#i just wanted to get some of my thoughts out there as i suffer from a cold..

[azzandra]

Aw, man, can't believe it's been two years since I wrote that.

When I reblogged and added my little commentary, I actually hadn't anticipated my comment to be reblogged by more than a couple of mutuals or be seen outside of my followers. I was just sharing a term that popped up in my head as a joke.

If I knew this glib comment I dashed off one morning without much thought was going to breach containment and take on a life of its own, I probably would have added a few disclaimers.

Since then, I've seen some people miss the point about what I was talking about in a few huge ways, so I'll clarify now a few points:

I have nothing against the cockroach wife dude.

I don't know if that story is true or not (there are some weird people out in the world, so I won't dismiss it out of hand, but like. come on) and I sincerely do not care that his spankbank was exclusively taken up by a cockroach woman. The part of his tale that we should take as a parable is where he solely and without being forced by anyone else hinged his entire sexuality around an imaginary construct that then made him incapable of being attracted to real human women. Remember, his story starts with him complaining that he can't get it up with his human girlfriend without picturing her as a huge cockroach. He did that. Nobody forced him to develop this condition. This is a lesson for the rest of us.

people going 'I think they're both pretty!' like that's the centrist silver bullet to this phenomenon.

Listen, yeah. I agree. Both versions are meant to be attractive, just to wildly different demographics. You know who doesn't agree? The guys I'm talking about.

The dudes I am referencing do NOT think both characters are attractive to different people. They think the original is attractive to NOBODY, and everyone else in the world is just PRETENDING that the first one is attractive in any way, and they're convinced everyone else also objectively knows the original art is ugly but there's a conspiracy to subject poor defenseless heterosexual men to pictures of butt-ugly women in order to brainwash them or something.

The guys afflicted with Cockroach Wife Syndrome are on some gamerbro qanon shit where their perception of reality is slanted to a comical degree, but they think their experiences are objective and unbiased, and they're making it everyone else's problem.

people smugly going 'OP has an anime girl in their icon' like that's some sort of gotcha

Yeah, man, I'm not opposed to anime girls. I'm not even opposed to hentai, or blender porn, or masturbation. I think everyone deserves to masturbate if they want to, and the way the world is going, we all probably deserve to masturbate a lot more (porn addiction isn't a real thing, my dudes). I accept that some people are going to jerk it to stuff that I don't find attractive, and maybe consider repulsive, and that's just going to be a fact of life from here unto eternity. We all need to come to terms to that.

But the Cockroach Wife Syndrome sufferers do NOT want to accept it. They want the entire world to have only one porn preference that aligns neatly to their own, and also they want all fictional depictions of women everywhere to adhere precisely to their porn preference.

And like, why would we do what these guys say? Now, me, personally, each time I see one of their yassified sexy edits of an already pretty female character, it always looks like the tackiest shit to me, like they're a toddler who got into mommy's make-up. I want to start a GoFundMe to send them to beautician school. I don't care how much they screech about it, they cannot convince me their aesthetic tastes are something to emulate, so I coined this term for them just so I had a name for their obnoxious behavior.

All that being said, in the time since I wrote this post, I discovered it gained some traction outside of tumblr. "Cockroach Wife Syndrome" was added to Urban Dictionary. There are people slinging around the term on twitter. I personally got jumpscared by running into it in the wild on reddit, which was how I found out people are actually using it. Honestly, I am not that hyped about this being my legacy (and I am so sorry to the OP of this post that I got them stuck with seeing every reply or tag someone ever makes about the cockroach wife guy, like I'm some malevolent storytime cuckoo who dropped disturbing internet tales in their nest). But ultimately, I think this one is actually on the thousands of people who reblogged it and considered that I described a phenomenon that they also observed.

Y'all stay safe out there, and remember to vary your masturbation material once in a while.

i wish i could see this picture for the first time again

[semisslave]

♡ Give me your sound, making your song going loud... ♡

Contents: WLW, Dom!Se-mi x Sub!R, Guitarist!Se-mi x Singer!R, Smut

Warnings: Smut, degradation (kinda), praise, strap sex, fingering

You were part of an independent band called "The Roselights." You were their lead singer. Your band wasn't quite popular but had some fans. Your band aesthetic was quite girly and pinkish, especially you, being the lead singer.

Your band had a "rival" band, which was quite the opposite of yours. "Lost kisses" was an independent rock band that also had a small fan base like yours, and they kept fighting among each other. Both bands always suffered with comparisons between them since they were both indie rock bands but quite different. Lost kisses had a very dark aesthetic, very different from yours.

You couldn't deny that their music was good, but something was better than the music. Their lead guitar, Se-mi, was quite popular outside the band. She had 50k followers on Instagram just because she was gorgeous (something you couldn't deny). You tried to talk to her some times but she and her band mates were very rude and cold, that's one of the reasons why your band and theirs don't get along.

You and your band decided to enter an independent bands competition were the winner had the chance to sign with a big record label, of course you weren't missing this opportunity, but guess who wasn't either...

The competition was held in a concert place where people could watch and vote online for their favorite band at the end of the presentations. There weren't judges, so you had to make your biggest effort to connect with the audience and convince them to vote you.

Your band had to play right after Lost Kisses, which made you more nervous already.

You thought it wasn't fair because Se-mi was more popular than her band, and that would benefit them. Some girls even threw her bra to the stage while Se-mi's band was performing.

When they end, the announcer calls your band out, and you prepare yourself to go, but Se-mi grabs your wrist and whispers to your ear in a low voice...

"Good luck, pretty girl."

How the fuck were you supposed to concentrate after she said that? It was clearly part of her plan, fuck her.

"Now, welcome to... The Roselights"

You stood on stage and gave the best of you, hitting notes you didn't even know you were able to and expressing every lyric perfectly, making the public feel the song with you.

After the presentation, you and your band went to the backstage where there was only one person... Se-mi. The other bands where in the other room waiting for them to be called or already left since the results were going to be announced the next day. You looked at Se-mi confused while your other band mates started grabbing their things to leave.

"That was a great show... You actually surprised me ___" Said Se-mi with a smirk and playing with her lip piercing.

"What do you want?" You asked annoyed, your band mates were already leaving, each one by their own.

"I just wanted to congratulate you... Is that illegal?" She said faking innocence while you sighed

"I know you're not here just for that. You really expect me to believe you suddenly changed and now you're kind?"

"Now that everyone is gone, I can tell you my true intentions... You looked really sexy on stage, you know?"

You blushed at her comment. What was she saying? "Thanks, I guess..."

"You could say the same about me."

"I don't think you need my words, I mean... You had people throwing their underwear at you."

"But I don't care about them... They're not pretty as you." She said taking steps closer to you. Her height towering you as she slid a hand on your waist.

You were speechless, what the fuck was happening? Is this another wet dream you had with her?

Suddenly, she kissed you. You didn't pull away, how could you? You wrapped your arms around her neck while her pierced tongue was exploring your mouth. God, she was experienced.

Se-mi then, hearing the other band finished their performance, pulled you and her bag into a bathroom to continue what you both already started.

She started undressing you slowly while kissing you, taking off your black jacket, then your pink dress, leaving you only in your pink underwear and you black large boots that never took off.

She started caressing your clothed pussy as she felt the wet stain in your panties.

"God, so wet already, and only for kissing? You're such a slut." She said with a smirk in her face, placing you on the counter of the bathroom.

She pulled your panties aside and slides two fingers in your pussy. You moan as you feel them inside of you, the cold rings making you more sensitive.

"Fuck, S-se-mi~" You moaned as you felt her fingers moving inside of you, hitting that sweet spot.

While fingering you, Se-mi grabbed her bag, taking a 8 inch black strap out of it.

Your eyes widened at the sight of it, how was that going to fit?

"You look scared, I'll be gentle, at first..." She says while putting the strap on.

You moaned, almost screamed when you felt it inside of you, stretching you out.

"Oh, Se-mi!~"

You moaned as she pounded into you

"You look so pretty when you're made a mess..." Said Se-mi while she pounded into you harder

"Oh, yes, yes~" You moaned as Se-mi fucked you dumb

"You're taking me so well, keep doing it..."

You moan feeling closer to your release.

"I wish I had a cock and I could feel how tight you are..." Said Se-mi with a smirk on her face.

"I-I'm close~" You gasped as you felt closer to the edge

"That's great, good girl..."

"S-se-mi!~" You screamed her name as you came.

Se-mi keep pounding, making your orgasm last longer as you moaned and gasped desperately.

When she finally pulls out, you, with shaky legs, adjust yourself a bit on the counter while Se-mi takes off her strap, putting it in front of you.

"Lick it clean" She says codly

You, completely fucked dumb, obediently lick the strap

"Such a good slut..."

Se-mi cleaned you up and helped you get dressed, something you didn't expect her to do but she felt really caring at that moment. She helped you to get out and even brought you home. You smiled as you layed on your bed, you forgot everything about the competition, your mind was only thinking about Se-mi right now. Were you developing feelings for a member of the rival band? Your band mates would be so disappointed... Well, fuck them, it's your life. Does she feel the same? If she doesn't, why would she fuck me and take care of me like she did? Your mind was flooded with questions.

You got a message

"Tomorrow, you could say that you've been fucked with a winner" It was Se-mi

You totally forgot about the competition, you couldn't sleep all night thinking about Se-mi and the competition...

Part 2? (This is my first time writing theseee😭���)

[inseobts]

TRAITOR pt.2

law x traitor!reader

PART 1 ⤳ PART 3 (coming soon)

words count: 2.6k

tags: series, enemies to lover(?), traitor reader

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

It’s easy to forget you’re lying when they make it feel real.

The Heart Pirates aren’t just a crew, they’re a family. They bicker like siblings, tease each other relentlessly, and somehow, without meaning to, you’ve been pulled into it.

You should’ve kept your distance.

But how could you, when—

“Y/N! HELP!”

You barely have time to register the shout before something massive collides with you, nearly knocking you over.

“Bepo—” you gasp, struggling under the weight of the massive mink currently clinging to you “You cannot use me as a shield... what the hell is going on?”

Shachi and Penguin sprint around the corner, looking absolutely murderous. Ikkaku follows close behind, arms crossed, her glare laser-focused on Bepo.

“There you are, you traitor!” Penguin points an accusing finger at the trembling mink still latched onto you.

You blink “Okay, wow. Let’s pause. Why is Bepo a traitor?”

Shachi glares “Because someone ratted us out to the Captain.”

You sigh, already piecing it together “Did you guys try to smuggle alcohol into the infirmary again?”

“… No.”

“You so did.”

Bepo’s ears flatten, guilt all over his face “I had to tell him! He was going to find out anyway!”

“You snitch!” Shachi wails.

“You idiots,” you correct, prying Bepo off you before he suffocates you with his fluff “Why do you always try to hide stuff from Law? You know he’s just gonna find out and punish you worse.”

“It’s about the principle of it,” Penguin grumbles.

You sigh, rubbing your temples “What was the punishment?”

Shachi pouts “No dessert for a week.”

You stare “That’s it?”

“That’s everything, Y/N.”

Bepo nods solemnly “They’re suffering.”

You shake your head, barely suppressing a laugh “You guys are so dramatic.”

Ikkaku crosses her arms “You’re laughing now, but if Law ever finds out about that thing you did, you’re not getting out of it so easily.”

Your breath catches.

Just for a second.

And then you force an easy grin “Which thing? I do a lot of things.”

Ikkaku narrows her eyes playfully “The one with the—”

“Shh!” You slap a hand over her mouth “Don’t tell them, it’s supposed to be a secret!”

The others immediately light up with interest.

“Oh, now you have to tell us,” Shachi says eagerly.

“I am so telling the Captain,” Penguin teases.

Bepo nods sagely “This is karma.”

You groan, regretting everything.

Despite moments like these, you don’t forget why you’re here.

Deep beneath the Polar Tang, hidden in one of the ship’s most secure rooms, is one of the reasons you really joined this crew.

The copies of the Poneglyphs.

You don’t know how Law got his hands on them, but you do know that your real crew, the one you actually belong to, wants them.

And you’re the one who has to steal them.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

Because despite everything, despite the mission, despite knowing you’re a liar.

You don’t hate being here.

You don’t hate them.

You should’ve. It would’ve made this easier.

But you don’t.

Some weeks later you meet the Straw Hats, and you immediately know you’re in trouble.

Not because they’re enemies, or because they’re a threat.

But because of Zoro. You've met him years ago, and even if your real crew was always subtle that no one actually know them, he knows you're a well known pirate between the bounty hunters, even without a specific crew name on it.

You see it in his face the second his eye land on you. That flicker of recognition... subtle, but unmistakable.

You know that look.

It’s the look of someone who remembers you.

He just doesn’t know from where.

And that’s a problem.

“You look familiar,” he says bluntly, eyes narrowing slightly “Do I know you?”

Your mind races. A dozen different excuses flash through your head, but none of them are good enough.

So you go for the simplest, most believable one.

“You probably saw my bounty poster,” you say smoothly, forcing a grin “I’ve got a pretty face, after all.”

Shachi and Penguin snicker behind you.

Zoro eyes you for a second longer, clearly unconvinced, but Luffy claps a hand on his shoulder before he can question you further.

“Zoro, stop being weird,” Luffy says, grinning at you “She’s cool, right, Law?”

Law, who has been watching the exchange carefully, nods once. “She’s one of us.”

The words shouldn’t make your chest tighten the way they do.

But they do.

And that’s dangerous.

The Kid Pirates are even worse.

Because Kid is loud, brash, and aggressive—but he’s also smart.

And he watches you.

Not like Zoro, who’s trying to place your face. Not like Law, who looks at you like you matter.

Kid watches you like he’s waiting for you to slip up.

Like he knows something’s off about you, but he just hasn’t figured out what yet.

“You don’t fit,” he says one night, after too many drinks.

You tilt your head, keeping your expression neutral “Excuse me?”

Kid leans forward, propping his elbows on the table “You’re a little too smooth, a little too good at blending in.” He smirks. “Like you practiced.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“I’ve always been good at adapting,” you say, keeping your voice casual “That’s what a good pirate does, right?”

Kid hums, unconvinced.

And you realize, with a slow sinking feeling—

He’s not going to stop watching you.

The deeper you fall into this act, the more tangled it gets.

Zoro recognizes you but doesn’t know from where.

Kid doesn’t trust you but doesn’t have proof.

Law believes in you, and that’s the worst part of it all.

Because when the truth finally comes out...

This new alliance between the three is a sign for you, a sign that it's time to make a move and get away before someone finds out who you are.

You knew the time was coming. You knew.

But now that it’s here, a sick feeling settles in your chest.

Because you don’t want to do it.

It’s not supposed to be this hard.

You’ve done this before. You’ve infiltrated crews, stolen information, betrayed captains who thought you were theirs. It’s always been simple.

Get in. Get what you need. Get out.

But this time—

This time, it’s different.

Because you’re attached.

Because when Law smirks at you in that rare, teasing way, it makes your chest tighten.

Because when the crew laughs and drags you into their stupid antics, you enjoy it.

Because when Bepo whines about missing Zou, when Shachi and Penguin bicker like children, when Ikkaku rolls her eyes at all of them...

It feels like home.

And now you have to rip it apart.

You tell yourself you’ll make it quick.

One night. One chance.

Slip into Law’s office. Get informations and the Poneglyph copies. Get out.

The submarine has weak points, small openings where the sea meets steel, barely noticeable unless you know where to look. And you do.

A quiet escape. No blood. No confrontation.

That’s the plan. Fast and easy, right?

So why does it feel like a mistake before you even start?

You wait until late, when most of the crew is asleep, their laughter from dinner still lingering in the halls.

Law is in his office, like always.

You hesitate outside the door. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind yourself—

This isn’t real. They were never yours.

You push the door open.

Law doesn’t look up immediately, focused on some report in front of him “You should be asleep.”

You smile, stepping closer “So should you.”

He exhales through his nose, amused but tired “What do you want?”

You want him to make this easy.

You want him to be cruel, to be distant, to remind you why you don’t belong here.

But he doesn’t.

He just leans back in his chair, looking at you like you matter. Like you’re his.

Your chest tightens “Just… wanted to check on you.”

A lie. A stupid, obvious lie. But Law doesn’t question it. Instead, he rubs his temple, sighing “You’re always worrying about me.”

“Someone has to.”

“You shouldn’t.”

You swallow “Why not?”

“Because…” He hesitates, fingers tapping against the desk “Because if you care too much, it’ll be harder to leave.”

Your heart stops.

For a second, you think—does he know?

But then he looks away, staring at some distant point, jaw tight.

And you realize—

He’s not talking about you, he's talking about himself.

Not you...

Himself.

Law is the one who doesn’t want you to leave.

And that’s when it hits you... He trusts you. Completely.

Even now, when you’re standing in his office, pretending to care while planning to betray him—

He still trusts you.

Something in your chest aches.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t...

But when he finally looks back at you, exhaustion clear in his golden eyes, and says “Stay a little longer”

And you do.

You sit with him. You don’t steal anything. You don’t run. You just stay.

And for the first time, you think... Maybe you don’t want to leave at all.

You keep telling yourself this is the last night.

You don’t want it to be, but you’ve known it for days now.

Law trusts you. The crew… they think you belong.

And that’s exactly why you have to leave.

Because once you’ve broken through their walls, once you’ve made them care about you, there’s no going back.

No matter how much they make you laugh. No matter how much you start to care about them.

You’re not one of them. You’re just a pirate with an agenda. A thief. A liar. And if you’re not careful, you’ll lose everything.

The night now feels different.

You slip through the ship’s corridors, the quiet hum of the Polar Tang weirdly comforting as you move.

You can hear Shachi and Penguin arguing somewhere above deck, their voices muffled through the metal walls, and it almost makes you smile. Almost.

Law is in his office again. Alone. The perfect time.

You reach for the door, your hand already knowing the cold steel of the handle. But just as you touch it, your pulse quickens—an unease settling in your gut.

Something feels… off.

You hesitate, fingers still resting against the handle. It’s nothing. You’re just overthinking.

But before you can turn the handle, you hear it—the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Quiet but sure.

Law.

You freeze for a moment and then you start casually walking towards him.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

You look up at him, trying to mask the panic in your eyes “Just passing by.”

Law eyes you, a soft, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips “You know, if you keep trying to lie to me, it won’t work. I can tell when you’re lying.”

You swallow, forced to keep your face neutral, even though the tension in your chest is nearly suffocating “You don’t know me that well...”

He steps closer, not threateningly, but with a quiet sort of presence that makes your heartbeat rise “I think I know you better than you think.”

The distance between you two is closing quickly, and you feel a small, dangerous thought flutter in your mind—What if I never leave?

But you shake it off. This has to happen.

You step back, hand sliding into your coat pocket “I think I’ll take a walk. Clear my head.”

Law studies you for a moment, his golden eyes narrowing “You’re not very good at hiding things, you know that?”

You don’t know how to answer that. You don’t know how to lie when it’s getting harder and harder to look at him “I’m going to get some fresh air now”.

You’re standing at the edge of the Polar Tang, staring into the horizon. The sun is setting, painting the sky in oranges and purples.

Tonight, the mission becomes more urgent. The Straw Hats, Kid, and Law’s crew are all moving forward, and you’re running out of time. You know you have to finish what you started.

But how can you betray them?

How can you betray him?

You can’t keep pretending anymore. The lines are blurring. You’re starting to get too close, and you’re terrified of what will happen if you don’t leave soon.

The weight of it is heavy on your shoulders.

But there’s another reason you’re hesitating.

You’ve been hiding your power from them.

Law’s crew doesn’t know what you can do. And you’ve been careful to keep it that way. Because if they knew—if they saw what you could really do—things would change.

And they would fear you... they would all fear you. It happened before. When you’ve used your abilities to their full extent, it’s left a trail of broken minds and empty memories. You can make someone forget an entire conversation, erase their last few hours, manipulate their desires, twist their thoughts—it’s all within your grasp.

And once you start, you can’t stop.

You don’t want to be the monster they think you are. You don’t want them to see you as a tool for their own ends.

So you keep it hidden. You’ve been careful. But now…

Now, you’re feeling the pressure, and it’s getting harder to hide.

You’re walking back to your room, lost in thought, when you hear footsteps behind you.

It’s Law again.

He’s been following you for a while now, and you can feel his eyes on you. You don’t turn around immediately. Instead, you continue walking, your heart pounding.

“You’ve been distant lately.” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it—like he’s trying to read you.

You stop, then turn to face him, trying to keep your expression neutral “I’m just tired. There’s a lot going on.”

Law’s gaze narrows. He doesn’t buy it “You’ve been acting weird ever since we got back to the island. What’s going on, y/n?”

For a moment, the weight of the situation crashes down on you. He’s too perceptive. He’s too close to figuring it out.

You take a step back, trying to distance yourself from him, both physically and emotionally “It’s nothing. I just—”

“I’m not asking you to explain everything,” Law interrupts “But if something’s wrong, you can talk to me. We’re... crewmates. I trust you.” He hesitated at that word, as if he wanted to say something else—something much deeper—that scared not only you but himself as well.

You two always had some sort of relationship that started as casual and continued that way, without really talking about your real feelings, as if it were a given.

Anyway his words hit you like a punch. You can’t breathe for a moment.

He trusts you, he likes you.

And you’ve been lying to him this whole time. You’ve been using him. Using his trust to get what you need.

But what if he’s right? What if you do need to tell him?

No. You can’t.

You can’t risk it.

You force a smile “I’m fine, really. Just… need some time to think. I’ll be okay.”

Law doesn’t look convinced, but he nods, though the worry in his eyes lingers “If you say so”

You watch him leave, feeling the weight of his words on your shoulders.

And then—just when you think you might break—you hear the voice in your mind.

It’s your old crew.

The ones who know you better than anyone else, or at least that's what you think.

It’s time. You don’t have much choice now, you have to do it NOW.

[redjaybathood]

I do speak English, thank you for noticing! I didn't really choose to either. It is just everywhere, unlike russian for the op. Like , they are specifically pointing out that nobody really gets why they would learn it. And you know, people from countries colonised by Britain or USA do have some opinions on prevalence of colonial languages in academia and whatnot, you should seek it out. No, seriously, you should. I am not the one to speak on this subject. You see, it is considered prudent to consult the people it is directly impacting.

It's not only people who directly suffered from colonialism of English-speaking countries that have concerns. It also is related to inequalities between who speaks English well and who doesn't, about impoverishment of less popular languages.

Russian isn't even top five, by the way

Still, pretty popular, eh? I dunno, if it was me, I would first thought long and hard why is russian so popular and whether it has anything to do with russia's literally using russian language as a tool of colonialism, as a prop for its imperialism, as a justification for wars and genocides (we're not the first, not the only ones, won't be the last if russia isn't stopped. Hey, i dunno where you are from? Maybe you guys are next, idk. You know russian, right?).

I would have learned one of the languages that were impacted by a popular colonial language, since either isn't practical. This option actually helps people! Helps to preserve endangered languages! But not everyone wants to help people, which is also okay. Right now I am not here to tell anyone which language to learn. I'm passing time since it's dead of night here and my city is still - or rather again - under attack by the russian speakers who want to make me speak russian or being unable to speak at all (since dead don't speak).

And wouldn't it be swell if russian language was not one of the UN languages? At least Nebeznya would have needed to sweat a little when heaping bullshit upon bullshit justifying or denying russian war crimes.

And "done far worse" is like you can't help but want to engage in genocide Olympics, which benefits only people who are doing the genocides. Coincidence?

there's literally no justification for giving people shit about what languages they've chosen to learn btw. some of you might not have dealt with it the same as i have, but it's been an annoyingly consistant theme in my life.

[illuminatedquill]

Dichen Lachman, Gemma Scout’s actress, has done some interviews in the wake of 2x07. I’ve clipped some stuff I found interesting, along with some of my own thoughts.

Spoilers ahead, be warned:

God, she’s been trying for years. My poor girl.

It hurts to see that this recent escape attempt has finally broken Gemma’s resolve. But Dichen thinks that although Gemma is resigned to her fate, she still holds onto the slim hope that Lumon will let her go when the experiments are over (spoiler alert: that is extremely unlikely).

Anyone who’s seen Dollhouse probably got a sense of deja vu when watching this episode. I’m glad that Dichen shares that same feeling. I don’t know, I just found it amusing.

THIS!!!

“The chikhai bardo is a Buddhist belief about a transitional state between death and rebirth, which could point to reintegration for both Mark and Gemma”

Both Mark and Gemma will never be able to reclaim the life they once had. That’s the tragedy. Those versions of them are gone. Dead.

Mark is reintegrating and becoming something new with the melding of his outie and innie personalities; Gemma, splintered into multiple versions of herself that are exposed through endless petty cruelties and psychological torture that she doesn’t remember, fighting tooth and nail to return home. They are becoming something new.

And I think these two new people should have a chance to find a new path forward. Together. Despite it all, despite the horrors and obstacles and misery, their love still endures. It won’t fix anything, it won’t guarantee a happy ending but it will be a new start. They deserve that.

The severance chips are being prepped for mass consumption. Gemma being put through all these varying situations - which are probably her own personal stressors - is to refine these chips perfectly so that people would never have to suffer again. But that’s so antithetical to life. We experience the joys so richly because of our lows, our suffering. You cannot have one without the other. That isn’t life!

All that remains is Cold Harbor. Ominous name. What horrible experience remains for Gemma to suffer through?

Still convinced that Gemma definitely signed up for something regarding the infertility issues but it’s evident that she wasn’t told the full extent of what Lumon would do with her. There’s more story to be told about how they got to her, I’m sure.

THE ENDGAME: Hades and Persephone

After having a full day to process this episode I am, admittedly, filled with a weird sense of optimism. Although Gemma’s fate seems all but sealed, I think the writers are smarter than to lay all this tragedy on characters only to end it in . . . well, more tragedy. There won’t be any healing or progression for either Mark or Gemma’s characters until she is freed from Lumon’s clutches.

Mark already tried to do that and he couldn’t. The only way he could fall in love again is if he never met Gemma. Don’t forget that.

Gemma needs to be free and be reunited with Mark. It won’t fix anything, I assure you. All that grief and yearning and suffering won’t magically disappear because they are back together. There’s so many interesting dynamics to play out.

The unresolved issues they had before she was taken by Lumon.

And then there’s Mark, fully reintegrated, remembering Helly and his love for her. Gemma having to reconcile the fact that there is a part of her husband that loved someone else.

The half-remembered nightmares and waking up with aches. Endless hallways and rooms that fill you with dread. An elevator that only goes down and never back up. Both Mark and Gemma will literally leave pieces of themselves behind in Lumon that they will never get back.

I think we’ve been looking at this wrong. Mark and Gemma being so tragic and Orpheus/Eurydice coded. They’re doomed by the narrative, it seems.

But . . . it doesn’t quite fit anymore now that we know that Gemma is alive and wants to go home.

I think Mark and Gemma are more like Hades and Persephone now. The other pairing in Orpheus and Eurydice’s story. In Hadestown, Orpheus’ song reignites their love and trust in each other, allowing them to try again after their relationship had become so strained.

So who is Orpheus and Eurydice now?

Who do you think.

[ohbo-ohno]

wip wednesday? gaz x reader, cw for mourning a spouse

Here are all the things you know about Kyle’s disappearance:

1: It happened early in his deployment. He’d hardly been gone for three weeks when you got the message. It came in the middle of the workday, and you’d called out sick for the next week, hadn’t bothered showing up for another two after that. John Price’s voice haunts your nightmares these days, his low rumble and we offer our deepest condolences, Mrs. Garrick playing on repeat as you hug Kyle’s pillow close and sob.

2: He’s not the only one missing. His entire ship disappeared, and all its sailors went with it. Kyle was the highest ranking man on board, apparently, and only one of the other sailors was married. His wife tried to reach out to you a few times, but you hadn’t had the energy to even attempt holding a conversation at the time.

3: He’s not dead. Or at least, there’s no body for them to bury. The distinction between KIA and MIA isn’t lost on you. (You think this is what you mean when they say it’s the hope that kills you as you’re stuck firmly and permanently in the denial phase in the months following his disappearance.)

4: There’s no attempt being made to find a body. And oh, how you had railed against John Price for that. You’d screamed yourself hoarse into your phone, then become nearly incoherent with sobs as you begged him to find your Kyle, to bring him home. He had denied you, said he couldn’t get approval from his own superiors, said I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Garrick, I swear to you I tried my best, we all miss him, too. You’d hung up on him and thrown your phone to the floor, inconsolable. You’re not sure if he ever called back, since you blocked his number.

5: It has been thirteen months since you first got the call. Had Kyle not gone missing, you’d have already picked him up at the airport and made him his favorite meal, called out of work to spend days in bed with him, maybe even booked reservations at that fancy restaurant he always talks about wanting to try someday. Instead you’re telling yourself that it’s pointless to learn how to make meals for one, just in case someday you wake up to find that this has all been a terrible nightmare.

It’s not enough. Endless questions haunt your every thought, keep you awake at night. You think that this hellish unknowing is the worst thing you could ever experience, that it’s keeping you in a sort of limbo that you can never escape. 

The idea that he suffered, that he was in pain before his death – or somehow almost worse, that he’s not dead at all. That he’s crashlanded on some sandbank, starving and sunburned, a real-life Chuck Noland with no one even bothering to look for him anymore. 

Every moment spent not thinking about him, not remembering him, feels like a betrayal, like a dismissal of the trauma you’ve imagined him experiencing.

[cheralith]

omg i really love your slytherin!kaiser au. !!!! your writing is so good !! 😋 i was wondering if you would do any other characters for this type of au if so could you do karasu hp au 🫡😈

character ; karasu tabito || wc ; 931 contains/cw ; gn!reader, no pronouns used, ravenclaw!reader, ravenclaw!karasu, hogwarts!au a/n ; this was sitting in my inbox for awhile and i honestly didn't really know what to write abt despite wanting to, so hope this is ok! another person added to the harem (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و

karasu has always been a rather fascinating character to me personally; dare i say he's very relatable in terms of how he finds himself mediocre? so he gets very confused as to why he's sorted into ravenclaw when he first comes to hogwarts, the house known for producing the most extraordinary wizards because he doesn't think of himself as such. he thinks he's a fraud.

it doesn't help that such a mentality worsens over the years. he excels at his subjects, yes, but amongst the house that many of its students at the top ranks of their classes, karasu merely blends in with the rest of them. there's nothing outstanding about him in particular that makes him stand out from the rest of his house.

so he attempts to search for a way. quidditch catches his eye because of the fact that in all the houses, there are only seven people on a team and he thinks by being one of those seven, he'd be able to stand out from the house of three hundred-something people. he tries out in his third year and doesn't make the cut and it discourages him from trying again in his fourth because if he can't even stand out in tryouts, how the hell was he suppose to make a name for himself if he'd ever make the team?

what makes him destroy that mentality is when he meets you. early in the fifth year, you're in his group for care of magical creatures, where you pick up on his ability to tame animals just by knowing their weaker, vulnerable points. tells you to press on the side of a hippogriff's neck to help calm it down when he sees your tense on your first ride and that the beast could sense it.

you're discussing about the most recent loss ravenclaw incurred from slytherin during a class break, karasu listening intently. you complain that their newest chaser, chigiri hyoma, was an insane weapon on the field, for his speed was incomparable to the others on your own team and what you've seen in the past.

karasu, who was watching the game at the time, tells you that you should've been more perceptive, that you're the upcoming captain, aren't you?

when you furrow your brows and question what he means by that, disapproving of his tone, he merely tells you that you missed a crucial point in the game that would've obliterated slytherin's newest weapon. that chigiri hyoma can't ride for long periods of time since it puts a strain on his back that he suffered an injury on awhile back due to the resisting air pressure.

"yeah, sure, he can definitely fly fast," he says, waving a nonchalant hand, "but he can only do it when he's about t'score a goal. if y'were able to pick that up earlier, ya could've made sure that he exhausted himself faster."

karasu notices your wide-eyed staring after he finishes his ramble of possible tactics you guys should've done against the other players, pointing out some of their key weaknesses. he asks you harshly, "what?" and despite his sharp tone, your eyes just continue sparkling at him.

"have you ever thought about trying out for the team?" you ask him excitedly.

he frowns and picks at his fingernails, head down in shame. "tried to. in my third year," he mutters. "didn't get in."

"well," you start giddily, thinking you found a diamond in the rough. "one of our old beaters had to step down due to an injury... we're hosting tryouts soon for his replacement."

karasu catches your drift and is quick to turn it down, not wanting to embarrass himself like last time. "no thanks. i'm good."

"but!" you protest, "we could use someone like you. someone who's really analytical. all of us are a lot stronger on a physical sense, but you seem to really have the nail on the head of our opponents. imagine what you could do!"

"... i don't have much experience playin' quidditch," he admits, scratching the back of his heating neck, "i don't think i'd be able to do well as the others."

you bite your lip, trying to think of what to say to him. you suddenly think of a plan that may be just a tad bit unfair to the others that would want to try out, but you think karasu could really be an amazing addition to the team with analytical skills that could compare to a familiar prodigal redhead's.

"i probably shouldn't be doing this but," you beckon him with your hand and whisper into his ear, "i could practice with you. just so you can get a solid grip on the play."

he thinks despite the colder weather, he's heating up a little too fast for his sake when your voice sends shivers down his spine.

you pull back with an excited smile on your face as the professor tells everyone to gather together again.

"i'm serious, think about it," you say to him as you begin to walk off to join some other friends of yours. "we'd love to have someone as extraordinary as you on the team."

you throw him a thumbs up just before you run off, leaving karasu dazed with your voice echoing the one word he's been desiring to attain the status of for years now in his mind.

"extraordinary, huh..." he murmurs with a soft grin, staring at the back of your figure when you chat and laugh amongst your friends. "someone like you sayin' that to someone like me... that's pretty funny."

[reiwanwan]

Sweet mourning lamb

When Tommy Shelby sits alone by the fire, haunted by the weight of war and business, an unexpected visitor steps out of the darkness—his sister, Delilah. But Delilah is dead. As she delivers a chilling warning, Tommy is forced to confront a truth that defies logic, setting both him and Delilah on a path where revenge and fate collide.

Inspired by Ethel cain’s album, Preachers Daughter. Try to guess which song of hers inspired the first part of the story! Also I changed my writing style a bit for this.

Word count: 5.3k

Content includes : Blood, Mentions of killing, Violence, Religious beliefs, Mentions of drugs and alcohol, Death. Might be heavy and disturbing to some readers so please do proceed with caution.

i. A prayer

The church smelled of wax and old wood, the air thick with incense that had long since stopped masking the rot of something deeper. A place of worship, of confession, of supposed salvation. Yet Delilah Shelby stood at its entrance as though she were being swallowed whole, a shadow of herself wrapped in a threadbare coat, her fingers trembling from something more than the cold.

Her boots, scuffed and damp from the night, made no sound as she stepped inside. It was quiet. Always quiet. The hush of a graveyard, the breath before an execution.

She came here when it hurt. When the grief inside her became a living thing, crawling beneath her skin, gnawing at her bones. Polly was gone, and there was nothing in this godless world that could bring her back. But there was Lucas Woods. The preacher. He stood near the altar, bathed in the glow of candlelight. He was waiting for her. As if he knew she would come, like he knew what she had done.

“Delilah,” he murmured.

His voice was like the low murmur of a hymn—soft, and careful. She exhaled, closing her eyes briefly as if to steady herself, before making her way forward.

“I failed,” she admitted, her voice hollow. “I—”

She swallowed hard. The words felt thick in her throat. “I went back to it. I started drinking and taking opium again... I thought I could—I thought I could stop, but then I heard about Tommy and Michael, about the war that’s about to come, and it just—” Her breath hitched. “It started to hurt again.”

Thomas had called her from her home and vaguely mentioned a “war” that was going to happen between them. Delilah had known about the dispute between him and Michael. And she knew that “war” meant that serious shit was about to get down. That also most definitely meant that one of them was going to die. And death was something she didn’t want for either of them.

Lucas watched her with half lidded eyes, his gaze was lazy. “You told me once that grief and worry is a sickness, and that I must suffer before I can be saved” she whispered, her hands trembling, “And I—I think it’s eating me alive”. But deep inside, she knew that salvation was never meant for her.

Lucas tilted his head slightly, his dark brown eyes solemn as he stepped forward, bridging the space between them. Gently, he lifted her chin, his fingers soft as a whisper against her skin.

“I was with you there, I invited you in twice, I did. You love blood too much.”

Her brows furrowed as she looked at him with glistening teary eyes, Lucas often spoke in metaphors that were slightly confusing to understand. “What do you mean?”. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them like the taut pull of a noose. When he finally spoke, his voice was as gentle as a lover’s confession.

“The first time I invited you in, I found you sprawled outside these very doors. Cold. Drunk. Sobbing.” His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, almost reverently. “I let you in to pray, did I not?”. Delilah’s breath shuddered out of her.

She remembered that night. The way the rain had seeped into her clothes, the way her body had felt so small, so insignificant against the vast, uncaring world. She was grieving the death of her Aunt Pol. How she had died so unfairly by the hands of the IRA. The one she believed was the pillar and backbone of her family. Delilah remembered weeping pathetically on the muddy ground and it was Lucas who had found her and brought her in for warmth.

“And the second?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. Lucas’ smile was small, almost pained.

“The second time was when I let you into my heart.”

Something inside her twisted. She searched his face, finding nothing but that same quiet devotion in his eyes, that unwavering gaze that had always felt like both salvation and damnation. Delilah had suspected that she might’ve fallen in love with Lucas the first time he put his hands so painfully gently on her shoulders and told her to pray. His brown eyes, so forgiving and polite. Her throat tightened. “And the blood?”.

He regarded her for a long moment before answering. “The blood is those who hurt you”. Her stomach squeezed and turned cold. She made the connection instantly. It was too painfully obvious.

Lucas said nothing. He didn’t need to.

For a long, excruciating moment, the weight of it pressed down on her chest, suffocating. She had spent so long trying to ignore it, trying to drown it in whatever poison she could find—this unbearable love for a brother who had done nothing but carve her heart into something unrecognizable.

But he was the one who had been there for her all her life. The only one who held her when she cried after her mother had passed, when her father would disappear for long periods of time. The one that made her heart feel safe. How could she not love him the way she did?

She felt Lucas’ hands on her face again, cradling her gently as if she was fragile and would break any second. His touch was warm, grounding. “I heard you,” he whispered. “Saw you. Felt you. Gave you. Needed you.”

“Loved you.”

His thumb softly pulled down on her bottom lip as he slowly leaned in. A soft and lingering kiss against her cheek. Then, his lips at her ear, his voice sinking into her bones like a prayer.

“You poor thing. Sweet, mourning lamb.”

Her eyes flutter shut as he murmured sweet nothings into her ears with his deep, syrupy voice.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he whispered.

“It’s already been done.”

His lips met with hers, interlocking naturally. She felt herself sink into it, into him, desperate and aching, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if he were the only thing tethering her to this world. He grabbed the softness of her nape, his other hand cupping her head, he groaned when her fingers tightened on his brown locs.

Delilah was slowly losing herself in his touch. Maybe this was all she needed, she thought to herself. She shut her eyes tightly and allowed herself to drown in this moment. She started to hear multiple voices, all sorts of different sounds, all around her spatial awareness. She grabbed onto his lapels tighter in hopes that the voices would go away. There was no time to pay the voices any attention. But the voices started becoming more coherent. It was calling her name.

“Delilah” the voice called.

Go away, not right now.

“Delilah”

Whoever you are, fuck off. I don’t need this right now.

“Show me your face”

Delilah remained keeping her eyes screwed shut. She recognised that voice. Her eyes flew open once she was sure who the voice belonged to. The church was gone and she was small again. A child.

She was crouched down with her knees pulled into her chest. Her small hands trembled as she raised them to her face, covering it, shielding herself from the gaze she knew was waiting for her. “Please don’t look at me”.

“Why won’t you show me your face, Delilah? Do you not love me anymore?” He said, crouching down to her who was curled into a ball.

“Because if I do, I’ll start crying again Tommy” she said, her voice cracking. She felt his hands, warm and steady, prying hers away. Forcing her to meet his icy blue eyes. He was young as well. The Tommy she remembered before France took the light away from her doting brother.

“I can see it in your eyes, you’re guilty” He said. Delilah sobbed softly when Tommy held her small face in his hands.

“Tell me, what have you done?” he wiped her falling tears with his thumbs.

Stop. Stop…stop. Make it stop.

“Why wont you tell me, Delilah? You don't love me anymore?” His voice slowly started to sound like her fathers.

Delilah shook her head, trying to get him to be silent. Tommy and her father loved asking her that when she was younger and she hated it a lot. They weren’t aware of how much it hurt her little heart. She always felt like she had to do something— anything as proof of her love. It almost never ended well. In pain most of the time.

Stop. Stop…stop. Make it stop.

“Why don't you listen to me, Delilah? Do you want to make Tommy sad?”

I’ve had enough.

Stop…

Stop…

Stop…

Stop…

STOP

Delilah gasped, her eyes widened and quickly pulled herself away from Lucas’ lips, trying to desperately catch her breath. Her chest heaved quickly, she could feel her heart pounding and held onto her chest to try and control its strong and painful palpitations. She turned her attention to Lucas who was already smiling at her lazily.

“After all I’ve done,” he mused, “you’re still crying for your brother.”

She could barely think. Her head, a dizzying and mushy mess. Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. “How do you know I’m crying for him…and not for you?” she asked breathily, trying to force a smile. Lucas’ eyes darkened, his coarse thumb brushed over her cheek, smearing away a tear.

“You’ll never cry for the one who doesn’t hurt you” he murmured. “Only the one who pains you”

He brought his lips closer to her ears and whispered, “The pain that only you can remember”. Lucas reached behind her head and that’s when she felt it—The cold kiss of a steel pistol at the back of her skull.

How long had it been there? Had it been there when he kissed her? How long had she clung to him?

She exhaled shakily. She knew what was to come, because when she lifted her gaze, she saw them. Mother, Polly and John. All standing behind Lucas and smiling so beautifully. She had spent so long running from the inevitable, drowning herself in opium, in whiskey, in prayers whispered into the collar of a preacher’s coat. Now, at last, there was no more running. It is as Lucas said, it’s already been done.

Her lips parted. A broken breath escaped. And before she could think of anything else the world went black. Her body went limp, falling back before she was caught by Lucas in his arms. He lifted her lifeless frame up and examined, bringing a chaste kiss to her lips. His fingers drew a cross on her chest with the blood from the back of her head as he prayed— The prayer that he had saved for Delilah.

“Blessed be the Daughter of the Shelbys,

Bound to suffering eternal through the sins of their fathers committed long before their conception.

Blessed be their whore mothers,

Tired and angry, waiting with bated breath in a ferry that will never move again.

Blessed be the children,

Each and every one comes to know their god through some senseless act of violence.

Blessed be the girl, born into blood, raised in grief.

Blessed be her restless soul, which will never find peace.

Blessed be the hands that held her, the lips that kissed her, the man who loved her.

And blessed be the bullet, the only true salvation I could give.”

ii. The priest

Lucas Woods watched as the body of Delilah Shelby bled out on the church’s marble floor. She looked like a beauty bleeding out in such a beautiful place of worship.

His mind was noisy. With thoughts that he couldn’t identify. But it was probably not that important. Lucas was the type of person who knew what he wanted and exactly how he wanted it. If he couldn’t pick out what it was that he felt while watching her, then the thought most likely didn’t serve him any good. Besides, there was no room left in his heart to grieve.

He recited every prayer he had ever known, In hopes her soul would forgive him. Not like he ever believed in any of the prayers that he recited. Not as if he believed that it would save her, but fear of the possibilities that there is heaven, not as if he believed any of them could get in but there was that little pathetic hope in him.

He bathed her in candlelight, traced crosses over her forehead, whispered to her in the darkness. He took off his robe, leaving it on top of her lifeless body and left before shutting the big wooden church doors, leaving her behind for the flies to keep her company.

Lucas had told her things he had never told another soul. The things he thought were unworthy to share. Lucas’ reasoning was that his value would not have changed either way— there was no benefit in knowing who he was and what he was inside.

Born to a Belfast family that never knew peace, similar to the Shelbys, Lucas had been raised on the promise of bringing justice to the weak. His father’s hands were always bloodied; his mother’s eyes were always swollen from grief.

“Some people have to be sacrificed for the greater good, Lucas” is what his father would say when he came home with blood on his clothes. His father was a preacher and often twisted the word of God to justify his bloodshed, poor little Lucas never could tell the difference between the devil, god and his own father.

The church had been his only solace, the only place where he could pretend, be a killer with a cross around his neck, for a moment, and not his father’s son.

But the IRA had taken him in before God ever could, stepping right into his fathers foots steps He had killed before he ever learned how to pray properly. And yet, when he met Delilah Shelby, he had felt something shift. Something softened. Maybe it was his damned heart.

She was not innocent—no one born a Shelby ever was—but she was something else entirely. The pain in her eyes, the quiet way she clung to him when she thought no one was watching, the desperation and sincerity in the way she sought absolution and repented even when she knew she could never truly be forgiven. Something about her desperation and loyalty pulled him closer. He had loved her.

Perhaps for his own selfish needs, for the way she made him feel like something more than a killer in a preacher’s robes, and more than his fathers obedient dog.

Loving that girl made him feel clean. The only ones whose hands were tender on his face. Maybe it was knowing how much she needed him. For whatever reasons he had, there was no denying in his heart, he had love for that girl. And maybe that’s why he had to destroy her. Because love like that doesn’t belong in a man like him.

iii. The awakening

Darkness consumed her. Not the soft, velvety blackness of sleep, nor the tranquil void of death she had once imagined—but something far heavier, more suffocating. It wrapped around her like a burial shroud, thick and endless, stretching into eternity without form or meaning.

For what she could only assume was more than an hour, she was aware of nothing but this abyss. No pain, no thought, just the cold, unfeeling void. She wondered, vaguely, if this was what it meant to die, or how it felt. If she had finally escaped the blood, the grief, the war that followed her like a specter. There was no peace in this emptiness, but neither was there suffering. Perhaps that was enough.

Delilah’s ears picked up a sound. Faint at first, distant, like an echo through water. A dull, rhythmic thump, steady and unrelenting. It pulsed through the void, rippling outward, drawing her toward it. It took her a moment to recognize it.

A heartbeat.

Her heartbeat.

The realization struck her like a hammer to the chest, sending shockwaves through the darkness. Sensation flooded in all at once—a slow, dragging pain that curled through her skull, a dull ache spreading through her limbs like fire smoldering beneath the surface of her skin. Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as a new awareness settled over her.

She was alive.

Or at least—she was something close to it.

Her fingers twitched against the hard cold surface beneath her, the texture rough and unyielding, pressing against her palms with an unbearable weight. Cold air wrapped around her, carrying the heavy scent of incense, candle wax, and something darker—something metallic. It clung to her, thick and suffocating, stirring something deep in her chest. Blood. She groaned helplessly.

Her lungs burned as she sucked in air, as if she had been drowning for an eternity and was only now breaking the surface. Her body rebelled against the motion, heavy and sluggish, as though she were made of lead. Her head lolled to the side, the sharp, dragging pain intensifying, throbbing at the base of her skull. She tried to move, tried to lift her arms, but they felt like dead weight, resisting her every attempt to reclaim control.

Something warm trickled down her forehead.

Slow, thick, and wet.

Her breath stilled. Forcing her muscles to obey, she dragged her hand upward, the movement strained and unnatural, her fingertips brushing against her temple. Her skin was slick, the texture strange and foreign. She pressed her fingers against it, feeling the warmth, the stickiness, the undeniable reality of it.

Her hand trembled as she pulled it away.The dim light overhead cast a dull glow over her skin, illuminating the color smeared across her fingertips. Deep crimson, nearly black in the flickering candlelight. It pooled in the creases of her palm, clung to the lines of her skin, refusing to fade. Blood. Her blood.

A sickening realization settled over her like a weight. She had felt the bullet, had heard it—the crack of the gunshot, the way the world had gone silent in its wake. The moment of impact had been sudden, sharp—then nothing.

And yet, she was here. Alive?

The floor beneath her was cold, the air thick with the scent of iron. Her breathing came shallow, uneven, her chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions, as if her body was still trying to understand what had happened. She should be dead. She was dead.

Then why did she feel like this?

Her vision swam as she forced herself to sit up, the world shifting violently around her, tilting at unnatural angles. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her, but she pushed past it, planting her hands against the floor, steadying herself. Her body felt foreign, her limbs sluggish and uncooperative, as though she had been stitched together all wrong.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, her movements unsteady, legs trembling beneath her. The sensation of blood running down her skin was maddening—warm, constant, unnatural. She needed to see.

Her gaze flickered across the dimly lit church, her surroundings unfamiliar in her disoriented state. The air felt heavier than before, thick with something unspoken, something watching. But there was no one else here.

A bitter laugh threatened to crawl up her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing her body to move. She needed to find a mirror—needed proof of whatever had been done to her.

Each step felt wrong, as though she were walking through water’s tough tides, her body resisting the motion. The shadows in the church stretched long and sharp, flickering with the unsteady candlelight. The air was too still, too quiet, pressing in from all sides.

She reached the far end of the room, her fingers grazing the cool surface of an old mirror. The glass was fogged with age, its surface marred with scratches, but it was enough.

She hesitated, but slowly—she looked.

A sharp breath escaped her lips.

The woman staring back at her was a grotesque mockery of the one she had once been. Her skin, once warm and full of life, had taken on an unnatural pallor—too pale, too still, as though all warmth had drained from her body. Dark veins curled beneath the surface, spreading from the wound at her temple, reaching down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her dress.

The wound itself— A small, perfect hole, right at her hairline. The skin around it was raw, cracked, as if something had forced its way through and refused to heal. Blood had dried in uneven streaks down her face, crusted in places where it should have clotted, but never fully did. It oozed, slow and thick, an unnatural, endless trickle.

Her eyes were wrong. She leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass. The irises, once a deep brown, had darkened, their edges swallowed by shadow. They looked sunken, hollow, as if she had been awake for centuries. She wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, or if something inside her had shifted—something that could never be undone.

This was not survival. This was something else.

She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face, smearing blood across her cheek. She could only laugh at her own reflection.

It was quiet at first—soft, bitter, but it grew, shaking in her chest, a sound born from madness and exhaustion. A laugh with no joy, no warmth. Just the cold, sharp edge of realization sinking into her ribs like a knife.

She should be dead. But she wasn’t.

She turned from the mirror, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair, her mind racing with the weight of what this meant.

There was a sudden shift in the air. The sensation of something unseen watching. She stilled. Slowly, she turned and there, standing in the flickering candlelight—was Polly.

Polly stood with her arms crossed, an unreadable expression resting on her sharp features. She looked exactly as Delilah remembered, before and after she left—proud, knowing, untouched by death. But Delilah knew what this meant. Polly always had something to say.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t even think it was possible.Her lips parted, her voice hoarse when she finally spoke.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Polly quirked a brow and tilted her head, “What do you think?”, amusement flickering in her sharp gaze.

Delilah let out a slow breath, glancing back at the mirror.Her reflection had not changed.She clenched her jaw, shaking her head.

“Fuck”.

Delilah clenched her jaw, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I’m still standing here, aren’t I?”. Polly exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Look at yourself, sweetheart,” she drawled. “And tell me—does that look alive to you?”. Delilah glanced back at the mirror, her stomach twisting. She let out a slow breath, licking her lips, tasting iron.

Delilah clenched her fists, shaking her head.

“Fuck” she said exasperatedly, releasing a soft and defeated laugh.

Delilah sat down on the benches and reached into her pocket, fingers brushing against something familiar—A pack of cigarettes. She pulled it out, along with a silver lighter, flipping it open with a flick of her wrist. The flame flared to life, casting shadows across her face. She placed the cigarette between her lips, lighting the tip, inhaling deeply before exhaling a long plume of smoke into the stagnant air.

“Being dead hurts,” She shook her head, smirking.

Polly smiled, watching her fondly. “You’re still here because you have something to say,” she said simply. “Something he needs to hear.” Delilah exhaled another breath of smoke, staring at Polly through the haze. Polly met her gaze, steady and sharp.

“You already know what it is.”

Delilah took another slow drag of her cigarette, watching the ember glow like a dying star. She exhaled through her nose, the smoke curling between them.

“And what if I don’t want to say it?”

Polly’s gaze didn’t waver nor did her smile, “Then you’ll never rest.”

iv. The message

The fire crackled, the embers rising into the night air like lost spirits, twisting and flickering before vanishing into the darkness. The flames burned low, a soft orange glow against the damp cold of the woods. Smoke curled upward in lazy tendrils, mixing with the heavy scent of damp earth and decayed leaves. The world was quiet here—no city noise, no voices, just the steady hum of insects and the rustling of branches overhead.

Tommy sat hunched on a fallen log, elbows on his knees, a cigarette hanging from his lips. The firelight carved shadows into his face, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes, making him look even more tired than he already felt. The weight of war pressed against him, the endless calculations of men and money and blood turning over in his mind like the cogs of a machine that never stopped. But for now—for this one moment—he let himself sit in silence, watching the flames dance.

Suddenly, Tommy heard the leaves shuffling and rustling, sounding like footsteps and that made his skin prickle before his mind even caught up. He turned his head, eyes sharp, fingers twitching toward the gun at his hip. The fire flickered, the shadows stretching, and then—she stepped into the light.

Tommy froze.

His cigarette slipped from his lips, landing in the dirt at his feet, the ember still glowing. His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering hard against his ribs.

Delilah.

She stood at the edge of the firelight, her skin pallid in the flickering glow. Her dark hair hung loose, disheveled, strands falling into her hollowed-out eyes. The dried blood on her temple had darkened to an unnatural black, a grotesque smear down her face. But it wasn’t just the wound—it was her.

The way she stood, too still. The way her breath didn’t fog in the cold air. The way her eyes blinked too slowly like a haunted doll. The way the firelight didn’t quite touch her.

His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.

“Delilah?”

She tilted her head slightly.

He was on his feet before he even realized it, moving toward her, hands reaching as if to steady her, as if to fix whatever had been done to her. “Fuck—Delilah, what happened to you?” His voice was sharper now, laced with urgency. “Come on, let me—Jesus Christ, let me get you to a doctor—” His hand hovers between them before finally gripping her wrist. Cold. Too fucking cold. His fingers flex, his breath stilling as if he’s afraid she might crumble beneath his touch.

She held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Tommy,” she said, her voice eerily calm, “I’m already dead.”

His breath left him all at once.

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. The fire popped, embers snapping in the air, but Tommy heard nothing but the pounding of his own heartbeat. He stared at her, at the blood, at the way her lips barely moved when she spoke.

She blinked, her expression unreadable.

“I saw Mom.”

It wasn’t possible. He’d been drinking, maybe—no, he hadn’t. He wasn’t asleep, so he couldn’t have been dreaming. But Delilah—his baby sister—was standing in front of him, pale and still, with a bullet hole in her skull.

“And Polly,” she continued, glancing at the fire.“And John.”

Tommy’s hands curled into fists. Teeth clenching against each other. His logical mind fights against what his heart already knows: this is Delilah. But it’s not. It can’t be. And yet, she speaks his name like she never left, like she isn’t a ghost standing by his fire, telling him the truth he doesn’t want to hear.

His jaw tightened. “Who?”

She met his gaze then, and something in her expression softened. Not with sadness, not with fear—but with something almost amused.

“A priest,” she said simply. “From the church I used to go to.”

Tommy’s lips parted slightly. She stepped forward then, sinking down onto the log beside him, sitting as if her body still remembered how. As if she hadn’t been shot dead. For a long moment, Tommy said nothing.

Then, moving on autopilot, he reached into his coat, pulling out his cigarette case. He lit one with slow, deliberate movements, inhaled deeply, then held the case out to her. She took one. The small gesture felt wrong. Like something out of a dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. He exhaled, smoke curling from his lips, and muttered, “Dead people smoke now?” Delilah smirked before lighting up her cigarette, she took a slow drag, and exhaled. “You’re in luck, then”

For a moment, they just sat there, side by side, watching the fire. It felt almost normal—almost. “Lucas Wood,” Tommy murmured, more to himself than to her. Delilah nodded slightly. “You’ve heard of him?.”

“I know the name”, Tommy admitted. “Never met him. I don’t go to church.” A bitter smirk, “And if I did, it wouldn’t be to pray.” She huffed a quiet laugh, taking another slow drag of her cigarette, “Yeah it was him alright”.

Tommy exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’ll get the police involved.” His voice was firm, but even as he said it, there was something hollow in his words. “I can’t send my men after him—I need them”.

Delilah scoffed softly, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “And what exactly do you think the police are gonna do, Tommy?” She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “It’s no use. Lucas is an IRA member”.

Delilah smirked, “Funny, isn’t it?” She tilted her head, watching the way his grip on his cigarette tightened. “It was the same with Polly, What goes around comes around.”

Tommy inhaled sharply, his cigarette burning dangerously close to his fingertips.

Delilah’s voice softened. “Lucas is coming in a few days,” she said. “He’s going to tell you about my death himself.” There was a slight pause before she added, “That’s when he plans to take you, Tommy.” Tommy was silent for once.

She turned to him fully, studying his face in the firelight. “Do you understand now?”

“Will you listen to me now? you love me, right?”

He looked at her for a long moment, taking her in. The way the fire cast flickering shadows across her face, the way her expression stayed calm despite the weight of everything. Tommy’s hands found her cheeks, her skin was cold, his thumb nearly freezing from simply rubbing across it. “I do love you” he responded, his eyes never leaving hers.

She was already dead. And yet, here she was. Waiting for him to finish what needed to be done.

He flicked his cigarette into the fire, the embers swallowing it whole. He closed his eyes for a moment and pulled her in, holding her tightly in his arms, hands cradling her head as if he was trying to comfort her. Tommy pressed a lingering kiss to her temple.

“Alright, for you Delilah”

To be continued…

[i-m-snek]

I can't believe just how far Sweetpea has come!

She's still looking for her forever home, she is always going to have some issues in general from her MBD, and may never fill out to look 'normal weight'. She can't be on any loose substrates due to a weaker digestive system, again, due to MBD/prior starvation. I am looking for someone fairly close (Arizona, United States. I will not be shipping her due to her size, even in a large box if it's flipped over she wouldn't be able to get herself back upright.) Who has a lot of prior experience with bearded dragons. *I will not make exceptions on that, she is not a starter reptile* She also struggles to balance on branches, so any climbing apparatus needs to be low to the enclosure floor. Personality: She loves basking in the sun outside, her favorite food is red bell pepper, but she will eat the heck out of different types of squash as well. Zuchinni and yellow squash are her main foods currently, she'll also eat collard greens, just less enthusiastically. She hasn't turned her nose up at any bugs at all, she'll eat crickets, hornworms, dubia roaches, BSFL, etc. She's a cuddle bug, as her name implies. If you set her on your lap she'll nap for hours! She's slowly starting to be more active and use her legs more, and I'll often watch her march around her enclosure before settling for a nap. History: Sweetpea was bought as a subadult by a 16 year old kid, who swore to his mom that he'd care for her. Well, as it goes in these situations, the kid cared for a month before losing interest and feeding her -maybe- once a month. She didn't have proper UVB lighting, which made it impossible for her to metabolize her food and she slowly declined over time. Eventually the mom went into his room and found her, nearly on deaths door. Genuinely thought she had starved to death, but noticed her eye movement. She posted in a panic on facebook and someone saw it and contacted me. I almost didn't go get her because I thought it was a case of the dragon being in brumation and the owner not knowing they brumate. Beardies are a lot of work and I didn't want to add to my plate unless absolutely necessary. But I am so glad I did go get her. I had never seen such an emaciated bearded dragon in person before, and took her in as a foster immediately. The first two weeks I was scared I'd wake up to her dead, she refused all offers of food, I had to blend her food and syringe feed her very slowly every day as to not overload her organs. She wouldn't even look twice at live bugs, she had no appetite. Not only that, but she had 'rubber jaw', where after so long without UVB or calcium supplements their jaw just. Turns rubbery and flexible, so she couldn't chew at all. After about two weeks of syringe feeding, being under uvb, and carefully measured calcium supplements, her jaw strengthened enough that I was comfortable offering her solids. I had to put it directly into her mouth, but she started eating solid veggies. From there I taught her to once again eat on her own, and it's been uphill since then! Requirements: You -have- to have experience with bearded dragons, at least a couple years of owning an adult. She is a special needs dragon, and will likely never be a fully healthy dragon again. You have to have at least a 4 x 2 x 2 enclosure ready to go. She has to be kept on solid substrate (Sadly) such as tile or paper towel, as said earlier she cannot metabolize any swallowed substrate due to her weakened digestive system. I know its a lot, but she is a special needs dragon who has suffered so, so much. She deserves to have a happy, healthy life from now on with someone who knows what they're doing. Because of my requirements, I am not asking a rehoming fee. But I -am- requiring video or photo proof that you have experience with dragons, and proof of enclosure.

[wreckless-tempestry]

“It made me think of you.”

Year of the OTP 2025 — February Prompt

Characters: Finn x Shrimpo (Dandy’s World)

AN: Thank you for all the positive feedback on my last post! Reading your comments is truly my source of dopamine. I’ve decided to write these two pretty ambiguously since I want to be accommodating for any peeps who think these two are just a rad non-romantic pairing. I didn’t fully proofread this as i was in a bit of a hurry to finish, but i hope you enjoy nonetheless! Word count is around 6.3k.

I SWEAR GOOB ISN’T THE STEREOTYPICAL ONE-DIMENSIONAL CLUELESS AND INNOCENT CHARACTER… I plan to give him some more screen time (wordtime?) in the future. Gigi also uses they/them pronouns because i said so.

Part 1

A little over a month had passed since the fateful night of the New Year’s dance, and already some new streamers were beginning to adorn the hallways of Gardenview – the shimmering whites of January being replaced with the ominously familiar shades of crimson and pink. And the hearts… oh Lord, the hearts, they were everywhere. On the walls, the ceiling, you name it. Hell, there were even those cliche heart boxes with all the shitty chocolates in them that seemed to always end up in the possession of at least a couple Toons. I love you this, I love you that, on and on and on.

This might be Shrimpo’s most hated holiday for real.

It surprised no one that Shrimpo wasn't particularly festive, but if he had to choose just one holiday to wipe off the face of the Earth, he's almost certain that he wouldn't hesitate to choose Valentine’s Day. It was so… weird. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to make an entire day about love? He already had to suffer through a truckload of other people’s feelings every day he spent in this hell; twenty-four hours reserved for the mushiest of all emotions felt like his own special-made nightmare. 

From his spot slouched against his bedframe, Shrimpo glared at the calendar on the wall across from him, on which he had already scratched a rather aggressive line in red pen on the box with the number 13. He had a couple more hours to brace himself before the dreaded day arrived, before he’d be subjected to all the heart eyes and sentiments and — Uurgh. 

In an attempt to keep the looming dread at bay, Shrimpo’s gaze flicked upward a little, focusing on the picture displayed on the calendar’s upper page. Two koi fish looked back at him, red and white scales contrasting greatly with the vibrant blue waters that served as the background. Kōhaku, he thought, the word popping into his head with little provocation. His clenched fist loosened a tad.

He remembered when Finn had run up to him a couple days after the New Year’s party, waving that calendar above his head. 

“Hey hey hey, Shrimpo! I got something for ya!” 

Shrimpo had turned around, blinked once at the rapidly approaching fishbowl, and barked out an “Eh? What?!”

”Look, it’s a calendar!” Finn slowed to a stop in front of him, holding out the calendar in question. “Brightney let me have some, said she’s already got too many of ‘em. We could be matching!” 

‘Finn wants to… give me something.’ Shrimpo gave the cover a critical once-over. It depicted a shoal of some fish he could not identify, with the words ‘Aquatic Life’ printed boldly near the top. ‘Figures.’

“…Lemme see.” He extended one hand, and Finn gladly let him take hold of it. He briskly flipped backwards through the pages within, getting glimpses of various fish whose names were foreign to him. A flash of red and white caught his eye, and his thumb stilled momentarily on top of the U in ‘February’.

Noticing the page he had paused on, Finn chirruped, “Those’re koi! Pretty, aren’t they? They’re REEL popular in Japan especially.”

Shrimpo shot Finn a stink-eye at the pun, but did not retort with an insult right away, which Finn chose to interpret as a sign to continue. “This particular type here is called kōhaku koi, because of their red and white markings. They’re one of the three most well-known varieties of koi, actually! The other two are called the Sanke and Showa varieties; both have black scales as well as red and white, but the Showa is primarily black with white and red markings, while the Sanke is like the Kōhaku but with some black marki—”

”I’ll take it.” Shrimpo could sense a full-blown yap-fest on the horizon, and there were only so many hours he wanted to spend standing in the hallway. His evasion tactic seemed to be successful, as Finn’s expression brightened and he bounced jubilantly on the soles of his feet a couple times. 

“Oh, yippee! You’ll love it, I swear! They even put in a couple facts about the fish in there too, haha!”

‘Which you already know by heart, I’m sure.’ Shrimpo watched as Finn raced off down the hallway once more, almost bumping into Poppy with a rushed “sorry!” and then he was gone. The calendar remained clutched in his hand, open to the page with the damn koi.

Slowly, he turned and began shuffling in the opposite direction, towards the dorms. He held the gift tight against his chest, glancing down occasionally to ensure it didn’t ruffle or tear.

Kōhaku, huh…

He wondered if he had any thumbtacks stored away somewhere.

About a month had passed since that encounter, and Shrimpo still did not know where they stood with each other. In the interactions they had since the dance, Finn had remained just as friendly and pun-prone as ever – but what sort of friendly was it? Was it just regular friendly, or ‘I'm trying not to cringe at the sight of you so I'm doing my best to act normal’ friendly, or… or… or what!? There might as well be a thousand types of friendly that a Toon could be, how the hell was Shrimpo supposed to know!

This would all be so much easier if Finn just let himself be hated like everyone else.

Groaning in agitation, Shrimpo rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. His brain was not being cooperative today. Why did every train of thought have to become weird and confusing? “I hate brains,” he declared into the smothering fabric.

A knock on the door called for his salvation (or doom, depending on the circumstance). “Who’s it?” he yelled, lifting his head up to speak. 

A familiar voice answered him. Shrimpo decided he would have been better off pretending he wasn’t home. He reluctantly swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed the doorknob, hesitated, then flung the door open.

“Heya, bud! How goes it?” Finn seemed to have an extra bounce in his step today, almost exaggeratedly so. Some snippets of red paper had gotten into his head somehow, and were now drifting placidly near the bottom of the bowl.

Shrimpo quirked one dubious brow. “What’s up with you?” he replied instead.

“Hm? Nothin’, nothin’, I’m just… Excited! Yeah, excited for tomorrow.”

So Finn was one of those people, huh… Figures. He looked like the type who’d be all for a day of getting all emotional and tenderhearted. Shrimpo’s expression did not change. “And you’re here because…?”

“Um… just cause! I felt like visiting you, keheheh.”

“Try again,” he deadpanned, doing his best to ignore the peculiar swelling feeling in his chest if he dared entertain Finn’s words – which were not true at all, obviously. Surely.

A brief pause, before Finn accepted defeat and loosened his shoulders, his expression turning sheepish. “Um… can you help me get the, ah, the paper? Out of my head? I was doing, uh… something… with Scraps and Goob, and it got in there one way or another. I can’t reach that far in.”

“All this red shit? Why the hell are you asking me?” 

“Well, Scraps couldn’t, cause, uh, she’s made of paper… and I’m pretty sure Goob just ended up getting more of it in there. Plus, his hands aren’t necessarily the best for more, ah… delicate jobs. You’re the first person I thought of.”

The aforementioned details Shrimpo could not deny; Goob could probably crack Finn’s head in half without even trying. For whatever reason, the thought of such a thing brought with it an odd sense of discomfort.

‘The first person he thought of…’

“...Fine, fine,” Shrimpo sighed irritatedly, grabbing Finn by the arm and yanking him forward. “Just hurry up and get in here.” 

Finn stumbled into Shrimpo’s room, glancing around with curiosity – though not much had changed since his last visit on the evening of the dance. ‘Why the hell does the damn dance keep coming up?’ The fishbowl’s gaze landed at last on the calendar, and his grin rebounded with double the energy. 

“Hey, you did put it up! I knew you’d like it!” His eyes shone like the sun.

“Mm,” Shrimpo replied curtly, grabbing the stool next to his closet and dragging it over next to Finn. He stepped up onto the platform and proceeded to grab the rim of Finn’s head with one hand, to the surprised yelp of the boy in question. “Hold still,” he ordered before plunging his other hand into the water, keeping his eye on the sides of the bowl to pinpoint the location of the paper fragments.  

“Ack – careful, Barnaby Wilikers is in there!” 

“You’re aware that ‘Barnaby’ isn’t a live fish, right?” Shrimpo snorted.

“He’s my emotional support animal, leave him alone,” Finn retorted with a mock pout, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” 

The water in Finn’s head was surprisingly warm, Shrimpo mused as he managed to catch a couple pieces of paper in his palm. He wondered where he got it from. A sink, perhaps? Did his head magically procure water? Shrimpo considered asking, and decided against it for fear of seeming ignorant.

“Um, so…” It was Finn who broke the silence, while Shrimpo stubbornly chased after the last stray paper piece. “You doing anything for Valentine’s Day?” His voice gained a faint lilt to it. “Heh, got a special someone you’re getting something for?” 

The water felt a tad warmer now. Peculiar.

“Are you kidding? Please. I hate everyone in this dump.” Shrimpo paused his paper-fishing for a moment and laughed dryly. “You couldn’t pay me to get chocolates or some shit for anybody. I don’t even eat that crap.” If ever he took a chocolate bar when on one of the expeditions down below, it was solely to keep it from everyone else.

“Oh. Alright. Guess that’s… pretty on-brand for you. Hah.” 

Shrimpo couldn’t see Finn’s face all that well from his current angle, but he sounded… well, not as sunshiny as before, somehow. Before Shrimpo could wonder why, he at last captured the final snippet of paper, and he triumphantly raised his closed fist out of the tank.

“SHRIMPO WINS!” he shouted, whilst some water splashed outward to land on the floor from the sudden movement. Shrimpo pretended to pay it no mind, hopping down from the stool and putting his fists on his hips. “You can thank me later.”

Finn gave Shrimpo a somewhat tight smile, taking a step towards the door. “Thanks, Shrimpo,” he replied, eyes fixated on a spot behind Shrimpo’s shoulder. “You’re…” he paused, then shook his head. 

“Nevermind. Bad joke.” 

He turned away, and out into the hallway he went.

Shrimpo stared at the empty space where Finn had stood a moment ago. Bad joke? Bad joke? Not once had Finn been so self-aware as to recognize his puns were horrendous; something truly problematic must have happened. Had Shrimpo said something wrong? Had he messed up Finn’s brain by accident? Did Finn even have a brain?? 

Shrimpo racked his own for any idea as to what might have caused Finn’s change of heart, and rapidly came to the conclusion that he hadn’t a clue. He loathed to admit any weakness, but it was most undeniably true that Shrimpo was not well versed in social cues. Could you blame him? – he never would have thought in a million years that he’d have to know any. He prided himself on dancing to the beat of his own drum no matter how problematic this deemed him, but it would seem that this was one of the few occasions where doing so would not benefit him. 

Why was that? Why could he not push Finn’s feelings aside the way he did everyone else’s?

Okay. Revisit the facts. Finn had asked him if he had plans for tomorrow, then if he had somebody he was getting a gift for (ew). Shrimpo had denied this, obviously. And then… had Finn gotten mad? Disappointed? Why? There was literally no reason for him to get upset that Shrimpo didn’t have someone he was going to spend the day with… unless he was some major empath or something and felt bad. Shrimpo couldn’t relate, but even if it were true Finn’s reaction still seemed a bit unusual.

He was getting nowhere fast, and what little patience he had was wearing thin. He had to know the answer to his query as soon as he was able; it was already eating away at his chest and making his brain prickle uncomfortably. 

Despite his contempt towards the mere idea of it, he might have to rely on… other sources, more socially adept ones. He could not believe that one stupid fishbowl was getting him so out of sorts, making him resort to such desperate measures. 

Stupid Finn. Stupid social cues and stupid paper strips. 

Emitting another agitated groan, Shrimpo aggressively shook his hands in front of him for a moment in frustration as he began stomping towards his door. His room was doing that dumb thing again where it started feeling too small, signaling his cue to head out. 

He paused briefly as he stood parallel to his punching bag, before whirling to face it and throwing a singular wild punch. His fist landed a bit off-center, but it was enough to make the bag bump against the back wall. Unsatisfied, he grabbed the frame and heaved it to the side with a grunt, making it topple over onto the floor with a loud clatter. Only then did he cross the threshold into the hall.

Like some specter of doom, Shrimpo stood still in the empty hallway, fists at his side and an ireful gaze fixed firmly on the wall in front of him. Where should he go? He hadn’t actually formed much of a plan about which ‘outside sources’ he planned to use. 

Other Toons were out of the question, forget Finn himself. He refused to ask for assistance from anyone; he’d already spent too much of his time purposely antagonizing them, no way was he going to wreck all his hard effort now. So then what else was there?

The library – yes, of course, the library. He’d never paid it a visit once during his entire stay, but allegedly libraries had books about pretty much everything, so surely he would be able to find something that could help him out some. Didn’t they have computers in there sometimes? That could also work. He still had his reservations about relying on anything other than himself – and God forbid he ran into Brightney’s book club –  but modern problems required modern solutions or whatever. He’d just have to be extra careful not to run into anybody.

Now to actually find where it was. He swiveled on his heel to face the hallway to his left, fully prepared to spend a good amount of his evening traversing through Gardenview. ‘Alright, I’ll try upstairs first, and then–’

“Whoa, look who it is!”

A cheery voice behind him shattered his hopes of remaining undetected. For half a second he wondered if Finn had come back, but a glimpse behind him confirmed something much worse.

“Don’t see you out and about much!” A couple yards away, Goob waved one absurdly large hand at him from his doorway, sporting that moronic smile that Shrimpo had come to despise. “Where ya off to?”

“None of your business!” Shrimpo snapped. Geez, could this guy take a hint? Shrimpo had lost count of how many times he had vowed his eternal hatred towards Goob, and the number of times those vows had been all but forgotten an hour later. In a sense he was almost the same as Finn, except a whole lot dumber. Finn at least acknowledged Shrimpo’s spiteful claims and simply chose to pay them little mind; Goob just straight up didn't seem to remember.

“Uh, okay! Anyway, I have something for ya, so come over here real quick!” Goob’s multicolored hands were already outstretched and making their way towards Shrimpo at an alarmingly high speed. Oh no. Surely he wasn’t going to—

Shrimpo was not proud of the high-pitched screech that left his mouth as he was grabbed by his sides.  All of a sudden he was being half-dragged across the floor towards the ginger shitbrain that seemed to have absolutely no concept of personal space. In mere moments he found himself on his ass in front of Goob, whose smile had not changed since the beginning of their encounter.

“Wh— LET GO OF ME!” Shrimpo scrambled away from the offending hands, which let go of him without complaint. Already could feel the skin where he had been grabbed tingling, a sensation not unlike that of an ant colony crawling about. Jaw clenched, he clutched his sides tightly with his arms and glared wrathfully up at his attacker, who looked down at him with an expression that now displayed blank confusion. 

“Goob?” A feminine voice called from inside the boy’s room. “Who’s out there?” Light footsteps could be heard getting closer, and within the next couple of seconds Scraps poked her head outside; her ears lowered slightly when her curious gaze landed on Shrimpo. “Oh.” 

Goob turned to look at his sister, his smile widening once more. “I was gonna give him his valentine! I know it’s a little early, but he was right there. It was the perfect opportunity, right?” 

‘What the hell is this guy talking about? A valentine? He’s gotta be joking.’ Realizing he was still sitting on the floor in front of witnesses, Shrimpo swiftly got to his feet and brushed himself off, ignoring the remnants of the tingling feeling. Goob had just earned himself the #1 spot on Shrimpo’s hit list for that move. 

Scraps sighed, crossing her arms as she eyed Shrimpo warily. “Whatever you think is best, Goob.” As the Toon retreated back into the room, presumably to grab whatever it was he had prepared, Scraps raised one brow at Shrimpo and queried, “So… what happened here?”

Shrimpo considered just booking it out of there and heading to the library like he’d been planning to do in the first place — nothing was keeping him here, after all — but that could be taken as a sign of weakness or incapability. No way was he fleeing with his tail between his legs from some paper cat lady and her dumbass brother. 

Besides… he might as well see what Goob had pulled together for him while he was here. To critique it, of course.

“The idiot grabbed me and yanked me over here,” he replied with a scowl, gesturing with one hand in Goob’s general direction. “I hardly even said a word to him. Doesn’t he have any common sense?”

Scraps’ ears flattened fully against her head, her tail lashing about behind her. “First of all, my brother is not an idiot, thank you,” she hissed at him, pupils slit and eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry he touched you without permission, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult him, you hear? He’s been nothing but nice to you all this time, and you treat him like this.”

Shrimpo would have gladly started a full-on argument with her (at least there was one other Toon here who had some backbone), when none other than Goob himself popped up out of nowhere and thrust something into Shrimpo’s hands. Scraps, begrudgingly, took a step back.

“Here! I made it for you yesterday!” Turning his scrutinizing eyes downward, Shrimpo was met with a piece of red paper cut out to resemble a heart – or perhaps a lopsided piece of mutton, it was a bit difficult to tell. The words “HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!” were displayed boldly, albeit somewhat off-center, in black marker. Taped near the bottom was a single gumball. ‘How charming.’

“What is this,” Shrimpo deadpanned, looking up towards Goob. “We are not… a thing. You should not be giving this to me.”

“What do you mean?” Goob blinked in mild surprise. “You don't need to be dating to give someone a valentine!”

“Goob’s right,” Scraps added, shooting Shrimpo a look as if to say ‘Don’t be an ass’. “Valentine's Day is about spending time with people you care about, not just romantically. It could be a family member or a friend. Love takes on more than one form.”

Shrimpo refrained from commenting for a moment, absorbing this latest knowledge. He had assumed that love was reserved for, y'know, people who were in love, but apparently this was not the case. Though he didn't have any relatives whom he cared about, and as far as he was aware he didn't have any true friends here (right?), so Valentine's Day still didn't apply to him. Hah. Take that.

And yet…

He felt this info was important somehow, to his own puzzlement. He looked down at the vaguely heart-shaped paper in his hands again. It looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. 

‘More than one form…’

Wait.

He almost tripped over himself as he stumbled backwards slightly from the suddenness of his revelation. The craft siblings observed this with varied looks of concern. 

“I gotta go. I will… I will accept this,” Shrimpo said hurriedly, almost rushing the words to leave his mouth. “Bye.” And he turned on his heel and ran off down the hall like a man possessed. 

“Um… okay! Bye bye!” Goob waved at Shrimpo's retreating form. The farewell was left unheard.

The elevator doors couldn't open fast enough. Shrimpo slipped inside the moment they began to and slammed his fist on the button to the next floor up. Only when the doors closed on themselves did he let out a breath and lean against the back wall. He clutched Goob’s valentine against his chest.

He couldn't believe it. He simply could not believe that this was his answer.

If it were true…

‘Does Finn want me to do something for him tomorrow?’

It would explain his earlier reaction, at least. From that perspective, getting told that Shrimpo hated everyone in Gardenview could be cause for some resentment.

However.

The other connotations that went with the theory were… a big pill to swallow.

The elevator doors slid open again, and Shrimpo stiffly marched out. His original plan to go to the library no longer seemed as necessary now (though he could be entirely wrong and the library would provide him with the correct, easier answer). Despite this, he felt there was something that could be done here. He had an inkling of an idea of what it might be.

He looked both ways down the hall, to double check he was alone, before allowing himself to half-fall into a sitting position on the floor. He loosely wrapped his arms around his knees, setting his valentine next to him, and stared off into space with a furrowed brow.

If Finn truly did want something for Valentine's Day… the possibility that he was thinking of something for Shrimpo didn't seem too far-fetched, right? Maybe it was, he didn't know. He didn't seem to know a whole bunch of things nowadays. He was never taught, and to learn seemed an impossible task. 

‘Never mind, just assume he's getting something.’ So, theoretically, if Finn was getting Shrimpo a… a gift… 

Valentine's Day is about spending time with people you care about.

Would that mean Finn cared about him?

While yes, he already sported a pretty friendly disposition, it could also be that he was just choosing to tolerate Shrimpo out of politeness; this was the explanation that the latter had subconsciously chosen to believe, ignoring any signs that might say otherwise. It was plausible and relatively easy to understand, no room for subtext or misunderstanding. 

You did not get a Valentine’s gift for people you merely tolerated – this much Shrimpo knew. You did not become disappointed if they said they had no intentions of doing the same. 

Not for the first time that day, Shrimpo thought back to the dance, that fated 1st of January. He had dismissed the entire thing the morning after, blaming anything he might have felt about it beforehand on exhaustion, and left it at that as best as he was able.

But he could claim whatever he wanted – it didn’t mean it was true. It did not erase the memory, the way Finn had looked at him then. Even now he would not be able to describe that look or what it meant, but he knew that was not the sort of look meant for any random Toon. 

May I have this dance? 

God, life could be so much easier if he had stayed in his room that night. 

Shrimpo ran a hand over his face, nails dragging slightly over the skin. He got the sensation he was hurtling towards a line in the sand that could not be uncrossed. Giving Finn a gift in return now seemed on par to giving an admission he wasn’t sure he was prepared to give. 

‘Or maybe you’re being a sissy and overthinking it,’ a different part of his brain snapped at him, breaking his spiral into an early midlife crisis. ‘Man up and get something for the fishbowl, goddamn. It’s literally not even that serious.’

…On rare occasions, Shrimpo could appreciate his brain a little. He blinked, inhaled, then took hold of Goob’s valentine and rose to his feet again. 

He was thinking about it all wrong, he decided as he began walking down the corridor. This was just a… a chance to prove his capability. Yes. Like the thing with Scraps earlier; he could have left, but he didn’t, because he wasn’t a pathetic weakling. 

This had to be like it, right? This whole conundrum was a test to see if he could hold his own. If his resolve would crumble under the pressure. Finn had looked disappointed because he’d expected Shrimpo to rise to the challenge. Damn, he must think Shrimpo was pathetic.

He refused to let that idea stand, no matter how… unique this test was. 

Yeah. This was definitely what was going on. He was just tweaking out earlier and overanalyzing it. Totally hadn’t been having a revelation. Absolutely wasn’t half-assing another explanation to save himself from figuring out the original.

Yep. 

So… a gift, huh. Where might one be found? The image of a multicolored flower popped into his head, and Shrimpo instantly brushed it off. He hated Dandy. He hated everyone here, of course, but Dandy was #2 on his hit list. (Previously #1, but a certain Goob had claimed that spot a couple minutes ago.) Shrimpo just… didn’t trust him. He’d smile at you in passing, but Shrimpo had learned long ago not to count on outward appearances.

Although… he could think of another Toon with lots of items to offer. One that may be susceptible to threatening bargaining.

He jogged a little ways down the hall before stopping in front of a door. Glancing at the designation code painted on the wall to confirm it was the one he was looking for, he inhaled, squared his shoulders — and promptly began banging on the door with his fists.

“GIGI!!” He screamed, his voice echoing through the empty hall. “OPEN UP!!” Through his peripheral vision he could see a head peering out to see what the cause of the ruckus was, then quickly shutting the door again before he could see who it was. Whatever.

Mercifully for Gigi, it did not take long for them to answer the call of their visitor. “Holy shit, quiet down,” they chastised, glaring at him. “It’s late. The hell do you want?”

“I WANT TO BUY SOME SHIT OFF OF YOU,” he replied, maintaining his original volume to quickly assert dominance over the situation. “LET ME LOOK.”

“Wh— dude, my collections ain’t for sale,” Gigi answered as Shrimpo stomped his way into the room. “Why do you need anything from me, anyway? I don’t have no boxing equipment, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“IT’S… NOT FOR ME.” Shrimpo had some reservations about revealing his true intentions, but he recalled seeing Gigi hanging around Finn a couple of times, listening to his fish facts — of all the things! Who would willingly sit through a monologue about anglerfish mating customs? (Shrimpo had once endured such a thing, albeit against his will; he could only get so far away in a closed elevator.) Perhaps adding in this detail would help sway the tides in his favor. “IT’S FOR FINN.”

“For… Finn?” Some of Gigi’s aggravation faded, to be replaced with surprise — and then, to Shrimpo’s horror, a sly grin. “Well, well, well,” they drawled, crossing their arms as they leaned against the wall. “Never thought I’d see the day when you finally softened up. Someone catch your eye at last, eh?” 

“WHAT— NO!!” Of all the horrid assumptions. Shrimpo clenched his jaw. “I AM PROVING MY SUPERIORITY. I WILL NOT BE BESTED BY A BOY WITH A PLASTIC FISH FOR A COMPANION.”

”Mhm.“ Gigi did not seem impressed by his explanation — but at last they loosened. “All right. I’ll let you take up to two things, and I expect to be paid real nicely. I recommend looking over on the third cabinet, with the tackles n’ everythin’: Finn would probably like that sorta stuff.” 

“Whatever.” With the hard part out of the way, Shrimpo felt free to lower his volume, at least a little. Sauntering over to the shelf in question, he rapidly noticed that this might take a little longer than he thought. Gigi was known for being a hoarder, but hell, they could probably give Dandy a run for his money with how much crap they owned. This cabinet alone was only a couple items away from maximum capacity, as was every other. 

“Where’d you get all this junk?” he muttered as he began sifting through the collection. It wasn't meant to warrant a reply, but Gigi answered with a vague “Oh, here and there.”

Most of the stuff he was looking at had something to do with fish, with a tackle box here, a painting there, and so on and so forth. There was some jewelry, though, and Shrimpo’s fingers happened to catch upon something whilst rummaging in that general area. 

It was two beaded bracelets, one crimson and the other cerulean, bots with the same charm of what appeared to be an octopus. Shrimpo considered them in his palm; he had no idea why one would need two matching bracelets, but whatever. It would do — he’d rather not stick around for longer than he had to. He whipped around and thrust them forward in a silent query.

Gigi glanced at them, a faint smirk reammerging on their face (though Shrimpo did not see why). “60 tapes,” they hummed at last. At Shrimpo’s withering glare, they relented and added, “Okay, fine, 40.”

Shrimpo fished around in his pockets, for once thankful that he snatched up so many of them during runs. “Here,” he snapped, shoving the currency into Gigi’s hands. In the next second he was gone.

“A thank you would've been nice,” Gigi scoffed to themselves, reaching out to close the door. 

“FINN!” The rest of the prior evening had come and gone, and the dreaded 14th of February had descended upon them. Although Shrimpo was no less spiteful of the current date then he had been before, he had business to attend to. Namely, a certain gap-toothed buffoon.

Sitting at one of the dining room chairs, the boy himself turned his head with a brow raised, only to devolve into a grin Shrimpo knew all too well. “Shrimpo!! I’ve been meaning’ to look for ya, actually,” he chuckled, scooting his chair over a little and pulling out the one next to him. “Come and sit!” 

Plopping down unceremoniously on the offered chair, Shrimpo opened his mouth to rush out the words he needed to say, and was promptly beaten to the punch. 

“So, uh… I made something for you. Here.” Reaching into a small cross-body bag he had slung over his shoulder, Finn pulled out an ominously familiar-looking piece of paper and extended it to Shrimpo, who snatched it in one hand after a beat of silence. The words “Happy Valentine’s Day!” were written in a large, round font in the center. The shape of this one was a much more distinguishable heart. Some stickers of starfish and coral were scattered about on the sides.

Of course he had assumed that there was a good chance Finn had something for it, but to see material proof was an entirely different matter. He held the paper on flat palms, as if he believed his touch would rip it in two, and thought ‘This was made for me.’

“…This looks like what Goob made me,” Shrimpo commented after a moment, with striking bluntness, “but less sloppy.” 

That was certainly one way to deliver a comment.

“Oh-!” Finn emitted a sheepish hah. “I guess that makes sense; I did make it with him, after all. He offered to work on some handcrafted valentines with me yesterday, and it seemed like a fun thing to do.”

“S’that where the paper in your head came from?” The dots connected quite suddenly, but when they did it the whole ordeal made a lot more sense. 

“Yep. Sorry about that, by the way.” Finn shifted in his seat a little, gaze drifting downward to the floor. “Uh, I know you… weren’t planning to do anything, but it’s alright, it’s not mandatory or anything. I jus’ wanted to—“

“OH RIGHT,” Shrimpo interrupted loudly, remembering what he had come here to do in the first place. “I forgot. Here.” He placed the fist he had kept tightly closed the entire conversation on the tabletop in front of him, opened his fingers, and let the items he’d held loose before quickly retracting his hand again. The bracelets sat quietly for the whole world to see, the octopus charms catching the yellow glare of the linoleum lighting above.

Finn stared at them. The silence was deafening. Shrimpo’s mouth opened again to shatter it. “Um.” What was it that people always said in those sappy romcoms again? 

“They made me… think of you.”

Hang on, since when did I use fucking romcoms as a reference for social interactions? Stop that. That show was years ago anyway.’

Finn’s hand at least reached to inspect the bracelets, eyes wide and pondering. The tentacles of the two octopi caught together for a moment as they were picked up before releasing each other. 

“Are these.. for us?” Finn asked at last, looking back up at Shrimpo. 

Shrimpo frowned. “Eh? No, they’re for you.”

At this, Finn couldn’t help but break out in a brief giggle. “Not just for me, silly. They’re friendship bracelets. Each person gets one.” 

Shrimpo thought back to how sly Gigi had looked when he'd picked out his gift. He silently resolved to exchange a couple choice words with them later. 

“Uh…” He watched as Finn extended one to him, the cerulean one — an offering. For whatever reason, such a simple gesture felt loaded with meaning he wasn’t sure he was fully able to grasp. 

It felt almost like a commitment. A confession.

‘Again with this hyper-analyzation thing…’ There was his favorite voice of reason again. ‘Seriously, brother, you’re spazzing out. It’s Finn’s gift, he decides what he wants to do with it. If he wants you to take the bracelet, take the bracelet. Simple as that.’

He felt this brain-voice of his had a habit of omitting certain details, but he decided to let it slide for the time being. He’d already been sitting there like a dumbass staring at Finn’s hand for a second too long.

“…Fine, whatever.” Shrimpo reached out and plucked the thing up with two fingers, lifting his other wrist to slide it on. It felt eerily akin to putting on his own shackles. 

Shackles… to what?

‘Dude, for real! Snap out of it!’

Okay, okay! Keeping his fingers straight, he let the jewelry piece fall down to rest on his arm. He pulled on the cords to tighten it, although just a little, and looked up at Finn to gauge his reaction. The fishbowl’s smile was brighter than ever, holding out his own wrist adorned with the crimson beads. 

“This is a great gift, Shrimpo.” How warm his eyes were. The flecks of yellow seemed even more prominent, now. “You’re a real great friend.”

Friend.

“Okay,” he answered, for lack of a better word.

The boy seemed almost to glow. 

That night, Shrimpo lay silently on his mattress, looking up at his ceiling. Not much had changed since January; it remained as unremarkable as it had been the day he arrived, free of any holes left behind from outbursts. Maybe someday. 

He looked down at the calendar. The 14th had been triumphantly crossed off, and tomorrow so would the 15th. And eventually so would the 16th and 17th and all the other days, and then he’d have to get a new calendar so he could check off all the boxes all over again. 

He now looked to the calendar’s left. The words Happy Valentine’s Day! looked back at him, written in two different types of handwriting. The room was dark, but he could still see them faintly, unchanging. Even when he slept, he knew they would be there, for whenever he needed to look at them. 

Love takes on more than one form.

So do gumball flavors, he mused, chewing on his Valentine’s present. 

[quibbs126]

You know, I really think there’s merit to be had in a TFA-style dynamic with Optimus and Megatron, with the two as strangers and Megatron being so much older and basically from a completely different Cybertron. Particularly with a corrupt Autobot government

And also if you actually explore their dynamic more, since TFA didn’t really do that

Like they start off as pure enemies, each thinking very lowly of the other, but their continuous conflicts giving them an odd sense of respect for one another, or at least Megatron for Optimus

And then there’s also the juiciness of their completely separate backstories, or more specifically Optimus learning Megatron’s. I think it’d be cool if Megatron had an absolutely horrible backstory, one so terrible it made him want to burn it all down because he saw no other way forward. In part because my faves must suffer, but also with this backstory being at the hands of Autobots or people who would become Autobots. Like maybe some of the leaders, while not directly responsible, did turn their heads in some way and deny responsibility. Like Megatron is a monster, but he is the monster created by the Autobots

And maybe over time, while he never agrees with him, Optimus starts to understand Megatron more, that he’s more than just a creature of pure evil. And maybe in a scenario where Megatron is captured like in Season 3, Optimus finds himself seeking out his advice and words, because while he’s no paragon, he’s the only person who will tell him the truth, because the Autobot command certainly won’t, and he wants to understand it all better; Megatron, the Decepticons, the Autobots, the war, all of it. Both in prison and out of it, Megatron ends up strangely becoming a sort of mentor to Optimus

I don’t think this Megatron would be one that gets a redemption arc. He’s too far gone, even if he has a tragic backstory and he’s more complex than just a cartoon villain (and also I need to remind myself that just because I feel bad for Megs doesn’t mean he should get off scott free, particularly since he was the villain originally). I also think Optimus should be the one to kill him, with Megatron maybe even being happy with this outcome, that Optimus is someone worthy of doing him the honor of death

I may have gone a bit specific, but I think this older, more experienced Megatron should be a way for Optimus to grow as a person; to learn that the world isn’t as black and white as he thought, and to learn to question the establishment he lives by, so that he can see its corruption and work to truly make it better. Because even if this Optimus isn’t the leader of the Autobots in the story, that is what he tends to ultimately become. I think it could be so good, if in the hands of writers willing, and more importantly able, to explore this as a concept more (though mandates can be a bastard, as seen in other shows)

Oh and also, nothing romantic between these two. With this scenario my brain cooked up, I just don’t see a place for it. Give Optimus his own separate love interest if you have to, just not Megatron, let them be platonic in this instance. Could you say this is because I’m not a fan of TFA megop? Sure, but I say this because I realized this is how I feel about TFA Megatron and Optimus; there’s potential I see in their dynamic, I just don’t like when it’s only for romantic reasons. There’s so much more here, that I think can stand to be more interesting than leading to them kissing. Probably true of other iterations but this is where I stand with TFA at least

[lologoinsolo]

SINCE ITS WIP WEDNESDAY, I figured I’d get to do my first one on here! (Excuse me while I scream, I love my little milestones)

Coming Up (hopefully soon):

Sweet Treat— Kyle x FemReader, Fluff/Angst/Mourning NOT YET FINISHED OR EDITED

Kyle’s been suffering in silence since Johnny’s death. Everyone has their vices, their coping mechanisms, their reasonings for going about their days just a little more. Kyle hasn’t found his yet. He doubts he will. Simon’s been off, god knows where, doing who knows what. John won’t say anything more than single sentences with empty whiskey bottles at his desk or in his drawer. Needless to say, he’s alone in this. Alone in figuring out how to move on — can he though?

When was the last time he slept or ate good or had a dream that didn’t turn to a nightmare? He can’t remember. Doesn’t want to remember a time before his best mate took a bullet to the head. He’ll still hear Johnny’s laughter, his stupid jokes, his annoying accent. The halls on base are quieter than they’ve been, like the walls also miss what can’t be brought back.

Kyle’s no stranger to losing a soldier but he never thought he’d lose a friend. He knows Johnny would be mad about the way he’s deteriorating— at the way they’ve all deteriorated. Probably would offer to take him to this bakery he’d rave about all the time for a pick me up. The man used to gorge himself on cream cheese danishes, cupcakes with intricate swirls, even managed to stuff a tiny cake down his throat before running laps. Price would catch him all the time with paper bags full of goods, goods that were then used as bribery. Price may or may not have taken the bribes but Simon would sometimes have crumbs stuck on his mask. He never did say just where those crumbs came from.

But maybe that’s why he’s standing in front of the bakery Johnny loved so much. Hoping to catch a glimpse of what his friend saw in this place. Maybe even bring some pastries back to John and Simon. It’s quaint— charming in its own way. It looks actually more like a cafe but not many people are sitting, well actually there’s no one in here. There’s a hefty, sturdy looking shelf with loads of books, good enough to be a small library. Perhaps the owner of Sweet Treat decided to switch things up in the process… or maybe Johnny forgot that this could be a cafe/library establishment. He tended to do that. Used to…

“Good morning!” The small chime rings above the door, you greet him from behind the counter. Your smile looks as sweet as the pastries and cakes in the glass Kyle notes. He wonders if you’re the one that made all of them. Might be from how there’s flour dusted in your apron. “How are you doing today?” Terrible.

[redplanetlobster]

I actually went through a couple different Fears for Jason before I settled on the Buried. Most of them I dismissed because I felt Jason would be more likely to be a victim of them than on Avatar (I mean the Buried isn't much different but there're a lot of ways I think Jason can enact the fear, unlike the others I thought about). The Slaughter wasn't actually one though, senseless killing definitely isn't his style. The Hunt definitely could be though. The pursuit of a goal that, once achieved (if it ever could be in the first place), would leave him still searching, still wanting, and ultimately unsatisfied? That sounds like him wanting the Joker dead but refusing to do it himself. That sounds like his wanting of Bruce's approval without the willingness to change himself. That sounds like his fruitless goal of ending crime and violence with crime and violence.

Some of the other Fears I thought about:

Flesh: I'm a huge fan of the hc that Jason has some wild body dysmorphia after his dip in the pit (plus the Flesh is my favorite fear). Unfortunately not many things for him to torture other people with. His low self esteem maybe?

Lonely: Jason woke up in a world that had moved on without him. Everything was different: his family, his city, hell even the Manor was different due to the events of No Mans Land. I wouldn't fault him for feeling completely isolated as the world, as he knew it, just doesn't exist. (I've got a note somewhere in my docs about a fic where Jason gets put on Martin's/a Lonely domain in general. The domain is just the empty Manor (rebuilt after No Mans Land, so remodeled somewhat) with people leaving rooms just before Jason entered because they heard him coming and just couldn't stand to be anywhere close to him for one reason or another)

Web: Jason absolutely loves making plans and getting other people to follow them unknowingly. The entirety of UtRH he was kicking his feet and giggling every time Bruce did the exact thing here planned for.

End: He died. He's literally a zombie. There's not much more to it than that, pretty basic lol. Ultimately, I don't think Jason is patient enough to be an End Avatar.

Now the reasons I think the Buried fits him best (the bullet points are only a suggestion of putting this into coherent ramblings with separate ideas and reasoning lol):

The thought of a man, deathly claustrophobic and physically can't stand the scent of wet earth because it reminds him of the time he had to claw himself out of his own grave, having to dedicate himself to the concept of being buried alive in order to survive is very funny to me. When the thought first occurred to me I had a little chuckle to myself before actually I took a second to think about it.

I think the influence of the Buried would have been with him for his entire life. He grew up in poverty and was orphaned and homeless at a very young age. Jason is very and always has been very aware that the only way for him to go in life is down. Sometimes it is better to be dead.

During his tenure at the Manor, Jason never thought of it as relief from his hardships of the streets. He was just trading them out for new ones. After all, the only reason Bruce took him in was so Batman could have a Robin right? When he couldn't be a good son for Bruce he couldn't be a good Robin and if he wasn't Robin he didn't have a place in Bruce's house now did he?

Robin itself brings a whole lot of weight on its own. Jason was handed the mantle of the first sidekick and told that he could fill his shoes, that he might even be better. He was handed a mask at 13 and told that he was one of the few people standing between a city and its death and destruction.

Warehouses are quite heavy and asphyxiation sounds like a horrible way to go.

Jason had to dig his way out of his own coffin while still suffering from all of the injuries of his death.

Uhhh... I don't really have anything for Lost Days or the UtRH arc. Mainly 'cause those feel like they go pretty firmly into the reasons for Jason to be an Avatar of the Hunt.

When Jason chose to go back to Crime Alley he also chose to take on the weight of it. He chose to take the many problems of his people, many of which you can't actually solve with a gun, make them his problems. He chose to make those problems his.

Jason returned to the Alley, the first place he felt the oppressive but comforting weight of it, and did the only thing he knew how. He went down and shouldered the responsibility of fighting against the system that doomed his home.

Those last two bullet points are dangerously close to me fully writing this au out/getting really into the changes that I think Avatarhood would have on Jason and how I think he would feed on the fear, so I need to stop here. But yeah, I really think that the Buried fits Jason very well.

I've some very sophisticated thoughts about a TMA and Batman crossover but if you ask me any questions about it I'll only be able to tell you about Buried Avatar Jason.

[kosmicdream]

"make weird art!"

Look, I am genuinely glad the current rallying cry right now seems to be “make weird art!” but I can’t lie.. There’s a part of me that also finds it so annoying. FRUSTRATING. In my experience, people have a low tolerance for nonlinear storytelling. I got death threats for period sex ten years ago. It used to upset me a lot when I was starting out. I just wanted to make something exciting and interesting, no one knew that my comic was basically my lifeline. Now, I kind of miss the alarm over every small thing that happened. I don’t know. Things are getting weird regardless, good & bad ways. there’s weirdness (whatever that means to people) everywhere already, in the past and in the present. Maybe its good people are reflecting on what they’re holding back from themselves or judging others for doing. Or maybe they can’t find what it is they need there and are looking to discover it out there in the world. Personally though, I can’t relate. Not to be too rude or blunt, but i cant take two steps without it being “weird.” The weird i make isn’t weird to me, its normal. I don’t need to make my art anything, it is just what it is. I just need to make the art, that’s my only job I need to do here.

Make weird art, sure. Do it, please. But I also would hope in that journey, when you look at other art that you find repulsive, shameful, complicated, yes even offensive.. If you find yourself with the instinct to sink your fingers into it, rip it apart until its unrecognizable.. Until its utterly destroyed in your heart in a way that feeds the satisfaction of that desire. The art you experienced that affected you that way, its not gone. You can’t destroy the art, just the person. And I hope that whatever you ripped apart there inside of yourself, was not something that was or could have been actually important to you in your personal journey with art. Sure.. Still feel those things! its important to get in an uproar over nothing. I sure do! Oh, theres some art out there i hate so much that its entertainment for me, I’m not going to let anyone change my mind about it. Fire and intensity is part of the passion of art and pursuing your vision of it for yourself.. But what really disturbs me is how common artists hate their own art and hate making art. I don’t like seeing so many artists my age, younger, older.. In pain because they can’t love art anymore. What happened? I don’t get to do art all the time anymore as i’d like. I get frustrated, I cry and feel lost but I never have hated making my art. I don’t know what I’m doing that helps with this but I’m glad I’m doing it. Part of that I think is that i don’t feel an ownership towards what other people are making because that doesn’t belong to me, just my own feelings. And I personally like using every part I can find, that often gets discovered because I ran into something i didn’t know was out there. Most of the time, I wouldn’t have found it if i wasn’t genuinely upset in some way.   

What are you ripping apart?

[machinesandman]

"?!"

The way this alternate got creative in how to dodge so effectively, using the thruster of the mounted arm missile as a way of increasing the dash to a dodge, it impressed the Ex Maverick. Enough that he had to pause and appreciate such a move, it was something he himself would have tried many, many, years ago when younger. But older versions of himself wouldn't, far too wrapped up in ego, power, and urges to use every new tool to be higher and in advantage over someone else.

"Good."

Vile was pleased. That means this one had an edge over that other alternate, not blinded like himself used to be. Vi will need that. Adaptability it what we were always good at once... Stay that way, be better than the rest of us.'

The older version of the two stood now in the indented ground, small crater of a sort, and he brought himself to his full height once more. The dust slowly settling down around him like an ominous haze in the air, leaving Vile silhouetted. That energy shield dissipating with but a thought as he began to turn, arm bending backwards, palm open. Preparing a new counter or attack- but Vile held his hand up. Making him stop in his tracks and wait. Honorable even now, with the raw honesty out in the air. That lifted hand lowering as all the energy he was gathering was depleted, put back into reserves.

Brows furrowed under the helmet as he listened intently then. Attacked...? From the sounds of things, it couldn't have been Mavericks. Extremists as he said have been deploying the virus on their own, so maybe it was those Emerald Spears bastards? If they even existed in this alternates world, or at least something similar to them. Vile was left wondering the specifics of how trying to cure it was even going, if the other worlds X was involved... Was he even still immune? Like the X of his own world? Had to be, otherwise he wouldn't be there.

"Well shit." The war machine strode out of the impact zone he had created, to stand closer to his alternate once more, enough for polite conversation, but not enough to indicate he would be standing down. "Sounds like a few are trying to find some sort of gain from causing that sort of destruction." A part was curious, almost enough so, to see if Shaska could have any input on this other worlds issue. But he sure as hell wasn't going to bring it up to her, not their circus. He had faith in Vi and the other side of reality. Or maybe faith was the wrong word... Maybe he was starting to feel that damnable Hope so many spoke about...

Wait-- that was a good question actually! Why would that other variant want involved? Vile felt his instincts suddenly flare, various possible outcomes flitting across his mind. "That is a big concern I share. I can think of two possibilities off the top of my head, and neither one are good." Even more so if a different Sigma, or some other figure head, is pulling that other Vile's strings. "For one, he could be there to try and get it to use as a weapon for himself. I can tell you for certain that most of the others of us have one hell of a grudge against X, Zero, and the Hunters as a whole. If he got hole of your version, maybe he would want to use it was a way to wipe MHHQ off the map. Strategy speaking? It would cripple any resistance."

He hummed then, shifting his weight sideways with the slight tilt of the helmet. "The grudge leads me to the second one. It could be thrill of the kill, just to try and take down you as a way to prove his superiority, or worse infect you to be like him. And then go after your worlds X and Zero. Not sure whatever ya want me callin' em'."

"Either way, he can not be suffered to remain a threat... It could be much worse than even I might be thinking." He motioned with one hand then, in a sort of offer. Something meant to let him choose to continue their fight, or keep it on a pause.

Miserable, that's how it sounds. Vi can only hazard a guess at the timeline, at how rapidly the virus advanced. How swiftly everything in his alternate's world decayed. His own experiences in a broken mirror. The spread had been slowed here, if only because of how deadly infection was. Killing the subjects so quickly was a mercy of a sort, although no one could really call it painless.

You enjoyed it? That glitch must have gone a long ways back. Although Vi couldn't deny the thrill of combat, the pride in his work, he suspected that this... reveling in the chaos, was not that.

Vile moves backwards, dodging as effectively as expected. Really, it would have been disappointing if the uppercut actually connected. What is a surprise however, is the thrusters mounted in the soles of his companions boots. It makes for a quick retreat and regrouping effort.

Shit, I can't do that. The raising of eyebrows under his visor. Getting airborne is a new trick, and one the Maverick Hunter would definitely be considering modifications for in the future. "I'm impressed." A quick scan of the other's armor is tucked away for later.

For the first time in a while, he's grateful to have teammates with flight capabilities, this at least, isn't out of the ordinary. A missile pops out of his gauntlet armor, rather than firing at Vile though... he breaks into a sprint towards his incoming opponent. The rocket's booster flares while still attached to his arm, helping him pick up speed. His dash turns into a slide just barely under the alternates path.

What he can't make up for in natural speed, he can make up with resourcefulness. He's had to use plenty of tricks when sparring with the other S-ranks. Nonlethal momentum is one thing he can handle. The weapon clicks as it disappears back into his arm, one of them is pulling punches after all. Vi gets back to his feet with a sigh, inspecting the impact zone he'd missed with a hidden grimace. Close call.

It's funny how casual this feels. It's easier to talk like this in a way. Functions split, less time to overthink the answers. More honest. Still, he isn't quick to retaliate, if only because his alternate asked a pointed question. He holds up a hand, to signal a proper pause in their skirmish.

"Xan-- X, and several other research teams have been studying it. Working on a vaccine." Slow, grim work. Comprised of mostly human scientists to avoid accidental infection. "...the primary research outpost was attacked a while back." A real dent in any progress.

"Since then, it's been deployed like a bio weapon by extremists. Completely clean areas become ground zero out of the blue." It'd only happened a few times, but even once is too many. "That's why it's still out there." Why it hadn't been fully contained. "We still don't know where it came from in the first place, or how they're getting their hands on more of it." A pause, and he's crossing his arms, thoughtful.

"...actually... now that you've got me thinking... what the hell would that other Vile gain from getting in the middle this? Our virus is lethal, and there's been no sign he's spreading anything else." So what then, is he just in it for the thrill of the kill?

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

today just will not let me rest huh. reasons are in the tags but i get very emotional just be warned