#if THOUSANDS of people are all doing it... it adds up!

[spaghetti-number1rated1997]

hey!! I really really liked this, and I wanted to jot down some things that I liked!!

i figured it'd be a little under a thousand words.. but I seemed to underestimate how much I enjoyed this!! so, here's a (n almost 3k word) review written in 2 days of covid induced rambling (this is a lie I would ramble anyway.)

Anyway, the review starts.. now!

Okaoraraok OK OK!!

.review time.. I really liked this which means i just want to write down my thoughts and not use grammar (and also that ive already made atleast 4 other people watch it)!! You have been warned!! :P (prepare for lots of double exclamation marks..)

~0:03 – let me just start by saying HOLY SHIT THE BACKGROUNDS IN THIS

THE PATTERNING IS BEAUTIFUL

THE COLORS COMPLIMENT EACH OTHER AND BLEND SO NICELY THERE IS ATTENTION TO DETAIL EVERYWHERE!! LIKE HOLY SHIT–

Also!! I love the way burr’s little cuff ruffle is animated <3 its so silly ^^

~0:12 – ONCE AGAIN, THE BACKGROUND!! (this will be repeated a lot, so brace yourselves!!)  I love love love the carpet and all the books/documents stacked on it!! Also!!! The trim on the desk and the walls is so nice!! Really spruces it up!!

~0:14 ..background– IS VERY NICE!! The curtains slightly ajar, the books stacked up nicely against each other at justtttt different heights!! More documents!! Just– the life in the room!!

Also!! Burr’s face here is so expressive!! His slow opening of the newspaper at the beginning, and his slow reading turns to just him  SLAMMING down the paper, and you can feel his anger! His swift, exaggerated movement conveys his emotions so well!! And his eyes!! Truly windows to the soul in this!! All the micro expressions his eyes do alone is fantastic!! Not to mention the growing scowl across his face for an extra touch!!

~0:19 – the horse here is so fluid!! And the wheels move at just the right speed!! Also also!! Haha, background!! The lighting on the left contrasting the right draws your attention and adds some variety!!

~0:26 – IDC IF ITS JUST DOORS, I LOVE THE PATTERNING!! The slightly uneven trim and the diagonal patterning is just– so nice!! And!! And~!! Burr’s dramatic double door entrance and  sassy little shoulder shrug >>> i love him so much alkjrwawjrl;

~0:29 all the people and their shadows!! The different hairstyles!! The different suit styles!! There is so much effort evident in this!! And the colors blend together so so nicely!! The palette is truly beautiful!! Not to mention the background!! The candle holders, the trim, the open liquor cabinet and entrance door that are a darker shade that draw your attention!! And burr being the only true cool color (the greens are all yellow-ish or highly muted)!! His purple contrast!! Aww snap!!

~0:32 ok!! Ok!! This is one of my favorite backgrounds (besides the beginning offices because those were peak)! I just want to say I absolutely LOVE, ADORE, APPRECIATE, and whatever other synonyms there are the patterning. The crossing subtle yellow and orange lines on the table cloth add SO MUCH. the slightly uneven floor boards ground the scene!! The INTENSITY OF THE SHADOWS!! OH MAN!!

~ 0:35 oh boy here he is!! His moonwalk!! His shadow!! His expression!! Oh boy he’s killing it!! Hes the life of the party (set to die within the next week :3) – also, burr’s hunched over conveys his discontentment, and his watching of hamilton emotionlessly shows he’s trying not to react, because hamilton isnt. But he wants hamilton to react. and – oooh boy~!!

0:42 yes. This frame. Its so short, but its so magnificent. The posing!! The vibrance and emphasis of hamilton compared to everyone else!! The distinct foreground that, while more vibrant than the things around it, doesnt detract from hamilton’s emphasis! The perspective!! The trim!! I love the trim in these backgrounds (prob cause i love trim/carving in real life too but ahaha im gonna keep mentioning it!) the different levels of detail based on how close they are to the cam!! The hair!! The hair!!!!!! The queues and bangs and aukrwl;aj;l I cant– and the suits and cravat styles!! So much care for this short segment!!

~0:43 ahh!! This background is simple but i find it really pretty! Just the fading pinks and diagnols and white trim!! Very cute :) – but more than that, theres burr’s expression!! His face is incredibly dynamic here, and I’d like to unpack it!! The narrowing of the eyes; like, seriously?? Are you really acting like this?? After what you;ve said? You have the nerve? Just conveys the emotion so well aughh. Next: the eye roll, bringing it further along. Like, I cant believe you (hamilton) would act like this. The stopping midway and turning to the wine. Like, if I’m not worth his effort he isnt worth mine (but please acknowledge it please ack–)

And then the glass back!! Because, he does care!! Its just chef’s kiss!!

Also, kinda off topic, but the attention to detail with his COLLAR SMOOSHING AS HE LOWERS IS HEAD!?!? OMGGGGG

~0:47 hamilton acknowledging everyone but burr must hurt– the fluidity of it too?? Short but DEFINETLY sweet!! And the little fluttering of his tailcoat (idk what it is, the bottom of his coat) is very nice :) 

~0:49 the expression!! Especially at the end! The gaping wide smile, the eyes closed in happy exclamation! The gesturing with his arms at uncontained excitement!! Rselaeaip

~0:50 burr’s face again!! You have such a knack for (or a lot of practice with) emotions!! The quick widening in shock and outrage of the eyes! The slamming of the glass because of his upsets! The sulking out!

~0:53 its small, but sweet! Everything is more muted than burr, yet hamilton still has his ✨emphasis✨also, trim :3

~ 0:55 sassy shrug 2.0!?!? Oh how you feed us so well!! And again, the expression! The lazy turn, the slight smile back into nonchalance! The turn back to his casual drinking charm/happiness!! Also, the slight slight animation in his hair when he laughs!! Oh man sjgosdgp

~1:04 the paper slamming against the desk!! The timing is so nice!!

~1:06 hamiltons sassy up/down look like, rlly? What is this? Idc fuck off burr :p and then his tentative “mm yeah dont care” grab of the of the paper

~1:09 straight to burr’s “motherfucker istg if you play dumb we can go right here right now” framing!! He;s taller than hamilton, but hamilton fills up more of the frame!! Its an attempt at intimidation, but hamilton doesnt care(?) and then! And then! Burr’s eyes! They squint slightly in contempt and he glares down at hamilton!! His mouth never quirking upwards, always straight or a downward curve! The continued just trying to look down upon ham irakpara – and then! The little head movement straight into the desk slam cuz burr is not happy rn.. And then he goes up again! For attempted leverage!

~1:21 oooh this bitch haha (also background!! Colors are so nice!! And the clock and lighter green segments!! Ooh!! And the window/window trim >>) anyway onto ham! His nonchalant expression which then very controlled-edly (idk) tight motions by his body and voice without emotion in contrast to burr’s “HAMILTON I’D LIKE TO PUSH YOU INTO THE HUDSON RIVER AND NOT LET YOU GET ABOVE THE WATER LINE!” 

~1:28 ahh the paper crumpling as it hits the paperweight! Small details!

~1:30 his (ham’s) going in to condescendingnesss oooo boy

And burr’s framing above hamilton yet out of frame at the same time ar;rpkar

~1:35 FRAMING FRAMING OOH IM IN LOVE hamilton leisure and burr’s attempt at leverage ahahaha!!  And you can see burr’s pissed off breathing!!

~1:39 his (burr’s) defeated hunch > we aint going anywhere at this rate! His little push off the desk as he walks by!! <3 his walk cycle and lip synch ar;j;oaprkl

~1:46 his little sit at the desk i love this old man! Ham being forced to look up at burr BUT HE DOESNT EVEN LOOK AT HIM!! OH BOY!!

~1:50 THIS!! THESE FRAMES!! BURR’s FINALLY GOT FRAMING THAT REALLY BENEFITS HIM!! ALLOWS HIM TO BE HIGHER THAN HAMILTON! “BETTER” THAN HAMILTON! AND HAMILTON DOES FINALYL LOOK!! BURR GETS HIS UPPER HAND IN HERE!!

~1:53 (burrs lip sync) hamilton’s “indifference,” yet still moving to track burr.. <3

~1:59 HIS LITTLE JUMP OFF THE DESK TEEHEE IDK WHY BUT ITS SO ✨✨ and his slight slump as he walks out!! And hamilton’s expression tightening slightly as burr leaves!! I love this segment so much just cause of burr’s little desk jump hehehe and the tail of his coat going up too cause of physics alrfiajfors

~2:06 ooh! The guns are so nice! All the parts! And the care into the gun’s case! The detail of the cloth (im assuming) to polish it because these scenes have so more life!! The emblem on the top of the case! And the CUFFS I LOVE REVOLUTIONARY CUFFS!! The ruffles and the buttons and the hand’s anatomy are so nice!! And the clothes’ wrinkles too. Plus!! The coat’s box pattern!! And the case’s pattern!! I really love all the slight patterns in this!! Adds such a nice touch!

~2:08 i wanna write the sound work separately but the clicking of the gunshere is so nice!! Also Pendleton(?, or van ness idk who gave out the guns)’s hat here is so nice looking, I CANNOT draw a tricorn from any angle but ¾!! And burr’s gun spin hehe hes so silly! And hamilton grabbing the gun in his own way and just bringing it up!! Cuz they’re dif ppl! Oh!!

~2:10 the background is so pretty!! And its changed from the pastel warm colors of the cincinnati dinner to much more muted and cool colors with the change of atmosphere!! Walking is also very clean!! Augh! <3

~ 2:12 one of my fav parts!! Burr’s slow glance back before continuing his paces!!

~ 2:14 THE WALK AND CAM PAN IS SO SMOOTH!! LIKE DUDE HOLY SHIT! AND THE TURN AROUND IS!! SO FLUID!!! JUST KNOW I LIKE THIS PART A LOT AND DONT HAVE WORDS FOR IT!! 

~2:17 burr’s expression opening as he observes

~ 2:18 hamilton sassy ahh turn oh boy hes such a dick i love him (same w/ burr) and ham’s suit~!! The coat and the bow’d cravat and the COLLAR and the undershirt!! Oooooooooo man

~ 2:19 burr sighing cause hes like ‘it came to this (this would have been so much simpler if you chose me instead of Laurens </3)’ as he looks down

~ 2:22 oh!! Ham’s side being light and burr’s cast in shadow!! The lighter full tones for hamilton, and the darker cooler tones for burr!! Sooo nice!!

~ 2:24 the clicking noise is so nice idk why, and the slight, small movements for the trigger, so miniscule and controlled

~2:25 like it didnt even matter!! Ooh!! We dont know what really really happened with van ness’ (i just wrote van burr arika;as martin van buren x van ness x aaron burr ahh name) and burr’s and pendleton’s conflicting accounts! We do know there was a shot, and thats what happens!!

This was so good!!!!!! Like honestly!! Major props to you!!

I’m going to get a little into the VAs and sound effects because.. This is almost 2k words and i should be resting since I tested positive for covid.. But.. the VAs deserve a bit of praise too! (a lot, actually) 

anyway !! im gonna be more vague here but here it is!! Juan Sanchez and Andrew Mauret absolutely killed it btw!

(the beginning) – the ambience with the birds, the light quill scratching!! The heavy white noise, almost overshadowing everything but burr!!  I really love Andrew Mauret’s voice here!! The slightly somber tone with the almost sigh-like pausing quality fits burr so well!! 

(ashes of conviction) the crackling fire and slight pocket rustling!! Eee attention to detail!! And you can hear the newspaper as he opens it!! Especially the sounds of the paper being manhandled and slammed against the desk!! Adds so much!! Burrs long deep breath intake before he starts speaking >> i really just love the slow talking burr does!! Hes trying to be collected, but you can hear the slightly somber tone in his voice!! !!! (and then the key jingle as he walks out teehee)

The wheels clacking!! The horse breathing!!!!!! wow!! You can hear the door/carriage creak slightly as burr steps out!! The emotion on “thats where we met” too!! Props to the va!!

(part 1) the ambience of the music here is perfect! The slight knocking to door slam!! Burr’s slight shuffling noise for his soft steps!! The clink of cutlery around burr!! Hamilton’s more.. Clicky?? Steps!! The loud talking around burr as he stares! (also, ‘woohoo!!’ Gives me ‘im a general, whee!!’ vibes) then, the slight thunk of burr’s drink as he aggressively puts it down. Burr’s steps are louder now, more like hamiltons and less like his before, as he leaves the room.

Also, the “he didnt care, at all.” voice work is just– ooh! You can tell burr wants to be loud; but he isnt. He’s trying to stay in control and you can hear it.

(part 2) the faster talking in contrast to burr’s beginning for “and thats when I decided to speak with him, one. Last. time” really brings out that burr is getting more and more absolutely ticked off and failing to remain composed. hes almost breathless here, when before he took deep breaths and had a slow monolouge. And then the “EXPLAIN THESE!!!” is just such a contrast to his earlier talking!! Like he’s losing it!!

The slight ruffle of papers as hamilton shifts his arms. Hamilton VA, Sanchez, you make me hate him. In a good way. He’s so stuck up and nonchalant and just ooooh i want to punch him. The “meh, idc, burr go away” nonchalance of his first line is a GREAT first impression to his character speaking.

Burr still breathes deep before talking (where as a quirk of him or the va. It shows hes still the same person even if hes no longer composed), but now its not so he can have a slow chat but release his pent up emotion. The emphasis on “mister” as if Burr doesnt think hamilton is worthy of the title/pleasantry is gold as well. 

Back to ham. The just opened mouth click like “really?? :/ ur wasting my time” to the uninteresting seemingly put together as he goes explanation!!

The creak as he sits forward in his chair oarraetaer just attention to detail!! And then ham’s “so i won't explain further” is just so sassy!! Then the pause between “unless any’ and “precise” is just rubbing it in for burr!!

Burr’s sigh sounds so genuine. His anger is dropped, and he pauses more/is slower again, but hes still not calm. (also, all the sounds as they move quickly for their clothing moving against each other is just!! Wow!! The effort put into this project!!) and then!! The “however, i am disappointed..” line is so good!! Like, “alright. If you wanna be a condescending dick ill fight fire with fire.” its so well executed!!

And the emphasis on “your refusal” because burr thinks this is all hamilton’s fault!! Just golden!!!

(part 3) burr sounds.. Strong yet defeated at the same type. Like, its happened, and its gonna stay that way, but.. Did it have to? The pauses are now not for composure, but have a sad nature to them. And the pause around settled!!

The change of atmosphere in the music!! (and the grass steps sound nice :3) once again!! Sighs sound vv genuine!!

Then the pop of the gun and hearing it fizzling off and the lone bird call to end it. So quick and its over. Because, no matter how dramatic we may make it, (cough cough “legacy, what is a legacy? Its pl–”) a bullet flies quickly. The duel was over quickly. 

Theres more I want to say but I am NOT letting this get to 3k words 😭 Its almost there and just-- I have spent too much time writing this already instead of resting.. (Idk if i mentioned this but I am positive for covid rn)

Props to everyone who worked on this!! I cannot express how much I like this!! Its rooted in fact and there’s life around every corner!! In the eyes, in the voice, in the background, in the sound effects, in the framing, in the fluidity and timing of motion!! This was absolutely fantastic, incredible, magnificent, and just a true masterpiece!!

What a doomed day

[flw3rrr]

Accepting grief

paring : Joel miller x reader

Summary: In which reader struggles to accept the loss of Joel, letting grief and trauma take over, desperate to find solace.

warnings: Mentions of blood, Angst, drinking to conceal emotions, PTSD, death, No y/n mentioned, Reader accepts the loss and heartbreak at the end, no description of reader (if anything is missed please let me know and i’ll add it💖)

Word count: 2.3k

A/n: It’s been quite some time since i’ve written something, crazy things in life happened so this may be a little rusty. but enjoy (i cried writing this)

Divider by: @cafekitsune

“Joel!” The loud wind from the snowstorm made it impossible to understand what words were being spoken. The distance is barely visible, huddling to yourself trying to keep some warmth inside your body. You left Jackson twenty minutes ago, with the deep urge to go out and find him.

Thoughts of losing Joel makes your heart race. Both having a somewhat normal life now to experience meant everything to you.

Just ahead you see a cabin almost looking abandoned. Carefully sliding off your horse, grabbing your pistol, and quietly walking around for the back door. Noticing fresh footprints and a cracked door puts your guard up even higher than it was.

The sound of grunts and cries allows your feet to move faster. Approaching the door, leaning against it, listening for anything.

“Please dont do this!” ellie begged. 

Thoughts ran through, body still as a stone statue. Possible outcomes of how to handle the situation ran through your mind. Taking deep breaths in and gripping your gun, you opened the door, shooting anyone you saw standing up.

Aiming for anybody until you were pushed down onto the floor by a man fighting him, desperately trying to get out of his grip, kicking, wiggling, anything to escape the hold. But by the grace of God, you managed to grab a shard of glass, cutting him right through, pushing him off; his blood was now on you.

After looking at the man who just attacked you, your head turned to Joel… just barely missing the sight of the girl.

His face, his body, barely even there. Blood covered every part of his face. You were stuck, unable to move. Breathshivering, stuck. Until suddenly a loud sound happened, breaking you out of the frozen trance. Noticing the girl right before you fall onto the wooden floor.

Blinking, You turned and saw Ellie, gun raised. Watching her go to Joel, crying for him to get up. He never did, and you feel your own heart break into thousands of pieces. It wasn’t until now that your own body broke down. Falling onto your knees, tears flowing down. Nothing could ever prepare you for this.

_________________________________

It has been weeks since Joel has been gone. Which means you’ve been without him for longer than you ever have been without him. He’s not there when you wake up, he’s not there when you go to bed, and he’s not even there to visit your dreams.

‘Damn you, Joel.’ You thought. ‘you leave me, but can’t even visit me in my sleep.’

Taking a sip of the drink you held didn’t fully give you what you wanted, but it was enough for now. People’s words of sympathy and advice are all you’ve heard the past few days. You knew they were trying to help, but words never bring people back, so you just thank them and walk on off.

Many people were worried about you, though, taking to the bottle more than usual, avoiding them, and staying home. The only place you had never visited, though, was Joel’s grave. It hurt knowing he lays six feet under, looking the same way he looked on the day of. His scars and wounds still on him.

It sickened you never being able to visit him; you wouldn’t see him, only his stone. That’s why you never left to see him on the day of his funeral; you never showed. Never liking the thought of burials and how their lifeless body stayed there forever. Nobody told you how it was; they knew you didn’t wish to know.

Every topic leading to him you avoided like the plague, but the only person you ever spoke about him with was Ellie. Knowing she was just as hurt as you, allowing her to open up to you if needed. But for others, his name never existed. The fear of talking about him allows flashbacks to appear. swarming back, reliving it once more.

You’ve worn some of his clothes for his smell, but not every day due to the fear of it going away so quickly. But right now it’s eleven pm. You planning to head to the bar for a drink and wash the pain and hopefully get a good sleep tonight later on. 

Slipping on your own boots, along with his coat, you begin to make your way to the bar for a drink. The quiet sound of snow crunching beneath your feet along with the wind howling calms you down. Never have felt calm before he passed. Almost like the earth’s way of trying to soothe you and convince you to turn back home. But you never turned back home; you just kept on walking. 

Once you had arrived, you took your place at one of the stools. It was quiet aside from the small chatting from the few left behind. It’s what you needed after everything: nobody telling you they were sorry for your loss and that they were there if you needed anything. It was almost as if it was a script given to everybody for them to rehearse just for your own ears.

Memories fled back to old parties taking place, small and soft ones that were held very dearly in your heart. sharing drinks with Joel and teasing him on how he should join the others for a dance, but of course that always ends with him rejecting the idea. But the most special part of that time was when he agreed, but only if it was with you instead.

Thinking about it, that was the best dance you ever had with him. The way his one hand lay around your waist as the other held your hand, never wanting to leave the moment you felt finally safe here in Jackson with him. Wanting to spend the rest of your entire life with him, perhaps your own family, if not, then you’d possibly own a couple of dogs and cats.

Lost in your own thoughts, a tap brought you back to reality, a reality where Joel no longer existed. Looking back, you noticed one of your friends. Not really a close friend but somebody who can relate to your own pain and suffering, Lily. She too had lost somebody she loved dearly, her husband gone for about four years. She’s never said how he passed, saying it was too brutal.

“Hey, how have you been doing lately?” She asked with sincerity in her face. It felt nice knowing she too understood that hearing words of sympathy over and over can be tiring and that wanting to be asked how you were is something you wanted more.

“Not sure, really. It could be better, though.” It was all truth. You weren’t really sure how you were at this moment, but you know it’s not how you normally feel. All the mental pain that clouds over your body drains everything from you, not being able to stand or even eat at times. It kept eating at you. Nothing could help, not even tears. You refused many times to accept that Joel was gone forever.

Lily just looked at you, examining your body and face, reading you like an open book. She knew what it felt like, and she saw that somebody just like her at one time needed help just like she did. Gently she put her hand over yours, her thumb softly stroking your hand, comforting in a way you thought.

“It’s hard, I understand. You refuse to acknowledge that somebody you love deeply is gone forever, and it ruins you for days, weeks, and years.” Each word Lily spoke was filled with honesty, careful to pick the correct wording but still comforting.

Listening to her words was hard to hear, but by some means, you listened.

“If we continue to ignore what pains us, scares us. It ruins our mentality even more than the actual death, and no matter how hard you try to hide from it, it never goes away.” She was right. You tried to hide away from the facts and fear. But deep down, it was nagging at you constantly. Evening affecting your own dreams.

Taking a sip of the drink you held, you then looked at her, eyes watery, drained, and tired. “So how do I fix what pains me? What do I need to take or do so that I may get rest from this?” The desperate need to get help is what you needed the most. That day is the only memory of him that clouds you endlessly.

“It’s not easy, but you have to face whatever bothers you most. Perhaps something he owned or anything. Confronting it slowly helps you fully grasp and understand that it’s alright to move on.” Those words were all you needed to hear to realize what you had to do. Needing to visit his grave and process he’s no longer on this earth.

“How long do you think it would take for me to accept?” The fear of never accepting the loss laid upon you. Hoping if there is an afterlife, you secretly beg the spirits to help you along.

Lily softly smiled at you. “That is up for you to decide when you’re ready to accept him being gone and let it help you continue growing into somebody better than you were before. Who knows? You may accept it after a few hours or even months.” Her words processed in your brain for a moment before you understood. You realized she was giving advice to you that she was never given back then, hoping to make yours go by quicker and easier.

“I understand. Thank you, Lily. I’ll keep your words in mind and maybe try it out.” With one last sincere smile and hug, you left. It was going on at one in the morning, half of the town away and sleeping safely. While walking, you noticed you were right by the cemetery where he lays. Everything was quiet and still aside from the wind, almost as if it was telling you to enter. Perhaps it was a sign to try it out now?

Perhaps with nobody around and just you in the night and the calm cold, it would help you. As if on cue, your body automatically began its way inside the cemetery. You saw nobody aside from headstones and flowers and letters everywhere. It was almost as if everything left you inside, leaving ultimate peacefulness within you. As if you had just passed on as well.

Even though you weren’t there to see him buried, you knew where he was. You walked right up to read his headstone. “Joel Miller.” Standing there in silence, you just observed, taking in the detail of how the wood was carved. Slowly sitting on your knees, your eyes look at the flowers that lay on his spot. From so many people that may never have known him like you did but still felt the pain just as you, Tommy, and Ellie did.

Not knowing what to do, unsure if you should just look or talk, emotions overwhelming your body, tears begin to flowdown. Not a sobbing cry, a quiet and simple one. “Damn it, Joel, why did you have to try to be a hero and save somebody?” 

Even though you tried to sound angry, you couldn’t help but crack a smile out of it. He always would try to save somebody he never knew, and that’s why you loved him dearly. “You know I’ve been crazy since you’ve been gone, Joel. I’m not really sure how to act without you by my side every day.” It was the truth, hating waking up every day and not seeing him right by you still asleep.

“You go on and die without me and yet can’t even visit my own dreams. What’s up with that, Joel?” A smile still lays upon your face, the wind blowing more, moving the trees. Perhaps it’s a way of him showing you that he is laughing? Whatever sign it is, you’ll take it. Comfort from him in any form possible is what you need the most right now, and you’ll take this one too.

“Joel, you know I miss you dearly and still love you. You were the only person I’d ever want to grow old with and die with.” Silence. Nothing but your own breathing and the wind could be heard, but it was almost like a blessing. Something you’ve never had for a long time. Peace.

Peace at last laid upon you, and it felt like you were being hugged. Maybe this was a way for Joel to let you know that everything would be alright. Perhaps you finally accepted the truth that he would no longer be with you physically but still with you mentally. Cherishing this moment, you closed your eyes, picturing Joel just as he was before he was taken.

You knew now that it was time to accept him being gone, to let his spirit rest so that you both can go different ways in different universes. Before leaving, you left one of your rings that you wore every day; it was one of his favorites. commenting on how he loved how it looked on you. It was time for you to give him something to take with him on his new journey.

Slowly getting up and turning back and making your way home, you felt cleaner, calmer, and at full peace. Perhaps now Joel can be at peace now that you released your own pain. It was time to start anew and join back with others and maybe guide others who had lost someone they loved.

That night as you got ready for bed, getting all comfortable and situated, you enjoyed the feeling of being able to go to sleep like you did before, with no fear, anger, or sadness. Comfort is all you felt, and as you drifted off, you felt like Joel was right with you. And that night you had a dream with him in a beautiful garden, sunny and calming. That’s when you knew. 

You’d finally accepted your own grief.

[oceanwithouthermoon]

okay some people genuinely really need to accept that the ONLY "queer coding" in saiki k is when they make gay jokes. there is NO other intentional queer coding, and i think people dont understand that claiming rep where it isnt there is much much more harmful than you think it is... just headcanon! its fun! you guys act like youre going to fucking die if you ship/hc something not canon, so you convince everyone that everything you say is canon ☠️ its literally insane

theres a HUGE difference between a headcanon or ship having what YOU see as canon backing, and a hc or ship that is actually implied or canon...

the only ship that you could argue is implied in saiki k is terusai, thats literally it, you could potentially make an argument that yumekai could be reciprocated towards the end, satoumiya, or MAYBE mikosai, but im pretty sure thats it...

nonbinary saiki is one of my personal favorite headcanons (one of the only ones i pretty much ALWAYS have in mind when talking or writing about him, it's practically a given) and i think it has pretty good canon backing, but its not ACTUALLY implied.

hes FAIRLY certain that his biological sex is male, and all evidence points to that, but he doesnt know and specifically says that he doesnt know what his true gender is... he clearly has absolutely zero discomfort with masculinity OR femininity, doesnt know or care about his gender, and is comfortable with either sex... he seems very happy to just be either...

seems like pretty solid evidence, but you also have to realize that there is literally zero chance that the author intended for saiki to be read as nonbinary, or trans in any way, this was literally just an excuse for plot and to have a reason to take advantage of his shapeshifting to do crossdressing/genderbend chapters ☠️ i love to see it as him being nonbinary and i think it has a lot of backing, but its not canon or even "implied" at all.

theres a lot of other examples of this kind of thing in this fandom, like theres a lot of people who claim that kubokai are queer coded (its usually just a joke when people say things like "hehe my ship is so canon" but im talking about like... people who see yumekai and go "um 🤨 this is LITERALLY homophobic because erm um kubokai are basically canon and queer coded and you shipping one of them with a WOMAN is HOMOPHOBIC" lmfao) and i am actually just not even sure where this comes from because they dont have anything that can even be twisted into romantic subtext, theyre just a popular ship because they have a good friendship. which is great! but theyre like the LAST thing i wouldve expected people to claim as implied or canon. they are absolutely not. the only thing i can even think of that might make people think that is saiki saying they look gay in that one chapter ☠️

[weatherman667]

Part XXVI - In the Grim Darkness of the far past/future/present/if-world, there is only WAR

AKA: Your fantasy story has a big battle.

You have to know how every army in your battle organizes. That might seem like a lot, but you can always copy history, and add a few fantasy flourishes.

Feudal

Feudal and feudal-like societies have a warrior-caste controlling territory. Those in that territory are protected by the warrior-caste, but owe them service. Usually some combination of rent, labour, and military. When they go to war, they typically call one man per household. Yes, the Mulan thing. These armies would typically have extremely limited training, discipline, and motivation, but agrarian societies could only have 1:100 people not working in food production. So, this allows them to only funnel work away from food production when it's necessary. They would typically be given a pointy stick, or some other cheap weapon on a stick. Because when you put a thousand untrained peasants together with pointy sticks, and point those sticks in the same direction, it's incredibly effective. As long as they stay in formation, which is more often than not, the real problem.

Knights: Knights, (thanes, samurai, etc), are a warrior caste. They have to provide all of their own equipment. This is an extreme concentration of force. So long as the enemy doesn't have specific ranged weapons, (muskets, arbalests, etc.), knights are basically invincible. Well, actually 6:1 in open combat. To put this into perspective, in modern battles, dug-in soldiers have a 3:1 advantage, and in a built up area 9:1. Getting a 6:1 on an open battlefield is insane. Richard Lionheart used a few hundred knights to defend a fortress from thousands.

Mercenaries: Between peasant levies and professional armies, you have mercenaries. Mercenaries are either paid with coin or loot. Their professionalism can vary considerably, but with free market competition, only the professional ones will survive. On one hand, they might be nigh unto bandits, or literally bandits paid to not be a bandit for a bit. On the other hand you might get landsknechts and Swiss Guard. And technically the Swiss Guard are mercenaries, (and so are the Gurkhas). One notable example was the Varangian Guard, the most elite force of the Eastern Roman Byzantine Empire. They were Vikings, and not only have the first rights to loot, they had the right to loot the Emperor's own chambres upon his death. They were so valuable that when the Emperor died, they would literally go into his chambres, and has the legal right to take whatever they could carry.

Professional Armies: Professional armies are the exception. One of the reasons why the Immortals in 300 are portrayed as demonic is that maintaining a military unit 10,000 strong was something the Greeks considered to effectively be impossible. After the withdrawal of the Roman Empire, professional armies did not return to Europe until the New Model Army, (mid-1600). Professional armies need a powerful state to maintain. They are trained well, equipped by the state, and well fed. They have uniform equipment, have good discipline, at least relative to the era.

Martial Tradition: There is a middle ground between professional armies and peasant levies. If you have a martial tradition. If you value martial achievements. If you encourage if not demand training, then you get Agincourt. "Never have so many men of quality been killed by men of no value." AKA: English Longbowmen at Agincourt killed so many nobles that they NEVER recovered. The French Revolution happened first. In order to do this, you need to pay them, a good day's wage, but you only need to pay and supply them when you are using them. Since you are paying them well, you can demand they bring and maintain their own equipment. Of course, since it's a tradition, you can't get rid of it and expect it to come back all that easily.

The downside of this is that you have peasant with weapons.

The upside of this is that you have peasants with weapons.

Tactics

The most effective way to fight is to collect everyone of a certain type together into a disciplined formation. Many battles would have few casualties until one side routs. It turns out that turning your back to someone trying to kill you just makes it easier.

Infantry and cavalry are typically divided into light and heavy. Light ones have more mobility, and depend largely on maneuverability and initiative to exploit a weakness in the enemy. They are also used to frustrate your enemy, i.e. prevent them from moving like they want to.

The centre of your formation is your strongest element, but it also has to be. If you lose the centre, you lose everything.

Lighter, less experienced forces are held on the wings or in reserve. Cavalry will typically have the outside to prevent flanking.

Flanking is when you attack from offside in sports. Literally. Literally, literally. Most battlelines are designed to fight enemies in front of you.

Heavy cavalry will NOT attack a line of pikes facing their direction. Or, at least the horses won't. So, charging through the front lines is not something that will happen, unless they have something bigger and less skittish than a horse. Like an elephant or rhino, or something.

But, the most important thing about battles is that they are typically not to kill people. This is honestly why the US lost in Vietnam. Most battles are to further military objectives. Take a bridge or fortress. Harry enemies to prevent them from resting. Attack the supply chain. The only time you want to fight them head on for the sake of fighting them head on is if you greatly outnumber them, or have a devious plan to take them out.

A single mountain path could stop and army of millions. Yes, 300, because it actually happened.

Also Sterling bridge. As NOT seen in Braveheart. During the Battle of Stirling Bridge, the Scots held the northern bridgehead. The English had to cross the bridge to attack them. En route, they are completely vulnerable to archers, and when they reached the far bridgehead they were surrounded on all sides. In this situation, it didn't matter how big the armies were, because the terrain limited the fighting numbers of those going over the bridge to 1/3 of what those holding the bridgehead had. The English were automatically flanked on both sides.

Now, when the Northern European powers decided to start having more civilized battles, POW would be held for the conflict, and then returned. At any other point in Human history, the losers could be killed or enslaved. If you were rich, you could be held for ransom. And this is why we will have the losing side looking for terms of surrender. Which is basically, okay, I agree to surrender, IF you promise to let us leave with what we can carry. Deal?

In one case this literally had women carrying their husband out of the city. Because, is that what they agreed to? Of course not. But it was amusing, and something they could respect.

Seriously, exact words work on fey, daemons, and genies. If you try to pull that on a Human you surrender to, you will find your terms of surrender changing quickly.

You Want to Make a Fantasy World: Part I - Magick

The first thing you need to decide when making a fantasy world is how magick works.

That might seem heady, but let's go over what you have to decide:

Who can use magick.

How do they use magick.

And how powerful can magick get.

Do you want 9th level magick, that can rip a giant hole in the world and summon unkillable monsters?

Because, honestly, you don't need it.

Can 9th level magick only be used by decrepid old wizards with one foot in their grave? Only it be used by chosen heroes? Only be by inhuman things, like Dragons and Daemons and Liches?

Low level but common magick can have a huge effect on the setting. Being able to light a fire can allow you to save the time and effort it takes to start a fire. Heating a rock can be used to heat a home, or even a bath, giving the equivalent of modern sanitation. Hand washing, bathing, and toilets have done the most for Human longevity. Can you go to a priest, give him a penny, and have him cure your cancer?

Sure, curing cancer isn't as cool as curing sword wounds, but the medical effects it can have on longevity are staggering.

Maybe magic is something that can only be done by a minority of the population, that dedicate themselves to the study.

None of them are wrong answers, so long as they are CONSISTENT.

If magickal ability depends on your bloodline, then someone, somewhere is going to think it's a good idea to selectively breed mages to keep the magics strong. The mages might become the noble classes, they might form their own class, which they breed endogenously, like Hindus.

If only inhuman things can cast upper level magick, and you see a seemingly ordinary Human cast that kind of magick, then guess what? He's not actually an ordinary Human.

Does magick need a physical catalyst? Does it consume reagents? How rare are these reagents? Do they come in one of a few types, or is every twig of berries a reagent for a different spell? Maybe upper level spells require expensive reagents, and that's the limiting factor? Maybe these spells use too much mana, and therefore can only be done by places of power?

Does teleportation require Line of Sight? Can you open long-range portals only if you have local knowledge? Can you target places of power from a distance?

We start with the simple, coarse questions, and get to the finer ones later on. When? When you come up with a good idea for how it works? Or, honestly, when you need to use it. It's perfectly fine to wait until the characters need/want to teleport to decide how it functions.

Another way to limit spells if by giving the heroes a rare magickal item. Why can they use portals?, because they have the Staff of the Herald. Why do they have the staff of the herald?

Given by someone important.

Monster loot.

They found it in an old, abandoned building.

They earned it by accomplishing some feat, or level of training.

Again, all you have to decide is how rare the item is, and maybe if you need some sort of innate/trained ability to use it.

[idalenn]

wip wednesday

tagged by @aislingsurrow and @primamchorus (last week but Wednesday is Wednesday is Wednesday. Thank you so much for the tags <3)

tagging @elliewiltarwyn, @viiioca, @ahollowgrave

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context: Lillian 5.0 lore; Venat observes the reconstructed Amaurot and replies to Lillian with a thick block of dialogue

"And you know this, that I would be different than him? How so? You are too kind. Would that I might claim in me his desires wholly absent, but I dare not be so prideful. This work wrought from despair, of grief, and of a thousand, thousand years longing for our lost people – I look upon it, and I wonder: would I truly have wanted differently, given those circumstances, from Emet-Selch? The horizons that I once lay in the grass and watched for days as they turned from water to wine and back again – swept away; lands vast and overflowing, rich with life and laughter, dotted with the footsteps of mankind’s promise – ceased to be; and what remains? Ghosts of echoes, weeping in their empty homes. New life overruns; the dust of dried tears is cleaned out and tossed into the wind; a table is placed where a friend once stood, day after day, waxing poetic to the beetles lining the windowsill; their conversations smother our glittering memories of whiling the days away in pleasant company, heedless of time, freeing ourselves – for just a moment – from the weight of responsibility to the star. Beholding the future, the vast, black tunnel of cold loneliness, for my warmth’s return, too, might I find myself willful to accept any measure."

[candiedcolloquium]

"ai is making it so everyone can make art" Everyone can make art dipshit it came free with your fucking humanity

[reginrokkr]

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈. With the appearance of Ronova, her overall presence and the environment being all veiled in an ominous red, big reasons to think that she was the one present in Khaenri'ah during the era where the crimson moon was worshipped and thus the Crimson Moon Dynasty was the ruler appeared:

The dogmatic priests convinced the muddle-minded king upon the throne that the remnants of the Crimson Moon in the sky ruled all, For it is the color of the moonlight that flows beneath mortal flesh, and the darkness hidden within the bottom of the abyss shall too emerge from the Crimson Moon. This being so, the king of humanity should take upon himself the name of the Crimson Moon, and by the light and flame of two worlds judge fickle fate. Thus they yearned for transcendent individuals to build countless glorious towers, and prayed for the long-dead Crimson Moon to bring them salvation.

As per their convictions, one extended belief that reached the last of Khaenri'ah's days was that from the crimson moon they'd get the abyssal power they always craved for in order to topple the gods. Which is ironic thinking about the arguably dark vibes Ronova gave herself as possessing abyssal origins to some extent as well as the curse of immortality due to its similar symptoms and signs to abyssal exposure.

Moreover, moving to the Perinheri book collection:

Perhaps it was the fear brought on by the darkness combined with hunger and exhaustion, but Perinheri did indeed see an illusion. The crimson moon, hanging high in the pitch-dark night sky, suddenly turned around, revealing itself to be a titanic, horrified eye.

Besides the point that this may look like a vague description at most that can or cannot be an exaggeration for literal purposes of the book, there is one thing that connects deeply with the mystery behind the fall of the Crimson Moon Dynasty as a plausible reason why it happened in the first place:

Until the astrologists branded as heretics glimpsed in the inverted image of the false sky the origin of all the world's fate, Until the unquenchable flames of doubt and fury blazed across the dreamless realm like wildfire, finally burning to the moonlight-hued palace itself...

As it's customary of Khaenri'ah, there were those who learned the truth about the origin of all fate and as a result, they were branded as heretics due to the disbelief of the rest. Nevertheless, the entire society fell into an uproar that included the assassination of many of these people and the eventual fall of the Crimson Moon Dynasty, soon to be replaced by the Eclipse Dynasty after that. So let's put ourselves into perspective: we have a kingdom that was purposefully founded in a place where the gods' gaze doesn't reach, formed a belief that goes against the gods and worshipped the crimson moon only to find out that this same crimson moon was none other than a god— actually, one of the shades of the God King that started it all. It would understandingly cause an existential crisis and the people would seek to deviate into a different direction as fast as possible.

By the time of the blackened sun, the name of the Crimson Moon had long faded along with the crimson that had flowed. Only the epithet "Balemoon" remained to stain the lingering detritus. Whether the unclean who suffered from the curse, or those unblemished ones not yet tainted by fate, none would again consider themselves a follower of the moon's remnants. Few survived the utter destruction of their kind, hiding in the shadows where the sun did not shine, longing for the Crimson Moon to decree their desire for vengeance be repaid—

Neither those who continued in the kingdom under the newly-established Eclypse Dynasty nor those who survived and exiled themselves somewhere else continued to worship the crimson moon, and the name they're referred to is derogatory at best in the memory of foolishly worshipping a god. Furthermore, either this event in specific or something else caused the crimson moon's departure as well until the last moments of Khaenri'ah during the burst of the Cataclysm where the moon came back.

And not only that, it was confirmed that the author of the curse of immortality was Ronova herself, which further incentives the thought that she was present as the crimson moon in Khaenri'ah millennia ago. As punishment for weaponizing the Abyss (which it's now known that it's the fault that led to Khaenri'ah's ruin and punishment), Ronova came again. However, there is an interesting passage in Dain's introduction narrated by Vedrfolnir that insinuates her taking revenge on the Eclipse dynasty:

The original calamity had been overturned, yet the island in the sky set the earth to burn. Chalk pursues gold, in this time inopportune, [the eclipse is swallowed by the crimson moon / the crimson moon takes revenge on the eclipse].

Which could be either seen through by cursing all the Khaenri'ahns, no matter if they were to blame or not for using the abyssal power too (as per Thrain's words, most of the people didn't know about its exploitation by the Five Sinners and Dain's fond words for Khaenri'ah despite his evident distaste for what the Abyss Order (many of which are Khaenri'ahns that had transcended into abyssal creatures) seem to attest as much) or something entirely different that wasn't revealed yet.

Lastly, knowing all of this, it's understandable that the survivors of the Crimson Moon Dynasty would feel petty about those of the Eclipse Dynasty and wanted nothing to do with them, as what they said was true and even so they were annihilated and chased away of the kingdom only to... not do things any better than they used to.

[captain-huggy-bear]

The Collection

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: N/A

Summary: You keep every single puck that Quinn has ever given you, he finds your collection that you've been shyly hiding away. It might just be the thing that makes him realise you're the girl he's going to marry.

Notes: I just want a boyfriend who'll give me a puck from every one of his games, is that too much to ask?

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

It starts quite simply enough with an ice hockey game, like most things did with Quinn Hughes. The two of you had known each other for a while, acquaintances through Kiefer, acquaintances who then had become somewhat friends, but by no means were you close. That had changed one afternoon when Quinn had asked if you'd come to watch him play, not watch the team, not watch Kiefer, but watch him. This had seemed quite the clear hint that he was interested, or at least Quinn had considered this a neon flashing sign telling you he was interested. He considered this him shooting his shot.

It later transpired that Quinn considered this your first date, despite the fact he was on the ice and you were beside the penalty box, and that he'd not mentioned once the word date to you, but that's a story for another time.

The important part of this first-date-that-didn't-seem-like-a-first-date was not just that it set in motion your changing relationship status from somewhat friends to boyfriend and girlfriend, but that it was the first time Quinn Hughes ever gave you a puck. Something which to many would seem inconsequential. People got hockey pucks every day, every game. Thousands of fans owned pucks from hockey games, in that sense you were not particularly special.

It had felt so silly, and so girlish at the time, to be excited over an ice hockey puck of all things just because Quinn had tipped it over the glass to you specifically. And it had been for you, the glare he'd sent to those around you who even looked like they might snatch it had been lethal. It had felt even sillier to take that puck, cradle it the entire game, squirrel it all the way home only to write the date and a simple sentence on it in metallic gold pen, 'Quinn asked me to his game'. You're not entirely sure what had possessed you to do it, why it felt like something you needed to record. It had felt so...silly to do but you'd been unable to resist.

You'd squirrelled the puck away in a box in the back of your closet, out of sight of prying eyes, but it hadn't been forgotten by you. In fact, it was seen every single time you went to one of Quinn's games. After each game you'd inevitably come back with a new puck, another one to add to the collection of pucks that you were growing. At first the number was relatively slow to grow, you didn't go to every game, not during the weird stage where Quinn had yet to outright ask you out and you, oblivious as ever didn't realise he'd been trying for weeks.

As Quinn and you began officially dating you found yourself constantly receiving pucks, every game you went to he had a puck for you and at the end of the night you'd write the date and a simple sentence on it of something that had happened that night, something significant in your relationship or simply something significant to you even if it didn't seem significant to anyone else.

Still, the box remained hidden in the back of your closet, something you almost felt too shy to share. Even now that Quinn and you were in a relationship, even now 2 years down the line when he'd asked you to move in with him once your lease was up, it still felt scary to share it. Realistically you knew Quinn wouldn't be put off by it, the sort of sentimental person he was, he'd likely love it. That didn't stop the irrational fear. Especially given how personal some of the pucks were to you. It just felt embarrassing like showing him your blog from when you were thirteen or sharing a sketchbook from when you were twelve.

Moving apartments had been as simple as moving apartments could get, which is to say not simple in the slightest. Moving your things into Quinn's place had felt a little like playing Tetris, trying to find spaces for all your books and knickknacks without completely taking over his space. Trying to find a balance between his things and yours. In that chaos you'd managed to sneak your box of pucks in and to the back of your section of closet, a, in your opinion, perfect hiding spot.

It was not in fact a perfect hiding spot. Perhaps you were naive to think that Quinn wouldn't ever find them even when you shared such close quarters? Or perhaps you'd simply been avoiding the reality, trying to forget about it except in those few moments when you got home from a game before him and rushed to write on your puck and throw it into the box along with its brethren.

Either way, whether naivety or a desire to avoid the issue, it didn't stop you from finding him in that moment sat on the floor of your shared bedroom, looking incredibly cozy in a big hoodie and sweatpants, but pawing through your box that lay in front of him. The cardboard worn and battered from years of use.

"What are doing?" You knew exactly what he was doing, you could see two years worth of pucks piled high in front of him, one currently being turned over in his hands, but the panic seemingly made your brain stop working. Processing the scene felt impossible, you could see what was happening but couldn't quite comprehend it. Quinn was careful with the pucks, almost reverent as he put the one he was currently holding off to the side and reached for another, reading whatever you'd written on it.

"You kept them?" Quinn's voice is quiet, soft, an almost whisper that has you stepping further into the room even as you twist your fingers together nervous of his reaction.

"How...how did you find them?" Perhaps it was silly to think you could keep them hidden, after all you couldn't exactly claim you'd hidden them in some elaborate or overly complicated fashion. They were simply in a ratty old cardboard box in the very back of your half of the closet. It's not like you'd hidden them in some secret compartment.

"I was looking for my ugly Christmas jumper for the party on Sunday...didn't realise you'd kept them all. Why'd you hide them?" He smiles up and over at you from his spot, looking boyish and sweet even as you internally panic about the discovery he's made.

"I...I just...it's embarrassing." You shuffle nearer even as you say it, seeking his reassurance without quite truly realising it. When you're within reach of him, Quinn tugs on your hand to pull you closer from his position on the floor, cross legged and leaning back against the side of the bed.

"Baby, it's not embarrassing, it's sweet...you kept every puck I've ever given you. That's...I love that. C'mere." He tugs you down to the ground, until you're sitting side by the side with him and he can wrap an arm around you. He's warm and smells like the laundry detergent you use, it's calming, reassuring even as you still feel that rush of embarrassment at being found out.

Quinn reaches for a puck he'd put off to the side, it's worn and tarnished, dents from being hit across the ice during warm ups marring it, the logos of Seattle and Vancouver hidden underneath your writing in gold metallic pen.

"See, look, this is the puck I gave you on the day we had our first kiss." You'd written across the front 'Quinn kissed me today!!!!!!!!!' followed by more exclamation marks than was reasonable for anyone to use. You could remember the game clearly, Quinn had asked you to come along, you'd still not quite realised that he was trying to date you and your obliviousness had set a fire underneath him. He'd been so fed up that he'd forgotten what subtlety was. After a hard fought win, he'd rushed towards you in the corridor by the locker room and kissed you in front of half his teammates, all of whom had decided that was a great time to cheer and whistle like they were at a football game. You'd been surprised by it, taken aback, needing a few moments to process before returning the kiss, but you hadn't been unhappy with the sudden turn of events that had you practically unable to form words afterwards.

Quinn's careful as he puts it back before reaching for another puck, rooting around in the box before he pulls out one with the Canuck's orca emblazoned across it. Quinn takes a moment to read it before practically beaming over at you, eyes bright and excited.

"This one is from the game where I took you on the ice after and taught you how to skate," The puck had a creative attempt at drawing yourself and Quinn in ice skates, stick figure form of course, 'Quinn tried to teach me to skate after the game.'

"You mean you tried to teach me how to skate...last I remember I'm still not great..." You tap a nail against the 'tried' in your handwriting and Quinn just grins at you, any lasting embarrassment has started to disappear, and instead you're left with a sense of warmth. That you have all these memories to look back on, moments you might have forgotten about otherwise.

"You're just a work in progress, baby, you can stay upright...most of the time..." You shake your head at him, rolling your eyes as he teases you. It was a well known fact that you were nowhere near as graceful as Quinn was on the ice, having never really ice skated as a child.

You reach into the pile and pick another puck out, a pride night one, reading the caption quickly and very much deciding that this is one Quinn doesn't need to see, "Oh, not, you're not reading this one!"

"Give it here!" You reach away from him, arm as straight as you can get it to hold the puck as far from him as possible. Naturally, it does very little, Quinn and his long arms simply lean over you and pluck the puck from your grip with ridiculous ease.

You groan, pressing your face into his shoulder to hide away from whatever judgement might pass across his face as he reads off the puck, one of the early ones, from before you even realised he wanted you. From the days when you were pining, crushing hard on a man you thought you'd never have.

"Quinn smiled at me during warm ups'...Oh, baby, that's cute," Quinn grasps the nape of your neck in his hand, pulling until you turn to look at him, your cheek still smushed against his shoulder.

"We weren't dating then...and you were always so locked in..." You try to justify it, that back then his smiles were rarer, he was always so focused on the game that a smile was special, that any little interaction felt special because he wasn't yours yet, but it doesn't stop you feeling silly and embarrassed that you'd felt a smile during warm ups was important enough to put on a puck. At the time it had felt like the only thing that mattered, that Quinn had smiled at you, that his focus had been on you.

"I always have a smile for you...even back then, I was always excited when you agreed to come to a game...it made me want to play ten times harder, baby, still does." Quinn can't remember a time when he wasn't excited to see you at a game, to know you were there to support him, even in the early days. If anything the early days were even more exciting, simple because it didn't feel like a given that you'd be there. You weren't his girlfriend back then, you didn't have to be there, he couldn't complain if you weren't. So seeing you had always felt like he'd won a prize because you'd given up your time to watch him play in a freezing cold arena even knowing you'd barely get to talk to him.

"They're silly..." You gesture to the array of pucks, the number feeling ridiculous. How had you managed to collect over 100 pucks? Why had you decided to keep them all?

You stop your self-doubt and wallowing at the feeling of Quinn pressing a kiss to your hair, tugging you into his lap until you're as close as he can get you. Quinn is gentle when he runs his palm from the nape of your neck down to the base of your spine and back again, a soothing rhythm that makes you feel more confident when you look him in the eye.

"They're sweet...this is our entire story in pucks, can't get better than that..." The way he smiles at you is so soft and sweet that you wonder why you were ever scared of him finding them, "Don't stop doing it, baby...Promise me."

"I'll run out of space in my box though..." You look down at the almost full, falling apart cardboard box from one of your deliveries 2 years prior, the corners starting to tear, the free space inside almost non-existent.

"Then I'll get you a bigger box. I want to be 90 years old and have a thousand pucks in a giant box, each with something you thought was special enough to write on it... even if it is..." He picks up a puck squinting at it, "'I made Quinn laugh.' or," Quinn finds another from the pile, "'Quinn said my hair looked pretty', although maybe I need to be setting the bar higher, baby" He teases you, flipping the puck between his fingers with ease.

"I was pining after you, okay, and I wasn't sure you liked me back then!"

"Yeah, I forget, me asking you to come watch me play wasn't clear enough!" Quinn has been adamant for years that it was obvious he was asking you on a date, that you were just oblivious. He was, of course, wrong. Asking someone to come watch them play hockey was not in any way an obvious invite to a date and you refused to take responsibility for the earlier miscommunication which was clearly all his fault.

"It's not clear at all, honey! People ask people to watch them play all the time, it doesn't make it a date!"

"It was so a date!" a date in which you spent near 3 hours in the freezing cold and barely spoke to Quinn...definitely what a date is supposed to be. No wonder he was single for so long when you met him.

"Honestly, I'm starting to think you're lucky I liked you enough to put up with you..."

"...I am lucky...I'm lucky you gave me a chance and that you liked me enough to keep all these pucks and I'm lucky you agreed to move in with me even if you hide pucks in the closet like some weirdo." Quinn grips your hips, squeezing gently, smiling up at you sweetly even as he calls you a weirdo like he's not the one who thought watching him play hockey would be a good first date idea.

"You'll be lucky to sleep in the bed tonight if you keep that up,"

"You'd kick me out of our bed, baby? Really?" Quinn pouts at you as you grin down at him from your perch on his lap, arms wrapping over his shoulders and crossing behind his neck.

"...I'm joking, I can't sleep without your snores." If you could call his barely there noises snores, the lightest of snores, the sort of snores that were almost perfectly rhythmic rather than annoyingly inconsistent. Before Quinn you'd been adamant you couldn't date someone who snored, that it would make it too hard to sleep, now? Now, you genuinely missed them when he was gone. The noise a comforting backing track.

"You should put that on the next puck, 'I can't sleep without Quinn's snores in my ear and his manly arms around me'."

"'Manly arms'?" You pull back from him slightly, brows raised in question and an amused twist to your lips.

"You don't think my arms are manly, baby?" You laugh as Quinn raises one arm, flexing his bicep. You can't even see his muscles underneath his baggy hoodie, too well hidden within his cocoon of comfy cotton and polyester.

"I think you're ridiculous...." You shake your head at him, settling back in against him as he peers down at you with eyes that can only be described as loving, soft around the edges and almost hazy.

"Well, I think I'm in love with you."

You sigh happily as you reach for the box of pucks just behind you. You find a puck you know from sight alone, plucking it from the box and handing it to Quinn in response. You watch him read it, the way his smile turns to a full grin that beams at you like you've given him the moon. When in reality its just a ratty puck that says, 'I think I'm in love with Quinn Hughes'.

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Idk, just a thought.

Bruce: WE DON'T KILL PEOPLE, JASON

Dick: Pfft okay

Bruce: What do you mean by that?

Dick: Just saying, for a family that "doesn't kill", we have a pretty high kill count

Jason: Whaaaa?

Dick: Yeah, all things considered, Cass has the lowest count. You'd know this if you talked to us

Bruce: Dick, what are you talking about?

Jason: Wait! Replacement has a kill count???

Dick: He holds the record for most kills currently

Bruce and Jason: WHAT?

Dick, a little too proud: He's going to be so scary when he embraces being a supervillain

Tim, appearing with a pout: Still not a supervillain. Stop saying that.

Dick, beaming: No

Jason: wait, wait, wait, how does he-?? When-?? But I'm a crimelord and Demon Brat was an assassin???? Just how many have you killed???

Tim, ignoring Bruce having a mental breakdown: I lost count after I blow up all of Ra's bases. But a couple thousand?

Jason, shocked: For real?

Dick: See! Baby supervillain!

Tim: I'm not a baby anything, asshole. I'm 19!

Jason: Damn, baby bird. Wait! Does this mean Bruce and you (Dick) have kills counts?

Dick, shrugs: Yeah, Slade still tries to recruit me occasionally because of it.

Tim: Yeah, and Bruce likes to pretend he doesn't, but he does. If we want to add all the people he put in states worse than death while you were dead, who later killed themselves because of it, it's an even bigger list.

Dick, guiltily frowns: I'm not sure I want to add those. My list would get a hell of a lot longer too.

Tim, shrugs: Not all kills are to be proud of.

Jason, flabbergasted: I think I need to process this... my life is a lie

Tim: Talk to Alfred, it'll help

Jason, gestures to the despairing Bruce: What about him?

Dick: We've actually discussed this several times in front of him before, if we set him up at the bat computer, the med bay, or in his room, he pretends the whole conversation was a hallucination or something

Jason: Seriously?

Tim, nodding: Damian is so salty about it

Dick, strong arming Bruce to the bat computer and opening Bruce's latest case: Dami'll understand eventually.

Jason: Man, I need to hang out with you fuckers more often

Dick: I've been telling you!

Tim: There's a lot you don't know that we won't be discussing here, come to my safe house in southend on Thursday. We're having a sibling hangout at 4pm

[lonely-coconut]

Blinkie.World preview!

Here is a preview of Blinkie.world, my blinkie collecton site! The goal here is to collect every blinkie on earth (but only if they're free to use, and can be credited). They're all sorted into these color pages, and also sorted into tons of sub categories on other pages (like food, animals, holidays, etc etc). This is what some of the color pages look like now! Once I have at least 300 blinkies in each color, then I'll consider the site full enough to go live! I'm aiming to get it online by Art Fight (aka by July this year).

Do note that this isn't actually an accurate representation of how many I have. I have thousands more than this! I just have to code them all in. It's not as quick as just an image tag and a link, because it also needs to be named, linked to it's source, tagged so I know what categories they're in, have a link to a screenshot that proves who the creator is and their terms (in case the credit link dies one day), have alt text, and have hover text which says the creator and a description of what the blinkie says! So, it's not like this:

<img src="">

It's actually like this:

<a href="" target="_BLANK">

<img src="" alt="" title="Credit: . ID: """></a>

<!--Categories: -->

<!--Screencap: -->

And that's for every blinkie! You can probably see how this is so time consuming, but I think it's worth it. I've never seen a blinkie collection with 6,000+ blinkies, much less every single one credited, and even less sorted into dozens of categories! It's like I have a blinkie for everything, while also knowing the creator of each, and being able to easily search for a specific one via the sorting system! It's especially good for helping others find blinkies, and helping people get the sources for blinkies they already have! It's also great for finding blinkies to use for your ocs (which is my initial reason for doing this).

I'm very excited about this. I really think this could be a very fun resource for people, and that aside, I just really like having so many in my possession. I love to see them. I even have blinkies that I've downloaded before they were deleted off the internet! That's very exciting to me. I have blinkies that are straight up lost media, and I'm happy to be able to preserve them.

Of course as I said, it's going to take forever to add them all, but I'm chipping away at it. I shall not be stopped! Also, if you want a blinkie in any of these screenshots above, just let me know! I'll get it and it's source for you, easy peasy! I'll post more screenshots as significant progress is made, but for now, it's back to downloading blinkies!

[sitepathos]

Yandere Alpha Batfamily and Omega Male Reader

Been on a bit of an A/B/O kick on AO3 on the last few days, so here’s this. Enjoy it while waiting for the next chapter of From Gold to Mold!

The Wayne Pack is the most famous pack in Gotham and is one of the most influential packs both in America and in the world, not only due to its wealth, connections, and resources, but because it’s populated almost entirely of Alphas (Alfred is a Beta), with Bruce earning the nickname “Alpha of Alphas.”

Everyone knows that Alphas are biologically hardwired to give orders, not take them, but Brave managed to find a way to reign them in and Gotham is in awe that Bruce Wayne was able to raise several Alphas and lead them into high profile galas, auctions, and other events. They also fawn over the fact that everyone in the Wayne Pack has the perfect blend of looks, intelligence, and body.

Needless to say, the Wayne Pack is a pack many wish to join, especially Gotham’s elite. People by the thousands would sacrifice a limb if it meant being a part of such a prestigious pack.

You were the consequence of a one-night stand between Bruce Wayne and a rising romance author Beta woman.

Just like in From Gold to Mold, your mother dies from a drunk driver on the day of your sixth birthday and after a DNA test showed you to be the son of Bruce Wayne, Alfred came to Goodsprings and you were brought to Gotham to live at Wayne Manor.

You always wished to have a Daddy when your friends talked about theirs and now, you were about to be welcomed with open arms.

Needless to say, you were extremely hurt when he barely acknowledged you and walked off, telling Alfred he was going out.

Alfred told you he was dealing with a lot, namely the untimely death of his pup, Jason, and that he just needed time.

Almost a week after you moved in, Bruce adopted Tim Drake and treated him with love and affection. You greeted Tim, hoping to have someone other than Alfred to talk to, but he just gave you a once-over before following Bruce.

You stood by and watched as the two of them would sneak away to the library and stay in there for hours, especially at night.

After a month, when the two of them made their way to the library, you tried to follow and begged Bruce to allow you to join them, clinging to his arm and tears streaming down your cheeks. All you wanted was just a little bit of his love that he shows Tim.

You realized that was never going to happen he shoved you to the floor, growling at you and baring his fangs, his Alpha instincts on full display. And Tim just stood there and said nothing; in fact, he almost seemed to approve.

They didn’t even watch you as you scrambled to get up and run away as fast as you could, fat tears and loud sobs following you as you retreat to your room.

Time passes and as Bruce welcomes more orphans into his house and treats them like his own children, you withdraw more and more into your distant corner of the manor, where only Alfred deigns to tread. And not only do all of them eventually present as Alphas, but they all possess talents, wit, and charm that add to the Wayne Pack’s prestige and social standing.

Then there’s you, smelling of nothing, meaning you’re a mere Beta. Hell, you feel less than that since Alfred’s a Beta and he’s arguably the one who keeps the Wayne Pack functioning. You’re average in every way possible, and in a pack like the Wayne Pack, that’s unforgivable.

You can do nothing but listen as they pile into the pack nest room where they scent one another, eat a stupid amount of fast food and desserts, and laugh at some movie they put on. After the first dozen times, you learned that you’ll never be invited because you’re not pack.

The final straw came when the bane of your existence, Damian Wayne, came to live at the manor. When he tried to kill you with that sword of his and was just carried away and Dick was telling you to turn the other cheek, you realized that no one cares about you and staying in Gotham would ultimately lead to your death.

The next few years play out as they do in From Gold to Mold, complete with the Pen Incident with Damian, your kidnapping and almost murder, and you becoming the host of the Megamycete.

However, when you enter your house in Goodsprings and all the memories come flooding back, you feel an odd sensation coursing throughout your body, like being set aflame, and you smell something sweet, like Alfred’s baking.

It’s thanks to the Megamycete’s archives that you learn that you’ve just presented as an Omega. Specifically, a male Omega, which is less than 1% of the Omega population and is a highly sought after commodity.

You remember from senior biology lesson that Omegas apparently have a built-in defense mechanism; if a would-be Omega feels that their current environment is unable to accommodate their physical, mental, and emotional needs, so much to the point that their life is in danger, they will refuse to present, going as far as imitating Betas until they’re in a proper environment that they feel safe in.

You freak out, knowing that Omegas are looked down on by most of the world and Gotham is ranked one for the worst places to be an Omega due to the residents of Arkham and the archaic laws that deem Omegas unable to function in the outside world and must be kept inside to “shield their fragile hearts and tender souls.”

If it gets out that you’re an Omega, you’ll most likely be sent back to the Waynes and while they may advocate for Omega rights and sponsor many Omega shelters, they’d most likely make an exception in your case and continue treating you like shit.

Hell, they might even throw you on the streets, knowing no one in Gotham would hire an Omega. Or sell you off to one of their rich friends to further their standing in Gotham’s high society.

Then, you learn that Nevada was actually one of the first places to give Omegas equal rights as the state relies on gambling for revenue. They figured that allowing Omegas to work would lead to them using said money at one of the state’s various casinos. And many casinos saw the appeal in hiring Omegas to work in their game rooms, luring countless Alphas in to gamble and drink their hard earned money away.

For the first time in years, you finally felt happy.

For the next four years, the Wayne Pack loses its cohesion. Bruce loses his temper more easily and is more often than not unable to get his children to follow his orders; Dick struggles to keep the peace between Bruce and his siblings; Barbara fails to fulfill her role as Oracle; Jason seems to blow up at everyone for no reason (except Alfred); Tim withdraws more and more from the family; Cass has a hard time focusing on anything, be it ballet or crime fighting; Steph’s usual witty remarks become more harsh and scathing; and Damian refuses to let anyone near him, only allowing Alfred and his loyal pets into his personal space.

Bruce is at his wit’s end at the state of his pack, all his efforts to bring them together only drive them apart. And he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something missing. Something that he never noticed, but was apparently extremely important.

His burning desire to solve this mystery is satisfied when he discovered a gaming magazine mixed in with his newspapers (Alfred claims it’s one of the children’s and must’ve gotten mixed up with Bruce’s papers, but Alfred totally arranged for that to happen) and when he took a good look at the cover, he saw an older version of you staring back at him.

“This is Y/N,” he asks Alfred, totally baffled at what you look like. “That can’t be him! He’s not old enough!”

“And how old do you think he is, sir,” the butler retorts, an eyebrow raised.

Bruce is capable of answering thousands of questions with highly detailed answers almost instantly, but this one makes him freeze due to him not having an answer.

You were… how old when you first moved in? When was that? How old are you? Wait, when is your birthday? And what is your scent? Actually, when was the last time he talked to you?

As he slowly realizes that he knows less than nothing about you, from your birthday to your age to your scent. He bolts out of his office and to the family’s wing of the manor, but he discovers that the only occupied rooms belong to his children and the room next to his has been unoccupied for over a decade.

He frantically asks Alfred where your room is, quickly leading to the others coming to see Bruce almost on his knees and begging to see you, someone none of them have even thought about in years.

Without uttering a word, Alfred leads them to your old room and all of them are ashamed to learn that you spent years in some dingy guest room with a bed that’s barely large enough for a child, let alone a young adult.

“Where’s Y/N,” Bruce asks, trying to keep his composure. “Is he in Gotham?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. Master Y/N left the manor after his graduation (many of them whimper when they learn they missed your graduation) and moved back to his childhood home.” He pauses and when it sinks in they don’t even know where you lived prior to moving into the manor, he adds, “Goodsprings, Nevada.”

It takes everything Bruce has, but he’s able to force his kids to remain in Gotham while he travels to Metropolis so he can attend your award ceremony and convince you to return to his pack where you belong. As he travels, he has Alfred arrange for the unoccupied room to be turned into a proper room for you, complete with anything you might need. He also plans for you and him to have some quality time with each other before the others fight one another over who gets to have you next.

When you finally take the stage to accept your award and give your speech, he realizes something unexpected: you’re an Omega.

Omegas are barely 10% of the global population and males are practically nonexistent and any that are found are quickly scooped up by opportunistic Alphas.

How could he not have known that?! Even if none of them have spent any time with you during your time at the manor, the smell of an Omega would’ve been smelled by someone. Especially Alfred. Lord knows nothing gets past that man.

Were you taking suppressants? And what kind? And how many times a day? If you’ve been taking them since you presented, there’s no telling what kind of damage has been done to your body!

As he begins to draft up a recovery plan for long term suppressant use, it dawns on him that anyone with a functioning nose can smell the tantalizing sweet smell Omegas are known for. Why aren’t you on suppressants now? Did you run out? Or is it too dangerous for you to take them anymore?

Questions begin to pile on top of one another and as much as he’s glad to hear your voice, he wants the ceremony to wrap up quickly so he can take you into his arms and carry you back to the manor so he can burn your scent into his memory and smother you in his scent.

As the ceremony continues, he hears many Alphas in the audience talking among themselves, all of them wishing to drag you into their beds and knot you. It takes everything in him not to break every one of their jaws and ruin your night.

You’re his son and his pack’s Omega! Anyone wanting to court you will have to go through him and your siblings and there’s no one in this galaxy or the next that will ever be worthy of you! Besides, he and your siblings are all you need!

While many of Gotham’s elite consider Omegas to be status symbols and breeding tools, the Wayne Pack is one of the very few to consider Omegas something to be cherished and valued; Omegas bring life into the world and nurture pups and help bring stability into a pack, no matter the personal cost to them.

All packs yearn to have an Omega and while he’s denied any such need, he’s yearned to add an Omega to his pack that they can all trust and work with due to their nightly activities.

It pains him beyond words to know he scorned such a perfect, beautiful gift and he intends to spend the rest of his life atoning for it.

Finally, the ceremony ends and he manages to find you and he commits very detail about you to memory (he’s saddened to see you inherited none of his physical traits and with you using your mother’s maiden name, there’s nothing showing you’re his pup), from the way you stand to the way you look… horrified at the sight of him.

He tries to speak, to apologize for his actions, to beg you to come home, but he barely gets you name past his lips when you throw your glass at him. He can only watch in horror as you berate him for being here and yelling for him to get away from you.

“Y/N, please. We know we messed up… that I messed up. But things will be different, I swear! Just come home, Y/N! We’re a mess without you—“

“Oh, you people are so dysfunctional that the only way you can live together is if you have someone to take your insecurities and shortcomings out on? And it’s fine that it’s me because I’m an Omega since that’s my lot in life?”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that—“

Before he knows it, you’ve backhanded him so hard, black spots dance across his field of vision and before he can recover, you shove him hard and he falls onto the floor. When he looks up, he sees a look on you he’s only seen on Jason and himself: pure rage; the kind that leads to people being seriously injured or dead. It’s also then he smells the putrid stench of hate-pain-rage wafting off you; the smell is so thick that it catches in his lungs and leaves him unable to take a breath.

Before you can do anything else, security comes and separates the two of you. At first, they were going to escort you out for daring to strike an Alpha (New York has strict laws about Omega behavior in public, though not as strict as Gotham), but Lex-fucking-Luthor swooped in and told them to let you go.

“An Omega should never be treated like some common criminal,” he says in an infuriatingly sweet tone. “And it seems to me Bruce Wayne was asking for it.” He holds out his arm. “Might I have the privilege of your company for the evening, Mr. Gould?”

His vision went red and it took all his self control to keep from growling and tearing the man apart as you take his arm and walk with that son of a bitch. When it became clear he wasn’t going to be get close to you again, he leaves the building and lets his children know that there will be a family meeting when he gets home.

They already knew you were an Omega thanks to countless videos taken during your interaction with Bruce, complete with your throwing your drink at him and slapping and shoving him.

Needless to say, they’re all broken up about how their treatment of you for years led to you forgoing on presenting as an Omega and running away to the other side of the country, far away from them.

Bruce knows he’s not the best father in the world (being called the okayest dad would be extremely generous), but this realization really drives home just how much of a failure of a father he is. Not only did he treat his firstborn son like an intruder, but he drove away a vital piece of his pack away. All he thinks about now is holding you in his arms and never letting you go, showering you in his love and merging your scents into one.

He gets more and more pissed since now that everyone knows the firstborn Wayne son is an Omega, he has all of Gotham’s elite petitioning him everywhere he goes to allow them to court you, offering him money, business opportunities, and various luxury goods.

How dare these parasites think you’re something to be bought and traded! You’re a person, for fuck’s sake!

However, he’s ashamed to admit and he keeps this in the darkest corner of his mind, but he does get possessive and territorial when he thinks of you. He thinks of everyone in his pack as his, no matter how old they are or how much he fucks up, and you, his firstborn son and an Omega sends his Alpha instincts into overdrive.

You’re his and his pack’s and he’s not going to rest until you’re in the pack nest, surrounded by all of them.

And once you’re home and covered in all their scents, he’ll throw the biggest gala Gotham’s ever seen in your honor, showing off the Wayne Pack’s treasured Omega, where everyone can seethe at the fact none of them will ever have you.

Dick got misty eyed when he realized that he all but forgot you existed, but when he saw the video that exposed you as an Omega, he couldn’t hold it back and broke down crying for all to see.

If there’s one thing in life Dick holds sacred, it’s his status as the pack’s big brother; in fact, Bruce knows Dick will do everything possible to keep his siblings safe that he made his eldest son the pack’s Right Hand, a position that makes him Bruce’s second-in-command and the first to take over should anything happen to Bruce.

He loves all his siblings equally and goes out of his way to make sure they’re well-taken care of, from calling them on a weekly basis to picking them up for one-on-one outings.

To see you look at them, look at him, with such hatred and contempt in your eyes makes him feel that he’s failed in his role as the pack’s big brother and Right Hand.

And don’t get him wrong, he’s a major advocate for Omega rights, but the world is a dangerous place and being so far from your pack is just asking for trouble! There’s all sorts of people that would love to prey upon an innocent Omega like you!

“Come on, baby bird, the manor’s your real home! Here, let me come get you, and we can order in and have a movie night just for us!”

Barbara actually throws up when the guilt hits her.

When you moved in, she hadn’t been crippled for too long and she was still dealing with having to retire from being Batgirl; when you first approached her, she lashed out at you and made you, a six-year-old who had just lost his mom and had to move across the country, cry.

Her guilt only grows when it hits her that she had not only the love and attention of her dad, but Bruce’s as well; she’s greedy and she feels disgusted whenever she looks in a mirror.

But she wants to make amends and she’s not going to take no for an answer; she use every trick and resource at her disposal to bring you back into the pack and she’ll be one of the first to give you a big hug.

“I know I’m selfish and you have every right to hate me, hate us, but we need you. And we’ll have you, one way or another.”

Jason, arguably, takes this revelation worse than any of them, potentially surpassing Bruce’s distress.

As Red Hood, he seeks to protect all the people of Crime Alley to the best of his ability, but there’s two types he prioritizes: children and Omegas. Children are powerless, rely on the adults of their lives to protect and provide for them, and are the first to suffer when things go wrong and Omegas are kind hearted creatures that care for all their packmates equally (even when said packmates treat them like shit) and everyone thinks they can walk all over them just because they’re smaller and weaker than the rest of the world.

And everyone knows that if Red Hood catches you hurting a kid or an Omega, not even the Bats will be able to find your body.

He beats himself up as every time he hit, threatened, or insulted you, going as far as to claw his chest, drawing blood as some form of penance for his transgressions.

He was pissed at Bruce for allowing Joker to live after killing him and for replacing him with Tim and he had to take it out on you, thinking you were just like Bruce because you shared his DNA, but he was too blinded by rage to see you were just a kid who was unlucky to lose his mom and have Bruce Wayne as a dad. Had he pulled his head out of his ass, he would’ve seen you were a scared pup looking for someone to hold him and tell him everything would be ok.

You two are so much alike it hurts; hell, he might be more of a brother to you than Damian.

He gets why you want nothing to do with them, trust him, he’s been there. Unfortunately, when the Wayne Pack has its hooks in you, they’re impossible to remove and the more you fight, the more you become ensnared in them.

“Look, kid, I get it, really, I do. But, just come home. Trust me, it’s not worth the headache. If you want, I’ll keep them out for your room until you’re ready for them.”

Tim is beating himself up for not finding out about this sooner.

While you and Damian are Bruce’s biological sons and all of them possess traits that are similar to Bruce, it can be said that Tim is more like Bruce than anyone else in the Wayne Pack, complete with his obsessive need to know everything about the people close to him and his inability to understand the concept of personal space.

He has entire archives on everyone in the Wayne Pack, full of personal observations, psych profiles, likes and dislikes, etc and when he goes to find yours, he discovers he has no file on you. At first, he can’t understand how you could’ve lived in the manor and just fly under his radar, but then his very first interaction with you comes rushing back and he realizes that he never considered you worth his attention and now he’s paying the price for his stupidity.

His parents, both Alphas, never really taught him how to interact with Omegas since they were always busy with work and travel, but after seeing Omegas caring for their pups, he began to long for one; all he wanted from his parents was love, but they were too busy to even glance his way.

But Omegas never neglect anyone, and when he was old enough to take over Drake Industries, he’d get his own Omega and keep them in the lap of luxury so all their time could go to loving him and he’s love them.

Of course, his parents’ death happened and he was adopted by Bruce and became robin, so that dream kinda fell to the wayside, but it was always there, whispering to him whenever he felt like he wasn’t enough. While his job as CEO of Drake Industries and Red Robin takes up all his time, he does allow himself to daydream what it would be like to have an Omega mate.

He was so close to having an Omega and he had to go and ruin it! But, he won’t allow you to remain outside the pack. They need you… he needs you. And he’ll do whatever it takes to bring you back into the fold, be it intimidating you by reciting crime rates against Omegas to using your biology against you. After all, Omegas are submissive by nature and he spends his nights intimidating Gotham’s criminals.

And once you’re back, you won;t be able to do anything without him knowing about it and adding it to your file on his computer.

“Did you know that Omegas who remain packless are more likely to become depressed? So, not coming home will do you more harm than good in the long run.”

Steph is known for being a bit of a bitch, but it’s always done in good fun. This time, however, she feels like a total bitch and there’s nothing to be proud about it.

When the two of you first met, she spent some time of you for like a week before discarding you like a puppy that got too big to be considered cute. When she learned that you were normal and not like them, she didn’t see the point in being around you.

But she knows she screwed up and she wants to fix that! You can join her, Babs, and Cass on Girls’ Night, and she’ll show you all the ways to screw with the others, and you can watch her cut all your suitors down to size (metaphorically, of course… but she’ll literally do it if you want her to).

She really wants you to come back; she sees how it’s affecting everyone, which is what happens when a pack is fractured, and it’s really become depressing in the manor, so she’s ready to help bring you back, whether willingly or unwillingly.

“Come on, Y/N, we miss you and you need a pack! Tell you what, I’ll help you get revenge on Damian! I know what really pisses him off!”

Cass has never known what true guilt feels like; sure, when Bruce showed her she didn’t have to be a living weapon, she felt remorse about the pain she caused, but she still had the excuse of her upbringing.

Her total dismissal of you when she deemed you harmless? She has no excuse for that. Bruce was offering her the chance to be in a real pack and because she could tell you had no combat capability or other useful abilities, she deemed you unimportant. A real packmates would embrace all her packmates, not just the “useful” ones.

She’s not the most affectionate member of the Wayne Pack (no one can take that title from Dick) and she still thinks all her hands are capable of doing is hurting people, but she’ll step out of her comfort zone for you; she hug you, hold your hand, scent you all day every ay if it means you coming back to the pack.

And if you want to be alone for a little bit? She’ll stand outside your door, guarding it against any intruder, including Bruce.

She can tell the pack is reeling from your absence, threatening not only their bonds but their ability to protect Gotham. She knows the only way to fix this is by bringing you back home and if she has to do drag you all the way from Goodsprings, she will. She can spend the rest of her life making it up to you.

Damian shows no emotion when the revelation hits home, but on the inside, he’s torn up about how he drove his only blood brother away.

During his time with the League, he grew up thinking he was the only legitimate heir of the Bat, but when he moved to Gotham and learned of your existence, he felt threatened and attempted to eliminate you in order to cement his place as his sire’s true heir; after he found out you were a helpless whelp born of a dalliance between his father and a harlot, he knew his place as the future Alpha of the Wayne Pack was secure and in order to keep you beneath him where you belong, he made your life difficult, insulting you to the point you cry and torturing you with his animals.

Once, he thought having a you for a blood brother was a liability, but now, after spending years with his pack, he now knows he was wrong to treat you so poorly and now wants to repair the damage to your relationship.

And you being an Omega? Well, the League saw Omegas as a means of reproduction, sure, but they were treated with the utmost respect; everyone served a purpose in the League and stressed out Omegas don’t produce quality pups. He’s actually happy you’re an Omega as the pack has enough Alphas and packs with an Omega function far better than those who don’t as Omegas keep the peace and see that all members are cared for.

Actually, you’ll find him seeking you out more because of your designation. Talia wasn’t exactly the most affectionate of mothers and his interactions with his grandfather were always so cold and formal; his time in Gotham showed him wanting to be close to your fellow packmates is nothing to be ashamed of and it makes you stronger, not weaker. And everyone knows physical affection and Omegas go hand in hand.

He’s actually ordered dozens blankets and pillows from several of Gotham’s luxury nest supply stores and has placed several of his and Bruce’s clothes in your room to help you acclimate to your place in the pack (the others tried to put some of their clothes in your room, but he denied it on the grounds that it would overwhelm you) and can’t wait to offer to help you build your nest.

He daydreams of you returning and has drawn up many activities for you two to do, from him painting your portrait to escorting to Gotham’s finest restaurants and museums and educating you on the finer things in life.

He understands that you have every right to hate them, but you can’t escape the fact that Wayne blood courses through your veins, tying you to him, Bruce, and even Gotham itself. You belong back at the manor, with him and your father, and he’ll fight through hell to bring you back to your proper home.

“I know my behavior was unacceptable, brother, but we still share blood. You belong in Gotham, not this pathetic backwater village. It’s time you assume your role as the Wayne Omega.”

As the Bats spiral into madness with their need to bring you home and make amends for their behavior, Alfred watches on. He knew you wanted to return to Goodsprings and your time in Gotham could be considered worse than losing your mother, but you’re still Bruce’s son and a member of the Wayne Pack.

He’s not about to let his packmates’ stupidity chase you away when your place is right here.

And when he learned you’re an Omega? It only strengthened his resolve to bring you back home.

The world is a harsh place for Omegas and while life may have dealt you a bad hand, you still have a good heart and it’s in danger of being stomped out by those who wish you harm.

“I know the manor brings you many bad memories, Master Y/N, but it’s still your proper home. I promise you, things will be different this time.”

[yazmarina]

walk me through it

for the love circuit series

—you're used to being flirted with in front of the camera. but something about franco is really doing you in.

franco colapinto (f1) x fem!reporter reader

warnings/notes: smut, unprotected sex (no condom, yes birth control), guided masturbation, lewd photography, lots of flirting, franco is shameless (naturally), some Spanish sentences and phrases

a/n: will resume hit play for a bit after this one! enjoy franco girlies mwa

Your job was simple enough. Well, for today, at least.

Stand in the media pen, gather statements, and piece together a couple of stories later that evening for publishing first thing tomorrow morning. All in a day's work, like all the other days before.

You've grown immune to the charms of rich, adrenaline-seeking men. Didn't take you too long, the illusion breaking as soon as any one of them opened their mouths. Some you tolerate more than others, but some you'd rather steer clear of completely.

This isn't to say that you've brushed all of them off. You might have agreed to a date here and there but nothing ever stuck, the nature of your jobs a bit too similar and all too different at the same time. You've given up on the prospect that you'll somehow end up with one of the many Formula 1 drivers you've interviewed and spoken to. And you've spoken to a lot. You've had this gig since you were shipped off fresh from uni and one too many 'What happened there?'s and 'Tell me about qualifying's can put a damper on the romantic side of things.

But someone new's in town. Well, er, new in the paddock. And you'd be lying if you said you weren't even a little bit excited.

He's charming, that much you can already tell. He walks into the media pen like he's done it thousands of times before and you have to actively suppress a smile as he walks over. Confidence is always a plus. For the interview, of course.

"Hola, Franco. Antes que nada, enhorabuena," you greet warmly, extending your arm over the barrier to place the microphone nearer to him. Hi, Franco. First of all, congratulations.

Franc's eyebrows shoot up, a wolfish grin settling on his face. "Oh. I thought this was an English interview?"

You smile back. "It is, but I know my way around Spanish, as well."

"Ah," Franco nods. "Gracias, _______."

"You know my name?" You ask, momentarily forgetting that you're being taped and recorded. You clear your throat, ignoring the quiet snicker from your cameraman.

"Yeah, I've seen you around and watched some of your other interviews," Franco confirms, a hand settling on his hip as he leans against the barrier, closer to you.

You can smell his perfume from where you stand.

"Thank you, I've heard and seen a lot about you as well," you respond, trying to return to your original train of thought.

"Which is why I want to ask you how it feels on your first day as a Formula 1 driver," you quickly follow. "Have you done anything special to prepare for this weekend? Other than the obvious, of course."

Another easy smile spreads across Franco's lips. "I've definitely added to my training and done some new things to prepare. I haven't done a full F1 weekend before so everything will be new."

"We definitely don't have reporters like you in the lower Formulas," he adds.

You feel a violent blush rip up through your neck all the way to your cheeks. As if the Monza heat wasn't enough.

"Well, I'm glad you could meet me here," you manage to get out.

The thing is, Franco isn't even the most attractive driver you've met. He's definitely up there, but not the most.

That's a discussion you have with yourself semi-weekly: ranking the drivers in terms of attractiveness, factoring in personalities and general attitudes towards the people around them, specifically the media.

Look, people love to shit on the media and press, calling journalism all sorts of derogatory words, but you're just here to do your job, like anyone else. And it gets pretty fucking hard when your boss is ringing your phone every five minutes demanding four stories by tomorrow and drivers are sassing you out as if you asked them if they've murdered their whole family.

So, naturally, the way they treat you determines a big chunk of how you think your day is going to pan out.

And right now, Franco seems to be lifting your spirits just fine.

"What are your goals for this weekend? Are points on the horizon for you at your first F1 race?" You continue, trying not to stare at the way Franco starts to rub at the back of his neck, bashful all of a sudden.

"We'll try," Franco begins. He plants both his hands on the barrier and leans even closer. You have to physically take a step back.

You gulp. Franco smiles.

"Anything is possible this weekend."

-

"You broke the internet last night."

You scoff, sending your cameraman a vicious side-eye. It's crowded in the paddock today, everyone wanting to get a glimpse of the new rookie, it seems. Such is the eagerness for this young driver that even that 30-second clip of your interview with him blew right up in your face. Your inboxes at capacity, your own voice speaking back to you with every other swipe on your TikTok.

It's not all bad, though. A tweet with one of your Instagram photos attached to it captioned 'TE ENTIENDO MUCHO FRANCO ES MUY LINDA PERIODISTA' did weasel out a chuckle from you.

Your cameraman shrugs, gesturing with a jerk of his head in front of you.

"There he is. I'm sure he knows all about it."

You look over to where he's pointing and lo and behold, Franco is right there, chatting with a few Williams team members, his race suit hanging undone around his waist. He turns to you even before you can fully register that it's him you're looking at.

But your training kicks in even faster. A megawatt smile appears on your lips and you wave enthusiastically at Franco.

"Hi."

"_______," Franco says, face lighting up at the sight of you. Your name seems to fall even more effortlessly off his lips.

You reach over and pull him into a half-hug with one arm, but both his arms wind around you and you have no choice but to squeeze back.

"You saw?" Franco asks, a gleam in his eye as he pulls away. His hand remains casually on the small of your back.

"Saw what?" You know what it is he's asking but you'd like to hear it from him.

"We went viral, no?" Franco says with a laugh, reaching further around you and squeezing your waist. You lean into his touch, heart jumping as his fingers graze just underneath your cropped top.

"That's all because of you," you reason, pointing an accusatory finger at Franco. "I bet you say that to all the other reporters."

The Williams team members standing nearby burst out laughing and even your cameraman affords a snicker. A deep blush spreads across Franco's face as he rubs your side reassuringly.

"No, no, I don't. Just you," Franco admits with another lighthearted laugh.

"Sure," you say with exaggerated skepticism. You pull away from his touch, catching his hand before he slips it fully off of you.

"I'll talk to you later," you say. And it's fully intentional, the words you choose to say. I'll talk to you later. Not 'I'll catch you later' or 'I'll see you later'.

I will talk to you later.

Franco understands, giving your hand a squeeze.

-

Later that day, you pray that no one catches you grinning behind your hand as Franco takes the chequered flag at qualifying.

P11.

Almost there.

-

"Hi. Come in."

Franco beams at you from across the threshold, stepping into your room with slow, measured steps.

"Great qualifying," you compliment, eyes traveling down Franco's body, noting the way his team kit hugs his frame just right, his hands shoved into his pockets, exposing just his arms, veins and all.

Your eyes snap back up to his face when you hear the door shut in place.

"Q2 on your debut. Not bad," you go on, taking a step back. Franco takes one toward you.

"You're just repeating what you said at the media pen earlier," Franco points out. He reaches out and gently circles an arm around your waist.

Always straight to the point.

Like this morning.

You tried not to make it so obvious when you ran into Franco earlier, but all you could think about was The Message.

You were doing your cursory social media checks a few minutes after you had woken up, still snug in your bed and unwilling to get up just yet. A message in your Instagram inbox caught your attention, sitting at the very top of your 'verified followers' tab.

Franco Colapinto: hola, hermosa 😉

It took a minute for your motor functions to return, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you pored over what to reply. You settled on a nonchalant greeting, asking if Franco needed anything.

You realized rather belatedly that this was looking a little familiar. You wished he wouldn't say the dreaded answer, the more-than-predictable response that every man liked to use.

Franco Colapinto: you, maybe?

You groaned into your pillow, not because you were repulsed by his answer, but because you liked it. If you were easy, then so was he.

You: i finish work at 9 pm tonight...? 👀

It's 9 PM now. Franco's in the room and your hand is running up his chest.

Easy.

"It's such an honor," Franco teases, backing you up further into the room. His hands feel heavy on your waist and your heart hammers against your chest.

"I get to work with people like you now," Franco continues, stopping right in front of the bed.

The kiss comes as a shock more so because of how good Franco kisses. One of his hands is now cradling the back of your head, keeping you in place while he licks into your mouth, groaning with every pucker of your lips.

You pull away for barely a second to get both of your tops off before you dive back in, seemingly too desperate and too starved for each other's mouths. Franco's hands are everywhere; they run down your arms, paw at your waist, tugging at the belt loops of your jeans.

You giggle as he pulls you even closer, your bare chests pressed against each other. Franco pulls back and peers down at you, reaching behind to unclasp your bra. You let it fall, already guiding one of his hands to your tits.

"Couldn't stop staring at them?" You ask, your voice rising with an innocent lilt.

Franco kneads at the mound beneath his hand, eliciting a moan from you. He grins.

"I wanted you to notice," Franco admits simply, kissing you again.

"Perv," you mumble against his lips. Franco laughs, already undoing his trousers.

You wiggle your own way out of your jeans, letting Franco get the shortest of glimpses at your baby pink underwear before you discard them off to the side.

"Mierda, you're so sexy," Franco compliments as you crawl backward onto the bed, laying back and letting your hair splay out beneath you.

Franco pounces on you like a man starved, bare atop your own naked body, his arms caging you in.

"Big moves from somebody so new," you whisper, carding your fingers through Franco's soft locks.

"I like to make a statement," Franco says with a shrug. He glances up momentarily, something piquing his interest off to the side.

"Is that your camera?"

You crane your neck to see where he's looking and sure enough, your personal DSLR is right there on the bedside drawer. You look back at Franco, an eyebrow raised.

"You wanna use it?" You ask, not expecting him to actually say yes. But a mischievous grin settles on Franco's face and you feel your heart skip several beats.

"Knock yourself out," you say.

Franco reaches for the camera and fiddles with it for a few seconds. His eyes scan over your body and you suddenly feel the urge to hide away with how hard he's looking.

"May I?" Franco asks, brandishing the camera. Your mouth falls open as you realize what he's asking.

"You can keep them for yourself. For your eyes only," Franco hurriedly adds, planting his knees firmly on either side of you.

You stare up at him, a million thoughts running through your mind.

"Just...touch yourself."

You gasp, stunned at his proposal. Franco watches through the LCD monitor, glancing up at you through his lashes. Your bottom lip slips between your teeth, and as if on instinct, your hand inches down slowly between your legs.

"You're in front of cameras all the time," Franco reminds with a smirk. "This should be easy for you."

You suppress a whimper at his words, your fingertips swiping through your slick folds. You're already soaked and you start to wonder if it started even before Franco got here.

The shutter clicks and the lens whirs, sharp against the soft breaths you're letting out. Franco is concentrated, snapping photo after photo as you rub yourself closer to release. But it's not enough. You need more.

"Franco...," you implore, peering up with bright, begging eyes.

"Slowly, mi amor," Franco coos. "Just where you like it. Right there."

Click.

"Harder now, but still slow. Yes? Feels good?"

You whine, eyes fluttering shut as your pleasure picks up again. Several clicks. You're panting now, the tendrils of release wrapping themselves around you.

"Faster, yes, like that," Franco eggs on. Your fingers speed up against your sensitive clit and a litany of Franco's name spills from your lips. Before you know it, he's putting the camera away. You reach for him, gripping the back of his neck as he smashes his lips into yours.

Franco bites down on your lip and you cry out, your orgasm washing over you like a tide. You arch against Franco, feeling his own stiffness heavy on your thigh.

You blink, Franco's face coming into focus, barely an inch from yours. He watches you closely, pupils blown wide and plump lips even redder. You hook your legs around his waist, letting him know that you're not done yet.

Franco is quick to pick up, smiling as lines himself up with you. The groan that escapes him is nothing short of delicious as he pushes himself in. You gasp along, the stretch a welcome sensation.

Franco wastes no time and pounds right into you, catching you by surprise. You let your head fall back against the mattress, a long, drawn-out whine erupting from deep within your chest as Franco licks a stripe up your neck.

Your whole body quakes with how hard he's thrusting into you but you're clearly enjoying it if your wanton moans are anything to go by. Franco meets your eyes and you pull him down, wanting nothing more than to drown in those lips of his.

It's feral and it's unrestrained, spurred on by the knowledge that this is more than unprofessional in your line of work. Not illegal by any means, but risky enough to warrant warnings from your coworkers. Never sleep with a driver unless you're committed.

Oh, well.

Franco groans loudly in your ear, movements losing their rhythm as he speeds up. You're clinging to him as if he'd disappear if you let go, your own belly tightening once more with that familiar feeling.

Franco. Franco. Franco.

He kisses you just as he finishes. Passionate, eager, heady. You feel him inside you, a different kind of elation filling you as you release all over him.

Franco pulls away to allow yourselves to breathe. He pulls out, rolling over to your side. You hug your folded knees to your chest, too lazy to get up and find something to deal with the mess.

"No hagas eso. Eso es demasiado doméstico," Franco jokes, moving closer and planting a kiss to your shoulder. Don't do that. That's too domestic.

"Relájate, estoy usando anticonceptiva," you reassure with a lighthearted roll of your eyes. Relax, I'm on birth control.

Franco hums, laying an arm over you. He pulls you close and you face him, reaching up to brush away some of his unruly hair.

He plants a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Happy that you're a Formula 1 driver?" You ask, grinning.

Franco chuckles. "Very."

[txrully]

I'M SO STUPID IN LOVE!

·˚ ༘ ꒱ summary lovey-dovey things they'd do for you!

·˚ ༘ ꒱ characters isagi yoichi , bachira meguru , itoshi rin , nagi seishiro , mikage reo , chigiri hyoma , hiori yo , shidou ryusei , itoshi sae , michael kaiser , alexis ness .

·˚ ༘ ꒱ warning lowercase intended

·˚ ༘ ꒱ song inspo stupid in love - max ( ft. huh yunjin of lsrfm )

·˚ ༘ ꒱ isagi yoichi

you know how isagi’s brain is basically soccer, soccer, soccer? well, this man rewires his ENTIRE system for you. suddenly, every time he scores a goal, he dedicates it to you. like, mid-celebration he’s shouting your name in front of thousands of people. embarrassing? a lil. cute? definitely.

he’s also the type to leave you notes everywhere. you’ll open your locker, and boom: "i hope your day is as perfect as your smile. also, pls drink water. - yoichi 🩵"

or you’ll find random sticky notes around the house with stuff like: "you're cuter than my dog. and that’s saying a lot." ( i hc he's a dog person, fight me 🫠 )

"yoichi, did you seriously compare me to your dog again?"

"is that bad?? you’re both my top priorities!"

·˚ ༘ ꒱ bachira meguru

bachira is a walking ball of chaos, and it only gets worse when he’s in love. he makes you weird handmade crafts—like a necklace with your initials carved into a random rock he found because “the vibes were immaculate.”

he’s also the king of grand gestures. once, he showed up outside your window in the middle of the night blasting your favorite song from a boombox. and no, he didn’t think it through—he got yelled at by your neighbors, but he swears it was worth it.

"meguru, why is there a rock with my name on it?"

"because i love you. duh."

"…you couldn’t just buy a necklace??"

"where’s the FUN in that?? D:< "

·˚ ༘ ꒱ itoshi rin

soft tsundere energy incoming. rin doesn’t say much, but when he’s in love, he SHOWS it. like, he’ll memorize your coffee order, your favorite book, and the exact way you like your hoodie sleeves rolled up. you swear he’s psychic, but he’s just that attentive.

he also sends you texts at random times:

"don’t forget your umbrella. it’s going to rain."

"i noticed you like this song. added it to my playlist."

you’re 99% sure his search history is “how to take care of someone without being obvious.”

"rin, did you... did you learn how to make my favorite food?"

"shut up and eat it."

"you’re so sweet it’s disgusting."

"i said shut up."

·˚ ༘ ꒱ nagi seishiro

nagi’s love language? pure, lazy dedication. he may not seem like the romantic type, but trust me—he will move mountains for you... as long as it doesn’t require getting up too much.

once, he spent HOURS figuring out how to build you a playlist of all your favorite songs, complete with a cover photo of you two. he even labeled it: "for my player 2 🕹️"

"sei, this playlist is amazing!"

"mm, yeah, it was exhausting. now can we nap?"

"you literally just sat there and clicked buttons."

"exactly. so tiring.."

·˚ ༘ ꒱ mikage reo

reo goes all out for you—no budget, no limits, no second thoughts. one time, you mentioned how pretty cherry blossoms are, and the next thing you know, he’s flying you to a festival in japan. casually might i add.

but the sweetest part? he remembers the little things. your favorite snack? stocked in his pantry. your favorite flower? delivered to your doorstep every friday. he spoils you rotten but somehow makes it feel like the most natural thing in the world.

"reo, this is too much—"

"no, it’s not. nothing’s too much for you."

"you’re literally insane."

"only for you, babe."

·˚ ༘ ꒱ chigiri hyoma

chigiri is the definition of 💌romantic aesthetic💌. he writes you poetry and leaves it in random places, like your bag or your coat pocket. sometimes, you don’t even notice until hours later.

he also takes you on dreamy dates—picnics in scenic fields, long bike rides at sunset, and slow dances in your living room when it’s raining outside. everything he does feels like it’s straight out of a romance movie.

"hyoma, did you just quote a shakespeare sonnet to me?"

"maybe."

"oh my god, you’re so dramatic."

"and yet you’re still here."

·˚ ༘ ꒱ hiori yo

hiori is the sweetest, softest boy in love. he keeps a journal where he writes down all the little things you do that make him happy. once, you caught him scribbling, and he turned BRIGHT red.

he’s also the king of quiet acts of service. your phone’s always fully charged, your favorite snacks magically appear in your bag, and you never have to ask for help because he’s already two steps ahead.

"yo, were you writing about me again?"

"no... maybe. okay, yes."

"you’re adorable."

"please don’t look."

·˚ ༘ ꒱ shidou ryusei

oh boy. shidou is CHAOTIC in love. this man would probably fight a wild animal to impress you. he’s all about making you laugh, even if it means doing the dumbest stunts imaginable.

one time, he literally climbed a tree to get you a flower. it wasn’t even a nice flower. but hey, it’s the thought that counts.

"ryu, you’re bleeding. what did you do??"

"got you this flower. cool, huh?"

"you FELL OUT OF A TREE FOR THIS??"

"worth it."

·˚ ༘ ꒱ itoshi sae

sae is the definition of quiet but deadly romantic. he doesn’t show his feelings often, but when he does? damn. like, he’ll casually fly in from another country just to spend the weekend with you because “it’s no big deal.”

he also sends you fancy gifts out of nowhere. but if you call him out, he’ll play it cool like it’s nothing.

"sae, did you just buy me an entire designer collection?"

"it’s just clothes."

"just clothes?? this cost more than my rent!"

"and you look better than rent."

·˚ ༘ ꒱ michael kaiser

kaiser loves showing off, especially when it comes to you. he’ll buy out a billboard just to plaster your picture on it with the words "the love of my life 🩵."

but he’s also surprisingly sweet. like, he’ll carry your bag, fix your hair when it’s windy, or randomly pull you into a dance in the middle of the street just because he can.

"michael, did you seriously put my face on a billboard??"

"obviously. everyone needs to know you’re mine."

"you’re ridiculous."

"ridiculously in love with you, yes."

·˚ ༘ ꒱ alexis ness

ness is a total softie. he writes you little love letters and leaves them in your mailbox, signed with his initials like he’s a secret admirer. you obviously know it’s him, but you let him think he’s being sneaky.

he’s also BIG on cuddles. whenever he sees you, it’s like he can’t function until he gets a hug.

"ness, you know i know it’s you, right?"

"…you’re supposed to pretend you don’t!"

"why?"

"because it’s romantic!"

© txrully

do not copy/translate/plagiarize/repost my works in any way. ( i will find you 😶‍🌫️ )

likes + reblogs appreciated ‹𝟹

[archangeldyke-all]

reader being jealous bc girls where hitting on plug sev at the house party

maybe some jealous sex?!

oh fuck yes

men and minors dni

it's hard for plugs to compete with dispensaries nowadays. so, since you've started dating her, you've started helping her add a little extra flare to her buisness.

you buy her cute little baggies to make deliveries in, tying ribbons around the top just for some extra fun.

you make delicious edibles, batch after batch of gooey brownies and cinnamon rolls coming out of your oven (you wearing a flouncy little pink apron sevika bought for you.)

and you always accompany sevika on her longer deliveries, keeping her company and making sure she's getting all her money.

sevika makes good money, but with your help, she's making great money.

and now it's the holidays-- the busiest time of the year for a dealer. people are desperate to relax amidst all the seasonal stress and extended family time.

sevika's been making bank.

today, the two of you were invited to an old friend's holiday party to sell. which is how you find yourself hauling crates of christmas ribbon wrapped dime bags, batches of laced christmas cookies, and a variety of chirstmas themed glass pipes into a mansion on a cold december evening.

"baby, you're gonna break one of your nails!" sevika gasps when she sees you, snatching the trays of cookies out of your hands. you chuckle.

"i'm jus' tryna help you unload."

"you don't need to help me do anything, doll. you just gotta sit inside and look pretty-- lure some customers over for us." she says with a wink. you laugh and elbow your girlfriend.

"how much are we trying to make tonight?" you ask.

sevika shrugs. "i'd be happy with a thousand." you scoff. sevika looks over at you with a smirk. "what?"

"baby, we're making more than a thousand."

"what makes you so sure?"

"have you tried my cookies?!"

sevika cackles and pulls you in for a kiss with her free arm.

as much as you love an excuse to dress up-- you hate parties. so does sevika. so, you guys set up in a dark little corner and have a few drinks while you wait for guests to arrive. sevika rolls joints and has you lick them shut. you elbow her when she starts to give you bedroom eyes. "the dj isn't even here yet, sev, you're gonna have to wait."

"i'm just lookin' at you! i can look at you as much as i want, you're my girlfriend." she says with a grin. you giggle and kiss her cheek.

sevika eats one of your cookies and moans obscenely. you roll your eyes, but your cunt throbs. she shoves half the cookie in your mouth before you can refuse. you giggle around crumbs.

by the time guests start to arrive, you're feeling ready for social interaction. you're loose on the spiked eggnog, giggly from sevika's flirtations, and your edible's just starting to kick in, making you feel chatty and sociable.

so, when a girl approaches sevika with a friendly smile and a lingering glance, it takes you a little longer than it usually would for you to realize that this bitch is flirting with sevika.

at least, you're 80% sure.

she's licked her lips like twelve times since she's come over, she's been talking to sevika for ten minutes, and she hasn't looked at you once. but you can't freak out yet, because she hasn't done anything really wrong... yet.

"so... are you interested in buying anything?" you ask.

the girl blinks over at you, then laughs and looks back at sevika. "no... but i might need a dealer in the future. could i get your number, just in case, sev?" she asks, reaching across the table and touching sevika's bicep.

your stomach lurches, and your nostrils flare. "oh, fuck no." you grumble.

sevika reaches out and clamps a strong arm around your waist, keeping you pinned to your seat. you growl. the woman across your table doesn't even notice. "'m afraid i only give my number to repeat customers. 's just a matter of security." she says.

"mmm. well maybe i could get it for a different reason?"

you might go to jail tonight.

sevika pinches your hip, and she speaks. "no, you can't. you can fuck off, actually. you've wasted my time and disrespected my girlfriend."

"you have a girlfriend?"

you have to laugh.

you rip yourself out of sevika's grip, grab one of the fat pre-rolls on the table and storm off to the patio, trying to convince yourself not to go back and do something that will get you arrested. this is a rich neighborhood. the cops will be called even if you only pull a little bit of her hair out. or bite her just a bit. or scratch her eyes with your fresh christmas themed stiletto set.

"fucking bitch!" you scream, kicking over a garden gnome. you pout a bit when his head comes off. "sorry." you say, bending over to pick him up and put his head back on. "sorry."

you get about halfway through your calm-down joint before sevika finds you.

"what're you doing out here?"

"i had ran watch the table for me."

"no, i mean, shouldn't you be with your new girlfriend?" you ask. sevika chuckles and you glare at her.

"baby." she reaches out and grabs your wrist. you let her tug you into her chest, groaning as she does. "do you really think i'd cheat on you? or are you just possessive?" she asks. you glare up at her, then pout. she grins and nods. "possessive." she decides. "i can work with that."

before you can respond, sevika's plucking the joint out of your hands, stubbing it out and pocketing it, and tugging you into the shrubbery beside the patio.

sevika pins you to a cold dark brick wall, and she shoves her mouth against yours before you can gasp. oh fuck. sevika's kissing you like she's gonna fuck you; her tongue sliding against yours, her moans low and emphatic. her hands are shoving your clothes up, the night air making you shiver and jump, her warm fingers making you melt in her hold.

"mmmph... seb--" you mumble against her. she pulls back to start sucking hickeys on your throat, her hands fondling your tits. "sevika!"

"you wan' me to stop?" she asks.

you consider the question. it's quiet out-- just the sound of your heaving breaths, some crickets, and the bushes rustling as sevika moves against you. your cunt's throbbing. before you can answer, sevika speaks again.

"i don't think you do. i think you're so fuckin' needy for me that you get stupid. you forget, don't you? forget how good i am to you? forget that i worship you?"

"i-i get jealous..." you whine.

sevika laughs and shoves a thigh between yours. "i know baby. i think it's cute. need me to remind you how much i love you?" she asks, her hand trailing up your thigh and ducking under your skirt. she fiddles with the thin band of your panties. you whimper.

"y-yes please." you whine. sevika grins, and then she shoves her hand down your panties. "f-fuck! your fingers are so big." you whine as she shoves her pointer finger inside you. she chuckles.

"you're so fuckin' wet, fuck, i love this pussy. i love you. so fuckin' cute tonight in your little christmas sweater-- y' look like a gingerbread house."

you giggle at your girlfriend's rambling, then sneak your hands up under her shirt and start scratching her back. sevika growls and bites your neck again. "fuck!" you squeak.

"shush!" sevika giggles. "fuck. can't wait to get home. gonna eat you up, my gingerbread girl."

you groan. "corny!"

sevika giggles. "whatever. i'll sit on your face, than."

"yes please." you whine.

sevika starts to work another finger inside of you, and you cum, shivering in her arms as she kisses you to muffle your moans.

"you're so fuckin' hot, baby, oh my god." sevika whines. "fuck, fuck i'm gonna be wet all fuckin' night."

"i'll take care of you, sev."

"now?" she asks, hopefully.

you giggle and kiss her. "after you make your thousand." you promise.

sevika groans and smacks your ass.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

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@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

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@blackgaladriel

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

At work plagued by thoughts of a mech bigger than you can imagine.

She starts like most of them do, a Titan excavator rig modestly sized for their line: maybe a house or thereabouts, a big house. (Doesn’t matter why she signed up - perhaps a breadwinner, a lone mother or eldest sister, a daughter of aging parents nobody else will take; doesn’t matter what site they sent her to, Earth or Enceladus or Venus or Europa. She’s there, and she lets them strap her in and adapt her for the piloting interface and pump her full of protein ooze and electrolytes and hyperstimulant cocktails as obediently as the next laborer.)

Upgrades come, from big house to bigger, with shovels like hillsides and treads like highways. Still she remains in the cockpit, out only for one day every six months to say hello to her burgeoning family, who have moved nearby to make it easy on her, to meet the baby nephews and nieces whose names she doesn’t yet know.

War comes. The facility hunkers down. It just makes sense to retrofit their biggest digger with shields, to expand her arsenal a little more, give her a better engine, pour all their leftover resources into making her a great guardian, and she rises to the occasion, shielding them from orbital rays, absorbing the energy and taking the pain of it up into her own engines. When the corporate rats who own the site finally turn tail and run the workers and their families band together and do the needful repairs themselves. Her nieces and nephews grow up learning engineering by the light of oil lamps from stolen Old Era textbooks and jailbroken datapads. She hardly ever now glimpses their faces with her own two eyes from within her steel shell but it is a worthy sacrifice to her, to them, for both parties know she is still there, still with them, embracing them in a great steel hug and watching through a thousand glass-lensed eyes.

Years pass. The brightest of her nieces works out how to modify the nutrition cocktail going into her cockpit so she will never age, never die, never fall sick. Somewhere in there all the metal and ceramic encloses her ever-sleeping body like a lotus flower around the benevolent, immortal form of a bodhisattva.

The outpost survives the war, somehow. Refugees hear of the little town on the colony that could, guarded by a goddess the size of a temple, and flock there. It makes sense to add to her control, among her array of sensors and actuators, the new city’s power generation and delivery system, its wall defenses, its waste management, its communications mains. Nowhere is anything safer than with her.

With all these new additions come techs and custodians to keep her in good care. They build modest crew cabins nestled amongst her treads (now rusty from disuse) so they can be close to her, the better to help her.

Slowly more and more falls under her purview, new cabins, then mezzanines and stairways and platforms between them; each generation has their own superstitions that they add to those of the last before them, so paintings crop up on her metal panels now, in nooks and crannies, often crude symbols that promise good oil changes or swift code updates, or simply depictions of their goddess, of the war she survived. Still she watches.

Her nieces and nephews are all dead now, and their nieces and nephews look on through rheumed eyes as the city attains new heights, heralded everywhere on every planet that still lives as an oasis of peace and prosperity. Still she watches.

A new company comes, enticed by the stories. They want to buy her. Buy her! The people scoff. As if you could just buy a person! - A person? asks the representative from Acher Spaceways, perplexed. - We heard she was your goddess.

She is both, of course, the goddess who lives, the goddess who is one hundred percent flesh and one hundred percent machine.

Acher doesn’t like this. They send machines - zero percent flesh, entirely drones - screaming down from the stars for a more insistent negotiation, one phrased in metal slugs and incendiary fire.

So your goddess rises up to meet them.

It is over in a short day. The drones lie in pieces; Acher, from orbit, licks their wounds, and the goddess rebukes them with a single laser blast, modified from her very first mining waymaker photonic drill.

The blast is precise and surgical. It tears apart the whole platform, spinning central axis to annular habitat space, which supernovas into a blossom of shining proof in the night sky at which the citizens below cheer.

But the pieces are falling, and soon they will pepper the surface below with molten debris, kick up dust into the atmosphere and make it all but unbreathable. The people could leave, the goddess advises them through short-wave radio bursts. They could use her emergency shuttles to escape gravity before it is too late, or they could go underground and salvage her rarest and most precious resources to survive until the surface is safe again.

Here is the thing - every pilot is augmented, and most augments are for the benefit of the plainly physical, for strength and speed and stamina and sharpness of perception. When her people augmented her, they augmented something else entirely. With every new module, every sensor upgrade, every painted symbol and hidden shrine, they gave her a superhuman capacity not for stamina or speed or strength, but for love.

It is her love that saved them, so they must save her back.

For two days they work tirelessly, the whole city, while above them the shattered pieces of Acher Spaceways looms ever closer. When they are done the treads are gone, the cabins dismantled, only the little drawings carefully preserved under coats of abrasion- and heat-resistant paint. And under her, their city, their Haven, lie rockets, ten of them, repurposed from the old all-ore crucibles, fit to move an asteroid.

She’s out there somewhere by Orion now, they say, the fourth jewel in his belt. And she has only grown: from three thousand then to three hundred million. Creatures from all over come to pay her their respects, or to visit lovers, or to live there themselves. There is always room in a body that is ever expanding, like the cosmos itself. Over all of them, she watches, eternal.

Among all the stories they tell of her, they repeat this one the most - how she tore apart a whole space station for the sake of her people, knowing she would die if she failed, for how can a whole city hope to flee? She guards them, and in turn they do not abandon her. They are two halves of the same whole, they say reverently, love manifest - the people and their city; this pilot, this great machine. This Haven.

[eveningdawn222]

people who act like batman isn't "judge jury and executioner" because he doesn't kill people are like. genuinely so funny to me because. they're very obviously thinking of "executioner" as like. the stereotypical guy with axe who chops people heads off, and not, yknow, the literal definition of the idiom itself, which is about someone who has the ability to judge and then subsequently punish someone unilaterally. which is quite literally what batman does.

he has the ability to decide what is a "crime" to him, he is the one who decides whether people are guilty of those crimes, and he is the one who executes their punishment. the severity of the punishment doesn't matter - he is unaccountable to anyone else, and indeed is allowed to commit as many crimes as needed to reach his arbitrary ideal of "justice."

the ideal of batman is this: a man who is so fundamentally changed by an act of senseless violence that he takes it upon himself to fight back against the rot and corruption in the world. he does this not through political activism, not through ridding himself of his wealth in favor of a greater good, not through community outreach, but through an individualistic fantasy of being a hero.

and you'll say: charlie, but he does do that !!! he donates his money all the time, he funds social programs, hospitals, orphanages, gets people jobs -

and i will say this: so why don't things get better?

because here's the base of it. gotham, at its core, can't get better. no matter what bruce wayne does, there will always be more crime, more villains, more death, more people for batman to beat up in back alleys. because that's what sells.

reoffending rates don't matter in gotham, prison reform doesn't matter in gotham, what actually causes crime doesn't matter in gotham because that doesn't sell books.

and so here it is; dc has unintentionally created a world where batman can't win, but can't be wrong, and where thousands of nameless, faceless, only-created-to-die civilians must be pushed into the meat grinder that is gotham, to fuel bruce wayne's angst and vindicate his constant, tireless, noble fight against the forces of evil.

and then: a new robin, who is poor and who's parents are dead or gone because of this cycle; who is happy go-lucky and hated by editors and fans for being robin, for not being dick grayson, for being poor.

and this robin is written, unintentionally or not, to be angry at the ways in which batman's (the narrative's) idea of justice is detached from its victims. bruce seems perfectly fine to allow countless unnamed women to be at risk from garzonas in his home country, yet robin is the one who is portrayed as irrational and violent.

this robin is not detached from gotham in the way bruce wayne is: this robin is a product of gotham.

(and here's the thing. you can't punch aids. you can't fight a disease with colorful fights and nifty gadgets. and how would robin dying from aids add to batman's story; it would call into question the systemic changes that haven't been made in gotham. how does a child get aids, in batman's city?)

so robin dies, and then bruce (the narrative) spends the next couple of decades blaming it on him. it is jason's fault; he was reckless, he just ran in, he thought it was all a game. if only bruce had seen what was coming, if only he could have known that jason wasn't rich enough or smart enough or liked enough to be robin.

batman gets a little more violent, a little more self destructive. he hurts people more and almost (!!) kills a couple guys. this is bad because it's self destructive and "not who he is." it is not bad because batman should not be able to just beat people up when he's angry.

and then he gets a shiny new robin - who is all the things jason "wasn't": rich and smart and rational and he doesn't put who batman is into question. batman and robin are partners, and jason is a grave and a cautionary tale, and (crucially here) never right.

the joker kills thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be killed.

batman beats up thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be criminals.

and then jason comes back, and nothing has changed. there is a batman and a (shiny! rich!) robin and the joker kills thousands. (because it sells)

and jason is angry - he has been left unavenged - his death has meant nothing, just as willis' had, just as catherine's had, just as gloria's had, just as -

thousands. ten of thousands. hundreds of thousands. written to be killed.

but one of them gets to come back.

and he is angry - not only at the joker, but at bruce (the narrative) - because why is the joker still alive (when thousands-)

here is the thing - jason todd is right. not because the death penalty is good, not because criminals deserve to die, not because of everything he says -

but because of what he calls into question. why is the joker alive?

because he sells books.

and dc has written a masterful character, through no fault of their own, because jason knows what is wrong, and he knows who is at fault - batman. (the narrative)

so the argument that bruce can't kill because he's not judge jury and executioner; the argument that jason is a cop or that jason is insane or that jason is in the wrong here; they hold no weight.

batman can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

and jason can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

so he will beg and plead and grovel - he will betray everything that is himself, he will forsake his family and his city and kill himself - just so that bruce (the narrative) will let the joker die.

he was condemned to death by an audience, and after he came back he has spent his whole life looking us in the eyes and screaming, asking, pleading; why is the joker still alive?

why are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands (the number doesn't matter, see, because they're just a number. not people. not real.) why are we expendable for his story? why did i have to die just for nothing to change?

and the answer is money. and the answer is the batman can never be wrong. and the answer is shitty writing. and the answer is -

nothing jason can ever change.

which is the worst of it all. he is a victim with no power, and no one else in the world can see it. he is raging and crying and screaming at his father and his writers and you - and it doesn't matter. jason doesn't matter. and he knows it.