#its not that he cannot be redeemed

[mai-komagata]

ok it isn't that i don't want to redeem sauron. in real life i hope if there is a god the apokatastasis is real. but like if we are making a ranked list of people who who should be redeemed in the rings of power show, i see scenes like halbrand stealing that sigil from that old man and leaving him to die or stabbing his orc children adar loves so much and worked so hard to make good again, or throwing mirdania over the railing, and im like, well, we can put sauron last on the list. he clearly doesn't want it. liking one powerful blonde woman gives you zero redemption points -- that doesnt even count as *trying*, that is just having eyes. its like you guys don't know how the ancient magic works at all.

[starbell0]

this CREEPY ASS DOCTOR GUYS and his sick little obsession with Gemma I mean

I do have to believe it is similar to the Cobel-Mark situation and less like the Helena-Mark situation. Though it definitely shares aspects of both, the intrusiveness is lead on a basis of scientific discovery

Its in human nature to attach to things, especially something that is under your care and guidance.

Mark is Cobel's testing grounds, she is obsessed with the way Severance works on him and how her project is able to prevent two married people from recognizing one another.

This doctor feels the same ESPECIALLY with the whole "You know you're gonna have to let her go" line

Gemma is a thing to him, something he can command and make do whatever he wants - and of course you want something you feel you love to love you back

its disgusting but its also so purely built into their scientific studies of their specimen

[a-dip-in-the-source]

Here's a fun random question - whats your biggest hot take/controversial opinion on fhdw that you haven't shared yet? Or if you can't think of one, expand on the ones you have shared :)

If we are talking about controversial opinions, I don't think the Ronodin we were presented with in the books is ever really redeemable. Not because his actions made him irredeemable but because he is perfectly happy with hurting people and does not regret it. I needed a scene where he showed genuine apology to someone who wasn't his manipulation target.

His backstory is sad, and you can trace the way he had good intentions all the way down, but simply saying you have good intentions doesn't mean much when you're also murdering families and causing world wars. A point is made, the current situation with the sanctuaries is untenable for the Dragons, but Ronodin doesn't really care about this point. He's using the dragons and demons as sacrifices to get the throne. Ronodin wants the Fairy Crown so that he can prove that he was right and that his family were all fools. He dresses up his goal in pretty fabric so he can feel good about it, but he is still sore that he fucked up in negotiating with the demons.

He is a character with the potential to be complicated and interesting, who deserved a better written ending, but I don't think he was ever righteous so much as he found the words to make people believe he was righteous. At best he is an anarchist who thinks things will just work themselves out once he burns the previous world to the ground, at worst he is a wellspoken abuser.

[ancient-romes]

Since the shisno trilogy has been retconned can i just say i never actually believed in Locus redemption

[lesbianraskolnikov]

i like that im only drawn to rasonya when its yuri style. Its hard to care about heterosexuality idgaf. If theyre not stupidly passionate whats the point. But as lesbians...well this is awesome i like it.

[tandytoaster]

This is my little space pirate guy Alph <333

[burst-of-iridescent]

the thing with zuko and azula that people, specifically azula stans, seem to forget is that they are intentionally and specifically characterised in opposition to each other.

i keep seeing discourse about how azula deserves a redemption arc & even leaving aside the fact that a) saying someone “deserves” a redemption defeats the purpose of what redemption is and b) there was no space in the original show for azula to redeem herself anyway, azula could not have been redeemed because part of her narrative purpose is to be a foil to zuko.

zuko and azula are each the metric against which the other’s evolution (or devolution) is measured, and it’s the striking disparity between their character arcs that makes said arcs as impactful as they are: the child who swallowed the poison vs the child who spat it out. the fire nation royal who perpetuated the cycle of violence vs the fire nation royal who broke it. the abuse victim who became an abuser vs the abuse victim who became a protector.

would zuko’s redemption have felt as satisfying and hard-won if we hadn’t seen in azula the alternate path he might have so easily gone down? would azula’s downfall have been as terrible and saddening if we hadn’t seen the possibility of a better future embodied in zuko?

thematically speaking as well, the fire nation royal family exists as a microcosm of the fire nation itself — the generational trauma and violence passed down from sozin to azulon to ozai to azula and zuko is symbolic of how the fire nation’s warmongering has turned inwards, back on itself, a self-inflicted wound that grows and festers and rots until they’ve destroyed themselves just as much as they’ve destroyed the world. but where zuko represents a way out — hope for healing, for peace, for an end to the self-destructive nature of war — azula represents the cost of that war, the damage that can never be undone, the danger of remaining mired in an ouroboros, forever the snake that bites its own tail.

a version of the show where both zuko and azula redeem themselves together would have lost the grave, sobering impact of that message: that getting out as zuko did is the exception, not the norm, because the system in which they exist is built to be a trap. and even when that system is dismantled, the destruction it’s wrought cannot be fully erased.

the point of zuko and azula’s story lies in its inherent juxtaposition: there was never going to be room for both of them to rise or even fall together, not in the world in which they were raised and the virtues it extolled. and it’s because zuko exists as who azula could have been and azula exists as who zuko might have been, that their individual arcs are so powerfully poignant, and their relationship so infinitely tragic.



[sha-brytols]

and the thing is i've said so many wildly conflicting things about how flawed solas' character portrayal was in veilguard but like. i unironically do believe they're All True and like i think i can kind of(?) articulate why

like solas in veilguard to me was a pretty perfect example on how clear it is that dragon age has suddenly and drastically regressed from being an exploration into moral ambiguity and that fine smudged line between "hero" and "villain" to a sudden inexplicable refusal to allow any sort of grey area in character motivations in favor of forcing them into a binary box like its a dnd alignment. and i think this specifically because there is literally No Way to write solas in a morally uncomplicated manner while still maintaining anything that makes him an interesting character.

people who hate solas hate veilguard because it removed literally any nuance to his character and repeatedly paints him as a poor mistreated victim whose only crime is that he was Forced to do things He Didnt Want to by a significantly underwritten and highly anticipated female character, and his regrets are all varying degrees of "it's my fault because i was right and they didn't listen to me :(" and no actual agency in his own decision making. his romance with a lavellan is literally front and center in the game and the only one that even gets more than a passing letter or (in dorian's case) like. two full lines of dialogue. the narrative does everything to silently paint him as the misunderstood tragic hero that no one truly appreciates and even rewrites the inquisitor so they always want to redeem him regardless of their previous disposition

people who love solas hate veilguard because it somehow managed to simultaneously do the same thing in reverse. solas has no genuine regrets or sense of guilt or actual reflection about his past behavior in the entire game. he kills his best friend and the game makes sure to zoom in on his face as varric is falling down just so you can see the sneer of contempt. the war table finebros react segments where its literally just the writers unapologetically utilizing the companions as mouthpieces for their personal opinions makes sure to tell the player that solas is unforgivable and a hypocrite and a coward for his actions. they even like. rewrote an entire part of his character specifically to remove that layer of complexity and dumb it down to the Lying Liar Who Lies. where the narrative silently wants you to sympathize with him, the characters LOUDLY want you to condemn him. your most sympathetic dialogue choices are lukewarm "well... i GUESS i understand why..." delivered in a consistent tone of disapproving resignment.

people who are neutral to solas? you're not ALLOWED to be. here you go. Dragon Age: Solas. everything is about solas. you have to make all your choices based around solas. we've written an entire game to revolve around solas. we rewrote like 4 characters to make sure that you are forced into one of the two extremes.

and it's all because you have a game that physically cannot help itself but to make you make the Good Decision and so they can't decide which decision is good and which is bad so they wrote two completely conflicting stories about him at the same time. he is the best boy. he is the worst. it genuinely feels like the writing team was actively wrestling with each other behind the scenes over whether or not solas is a Bad Guy and thus their only means of compromise was writing him as though he was dr jekyll and mr hyde without any transition or consistency. he is a villain. he is a hero. you are a bad person for not seeing his point of view. you are a good person for peacefully redeeming him. and i know there's people who think this is some sort of ingenius character study but none of this is intentional. he isn't like loghain who commits bad acts in service to a greater good. he's the prideful god who lied to the inquisitor about wanting to free the elves and instead his goal has been about his own personal ego all along. he isn't like flemeth, who does good by people and manipulates the story in your favor all for the sake of her own mysterious ends. he isn't even like the architect who lies and murders and manipulates the warden all in the service of his own deluded vision. he's the guy who wants to destroy the world because his abusive ex is forcing him to. but also he's the guy who wants to destroy the world because he thinks mortal life is insignificant and he should be in control because hes The Best.

all complexity of what was previously a deeply nuanced character has been removed, and it's because he used to be so complex that it's so disjointed and bad because they refuse to actually commit to any one direction because in that case they'd might as well make another character. but they can't. they have to make it solas. because solas is their cash cow and their baby.

they want to make a perfect solavellan happy ending because they want to please the people who love their baby but they're so fundamentally divorced from what their audience wants for solas that they ended up writing a caricaturized ai-generated romance novel for teenagers.

they want to make a cathartic fight scene where you beat the bad man because they want to please the people that hate their villain but they have such blatant contempt for criticism of their precious little baby that they make sure to infantilize and misrepresent his flaws as much as they can so he can be the sad little elf boy that you need to hug.

and despite all of this they ALSO wanted so desperately to avoid making you sympathize too much with the antagonist they were building up to that they had to make sure he acted in the most unforgivably evil ways that they could think of just so players knew this is the Bad Guy and you're the Good Guy and don't you forget it.

it's just constant self contradictory writing. it is so blatant that it's genuinely hard for me to even see veilguard's solas as being the same character. i find myself nodding my head in agreement to his most ardent haters because yeah you're right. they did spend an insane amount of time forcing you to see just how innocent and well-intentioned and pure this egotistical mass-murderer was. and i also find myself nodding in agreement with his biggest fans because yeah. you're right. they did randomly turn this character into a moustache-twirling villain who does everything short of tying rook to railroad tracks and cackling as he runs away to tear down the veil. and all this because they couldn't stand to not have him be in the game in the biggest and most impactful way. they literally could not have a story without solas.

[just-some-user-hunny]

Vampire hunter D and Hellsing Alucard fighting over the same darling

I'm going to have to take some creative liberties and ignore some canon material for this to somewhat work, due to the difference in vampire rules and whatnot in each respective lore and world-building, but this idea was too fun to pass on. I think a dynamic between the two would be so entertaining- seeing as they are both Eldrich horrors in their own respect, yet so different. both are complex characters with many layers to them, so I hope I gave them justice with this.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading! . ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Their rivalry is inevitable. D has sworn to spend the rest of his days slaughtering the undead- and Alucard is possibly the strongest of his prey as of yet. They are alike, but not- two of a kind, who share the same shadow and bloodlust.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Alucard is both immensely curious and irked by the vampire hunters existence. A being that is not dead, nor alive. A creature born from both the undead and living. A dhampir.

D is something of a worldly curiosity to him- how can such a thing exist? Throughout all of Alucard's un-life has he witnessed such a being. It both fills him with awe, and unrest.

The complexity has even himself spiraling into an unrestful haze- because finally. A rival. A true rival. A being that has the redeeming quality of a semblance of humanity. He can see right through the dhampir- that sorrow and loneliness and regret is so human. So raw, and unabashedly hidden with shame. What a solemn moping creature D is... Interesting.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ D is troubled by the vampire king. A monster whom resembles the likeness of Dracula- a twisted shadow of his own father, a being from another timeline, who mocks him with his mere existence. Just being in the same vicinity as him makes his blood boil and stomach churn in disgust. Knowing that this violent blood hungering beast is yearning for you makes him sick. The implications that if he fails, and you fall into the monster's claws, that another dhampir may possibly be brought into its wretched existence is simply something he cannot allow.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ The two clash in every possible way- yet align in every possible way. Like a dark twisted duet. Like a shadow clashing with a shadow. It shouldn't be. Two beings having met behind the veil- a veil that should have never been pieced. They glare at one another in the shadows of your footsteps, constantly watching with bated breath.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧The dynamic of being caught between the crossfire of the two horrors beyond the veil is a restless nightmare- yet an enveloping dream. It doesn't feel...real. To be yearned over by these two men monsters is an enigma of itself, and you've inevitably become the taut rope between an endless tug of war. Back and fourth, back and fourth, neither breaking sweat nor losing their footing. Clashing blades, explosive bullets, the silver of guns and swords glinting in the moonlight. Spilt blood, open wounds, unrestrained ferocity. There is no hunter or prey in this dynamic- their very strength teeters on the edge of a blade-steady yet, wavering. All that is established is that they have both set their claim. And neither are willing to give up.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Their motives are simple, yet complex like entangled string. Red and black thread ensnaring you till you are but a meager little morsel struggling in the spiders web. D wants to eradicate Alucard- rid the earth of his bloodied existence. The very personification of self-preservation and fear of death taken in the form of something bloody and full of hunger has no right to belong in this world. It should be laid to rest.

You, poor little human, are an unexpected obstacle of both himself- and his prey. You're the flesh caged in the bear trap- the butterfly in the web, the pretty patisserie cake on a porcelain platter. He's the jarring metal teeth, the descending spider, the glinting cutlery.

He's a parasite who attached itself to an unsuspecting human- who has no say in the matter. Either you love him, endure him, or despise him, it doesn't matter. He's sunk his teeth into you and won't let go- always in your shadow.

D is a hunter. That's all he has left for himself. He can at least do this favour for both himself, and you. If you call for Alucard's name, it is not enough to deter him. You don't know any better, you can't. You don't know the extent of this horror. You never shall. Never should.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Alucard is frustratingly simple- yet simply complicated. You are a human who's ensnared his interest- his curiosity and fascination. He wants you, all of you. Your voice...your breath...the smell of your skin...your thoughts and dreams and fears. He wants all of it. He's selfish and hungry, and you are the soothing balm to his wounds. He admits he's a monster- a monster that can only hunger and obsess, he has no shame in that. He accepted he's irredeemable long ago- an attack dog, a weapon, something to command and leash for the sake of numbing the boredom and insanity of everlasting existence. He needs motive. Reasoning. Distraction. And you are the best distraction he could ask for.

He's caught in the swing of finding this hunter's endeavours amusing and annoying.

Leave him be, let him enjoy this last thing. Then he may have his spill of blood.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Regardless of the madness- it can come in useful for your own sake of survival. You'll never have to worry about being harmed whilst under the watchful eyes of not only Alucard, the no life king, but the Dhampir hunter, D. It is the one thing that they can seem to agree and find truce over. They are content to slaughter the vile beasts that dare to think they can harm a hair on your head, casting aside their rivalry to kill together. Their protection is priceless in a world filled with danger- not even the wealthiest of people could pay a price to ensure such safety.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ those dynamic is full of banter and jeering- Alucard most often the initiator. How can he help himself? This enigma of a being is so ripe and ready for the teasing and prodding. Something that is half monster, half human... It shouldn't be. An abomination as much as himself. Although he shares his hatred through his own twisted morals, the hatred towards lowly vampires who do not abide by nature and kill monstrously with no goal or end- that disgusts him. His respect for the hunter draws a fine line between mutual respect- and despair for his existence.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ "You're disgusted with yourself? As you should be. All creatures of the night deserve nothing. Useless beasts"

"You realise you speak of yourself, Nosferatu"

"How witty of you to clue on. You should know better, do you feel the weight of existence? Isn't it crushing? Yes...it is, isn't it..."

"..."

"For someone who is half human, you are certainly as silent as the dead-"

"Enough."

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ D is... Often wavering with his control around you. Beyond the soft nonchalant veil that he drapes himself with, internally he often finds himself holding back his insatiable bloodlust. You'd probably never guess- by how tamed and calm he is, through both his slow methodic actions and lulling voice- but every part of him is yearning to taste you.

He's not proud of it- ashamed, is the best way to describe it. It's something he's intent on you never discovering- lest you fear him, God forbid. Pain and fear are things he never wants to stir in you from his own doing. He's not the monster who hides under your bed- not the frightening creature who lurks in shadow, hunting for blood. He's more than that, he likes to believe. There's a part of him that regains precious humanity.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Alucard however isn't a creature who can be swayed easily with the scent of blood- his experience and self control has far surpassed his mindless animalistic bloodlust. Despite the way that he is, He's not one to become lost in a mindless haze- eager to snatch you up and shake you around with your throat in his jaws like he was some depraved starving animal. Although the scent or sight of your blood does utter some excitement out of him, he's never one to act upon it. He'll simply stare at you knowingly, smiling softly and offering to bandage wherever you are hurting. he'll be more than happy to lick the wound.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ You can imagine the taunting this no-life king has in store for the vampire hunter, watching with smug amusement as this halfling struggles to keep his drool in his mouth just from the mere scent of you. It’s adorable. Pathetic.

He loves taunting the hunter- playing with you like a cat pawing gently at a mouse, to see what kind of reaction he can summon out of this nonchalant creature. His lack of response always irks the vampire, so watching him grow annoyed and angry just for merely being too close to you? Oh it’s bliss.

Alucard loves to stray closer- closer and closer, pushing his luck, all under the watchful eye of the hunter. He’s more keen to touch and caress you like this- like a lion with a lamb, towering over you frightfully as you stand there sweetly and innocently in his claws. As if he were playing with his food. Rest assured you'll never be his food, but that shouldn't damper his fun regarding toying with the naive hunter.

You’ll become surely equated with the Eldritch horror of a man swallowing you up in his shadow- standing closer than necessary. Your back practically flushed against his torso, as large gloved hands gently pet and caress you like you were some pretty little thing to fawn over. It doesn’t matter how you react. Either you tremble and swallow anxiously as your throat is swallowed up his palm- his fingertip dragging softly over the skin to trace the hollow in your throat, unsure and confused- or you may simply stand still and allow your loyal hound of a vampire preen and coo over you with patient endurance. It’s not your response Alucard is after, although it doesn’t hurt to enjoy it, but D’s.

He wants his anger.

His jealousy.

His envy.

For D, the sight of your delicate neck in the hands of Alucard is something that never fails to make his stomach lurch in fury. He’ll glare wordlessly at the vampire mutt- his own blood red eyes simmering like boiling viscera as he clutches his own aching throat.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ I know very well how tempting they he’ll say with his eyes, the deep pleased hum rumbling in his chest like a content beast as he tenderly strokes the delicate skin above your artery. Feeling it pump quickly beneath his fingertips, as his eyes glint with amusement at the dhampir’s simmering anger.

See how I can be so near, so close to touch them whilst you salivate and struggle like a starving dog. A dog. That’s what you are.

D could rip him a new one if you weren’t so in the line of fire.

God, this guy's one smug asshole huh D.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ That is not to say that Alucard is the only petty one, because D is just as bad. he can be worse.

It is not unusual for the Dhampir to snatch you away and keep you tucked safely beneath the shelter of his cape- keeping you swallowed up in billowing fabric, nestling you close to his side or ribcage. Silently-softly- he’ll extend his arm out welcomingly, draping his cape open for you to hide if you so please. Please. It is the safest place for you in his eyes, swaddled safely from sight nor scent- with you so swallowed up in his clothes and stature, your pretty scent is masked with his. Practically bathing you in it. All you can do is keep up with his strides as his hand settles securely upon your shoulder, keeping you tucked into his side whenever you walk together.

Look D, as much as I like seeing this assholes face prune up, I'd like our body to stay intact. Hey, are you even listening?

So you can image the irk and seething jealousy that burns like hellfire in Alucards vermillion glare as D unveils you to the vampire king- your form nestled close to him, wrapped up in the safe recluse of the dhampir’s cape. That halfling abomination has rubbed off all your scent and his.

The nerve.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ It's safe to say that they both become clingy in their efforts to claim possession of you no matter how much D refuses the concept of possessing you, they both know deep inside that's what he yearns for with his lonely dead heart.

So be prepared to be clung to by these two towering children of the night. Alucard pressing himself to you like a touch starved dog, possessive and enveloping. His gloved hands resting upon your shoulders or idly stroking your head/jaw/neck. If not in your shadow, he's by your heel- the tip of his own polished shoes brushing against your heel.

He does it so unnaturally fitting. His large hand curling around your jaw, tilting your head up to wipe something off your face. He could so easily crush you, but that thought never comes to fruition in his mind. or he may drape his arm over your shoulder, his gun bracing against your chest like a makeshift shield. (Or perhaps a little empty threat to make your heart skip a little in your chest). He loves how much it winds the Dhampir up.

"Get that thing off her, if you know what's good for you."

"I don't, you see"

"Off."

"What's wrong? You surely don't think I'd hurt her to you? She's my dear little human, Dhampir. Mine"

"She's not yours, or anyone's."

"Is that so."

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Both are eager to claim the spot to reside in your shadow- both literally and metaphorically. They share the same inevitable fate of losing you to time- so they are insatiably eager to take their fill of life from you. To have the pleasure of watching you grow old and silver, front row seats of your existence- if you will. It is unspoken, the sorrow. It’s a lengthy pause that’ll always settle between them; both fully aware, but not strong enough to say it out loud. It all but makes it too real. Alucard is full of pretty poetry when it comes to the concept of losing you- always grinning and wistfully lamenting how full and easy he’d make life for you, but internally there’s a pit of anger and sorrow inside him that’s festers like rotting fruit. Sweet and syrupy, but spoiled and repulsive. These emotions only come to surface through silent lingering glances of softened expressions, which always throw you off. They’re quiet and contemplate, and for once you don’t feel like a yummy morsel under his watch. You’re something to be mourned and cherished. This deep sadness that dwells hidden in his garnet hued irises.

.‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ D is just as in much sorrow, and that is something that the two creatures of night can fall into agreement with. Immortality is a curse, not something one should wish to possess.

D does not keen to dwell too deeply into the concept of your demise- no matter how peaceful it’ll be. Every smile-line and pretty wrinkle upon your face serves as a reminder to him. He will forever remain porcelain- his hair will remain deep mahogany, whilst you turn silver and frail. Reminding him of how fragile you are- how privileged you are. Still- he is silent with his emotions. Like carved marble set into a beautiful and gaunt expression, never will he show anger or jealousy. He cannot bring himself to bear it.

As long as you are safe and cherished, that is all he can wish for.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ their fight for claim can go on and on, scrabbling for a secure footing in the game they've been began- with no means to an end to finish. They are both strong, no matter how endurable D is- nor how many levels of his own power that Alucard unleashes, there's always a standstill. D could be near shredded ribbons of flesh and fabric, but he'll still stand. Alucard could be standing tall in his armour from his days of impaling and bloody reign, and he'd still be toe to toe with the Dhampir. It's infuriating for the both of them. There must be only one victor, one to take their stead in the shadow of your existence. But it's never ending.

This isn't about simple rivalry anymore. It's a neverending duel between themselves, eager to win or die. Death would be a privilege if not for your own place in the matter. They can't die yet, not whilst you are still breathing.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ you'll be caught in the crossfire of possession and duty, desire and a twisted version of love. It is for you to bear witness to, So don't look away.

[ohbother2]

OKAY SO-

Alastor lost his cool and flipped his shit immensely when Lucifer showed up - why would that be? and why wedge himself between Lucifer and Charlie? Why would he react so viscerally when his literal main-competitor for retaining his rank and respect is Vox, and Vox openly antagonises him first, trying to drag Alastor's reputation through the mud in his broadcasts

Alastor remains cool, calm, collected, and in doing so completely surpasses Vox's attempts

in many ways, Alastor is unflappable. Always smiling, always a step ahead, always the most powerful and domineering in a room

and then- Lucifer shows up. This short statured, rosy-cheeked, rather pathetic excuse of a man

he waltzes in to the hotel, a fumbling over-excited mess, the least threatening a person could possibly look in hell, barely reaching Alastor's waist

and yet, he outranks Alastor, he could over-power him easily, he is the predator

and Alastor simply cannot handle that

Alastor may be furious that such a week-minded, emotionally unguarded man ranks so far above him with no way for Alastor to even attempt to gain the same status

so what does Lucifer lack? what is the one thing Alastor can have that he can't?

a relationship with Charlie

his anger is calculated, he finds what hurts Lucifer, he finds his weakness, he grips onto it with both claws, and he drags it in front of him, mocking the fact that, yeah, sure Lucifer may outrank him, but in his daughters mind? one of the few things Lucifer can't control? Alastor has the power, has the lead - in all manners of 'power' and 'influence' that Lucifer cannot control, Alastor makes sure he knows he is on top - he is Charlie's favourite, he succeeds where Lucifer has failed her

regardless of his motives, he has been there for Charlie, and Lucifer hasn't, and that's all that matters

but why does he have this deep-rooted need to prove himself? why can he not accept that he is still the second most powerful in that hotel?

his need for power, for dominance, for control is shown again when Husk confronts him in the hallway

'big talk for someone who's also on a leash'

this time, Alastor doesn't even bother targeting Husker's, insecurities, his weaknesses

he drags him down the hallway chained at his neck, teeth gnashing and positively enraged

there's no typical Alastor intelligence or cunning behind this action - it is pure unadulterated rage, it's a: I can kill you, and I will

killing husk would be useless - Alastor obviously has a purpose for him, that's why he's been kept alive and the other overlords haven't, killing him would get rid of any leverage Alastor had, it would get rid of Husk full stop

Alastor has been gone for 7 years, and now he's back, supporting a cause he doesn't believe, forced to wander around the hotel halls and haunting its residents instead of freely roaming Hell

Lilith has also been gone 7 years - and she isn't yet back

Alastor just so happens to appear at the hotel mere moments after Charlie tries to talk to Lilith, marching into the foyer and wedging himself into the project with a showman's flair

he is chained, he is chained to that infernal hotel where he doesn't belong - he cannot be redeemed, he doesn't want to be redeemed

he is chained to Lilith, and by extension he is chained to Charlie

and in his eyes, he is powerless, so utterly and infuriatingly at the mercy of those above him, and that simply won't do

so what can he do? what can a man, whose greatest desire is power, who's biggest insecurity is the power and status he wields over others, do to reclaim some semblance of that power? how can he usurp Lilith? how can be make this soul-bond beneficial to him?

he can win Charlie over - he can replace her father in the process, he can mould her as he sees fit, he can play on her need to view the best in everyone, in the need to create friendships and her insatiable ability to care for those around her

he cannot get to Lilith, he cannot match Lucifer, but he can have Charlie

and he's nearly got her

and when he does? who's to say her naivety, her trust, the relationship he's intentionally crafted with her, leads her to strike a deal with him in a moment of need? when the angels attack, when the hotel begins to crumble, when heaven commands her to stop her efforts? why wouldn't she strike a deal, in her mind, he's as caring as a father figure, and a man who's been there since day one unlike either of her parents

she shakes his hand

he has her soul

he has Charlie, and he has Lilith, and he has Lucifer

there's nothing they can do, and isn't that really what power is? not raw-strength, not magic, not status, but the ability to control those who others may believe to be above your own station?

he's forced to the hotel, he's chained down and unable to grab for more power - if Lilith is preventing him from earning it himself, well, he can always just force her to give it to him

all it takes is one hand shake.

the cherry on top? he get's to show Lilith it's her own desire for him to be at the hotel that has allowed him to ensnare them all

[lunamond]

I know this is by no means a new take (especially here on tumblr) but I'm of the very strong opinion that as written, the Acotar series actually provides a lot of evidence that most (if not all) of Rhysand's actions are in some shape or form always about Tamlin. Even his relationship with Feyre is about Tamlin.

A lot of people hold up Acomaf ch54 as this super romantic turning point for Rhys' character, which is incredibly funny to me because to me it only ever cemented the unfathomable levels of homoerotic obsession Rhysand has for Tamlin.

He admits that during Acotar he convinced Amarantha to let him go out of Utm to check on Tamlin and the Spring court, where he then left a decapitated head branded with the Night court symbol, like some weird bat shaped cat.

He also visits for Calamnai. (What are you doing here on the spring sex festival night, Rhysss?!? He isn't going to pick you!)

Obviously his meeting with Tamlin in Acotar is a classic for any Tamsand fan, his voice is a "lover's caress," he demands Tamlin call him Rhys instead of Rhysand for old times' sake (???!!), he threatenes Feyre‘s life to make Tamlin get on his knees and specifically fixates on her sexual thoughts about Tamlin.

When he kisses her utm to cover up Tamlin‘s scent, she also weirdly remarks on the fact that Rhysand can still taste Tamlin, which... is quite the odd thing to point out, if I'm meant to believe he is only interested in Feyre.

He also has literally admitted, to Feyre herself no less, that his weird roofy lapdance humiliation of her utm was specifically to upset Tamlin.

It just screams of "if I can't have you than I'm going to make your life miserable and steal your girl" behavior.

All his posturing in front of Feyre, presenting himself as the most powerful HL, the prettiest, the best and most just ruler, etc just comes across as him desperately trying to prove how much better he is than Tamlin, which obvs was intended to make him appear more attractive as the new love interest, but quite frankly it just seems kinda pathetic (I mean this affectionately, especially in the context of Tamsand. But eve beyond the ship, I just really adore pathetic fictional men).

Even in Acofas, he cannot stay away from the Spring court, he claims he needs to go there for diplomatic reasons, but he literally has courtiers? He has send both Cassian and Lucien on diplomatic missions before? Why would he personally need to go?

But, when he meets with Tamlin, he tells him that being with Feyre (his mate and supposedly love of his life?!) isn't enough, and he tries to goad Tamlin into a fight. (He wants to wrestle him so bad it makes him look stupid fr). When Tamlin doesn‘t respond like Rhysand hopes, he gets disappointed and dejected. Later, he returns and cooks Tamlin food, an action that has been explicitly romantically coded in this series...

Also, as a side note throughout that entire interaction, Rhys' internal monologue can't shut up about how green Tamlin‘s eyes are.

I'm hyper critical of the Acotar series and Sjm on the best of days, I don't like how Rhysand's character is written at all. But reading him as the most egregious case of a closeted gay guy channelling all his surpressed feelings into being the most toxic ex might be the only way his character writing can be redeemed for me personally (unfortunately Sjm is too much of a coward to ever purposefully write this).

I know its never gonna happen in canon, but to me the perfect resolution to the series would be Rhysand and Tamlin resolving their gay rivalry and finally getting together to live out their thruth as the disaster couple they were clearly meant to be. While Feyre and her sisters get to go off and be free from the clutches of all these toxic men.

[razrbladekiss]

MAPLE HAZEL | Joel Miller — Part Three

SUMMARY: joel’s misery is palpable. you’re oblivious to it. until you’re not.

PAIRING: no outbreak!joel miller x afab!reader

WORD COUNT: 5.9k, you are welcum.

WARNINGS: angst. reader is an eagles fan (do NOT come for me, they are my boys. go birds 🦅). F L U F F. mentions of reader’s dad. tommy and joel are jerks, but joel redeems himself. tommy can suck a fat one. i kidddd <3 this is probably the angst-iest this story’ll get because im addicted to the fluff so. enjoy. 🤞🏼 not proof read or edited, i cannot be fucked for that.

TAGS: if you would like to be added for future installments, then let me know besties!! if i’ve forgotten anyone that’s asked to get added, then please slap me. @millersleee @goodvibesonly421 @j0elmlllers @scorpio-echo

SERIES MASTERLIST

Joel’s hands seize the steering wheel of his truck—the same one that’s presently stationed on your driveway—knuckles turning sheet white for the hold that he has is completely unforgiving. And sore.

He’s irascible. Livid. His anger is sheathed by shame and hatred for himself as the way that he conducted himself this morning was unseemly. Even for Joel, it was appalling. And though you didn’t appear to have any reservations, he knew that he bothered you. Your face didn’t allude to irritation, nor did your tone or mannerisms, but Joel was more than conscious of your internal hurt.

He just knows you that well.

But now he’s sitting—legs numb and cheeks charring red—striving to conjure up an apology that’ll help to shirk any ill-feeling that you may have toward him. Because he was a fucking jerk this morning.

And it was all because of an Eagles sweater, believe it or not.

9.42 AM

Birch Grove is bustling. It's considerably brighter, this morning. The doom and gloom that enveloped your small town yesterday has now dissipated, leaving nothing but small puddles of rainwater and grit in its wake, and it’s beautiful. A sight to behold when you’re leaving your house today.

You avoid the wetness on the road—hoping not to muddy your shoes—and bounce onto the sidewalk, admiring the oil slick that blankets damp gravel on your way over to Joel’s. You swear that there’s a divot in the concrete that holds semblance to a heart, but you’re not sure if that’s just a delusion from lack of sleep or some sort of sign from the universe telling you that perhaps it’s time to find a significant other.

Nonetheless, you take in the scene. How yesterday—in the midst of a storm—not a single body littered the crosswalk, therefore leaving Joel’s little coffee shop completely empty. But today—now that the air has cleared and rain almost dried up—it’s like nothing had even happened, and the entire town is out in force. Like they always should be.

Joel watches in awe as you make tracks across the street toward the cafe—wondering how he ever deserved such a buoyant presence like you in his life despite the fact that he’s a perpetually miserable middle-aged man—and busies himself so you don’t think he’s been ogling you this entire time.

But then the bell rings, Joel’s eyes flick up—against his own will—and you bound over the threshold with the biggest smile. He swallows extremely thickly.

“Good morning.” You say, as happy as ever—clearly on a high from your not-date—and pad through the room toward him. “Can I please have a—“

“You’re late.” 

One of your perfectly tweezed brows raises. 

“For work.” He elaborates. Joel clears his throat. “You’re late for work.”

“I got the day off.” You remind him. He vaguely remembers you saying something about this elusive break on Monday, but was honestly too distracted by his brother attempting to use the coffee machine. 

Joel nods, taking your favorite mug off of the shelf. You smile at the sentiment. 

“Ah, you’re going shopping. Right?”

You nod. Your stomach gurgles when your eyes satisfy the gaze of a perfectly plump cinnamon roll. Not too thick, not too over-done, and the right bun to icing ratio. It’s sitting—alone—in one of the little cake cases.

“I am.” You reply, taking the glass dome off of the top. Like last time, you swipe the sweet treat right from underneath Joel’s nose. Only, today, you slide two dollars across so he can’t complain. 

But he wouldn’t anyway. Not today. Because he admires the fact that you’re ungovernable, while simultaneously respecting him. To an extent, anyway. 

“I can get you some fall decor.”

“No—“

“He needs to spruce this place up.”

His eyes roll when he’s pouring the frothed milk atop your latte, hardly going unnoticed by his larger-than-life, sometimes a bit too overbearing brother. 

Tommy acknowledges you by saying your name, and you grin back at him. It’s nice to see one of the Miller’s with anything but a stoic expression slapped against those rough, rugged features. Though there’s something about Joel’s that seems rather superficial. 

Despite being perennial at times, you feel as though you’ve cracked through his tough exterior and. You’re certainly able to decipher between his real and mock revulsion. Last night was the first time that Joel’s guard had truly been down, and it was wonderful. 

“Get him some pumpkins. A wreath—“

“I don’t need no pumpkins. And what the hell is a wreath?”

The youngest brother pulls a stool out next to you, and bumps your shoulder as he sits. He looks at you as if to say get a load of this guy, and you laugh. Joel passes you your latte, and you think that you see a hint of a smile tugging at those plush lips. But you won’t swear to it. 

“A wreath is what Mrs. McKlaren has on her front door for each season.”

“Yeah.” Tommy chimes in. He pulls one of the Birch Grove Gazettes from the pile beside the cake case, and opens it up. “But you knew that. You’re just playin’ dumb in front of—“

You elbow him. “Quit teasin’.” Further defending your friend, you say; “it’s not his fault if he’s not too polished up on the names of things. He’s not pussy-whipped like you are, Tom.”

Joel chuckles at that comment, thanking you with a nod. A man of few words, though you get him. Down to a fine art. 

“True.” He flicks through a few pages, before he’s turning to you with a grimace when you take off your jacket to reveal one of your dad’s old Eagles sweaters. “Oh, God no.”

You frown, putting it to sit on the seat next to you. 

It’s common knowledge around these parts that there are two teams, and two teams only that it’s acceptable to support. Unless you’re flaunting the badge of the Texans or Dallas Cowboys, then you’re basically committing a federal crime.  And the men of Birch Grove take this very, very seriously. 

“Joel. I know you’re friends with this broad—“

“Watch your mouth.” He grumbles, appearing from the kitchen. He has his head down, hands full of cutlery. 

“Sorry.” Tommy says oh so quietly. “But—but look. She’s wearing the mark of the devil.”

Your eyes are rolling so hard you fear that they’ll roll straight from their sockets and into your coffee. You just know that beneath the green flannel, Joel is donning an Aikman jersey.

“That’s so dramatic.” Arms are being folded over as you speak, and he still hasn’t looked in your direction. “It’s just a football team—“

“Woah.” The two Millers harmonize. Joel eyes you directly and turns his nose up as soon as he heeds the shade of green that should be classed as blasphemy, not midnight.  

He didn’t know that you liked them. Tess liked them, too. But you know that. You’re not fucking stupid. 

And perhaps she might’ve aided the disgust that percolates through Joel whenever he hears someone utter the name Brian Dawkins, but he can’t help associating them with her. That same way he thinks of her whenever Fall rolls around, or whenever you step into his little cafe. 

He has such strong feelings for you, but needs to put them aside. He needs to bury them deep for fear of the past repeating itself because he isn’t sure if he can go through that again. His guard goes up, and eyes go down. He busies himself with cleaning. 

“Sacrilege.” Tommy spits. “It’s not just a football team, woman. It’s Irreverent. To come in here and wear that is absolutely ridiculous.”

Your jaw rolls and you look down at the faded logo. 

“I respect that you root for the birds, I do. It must be hard to support such a shit team—“

“Language.” Joel scolds, a little heated. “But, I agree. Can’t go wearin’ that ‘round these parts. It’s almost as bad as you comin’ in here wearing a Steelers jersey.”

Tommy grimaces. It’s not quite as bad, but it certainly sucks. 

But, to you, what sucks is the fact that these men—grown fucking men—are chewing you out over a sweater. It’s child’s play. 

“They’re not a shitty team. They’re great.” You defend your guys, watching Joel try to control the bitterness threatening to bust right out of his lips. “I’ve always loved them. My dad is from Philly—“

“Explains why you have such crappy taste.”

You blink at Tommy. 

“Anyway.” You clear your throat. “I’ll always root for the birds, because they’re my favorites. I also, believe it or not, enjoy the Cowboys when they play at home, or against the Giants. It’s patriotic. But they are a pretty shitty team—“

“No, they ain’t.”

“They are.” You uphold, making direct eye contact with the youngest sibling. “Remind me, when was the last time they went to the Superbowl?”

Tommy’s jaw rolls, and Joel can feel himself slipping. 

“Ninety-five.” Begrudgingly, he says. “But that don’t mean shit—“

“Kinda does.” 

“No it don’t.” He growls. “When was the last time those damn birds won the big game, huh?”

Without missing a beat, you say; “twenty-eighteen. They beat the Patriots by eight points, Brady sucked and Foles was the MVP. I tailgated at the stadium with my dad and uncle—“

“In Minnesota?”

“Yessir.” You tell Tommy before taking the last sip of your—now lukewarm—coffee. “I’ll also be heading to Philly to see the Eagles v Steelers game.”

Joel scoffs. 

“Got somethin’ to say, old timer?”

He grinds his lips together before saying; “just baffles me s’all. Don’t get how someone—Dallas born ‘n raised—can root for a team from Philadelphia.”

“Just the way it goes. But I did say that I enjoy them from time to time.”

“Shouldn’t be that way.” Tommy interjects. “Texans are meant to support Texan-made teams all the time. Not fuckin’—“

“Tommy.” Joel gestures to the customers, scolding him again for his crudeness. 

You pull cash from your purse while the two of them bicker, putting atop the counter before Joel can even refuse. You shrug on your jacket, too, promptly doing up the buttons so the tension can dissipate a little. But it doesn’t. 

“I’m not arguing with you two morons over football any longer.” A little meaner than intended, you tell the two of them. You turn to Joel, brows furrowing. “And I know why you despise the Eagles; I’m not an idiot. I saw her walking ‘round the place with her scarves in the winter, ‘n the occasional jersey on football Sundays.”

Tommy looks between the two of you, sensing some friction. 

“Don’t project Tess’s shit onto me, Joel.” Blunt, you say. “I’m sorry that I was the reason for her leaving, but it ain’t my fault we have the same interests. You can’t pussyfoot around forever, and I don’t appreciate gettin’ admonished for a fucking football sweatshirt.”

“Don’t.” He warns, wrenching a dish rag between calloused fingertips. He knew that last night’s conversation was deep-rooted in something more than just you being curious. “I’m not pussyfootin’ ‘round. I just don’t wanna talk about her.”

“I know.” You say—realizing that you were a little too hot off the mark—but you don’t feel sorry. “But there’ll always be people who like the same things that she did, or say the same things, or remind you of her.”

He looks at you. He knows what you mean. He knows that you know that—in some kind of way—you make Joel think of her. You’re so strong, like Tess. So outspoken, exactly like her. But you’re caring and kind, and don’t get jealous over the slightest little things, and you let him speak. 

You let him tell you about his troubles, not that he shares too much. And you’re not pushy. But now, it feels like you’re being exactly that. 

“I’m sorry that my mere presence as a Goddamn Eagles fan pisses you off, Joel, but I’m not going to be able to change that. You’ll just have to try and detach those memories—“

The dishrag is being hurled onto the bar along with his fists. “I’m not gonna detach those memories! I ain’t gonna forget her just ‘cus you think you know me and my relationship with that woman so well! You don’t know shit. All you do is come in here ‘n drink coffee, rant about crap that nobody cares about, make me listen to your stupid fuckin’ problems—and I’m sick of it!”

You blink back tears as you stare at him, for the volume is intimidating and completely unwavering. You’ve never been yelled at before—in front of customers, by Joel—and you want to be sick. Everyone is staring. Some people are even leaving. 

Has he always felt this way? You wonder. Has Joel always thought that your ramblings are pointless, and that your issues are facetious? You’re sure that he’s just spewing nonsense at this point, but it still stings. 

“Joel—“

“Get out.” He looks down, hands gripping tightly the wooden countertop. He refuses eye contact. 

Tommy gives you a weak smile, immediately regretting setting foot into Joel’s this morning. Quite like you, really. 

“I’m really sorry for bringing her up, Joel, I know how—“

“Go.” His eyes lift to satisfy your gaze, hurt written over his features. “Please…Just leave.”

“Okay.” You nod, lifting your purse from the stool. It’s a quick bye to Tommy that has those damn tears spilling as you walk to your car, not even looking back to wave or smile at your friend like you usually do. 

You fear that this’ll change the trajectory of your relationship with Joel. And his brother knows that. 

He knows that if he doesn’t say something—at this point, anything—then Joel will just let this sit and fester, and become something that it has absolutely no business being. 

His brother knows that you’re the only constant in his life—aside from family—and if he lets you go, then he’ll be considerably more bleak. He’ll have his patrons to keep him company, but he won’t have you. The girl that has—unbeknownst to her—given Joel something to look forward to every day. 

The girl that Joel can’t help thinking of, or talking about, whenever he gets the chance. And despite not always showing his admiration, he’s besotted with you. Infatuated, perhaps. His fondness so clear that everyone can see it. Everyone, aside from you. 

Especially after that.  

“You’re a fucking jerk.” Tommy chastises. “She shouldn’t have mentioned Tess, but that was horrible—“

“I don’t care.” Through gritted teeth, he tells him. “She took it too far—“

“No, we did.” He admits. “She probably wouldn’t have brought the bitch up if we didn’t tease her for wearing her dad’s fuckin’ sweater.”

Joel swallows the lump in his throat, refusing to admit that Tommy could be right about this. 

“You need’a get a hold of your emotions, brother. Can’t be sendin’ her away like that when we both know you’ve got feelings for her—“

Joel grumbles as he rounds the counter, polishing a few tables in hopes that his sibling will go and leave him to it. But he doesn’t. 

“Can’t let Tess be the reason you two ain’t talkin’. ‘Specially ‘cus she ain’t even in the state anymore.”

Fuck. Off. 

Tommy watches him feign emotion, knowing deep down that his brother wants to beat himself to a pulp because you didn’t deserve any of that. 

“She’s right, y’know?”

“What?” 

Tommy says your name. “She’s right. If you don’t cut ties with the things that remind you of Tess, then you’ll never be happy. Always be comparin’ shit to her, and makin’ yourself miserable. Or miserable-r.”

“That ain’t even a word, dipshit.”

“True, though.” He says. “Joel, you’re so in love with this girl, you can’t let her go over a Goddamn football team—“

“Not in love.”

“Bullshit.” The youngest spits. “You get literal heart eyes whenever you look at her, and don’t even try ‘n deny it ‘cus Maria notices too.”

Joel blinks at him, wondering how he’d been so openly vulnerable. He‘a confused at how he’d unintentionally let his guard down enough to display his feelings. The ones that he wasn’t even certain about. 

“It mightn’t be love, Joel, but you’re mad about this girl.” He says a bit softer. Quieter. “And you can try to put these feelings aside, but what’re you gonna do if she walks in here with another man? Or she goes on more dates and finds the one? You just gonna live with it? Just gonna be jealous and miserable for the rest of your life?”

Joel walks to the café window and just stares for a few moments, secretly hoping to see you stomp across the street to give him a piece of your mind. But you don’t. 

“Think you’ve done enough wallowin’ in the past, don’t you?”

He supposes that he’s right. Joel knows that there’s some truth to what is being said to him, and so he turns the Open sign to Closed, and gestures for Tommy to get the remaining customers to leave. 

“What’re you gonna do?” 

“Make things right.” Joel grabs his jacket from the coat stand beside the door, and throws the shop keys to his brother. “Close up for me, will ‘ya?”

Tommy shakes his head. He gets off of his stool and goes behind the counter, grabbing one of the aprons from the hook beside the kitchen door. 

“Turn the sign back ‘round. You might’ve just lost your most loyal customer, you can’t afford to fuckin’ lose no more.”

Joel just nods. He has no fight left inside of him. He does as told, and storms across the sidewalk to his truck. 

He’s been stationary for the last fuck knows how long, just mentally preparing himself for whatever bullshit will spill from his lips the second he sees you. If you even want to open your door to him. He wouldn’t blame you, if you didn’t. He gave you shit, and kicked you out when you spoke your mind. And the truth. Because, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? As harsh as it might’ve been, it was the truth and it was what he needed to hear. 

It’s been two hours since getting a verbal beat-down and, strangely, he really misses the sound of your voice. The oddly dulcet tone. The sweet, honeyed rhythm that slips from between two of the plushest, softest looking lips he’s ever bared witness to in his entire life. And even though some of the words that fell from them were harsh, he no longer cares. 

If he doesn’t apologize, then he might not get to hear you speak again. And he’ll take several scoldings if it means that he can listen to your beautiful tone. 

Fuck. 

“C’mon, dickhead.” He tells his reflection in the mirror. He eyes himself, wondering whether the hat should stay on or off. Because if he takes it off, then his hair might look bad, but if he keeps it on then you mightn’t be able to take him seriously. 

He’s overthinking it. 

It stays on when he’s lugging his body—warm and palpitating—from the cabin, and onto the gravel of your driveway. He minds the flower beds when his boots hit ground, knowing that he’ll have hell to pay if he crushes your blooms or kicks up any mud.

His breath is hot and heavy. It’s like he’s just ran the Boston fucking marathon, not sit in his truck for the better part of twenty minutes being too much of a pussy to knock at your front door. 

But now he’s strolling to your porch, and can’t put it off any longer. He doesn’t even know if you’re home, but he guesses that you are. The wreath that you got today—golden leaves adorned with acorns and berries—is hanging proudly against the wood that you’ve painted sage. 

He laughs to himself when his hand comes up to knock, number eight. It’s almost comical how the number of your house coalesces with the number of his favorite ex-Cowboys player. But he’s not going to bring that up. Maybe another time. 

Joel takes a few deep breaths, heart only stuttering when he hears your footsteps approaching over the suspended wood flooring. The one that he actually had to help you sand down just eight months ago because you always felt that they looked too dark. Depressing. 

He smiles weakly. It doesn’t last long. When you swing the door open and your face falls, then so does Joel’s. 

“Hi.” He whispers, internally kicking himself for being such a wimp. He clears his throat. “Nice wreath.”

You fight a grin. Your disappointment outweighs any semblance of softness at this very juncture. 

After a few hours of mulling it over—and rage shopping—you’ve come to the conclusion that you were at fault. But Joel certainly didn’t make it any better when he kicked you off the premises after his hurtful monologue. 

“Thanks.” Your cardigan is pulled tightly around your body. Cream always looks so good on you. “Is—uh—is there something that I can help you with?”

Joel looks down for a split second. It feels like forever before he’s looking directly at you again. The thumping inside of his chest hasn’t once subsided since appearing at your street, he’s never felt like this before. At least, he can’t ever remember feeling like this. 

And it’s because of this—feeling—that he’s struggling to extrapolate his inward thoughts. You heed it. You know him like the back of your hand, apparently. His face is sullen—almost remorseful—and eyes hazy. 

Has he been crying? No. He’s probably just really annoyed. He looks like that sometimes when Tommy’s pissed him off, and he needs to vent. 

You shift aside, gesturing for Joel to come in. He hesitates for a moment, before he’s stepping over the threshold and into your beautiful home. The home that presently smells like a mixture of Sandalwood and Lavender, but Neroli and Bergamot in the summer months. 

What the fuck is Bergamot? Why do I know what that smells like?

He takes it in. The subtle scent, the fall decorations that make your cozy home look even more appeasing. It’s cute. It’s put together, clean, and inviting. It’s so you. 

You shut the door behind him when he takes a few paces into the entryway, just watching him. His broad shoulders swathed in soft, green flannel are tipped slightly forward. He’s not holding himself the way that he usually does. 

“Is everything okay, Joel?” You break the silence, shuffling past him through the hallway and to the kitchen. You hear him follow behind. Those heavyset footsteps make your heart ache, for some reason. 

Even by the way he walks—slow, long strides—he seems down. Remorseful, perhaps. And though he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, it’s always easy to tell how he feels. 

“Tea?” You offer without turning around, taking the kettle that’s just come to a boil on the stove. “I have chamomile, green, or English.”

“No coffee?” Your head shakes, pulling two mugs from the small shelf above the counter. Joel sits at your kitchen island. “How come?”

Two English teabags are being lifted from the carton—he didn’t specify, you just guess—and plopped into ceramic. 

“I don’t make my own coffee. Don’t taste the same when I do.”

His heart aches. After skipping a beat, of course. He takes a seat at your kitchen island, watching you potter around, clearly not prepared for a guest. 

“Tea is a little more warming, anyway.” You gesture for the sugar and he shakes his head. “Don’t enjoy coffee when I’m on my own. Only when I’m with someone.”

“That why you always come to see me in the mornin’?”

Faintly, you smile. Your head bobs a little bit, hanging low. 

He says your name. You look at him. “Y’know, if you ever want a coffee outta hours, I’m usually at home. You can come ‘round, if you wanna.”

That strange gnawing sensation returns beside a debilitating thumping. He feels the same, but you don’t know that. 

“Same here.” A weak smile tugs at the corners of your lips and you bring Joel his tea. The white ceramic is festooned with acorns and leaves, and he swears that you’ve just given him one of your best mugs. 

You sip quietly your warm beverage, standing opposite to where he sits in an uncomfortable silence. A lull that neither of you realize lasts an entire minute before you’re clearing your throat, and Joel is still trying to find his words. 

“Listen.” He sets down the tea—the best he’s ever had—and shifts a little bit. Joel tries to avoid eye contact with you, but understands that this is one of the times that he needs to show you just how important this is. It’s not just a casual conversation at the coffee house, anymore. 

You’re facing him fully, now. Eyes wide, lips parted a little bit. 

“I’m really sorry about earlier.” His tone is honest, wreathed with a hint of genuine sadness. “I had no business being such a jerkoff to you, kid. I said some hurtful shit, and I let my mouth get away from me.”

“You were a total dick, Joel.” 

He nods. “I know.”

“And I know that I never shoulda brought her up, but I didn’t think you’d yell at me. In front of everyone.”

He starts to cringe as he remembers what he said. How he said those horrible things. You’re such a sweet girl, he can’t believe he flipped out on you that way. 

“Do you really think that what comes outta my mouth is crap?”

“No, of course not—“

“Is everything I say fucking pointless?”

“Hon—no—no, of course not.” Joel fumbles his words a bit, just glad that he didn’t refer to you as any other embarrassing fucking pet name. He's not even sure that you caught it, what with being blinded by such a haze of anger. 

You do, though. You just don’t acknowledge it. 

Your thumb loops through the glossy handle, and you look into your mug. 

“I choose to start each morning the same way; at your café. I don’t do it because I want to come in and ruin your day by ranting, or spillin’ my guts about shitty dates and bad friends.” You refuse eye contact, still watching the tea slosh around as you move the cup ever so slightly. “I do it because I like you, Joel. You’re a great guy, and make my days a little bit easier. I’d even go so far as to consider you one of my friends. But, if you don’t feel that way—“

“Hey.” He reaches out for your hand. He’s surprised that you don’t pull away when his tan flesh meets yours so suddenly. Joel asks you to look at him, and you oblige. 

It’s so sad. Your eyes—so full of hurt—now locked on his. Soft, warm fingers wound between his thick digits. He frowns. 

“Listen to me.” Stern, though soft, he tells you. “Of course I feel that way. I tell you shit that I ain’t even told my own brother, ‘course I see you as a friend. Probably the only person I’d even wanna spend time with, if I’m honest.”

“You’re just sayin’ that, ‘cus you hurt my feelings—“

“No, I ain’t.” Joel shakes his head, trying to ignore the fact that he hurt your feelings. “I’m serious.”

“As a heart attack?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, kiddo, as a heart attack.”

Eyes roll at the sentiment, wondering whether there’ll ever be a time where Joel doesn’t refer to you as kid or kiddo. He tells you that it’s because he’s a lot older than you, but you both know there’s not even a ten year gap between the pair of you. He’s just dramatic and wishing his life away. 

“I’m—uh—I’m no good at this shit.” He looks down, a little curl poking through the back strap of his cap catches your eye. “Feelings, ‘n all.”

Instinctively, your thumb traces over the skin of his hand. You nod. You know. 

He's not the most sentimental person—nor does he cogitate  with his heart—but Joel is one of the most thoughtful men you’ve ever met, and these last few days have you feeling a different way about him. You can’t say that it’s a crush—crushes are for kids, is what your mother often tells you—but it’s certainly something. 

You’re just worried about the fact that he can’t let go of Tess. 

“Don’t gotta explain feelings, sweetie.” You tell him with a smile, reaching for your mug. The tea is cool, now. A little bit easier to drink than when it was piping hot and burning the roof of your mouth. “Just gotta feel ‘em, that’s all. Explain once you understand.”

You take a sip of the drink you made a short while ago, hands detaching. Joel almost feels weak without your touch, now. But he supposes that had it lasted any longer, he’d crumble. 

“Always know what to say, dontcha?”

“I do.” Conceited—though completely satirical—you say. He smiles, and so do you. “But in all seriousness, Joel, I know that you appreciate me. And I know that today was a complete one-off, but I just gotta know one thing.”

“Go for it.”

You suck in a breath, hating where you’re about to lead the conversation. “Did last night make you think differently of me? Y’know, when I asked those questions and pried a little?”

Joel’s heart thumps. Again. He doesn’t know how to say yeah, last night changed everything. But not ‘cus of what you asked me. 

He supposes that he can’t lie to you. He’s as transparent as a pane of fucking glass, at this point. 

“No. Definitely not.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Really. You had the right to know. Nothin’ has changed.”

Liar. 

He’s looking at you with those big fucking heart eyes that his brother teased him about earlier, and he knows it. He knows that he’s smitten. Truly, Joel is more than conscious of the fact that he’s falling—or more appropriately, fallen—for you, but he’s not at liberty to say. 

“You can tell me, y’know?”

He nods. “I know. There’s nothin’ to tell.”

“Okay.” Your tone is skeptical. He’s lying. 

He’s also been sitting here for far too long and is in desperate need of a long, cold shower to wash away the day and shirk any feelings before they come to bite him on his perfectly round ass. So he gets up—pushing the seat back beneath the island—and smiles at you. 

“Left Tommy behind the counter?”

Joel nods. “Yeah. He’s probably cussin’ me out right ‘bout now.”

Your laugh is genuine. Hearty. “Best get back then, hon.”

Joel’s mouth goes dry when his lips part to speak. Nothing materializes. Not even when he’s walking to the front door—you’re hot on his heels—can he figure out what to say. 

He’s opening it before he’s even certain of what he’s doing. 

“Miller.” You say and he turns around. He can’t help looking directly at your lips. “I’ll see ‘ya tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

He’s about to walk away—and you’re about to shut the door—before he’s leaning over the threshold and letting all rationality dissipate. Joel’s left hand meets the doorframe—mere inches from your own—and his breathing grows sporadic. 

Well, now or never, I ‘spose. 

Your fingers tingle, legs weaken. It’s only a split second, but it feels like an eternity that Joel is just standing there; staring at you. He’s waiting to make a move, you’re almost certain of it. 

“You gonna do somethin’?” You taunt, tilting your head a little. It almost snaps him out of his anxiety-induced haze. It eggs him on, if anything. 

“Fuck—shit—yeah.” Joel steps forward so that he’s no longer leaning, and the tips of his boots meet your toes. He’s careful not to stand on them. It’s sweet. 

He’s sweet. 

“C’mere.” He’s telling you when one of his calloused hands meets the nape of your neck, and both of yours are instinctively pawing at his chest. The soft, white  jersey beneath that customary flannel is like satin against your fingertips. He draws you in closer. “I lied.”

“‘Bout what?” You whisper, letting Joel’s hand shift to your cheek. It’s hard not to melt into his touch. 

His thumb brushes over your skin. You wilt beneath it. 

“Last night.” Your eyes are locked. “Everythin’ has changed.”

You nod. You feel the same way.

“And I dunno how to go ‘bout this, ‘cus I can’t do this whole lovey-dovey crap, but I do know that I wanna kiss you.”

He pulls you forward so that your faces are almost touching, and your hands have no choice but to rest atop the peaks of his glorious shoulders. This is something you only could’ve dreamed of. You and Joel in this position—on your doorstep—like something out of a fucking romcom, or Gilmore Girls. 

C’mon, man. Kiss her. 

The man’s heart juts in his throat. Two noses graze one another—when Joel angles his face so that he’s not pushing too firmly against yours—and you can’t help smiling wide at the prospect of Joel Miller, grumpiest man in Birch Grove, taking a liking to you. 

It’s almost as if your entire time with Joel flashes before your eyes—all of the early mornings and late nights spent at his coffee house, the stories shared and secrets told—and everything comes to a head in this particular moment. 

Your smile doesn’t falter. Not even when his lips meet yours, and he pushes the most dulcet kiss against your mouth. It’s so gentle. Nothing more than a delicate peck, but so passionate in the sense that; the two of you need this. The tenderness of the other’s touch—the sweet, cloying taste of sugar on your tongue meshed with malt from the tea—is welcomed almost immediately, accommodated by an unexpected desire and thirst for intimacy. 

And though it is but a peck, the two of you know that this is the start of something. Something completely unexplainable and somewhat unexpected, but something nonetheless. 

You’re the first to pull away. He’s too enamored with you. 

“Joel.” You breathe against his lips. Cheeks are flushed red, eyes hooded and completely blown with lust. “Thanks for comin’ here, and apologizing.”

“Thanks for acceptin’ my apology.” He tells you. Joel takes a step back—not before running his thumb over your skin one last time—for fear of initiating something else. “Wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t wanna.”

“Don’t go sayin’ that. ‘Course I’ll always accept your apologies.”

Joel’s heart rate must be through the roof at this point. 

“Even if I run outta maple hazel syrup?”

A gasp falls from your lips and you feign anguish. You soon smile. He looks at his wristwatch, and sighs. 

“I better get goin’. Left Tommy alone a while, now. Not sure if I’ll have a cafe to get back to, if I keep him any longer.”

You laugh. “Go on. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“If it hasn’t been burned to the ground, you mean?”

“Yeah, if it hasn’t been burned to the ground.”

Joel nods. He’s fishing about the pocket of his flannel for the key. 

“Enjoy the rest of your day, hon.”

His cheeks heat up. “Yeah, you too, kid.”

You can’t help letting out a little ha ha when he’s getting into his truck, and you’re watching from your post against the doorframe. When he gives you a little wave, he pulls away and you’re ambling back into your hallway. Satisfied. Though somewhat confused. 

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the trajectory of this day, and you suppose that nothing will ever come close. You just need to figure out what happens next. 

[orkbutch]

Rambling about Astarion bc im bored at work. I like Astarion because I think he is a genius take on The Evil RPG Companion, and is an especially great take on The Fixable Bad Guy. I don't think hes evil, but I do think Astarion is a genuinely bad person at the beginning, and I think Astarion is only drawn away from being a bad person - and experiences a great redemption arc - via active intervention from others. Astarion would not redeem himself without guidance; he is absolutely bent toward self destruction and evil at the beginning of the story.

I think comparing him with Shadowheart is what drew me to that conclusion. If you are nice to Shadowheart, as in you talk to her and respect her boundaries and do stuff she generally agrees with, she will choose to free Nightsong all on her own. You don't need to roll to convince her at all, or romance her or even push back on her Shar worship that much. You just leave it up to her, and she chooses that path. (Side note, what brilliant writing.)

Astarion is not like that at all. Even if you were tight as fuck he would not choose the good option, with no input, in Act 2. Astarion, like all the companions, needs help and connection to reach healthy actualization, but I think its great, resonant writing that Astarion needs the most active intervention of all. Because he's had his autonomy so completely taken away from him, he simply doesn't know how to use it anymore. He doesn't know how to connect with other people anymore. He's someone that's learned to enjoy cruelty, to resent the pleasure of others, and to be entirely selfish for survival. It makes sense that he must be dragged back into being capable of trust. He needs to be forced to be part of a community again; caring about things; allowing for vulnerability and optimism.

And like. How fucking smart is it to have THIS guy in THIS game. Because of the tadpole and the existential threat they're up against, he is actually forced to work with you. This kind of character is so hard to do in most RPGs because its like... why wouldn't he just betray you all and leave? Why would he stick with you? The tadpole clears all of that up. Astarion must stick with you or hes lost and dead. Astarion knows that you and the other companions are collectively stronger than him, so he can't betray you. He is forced to rely on you by default.

This is also what makes him SUCH a good version of the "you can fix him" romance; you are almost never the direct target of Astarion's bastardry because he can't fuck with you. The problem with Fix Him's is that usually they are a threat to the romantic lead, and fixing him requires enduring, soothing and forgiving the worst of his badness as some kind of test of loyalty, hopefully proving to him that being bad isn't necessary (toxic shit). But Astarion... can't do that. He is afraid to actually fuck you over because you are directly tied to his survival, and because you quickly show yourself to be more capable than him. He cannot have real power over you. (Until he's ascended, then he becomes the absolute worst version of the fix-it.)

I do think the trade off is that Astarion not directing his bastardry at you makes it easier to Ignore that Astarion is A Bad Guy, but I think that'd happen even if he was more of an asshole to you, so who cares. I think he's got the best written Redeemable Evil RPG Companion arch I've seen honestly. I love that he's so fun while being so tragic, whether redeemed or not.

[angelicsz]

Hello!! May I ask for a separate scenario each for Pure Vanilla Cookie and Shadow Milk Cookie from CRK? The idea behind it is, the reader (who is their partner) is helping them destress or simmer down after a long day — and brushing out their hair in comforting gesture! Thats what I want the most!

The 'why' of their fatigue can be different. Maybe Reader is laying Pure Vanilla on their lap and brushing out his long hair to help him relax for the evening on their wedeing bed. Meanwhile for Shadow Milk, maybe he's wound up from the boredom of having to play nice in the kingdom all day now that he's technically 'redeemed' or something..! Just my thoughts, you can switch it around a little, I just wanna brush their hair...

Sorry if this is long! Thank you for offering your lovely work! Please take care!

"ease your worries"

summary: comforting your partner, that's all.

↱ before you read: gender neutral reader, implied marriage, established relationship, ooc shadow milk? pet names, if you find any more please let me know.

0.5k | m. list

shadow milk:

"i practically cannot do anything now. no NOTHING." he complained as he stared at the sky above you. you were laying in the forest, its the only place you could have some peace for yourself, however you do not come here often. you hummed in response, brushing his scalp, playing with his hair at this very moment.

"and who does he think he is? HE took MY soul jam HE took everything from me, and yet.." your boyfriend stopped for a moment, looking up at you. "maybe he didn't took everything from me."

a smile appeared on your face "sorry? i didn't quite catch that?" you whispered, pretending to be oblivious. you watched as his face changed from pure love and admiration to somehow mad and annoyed.

"i said that i hate him." he practically snarled in response. he hid his face in your thighs, and groaned in annoyance as you chuckled, clearly amused by his behavior.

nevertheless a few minutes later a comforting silence appeared and none of you seemed to want to move from your places. savouring the moment. although you will have to apologise to him for your behaviour.

pure vanilla:

after your husband came back from beast-yeast he looked completely different. even though he seemed to shine brighter than usual you could see the tiredness in his eyes, after all eyes never lie.

that's how you ended up in the current situation, him laying his head on your lap, you mumbling meaningless words of comfort in his ear. the room had a pleasant atmosphere, the birds were chirping, the open balcony bringing fresh air into the room and the sun that is just about to rise.

you noted that pure vanillas hair has gotten much longer than his length before. not that you minded of course.

"mmm.. dear i have to get back to my duties." he practically purred on your lap. you chuckled, amused at his antics. it was awfully hard to get him to lie down with you, you knew that your husband's very hard working and needs a break. despite his objections when you dragged him into the bedroom he practically melted immediately. despite his statement, he didn't seem to want to move from your lap nor was planning to.

"your hair got longer." you changed the topic, brushing your fingers against his scalp. "would you want me to take care of it?"

".. later sunshine." he mumbled. oh you thought he looked so pathetic right now, lovingly of course. noticing how your husband was practically falling asleep, even though he didn't need any, you lied your head on the headboard and closed your eyes, savouring this very moment.

sorry for the late reply, lowkey died for a moment here.

[blueiight]

theres this quote running around from jacob anderson where he talks about how historically black people have been removed from period dramas and how, as suggested by the interviewer (w/ blueiight embellishment ofc), the very few times black charas would show up in these period pieces theyd be side characters delegated to a raceblind narratively incoherent plot to placate an audience ashamed with / of the nuances of blackness. i rly like how he said louis’s character represents both a ‘black and very human story about a vampire… [Black people] do not usually have the opportunity to play such complex and fluent characters’. i think that brings to heart a lot of why this show has my heart, as an armchair historian and r.n. (dont ask what that stands for). u racebent characters in a way that coheres, situate ur black characters in a specific context, and the story never deludes us into thinking the mere existence of an interracial relationship is enough to end racism. in e2 louis literally says “fledgling sounds like slave, dont call me that” and e3 starts with louis telling lestat the history of dismembering runaway enslaved ppl & placing their bodies on the gates of of jackson square.. in his initiation to vampirism, louis is moved from the historically Black creole treme area he grew up in & is placed into lestat’s townhome in the very white, french, old quarter. vampirism as hes initiated into is a loving, powerful, cruel, and isolating existence for louis. bc of vampirism he is able to kill a racist person and not be lynched for it, hes able to echo the historical dismemberment on the alderman by placing his body on the st louis cathedral, but he is unable to kill racist groups & systems that initiate race riots. his connection to claudia in s1 is not so much by the oedipal, but by both their connection as lestat’s fledglings and as Black [creole] people placed in a part of the city largely alien to them both. this connection can be broken down even further. louis saw claudia as his joychild of sorts, ‘[his] redemption’ for his 5 years of pimping but a big part of her tragedy is that a child being made into a vampire cannot redeem anyone, much less redeem an individual from what was a historical inevitability. claudia is adopted into such a stature that she wouldve otherwise never reached by virtue of being made a vampire, but even then that is conditional. claudia is rendered inert from being anyone’s ‘wife’ forever trapped in the confines of immaturity as a ‘daughter’, only hoping at best to be louis’s ‘sister’ and isnt that resonant to bw.. she’s selectively infantilized both a child ‘meddling in the affairs of her parents’ , ungrateful, arrogant, and adultified - presumed powerful enough to ‘poison louis against [lestat]’ , taking on the role of louis’s ‘knight in vengeful white black’ .. the response lestat has to claudia is characterized by him continuing the cycle of abuse he once faced toward her and with a black claudia who was once a poor girl now adopted into this immortal luxury it takes on a racialized element. “bach is beyond you” and claudia bites back with “yes this french music is hmm. not made for these mongrel ears”. the absence of metaphor is striking!! literally the fact that this show does not shy away from the era its set in is why its so good.

[phoenixblaze1412]

Heyyoooo! I want to request something that would probably destroyed you, me, and everyone. Mwahhaha! The request is the child loss, his own child, that Dottore lost. His mask is shattered by the loss of his child, his Segments struggles to cope with the reality of the situation, where they are stuck in a cycle of grief, each one reliving the pain.

Dottore's child was also a part of him, and with their passing, he feels a piece of himself has been torn away, consumed by guilt and self-doubt after failing to save them. As he searches for a way to redeem himself, his other Segments, despite their shared pain, must intervene to prevent him from succumbing to his darker impulses.

You're quite evil anon😭, just wanna let you know this took me days to think through and trying not to tear up at it

The lab was in ruins.

The air was thick with acrid smoke, curling from the shattered remains of glass tubes and smoldering machinery. The scent of burning chemicals stung Dottore’s nose, but it was nothing compared to the metallic tang of blood—fresh, seeping into the cold floor beneath him.

His coat, usually pristine despite the chaos of his experiments, was soaked in red. But it was not his blood. It was yours.

His child.

His hands trembled as they hovered over your still form, unwilling—unable—to touch you yet. You lay there, unmoving, your once brilliant eyes dull, your lips parted slightly, as if you were about to speak but never got the chance.

Something inside Dottore shattered.

“No… No, no, no, no.” His voice was barely a whisper at first, then broke into something raw, something frantic. His hands shot forward, grasping your limp shoulders, shaking them. “You are not allowed to die on me. Do you hear me? You do not get to leave.”

No response.

His grip tightened, his nails digging through the fabric of your clothes, as though the force of his desperation alone could will life back into you. His mind, sharp and logical, the mind that had solved impossible problems, could not comprehend this outcome. It had to be a mistake. A miscalculation.

He had contingencies. There was always a way.

Shallow breaths turned into ragged gasps.

His hands moved to your wrist, fingers pressing against cooling skin, seeking—begging—for a pulse. A flicker of warmth. A sign. Anything.

Nothing.

His breath hitched. His mask—cracked from the explosion, slick with blood—felt suffocating. He tore it off with shaking hands and let it fall to the floor with a dull clink.

His chest heaved, agony clawing its way up his throat like a beast desperate to escape. He was choking on it, drowning in it. His child, his creation, his blood, lay dead in his arms, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

Behind him, the Segments stood frozen.

Zeta had his mouth open, as if he wanted to say something but could not find the words. Theta’s hands twitched at his sides, his entire body stiff with tension. Sigma’s fingers were curled into his palms, his nails digging into his own skin, expression caught between horror and disbelief.

None spoke. None moved.

For the first time, they were without direction. Without an answer.

A strangled noise clawed its way out of Dottore’s throat—something between a sob and a snarl, something that did not sound human. He crushed his child against his chest, pressing his forehead to their cooling skin, gripping them as though they would disappear if he let go.

And the lab, for all its destruction, was drowned in an all-consuming silence.

His mind, usually a place of precision and control, was now spiraling, thoughts colliding and breaking apart like brittle glass. I should have seen this coming. I should have prepared for this. I should have saved them. I should have—

The truth hit him like a death blow.

I cannot fix the dead.

A harsh, ragged breath escaped him, followed by another, and then another, until he was gasping, his entire body trembling violently. No, no, no, this isn’t right. This isn’t reality. I do not lose. I do not lose.

But he had.

And the world, for all its cruelty, did not care.

----------

The mask shattered first.

It cracked under the weight of grief, brittle against the force of his own hands as he tore it away. The remnants clattered to the cold floor, forgotten. The last remnant of the man they had always known lay in jagged shards at his feet.

Then, the man beneath it broke.

The Segments had seen many sides of their Prime—the genius, the tyrant, the scientist. They had seen him consumed by ambition, driven by an insatiable hunger for knowledge. They had witnessed his cruelty, his cold, calculating apathy, and his moments of triumphant arrogance.

But they had never seen this.

Never seen him silent. Never seen him empty.

Sigma was the first to step forward, hesitance clear in every movement. “Dottore—”

“Don’t.”

The word was hoarse, raw, barely more than a breath. He did not look at them, did not move from where he stood. His gaze remained locked on the ground where his child had fallen, the ghost of their absence carving itself into his mind like a scar that would never fade.

His hands hung uselessly at his sides, the blood on his gloves long dried, but he could still feel it. Clawing at his skin, staining everything he touched.

A phantom pain dug into his chest—suffocating, relentless.

You should be here.

You should be breathing.

You should not be gone.

Theta hesitated before speaking. "You need to eat. You need to rest."

A hollow laugh scraped from Dottore’s throat, sharp and brittle. "Rest? When there is work to be done?"

Beta, who had remained still until now, took a step forward, his patience fraying. “What work?” His voice was cold, tinged with something dangerously close to desperation. “They are gone, Prime. You cannot change that.”

Silence.

Dottore finally turned to look at them then, and it was worse than anything they had ever seen before.

No fury.

No arrogance.

No brilliance.

Only grief.

The kind that stripped a man to his bones, hollowing him from the inside out.

The kind that did not heal.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came. No sharp remark, no denial. Just silence.

The Segments had never feared silence before.

But this time, it felt like mourning.

--------

The lab was quiet now.

No longer filled with the soft, inquisitive voice that once questioned theories, no longer echoing with the rhythmic clicking of footsteps that always lingered too long, as if reluctant to leave.

It was a hollow kind of silence, the kind that settled in the bones, that turned time sluggish and unbearable.

The Segments had cleaned the blood, scrubbed every last trace of crimson from the floor, repaired what they could of the damage. Yet no matter how much they worked, the place still felt colder. Emptier.

They had not simply lost someone. They had lost you.

And yet Dottore still worked.

Night after night, he ran through formulas, spliced genes, combed through every record, every theory, every ounce of knowledge he had acquired over decades.

Searching. Desperate.

A cycle with no end, no destination, only the endless repetition of a man who could not accept the past.

He did not sleep. He barely spoke. His hands were trembling now, his movements slower, less precise. Yet he never stopped.

The Segments watched as he wasted away, swallowed by his own obsession.

Delta set down a tray of untouched food beside the cluttered desk. “You cannot keep doing this.”

Dottore did not respond. He did not even look up.

“They wouldn’t have wanted this,” Gamma added quietly, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “You know that.”

Dottore's fingers stilled over the notes. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “What they would have wanted does not matter anymore.”

Sigma crossed his arms. “And if you collapse? What then? If you die, who will remember them?”

A sharp crack echoed through the room. The pen snapped in Dottore’s grip.

The ink bled into his gloves, but he did not move to wipe it away. His shoulders were tense, his face unreadable beneath the dim glow of the monitors.

The Segments said nothing, exchanging glances filled with quiet concern.

For the first time, they truly feared that they might lose him too.

------

Theta swore he heard footsteps.

Soft, careful, just like theirs.

He turned sharply, expecting to see them standing there—shoulders squared, lips curved into that ever-familiar teasing smirk as they asked why he always looked so serious.

But there was nothing.

Just an empty hallway.

The air was too still, the silence pressing against him like a vice. He lingered for a moment longer, waiting, hoping, before he forced himself to move on.

The cold pit in his stomach did not fade.

They were all feeling it.

The lab was too quiet now. Their routines had been thrown into disarray, not by chaos or disaster, but by something far worse—an absence that should not exist.

An absence they could not accept.

Theta had walked past an unfinished project of yours just yesterday, the notes still sprawled across the desk in your distinct handwriting—meticulous, yet just messy enough to reveal your excitement. No one had touched it.

No one could touch it.

The beakers remained where you had last placed them, your lab coat still hanging on the back of a chair as if you would return at any moment. The project had been incomplete, a mere blueprint of an idea, yet to Theta, it was as if the moment they moved it, you would truly be gone.

Delta had been the first to break. He still set aside an extra portion of food, his movements mechanical, mind caught in the routine of it. Every time he placed the plate down, he would hesitate, staring at it for far too long, waiting for someone who would never sit at that table again. And every time, he would leave it untouched.

Sigma, usually the most composed of them, had snapped at Gamma just the other day. A rare occurrence. The younger Segment had made an offhand joke—something light, something meaningless—but the air had turned suffocating the moment Sigma’s voice cut through it.

"Don't pretend everything is fine when it isn't."

Gamma hadn't argued. He had only lowered his gaze, guilt shadowing his features.

And then there was Dottore.

Dottore, who had not been seen outside his personal lab in days.

Dottore, who had not spoken unless it was to demand more data, more reports, more answers to a question that had no solution.

Dottore, who had always been a force of nature—untouchable, unstoppable—now reduced to a man drowning in the weight of his own grief.

The door to his lab had remained shut, locked from the inside. The Segments had tried to reach him, to speak to him, but he refused to listen.

They could hear him in there, pacing, muttering under his breath, papers being torn apart, glass shattering against the walls.

Sigma had tried once to override the lock, but Beta had stopped him.

"If he wants to be alone, let him," Beta had said, his voice quiet but firm.

"And if he doesn't come out?" Sigma had challenged.

Beta hadn't answered.

Because none of them knew the answer.

None of them wanted to consider the possibility that Dottore might disappear into that lab and never return.

And yet, as Theta stood there in the empty hallway, the weight of it all pressing down on him, he swore he heard it again—soft footsteps, just around the corner.

This time, he did not turn around.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see what was waiting for him.

----------

It had been Beta who caught Dottore at the docks.

The sea was restless that night, waves crashing against the icy shore, the moonlight cutting silver lines across the water. Dottore stood at the edge of the pier, his coat billowing slightly in the wind, his mask discarded somewhere in the dark.

Beta approached cautiously, knowing better than to speak too soon.

“I wondered how it would feel,” Dottore said, his voice eerily calm. “To just let go.”

Beta swallowed hard. “You don’t want this.”

Dottore’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t I?”

He took a step closer to the edge.

Beta lunged, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him back, hard enough that they both staggered. Dottore let out a sharp breath, eyes widening for the briefest second as he stumbled, as if realizing—truly realizing—what he had been about to do.

Beta didn’t let go.

His grip tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice wavered with something dangerously close to fear. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to leave us too.”

----------

The first time he stopped eating, the Segments noticed.

The first time he refused to rest, they grew concerned.

The first time they found him collapsed on the floor of his lab, barely breathing, they panicked. Sigma was the first to reach him, shaking him roughly. “Wake up.”

There was no response.

Theta knelt beside him, fingers pressing against his neck, searching—praying—for a pulse. “He’s still alive,” he muttered, relief bleeding into his voice. But it was faint. Weak.

Beta turned to the scattered vials on the desk, his mind racing. “He overdosed.” His hands curled into fists. “The bastard did it on purpose.”

Silence.

Then Omega cursed under his breath. “We’re idiots.”

They should have seen it coming.

The way he avoided them. The way he retreated further and further into himself. The way his hands shook more and more with each passing day.

They had thought his obsession with fixing things would keep him going.

They hadn’t realized he was trying to break himself beyond repair.

-------

Dottore barely recognized the man staring back at him.

The reflection in the shattered mirror was gaunt, skin pallid and stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Shadows clung beneath his red-rimmed eyes, his pupils blown wide—not with curiosity, not with arrogance, but with something raw, something hollow. His mask had long since been discarded, its broken remnants forgotten on the floor.

The man who had once commanded respect, who had built an empire of intellect and ambition, was gone.

In his place stood something fragile.

It had been weeks. Months. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Time had become meaningless, a cruel trick played on a man who once valued precision above all else.

He knew the others were watching him. Knew they whispered when they thought he couldn’t hear.

"He hasn’t eaten again."

"He just sits there, reading the same notes over and over."

"What if he never stops?"

They spoke as if he was something delicate, something that might fracture under the wrong touch. And perhaps they were right.

Dottore had always known pain. Had been intimate with suffering in ways others could not comprehend. But this—this was different.

This wasn’t a wound he could study. Wasn’t a problem he could solve.

This was absence.

A gaping void where something vital had been ripped away.

And he could feel it, pressing against his ribs, sinking its claws into his lungs, suffocating.

His fingers twitched at his sides. The gloves felt too tight, suffocating. He tore them off, letting them fall to the ground. His hands trembled. He hated that. Hated the weakness. Hated that he could not fix this.

A part of him wanted to stop.

To let go of this endless cycle of grief and failure, to step into the abyss and disappear into the silence.

Another part wanted to vanish completely.

To erase his existence in the same way he had been unable to save yours.

But then—

A voice.

Soft. Familiar.

"Father."

His breath hitched.

He turned sharply, heart slamming against his ribs, but there was no one there.

Just his ruined lab. Just the shattered mirror. Just his own reflection, staring back at him.

Dottore squeezed his eyes shut, fists clenching at his sides.

He was losing himself.

And he didn’t know if he wanted to be found.

-------

They found him in the lower levels.

It was a part of the lab rarely visited, an abandoned sector filled with outdated projects, half-finished research, and things better left untouched. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of dust and chemicals long forgotten.

And in the center of it all stood Dottore.

He faced the containment chamber, its glass surface illuminated by the soft, pulsing glow of the lethal experimental compounds within. The kind that could end everything in seconds. No pain. No hesitation. Just… nothing.

Omega reacted first.

His footsteps were quick, sharp against the cold floor as he closed the distance. His hand clamped down on Dottore’s wrist before he could activate the release mechanism. “Enough.”

Dottore did not resist.

He simply stared at the chamber, his reflection cast in the glass, a ghost of a man he no longer recognized. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “It is my fault.”

Theta was next, gripping his other arm, physically turning him away from the chamber. “No, it isn’t.”

Dottore let out a breath that was too unsteady, too broken. “I failed them.”

“You loved them,” Beta corrected, stepping forward, his own hands clenched into fists. “That is not failure.”

The words hit something deep, something raw.

Dottore’s lips parted, but no words came. His breath hitched in his throat, his entire body trembling—not from rage, not from exhaustion, but something more fragile.

Despair.

And for the first time since it all began, when Omega pulled him back, when Theta’s grip did not waver, when Beta’s words settled like a weight in his chest—

He allowed himself to be held.

--------

It was Beta who finally had enough.

“You are going to get up.” His voice was firm, unyielding, a command that brooked no argument. “You are going to eat, and you are going to live, because if you do not, then everything they were will be lost.”

Dottore did not respond.

He barely registered the words, barely acknowledged the weight behind them. He had become numb to everything except the ache, the unbearable emptiness that clung to his every breath.

Beta slammed his hands down on the desk, shaking the scattered notes and vials, forcing Dottore to look up.

“Look at me, Prime.”

Dottore’s red eyes flickered upward, unfocused and weary.

Beta’s patience was gone, grief replaced with fury. This was not the Prime they knew. This was a shell, a hollow remnant of the man who had once held the universe in his hands.

“They were ours too.” Beta’s voice wavered, but his resolve did not. “And you are not the only one suffering.”

A breath of silence. Then Sigma stepped forward, softer but just as firm. “We do not know how to fix this. But we will not let you destroy yourself.”

Gamma, usually the most indifferent of them, clenched his fists. “You think you’re the only one who wakes up expecting to see them? The only one who still hears their voice in the halls?”

Delta swallowed hard. “They would not want this.”

Theta’s voice was quieter, but no less determined. “You do not get to leave us, too.”

One by one, they stood before him, a silent, unspoken agreement forming between them.

Dottore exhaled shakily, a long, slow breath that rattled in his chest. His fingers curled over the edge of the desk, gripping it like an anchor. His throat burned. His vision blurred.

For the first time since that day, something inside of him cracked.

Not the sharp break of his mask.

Not the endless cycle of grief.

But something fragile. Something aching.

And when he finally closed his eyes, for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to grieve.

---------

They stopped leaving him alone after that.

If he locked himself in the lab, someone would break in.

If he went too long without speaking, they would force a conversation.

If he disappeared for even a moment, at least three Segments would track him down before he had the chance to think.

Dottore pretended to be annoyed.

He pretended it didn’t matter.

But deep down, in the spaces between grief and regret, he realized—

They weren’t just watching him.

They were saving him.

--------

The lab was quiet again, but not empty.

It had been months now. The wound of their absence had not healed—Dottore doubted it ever would—but the pain had changed. It was no longer a gaping void consuming his every thought, demanding retribution, demanding a way to fix the unfixable. Instead, it had settled into something heavier, quieter. A shadow that never left his side.

Slowly, carefully, the Segments had pulled him back.

At first, he resisted. Resented them for it. Their hands, their voices, their persistence—keeping him from following his child into the abyss. But even in his grief, in his bitterness, he knew they suffered too. They had lost just as much as he had. And so, little by little, they found ways to move forward, together.

Dottore still worked. Still searched. But no longer to undo the past.

Instead, he preserved what remained.

Your research, your ideas, the little notes scribbled in the margins of blueprints—“This formula is flawed. If I fix it, do I get a reward?”—the echoes of their laughter lingering in old recordings.

Sigma set down a datapad beside him, breaking the silence. “The new lab assistants asked about them today.”

Dottore didn’t look up. His fingers traced the familiar set of blueprints, the outlines drawn by a hand that no longer existed in this world. “And?”

“I told them the truth.” Sigma hesitated, his grip tightening around the datapad before adding, “That they were the brightest among us.”

Dottore’s hand stilled.

A pause—long and heavy—before he exhaled, slow and steady.

“Good.”

It was a simple response, but the weight behind it was anything but.

The Segments exchanged glances, the silence stretching between them before Theta finally spoke. “…They would have liked that.”

Dottore didn’t answer immediately. He simply sat there, his eyes scanning the notes in front of him—not to correct, not to erase, but to remember.

Then, in the dim glow of the lab’s monitors, something shifted.

A flicker—just on the edge of his vision.

Dottore froze. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he wondered if exhaustion had finally driven him to madness. But then he turned.

And there you stood.

Not in flesh, not in blood, but in something softer. Something ethereal. A translucent figure, standing just a few feet away, bathed in a soft, warm glow.

You smiled.

Dottore’s heart clenched. He could not speak, could not move.

You looked happy. Not in pain, not lost or suffering, but at peace.

How could you be at peace when he was still drowning?

As if reading his thoughts, you tilted your head, giving him the same playful, knowing look you had always given him when he overworked himself.

Dottore swallowed hard. His vision blurred.

“You’re not real,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

You stepped closer. Not touching him, but close enough that he felt your presence. Felt the warmth he had lost.

A ghost of a laugh echoed in the air, soft and teasing. “You never believed in limits, Father. Why start now?”

His breath shuddered. The dam broke.

His body trembled as silent sobs wracked through him. For the first time since that horrible, shattering day, he cried.

Raw, unrestrained grief spilled from him, soaking into his gloves as he buried his face in his hands.

You didn’t scold him. Didn’t try to tell him to stop.

You simply smiled, as if telling him it was okay.

That it was finally okay to let go.

The Segments watched in silence. None dared to speak. They only stood by, mourning alongside him, as the weight he had carried for so long finally, finally came crashing down.

And when he looked up again, wiping his tears with a trembling hand, the ghost of his child was still there.

Still smiling.

Still his.

And this time, when you slowly faded into the air, leaving only warmth in your wake—

Dottore let you go.