#i had to do something really important. i think crawling and clawing my way up a steep rocky durface was involved

[sporesgalaxy]

I slept like SHIT last night AND I didnt even get to remember my nightmares. what if something funny happened. unfair

[acapelladitty]

Batman: Arkham Session #1

Summary: After an incident at work, Edward Nashton is assigned to Dr. Jonathan Crane for psychological assessment. A decision which places both men in the firing line.

One half of an exchange with the incredible @skxtchyghost who has the absolutely amazing art half of this little encounter here!

Fic Masterlist /// Link to A03

From the moment he laid eyes on him, Jonathan Crane could tell that Edward Nashton would be less than an ideal patient. From the way that he lounged carelessly in his chair to his casual gaze which swept along the many achievements and objects which littered the walls of Jonathan's office.

Every inch of the lanky frame screamed difficult and Jonathan found his mood worsening as he shifted past the meagre introductions which had been shared.

Jonthan flicked his eyes over the notes he had been provided from the incident report as his left hand rose to adjust the bolo tie which hung loosely around his throat.

"You destroyed a workstation in a fit of," Jonathan lifted the top sheet of paper from his clipboard as he quoted the report directly, "obvious rage while using considerably inappropriate language. These are not the actions of a rational man."

Unapologetic, Edward spread his hands in a wide gesture as a defensive smile stretched across his lips.

"I'm the only rational man in this city."

"Oh?"

Really having a limited interest in whatever nonsense Edward was about to spout, Jonathan made a quick note on his clipboard - ready to simply diagnose him with some asinine anxiety disorder and throw some medication at him to quell the worst of his obvious symptoms.

"The others are so willing to ignore the corruption," Edward continued with a growing irritation, "how unbearably stupid and foolish the criminals that rule this city choose to be."

"Harsh allegations."

"Only because the evidence is routinely destroyed. Weeks of work erased in an instance because a particular name would rather not be associated with the actions investigated." His tone snappy, Edward was clearly not at peace with his treatment and Jonathan frowned at the sudden emotional outburst. "Weeks! Good work. No recognition. Only a sharp reminder that our job is to catch real criminals."

"I can imagine the frustration."

Something in Edward's expression shifted and Jonathan tensed as he took in the change in body language, the immediate aggression which crawled into his leaning frame and clenching fists as Edward met his gaze without flinching. It was an open challenge and Jonathan would not back down as he accepted and adjusted his glasses to allow him to keep Edward's attention.

"You bore me. Don't feed me the words I want to hear, Doctor."

"Interesting. Do you see me as your enemy?"

Wary but slightly more interested in his patient, Jonathan asked the question with the smallest of smiles.

"Yes. Your work is as corrupted as mine even if your corruption comes from a more personal insistence."

Jonathan's blood ran cold.

"I do not know you, Mr. Nashton. Neither do you know me."

He couldn't know.

No one knew.

Especially not a jumped up technician from the GCPD.

No.

He was just fishing for information, attempting to claw back the control of the situation by fabricating infor-

"Your purchasing history is interesting, both online and in your role within this asylum." Edward grinned, his body language relaxing into something almost smug. "Meaningless to a layman, but a small touch of research and critical thinking goes to show just how dangerous the various chemicals and research papers you collect could be. Pair that with the increased reports of catatonia which patients under your care have been reduced to and we have something approaching a pattern."

"Mr. Nashton, these delusions do nothing to further yo-"

Rudely, Jonathan found himself cut off by a childish wave.

"Your business is your own and I have no reason to care for any of the degenerates in this building. My work is almost finished and I have my own important business to attend to. Where our paths cross is that I require a clean bill of health to leave my job with the appropriate supports in place."

Smiling widely, his glasses pushed tight against his eyes, Edward perched his fingers on the light-coloured vest which covered his shirt as his cheap shoes tapped a soft rhythm to the carpet. Opposite him, Jonathan felt much more uptight - the shift in dynamic having put his teeth on edge as the urge to regain control of the situation tempted him into dangerous territory.

"You're blackmailing me." Jonathan gritted out.

"If you choose to view it as such then yes. I choose to view it as a mutual exchange of services." Shrugging, Edward caught his hands between his knees. "You clear me, and I erase some of the more unsavoury purchases that you have unsuccessfully distanced from your name."

Seeing each other plainly, Jonathan abandoned any pretence of playing the game and his expression soured into open distaste, regarding Edward with contempt.

"And what guarantees do I have that you are speaking the truth? One word from me and you will be locked away with the worst that Gotham has to offer." Flashing a cruel grin, filled with yellowing teeth, Jonathan tilted his head. "I could have you in a shared cell which houses violence that would easily end a man like yourself."

"All my information is due to release at a specific time if I am not available to prevent it. Risk it all and see."

Reclining once more, Edward presented his hand before himself as he investigated his nails with a forced nonchalance.

"So, Doctor Jonathan Crane, how are we going to move past this?"

[icaruspendragon]

im sorry to ask but i dont know what else to do—how did you do it how did you dig yourself out because it feels like i am choking on dirt and people keep shoveling it onto me and i miss her so much and i dont know how to make this feeling stop. she was my best friend. ive never lived in a world without her before. how did you do it. how are you doing it

grief is so hard and so heavy when we first meet it. it feels like all our arms will ever hold for the rest of forever. and it is, in a sense. once we pick it up, we never really set it down. not fully.

and I don't think it gets lighter, I think we somehow, impossibly, get stronger.

there's lots of metaphors for grief. that's one of them. another one I like to use is that it feels like you're in the grave with them. like lazarus. like yourself. waiting for someone to raise you from the dead. to raise you both.

I've learned a lot about crawling out of the grave. more than I would have ever wanted to learn. like how emptiness is actually quite heavy. or how to pretend like you feel half-alive. but I think the most important thing I've learned is that somedays, we inexplicably end up back in it. and that sucks.

because we just spent months clawing our way through the bugs and the earth. because our soldier-hands have finally breached the surface. because the sun is finally caressing our hell-fresh faces. because for the first time in months we feel like we can finally breath. and then, suddenly, we're right back in the terrible thick of it.

those days make it feel like I'm sisyphus and grave dirt is my rock. or like I'm prometheus and the darkness is my eagle.

but then it's tuesday.

which is to say my brother died on my 25th birthday, a monday. and that day is now a memory that's fuzzy around the edges. single snapshots I know are connected, but I couldn't tell you how. I remember my mother standing in my bedroom and tears and family and phone calls and cleaning my living room because I didn't know what to do with my hands. I remember going to my grandmothers and my phone vibrating off the table and leaving to go get coffee because I couldn't sit still. I remember joking, trying to joke. trying to do whatever I could to make sense of that impossible day. I remember checking my phone and reading and rereading the messages, a mixed bag of congratulations for surviving another year and condolences that my brother didn't, I remember not knowing how to respond to any of them. so I didn't. I remember being surrounded by so many people doing nothing but extending love and kindness to me and never feeling more alone. the world was ending and I was alone. I thought that day would go on forever.

but it didn't.

it ended, as all things do. monday was over and my first day as an only child was done.

and suddenly it was tuesday. and everything was different but also exactly the same.

it was tuesday and my brother was dead. I was so heavy when I woke up that first tuesday. so heavy and confused. I thought the world had ended. it surely felt like it had. but it hadn't. because the world couldn't have ended on monday.

not if it was tuesday.

it was tuesday and my brother was dead but the world wasn't ending. monday should have been our demise, but it wasn't. and it hasn't. and it won't. because just as sure as we have mondays, we'll always have tuesdays.

that's something I've taken a strange comfort in, knowing that we'll always have tuesdays.

the feeling never stops. but I think that's okay. because you're only feeling that way because there was love first. and as much as what I felt on that first tuesday hurts, as much as it suffocates, as much as it consumes, I'd take the hurt and the suffocation and the consumption because the love I felt first will always, always be worth it.

tuesdays will always be worth it.

like yeah, if I loved less, it wouldn't hurt this bad. but I don't want to live in a world where I have to love less. where I was loved less.

I'll take the pain. I'll take the grave days. I'll take the rock. I'll take the eagle. I'll take apocalyptic, earthshaking mondays. I'll take every last wretched bit because goddamn what a miracle it is to love so bad it hurts this big.

I hold that love, his love for me and my love for him, a love that's now become our love in the cage of my ribs while I'm in the cage of the grave. and I dig.

it's monday and I dig.

I dig.

and then tuesday comes.

[mikuni14]

The Sign - Ep 5

As usual, I'll start with the police part of the story, the least important. All the time I was thinking about only one thing: if only you were so motivated, if only you devoted as much time, resources and effort to catching a fucking r*pist as you put into catching a grief-stricken, sick man. If only the inspector team leader shook the victim's hand and promised them everything like he promises a fucking criminal. Copaganda just doesn't work anymore, sorry guys, but acab 🤷‍♀️

I was kind of puzzled by Phaya's behavior at the beginning of the episode, I think he should have believed Tharn, his behavior is a bit ooc. I.. think? I assume that the still angry Phaya is just done so that the plot can later give a scene of him coming to his senses after almost losing Tharn (*and insert romantic scene here*). What I liked was how in character Tharn was, and he acted exactly as he should. And the look on Phaya's face when he unintentionally hit Tharn.

Phaya and Dr. Douchelaton scene was simply awesome, starting with the two of them momentarily slipping into the world of supernatural 🤩. Everything was cool here, Phaya's claw-like fingers, the way Doc could barely control his rage (that clenching jaw), their fight for dominance, for Tharn. Omg! Personally I like jealousy done well and Phaya fighting for Tharn and winning was a *chef's kiss*. And wow, Heng perfectly shows what a psycho Dr. Chophisdickoff is, his behavior, his expressions 👌

I love that when it comes to sexual fantasies, Tharn is slightly brothel-ish and Phaya has soft fantasies decorated with dancing luminous lights ✨

The shock on the face of the naga-possessed vigilante when the knife pierced Tharn, instead of that pesky bird, was so cool. Also telling. Tharn shielding Phaya and fighting the enemy with his superpowers was my fav 👌👌

Phaya and Tharn's reconciliation scene… oh gosh, what can I say except that when Phaya is angry, he is angry, but when he is not angry, he literally makes the most romatic, raw marriage vows. Or something. The way they touch each other tenderly, how they get lost in each other's eyes 🥺

The bed scene had me chewing on the walls, crawling on the ceiling and understanding quantum physics for a second. Ok, but this is what I call chemistry between characters (actors). It was Tharn trying to mold his body around Phaya's, wrapping around him, leaving not an inch of space between them. The way Phaya gently lifts Tharn's head to cradle him in his arms, to hug him closer, to make sure that there is absolutely NO space between them, that he finally has the opportunity to have Tharn in his arms. IT'S HOW NATURAL THEY LOOK TOGETHER, HOW PERFECTLY THEY FIT TOGETHER LIKE PUZZLE PIECES. The way Phaya took care of Tharn and looked at him with tenderness, the way he stopped Tharn's hand from going any further. Phaya is such a good guy. The way Phaya looks like he's experiencing nirvana when he finally has Tharn in his arms, cuddled up to him. (as a person of refined manners and uninterested in worldly pleasures, I will NOT write anything about the effect that Tharn's shaved legs certainly do NOT have on me. I will also politely ignore how Phaya's attention immediately shifted to those legs in this 👇 scene)

gif by @mymycorrhizae

I also want to say that I keep thinking about how caring, how forgiving Tharn is. How I think of his sweet, sweet face, especially upturned as he looks at Phaya with devotion and love. Tharn has my whole heart. I love how Tharn "don't come near me, you handsome cow" freaks out every time there's even a hint of the possibility of losing Phaya, like when Sand offers Phaya a date with her friend, or when Phaya gets mad at him and don't want to talk to him 😭 So I'm really looking forward to the next episode and long-haired, sweet Tharn/Wansarat caring for the wounded enemy Phaya/Garuda.

[galaxymagitech]

Skyglow

Summary: Jason wakes up in a coffin for the second time, the feeling of satin brushing against his fingers and the thick scent of dirt filling his nostrils. He should probably start digging. But he doesn't.

Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, possibly something that counts as a suicide attempt (not sure), a character claws at their skin.

It’s a dark, clear night in Gotham, and if you squint hard enough, you can almost see the stars.

Jason sits at the edge of the roof, staring into the sky and pretending like he’s finding meaning there. There’s the sound of soft footsteps behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Jason sees Nightwing hang his legs off the roof’s edge a few feet away.

“When I was little,” Jason says, “I used to think they made the stars up.”

Dick hums.

“Bruce took me on a business trip in Metropolis, one day. We wanted to be there before sundown, but we ended up getting delayed. Don’t remember why. And so we were driving on the interstate and I looked up from my book and just—there were stars. Everywhere. And I was just like, oh, I guess stars aren’t just a metaphor. Can you believe that? I was twelve when I learned that stars were real.”

Dick shifts a little. “I never thought of that.”

“What, that a stupid little kid wouldn’t believe in stars?”

“That some people in Gotham haven’t ever seen a star. That’s just…” They sit in silence, for a bit. “Why are we here?” Dick asks, eventually.

Jason shrugs. “I dunno why you followed me.” That’s not entirely true. He’d be willing to bet that Tim snitched. But he doesn’t know why Tim decided his concerns were important enough to bother Nightwing about. Or why Dick decided to actually be concerned.

Dick sighs. “You know what I’m asking. Why are you here?”

Jason doesn’t know. He’s been hanging out on a lot of rooftops, lately. Maybe if he sits on enough ledges, he’ll decide if it’s actually worth it to jump, instead of just slowly sliding off. 

Unlike the stars, that’s a metaphor; Jason wouldn’t jump. A fall isn’t clean enough. Too much of a chance that the universe will fuck him over again. No, if he dies, he wants to stay dead.

“I don’t know what brought me back,” Jason says, well aware that Dick meant here on the rooftop, not here as in alive. “But dead screw-ups don’t come back to life. That’s for…Superman. The forces of evil. Hell, I’d buy it if Batman came back. But me? No fucking way was I supposed to get a second shot.”

“You did, Jason,” Dick says. “You’re alive. I don’t care if we don’t know how, you’re alive.”

But Jason just plows right past. “I figured, if I didn’t deserve a second shot, then I must’ve been brought back for a reason. ‘cause there was something I needed to do.” He frowns. “Do you know the first words I heard once I came back to myself?” Dick shakes his head. “Yeah, why would you? I didn’t say. But. Talia said, ‘you remain unavenged.’ That’s what she told me.”

“Jason—”

 “So I figured it had to be revenge, right? Only, I haven’t been able to kill the Joker. And then I figured, maybe I needed to prove Batman wrong. But he’s still doing the same thing he always did, letting the Joker live, not fixing anything. And then I figured, it was up to me, and my job was to fix things. But I’m not killing right now, I’m following the rules, and I’m a fucking joke, Dick. Everyone knows it. So there isn’t really a point to me after all.”

“Don’t say that.”

Jason shrugs. “It’s true. There isn’t. It would’ve been better if I hadn’t crawled my way out of that grave.”

---

Jason wakes up gasping for air and rolls over, fumbling for the switch of the lamp beside his bed. Instead, his fingers brush against cushioned satin.

Groggily, he opens his eyes, only to see complete darkness. No light filters through the curtains or leaks underneath the door. It’s unnatural. It’s wrong. He reaches up an arm, only to hit the ceiling a couple inches above his face. That’s when the panic sets in.

Jason loses himself to the shocks of fear pulsing through his system, pumped by his pounding heart. For a long time, he can’t think at all. He can only drown in the darkness and terror. When he regains awareness, his breaths are shallow and he can feel strips of satin beneath his fingers, torn from the roof of—

What is the last thing you remember? Jason blinks, but his memories swim. He doesn’t know. There are glimpses, lines thrown out into the water, but as soon as he reaches for them, they’re gone. He leans over Tim’s shoulder in the Batcave, examining a color-coded spreadsheet. He stands in front of Bruce, helmet on, as they brief on top of a rooftop. He sits at the kitchen table of Safehouse 4, the oldest of the safehouses he hasn’t burnt yet, with Around the World in 80 Days propped open as he picks at an omelet. All of the memories feel old. None of them explain where he is now.

His neck is itching, Jason realizes. He reaches up instinctively to loosen his tie. That’s when he realizes that he is, in fact, wearing a tie. These days, Jason only wears one of those for infiltration. Was he on an infiltration mission? He brushes a hand against his face. There doesn’t seem to be any make-up there, not even concealer for his scars.

The realization comes to him dully, this time.

He’s in a suit, surrounded by satin, in a small, enclosed space, and it’s dark. Jason’s been here before.

---

Jason stands across from Bruce, no, Batman. At the man’s side is Robin, arms slightly raised and fists tightly clenched. It’s milliseconds away from a defensive position. Jason should probably feel bad about that, but he doesn’t.

When he speaks, he aims to hurt. “You have no idea what it was like,” Jason says. “I crawled my way out of my own grave.”

This should not be news to anyone, but Bruce still flinches.

Jason grins, all teeth. “I remember it, sometimes. It took hours. I was screaming the whole time. I tore off all my fingernails, you know. Even when I was Robin, the most any torturer got to was four. But I lost ten, and I kept digging.” The Replacement looks like he’s going to be sick. Good. “Up and up and up. I knew I wasn’t gonna make it, you see. You can’t force your way out of your own grave. Mythbusters did an episode on it, yeah? So I had to scoop the dirt away, but I knew I wasn’t gonna have enough air for that. But I kept digging, because I thought—I thought maybe someone would find me, and if I made it just a little bit easier for them—”

“I’m sorry,” Batman says roughly. “Jason, I’m so sorr—"

Jason ignores him. It feels good to ignore an apology from Batman, instead of being grateful for whatever scraps of contrition the man can manage. “I don’t know how I did it. It should’ve been impossible. I think maybe I suffocated, and just came back to life and kept digging again, and suffocated again, and—”

“Stop,” Batman orders.

“Things are fuzzier, after I made it out. But I remember I was cold. So, so cold. It was raining. And I felt like I was as cold as a corpse, like life hadn’t properly warmed me up yet. And I didn’t know where I was going. I couldn’t walk, so I just crawled. I just crawled, Bruce, and then I stood up, and then I walked. A few hours before, I was being beaten to death with a crowbar. I thought someone would find me then. No one did. And I was still stupid enough to think someone would find me that second time.”

Robin’s right hand drifts toward Batman, like he’s going to try to cling to his mentor’s cape, before he clearly thinks better of it and withdraws his hand as if burnt. Batman growls. He doesn’t sound entirely human.

“You know nothing, Bruce,” Jason spits. “Nothing.”

---

Jason is in a coffin. He can smell the dirt around him, and he’s too lucid for that to be entirely an olfactory hallucination. He’s in a coffin, and he’s buried underground.

Although Jason wouldn’t put it past certain Rogues and crime families to bury someone alive, he’s in a suit and he isn’t wearing anything to disguise his identity. He has to face the facts.

Jason can feel phantom pains in his fingers, his lungs burning for oxygen before he’s even begun to truly run out of air.

Jason should probably start digging. But he doesn’t.

It’s quiet, in this coffin, just the sounds of his own ragged breaths. Jason knows that the first time around, he screamed. And when he couldn’t scream anymore, he cried, and when he couldn’t cry, he pleaded in hoarse whispers for someone, anyone, Bruce, Dick, Dad, please, please—

Jason realizes he isn’t breathing anymore and forces himself to inhale, wheezing like a dying man. Hah. He already died. At least twice. Probably—probably more. If he came back this time, how many times in the past have his “brushes with death” in fact taken him past its threshold?

But in the past, he seized his chance at life with both hands. This time…this time…

The universe brought him back for a reason. But it isn’t the Joker, and it isn’t Batman, and it isn’t Gotham. And Jason—Jason had been glad to fulfill it, whatever it was. He’d taken his second chance and used it, used himself as kindling to start whatever fire the universe desired. But he’s fucking tired of being burnt. Speaking of burning—

No one told Jason to write a will. He knows Dick has one and Bruce, of course, has one. Alfred has one, Barbara has one, even Cassandra Cain has one, although she has little to her name. Jason knows it’s standard vigilante/superhero procedure to have your affairs in order. But no one could work up the willpower—heh, willpower—to approach Jason and ask that he prepare for a second death.

Jason wrote a will anyway. Legally, he doesn’t exist. He has a small amount of money in various fake identities, but most of his funds aren’t exactly something he can distribute in a will. But he doesn’t much care what happens to them after his death. No, he wrote the will after one too many nightmares about his resurrection. That night, he picked up a pen and scribbled feverishly in his notebook that he wanted to be cremated. And Jason woke up in the morning and looked at it and thought, yeah, that’s fair. So he made it about as official as it could get.

Right now, it’s really fucking clear that he hasn’t been cremated.

Jason should start digging. But he doesn’t.

Death was supposed to mean that he was done. Cremation was supposed to ensure that. Jason just wants to be done. He thinks he deserves that much, at least. 

Jason thinks, what if I just lay here? Last time, he took his chance to live. What good did that do him? He didn’t get revenge, he didn’t get proof that Bruce cared, hell, he didn’t even properly protect Crime Alley. His dad always told Jason that he had to grow up to be something, “not like your old man.” But one time when he was drunk, Willis looked straight at Jason and said, “you’re never gonna amount to anything” and Jason had never figured out if his father had been talking to Jason or himself. Jason had thought, with Robin, that he mattered. But he was replaced as easy as can be. He never mattered. He squandered his first life, and he failed at his second, and really, Jason thinks, what’s the point of a third?

Jason wonders what will happen if he just stays here. Good corpses stay still. Good corpses don’t dig their way out of graves. Jason’s been dead twice now. He should be a pro at being a corpse.

It’s always been hard to do nothing. The same impulse that urged Jason to take his tire iron to the Batmobile makes his hands twitch to start digging. He’s wasting valuable time. Jason’s always been a do-er, and now he needs to not do anything. He’s always been a survivor, and now he has to lay down and die.

Jason should really start digging. But he doesn’t.

He is done being a zombie, a revenant, a walking memorial. He shouldn’t have come back that first time. The universe put things right and now Jason has to prevent her from having second thoughts.

---

“What the hell was that?” The Replacement shouts, one hand tight around his bo staff and the other clenched into a fist.

“I don’t answer to you,” Jason sneers. He folds his arms across his chest. Fuck it. This is a waste of time. He leans down to snap a ziptie over wrists of one of the less injured traffickers. The sooner he cleans up, the sooner he can get out of this warehouse.

“This is my route, so according to protocol, you do,” Tim insists.

“Yeah, I don’t follow protocol.” Jason gestures at the criminals bleeding all over the warehouse floor. None of them are dead. Probably.

“Clearly, or else you wouldn’t have engaged!”

“I made an informed decision.”

“No, you didn’t. You entered the middle of a freaking firefight, Hood, without your helmet, and you didn’t know you had backup.”

“It was fine.”

“Because I was there! Which you didn’t know, because you refuse to be on our comms.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Hood, do you not see how insane what you just did was? Or do you just not care?”

Jason bristles. “What, concerned about the poor widdle traffickers?”

Tim throws his hands into the air, like Jason’s the one being difficult. “That’s not what I’m talking about! I don’t care about them!”

Jason feels his lips twitch into a smirk, and before he knows it, he’s drawn a gun from its holster and trained it on the goon at his feet. His smirk widens into a grin at Tim’s flinch. “Oh, really? Guess I’ll just take out some trash then.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tim says, voice carefully measured. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Well, that’s one way to ensure that Tim never gets to his actual point. Jason flicks the safety off. The click echoes through the warehouse.

“Stop it,” the kid tries to order. Jason’s finger twitches on the trigger. “Please, Hood. Don’t do this.”

Jason shrugs and clicks the safety on, as if it doesn’t physically pain him to leave this scum alive. He knew he wasn’t going to kill anyone the second he dropped down from the rafters, and unlike what Batman thinks, he has self-control.

The Replacement tries to hide his relief, but he does a piss-poor job of it. “That was reckless,” Tim says. “Really, really reckless, and you know it.”

Jason turns around without a word. He doesn’t have to deal with this shit.

“I’ll have to tell B.”

Jason really doesn’t need a lecture from Bruce, but he can just avoid the cave until Bruce gets distracted by something equally reckless Tim does. Or, well, probably not equally reckless—Jason’s well-aware that what he did is pretty close to the edge of the ‘reckless’ spectrum, straddling the line between ‘reckless’ and, well, ‘suicidal.’ But equally stupid, at least. The Replacement seems like a dumb kid.

“I’ll tell Nightwing,” Tim tries desperately, and that makes Jason spin around. Because shit, Nightwing would hunt him down and not be satisfied just giving a lecture. He’d want to talk about feelings.

“Fine,” Jason huffs. “What do you want? A safehouse? Files? Me off this case?”

“I want you to stay alive, because believe it or not, I’d like Batman to not have another mental breakdown.”

Yeah, right. Like that would happen. Batman would still have his precious display case, and he cares far more about the dead kid than the Red Hood.

“Bruce can’t lose his son again,” Tim says, and Jason just—he can’t do this. His vision whites out. He has to leave. So he leaves.

When Jason finally registers the thuds of his boots, he’s three long blocks away from the warehouse. Whatever. The Replacement’s not going to go crying to Nightwing about Hood being a little reckless. If anything, he’ll be pleased.

---

Jason swallows. If he’s going to die, he might as well use up his air faster. Less time to wait. “It is a truth universally acknowledged…”

He recites the first chapter of Pride and Prejudice. Darkness by Lord Byron. Sings You Are My Sunshine five times. Waiting to die is a slow, slow thing, and every second, his entire body is screaming dig, save yourself, survive!

There’s a sound above him, strange thumping. Maybe, Jason thinks, it’s raining. That would be…not ironic, but there’s a strange sort of circle to it, isn’t there? He was born on a rainy day, and Catherine arrived at the hospital soaked. He was reborn in the rain. If he had dug up, he would have been born yet again in the rain. The opposite of a phoenix.

Bruce should have cremated him. Jason doesn’t even know that he won’t just suffocate and then wake up again, but this time with no air. An endless loop of suffocation. The thought sends a thrill of terror through Jason. He regrets not digging.

But if he wakes up again, Jason supposes, then he’ll make his way out. It’ll hurt, but he can take his time. And then after, after, he’ll find a fire. And then he won’t have to remember how much it hurt.

The thought should be comforting, but Jason just feels terrified, and afraid, and alone. He wonders where they buried him this time. Last time, he’d been next to Sheila. But he’d screamed at Bruce for it, so maybe, maybe this time it’s somewhere else. Next to his mom, his real mom, even. Not that Bruce seemed to particularly care about Jason’s wishes, when he was actually real and not just a memorial caged within rose-tinted glass. After all, he’d asked to be cremated.

Jason closes his eyes. Everything feels detached, out of phase. He isn’t sure if it’s oxygen deprivation setting in or a side-effect of his resurrection, or just the strangeness of the scenario. He’s tired. That could be any one of the three as well.

How did I die? Jason wonders. He strains for his memories. The taste of rocky road ice cream from his favorite ice cream shop. Tim laughing. Flashes of blinding light. None of it is an answer. None of it explains what happened.

The thuds are getting louder. Jason wonders if it’s hail. Last he remembers, it was June. If it’s winter now, he supposes six months have passed. Maybe more. Maybe he’s been dead for years.

“I’m tired,” Jason whispers. “I’m so tired.” He blinks. His vision tilts. Definitely oxygen deprivation.

It’s almost over.

And then Jason hears—Jason hears voices and there’s a light, but it’s dim, and there are shadows falling on him. Jason lies there. He wonders if this is what he saw right before he died the second time. The first time, he just saw flames, seared across his eyelids.

“Jason,” someone says. They sound horrified.

That’s his name. Jason doesn’t respond. What’s the point?

“Hold on.”

This dream doesn’t make much sense. Jason hopes it’ll be over soon.

Something grasps his arms and pulls. No. No, Jason has to stay. Corpses have to stay in their graves. If he doesn’t stay, then he’ll have to come back, and he’ll just ruin it again. He has to stay. “No,” Jason can hear himself babbling. “No, let me go, let me—no. I have to. I have to go back.”

“Jason, calm down.”

“No!” Jason shouts, desperately. He throws out a kick and dives forwards, eyes closed. Strong arms catch him around the waist and hold him close, pulling him against someone’s chest. “No, I have to go back! Please!”

“Jason, open your eyes!”

Jason’s eyes snap open and he sees—

Batman. Nightwing. Robin. It’s all wrong.

Jason doubles over. “Please,” he sobs. “I have to go back. You need to let me go back.”

“You’re okay, Jason,” Batman says in his ear, but his voice is all Bruce. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah, that’s the fucking problem.” Dick startles. Jason must’ve said that out loud. “Please,” he whispers.

The first time he dug himself out of his own grave, Jason’s voice was gone by the time he made it to the surface. This time, someone else dug him out, but no one will listen when he speaks.

Jason slumps in Bruce’s hold, and they just…stand there. Eventually, Bruce slowly sets Jason on the ground and kneels down in front of him. 

Jason’s heartbeat pounds in his ear. It’s wrong. His heart shouldn’t be beating. It’s wrongwrongwrongwrong. Desperately, Jason claws at his wrists, trying to dig the heartbeat out. It has to go away. Someone tugs at his hand and Jason snatches it away and cradles his hand against his chest. His pulse continues to tear him apart.

“Jason,” Bruce says. “Do you know where you are right now?”

“A fucking graveyard, right?” Jason says. His eyes burn. He refuses to wipe at them. He can feel the hard, rocky dirt beneath him. He wants to be numb again. He shouldn’t be here. He should be underground.

There’s a sharp silence. “We’re not in a graveyard, Little Wing,” Dick says, eventually.

Jason looks around slowly. His vision feels disconnected, and it takes several moments for each image to register. But there are no gravestones around, just trees, trees and sky. It’s dark out. He thinks, when he looks up, he can almost see the stars. He doesn’t understand. “Then why am I in a suit?”

“Do you remember the gala?” Tim asks, so quietly that Jason almost doesn’t hear him. In fact, it sounds more like “…oo…ber…gala?” with the rest being lost underneath the Replacement’s breath, but Jason figures that’s what he’s saying. Jason shakes his head. 

Dick takes a step closer. “The paparazzi saw us out in Gotham four days ago. With you. You…there was a gala tonight. Bruce convinced you to go with us. And then you went missing. We thought you walked out early. But then…well, Tim was working on a case, and…well…”

“A weird cult thought you were a zombie,” Tim says, when it becomes clear that Dick’s not going to explain anything properly. “So they knocked you out, did a ritual, and re-buried you.”

This is real, Jason thinks suddenly, and then he’s doubled over, retching. Nothing comes out except spit. He can feel grass beneath his hands. When he curls his fingers, he scrapes up dirt. “This is real,” Jason says aloud. “This is real. This is real.”

“This is real,” Dick confirms. Jason retches again.

This is real. Jason doesn’t know what to say.

Tim sighs. “We need to take you to the police.”

Bruce shakes his head. “We need to talk.” His voice is dark. Jason shudders.

“Not like this, Bruce,” Dick says. “Not with the cowl on. Jason, are you good to deal with questions right now?”

“I don’t remember much.” Jason tugs at his tie in the stifling heat. Across the room, Tim is talking to a group of teenage boys and making large, animated gestures. Jason stumbles, catching himself on a nearby table.

“That’s fine, Jay,” Dick says. “We recovered security footage and we have confessions. We’ll be there in civies as soon as we can, okay?”

Jason shrugs. Someone helps him to his feet.

---

On the rooftop, Dick places a hand over Jason’s. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Jason says quietly. “I shouldn’t have come back.”

“You’re wrong,” Dick says. He sounds so sure. But that’s the first Robin. He’s sure about everything. Jason could never measure up.

“Jason Todd was better off without me insulting his memory.”

“Who cares about a memory?” Dick scoffs. “You’re alive.”

“Tell that to Bruce.”

“Tell that to yourself,” Dick says. “You’re alive, Jason. You’re alive. Don’t you see how amazing that is? All of us—me, Bruce, Tim, Alfred—we’re so happy that you’re alive.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jason says. He believes that Dick believes it. He believes that Dick has to believe it, that Dick won’t admit to himself that he wishes Jason was still dead. Dick will always ignore his darker thoughts. But Jason knows. Jason knows Dick would be happier if Jason never came back. And Bruce? The man doesn’t even think that Jason counts as Jason anymore. Alfred no doubt can see that something in Jason is deeply, deeply wrong—sociopathic tendencies, Talia had theorized, although Jason suspects he’s far beyond tendencies. And Tim has no reason to wish his murderous predecessor well, not after the Tower. So, no, Jason doesn’t believe Dick.

“You will,” Dick says. “I promise.”

Jason stares into the sky. He thinks maybe, just maybe, he can see a star.

[alphabetbill]

Macabre [ HEMLOCK GROVE ] - Chapter 4

~ description ~

A werewolf whose only skill is running from his fears, a half-upir with no idea of the true darkness lying inside of him, and a girl found alive in the woods months after her mysterious death.

Some secrets in Hemlock Grove should have just stayed buried. In a town that isn't so sleepy after all, monsters of all kinds are wide awake under the surface, crawling their way up.

~ warnings~

This story will contain mature and heavy themes that may involve potentially explicit content, gore and murder, talk of kidnapping and stalking victims, animal death, supernatural/paranormal/religious themes and trauma, any other themes not covered in the general description will probably be tagged here at the start of the chapters that other significant warnings apply to.

A list will be linked here upon completion and upload of each chapter:

Cicada and the Snake

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

c h a p t e r    f o u r

Peter Rumancek

<<>>

"I SAW THAT IN MY DREAM THE OTHER NIGHT," Roman Godfrey announced as he took up a seat beside Peter in English class, leaning over the gap to talk.

He had been doing that a lot. For three days now to be specific, clinging to the side of the most interesting soul he could find because, assumingly, he had nothing better to do. It was sort of sad, really, once it became apparent just how utterly aimless he was without his dead best friend.

At his words Peter began to unfurl the sketch he had crumpled up in his hand, some roughly drawn cryptic image of an ouroboros. The upir seemed hopeful that it must have meant something, that they had both dreamed of the same symbol in the same circumstance. 

Peter just hoped it was a coincidence but unfortunately for him it seemed unlikely.

Nothing about his encounters with Roman seemed like they were a coincidence. Nothing about the bottomless darkness like that in Roman's eyes could ever be a coincidence.

"What do you think it means?" Roman asked him, his perfectly trimmed fingernails rapping on the desk. 

"Probably something important," Peter answered with a note of sugary sarcasm. It wasn't like he meant to sound either rude or disinterested- but talking with Roman in public was the perfect way to draw even more attention to himself which was something he wanted least of all.

Especially talking about this.

"Jude was in my dream. Was she in yours too?"

Now was the time where any normal person would have sat down with Roman and discussed to him the concept of grief and closure and that dreaming about dead loved ones was  a perfectly normal thing to experience after loss. The assumption that Peter had shared a similar dream with Roman would have been absurd had it not been true.

"Yeah," Peter answered after a while, the pad of his thumb brushing across the drawing. 

No renderings on paper or crude sketches mimicking the things he had seen in his dream would ever bring to justice the twisting, jarring feeling of darkness that Peter had experienced in the dream he had the other night. Nothing could make him forget the way the shadows had swallowed him whole and spat him out in a forest of endless trees that stretched all the way to the sky and straight through it. How the crescent moon had gleamed like a gnarled claw in the sky, how his eyes could never remove themselves from it. The werewolf had experienced preminition dreams before, and his heightened awareness of the supernatural meant those kinds of dreams felt familiar. 

In that dream, standing in that clearing, witnessing the suffering of a girl who used to know him, Peter's one sole instinct had been to run.

He didn't want to think about her anymore. Thinking about her made him think about the dream which made him think about his cowardice which made him think about how he hated that part of himself. That part of him that prioritized flight over fight, protecting himself over others. The selfish wolf in him who wanted to tuck tail.

He didn't want to think about how his shared dreams with Roman meant he was tied with the upir in some way. He didn't want to think about how those shared dreams likely meant a shared fate- and that whatever was to come meant trouble for the both of them. That whatever was to come had something to do with Judith Evergreen and the mystery of her death.

Peter wanted no part of it. Messing around with this stuff wasn't on his list of safest nor smartest things to do. So just like he tried to drown out Roman's desperation, he also tried to drown out the dreams by pretending they had not been frequenting him ever since moving to Hemlock Grove.

"I couldn't get close to her in mine," Roman said with a pause. "I tried."

Peter had tried to get close to her too. But the trees had stretched further and further away until all he could see was the silhouette of her body breaking. The further he had ran towards her the further away he had moved. Like the dream was taunting him.

"So. What now?"

"I don't know," Peter answered hastily. "I don't know, Roman. It might not even mean anything."

You know that's not true.

"Look I know this is weird-" Roman cut in, "really fucking weird. But you know what's even weirder? Sharing extremely specific dreams about a girl who died who we happen to both know. I don't even know you and you don't even know me. But like it or not this means we're connected."

Peter fought hard to bite back his retort because he knew Roman was right.

"And what am I supposed to do about that exactly?" he asked. "You think I've got all the answers?"

"I'd say you're a good place to start."

Because he was the one more intertwined with the supernatural, he assumed that Roman assumed. If only Roman knew how close he really was with the uncanny. How close he really was to the monsters he had only been told of. To the ones he had not been told of.

The two of them stopped talking when class started, because they got reprimanded by the teacher for their inside chatter and loose squabbling. 

Peter dreamed of the forest again that night. He dreamed of the smell of rotting flesh, the hissing of a serpent and the silent screams of a girl in pain. He dreamed of running through bramble thickets that only got thicker and higher until they blocked out the light, of becoming snared in the thorns and pickled and stabbed and shredded by the sharp points. 

He dreamed of deer with bloody mouths and glassy, blank white eyes. They stared at him through the trees, standing still and vacant like empty macabre creatures. 

He dreamed of torch light flitting through the trees, footsteps treading in hasty increments, fast and slow, close and far. He dreamed he was standing naked in a clearing surrounded by snakes winding through the black muddy grass to strangle him. He dreamed of snake bites and gloved hands choking back his screams. 

He woke up in a cold sweat for the fourth night in a row. He also woke up to a phone call.

"Peter it's me, Roman- don't hang up yet, please" the upir rushed when Peter answered the unsaved number. "Look I just need to talk to you. Tell me you didn't just have that dream and I'll leave you be."

"I didn't just have that dream again."

"Jackass."

"Yeah."

"You saw the deer right?"

"I did. Did you see the light?"

"I did. Did you see the snakes?"

"Shit."

"Shee-it."

There was a break, a silence between them that only swelled along with the tension through the line. This was real and dark and twisted and broken. It left him with a nagging pain in his gut that told him Roman was right. 

"You feel it, don't you?" Roman asked, his voice pooling with urgency.

Peter could feel it. Peter could feel it and he couldn't even deny it. Peter could feel the importance clinging to him like tree sap to bark, like smoke in a confined room that just kept getting smaller. Something was about to happen and that something would be his job, would be his and Roman's job, to foresee and to stop. To find their own answers when there were none. The weight of the world felt heavy on his shoulders and this time Peter could not run. 

He couldn't. 

"Whatever this is, whatever fucked up bullshit this is. We're in this shit together," the upir spoke again, as if he were desperately afraid that Peter wasn't going to reply.

"We have to do something," the werewolf conceded. "But where would we even start?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Where life ends and death begins. Where the aftermath of death is found. Where hopefully, Peter would be able to pick up a scent or a feeling or an omen or some kind of sign of what to do and what the fuck was going on. Something that could lead him to wherever or whatever the fuck it was that Judith Evergreen was trying to show them. 

"The ditch," Peter exhaled through his nose, disappointed in himself for suggesting such a morbid thing. "The ditch her body was found in. We could start there."

"What makes you think we'll find anything?"

"Just a feeling," he answered. 

Roman picked Peter up in his car about half an hour later. They drove to the outskirts of town and got out at the start of the woodland reserve trail. In the dead of night they walked. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

hmmmmm

[sergeantnarwhalwrites]

"Who's Greeter to you?"

Let's go thing I had an urge to write! Woo! This will probably make it into the rewrite. I have made some progress in the planning thank you @vacantgodling! My ass was stuck. Now I just gotta figure out a few important worldbuilding things which I'll probably do as I start writing and I'll be sure to actually write them in a place I won't lose them. Have Tharion questioning Cosma and Cosma being Cosma.

Tag list: @outpost51 @nanashi23 @winterandwords @jezifster @kk7-rbs @aether-wasteland-s @dumbthunder @manathen @the-void-writes @livums (Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist!) 

Tharion didn't know how to feel. Working his hands with ease as he braided the two braids together, slowly annoyed by the feeling of his hair against his back.

Cosma towered over him. A massive red mountain and it was gonna crumble. Like the stacks of mud, not yet processed enough to be clay the children of his city liked to stab pudgy fingers into. Sliding and toppling into a heap. Tharion shoved her hard enough for her to misstep.

"You're obsessed," Tharion said.

Cosma smiled. Tharion noticed how tight-lipped it was. Her chapped lips bled a little at the action.

"What is Greeter to you?" Tharion asked, dragging a claw down her arm, unamused by how unbothered she seemed.

Cosma grabbed the offending hand.

"My squadmate, my friend. A fellow soldier."

"Your companion?"

Cosma shook her head heard enough to hear the air rush past. She didn't like the way he said that. Maybe it was just the word. Or maybe it was the way his tongue wrapped around the word, spitting it like his prayers that she was unfamiliar with.

With the word, she saw Greeter in her room. On her floor, too impatient to help prepare the bedroll. Wrappings undone, in a haphazard pile beneath her. Shirt gone. Drool dribbled down her chin as she parted her legs tauntingly. Invitingly. Breath faintly smelling of the medicated liquids Cosma used purely as a disinfectant. The smell wafted under her nose as she practically crawled to Greeter. Hungry. Insatiable.

Cosma's breath picked up, not yet fast enough to be panting. She let sweat roll down her face. Looking over Tharion as the word companion had damn there awoken something she refused to let a stranger see.

"Not companions? Too insignificant a word huh?" Tharion smiled now, seeing the hallway's artificial light illuminating the newly forming sheen.

Cosma rested her face in her hands, grasping uselessly at the skin of her face. Her fingers sliding over the greasy surface.

"You're stuck in her like a damn barbed bullet." Tharion's claws clacked against the wall.

He almost couldn't believe it. All the massacre this woman had caused. Was capable of. And she's fumbling over a woman. Two brutes in love, Tharion thought. So it was no surprise, at least not to him when he asked you're obsessed.

Cosma could barely lift her hands away from her face to answer. She took a deep breath, breathing in the smell of the same disinfectant Greeter drank. Did he really deserve one? Did she even have an answer?

She smiled behind her hands. Dropping them as she thought of an answer. Which meant thinking of Greeter. Which also meant imagining every drag of Greeter's canines on her skin, rough hands forcing her to pay attention usually with a forceful yank, newly forged swords lodged concerningly deep into the safety wear. The words she spoke in low grunts no one but Cosma could hear. The threats spat forced Cosma to improve for the both of them. They both would do anything to survive for one another, Cosma knew it.

Unbothered by the flickering lights above them she answered, "Who wouldn't be?"

Tharion could only laugh, "Useless."

Cosma shrugged. Though the suddenness of the accusation admittedly did sting. Her shoulders sank down a little lower than usual. That was a comment that never really stopped hurting. No matter the foreigner's mouth it flew from.

"And you're the loser stuck helping," Cosma scratched at the shaven parts of her head, careful not to trace over the pigmented swirls, "I'll meet you and Arc in the beast containment. I need a moment."

[skitskatdacat63]

misc lore drop day 55/?

I always characterize Seb as this very bold person who's not put off by Fernando's cold attitude. And I think yeah, he's able to put up with it more than the average person. But at the same time, he's equally more sensitive than a normal person would be. I guess there's a very specific line between him being able to confidently pursue and him feeling extremely rejected. Because he was raised with the idea that he's the most important person who gets everything he wants, well everything he feels he's deserves, he's obviously going to be pretty assertive. There's only so much he can take though before he feels unwelcome and very put out, since he's never faced such resistance. Let's make it clear though, as I've said before, it's not completely unrequited. Fernando enjoys that chase, having such a powerful figure begging for his attention. But he can go too far and act a little too hissy, and it starts to genuinely hurt Seb's feelings. They have more tolerance for each other's respectively pushy and aloof behavior, but not so much that they're completely immune to feeling hurt. Seb's kind of like a dog who keeps trying to get close to a cat, but then the cat actually uses its claws to swipe at him, so he has to go lick his wounds. Though, to me, he's still somewhat a cat because he is aware he is being a bit annoying, just a bit. Fernando on the other hand, is aware he's being a bit too standoffish for what his actual position is, and he would probably get into real trouble acting this way around any other person.

I've talked about this before but. Seb is very greedy for affection, the type to never be able to get enough to satisfy him. He'll take it in any form he can, be it platonic, romantic, sexual. Of course when Fernando starts spending more time around, he's Seb's new victim. He understands Fernando wants alone time, despite that being something he doesn't ever really partake in himself. Fernando is reading pretty inconsequential papers, but like all things, he treats them with utmost importance. In reality, he's kinda just trying to shake off Seb. But Seb's not the type to be aware of cues like that. He's like, ah let me just sit in the room, I won't be loud, I won't do anything. But then is practically crawling into Fernando's lap, getting all into his space. One day Fernando feels like it's getting too much, and is grinding his teeth and pursing his lips. Seb's trying to peek at the paper in his hand, "Something bothering you?" Fernado finally snaps at him, "Yes! You! You constantly brag about how you're the future emperor, no? Don't you have something better to do than lay all over me, or is being debauched all you're good at!?" Seb is very hurt by this, "Well if you're so bothered by my presence, I suppose I'll go. You're so busy after all."

Seb shuts the door behind him, and now the room is too silent. Fernando feels more on edge and fidgety than he had been when Seb was all over him. He can't concentrate on his "work" at all. He hadn't realized that the amount of effort he had been putting into consciously ignoring Seb had helped him focus. Like it or not, Seb was a stable presence in the room, he gave Fernando a reason to actually be able to focus purely on what he was supposed to be doing. Now it's quiet. And lonely. And the reading is no fun anymore.

[lumiolivier]

Tell Me I'm Pretty

Day 20 of 31 of Kinktober

Prompt: Crossdressing

Word Count: 1508

It shouldn't have gotten to him, but L was tired of the snide comments people made about him. And he needed a change.

L wasn’t much.  He knew that aside from his intelligence, he wasn’t much.  He knew he looked like something that crawled out of a gutter or haunted children’s nightmares.  It was something Mello had told him regularly while they were at Wammy’s together.  But it never got to him.  It wasn’t something he fixated on.  Until one day, a true Adonis walked into his life.  An absolute beauty that did things to him no one could ever do before.  And that’s when he started to realize it.

L and Light would go out on dates and L could hear the whispers at the next table over.  Who the homeless guy was with Light, how did someone like L get into one of the nicest places in Tokyo, which swamp did he claw his way out of.  He heard them.  All of them.  And more often than not, he wrote them off.  But they hit.  And they hit hard.  And telling himself they were only threatened by his intelligence only worked for so long.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he needed help.  Not Watari.  He wouldn’t understand.  He would tell him that his vanity wasn’t important or some empty platitudes of how he was fine just the way he was.  Everything that would sound helpful to an outsider looking in, but never to the person it’s said to.  So, he did something that he knew would be like throwing gasoline on a dumpster fire.  But he was already a dumpster fire, so it felt fitting.

The day had come to an end at task force headquarters.  Light had managed to cut out early to go to his night classes.  And it was quiet in the main room.  With the exception of L at the monitors.  And Misa on the couch in her pajamas with a magazine in her lap.  That she just happened to be on the cover of.  She wore a bright red dress and looked like her eyes could kill.  Misa had a confidence that L secretly envied.  And he knew that what would happen next would only breed disaster, but his scientific curiosity persevered more than his apprehension.

“Misa,” L broke the still silence in the room, “Can I ask you a trivial question?”

“A trivial question?” Misa perked up, “Really?  That’s a little out of your wheelhouse, don’t you think, Ryuzaki?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Of course,” Misa allowed, putting her magazine down, “What’s on your mind?”

“Would you call me attractive?” L wondered.

Misa froze, not sure where L was going with this.  It was something so out of left field that it truly stunned her, “Um…Ryuzaki, are you ok, sweetie?  Do you need to talk?”

“I want your honest opinion,” L insisted, “There are no tricks.  Merely a yes or no question.  Even you can handle those.”

“Even me?” Misa scoffed, “Wow.  I feel loved.”

“So?” L ignored her pathetic attempts at pouting and appealing to his kindness, “Would you?”

“Well,” Misa looked him over, “Yeah.  I guess.”

“Enough to have Light?”

“That actually threw me for a loop,” Misa admitted, “I had a feeling Light wasn’t just into girls, but I didn’t think you were going to be his type.  What’s the matter?  What’s bringing this on?”

“On our last date,” L sighed out, “Someone was talking about how I was Light’s charity case.  And it kind of got under my skin a little.”

“Really?” Misa gasped, “You?  Since when do you give a shit about 1.) what you look like and 2.) what other people say?”

“I don’t know,” L hated himself for it.  He knew he shouldn’t let it bother him.  He knew he would never see those people again and that their opinion didn’t matter.  The only one that did was Light’s.  But that didn’t make it sting any less, “But it just…I don’t know.  It’s not like me not to know.”

“I have an idea,” Misa bit the inside of her cheek, “But you have to trust me.  Ok?”

L could feel it in the pit of his stomach.  This couldn’t possibly go well.  But he was desperate, “Ok.  What did you have in mind?”

“Come with me,” Misa took his hand, “Do you know what time Light gets out of class?”

“Nine o’clock,” L remembered.

“We have time,” Misa smiled, “Come on.”

And so, Misa got to work.  She knew what she needed to do.  Did L?  No.  Of course not.  If he knew, he wouldn’t have been going to Misa in the first place.  But Misa would have some semblance of a vision.  Something that would get Light’s attention.  Something that would make people shut up.  Something that would bring L back to life again.  Anything to pull him out of the spiral that consumed his thoughts for the last few days.

When Light got out of class, he went right back to the tower.  After scanning himself in, he took a quick look around the war room.  And to his surprise, it was empty.  I’m pretty sure I left him right here.  He was watching the monitors.  I know damn well he didn’t do something silly like go to bed.  Light laughed to himself, the memory of many nights where he had to carry L on his shoulder like a baby to get him to bed warming his heart like nothing else.  So, Light checked over the cameras, hoping he could find L.  Nothing.  Where the hell did you go?

Light wrote it off as a glitch in the security system and went upstairs.  His lecture was nearly lulling him to sleep.  Between classes and the investigation, he was wrecked.  But there was a little twist.  He walked in to the softest, sweetest little angel on his bed.  And he wasn’t sure what to think about it, but he also wasn’t complaining.

“Welcome home, Light,” L smiled, the skirt of his bright, white dress billowing out under him.  Or, more accurately, Misa’s dress.  It’s not like L had it hiding in the back of his closet.  But there was a certain purity about him.  And something about it scratched an itch in Light’s head that he didn’t know existed.

Still, blissfully unaware of L’s motives and a touch paranoid, Light wrote it off, “Let me guess.  Misa got bored and got a hold of you, didn’t she?”

“Not entirely,” L confessed, pulling Light onto the bed, “I did ask nicely.”

“You did what?” Light looked at him strangely, his heartbeat shooting up.

“You heard me,” L got comfortable in Light’s lap already feeling him against the skirt, “Light, tell me I’m pretty.”

“What’s this all about?” Light started to worry, “This isn’t you.”

“What?” L felt his heart drop into his stomach, “You don’t like it…?”

“It’s not you,” Light cradled L’s cheek in the palm of his hand, “I know you, L.  You don’t ever have to impress me.  You already have a million times over.  So, forgive me if I’m a little concerned.”

“I let voices in my head take over,” L cuddled into him, “And worse yet, I let Misa take advantage of them.  I learned the hard way tonight that I am not meant for corsets.  How Misa deals with them is absolutely astonishing.”

“L,” Light snuck in a little kiss, “I’m flattered you wanted to do something like this for me, but you never have to.  Don’t forget that.  Ok?”

L managed to muster up a smile, his head comfortably snuggled into Light’s shoulder, “Thank you, Light.  You know, I’ve been rattling around all these different ideas that have been gnawing away at me for the last couple days.  But I think you just said all I needed to hear.”

“And for the record,” Light picked L’s chin up, getting a much deeper kiss out of him, “I think you are very pretty.  And the dress was a nice touch.”

“Thank you,” L shivered as Light’s wrist pushed the skirt of his dress up his thigh, “And…What are we going to do about it?”

“You’re not just pretty, L,” Light whispered in his ear, finding the lacy panties Misa gave him, “You’re the smartest person I know.  You figure it out.”

“I think,” L pulled the panties down and threw them to the floor.  Only to straddle Light’s thighs, “I’m turning you on.”

“Really?” Light held L steady with one arm and undid the button on his pants with the free hand, “And what gave that away?”

L buried his face in Light’s neck, leaving kisses in his wake, “The fact that you’re rock fucking solid for me already.  I bet with a few nice words and a little grinding, I can have you coming awfully quick.”

“And leave you aching?” Light awed, letting out a little moan, “Of course not.  I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Alright then,” L laid back on the bed, his legs wide and a smirk on his face, “Then, show me what you can do to me…”

[popjunkie42]

Hate Me Instead Chapter 7

FINALLY!

I have had this chapter like 90% written for a while, but for some reason I had to slog through the training scene. I hope it is still fun because it kind of killed me.

Hate Me Instead - Chapter 7, Spark

Whole work on AO3

Training! Flirtations! Cassian shows up! A sexy cliffhanger! I love this chapter. 

Snippet:

After an hour, I thought she was perhaps about to master her powers just so she could murder me.

“None of this is helping,” she bit out. “‘ Will it into being ?’ What is that even supposed to mean?”

I had all the patience in the world. Perhaps Feyre didn’t know the hard path that lay before her. But her magic was ready. She just had to figure out how to find it.

“It will take time,” I said to her. “You’ll try every way we can think of to coax it out. You’ll try and fail, until one time you won’t. And then we’ll take the next step.”

“Maybe you’re just a terrible teacher.”

I hummed at that. “Remember how you’ve found the power in the past. What brought it forth?”

She paled a bit at that. I wondered what memories were flashing before her.

“When I’m angry,” she said, hesitantly, not meeting my eyes. “Or…afraid.”

I was trying. I was trying very hard not to wonder what fear had forced her powers to the surface, unbidden.

“Well. Since I’m not about to toss you into the fire, I suppose it will have to be anger.”

It was familiar by now. That sense of her ire focused on me.

“Which, given your terrible temper, should make this all rather easy.”

“I find it quite easy to be pleasant around everyone else. Somehow it’s only you and your insufferably smug face that inspires such rage.”

“We both know that’s a lie.” Her eyes said I had hit a nerve. “You’re trying so hard, Feyre. The ridiculous lengths you’ll go to pretend that all you feel towards me is annoyance and disdain. That you don’t want me.”

I couldn’t tell if the blush spreading on her cheeks was from anger or my words striking home. I knew which one I wanted. I knew I was skirting on dangerous territory, but I couldn’t help the feeling of a thrill as I taunted her with everything I wanted to be true.

“It’s all right. Who could blame you? After all, I am quite stunning. The whole package, really. Frighteningly intelligent, devastatingly beautiful, ridiculously charming…I suppose I’ve just come up with the plans for our next writing lesson.” I could have sworn her lip was about to curl into a snarl. “And that’s not to mention a memory I have of receiving some particularly interesting thoughts when I showed you my wings.”

“You claim to want to teach me, yet somehow every lesson turns into endless compliments to yourself,” she bit out.

“I thought that admiring me was a common hobby we both shared.”

She glared.

“Any fire yet?” I asked with a grin.

Feyre gritted her teeth. “No. Maybe you should get someone else to teach me. Someone who knows what they’re doing and doesn’t have to resort to smug arrogance to get what they want.”

“What I want?” I asked.

She was defiant at that, lifting her chin. “I’m sure you have plenty of other important things to do. I imagine you’re sitting here on the floor with me to prepare your weapon against Hybern, all for your own scheming.”

“You can be your own weapon against Hybern. I asked for your help and I’m patiently awaiting your answer. And who says you’re limited to Hybern? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, Feyre? Some fire and claws to shred at me for all my transgressions?” I smiled.

Her look was murderous. “You won’t be smiling so much if I ruin your pretty face.”

My grin was genuine. “So you do think I’m pretty?”

The spark of flame in her palm startled both of us.

“There . Now that’s some progress. What did it feel like?” I prodded.

Feyre was transfixed by her hands, now outstretched. “I don’t know. Like anger.”

“Think about the flame. Where did it come from?”

She thought for a moment. “From…from inside. From my chest. And then, like something was crawling under my skin, through my arm. And it…jumped.”

I nodded. “Your power can be like a river flowing through you. And you will learn how to dig the channels, how to control where and how it flows.”

“A river? But it’s fire.”

I clicked my tongue. “Well, today during our reading lessons we’ll add in something about metaphors.

“Prick,” she hissed. I laughed.

This was going to be fun.

I couldn’t help myself. I was delighted. Feyre still had little control over any of it, but sitting so close I could feel the power waking up within her, crackling under her skin. I wondered if she would burn me if I touched her. I longed to find out.

“Should we practice something else?” I asked, shifting to my hip and leaning forward towards her, my hands planted on the carpet in between us. She watched me like I was a stalking wolf. “I’ve been dreaming,” I whispered, “of your claws ripping off my clothes.”

Her gaze could have branded me. I refused to drop it. I heard her breath hitch a bit and the beating of her heart. A small knot was forming in my chest.

Before, my flirtations had always been…theoretical, with a guaranteed rebuff from her. I certainly was very aware of any small effect I had on her. The quick beating of her heart, an unwanted blush on her cheek. I cataloged every moment for my own enjoyment, assured that at least she found my outward form appealing, even if she hated it every time I opened my mouth.

But now, now that I had tasted her skin, now that I knew how she felt inside…

Her lips parted slightly, and I could see the moment her eyes turned from annoyance to something…different.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?” Mor chirped from the edge of the room.

Both our heads whipped around at the intrusion.

“We’ve been training,” I said, my words clipped.

“Yes, I can see that.” Mor said with a smile.

Feyre leaned back, crossing her arms.

“A certain mutual acquaintance wanted me to remind you that your lordly presence is due at a meeting in an hour,” Mor said cheerfully.

I hadn’t forgotten. Cassian. Devlon. Strategies with the Illyrian camps.

“You’re leaving?” Feyre asked. I turned my head back to her, our bodies still close.

“Just until this evening. And I’ve left you some writing lessons I think you’ll particularly enjoy.” I said. She huffed at me. “Try not to miss me too much.” I said, smiling.

She had, somewhat, seemed upset. But now she was scowling at me, an adorable furl curling in her brow.

Mor sighed rather dramatically. It was time to go.

“Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone. If you explode, I’d really like to watch,” I said to Feyre.

Her glare said maybe we should practice ice, next.

[goosehascats]

Moon 6: Part 1

CW: Emotional manipulation, verbal abuse, trauma response.

“Again, Mitepaw?” Duskstar said sternly, eyebrows furrowed. “Surely you can pounce on a field mouse.” 

“I’m sorry, Duskstar,” Mitepaw said with a steely, determined expression. She had been struggling with hunting today, but she couldn’t figure out why. She was tasting the air, she had her ears on the swivel, perfectly down wind, but her pounces were just… Off, simply put. And she was paying the price now with Duskstar’s temper. She sat, back straight, but looking just down at Duskstar’s chest rather than at his eyes. 

“Do you think sorry is enough, Mitepaw? Do you think sorry feeds mouths?” Duskstar’s tail lashed, though his body remained composed. His eyes were dark and his ears were turned back, and this was about as outwardly angry as Mitepaw had ever seen him. She continued to stare coldly at his chest, knowing that any flicker of emotion could warrant more berating. 

“No, Duskstar.” Mitepaw’s voice was even, but she felt hot shame burn under her fur. She was better than this. She knew she was. And she had to be, she was Duskstar’s apprentice. His patience was not for her because she needed to represent him as a leader. If she went back to camp empty handed, what would that say about him? 

“Then what is the problem.” Duskstar demanded. It wasn’t a question, it was a command to speak. To give him a reason. To give him ammunition for the next leg of his rant. 

“I…” Mitepaw started. She knew she should have a reason. She knew that something should be different about today than yesterday, or any other day she’s hunted. She knew she was so close to her warrior name but if she kept having days like today, she’d never get there. So she needed something to be different, to be wrong. “I’m sorry, Duskstar.” She said again, tilting her head to stare solidly at the ground. “I’ve been distracted. I… I believe I had a vision from Starclan last night.” 

The silence that fell between Duskstar and Mitepaw was thick and heavy. She felt her skin crawl over her, thousands of little legs pricking at her skin as she waited for him to believe her lie. Her legs began to just barely quiver when she felt a tail on her back. She looked back up to see Duskstar with an observant but neutral expression on his face, eyes lighter and eyebrows lifted. 

“What did you see?” He asked in a soft, soothing tone. It was better than him being angry at her, but Mitepaw felt herself grow nauseous at the thought of having to give him details for a fake vision. 

“Oh, well,” Mitepaw started, looking away from Duskstar. “It was… A dream that I had last night, and it was… Clear, but it was soft in the way dreams are. There was…” Mitepaw looked around the horizon, her eyes landing on an awkward hump in the ground. “A burrow. Perhaps a tunnel, or a den underground. Hollow dirt.” Her claws tore up the dirt underfoot. “And there were…” Fox-dung, what’s a Starclan-y sign?! Mitepaw thought to herself in a panic. “Um, stars. There were stars in the den underground. I was being chased, or maybe just followed. But I found some water, and… And then I woke up.” 

“You just… Woke up when you saw the water?” 

“Well, yes, but only… Only after I looked into the water.” 

“And did you see yourself?” 

“Um… No. No, I saw Honeystream there.” 

“Hmm,” Duskstar hummed in thought, getting up on his paws to walk a circle around Mitepaw. “I see… I can’t quite make sense of it on my own, I think, but Snaillake would be rather delighted to hear this I’m sure.” Duskstar was purring by the end of his sentence, in a much better mood now. “Really, Mitepaw, I wish you had mentioned this sooner, this is far more important than a few field mice.” 

“Yes, Duskstar. Sorry, Duskstar. I wasn’t… Sure if it was real or not, but I’ll make sure to bring up any more visions to you and Snaillake.” Mitepaw felt her chest tighten as if she was going to cry, or maybe vomit. If he finds out I’ve lied about this… She shook the thought from her head. She would keep up the lie. She had to. If the vision was vague enough, perhaps Snaillake wouldn’t be able to parse it either. And then maybe they could forget about it and Mitepaw could hunt better tomorrow. All that mattered now was that Duskstar wasn’t mad at her.

[queenpiranhadon]

A/N: No personal messages at the moment, just enjoy the chapter! This chapter is written by the lovely Nyota (@labaguetteisdabest). You can find the masterlist here

Warning(s): Apex gets panic attacks (kinda), murder, fratricide, blood, injuries, fighting, espyn-animal hybrids, death, cursing, burning, phantom pain.

Pairing(s): Kaepex

Stomp. 

Stomp. 

Stomp. 

My brother-turned-bear stands outside the door. 

He hesitates, sniffing the air. 

And continues walking. 

Stomp. 

Stomp. 

Stomp. 

I breathe a quiet sigh of relief, and once I can’t hear his footsteps anymore, I carefully and quietly open the closet door. 

Then, I creep across Cove’s bedroom and open the door, praying that my brother had in fact gone far away. 

When I scan the glaringly white hallway with intricate flame patterns adorning the walls, I don’t spot the creature that used to be Daxton. 

Why is he a bear-espyn hybrid? I think. So much has changed while I was gone... 

I sneak around a corner. 

OH- 

My brother is right there. Right around the corner. 

I take a deep breath. 

Okay. 

There are two things I can do here. One, I can run and let my brother run rampant. Or... I can kill him, saving... I don’t know who I’d be saving. 

I know one thing. 

Killing Daxton is the right choice. It would crush my parents – my mother in particular – but I was taught to put the good of the people before my own life and biases. And that’s what I’m doing... right? 

I can’t even attack right now, anyways – why am I debating this? 

I dash down the hallway, away from my brother, and as I run, the reality of the situation sets in. 

I’m about to go murder my brother... or die trying. 

How unpleasant. 

I realize I’ve probably been running for longer than I intended and double back. I must have run past the armory. 

Bingo. 

I try to open the door quietly, but the hinges squeak. I pause for a minute, panic rushing through me again. I don’t hear any footsteps come in my direction, so I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and continue opening the door. 

Opening the door again, I walk in quickly and breathe a sigh of relief once I lock the door. 

I’m gonna need to be able to see fully, I realize. I look around for a clip or hair tie or something I can use to move my red hair away from my face. 

A minute or two later, I find a ruby hair clip and I push my hair aside, clipping it out of the way. 

Let’s hope this doesn’t fall out, I think. 

I switch my focus to what’s more important. 

My weapon. 

Relying on my Reya alone won’t be smart; I’ll end up exhausted. 

I look around, nothing really catching my eye, until I find a deep blue-hilted dagger. I had lit a small fire above my hand so I could see better, and the silver edge shines in my light. Lifting it, I discover it’s lighter than I anticipated. 

This is the one I’ll use. 

I extinguish the light from my hand and grab the leather hilt that goes along with the dagger, tying it around my waist. 

Carefully opening the door, I let it slam behind me and I sprint back to my brother, ready to save Fujimura – or die trying. 

No pressure. 

I stop when I reach the corner of the hallway. Unsheathing my dagger, I take a breath. 

And I step. 

And dash. 

I run at my brother, slashing at his back, and he gasps in pain. 

My dagger is lined with red. 

I hate it. 

I hate the fact that I have to hurt – no, kill – my brother. 

But I just have to deal with it. 

I keep saying that I’ll be saving people. 

But who am I really saving? 

Who knows how many of these diseased espyn-animal hybrids are out there, crawling through the forests of Dodomi? 

No one, probably. 

Daxton whips his head around, a deep growl rumbling from his throat. He stretches his sharp claws, aiming to hit me, but I dodge him, rolling underneath his arm. 

I summon a fire blast, sending it at his body, and while the flames are taxing on my energy, I manage to push through and lash out with my dagger, the blade hitting solid mass. 

I want this to end. 

I hate that noise. 

I hate hearing my brother snarl at me. 

Slash at me. 

I hate the feeling of the dagger in my right hand. 

And yet – the weight is comforting, somehow. 

Maybe it’s that the weight tells me that I have something to protect me? 

I hate it anyways. 

I hate this. 

Pain streaks across my back and I cry out. 

Anger fuels me and I throw my hand out, blasting another inferno at my brother. The crackling of the flames is calming, in a way, but it doesn’t save me from my terror. 

Daxton swings his leg around, kicking my legs out from under me. As I fall to the ground, the right side of my face begins to throb with pain. 

Stupid phantom pain, I think exasperatedly. Why now?! 

My brother-turned-bear-espyn-hybrid pins me to the ground. His hot breath stings my face, and I begin to hyperventilate. 

My dagger is pinned down to the ground because of my arm, so I can’t do that. My Reya is weak from the times I used it before. And Dax is too strong; I can’t wiggle out of his grasp. 

Then it hits me. 

I heat up my body, and as I do so, I can feel my life energy slowly fading away – like the layers of the ocean: the more layers you pull away, the deeper you go, and the more raw pieces you expose. 

My vision begins to fade, just barely, but I get lucky: my brother rips his hands away from my burning skin. 

And at his moment of weakness, I go for it. 

I stab my brother in the side. 

His eyes widen. 

And then he shrieks. 

A guttural scream erupts from his lungs, and I want to cover my ears but it’s not safe – not yet. 

Daxton locks his eyes on me, and I can feel it – he’s gonna bring me down with him. 

Not on my watch. 

I scramble away from him, sprinting out into the gardens in front of the palace, and I can hear Dax’s lumbering footsteps behind me. 

I stumble. 

And my vision gains black spots. 

No. 

Not right now. 

I almost made it. 

I look down and the white concrete has droplets of red – all from my back wound. 

That’s definitely scarring. 

Adrienne, you should not be worried about that right now. 

Worry about living first. 

The sight of my blood makes me slightly nauseous. But I have to deal with it, because if I don’t, I’m just accepting my death. 

And that is not happening. 

Daxton roars behind me, and I clamber up again, trying to run farther, but something pushes me, and I fall to my knees. 

My brother pins me down again, and this time, my dagger is lost somewhere, my brother’s side wound is dripping onto me, and I’m too weak to use my Reya. 

Yep, I’m dead. 

I try to wriggle out from underneath him, but he only pushes down harder. 

Ow, ow, ow... 

I kick my legs up and my brother freezes. 

I don’t think I had the energy to do that, but now I can get out from underneath and find some other weapon to use. 

The fresh breeze stings my back, and it seems it hurts my brother too because he winces. 

I run around the palace, my brother following me – until he isn’t. 

What the hell? 

I keep running, afraid he’s just hiding, and a shimmer of silver catches my eye. 

My dagger! 

I dash at it, picking it up. 

A newfound strength surges through me, and my eyesight sharpens. 

Gods help me. 

Please. 

I dart away and crash into my brother. 

He had circled around. 

Okay, I am so dead, I think. 

Desperation replaces the strength that I had felt moments ago, and I rush to figure out what I’ll do next. 

I slash up, dash to the left, avoid a blow. 

I blast flames to my right (don’t ask me how; I was exhausted), dodge, and trip. 

I’m in front of the drawbridge and my brother is on top of me – yes, again – and I take advantage of my arms being free for a moment. 

I shove my dagger up, into my brother’s stomach. 

His blood already covers part of my arm from before and now it’s dripping onto my fairly clean, white shirt. 

His wild teal eyes widen, and he falls to the ground. I scramble away before he can fall on top of me, and tears prick my eyes. 

“Shit, I knew I would do this, but I didn’t realize it would hurt this much!” I say to no one in particular. 

Daxton coughs beneath me. 

I look at him. 

His lips are moving – is he trying to actually speak? 

“Adri...” he rasps. 

“Wh- I didn’t realize you could talk still...” I whisper. 

“Tell Mother and Father. ... Tell them I miss them,” he croaks. Then his stare turns blank. 

Did he go fully espyn for his last moments? If he could talk this whole time, then why didn’t he talk to me? 

I collapse to the ground. 

The last thing I see is my brother’s dead body. 

[kat-xox]

PLS tell me ur fav things about him/fav fics/fav anything that has to do with barty crouch jr <3 he does not get enough love & recognition !!

hi!!!! oh so i have. many things.

okay so. this idea started when i got to “my beloved” in my fic, your lips, my lips. which is a two-part chapter that is completely barty-centric. and basically, barty crawled out of my computer screen and sank his claws into me and now i have my next fic planned which is going to be a canon-compliant hogwarts/first wizarding war barty pov called wicked ways. here are some of my hc for it!! :)

1. barty’s dad wanted barty to be well-rounded, and so when things started to bubble in the pureblood wizarding community he took a step back and put barty in a muggle primary school before hogwarts. so, prior to hogwarts, the only magic barty has been exposed to is the few magical objects in his father’s office at home and the books his father has let him read about hogwarts. he barely even knows what quidditch is, fascinated by all the brooms the first time he steps in diagon alley (except he’s 100% more mesmerized by the blonde boy he meets for the very first time by the window display, ofc.) so when he finally gets to hogwarts, it’s really easy for him to be influenced by some of the older boys, by regulus and evan (who have been surrounded by snotty pureblood society their whole lives) into thinking that those with magic are simply…better. stronger. that magic is what makes a person—not character—and that those without it are beneath him.

2. in his first two or so years, he’s always the odd one out between the three boys—the last one to get the joke. the one who went to “muggle school.” so he sort of takes these jokes and it translates into his idea of teasing some of the other kids. always the younger ones, or the muggleborns. but things start to go too far really quickly; he starts to learn right away that he likes feeling powerful, takes pleasure in the way he can make others feel so weak. likes when the older boys egg him on; say they’re proud of him. pride is a huge thing for barty, and so it all goes downhill from there.

3. i have always hc that canon barty doesn’t know the difference between romantic and platonic love, and I JUST LEARNED THERE IS A WORD FOR THIS!!! Idemromantic is on the aromantic spectrum and it’s basically when someone doesn’t feel the difference between the two. i think barty just feels connected to people and like, he knows it means something. that those feelings are important. but he starts out as this kid who has all this love to give and he winds up putting it in the wrong places. but then he grows up a little, and evan starts dating this girl, and he doesn’t know why that hurts, and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t like girls, and when he finds out that regulus doesn’t either the two of them wind up sticking together. it’s the moment that barty and regulus’ relationship grows and barty does love him. he does. not quite like evan, and he isn’t sure why, but he does. i am a rosekiller truther to the end HOWEVER wicked ways will absolutely have a stretch of bartylus because it just makes canonical sense to me.

4. his. FATHER. i have things to say about barty crouch sr and not a lot of them are very kind. i want to paint him as the parent that had all the potential to be a good father but just. didn’t. he failed his son. multiple times, even. he sent his kid to hogwarts and he did not have time to respond to all the letters he was sent, or even take his kid out to fucking ice cream over the summer break. barty is a lonely, lonely kid at home—his mother having left and his father barely there. and when his father is around, he’s almost always locked away in his office, working working working. so as soon as barty is old enough to understand the concept that him acting out gets his fathers attention, it’s exactly what he starts to do. it drives a wedge into their relationship; this young, ball-of-love boy that his father has never really had to worry about being outwardly rebellious. snapping turns into screaming matches, him being banned from seeing evan and regulus. and it turns to acting out because barty wants any attention, any at all, even if it’s the worst kind.

5. lastly. i am so invested in his descent to madness. i just have all these ideas that i want to put on paper so fucking badly it’s insane, lol. this fic idea has been rotting in my brain since summer. i think that learning regulus died is going to be the beginning of the end for him. he loves regulus so, so much. just. him and regulus have this thing—this connection. and when regulus dies it is fucking severed. and what’s worse is that evan feels the exact same way. like the two of them will never be the same in the aftermath of their best friend’s death. they just won’t. and i think that it can be interpreted differently in this fic—that evan dies after regulus—because that’s what’s going to work in this case and therefore that’s what imma do lol. but when evan dies. when evan. god, when he dies, shit is going to hit the fucking fan let me tell you. barty’s time in azkaban is going to be the most gut-wrenching, soul-crushing days of ruminating over the most ruthless regrets. everyone in bartys life, has failed him. miserably. they’ve left him there to rot, rot, rot. and so i have some theories about his mother, and how she ends up back in his life as he gets older and how they wind up switching places. but at that point, barty is so broken down that it doesn’t even matter. the only guidance he has left in his life is fucking voldemort, who convinces him that regulus was a traitor and never felt any love for him at all. that evan died a heroic death that should be fucking commemorated. and barty is so lost by this point, that he believes him. he listens to him—even kills his own father for him—up until he’s sentenced to death via dementor’s kiss. and he looks the dementor in the eyes, feels the leftover fractions of his soul leave his body. and he forgets that he was ever even loved at all.

TYSM FOR ASKING ME ABOUT THIS!!!!! truly you are so right; man’s bcj does NOT get talked about enough and i want to change this !! hope ur day is amazing-mazing & ty for your kind comment btw!! hope i didn’t drown you in one too many bcj headcanons 😭😅

[depressedhatakekakashi]

“Stay still.” yua instructed when Kakashi tried to squirm away. All she was doing was fixing a spot on his shoulder for pachirisu but her son was putting in his best effort to free himself from her company as soon as possible.

“Is this really necessary?” He asked, his eyes darting between her and the door just behind her. “You could just-“

Finishing with the shoulder sleeve, Yua turned her attention to her son and frowned. “Stop it,” she warned, poking the side of his head with two extended fingers. “It’s just a photo.”

“I have better things to be doing, mother.”

“Do you?” Holding out an arm, Yua smiled when she felt Pachirisu’s tiny claws digging into her pants as it crawls its way up her legs and over her back until it was perched comfortably on her shoulder. “I want a picture of my son with his namesake. What is more important than that?”

Kakashi opened his mouth, preparing to provide her with an answer that she was certain she’d shoot down just as she had shot down the last five excuses he tried to give her.

“Five minutes,” she promised, holding up five fingers for emphasis and immidiatly earning herself a glare from her son. “I’ll take one picture and then you can run off back to Gai and complain about how terrible i am.”

“I’m not- mother!” He didn’t raise his voice, but there was an annoyance in his tone that spoke louder than he ever could. Unwilling to wait for his argument, Yua held out her arm and gently laid her hand over his shoulder. As soon as her hand was down, Pachirisu took the cue and moved itself across her arm and onto Kakashi’s shoulder.

“There,” she smiled as Pachirisu found a comfortable spot and wrapped its tail around the back of Kakashi’s neck. “Perfect.”

Reaching a hand up, Kakashi placed it gently on Pachirisu’s head. “So much fuss.”

Making her way back toward the camera she had set up before her son’s arrival, Yua stepped in behind it and peered through the lens. “ Why shouldn’t it be? This is the first shiny pokemon i have ever caught.”

“And you named it-“ his words were cut off with a groan. “Mother, why exactly did you name it after me?”

“Oh, that’s obvious,” waiting for the perfect moment, she clicked the shutter button and smiled triumphantly when the sound of a perfectly captured photograph rang through the room. “It’s a little electric brat, just like you.”

Her electric brat whom she loved more than anything in the world and would commit atrocities to protect, but an electric brat none the else.

“Most people call their children their ‘sub’ or ‘precious baby’ or something equally as cute,” Kakashi complained “and here i stand getting called an ‘electric brat’. What did i do to deserve this?”

“Would you prefer your fathers nickname?” She asked as she straightened herself up and started at the beautiful scene in front of her. Pachirisu propped up perfectly on Kakashi’s shoulder leaning into him as he scratched it gently behind the ear.

“No…” he sighed, accepting his defeat with more grace than he usually did. “I think i’ll keep the ‘electric brat’ nickname, thanks.”

[beef-brisket]

((It was a risky move- but I had no idea who would first man lol))

Vaggie backed away, she knew not to mess with these two, especially in Heaven.

Vaggie: Look- I'm not here for trouble-

Alastor: Now, that is where you're wrong! You just setting foot here is more than enough trouble. And I don't like what your little princess is trying to do~.

Vaggie: What-?

Husk: Think of it this way. We don't want your scum clawing it's why up here. This place is pure and not a halfway house.

Vaggie: Everyone at the Hazbin has been working really hard and making great progress-

Alastor: I don't care, "Vaggie". So, I'm here to make a little deal with you~. You'll sabotage your girlfriends little presentation, and we won't spill your little secret~.

Husk: Hmph. I'm sure she won't be too happy to learn you're not who you say you are.

Alastor: Ha! What fun. See you at the meeting, "Vaggie"~.

Vaggie curled in on herself, fuck she hates it up here. She watched as Alastor and Husk walked out, laughing. Both of them are vicious on the battle field and definitely shouldn't be fucked with.

Looks like Vaggie doesn't have much of a choice.

Lucifer: See, that's where we diverge. What do you do, exactly?

Adams eye twitched. He should have gone to his room.

Adam: Maybe you were too busy being depressed or whatever else to notice that I was with Charlie writing a whole ten year plan for the hotel.

Lucifer: ...that took all night?

Adam: Believe it or not, it did. She put a lot of work into that report. I'm sure she would have appreciated some assistance from her father, but we can't expect too much from the king of Hell. Can we~?

Lucifer glared: Listen here, you fuck. Im trying-

Adam: Are you? Because so far, all I've heard from you is lies, excuses, mocking- oh, and the occasional insult. All not very cleaver, mind you. Is there a reason you've decided to crawl out of your depression pit? Or are you just here to force your way into something important, do some damage, hurt your daughter and then fuck off to your palace again?

Lucifer growled: I'm here to help my daughter.

Adam: Hm, could have fooled me~.

Lowkey want an au where Adam has Alastors' powers.

The tentacles

The eyes

The changing size

The shadows

The sass

The deal making

Him owning Husk and Nifty

The musical numbers

The radio control

The tentacles- have I mentioned that before?

The rivalry with Lucifer

Maybe he replaces Alastor entirely. No Alastor. Only Adam. It's always been Adam.

Thanks for coming to my tedtalk.

Only Adam lol This is good! His Husk and Nifty could be Lute and Peter.

He doesn't have to smile all the time does he?

Yessss, and he plays rock instead of jazz lol And yes of course there is a rivalry lol

[im-657-mv]

9. "I've always fantasized about this moment, let me enjoy your presence, darling..."

[requested] 001

word count: 801

He was appearing more often and in more places. In crowds and behind flashes of cars. But never for no longer than mere seconds did he stand there, staring. You didn't understand though. Viktor, the love of your life, stuck in the past reoccurring in your daily life, why? Why now of all times? Were you going crazy? You might as well be because seeing a dead person in broad daylight is more than concerning. People have been sent to the ward for littler things than this.

But you had a feeling in the pit of your stomach. This was something of greater importance. You just knew that all of this was happening for a reason. What if... what if Viktor was contacting you from the beyond?

I guess you were a believer in those sort of things, spiritual things if you must. But never in your lived life so far did you think the occult would make meets with you. For them, for Viktor, to dip his hand into this world must mean something, right?

With these thoughts spinning webs in your head you lay awake and unable to catch the sleep you had wanted most nights. Was he really trying to get your attention? The love of your life was dead. He had died. You had mourned his ever so presence in your life, and now that he's somewhat here again... Well, you couldn't pass this opportunity up. No one would.

The next morning you reluctantly made the purchase of an ouija board. It made you anxious and hesitant to even touch it, but this was what you saw in the movies. It was a way to contact the dead, whether you liked it or not.

You set everything up with shaky hands, labored breath, and worry lacing your beautiful face. And every so often you would question all that you were doing. Was this the right choice? Because talking about it and actually doing it are completely two different things in this circumstance. You bit your nails thinking, but you knew what your answer was. Deep down you just wanted to talk to him one more time. One last time.

The lights were off and the candles flared and lit up your living room, lighting the board and your face. This was it.

"In the name of the dead, I wish to speak to my Viktor. My husband. Show me a sign if you're here." You waited with absolute dreadful silence trying to sense if the triangle was going to move or not.

But not even three counts had passed until you felt something. Shivers went up from the bottom to the top of your spine slowly, erotically, as it trailed upward to the very base of your adorned neck. Goosebumps spread onto your skin and the hairs on both your arms and neck stood straight. You gulped and gasped at this exotic feeling that was quite new for a person like you.

"Viktor..." You panted as the feeling returned yet again. It burned into your skin as it crawled up making you itch with a new uncomfortableness across your back. Your face turned upward as a groan slipped out from between your soft lips at the experience.

With your eyes shut tight you felt the triangle move. You looked down and immediately saw it slowly sliding across the board to... 'NO'. Th-this wasn't Viktor...

Eyes widened and thoughts no longer being able to process anything the triangle flew away from your fingers, smashing violently into the wall with a loud bang.

"No no no no no..." You repeated shooting straight up from your seat as your mind raced a hundred miles per hour. You feared the worse upon your fate. Was how you were going to die? By the claws of a demon.

A chuckle echoed throughout the room filling it with a new ounce of terror and horror. And one by one, each candle burst into high flames proceeding to go out leaving you in the darkness alone with the stench of your fear and panicked breathing.

Only then did you feel it again. But it wasn't the searing pain all along your back. It was the placement of a cold unmoving hand gripping at your waist unwavering from its newfound spot on your skin. You stayed still, frozen as another hand joined it holding your body in place.

"I am no Viktor..." He whispered as he slowly turned your body to face him in his embrace. He wanted you to know of his beauty, of his presence, hence the sights of your dead husband. Even if you didn't know it was actually him it was all worth it in this underlining moment.

"But I've always fantasized about this moment, let me enjoy your presence, darling..."

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