#if you bother to read this: i love you.

[queenburd]

there's a hole where your heart lies (i can see it with my third eye) - 1

A/N: hello. hi. I have this teslaverse/Queenie fic that I've been working on for the better part of two years, possibly longer, and it's just been kind of stuck for a while. but I think about it often, and chapter 1 has been done for a solid minute. I've edited it and re-edited it and it's just. it's sitting here. I wanna show people. so I am posting chapter 1 for now. and if I get more done, then I get more done.

warnings for this fic as a whole...? there's a lot of child trauma, but to get into details would be massive spoilers and I'm going to keep them under wraps. for this chapter? well, there's rather dismissive language about horror victims, and there's an extended horror scene near the end. also, BUGS.

chapter 1

The world's in gray-scale.

The dirty white buildings are tightly clustered, in a courtyard that only barely meets the definition—it's a glorified parking lot, if anything. Dark gray concrete stretches out in all directions, cut through with lightning-bolt cracks that are unevenly colored in with rubbery black filler. A low fog hangs heavy above bare trees and benches with once-white paint that flakes off the dead wood.

There's no wind, but the stagnant air still manages to sting cold, sharp and biting. There's a deadly silence that rings, makes one uncomfortably aware of his own heartbeat and breathing. An abject misery hangs from the sky over the buildings like a thick, suffocating blanket.

In truth, the place seems more like a penitentiary than a children's school.

At the end of the empty lot, from a narrow gap between buildings, comes the grating gravely noise of an object being dragged across the concrete. It approaches steadily in the same way rain drums against the roof of a car; a consistent thrum of rolling, unending noise.

The child crosses the concrete at a steady pace; her wheeled backpack rolls through the silence in a deafening grind that thunders loud like a heartbeat, louder and louder and louder still, until the moment it stops. The silence races back in to fill the gaps, faster than the mind can conceive, leaving a sensation like ears popping under the release of pressure.

The girl and her cargo have stopped. Her eyebrows are furrowed, mouth set in a perplexed frown that turns into an abject, angry scowl.

“You're not supposed to be here.”

Kass snaps upright from the mattress, lungs burning for air. His hand clutches frantically at his chest where his heart pounds away under his skin, viciously trying to escape him. Dib hovers at his elbow, eyes wide and flicking between him and his bed-mate. She's still, chest rising and falling slowly; her breath softly rattles on every exhale. The pads of Kass's fingers press to his aching sternum, massaging at the space to little avail as he tries to catch his breath. His mouth is dry and cottony; he takes the time to swallow and find it in him to speak.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

--

It's been four days since he pulled the van back up into the garage; four days since he gathered up her limp, light body from the cargo hold and carried it into the garage through the back doors. Four days since Dib paced back and forth, crushing a feather that's dangled off his wrist for the better part of two years in his fist, pleading, “I need help, I need help, come on, why isn't it working,” as Kass set her down onto his bed with a terrible gentleness, and set his body into autopilot so that he wouldn't retch.

Four days of fighting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her awake, while Dib frantically went through his own dark websites trying to figure out what went wrong.

Four days. Four days ago they were sitting next to each other in the van.

--

The streetlights are cutting stark patterns through the dirty windows of the van as it grumbles down the eerily quiet city street. The yellow-orange beams aren't enough for Dib to see his notes for more than a couple seconds before they are gone, then there again, then gone. He grimaces where he sits in the cabin, just behind the driver's seat.

“Do we know anything about the survivors?”

“Survivor, singular. Not much more beyond what I sent you,” comes the terse reply from the driver's seat where Kass white-knuckles the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead. “The little delinquent's comatose, and he's not getting better. Even with the feeding tube, doctors are saying it's getting worse.”

“Some kind of vampire maybe?”

“Definitely parasitic, but nobody's caught anything creeping in and out the place.”

May looks out the window from her place in the passenger seat silently, her shoulders hunched and curled inwards. Dib shifts uncomfortably, catching how the streetlights cut her profile in the window. He watches Kass turn his head towards her, like he's trying to catch her in his peripheral, before something in his jaw tightens and he focuses on the road.

This isn't what Dib was expecting when Kass texted him the previous night, suggesting he assist with a paranormal hunt. When they'd discussed it, there had been no mention of... this, this weird, palpable tension that's settled over the two people in the front seats. He doesn't really know what to do with the suspicion he's likely been invited along to break some of that tension.

He pushes through valiantly. “What about the other kids? I know their condition was, uh, pretty bad, but couldn't get much detail off the news articles.”

“Husks,” Kass says, his tone clipped. “Dried up like they'd been there decades. No bites, no scratches, basically mummies without the wrapping paper.”

“But the articles said they'd been missing--”

“Four days, I know, Einstein. You do realize I read the articles before I sent them to you, right? Why do you think the nasty particulars were kept out of them? The press would have a field day if they knew how the kids looked. It's why all their parents opted for torching. Can't imagine any of them would be interested in open-casket.”

It's crass, which isn't new. Beside Kass, May's fingers curl a little tighter into her sleeves. The van jostles as it pulls off the street into the empty parking lot in front of the deteriorated storefront. It comes to a rough stop that leaves Dib gripping the shoulder of the driver's seat, before the engine dies.

“Right,” Kass says. “Come on.”

They exit the vehicle in relative silence. As he climbs out the back, Dib examines May's face closely. Her eyes won't meet his, a fact he's becoming more and more alarmed by, but before he can try to reach out to her, she's trailing away from the van towards the boarded up storefront without a word. Huffing, he slams the door to the cabin shut and runs to catch up with Kass, who is two steps behind May, hands shoved into his coat pockets.

“I thought you said this place was closed up. It looks in bad shape. Why are the lights on?”

“Whole block is paid for by the city. Since the other storefronts are open, they don't bother trying to get this one shut down. Plus,” Kass says with a grimace, “wiring's at least two decades old. It's all knotted up with the other stores, so taking it out would mean rewiring the whole bloody building. Costs less to just let the bulbs burn out.”

True enough, past the dirty and broken panes at the top of the store windows, the lights inside flicker with irregularity. When they step onto the pavement, Dib can't help how his eyes are drawn to the bright yellow police tape that flutters slightly in the night breeze, stretched in front of the locked sliding doors. “You sure we're not going to have to worry about authorities?” he asks suddenly, uncertain. “Isn't this an active crime scene?”

Ahead of them, May has shifted without looking back and flown up to one of the broken windows to creep in. Kass's gaze follows her, his mouth a firm thin line. “Not anymore. Police can't find evidence of foul play, since they've gotten fuckall from the scene they're trying to retrace the victims' steps. Hell, they can't even pinpoint what day they died because of the condition of the bodies, so they're looking into other avenues.”

“But,” Dib starts, gritting his teeth when the front doors slide open slowly with a grinding noise, the padding bristles rotted and the mechanism complaining from lack of oil. May pushes them to fully widen with a grimace, and tears at the police tape with hardly a thought. “But,” he starts again, “you guys are pretty sure it's supernatural.”

“Like you said. Vampiric tendencies.” Kass steps into the store past May, and pauses there. Dib narrows his eyes, squints at the way Kass's arm lifts, as if to set a hand on one of her shoulders—before it moves up instead to scratch at the back of his head. “Hurry up now.”

Dib huffs again and follows, falling in step with May, who had stayed in the door frame. “Hey,” he says, nudging her shoulder with his to try to catch her eyes. “Thanks for getting the door.”

May finally meets his gaze, offering a crooked little half-smile that slips away far too quickly for his liking. Her brows are creased upward, and in the flickering LED lights he can't help seeing the deep dark shadows under her eyes. “S'what I'm here for.”

“Pfft, no, there's plenty of other ways we could've gotten in, you're here for way more important reasons.” Dib grins. “Somebody's gotta have some sense here. You are the one with the brain cell in the party.”

That prompts a quiet huff of laughter. “Truly, we are doomed.”

“When you two are finished playing out your sitcom,” the short tone snaps from ahead, “come look at this.”

Rolling his eyes, Dib focuses forward again, where Kass has stopped just past the customer service counter near the store entrance. He finds him looking down the expanse of the building with a grimace, and follows Kass's gaze.

“Jeez. This place is worse than the garage was when you were living in it.”

The store may have closed several years ago, but it still hosts plenty of racks and rows and shelves, numerous nooks and crannies covered in dust, grime, cobwebs, and who knows what else. It's big, too, and it only feels bigger from the broken mirrors that line the ends of the clothing racks and hover in every dark corner of the building. It's impossible to see the entirety of the store from the front, the view blocked by the shelving and the supporting pillars, save for the two main walkways down the length of it. Overhead, bugs drift lazily around the inconsistent lights.

“I thought it would be... emptier,” May says from Dib's other side. “I mean, I know the whole chain closed, so they'd have to try to sell the stands and so on, but... I guess they didn't manage.”

Kass taps his index finger against his thigh in irritation. “Bollocks. Right, strategy is going to have to change considering the mess we'll have to sort through. We'll have to be methodical about this.” He turns suddenly, his annoyed squint aimed at May. “You used to work retail. Any suggestions?”

She seems taken aback that he's looking to her, so she stumbles through her words for a few seconds. “Oh, I—um, when—When I worked retail they had us in sections for our shifts. You'd sort of weave through the aisles and shelves in that section to make sure everything was in place. And, you know, to keep an eye out for security devices.” May brings her hand up to her mouth, curling a light fist to press against her lower lip while she thinks. “Oh, and, when going to and coming back from breaks, we'd have to loop the perimeter and go through the aisles there in the same way.”

He nods, clearly thinking while he paces forward a few steps. “So starting at the corner and weaving through to make sure nothing's overlooked. I'll take the front left side and head towards the back. Astro-boy, head to the back right side and move towards the front. Duckie, take the middle racks.”

Dib frowns crookedly. He can see the logic in Kass's strategy, but it's definitely not the safest approach. Beside him, May seems to have similar thoughts.

“I don't know if it's such a good idea to split up, Kass,” she starts, before stepping back as Kass turns to stride towards her.

“What do you suggest, then? If you've any opinions on the subject, please feel free to share with the rest of us.”

Dib's missing something, if the way Kass's words make May's shoulders go right up to her ears is anything to go by. He watches uncomfortably as she visibly steels herself, words tripping through a false start. “I'm not—I'm just saying it's a lot more dangerous that way.”

Kass's voice becomes poisonous saccharine. “How about I go start in the corner, and you come back to me when you decide what you want to do instead, if what I want is clearly so unrealistic.” The humor drops and leaves chilly anger in its wake. “You make up your mind and tell me what you want. If you ever feel like bringing it up.”

“That's not—” she starts, but he has already stepped past her without giving her another glance. Dib watches her forcefully swallow, hands curled into little fists that she presses under her arms, shoulder curling inward. “That's not fair,” she finishes quietly, to nobody in particular.

There's a creeping awkward silence, where neither she nor Dib move. Then, with a small huff, May presses her fist to her mouth again and begins walking with purpose. “C'mon,” she says quietly. “We'll weave the right side together, see about getting things done more efficiently.”

Dib trails after her down the right main walkway towards the back of the store, heels of his boots feeling loud on the filthy concrete tile and broken glass. “Hey,” he says, mostly to her back, “May, slow down, c'mon.”

“What, Dib?” The question is short, terse, but she obliges, lets him alongside her. From here he can see her eyes are still on the floor, her arms still tight bands against her chest. They pass mirror after mirror, and May's profile is distorted in the cracked reflection. It makes him uneasy, how many mirrors there are.

“Are you okay? No, wait, that's a dumb question,” he admonishes himself quickly. “You're not okay, I can see that. But—what's going on between you and Kass? I mean I know it's not my business, we've been over that a million times, but I'm really... you look...”

“Like shit,” she finishes in a deadpan voice. “Yeah, I know.”

“I mean I wasn't gonna say that.”

“Yeah, but we both know it's accurate.” May gives a hard sniffle, gritting her teeth like she's angry with herself. “It's—We're. We had a... disagreement. He's angry. He's...”

Dib scowls. “He shouldn't be taking it out on you, whatever the hell it is he did.”

“He didn't—Dib, you can't always...” They reach the back of the main building, and May stops and turns to face him, pinching the space between her brows hard enough to dent the skin with her nails. “He's frustrated, and it's my fault. He's allowed to feel frustrated with me.”

“That doesn't change the fact he's being needlessly mean.”

“Can we please not talk about this anymore?” There's a desperation in her voice, and a threat of her voice cracking. She looks up to the ceiling, where the lights capture the passing silhouettes of winged insects, moths and gnats alike. Her eyes shine as she clearly and valiantly attempts to not cry in front of him. “Can we just do this and, and I'll sort it out myself? Please?”

Dib audibly lets the air out of his nose. “I'll stop bugging you. Here,” he says suddenly, “you take the right side starting from the back. I'll take the left side from the back, and meet up with Kass halfway. We'll start on the middle.”

May's eyes flick from the ceiling to him, the corners lined with resignation. She looks so deeply tired, and below the flickering light the bags under her eyes look stark, the sockets sunken and shadowed.

“You know that I know you just want to pick a fight with him, right.”

“I'm not gonna pick a fight!” he says, unconvincingly defensive.

She sighs and squeezes her eyes shut, clearly frustrated but too worn to pursue the subject. “Fine. Go on. Don't hound him though. I'll meet up with you in a bit.” She doesn't look at him when she turns the corner and walks away from him, her silhouette terribly small besides the tall stands before it disappears from view entirely.

Dib takes a deep breath, and then he goes to the corner. He turns, and he doesn't weave, but beelines for where Kass is about a third of the way through the aisles, crouched by an endcap that faces the wall.

“Thought I told you to go to the other side, Encyclopedia Brown,” the man states without looking up from where he's examining something on a low shelf.

“May's started there. I need to talk to you.”

“No, you don't,” Kass retorts. “You need to turn back round and trot off like a good loyal chihuahua and take your nose right out of my business where it doesn't belong. I know you have eyes, Dib, but according to everyone in your little yes-man group, you also have a brain, so do us the honor of using it for once, and keep your trap shut.”

“Okay but you realize you just brought it up yourself before I could even say anything.”

“I'm well aware we're about the furthest thing from subtle, Columbo, even someone as emotionally constipated as you would pick up on it.”

“Could you stop being an asshole for five minutes?” Dib says utterly exasperated. “I know you don't care about what I think, and I know it's not my business, but May's in bad shape and you have something to do with it. Big shocker, I know, but I have a problem with that!”

Kass finally looks away from the shelf to put his elbow on his knee and press his forehead to his fist with a grimace. “I know, chrissake. I know, Dib.”

His tone is startlingly pained, even fraying with a waver laced through his words. Dib hasn't heard anything akin to it in his life—well, no. That isn't true. It's remarkably reminiscent to an apology offered in a deserted mall to a younger Dib. The stark surprise is enough to render him silent.

Kass continues without acknowledging whatever might be on his face. The man looks almost agonized, teeth grit and brows drawn tightly together.

“You think I want this? D'you think I find it fun? That I enjoy being an absolute arse-shit to the one person who I—who actively enjoys my presence? I don't, believe it or not, I actually truly don't.” He stands, turns sharply to face Dib, expression hardened. “But this isn't on me, this whole clusterfuck. I can't fix it. It's broken but, if you can even comprehend it, I'm not the person who cocked it up and has to try to patch it.”

Dib swallows, body tensing when Kass approaches and bullies his way into his personal bubble. They're about matching in height these days, so Kass can't loom over him like he used to, but the man's whole posture is still actively aggressive, on the offensive--

No. That doesn't seem right.

There's this thing that some species in nature do to protect themselves—it's called deimatic behavior. The phrase is used to refer to animals that do things when under threat, like make themselves look bigger, or show off bright toxic colors, in the attempt to scare off the thing hunting them. Frill-necked lizards fan out the frills on either side of their faces and open their mouths wide while standing on their hind legs, to look as large and imposing as possible. Some species of snakes flatten the skin around their heads to look more like a cobra. It's a bluff tactic, only really a type of defense mechanism.

What Kass is doing is not much different, Dib thinks. He looks posed to strike, but he's only resorted to this after an intense negative reaction because of what Dib said. He's trying to look large because he's trying to protect himself.

Dib has seen Kass in a bad way before, but hindsight is 20-20 and he lacked the context at the time to recognize a large amount of the cruelty was means of lashing out to keep himself safe. It doesn't help that, as a baseline, Kass is sullen, unpleasant, sarcastic and all around nasty around most people.

But, when Dib was younger, Kass didn't need to posture as much, not until he was on the back foot. He only doubled down when he felt actively in danger.

So this...

Kass seems to realize his reaction in the same moment, because he steps back and pinches the brow of his nose, letting out a breath.

“I know she's not okay. I know I'm not helping. I get that you have it in your head that you can just thwack me over the head to the point of concussion until I apologize or some other children's show nonsense, but this is not something either of us can fix. We can't just put a plaster over it like a baby boo-boo. Do you realize how aggravating that is, to see something so fucked but not have any power over the situation?”

Dib swallows. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“She said you were frustrated with her. I thought she was just—trying to justify you being a shithead.”

Kass doesn't say anything to that, rubbing his hand against the side of his face.

“Did she... do something?”

“She didn't do anything,” he finally mutters. “She never--”

He's cut short by a noise Dib doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget. May is screaming.

They're both moving before his brain even fully processes the sound; experience has ingrained instinct. Kass bolts ahead of him through the aisle, and they both see the stark, blazing light that reflects off the mirrors and leaves spots in Dib's retinas. It pulses and shines like a star, there by the right walkway where the aisles turn into racks.

They're still a few yards from it, their boots thudding and squeaking loudly on the dusty floors, when the screaming cuts out. Kass lurches forward, gun drawn and arm yanking at the wheeled rack, pushing himself forward. Those last few feet, Dib pushes himself desperately for a last burst of speed, so he's unprepared to run face-first into Kass's shoulder where he's stopped suddenly.

Before them, May screams around a massive bony hand that wraps around her face to hold her entire skull against the floor. The sound is muffled by the noise of swarming insects—moths of every size, in the air, on the floor, crawling out of the thing that has pinned May to the ground while her heels skid and squeak against the tiles in a futile bid for traction. They're in May's hair, on her clothes. They flutter through the exposed ribcage made of rotting wood--

The monster is a massive, skeletal thing. Wide empty sockets stare at its captured meal, out of a shattered skull where the winged insects crawl and alight on the branches of a dead tree. It's part bone, part wood, part flayed skin and exposed muscle, all pressed down on May's chest, its thin limbs caging her small body.

Kass shoots it straight in the skull, expanding the shattered hole into the eye sockets. The only reaction it provides is a tip of its head, bits of matted thin hair swaying as it tilts its face towards them.

The noise of the swarm rises, moths flying in thick clusters as Kass shoots again at a target Dib can now barely see. “Stop, stop, you'll hit May!” Dib shouts over the noise—but before the sentence is even fully out of his mouth the noise dies entirely.

The moths are gone. The creature is gone. The only sounds now is their panting, and the horrible wheeze that rattles out of May's throat as she convulses on the floor for only a moment more, before going entirely, deathly still.

Dib pushes forward past Kass, who still holds his gun as he scans the store rapidly. Dropping to his knees on the floor, Dib presses his hand to May's shoulder, then her face.

“May! May, wake up!”

By all accounts, she seems physically unharmed. She's still breathing, though it still sounds somewhat strained. But despite his shaking her shoulder, despite his hands pressing to her throat and her cheek, her eyes stay closed. She doesn't rouse. She doesn't move.

And there's something else.

“Kass, she's not waking up! She's not—I thought she was invulnerable!”

He glances over his shoulder where Kass has approached, and finds the man has gone still at the sight of them. The color has left his face entirely. He doesn't answer Dib, which is probably the most frightening thing.

“Isn't she?!”

Kass drops beside him. He touches May's hand, her cheek, and confirms what Dib has already discovered. Her skin is almost cold to the touch.

May is never cold. She's a goddess of light and life, a literal firebird, always barely warmer than the rest of them. Now, her cheek is cooler than even his own fingers.

“How was I supposed to know,” he breathes out. “I wouldn't—if I'd known this was necrotic based, I'd never have been so stupid as to have brought her.”

He looks up at Dib. The lights above are stark and harsh, which only adds to the ghastly pale shade of his face, drawn up in unfamiliar terror.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know?!”

end chapter 1.

[gibbearish]

love when ppl defend the aggressive monetization of the internet with "what, do you just expect it to be free and them not make a profit???" like. yeah that would be really nice actually i would love that:)! thanks for asking

[lancteu]

this has drained me of my will to live

[dukeofthomas]

Here's my controversial opinion; if you're trying to write Bruce as a non-abusive, good parent, you should also write him respecting his kids' privacy, boundaries, and not stalking&surveying them.

[welcometogrouchland]

Disgustingly messy and crusty sketch dump but I couldn't get my own terrible theory out of my head and ended up making a bunch of sketches about it. Also at the end a bonus dickbats and Damian doodle bc I was reading an issue of their Batman and Robin run (IDs in Alt)

[erinwantstowrite]

the duality of comments i get gives me whiplash sometimes. cause i'll get a really nice very sweet comment from people, then i'll get needless feedback that is like. if i wanted you to critique my work i would have asked for that. and then i'll get a comment like "you should kill yourself" and i'm just like. if i wasnt an adult and/or wasn't in a good headspace can you imagine the repercussions that would have. if i had gotten these types of comments when i was a teenager i don't think i would be writing right now. people get real brave when they think things are anonymous. anyways you don't know what people are going through and maybe, just maybe, think before you make a mean comment or critique without permission. if you're leaving any other kind of comment then you're already doing 10x better than that and making someone's day

[volkoss]

Fic: Brilliant Things

While Rook is trapped in the Fade prison, Johanna and Emmrich are forced to help each other overcome their own regrets. DRAGON AGE | EMMRICH & JOHANNA; EMMROOK | WORDS: 4,553 | RATED: G

(AO3 LINK)

It’s pathetic, really. Volkarin has always been a soft touch, but this snivelling is something else.

Despite her own prodigious knowledge of anatomy and the undead, Johanna had not known the human body capable of making such a hideous racket prior to the events of these past few days. Corpses do not weep, and even if they did, she hardly cares. 

The worst part isn’t even that she’s reduced to mere ornamentation in the already ostentatious study of one of Nevarra’s greatest necromancers, forced to watch him burn a hole in the floorboards with each anguished thump, thump, thump of his feet as he teeters at the edge of a nervous breakdown borne by the weight of his own misplaced compassion. No, this part was inevitable. Volkarin had always been destined to crack one day—she just wished she could have been the one to cause it.   

No, the absolute worst part, worse than having been denied the opportunity to gloat over her lifelong rival, is that despite the circumstances, the lovelorn fool’s dedication to his Watcher duties have been thorough to a fault. Johanna has of course tested the wards binding her soul to her remains multiple times; she’d been trying to escape before this most recent escalation in their circumstances, it would be downright idiotic not to try when facing down the end of the world as they know it. Especially while her only hope at salvation rubs his red-rimmed eyes and mutters inconsolably under his breath, unwilling to accept that it is in fact his infernal meddling which has doomed them all.  

It’s simple, really: if Volkarin had just stayed out of her way, left her alone, Johanna would still have her beautiful bone construct—the culmination of her life’s work—with which she would’ve had the power to raise an army of undead to defeat this so-called god, this Elgar’nan. 

But Volkarin had possessed the sheer nerve to outplay her at the most inopportune moment. Although she’s ordinarily capable of giving credit where it’s due, she cannot respect the lack of long-term strategy. Of all moments to finally locate his own backbone!  Volkarin had always been like that, though. Capable of surpassing his own self-imposed limitations given the correct impetus. What else could one expect from such a hot-headed, idealistic man as he. Ugh. And couple that all that with a new paramour, a bright-eyed young thing surely twenty years his junior, it’s no wonder Volkarin’s been distracted (but not distracted enough) of late. 

What needs to be done now is plainly obvious to Johanna, or indeed, anyone with half a functioning brain. For whatever reason, everyone in this crackpot team of would-be heroes that Volkarin has somehow gotten himself mixed up in relies on Rook, even though Johanna’s not sure what the impudent whelp brings to the team, other than a tendency to meddle which rivals even Volkarin’s. And as the group’s resident expert on the Fade, Volkarin is the most well-placed to tear a hole in reality itself to locate his misplaced lover. Even Johanna can see that would make for a most romantic story indeed, and she doesn’t even read that sort of dreck.

But it’s clear to Johanna that Volkarin is functioning at perhaps one-tenth of his usual operating capacity, compromised as he is by needless sentimentality. Of course, the type of man who would sacrifice not only his lifelong dream—immortality itself!— for a mere wisp, of all things, would struggle without the guidance of a more indomitable hand.

And in Rook’s absence, the task falls to Johanna. Unfortunately. Here she’d hoped her days of solving Emmrich Volkarin’s problems for him were over, but no matter. Unlike Volkarin, Johanna Hezenkoss does not shy away from necessary evils. 

As always, she chooses her words carefully, delicately balancing dramatic effect and efficiency.

“You know this is entirely your fault, don’t you?” 

Volkarin stops dead in his tracks as though she’d just punched him. The respite from his infernal pacing is most pleasant indeed, and she’s elated by the knowledge she can still instil such a reaction in him even while bereft of limbs.

Expression jumping from shock to outrage and then, most curiously, to acceptance, Volkarin raises two fingers to rub at his temples, quietly answering, “I know.” 

Johanna’s mandibles clench tightly and it is only with some difficulty that she manages to relax them. For Volkarin to admit his failings so readily, the situation must be worse than she had feared. “And what do you have to say for yourself?” she asks instead. The last thing she needs him to know is that she’s worried. 

Volkarin averts his gaze as he hunches into himself. She remembers the stance well from his days as a young child at the Necropolis. “I should have confessed the truth to Rook while I had the chance,” he admits in the most mournful, pitiful tone that makes even Johanna feel sorry for him as much as it makes her want to vomit, if she were still capable of such a thing. 

While it’s not quite the answer she’d hoped for—then again, Volkarin would never debase himself by offering her a proper apology for everything he’d put her through—it’s one Johanna can work with nonetheless.  Doing her best approximation of a tongue-clicking noise, she replies, “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that argument you had with your paramour.” 

As planned, the words bait him back into action with a sputter. Back straightening and fingers curling into the palms of his ungloved and unadorned hands, he snaps, “Still hung up on—” before cutting himself off and pinching the bridge of his nose as he breathes deeply to regulate his emotions, the same exercises they’d been taught as apprentices. Johanna had never cared much for them. 

The next words that come out of Volkarin’s mouth throw her for a loop. “Have you ever been in love, Johanna?”

One of the downsides of no longer having muscles or tendons is the inability to answer questions through exaggerated facial expressions alone. As much as it pains her to lend legitimacy to this line of inquiry, there’s a frightening intensity in his eyes suggestive of a commitment to this topic of conversation. She suspects he won’t accept a total deflection, or worse, that such an attempt might set off his moping again.

That still doesn’t mean it’s any of his blasted business. The time to be asking these types of questions was thirty years ago, not now. “I’m familiar with the concept,” she says acridly, hoping it’s enough to satisfy his curiosity before swiftly adding, “Not that I see how it’s of any relevance.”

Of course, Volkarin simply can’t leave it there. Instead, his lips purse, the look he now fixes Johanna with one of mixed pity and disappointment.

Infuriating man, to think such condescension could possibly affect her!

“Then you would know what it feels like,” he continues quietly, “to leave such matters unresolved with no resolution.”

Of course he would turn it around on her: a most pathetic and transparent attempt to make this an exercise in ‘practicing empathy’ instead of learning to properly communicate himself. She deftly avoids the obvious trap, cutting to the chase instead.

“You’re an idiot,” she states cleanly, simply. There’s a lack of malice in her words that surprises even her.

Volkarin must sense it too, because even though his body visibly tenses at the accusation, his reaction is short-lived. Instead, he allows his shoulders to slump—terrible posture, really—before running a hand through his tousled hair, the action accentuating the dark circles beneath his eyes. Finally, he sighs, a little huff of intermingled acceptance and defeat. Pinching the bridge of his nose once more, he answers, “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain yourself, Johanna.”

Now she’s really concerned, and even more adamant about not admitting it. Esteemed Professor Volkarin, inviting her to lecture? She’d never thought she’d see the day. Preening nonetheless, she doesn’t bother to disguise the elation from her voice as she points out the obvious. “Your paramour is trapped physically in the Fade, correct?”

Volkarin blinks; it’s too difficult for Johanna to distinguish whether he’s simply concentrating or staving off a fresh wave of tears, so she doesn’t bother.

“Correct,” he answers, fingers rubbing at his chin now, itching at the three-day-old growth which is a sight bewildering to even Johanna.

She does her best to continue ignoring the absurdity of it all as she continues.  “And my understanding is that you are indeed Professor Volkarin of the Mourn Watch, one of Thedas’s leading experts on the properties of said Fade, are you not?”

The masseter muscle in Volkarin’s jaw twitches. “I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“You always did lack a certain vision,” she says with a sigh which could be described as downright nostalgic. “I simply ask, what would happen were the situation reversed? If you were the one trapped in the Fade?”

Volkarin’s face softens, lips twisted into a smile so besotted it sickens her. “Rook would stop at nothing less than breaking into the Fade barehanded.” Johanna watches him expectantly as his eyes widen in realisation and he mutters, “Oh. Oh dear.”

It would, of course, be too much to hope for him to actually admit that she had a point, that she was in fact, entirely correct as always.  “You always did give up far too easily,” she admonishes instead. “I’m frankly astonished you ever got anything done without me.”

Not only does he have to the gall to ignore her reprimand, he even adds to her immense displeasure by resuming his infernal pacing. There he goes, thump, thump, thump against the floorboards again. All take and no give, just as always.

A newfound wave of frustration pulses through Johanna’s consciousness and she’s hardly a patient person to begin with. “You know, when I told you this situation was entirely your fault, I wasn’t talking about the missteps you’ve made in your pathetic love life.” There’s a new vigour—an urgency—to his steps when he finally deigns to face her. His hands together with frenetic energy. “Johanna, this is hardly the time. There’s so much to set in motion—”

No. Absolutely not.

She refuses to be overlooked again.

Shouting over him, she demands to be heard. “YOU. RUINED. EVERYTHING.”

But Volkarin still won’t be diverted and waves a hand as though before himself as though to dismiss her accusations. What’s downright infuriating is the confirmation that this infatuation with some youth he’s known for less than six months means more to him than all the years they’d spent working together. He pulls books off their shelves with alarming velocity, muttering titles under his breath that Johanna can’t quite decipher.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Johanna tries again. “If only there was more at stake than locating your lost paramour,” she hedges.

Volkarin continues to ignore her, but she can see his hands shake.

She makes another attempt, but this time she doesn’t even bother to disguise any lingering traces of bitterness evident in her voice. Not that she had been holding back on purpose, of course. It’s simply a most peculiar situation in which they find themselves. “If only you had an old friend with practical experience in creating receptive Fade eddies.”

A sharp intake of breath. Aha! A reaction! He doesn’t look at her yet. “What do you suggest?”

She’s not going to let him off that easily. “I don’t know. I didn’t realise you were seeking my opinion on the matter.”

“Johanna.” He finally turns from the bookshelf, pushing back unruly locks of hair from his forehead. “I could not have expressed myself any more clearly.” “Only because I had to do nearly all the work of leading you there!” she snaps back in return. Despite her gnawing frustration, there’s comfort in the familiarity of their conflict, the back-and-forth, the diametric oppositions of their world views.

Johanna will never, ever admit it aloud, but she has missed him. Not that it means she wants to spend the rest of his life trapped in his study, mind you.

But still, better this than death, better this than the cowardice Volkarin had embraced with open arms. For all that the good professor harps on about morality, of propriety, of decorum, of kindness, the real difference between them is that Volkarin is little more than a persnickety academic, but Johanna is the true innovator. An inventor. Her experiments speak for themselves. Yes, her aptitude for the more experiential aspects of their art had resulted in her current predicament, but failure is only ever a temporary setback, so long as the fundamental nature of existence remains intact.

And right now, that can't be relied upon. Elgar’nan had changed the trajectory of the moon itself! Even Johanna balks at such audacity.

It's only then that she realises Volkarin has been silent too long, which is entirely suspicious for a man who so adores the sound of his own voice. But at least he isn’t snivelling again. No, instead his forehead is furrowed deep in thought, fingers scratching at his chin once more.

“Careful,” she warns.

Volkarin blinks, his attention snapping back to her. “What is it?”

“You’ll hurt yourself, thinking that hard about it.”

Strangely, he begins to smile. Maddening man! “I suppose it would be too much to hope for you to simply help me out of mere goodwill.”

Something about his tone and his expression manages to get under her skin even though she no longer has any. “Obviously. You know me better than that.”

“But you are considering offering lending your knowledge to our cause due to the mutually-aligned nature of our interests.” “I would’ve used less words,” she answers in agreement. He holds up an index finger as though about to lecture, but it’s evident in his posture that he’s barely able to restrain himself from pacing again. That he does manage to do so is a point in his favour, for now. “You’ve certainly made clear your opinion on my relationship with Rook.” When she opens her mouth to interject, he raises the other fingers on his hand, and despite herself, Johanna falls silent and allows him to continue. “Which brings me to the realisation your motive was to provide a distraction from my grief so I could recalibrate and continue on the necessary work that must be done in Rook’s … absence.”

While she’s glad to hear Volkarin’s voice tremble as he dances around the topic of the void Rook has left in his otherwise obviously miserable life, the fact that it even does so still rankles her. Even more frustrating is Volkarin ascribing emotions and feelings to her that she does not possess, as though he’s some sort of Chantry sister instead of a powerful necromancer.  “I just wanted to stop the racket,” she snaps.   

“Be that as it may, I couldn’t help but notice your choice of topic.” He sighs again, an exhalation of air that’s heavier than any of the noises she’s heard him make throughout their entire conversation. His shoulders slump. It makes her wish she could slap him with a ruler.

“For what it’s worth,” he continues, “I am sorry. Sorry lichdom failed you. Sorry you were unable to reach out to me. I amespecially sorry you felt the need to conquer the capital in order to attract my attention.” When he lifts his gaze to look at her properly, she is surprised to find his eyes glittering with a mischief that makes her feel thirty years younger. “Forgive me, but I am unaccustomed to receiving overtures of friendship disguised as attempted acts of war.” 

She has told herself many times over the years that she has always hated him. She wants to continue hating him the same way she has survived these last decades in his absence. But in this moment, something within her breaks. Perhaps it’s the way they’re hovering on the precipice of the end of the world, or maybe it’s even the way Volkarin’s eyes resemble a baby labrador’s. 

As it turns out, even she is not entirely immune to the proximity of Emmrich Volkarin’s moral fortitude. Everything according to the Mourn Watch’s plan, no doubt. Oh, she’s not an idiot: she knows why it’s his office in which she has been assigned to complete this part of her penance, even if Volkarin pretends they’re still figuring out the details. All these years of exile but still trapped by the consequences of oaths she had made when she had been much younger and more naïve.  

The realisation should really disgust her but she finds herself devoid of her usual anger and envy, bitterness and rage. She realises, too late, what it is that has broken inside her: the dam that had kept any other most inconvenient emotions at bay.  

A wave of vulnerability crashes over her and she is powerless to stop it. Her next words slip out of her before she’s even had time to think.

“You abandoned me.” Once spoken aloud, she wishes for nothing more than the ability to take the words back, if only to stop Volkarin staring at her like she’s just kicked him. The flame of hatred she holds for him at her core begins to flicker back to life.  

“Johanna, I….”

“Don’t you dare apologise to me!” she screams. Maker, she’d throttle him if she could. Discrete emotions become increasingly difficult to identify, she only knows that she’s been knocked off course and discombobulated despite only trying to help for once. She feels seven years old again, lost and scared in the chambers of the Grand Necropolis, hating all these stuffy mages and their prim propriety, hating the newfound knowledge that such arcane energies filled her veins as well. The only friendly face a shy boy not much older than herself, and she’d helped him out of his shell with her façade of fearlessness.

And in turn, she had watched as he had become one of them.

“You don’t understand,” she hisses. She chances a look directly at his eyes again. He’s patient. Waiting. Despite it all, he wants to understand. Damn him.  

But whether Johanna is capable of letting herself be understood is shakier ground, part of a vast expanse of uncharted territory that lies between them.

Putting it as bluntly as she can, she simply states, “Your parents died. Your parents loved you.”

Volkarin steeples his hands together, comprehension dawning on his features despite what continues to be left unsaid between them. “Ah. I—you never did tell me how you came to live at the Grand Necropolis.”

She scoffs. “What was there to tell? It’s only the same tale from all over Thedas. Parents have child. Parents don’t want a child with magic. Pah!” A surge of resentment swells within her. Why is she talking about this? Why is she talking about this with him? She hasn’t so much as thought about this in years. It hardly matters now. Just look at everything she’s achieved! She’s fifty-one years young and she’s going to live forever.

The thoughtful expression has returned to Volkarin’s face, and she’s grateful to find herself capable of hating it again. “You told me you were born near Perendale.” Why does he even remember that? Regretting ever telling him anything about herself, she answers, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Next he was going to be asking her whether she had ever been in love again. Why did he always insist on meddling in matters that didn’t concern him!

“That’s no insignificant distance to travel, especially with a young child in tow.”

“As though you’re an expert on travelling with young children,” she answers hotly, before recalling that pet skeleton of his. The way he doted on it, Johanna would be unsurprised to discover that Volkarin had indeed mistaken it for a real boy.  Very magnanimously, she decides against saying this part aloud.

She just wishes Volkarin would let the topic drop. In the past, she’d always retreated whenever he had threatened to dismantle her walls and bluster with his disaffecting sincerity and dogged determination.

But now, she is at his mercy. And she knows—better than anyone—that despite his spotty track record at seeing through his commitments, Volkarin is nothing if not thorough.  He’s an indecisive man, not a slothful one.

“I simply believe most parents do their best with the resources available to them.” He scratches at the side of his nose. “Most people do, in fact. Even if we cannot, at times, predict the consequences of our actions.” At this, he fixes her with a downright professorial stare.

“I am grateful I wasn’t snatched up by templars,” she begrudgingly admits. “I could have been sent to Kirkwall.”

The corner of Volkarin’s lips twitch. “Perish the thought. I do profess my gratitude that the Mourn Watch was able to take me into their care.”

It’s only when Johanna remains silent that Volkarin appears to realise his mistake. “Ah. Of course. They never did truly appreciate you.”

Volkarin’s words sound downright strange to her until she’s able to identify the anomaly: the phrasing is hers, not his. She continues to say nothing, entirely too suspicious of where he’s beginning to go with this. “And although I wouldn’t, as you said, dare apologise to you, I do want you to know I am aware that it was wrong of me not to speak in your defense when it came to the growing number of censures that had been amassed against you, even though your experiments benefitted my research. If I could redo that time in our lives again, I would have severed our partnership earlier and provided you a proper explanation of my decisions. “I suppose I assumed you would come around to my position on the matter. But I dare say you thought the same as well.” She watches the smooth column of his throat as he swallows nervously. “There was so much I was willing to overlook until I thought the price too high to pay. Naturally, recent events and conversations have elucidated to me that we have vastly different thresholds for such matters.” To say she is stunned is an understatement: that she has allowed him to prattle for this long without interruption is testimony to this fact. But it is even more stunning that to receive a proper explanation for the events that have haunted her for decades from the most conflict-avoidant man she has ever known. Other partnerships are unlikely to be repaired by an admission that they should have separated sooner, but nothing had ever been what one would call normal when it came to the two of them.

As much as it displeases her to admit it, Johanna is certain that Volkarin’s capacity to deliver his soliloquy was driven by Rook’s influence. What other force in this world but love would be strong enough to push a man like Volkarin to the brink of foolhardy bravery?

And while the thought is still annoying, it doesn’t sting as much as it once had.  

Thus, it is with nostalgia and not bitterness that she remarks, “We could have done brilliant things together, Emmrich.”

Her use of his first name does not go unnoticed. How could it? His eyebrows raise so high they nearly disappear into his receded hairline. “You haven’t called me that in over thirty years,” he protests.

“And it’ll be thirty more until I use it again,” she insists in return. “Just tell me the truth. Was there ever a moment in time when you appreciated the power and potential at our fingertips? That you thought we could have been the ones to rule this world?”

He averts his gaze. Grinds his teeth. “Yes,” he finally admits. “I saw it. But it would have never been worth the cost.” Johanna scoffs. “There’s always some crackpot trying to take over the world. It might as well have been us. We had the best chance of it. Both of us liches, our knowledge combined, my brilliance counterbalanced with your compassion… There was a reason I kept a bleeding heart like you as a partner for so many years. But I underestimated your sentimentality.” She wouldn’t be making that mistake again, that was for certain. Just look at the situation it had landed her in! She would simply have to figure out how to best wield it to her purposes while she remained trapped here. If Volkarin thought she wasn’t going to continue using every tool at her disposal to facilitate her great escape, then he was sorely mistaken.

“Yes,” Volkarin answers softly, crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he gazes at her with discomfiting fondness. “I dare say you did. Just as I am guilty at times of underestimating your brilliance.” He swivels on the spot and Johanna is afraid he’s going to resume his pacing but the walk he has in mind for now is mercifully short, only over to the bowl on his desk where he’s deposited the majority of his grave gold.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, hating how urgent her voice sounds to her own consciousness. She always hates it when he behaves erratically.

“I was under the impression we had work to do, my dear.”

“Absolutely not.” Surely it hadn’t been so long he’d forgotten her utter loathing of pet names.

He laughs, then, long and rich. It is a definite improvement on the snivelling. “Force of habit. Won’t happen again,” he promises. “First things first. I do believe you had some knowledge to impart on the practical applications of receptive Fade eddies?”

“Getting ahead of yourself as always, Volkarin,” she says by way of reprimand. “You need a bath. I don’t have olfactory glands and even I can tell that you reek. And a shave.”

He rubs his hand against his chin again, eyes widening as though surprised to find it covered by hair. “Ah! Yes. Thank you.”

“Completely and utterly useless.” This time, she’s disgusted by the tenderness in her own voice. Oh, no, this won’t do at all. “While you’re at it,” she adds, determined to get their shared task back on track, “get the elf girl and your skeleton boy. We’ll need to replace the stolen dagger in order to kill a god. And I don’t know about you, but ancient elven gadgets are hardly my area of expertise.”

“Of course, I’ll speak with Bellara.” His brow furrows. “But why do you want Manfred?”

“Because I don’t have arms, you idiot.” It really does make building things more difficult. And she won’t even be able to inadvertently kill the wisp this time due to the aforementioned lack of limbs. It’ll work perfectly, really.

“Consider it done.”

Not having much other choice in the matter, Johanna watches as Volkarin gathers his bathing supplies and heads towards the door.

It is on the threshold that he pauses and looks back at her, his hazel eyes bright with fiery determination. “I’ve always appreciated you, Johanna Hezenkoss. Let us continue doing brilliant things together.”

And then he is gone, door to his study closing gently shut behind him.

[shepscapades]

This one was a freaking doozy. If I keep talking i think i may be in trouble

[committingcrimes-2047]

I'm thinking about Vander x reader- im thinking about a story where they are maybe childhood friends and then they end up fighting on the bridge together but get separated and no one knows where Reader is so they assume theyre dead only for them to show up a year later.

Imagine Reader showing up at the last drop as its closing and Vander has his back to them and tells them that hes about to close up shop and they just sit down and maybe ask for a super specific thing that they always used to order and he like turns around and realises its them and it goes from there.

I know people are in agony with the new season so I thought I might as well throw some silly little ideas out into the wild. Please tag me if anyone writes this- not because its my idea but because im desperate for more Vander please and thank you.

[nibbelraz]

I am endlessly entertained by the prospect of MBJ just having literally no clue how human physiology works, and thus believing everything he hears (which, paired with SQH's propensity for saying dumb shit without thinking, is a recipe for disaster)

like:

SQH: ugh if I read any more expense reports my eyeballs will fall out of my head

MBJ: *frantically gathering as many expense reports as he can carry before shoving them into the fire*

SQH: *literally watching all his work burn up in flames* i-

MBJ: please hold in your eyeballs

______

SQH, offhandedly: lmao wei qingwei ate so many bao buns at the festival that I honestly think he's going to turn into one

MBJ, absolutely horrified, actually gives his condolences to the (very confused) human man because this affliction which will soon take his humanity is a fate worse than death. Also he starts hiding SQH's melon seeds

_____

SQH: ugh I'm so stressed out i'm gonna EXPLODE

MBJ: NO-

Yes YES OH man Shang Qinghua definitely has no filter when complaining about stuff, Poor Mobei he's learning so many awful things about humans and how MUCH DANGER THEYRE IN (how much danger his favorite human is in)

He tries to learn more about what can happen to his poor human so he's spying on Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghuas meetings only to hear them BOTH dramatically explain how tired they are, Shen Qingqiu with some peak lord duties juggled with Binghe and Shang Qinghua with just the amount of paper work and how they both won't make it if things don't slow down soon which prompts Mobei to immediately tell Luo Binghe that his consort is going to DIE if he doesn't get rest immediately this second

I can see this getting SO out of hand so fast, He'd bury Shang Qinghua in blankets and hold him tight so absolutely nothing can bother him and he'd be safe

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

jon val jon or something

[sysig]

How much of me is me? (Patreon)

[allastoredeer]

Me : well maybe it's not that bad?

Me : looking for radioapple art and immediately get hit with big buff Alastor and tiny shorter than in canon Lucifer, Lucifer in a dress getting fucked by Alastor, Lucifer in a dress getting fucked by big buff Alastor, Lucifer who look like 5 yo and 'suave sugar daddy' Alastor who holds him and each with thousands of likes and absolutely zero of anything else than that

Me : nope 🙃😔

Save me Vox/Al artists, save me

Man, I love Vox/Alastor art so much.

I just love the Vox/Alastor ship as a whole, be it one-sided, mutual, or anything in between, and a lot of it stems from Alastor still feeling like he's Alastor.

I mean, I think people make Alastor a little more cruel and heartless towards Vox sometimes, but overall he still feels like himself. He gets to be dangerous and manipulative and he gets to be silly and whimsical. It's perfect.

Adding a cut right here because this post got WAY longer than I anticipated ⬇️

I think with RadioApple, when it comes to Alastor, people lean too much into this:

And not enough into this:

It feels like his fun, sassy, and whimsical side gets stripped away and he's turned into a stereotypically tall, dark and menacing love interest.

Where's his flamboyancy? His razzamatazz! As Susan would say, "Where's the showmanship? Where's the pizzaz? Fucking mediocre."

If I'm reading a fic or looking at art and I can't imagine their Alastor doing one of his girly-pop wrist flicks -

- then I can't keep going. His girly-pop vibes are too important to me.

Of course, when it comes to tone in both fics and art, sometimes fun and whimsical aren't what the artist is going for. But even outside of NSFW art and stories, so often Alastor just feels...bland. He feels too stiff. Too much like a suave, old fashioned, smooth talking gentleman, and not enough like a fun, silly, and sassy little freak who loves trolling people.

And with Lucifer if feels like they lean too much into this:

And not enough of this:

I feel like any, if not all, of Lucifer's flaws are brushed aside so often and so easily.

He feels softened and watered down. Like he's either a sad & awkward UwU boi all the time, or he's the most flamboyant, seductive little minx there is. And to be fair, he is both a very sad boi and a seductive little minx.

But rarely does he ever come across as powerful to me. A lot of the time he feels too normal. Or too sad and naive. Literally, like he could be any other sinner if I didn't already know he was the kind of Hell. And that's so funny to me because we've seen him openly and extravagantly display his powers multiple times in the show--not to the extent that he did in the finale--but he was definitely flaunting all the things he could do, make, or summon for Charlie during his musical-battle with Alastor. He was 100% showing off how powerful he is.

Not only that, but, honestly, Lucifer feels too open and sincere because that man is judgmental as fuck.

Going back to the "Dad Beat Dad" episode, there are multiple examples of him being a self-righteous little shit: 1) he was incredibly critical of Charlie's hotel the moment he stepped inside, even if he tried, and failed, to cover it, 2) he didn't even try to hide his disgust for Alastor's bar, which he didn't even know was incorporated by Alastor (who he hadn't even met him yet) and could've been incorporated by Charlie or Vaggie, for all he knew, 3) he wasn't taking Charlie's hotel or her plan for redemption seriously from the start, he didn't even have his mind open to the possibility, he wasn't there to hear about her plans he was only there to see her, and 3) when the hotel was attacked by the loan sharks, instead of making them go away or preventing the hotel from being damaged - which he could have very easily done with no amount of effort - he hung back and smugly reiterated that he was right and sinners can't be redeemed and Charlie should just give up on her goals/dreams because it's just not possible so there's no point in trying.

Like, Charlie was very clearly in distress over her hotel being attacked and destroyed, but he was too busy boasting about how he'd been "proven" right to see that.

He's very easy to anger and his ego is so easily bruised. Alastor got under his skin immediately and effortlessly - though I also believe that's on part that Lucifer doesn't have a high opinions of sinners anyway - and Lucifer 100% escalated the conversation/argument he had with Alastor during their first meeting.

See the whole scene of him referring to Alastor as a "has-been" and insulting the name he'd given the hotel, especially when you take into consideration that until Alastor said that he named the hotel, Lucifer thought it was Charlie who came up with it.

And I'm not going to say that Alastor was an innocent, picked on little baby in that scene, he was 100% riling up Lucifer from the start, but also, like...Alastor's lines weren't outright antagonist like Lucifer's were. They were more subtle, slightly needling and passive aggressive, but nothing that could really be taken as a insult.

This is literally the dialogue, word for word, of their very first interaction:

Lucifer: What in the unholy Hell is that?!

Alastor: Just some of the renovations we had done. Adds a bit if color, don't you think?

Lucifer: And you are?

Alastor: Alastor, pleasure to be meeting you, Sir, quite a pleasure. It's nice to finally put a face to the name. You are much shorter in real life.

Lucifer: Who is this? Who is this now - are you the bellhop?

Alastor: Ah-ha, no! I am the host of the hotel. You might've heard of me from my radio broadcast.

Lucifer: Hmm, nope! I guess that's why Charlie called it the "has-been" hotel, hahaha!"

Alastor: Ha ha ha, it was actually my idea.

Lucifer: Ha ha, well it's not very clever.

Alastor: Ha ha, fuck you.

Like. That's their first interaction. And if you go back and actually pay attention to facial expressions and body languages, this was the first time he's seen Alastor, and Lucifer was immediately disdainful.

I went back and screenshotted Lucifer's face, right after Alastor's first line (which was a relatively innocent in and of itself and didn't even sound that antagonist), and:

That's a lot of disesteem for someone he literally just met. At most, you could argue that it was Alastor's smirk or tone that set him off ⬇️:

But even that is such a small thing to get upset over.

I'd say the only time Alastor really started getting openly hostile towards Lucifer was when he wiped his hand after shaking Lucifer's cane (which Lucifer didn't even see as he was too busy fixing his hat) and commenting on Lucifer's height (as a shortie myself, can confirm, that'll get on the nerves very fast).

My point is, Lucifer was immediately unfriendly towards Alastor and escalated the situation just as quickly, if not quicker, than Alastor did. Alastor implied that Lucifer might know of his radio broadcast, and Lucifer jumped right to calling him a "has-been." He doesn't even know him. This is their very first meeting. He was judgy and dismissive of Alastor at first sight, and, let's be honest, he kind of threw the first punch with that "has-been" line. Alastor said Lucifer was shorter than expected, but it's not like he laughed, pointed at him and called him a undercooked little chicken nugget. I'm sure a lot of demons/sinners who've never seen Lucifer would also assume he would be taller and more menacing at first glance, and I doubt this is the first time someone was surprised with his height (still not cool, Alastor. We vertically challenged folk have feelings too).

But Lucifer was prejudice from the start and antagonized Alastor just as quickly, and way more openly, than Alastor did to him. And don't get me wrong, this isn't me saying that's a bad thing on Lucifer's part! This isn't me criticizing or scorning him for it. I think it speaks so much of him as a character!

Cause we've seen the soft and tender moments he has with Charlie. We know how much he loves and cares for her. But he's also egotistical, antagonistic, and judgmental as hell, and that's what makes him such a fun character to write about. He's awkward yet showy, smug yet caring, depressed yet prideful. And by god, this man will show off his power without hesitation. He knows he's hot shit. He knows he's the strongest person in all of Hell. He knows he's the top dog and he can do whatever he wants - even if he has no love or interest in interacting within the Pride Ring (as far as we've been shown).

He's got a lot of multi-facets to him and I adore it, and that's why I get so annoyed when all of that is stripped away and he's turned into this soft little sunshine UwU boi who's just a sad, sweet lil lamb who's done no wrong.

No! He has done many wrongs! There's a reason he and Charlie were estranged and I don't think it was Lilith's fault - or, at least, I don't think it was all her fault (I have many thoughts about Lucifer and Lilith's divorce, okay)

I didn't mean for this to turn into a full-blown character analysist post LOL but alas I tend to get carried away. This was all to say, I really enjoy RadioStatic because Alastor typically gets to keep his sadistic and whimsical side, and I appreciate that. His silliness means a lot a to me, and if he comes off as too stiff or formal, it takes me out of a story.

Lucifer's flaws and sheer power also mean a lot to me, and I wish there were more fics and fan-art that showed that. If Lucifer reads too much like a normal, every-day person, I lose interest. I like the idea of people getting used to him, and getting comfortable around his presence, only to get a sudden and overwhelming reminder that he is, in fact, an ancient and immortal being with immense power that their brains wouldn't even be able to comprehend.

I have so many headcanons about Lucifer as a fallen angel and how his habits and lifestyle developed over the thousands upon thousands of years he's been in Hell. Habits he's adopted that unconsciously help him duplicate the mannerisms and behavior of sinners and demons, but also those small, indistinct tells that are quick and subtle reminder that he could destroy everyone in Pentagram City with ease if he decided to; and also, those times if you were to look closely and really pay attention, you get the faint, unsettling feeling that there is something very un-human about him. A subtle, unnerving shiver down your spine as your instincts yell at you that this person is not a person at all, he's just passing off as one.

That shit gets me. Give me ancient, eldritch Lucifer and I'll love you forever.

I am sorry Anon, I did not mean for this response to get so big 😅 You gave me a paragraph and I gave you a novel. But yeah, save me RadioStatic artists, save me 🙏 I rarely have to worry about Alastor turning into a big, buff alpha man or a soft little UwU when he's with Vox, and I appreciate that.

Edit: Adding a screenshot of my tags here because apparently I wrote down too many and it cut off the character tags.

[rottiens]

Stepmom Yuki has severe breeding kink 😔✊️

she fucks you nice and deep, putting her hands on your belly looking adoringly at the way the cock separates your slippery folds and she would love nothing more than to fill you to the last drop. she in fact, debates whether she would love to cum in your folds or so deep inside you. her thumb moves from your belly button to your clit and strokes it sweetly as she takes the leg above her shoulder and kisses your calf, moving her hips in such a way that she manages to get even deeper.

the idea of her seed inside you, your tits swollen from pregnancy and her lips on your sweet sensitive nipples is what makes her cum silently, calling your name as she bites your skin.

[liloslittlethings]

liam would hold farts in for louis...?

(otra vienna 6/10/15)

[instantpansies]

life is hard for us oz fans who are only meh about wicked. have half a meme.