#i know this has been said to death over the years

[moonstarrrr]

I cannot believe people let Snape get the high ground.

How do people casually overlook the fact that Snape spent six entire years of his life telling a kid—who never even got the chance to know his father—that said father was an arrogant douchebag? Like, how do people think that behavior is normal?

Snape, a grown man, spent years trying to convince a grieving, orphaned child that his dead father—who literally died protecting his family—was a terrible person. No compassion for a man who gave his life for his wife and son. No sympathy for a kid who grew up abused, unloved, and completely alone, only learning about his parents through stories told by others.

Instead, Snape chose to rehash his teenage rivalry with James Potter by bullying his son. Imagine being so petty that you can’t move past your high school grudges, even when the other person has been dead for over a decade.

Even the coldest, most detached person would muster some respect for a man who died fighting for good. But Snape? No. He chose to sit on his high horse—ignoring the fact that he was once a Death Eater who only changed sides when his own personal interests were threatened—and still had the audacity to act morally superior to James.

James Potter died a hero. Snape, on the other hand, spent his life tormenting the child of the woman he claimed to love—while refusing to let go of a teenage rivalry and weaponizing it against a traumatized, grieving boy.

I cannot get over how utterly selfish and cruel that is. Snape had no empathy for the dead and no sympathy for the living. And people still try to defend him? Seriously?

[yoonjae20]

Bruce is (secretly) married [Bruce/Danny; Spirit Halloween]

I got sucked into the DPxDC crossover rabbit hole. I have read too many fanfics despite not knowing the source material.

I randomly got the idea of Bruce being secretly married and the Batfam finding out about it after Duke poses the question of why Bruce wears a ring. (Also how Danny's influence would have subtly changed things.)

Read this on ao3.

Next.

Bruce had always worn the ring, long before Dick came around – at least that’s what the boy had told Jason when he asked about it. 

They had looked through the records one night – bonding over finding out when he started, but he had already worn the ring once the man returned from his seven year long  journey of training. The media had speculated it to be a family heirloom – either his father’s or mother’s wedding ring. Bruce neither confirmed or denied when they asked about it.  

The man never took it off, not even when he stalked the night as Batman and neither of them had been brave enough to ask about it, after they watched clips where the media asked and his Brucie mask slipped into something uncomfortably blank. 

Jason had quickly forgotten about it after Bruce had benched him from being Robin after Felipe Garzonasa’s death. He had been furious, questioning if Bruce didn’t believe him that he didn’t push the man.

“Of course I believe you, chum,” the man had said, but Jason didn’t trust the man’s words. “But you just saw a man die. That’s not something we should brush over.”

He had sent Jason to bed for the night, but the boy had sneaked out, believing Bruce to go back to patrol after dropping him off. He instead found him in his office, talking to someone on the phone.

“...You have better experience with stuff like this than me…” the man said. “Do you think I should have never given Jason Robin? I know Dick agreed, but…” Bruce trailed off and then paused to hear the other person’s response. “I know.” He let out a deep sigh. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow about it. Are you still planning on visiting for the anniversary? I would appreciate if you tried talking to-”

Jason didn’t wait to listen for more. He knew it. Bruce was going to take Robin away from him. 

He remembered the picture he had found of his birth mother. He initially had wanted to tell Bruce to get his help to find her, but now he isn’t sure if it’s such a good idea. If the man was gonna take Robin away from him anyway, he didn’t want to be there for the moment. 

With that goal in mind, unbeknownst to Bruce, he disappeared that night, setting out to the Middle East to find his mother. 

Bruce finds his corpse several weeks later. Dick breaks down in space when he receives the call from Bruce. They attend the funeral together, neither of them talking about it, even years later.

Jason returns several years later, dead set on revenge on Joker and on Bruce for never avenging him. What he doesn’t expect is to stumble over a newspaper celebrating the anniversary of the Jason Scholarship Foundation along with pictures of his funeral, showcasing both Bruce and Dick crying. 

He never stumbles upon a memorial with his battered Robin suit and the description “Jason Todd, a Good Soldier” and beats Tim Drake, the third Robin half dead for replacing him. Instead he returns to the Manor, overwhelmed at Bruce’s breakdown and reaction. Red Hood debuts several months later – with the Bat symbol on his chest. They still have their conflicts, but Jason never has to fill a duffel bag full of heads for his debut. 

It’s only once Damian arrives, Cass becomes Bruce’s daughter and Duke his ward that the topic of the ring gets brought up again. It’s Duke who asks what they all have been thinking. 

“By the way, why does Bruce wear a ring?”

Finding no information online and not managing to get anything out of Alfred, they break into Bruce’s office while he’s on patrol getting distracted by Damian and Cass. It’s Tim who finds it, in a locked drawer, sealed carefully.

A marriage certificate. 

“Who the hell is Daniel Fenton?” Jason questions gruffly.

“My husband.”

Jason startles, turning to the doorway. Bruce is standing there, his arm crossed and he cringes at the displeased raise of Bruce’s right eyebrow. Behind him Cass shrugs at Tim’s questioning gaze while Damian clicks his tongue.

“Why haven’t we met him? And, wait, does Dick know about this?” Tim asks. 

Bruce lets out a deep sigh as he fiddles with the ring - the wedding ring. 

“Let’s go somewhere else for this.”

They all shuffle to one of their smaller living rooms. Duke sets up a voice call so Dick, who is back in Blüdhaven, doesn't have to miss out. Tim is on his own computer, no doubt researching everything he can find on Daniel Fenton. Or would he be Daniel Wayne? 

It’s Damian who breaks the silence.

“Father. Explain.”

The man presses his lips together as he stares down into his tea. Alfred squeezes his shoulder behind him. 

“The reason you haven’t met Danny is because he’s dead.” Bruce pauses while his kids pale. “Technically.”

Before either of them can question that, suddenly a young white haired boy appears, sitting on Bruce arm’s chair, eyebrow raised and wearing a black and white hazmat suit.

“Shouldn’t I be here for this?”

In an instant all of them sans Bruce and Alfred are on alert, Tim has a Batarang in hand, Jason one of his guns and Damian a knife poised to the unknown boy’s neck.

It’s Bruce who diffuses the situation.

“Danny?” Bruce sounds disbelieving and Damian twitches, knife still in hand. 

“In the flesh.” The boy does jazz hands, neck grazing the knife, but it doesn’t draw any blood. “Or ectoplasm. Whatever.”

“How wonderful of you to surprise us with your presence Master Danny,” Alfred says, tone slightly sarcastic and Damian finally steps back, eyebrows knitted together. 

Danny winces. 

“I would have warned you, but Clockwork just dropped me off, telling me that it’s finally time.”

“This is your husband?” Duke bursts out. 

The boy bows playfully.

“Danny Fenton-Wayne. King of the Infinite Realms. Half ghost and-” Suddenly he transforms, white rings traveling over his body and leaving behind a middle-aged black haired man. “-Half human.”

“GHOST?”

“HALF HUMAN?”

“KING OF THE INFINITE REALMS?”

“Thank fuck I thought Bruce was a pedophile for a moment.”

Everyone turns to stare at Duke.

“What? I just said what everyone thought,” the boy defends himself.

“Actually that would be ephebophilia,” Danny corrects. “Although he would still classify as a necrophile.” 

Bruce punches the man’s forearm, rolling his eyes with a fond look and Danny yelps, rubbing the spot.

“Hey! If anyone is allowed to joke about it, it’s me!” the man complains with a pout and Bruce shakes his head. 

“Another reason why you never met Danny is because – believe it or not – he’s the King of the Infinite Realms, which means he is quite busy.”

“So much paperwork,” Danny groans. “If I get Constantine’s ass, I swear to the Ancients that he’s gonna die. Half a decade lost because I had to bargain for his soul pieces!”

“After I returned to Gotham to become Batman, the Infinite Realms unfortunately fell into war following a coup attempt, leaving Danny to deal with the mess.”

“And Clockwork prohibited me from visiting the Gotham until a certain point, claiming that I would change the timeline too much with my influence,” Danny finishes for Bruce, all of Bruce’s kids watching with fascination how seamlessly they seem to fit together as the man leans his head against Bruce’s shoulder while Bruce runs a hand through the man’s black hair. “Considering I would have never let Bruce run around with child vigilantes, he’s probably right.”

“I forgot you know about that,” Bruce sighs.

“Jazz kept me updated,” Danny says smugly.

“That’s a break of patient confidentiality,” Bruce grumbles. 

“She may be your therapist, but she’s also my sister.”

“Mr. I-Rather-Chew-Nails-than-Talk-About-My-Feelings?“ Jason exclaims. “No way!”

“I have been vocal about the fact that I go to therapy.” Bruce frowns.

“I thought you were joking!”

“Where do you guys think I go every Sunday evening?” Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Justice League meeting?” 

“Golfing?”

Once again everyone stares at Duke and he flushes at the attention.

“I thought it’s a rich person thing!” 

Danny snorts.

“He got you there, darling.”

“When and how did you guys meet?” It’s the first time Dick actually speaks up, having observed everything – or as much as he could – through the web camera. 

“At a gala when both Bruce and I were teens,” Danny answers. “My godfather dragged me into it. At least one thing I can thank him for.”

Danny smiles while Bruce grunts in agreement. 

“The wedding?” Tim follows up.

Both Danny and Bruche pause to think.

“Did we do the civil registration in Paris or Las Vegas?” Danny turns to Bruce. “I can’t remember.”

“We were quite drunk,” Bruce agrees.

Danny snips his fingers like he remembers something, but then he shakes his head. He puts a hand to his chin, tiling his head. 

“Or was it Brazil?”

The rest blink at the pair before Danny shrugs with an apologetic smile.

“We had the real wedding in the Infinite Realms though,” Danny explains, “Once Bruce got finished with his training. The citizens wouldn’t have accepted it otherwise. Alfred would have taken pictures, but technology doesn’t work in the Infinite Realms.”

“Such a shame, it was quite a nice wedding,” Alfred affirms. 

“Alfred knew?!” is the consensus complaint. 

“Does Mother and Grandfather know about this?” Damian asks stiffly.

“Considering Ra’s used Bruce’s and your mother’s DNA to artificially create a baby despite knowing – he doesn’t care,” Danny says just a tad-bit too cheerfully. 

The revelation leaves everyone reeling. 

“Okay, now that all questions are answered-” Danny doesn’t give them time to inject. “Can we talk about the stinking elephant in the room?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow as Danny gestures to Jason. Jason almost would feel insulted if Danny didn’t sound so genuinely surprised that nobody else said or noticed something. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Jason complains as he discreetly tries to sniff his armpits. Considering Tim’s and Dick’s snickering, he doesn’t succeed. 

“Your Ectoplasm reeks like-” Danny grimaces as he flails his arms. “Like you took a bath in spoiled eggs.”

Danny turns to Bruce with an angry look in his eyes.

“Especially you should have noticed, considering you are liminal! His core is completely malnourished.” Bruce winces. “Did you forget that I gave you a way to contact Frostbite?”

“Without the ambient ectoplasm you radiate my ability to see ectoplasmic entities and speak and read Ghost Speak slowly degraded over the years,” Bruce explains. “I wasn’t aware Jason had been a type of ectoplasmic entity.” 

“His eyes literally glow green when he’s angry!” Danny chides. “He returned from the dead for revenge. He’s clearly a Revenant. That’s Ghost 101!”

It’s amusing to see Bruce get scolded by someone else other than Alfred. Alone for that fact Jason has to admit that he begrudgingly likes Danny. 

“Alright-” Danny stands up and tugs on Jason’s arm. Bruce moves to follow him like second nature. “You are coming with me right this instant.”

Before anyone can stop them, Danny transforms back into his Ghost Form, Jason’s hand in one and Bruce in the other and steps through a glowing green portal, it vanishing shortly after. Silence follows.

“So well that just happened.”

This time everyone agrees with Duke. 

[narnian-neverlander]

Meant to be Yours [Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: A sigh and then you watch his hand move to curl two fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his; you’re shocked to see how very vulnerable he looks at this moment. “Do you truly believe I would have reacted so intensely, so violently, at seeing you again if I didn’t care? If I hadn’t thought about you almost every day during the last decade? If you didn’t still matter to me today?”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 4,2k

Warnings: mentions of injuries, character ‘death’ and canon typical violence

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

It’s a miracle you haven’t gotten lost, even with directions. The sprawling, elaborate halls of Piltover Academy all look very much the same to you, and you thank Janna when you finally arrive at a door with a little plaque reading ‘Talis’ next to it. You knock, you wait. And you do it again. And again. Until you grow tired and crack open the door to peek inside. It’s a relatively small space; several desks cluttered with papers and blackboards utterly covered in equations and diagrams against the walls - and a man that most definitely isn’t Jayce sitting at one of the tables, head propped up with his fist against his cheek, other hand scribbling into a notebook and completely unaware of your presence.

“Uhm, pardon me?” you call out as you enter and he startles, head snapping up to look at you with wide eyes. And you’re actually taken aback for a moment, cause he’s probably the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen: lithe frame, messy chestnut hair, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, intense golden eyes and thick brows, currently furrowed in confusion. “You’re not Jayce.” It’s a statement, not a question; voice deep and smooth and accented. You blink once, twice, before you manage to stutter out, “N-neither are you.” You realize that this doesn’t exactly make you seem any more trustworthy or approachable, so you try to elaborate and hold up the notebook in your hands, the Talis family crest emblazoned on the cover. “He, uh, he left this at my place the last time he was there? I don’t understand any of what’s in it, but it seemed important, so I just wanted to return it.” A slender hand takes the offered book from you, quickly flipping through it as if to confirm that it indeed belongs to the man you claim. “And he still signs every page…”

It’s nothing more than a quiet, slightly exasperated mutter under his breath and if the room wasn’t as quiet as it is, you probably wouldn’t have heard him, but you do and can’t help but snort in amusement. “Yeah, he’s been doing that for years; I don’t think that’s a habit he’s about to break any time soon.” Amber eyes flick up from the pages he’s still thumbing through to focus on you instead and while the way he studies you might be slightly unnerving, there’s another part somewhere in the back of your mind telling you that you know him.

“You said he left this at your place the last time he was there; so that would make you his…?” The unfinished sentence hangs in the air between you, prompting you to complete it and there’s heat crawling up the back of your neck and into the apples of your cheeks as it dawns on you what you’ve accidentally insinuated so you vehemently shake your head. “Oh no, no, no, no, no! It’s not my place— Well, technically it is my place, but— It’s not a place for— I mean, it’s not like that, it’s—“

Dropping your head into your hands, you groan and take a breath to collect yourself before you face him again; bewilderment and slight amusement written all over his handsome features. “I own a restaurant not super far from the academy? Jayce has been a regular for years; he left that at his table last time he came in.” Something akin to recognition flashes in his eyes at that. “Ah, so you’re the chef he’s always rightfully raving about. He’s brought in some of your food a few times; it’s exceptional.” Some of the tension that’s been keeping you rooted to the spot and your entire body on edge starts to ebb away. “Oh, well, thank you; I’m glad you enjoyed it. And that Jayce actually managed to share.” It’s starting to make sense why he seems so familiar to you, now. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume you’re the new research partner he’s been yapping about for weeks?” The corner of his mouth twitches upwards at that, the mole above his upper lip going with it - cute. And you can’t help but feel like you’ve seen it before. “Has he now? Apologies, I’m sure I make for a terrible topic of conversation.” That actually gets a laugh out of you. “Not at all; he’s only had good things to say about you. Well, mostly. Besides, I’m glad he finally has someone who shares his dream.”

As if on cue, Jayce enters the room, carrying a box of what looks to be spare machine parts under one arm. He’s as surprised to see you here as his partner was and when questioned, the brunette still sat at the desk simply holds up the notebook and waves it in the taller man’s face. “Do try not to leave vital research lying about when you go out for lunch?” Jayce winces lightly. “Sorry. But maybe that wouldn’t happen if you just joined me for lunch every once in a while like I’ve asked, Viktor.”

All the times that you’ve had to listen to Jayce talk about this man and he’d never bothered to mention his name; so now it’s like a shock to your system. Like the final piece of a puzzle finally clicking into place and your brain kicks into overdrive, pulse picking up to an almost worrisome degree as you feel your palms get sweaty.

You take him in again and yes, his face was rounder, softer back then, his eyes bigger and more innocent, but there’s still the same mischievous spark in them as he good-naturedly bickers with Jayce, the same wit in every well calculated retort.

“I’m sorry, I’m sure this is gonna sound weird, but… are you from the Undercity?” The two men turn their attention to you; Viktor’s eyes narrowing, taking on a colder, harsher look and there’s a slight edge to his voice as he responds. “Yes. Is that a problem?” You quickly shake your head, wanting to dispel any notion of what he thinks you’re implying. “No, of course not! I’m from the Undercity; I grew up there and I… I had a best friend when I was younger? We always played together down by the river and he brought his inventions for us to test out and when they got stuck somewhere he couldn’t reach I’d get them for him and—“ You’re rambling, you know it, but it doesn’t have to be fully coherent for him to understand. For his eyes to grow wide in disbelief. For him to whisper your name under his breath, even though you’d never introduced yourself.

And oh, oh, you didn’t realize you’d missed hearing your own name in his voice. How much you’d truly missed your beloved childhood friend.

Jayce is looking between you both in wonder. “Wait, no way! Viktor is the childhood friend you told me about? The one you’ve been looking for?” Tearing your gaze away from Viktor, you turn to your friend, smiling ear to ear. “Yeah, I… I guess he is.”

Your beloved childhood friend, finally back in your life.

Jayce claps you on the back happily. “I’ll be damned. Life sure has a way of bringing people together, huh? We should celebrate! I know a good restaurant not far from here.” You giggle as he waggles his brows at you playfully, but it’s short-lived as your attention returns to your long lost friend, who doesn’t seem to be sharing in the current joy; face scrunched up in clear reluctance and displeasure and looking anywhere but you. His voice is bitter and harsh when he speaks.

“I do not think that necessary. There is nothing to celebrate.”

Your beloved childhood friend, who you used to spend every day with.

“What? Don’t you want to catch up? You two haven’t seen each other in… what? Ten years? Longer?”

Your beloved childhood friend, whom you’d made a promise to; to tell him all about Piltover after your parents took you there for the first time. To go there again together, once you were both older.

“Exactly. We were friends once, yes, but we are mere strangers now. I do not see the merit in interrupting my work to go have drinks with someone who no longer holds any value in my life.”

Your beloved childhood friend, who doesn’t know that you didn’t leave him willingly. Who must think you’d gotten a taste of Piltovian life and had simply forgotten about him; left him behind for a better future for yourself.

It’s far from the truth, but he can’t know that.

And if you’re being honest with yourself, even if it tears you apart from the inside out, “He’s right.” You interrupt Jayce as he opens his mouth, no doubt wanting to come to your aid again. “Whatever we had it… it was a long time ago. He doesn’t owe me anything and it’s clear that he doesn’t need me in his life anymore.” Patting Jayce’s arm, you turn towards the exit; if you stay here much longer you won’t be able to hide the strain in your voice and the quiver of your bottom lip anymore. “I’ll see you around; do try to keep your wits and your notes about you, ‘kay, pretty boy?” It’s obvious he is less than pleased with how the situation has turned out, lips pressed together in a thin line and brows furrowed in irritation. But he doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t try to stop you from leaving. You do end up pausing at the door, hand already on the handle, deciding to take another look at your old friend - possibly your last. He has his back turned to the both of you, attention back on his work, you seemingly already forgotten.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I got to see you again, Viktor. I always knew you’d end up somewhere you’d change the world. And I can’t wait to see it.”

The next few hours keep you busy, thankfully; keep your mind off the heartbreak and grief, but now, all alone in the restaurant, wiping down the counter in preparation to close, it comes back full force, hanging over you like a dark cloud. So when the bell above the door chimes, signaling the entrance of a customer, you don’t bother looking up; you’re not in the mood. “Sorry, we’re already closed.”

“I’m not here for the food.” Your palm almost slips on the wet surface which would’ve sent you face first into the counter. Instead, your head snaps up in disbelief and sure enough, Viktor is right in front of you, still clad in his academy uniform, cane in hand. “W-what are you doing here?” A heavy sigh as he comes to stand across the counter from you. “Jayce thought it… prudent that we have another conversation.” A tiny laugh from your side, not more than a breath out of your nose. “He didn’t shut up about it after I left, did he?” The answer is deadpan and exasperated and it’s almost endearing in it’s own way. “No, he did not. He walked me all the way here and I would not be surprised if he’s still outside.” You make a quick mental note to make Jayce’s next order on the house, before your mind starts racing, trying to come up with a way of starting this conversation. As it turns out you don’t have to, as he beats you to it.

“I should… apologize to you. For how I spoke to you earlier.” That’s definitely not the opener you expected and you blink at him owlishly in surprise. “While my assessment of our situation might’ve been correct, there was no reason to be as cruel and stern to you as I was. I’m sorry.” Mulling over his words, you decide it’s now or never. “Well, thank you. But just for the record, for all your smarts and brilliance, your assessment of our situation is not in fact, correct.” He raises his brows in intrigue, a mocking ‘Oh?’ leaving his lips as he rests his elbows on the counter in a silent challenge. “So you are actually going to try and convince me that you didn’t forget all about me the moment you stepped foot in this city?” Your answer is immediate and certain and judging by the look on his face, he’s actually taken aback for a moment. “Yes. That’s exactly what I plan on doing.”

He ends up having the audacity to scoff and roll his eyes. “Please, don’t strain yourself. You do not need to make up lies to… spare my feelings? Or whatever it is you believe this will accomplish.” You don’t blame him for it, if your roles were reversed, you imagine you’d react similarly. It still hurts, to have him be so dismissive of your side of the story when he’d once valued your opinion and feelings above all else. “I understand that this might be too late and really, you’re right, it doesn’t hold any weight or merit in our current lives anymore, but… it’s still important to me that you know that I didn’t leave you behind willingly.”

“Right.” He spits the word like venom, accompanied by what you can only describe as a snarl. “So what was it then? You wanted to build a proper life here first and then come back for me? Or did your parents fall ill and you devoted all your time to taking care of them?” You wince at the mention of them. “They took care of themselves quite well by selling me and fucking off to who-knows-where to build a better life for themselves without me.” Any trace of malice immediately vanishes from his face, replaced by confusion and downright shock. Sighing, you rest your forearms on the counter and keep your gaze on your fidgeting fingers. “Yeah, they sold me to some rich household with… peculiar preferences. A gilded cage is still a cage though; as long as you adhered to their rules and demands, they kept you fed with only the best food Piltover had to offer and put the finest clothes on your back. And I would’ve traded all of the fancy things they threw at me just for a single day back down by the river with you.” You can’t bring yourself to look at him; you’re scared to find cold indifference written all over his features. Or even worse, the pity you’re oh so sick of. You’re not looking for sympathy or condolences for everything that went wrong in your life; you’re simply trying to make good on a promise from long ago. You’d once prided yourself on always keeping your word and you’d be damned if you let them take that from you, too.

Slender, pale fingers enter your field of vision, blurred by tears you didn’t realize were there, and gently come to rest on your arm, his skin warm against yours. “I did not mean to force you to recall any painful memories, please forgive me.” Not pity, a simple apology for a what he thinks to be a mistake on his part. You sniffle and shake your head. “You couldn’t have known, it’s fine.” It’s quiet between you for a while, his thumb drawing patterns against your skin in thought before he carefully speaks up again. “Out of all the scenarios I came up with to explain your disappearance, I will admit this was never one of them.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t have made this up if I’d wanted to.” Then you pause as his words fully sink in. “Wait, don’t tell me you actually gave me some thought during all these years?” And he truly sounds offended when he replies with, “Of course I did.” You snort. “Didn’t exactly sound like that earlier today.” A sigh and then you watch his hand move to curl two fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his; you’re shocked to see how very vulnerable he looks at this moment. “Do you truly believe I would have reacted so intensely, so violently, at seeing you again if I didn’t care? If I hadn’t thought about you almost every day during the last decade? If you didn’t still matter to me today?” You manage not much else but to stare at him wide eyed and slack jawed, so he drops his hand from you and digs into his waistcoat instead, producing what looks to be a tiny, halfheartedly put together bundle of cogs and bolts from an inside pocket. Placing it onto the counter between you both, he elaborates. “Do you remember the little cat I built you? After those bullies destroyed your favorite toy? I’d wanted the tail to be able to move, but I just couldn’t get the mechanism right. You’d been so sad though, so I just gave it you unfinished. I’d planned on fixing it up, with the toolset you’d been so excited about bringing me back from Piltover, but…” He falters at that and it takes him a moment to find the right words to continue with. “I still built that mechanism eventually. Kept it with me, in case you… in case you ever came back. And when I realized that wasn’t going to happen, I kept it as a reminder. A reminder of my roots. Of the kind of people I want to help with my work. Of the first person who ever believed in me.”

You pick up said mechanism and gingerly turn it over with careful fingers. The feeling in your chest can really only be described as warm and fuzzy as you quietly rasp out, “I still have it.” He cocks his head to the side in curiosity. “You still have what?” You bring your eyes from the metal in your hands back up to his questioning amber gaze and smile, soft and reminiscent. “The cat. I still have it. I went back to my old house after I… after I got out of that horrible place. Just to, I don’t even know, have some sort of closure, maybe? It was ransacked, nothing but ruins, but that was still there, under all the dirt and rubble. So I kept it. It’s been sitting on a shelf in my living room together with that toolset for you ever since.”

It’s quiet and disbelieving, but he actually laughs at that and you decide then and there that you want to hear it more often. “You… you still got me that toolset?” Heat shoots up all the way to your ears with how he’s looking at you, all affectionate and amused, so you scoff and throw up your hands in surrender. “Well, yeah, I promised you after all, and I’ve never broken a promise before. I went back to the river every once in a while, hoping I’d maybe run into you again. I even considered leaving it there with a note at some point, but I couldn’t bear the thought of someone else taking it. It was always meant to be yours, after all.”

The expression on his face shifts while you talk, the small, teasing grin slowly fading into something more tender. It makes your heart flutter so you simply keep talking in hopes of distracting yourself from it. “I know it’s silly, but—“

“It’s not.” he interrupts decidedly, so you clamp your mouth shut to listen instead. “How about you bring both of those to the lab tomorrow and I’ll see what I can do about finally fixing that cat?” You’re certain he must be able to hear your heart with how loud it’s beating, blood roaring in your ears, butterflies going crazy in your stomach. He… he still wants you in his life? Is that what he’s implying? He must mistake your silence for distaste at his proposal, as he quickly adds, “If that’s agreeable with you?” Shaking your head to force yourself out of your stupor, you nod vigorously. “Y-yeah, of course, I’d love to! I’ll bring some food, too; Jayce tells me you’re horrible at remembering to eat while you work.” He brings a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Pardon me? That is… how do you say? The pot calling the kettle black? He is not much better at it.” Grinning joyfully, you come around the counter to stand in front of him and poke him in the chest. “He has been coming in for lunch less and less in the past few weeks. I wonder whose bad influence that could be, hm?”

And just like that, it’s like no time at all has passed for the two of you. Like you’ve never been apart.

He grins right back at you as he slaps your hand away and glares at you playfully. “Eh, if you make it to the lab regularly I think you’ll see for yourself soon enough.” You lean forward and raise your brows at him teasingly. “Oh so this is a regular thing already now? You realize I have a business to run here; I do not have time to take care of you two nitwits every day.” Putting a finger on his chin, he hums in thought. “Then it looks like I’ll have to take Jayce up on his offer after all and tag along when he comes here.” You shake your head at his antics and smile at him fondly. “I’m sure we’ll be able to figure out some sort of arrangement. Now get outta here, it’s late; you need rest and I still need to lock up.”

A hand at the small of his back, you steer him towards the entrance, but he stops and turns to you right at the door. He hesitates before he speaks and when he does the joyful, teasing tone from before is gone, replaced with something more serious, accompanied by an almost desperate glint in his eyes. “I will see you tomorrow then?” Your heart isn’t sure wether it wants to break or melt, as you remember these exact same words from the very last time you saw him when you were children. And before you know it, you have him enveloped in a hug, arms around his middle and head nestled into the crook of his neck. He’s surprised, to say the least, if the way he completely freezes up is anything to go by. “Definitely…” you whisper and tighten your arms just the tiniest bit. But even with all the long lost familiarity slowly returning, you haven’t seen him in over a decade and you most definitely remember Jayce telling you about how he’s particular about his personal space, so it dawns on you that this is in no way appropriate and while you may not want to, you losen your grip and begin to pull back - just in time for the arm that isn’t used to support himself on his cane to loop around your waist and for his cheek to come rest against the top of your head. “Good.” It’s a quiet murmur and if you weren’t as close to him as you are you probably would have missed it, but as things are now, it only makes you more reluctant to let go. So you stay like this for a few moments more, safe and content in each other’s embrace, before you finally release him. He looks at you, opening and closing his mouth a few times; whatever he wanted to say forever remaining a mystery to you as he simply settles for a small, slightly awkward smile instead and then bids you goodbye.

You lock the door behind him, closing your eyes and resting your forehead against the old, worn wood with a shaky exhale; shoulders slumping as your entire body relaxes, screaming out in relief as literal years of anxiety and worry finally let you go, leaving you almost a little lightheaded. The small, joyful smile won’t leave your lips and it escalates into a full blown, slightly delirious laugh, not that you have it in yourself to particularly care at the moment; your beloved childhood friend is finally back in your life, after all.

When you blink your eyes back open, you’re looking at the same dull, white ceiling you have been staring at for the past weeks. The same scratchy hospital bed linens at your back. The same sterile, bleak smell in the air. Flipping over on your side still causes you more trouble than you care for, muscles weak from disuse. Your gaze drifts out the high windows, watching the stars shine against an otherwise dark sky as your mind wanders.

Another memory. Another dream. Another desperate, hopeless attempt of your broken psyche to try and hold together the pieces of your shattered heart. A reminder about simpler, happier times. But those times are long gone, just like he is. Lost to one senseless act of violence that had utterly destroyed any hope for peace that might’ve remained for these two cities. Numb, stiff, useless fingers fumble for the chain around your neck and tug, bringing forth the circular piece of metal from it’s hiding spot under your shirt. The room’s too dark to make out the engraving on the ring and the nerve damage to your hands makes it impossible to feel for it; yet you know exactly what’s written there, you’ll always know. Just like you know that you will always hang on to this piece of jewelry, even though it really doesn’t mean anything anymore. Because it never got the chance to stand for what you’d intended it for. Because you never got the chance to give it to him, even though it had always been meant to be his.

[sophieinwonderland]

Here's a fun thread from the comments!

This is what we call the "I know you are, but what am I." It's a popular argument among 6-year-olds. The thing about this is that it's ultimately just vague feelings with no actual facts behind them.

You are going to notice these same themes a lot with @ilovexreaderfanfics' replies. A vague sense of "Democrats are the ones who ACTUALLY do this, not us" without any specific examples.

See what I mean!

Before going further, let me stop to cite my own sources.

Donald Trump seems to perform best with people who either never went to college, or went to college and dropped out before graduating.

The more educated someone is, the more likely they are to vote Democrat. This has been behind Republicans seeking to defund the department of education, and their targeting of student loan forgiveness programs. Because to Republicans, there is no threat greater than an educated population.

And finally, comes this. Once again, feelings over facts. A vague general sentiment that "Democrats aren't respectful" with no examples. No sources. No basis in reality.

But since you brought it up, @ilovexreaderfanfics...

Let's talk about respect!

President Jimmy Carter passed.

Tradition holds that flags be at half-staff for 30 days after the death of a President of the United States.

This is how Convicted Felon Donald Trump feels about respecting a great former president who passed.

And before anyone makes the mistake of believing anything Trump says, this is NOT the first time this has happened.

The flags were lowered during Nixon's second inauguration after Truman passed.

The flags were flown at half-staff during President Richard Nixon’s inauguration for his second term on Jan. 20, 1973, due to him having lowered them earlier for the death of former President Harry S. Truman on Dec. 26, 1972.

Trump is complaining about something that is normal to rile up an uneducated base that he knows will believe anything he says.

He's complaining about honoring a deceased former President because it will take attention away from himself.

So... Who do Republicans actually respect?

Our troops? Certainly not POWs.

On John McCain's military record, Trump once said "he's not a war hero. He's a war hero because he was captured. I like people that weren't captured."

Our kids? Trump used his platform to cyberbully a teenage girl because he was jealous of her being person of the year.

Pretending that Republicans are a party of respect is laughable.

The reality is that Republicans are the party of displaying dick pics of the children of their political enemies.

They're the party that introduced introduced a bathroom bill at congress specifically to spite the first openly transwoman elected to the House, and the American People who voted for her.

I could go on all day.

But I think this demonstrates pretty well that Republicans are the ones who will demand that they be respected, yet have no interest in respecting others.

In a way, their fictional "war on Christmas" embodies everything wrong with their beliefs.

Republicans demand the "respect" of having their holiday and their religion acknowledged by name everywhere by everyone.

When people choose to use inclusive greetings that acknowledge the many different holidays around the season, Republicans view respecting others as disrespecting them.

To the Republican, respect is a one way street. It's something meant to be given to them and literally no one else. Something they, and they alone, are entitled to.

How to trigger Republicans, sysmeds and other bigots in 1 easy steps

Step 1: Post facts with sources

That's literally it.

If you threaten them or call them names, they will feel vindicated in their persecution complexes. But if you prove them wrong with facts, they will block you instantly because being proven wrong bruises their ego and they can't cope with it.

If you're angry at bigots and want to hurt them, I promise that nothing will inflict more emotional damage than calmly explaining why they're wrong with sources to back it up.

[brynn-lear]

Put Another "X" On The Calendar [Yandere Angel of Death!Sunday/Reader]

Unreliable Synopsis: To be rejected by the angel of death himself… you must be heaven's favorite chew toy if he won’t let you die as intended. But this year will be the last time you'd play with his games. [5.6k words]

CW/Tags: gn reader, explicit and detailed suicidal themes, alcohol, very soft yandere angel!Sunday, dead dove: do not eat. Please prioritize your mental health first; you matter more than you think. This is first and foremost an expression/vent of real struggles, not a romanticization of the tags mentioned nor does it promote it as a solution.

���𝟑,𝟖𝟐𝟒 𝐒𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐌 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐔𝐑𝐄. Nostalgia has grown unfamiliar for the past days— you can’t even fathom having the same bitter acknowledgement you had years prior. Someone once said a person shall always remain a stranger to themselves, and you dearly wish you still recall who that was so you could ask if it is in the same degree you feel now. Too often does the mind ask the necessity to get up every morning, until mornings become noons— and finally, evenings. Minimizing your waking hours as much as possible to avoid confronting the state of your own mind and body.

Today is Saturday. Or was it Sunday? You can’t remember. You only remember dates when there’s a deadline. And here you are, with another late submission.

Barely dressed for the snow, you leaned against the cold door.

“You’re here again? Why do I keep finding you here?”

The man turned around.

𝗖𝗢𝗟𝗨𝗠𝗕𝗜𝗔 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗧𝗢𝗖𝗢𝗟 (𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗠)

I have read and understood this consent form, and I consent to the processing of my personal data. I agree to the inclusion of my anonymized data in research publications and understand I can withdraw my consent at any time. I acknowledge that confidentiality may be breached in cases of high self-harm or suicide risk to ensure my safety, which may involve sharing information with relevant professionals. I also understand that my consent does not affect other lawful grounds for data processing or waive my rights under the Data Privacy Act of ████ and applicable laws.

Client ID: ████████████

1) In the past month, have you wished you were dead or wished you could go to sleep and not wake up?

🟥 YES

⬛ NO

It’s him again. The man that keeps hanging around your university’s Architecture Building rooftop. 

He smiled softly. “I could say the same to you.”

Despite the coldness of December, you came here with nothing to shield from it but the blazer your mom bought years ago for her office presentation. This stranger was almost as terrible as you were, in an opposing sense. He was draped all over, but his style seemed almost more overprepared for fall when it’s winter.

You let out a soft noise. 

Sometimes, you look forward to seeing this stranger on the rooftop. 

Trudging towards him, you asked plainly. “Who are you even waiting for?”

“I usually tell people that it’s my sister.”

You decided to ignore his strange phrasing.

“Can’t you two meet elsewhere?” You spat, unable to hide the disdain. Your voice made you cringe. More than anyone, you know how vile and cynical you truly are, but to let it be known now is counterintuitive. “I’m sure there are better meeting spots. Dreamjolt Cafe’s just around the corner.”

The stranger looked down, his eyes almost fluttering shut with a tense gulp. “I suppose there are more convenient locations. But…”

“But?”

He stared at you. His bright golden eyes that many complimented in your view looked as dull as the snow. No doubt he’s beyond human. This handsome stranger has no right to exist. He only serves to remind you how much you lacked while also blocking the sweet release you’ve been chasing.

Sometimes, you wish he was as lonely as you.

“But to leave is to take away far more than just promise,” he whispered but no breath painted the air. “To leave is to let someone down. Somehow, I feel as though I do not need to explain this to you.”

“You don’t have to.” You said out of disinterest.

“Other than that, I enjoy coming here and staring at the sky. The sight here reminds me of my purpose.” He stared at you intensely. “There's always a paradise that needs to be built. That vow is like the sun in the sky— perhaps I'll melt and fall before reaching it... But some hardships I must endure."

He took off his scarf and reached it out to you.

You blinked, raising a hand in protest. “No need.”

“I need it the least. Take it. You’re cold.”

Most days, you wish you could make him as lonely as you. 

“I don’t feel anything and I don’t like owing anyone anything.” The words slip out of you easily.

You don’t want to extend your time here for a random stranger.

“I know.” He muttered. “But still, take it. If I’m not careful, it may just be the only physical thing I can leave behind.”

For a moment, the sun and earth were silenced. You took the scarf, circling the soft fabric with your fingers. It was azure with speckled star patterns, ranging from complex to the most simple X-s and dots. You didn’t say another word. It was understood from then on that you both might’ve come here for the same reason. The rooftop was the haven for when the physical conditions that existence brings are met with crushing defeat. If he asked you the same question you had moments prior, you’d have but one reply:

It’s the tallest building on campus; I came here for the view.

With dissipating reluctance, he approached you and wrapped the scarf around your neck. His gloved fingers were shaking, but you made no comment. As you stare up, you’re greeted with the sight of his flushed cheeks and pursed lips. Yet, you’ve no motivation to return the scarf. 

Maybe the frostbite makes him feel a little more alive too.

As if to affirm your suspicions, he took off his own gloves. The act made the skin he hid with the long sleeves of his jacket visible. It was not your intent to be nosy, yet you saw the bandages wrapped around him. Gauze pads in places you’d expect it to be. The sight must’ve distracted you long enough, since the moment you looked at your own hands— it wore the black gloves he donned.

You’re wearing his scarf and gloves— he has nothing. No fur, no anything. Just him and a black coat, white shirt, and pants. Yet his limbs did not tremble. The temperature had no effect on him.

Finally, he gave you his name. 

“You can call me… Sunday. And you?”

Sunday.

You blinked. “Like the day after Saturday?”

He chuckled humorlessly. “Exactly like the day after Saturday.”

With that, you decided you do not like him.

Call it competitiveness, call it frustration— name the emotion for whatever is convenient— but there’s no pleasant note to describe him. Objectively and instinctively, Sunday is predictably a good man. But the maggots that crawl inside you scream just how much he has no place in your life. They writhe behind your eyelids, burning with an unspoken illness that wanted him miserable.

“(Y/n). (Y/n) (L/n).” You answered. “Realbrook Dorms. Room 404.”

To die beautifully and meaningfully. You don’t have that privilege.

Sunday’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why did you tell me that?”

The dorm may just be the only physical thing you can leave behind.

“I don’t know.” You laughed, averting your gaze.

“Just in case you want your scarf back, I suppose.”

And you know what?

You’re sure he knows that you’re broken, too.

2) In the past month, have you actually had any thoughts about killing yourself?

🟥 YES

⬛ NO

3) Have you been thinking about how you might do this?

🟥 YES

⬛ NO

𝐀𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧— but the higher beings routing out pest control. Entering the classroom filled with those bright and beautiful, those who were born to be who their program says they are, has patted you with the crown of envy.

No amount of pomodoros, no higher statistic in your Focus Plant app, can make you even a fraction of their genius. Depressing, but true. 

How can you even compete with a room of intellectual gatekeepers?

You’d ask a question, hoping to learn, and all they hand out is a vague response. Not an explanation, but enough for them to say “oh, but I replied, haven’t I?”

These Penaconian Science High School graduates surely are the cream of the crop, and they won’t spare other people’s hopes and dreams to get what they want. 

It’s fine, you tell yourself. This is a highly competitive university. You expected this. It has a name. Your tuition is free. Everyone is a scholar. You just have to hold your breath and live through this. For the future you promised your loved ones.

Of course, assuming you can exhale after 3 more years. Assuming you still have a beating heart inside.

You bought another notebook today after you lost your previous one. The old one’s probably hidden under your “organized mess”. 

But at least you can force yourself to write good things again.

𝟷𝟸.𝟶𝟿.𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟺

𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝟼𝚔 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔.

Walking, not running or jogging, is the only healthy hobby you have. Writing consumes you while art reminds you of your worthlessness. It’s a short sentence, but that’s fine. That’s why you bought a pocket sized notebook in the first place. 

Having that as a first entry is 3 miles better than a detailed plan of which sea you’ll last disappear to.

4) Have you had these thoughts and had some intention of acting on them?

🟥 YES

⬛ NO

𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲. You opened your dorm room. Thankfully, as it was the only stroke of luck you had that day, none of your roommates were around. You let your bag slid from your shoulders down with a loud thud.

For a few minutes, you squandered it salting the hard boiled eggs you bought with your own tears.On the floor no one was industrious enough to sweep, you sat. You had no energy to climb up your bed. It was just you and awkward silence. 

It’s Christmas season.

You have no good memories of it. You barely left your room.

Maybe you should’ve known that every December would compete for which year was the worst. The best December had to be the year when you’d receive terrible exchange gift presents like cheap junk food while you and your mother chipped in to buy a great gun toy. Then the worst was your first christmas without that family member you were closest to. When you’re reminded how deeply grief can cut through while everyone’s in good cheer.

There’s a knock on your door. 

Quickly, you put your jacket back on and wiped your nose. You twisted the doorknob open, already feeling terrible for the housekeepers. They often report to your parents when they decide to visit. So you’ll just slip in your excuse in the middle of the conversation.

“Hi, sorry Miss Rena, I’m sick right now— cold, really. Did I accidentally leave my water bottle on the study hall again—”

“Good evening, (Y/n). May I trouble you for a moment?”

You flinched at the familiar but oddly placed sound.

“Sunday?” Your eyebrows furrowed. “How did you— oh, right, I did tell you what my dorm was.”

Here he was again. You had half the mind to think he would only spawn on the rooftop, but you were wrong.

“It��s rather reckless of you, and I hope you will refrain from doing that to other men.” 

There was a dark tilt in his tone and his gaze matched it perfectly. Years ago, that could’ve put shivers down your spine. But you no longer care for most things.

You can only mimic a nervous laugh. Mimicking what you would’ve sounded if you still cared for your own safety.

Sunday offered you a small smile.

“How many times do you walk per day this month?”

“Huh?”

What a strange question.

He looked at the window. “Let’s walk outside. You haven't done ten thousand steps in a day for quite a while now.”

“What a rude assumption.” You scoffed.

“Was I wrong?” He asked, but the innocent tone made you second guess the teasing nature of his words.

If you two were close, your roommate’s unsuspecting pillows would’ve hit him square on the face. Sunday opened your wardrobe and grabbed the scarf you gave him.

…Why does he know where you kept it?

He opened the door wider.

“Come on,” he replied. “Let’s take a walk.”

You don’t know why, but your guard is always down when you’re with him.

Maybe you no longer have any sense of self-preservation. Which makes sense, given your real goal. However, unlike most, you do not love being loved. Being cared for ultimately turns into a debt to be repaid in your eyes. Yet, you couldn’t stop Sunday when he wrapped the scarf snugly around your neck. 

The two of you walked around the area. Sometimes, he’d talk about the people, animals, and objects of nature that piqued both your interest. Despite being nearly strangers, he was oddly calming to be around. 

Sunday held your hand as you both walked, like it was a matter of time till it crumbled. His eyes had this persistent pleading you refused to acknowledge. Even in silence, it was asking you the worst request.

To stay alive.

“Why did I cross your mind?” You asked him. “Why did you suddenly visit my dorm?”

He stopped walking.

“... Instinct.”

“Instinct?”

“Just a feeling, that something might…” He muttered a word nearly inaudible. “If I was away. Humans are not perfect individuals. Quite the contrary, their hearts are filled with contradictions at every moment.”

Sunday’s gaze softened, hurt.

“Which is why, even if you tell me you are doing fine, I am inclined to believe that the opposite is the case.”

“...I see.”

You subtly tried to get out of his hold, but he didn’t let you go.

“Why do you care?” You continued walking, and he resumed too. He always matched your walking speed. That in itself felt nice. That someone would adjust for you, that is. 

“I believe it’s… human nature to care.” Sunday hummed. “Listening has always been my job.”

You laughed. “I guess so.”

Quietly, you took note of that.

“Here.” Sunday pointed at the benches.”Let’s take a rest.”

The university nearby— not yours— just installed more carved wooden benches. When he sat down, it felt like it was made for him. Quietly, you sat down beside him. He sits up straight, unlike you. You’re hunched back, fiddling with your hands as though there was an invisible toy that stole your attention.

Sunday sighed softly. "The evening light does tend to settle the heart, does it not? A quiet reminder that even the longest days must come to their end."

You looked at the sky.

"I guess. The day ends, but what comes after doesn’t feel much different.” You chuckled. “Same old suffering.”

“Perhaps there is something in the simple act of continuing. Something... precious in that.” He said. “We all walk our own paths. Though it may be lonely, as long as we keep moving forward, we won't forget each other.”

"Sure, if you're feeling masochistic enough in waiting for something that never comes." You huffed. "I've grown past that phase. Multiple times."

“Life has a way of leading humans in circles, only to place us where they are meant to be, even if they cannot yet see it."

“And spoiler alert, I’m not meant much for anything.” You looked up to meet his gaze. 

“But thank you, anyway. It’s nice to have a brief respite, even if it comes from the man I keep spotting on the rooftop.”

“And I’ll continue to materialize there if you refuse to have a truce with yourself.” He half-chided, half-teased. “I am the only one who truly understands you, who knows the depth of your heart, even when you can’t bear to look at it yourself. And until you no longer go to the roof to see the view from up there, I’ll continue to linger.”

There’s a blank expression on your face. An expression no human should be able to read.

But he can.

“(Y/n), if you need anything. I’ll be there. As I always have.” Sunday looked back at the winter sky. 

“And I’ll remind you of that everyday if I have to. Because that is what I choose to do. If I’m forced to take you, I—” Sunday closed his eyes. “I don’t know what I’d do.”

You’re not smart, but you understood what this was about.

You’re his.

You may not "know" him, but you’re his reason. His only reason.

And wishing for death threatens all his plans.

5) Have you started to work out or worked out the details of how to kill yourself? Did you intend to carry out this plan?

🟥 YES

⬛ NO

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 just as you were making weak attempts to tug the sleep you’ve been missing for 5 years. There’s supposed to be an Engineering BINGO event today. You skipped it and thanked the campus for once that there’s no classes. Your rough, useless hand frantically attempted to hang up as if it’s no different from snoozing an alarm. But it was Hailee. The only person who ever regularly talks to you.

You answered, voice groggy at 3 PM.

“Heyyy (Y/n), where are you?”

“Hail—” you muttered. “Just sleeping.”

“You’re not coming? Cocona just won an IPad!”

“Good for her, good for her.” You didn’t really register what she said. “Since there’s no class I figured I’d just sleep in, you know?”

“Ah, yeah, I get that. I lowkey wanna go home too, but Max is having fun.”

“Yeah.” You yawned. 

“Hey, kinda random, but I just passed by Madeleine earlier.”

“Yeah well she’s always everywhere all at once.”

“Sure, but she was at the registrar.” Hailee paused. “She’s getting a transcript of records, I think.”

“What for?”

“I think she wants to transfer.”

You sat up.

“Really? Well, shit. I want in, too.”

“Yeah, same.” Hailee’s tone turned serious. “I want out of this hellhole too.”

“Hey Hailee?”

“Yuh?”

“I’ll call you back.”

“Oh, okay, sur—”

You messaged Madeleine.

You paused.

Why are you telling her this.

You and her barely talked.

You and Madeleine messaged each other more for a while. Each notif was a half-hearted argument against going through both plans. Words of how neither of you should go through it leaning as a suggestion rather than a real conviction. You'd agree, but you both know it’s just words. 

She didn’t mention her reasons outside academics, and you didn’t mention yours.

The hesitation lingers, but you both danced around it, sending stickers of people hugging, pretending you'll back out, even though you know you both know you won’t. Neither of you is truly convinced, and yet, the conversation went on a seemingly positive note.

It’s fine.

At least now, you know, that you aren’t the only one who tried their hardest with nothing to return to.

But there’s a voice in your head telling you no. 

It doesn’t belong to you. It is not your voice.

Yet it begged and begged.

Please, don’t do it.

And for now, you’ll pretend you’ll listen to him too.

6) Have you engaged in, attempted, or planned any actions with the intention of ending your life? Examples: Taking pills, attempting to shoot yourself, self-harm (e.g., cutting), attempting hanging, taking pills but not swallowing, holding a gun but changing your mind or having it taken away, going to a high place but not jumping, gathering pills, acquiring a weapon, giving away belongings, writing a will or suicide note, etc.

🟥 YES

⬛ NO

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠. No one asked you to draw, but you figured since the man on the chair heavily recommended you get back to your old hobbies, you’d draw the people who consider you as a friend. So, you strayed from sketching topics that lead the mind wandering. 

You stared at the screen blankly.

Genuinely, you were caught off guard.

Careful. Don’t fool yourself that a small “thank you” means they would be there for you. You’ve been here before. Don’t be a pushover.

You closed your eyes.

No, thank you, Monica.

“Just a few more.” You muttered. “Just a few more portraits. Just one more holiday greeting. Just one more late video animatic birthday gift for Alex that I didn’t give weeks ago. And then—”

You can finally pardon yourself with the right to die.

Don’t.

Please don’t.

pleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon'tpleasedon't-

…

Your messenger app crashed.

…

You turned off your phone.

7) If yes, was this within the past 3 months?

🟥 YES

⬛ NO

You blinked.

A hand. A hand reaching out that isn’t “Sunday”?

Really?

You laughed.

You laughed so loudly, you’d be glad if you remembered the fact that no one was around. 

It just feels so inhumane.

It is inhumane. 

So inhumane, that you felt offended for the last shred of humanity you thought you no longer had.

You cackled, feeling a drop on the back of your wrist.

The one time someone actually noticed you did not feel well. 

And they worry about someone else. 

You are such a fucking joke.

Your body shook, laughing at this unintentional cruelty. Air-like bile rises up your throat— your eyes burning. A few more laughter escaped your turtle lipped mouth. You couldn’t tear your pained gaze away from the screen. You wiped your eyes.

The funniest bit?

Crying won’t change a damn thing.

It’s nearly 2025, and no good thought crossed your mind.

Just like your father said: everything is evil, it’s only a question of how much you’ll let the devil consume you.

Today is Tuesday. Or was it Wednesday? The man doesn't care to remember. He only remembers dates when there’s a deadline. And here he was, arriving at 11:59 pm. Just in time to stop another would-be tragedy. 

Barely dressed for the snow, “Sunday” leaned against the cold door, almost out of breath.

“You're here. Why must I keep finding you here…”

His purpose turned around.

It’s you. His ward that keeps hanging around the university’s Architecture Building rooftop… Now standing on top of your parents’ roof. 

You frowned deeply, tipping your weight slightly. “I could say the same to you.”

Before Sunday could utter a word, your phone buzzed. 

You grimaced as you saw the alarm. “Won't you look at thaaaat?! It's already 2 am. I'm so fucking stupid. I must've thought I set an alarm for 12 instead of 2.”

“Yes… Happy New Year, (Y/n). I hope your 2025 will be blessed.” Sunday spoke softly. His heart raced as he made slow movements to approach you. The man hoped he'd be close enough to pull you away from the edge.

“How much did you drink?”

You cackled.

“Weren't you already supposed to know the answer to that,” you slurred. “Septimus? THE Bronze Melodia?”

That was the exact moment… when your former guardian angel learned what it felt like for blood to run cold.

Once a guardian angel alongside his sister, Septimus was a protector of humanity, driven by a belief that he alone could heal the world’s ills. His perceived purpose blinded him of what was humanity’s true will, until the heavens cast him out for overstepping. Stripped of his former glory, he became the Angel of Death, his once-bright feathers now hidden in bandages. With each soul he reaped, the haunting melody of his fall lingers, a reminder of a savior who couldn't save himself.

And so, he only hoped that he could save you.

His one and lonely human.

Stirred awake were your memories when you first saw him on that rooftop. Even then, you knew who he was. It was the same fledgeling who kept you company in your silent home. The boy who listened to you talk for hours while everyone else “felt” a ghost. 

No matter how much he tried to look like the image of comfort, he would never be the character you used to love, in the same vein you can never return to the bright cheer you used to have.

“(Y/n), please…” Sunday begged. “Get off the roof.”

“My parents are asleep.” You hummed. “It’s 2 am. I’m on liquid courage. This is the only chance I won’t chicken out.”

“H-How did you know?” He asked. “Who I am?”

“I’m smart when it comes to things that don’t matter,” you cackled. “But ask me how to draw up a diagram for a unit process and I got absolutely nothing.”

You took a step back, which made Sunday take one harsh step forward. “DON’T.”

“Septimus, is it true?” You laughed again. “That you’re an angel of death?”

Slowly, he nodded.

“Yes.”

“Why haven’t you taken me yet? Does God have other plans?”

“T… Truth is, you should’ve died long ago.”

You’re not surprised.

“When I tried to open my guts with scissors, or when I tried to hang myself?” You huffed.

“Longer than that. I had to always snatch you away from your fate so you could have the chance to live on.” The angel spoke, voice weary. “I want to see you live another day. It’s what stripped me out of your guardianship in the first place.”

Once again, you’re not surprised.

“So it’s you…”

The anger in your voice was almost tangible. 

“So you’re the reason why I’m alive.” Your eyes twitched. “It’s you who kept stopping me.”

Sunday raised a hand. “I-I just, I want you to live long enough to see that a paradise can still be built—”

“My paradise is the ocean I want to drown myself in.” You spat. “Don’t talk about paradise when you know I can’t reach it.”

Sunday’s eyebrows furrowed. “That is not true—”

“Who else?”

“Who… else?” 

He’s taking ragged breaths. 

You knew it. Your hypothesis was right.

Keeping you alive is turning the angel of death human.

Many say angels do not have free will.

But this is what he chose to do.

Suddenly, his words on the roof made sense. Why he desperately wanted you to keep his scarf. Maybe there’s truth to it. Angels do not lie. Perhaps if he failed, he would’ve turned into ash and not human. 

Most days, you wished you could make him as lonely as you. 

Looks like in the end, you got what you wanted.

“Who else wants (Y/n) (L/n) to live to see another day?” You asked.

“Plen— some.” Septimus corrected his lie. “Some will want you to keep pushing forward.”

“Will, not would. Will is too late for anything.”

“Will because you don’t give them a chance to show they care.” He argued.

“They’d rather see me in a coffin than put in any real effort.”

“Why,” his voice croaked. “Why do you only assume the worst in people?”

“You know why. You know every ‘why’ there is.”

He inhaled sharply. They say to translate your thoughts and dreams into a creativity worth plagiarizing. Yet, when you’re one foot on the roof and one foot out the metaphorical door, you didn’t give a shit on becoming artistically verbose.

“No wonder I’ve never broken a bone.” You laughed. “And damn, I’d rather take a broken bone than whatever hell you’re putting me through.”

Sunday was close enough to touch you.

“Because despite everything, you are still you.” Sunday cooed, trapping you in his arms. “And as the being who loves you more than anyone—- who knows you when you are a stranger to your own self— I would know this.”

He pulled you closer by tugging your scarf. The same scarf he gave you.

And pushed you until you’re away from the edge.

“There is no sufficient reason enough for you to take your life.”

Sinfully, Sunday leaned your faces closer to once another. You smelled like wine. Sleep deprivation has made a lightweight out of you.

You shook, your voice taking a tone unfamiliar to you. Raw. Loud. There was frustration in it, which was the most harrowing emotion of all. 

“And so what? My problems aren’t bad enough— that I’m just a fucking loser who can’t get their shit together like EVERYONE ELSE? THAT MY OWN BODY GIVES UP ON ME?! TO THE POINT I FIND MYSELF PASSED OUT SLEEPING ON THE DIRTY FLOOR OF OUR UNIVERSITY’S FUCKING DRAWING ROOM?!”

“I—”

“I know what you’re thinking, it’s either one of two things. If you’re anyone else, you think I’ve matured too early, too fast, and if you’re just like my father, then I haven’t matured fast enough for you— isn’t that right?! I know what the FUCK that look is!”

You grabbed the collar of his shirt. 

“No one— NO ONE— fucking truly cares for me. No one PRAYS for me. You know the only people that I talk to nowadays?! Pixels. Fucking. PIXELS!!! So called people with faces I’ve never seen, just texts I have to imagine— just voices I have to convince myself are real. A human connection but not quite. And you know the amount of fucks they actually give?!”

It’s only then that you noticed your hands shaking, but that awareness only tightened your hold. 

“I can paint them a portrait as many as they want. I can greet them, make them laugh a bunch, but at the end of the day I’m hanging out where I don’t b-belong.” White knuckles. Short breaths. “I can listen, I can give people the time of day, but if you ask them what I’m going through, they don’t know jack shit. And there's my campus life, or lack thereof. Where do I even begin with that?!”

“I’ve sacrificed…” Your grip loosened. “I’ve sacrificed true friends, I’ve sacrificed time with family, sacrificed the remaining time I could’ve spent next to a dying loved one. I sacrificed my time, my literal blood, sweat, tears, and most importantly time— for a dream I was never meant to reach. Every morning I could’ve slept, every 6 hours I should’ve rested, there’s nothing. Nothing for a program I shouldn't have taken. And now they’re gone. One is even six feet under.”

You dropped your hold on him.

43,826 system hours.

“Let me through.”

Sunday breathed in shakily. “No.”

“Let me fucking through, Septimus.”

“Do you remember what I told you when we first had a proper conversion?” He retorted, breathless. “To leave is to let someone down, and I meant it literally. I shall not allow this. (Y/n), you just need someone to talk to.”

“And it’s not going to be you!” You laughed at his face. “Or anyone! There is NO ONE who can reach me, Septimus, there’s nothing that can fix THIS anymore.”

“Please, just hold on to me.” Sunday knew you were no longer hearing him. He knew there was nothing to be done. But he clung to your clothes— clawed your back— rested his face on your shoulder. “I have nothing to offer you but myself.”

“Let me destroy myself.” Palms clamming up. Heart racing. “Let me end this.”

“Please, just… █████ █.” He leaned in to a degree you can’t feel anything but inches of his skin. “Just give me till █████ █ to prove to you that each day is worth living. Don’t take your life away for me.”

Sunday cried. His tears were warm, normal. 

“I-I would much rather be human than an angel of death, so I could take care of you.” He wept, holding you closer— back in his embrace. “For I love you with all I have. No other had made me feel this way.”

…

…

…

You fell silent.

“Until █████ █?”

With closed eyes and thin lips, he nodded reluctantly. 

“Until █████ █.”

Your shoulders relaxed, and with a heavy chest, you felt like you regained the ability to cry again.

Thud… Thud… Thud...

Faint, but even faint is enough.

“(Y/n).” Sunday— Septimus called out with a voice that finally reached you. With trembling lips, he cupped your cheeks. His golden eyes blocked the shade of the dullest moon. In that moment, he was the only light you cling to, and it will remain so until the date he has given. “Let me be your north star, your steady hand. Let me take care of you if you cannot take care of yourself.”

Wonderful, if true. But the maggots gnaw deep in your skin. Whatever affection he has for you must be unreal and unfounded. A dove catching a worm underneath its pointed claws when it was to crawl to the nearest cliff. There’s a glimmer so conflicted in his eyes. A lucid thought running in a path that circles both his ego and conscience. A truth he doesn’t speak aloud.

He’s selfish.

Sunday doesn’t want you alive for the sake of living. The still surface of the water should’ve moved if so. There would’ve been another angel— another song singing praises of life to lift you up. But it was only him. Always him. 

He wants you to live for him.

He wants (Y/n) (L/n) to live for the angel of Death. 

Selfish.

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.

But Sunday— Septimus— whatever this foul beast was— he knew that he’s wrong. He knows that what he has done has crossed another heavenly line. He knew that you were past your date. He knew he takes too much pleasure in seeing you alive because he allowed it.

Yet the heavens would rather see you suffer than have you take your life again. 

(Y/n)...

He loves you. More than everyone in the world.

But even he doesn't PRAY for you.

You laughed again.

“█████ █.”

You leaned against his chest.

“You've set the date, and I'll patiently wait.” You replied. “By █████ █, you'll do the work, that was your promise. Septimus, I'm tired of taking my own life, so do your job.”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry…” Sunday mumbled. His shaky breath was more human than you could ever be. “I won't prolong your suffering anymore. I'm sorry. I’ll hold your breath, just as the heavens intended.”

“It's fine.” 

You've had your solace. The answer you've been looking for since you were young.

43,826 system hours.

And just 1,512 bit more.

“Cause every X on the calendar would make me feel a bit more okay.”

Hotline

[scoobydoodean]

Sam and Dean are having a covert fight the entirety of 7.13 "Slice Girls", from the very beginning to the end over the very different ways they're coping with Bobby's death.

Sam is pushing them to hunt more (which is typical—also see: 2.02, 3.11, 4.09), while Dean is exhibiting the same depression symptoms we've seen all season, expressing deep cynicism about the job (ex: 7.05, 7.09) fantasizing about escape, and seeking drinks and conversation with strangers in bars as a distraction.

We open 7.13 with Sam driving and Dean asleep in the passenger seat, and it's immediately apparent that Dean didn't want to go on this hunt, and Sam really really did. It's also apparent that Sam is bothered by how Dean is coping, and Dean is bothered by how Sam is coping... Probably because Sam's way of coping (hunting) is the exact opposite of what Dean would like to do.

SAM: Is that Bobby’s? [DEAN takes a drink from Bobby's flask.] SAM: I didn’t know you kept that. DEAN: Yeah, mine sprung a leak. SAM: You know, most people would just carry a – a photo or something for a memento. DEAN: Shut up, man. I’m – I’m – I’m honoring the guy, all right? This is, uh, grief therapy, kind of like you and your wild-goose chase. SAM: Wild-goose chase? DEAN: Yeah.

Sam's clearly worried about Dean's drinking, and has been for a while, but he's too antsy to address the subject outright, so he teases instead. Dean reads the underlying judgement and argues that what he's doing is no less destructive than Sam pushing them to drive through the night for a case that might not be anything. The thing is, this is absolutely a weird situation that's right up their alley as a potential case. Dean just didn't do the reading, because he didn't want to go on a hunt to begin with.

SAM: Four guys murdered in two weeks, hands and feet cut off. DEAN: Yeah, well, some guy with a foot fetish run amuck. SAM: Grown men thrown so hard they went through walls. Did you – did you even read the article? DEAN: No, I was napping.

Sam then reminds Dean that they agreed the previous episode that it was best to stay busy to cope with Bobby's death... or rather—Sam said he wanted to work to cope with Bobby's death, and Dean agreed that that was best for him too but didn't mean it, then practiced fake smiles in the driver's seat.

SAM: Well, anyway, what else you got going on? Dick Roman’s a dead end for now, you might as well – DEAN: Stay busy. SAM: Exactly. DEAN: Yeah.

At the forensics lab, Dean has an odd interaction with the forensics expert, bragging about their health care benefits package as "FBI agents". This annoys Sam, who's all business. Dean's small talk full of lies feels odd—but might reflect his desire to escape to a job that provides them with actual pay and health insurance (hell—as Bobby's emergency contact, he might be dodging calls over Bobby's insurance over his stay in the trauma center).

Dean begrudgingly admits there's a case here, and Sam wants to begin research, but Dean nopes right out of that.

SAM: Let’s get a bite to eat, go back to the motel, haul out the laptop. DEAN: That’s a great idea. Actually, that’s a brilliant idea. Here’s my counter. You do that, I’ll go undercover, go mingle amongst the locals and see, uh, what kind of clues bubble to the surface. SAM: You’re going to a bar.

Sam tries to call Dean out for bailing, but Dean doesn't actually give a damn that Sam wants him to work, so he basically just goes, "yep" and takes off.

At the bar, Dean again imagines himself as a normal person, talking with Lydia about having a decent year in terms of income. Sam and Dean have spent a lot of the season squatting in abandoned homes because their money situation is so bad (Dean complains about this in 7.09 and 7.12), and Dean burned 15 grand he managed to scrape together (probably from Bobby's estate) on payments to Frank. Lydia talks about not being ready to settle down. Dean at least pretends to agree (this is 8 episodes after his last attempt at a one night stand required a pep talk to convince himself, "One night stands are what you do").

Next, the brothers fight at least two separate times about Sam finding an expert (Preofessor Morisson) to do some of the lore search they used to rely on Bobby for, with Dean grumbling (essentially) about how no one can replace Bobby, and Sam being annoyed that Dean's grumbling when they have no other choice if they want to solve the case.

After that, things start to take a turn from what happened at the beginning of the episode with Dean denying the obvious. Sam starts making some really weird accusations and denials that just don't make sense.

First, Dean contacts Lydia because he realizes he left his flask at her house. Sam insists on the narrative that Dean's catching feelings, when it's blatantly obvious that Dean just wants to retrieve a flask with sentimental value because it belonged to Bobby. Then Sam's teasing Dean over Lydia not answering his calls, inferring that Dean is wounded by rejection, instead of very clearly just wants the flask. Right after another complaint from Dean about Morrison:

SAM: Dean, you know what? I want to call him, too, okay? Believe me. But Bobby's not here. So we're settling [for Professor Morrison]. DEAN: Yeah. We sure are. [DEAN looks at his phone.] DEAN: Damn it, why hasn't she called? SAM: Who? Lydia? Wait, so some girl's actually dumping you the morning after? DEAN: I think you're enjoying this a little more than you need to. Screw it. I'm going over there and getting the flask.

I think we can make an argument here that Sam's denying the significance Dean assigns to the flask because it represents 1) Dean's worsening relationship with alcohol 2) How that relationship to alcohol in season 7 is attached to Dean's grief over losing people he loves (Cas and Bobby).

Second, Sam weirdly pretends that Dean's description of Lydia's toddler talking like an adult and growing to the size of a 6 year old with hours is not weird and that Dean is just being crazy somehow... and it's even weirder that Sam pretends it's not weird and that Dean is being crazy, given Dean shares this information about Lydia with Sam after Sam finds out that the bar where Dean met Lydia is directly connected to the disappearances of several men who met one night stands there.

One the phone, Sam complains that Dean hasn't met up with him:

SAM: You never showed. DEAN: I'm outside Lydia's. SAM: Oh, come on, man. What, are you obsessed or something? DEAN: No, I'm telling you. I have been eating at the buffet of strange all afternoon. SAM: Meaning what? DEAN: I'll tell you the second I know. But something ain't right. SAM: Or you're obsessed. DEAN: Shut up. I'm serious.

Then later in person, Sam repeatedly denies that Dean could possibly know what he's talking about:

SAM: So what? I mean, so maybe she has another kid she didn't tell you about. DEAN: Nope, just the one. Emma. But that night, when I was with her, she didn't have any. And I was at her place, man. There was no playpens, no blankets, no rubber ducks. SAM: Right. Like you would have been focused on that kind of thing.

and,

DEAN: Then, all of a sudden, boom – baby. SAM: Yeah, the one you thought talked. DEAN: Oh, it talked. And not baby talk, either. SAM: Now you know so much about child development?

Dean eventually gets genuinely irritated:

DEAN: Lydia's handing this kid who's calling her mommy over to these two women, right? But this is not a baby. No, no, this kid's got to be five. And same name – Emma. SAM: You know, George Foreman named all his sons George. DEAN: Are you deliberately messing with me?

Sam just shrugs. I think Sam's denying the stakes here because he doesn't want to believe yet another person he cares about might be in danger. He'd prefer to believe Dean is just playing Dean Winchester, Playboy Who's Caught Feelings. It's only after they get a lore update from Professor Morrison matching Dean's story that Sam relents.

Third, Sam blows up at Dean when he suggests Bobby is haunting them through the flask... except... Sam also clearly thinks there's something to it? Dean sees a paper move and immediately reports it to Sam as a sign of ghost activity, and Sam doesn't hesitate to take out the EMF meter... but then he notices there's a nearby powerline and gets condescending about how it's obviously interfering with the readings. Dean suggests maybe the flask is haunted, and Sam gets mad.

SAM: We burned him, Dean. DEAN: So what?

They know that objects can be haunted. They know that.

SAM: So, what are you suggesting? DEAN: I don't know. What are you?

Dean knows Sam thinks he's crazy.

SAM: Concentrate on something else. DEAN: Why? SAM: Because it's [raising his voice and stepping close to DEAN] not Bobby! DEAN: Could be. SAM: No, it couldn't be. DEAN: Why not? SAM: [loudly, very close to DEAN] Because we want it to be.

The thing is, Sam immediately does something that contradicts his vehement rejection of Dean's theory that Bobby moved the papers!!!

SAM snatches the piece of parchment from the bed. DEAN: Maybe it's useful. SAM: It's in a pile of "maybe it's useful." Besides, it's in Greek. Nobody reads Greek. DEAN: Yeah, except Greeks. Oh, and Bobby. SAM: And Professor Morrison. DEAN: Really? SAM: I'm going, Dean. You stay here, keep the door locked. Don't go anywhere. I mean it.

Wow wow wow.

Anyway though. Is it any wonder Sam lectures Dean at the end of the episode for hesitating to kill his own daughter, insists that she wasn't really his, and then when Dean says that is objectively false, Sam calls him crazy?

SAM: You know what? Bobby was right. Your head's not in it, man. When Cas died, you were wobbly, but now...

Finally, Dean snaps back.

DEAN: Now what? Oh, what, you're dealing with it so perfect? Yeah, news flash, pal – you're just as screwed up as I am! You're just... bigger.

Sam doesn't get to pretend he's fine just because his coping strategies involve hunting to escape instead of drinking. Like Dean, he is avoiding certain realities to cope with his grief and fears. Hell—one could argue he does that much more than Dean during this episode.

Excerpts from 7.13 transcript on the good SPN wiki

[kissedbyaphrodite]

Damian Wayne al Ghul has magic, canonically, and I don't see it being used the way it could be

So, before I talk about this, yes, I do know that the continuity in DC comics is shaky to say the least and that they have characters change every other comic run, but this is something that has been used in three different comics (To my knowledge) made by different authors! Thus, I'm taking it as canon and I won't accept any word against it.

Okay? Okay! Now let's go. Spoiler alert:

So, to talk about Damian's magic use, we will need to go back some time, specifically, to his great grandmother, Rúh al Ghul. Making her first and only appearance in Robin volume 3. Ruh al Ghul is the mother of Ra's al Ghul, and the head of the League of Lazarus, which originated as a splinter organization of the League of Assassins, lead by Ra's, however, Rúh spread her faith and worship of a demon that inhibited the Lazarus Pit. Taking over the League of Lazarus. After this, the League of Assassins and the League of Shadows, teamed up to fight the League of Lazarus, which resulted in the defeat of the League of Lazarus. To ensure his mother couldn't escape, Ra's himself used magic to keep her locked in the island.

Of course, this could be just the fact that they lived multiple centuries (In Ra's first appearance, it's declared that he's around 700 years old, meaning he was born around the 1200's, though in Batman and Robin (vol 2) #30, he's said to have been looking for Themyschira for over 1000 years.) This means that, over the multiple centuries they've lived, they were bound to learn magic, but stay still. Because now, it comes to Damian's maternal grandmother and the fourth known partner of Ra's, Melisande al Ghul, the mother of Talia al Ghul.

To talk about Melisande, I will have to mix two canons from two different comics, since pre-crisis, Talia was said to have been older than 150 years old:

But this was later changed by Danny O’Neil changed this in 1992 with his Birth of the Demon storyline. In this one, Talia said she was conceived at Woodstock (1969), which would’ve put her birthday around May of 1970. Which made her 22 at that time. However, I follow the logic of "What is shown first, is canon", so let's say Talia is +150 years old, meaning she had to be conceived around 1821 (Since her first appearance was in 1971).

So, Melisande story differs in various universes and comics, in Batman: Son of the Demon, her and Ra's foster Ra's nephew, Qayin, who killed Melisande when she caught him in the room where the early version of the Lazarus Pit was being held. When Qayin saw Melisande he got frightened and started running, Melisande was pushed and she fell into the Lazarus Pit and met her death. All of that happened in front of Talia's eyes. But I'll take the Batman incorporated canon for this (And only this) argument. Where after Talia's birth, Melisande was cast out by Ra's and forbidden to see her daughter or from using the Lazarus put. She eventually meets a young Talia years later in her new role as a fortune teller. Of course we can say that she was maybe just doing the typical fortune seller scam to make money, but hey! Considering Ra's and Ruh did dip into the occult, why not consider that maybe Melisande also did learn some magic during the time she was with Ra's?.

Finally, we get to Damian.

Damian seems to be like Rúh, in which he learns/obtains magic by making deals with the devil/a demon, even though it's only been said twice. The first time we see Damian using magic is in Batman 666 (Even if it's written by my racist and sexist enemy G. M0rris0n). Where it's shown to us that Damian exchanged his soul in order to become immortal; of course, this may seem useless to some, because of the pit, but look, if we have to choose between being immortal and having to travel to an undisclosed location in the Middle East to dip into the pit and risk madness, I'd also choose immortality, and it also seems to make him invulnerable or have extremely rapid healing:

The next time we see Damian use magic is in WAY LESS dire situation, in Batman vol. 3 #77, when he's chasing Gotham girl

Again, we see that Damian explains he exchanged his soul (Or made a deal involving his soul) with a demon to obtain magic, however, it seems he's unable to use magic unless he's using a wand. And since wands are used as a way to channel magic from the user's core to the outside world, it's safe to say here, he's only obtained magic very recently, and needs the wand to use it. Or, it could be that he's simply joking, as he does tend to have a very dry and sarcastic humour, even early on, which makes many think he's being serious.

Finally, the most recent time we've seen Damian use magic, was in Wonder woman (2023) #13, where he makes a summoning circle to summon Zatanna (While also roasting Superboy)

Now, while we do only have three cases (Or at least that I remember) we also have another case that I think could be a sign of Damian's incline for the occult. His pets, specifically, his pet dragons. Goliath the dragon-bat (Robin: Son of Batman) and Wiggles (Nightwing #42)

The fact that he seems to be able to tame and even domesticate literal dragons cannot be just a "wink wink, nod nod" from the writers, especially since his name literally means "To tame". He also rides Wiggles almost as soon as he meets him, and I really doubt a dragon just lets people mount him easily.

Also, there are so many more occasions that I left out where Damian does something strange, such as the time he admits he's able to willingly move his organs around his body, or how he can imitate voices just after hearing them once, not to mention he managed to climb snowy mountains at four years old; plus, his strength that has allowed him to beat people three times his size and four times his body weight, as well as letting him kill hundreds of dragon-bats at age six.

And nowadays it is a pretty popular headcanon, even if I still think it's unpopular in the fandom. But it's still almost unused in the comics and in most works of fanfiction. Here we have a kid who has two dragons and twelve pets total, can imitate voices, move his organs around and has magic (Among other skills), yet his magic is almost never mentioned in fanfic that doesn't center around his magic, and his dragons are almost/often never shown at all! Come on people! You can like or dislike Damian, but you cannot deny that this kid clearly has magic.

Not to mention the potential for canon events, since Bruce does express a dislike towards magic, claiming it is unstable, and unexplainable by science and logic. Imagine all the potential it has! Especially since Bruce has been a pretty crappy dad to say the least towards Damian, since he first met him and even now (Except for that comic where Damian loses all his melanin and all trace of al Ghul from his blood and just looks like Ian Wayne). Imagine having him and Damian having the strained relationship they currently have, but trying to work towards a better one, only for Bruce to discover Damian's.agic and going back to square one? Or Damian becoming a vigilante of his own, since he has expressed desires to maybe stop or pause on being Robin. We already have Duke as a meta being (in my opinion) not used to his full potential, imagine a run where we see Duke and Damian bond due to Duke knowing the fear that lies when you are something Bruce himself disapproves of, since Bruce is also not the nicest to metas. Or Damian having his own team (The friends he made in Lazarus island + Maya and Colin) where he can finally explore his magic.

There are so many things you can do, yet nobody is even scraping the surface of it all.

[scandalaciousintentions]

Absolutely agree with the above, but I'd go a step further. (And I liked the movie, but my preference is the musical and it is what I will refer to now and forever.)

That said.

Potentially unpopular opinion and incendiary sentence approaching.

I don't actually think Act 1 Fiyero would have gone with her.

At this point, Glinda and Fiyero are still pretty aligned. In the musical, he's saved the Lion cub because he is the only person in that room her magic has not completely incapacitated and this is his girlfriend's friend in distress. Fiyero is a bit of an ass, but he's never cruel. (Further essay on "Perhaps the driver saw green and thought it meant "Go" to follow.) This person is dear to someone dear to him, she needs help, he can give it, so he will. So far, so surface level complexity, so Act 1 Fiyero.

I have always imagined that interval to cross years. And during that time, everybody has grown up. Everybody has seen things they wish they hadn't. Glinda's response to it has been to hide it under a winning smile and Fiyero has grown resentful; ultimately, a sympathiser to Elphaba's resistance.

Which, to me, makes him one of the most interesting and complex characters in the show. Something happens to Fiyero and I think it starts with Elphaba and the Lion cub, but that is not the whole story. I'm not sure we'll ever fully know it - let's see what happens in Part 2. I don't think I even need to know it. In the book, it would be the violent death of the Bear cub and I have no desire to see anything of the sort play out on screen.

And, let's not forget, he's the crown prince of the Winkus. (And both the movie and the musical tell us he's featured in the society pages of the media, which to be fair, might not make him Elphaba's companion of choice in the circumstances.) But I mention this because he does have responsibilities and he does have something to lose. In order to prioritise Elphaba and her cause over the role he has been raised for since birth, he has to see what the alternative is and that alternative has to completely appal him.

Look, tl;dr, Act 2 Fiyero is a completely different beast to his Act 1 counterpart. He's an analytical thinker, absolutely a politician, a double agent before I think he even realises it for himself, a captain sent out to capture the most dangerous fugitive in the country and for how long can a person be fed that narrative before they start to believe it? For the first time, he's forced into a narrative he doesn't control.

But he's not Elphaba. He's never been restricted like this before. Act 1 Fiyero has taken control of his narrative and while he learns it is limiting him when he rescues the Lion cub with her, there is no indication that he's going to act on it outside of a bunch of flowers at the train station, which does not a Defying Gravity duet make.

I think all the signs point to Elphaba flying off into the sunset alone either way. Because Fiyero is complex and he needs to be forced into that cage before he can even see it has bars.

Fiyerabas love to get on Twitter and tumblr and say stuff like “well fiyero would’ve went with Elphaba in a heartbeat” and act as if that’s a groundbreaking statement. We know what happens in act 2. We know he leaves everything behind for her. The reason why Glinda can’t do that is because she’s an actual nuanced character that has depth to her. She has something to lose. We see how she was brought up in the world. We know that she is a coward. Why WOULDN’T fiyero go with Elphaba? Nothing about his character is complex enough for that to be an option.

Fiyero’s whole character is built on a single characteristic (pretending not to care when he actually does) that is so underdeveloped it’s actually laughable. Why does he pretend not to care? There is not a single thing about him that actually tells us why he acts like that. It just comes out as him being an annoying jerk, even in the movie. His whole character arc is pretending not to care and then caring because of Elphaba. OF COURSE he’d go with her. That’s what his whole personality is based on.

Not to mention the fact that even with him being Elphaba’s ride or die, he’s still boring and his decision to be with her is incredibly unmoving. No one would expect anything else. And even with them ending up together, Elphaba still longs to be with Glinda. She still longs to tell her she’s alive. Fiyero is a boring annoying consolation prize that is a flat and undeveloped “what if” twist on Glinda if she wasn’t as much of a coward as she is. Idgaf

[yparkwrites]

MR. DETECTIVE S.JY FF

Pairing: Detective Jake x Female reader (Y/N)

Content warnings: explicit content (smut), blood, murder, killing and more to be added

Word count: 27.6k

Synopsis: Jake is a known detective, as they transfered the case to his unit of a serial killer, Y/n a police rookie will arrive to find the truth about her brother's death and unbeknownst to them, the serial killer has been with them from the start.

Publish date: January 6, 2025

Comment for tags.

NOTE: LONG WAIT IS OVER IT IS FINALLY HERE. CHAPTER 1 -9 ARE NOW OUT ON WATTPAD. TUMBLR UPDATE WILL BE ONCE A WEEK.

Son of the mob P.SH FF Completed

MR. DETECTIVE S.JY FF WATTPAD (1 -9)

© 2025 Y. PARK WRITES. All Rights Reserved.

tags: @strxwbloody @dreamiestay @fancypeacepersona @heeaxvhhoon @jakeswife @evjirvninvitnvrnvirivn @candypopinluv

CHAPTER 1

“Why did you do it?” The judge asked, as he stared into them, rage filling his eyes as he remembered everything that had happened. It wouldn’t have happened if they convicted the right person but instead, they let him get away with it. 

“Wanna know why?” He asked, rage filling him from the inside, as everyone looked at him, waiting for him to answer. “The fucking justice system is fucked up.” He uttered, as his voice shook, her face popped up in his mind. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1

“Good morning everyone!” The chief greeted, as he entered the office with a cup of coffee in his right hand. 

“Chief, the rookies have arrived.” One of the police officers announced, approaching him. 

“We only have 5 rookies?” The chief asked, as he looked at his assistant chief in disbelief. 

“Apparently the accident a few years ago affected our unit, the police academy decided to send us only five of them.” His assistant replied to him, making the chief sighed, putting down his coffee on his desk. 

“That’s not our problem, chief.” The police officer whispered, loud enough for the chief to hear as he sighed for the second time. 

“What is it?” The chief asked. 

“That rookie over there, she’s assigned to Sim Jaeyun.” He responded. 

“Sim, he doesn’t take any rookies.” The chief uttered. 

“That’s the problem, no one wants to take her, because she’s a female and she’s very young.” He explained as the chief rubbed his temple, not expecting a problem first thing in the morning. 

“Send her inside my office.” The chief said, turning around as he grabbed his coffee from the desk. 

2

“Goodmorning,” The female rookie greeted as she entered the chief’s office. 

“Goodmorning have a seat.” The chief instructed her. 

Taking a seat in front of him, she watched him carefully as he typed on his computer, waiting for him to ask her something. 

“I’m chief Lee, the chief of this police department,” Lee announced as she just looked at him, like he had said something wrong to her. He looked at her and asked, “what’s your name? And your age?”

“Y/n, Park Y/n, 21.” She replied, still looking at him. 

“You’re the youngest, and your name sounds very familiar.” Lee said as he continued typing on his computer. 

“Park Jongseong.” She uttered, as he stopped typing on his computer. “Now you’re interested, finally looking at me.” She added as she looked coldly into his eyes.

“How’d you know him?” Lee asked.

“Sim will take me, you don’t have to worry about him not taking me,” Y/n said, standing up from her seat. 

“How’d you know officer Park?” Lee asked again, as he held her arm, stopping her from leaving.

“That’s none of your concern Chief, your only concern here is if someone is taking me as a rookie to be trained.” Y/n retorted as she pulled her arm away from his grip, making him stare at her shock.

3

“I can’t believe you requested Mr. Detective to be your trainer.” Jungwon said, staring at her proudly. 

“But he doesn’t take rookies, if he says no, it’s gonna be your problem.” Officer Kim said. 

“He’s gonna take me.” Y/n uttered under her breaths, as they shook their heads. Just then yellings could be heard from outside their office unit. 

“I told you I don’t take rookies!” Jaeyun yelled as he slammed the door open of the department, startling everyone inside. He looked at everyone and said “whoever requested me to be their trainer, I won’t take you,” 

“Why won’t you take me?” Y/n asked as she stood up from her seat, everyone staring at her boldness. 

“Y/n,” he whispered, as he stared at her shock. He sighed and declared, “Fine, I’m taking her.”

4

“Told you he’s taking me.” Y/n said, as she continued eating her lunch. 

“He knows you.” Jungwon uttered, staring at her. 

“He’s been friends with my brother since childhood that’s why he knows me, he can’t resist me,” Y/n explained to Jungwon, who has been her friend since she went inside the academy. 

“That’s right,” Jaeyun said, taking a seat beside Y/n as Jungwon stared at him in shock. 

“Should I leave you two alone, so you both can have a conversation?” Jungwon asked Jaeyun, as he saw how he stared at her. 

“No, I’m just looking at her, making sure it’s really her.” Jaeyun replied, looking at Jungwon who avoided eye contact, making him chuckle at his cuteness. 

“Don’t look at him, he gets shy very easily.” Y/n said, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Hey, that’s mine.” Jaeyun said, as he tried taking his coffee from Y/n. 

“It’s mine now.” Y/n said, turning away from him, stopping him from taking the coffee away from her. “Oh, you’ll have to deal with the chief later.” Y/n added. 

“Why? What did you do?” He asked her, as she shrugged her shoulders as a response.

“She disrespected the chief.” Jungwon informed him, as he looked at Y/n in disbelief. 

5

“So you decided to take her.” The chief said, as they entered his office. 

“Yeah.” He replied as he took a seat in front of him.

“She knows about officer Park.” Lee informed him, that didn’t even shock him. 

“Yeah so?” He responded.

“She’s a threat to our department if she knows about Jongseong.” Lee retorted to him. 

“Heeseung, she knows about him because that’s her brother,” Jaeyun informed him as he looked at him in shock. 

“What?” He asked, not believing what he’s hearing. 

“I’m taking her because I promised to take care of her before Jay accepted the job he was offered,” Jaeyun said. 

“So you’re taking her as a rookie to take care of her?” Heeseung asked him, not understanding anything.

“Jay and I had been friends since we were children and I’ve known Y/n since she was a little kid, she would do anything to find me, she’s an angel, Jay’s job was unsuccessful, she was mad, and she knows you were the one who offered him that job, so understand that she’s gonna be like that to you.” Jaeyun explained. “I need permission, permission to take her with me, I don’t want her to stay in any dorms here.” He added.

“Do whatever you want.” Heeseung replied.

6

“So you’re really taking me?” Y/n asked as she watched him pack her clothes in her luggage. “There’s only one room in your apartment.” Y/n uttered, laying down on her bed that made a squeaky sound. 

Jaeyun didn’t reply to her. Grabbing all her belongings, he helped him carry all her heavy stuff all the way to his car. 

“You have a nice car.” Y/n uttered quietly, as she watched him drive carefully. “I can call you Jake right?” Y/n asked. 

“Call me anything you want, little one.” Jake replied as he continued to focus his visions on the road. 

“I’m not a little one anymore.” Y/n said. 

“You do look like one.” Jake said, chuckling as he saw her pouting her lips like a little kid that didn’t get the toy they wanted from their parents. 

“Shut up.” Y/n replied as Jake just chuckled at her.

Arriving at his place, he showed her around his apartment. It has one big bedroom with a big mattress. Two bathrooms, one inside the bedroom and another one on the hallway near the kitchen. It has a dining area and kitchen and also a living room.

The whole apartment is painted with light gray paint except his bedroom that is painted with black paint. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Y/n asked.

“You can take the bed. I’ll take the living room.” Jake replied as he helped her unpacked her belongings.

“Or we can share the bed.” Y/n suggested, as she looked at Jake smiling widely.

“Whatever you want, little one.” Jake replied.

“Stop calling me that.” Y/n said.

“That’s your nickname, nickname I made for you.” Jake said.

7

They both lay down on the mattress, as they decided to sleep beside each other, like before. Staring at the ceiling, Y/n sighed. 

“I heard we’re taking the serial killer case.” Y/n said.

“Yeah, I’ll be in charge of it, and since you’re my rookie, you’ll have to work with me.” Jake responded.

“Jake.” Y/n called him, turning on his side as she stared at his perfect visuals.

“Hmmm” Jake hummed.

“Did you know that Jay used to call me princess?” Y/n asked.

“Everyone knows he calls his little sister his princess, Jay loves you very much and everyone knows that too, Heeseung knows that too.” Jake said, turning around to face Y/n.

“He left. Didn’t come back.” Y/n uttered quietly as she stared at him, waiting for an answer.

“You miss him?” He asked her.

“I miss my brother everyday,” Y/n replied, sighing. 

“I miss him too, he’s my best friend after all,” Jake said. “Don’t hate Heeseung, he didn’t mean to offer him the job.” Jake added.

“I hate no one, but I’m mad that he didn’t do anything nor anyone in that department to help him.” Y/n said, turning around, her back facing him.

[siwolism]

i was just going to ignore this because like a good three quarters of it is yap from someone who clearly doesn’t know me but yk what im sick and i have nothing better to do with my time

You spearheaded a conversation posting misinformation about Black American soldiers and tried to make a ham fisted correlation on how 'every American regardless of race is deeply evil' and are agents of imperialism.

black american soldiers are agents of imperialism. i don’t know what you a referring to when you say “misinformation” if you are referring to the fact that i said african american soldiers committed war crimes then that’s not misinformation that’s just a truth. yes every american regardless of race is evil.

Youre taking the comments of some random ni—s on tiktok about fried chicken as fact (it's not) and using that as 'proof' on how Black Americans (also how tf is this harassment) are on par with whites when it comes to privilege granted by imperialism.

point to me as to where i said that african americans are granted all of and the exact same privileges as white americans. if you can’t see the fact that having people who’s military still has 73 bases in your country and who has 25,000+ of their own soldiers stationed in your country talk about the fact that african american soldiers brought some of their culture over to korea while actively involved in genociding us as a positive little history funfact might make some koreans uncomfortable you must be severely lacking in empathy for anyone beyond yourself.

And it is especially hypocritical coming from , you, a South Korean. You are still part of the first world as well! South Korea is not a third world country!

yes, i know this, which is why throughout my post i never just say the global south i say “the global south and over america’s many neo colonies” & “global southerners and people from the “east”” learn to read pls & thank you. also fuck off. im only a south korean citizen because as a child the sanctions your country put on mine (earth to chilewithcarnage… i was born in hamhung) were so severe that having the type of cancer that runs in my paternal family was a death sentence. it was a death sentence for my uncle and for my grandad and for my own father. i am a south korean citizen because my scared widowed mother snuck us across a border illegally in the middle of the night. i am a south korean citizen because i am genetically predisposed to the cancer that kills 90% of its carriers in under 5 years and south korea has one of the world’s highest cancer survival rates. i am a south korean citizen because when i was a child south korean authorities took out a lighter and burnt my passport in front of me. i am only a south korean citizen because your country made it had to be so. also im moving to china in august my stint in the first world has been very short. unlimited genocide upon the first world

so you should be fine with me regarding you as an agent of imperialism as well?

go ahead. im taxed 6%. that goes to the south korean military and the wider military industrial complex.

You're talking about the global South in reference to Korea, do you think I'm stupid or something?

im not. which is pretty clear if you can read. if im ever referring to “korea” as being in the global south it will be because im talking about the dprk. but when im talking about the dprk ill usually just say the dprk. or north korea. and yes i do

Will you also acknowledge that Korea is taking part in the modern colonisation of Africa and that there are many Korean tech companies that are benefiting from the genocide in Congo?

yep. south korea is a genocidal neo colony of the united states and follows in the footsteps of its overlord. i think ive made my position on south korea pretty clear

Do you wanna talk about the fact when Korean women did have babies with those Black GIs they would dump them in orphanages or abandon them outside to die?

me when i blame the colonised instead of the coloniser. also do you think that the women giving up these children are in loving relationships with these african usamerican soldiers. or do you think these women are prostitutes who are too poor for children (hint: that’s why they are prostituting themselves) or flings who can’t afford to have the children of an absentee father because nobody in south korea can afford to have children. that’s why we had one of the lowest birthrates in the world for like. ages. and if you are talking about directly after the post war period then like. 1 in 10 koreans died. i also would not want my coloniser’s child. also do you know about comfort women and what was essentially sex slavery during the war? i don’t think many of the children were the result of consensual sex.

Do you wanna talk about the large amount of Korean men that are engaging in the sex trafficking of east/west African, South Asian and Pacific Islander girls and women? Do you wanna talk about that?

yes. made a whole post about it. spot-the-antisemitism called me racist north korean bot and misandrist against south korean men for it. i also made more but unfortunately they are lost to the void, this blog is only a couple weeks old. but i will continue to make more because south korean men are a plague on the earth. as i said in that post, “unconditional support to any seasian or pacific islander woman who saw a south korean man and immediately killed him.”

Do you wanna acknowledge the antiblackness and colorism that has existed in your country long before the Korean war?

yes. this doesn’t excuse committing genocide against us. also im part korean part chinese my skin is brown do you think i’ve never encountered colourism? obviously elements of anti blackness existed before the korean war east asians can be an incredibly racist population. also just after making my original post i made a post partially explaining race dynamics in south korea where i literally said one of the groups targeted by us military personnel is often african south koreans because they are some of the most discarded and least cared about people in this country and therefore us soldiers can get away with basically doing anything to them with no recourse. a lot of you seem to be implying that i think that anti-blackness after the korean war would be justified, which just no??

Do you wanna talk about the fact the Republic of Korea army also fought in the Iraq war & the war in Afghanistan?

yep. ive done that in the past and ill probably talk about it again. ive also said on this blog verbatim: “the south korean military is a us proxy force and every past and former member should be killed” btw i would think this even if they weren’t a proxy force solely because of their involvement in many a imperialist war and their many many many war crimes. i pray every south korean soldier gets severe ptsd and kills themselves.

Do you wanna talk about how the billion dollar Kpop industry culturally appropriates and steals Black music and aesthetics and almost never credits and properly compensates the Black American producers that make a lot of y'alls tracks?

yeah i mean ive never personally talked about it because it’s not something im super educated on and i think it’s been talked to death by people more informed on african usamerican culture then i am but like i can. i agree

Do you wanna talk about the way African immigrants & half black people are treated in your country?

yes, done that, will continue to do that

as for your last point, i do agree it was out of line. do know i refer to like. all usamericans like this and it wasn’t intentionally malicious. it was late, i was typing quickly. i didn’t think it through. not my best moment.

a small collection of posts ive made so you know that i didn’t just change view on the rok for this post

and this post from my old blog that you’ll just have to trust me bro about it being me

goodnight. 미제와 대한민국족속들을 무자비하게 짓뭉개버리자

[pricegouge]

I saw you were asking for horror prompts 😈 so here’s my scary perverted one:

Vampire!Nik who’s turned when his milaya is still a baby. Comes back 20+ years later to haunt and turn her so they can spend eternity together despite the fact that she doesn’t even remember him❤️🥀

-🗡️

okay, yeah. i had fun with this one, thank you!

cw: incest. age gap, but only kinda cause vampires. horror elements. vague vampire lore, including thralls. dubcon kissing/heavy petting. blood. unedited as usual, sorry. abrupt ending cause i ran out of steam. ~5k

he can't be bothered to watch over you for many years. life (death, rather) is just all so very exciting. he spread his wings. proverbial, maybe, though he's heard tell of something more ancient. more literal.

he doesn't forget you. how could he? you haunt his waking hours for what seems an eon, days and nights blurring until he has to rest for long years, wakes to a different time entirely and worries about how much he's missed.

much, as it turns out.

you're a proper woman when next he sees you, headstrong and borderline unrecognizable. he follows you for days, weeks. learns all your patterns, the quiet parts of yourself you seem to keep hidden behind locked doors he can only pass because he installed them, the bones of the house shaped by his own hands - an estate that's fallen to ruin, once-lavish halls picked apart by collectors, barren and drab with the dwindled staff. he tells himself it's a morbid type of curiosity but he knows better the second he lingers too long, sees you for the woman you've become when you undress before him, gazing upon yourself in a mirror that won't betray his presence, even if he wants it to. wants to see confusion cloud your face as recognition wars with your fear. you must have seen photos of him, your governess keeping you educated on the man who'd given you a name and a fortune and left in the night. he doesn't look quite look like himself anymore, but he more closely resembles you than he does his re-creator. and surely that in itself should sway you?

for you must be as lonely as him.

night fall is the worst for you, those lingering hours after the staff have retired where sleep eludes you, entices you to pick up hobbies which have not given you joy for many years. you'd been moved to the master suite some time back, the overlarge bed as tempting as a siren. you'd grown slovenly, your governess always said so. lax in your studies and far too melancholy to find a suitor.

but what could it matter, really? the estate had been searching tirelessly for a match since your first season, the only bachelors who'd made offers old and penniless. you still had a pretty enough dowry, but no one wanted to be saddled with the get of some wayward lord. not when there'd been no proper abdication. not when the specter of your father loomed over every inch of the estate, his fist still clutching at every gem. sometimes you imagined the sheets even still smelled like him, a faint trace that would linger some mornings and burn up with the sun when you finally let the maid in to draw the curtains.

but it was just a silly fantasy, some trace of comfort born from loneliness. in truth, the only possible clue you could have of your father's scent rests in the humidor tucked in the corner by the secretary - fine cigars turned stale, full-bodied notes now arid. hollow as the house itself.

you're sat with one, dry, peeling paper tickling your philtrum as you try to discern what flavors still linger. licorice, certainly; heavy and cloying. something earthier under it, a fine balance. leather, maybe. it's a distraction, a mindless way to pass the hours before you could feasibly fall into bed without your prying governess saying anything, shut your thoughts off for a time. you'd already written in your diary, another dull entry. brief with the monotony of your life. honestly, cataloging the notes you can pick out of these ancient, abandoned cigars would make for a more interesting read. this one still smells the strongest, though the paper has turned brittle with handling. sometimes you watch the gentlemen of the ton, carefully memorizing the precise way they snip the ends off, roll the cigar over the open flame of their lighters. you often imagine doing the same, like to picture yourself smoking the aged rolls expertly.

really, you know you'll end up in a coughing spell loud enough to wake the whole house, but the truth is you've never tried. it's a curiosity that's grown on you, the slow creep of moss over rotting trunks. you swap the cigar for something less flavorful, something that won't be missed, and rifle through the secretary until you find the little cigar kit you'd kept safely tucked away. maybe, like the rest of society, part of you expects it's owner to return someday, reclaim what's his.

the cigar falls apart a little, once clipped. flaky shreds of tobacco and other strong herb shake out at first, but you moisten the edges of it delicately, lick your fingers as daintily as possible and fuss about the paper until becomes slightly more malleable. lighting it is less of a chore than expected, the oils long dried. shake catching like tinder. you yelp and wave it out, stamp the little ashes that rain onto the carpet with a slippered toe. feel silly after. sillier still when you take your first drag and think for a moment you've managed to imbalance all your humors - immediate expectorant clogging your nose, inflaming the column of your neck. rough wool, still matted and nettled from the field fills your lungs and you cough, ragged and silent.

small blessing, no prying governess to heed your call.

light-headed, you wobble to the window, breathe deep of the frigid breeze you let in. winter steals in around you, rattles the pane on it's way past and sends the curtains fluttering. it makes your chest ache in a new way, but is a balm to your overheated skin, soothes your throat as you gasp for each breath. clutched in your fingers, the cigar glows brightly in the strong wind, crackling away happily. as your sinuses clear, you note the lingering heaviness of licorice, a black tar that seems to seep down your throat, gags you. you give it up for a bad job and smother it on the pane before tossing it onto the roof below. with any luck, a curious crow will snatch it away before spring melt off can dump it into the pasture, catch the attention of the gardeners. you've no clue how well-acquainted your governess is with the brands your father used to smoke and you've no plan to find out, resolving to leave the window open all night if you have to in order to clear the stench of your foolish endeavor.

the candles have guttered but it's no matter, the moon bright enough that you can disrobe and navigate to bed even without them. it's not a difficult endeavor anyway, the bed such a ridiculously oversized piece it dominated most of the room and called into question the size of the man who'd commissioned it. you drown in it most nights, restless, twisting yourself up in sheets that stretched on forever, wound around you until you'd wake gasping, clawing at your own belly as if to loosen the stays of a corset that wasn't there. the physician who'd come to see to you was unsympathetic to your claims that the bed was simply too large - had suggested sleeping in your corset instead, claiming it would soothe your nerves and prevent you trying to bind yourself in your sleep.

it did not work, but your maid, alice, was loyal to the governess. tied your stays in the back, much too tight for you to undo once she'd left you alone. even now the boning digs at you, chest still heaving from your foolish endeavor. you settle on your back, try to keep your shoulders set back to encourage deep breathing and watch the shadows play about the room, curtains billowing with each icy gust. there's still too much smoke in the room, lingering up near your ceiling where it swirls about, never quite low enough to escape when the curtains ebb in a back draft. you hope you won't be stuck with the window open all night. already, fine dustings of snow slip past, tip toe up your bed to catch your covers and set your legs shivering.

the blankets twist about you again when you turn to your side, but for once you don't mind, your own body weight keeping them tucked firmly in place so the wind can't steal your heat away again. your breath evens as you finally begin to relax, body forming to the mattress just as much as it forms to you. sleep finds you slowly, lulls you into it with deep sighs, your breath matching that of the house itself. you time idly, watching the curtains in the cloudy mirror of your vanity - the only concession to your residence in the whole room. a gift from some minor lady who'd once hoped to sway your favor toward her son - only to have him elope a month later with a merchant's daughter -, the piece stands out singularly in the dark, masculine room. gilded framework and ivory inlay, it catches the moonlight beautifully, pearlescent in the chill. you let yourself be entranced by the vision it makes, orpheus overtaking you, settling over you like a calming, physical weight which shifts, presses a knee between your own -

it feels like the chill has taken your blood when your eyes tear open, body frozen in place as you watch your reflection stir, pushed slightly further onto your belly while the blankets move seemingly of their own accord. you tell yourself it's the wind tugging at them again, but the way the flatten against the mattress makes no sense - and it's the not the wind that whispers your name in your ear.

still trapped in the bedding, you thrash uselessly before you're able to escape its clutches, only realizing you're screaming when the breath is knocked out of you as you thud to the floor. help comes to lift you to your feet before you are able to do it yourself, alice's hands surprisingly firm when they dig under your arms and lift. you can't even manage to thank her, breaths stuttering out high and thin as you stare at your bed in wide-eyed shock: two distinct impressions of bodies, one curled around the other, yet completely empty. smoke curls above it, oddly thinner than that what still lingers around your ceiling. it breaks up on the next gust of wind, shatters around you with a cloyingly sweet scent.

---

your governess is cross to say the least.

the next day is spent in the kitchens, working away your transgressions into a particularly hard dough batch. she is unsympathetic to the terror that had overtaken you just before they'd rushed in to help. says she's certain they'd only heard your fresh coughing, although you try to point out that the cigar was already gone by then.

"don't be clever," she warns, an adage you've heard many times over the years. What man wants a clever wife?

she has the humidor emptied, says it should have been done long ago. you say nothing because probably, she's right.

alice isn't your friend, but sometimes she can be friendly. unlike your governess, she at least seems to have noticed your distress from the night before, simply nods in agreement when you ask her to warm your bed after she's done helping you dress that evening. perhaps she still sees it, the fear. she hums at you like she thinks you need at, at least, and maybe you do because it works quickly, your body exhausted after so much hard work and such little sleep.

---

despite your exhaustion, you do not sleep soundly. the midnight hour finds you fretful, though you're careful to remain still so as not to wake alice. you breathe in sync with her in an attempt to soothe yourself until you realize it's not her that moves but the house itself, curtains billowing in a breeze that shouldn't exist, windows locked tight for the night. strangely, the realization does not frighten you - not even when you turn to find alice staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes glossed over and vacant. skin leeched pale in the moonlight. you roll over to her, curious, and her eyes track over you uncomprehendingly, focus on a point at the far side of the room.

there's no decision to sit up, you simply do - chest rising first as if an anchor knot is rooted in your sternum, woven between the hollows of your ribs. the world tilts for a moment, and then rights itself, as if alighting with you on this new level. you observe the room much as it had been the night before, cold light filtering through whorls of smoke, though there's more of it now - thin trails of oily residue curling all around the room. it seems to ebb about the edges. even with the window locked tight, the room still seems to contract and compress, pressure increasing rhythmically before expanding again, fresh smoke rushing to fill it. you track the trail back to its source, a pin point ember which builds and gutters with swell, bobbing along on a tide. it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust but you make out the hand that holds it first, long fingers painted warm in the low light. it's the only bit of skin you can make out, the body attached to it settled so far back into the shadow it appears only as one itself - darker, deeper. barely distinguishable.

by its immense stature, you reason it is a man sat at your secretary. like alice's composure, there is a part of you that knows this realization should frighten you, but you're much too tired and curious to care, crawling to the foot of the bed so you can get a better look, continuing on over the edge and onto the floor when you still can't make out his features. your palms scratch against the worn wood, bearing too much weight in your awkward crawl, and room stills when you feel blood on the heel of your hand, the heat of it almost shocking in the cold air.

you only make it another stretch closer before the man recovers, the ember of his cigar flaring and popping as he takes a long drag, leans forward in his seat until you can make out a broad, stubbled jaw, two perfect white streaks glowing in the moonlight revealed when he finally drops his hand. his lips are wine-dark when they part, reveal a neat row of pearly teeth. he's impolite, blows his smoke directly at you. cloyingly sweet licorice and heady tobacco. you do not cough this time, though it's a near-miss. it seems to please him, lips tugging into a cruel smile as the smoke grows denser, begins to pour from his mouth in a thick, black cloud. it stains his chin, his teeth a black tar-like oil that smells too pungent. rotted.

you startle when alice screams, overcorrecting when you turn to her because she's there beside you, not behind, both of you still lying in bed.

"alice?" you start, trying to wake her, but your hand slips across her chest, slick with something dark and hot, and you freeze, unable to do anything as she continues to sieze and shriek beside you.

the governess comes, and then a doctor. in the confusion, you're shuttled off to the chair across the room. you're already settled into it by the time you realize it's where the man had sat, and you briefly take inventory of it, as if perhaps you could feel the traces of his body heat lingering. but the only thing of note is the trace whisps of dark sweets, easily explained away by your own mishap the night before.

they clean alice's wound and find a neat ring of teeth marks, your own good name saved by virtue of the doctor recognizing that they'd had time to heal - must have happened some other night, that alice must have been picking at them in her sleep. your governess's obvious distaste stills your tongue, unwilling to face her wrath if she believes you sympathetic to some street hussy. so you say nothing, even as alice shrieks about a man, about being accosted. even as they call her hysteric and pack her off. instead you sit silently, picking off the blood the that had dried to your hand when you'd gone to wake her. never mentioning the scrape you find beneath it and the congealed line of your own blood; the cut from when you'd flopped out of bed to crawl to his feet. because you can still smell it, the stomach-turning sweetness, and the heavy scent it had given way to, and you know what it was now, staining his handsome chin just as much as alice's breast.

and it's not fear, or even pity that settles low in your belly, simmers hotter than that ember which had sparked to life, woken you to his call.

you follow them when they walk her out, a small team of men needed to keep her restrained. she fights to be heard, but a part of you worries she fights to stay as well, the claws she sinks into the door frame intended to keep herself put for him. you feel ugly and selfish when you traipse back to your room, but you do anyway, stopping only long enough to smell the beautiful bouquet of dark winter roses you pass on the sideboard. they're lovely and sweet, though you can't help noticing no one has bothered to cut the thorns off. careless. you wonder who got them.

---

it's not the only life taking root in the house.

despite the grueling winter, you notice sunshine in the halls, dust motes dancing in the pale light. sconces you've not seen lit in years keep the shadows of night at bay. spices find their way into your meals, a small luxury you've been missing greatly. you can see your governess watching the staff suspiciously, but don't dare ask if she has her theories.

---

there are cigars in the humidor. or maybe they aren't cigars, much thinner than the ones you're used to seeing. you've no idea how they got there, but neither do you know who to ask. who you can trust to believe you, even just long enough to look, see the proof for themselves.

but then, you're not sure you want anyone else to know.

they smell like his. dark and heavy, sickeningly sweet. it makes your stomach turn but you fish out the lighter anyway, throwing the windows open decisively. fresh air pours in around you, chases cobwebs from the corners. the sconses gutter before flaring back to life, leaving the room brighter than it's been in months, cleaner than it' felt in ages.

you hardly notice, too busy fighting the cough that builds in your throat as you take your first drag. you don't manage it, smoke sputtering sputtering from your mouth in fits and starts as you heave your way through a coughing fit, stomach turning with an unexpected wave of nausea. face turned to the cool relief of the window, you've got your cheek leaned up against the side of the pane when the smoke begins to waft away. it takes you a moment to make sense of the image revealed, inverted and near as it is. fear grips you before you even manage it, some fine-tuned instinct recognizing the viper at your feet and turning to run before you're even sure what you've seen.

but this is no viper, and the reaction warranted when faced with the immense silhouette of a man hanging inverted in your window, mere inches from your face, is to go still as a deer in the hunters' sights, evidently, and play the docile little pray.

he turns properly toward you, the shaggy hair dangling around his face catching in the wind. your cigar flares with it, wan light revealing pale skin and dark eyes which seem to glint in amusement when you stumble away, the whole of the picture revealed to you just as long fingers wrap over the top of the casement and pry it open, hinges groaning as they overextend to let his broad shoulders pass. he pours through the sill like butter from the pan, pools on your ceiling with a strong grip on your curtain rod. except, when he drops from it, he sinks from the rafters like a feather, none of the might his huge frame suggested anywhere to be found.

still reeling, your hip catches the edge of your wardrobe and you slip past it, put your back to the wall as quiet cries spill from your lips, pleas incomprehensible.

he greets you by name in a thick russian accent, and somehow, impossibly, you know, but you ask anyway, voice trembling. "who are you?"

a step closer, movements so fluid you can barely discern them. when did the candles go out? "your cleverer than that."

strange compulsion, you can't stop yourself before reciting, "men don't want clever wives."

"is that what you think i want? a wife?" amusement curls around the words, turns his accent lilting.

"i don't know what you want," you whisper, and he grunts - edging closer to irritation.

"and is that what you think i am, then? a man?"

"no…" the truth shocks you, has you casting about for an anchor. you only find confirmation when you catch sight of your vanity, the man in your room leaving no reflection. your cleverer than that. "you were here that night, weren't you? on the bed with me?"

"well, what's a man to do when he returns home to find a pretty young lady in his bed?"

"you're my father." it's not a question. you're not even certain you mean it as a chastisement. it is simple fact, roiling in your stomach like the nausea that lingers.

a fact he ignores, slipping closer and trailing cold digits over the inside of your wrist before taking the slim cigar from between your fingers. you weren't even aware you'd still had it. it glows back to life when he takes a deep drag, smoke spilling from his mouth when he speaks again, "do you like this one better than that other? they're very popular in paris."

you latch onto the wrong part of the question. "is that where you've been?"

"there," he shrugs. "everywhere."

more nausea, sinuses prickling with the added smoke. "anywhere but here?"

he doesn't seem to like this question, either, a stillness overtaking him. "i was… called away."

but if he can be angry, so can you. "for twenty four years?" you snap, voice ragged and sharp as it had been after your first inhale.

his stillness snaps, exasperation turning him away from you. he paces to the window and finally you can see more of his features - the high peaks of his hairline, the heavy brow and the broad nose. he's an older man, you know, and yet - he doesn't really look it, fine lines of his forehead no worse than a man ten, twenty years his younger. his voice is gruff when he speaks again. quiet. "a man can't help being needed -."

"you were needed hear!" you shriek, a reservoir of emotion you didn't know you'd kept dammed breaking free.

when he turns on his heel the candles flare again, and you gasp, shocked to find him suddenly before you, the wool of his overcoat scratchy even through your shift. he waits for you to settle, for your chest to stop heaving against his and your pulse to stop hammering so loud in your ears that you can't hear what he says when his lips move, tongue darting out to wet them. "am i no longer needed, then?" he finally asks, and you wilt against him.

"of course you are," you sob, trying not to notice his own breaths never come.

---

there's no precedent telling you what to call him. his name is improper, but 'father' leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. you plead of him 'my lord!' when his kisses linger too long and he groans, pleased.

you're not sure if you like him when he's pleased.

he frightens you, takes too much. he's a man of appetite as you should have known by the marks he'd left on alice, but you'd foolishly thought yourself untouchable, too gently borne to suffer such indignities. of course, the station of your birth matters little to your own father - if it indeed ever would have mattered to anyone at all.

but it's hard to refuse him when he's your father, and so huge, besides. his broad frame corrals you easily back toward the bed. he doesn't let you sink onto it until his kisses have trailed to the hinge of your jaw, cold nose nuzzling behind your ear. when he does breathe, his chest eclipses your own, tries to turn you concave, carve a space within you. his exhale stinks like his cigar, pressed into the corner of your lip.

it's improper. leaves you teetering between disgust and a guilty sort of pleasure, which only serves to repulse you further. your stomach turns, guilt eating its way up your throat. acrid with smoke.

the hand splayed over the column of your throat tightens minutely, long fingers threatening to pluck the tendons which flex when you gag. he misunderstands. "not supposed to inhale, you know?"

your head spins, the only relief from your mounting sickness found in the the cold relief of his hands against your cheek. "i didn't… i don't..?"

"shh. that's alright. papa will teach you. take this, it will help you feel better."

and your mouth when he does. wide, mimicking. eager for some tincture to help soothe your nerves. a strong dose to put you under, perhaps. he grins when you show him your teeth and a finger finds his own, long claw catching minutely on his lip when he drags the pad of his first two fingers over his canine. you're shocked when it comes away bloody - more so when he coos, eases them into your own mouth to stroke against your tongue. for a moment you're too shocked to respond, but then the heavy taste of blood coats your mouth and you thrash about under him, swatting and biting.

it only seems to encourage him, voice too thick with hunger and approval to be as soothing as he intends it when he tries to gentle you beneath him.

he gives up trying when his blood overflows your mouth, spilling over your cheeks as you continue trying to shake him off. he mutters something about a waste and then his other hand is pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply fully. you gurgle, trying to clear your mouth and he snarls, shoves his fingers deeper.

you're forced to swallow your mouthful when your vision begins to tunnel. he sighs in relief when you do, breath nearly as heavy as yours when you gasp and wheeze. he has the decency to drag his fingers down your chin as you struggle, staining all down your throat as he traces the path of the load you've swallowed.

"not so hard, was it?" he mutters, still painting your skin. you glare at him when you can finally manage it and he just chuckles, forces his fingers behind your bottom teeth again. even still the taste revolts you, tongue crowding to the back of you mouth to try and escape the cold copper, the thick licorice. if he notices, he is undeterred. makes you take even more when he pries your jaw open and spits in your mouth.

the vulgarity makes you heave, but his weight fights even that. keeps you in place when he shoves his fingers back until the webbing nestles against the corner of your mouth and his fingernails scrape against your throat. he feels when it constricts around him reflexively and his free hand smooths the hair back from your sweaty forehead, cold breath against your temple as he tells you to relax, voice fragmenting - somehow both soft, ethereal, and a very real rumble in your ear.

it's that quiet one that gets you, webs its way through your nerves until you're limp with it, energy sapped along with your will to disobey. his fingers pull back minutely, give you enough space to swallow the blood that's gathered at the back of your throat. when they push back in, he bids you suckle them in that same distorted voice and you do. easily, gratefully, and this time, the blood pools in your belly like an antidote. it soothes your nausea, leaves you hungry for more. he doesn't hesitate to provide it, fingers pumping in and out of your mouth as you begin to suckle at them, entreating him to stay nestled in the heat of your mouth each time he starts to pull away.

you're unsure how long he feeds you. long enough you that you feel sated and sleepy when he withdraws entirely. a strand of saliva follows him, snaps back to fall down your chest when he licks his own fingers after, thick tongue wiping clean what mess remains. his skin comes back whole and healed, a prospect that should surely frighten you, but there is no fear when you grow bold, pull him closer by a strong grip on the long strands of hair at his nape. his tongue is slick when it slides against yours, chasing the taste of himself. he follows it down your chin, panting against the column of your neck as his hands work up your chest, the pressure of them on your waist having been having gone unnoticed through your corset. his nails scrape your skin when he catches the hem of your dressing gown and finally, some base instinct flares back to life, tries to stay his hands with your own, fingers scrabbling against his. he just hushes you again, voice echoing softly between your ears. this time, when your fingers wrap around his wrists, it is simply an anchor for you, body feeling as though you may simply drift away under his care.

when his mouth finds your breast, you arch into him, bucking hard enough that he groans, lays his body flat over you to keep you in place as he feasts. even his weight is decadent, a relief from the way you feel untethered. he pinches your nipple between too-sharp teeth, soaks the fabric of your shift in saliva just to soothe you after. his mouth offers no heat, no balm for the frigid breaths he ghosts over the wet material. you beg for it anyway, fingers threading through his hair to keep him close. an instinct that will do you no good here, the man at your breast inhuman and cold.

it's a fact you can't escape from, not with his cold blood in your belly and his will in your head. not with his lupine teeth spreading wide over your heart, or the ecstatic relief when he finally bites down. your breath steams in the air as you pant beneath him, chest heaving into his mouth even as you try pulling him impossibly closer, and here, finally, is the heat - the bloom of blood that soaks your shift and warms your skin, even as you grow colder with the loss of it. he's insatiable, a man of appetite as you knew, and yet you give yourself freely, even as your breath grows stilted and shallow and your fingers twitch in his hair. he only surfaces when your vision grows cloudy, looms above you in a grisly mask of death turned two-tone with the moonlight and your fading vision. jaw stained dark, it appears an endless maw from which he speaks, demands to know if you'll join him in eternity.

and what girl could ever live without her papa?

dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/adornedwithlight

[beef-brisket]

Lilith smirked: I see. You must be mourning the fool! Oh yes, I heard about his death. It sounds fitting, doesn't it. He always was a coward-.

Lucifer: Shut. Up. You don't get to speak of him.

Lilith: Let me guess. You didn't want him to die~. You're as much of a fool as him! It was only a few hundred years ago that you wanted to end him yourself!

Lucifer: I never meant it-!

Lilith: Sure you didn't, love~. Everything I did to that bastard was for you. For us! Why do you care if he got hurt? You're the one who always said he deserved it!

Lucifer: ENOUGH!

Lilith jumped back. She's never heard Lucifer yell before, especially to her.

Lilith: I-I don't understand! You hated him! He attacked Charlie! Killed our people! Why now are you defending a dead man?!

Lucifer: Because he's not dead! And he means something to me!

Lilith: He's... what? Adam's alive...? Oh, my god- and you're having a relationship with an ANGEL of all things?! Ha! Well, you're welcome to my beach home~. Oh wait, you're banished from Heaven, aren't you darling?

Lucifer smiled: He's not in Heaven. In fact, I believe he's upstairs right now. Looking at paint swatches. I've given him your end of the house to do what he pleases with~.

Lilith: You... he's... how DARE you! I am Hells queen! You dare move that PIG into my house?!

Lucifer: This hasn't been your house in seven years- you have no claim to it! And your title is officially forfeit! Hell only has its king. Its old queen was off playing house in Heaven of all places.

Lilith: You won't get away with this Lucifer. You're too weak, you're heart always gets in the way-! You can punish me all you want- but you'll come crawling back! My daughter will find out- and you'll be begging ME for mercy!

Lucifer glares: Not this time.

-

Adam has no idea how long he's been wondering the green house. Everywhere he looked, there was another pathway.

He was sketching some plants into a little notebook he found lying around. It's been a long time since he felt safe somewhere. He wasn't worried about an angel cornering him or someone demanding his presence.

Adam followed a path that was completely shaded by large trees and thick flower bushed. The silence was getting to him, his mind playing tricks of hearing the flapping of angelic wings. But he focused on his drawing, which calmed him quickly enough.

Lucifer pushed open the doors to the greenhouse. He was feeling emotionally exhausted from dealing with Lilith that he craved Adam. Which is something he never thought would happen.

Lucifer: Addie?

He couldn't see Adam anywhere, but he could sense him.

Lucifer walked off through the winding pathways. He doesn't know why he made the layout so confusing, maybe he wanted to get lost?

He was near the tulips and lily's when he heard the softest singing.

Lucifer smiled, knowing who it was.

Rounding a corner, Lucifer spotted Adam sitting on the outside of one of the small ponds Lucifer had made.

Lucifer: ...Adam...~.

Adam jumped and looked over to Lucifer, a wide smile on his face when he saw it was actually him, and not his mind playing tricks.

Adam: Hey! All finished with your work?

Lucifer shrugged before walking over and sitting next to him.

Lucifer: For today, I am. Wow, did you draw that?

Lucifer leaned over and smiled at Adam's notebook.

Adam: Fuck- yeah... their lame- it's been a while.

Lucifer: It's not lame. I think it's beautiful.

Adam blushed: Yeah? Well... thanks.

Lucifer: Anytime~.

Adam: This place is amazing. It's like an escape, I actually forgot... I was in Hell... for a second anyway.

Lucifer: That's why I made it. An escape. And a reminder.

Adam nodded: I had a garden too. It wasn't anything like this, but it was mine. I uh... stopped going to it.

Lucifer looked up at him: Why?

Adam: ...A few angels came to see me, and when I didn't answer the door, they came in. Saw it through the kitchen window, and went to look for me... they tainted the only place I had left. It sucked too much to go back there, so I just put some curtains up and locked the door outside... fuck, that sounds depressing. Just uh... a bird shat on me while I was out there, too.

Lucifer gave Adam a soft smile and rubbed his leg, doing his best to be comforting.

Lucifer: I'm sorry both of those things happened, Adam. If you'd like, we could put in your own greenhouse.

Adam perked up: Really?! Fuck yeah!

The Sin of Adam!au.

One more quick au before I fall asleep.

Adam falls to Hell after his death. But he doesn't wake up in Pride. He wakes up in Wrath. Adam is completely pissed off and just itching for revenge.

In this, Adam conquers each ring of Hell, growling stronger until he's on the same wavelength as Lucifer, power wise.

Lucifer has no idea what's going on. He's slowly losing contact with the Sins, and everyone is in a state of panic. That's until he returns home from a few days away, trying to find the Sins, that he sees his daughters hotel, and Pentagram city destroyed.

Thankfully, Charlie and her friends are fine. But what she explains is unbelievable.

Charlie: It was Adam, dad!

Lucifer: Adam? He's dead Charlie- I buried him myself.

Charlie: I thought so, too! He was looking for you! He's alive!

Lucifer gets his daughter to hide. Everything is in a state of chaos. He can't find Adam anywhere.

Until he returns home and sees someone sitting on his throne.

After a long, destructive fight, Lucifer realizes that Adam only absorbed the Sins. Their not dead

Adam has literally been taken over by the powers of Hell.

Can Lucifer contain and find a way to get Adam and the Sins back before he destroys Hell and everything undead thing in it??

How will Lucifer get Adam back??

Who knows 🤷

Adam: You can't defeat me now Lucifer!

Lucifer: Oh yes I can! I'm going to fuck the sins out of you!!

Adam: Wait what?

Ozzie inside: YEAH BABY!!

Sorry I'm feeling a little silly lmao 😂

[hornedmonsters]

"A'thaen" Yautja Oc x Reader - Mate - nsfw - Part 2

Warnings: nsfw, size difference, exophilia, teratophilia, monster x human, alien sex, breeding, angst, sex in the snow

Synopsis: Your life with A'thaen he started, but you've already loved every second of it. But something seemed to be bothering the Yautja.

Word Count: 3,2k

Jezus… this GIF… damn…

I managed to translate this story after all. Thanks Handy!

Two months have passed since A'thaen made you his life partner and mated with you. You haven't regretted a second of your life that he just stormed into your life and fucked you. Literally. You no longer felt so lonely in your little house and the nights weren't so cold either.

Because he fucked you almost every night, either deep inside your bed mattress, on the sofa or anywhere else. He found a place everywhere where he could breed you. And he often destroyed your bed in the process, because it was simply not designed for the brute strength of a gigantic alien with a high breeding instinct.

Of course you had never worried about getting pregnant, because what are the chances of getting pregnant by an alien, a different species that has a different DNA and life line than you?So you let him do it because you enjoyed the way he treated you like you were his queen. He adored you more than anything.You moaned as he pushed his thick cock deeper into you and pressed your face into the mattress. Your skin was covered in a film of sweat and his shadow towered over you. He had totally changed since your first mating. He was reserved at first, but now you were his.

"A'thaen..." you gasped, your legs trembling. You had no strength left and were exhausted. The Yautja growled in apology and shortly after, he came inside you, deep rumbling.

He watched you attentively as you let your body sink into the bathtub and let out a pleasant sigh. You were tired and he felt it, a touch of his conscience made him restless. He sometimes forgot that you were a human and not a Yautja female. You were more sensitive and he had to try to respect that and be more careful with you, he didn't want to break you and hurt you.Gently he laid you in bed and pulled you against his chest. You were exhausted and your eyelids were heavy.

"Don't forget... that my sister is coming tomorrow," you said in a whisper and the Yautja listened up, his eyes looking down at you. You saw the question mark on his face.

"She won't be staying, she's just bringing her child over in the meantime because she has something important to do and she wants me to look after her daughter.

"A'thaen tensed as the thought of hiding came to mind, as no one was to know he was here. The child might betray him and that would only cause trouble, even if it was questionable to believe a child.

"She's half a year old, A'thaen. You don't have to hide," you breathed, straightening up. Gently, you pressed your forehead against his cheek and breathed in his scent. He calmed you down.He clicked, apparently not much in the mood to talk right now. His claws were still firmly on your curves and you felt him pull you closer.A'thaen had often had the thought of what if you were pregnant by him. Yautja children were different from human babies and the birth could mean your death if you were pregnant. That would be the next thing

Since you've been together, you've mated a lot... a whole lot. But you didn't get pregnant. But the Yautja had hope, a lot of hope. His gaze rested on your sleeping form and he felt warmth in his heart.This feeling became even stronger when you held your sister's child in your arms and it triggered all kinds of feelings in him. Excitement, sadness, hope and warmth. It was a chaos of emotions.

The little girl squawked and squeaked. You smiled and looked at Yautja, who was standing a few meters away from you, watching the scenario.

"Here, take her," you suggested and his mandibles twitched. His look was skeptical, but in reality he was afraid of hurting the baby. It was so tiny. But before he could react, you pressed the little creature into his arms and he was mesmerized as the girl's saucer eyes gazed at him watchfully.

The longer you looked at what was happening, the more it hurt you. You couldn't give him what he wanted so much and that was bitter in your stomach.A'thaen sensed the change and his eyes looked at you with concern and questioning.

Sometimes you forget that he was a deadly hunter and a good hunter. He had killed many people, he had told you shortly after your mating. But it didn't affect you, you still wanted him. It was just a part of him.

But you put on a smile, took the child and put her to bed. The little girl was tired and it was really late. Somewhat reluctantly, the Yautja gave up the baby, there was still something strange in his gaze.

During the night, you lay with your back turned to him and stared into space. At some point, you noticed how he slowly and quietly got up and left the room. After that, he never showed his face again.

On the second day, your sister picked up her daughter again, but there was no sign of A'thaen and you started to worry. Then you remembered that he still had his spaceship. You remembered where it was, but it had disappeared. The place was empty and his spaceship wasn't exactly small.You panicked. Had he just left you? Had you done something wrong to him? You became restless and at night you couldn't sleep a wink.

Tears gathered in your eyes as you looked out of the window. It was storming heavily, but you didn't see an oversized spaceship or an oversized alien man. You walked through the rain. You needed a walk to clear your head. You were a mixture of emotions and you found it hard to breathe. Had you really managed to scare off an alien?

Trembling, you leaned against a gigantic tree and exhaled deeply. Slowly you slid down and tears ran down your cheeks as you felt the exhaustion of the last few days. When you went back home, you went to bed. You couldn't sleep until you were simply too exhausted and your body gave way. You quickly drifted off into the darkness of sleep.

A few more weeks passed until one day you suddenly heard a loud noise outside. You jumped up from the sofa and looked towards the door. Your heart pounded with false hope and at the same time you were afraid that it was something completely different. You swallowed and got up.It was cold outside, winter was approaching and your hut was losing its warmth too. You carefully pushed the doorbell down and opened the door a crack. You immediately felt the cold and shivered. Wistfully, you grabbed your jacket and a flashlight.

Maybe it was a family of raccoons. They were probably looking for food before the harsh winter came. You crept out of the door and followed the sounds. The sky was cloudy and somehow you had a queasy feeling walking through the darkness to the back of the house. What if it was a bear? But what if it was A'thaen? What if he was injured.

Suddenly you saw something in the darkness. It was a shadow in the shadow of darkness. Gigantic. Your eyes widened and the next moment a bright light came on. You quickly closed your eyes and tried to get used to the bright light.

You put your hand in front of your eyes and slowly opened your eyelids. Slowly, the first snowflakes fell from the sky and you realized that it was a spaceship. A'thaen's.

Your mouth went dry and tears gathered in your eyes as you took heavy steps away, but couldn't see anyone.

"A'thaen...," your voice was a whisper and you suddenly felt someone gently take your hand and pull it down. A soft growl was heard, then the Yautja appeared in front of you and you were completely overwhelmed with the feelings you had. With your mouth open and your body trembling, you looked at him. More and more snowflakes fell gently on your skin and got caught in your hair.

You just stared at each other. Your hand still in his and it was as if time stood still for a moment. Your heart was beating so hard against your chest that it hurt. You felt sick and had an inner conflict. A'thaen sensed this and hesitated before making a wrong move. He knew he was long gone and he also knew that he had just left you standing there.

It wasn't his intention, it just came over him. He almost flinched when he suddenly felt your arms around his hips.

He then gently put his strong arms around your small, trembling figure. But the next moment you hit him on the chest. Over and over again. You sobbed as you did so. The Yautja simply stood still and took it. Maybe it didn't hurt him physically, but he could feel so clearly how he had hurt you.

"You left me alone..." you shivered and a clicking sound came from his mouth.

"I'm sorry", he whispers into Yautja and gently pushed you away from him so you could look into his eyes. His gaze was sincere and open. You licked your dry lips and gently he brushed your tears away with the pads of his thumbs. Oh if you only knew why he left. He hoped so much that you would like his gift.

"Was... On my... Planet," he started to explain and your brows drew together in confusion. What was he doing there? He reached for the bag he had strapped to his thigh and pulled out a glass jar filled with green liquid. Your eyes widened. Was that his blood? Your head was in chaos.

"I went to see one of our healers. I wanted to know more about pregnancy and the mating between humans and Yautja. You know I love you so much, more than anything else in this universe. I would kill anything and everything for you, just to protect you. But when I saw you with that child..., I told you I would love you too, even if we couldn't have children and I still do. But I saw the look in your eyes and I know you want children. I wanted to know if there wasn't a way and there is," his voice was excited and you didn't know him like that. He held the green liquid in front of your face. "This is our possibility. This is my blood and it would be possible for you to inject yourself with it. Your body would remain human, but there would be a few Yautja extras. Also that you react to my seed and become fertile for it." Then he hesitated when he saw your wide eyes and spoke in your language again: "Only... if you... want to." His heart pounded hard against his chest. He was nervous about your answer.

But no matter what you decided, he would continue to love you unconditionally and stay by your side. You were one. And no one would ever be able to change that.

You gently took the glass from his hands and looked at it. Is that why he had left? To surprise you that he had found a way to make your family bigger. All the pain that had accumulated over the weeks disappeared and was replaced by love and amazement.

"Let's try it," you breathed and A'thaen's eyes looked at you wide. It wasn't long before he had carried you, on his hands, back to your hut. You were excited when he gave you the first injection of his blood test and you were curious to see how long it would take for your body to respond.

Finally, your hut filled with warmth again. A'thaen enveloped you with his presence and adored you. You had missed it so much. This Yautja man was balm for your soul. He cuddled with you a lot, stroked you or even squeezed himself into the much too small bathtub with you. So that you could sleep on his chest while he caressed you. You were injected with his blood about twice a week, because you had to get used to it slowly.

It wasn't long before everything outside was white. Winter had officially begun and you were desperate to get out. Of course, your partner had to come with you. A'thaen looked at the snow a little skeptically, but when he saw your shining eyes, he almost gave in with a sigh. He watched you playing in the snow. You were building a snowman and he watched you curiously. He found it fascinating what you could do with this white, cold stuff.

Suddenly it landed right in his face and he clicked indignantly when he heard you laughing. You threw a snowball at him.

Quickly you ran away from him, but it wasn't long before the Yautja reached you and grabbed you. He pushed you against the nearest wide tree and his eyes literally glowed at you.

"Cheeky..., Hooman," his words made you tremble and you could feel something else in his voice. He'd barely touched you since he'd been back and you hadn't had sex. He only wanted to win your trust again after he had unfortunately broken it. But now you were both overcome with desire and passion.

You could hardly react when he tore your clothes off and the icy cold touched your skin. You gasped and sucked in the air sharply. Your nipples hardened and the only thing you were still wearing were your shoes. Thankfully.

A'thaen watched your body react to the cold and stroked your chest tenderly, causing you to inhale deeply. You didn't have time to think as he laid you down in the cold snow and an "Oh God!" escaped your lips. It was freezing cold and you could feel the snow stinging your skin and numbing it.

But at the same time, you could feel yourself getting wet again. A'thaen's tail throbbed under his protection as he saw you lying there helplessly on the ground. Your body and the snow made a magical contrast and it drove him wild to see you like this. The desire to breed you overcame him again and the idea that you were swollen with his child made him growl.

You whispered his name softly and the next moment he was stroking your clitoris, making you moan. He could smell you so intensely.

"Let's see if the injections have any effect," he growled into Yautja and his claws carefully went between your labia to see how wet you were. You were more than ready to take him deep and he clicked open delightedly. He didn't take his time and immediately thrust into you gently. As excited as he was, he still had to make sure you were well prepared despite his size.

You rolled your eyes and threw your head back on your neck as you felt the heavenly stretching you had missed for so long. A moan escaped your mouth and you tried to move your pelvis. You wanted more, he didn't have to prepare you. You wanted him so badly.

"A'thaen, damn it! Move..., please!" you begged him as you continued to move your hips. The Yautja looked at you with amusement and the next moment he was thrusting hard into you. You both moaned and you almost saw stars. It was so much at once. You clung to him, to the warmth he radiated and your gasps fogged his senses as he continued to thrust. He held you tightly in his arms, but still managed to stroke your clit, making you whimper.

It wasn't long before your body tensed and you felt your orgasm building. A'thaen's movements on your clit quickened and your fingers clawed fiercely into his skin, making him hiss. You tightened around him, milking him well as you both came. He pumped a huge load of his warm cum into your womb and you greedily took in every drop. You knew that he would start fucking you again every day. But rightly so, you had some catching up to do and you had a certain goal you wanted to achieve.

The warm water splashed down your body as you leaned against the wall of the shower, moaning and looking down at the Yautja beneath you with your eyelids lowered. Your legs rested on his shoulder with ease and his forked tongue licked your entrance. You held onto his dreadlock-like pigtails and gasped as he licked over your sensitive bud.

Your legs were trembling, the last orgasm was still in your bones and you could feel his cum flowing out of your sweet pussy. A'thaen insisted on licking you clean, of course also because he knew that he could give you pleasure again.His name came out of your mouth like a prayer and the Yautja growled in pleasure when he realized how good you felt in his clutches.

Suddenly you arched your back and pressed your pelvis harder against his face. He understood immediately and continued to lick greedily until you came moaning over his tongue.

He licked your labia and clitoris once more as he helped you up afterwards. You hung exhausted from his neck and your legs were weak. He gently carried you out of the shower and placed a towel over your naked body. You stroked his chest gratefully and leaned your head against him. Your eyes closed in exhaustion and slowly you actually fell asleep.

The Yautja looked at you curiously. As so often, he admired your beauty and gently stroked a wet hair out of your face before taking you to your bed. His eyes fell shut after a short time.When he woke up and turned to you, you weren't there. He immediately sat up and panic spread through him, but when the smell of bacon hit his nose, he calmed down. You've made breakfast.

"Good morning, A'thaen," you smiled gently when you saw him and immediately placed a large plate full of bacon, eggs and pancakes in front of him. Thanking him, he chirped at you and you joined him with your own plate. You ate in silence for a short while, but it was a pleasant silence.

Until you suddenly felt unwell. You felt nauseous and ran to the toilet as fast as you could and threw up. Trembling, you held on to the toilet when you suddenly felt a gentle touch on your shoulder.A'thaen looked at you worriedly. Were you ill? Had he been too rough with you and overworked your body? His mind was working and you smiled gently at him.

"I think I'm pregnant."

tag:

@sweatymusictree

[lillaydee]

Uncoupled - March

Roommate! Joel Miller / Reader

Two people leaving their marriages ended up going through the mandatory one year separation together before filing for divorce.

Nothing could possibly happen in a year, right?

WARNINGS: Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Ellie & Joel Bonding (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Soft Joel (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Protective Joel (The Last of Us), No age gap, Roommate Joel, Teacher Joel, Handyman Joel, Insecure Joel, Minor Character Death, Grief/Mourning.

SERIES MASTER LIST

February

---

“Hey, Lil, I was wondering. You know how we’ve been living together like six months now? I feel like… we’ve become very good friends in that time, don’t you think? Cause… honestly? I feel like I know you much better than I know Jen…”

No, scratch that, don’t mention your ex to the woman you hoped would be your girlfriend, you idiot.

Joel rinsed the tomatoes and picked up the peppers, rinsing those next, placing them all in a bowl once done.

Okay, deep breath.

“Lily, living with you these past six months have been… eye opening. This is what life should be like, what a partnership should be like. This is what I want. For the rest of my life.”

Shit, scare the not-yet-divorced woman into not wanting to have anything to do with you, Joel.

He picked up the bowl with the tomatoes and peppers in them, taking one tomato out and began chopping.

“Lily, you know the legal separation is coming to an end, right? I know you said you’re not ready to date, and I can see where you’re coming from, but, living with you these past six months, I think I’ve come to see you as more than a roommate, and I’m wondering if you would go out with me… like on a date?”

God, he’s really bad at this. He rubbed his face, before taking another tomato to chop.

He’s making you dinner. You had an order to finish at the bakery, so dinner was on him today. You had mentioned the other day you had a hankering for some sweet and sour fish, so he had googled the recipe and was making some for you. He was going to ask you out after dinner, when the two of you watch TV after Ellie’s bed time.

Okay, one more time.

“Hey Lily, I was wondering…”

“You were wondering what?”

OUCH!

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” you came rushing to his side, he had let go of the knife and was holding his left hand up, blood dripping from his pointer finger.

“Lily! I didn’t hear you come in! Fuck this hurts!”

You took a clean kitchen towel from the drawer and guided him to the sink, running the finger under the tap. Blood was still coming out, and Joel found himself slightly lightheaded from the shock of it all. He was used to seeing cuts like this, being the woodworking teacher, but when it was his own finger, he couldn’t even look at it.

“I don’t think you need stitches,” you told him, examining the cut closer. You let the cut bleed under the running water until it receded, and wrapped it with the kitchen towel, running to his bathroom to get the first aid kit.

Ellie had gotten up from her colouring spot at the dining table, climbed onto her steps to the sink and peeked at the cut, Joel was startled upon seeing her, thinking she had been in her room all this while. Shit, did she hear him?

You came in and immediately took the antiseptic solution to clean his finger. He hissed and looked away when you did, embarrassed that he could be so lightheaded over such a small cut. You applied some antiseptic salve for cuts and put a band aid on his finger before putting everything away. You came back to the kitchen to him still standing where you left him, his left hand still elevated, the pointer finger still pointing upwards the way it was when you bandaged him.

“Oh, God, you can’t do anything now, can you? Because you finger has a boo-boo on it?” you teased, going over to him and kissing the band aid. “There, all better.”

Joel found himself blushing like a school girl at the gesture. Fucking hell, what had gotten into him? Before he fully realized his feelings for you he could lie in bed together with you and not feel awkward, but now, all he could think of was how good you smelled when you just walked in from the bakery and how much he wanted to bury his face in your neck.

You took the knife he was holding, checking the cutting board for any blood, before washing the knife and placing it in the dishwasher. You took another knife and began to continue what he was doing.

“What were you trying to ask me just now?”

Huh?

You turned and looked at him, still standing stock still right where he was, “You said my name and were wondering if…?”

Shit. Erm… think, Joel, think!

“He was about to ask you out. Practiced it over and over,” Ellie chimed in, hand busy picking up a colour from the crayon box.

Joel’s head snapped towards her so fast he swore he pulled a muscle.

You looked at him, hand idly chopping the tomato he left on the cutting board. “You were going to ask me out?”

“Erm… yeah, I was thinking, spring’s almost fully here, maybe we should go to the garden centre? Get some saplings and seeds? Maybe a couple plants? We have the planter boxes ready and all.”

Okay, where the fuck did that come from? He could see Ellie close her eyes in frustration over your shoulder, shaking her head slightly. When she opened them again, she was giving him the most disappointed look he had ever seen from anyone in his life, let alone a five-year-old.

“Erm, yeah that sounds nice, when would you be free to go? You know, there’s a nice park there too, maybe we could go to the playground after, won’t that be nice Jells?”

Joel found himself tongue-tied. How could he tell you he would rather go with you alone without upsetting you, or worse, Ellie?

“How about this Saturday? Weather forecast is nice, not too cold, what do you say, Jellie?” you asked her, eyes on your work, oblivious to the silent communication your niece was having with your roommate.

“Actually, I’m busy this weekend.”

You burst out laughing, placing the knife on the chopping board, crossing your arms, “You’re busy, huh?” you turned and looked at Joel, who had an unreadable expression on his face. “And what, may I ask, little missy, would you be busy with?”

“It’s a secret.” She climbed down from her chair and ran into her room.

You gave Joel a ‘would-you-believe-that-little-girl-look’, laughing all the while. “Legs not long enough to touch the floor when sitting at the dining table, but she’s busy this weekend. Go figure. When did your little girl become such an adult?” you asked, turning round to continue chopping. “What am I chopping these for, by the way? Can you move before I finish cooking or are you just stuck there until the wound heals?”

His little girl. You just referred to Ellie as his little girl. His heart felt like it was going to beat its way out of his chest. He laughed a little at your playful jab at him and took a bowl off the cabinet, measuring the sauces he needed to make the sweet and sour sauce into it.

“Was going to make you sweet and sour fish, you were telling me you were hankering for some. Got the recipe off google. Supposedly it’s really good,” he said, measuring the vinegar, using his middle finger instead of his pointer finger to hold the spoon. “Saturday’s fine, for the garden centre, if Her Majesty the Ellie is free,” he added, and the two of you laughed a little at her little ‘I’m busy’ announcement.

“Aww… you were gonna make me sweet and sour fish? Thank you Joel, I’m a lucky girl to have someone like you in my life,” you told him, a thankful pout on your lips, getting up to your tippy toes to give him a peck on his cheek.

He flushed at that, and for some reason, you were blushing too. Silly, really. You’ve done that a million times. Why did it feel different this time?

**********

Frank called as the three of you were having dinner. You put him on speaker, telling him you’re in the middle of dinner – although that info fell on deaf ears. He started telling you that his sister was having a birthday party for his twin nephews that weekend. “She’s going all out, petting zoo, bouncy castle, the lot. Can we take Ellie, please?”

Huh… you could’ve sworn his nephews just had a birthday before Christmas. You helped bake the cake. A massive one, in fact. It could feed 50 children, easily. When reminded of this, Frank quickly swerved, telling you that it was too cold for a party then, so his sister’s having one now instead. So… what do you think? Can they bring Ellie?

You don’t know... Maybe you should call his sister, make sure she’s okay with it?

“No! There’s no need for that. But if you need to call her, give it maybe half an hour okay?”

Okay…

Ellie had stopped eating, her hands busily forking some errant onion chunk from her bowl of rice, releasing it, and then forking it again, listening intently to your conversations.

“Let me think about it, okay?”

You hung up before you could make out what Frank was trying coax you with next, looking at Ellie with accusatory eyes. She looked at you right back, innocence in her big brown eyes, asking you cheerfully if she could go. “Please Beans, they have a petting zoo… please???”

“Yeah, Beans, a petting zoo! Imagine that! And a bouncy castle too! Have a heart, Beans,” Joel pleaded with her, putting on the most pathetic pleading face you had ever seen.

Okay, the most beautiful, and so far, effective, pleading face, aside from Ellie’s.

“Fine. I’ll let Frank know.”

“Yeah!” They high fived each other.

**********

The few days leading up to Saturday, you found yourself looking forward to going out alone with Joel. You did do that before, when the two of you did the backyard, going to the store, all that, but this time it just felt… different.

You had been trying to push your crush on Joel for a while now, telling yourself he wouldn’t want someone like you, brushing off anything that might mean he liked you as a coincidence or your own imagination. But since that day he got sick, you had noticed him checking you out, and not in friendly ways either. You could’ve sworn that he was a bit too quiet when Benny was around, almost as if he was… jealous? And the way he was angry at the thought of Benny coming in for two days, ‘had his way with you’ and then leaving? Hmmm…

Anyway, Saturday. You were going out with him. Alone. Maybe you should make the most out of it. It might never happen again, and who knew if he wanted to keep living with you once his divorce was finalized. He’d be a single man again then. Maybe he would go out into the world and finally sow some wild oats, or whatever the heck the saying was, while you remained here, raising Ellie.

You had asked Anita if she wanted to join you – she was back in town, staying at Tommy and Maria’s since Maria was due any day now. She had wanted to come with, but after a quick conversation with Frank she withdrew, saying she didn’t feel comfortable leaving Maria alone so near her due date.

That Friday night, you and Joel watched a movie together, you sitting legs out on the floor, resting you back against the couch while Joel was splayed on it. Throughout the movie, you looked back at him, just to see if he was laughing along with you. He was already staring at you, every single time, a soft smile on his face. He didn’t even attempt to look away. As the two of you walked to your rooms for bedtime, you asked him what time you would be leaving the next day.

“Let’s make it a day. We go out for breakfast, and then the centre, and then, who knows? Maybe a movie? What do you think?”

The prospect of spending so much time with him made you want to jump. Okay, you told him, saying goodnight before closing your door.

Phew, your face felt hot. Must be the heat. The nights were getting less cold, and you hadn’t really adjusted the temperature.

Yeah… the heat… that must be it.

**********

On Saturday, you and Joel left the house early, wanting to get the best the garden centre had to offer. As you were getting ready that morning you realized you haven’t gone out like this in a while. You were really nervous, although you couldn’t quite figure out why. As you stepped out of your room, you saw that he had on his green flannel, and you had on your favourite dark green top. He looked really good, you thought.

“You look nice,” he said, giving you a quick peck on the cheek. He had given you such kisses forever, at least, since you lived together, but today… you don’t know. It felt different. “We match,” he said, adjusting your collar slightly after you slung on the purse he gave you for Christmas.

You saw him iron his green flannel the night before, so you subconsciously put on the same colour, you thought. You didn’t do it on purpose to match him. That’d be silly. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. Although, even if you did, he didn’t seem to mind at all.

He opened the truck door for you, helping you climb in as usual, before checking the front door was locked one more time.

“Okay, make this count. You can do this. Deep breaths,” he said to himself.

“Did you say something?” you asked from the truck, making him jump slightly.

“No, just thinking out loud. Breakfast?”

The two of you went to the brunch place in town, where you discovered he had made reservations for you. Breakfast was delicious, the two of you took your time, chatting easily, like you always did, laughing and joking with each other, enjoying your coffees and pastries, Joel remarking that the pastries you make are much nicer. You punched him on the arm for making such a remark in such a nice place, and he caught your fist, holding it in his hand, not letting go for a while, his eyes on you, making you remind yourself not to blush.

After he paid, resolutely pushing your card away, the two of you got back in his truck. As soon as he reversed, his phone rang, ‘Tommy’ flashing on the screen. He answered, Tommy’s voice clear on Bluetooth.

“Hey Big Brother, Maria’s…” he began, but whatever he was calling Joel for was interrupted by Maria’s screaming voice – “Thomas Joseph Miller, you hang up that phone RIGHT NOW!”, startling you and Joel.

There was some confusing scuffles and mumbled words spoken, before Anita’s voice chirped, “Joel sweetie? Don’t mind Tommy. Something broke and he was calling to see if you could come over to help but he can fix it himself, can’t he?” she asked, presumably at Tommy, who quickly took the phone back, saying in a nervous tone, “Yeah, silly me. I can fix it myself. I just panicked. It’s okay, see you later brother. Bye!”

Once he hung up, you and Joel looked at each other, confused about what was happening. You asked if the two of you should go over to check, but Joel shrugged it off, saying that Tommy and his Mama were there, surely there’s nothing the two of them couldn’t handle?

So the two of you went on to the garden centre, where Joel pulled out a huge cart for you to fill to your heart’s desire. You walked along the many displays of potted plants and flower seeds, deciding to take a look inside the large warehouse as well just in case there was something you would be interested in looking at.

You stopped at the home furnishing section – a display of outdoor tiles catching your attention. You walked further along, looking at the different selections of tiles, leaving Joel behind looking at some wooden-looking tiles. When you finally realized he was no longer next to you, you went back, finding him talking to some lady, whose hands just so happened to land all over him with every word she spoke, evidently asking him questions about some tiling.

The familiar surge of self-consciousness began to hit you. This lady was gorgeous, and Joel seemed to know her, albeit looking slightly uncomfortable being pawed at. He kept taking a step away from her, but she just followed. Just a couple of months ago, you would’ve just walked the other way. But the way you’ve been feeling lately, no. You’re not going to just walk away, you’ve decided.

So you took a deep breath, picked up a tile sample and walked over to them, “Joel, sweetie, what do you think of… oh! Sorry! Didn’t realize you were talking to someone there. Hello,” you said chirpily at the woman who now looked like you just slapped her across the face.

Joel, bless him, immediately took you by the waist, pulling you close, introducing you to Donna, she’s the mother of one of his students, he told you. The lady’s face snapped shut, “Diana,” she corrected, “And who is this, Mr Miller?”

“I’m Lily,” you answered, before quickly turning to Joel, wrapping your arm around his, showing him the tile sample, “I was thinking of this one for the backyard, what do you think?”

“It’s nice,” he said, running his fingers over the tile, “But I was thinking this one, it looks like wood, more natural, what do you think?”

“Well, I see you’re busy. See you around then Mr Miller,” the lady said, rather exasperatedly, stomping away almost immediately.

Joel released a very relieved sigh as soon as she disappeared, thanking you over and over again, telling you he didn’t know what he was going to do to get away from her. “She kept touching me. I never knew what to do when women do that to me. Do I pull away? But I might hurt their feelings. The disadvantage of being raised by Anita Miller, let me tell ya, be polite, don’t make people feel awkward,” he said, laughing a little.

It was then you realized you still have your arm wrapped around his, so you quickly pulled back, but he placed a hand over yours, stopping you.

“But I thought…”

“Your hand, I want to hold,” he said, shocking himself with how forward he was being, before tightening your hold on his arm. “Now, the tile,” he said. “What do we think?”

“Oh, erm… I like the wood-looking ones, but… I don’t think I have the budget for them yet. Maybe we come back? We only budgeted for the plants and seeds.” You pulled him away from the tiles, trying not to show him how flustered you were, and he followed.

“I could buy them, you know,” he said, “I live there too, but if you’re not ready, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just… I was raised not to buy without planning. I budget for everything, and that’s just not in the budget today. Maybe in a few months?”

“Okay, sure.” He pushed the cart along, filling it with soil and other gardening stuff you did have on the list, before going back out to pick the plants you had eyed and set aside.

After a quick stop to drop the stuff off at home, the two of you went straight to the mall, deciding to watch a movie, maybe a PG rated one, since Ellie was not home. You had tried calling Frank and Bill, seeing as your texts asking for pictures were decidedly ignored. Frank did not answer your calls, and Bill picked up only to yell at you, telling you “She’s alive, Ma!” before hanging back up. Poor Joel was greeted with a “Don’t you start now, Miller,” before he too, got hung up on.

Sheesh.

You sat in his truck in the parking lot at the mall, sourpusses on your faces, annoyed that you couldn’t talk to your little girl. What was up with that? You just wanted a picture or two. Was that so bad? You could feel your lips beginning to quiver.

Joel unbuckled himself from his seatbelt and slid across the seat to you, pulling you into his arms, telling you she’s okay, she’s fine, she’s with people we trust. They’ll take care of her. Don’t worry, okay? You nodded, snuggling your face into his chest, tears brimming your eyes. He kept holding you, comforting you, and to be honest, himself too, both of you missing Ellie so much at that very moment.

When the two of you had calmed down, you exited the truck, Joel taking your hand in his, lacing his fingers with yours as he walked next to you. You stopped, looking at your hands, and then up at him, and back at your hands.

“What?” he asked, “I told you, your hand, I want to hold.”

God, if only you knew how nervous he was that you might pull away, telling him to fuck off.

If only he knew how fast your heart was beating. Joel Miller wanted to hold your hand.

And he didn’t let go, not even as you queued to get the tickets, not even as you bought popcorns, not even as you watched the movie.

He didn’t even let go when you ran into Lucy as you stopped for a light, late lunch. The woman just stared at you defeatedly from afar, and finally looked away when Joel wrapped his arm around your shoulder, taking your hand and wrapping it around his waist, holding it in place there, fingers laced with each other’s.

You were sharing a sundae when your phone finally chimed repeatedly, pictures from Frank.

Ooh! Joel slid closer to you, eager to look at the pictures together.

Oh.

They were of Ellie, Bill and Frank.

At the local zoo. Having a jolly old time.

The fuck happened to the birthday party? The petting zoo? The bouncy castle?

A text message came in.

Frank: I’m not answering any of your calls – just so you know, so don’t even bother calling. And no, I am not explaining anything either, so drop that right off your head. I will drop Ellie off tomorrow night as promised, before her bedtime. Enjoy your time alone with RPH. And NOT FOR GARDENING! xx

Oh, you’re gonna kill some people.

“RPH?” Joel asked, befuddled.

“Tell you some other time,” you told him, putting your phone away, your face red from embarrassment.

You bought some dinner at the mall to take home, tired from your day out. As Joel parked his truck in your driveway and killed the engine, you decided you needed the answer to the question that had been burning in your mind all day long, especially since he started holding your hand.

“Hey, Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for taking me out today, I had a great time, really.”

“Thank you for coming with me,” he replied, easily.

“Hey, Joel?”

“Hmm?” his head was turned towards you, rested against his headrest.

“Was this… a date?”

He didn’t take his eyes off you. You could feel all the blood rush to your face from the intensity of his stare.

“Would it be so bad if I say I hope it was?”

“Yes.”

His face fell.

“You should ask me out for real, next time, and not guise it as a shopping trip to the garden centre, Miller.”

He suddenly smiled, “You mean, if I had asked you out on a date, you would have said yes?”

You nodded, a bit shy at how truthful you were being.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

You shrugged, “I didn’t think someone like you would be interested in someone like me,” you said, looking at your hands. “Why didn’t you ask me before?”

He shrugged, “I didn’t think someone like you would be interested in someone like me,” he said, looking at his hands.

You scoffed, shaking your head, just as he himself was shaking his own, laughing a little.

“We’ve been so stupid.”

You nodded.

“So, Ellie won’t be home until dinnertime tomorrow, how about I take you out on a real date?”

“But… the garden?”

He laughed. He had forgotten all about that. “Okay,” he conceded, “Next week it is, then.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He won’t stop looking at you. And you found that you couldn’t stop staring right back at him. His eyes dropped down to your lips for a split second, his hand taking yours into his.

“Lily…” he began, starting to move towards you.

Of course, his phone rang. Again. Tommy. Again. On Facetime.

“What?” he asked, a bit annoyed that his time with you was being interrupted.

“Whoa, there, Uncle Joel, just wanted you to meet your nephew. Uncle Joel, Auntie Lily, meet Jackson Miller.”

---

April

[searchforahero]

uh hi i was planning on posting a timjay fic for christmas but uh. that obviously didn't happen, and i have no idea if i'm ever going to finish it now, but it'd be a shame to let it rot in my notes, so. here is my partially finished timjay christmas fic :]

Christmas time always makes Jason astutely aware of just how alone he is. He’s seen the creepy spy camera footage of the Wayne holiday party. Not the one hosted by Brucie Wayne, but the real one, where Dick and Bruce try their damndest to make nice for Damian’s sake, and everyone pulls the Christmas crackers and gets overly excited for the shitty prizes contained within.

They’re always an intimate affair, Bruce, Alfred, Dick, Cass, Damian, and sometimes Tim. Jason feels his own absence deeply when he sees them, but he doubts they do. He won’t ask Bruce if he gets an invite, and he won’t admit it’s because he’s scared to hear the answer. The entire point is moot anyways, considering that even after all of these years he’s been playing nice with the Bats, and he still refuses to set foot in the manor.

He’s sitting on a high rooftop at the edge of Burnley and Newtown on Christmas Eve, watching shoppers and retail employees stumble home while the night shift and partiers take up their place. The city is bustling at this time of night, with street lights flickering and car horns honking. He can almost pretend he’s part of something, even from all the way up above it all.

Just as he’s trying to gear up to start patrol in earnest, a shadow goes flying by two buildings across from him. He watches the figure with mild interest, until it comes into the light and he can make it out to be Red Robin.

Jason wonders what he’s doing out here, sure, crime doesn’t stop for anyone’s birthday, even if that birthday belongs to Jesus himself, but It’s usually on a lesser scale around this time. Typically they can get away with having Jason keep an eye on the city with the help of a police scanner and have everyone else available for backup.

Jason watches as Tim gets closer and closer on each swing, until he lands next to him with a flourish that is found in everyone who has ever held the Robin mantle. Jason shifts slightly so he’s angled towards Tim and asks “What are you doing here Birdy?”

Tim plops down next to him with a big huff, from here Jason can see Tim’s face better. The domino only covers his eyes, and with them hidden he looks younger than he is. It’d drive Tim crazy if he said something about it, if he pointed out how even after all these years protecting the streets, the people probably still think he’s a high schooler, but to do that he’d have to admit he was staring, so he keeps quiet.

“The party was too…” Tim makes a nonsensical gesture with his hand, waving it back and forth and twisting a bit at the wrist “y'know?”

“There are so many” Jason replicates Tim’s motion “that you could be talking about that I honestly have no clue man.” This elicits a chuckle from Tim and seeing him smile, even so minutely, makes Jason realize that he’s quite sure Tim hasn’t done so at all since he landed.

Soon TIm’s shoulders fall once more and he looks down at his boots, one is bouncing along with his knee. He opens his mouth without saying anything a couple of times, little starts and stops of a sentence, until he settles on a simple “It’s been five years since my dad died.” He pauses for a good little while again, fiddling with the seams on his gloves until they’re perfectly aligned. “Christmas and Bruce and just… All of it makes me think about him on a good day, it got to be too much and I… Left.”

Jason takes that in slowly, he can’t say he hasn’t been feeling the same. He knows that Tim holds guilt over his fathers death. Jason can’t quite understand how that feels, except for in the way that everyone who has ever been left alive feels guilty that someone they loved did not. Regardless, he knows it must weigh something horrible on the other man.

What a pair they make. Waiting for Christmas together and yet not. Both alone by a self imposed prison of grief, while the people they love sit happily in front of the glow of the fireplace.

At least the person Tim is mourning is actually dead.

Jason realizes he’s been sitting there a bit too long without saying something so he shuffles a little so he can knock shoulders with Tim.

“I miss my Mom, Catharine that is. Especially around Christmas time. She loved Christmas.”

Tim twists so he can look at him, and the expressive way his lenses widen to stare at him has to be a security risk. “My Dad loved Christmas too. At least in the last few years. He, and I, and Dana would drive out to see the lights every year. Dana hated turkey, said it was always dry and tasteless, but Dad was determined to get her to like it, so we’d all crowd into the kitchen and try to make an actually good turkey. I don’t think Dad liked turkey that much either to be honest.”

Jason’s pretty sure Tim hardly breathed for that whole story. Jason and Tim are friendly to be sure, but Tim rarely if ever speaks up for much more than witty one liners, challenges to air hockey, Mario Kart, or rooftop racing, and mission briefs when it’s him and Jason.

Jason knows Tim has it in him to be chatty. He’s seen him talk Superboy’s ear off about skateboarding and he’s crashed at Dick’s apartment enough times to be used to finding Tim sitting at the kitchen island prattling on about his Wizards & Warlocks games, but that doesn’t usually extend to him.

Even just that short little story, especially about something so personal, feels foreign to Jason. He’d long since given up on anything more than a working friendship with Tim, especially after the less than warm reception Tim gave him when Bruce took him on as Wingman. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, Tim is clearly lonely and hurting, but he can’t help it.

“Mom and I would rent skates for the evening for the frozen trails in Robinson Park. Have you ever been? They’re so pretty at night.”

When Jason chances a glance over at Tim he finds him smiling at him. He can’t see his eyes but his lips are quirked up minutely at the corners. Jason’s glad he made the right choice there, he didn’t know Tim well enough to say if ‘bond over dead parents’ was an acceptable conversation direction.

“I’ve never been no. I hardly knew how to skate until Bruce taught me.” Tim drums his fingers on the ledge before he adds “Do you want to go? It probably won’t be too busy with how cold it is tonight. You do have skates in your uniform don’t you?”

Jason startles a little, he kind of figured Tim would be on his way soon. He’d either work through his Bruce issues and head back to the manor, or he’d call Superboy and hang out with Young Justice. But he seems pretty settled on hanging with Jason for some reason.

“Uh, sure yeah. I do. We can do that.” Jason’s always thought it would be more practical to have high tech no-slip boot soles instead of extendable skates in their uniforms. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to axe the design after years of twirling around Mr. Freeze on skates as a child. Stupid Bruce.

the plan from here was that they were going to go skating and then tim would invite jason to spend christmas with him and dana and they'd cook a turkey together <3 but. alas.

[5ummit]

Thank you.

The data collection method is not simply a minor difference of opinion. It's not just that I personally would have done it a little differently. Their data straight up does NOT represent what it claims to represent (in their own words: "the most popular relationship tags on AO3 in the period Jan-Dec 2024"). More importantly and why I've been so "mean" about it, centreoftheselights knows this and continually chooses to obscure that fact because they know that what it does represent is (1) much harder to explain, (2) of limited interest and use, and (3) wouldn't get them as much attention and praise.

When your data is being seen and used by millions of people to do analysis and draw conclusions about the current state of fandom (there are people loudly and publicly celebrating "the death of destiel" because it's not on The List despite it still being the 11th most written ship in 2024), it's no longer just a fun personal project where you get a pass to do whatever you want, misinformation and lies be damned. As OTNF said, someone in that position has an ethical duty to present their data as clearly as possible and help their audience understand what it actually says, not what they want it to say.

If I've got to be a little over-the-top and "mean" to get people to pay attention and prevent the further spread of misinformation, so be it.

And while we're responding to accusations of unnecessary meanness in the tags, I want to address this one too since I've seen multiple people, including centreoftheselights, argue these points and it drives me insane:

Sticking to the same erroneous and misleading methodology year after year for the sake of consistency is not a virtue. Will people always find a way to misuse stats? Of course. That's why it's the duty of the person presenting the data to do everything in their power to prevent that misuse and misinterpretation upfront and centreoftheselights has failed in that duty miserably. It's abundantly clear that 99% of people who see these stats do not understand what they actually mean (and why would they when the author is obscuring the truth at best and lying at worst). Any sane and decent person who saw this much confusion and misinterpretation would be apologetic and change their behavior. Instead, they brush off people's valid concerns and double down.

I absolutely do not condone harassment. Nobody should verbally assault, or god forbid, dox anyone over fucking fandom statistics. But questioning an extremely influential "statistician" and holding them publicly accountable for spreading misinformation, especially when they continually refuse to take accountability and show zero remorse for their actions, is not harassment.

Not really.

Part of being ethical in presenting data is helping your audience understand what the data actually say. It is blindingly obvious that the audience of the annual ship stats thinks they represent what fics got written that year. Since that's not the data being pursued, it ought to be in bold text at the top of every chart, not in an FAQ.

If the point is that net gain/loss is interesting, that should be telegraphed much more clearly.

Doing otherwise is tantamount to intentionally misleading the audience.

It is not mean to say so.