#i firmly believe he would say something like that

[malcolmschmitz]

The problem I had with it wasn't that it was About Sports. I liked the weird football, and I liked Jon Bois' writing.

The problem is that in an effort to make it About Sports, Bois completely denigrated every other part of the human experience in a way that I found off-puttingly cynical. It's not just that eye wouldn't play sports, it's that --

Okay, so, in The Left Hand Of Darkness, Ursula K. Leguin has a line about how Genly is trying to explain to the King of Karhide why he'd want to join basically-the-Federation. And he says something along the lines of "I couldn't explain the real reasons you'd want to join the Ekumen and explore space. Curiosity. Wonder. Delight. None of these things exist in the language of kings."

...The language of sports is also the language of kings. Most sports games - even the cerebral ones like chess- are about conquest, power, and domination. There's no room for curiosity and wonder on a football field. And that's fine. There doesn't need to be. People need an outlet for their need to CONQUER and BE STRONG, and sports is a way, way, way better outlet for that than most of the things humanity has come up with.

I have no problem with the weird football. I firmly believe that if you gave Americans 10,000 years of immortality, they would invent Weird Football and American society could easily come to revolve around it. I think people like my grandparents- who are incredibly sporty and spend most of their time playing tennis and golf- would follow it avidly. I can buy that most or all people would at least participate.

...But Bois expects the reader to believe that in, give or take, 10,000 years of immortality, people would fully give up on curiosity, wonder, and delight. Bois expects the reader to believe that in, give or take, 10k years of immortality, everyone but a few cranks would speak the language of kings and only the language of kings.

I cannot believe that, and it makes me really sad to imagine a world where that's true. I liked where 17776 was going with the satellites and the football, but I had to put it down because its view of humanity was just too bleak for me. It wasn't about the sports, it was about the deliberate absence of all the other things that make life worth living.

Reducing that to "but EYE wouldn't play SPORTSBALL" is ... kinda mean and reductive.

i see a lot of criticism towards 17776 along the lines of “ugh if humanity actually stopped aging or dying and people really did just live forever they would not spend their time playing football… that is not what EYE would do with MY time…. this is so unrealistic….. clearly the author just wanted to write about sports 🙄😒” and like. yeah. yes. exactly. jon bois is a sports writer and sports analyst who wanted to examine why people love sports and why sports have cultural staying power and why he especially finds sports compelling and what sports have to say about the human condition and our ability to care. so he made up a fake scenario about humans being immortal and then he made it about sports. and he wrote about sports. the story is titled ‘what sports will look like in the future.’ if that isn’t something that you can vibe with then maybe the story simply is not for you

[a-bad-case-of-the-stephs]

How Batman uses the idea of those "born for" vigilantism to justify working with Teen Vigilantes before and after the death of Jason Todd, and what it has to do with Stephanie Brown.

(DISCLAIMER: I'm not trying to condemn the concept of child/teen vigilantes in superhero comics, its a staple of the genre and dumb to condemn it like you would in the real world. I'm analyzing the times in which Bruce Wayne the character has questioned the concept himself, and the rationalizations he comes to about it)

By examining Bruce Waynes mindset immediately before, during, and after Jason Todd's deadly time as Robin, we can see how Batman rationalizes and justifies teenaged vigilantism.

When Dick Grayson as Robin is shot by the Joker, Batman essentially fires him from being Robin. Bruce entirely dismisses the concept of working with a "child" to fight crime. Batman seems to believe working with Dick as Robin is simply too dangerous.

Batman #408 (1940)

His Mindset at this point: Teenaged Vigilantism = Dangerous and Bad

But this, obviously, doesn't stick. It barely takes any time at all after this forBruce Wayne to take in Jason Todd and subsequently make him the second Robin.

Crime fighting with a 19 year old is too dangerous, but crime fighting with the 12 year old? Yeah, sure, why not!

There is an obvious contradiction, and a clear change in mindset.

In order to rationalize his choice to take in Jason Todd as Robin after firing Dick, Bruce Wayne must internally reendorse the concept of Teenaged Vigilantism. And he does so in a specific way:

Batman #410 (1940)

Mindset: If Jason Todd was not Robin, he would become a criminal and die

The dying part is specific as well. When confronted at first by Alfred, its more of an afterthought, something which would occur down the criminal "road" Jason was bound to end up on. But when he is later confronted by Dick, the idea that being Robin "saved" Jasons life takes center stage.

Batman #416 (1940)

It's no longer some distant crime related death Jason was on course for, it was an imminent death which Bruce was able to save him from.

Mindset: If Jason Todd was not Robin, his "self destructive energies" and lack of "self esteem" would have killed him.

This phrasing is SUPER interesting to me, because its not true in a very specific way.

1. Jason Todd wasn't really shown to have "Self destructive energies" before he became Robin. He was stealing to make a living, to stay alive. He never showcases a desire for "self destruction", unless you count his hitting Batman with a tire iron, and his interference in Ma Gunn’s heist. Which I don't.

2. It seems to imply Jason Todd might have died because of specifically "self destructive tendancies", which seems ascribes a small amount of passive potential suicidal ideation, which is also vastly unsubstantiated by anything we see from Jason before he becomes Robin. But you know who is a character who is deeply rooted in concepts of suicidal ideation? Batman. (I'm not going prove this point here, but this concept gets more firmly rooted in the upcoming years after this comic, Knightfall being a great example) Being Batman, Knightfall will establish, is pretty much all that keeps Bruce Wayne living. You could say that being Batman saved his life.

3. Bruce admits he took Jason on because he was lonely in this very same confrontation when Dick pushes him on this idea. This makes it abundantly clear why he needs this rationalization in the first place, his real reason for making Jason Robin appears to be somewhat selfish.

But what does this all mean? For one, it proves that Batman's primary explanation for why he took on Jason Todd is lowgrade BS. It also shows how Batman's rationalization has begun to veer into projection. He states that Jason was saved from his self destructiveness by becoming Robin, something that is certainly true for himself, but not really Jason.

We see this projection fully take root when Leslie Thompkins confronts Bruce. Not only is Jason Todd saved by becoming Robin, now he wasn't even chosen by Batman. It was, much like Bruce Wayne becoming Batman, inevitable. Something he was "born" to do.

Detective #574

Mindset: I didn't chose Jason, he was chosen, he is just like me, we were born for this

This is essential. This mindset will show up again and again as a core part of Bruce's ability to rationalize working with child vigilantes once Jason has died.

Lets look at how his mindset has been evolving from before he meets Jason to his time as Robin progressing. Batman has gone from:

Teenage/Child vigilante Bad --> Child Vigilante Good because Jason would have become a crimial --> Child Vigilante Good because Jason would have died, I saved his life --> Child Vigilante is Good because I saved his life and Jason was meant to be Robin just like I was meant to be Batman, this is what we were was born to do

This is insane rationalization. But it works. For a while.

Then, Jason begins acting out, and putting himself in danger. Whoops. uh oh! How can Jason be saved by becoming Robin, if he is endangered by it? The balm for Bruce's semi-suicidal ideation was crime fighting, so if Jason is self destructive as Robin, does that mean Jason isn't like Bruce after all? Does that mean he wasn't born to be Robin? Was Bruce right in the begining? Is Teen Vigilantism Bad? Well, lucklily, the rationalization Bruce has built doesnt need to change too much in order to accommodate these new facts.

Batman #426 (1940)

See, this issue has not reverted back to being child vigilantism, it's the fact that Jason isn't ready yet.

Batman #426 (1940) / Batman #427

Batman latches onto this idea, he identifies it as "the problem". Is he wrong? No, not really. It does seem like Jason needs come to terms with his parents deaths. But this is important because it is still a rationalization for mindset he started with, still part of the reason he can be in favor of Teenage Vigilantism.

Then Jason Todd dies, as Robin. That truly breaks the underlying concept for this rationalization, that being Robin saved Jason Todd. The entire justification has fully shattered, and Bruce Wayne has lost a son. And, so because of this, in the wake of Jason Todds death, we see a full 180 revert back to the idea Bruce held onto at the end of Dick Graysons time as Robin: Teenage Vigilante = Bad.

Batman #428/ The New Teen Titans #55 (1984) / Batman #439

He has fully rejected the very concept of working with anyone, including the now adult Nightwing. He is literally right back where we started, with even deeper convictions against working with someone else (especially a kid) ever again.

But we all know this doesn't stick. He takes on 13 year old Tim Drake as Robin not long at all afterwards. As the 90's progress Bruces goes on to work with a huge variety of other vigilantes and partners, both teenaged and adult.

So how does he possibly justify this?

I believe he retrofits his rationalization for taking on Jason as Robin.

He adheres to a primary idea. The idea that some people are, like him, simply built for Vigilantism. That they, much like he once believed Jason was, "born" for it.

Mindset: Child Vigilantle is not always Good, but it can be Good. When its the right kind of teenager. Some Teenaged Vigilantes are meant to be Vigilantes just like I was meant to be Batman.

In this way, Jason Todds tragic murder is not a failure of concept, it a category error. Batmans mistake was not working with a teenager, his mistake was working with the wrong kind of teenager. Jason Todd was not built for vigilantism. But others are. This means he's still totally in the clear to work with teenagers, Tim Drake as Robin, then Cassandra Cain as Batgirl, and then eventually Stephanie Brown as Spoiler. So long as Bruce is able to believe they are "born" for it, that they are like Batman himself, meant to do this, and incapable of living a normal life, there is no contradiction, his rationalization holds.

But where’s the proof?

This mindset can be clearly seen and prominently seen when Stephanie Brown is fired as Spoiler.

When Steph is fired as Spoiler because she has moved in Bruce's mind from the "acceptable Teen Vigilante" category into the "unacceptable Teen Vigilante category". And the reasons he gives for this decision are exactly in line with the rationalization I've lain out. She is consistently contrasted to other teen vigilante characters who are fit for duty because he does not see her as "like him/them".

Detective #790

Notice how he jumps right from "Jason and Stephanie were/are not fit to fight crime" to "they could/can have a normal life" right to "unlike me and you, Cassandra Cain, who are stuck fighting crime forever". Much like how he originally justified his decision to work with Jason Todd as Robin through the idea that Jason and Bruce were both destined for this life, he applies the exact same idea, but this time, about himself and Cassandra Cain as Batgirl. And in contrast to them, and in directly comparison to Jason Todd, Stephanie is not meant for crime fighting.

Batgirl #38 (2000)

And Stephanie Brown is contrasted with Cass again, when Bruce first explains why he fired Steph to Cass. This is a consistent pattern. She is not like Cass. This is why she shouldn’t be a vigilante.

When he explains that he is going to fire Steph as Spoiler to Tim, he says something very interesting which invokes the same idea. In the list of three reasons he throw out that Steph shouldn't be Spoiler, he mentions that she is going to "throw her life away". When taken in combination with the other panels discussed, its clear to me that he means this is the common way the saying is used. That she is wasting her life by being a vigilante, that she should, as he mentions earlier, be living a normal life. But why is he saying this to Tim? If one of the reasons Steph shouldn't be Spoiler is her ability to lead a normal life, why the fuck is Tim exempt? I think it comes from a genuine belief that Tim is "like him". Unable to live a normal, non-vigilante life, "born" for crime fighting. Much like Cass, who we already saw him directly compare himself to in this exact same way. Thats why he can directly reference to Tim Steph's ability to have a normal life as a reason she shouldn't be a vigilante, he doesn't believe Tim fits the same category at all!

Robin #106 (1993)

So why the fuck does Stephanie move categories? She was acceptable earlier? What changed?

I've already done an in-depth explanation for what the subconscious underlying reason Bruce fires Stephanie: she simply is no longer useful to as a balm for his loneliness. I highly recommend checking out the post here if you are interested in the breakdown of why and how.

But in addition to that, it’s clear to me that it also has a weird amount to do with Jason Todd.

Stephanie simply and clearly reminds Bruce of Jason Todd. He points out their similarities in personality, and it’s worth mentioning the similarities in their circumstances as well (mothers who struggle(d) with drug addiction, and fathers who were criminals).

As we saw in Detective #790, their personality similarities led to Batman associating Steph with Jason. This makes sense, this association would only grow as he got to know her over the time she is sanctioned as Spoiler.

I believe this association leads to him eventually placing her in the same category as Jason, as not "born" for vigilantism at all, and as capable of having a normal life.

But it also serves as a clear way to rectify his mistakes with Jason. It’s his way of “making up for” his role in Jason's death. It’s his second chance. Never mind that this second chance leads to his assessment of Stephanie having very little to do with Steph herself, and a whole fucking lot to do about Bruce’s guilt over Jason’s death.

This is especially brutal because it seems to come from a place of genuine care (and a selfish desire to assuage his guilt too), but Stephanie doesn't get the tender moment of explanation and grief and regret that Cassandra hears. She doesn't get to know this.

What she gets, is to be told point blank that she is fired because she just isn't good enough. She gets to hear that she lacks the "skills and talent" from the same man who originally came to her to train her because he finally saw and recognized her potential. She gets told she will never be good enough by the guy who told her that she could learn and improve under his instruction. She gets two sentences. She has to fight for any more.

I cannot emphasize enough the fact that she had to track Bruce down to get an explanation for why he was suddenly ghosting her. He didn't even have the decency to tell her himself. Stephanie had to track Bruce down just so she could find out that he gave up on her.

Stephanie gets a blunt lie about why she is fired. And Bruce Wayne gets to feel good about "correcting" a mistake that had nothing to do with Stephanie. Stephanie gets cut off from her friends. Bruce Wayne gets to reconcile with his team. Stephanie gets to feel worthless. Bruce Wayne gets to feel justified.

[mywhisperingwords]

tired eyes are the death of me | fred g. weasley

summary: a talk in the middle of the night leaves a bittersweet feeling in your heart word count: 1.8k masterlist

The kitchen was draped in shadows, and you didn’t notice him standing there at first.

His tall figure blended into the darkness, his face a silhouette against the faint moonlight filtering through the window. It wasn’t until he turned, his gaze locking with yours, that you stopped short.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you whispered, your voice soft so as not to shatter the stillness of the house.

Fred didn’t respond. Maybe he hadn’t heard you, or maybe he was choosing not to. Undeterred, you made your way to the cupboard. “Tea?” you offered, letting the word hang in the silence.

Still, nothing.

Turning, you caught sight of his faraway stare, fixed on something unseen beyond the windowpane. “Fred?” you called, louder this time.

It was unnerving, the silence in place of his usual banter, the laughter that seemed to follow him like an aura.

You stepped closer, hesitant but unable to leave him alone in whatever thoughts had stolen him away. Gently, you placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Have you ever thought about leaving it all behind?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, and the weight of the question stilled you.

Your hand hovered for a moment before you slowly pulled it back. “What do you mean?”

“Packing up. Just going. Somewhere far away.”

His words struck a chord deep within you, one you didn’t want to admit was there. The thought had crossed your mind before—how could it not? War was looming, and with it came the constant shadow of loss. But running had always felt selfish. Cowardly.

Fred’s voice broke through your thoughts. “We could die, you know.”

A shiver ran down your spine, but you met his words with quiet honesty. “It makes you think, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, his gaze still far away. “About everything.”

“All the regrets,” you murmured.

“I don’t believe in regrets,” he said firmly, finally turning to face you. “When I die, I won’t have any.”

You blinked, startled by his certainty. “I would.”

His brow furrowed, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “What would you regret?”

You hesitated. There was so much you could say, so much you could leave unsaid. Instead, you gave him a fragment of the truth. “That I didn’t ask you to dance with me.”

The words seemed to surprise him, his eyes narrowing as he searched yours. You felt exposed, the memory of that night as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

And just like that, you were back in the Great Hall, watching him twirl someone else under the enchanted ceiling.

The music was loud, but all you could hear was the hammering of your own heart. From your spot near the wall, you could see everything—the way he laughed as he spun her, the way his hand rested on her waist, his other hand clasped in hers.

Angelina.

They looked perfect together, didn’t they? You hated that thought almost as much as you hated how happy he seemed.

Jealousy clawed its way up your throat, a bitter taste you couldn’t swallow down. Your own date had left you long ago, likely tired of your distracted glances toward the middle of the room. You felt a twinge of guilt for them, but it was nothing compared to the ache in your chest as Fred and Angelina danced.

You didn’t think he’d noticed you at all that night. You weren’t sure which hurt more—the jealousy or the invisibility.

Finally, you’d had enough. You pushed off the wall, ready to leave the Hall and the sight of him behind.

“Leaving already?”

His voice stopped you cold.

You turned, surprised to see him standing there, his brow furrowed as he looked at you. He was still breathless from dancing, his hair slightly mussed, his tie loosened.

“I’m tired,” you said, your voice steadier than you expected. “You should go back. You seemed to be having fun.”

Something flickered in his eyes, something you couldn’t name. For a moment, you thought he might say something else, but then he only nodded.

“Good night, then,” he said.

And that was it.

You never told him how much that night had hurt, how much you wanted to be the one he twirled under the enchanted ceiling.

Back in the kitchen, the memory clung to you, heavy and suffocating.

Fred’s voice pulled you back to the present. “I would’ve, you know. If I had known.”

The words were quiet but certain, like he had thought them over a hundred times before saying them aloud.

Your heart clenched. “Would you?”

He nodded, his gaze holding yours now, unwavering.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you—charged, heavy, and full of things neither of you had ever said.

Fred’s gaze lingered on you, his expression unreadable. The silence between you felt like a fragile thread, one tug away from breaking.

“Remember that night in the common room?” you asked, your voice softer now, as if the memory itself required a gentler touch.

He tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “What about it?”

You hesitated, unsure if you wanted to revisit it, unsure if you could. “You told me you were leaving school.”

His smile faded as the weight of that night returned, and his eyes softened with understanding. “I remember.”

The memory was as vivid as the firelight that had danced across his face that night, casting flickering shadows on the walls of the empty common room.

You’d found him there, sitting on the worn couch closest to the fireplace, the warm glow illuminating his freckled skin. It was late, so late that the castle seemed to exhale in its slumber, every creak of the floorboards echoing in the stillness.

You paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment. He looked almost peaceful, his legs stretched out, hands folded in his lap, but there was a tension in his posture—a stillness that wasn’t quite natural.

“You’re up late,” you said as you approached, breaking the silence.

He glanced at you, his lips curving into a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Could say the same for you.”

You sat down beside him, the cushion sinking under your weight. “What’s on your mind?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He stared into the flames, his gaze distant, his jaw tight. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your stomach twisted, and you gripped the edge of the couch to steady yourself. “Leaving?”

“George and I… we’re finally doing it,” he said, a spark of excitement flickering in his tone. “We’re leaving Hogwarts. Starting the shop. It’s real this time.”

You wanted to be happy for him. You wanted to match his enthusiasm, to tell him how proud you were. But all you could think about was the empty space he would leave behind.

“Just like that?” you asked, your voice barely audible.

“Just like that,” he confirmed.

You turned your gaze to the fire, unable to look at him. The heat of the flames wasn’t enough to chase away the cold knot forming in your chest.

“You’ll do great,” you said, forcing the words out past the lump in your throat.

He looked at you then, his eyes searching yours. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

He smiled again, softer this time. “Thanks.”

But the silence that followed was heavy, filled with the things neither of you said. Things like, Will you miss me? Things like, Don’t go.

You didn’t ask him to stay. You couldn’t. So instead, you sat there with him, staring into the fire, letting the unspoken words linger in the space between you.

“I hated you for it,” you confessed now, pulling Fred back into the present.

His brows knit together, and he opened his mouth to speak but stopped, his hand twitching at his side. “Hated me?” he asked, his voice soft, almost disbelieving.

“You left me behind,” you said, your words quiet but unyielding.

“I never meant to.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But you still did.”

The tension between you felt like a taut string, ready to snap, and you both seemed to sense it.

Then he took a step closer. “Can I have this dance?”

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift. “What?”

“This dance,” he repeated, holding out his hand to you. His tone was light, but his eyes held an intensity that rooted you to the spot.

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Because I should’ve asked you before,” he said simply.

Your heart stuttered, and for a moment, you didn’t move. But then, slowly, you placed your hand in his.

He pulled you close, his hand settling gently on your back. The kitchen was still, the only sound the faint rustle of your movements as he began to sway with you.

There was no music, but you didn’t need it. The rhythm of your heartbeats was enough.

The moonlight streaming through the window cast a soft glow around you both, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappeared.

As you swayed together, Fred leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Maybe we should do it,” he murmured.

“Do what?” you asked, your eyes closed, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Run away,” he said softly, the words so quiet you almost didn’t catch them.

You froze, pulling back slightly to look at him. His expression was earnest, his eyes searching yours for something—hope, maybe, or agreement.

“Fred…”

“I’m serious,” he said, holding your gaze. “Let’s leave. Just you and me. Forget the war, forget everything else. We could go somewhere far away, start over.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, at the desperation in his eyes. But you shook your head, your voice trembling as you said, “We can’t.”

“Why not?” he pressed, his grip on your hand tightening.

“Because we can’t just run away,” you said, your voice cracking. “Our families, our friends—they need us. We can’t leave them to fight alone.”

His shoulders slumped, and he looked down, his jaw clenching. “I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you said, your voice firm despite the tears threatening to spill.

Fred looked at you then, his eyes shining with an emotion you couldn’t name. Slowly, he pulled you close again, wrapping his arms around you.

“One day,” he whispered, his voice heavy with a promise. “One day, we’ll have this. A real chance. Just us.”

You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead against his, letting his words wrap around you like a blanket. “I believe you,” you whispered, though the truth was, you weren’t sure if you believed anything anymore.

But in that moment, with his arms around you and the world outside forgotten, you let yourself hope.

&

And years later, when you looked back on that night, you realized neither of you had needed to say it. You both knew.

[gay-dorito-dust]

consider: batboys reacting to their s/o who is fucking obsessed with Viktor. like they keep rewatching all of arcane and over analyze and froth over that man. (me fr)

Tim is equally as interested in arcane and in Viktor just as much as you were in all honesty.

So needless to say season two act two broth the both of you, but you were taking it much harder then he was as you swore that Viktor will return as the machine herald in act three, you were being delusional but it was better to be that then accept that your favourite character was gone forever.

Tim would retort and say that the Viktor wasn’t entirely Viktor and would make a fucking power point made with incredible detail pointing to the exact moment Viktor’s character changed entirely. He, like many others, firmly believed that Viktor was corrupted or playing host to the arcane and sighting as Salo as a major reason as to why that might be.

You two would spend countless hours rewatching season one a week before season two came out and cried…Only to cry again somehow ever worse after season two with Isha being the brave little soul that she was. You’re both very, very delusional and hope that she’s somehow alive even though she most likely isn’t, which means jinx will become a menace and make it everyone’s problem.

You also agree that the commune was too polished and perfect to not have something weird going on underneath the surface, while also agreeing that Skye is what the arcane is disguising itself in hopes of using the guilt Viktor felt towards her death to its advantage.

Damian doesn’t watch shows unless you force him to.

He doesn’t find any interest in doing such things but he had to admit the art style of arcane had him greatly intrigued. That and the story was well written as were the characters complex with their ambitions, motivations and actions that they thought were right.

You going apeshit over Viktor however, expect to be on the brunt of his side eyes when you openly simp for the man of science.

‘THATS MY HUSBAND!’ You yelled and Damian swore he had became deaf after that. So whenever you’d visibly look excited to see Viktor -even though it had only been a few scenes since you last saw him- he’s bracing himself for the outburst you’d let out each and every time.

He comes to adore the show but not nearly as much as you however but he has to applaud the writers and everyone involved with such an enriching story and three dimensional characters and how it seemly the story is. After all it takes a talented person with a good eye to pull together a perfect story out of thin air. But other than that he picks up on the finer details that you might’ve missed yourself and you rewards him with kisses and hugs for doing so.

Much like Tim, Damian believes that the arcane is using Skye’s likeness to manipulate and corrupt Viktor due to his guilt over her death. He was all about destroying the hexcore but all notions of that seemed to disappear not long after the commune he builds grows in concerning numbers. Almost like an unsettling hivemind especially when they all die the way that they did.

Dick finds your attraction and or obsession for Viktor hilarious and would record you every time he came on screen, especially so when he had grown his hair out a little.

You were barking like a fucking dog for that man, foaming at the mouth and going absolutely feral as though you were going to leap through the tv and tackle the fictional character. ‘That’s my husband!’ You’d yell the moment you see him and Dick is pouting like a child as he crossed his arms over his chest.

‘I thought I was your husband.’ He says and you’d have to console your pouty man with a bunch of kisses and reassurances that he was still number one in your heart. Dick had doubts as he once asked you ‘if Viktor was real would you stay with me?’

Your silence spoke volumes for Dick who only pouted even more and you had to console him…again. You love your dickie bird and you had to reassure him the Viktor was fictional and not real, thus your love and attention would forever more be his. Needles to say he was a happy little pup for the rest of the day…that is until he saw your eyes glued to the screen whenever Viktor came on and shushing him so that you could hear his soft voice speak.

You swore you’ve never heard Viktor yell, well other than that one scene in arcane where he’s running but then again you were screaming at the screen along with him. Needles to say you were inconsolable when he died and Dick had to deal with you making a memorial for a person that wasn’t real and praying for his return as the machine herald.

Jason loves the story arcane tells.

Probably sees himself in a lot of the characters from the undercity/zaun to be honest as it almost reminds him of his time in Crime Alley.

Jason is a fan of a well written story as a man who is a lover of literature and theatre, so when you shown him arcane his ass was sat on the couch from episode one and was immediately hooked.

So when you openly thirst over Viktor and scream ‘THATS MY HUSBAND! LOOK AT HOW FUCKING PRETTY HE IS OH MY FUCKING GOD!’ He’s chuckling at your enthusiasm and your obsession with the man it was downright hilarious.

‘Do you like men with long hair?’ He asks teasingly.

‘I like men with intellect, dignity, a good heart and a little softie.’ You replied as you poked his chest. ‘Long hair doesn’t suit every man unfortunately, I think it’s got something to do with the face shape but yeah…I don’t think many could suit it as effortlessly.’ You add with a shrug of your shoulders.

Jason will be more than willing to listen to you as you go on about the theories you believe might be true in regard to Viktor, the hexcore and the arcane itself. He loved it when you get this passionate about things you love that he couldn’t help himself but give you a kiss on the lips each time you seem to be tripping up on your word because you were that excited to have someone to talk to about all this, especially if it was your beloved partner. ‘What was that for?’ You’d ask after he pulls away from the kiss.

‘You looked adorable and sexy when you talk theories and speculations for what will happen next, it’s a good look on you and I couldn’t help but kiss you.’ Jason replied as he kissed you on the lip once again and you were quick to talking about how Viktor had to come back in act three and how you think Viktor was being used as a puppet.

Jason throws in his thoughts and opinions but he just loved to sit and listen to you and admire that beautiful brain of yours.

[rafestyles]

should've known it was a matter of time pt. two || rafe cameron

author's note: if you haven't read part one yet - read it here. thank you so much for the love on the first part!! i haven't written anything in so long, but i'm going through something horrible (being completely addicted to rafe cameron). anyways - i hope you enjoyyyy :)

warnings/content: toxic!rafe, pogue!reader, maybank!reader, fem!reader

the next morning finds you perched on the bed, eyes trained on the sunlight as it spills over the horizon. at the sound of rustling, you turn your eyes below to catch rafe still sleeping on the floor - the rise and fall of his chest moving at a steady rhythm. anxiously biting your nails, you wrestle with your thoughts as you try to map out your next move.

last night, as you attempted to drift off, the words he sadly muttered to you echoed in your mind: “you forget i used to know you, y/n.”  your past self - the one who didn’t know everything that would happen - keeps urging you to tell him the truth about the diary, to confess. but this version of you, the one who’s learned the hard way, knows better. you can’t trust him, not after everything and especially not when he’s making deals with his father. 

getting frustrated with yourself, your feet hit the floor with a sharp sense of urgency. you pace towards the window, heart pounding in your chest. one thought rings through your mind: you need to get out of here. now. you know your brother and friends are on their way - they’re coming for you, they always do - but that doesn’t mean you should sit back and wait, that feels like surrender. 

you steal one last glance at rafe before drawing the curtain back and tapping hastily on the glass. the guard standing in front turns around, his brows furrowing in confusion before you speak, praying he can read your lips. “go get mr. singh.”  you subtly gesture towards the door, “i need to talk to mr. singh.” 

as he begins to turn away, the sound of rafe’s groggy voice suddenly breaks through. “shut up! shut up! shut up!” he demands as he stands, reaching you quickly and gently grasping onto your arm, “what are you doing?”

you yank your arm away, “like i owe you an explanation.” you snap, shouldering past him as you stalk towards the door. “think for a second” he demands, scrambling to follow, “y/n, wh-what are you doing?”

you pound on the door, your voice desperate, “hello?” rafe steps closer, desperation lacing his tone. “y/n, what are you doing?” he reaches out to touch you again. “don’t - don’t touch me.” you beg, raising your hand to halt him.

to your surprise, he actually listens to your command, his hand clenching once before dropping back to his side. for a brief moment, a look of defeat flashes in his eyes but you watch as it quickly turns back into anger. 

ignoring him, you twist back to resume pounding on the door, “hello? i need to talk to mr. singh!” you call out, your voice firm. 

rafe dares to step closer to you, his voice a soft whisper as he speaks, “you’re lying about this diary thing.” it’s not a question - it’s a statement and you refuse to look at him as you shake your head, “no.” 

he scoffs, voice dripping with disbelief.  “you know where it is.” you squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head again, “no.” your voice barely audible, “i don’t.” 

abandoning your efforts at the door, you turn back into the room. rafe shifts with you, his eyes sharp and trailing your every move. “you don’t? okay.” he shrugs, but his tone betrays his frustration.

“you wish.” you mutter under your breath as you make your way towards the window, determined to get the guard’s attention again. 

“okay, listen - i wouldn’t tell me either.” he says, his voice low but frantic, “but he’s never going to believe we don’t know something, y/n.” 

you block his words out, rapping your knuckles against the window, “hey!” you plead, your voice rising, “hey!” 

rafe catches up to you, his hands laying gently but firmly on your shoulders as he turns you around to face him. his expression is intense as he speaks, “he killed that guy, y/n. don’t you get it?”

“hey!” you snap, shoving at his shoulders, desperate to get him off of you. your eyes lock for a heated moment as the only sound echoing through the room is your heavy breath. 

“look around, y/n.” he shakes his head, resigned, “i’m the only friend you got.” 

before you can respond, the sharp sound of a lock turning breaks the tense moment. rafe spins instantly, moving to shield your body as the door swings open.

you step around him without hesitation, your posture stiff but determined. “baby” he whispers desperately behind you, his voice raw. the nickname sends a shock through your body, but you push it aside, keeping your focus. 

“i need to talk to mr. singh.” your tone firm as you stand facing the guard directly. the guard’s gaze sweeps over you, assessing. “i have something to tell him. it’s urgent.” you insist.

as the silence lingers, you glance back at rafe to find him flexing his jaw angrily, his gaze burning a hole through yours.  “yes.” the guard finally responds. relief has no time to settle before a hand clamps down harshly on your shoulder. refusing to flinch, you force a nod, allowing him to guide you out of the room.

as you pass through the door, you steal one last glance at rafe. his eyes widen in panic as he takes a step forward. before he can speak, the door slams shut and the sound echoes through the hallway as you find yourself alone with the guard. 

–

“i lied,” you state firmly, standing in front of singh as he sits leisurely at the table. His eyes fix on you as you take a steadying breath. “i know about the diary.” 

he exhales sharply, a look of satisfaction crossing his features, but you continue on before he can respond. “i don’t have the original, but i can get you a copy.”

singh leans forward in his seat, reaching to grab a grape from the bowl in front of him. he pops it in his mouth with a smirk, “i’m relieved to hear you say that, you know.”he says smoothly. “may i offer you something to eat?”

“i’m not hungry,” you reply, your voice flat. 

“relax, nothing’s gonna happen to you now. you’re cooperating, and i don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

you inhale through your nose, trying to keep your composure. “i just want to get you what you want,” you say tightly, “and then i want to leave.”

the room falls silent for a moment as you gather your courage to say the next part, “look - i know where it is. but,” you hesitate, your voice faltering, “i have to go by myself. alone.” 

singh chuckles darkly, shaking his head as if he’s amused by your audacity, “but how would i know that you’d come back?” he leans back in his chair, voice dripping with condescension. “i need some collateral.”

“rafe’s here.” you offer, your voice quiet but resolute, “keep him.”

he scoffs, pushing himself up from the table “rafe.” he repeats, almost laughing as he strides towards you. “how did someone so young get into so much trouble?” 

he circles you and you turn to follow, “look, i know where the diary is. and if you let me go, i promise you, i can get it to you.” 

he halts abruptly, pivoting his body to face you again, “you know, i built this fortune myself from nothing.” his expression hardens as he steps towards you, “from absolutely nothing.” he points a finger at you, his tone taking on a darker note, “do you know how that happened, miss. y/l/n? hm?” 

“i can assure you, it wasn’t by being a fool. don’t waste my time.” he snarls, his voice low and menacing. 

you stand frozen, your heart pounding as fear coils tightly in your chest.

“the diary holds the key to the ultimate conquest, and that, my young friend, miss. y/l/n, is my destiny.” he points to his chest with emphasis, his eyes blazing with obsession.

you swallow hard as he leans in closer. “so you need to tell me where it is,” he hisses, “or i’m gonna -” 

the sharp ping of his phone cuts him off. he pauses, his jaw tightening as he glances at his device. after a moment, he exhales and walks towards the table, picking it up. you turn with him, watching as his expression shifts, a mocking smile spreading across his lips.

“hm,” he murmurs thoughtfully, chuckling as he reads the screen. “amazing.” he mocks, his eyes flicking back to you, “a text from our friend jimmy portis.” he waves his hands theatrically, “from beyond the grave, apparently.” 

alarm slams through your body as realization crashes down - this could only be your brother’s doing.

“it seems mr. portis has captured your friends,” he sneers, turning the phone to face you, showing you the picture of john b. and sarah on the screen. you swallow around a lump in your throat as he barks, “ryan!” 

the door creaks open and the guards steps inside, “get the big trucks and meet me in the back in three minutes.” singh commands without looking up. 

“copy.” the guard replies before disappearing back through the door.

he types a reply on his phone and gestures towards another guard. “get miss. y/l/n.”

“mr. singh, please -” you begin, but the guard grabs you roughly by the shoulders, steering you toward the stairs.

“please don’t hurt my friends! please!” you plead desperately, struggling against the weight of the guard. “please! please don’t hurt them, please!” 

“that depends, miss. y/l/n.” 

“Please.” you cry out again, tears stinging your eyes.

singh smirks, already turning away, “we’ll continue our chat later. i look forward to it.” he strides towards the exit as the guard pushes you towards the bedroom door. 

the door swings open and your eyes instinctively find rafe’s. he steps towards you immediately, concern etched across his face.

“inside.” the guard commands, pushing you past the threshold and slamming the door behind you. 

rafe’s hands gently grip your shoulders as he bends his knees slightly to try to meet your gaze.. “y/n, what happened?” he whispers, his voice low and urgent.

you can’t look at him. your eyes fixate on the space behind him, dread pooling into your stomach at the thought of singh’s men trailing after your brother and friends. 

“y/n..?” he murmurs again, his voice softer now.

you step back, letting the edge of the bed catch you as you sit down. rafe follows, kneeling directly in front of you. his eyes search yours, pleading for answers.

“please tell me what happened.” 

when he’s met with your silence, he stands back up, pacing around the small room. his patience begins to fray. “what happened?” he demands, sharper this time.

you exhale a breath, the tears threatening to pool over as you run your fingers through your hair anxiously. the words refuse to come as terror grips you.

rafe huffs, annoyance cutting through his worry. “you’re gonna have to talk to me at some point. okay?” 

finally, you lift your head, your voice cold and detached.“do i have to remind you of everything you’ve done?” 

his movements still, his body going rigid as your words hit him. 

“you killed peterkin.” you state bluntly, your expression unreadable. “do you remember that? and everything you’ve put your sister through?” 

he steps towards you, frustration radiating off of his body. “peterkin? i was protecting my father, okay? i did what i had to, so… don’t.” 

he turns away again, pacing furiously before dropping into the chair across the room. “i’m as much a victim as she is.” he mutters.

you stare at him, incredulous, “a victim?”

 “no?” he snaps, his voice rising as he gestures widely. “think about it, okay? what did i get from shooting peterkin, huh? nothing. okay? i had nothing against her. i liked her, y/n.” his voice breaks slightly, “you think i wanted to make that choice?”

his movements become frantic as his emotions boil over. “what i did was a gift from me to my father for… for him, and i got screwed because of it, okay? so don’t get that look when i say i’m a victim, all right? i am!” 

the outburst makes you flinch and he notices. his shoulders sag as his voice softens, “i will admit though, what i… what i did to sarah.,” he pauses, and you look over at him as you watch his eyes glisten with unshed tears.

“what i tried to do, um…what i tried to do to sarah. i admit that was wrong.” he looks at you as you watch him crumble, tears spilling over as his voice cracks,“i know that. all right? so you don’t have to remind me.” 

he runs his hands over his buzzed head,  standing as he begins to pace the room again. a small sob breaks past his lips as he exhales a deep breath, attempting to control himself. after a brief moment, he starts slapping his hands against his head repeatedly. 

acting on instinct, you stand and close the distance between you. you take his wrists gently, your thumbs brushing soothing circles over his pulse points. you watch as he struggles for words, “she was family. i never should’ve touched her, you know?” he says suddenly, looking at you through his tears, “i should’ve never touched her, but, you know, i just lose control in moments like that and i don’t know what happened.”

“i know.” you whisper. when he gets like this, you know how hard it is for him to regain his control. only allowing yourself to hesitate for one moment, you take a steadying breath before pulling him into an embrace.

he freezes before you feel his body relax slightly, “i’m trying.” he murmurs against your shoulder, his voice raw, “i’m trying to get better.” 

when he seems calm enough,  you take a step back, “i know,” you say softly, meeting his gaze.

but his face hardens again, the desperation momentarily replaced by defiance. “it doesn’t matter. all i’m saying is that i’m not the bad guy you think i am, okay?” he sniffs, his tone defensive. “but even if i was - even if i was just ‘bad rafe cameron’” he gestures between the both of you, his voice breaking slightly again, “you got no choice.”

the tension in the room sharpens as you snap,“and what about me?” 

he falters, face crumpling slightly.

“what about when you made me choose between you and my brother? between you and my friends?” your voice cracks as the tears finally fall.

he exhales and begins to pace the room again. “y/n…” he starts but you cut him off. 

“don’t,” you mutter, shaking your head. “i don’t want to hear it.”

“y/n, i -”

“seriously, rafe. don’t,” you beg, your voice barely above a whisper. “forget i asked.” 

he freezes, his frustration evident as he runs a hand over his head, “you may… you may not want to trust me,” he finally speaks, “okay? but i’m your best bet.”

you remind silent, the weight of his words sinking in. slowly, you sit back down, your gaze dropping to the floor.

from the corner of your eye, you see rafe kneel in front of you again. his hands rest tentatively on your knees, warm and grounding. 

“i got a boat that can get us off island, okay?” he says, quietly, “but first, we gotta get out of here, and it is better if we work together.” 

before you can respond, the sound of vehicles outside the window pulls your attention. your stomach sinks as you realize singh’s men are on the move. you stand quickly, stalking towards the window and pulling the curtains open.

“they’re leaving?” rafe questions, his voice breaking the silence.

“they’re going to find john b.” you say softly, dread evident in your tone as you turn back to face him, “and your sister.” 

you begin pacing, your mind racing as you try to formulate an escape plan.

“sucks for them.” rafe murmurs, his words making you stop in disbelief. “that’s good for us though. this may be our only shot at getting out of here.” 

the anguish on your face is enough to make him pause, but you shake your head, a look of determination washing over instead.

“you’re right,” you say finally, your voice resigned. “let’s make a plan.”

rafe nods, determination hardening his features. “let’s make a plan.” he repeats.

[lovinglylibelle]

—𝐣𝐣𝐤 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐮𝐩 { pt. 3 }

pt1 || pt2 || pt4

masterlist || navigation

moodboards will be posted after the series<3

✧. GOJO SATORU

Okay we all know that he is a diva but actually he doesn't try to be. I know its shocking but somehow whatever he wears, he serves.

He knows he looks good and whats worse is that he knows how to make himself look even better. it just comes to him naturally.

firmly believes that the reason Megumi is able to dress well is because of his influence (he is so obsessed with himself istg)

Has a very very diverse style, wears whatever looks good on him.

Usually its a button up with trousers and a belt to accentuate his thin waist. Such a show off

Likes the color: white, beige, light purplish-blue, gray and black. Thinks they looks the most classy and decent out of all. i agree with him.

Also wears colours like olive green, dusty rose etc but very rarely.

Has a lot of sunglasses obviously, circle ones, oval ones and etc etc. Got them in various colors too, matches them according to his outfit or just wears his signature black round glasses.

WILL ALWAYS have the top two buttons undone showing his cleavage, and his sleeves rolled up to show his forearm muscles. Such a *****

Wears silver accessories cause they compliment his skin tone. Mainly wears a watch just for the vibes. sometimes wears rings too, says it brings attention to his humongous hands.

Sometimes wears normal shirts, when he is going for something more casual (its very rare because he LOVES to be overdressed for every occassion,)

He is very extra and even in simple outfits, he looks extra.

In winters, he wears coats, trench coats, normal coats whatever.

AND HIGHNECKS OMGGGGGGGG

OH AND, he actually quite likes wearing coats. Oversized coats with trousers and plain tees is something he loves but won't admit it cause he doesn't want to clash with NANAMI out of everyone in the world.

✧. GETO SUGURU

Resident Badboy™

Bro loves Black and only black, will not be caught dead with any other color in existence except for maybe charcoal or gray or a different shade of black.

Has a very weird sense of style honestly but manages to pull it off, pairs traditional outfits with western stuff somehow.

You know those bosozoku style of clothes that the toman gang wore, he has a lot of pants that look like that. Only the pants.

Wears button up shirts, black obviously along with that and other bottoms that he has.

He wears leather jackets. Again, a signature bad boy thing. He has a lot of different styles of those, some have multiple zippers, some have a lot of buckles, some are just plain and some have patches etc etc.

Has an emo typa vibe going, i mean he is sorta emo so

Would wear tattoo sleeves when he is wearing short sleeves or sleeveless things.

OMG WAIT, HE LOVESSSSSS to wear black tanktops.His muscles look so delicious in those and with that sexy manbun of his KTKSJTIDI AAA

Has a lot of puffer jackets and crew necks for winter.

OKAY SO HE ALSO WEARS THOSE LEATHER GLOVES that bikers wear. ones without the fingers. why the fuck do i keep making his hotter.

CHAINS. yes he wears a lotttttt of chains, some are religious totems, some are things that his daughters gave him. Dont be surprised if you find a cute little pink bow necklace hanging in the middle of silver chains lmao.

Wears those oversized cargos, yk the baggy jeans (nct). He also wears skinny jeans sometimes and somehow pulls them off. They are the bad type of skinny jeans,l thankfully.

Also has trousers for formal occassions or when he is taking his daughter out for dinner in restaurants.

taglist 🏷️: send an ask to be added.

[starfishstark]

Thinking about Frankie knowing you have a strange relationship with sex and never pressuring you or discussing it, just always being there for non sexual intimacy and cuddling and just supporting you emotionally and never making you feel like you’re depriving him of something. Cause for me all that shits gotta happen before I even get remotely interested in sleeping with someone but once it does then I’m mad horny as fuck

head canons for this one:

first of all, YES, I mean, duh, Frank is so fucking understanding, because essentially I feel like that's what he wishes everyone else would do: just understand his character a little better

I think he tries really hard to find the clear defines of what you consider to be sexual and what's non sexual in your guys moments of intimacy, so prepare for some boundary testing in the early stages, from neck kisses, to holding your lower back, testing out what you're comfortable with

I firmly believe that Frank, even if you weren't in this weird limbo with sexual desires, would very gentlemanly wait for you to come to him first to take care of you. MAYBE just maybe it's a power trip for him to control himself until YOU can't, but it's also a sign of his respect for your comfort first. So you never gotta worry too much about turning down his advances.

If you feel weirdly turned on at some things, and not at the same thing at later times, and you don't know how to tell him you're not in the mood, don't you worry because this man will read you like an open book and put his hands away himself

"hey, hey, hey, you not feeling it? nah, don't worry about me hun, if your heart ain't with it, then i don't want it."

He's a romantic girl he will get you flowers, he will take you on cute dates (read: stay in the safety of his home where he can keep an eye on you and has complete protection down to the bullet proof windows he installed himself), so don't worry. he will NOT feel like this relationship is lacking because there's a lack of sexual activity.

in the event that he is turned on by you, miserably and horribly and practically ready to beg, he will excuse himself politely " 'scuse me, hun, give me a moment" and finish it off in the bathroom, take a couple minutes to will himself back down to a calm enough state that it wouldn't bother you or upset you what just happened.

Ok but what about when you finally do get comfortable?

FUCKKKKKKKKK I'm telling you the first time you ask for it, it's the sweetest, more loving, painstakingly beautiful sex you will ever experience in your goddamn life. if he thought you would like it, there would be fucking candles.

the first few times are like that, sparingly tossed out the course of a month or so...but the ache starts coming by more often, and sooner and sooner.

soon enough, he would have you bent over on every fucking surface at his home.

"hey, easy, easy, just take it, slow, breath...attagirl."

you couldn't even bake some damn cookies without remembering how deep he was hitting you, hands running all over your skin, trying to get more and more every second, every blessed second he had with you.

When he realizes how insatiable you get after you finally trust and give into him, it's free range from there. he let's you pounce him practically anywhere (long as it's safe and mostly sane)

in turn, he can practically read when frustration is creeping up on you, or maybe you are just 5% into the angsty maybe bratty thinking that day, and he's already grinning thinking about how great it's gonna be when he takes you apart piece for piece on your fingers.

"mhm, not so bratty, now, hun? nuthn' left to say?"

he would indulge you even if it's the middle of the fucking night

i think personally he would be down to try your wilder things, like maybe wax? restraints? no idea what you're into, but there's a good chance he'd be willing to play your fantasies.

on that note, if you're an absolute fiend to blow him all the time, cockwarm him, whatever it is, he would feel first of all) like the luckiest guy on earth bc he doesn't understand how fucking good it could feel to you to give him pleasure, like suddenly it doesn't go both ways anymore? secondly) gentle as fuck, head scratches, praise "luv you, hun, god, you're so good, so perfect for me" (CANNOT forget the 'attagirl'), and the aftercare after you give him head is so unmatched. he's so much more cuddly, he brings you up to his arms and just squeezes so hard like your own personal blanket.

anyways. yeah, don't worry, you're in good hands with Frank Castle.

(so sry for any typos maam I was possessed when I saw this ask)(omg ur my first ask)

[wandering-winchesters]

The Weight of Words

Summary: When you reveal a deeply personal truth, Dean's unwavering support proves that no burden is too heavy for him to share. Trigger Warnings: self-harm, mental health struggles, intense emotional conversations, and protective behavior. Requested: Yes, by anon --

Dean hadn’t expected the day to take this kind of turn. One moment, you were sitting side by side on the worn couch in the bunker’s library, sharing stories about your teenage years. Then, you let it slip—a quiet confession you hadn’t intended to share.

“I used to self-harm,” you said, the words barely above a whisper, as though saying them too loudly might bring the memories back to life.

For a moment, Dean froze. The magazine he’d been flipping through slid from his hands and landed on the coffee table with a soft thud. He turned to you, his brows knitting together in that familiar way, his face a mixture of confusion, hurt, and worry.

“Wait… what?” His voice was cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right—or maybe he didn’t want to believe that he had.

You took a deep breath, your gaze fixed firmly on your hands in your lap. “It was a long time ago. Before I met you. I was going through some… stuff, and that’s how I dealt with it.”

Dean was quiet for a beat too long, and it made you glance up at him nervously. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line. It was the kind of look you’d seen on him before—when he was barely holding himself together.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked finally, his voice low but tinged with an urgency that made your chest tighten.

You shrugged, unable to meet his gaze. “Because it’s not something I like to talk about. And I’m fine now, Dean. Really. It’s in the past.”

His scoff surprised you, a sharp exhale of disbelief. “Fine now? Come on, Y/N, you don’t just… just drop something like that and then tell me you’re fine now.”

“I am fine,” you insisted, your voice firmer this time. “I don’t do it anymore. I haven’t in years.”

“But you did,” he shot back, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself and softened his tone. “You did, and I didn’t know. You went through that alone, and I… I didn’t—dammit.” He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair as he began to pace.

You watched him, unsure if you should say something or just let him process. This was why you hadn’t wanted to tell him—because you knew he’d take it harder than you did. Dean had a way of carrying other people’s pain like it was his own, even when you didn’t ask him to.

“I didn’t want to burden anyone,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.

Dean stopped pacing and turned to you, his expression somewhere between disbelief and anger—not at you, but at the situation. “Y/N, you could never be a burden. Do you hear me? Not to me, not to Sam, not to anyone who gives a damn about you.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you felt the sting of tears threatening to fall. You blinked quickly, shaking your head. “It didn’t feel that way back then. I didn’t think anyone would understand.”

Dean’s face softened, and he came back to sit beside you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, and you could feel the weight of his emotions hanging in the air. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter but no less intense.

“I’ve been through some dark stuff too,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. “Hell, there were times I didn’t think I’d make it out. And yeah, I’ve got my ways of coping—most of ’em aren’t healthy, I’ll admit. But I had people. I had Sam. I had Bobby. You didn’t have anyone, did you?”

You shook your head, a lump forming in your throat. “Not really. I didn’t let anyone in.”

He looked at you then, his green eyes filled with a sadness that made your chest ache. “Well, you’ve got me now. And you’ve got Sam, and Cas, and everyone else in this crazy life we’ve built. You don’t ever have to go through that crap alone again. You hear me?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I hear you.”

But Dean wasn’t done. He reached out and gently took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’m serious, Y/N. You don’t ever let yourself get to that place again without coming to me first. I don’t care what time it is, what’s going on—you come to me, okay? Promise me.”

You hesitated for a moment, the intensity in his eyes almost overwhelming. But you could see how much this meant to him, how much he cared. “I promise.”

“Good.” He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Now, do me a favor and don’t keep stuff like this from me anymore. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” you said, managing a small smile. “I’ll try.”

He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You better do more than try. You think I don’t notice when something’s off with you? I notice, Y/N. I just don’t always know how to ask.”

For the rest of the day, Dean didn’t leave you alone for long. He insisted on making dinner—though his idea of “making dinner” was ordering takeout—and suggested a movie marathon to take your mind off things.

As you sat together on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and watching one of his favorite cheesy action flicks, you felt the tension in your chest start to ease. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he were checking to make sure you were still there, still okay.

It wasn’t just the words he’d said earlier that comforted you—it was everything he did afterward. The way he made you laugh with his over-the-top commentary on the movie. The way he reached for your hand absentmindedly, as if to remind you he was there. The way he didn’t push you to talk about anything you weren’t ready to share but made it clear he was there if you needed him.

By the time the credits rolled, you felt lighter than you had in a long time. You leaned your head against his shoulder, and he didn’t move away—just shifted slightly so you’d be more comfortable.

“Thanks, Dean,” you said softly.

“For what?” he asked, his tone casual but his expression anything but.

“For being you.”

He smirked, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Damn right.”

But as you drifted off to sleep beside him, you knew he’d take those words to heart—and that he’d do whatever it took to keep you safe, both from the world and from yourself. Tag List: @roseblue373 @hobby27 @jc-winchester @whump-loverz @pizzagirlxnsfwx @king-of-milf-lovers

[lorithescrump]

Continuing the Cadaver lore dumping because these are fun as hell

It’s complicated to say the least. I think the best way to describe it is that he’s spent decades being met with cruelty and fear so when he does find people who make him feel genuinely safe and cared about (despite all of their reasons to do otherwise) he holds onto them tightly and never lets them go. He also values having folks who understand what he’s been through, having struggles and turmoil who he can relate to. It makes him feel less alone and gives him something to protect and care about.

In Cadaver’s room, or any kind of living space, he tends to keep his weapons and other belongings in barrels and chests outside of his tent so he can easily find everything. While he isn’t one for extravagant decor he does tend to decorate his space with the bones and pelts of his kills (beast or otherwise) along with quilts and pillows to give himself a safe and comfortable place to pass out and regain his strength. There’s also definitely some empty bottles scattered around and the occasional bloodstain. His tent also includes some tapestries honoring Bhaal (Cadaver wears the symbol of Bhaal like an American flag but didn’t suspect he was a Bhaalist in act one because he was too stupid to know what the symbol meant. He kicks himself for not realizing what the tapestries in his tent implied this whole time)

There was a tavern in the lower city Cadaver would go to whenever he’d get some rare time to himself. The kind of tavern where there always seemed to be some kind of fight or reckless criminal activity going on. He was a regular at this place because he got to get himself drunk enough to sleep for once and even get out some aggression, starting a bar fight or two from time to time. If he wasn’t at that shady tavern you could find him passed out in his room in the Temple of Bhaal.

During his time as a Bhaalist Cadaver viewed any who turned away from Bhaal as traitorous cowards, though he definitely had some respect for Gorion’s Ward’s strength and audacity as he saw it. Currently post-tadpole Cadaver believes that if another powerful Bhaalspawn could resist their urges so can he. Other than that Cadaver lacks the knowledge to have any further opinions on them.

Cadaver had a particular morbid love for the hunt and took particular pleasure in making his prey feel dominated and helpless in their final moments, drawing out the hunt for as long as he could to get the most out of it. The killing itself would be vigorous, the victim submitting to death quickly and gruesomely, but Cadaver could spend hours with the corpse after death, being free to do whatever he pleased with it, savoring the freedom and control he had over the dead body.

Sceleritas would pester Cadaver into keeping himself clean for appearances and so would Gortash depending on the occasion, but Cadaver only really showered by his own free will when he’d get really musty. He has some pretty high constitution so it would be a while until he would need to treat himself but when he did he’d practically sandpaper his skin to get all the blood, sweat, and grime off.

The sea was a perfect place to dispose of corpses, execute traitors disloyal to Bhaal, and sit and think, just staring at the dark waters pondering if he should drown alongside the traitors and corpses.

Sceleritas has definitely brought up the idea of Cadaver taking on an apprentice, successor, or even producing an heir, but with Cadaver’s short temper and patience it would be like doing math homework with your exhausted and furious father at dinner except instead of doing math equations you’re dissecting a live person. Safe to assume Cadaver never fancied the idea of an apprentice.

Cadaver absolutely despised Orin with his every being, if she needed his help you would have to drag him along kicking and screaming. Along with his hatred however Cadaver recognized her abilities and firmly believed she could handle herself just fine without her elder brother's handsome convincing face, heavy lifting, and intimidating aura.

He didn’t know enough about them to have a proper opinion on them but he definitely saw them as pompous, high-flown, elites, goody-two-shoes and if you asked him to describe them you’d think he was describing city pigeons.

If someone spoke poorly about his father who cares, they’ll all face his father’s wrath sooner or later, but if one spoke poorly of the Bhaalspawn and Bhaalists who worship him prepare to get knocked out in an alleyway and wake up with your organs missing. Cadaver loved being feared, as viewed as a force to be reckoned with or even a boogeyman of sorts, believing it to give him power, control, and influence.

Cadaver would have no idea what to think. Being completely honest he’d likely only view it as an inconvenience.

His charisma for sure. He can either make a crowd laugh and comfort a distressed companion, or intimidate his enemies into submission and manipulate someone into taking their own life.

Cadaver has the mentality that he must be pushing himself past his limits at all times and not make any mistakes otherwise either all of his companions will die thanks to his own carelessness and incompetence. Any slight slip up or misteak and Cadaver will scold and shame himself relentlessly for not keeping it together.

During his time as a Bhaalist in his teen and young adult years Cadaver would want to go down in history as a feared force to be reckoned with and honored among his fellow Bhaalists for centuries to come. However as a child he couldn’t care less about how he was remembered; All he cared about was living a peaceful and fulfilling life in the wilderness with his family.

His coping mechanisms can be summarized as followed: Getting drunk enough for his brain to shut up so he can take a nap (and just napping in general), vulture culture and taxidermy to do something grounding, sparing and hunting to get his restlessness out, cuddling his vampire boyfriend for some love and to calm his nerves, and lecturing himself to get a hold of himself. Are they all healthy? No, but he’s finding better ways to keep himself from having an outburst or beak down these days.

8, that man takes no bullshit with a bad temper and has a hard time holding himself back talk any shit and expect a smack to the mouth.

Summon Ranger Companion is the spell he uses the most next to Reckless Attack (that counts as a spell, right?)

Cadaver almost went on a killing spree at the Last Light Carnival post-tadpole, put him in the middle of a whole ass fair during his time as a Bhaalist and there would be a massacre. Though there were some Bhaalists who brought him back a souvenir or two, knowing he’d probably want some cooked meats or decorative tapestries and quilts for his room.

Cadaver tries not to think too hard about how he was created but he does not like the idea of being Netherese considering what he associates it with (wizards, pompous scholars, Gale’s orb, the fall of once great rulers, etc.)

Previous thingamagigger here

Past Life Dark Urge Asks - 9th Edition:

OK but how does Durge actually view relationships and romance?

What does their room look like? Describe it to me. Neat? Messy? Organised mess where everything has its place?

What's their favourite spot to hang out at after a long day of temple managing and murdering in Father's name? Is it by the altar, their desk, a certain someone's office or by the docks?

Gorion's Ward was a hero and a Bhaalspawn that defied Bhaal. But they're also a powerful person who rose far above many, as well as the reason Sarevok once returned. What does Durge think of them? Is he an idol or a villain to them? When did their view of them change or do they perhaps even feel pity for the sibling which had been led astray?

Durge loves efficient killing, but what was their one little indulgence whenever they did it? I don't mean getting loot, keeping trinkets. Did they perhaps draw out the hunt or play with the mouse unfortunate enough to fall into their trap?

There's this funny bit that Durge refused to clean themselves, but is it true for yours? Did they indeed always carry the scent of entrails or did they bathe regularly? After all, Bhaals Scion has a reputation to uphold.

Speaking of Water, Baldur's Gate is a Port City. What did Durge think of the sea? Did they long to sail or do they prefer solid ground beneath their feet? Did they feel any connection, or was it just a body of water, perfect to drown some innocent souls?

Durge is clearly a skilled master of their craft, but would they ever consider taking an apprentice? Perhaps they already did? Or would they absolutely detest those who yet lack skill and prefer they attain it on their own?

Orin makes for a great spy and even the Bhaalist Temple relies on intelligence to survive and operate more efficiently. Did Durge ever try to help out Orin in attempts to gather intel? What was it like? Did they charm their way into hearts and minds, or did they rely on the thing they did best, a skillful killing?

Bhaalspawn are pretty similar to Aasimar in every aspect, well except that Aasimar are children of celestials and good aligned powers while Bhaalspawn hail from the Lord of Murder. What did Durge think of their goody-two-shoes counterparts?

Bhaal is widely hated or feared, as are Bhaalspawn, but what does Durge think about that notion? Would they hunt down anyone who dares speak I'll of their father, or could they not care any less? Do they perhaps revel in that fear and hatred?

If Durge knew they'd lose all their memories in the future, what would they think? Would they weep for their treasured moments or perhaps even feel delighted about forgetting a dreaded past?

Name a personality trait of theirs which is, in theory, something great, but they've taken it to such extremes it became something negative.

How is Durge handling failure? Do they handle it at all or do they just refuse to acknowledge any?

Would Past Life Durge like for their life's story to be told and remembered? Why or why not? In what way would they have liked it to be remembered?

In general, how does your Durge cope with stress, life, and the things that happened? How did it affect them? Are there any lasting effects from an outburst once?

On a scale of 1 to 10, how easily does your Durge snap? 1 being the world could end, and they'd barely be mildly inconvenienced, and 10 being somebody looks funny in their direction, and the next minute, they're in a nasty brawl.

What is their favorite spell? It doesn't have to be one they themselves know or learned. Just a spell they think is neat, handy, cool, etc.

If there happened to be a street fair in the Gate, would they attend? Yes or no, who would they go with, what would it be like visiting one of those with them?

Bhaal was a netherese arcanist. Does Durge, considering they're made from Bhaals flesh, consider themselves to be netherese? Have they ever thought about these things or do they simply not care?

I totally forgot I had these I'm sorry lmao. They've been rotting away in my drafts the whole time.

[rocknroll7575]

Sacrifice

Jaune cradled his newborn daughter in his arms, holding her as delicately as if she were made of glass. Her tiny body rested snugly against his chest, and her soft breaths tickled his skin. His heart felt too full, almost ready to burst under the weight of the moment. He stared down at her small, angelic face, her features so perfect and innocent it brought a lump to his throat.

How could this be real?

How could someone like him, a man who had spent so much of his life hiding in the shadows of his own fears, deserve something so pure? His hands, which had once been tools of inaction and complicity, now held the most precious thing in the world. The guilt that had gnawed at him for years rose, unbidden, in the back of his mind. Yet, as he gazed at her, the warmth in his chest silenced the old voices of doubt, at least for now.

A faint whimper broke through his thoughts, pulling his attention back to her. Her tiny face scrunched up, a soft, pitiful sound escaping her lips.

"Shh, it’s okay," Jaune murmured, his voice trembling but tender. He began to sway ever so slightly, gently bouncing her in his arms. "Daddy's here. You're safe."

The soothing motion seemed to work. Her cries quieted into hiccupping sighs, and soon her tiny body relaxed against him once more, drifting back into the peaceful rhythm of sleep. Jaune let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He brought her closer, pressing a feather-light kiss to her downy-soft hair. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision, but he didn’t care. He needed to say this, even if she couldn’t understand yet.

“I promise,” he began, his voice breaking as a tear slipped down his cheek. “I promise you’ll always feel loved... Even if... Even if you make mistakes, even if things get hard, no matter what happens, you’ll always know how much your loved, I’ll make sure of it...” He sniffled, his words hitching as emotion overwhelmed him.

He had failed himself. He had failed Cinder. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—fail their child. No, he would not let her carry the weight of their sins, would not let her grow into the shadows that had consumed both her parents. She deserved a chance to be more, to be better, to be free of their mistakes.

That thought was the only thing giving him strength as he knelt by the crib, his fingers trembling as he traced the delicate curve of her cheek. She stirred softly, her tiny hand grasping at the air, unaware of the monumental decision being made in that moment. His chest tightened, and for a fleeting second, he almost let himself believe he could do it—raise her, love her, protect her. But deep down, he knew the truth.

He wasn’t enough. Not now. Not in the state he was in.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he rose to his feet and turned toward Blake and Yang, who stood silently near the door. Their expressions were soft, understanding, but their eyes carried the weight of what he was about to do. Slowly, he approached them, his steps heavy as if the air itself were trying to hold him back.

“Take care of her,” he said quietly.

“Jaune...” Blake’s voice was gentle, laced with concern, but he shook his head before she could say more.

“She deserves better,” he said firmly, though his voice cracked under the weight of his emotions. “Better than me, better than... than us,”

As he turned to leave, a soft cry broke through the silence, small but piercing. His daughter’s wail struck him like a dagger, and he froze mid-step, his shoulders trembling. It was as if she were calling out to him, begging him to stay, to not abandon her. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to turn around, to scoop her back into his arms and promise her he’d never leave. But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Jaune clenched his fists at his sides, forcing his feet to move. He wiped his tears away with the back of his hand as he reached the door, never once looking back. The cries behind him grew softer, muffled by the walls as he stepped into the hallway, and with every step, his heart broke a little more.

But this was the right thing to do. She would be safe now, with people who could love her unconditionally, who could raise her without the shadow of a terrible, cowardly father or the legacy of a monster for a mother. She would have two incredible mothers, heroes to the entire world. They would give her a life filled with warmth, guidance, and hope—everything he and Cinder could never provide.

And that was worth any pain he felt now. For her, he would endure this emptiness. For her, he would fade away, a ghost in her past, so that her future could be bright.

[acearchivist359]

you guys know that one tiktok audio of that person playing video games and someone asks if they’re a guy or a girl and they’re like “do you wanna do a questionnaire so you can find out or do you wanna kiss and figure out how you feel afterwards”

yeah i imagined that as juno steel and now i can’t unsee it

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

u call gojo princess exactly one time as a joke and he lets out a giggle he didn’t know his vocal cords were capable of producing

[casscainmainly]

thank you so much for answering my ask! and so fast too, haha, don't worry about deleting it that stuff happens <3

i'm just curious though, im kinda new to dc and i mostly know stuff from tumblr (ive started reading comics from reading lists tho!)

since you're a cass fan, what makes you think dick is the fav? i love them both ofc but just tryna improve my understanding of the dynamics between the family. i've heard that cass and damian are the favorites? and jason? though apparently jason is only in fanon and ahh im just kinda confused im so sorry for the stupid questions

Trust me, no question about comics is stupid!! It's impossible to know everything (and I'm relatively new myself haha), so don't feel bad about asking anything. Plus I love answering asks :)).

Anyway, fantastic-nonsense's post here covers about all of why I think Dick is the fav. In case you don't wanna go there, here's one of the panels:

From Infinite Crisis #6. As clear an answer as we'll ever get, I think.

The question of 'who is Bruce's favourite?' is always subject to personal interpretation, though. Lots of factors - what a person has read, which character they like, what interpretation they have of Bruce - go into who someone thinks is Bruce's fav. Sometimes it's not even a question of pure canon, but a question of theme. Which character being Bruce's fav is the most narratively compelling? To me, that's Dick - their relationship has the most history, the most depth, and frankly I prefer one of Batman's successors (who to me is Dick or Cass only) being his favourite.

Cass being the fav is compelling too, but not as compelling to me as her not being the fav. Her story, her quest to break free from White men's expectations (both David and Bruce's), makes me not want her to be tied to Bruce's love too much. So while there are great canon reasons for her being the fav, I don't think it's a necessary or even particularly interesting angle for Bruce-Cass.

I actually haven't heard many people argue for Damian being Bruce's fav (it's usually Dick or Cass in my circles), which goes to show how much opinions vary haha. Damian has great reasons too - his entire death/resurrection has strong Bruce-Damian moments - but this is the least interesting fav kid pick to me. He's been raised to think of himself as Bruce's fav, and his arc is about undoing that belief in legacy, being the heir, etc. So being Bruce's fav doesn't do much for him. Having the only bio kid be the fav isn't that interesting either.

Jason definitely is the most fanon-y pick, though Jay being Bruce's fav is genuinely interesting. It's just that Bruce's love for Jason is a lot about the dead kid he used to be, and also half of why Jason is so obsessed with Dick is because he knows Bruce is obsessed with him. So in a roundabout way my preferred Jason-Dick dynamic hinges on Jason not being Bruce's fav. But I'm not well-read on Jason, I think some Jason fans might have good reasons for him being the fav.

These are all my interpretations of these characters, and the fun about reading comics is growing to develop your own opinion about questions like this! To me Bruce's fav isn't a strict right/wrong answer, I'm like one well-written meta away from changing my mind. But I hope this clarified my thoughts on the question!

[charismabee]

about the livestream ama

Jonny Sims saying the Contrarian and the Skeptic were a buddy cop duo was so based and real of him

(And that the Opportunist thinks everyone loves him but they don't)

but what interested me most was him saying the Hunted and Cold would be friends. I've never really thought about that pairing before but it does work. The Hunted's main thing being keeping the body alive could help balance out the Cold's general blasé nature when it comes to death, while being rational enough (focussing on his senses and what he knows is real) for the Cold to actually take him seriously. While the Cold being able to push the Hunted to act somewhat like the Stubborn, but slightly less strongly. He's confident that they can get the job done, and with the Hunted keeping them alive they could get a lot done without either really getting sick of the other. Just two reliable guys.

A little off topic but I think they'd work pretty well as a trio with Paranoid too, given a little time for Paranoid to get used to it. Cold's confidence plus Hunted's survival instinct could give him something reliable to work with, and I think he could help him by pointing out when they're going to far in either direction and going to get themselves hurt, as both can be rather single minded (on different things, mind you, but definitelythings that could leave them with blind spots) while Paranoid thinks of every possibility and could probably bring up flaws in any given plan that the others wouldn't notice, and at least Hunted would probably take it into consideration if its going to get them hurt or killed. Like a scared little peer reviewer of any plans the other two would execute

[bruhstation]

the journey of gordon juniperus gresley (and still ongoing)

[tittyinfinity]

No seroquel means no sleep for me I guess. I've been trying for hours