for your forgiveness, signora says to venti proudly as he starts glowing with the divine light

i know, he smiles, you don’t need to.

he takes her soul as she dies like he did with stanley’s in his 1st quest, bc barbatos was never a warrior god, he was a bard, an inspiration for ppl to rise up and fight for themselves and then a storyteller to keep the memories of these fighters. and today a story of another protector has joined the fold.

[moonshine999]

Team Green promotional stills

side note : this “analysis” is only limited to the promotional stills and I’ll probably do the trailer/posters a bit later. Also that this is just speculation and most of it is probably bs because I just woke up from a nap and decided to start typing.

this might be one of two things

a) Larys talking to b&c in the dungeon..possibly informing them of their punishment OR watching their punishment unfold

b) Him talking to Aegon about fleeing King’s Landing or actually fleeing King’s Landing

now this also may be where Larys says the “survived dragon-fire” line if it is the second scenario

I would really like to think of this as a scene where Aemond expresses more emotion to Criston about what happened at Storm’s end.

If you notice then Criston seems to be in his night clothes while Aemond is still in his “fighting” or training clothes (if that makes sense).

possibly to indicate how at ease Criston would be trying to make him feel while talking about this but Aemond just keeping his guard up.

it also does look like Aemond is trying to avert his gaze while Criston talks

Also if the above is true (which is highly unlikely actually), then it would serve as a great parallel to Alicent & Aegon with the candles of the sept vs the candles Criston has lit in …possibly his chambers?

Im not very sure about this particular shot at all so even though I’d like to, going into detail on the above point seems useless

SERVING CUNT

okay so all possible times we may see Aegon at the coucil basically come down to a) the first episode as an introduction and b) after b&c

If it is his introduction, then he is probably zoned out here - thinking of something else and playing around with his dagger until (according to the leaks) he is snapped out of it by either a council member or a guard informing that Helaena needs him

But if it's after b&c then he may be zoned out because he refuses to listen to other council members dictate what he should "rationally" do at this time. His mind would be struck with grief and a want for revenge and maybe the placement of the knife near his face like that is no ordinary mistake.

He is probably plotting something here on his own (could be the reason he could ask Larys for help) and it would be such a good parallel, if he's sort of snapped out of it again by the thought of Helaena

phia saban is turning your kids GAY

so we know this is the funeral dress…the two main questions are whether it’s after the funeral or before the funeral and who she’s looking at

my personal bet is before the funeral. This is because she still looks a bit composed as she not seen her son’s body / refused to see it since that night probably because she realises she can’t handle it

(don’t exactly know if the above bit is phrased properly at all but hope the point gets across)

also in details of the shot itself…her veil isn’t tied on yet and her hair is undone/not braided yet..signalling that she is still getting dressed.

As for who she is looking at…the safest bet is either Alicent or Aegon (considering the situation these two are the people who would understand her emotions best)

If it is Alicent.. then it’s most likely her providing comfort to her daughter and sharing feelings/thoughts of what it means to be a mother

And if it is Aegon (which I do think is more likely and that is not just the helaegon manic shipper in me)… then it would probably be him trying to justify not being there (in the room when it happened) and probably promising that he will get revenge for such a heinous act (or something along those lines)

another note : I did not do Alicent’s promo shot because I think that shot could be anything and I personally did not notice any details that could specify the situation or what she may be doing

[deathnguts]

Spare some rabastan lestrange for the needy pls🤲 (i’m the needy and i’d like to know what you think about his dynamic with his brothers)

Sigh, fine I’ll guess I’ll spare some pennies. Thank you for the ask! This is kinda scatter brained and kinda focused on Rodolphus to like parallel/paint how the brothers are together with they are separate and yeah I dunno I threw up

So usually I internalize whatever @florsial (formal apology to you pookie, Im about to act out of line 🫶) says about Rabastan because we tend to agree on things surrounding him but I think we definitely view Rodolphus differently. Which is fine, he barely exists as a character and I think it’s just representative of how we fundamentally view sibling relationships differently. Like I don’t know what it is with me, but I feel the need ti make every sibling relationship I write for either fanfiction or my own work complicated as hell.

So Rodolphus Lestrange. I think he’s a lot like Orion Black. Like he probably even looked up to him kind of when he grew up, (which is kinda funny because Rodolphus probably isn’t much younger than him if at all considering my headcanon that both walburga and Orion were young when they had both their children to kind of get it out of the way) and you can see that in like a lot of how he just is. Hes ‘stoic’ but actually just doesn’t feel a lot of emotions and doesn’t pretend he does, he’s probably like a hair away from being an alcoholic but he doesn’t drink because he knows that (unlike Orion who is very much an alcoholic), hes antisocial and physically annoyed around people because he doesn’t understand why they are as ‘efficient’ as he is and looks down on all of them.

He’s very work oriented, so much so that he doesn’t really have a life outside of it at all. He’s always been the twin the family knew to count on and he always liked having the title so he never had a rebellious stage or any real anger towards his expectations beyond being tired at the end of a particularly grueling work day. I think the only work hes expected to do that he actively doesn’t work towards doing is producing heirs. He doesn’t like kids, he thinks they’re loud and messy and they get in the way of a schedule. It’s like the only thing him and Bellatrix agree on since she also wants nothing to do with kids. (Also quick note on their marriage, I think they pretty much ignore each other and that’s their idea of what they’ll be like forever. When in public together they put on the ‘better than you’ couple mask but in every other scenario they live completely separate lives and actively avoid each other or they’ll find something to fight about.) like the general vibe I could sum him up with is, yes he’s Rabastan’s twin, but everyone who’s ever talked with him assumes he’s like a decade older and just aged well.

So to contrast that with Rabastan, who was never really expected to be anything and never proved anyone wrong, he’s the sort of kid his mother defends no matter what but he father actively tries to forget about. The exact sort Rodolphus looks down on. He can’t help it’s his brother, he’s still below him. And that would be easier to accept if Rabastan stopped proving it over and over. He had to act out in school, he had to move where mother couldn’t find at seventeen, he had to preach to the family that they were ‘immoral’ or whatever, and then he had to preach it to a child, and then he had to marry the child. Like, Rodolphus isn’t a good man by many means, but his lack of feeling or empathy towards people gives him a more head on view of them. And his head on view of his brother is that he’s useless, dramatic, and so desperate to be anything he’ll lie to a little girl to get her to view him that way. And not to say Rodolphus is any better since he witnessed first hand what his brother was doing, he literally walked in on the two hiding away to make out in a corner when regulus was still fifteen and his brother was the same age as himself and just turned back around and never mentioned it to anyone. A truly good person probably would’ve done something. Good thing that’s not what he’s trying to be.

(Also unrelated but I wanna circle back to a point @florsial has that I love about how Rabastan and Regulus are a couple who tries to nuclear and domestic but fails, I feel like that’s a joke on its own especially in this context. The idea that Rodolphus is the nuclear working man so Rabastan must parallel him by being a family man, he just isn’t. Yes he’s closer with his wife than his brother is, and yes that could be something he has over Rodolphus but pretty much no one in their family is proud of Rabastan for his teenage wife and it’s not like their perfect or anything.)

Rodolphus has probably told Rabastan he thinks this only once since he’s usually content to be quiet about it. He probably broke and yelled about how Rabastan will never be anything ro even get his shit together and it won’t matter because no one has hope he will and it hurts because Rodolphus was never given that leeway and it must be fucking nice to have. Rabastan probably doubles back with how much it must be nice for anyone to give a shit about you, to not only exoect things from you but love you even more when you deliver. They probably kept fighting until Rodolphus, as always, gets tired and shuts it down and goes home.

Because even a man who feels nothing has breaking points, especially when Rabastan keeps fucking pushing for one. And that was their relationship a lot of their life, I think. Rabastan desperately wanting to be seen and Rodolphus who is willingly blind. When they were younger that was ok, little kids before hogwarts just played together until father came to take Rodolphus away, growing boys at hogwarts who slowly drift apart when one doubles down on academics and the other found there’s more to do (and not for lack of desperate trying on the seconds behalf.) and then they’re grown up and neither can place what really happened. They’re sure they used to love each other, at least they think so. And they don’t know what happened, because something must have happened. Right?

Yeah I dunno it’s hard to continuously explain but I think what’s tragic about them is that it’s needless. Rabastan could try ti be better and it would not only help his relationships but himself, Rodolphus could try ti be more and he same would happen to him. If either brother were better at being human then they would be better at loving each other. But they’re not, so they can’t.

[lordystrange]

10 best byler proofs by me

10. The cast, especially David (who knows the ending) and Finn (who might know something), are always so happy talking about Byler. They wouldn’t be if Will ended up dying alone as a sad gay. Also no one likes milkvan except maybe Millie unless she’s acting… Caleb even said ”Lucas and Max’s love is real unlike Milkvan’s”.

9. Mike has been queercoded throughout the whole series. Especially with queer colors, he spent s4 dressed as a gay pride flag. Also bi and pan colors are associated with him. Also Ted’s ”our son with a girl?” and everything Eddie said about forced conformity etc

8. Byler parallelling other romantic ships like Jancy, Jopper and Lumax. I’m not listing examples because there are SO MANY! (Also Milkvan parallelling all the platonic/dead ships)

7. Mileven being bones. We have nothing that shows their actual, deep love they’re ”supposed to have”. We don’t know what Mike loves about El and what El loves about Mike. We don’t know what makes them a compatible match romantically. We only know things that don’t make them compatible: El feeling the need to lie to Mike, Mike feeling embarrassed of his nerdy self with El, El feeling unloved by Mike, Mike feeling inferior to El…

6. The desert scenes. The triple take ofc, but also the car roof top convo with Will (jancy parallell). Will is talking about how it’s scary to say how you really feel because what if they don’t like the truth. And Mike NODS. If the truth was that he loved El exactly like El wanted, El would like that truth. So what is the truth Mike is worried that El doesn’t like…?

5. Mike’s monologue. He had to be pushed by Will to open his mouth. He lied about him loving her at first sight. He copied the t-shirt part from Eddie. He kept saying she’s his superhero which El doesn’t wanna be. He didn’t include anything personal about El and their relationship after the t-shirt thing… Also El didn’t seem to like what she heard and their love didn’t save the world. And they didn’t even talk after it. And while filming it they didn’t focus on just the couple (like they did with byler in s2 shed scene) and they let Finn improvise as if it wasn’t that important (as important as the van scene…)

4. Mike would be so poorly written if he wasn’t into Will and I don’t think the Duffers would just ignore his character. Also all the lip glances and heart eyes wouldn’t make sense.

3. Byler/Milkvan contrast. When Will was gone and they found his ”body”, Mike heard Will breathing in a radio channel and believed he was alive. He didn’t rest for a second, he did everything he could to find him. When he thought El was dead, he didn’t go looking for her, even tho a couple times he actually saw her. Also in s3 when Milkvan had a fight, Max said Mike will be crawling back to her begging for forgiveness in no time. Instead Mike laid on a sofa and ate and complained. When Byler had a fight… well we all know what Mike did then.

2. Mike and Will’s relationship has always been different from other friendships. They’ve said it themselves (”pls don’t tell the others, they wouldn’t understand”, ”Hawkins is not the same without you”, ”you make her me feel better for being different”). Also their scenes together have always been a big deal (van scene took an entire day to film, crazy together was written before s1 was even filmed) and they are shot in a really romantic way (music, lighting…)

1. In the beginning of s3, Will said to Joyce that he’s not gonna fall in love. That made his arc about romance. We know now that he already fell in love, but he doesn’t believe it’s requited. If s5 goes from ”i don’t think he loves me back” to ”he doesn’t love me back” we get literally nowhere and the entire storyline (since s1) would be useless and waste of time and money. They wouldn’t make Will suffer 4 seasons and then suffer some more. So believe me when I say it goes ”I don’t think he loves me back” to ”He does love me back!”

I wish you all a very merry byler endgame in s5! 💚

[2cats1trenchcoat]

I don’t know if anyone has said this yet, but I love the parallels between Cinder and Arin.

Small DRS2P2 spoilers below:

The forbidden 5 are able to just use shatterspin whenever they want, but Cinder needs the gong to get him going.

The other 6 ninja are able to use proper Spinjitzu whenever, but Arin’s version is wonky, and needs work.

Both of their respective spins are pretty easily defeated, and while I don’t want to say they’re useless, they don’t offer nearly as much without the spins. In Arin’s case, anyone can do spinjitzu. In Cinders case, there’s 5 people better than him, and each of the forbidden 5 are said to be elemental masters

[em-prentiss]

when you hold me, it holds me together

----

“Emily,” he murmurs, and she hates that she can tangibly feel the concern in his voice. God, she’s a wreck. “How long have you been in there?”

What time is it anyway? Emily’s sure she doesn’t want to know, so she shrugs.

Or, Emily is stranded at a bar. She calls Hotch.

Word count: 3.5k

----

She can see her reflection in the empty glass.

It’s too reminiscent of the pictures she’d hung up on boards for the past week. The girls were younger, yes, but they had the same arch of her brows, the same contrast of dark against light, the same rebellious set of her jaw when she was their age.

Mirrors, parallel universes. They could’ve been her; she could’ve been them.

And yet, for all their similarities, she couldn’t do anything to help them.

Emily closes her eyes as the guilt rises, crashing into the ready anger in the back of her throat. It all tastes bitter, but her own uselessness somehow stands out as it joins the roiling in her stomach.

The bass of the music reverberates through her skull, and suddenly the need to leave the dark bar itches under her skin. Her lungs are too small, the back of her eyes pound with a dry ache in time with the music, and there’s an immovable boulder lodged in her airway. 

She opens her eyes and is met with the multiple empty drinks on the table. Even through her drunken haze she recognizes the stupidity of calling a cab in her state, so she fumbles for her phone and calls JJ, her name more than a little blurred in Emily’s vision.

She holds the phone to her ear and waits as it rings, tapping her feet until the line connects and she hears a suspiciously deep voice after the click.

“Hotchner.”

Emily blinks. Surprise renders her silent, shoulders tensing as she thinks she’s imagined the voice, until a deep, “Hello?” comes through and breaks her out of her daze. 

“You’re not…JJ.” She says dumbly. Her voice is drowned out by the music, swept away in a current of cheers.

“Emily?” It’s easier to hear him as his voice raises in alarm. “Where are you?”

“A bar.” She supplies unhelpfully. As she looks down at the sticky table, the rush of pounding music incessantly fills her ears and the need to leave intensifies, pulses beneath her skin. The need to leave drowns out the memory of the parking lot, so she breathes in and bites the bullet. “Um, can you come pick me up?” For some reason, her words tremble as she digs a palm into her eyes. 

The other line is silent. Tears well beneath her closed lids; she should’ve known, it’s a stupid question. “Sorry, I’ll just call JJ, I misdialed anyway—”

“What’s the name of the bar?” 

She hears the squeak of bed springs, the jingle of keys as they crash against each other.

Instead of relief, her chest tightens further. Emily bites her trembling lip between her teeth and breathes in through her nose, forcing the tears away before she tells him the name of the bar she’s in.

A door slams on the other end of the line. “Stay there, I’m coming.” Hotch tells her. His voice is rough with sleep.

She should say something, probably something a lot like ‘thank you’ or ‘it’s alright, JJ’s house is closer,’ but instead she opens her mouth and all that escapes is, “I don’t wanna be here anymore.” Her voice is a low whisper into the phone, and her only salvation is that the music might’ve been too loud for him to hear. 

He’s silent, so she can only hope it was. “Please come get me.” She says, louder this time, even though he already is. Her voice cracks in the air, and this she knows he hears.

“I’m coming, Emily. I won’t be long.” She can hear the car door slam, the engine roar to life. Emily exhales.

“Thanks.” She ends the call and presses her palms into her eyes again, chasing away the strobing lights with the blissful dark. That’s how Hotch finds her, tucked into a booth behind the bar with her elbows on the table and her head bowed.

“Emily.” He touches his fingertips to her shoulder. She startles and drops her hands, looking up in alarm, but her tense form relaxes when she sees him. 

She can’t hold his gaze, but she notices the lines of his face are softer than they should be. His hair hangs over his forehead, messy, and his usual neat parting is nowhere to be found. Blurrily, Emily takes in his quarter zip and sweatpants, finding both rumpled. 

“Hotch.” 

Her voice is rough; she clears her throat.

His eyes flit over her before sliding lower, taking in the multitude of empty drinks on the table. His brows draw together, and between split second glances, she sees the question in his eyes. But Hotch being Hotch, he doesn’t ask about that.

“Is your tab settled?” Is what he asks instead, surprisingly gentle. 

Emily nods jerkily. 

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

She nods again and looks up at him when he extends his hand to her. Heat burns in her cheeks; she ignores his hand and stands up herself, less than gracefully, but Hotch just tucks his hands in his pockets and follows her as they dodge through the dancing people. She can feel the prickly heat of his gaze searing right through her back.

Emily rubs at her eyes as she walks past. They’re heavy with exhaustion, continually blurred from a mix of alcohol and held back tears, so she rubs hard, sparks flashing in the dark, not noticing a waitress until she almost slams into her. A loud, “Hey!” forces her eyes open and Emily startles back, just barely dodging the irate waitress and her full tray.

Hotch places a hand on her back, steadying her. He throws an apology over his shoulder as he gently guides Emily out of the bar.

Maybe it’s his touch. Or the ungodly amount of alcohol in her blood. Or possibly the slap of cold air that greets them as they walk out into the street. Either way, Emily stumbles. Over nothing, of course, her feet tripping over themselves as she lets out a quiet yelp, her stomach dropping, eyes screwing shut in anticipation of the cement.

Hotch grabs her before she face-plants onto the sidewalk. His hand is a band of warmth around her bicep, his heat soaking through the thin material of her shirt as he helps her regain her balance.

“Emily,” he murmurs, and she hates that she can tangibly feel the concern in his voice. God, she’s a wreck. “How long have you been in there?”

What time is it anyway? Emily’s sure she doesn’t want to know, so she shrugs.

Hotch lets go of her arm with a low sigh, his eyes scorching on her face as he looks at her and she continues to look down. Emily ignores the sudden chill in that band of skin around her bicep, wrapping her arms around herself as Hotch starts walking to the car and she follows him. The silence between them is thick, heavy with cold air and tangible concern and choking guilt. She breathes in through her nose and tries to trap it inside her, sealing it away with her swallow.

It gets stuck in her throat.

The tense silence stretches on.

Emily’s sight is blurry, but she still recognizes his car when they reach it. Hotch reaches for the door before she can, his fingers wrapping around the handle as he pulls it open. Emily fights the urge to shove off his kindness, instead ducking her head into her chin as she gets into the car.

Still so good to her. Too good.

“Thanks,” she whispers, the letters crashing into each other as she clumsily tries to buckle her seatbelt. Emily doesn’t look up at Hotch as he replies with a quiet yeah and shuts the door, crossing over to the other side and getting into the car.

“Bedtime now, I think.” He murmurs under his breath as he fits the key in the ignition. 

Panic sparks under her ribs.

“No,” Emily says immediately. Her chest tightens, the thought of going back to her apartment squeezing the air from her lungs. “I don’t want to go home.” Her words slur together, either from her hurry to speak them out or the alcohol swimming in her blood, she doesn’t know.

Either way, her reaction makes Hotch pause. He turns to her with a frown. “Why not?” 

His voice is too gentle. She wants to sink into it; she wants nothing to do with it.

Emily swallows. The corners of her lips drag downward, her vision growing foggy as she looks down at her hands. Why, why, why? Because it reminds her of another time. 

“It’s lonely there,” she whispers, speaking to her pale knuckles. The answer seems childish, even more so in her small voice. “Quiet.” She grabs a piece of loose skin around her nail and pulls until it tears off and leaves behind a sharp sting.

She used to love the silence—craved it after the noise and rush of the BAU—but now it haunts her. Even the tinkling bell of Sergio’s collar inexplicably makes her jump sometimes, reminding Emily that no matter how hard she tries to forget, nothing is the same anymore. All she can hear is the thick silence of her apartment in Paris, the scary quiet that came when she was sinking into the dark, her heart giving out because it was too tired to fight. Nights at her apartment are too reminiscent of nights she spent cowering in fear, waiting for Ian to reclaim the life she’d clawed at with the skin of her teeth.

Hotch snaps her out of her thoughts, though he doesn’t speak; it’s his breathing, bringing her back to him. Even, almost soundless. Steady.

“I want to go with you,” she says quietly, realizing the measure of truth in her words as she speaks them out. Hotch is the last person she should ask, but he’s a person, he’s here, and going with him means she won’t be alone. 

Silence rings in her ears and Emily tries again. “Please?” Her voice threatens to break; she bites her lip between her teeth, pinching another bit of skin around her cuticle and tearing it off.

A warm hand lays on top of her left one, protecting the ragged skin around her nails. Blocking it from the damage she inflicts on it herself.

Emily turns to look at him. His brows are pulled low over his eyes, his gaze unreadable in the sparse light. She involuntarily tenses to prepare herself for the crushing blow of his rejection. 

He’s going to say no. Of course he would. Of course he’d let her down easy anyway, even though she deserves all the harshness she’d shown him, because why—

Her muscles loosen when he gently squeezes her fingers. 

“Okay.” 

The grip on her chest loosens; her airway clears, and Emily draws in a breath. “Thank you,” her voice wobbles and she looks back down at her hands—and Hotch’s. He removes it, the skin of her hand turning cold with his absence. It takes her back to the cold of the jet, the fluorescent brightness of the parking lot when she’d snapped at him. The guilt rears its head again, nausea cresting and swirling in her gut.

Emily swallows down the bad taste in her mouth. “Thanks for picking me up,” she says hoarsely, turning to the window; his reflection is faint in the glass and she focuses on it, though hers is much clearer. How many times has she thanked him in the past five minutes? It’s consolation, she supposes, though a poor one—a substitute for all the sorry’s she should be throwing at his feet instead.

“Of course,” Hotch replies. He pulls out of his parking spot, the buildings blurring outside the window as the car picks up speed. “I’m glad you called. I’d rather you call me than take a cab at this time.” 

She’s grateful he’s looking at the road, unaware of the tears rising in her eyes. Emily forces deep breaths through her nose and closes her eyes against the tears, trying to trap them in.

The ride to his apartment is a quiet blur. When Emily walks into the dark living room, she remembers a detail gone forgotten in the corners of her mind. 

“Jack,” she rasps, guilt hurtling through her as she curls her fingers into a fist, “is he—”

“He’s at Jessica’s.” Hotch says softly. The keys clink as he drops them in the bowl. “He was asleep by the time we landed.” With a hand on the small of her back, he nudges her to the guest room. “You can sleep here.”

He flips on the light switches, stepping back out of the room as Emily winces at the sudden brightness. With it, though, her eyes absently take in the plain room and en-suite bathroom as she pads across the floor and sits down on the edge of the bed. She toes at her shoes, frowns down at her feet when they don’t budge, before remembering she’s wearing her work boots that zip up.

Emily’s pulling them off as Hotch comes back into the room with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants neatly folded over his arm. He doesn’t comment on the fact that she’s still in her work clothes, sans blazer as he hands them to her with a small smile. 

Emily takes the clothes without fuss; she’s invaded his home, his car, and interrupted his sleep. Borrowing his clothes for the night is hardly the worst way she’s inconvenienced him lately. He leaves again after they’re in her hands, shutting the door behind him and sparing both of them from another guilty thank you.

She’s just changed into his clothes when he knocks on the door. 

“Come in,” Emily mumbles, her eyes on the crumpled mess of her clothes on the floor as she rubs her fingers over the collar of Hotch’s shirt, absently memorizing its softness, the way it faintly smells like him. She’s too drained to be embarrassed at the way his sweatpants pool around her ankles, the sudden softness of his clothes reminding her that she’s been awake since the sun rose, on her feet for just as long.

Hotch walks into the guest room with a glass of water and sets it on the nightstand. “Is there anything else you need?” He asks.

The gentleness of his voice is what breaks her.

Emily shakes her head. It’s not a surprise to her when the tears that had been ebbing and flowing all night suddenly spill down her cheeks in streams, dropping into her lap and soaking Hotch’s sweatpants. She wipes them away but they’re quickly replaced, rivulets of salt dripping off her chin, tinting her eyes and cheeks red.

“Emily,” Hotch breathes. The bed dips as he sits down next to her. “What’s wrong?”

Her chest stutters like a frightened bird as she tries to keep the sobs in, but some choked sound still escapes through the gaps between her teeth. “Why are you being so nice to me?” She garbles out, her voice as wobbly as the tremulous rise and fall of her shoulders, “I don’t deserve it.”

Not after the way she’d yelled at him, defensive and feeling like a raw nerve. 

The case had been long and brutal. It hit Emily harder than usual as she found herself resonating with the victims; young, dark-haired girls who were twin images of her own college self, rebellious and searching for escape in any and all forms. It was all too easy for her to imagine herself in their shoes, a tremor in her hands each time one of them turned up dead, the sights of crime scenes seared into her brain making it difficult for her to keep her dinner down. She had been restless, frustrated at their slow pace against the unsub’s increasingly violent one.

It quickly morphed into anger after dead ends and piling bodies and the increasingly lengthening list of victims. Emily had been sizzling like an exposed nerve, her tension clear to everyone as she barely held herself together, the frantic desperation shining in her eyes thinly veiled by determination.

By the time they caught the unsub, a river of blood was soaking her hands.

She’d completely shut off since then, her eyes going shuttered and haunted, a heavy cloud of silence gathering around her and the lone seat she occupied on the jet. It was all she could to stop herself from breaking down in front of her team, so when Hotch stopped her on her way out of the parking lot with a hand on her arm, gently asking her if she was okay, it was all too easy to explode in his face. Emily had snarled at him, teeth flashing in the fluorescent light as she shook his hand off her arm and sardonically asked, “What do you fucking think?”

It fell like poison from her lips, along with some other harsh retort she’s too buzzed to remember. But she still remembers the way his eyes had widened, the team behind them still as shadows as Emily shoved past him and into her car, slamming the door shut just as tears brimmed in her eyes.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she sniffles now, her reaction made infinitely worse by the fact that she’s in his home, wearing his clothes. “Y-You didn’t deserve it.”

“That’s long forgotten, Emily.” Hotch murmurs.

Emily doesn’t hear him. “And you came for me even though I was a bitch to you, and you brought me here because I didn’t wanna go home, and you gave me your fucking clothes, for god’s sake and I’m just—I’m so sorry.” Her chest caves with sobs as all her pent up emotions spill out of her in tumultuous waves, the guilt at lashing out being the straw that broke the camel’s back.

She’s still crying when he brings her into his chest, his palms warm on her shoulder blades. Hotch rubs them up and down her back, trying to smooth out the tremors as her wet cheek falls against his.

“It’s okay, Emily,” he murmurs soothingly, but she barely hears him over the pounding of her heart. “It was a hard case and I was pushing. I shouldn’t have.” 

This is a product of her bringing Ian Doyle into their lives, one all of them had started taking up; she knows it even though no one has mentioned it, because these days they always seem to prod, even when she insists she’s fine. Emily pushes away their concerns with carefully hidden clenched teeth, acutely aware that if it weren’t for all her secrets, none of them would be acting this way.

“Besides. You call, I answer. Doesn’t matter what you did.” 

Hot tears sting her eyes. They slide down her chin, soak the collar of his jacket.

“But why?” Emily rasps.

His pulse does something beneath her cheek. Hotch inhales, and it jostles her body along with his. “Because you’re my friend.” He says quietly. “And whatever you said or did in a few seconds won’t change the fact that I care about you.”

He says it so firmly, like nothing could ever change his mind. When Emily breathes in, a low hiccup escapes as the tears start up again. Maybe she should be embarrassed, but the alcohol has numbed any part of her brain responsible for that function, instead amping up her guilt. She stuffs her face in Hotch’s neck and tries to stifle her cries, her tears slipping over his skin and dampening his clothes. 

He lets her cry it out, rubbing her back until her head pounds and her throat dries and he shushes her gently. “Shh, sweetheart. You need some rest.” He whispers.

Emily’s eyes are heavy, still damp as they fall closed. “Do you forgive me?” 

“I forgive you, Emily.”

So gently she barely feels it, he tucks her hair behind her ear. She leans into the touch, chasing the unexpected comfort that comes with it. She’s practically on his lap by now, clinging to him like a lifeline, but Emily can’t find anything but the instinct to get closer. His words rumble through her chest, but a nagging insecurity whispers in her ear. When she speaks, her voice is small.

“I don’t want you to hate me.” 

“I never could.”

His answer is resolute. Something about it, about his warm arms around her, makes her confess. “Today was a bad day.” she whispers into his neck. “S-Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t have to.” Hotch says, just as quiet. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Emily, I just wanted you to know that you can.”

Emily’s head falls on his shoulder. God, he’s so warm. “I’know,” she mumbles. Too good to her, even after everything. 

It’s the last thought that echoes in her head before she sinks into the darkness, but this time, not alone.

Taglist: @kllingdaddy @luhwithah @cheetobreath07

[s1zar]

I rewatched Owl House.

First season is so average, like they make it by a notebook

Lilith get off the hook too easily

Fucking body swap plot is annoying in anything but Gravity Falls and Adventure Time

Willow and Amity reconciliation is too quick

Titan Trappers are exist only to exist

Who the fuck put this magic door in Titan’s skull and then put Collector Dish there

How did witches have information to tell legends about the Collector?

When Amity and Hunter are cut off from they Evil Pumping Stations they are lost all personality

Belos is boring as fuck. His only character trait is that he is evil, which is laughable for the show that tell us people are complex. That’s why he only will be referred as Evil Dude

Odalia is so stupidly evil that it’s impossible to take seriously

Lumity is not developed further than “Girlfriends” and the only reason why Lunter could be better is because it’s just easier to develop

Luz and Evil Dude’s parallel starts and ends with the fact that they are humans

Evil Dude is an idiot

Collector could be named Plot Device

Raine is very meh. They only personality is that they are hero

Evil Dude is said to be the strongest witch ever, but he almost looses to five teenagers

What was the point of standing against coven system if in the end we have a squad from a fucking RPG game. Character form plants, character for illusions, character for abominations, character for teleportation

Evil Dude have as much super powers as the plot need

Characters have zero reaction of learning they arch enemy story

Evil Dude looses all small glimpses of being an actual character and become villain of the week

Absence of chemistry between Hunter and Willow can cause physical pain

For the Future is one of the most useless things created by a human being

Caleb Wittebane appears for reasons and never affects anything, so he will referred as Fan-service Background

Collector is an insult to God

I hate Collector

“One character hears half of what other character says and is offended by it, only for the audience learn that other character didn’t actually mean what first character thought they mean” plot line is a violation of Geneva Conventions

Evil Dude spending 98% percent of his screen time in finale as giant roaring green blob is a final shot from a shotgun in a head of his characterisation

Luz is Chosen One now. Message of the show is annihilated by Atomic Bomb

Titan is an asshole who assaulted a child because there was no one else to assault

There two villains. One looks like a child, have sparkles in his eyes, and flies and a star with happy face. Second is goopy skinny, rots in real time, have eyes in places that supposed to be without eyes, and he shrieks like an Alien. Who of the two is going to be redeemed?

The moment Evil Dude is dead Boiling Isles is an utopia. If you take this seriously, I don’t feel sad for you, I will laugh at you

Hunter becomes Caleb 2.0, and that’s why you dig up in the fact that you are a clone, my boy. You never know if your actions are actually yours

Evil Dude’s death better than Toffee’s only because this time main antagonist dies by the end of the series

The fact that Owl House doesn’t redeem it’s main antagonist like Steven Universe or have a better ending than SVTFOE is not an argument

Fuck Collector

I could write what I liked but it would be boring