#not really but for people actually forgotten by parents could be triggering

[celinecerberusarchive]

⌝ Celine followed as he gestured, her eyes only on him even as others looked her way, with want or with simple curiosity. The ocean coloured gaze stayed on the tattoos at his throat, complimented by the collared shirt he had around them, a small smile hidden on her lips at the way his ears stuck out just a little, not as bad as when they were kids but still...just a little. Of course, once they were in the private room he had moved them to and turned the smile fell away, not wanting him to have seen it and taunt her.

⌝ "As it happens it's not important to you," she stated, a stoic look to her face that she still hated he didn't object to. How did he not miss her smile? How did he not miss the freedom of her movements? Not simply for himself but for her, how did he not care she was devoid of it all and not act on those concerns? "But I'm done listening to you speak of my actions the way you have been and I can't tell you this in front of the boys." Mostly because the thought of her telling him and Alejandro telling her he didn't care and how that might make her respond worried her, she hated how many times they had already seen her hurt.

⌝ Celine didn't give him a moment to speak, a moment to insult her as he had each time they had seen each other since his return, saying this would already be hard and those things had been what silenced her each time before. "I sent you those divorce papers because my Mother put me in a position with no other options," a statement that sounded, likely, unthinkable. Celine had stopped listening to her mother the moment her mother had decided Celine no longer mattered the way her sisters did. But the factor was less her mother as... "She told me she wouldn't let my brother keep helping me if I stayed married to you, that she was doing it for me and the boys. He was the only person I had left helping me, JD's wife was upset with how often they had the kids and so I tried to handle it by myself."

⌝ The wolf woman swallowed, adjusting her feet because she was not used to standing in heels with such thin bases, or without the ankle support that boots offered. "I couldn't. I'd already been running on fumes with their help. I'd lost the house and trying to give the boys everything you could have, all the things they wanted, I'd picked up a second job, but even with Jagger starting school it meant I was exhausted constantly," He'd already said how Celine hearing the distressed cries of her children was better than him not having them at all in prison, so she did not speak on how hard that was for her that Jagger cried most evenings for his father, or that Blaze had been getting teased for losing their home, instead her gaze just moved slightly in thought. "I actually don't remember not being exhausted that year," she stated, swallowing because she didn't remember not being on the brink of tears either. "We were still driving up but the boys knew not to tell you, and at least Jagger probably didn't understand enough to explain it anyway. I kept telling myself they'd get older, things would get easier when they got older, but we still had seven years of you in there," Celine commented, and seven years was by no means a short amount of time, neither was five since he'd been let out two years early. "But when I missed getting Jagger from school one day because I'd worked a shift at the Craft after an all nighter getting the shit beaten out of me at the Cage and ended up falling asleep in my car, he decided to walk home. In the winter air he got pneumonia," Celine had to admit, with a level of shame, an aspect of things she hadn't told anyone because she did not intend for them to feel as guilty as she did. "He was fine, but I gave in."

⌝ How was she meant to know a year later she'd be a wolf, she'd have a pack to help her? How was she meant to know Ale's brother would want to start helping again? "I sent the papers and I told myself I'd go, I'd go there and I'd tell you why and you'd understand, but I couldn't. Each time I thought of going I thought of how I'd fucking failed our family," Celine let out, a bounce to her chest because despite her intentions to remain stoic she had begun to cry. Thinking about that period of time when the only emotions she remembered were being upset and overwhelmed it trigger those things in her. The dramatic blue of her eyes was now accented by clear tears, making her lower lashes stick together. "How I'd have to tell you Blaze got sick and it was all my fault. That after all those years of telling my mother to get fucked I gave in because I couldn't take care of our kids. So I told the boys I couldn't go anymore. That they could go and I'd find someone to take them but I think Blaze saw it as a betrayal, or maybe he felt like he'd failed you too," because Blaze had known something had happened, knew him getting sick had changed things in some way. "And Jagger just became used to the way things had been."

⌝ Trying to get a handle on herself Celine's hand came up, with the obvious A on her ring finger - now devoid of the ring she had been wearing there upon his return - and complimented by the word 'death' on the back of it. "That was all I came to say," she stated, inhaling sharply. It probably didn't change anything for him, because, at least in Celine's mind, it shouldn't have. In Celine's mind he should have cared regardless of if she had left him of her own volition or not because regardless at one point he'd loved her but it was clear neither one of them knew the other anymore. "I didn't leave you because I wanted to, I left because I failed, because I couldn't handle things without you." And guilt had, very clearly, plagued her since.

Upstairs for the evening, Alejandro was behind the bar making drinks for the different tables when the sight of his ex-wife paralyzed him in place.  No other woman could grasp his attention the way she did, the sight of her made his heart flutter.  Yet, there was that overwhelming anger he had towards her that made everything so conflicting when it came to the two of them.  Alejandro shook his head trying to shake her off in a sense so he could finish what he was doing, he managed to finish the drink and topped it with a thin slice of orange before handing it to the server.

“Hey, you got this handle?”  The man looked over towards his co-worker, who merely nodded their head as he slid over towards Celine.  "Can we talk somewhere private?" The question in itself was alarming to him, what did they need to discuss that could not be seen or heard by everyone in the room?  “Um, yeah.  Gimme a moment.”  He walked over towards the fellow bartender, grateful the place was not packed and told him that he would be back in a few before stepping around the bar and motioning for Celine to follow him.

There were a few private rooms for the VIPs of the establishment.  Alejandro had only ever been in a few.  One by invitation and the other to handle a matter.  Escorting her into one of the rooms on the top floor, Alejandro closed the door behind them and locked it.  “Is this okay?”  He asked, unsure how private of a setting she wanted.  There were windows that looked down at the club, but the ones downstairs merely saw mirrors and could not preview what happened up there.  “Alright, what was so important you had to come to my work to tell me?”

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want - Chpt. 7 - Black N' White Knight

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Dick tells Tim, hand carting through his hair. The two of them are in the kitchen, at the breakfast bar. Tim sitting in front of his laptop with his legs crossed, and Dick tapping one foot agitatedly against the marble floor. While Tim might not be grinning ear to ear, it’s pretty obvious for anyone who knows him that he’s delighted by the tale Dick just regaled to him.

And what a tale it was. He hasn’t seen you in a year and a half, and then when he does, he finds you teary eyed staring at a picture of him shirtless at the gym. Bruce had always told him the way he played with the paparazzi would come to bite him in the ass one day, but he really can’t say he expected… that.

Obviously, it had to be a prank. That’s his first thought. That’s his only thought, really. What other explanation could there be? An accident? Maybe you’d forgotten what his room looked like. It wasn’t like he kept much personal stuff in his Wayne manor room, the only markers his clothes and the letters he kept in his drawer from his parents.

And you were wearing his clothes, of all things. He’d be surprised if you forgot how much of a Superman fanboy he was, seeing as he’d spent many hours ranting to you before the explosion. So, a prank. A show of good will, an olive branch maybe? It was more likely you were just fucking with his head, as you’d done in the past. Never like this, though.

This was just… bizarre.

“I can’t either,” and of course, Tim sounds near estatic saying that. The love of chaos ran true in that one.

Dick had managed to wrangle his life under control a few years back, and despite the universe seeming to try to unravel it at the seams, he was indisposed to let it simply happen. Even if you of all people had changed. No, Dick was getting older, and he was finding his taste for chaos a lot more… limited.

He didn’t want to suffer it’s affects. He was currently suffering it’s affects.

“I knew something was going on when she showed up to the party, but this…” Tim pauses, leaning back in his chair, “It’s gotta be a prank, right?”

It said a lot about their family that this was all the assumption they defaulted to.

“It could be something else. Did you even take her to the hospital after?” Dick offers instead, overthinking as always. This situation seemed to be made for overthinking, though.

Tim hums. “No, we did not.”

Then he turns his stare to Dick, like he’s expecting something from him.

“Seriously?”

“What? You’re the friendly one.”

Dick very much did his best to seem like the friendly one, at least. Tim was well aware it was a complete farce, though. Dick was nice but he could also be a bit… well… a bit of a dick. Another thing he’d been trying to overcome. He was doing better than when he’d been seven, at least.

Dick sighs, pressing his hand to his forehead, “I’d probably just end up accidentally nagging her, and then she’d never speak to me again.”

“That’s not my problem,” Tim shrugs, glancing back down at his laptop and squinting.

“It is, actually. Because if she stopped talking to me you’d probably be the next one till the girls and Duke came home who has to talk to her.”

“She could talk to Jay,” Tim offers, because he’s a shithead. Dick bets he did the same with Bruce, “And besides, I’m busy doing surveillance.”

“You mean stalking.”

“I do it to everybody, stop making such a big deal out of it.”

Dick sighs again.

“Hm, you might want to check your phone,” Tim says, in a way that suggests he has once again tapped the network. Keeping him out of Dick’s private life was like Sisyphus and his boulder. He still wasn't going to give up, and the time Tim and Steph mercilessly bullied him for getting dumped over text had made him all the more so.

‘Dont_try’: hey. can you come pick me up? thx

“Please, tell me you sent that and are just messing with me,” Dick begs, staring down at his phone in mild despair. Chaos. Always fucking chaos. Despite how hard he tried, he could not keep his family out of trouble. God damn it, when he’d gotten this job he’d been the one made for trouble. Where did he go wrong?

“Honestly, sounds like the sort of thing I’d do, but the girl just got bitch slapped so I really think you should respond fast.”

“What?!”

“She’s fine now, run to the bathrooms I think. You know for such an upstate place you’d think they had better camera positioning,” Tim mutters, complaining that he can’t watch every single little movement you make. Dick thinks he should probably worry about this, as it’s a clear sign of another decline for his sanity, but he’s now got this shit to deal with.

“Why, Tim? What is going on? Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Hm?” he’s engrossed by the computer, “Ah, the shitty boyfriend… some soup- ha, how is she such a clutz? Maybe we should get her head checked again- and… an altercation of some kind? I don’t know, I can’t see it properly.”

Dick leans forward in his stool, clasped hands covering his face for a moment.

“Are you going to reply? If you don’t soon, she’ll probably make it a bigger shitshow,” Tim says, nudging his foot against Dick’s. Dick, good big brother that he is, takes a deep breath and steadies himself. Even if this is really not what he wanted for his holiday, he’s dealt with much, much worse.

The press will have forgotten about this within the week. You, however, likely not. He’d promised to help you all those years ago, and even if he had no idea why you were reaching out to him, or if you would even be amicable when you met again, he’d still damn well do it.

He glances back down at his phone.

“What is going on?” Dick repeats to himself, and Tim’s head cocks to the side. There’s that familiar cat that got the cream grin spreading across his younger brother’s face, and it just really isn’t welcome right now.

“Intrigued yet?”

Unfortunately for both him, Tim and especially you, Dick already was.

He’s in his car in five minutes flat, finger tapping against the premium leather wheel. The sound of it is the only thing that manages to keep him sane.

Riding up to the place, Dick realises that no, maybe the press won’t be over this within the week. Considering the amount of paparazzi swarming the place, he doubted you’d be free for at least a few months. To be fair, the mysterious ex-wayne making such a scene was a bit of a big deal. Before you’d been basically invisible, despite your immense wealth and past.

Invisible? Dick thinks he spots at least twenty cameras. And that’s not even mentioning all the phones inside that would’ve gotten up close videos of whatever happened. Their legal team would handle it fine, that which Barbara or Tim couldn’t wipe from the face of the earth. And that was very little, all things considered.

Dick has to push past the calls of his name, ignoring all the intrusive questions volleyed his way like the pro he was. He still makes sure to listen carefully and store away every vital bit of information, as well as remember the logos on the film crew’s van. Eventually he makes his way to the front of the line, and the flustered front of house immediately recognises his face and sweeps him inside. Dick ducks in with a thankful smile, which he admits, falters when he enters the scene.

A scene which you are not in. Your gold digging boyfriend was, though. Of all the things Dick regrets with you, it’s not breaking the horrid relationship the two of you had apart. Or well, the fact that you totally, loudly hated his guts. He was a sensitive guy, y’know!

He sees your terribly boyfriend - George, Dick remembers - raging at some poor servers, and he knows he need to go sweep in and save the pour soul. It’ll be a hard fight, he can already tell.

Before he does so, he sends a quick text to his phone.

Underwear_guy: Where are you?

Don’t_try: I’ll be right out.

Shockingly, that was the truth. You come striding into the restaurant, and immediately all eyes are on you. It makes you stutter-step. Dick can see you visibly stiffen up, before you manage to gather your courage and keep walking. You don’t even pay him a single glance as you walk straight towards your fuming boyfriend.

You try to whisper, keeping your voice quiet and your conversation private. The boyfriend seems uninterested in the idea.

“What the fuck are you thinking?!” he cuts you off.

You glance around, and then say something else. It seems like you’re trying to defuse the situation, but George seems uninterested by the idea. 

“This behaviour is ridiculous. You need to get it together, we’re in public!” he yells, like he isn’t the one causing a scene. He seems to be trying to intimidate you back into silence. But today and well, yesterday too, something is different about you.

Okay, that’s enough of that. Dick’s intervening.

“You cheated on me! You deserve it and everything that’s coming to you!”

Or, uh, maybe you’ve got it covered.

-

George’s shocked face is almost worse than when you literally bit him. Guess he expected you to be a bit more demure after that encounter. He should know better, the other version of you seemed to have been even more spiteful in nature.

Today again, you prove you are a less than stellar person. You’d stopped caring about George as soon as you’d discovered he’d cheated, but you were still angry. Not jealous, but furious. Bubbling up your throat, rage and bile and the urge to attack him once again, even if you just want to go home.

Your teeth grind. Your jaw ticks. And oddly, you realise you have a real taste for George Lancaster’s limbs.

Though your life had changed (literally) in the past few days, you were still the same girl from your first twenty-first. You wanted George Lancaster to suffer. Even more so, now that the evil cunt had hit you right in the face. The hit had stunned you, though. More emotionally than physically, but it had shocked you.

You couldn’t say you were a coward. You’d spent far too many days in your teenage years indulging in self-destructive behaviours to think that. But something about this pathetic man was scaring the shit out of you. You think that made you more pathetic, but you couldn’t quite tell. That’d be victim blaming, right?

You did have a habit of blaming yourself. It was just usually your fault.

…Maybe you shouldn’t have bit him, no matter how much the response was instinctual or his screech was satisfying. This was all too confusing, all too much. You needed to get back to your apartment, lock the doors and barricade them so nobody bothers you. And then maybe hibernate for a week. You needed some time to process all the stupid bullshit you were experiencing. The wayne manor was too much, your horrible white apartment was too much, George fucking Lancaster was too fucking god damn much.

You take a deep breath, and manage to stop yourself from bolting like a deer. Deal with the problem at hand. Deal with it now, deal with it!

“I’m leaving, and we are done. It’s that simple,” you tell George, trying to drill in a message that he seems unable to comprehend. At this point you’d assume he’d be trying to apologise, manipulate back into his good graces, but you think you might’ve completely broke him. Broke the script.

Good. That was damn well good.

“Can we talk about this somewhere else at least?” George replies, eyes flicking to Richard Grayson’s angry gaze. At least you think he’s angry. You can’t quite gather the courage to look directly at him.

Also, there’s the manipulation! You wish you weren’t right this time.

“Sure, but I’m bringing him, and my answer will absolutely not change. You hit me.”

“You bit me!”

Well, yeah, not your best moment. You don’t think you can regret it, though.

“Then I think this relationship is ending on equal terms,” you reply, trying your best to just get him to quit it. It is obviously not working by the way his expression darkens.

“I’ll tell the press everything,” George threatens, which, well, is sort of a shitty threat because I don’t even know what he’s threatening. ‘Everything’? Couldn’t he be a bit more specific?

You shrug. It is the wrong response, you know it is, but you’ve completely ran dry of fucks to give. Couldn’t be much worse than the bullshit happening right now. The press were already very well fed, considering the situation that was today. George makes a small sound of fury.

“We’ll sue,” Richard Grayson, the white knight that you’d daydreamed about, comes to your rescue. Is it odd that it’s kind of flustering? You probably shouldn’t be flustered.

George immediately snaps his gaze to Grayson’s, giving the man a look with a healthy dose of fear. Couldn’t blame the guy. Even if he was the second smallest of the three remaining brothers, he was still well known for being strong. His family often did kick-boxing, and their sister, Cass, often whooped their asses. It was sort of satisfying to watch. Anyway, his physical prowess from fighting to weirdo gymnastic bullshit was evident in his svelte build.

George was many things, but he wasn’t an idiot. With just the one threat from the Waynes legal team, he skitters away like the little rat you know him to be. He leaves the restaurant, and he very obviously does not pay or even leave a tip. You suppose you have the cash to make up for it. Then, ignoring the paparazzi, you were technically home free. You glance to the side. Richard Grayson’s beautiful face looks a mix of confuddled, frustrated, and exhausted. He still saved you, though, even after the fool you made of yourself.

White knight, indeed. It almost feels a bit anticlimactic, but it’s the results you wanted. And yet, an ominous feeling befalls you. Somehow, you don’t feel you’ve seen the last of George Lancaster. You just really hope the old you hadn’t committed any crimes. A tabloid? Humiliating, but livable. Prison? Not so much.

Not that the rich stayed in prison in Gotham, or even the rest of the world. It was kind of strange to realise you were sort of above the law now.

You glance at Dick, pulling your uncomfortably wet shirt away from your chest. You’ve sort of been bled dry of any shits you could give at this point, so you decide, very maturely, to make jokes and ignore all your problems. It had gotten you this far.

You’d seen this behaviour before. Many, many times. It was what usually got you fired. But now you didn’t really have to worry about that, so why should you worry about causing a scene and ruining your life a bit more? It wasn’t yours, after all.

“What do you think?” you joke, elbowing Dick. He looks down from glaring at the entrance George just slipped out of, to you. His blue eyes are a damn near shock to the soul. It takes everything in you not to start fidgeting.

“Think of what?” he responds, and despite how hard you try, you can not read his expression.

“I’m trying to make some more news. Don’t think the reporters got enough the other day,” you say, gesturing to the giant stain. It’s still Dick’s shirt. You hadn’t realised till now, but the Beatles was now some sort of green soup. Is it kind of gross of you to acknowledge that at least the soup smelled good?

Probably. You didn’t actually get to eat anything here. It’s also probably a bit weird that you’re thinking about eating at a time like this. Probably.

“I think you’ve done enough, honestly,” he says, glancing at the camera flashes from outside.

He sounds exactly like your mother, it’s almost uncanny. Well, this version of him technically knew her. You’re still not sure how well en-meshed your two families had been before the disaster, but maybe he’d picked up some traits from her.

…That… you’re not sure how to feel about the idea. The old green monster bubbles up at the thought, and you can’t tell if you’re jealous your mum got to meet Dick Grayson, or that Dick Grayson might’ve gotten to know your mum.

“We should leave,” he says, cutting off your bitter inner thoughts, “I know you don’t like it when the magazines bother you.”

You don’t? You don’t. Yes, that makes sense, ‘you’ definitely wouldn’t have. And it’s not like you feel comfortable with them either. In fact, if you think about the fact your drowned rat appearance will be on every tabloid in the city by tomorrow, probably alongside photos from your birthday, you feel so nauseous you could collapse. Going to compartmentalise that one.

“Yes, going, let’s go,” you say, following Dick out of the restaurant.

Despite the fact that the security guards are trying their best, it’s getting quite rowdy out here. When Dick wraps an arm around your shoulder, shielding you with his body, you almost just pass out right there. His muscles… Your heart simply can’t take it. As it is, Dick notices you jump like a foot in the air, and backs off. He still makes sure to try and protect you from their vision as much as possible.

Still, in an act that is purely rebellious, you turn and give them a big smile and a wave. Even as you hate every single person on the other side of the divide, you want to make one thing very clear. You will not be cowed by someone like George fucking Lancaster. Your peace sign and wink are a message to them, to him, and to yourself.

Despite the fact that this new life is one you have no idea how to handle, you know one thing. Put on a face, and it’ll always be easier.

Dick is probably wondering what the hell happened to you for you to be acting this way. Your shirt has a giant stain on it, you just broke up with your cheating boyfriend, went through a traumatising experience just a few days ago, and you’ve got the biggest grin on your face. This behaviour speaks more and more of a full blown mental breakdown. And it’s not the first you’ve had or the last.

There’s paparazzi snapping thousands of photos of the two of you, and instead of shying away as ‘you’ used to, you throw up a peace sign. One of the papps drops their camera. That confuses you a bit, as your peace sign deflates slightly. Didn’t they want more pictures? Weren’t you supposed to pose…?

For all you stalked celebrities online, you realise you have no idea how to pretend to be one. This is going to become an issue, you can already tell.

He points at a car, and you assume it’s his because he starts making his way over. He’s obviously done this sort of thing before, using and guiding the security with a smooth confidence. Even still, the two of you are a bit too close for comfort.

Which you prove, by putting your foot directly in your mouth.

“I don’t have abs, but do you think the press would like my stomach like they like yours?” you say, and almost immediately regret it. Another poor joke. You are deflecting so hard. And why the hell did you bring that up, you dunce? You feel your brain cells draining the more you’re around this guy, it’s not healthy for you.

“Please don’t pull your shirt up in public,” Dick sounds like he’s about to have a mental breakdown. It’s spreading, like the plague. You’re patient zero, of course. Even still he gets you guys to the car, and opens the side door for you. You follow his wordless command and slip into the passenger seat.

“I won’t. Sorry, sorry,” you reply, to relieve him of some of the trauma you’re currently inflicting.

He glances back to the papps, and then back down at you. His smile bowls you over like he’s getting the last strike in a fucking 300. He genuinely is the most beautiful human being you’ve ever seen. Thankfully, he closes the door so you have a moment to gather your sanity before he goes around the car and gets in the driver’s seat.

You hope you’re subtle when you shift away from him slightly. It shouldn’t be that surprising really. You were stupid on average. You would be stupider around attractive people. You would be frankly disastrous around someone as blastingly hot as Dick Grayson. The Waynes in general turned you into a drooling idiot.

Good god, you need to get out of this car. As soon as you think that, Dick is pulling away from the parking spot and out onto the streets. He makes slow progress because Gotham traffic, but eventually you manage to flee the horrifying stares of the cameras. Already you can tell it’ll be giving you nightmares. Probably along with images of the guy who tried to rape you and Damian Wayne sneering at you.

“So, how are you feeling?”

Despite how you wish it not, Mr. Grayson decides he’s going to start a conversation with you.

“Good,” you reply, the answer instinctive and an obvious lie.

You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, but you don’t dare return it.

“That’s good to hear,” he says, and his voice is gentle. Sort of infantilising if you’ll be honest.

While it is very clear to anyone who looks at you that you have no idea what you’re doing, you’d rather he didn’t bring it up. You’ll figure it out. You’ve always managed to figure it out. This is what you get for asking for help. Really, despite your momentary panic you could’ve taken George. Probably not physically, but…

“You can talk to me if you want, you know?”

“Can you stop the car, please?” you respond, when that question immediately activates your fight or flight response. Dick must notice something about you, because he quickly shoots forward and into a momentarily available parking spot.

You scramble with the door, shoving your way back out onto the asphalt. The immediate distinct smell of Gotham, even Gotham’s richer districts, calms you down. Sewage, the ocean, and the ever present smoke and fog.

Fuck’s sake. You aren’t making yourself look anymore well put together.

Clearing your throat, you turn and find Richard Grayson coming around the car hood towards you. There’s a worried look in his eyes, and you really don’t know how to deal with it. It’s like you made a deal with the devil. By getting rid of George, you’d gotten a new problem - and an infinitely more complicated one.

Shit, you need to stop making rash decisions when you’re having panic attacks. You’d say you should probably try and stop having panic attacks entirely, but you don’t really know how to do that.

The sound of your name has you snapping back to attention. Dick looks even more worried.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, taking a few slow steps towards you. Again, infantilizing. Like you’re a wild animal about to run. Wait, weren’t you just comparing yourself to a chihuahua? Well, it’s not the same when other people do it.

“I’d like to take a walk,” you say, hand scrunching into your pyjama pants, “Alone, I’d like some time alone.”

“…In that?” He glances down at the stain that is slowly starting to dry. It’s making your skin itchy, but at least it’s not as cold.

“I can buy something,” you say, remembering one of the apps on your phone was connected to your bank account, which you had to assume was pretty full. It’s kind of stupid that you haven’t checked that yet.

You’re starting to feel a bit defensive towards your own intelligence. Maybe it’s because you seemingly keep making all the worst decisions.

Dick doesn’t make it any better.

“Do you have cash on you?” he asks, showing how little faith he has in your general abilities to survive as an adult in Gotham.

“I do, I’ll be fine,” you insist, because god damn it, you will be. You just need a fucking minute.

You ran from the Wayne manor because you felt like you were being watched, and then as soon as you showed up at the world’s most uncomfortable apartment, the haunting wraith known as George dragged you out in your P.J.s. You could figure it the fuck out, if these people would give you some fucking space.

Richard Grayson seems to realise that you’re getting upset, because he goes quiet for a moment. After staring at you for a moment longer, for which you manage to find the courage to maintain eye contact through pure stubborn will, he asks you one final question.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride home or something?” he asks, still seeming so determined to help you.

His suggestion brings flashes of images of you breaking down in front of the Bruce Wayne to mind. From almost a birds eye view, you see yourself sobbing against your own ruined dress as the billionaire looked on. Bile literally jumps up your throat, and it takes a lot of willpower not to grimace at the suggestion.

“Look, Mr. Grayson, I really appreciate-”

“That’s the second time you’ve called me that.”

Once again, you feel the urge to simply sprint away from your own problems, but you manage to hold yourself still. Still, you can’t think of a solution. You can’t really think much of anything. Instead you stare at Richard Grayson with your hands threaded together and your lips pressed into a thin line.

Though you open your mouth to speak, you find you have no excuses ready or available. You’ve talked yourself into a corner already, and it’s your third day in this world. Marvellous. Maybe you should just tell the truth.

Still, the dangers outweigh the pros. They don’t know you, they don’t have any real reason to take care of you. If they believe you, they’ll toss you out onto the streets penniless. And if they don’t-

You blink. There’s a highway sign behind Dick, and it catches your attention like a lightning bolt. ‘Arkham Asylum 800 miles’. It’s white blocky letters on green panelling feels like a sign from god, warning you from the path you consider taking.

And then you realise that you might actually get sent to Arkham if you say anything, and you resolve to never tell a single soul about what has happened to you. You’ve heard enough stories about the asylum, and by god, you are not being roommates with the fucking Joker of all people.

Eventually Dick realises he’s not getting anything out of you and he sighs, shaking his head. His annoyingly perfect hair mesmerises you for a second, but you manage to wrangle your brain back under control. He really doesn’t make it easy.

“I just want to know if you’re safe. If you’re going through anything, you know we’re always happy to help-”

“Dick,” you say his name, face twisting in discomfort, “This was a… a one time thing. Usually I can handle my problems. It just… it caught me off guard. George cheating was a huge shock, and I needed someone to stand by me.”

“And you know I always will, right?”

Ah. That’s… Dick Grayson was a stranger. You didn’t know him, and more than that he did not know you. He did not know what you would do, could do. You didn’t think anyone did, not even yourself.

It’s a silly idea to expect your celebrity crush to save you, and it’s one you find you can’t stomach it at the moment. It makes you feel disgusted with yourself at the idea. It’s too indulgent, too silly. It’s very simply, not possible.

You’ve given up on relying on miracles. These lessons had been beaten into you, really. You didn’t want to have to learn them again.

Your feelings must show on your face.

Dick lets out a whoosh of air, frustration palpable. He carts his hand through his hair. It still looks perfect. The world is unfair, yadda yadda.

“You run hot and cold, you know?” he gives you a grin. It says a lot about his ability to act, seeing as it seems almost natural. Almost, being the key word.

Also, he is absolutely correct. The chihuahua effect is in full-swing. And you know what? You are probably going to continue to run hot and cold, because you’ve never made a decision in your life. He’ll just have to get used to it.

You raise your hands and shrug, in the universal ‘what-can-you-do?’ motion. He wasn’t wrong. You were being completely erratic. Not even you knew what you’d do next. At least life isn’t boring these days, right Right? You wonder who you are trying to fool, because it’s certainly not yourself.

“I’ll contact you if I need anything,” you lie, because it seems to be the right thing to end this torturous conversation, “And I’ll make sure to keep contact with Alfred. You can talk to Jeanine if you need anything, as well.”

Dick, unfortunately, calls you out on your bullshit.

“But not you, right?” he says, smile still printed on his face.

Woof. You think… you’ve hurt his feelings? Ah shit, you instantly feel like the scum of the earth. Still, you don’t know how you could fix this. Arkham is a genuine threat lingering over your shoulder, you don’t know enough about your new cut-throat billionaire world, and you can not lose any faith they have in you. Any that you have left, that is.

You’re sorry, but this is coming down to survival. And you are a greedy person, after all.

In the end, you don’t have anything to say, and Richard Grayson leaves without a word. Watching him walk towards his car, you feel… bad. Really bad. The part of you that is still crushing on this guy, a very large part of you, feels like you’ve ended the earth. The other part, the one that recognises that once again you’re going to have to fight for yourself… well, she thinks so too.

Maybe… maybe you could fix this. Apologise. Once you’ve gotten your bearings and know you’re safe and 100% financially stable, maybe you’ll figure it out. Give him his shirt back after you’ve dry-cleaned it.

For now, you give him your back as well.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

Hiii! could you maybe write a Grayson x reader fic with a reader who doesn’t feel she is lovable cos her parents were abusive and taught her that?

hi!! thanks for your request, I realise it’s taken me a while to get around to writing it, so very sorry about that. It was a little dark but I’ll gave it a go. pre-warning I’ve never written anything like this before, so if it’s inaccurate or insensitive, I’m very sorry.

title: never good enough

pairing: grayson hawthorne x (first person) reader

synopsis: a make out session brings back some unwanted memories that you’re forced to face

warnings: really heated make-out session, suggestive themes (but nothing bad bad), lots of past trauma, swearing, panic attack, abusive parents

a/n: if any of the warnings trigger you, please do not read on, I don’t want to be responsible for someone else’s pain!! I’d feel so guilty!!

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @heartwithsimplenotes @lxvebelle @xoxo-vee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual

I like the way he tastes and the feel of his lips on mine. It’s not something I see myself getting bored of. It feels nice. But what feels nicer is the feeling of someone desiring you, someone wanting you, maybe even needing you. The feeling that someone chose you for a reason, because you matter to them. I like that feeling the best.

With each kiss I imagine that he actually feels something for me. It’s easier to play pretend. If you play pretend for long enough it can start to feel like reality. Growing up, I used to create things in my head all the time. Fictitious fantasies to fill in my empty voids of emotion. I suppose the habit had bled into my adult life.

He moans against my lips. The sound of pleasure indicating I’ve done something right, something he enjoys. My heart swells at this symbol of approval. Why do I thrive off of approval? I shake the feeling away in another deep kiss, burying it under a mound of other things I was ignoring. If I can’t see them they’re not there, if I turn my back, if I close my eyes.

These kisses are meaningless really, my brain knows it, actually it keeps attempting to remind me but I’ve gotten quite good at discarding things people say. They hurt my heart but not my head.

Grayson isn’t one to display how he feels for me publically. He’s mentioned before that he feels he doesn’t need to display how he feels to the world, he’s doesn’t care what the world thinks, he only cares what I think. It’s a beautifully designed excuse to tell me secretly that he doesn’t want to show affection in public because he doesn’t want me. I’m an embarrassment to love. I always have been.

But I don’t care. Our private moments together are bliss because I get to escape the truth and I like that. The truth is bitter like the cud, it’s harsh, it’s cruel, it’s painful. I’ve had too much of that already. So in the moments where I can I indulge so much I blind myself from it, I revel in the occasion. For the while.

His hands are firmly on my hips and I can feel the warmth of them through my clothes. They feel strong and supportive. They might be the only thing holding me together right now or it feels like it anyway. My hands are buried deep within his hair but I’m too caught up in the moment to think about it much. His kisses are quick and sweet, a little gentle. Sometimes he’d draw one or two out into longer, more passionate kisses. I didn’t care, as long as his lips were on mine, my memories would be forgotten. He begins to slide his hand up my body, tracing the curves of my bodice and up all the way until his cupping my face in his hands.

“I love you,” he pants, cheeks rosy and flushed, as we pull apart for breath, “more than you’ll ever know.”

Every time he says those words it ignites yet another fragment of my heart, that burns into ash in my chest. He’s killing me softly and I’m sure he’s enjoying it. He’s just telling me he loves me so I’ll stay with him, give him what he wants until he’s bored enough. That’s fine. I don’t mind. I know this, I’ve always known this. But getting to live in these moments, these moments laced in fierce passion and licked with flames of lust always made the harsh reality easier to swallow.

I don’t reply. Instead I kiss harder, more intensely. Maybe if I kiss with even more vigor, even more passion I can completely forget my pain. Maybe my mind will go blank and won’t be able to fill it in this time. I want the piercing sensation of white light to hit me and if it does I will let it burn me. Until my memories are incinerated and I no longer have to live with the weight of fear on my chest

He registers my sudden serge for more and begins to deliver. He matches my yearning for something deeper, something more. We’re caught up in heavy breathing, racing hearts and profuse sweating. Neither one of us cared. My hands find the hem of his shirt and I am tempted to tug down on the fabric but I don’t trust myself. My mind is too hypnotised by the sweet poison of his persuasive lips, I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t make decisions like these. We’ve never gone further than kisses and I’m not sure if going further right now would make me feel better or worse. But who cares right?

No. I don’t let myself get that carried away. Not yet anyway. Even though I’ve previously been stripped of my dignity I will not be the one to do it to myself now. I take my hands away and slide them around the back of his neck.

We stop. Suddenly. And for a moment the standstill is uncomfortable. The absence of married lips is eerie almost. My mouth is tingling and I crave his taste already, it hasn’t been two seconds. It’s worse than drugs. I don’t want to stop kissing, every time we stop it opens a window for me to remember. A window I’ve been trying to avoid for far too long now.

He looks into my eyes and for a second I actually believe I’m wanted. Pools of gray, like a clear lake glistening in the moonlight. Pretty eyes, pretty face, pretty lips. But pretty doesn’t get you love. He smiles at me gently, a quiet kindness sparkles in his eyes. Sometimes I wonder how he is so perfect at forging this tenderness, how he claimed these masterful acting skills.

He trails his fingers gently down my face. It feels like he cares, the tentative manor misleading. Then suddenly I’m no longer in the apartment with Grayson. I’m back in my old house. No. I couldn’t be here. Not here. Anywhere but here. I don’t want to be back here. I escaped, I ran, I left, it was all over. I made sure it was over. I, I, I -

I’m back.

Sat on the living room sofa, that horrible itchy dull grey sofa, that appeared in my nightmares frequently. It even smells the same. The sour smell, that makes my stomach flip and my hands begin to shake. These four walls still haunt me. It looks as if they’re closing in, slowly, slowly. Like the room is getting smaller and I’m trapped. Claustrophobia seems to be my only companion.

My hands shake uncontrollably and no matter what I try and do to calm down, nothing works. I thought I was getting better, I thought I was coping well, I thought that it was going away. But this is proving otherwise.

I’m reliving a memory. A memory I’ve always wanted to forget. A memory scorched into my brain that tended to replay over and over like a relentless broken record that could never be smashed. I feel sick. I know what’s coming. No. I know who is coming.

His footsteps are an immediate giveaway and the faint smell of alcohol lingering in the air. I’m curled in a ball down, small, hiding like a helpless animal in a hole. If I curl up maybe it won’t happen. Maybe he won’t see me.

“What are you doing?”

A shiver runs down my spine. Every note in his voice is exactly how I remember it. The question echos around my head but I say nothing in reply. My words won’t form in my state of paralysis.

“Answer me girl!” my father barks. His voice venomous, dangerous.

“Nothing,” I reply quickly.

He grabs my arm, his fingers so tight around me that I’m sure that they’ll be bruises forming soon. He yanks me up as I attempt to cower backwards.

“Don’t take that tone with me you whore,” he spits in my face, the pungent wreaking of alcohol on his breath as he throws me to the floor.

I hit it with a thud. A dull aching thud. Just like the dull aching monotony of this scene that was just a part of every day life back then. I don’t move from the ground, I’ve learnt not to fight back. That only landed me in hospital last time. I lay there so still I hope he thinks I’m dead so he’ll leave me alone. He does not. He knows better. Unfortunately for me, he knows his daughter.

“You’re nothing but a piece of shit,” growls the voice that makes my blood curdle, “you hear that?”

I thought I’d left him far behind. I thought he was gone. I thought wrong. I am naive and I’m the idiot I have always been. I don’t reply again. There’s nothing to reply with. Of course I heard.

“I said, you HEAR that?” he screams it louder.

I don’t reply. Stupid mistake but he doesn’t give me time to undo it. He’s already standing over me. It had already begun.

***

He beats my body until my brittle bones long to snap. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. Those four words repeat over and over in my head. They might be the only thing keeping me conscious. No matter how much it hurts he cannot know he’s won. I refuse to hand him that victory of a silver platter, decorated in my jewels of agony.

And for a split second I wonder where my mother is and I don’t even know why. She would’ve do anything, she never did. She just stood there, emotionales, detached. Mothers are meant to protect and defend their children against anything in the world, it made me wonder why mine did not. It made me wonder if I were born to different people or maybe not born at all if things might be better off.

It’s not the time for thinking, I’m reminded. Another kick. I will not cry. A punch. I will not cry. My lip splits open. I will not cry. A twist of my left arm. I will not cry, I think my nose is broken. I will not cry.

“Stubborn little bitch won’t even shed a tear,” he snarls, bitterness so evident on his tongue I was surprised it hasn’t dissolved yet.

Yes I am stubborn. No I will not cry. Not for him. And then it happens. All over again. Beaten, bruised, battered, broken.

I can’t breathe. I’m in so much agony there’s no way I could even scream. So tears roll softly down my face as I’m curled up on the floor in defeat, desperation and humiliation. My body is nearly motionless, my limbs lay slack at my sides. I can’t help myself and no one is coming to save me. I let myself cry, broke the only promise I had to myself. I’m even betrayed my own brain for him.

I look up at him, tear streaked face. Is he happy now? Is he finally happy with me? Am I finally going to revive some sort of approval? Stupid questions to be wondering when I know exactly how this story ends.

As my eyes meet his, my father trails his fingers gently down my face. It still stings from the slap, the cells on my cheek screaming in agony. There’s the faint tinge of metallic blood in my mouth. My father trails his fingers gently down my face. Grayson trails his fingers gently down my face. My father trails his fingers gently- Grayson trails his fingers- My father trails- Grayson tr- my father Grayson my father Grayson my father Grayson my father.

SNAP.

I shiver and jerk away suddenly standing up. I try to back away as Grayson’s eyes fill with concern.

“What’s wrong,” he asks me, trying to reach out to me. I recoil at his attempt of a touch, like a frightened animal.

“I need to leave,” I barely get out, through my shallow breathing as I turn to find the door.

Where is the door? I couldn’t find the door. Breaths come in quicker and faster. Suffocating. I am suffocating. An invisible man has a plastic bag over my head and he is choking me slowly with it. I’m losing oxygen, I’m losing the things that keeps me alive.

Grayson is on his feet beside me, careful not to touch me, “did I do something wrong?”

“No, it’s not you,” I pant, so breathless I wonder if I’m still breathing at all, “it’s all me.”

Dizziness rolls over me and I close my eyes. I feel my body sway slightly, my sense of balance robbed from me. A pair of strong hands catch my waist and pull me upright again. I try and focus my eyes but the room is spinning.

“Woah, hey,” it’s Grayson’s soft voice, “come here.”

That’s when I realise his hands are touching me. I try to pull away but can’t see where I’m going. I can’t see anything as black dots dance across my vision.

“No!” I yell, my ear beginning to ring.

“Hey, stop,” he says gently, ”sit down and take a breath.”

“No I can’t, I can’t, you don’t understand,” I hyperventilate, my chest in so much pain.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs rhythmically, extending his hand out towards me for me to take if I wanted.

I flinch away. His eyes are deep with realisation, he knows, he understands. I’ve given my secret away.

“Who hurt you?”

His voice is almost ragged, almost angry. His eyes are blazing, the soft grey hardens into cold steel. I open my mouth but no sound comes out. The words are unable to be spoken, they feel to forbidden. I don’t think I’d ever admitted my childhood out loud. I need air, fresh air. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe.

I feel like I’m drowning. Water blurring my vision, my heat pounding in my chest, my lungs screaming at me for the oxygen I cannot give them. My limbs frozen in a state of paralysis, heavy as lead, dragging me down. I can’t kick myself to the surface, I’m helplessly lost. All I can do I stare up and watch the last sight I’ll probably ever see. Sinking, sinking, sinking. I think I can feel my lungs fill up. They burn as if eager flames are licking the internal organ in pleasure. I can hear someone’s voice, it’s muffled, like there’s water in my ears. I can’t make out what they’re saying. I wonder if this person will haul my body from the water or they’ll give up on me like everyone else.

“It’s okay,” the voice is soft and sweet, it becomes clearer by the second, “don’t say anything, just focus on breathing for me, okay?”

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne. I take one look into his silvery grey eyes and in this second trust him with my everything. My heart is racing and I can hear my sharp intakes of breath. I manage a small nod as he helps me back down onto the bed, propping pillows up behind my back. I’m sweating, profusely and I feel revolting. The tremor in my hands is slowing slightly as he clasps them in his.

“I need you to breathe,” he tells me, making direct eye contact.

My chest is so constricted it physically hurts. The aching only grows the more I think about it but I can’t seem to stop. Hair is stuck to the back of my neck and the side of my face. I slick it back using my own sweat.

“I… can’t…” I manage to get out in breathless gasps.

“Yes you can,” he murmurs, “look at me, focus on me.”

I do.

“Yes you can,” he repeats, his voice strong, confident full of faith. Faith for me.

I close my eyes and attempt to slow my rapid breathing. I feel his fingers around my wrist, squeezing a little to check my pulse. He is warm against my cool skin. I reach for his hand with my other one and guide it slowly to my chest. I want to feel his hand on my heart. I want him as close as possible. His hand is on me with my hand pressed firmly against it. I open my eyes and stare at him, wondering if he could read my pleading eyes as well as I could read his compassionate ones. Mellow grey stares back at me in understanding. He keeps his hand on my heart.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper, “please.”

“I’m not letting go,” he murmurs back, “don’t worry, I’m here. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

In and out. In and out. In and out. I try to calm myself. It’s not like I’ve ever faced something like this before, I’d just never faced it in someone’s presence. The fear of him seeing me in this state of vulnerability, stripped of my many masks that tell the world I am okay when I’m not, that made it all worse.

But with some time, that could’ve been two minutes of two hours, my breathing slows, becomes more regulated. Things begin to calm down. I’m no longer sweating uncontrollably though my body is still wet. My shaking hands grow stiller by the second as I fiddle with the ring on my middle finger. Finally my heart rate begins to go down. I hear it less in my ears and feel it less in my chest. But it’s still there.

Grayson’s hand has still not left my heart, just like I asked. Gently I place my hand on his, and guide it back to his lap, letting him silently know he’d done his job. I take a hair tie and throw my hair up into an abomination on my head that I’m too tired to care about.

Grayson’s features have twisted into a way that almost makes him look worried. His eyes are larger than usual, his pupils dilated, swallowing up the comforting concrete grey. His eyes brows are pinched inwards slightly, only just and his lips are parted as if he wants to ask a question but can’t find the words. I want to pretend this look is real, I want to pretend he’ll still want me even after seeing me in my state, I want to pretend that this time it’s different. But I can’t afford to pretend anymore.

“Better?” he asks quietly, after a long period of silence.

“Better,” I rasp, my voice so hoarse it’s unfamiliar to me.

I rest my head back and close my eyes. Breathing in and out normally feels like a luxury now. I’m suddenly more grateful than I’ve even been for a steady flow of air to my lungs. Once I’m completely back to normal I make eye contact with Grayson. His face is difficult to read.

“What happened back there?” he asks me quietly, almost looking guilty for the question.

“What do you mean?” I reply, confused. Hadn’t he been there, hadn’t he seen?

“Why did you start to panic,” he clarifies, “what did I do to set it off?”

I want to shoot the conversation down there and then. Absolutely not. I am not ready to tell him anything, I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to look at me different because of it.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly, averting my eyes.

“Of course it does,” he presses further, “sweetheart I love you and-

Oh those three words. How the act as another knife to my chest every time. I love you is not meant for girls like me, I love you is meant for people who are worthy and special, I love you has never once been said to me with any true meaning behind it.

“Stop,” I snap, the word louder and harsher than I intended. It silently echoes through the empty space and takes a moment to sink in.

“What?” he asks after a few beats, confusion distorting his features.

“Just stop that,” I almost yell, as I go to get up, “stop doing that.”

“What am I doing?” he asks quickly.

“You’re lying to me,” I say, my voice wavering when I really didn’t want it to.

“What?”

“Every time you say those stupid words and I can’t afford to believe them,” I exclaim, welling up with this sudden surge of emotion.

“Slow down sweetheart,” he says slowly, “what are you talking about?”

“I know you don’t love me,” I shout. I’m exhausted. Exhausted of living this lie and now I’m at my breaking point and I can’t afford to continue. There are too many lies, in my head, in my heart, in my life. This one I want to be rid of.

“What?”

“I know it so you can stop pretending I matter, that I mean something to you,” I sob.

Great. Now I’m crying again. Again. Pouring out my weaknesses for him to see. I’ve never felt so unbelievably helpless.

“What are you talking about? Of course I love you,” he says it as of I’ve said something stupid or in gibberish.

Of course. Why of course? It isn’t obvious and I’m not an idiot. I’m stood here crying and he has the audacity to tell me this. I look him dead in the eye, my vision blurred a little due to the heaviness of my heart.

“No one can love me.” My voice is low and laced with the agony I’m so desperately trying to conceal.

“Who told you that?” he asks.

How did he know? How could he see through my mask so easily? Was it cracked, had it slipped or was it just all transparent now?

“I didn’t need to be told, it’s just how I am,” I spit back, hoping my bitterness might deter him.

“No,” Grayson replies, his voice so sharp it cut dangerously through the air like a knife.

“What?”

“No, that’s not how you are,” he says, “because I love you.”

He digs a finger into his chest in attempts to prove his point, it looks hard enough to hurt but he doesn’t wince.

“Stop saying that!” I yell over him, “it makes it more painful, every time you say it, it’s like a stab in the heart and I can’t take it anymore.”

I expect him to get angry, to stand up and hurl insults at me. We’ve never argued before. But instead his face softens. “I’m not lying,” he tells me gently, his voice like caramel, “how could I lie?”

He’s not lying? Or at least that’s what he’s telling me. But the softness of his eyes look like he means it. No. I can’t let myself be so naive, I can’t believe everything I’m told, I’ve learnt that the hard way.

“Everyone who I’ve ever trusted has lied to me, why would that make you any different?” I ask bitterly.

“Because I do love you,” he tells me, “with all of my heart. You don’t understand what you do to me. I can’t stop thinking about you, even when you’re not around, you’re the main character of all my thoughts and dreams for that matter. Not a moment goes by without a thought involving you. You are the other half of my heart, you have it, you stole it from me the day we met. And I don’t even care because if I were to meet any thief I would choose you every time and I’m so glad you took it. I mean goddamit, you mean everything to me, everything. I would die for you without thinking twice, without even blinking,” he says, “I just wish you could see yourself how I do. And whoever made you feel this way never deserved a fraction of you. Your beauty, your kindness, your love. They truly didn’t.”

I don’t say anything for a long while. I’m too awestruck. He loves me. He really actually loves me unconditionally. He always did and I always pushed that notion away.

I’ve never said anything about my past out loud. It makes it less real, I can forget if I bury it. Except I can’t I’ve tried and tried desperately to do so but relentlessly as ever my brain has never let it go.

“My father,” I choked horsely, “my abused me physically from when I was young. I thought it was normal.”

Something twists in Grayson’s stomach, I can see it all over his face. He looks ill, all the colour has drained from his face and his eyes are sorrowful, mournful even.

“But the bruises, they were okay,” I murmur, “even the scars, I could deal with them. It was my mother who cut the deepest, without even laying a finger on me. Her words were…” I attempt to pull myself together, “…her words left scars no one will ever be able to understand.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words are so quiet I can barely hear him. He looks mortified.

“It’s not your fault,” is all I can reply with. There’s nothing else to say.

“No one should have to-“

“But they do,” I choke, my voice getting shaky again, “and you know what, I’m tired.”

I wish I didn’t feel this weak, this powerless. Tears start free flowing down my cheeks, uncontrollably. Salty droplets leave glistening trails on my cheeks like in some sort of abstract painting in an art museum.

“I’m tired of this pain,” I sob, “I just want it to go away, I just want to be normal.”

The pain wracks my body. Grayson takes me into his open arms and holds me to the warmth of his chest. I nuzzle into him, seeking comfort I’d never received from anyone else. I cling to him like a frightened child to their mother, my knuckles white. I’m almost scared to let go, incase that means I have to let go forever. I can hear his steady heartbeat against my ear. I sob louder, my body physically beginning to ache from the crying.

“Hey, shhhh,” he soothes, stroking a soft hand down my hair, “you’re going to get through this and I’m going to help you.”

“How?” I wail. I’m hysterical and I hate it, but it’s taken control of me now.

“We just are, I promise,” he says, so much passion, so much faith behind the words. I want to believe him but I’ve had too many promises broken.

“I thought I was getting better,” I laugh bitterly, the tears flowing thicker and faster and harder, “I thought that I was coping better with all of this and now this is just proof that I’m not.”

I get it all off of my chest, words I’ve longed to speak for so long, the ones that have been locked away and avoided. I can say them. Freely. The caged bird is remembering she has wings, remembering she could once fly.

“Listen to me,” Grayson says, his voice clear, defined, “what you’ve been through isn’t something you just get over overnight, it’s not something you can wash away.”

“Why can’t it be?” I ask, snivelling in an attempt to gulp back my tears that seemed to be endless.

“It doesn’t work that way love,” he says, his voice so soft it could melt butter but instead it melts my heart.

“But…” I trail off into more sobs. I can’t carry on. Words are not enough to describe what I’m feeling, they’re not deep enough, the they aren’t raw enough.

I sob uncontrollably feeling more humiliated by the second. Loud, ugly, horrible sobs. When things are buried you don’t realise that they’ll eventually resurface. My body jolts backwards and forwards each time I let out a cry.

He pulls me close to his chest and whispers sweet nothings to me to comfort me. He doesn’t say anything the whole time. Somehow he knows that’s what I need. He just holds me, lets me know he’s there with the melodic rise and fall of his comfortable chest. He’s so gentle, so soft, he makes me feel fragile and delicate like a sharp of glass. I cry until I’m so dehydrated that there are no tears left and I’m so exhausted that I want to pass out.

And even then he stays holding onto me, supporting my broken body. He holds me, holding all my dilapidated pieces together, keeping me from falling apart. He cradled my head in my arms and tentatively strokes my hair. I feel myself relax a little more, I feel myself shut my eyes. Suddenly I’m aware of a sensation in my chest. At first I think it’s the panic coming back to prey on me some more but the feeling is too calming. It’s spreading across the left side of my chest, tingling a little but in a ticklish manor. It’s almost a warmth.

Is this what love feels like?

I open my eyes and sit up. What am I roping him into? He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to be held back by someone like me. He could have anyone, any body in this whole world. I’m the last person he needs in his life.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say trying to pull myself free of his arms but his grip is tight, oddly reassuring. He’s not going to let me go, he’s not planning on leaving, he wants to say. To take care of me.

“Do what?” he asks, brushing some loose baby hairs out of my puffy face.

“The door is wide open, feel free to walk out on this,” I explain with an elaborate hand gesture, “you don’t have to deal with me.”

“The door is firmly bolted shut and no one will be walking out,” he tells me slowly, “you’re not a problem to be dealt with, you’re a person. A wonderful, beautiful, spectacular person, that I have the pleasure of loving.”

Tears well up in my eyes for what feels like the hundredth time today, I’ve never cried so much in my life. The recurring lump in my throat makes another appearance. I don’t mean to get so emotional, but I do. I’m so used to being strong I suppose there’s only so much one person can take before they burst. I feel loved and wanted and needed and cared for, everything I’ve always wished for. Here is a man giving me all of that and more.

“And what if I don’t know how to be loved?” I whisper, fear clamouring up my throat.

“Then I’ll show you,” he whispers, pulling me closer to his chest.

“I’m going to get it wrong,” I panic, “I don’t know how to love.”

“Yes you do,” he soothes, “I know you do because I can feel it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, I hurt people when I love them,” I tell him as he gently caresses my hair, running his fingers through it.

“You aren’t going to hurt me,” he says, “look at me sweetheart, I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere. Ever. We’re going to get through this together, okay?”

I nod, my heart not feeling so heavy. I lean further into Grayson and let him kiss the top of my head. The small gesture meaning mountains more because I know he loves me. And for the first time in a long time I smile, a real true smile. And it feels nice.

a/n: again, I’ve never written anything like this before so idk if it did it right 😭😭 anyways so sorry for it taking so long, hope you enjoyed

TIG masterlist

[a-secret-bolton-vampire]

I finished arc 13 of Ward today. So far, arcs 9, 12, and 13 have been my absolute favourites. In finishing 13 it really hit me just how incredible this story is.

I was scared to read Ward at first, because I loved Worm so much and I wasn't sure how it could top Worm. I was also scared because it hit a lot of personal trauma triggers and became very much worried that it wouldn't do justice with it. In my mind, the worst things that Ward could do was try to get Victoria to forgive her abusers, that her bio family is the most important and she should reconcile with her mother.

My best friend (my co-author for Mending Constellations, etherealDesign) sang the praises of Ward and I eventually decided to try it out. I expected that it would be almost or just about as good as Worm. I'm more than halfway done, and I know how the rest of the story goes, but I honest to god think Ward is even better.

Taylor as a protagonist rules, she's one of the best characters I've ever read and she is insanely compelling and her arc is so beautifully tragic that I can't help but watch that tragedy unfold in awe. There are some parts of her I relate to, such as the bullying, the feeling of being a sort of social outcast, an introvert who loves reading and learning. I also really love the way her morality is written and it's so unbelievably rare for a female character to be written that way.

But Victoria is far far far more relatable. So many takes on her are so shallow and missing the nuances within her. She's so different from Taylor and yet so similar they work perfectly as foils. Taylor didn't have a social support network but had a loving family. Victoria had a social support network but not a loving family. The writing for her PTSD is so insanely on point as someone with PTSD that it hurts to read at times. I'm so happy the narrative is not punishing Victoria for not wanting to forgive her family, especially her mother and Amy, for what they did to her. In so many stories, so many that it actually boggles my mind, family is the most important thing and something that can transcend any and all hurts. Makes that moment in arc 1 where Carol wants Amy and Vic to reconcile mean so much in that context. Sometimes, a hurt cannot be reconciled with, no matter how close you once were to the person who hurt you.

I feel people who haven't experienced familial abuse might not get how much Ward gets right about it. For sure, she has a complicated relationship with her parents still, it isn't pure hatred like it is for Amy, but there is no doubting that the relationship is strained, to put it mildly, with her parents. And also, very very very much happy that there is no attempt at rehabilitating Amy's image to downplay what she did to Victoria. This is not something you downplay and even if Amy is still (somehow) a sympathetic or even relatable antagonist, this is something that just cannot ever be forgotten or forgiven.

Also, Victoria reads as unbelievably transgender. She spends 2 years as the Wretch in the hospital, and in Ward her forcefield makes her visibly uncomfortable with herself and her body. And then her costume is literally a dysphoria hoodie... Her and Sveta especially are such great examples of transgender allegories (and in the case of Sveta she literally, canonically IS trans). And on top of the PTSD, the abuse, the gender dysphoria, all these things that make me relate to Victoria so heavily... then there is the very blatantly textual dissociative plurality. There is no way that Wildbow didn't intend for Victoria, the Warrior Monk, and the Scholar to be all different people in a plural system. Not even a doubt in my mind.

Oh, and this is JUST talking about Victoria! I could go on and on about how well Ward writes mental illness, including some really, really vilified mental disorders. Ashley is (at least likely from what I've gathered from the notes Dragon sent to Vic's laptop) bipolar and definitely a clinical narcissist, but it isn't vilified, and in fact she is heavily, heavily humanized. Even Cradle, someone I'd call as close to pure evil in Parahumans as you can get, has some really really phenomenal writing that shows that he could have lived a normal life as a functional person despite a lack of empathy or remorse.

In general, mental illness in media is important to me as someone who has a personality disorder, and being able to show people who are narcissists or have antisocial tendencies as ultimately just being people and not inherently dangerous is very, very big for me.

There's so much more I could say, but Ward is nothing like I was initially led to believe. It's miles better in every way than I could've hoped for, and it has quickly come the vector for some of the best and most relatable writing of trauma and mental illness I've ever seen in media.

Ward is a story first and foremost about trauma recovery. The fact it is in the backdrop of a literal post-apocalyptic setting is not accidental. It's the best way to frame a sequel to Worm in my mind.

[orqheuss]

In any version of reality

(Ominis Gaunt/F!Reader FLUFF)

Reincarnation!Soulmate AU

Summary:

In the world of soulmates, ties told through memories of past lives and reincarnation, Ominis was sure that he had to be a very new soul. *** Ominis Gaunt was more sure than anything in his life that he did not have a soulmate. He had heard tales from others about their experiences, how lovely it was to finally find the one you had been searching for through any timeline, and he had resigned himself to the fact that his soul was too new to have a past life. But, after hearing you sing in the deserted music room sends him on a journey back in time, could he have truly found the person he had been longing for since before the dawn of creation?

Story is based off of "Epic iii" from the Hadestown 2017 Original Cast Recording.

Word Count: 4.7k

In the world of soulmates, ties told through memories of past lives and reincarnation, Ominis was sure that he had to be a very new soul. He had heard stories told through grapevines, whispers in the night of people finding their loves at a young age; how their timeless histories came flooding back to them like a torrential downpour of emotion they couldn’t identify until they tasted their loves name on their lips— heard their voice flitter through their ears like a soft ocean breeze for the first time. Some said it happened suddenly, as soon as they brushed against each other or looked into each other's eyes for the first time. Those people said it was like being struck by a falling star, burning to the touch and gloriously wonderful all at the same time. Some said it happened gradually, after years and years of knowing each other, only to be triggered by an oddly familiar moment in time or a feeling, like a song murmured from an ancient gramophone in the corner of a room they’d long forgotten about. Those people said it was warm, like a blanket you’d just cast a drying charm on— like they were coming home after a long trip and the hearth was already lit for their arrival. No matter how much he longed to tell stories like this himself, how much he yearned to find that grand, timeless love that he could only read about in books, the universe did not have a past life to spare him. 

For a while he blamed his parents, like they were the ones that ripped him into the world before one of the many ghosts floating around in the stratosphere could latch onto him and call him theirs, but he knew that they had no control over ethereal beings like that. Then, he blamed his disability for his woebegone-ness. Every story he had ever heard told tales of looking into their soulmate's eyes and seeing the world as it was for the first time— could it be that because he could not see he would never know the feeling of holding someone's gaze and seeing yourself as you truly were the day your ageless soul was born into the world like a bursting supernova? Not knowing anyone else that suffered the same blindness as him, he didn’t have anything else to go off of. And so, that was the only answer his feebly human mind could give him— the only thing that actually made sense in his brain.

Being born without sight had never really bothered Ominis much until he got to Hogwarts. His childhood home was dreadfully quiet, and very few members of his family were home at a time, so he didn’t have any sounds invading his sensitive ears very often. All of that changed as soon as he crossed the threshold of the grandiloquent school. The tall ceilings echoed all voices like a cathedral tower echoed the hymns of a choir— he knew everyone's business better than his own, sometimes before his peers even learned of it themselves. With that came the knowledge of everyone's soulmate encounters, each story different from the last but just as magical each time. Down the castle stairs, tucked away in the corner near the one-eyed witch, Ominis heard Adelaide Oakes recount her story of brushing against a muggle boy in her village and seeing a post-colonial British soldier standing at her doorstep, stretches of farmland spanning farther than her eyes can see over his shoulder. In potions, he heard Garreth Weasley whisper to his cauldron partner about how he had known his soulmate for years, only realizing that they were meant to be after seeing them lounging on the shore of the pond behind his house— one moment they were strewn across the damp, summer-green grass, and the next they were curled around his past in a bed made of purple silk, the Paris skyline just beyond his reach through their bay windowed apartment. He could distinctly recall all of the details of Sebastian’s revelation, having heard how he saw himself galloping through a field of flowers with a lovely princesses arms wrapped around his waist, pressing her delicate fingerprints into his shiny chain-mail armor as they laughed into the sun many a time before drifting off into a dreamless sleep in their common room. Even Leander Prewett found his one true match, spinning the tale to anyone who would hear in their herbology class about how he was a British king once, married to a beautiful woman dressed in green with a matching choker necklace of pearls and emeralds— how the large “B” charm caught the light just right during their private garden strolls to make her blue eyes sparkle (Ominis also remembered the next day when he stumbled upon the frazzled Gryffindor in the library annex, filled with dread as he poured quite anxiously through the books and reading about that particular necklace, as well as the pretty neck that went along with it. Poor sod). 

No, Ominis Gaunt had not found his soulmate yet, nor did he think he ever would, and he was perfectly fine with that, thank you very much. 

At least, that’s what he told everyone when they asked. 

What didn’t help his case, unfortunately, was that he was irrevocably and incandescently infatuated with the new fifth year. It had taken him some time to get used to their presence in his inner circle. All of his friends had a very distinct magical signature that he memorized after knowing them for some time— every magical being had one, really. Magic to Ominis felt like the fizz of cider against his skin, some slightly more carbonated than others and carrying a different taste in his mouth. Anne felt like the sparkling citrus water that the kitchens would bring out on particularly hot days before finals. Sebastian felt like the burn of firewhiskey on an autumn night, the bonfire in the center of the circle warming the tips of his nose and ears. Both were refreshing and lovely in their own right, but his newest friend was something he had never felt before. He was never able to feel someone else's soul under their skin and determine how old it was, but there was no way you were a young, or even new soul like he was. Even your magic felt old. Your signature was the most distinct one he had ever felt in his short life; it wasn’t a soft fizz like the others, or a pleasant warmth, it was a firework in his chest. You smelled like the smoke after a particularly rowdy Guy Fawkes Night and felt like tiny smoldering ashes falling against his skin, not too hot, but more of a pleasant kiss of heat. He got used to your voice quickly, no matter how your laugh made his knees want to buckle and cause his heart to race faster than a stampeding graphorn, but your magic took some time, even after he found out about your proclivity to ancient magic. There was something so distinctly familiar about it to him, like he had met you before coming to the castle. He didn’t recall ever doing so, but his family threw so many parties in his youth he wouldn’t really question it if he did. Once he started to get used to the feeling, maybe even crave it a little, he realized it was too late to stop the tumble his feelings were taking off your sweet, summer-side cliff. 

Ominis knew that you hadn’t found your soulmate yet, but it was only a matter of time before your soft brushes and lingering stares disappeared into the air like everything else in his life. He was doomed to never have anyone by his side, but he knew deep in his heart that you were not destined for loneliness like he was. You were a flowering weeping willow at the edge of a monumental body of water, and he the lowly lake lapping at your petals as they fell, forever in the others orbit but never within arms reach. 

That’s how Ominis found himself wandering that day, high up the many stairs of the magical castle and steadily walking towards the deserted music room, his favorite place as of late. Very few people knew where the room was, let alone that the school even had a music room to begin with. Here, he could wallow in his self pity with only the soft sound of his piano to keep him company. About a week ago a line of melody came to him in his dreams, soft and sweet but full of so much empty melancholy that he was on his feet at that very instant, quickly jotting down the notation on one of the many pieces of sheet music that he had lying around his desk. Ever since then, he had gone to the musical tower in the sky to sit by his lonesome and chart out chords like constellations. The song was ethereal to his ears, something that came from the universe itself as a gift that he was destined to write. Ominis was nearly done with it after hours of slaving over the parchment and quill, his fingertips surely staining the ivory keys of the baby grand piano to the point where the house elves despised his presence. He was like a man possessed whenever the melody came to mind, like something in the world was trying to tell him something very important but it couldn’t find the words to do so. The notes rose and fell like a bird flying south for the winter, wings stretched across the sky, swooping and diving only to rise again and kiss the sun. Some parts felt like a walk through a beautiful meadow, the sun on his shoulders and the wind blowing through his hair. Others were dark, like descending a staircase into the very center of the world with no light to guide you, just its ghostly melody to call you home. And some were both at the same time— a shady spot under a corkscrewed sycamore, tiny graves for the woodland creatures of the forest taken over by the wilds of nature, hidden off the beaten path in lamentable isolation. It told a story of everlasting, encompassing love that was ripped away too soon, found again after searching every possible and impossible place for their hand to hold, only to have to part ways once again until their effervescent hereafter. It reminded him of some of the muggle mythology he picked up last year for some light reading during one of his bouts of nightmares— how each tale began weaving together a love that would break the very fabric of the universe until it was taken from the pair by Fates' terrible string. The blond could tell that the song needed lyrics to be complete; Ominis was many things, but he was not a poet. So, much like his future to come, the song would forever remain unfinished. Even still, his forlorn melody kept him company, and he was perfectly fine with that. 

Today was different; Ominis knew that as soon as he rounded the bend to the music room and felt a presence inside. The blond cursed to himself, resigned to find another corner of the castle to mope in his hopeless romanticism for the time being until the other person left. He turned on his heel and was about to leave when a sound stopped him in his tracks, his ears pricking up like a startled deer. From the crack in the door came a haunting voice, soothing through a melody that was vaguely familiar to the boy. He curiously took a few steps closer, pressing his ear to the tiny opening to hear better. The voice was one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard. Its tone was clear like the church bells outside his family home, soaring around the room up to the top of its spiraled ceilings and diving downwards towards the bordeaux patterned cherry floor. It caught the acoustics of the room like a wind chime in the beginnings of spring, and his entire body visibly softened at each lift and fall of its gentle ballad. Ominis listened intently to the lyrics as they made their way through his ears, swirling around his brain and kissing him just behind the eyes with winsome adoration. 

Heavy and hard is the heart of the king King of iron, king of steel The heart of the king loves everything Like the hammer loves the nail.

The woman’s voice was like honey in his favorite tea, soothing and with just the right amount of sweetness. Her dulcet tones took Ominis into their arms and waltzed with his heartstrings like two ghosts lost to time. He couldn’t help but keep listening, diving deeper and deeper into her saccharine song. 

But the heart of a man is a simple one Small and soft, flesh and blood And all that it loves is a woman A woman is all that it loves. And Hades is king of the scythe and the sword He covers the world in the color of rust He scrapes the sky and scars the earth And he comes down heavy and hard on us.

Hades. Something about the name shook the blond to his core, the word feeling strange at the tip of his tongue like a word he knew but couldn’t remember. Little flashes of light burst behind his closed eyes, bright but not painful, carrying the feeling of…grass under his feet? He wasn’t truly sure what he was feeling, but he knew it wasn’t the wooden floors of the hallway anymore. For a moment he could feel the luscious heat of the spring on his skin and hear the soft call of whippoorwills from the tree tops just beyond where he stood, even though it was a cold and stormy winter outside the stone fortress walls. He continued to listen to the song, careful to not let himself be known to the angel of music just out of his reach. 

But even that hardest of hearts unhardened Suddenly, when he saw her there Persephone in her mother's garden Sun on her shoulders, wind in her hair. 

Persephone. Why was that name familiar too? Why could he suddenly feel the phantom of long, thick hair stream through his fingers like a waterfall, the tresses gently caressing his skin in a way that he only dreamed of? Ominis flexed his fingers, swaying his hand in the air to feel around for a sudden body in front of him; he found nothing there except dust and stale air. The scent of wildflowers invaded his nose harshly, leaving him twitching and fighting off a very unbecoming sneeze until the strong scent pittered away to a delicate gale of sugared anemone and aster flower. The taste of nectar and pollen were heavy on his tongue. He listened closer, eager to hear and experience more. There must be a charm on their voice, the boy reasoned. That had to be the reason he was experiencing all of these things so suddenly. 

The smell of the flowers she held in her hand And the pollen that fell from her fingertips And suddenly Hades was only a man With a taste of nectar upon his lips, singing: La la la la la la la…

It was like suddenly being dropped into the icy waters of the black lake. That melody, no wonder it was so familiar to him; it was the piece of music he had been working on nonstop for the past week! Just as the realization dawned on him, the magical aura of the person behind the door struck him harder than anything he had ever felt before— harder than when he had first felt it outside the Undercroft what felt like years ago. 

It was you. You were the one singing.

You were the missing piece to his lonely symphony. 

Seeing flashes of your past self did not feel like how Ominis originally thought. It wasn’t quick like a speeding bullet into the brain, or loud like a confringo smacking into the pillars of the Undercroft. The flashback started soft and hazy— his vision blackening around his normal shadows and all sense but sight returning first. First came his smell, his hearing, his touch, and his taste while he listened to your silvery cadence fade away into the heavens. All of the feelings that had come one at a time earlier suddenly slammed into him in an influx of sensations, shocking his system into a more startling consciousness than before. Lastly came his sight, coloring his once grey and silhouetted world with a plethora of hues that he had never heard of before. If the boy was being honest, in all the moments where he had imagined finding his soulmate, he hadn’t pictured anything at all. He had never known the gift of sight, so how could he truly prepare himself for what it meant to see? Was that what green was, in the grass below his shined oxfords? Was that blue, in the sky above that stretched on forever? Was that yellow, in the little bumblebee that buzzed around his head searching for a flower to land on? There was so much that he wanted to see, so much that he wanted to know now that he could. His subconscious reminded him that this was not the time for that though, when he spotted a figure bent at the waist in the garden just over the hill from him. 

Ominis gulped against the knot forming in his throat, the lump pounding with the beat of his heart just under his ribs as he stepped out of the trees and into the clearing. He had never seen a creature as beautiful as you before; it was like everything in his life had led up to this very moment of meeting. Watching the way your hair glimmered under the summer sun like the jewels adorning his home as you tended your mothers garden, he was nothing more than a man in the presence of a nymph of the forest— something otherworldly, something too beautiful to touch. The sun danced across your skin like the finest silk, creating star-kissed freckles at the apex of your shoulders and down your toned arms, and oh, how could he do anything but remove his hat from his head and gaze at you with awed, enraptured revelry? The air around you smelled like his future— like pomegranates and the promise of forever. He felt in his very being that you were his one love, far before he truly understood the meaning of the word. The emotion could not be named with words, only the feeling of coming home. All he knew is that he needed to know you more than he needed to breathe, more than he needed to eat and drink and sleep and live. Your souls sang in tandem with each other, calling your names into the void and waiting for the shout to come back to them— to sing with them forevermore. Ominis was useless under your charm, like a siren luring an unsuspecting but oh so willing sailor to his doom under the frothing sea waves. He had never spoken to you, but he knew in that moment he would happily die by your hand if you would just meet his gaze one time. He would build whole worlds for you if that was what you wished— tear down entire galaxies if it would make you smile his way. 

All of his dreams came true seconds later when you stood from your hunched position, tossing your hair over your shoulder in the intricate braid you wore, each strand decorated with the honeysuckle that bloomed at your feet, before turning and staring at the man before you. You startled at first, unaware that you were being admired for so long by someone so breathtaking. The blond haired beauty under your maple tree  was like winter incarnate. His hair was quiffed and slicked away from his face, allowing you to see his strong jaw and perfectly sculpted facial structure. Your eyes drank him in like a garden in a drought with his tasteful three-piece suit, black from the collar at his neck to the wing-tips of his shoes— an unusual color for somewhere so sunny. He was as pale as fresh fallen snow with tiny moles breaking up the color— birdseed trapped in a thin layer of ice. He would be called monochrome if not for his eyes. They reminded you of the Grecian sea, those eyes. Like two pools of seafoam, or two small bouquets of baby's breath and cornflower. Your heart called to him like a lighthouse across a stormy ocean. Fate rarely ruled your life, you’d decided that from a young age after listening to the warnings of your mother, but if the Fates brought you him, you would listen to their words from now on. With one glance it felt like you had known him for years, and yet you didn’t even know his name. He was your past, your present, maybe even your future if you allowed it. He was not one of the flowers like you, more like one of the dead, but you’d happily plant your gardens in his domain. You’d plant flowers that thrived in the dark and the cold, flowers that only bloomed under moonlight, if it meant the universe would be kind enough to let you keep him. 

It was you that spoke first, breaking the spellbound trance you both were in from the first moment of contact. “Hi…” 

Your voice was like the sweetest music ever played— sweeter than those of the muses, those of the deific. They were nothing, for it was you who was truly divine. He was the moon, and how he longed to know the sun. 

His voice was little more than a breath as he murmured in return, still caught up in the sheer transcendence of your beauty. “Hello…”

Your soft laugh shook him from his stupor, softening the frozen heart in his chest as you warmed him in both body and soul. He cleared his throat, shifting his feet for a moment before taking a bold but respectful step forwards, his hand reaching out for yours like a sunflower reaching towards the brightest star in the sky. Around you, the mockingbirds began to sing a tune for your love. You couldn’t help but think it was familiar, like something from a dream you’d had long ago. Their soft song echoed through the trees, each new whistle bringing a new melodious harmony. 

La la la la la la la~

“My name is Hades,” he said, the softest smile you had ever seen turning the corners of his mouth. 

You return his gaze shyly. There was a smear of dirt across your face, painted across the turn of your nose and the rosy apple of your right cheek like a thick splattering of freckles. The man thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. 

“Persephone,” you whispered, smiling ruefully at the flustered pink that colored his face. “What took you so long?”

In a moment it was all over— Ominis’ world dyed grey once again and only the shadows of the things around him visible. Never had he mourned his sight before, but before he had not known the beauty of seeing the night sky in your eyes; he did not know the delightful turn of your lip when you grinned or the crinkle of your nose when you laughed. He knew now that you were not the thing that he could not have, you were the thing that the universe created just for him to hold. You and him were not just a weeping willow and a babbling brook; you were the water that breathed life into your roots and the tree that fed the fish under his waves. You were not simply the sun and the moon, passing constantly but never crossing paths for long; you were an eclipse, two celestial beings dancing together and showering the world with your lovely glow. 

You both had done this dance before many a time— taken many a shape before. How could he have ever thought of you as anything other than his other half, his soulmate, his world? He revolved around you, and your benign gravity kept him steady. 

That pull was why he had just enough courage to push open the door to the music room, stepping into the sunlit space and basking in the feeling of your seraph-like presence. Ominis knew exactly where you were when he spoke, his soul knowing the feeling of yours for longer than this earth had been breathing. 

“Persephone.” It was a breath. A whisper. A prayer. 

You looked at him like he hung the very stars you love so much in the sky. There was no one else in that moment, just the two of you and the soft echo of your past lingering in the lines of sheet music strewn across the piano bench. 

“Hades,” you simpered, a smile glowing in your voice. 

It was moments later that he was upon you, hugging you like your body needed to be a part of his, kissing you like you were the oxygen he needed to live. You met him with the same enthusiasm, finally whole after years of being apart. You pressed your face into his neck, soothing tiny kisses along any skin you can reach, stretching from his collarbones to the tip of his nose. He smiled down at you, his hands reaching up to cradle your face like he was holding starlight in his palms. 

“I never thought I would find you again.” 

You laugh, your own hands reaching up to cover his. His heart skips a beat when you nuzzle into his skin. “I knew we would find each other again, just as I knew the sun would rise again every morning.” 

He was frowning now, a look that did not suit his face in the slightest. He couldn’t help but feel insecure after his years of festering in his terrible self worth. “But how?” 

You flipped his world on its axis, removing his hands from your face and in turn placing your palms upon his, caressing your thumb along his jawbone. “Ominis, my darling Hades, did you think I ate those pomegranate seeds unwillingly? Did you think I did not wish to fall into your darkness with flowers in my hair?” You stood on your toes, bringing his face down further and raising yours to rest your temple against his. You found your happiness in his tiny smile. “My love, I chose you that day in the garden. I would find you in any lifetime, any version of reality that calls our name. I would never let you stay too far from me, that I promise to the gods themselves.” 

He sealed your words with a kiss, accepting and agreeing with your terms proudly and eagerly. Never would you ever separate again. 

And so there you stayed that day, curled in the far corner of the music room with your soft, no longer so lonely melody singing from the baby grand piano. You took turns feeding each other grapes from the vine, laughing like you were the world's sunlight and lounging under the tresses of your own created sky. Behind that, now closed, door was the real world, a terrible thing that brought torment and woe to even the happiest of souls, but in that little space at the top of the tower, you had found your own personal cosmos. 

The king of the dead had finally found his queen of the flowers once again. 

like what you read? here's more!

[toxicpineapple]

v3 scar headcanons

pondering the orb that is the v3 cast and scars. this is obviously going to be triggering though for a multitude of reasons so i’m gonna slap a big ol abuse/self harm/torture trigger warning on here and then drop everything below the cut. proceed with an abundance of caution :3

shuichi saihara i’m probably far from the only person who headcanons shuichi as having had a history of self harm. i think a lot of people really reduce and water down shuichi’s character to “guy with anxiety and depression” but it’s a very longstanding and personal headcanon to me. i think he has largely gotten over it by the time he attends hope’s peak, but still has the occasional relapse. scars mostly on the inner thigh and wrists.

hoshi ryoma ryoma, i don’t believe has much of a history of personal injury (and injuries he likely got in tennis mostly didn’t leave any scars) but i think he has old scars from cat scratches and bites over the years. also some nicks across his arms and abdomen from various scuffs in prison, mostly onesided; ryoma’s not the kind of guy who fights back, not really.

gonta gokuhara this dude grew up in the woods so you know he’s got all kinds of gnarly scars on his torso and legs. claw marks, bite marks, maybe something on his head from a particularly sharp rock. they’re his reminders of his time growing up with his forest family and i think while gonta doesn’t necessarily experience much of a feeling of “pride” around them, he isn’t ashamed of them either.

kiibo robot. skip

korekiyo shinguuji korekiyo is an abuse victim. i am reasonably confident about this stance. i think on the whole the abuse that korekiyo faced from his sister was psychological or coercive, mostly because his sister was bedridden, but i could see him having a scar or two from that time. what really would’ve stuck with this dude physically is his wack ass backstory-- this guy has undergone some crazy shit for his research, including torture which i won’t get into for obvious reasons, but like. yeah that’s gonna leave a mark. i also am of the opinion that the bandages on his arms cover scars that he created himself, not as a form of self harm but rather for like, blood sacrifice for rituals and stuff? but i did indeed borrow that hc from my brother soo.

kaito momota i think kaito has scars all over his knuckles from splitting them during fights. i don’t think he’s the violent hard hitter the fandom characterises him as, but i do think kaito struggles to articulate his anger, and that can turn into lashing out. especially if someone is being unreasonable or cruel to someone he cares about. so, scars on his knuckles. he might have other scars from similar fights, but kaito strikes me as the kind of guy to go in fists blazing, he definitely doesn’t fight with weapons if he can avoid it. the only other notable scar i hc him as having is a thin scar on his temple from the car crash that killed his parents when he was eight.

kokichi ouma so i’m actually one of the few people who doesn’t necessarily hc that kokichi grew up in an orphanage, i like the hc and i do use it from time to time but i read kokichi as a foster care kid. going from houses where he either had to bodily escape punishment or cause trouble just to get a bit of attention. dice being other members of the system/kids who were also as forgotten and unloved. all this to say i do find it extremely plausible that kokichi could’ve had some extent of physical abuse in his past from particularly rough homes-- and as such has some scars from that time. other scars he received through Shenanigans.

rantaro amami rantaro travels a lot, and talks about all his wack ass adventures and near-death experiences-- not to mention that it is canon in utdp that he will sometimes return home with a concealed injury. as such i think rantaro is pretty scarred up like gonta, primarily around the torso/abdomen area, but he has a few assorted scars on his legs, and a bunch of marks on his hands. my friend jim and i share the hc that he has scars that encircle both of his wrists from a kidnapping incident when he was eleven.

kaede akamatsu bit more of a normal one, palate cleanser, kaede lived a relatively mellow life. any scars she has are probably just from skinned knees and stuff-- EXCEPT for a large scar on her knee from a bike accident as a kid. ouch girl.

angie yonaga angie comes from an island where blood donation is a pretty common practice, so she probably has a few marks on her arms from the procedure. given that i don’t know much else about polynesian culture and angie’s writing is pretty disrespectful as is, i think it’s probably better if i just leave it there as far as any scars she could have gotten in a ritualistic sense. i will say that angie spaces out when she does art, so she might have some scars from accidents caused while working-- she does work with a chisel after all.

miu iruma given that miu was in a car accident that put her in a coma, she probably has a fair amount of scarring all over her body. abrasions, and also burn scars aren’t out of the question. miu is a pretty reckless inventor too so hard to believe she wouldn’t have picked up a nick or two working on her silly little things.

tsumugi shirogane tsumugi sews, but needle pinpricks don’t really leave scarring as long as ur not going fucking crazy with it. i think the vast majority of tsumugi’s injuries would come in from her time working as a bartender. broken glass is pretty nasty, and people probably would’ve gotten into at least the occasional fight. maybe a little scratch on her cheek from a conflict that didn’t get defused before things started flying. tsumugi wishes her scars were cooler, but they are, as she is, quite plain.

himiko yumeno she has an appendix scar on her tummy and a few on her knees from tripping. pretty normal life though.

tenko chabashira hey why don’t we ever talk about the fact that tenko is literally a vigilante? i think that’s a pretty relevant detail of her character that nobody talks about. she’s probably witnessed a bunch of violent crime, and from a very young age, too... i think tenko has probably gathered her fair share of scars, largely on her hands, but some on her shoulders, face, and legs. she’s tough though! she looks on her scars with pride, memories of the times she’s been able to keep girls safe.

kirumi toujou as a competent maid, occasions where kirumi actually gets injured in her work are pretty rare. she’s an overworker though, so i think she might’ve pushed herself far enough to cut herself a few times while cooking. on the more dangerous side of her work, i definitely think kirumi is the type of person to endanger herself in the name of her duty, so scars from various murder attempts-- knife, gun, whatever-- are definitely not out of the question. maybe even a knife wound on the back... but kirumi walked it off. she is a maid, after all.

maki harukawa the obvious answer here is that maki is scarred all over and honestly FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK drs for pretending like that’s not true. in her training to become an assassin maki was tortured repeatedly, using a variety of methods, in order to toughen her skin and make it so that she could withstand great pain. i have a hard time believing there is a lot of maki’s body that isn’t scarred. aside from the scars from her training, i’m sure maki has also collected a fair amount of scarring from missions and such. oh girl.

[asharkapologist]

My Personal Ranking of the Rochesters

Okay, so I absolutely love, love, LOVE the Rochester family. I think they are all tragically underrated characters who deserve more content, so I decided to add some by ranking the members of the Rochester family from my least favorite to my favorite. Spoiler warning for the entirety of Mysteries of the Past, as well as trigger warnings for abuse. So without further ado, let's begin!

10. Malcolm

I hate this man so much. Like yeah he’s manipulative and gaslight-y and a threat, BUT he honestly other than that he is just boring. He’s a stereotypical corrupt politician, as well as a terrible, disloyal husband and an even worse, abusive father. While nothing can excuse Archie’s horrible actions in Elysium Fields, I partially blame this mf for how Archie turned out. He’s also SEVERELY underhated, like when people talk about the worst parents in CC this ugly man is somehow left out. Also, he mourns the loss of his job longer than his only child. 

9. Rockley

Okay so note there is a HUGE jump in quality between him and Malcolm first of all. Like I think Rockley is fine. He’s like a B tier character for me, mid or lower B but still (Malcolm’s like an F). But unfortunately, Rockley doesn’t really affect the plot that much. Sure, it’s slightly funny to imagine him just running his chocolate factory, minding his own business, as his family kills a bunch of people and does other shady things, but yeah he doesn’t impact the story that much. You could remove him from the game/make him not a Rochester and nothing much would change. 

8. Patricia

I really wish she was higher up on the list, but sadly, she just doesn’t have that much of a presence because she’s contained to just one district and we just don’t know too much about her life before she married into the Rochester family. It’s worth noting that her fate is HORRIFIC. She was canonically physically abused by Horatio just for the “crime” of standing up to him and calling out his evil behavior, and THEN as if that weren’t enough, she was, while perfectly sane, LOCKED AWAY IN A 19TH CENTURY INSANE ASYLUM WHERE SHE SLOWLY ACTUALLY LOST HER MIND. like goodness gracious. That is a fate worse than death imo. And then while she had the least awful death of any of the Rochesters, she still died. She’s such a tragic character. 

7. Clarissa

Okay, I know she literally only appeared once as a murder victim, but she still is interesting, even from the little that can be extrapolated from the one case she “appears” in. It seems to me at least that she was in a place of power and comfortable with this and her family's plan to take over the city, but also wanted to help people, such as shown by her wanting to adopt a street kid and her writing a book about financial advice and help. I can honestly see her being a good leader in Concordia, even if yeah, she did benefit from her rivals and critics "disappearing" or having other unfortunate fates.

6. Larry

Okay, I KNOW THAT HE WAS A BAD PERSON, and yes, I have not forgotten what he did to Francine. She was a killer, but she did not deserve that. Obviously, he was selfish and greedy, considering he and Joseph took advantage of hundreds if not thousands of financially desperate people, let his father take the fall for that, and brutally murdered a woman for saying she wasn’t going to let Leopold rot in jail (I’m genuinely surprised that Lawson didn’t give him life). However, he is a good villain. He’s a much better district antagonist than the two before him (I love Giulietta, but Franca and Vittorio are boring characters, sorry). Wolf Street’s my least favorite district in MotP, but Larry is an entertaining villain, a good re-introduction into the Rochester family’s evilness, and it felt good to arrest him. Plus, he has a good design. Classic example of a good character/villain but terrible person. 

5. Veronica

Honestly, Veronica is one of the most wasted Rochesters, and also the only one who we never get closure for. Which is kinda disappointing because I feel like she had a lot of potential, and she does have a lot of hidden tragedy, what with her having Archie when she was only 19 and being in a loveless marriage. But she just mostly seems to be occupied with running her businesses and doing typical things you’d expect a senator’s wife in the 1890s to be doing throughout the game. We don’t get a great glimpse of her relationships with her family, including her son and father, but I certainly have my headcanons about her. She could have been interesting, but she just disappears from the game after the start of Ivory Hill and is never seen or heard from again, even after her son was murdered and her husband arrested.  You could take her out of the story and very little would change, too. But I might make a post about some of my headcanons for her, because I want to give her an interesting character the game did not lol

4. Horatio

THIS MF. Horatio is the most evil character in MotP. There is not a shred of genuine compassion for anyone in his body. Yeah, he doesn’t immediately forget about Clarissa after she dies and he’s satisfied with her work, but if she had tried to defy him like his wife and brother, she’d be dead or in the asylum. Horatio was literally connected to half of the game’s problems, even though I do think he gives himself a bit too much credit for stoking the gang war. But the railroad scheme? He collaborated with Vittorio to do that. Every way the Rochesters held power in the game? Him. Making deals with “the devil” in Grim Chapel to dispose of the family rivals? Him. Turning on his own family in an instant if they defied him? He’d do it without hesitation. And the fact that he probably has many, many illegitimate children, too. Point being, Horatio is utterly vile, far more evil than Lawson, the actual main antagonist. But he is a GOOD villain. His motives are clear, he’s ruthless, it feels AWESOME arresting him, and he’s smart. Also, side note, but I’ve got a headcanon that he and Malcolm planned to kill each other once they properly took over Concordia to have the city to themselves. Food for thought.

3. Leopold

Poor Leopold. :( the only beef I got with him is that I think he is a LITTLE too naive. While Bernadine knew very much about her family’s crimes and just tried to ignore them to the best of her ability/didn’t do anything, Leopold genuinely didn’t seem to know, somehow. But he’s a good man through and through, very likable from the start to the end of the game. Therefore, he is a bit of a static character, but that doesn’t change the fact that seriously, he’s such a very kind man. I wish his relationship with his sons was a bit more developed, but even then, there’s a lot to work with in terms of his relationship with his sons. The quote that he has when Larry is arrested and he’s freed, where he talks about how heartbroken he was that Larry was hell-bent on heading to prison really broke my heart. And his unnaturally controlling move of forcing Rockley to be the head of the Bank of Concordia can be seen as a reaction to Larry going to prison and a fear that Rockley could perhaps end up doing the same, hence him dropping a responsibility Rockley didn’t want on him. It’s not a nice move, but it goes to show that while Leopold was a kind man, he was not perfect. 

2. Bernadine

Now we start getting into some of the best characters in MotP! Bernadine’s my fourth fav character in the game, and within my top ten characters in the franchise. Bernadine only is a suspect twice and a quasi-suspect once, but she has a CLEAR character arc. She goes from being a rather haughty, self-important person who I didn’t trust on my first playthrough of the game to an extremely sympathetic character who had to deal with the aftermath of her family self-destructing, and then needing to run for her life from Lawson’s men. A quote I really love of hers is how she says that most of her loved ones dying or being imprisoned is the result of “this family’s mad ambition” and beforehand, said that she always knew the family’s desires to control Concordia would be their downfall. That drives home one of the messages that comes with the Rochesters and their fates--how dangerous unchecked ambition is and how it can destroy the people with it--and A Family Affair really gives some context to her previous behavior. She knew what Malcolm and Horatio were doing, and yet never said anything until asked to spy on Arthur. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not calling her a coward, because the police shouldn’t have had to rely on tip-offs from family members to seriously investigate the Rochesters when their rivals kept disappearing. In fact, she’s brave for standing up to Horatio. She hid behind her mask and watched her family in quiet dread, waiting for the inevitable to happen when they made moves to control the city. And her fears were confirmed. She lost almost everyone she loved, and then immediately had to worry about a dictator wanting to kill her. At least she got a happy ending, and while it would be nice if she appeared more, the game managed to do a lot with just three appearances. 

1. Archie

There is genuinely SO MUCH to say about Archie. He deserves a full-blown analysis honestly, he’s my second favorite character in the entire franchise, only after Giulietta (ironic, I am aware). Where to start? He’s an amazing villain, my favorite in MotP. The reasons he became Mr. Alastor are quite sympathetic, considering he was Alastor years before the events of Elysium Fields and became Alastor because he felt out of place and friendless within the elite, saying he was “always poor, sickly, Archie Rochester, no social graces, no friends!” And then he got a power trip from manipulating the very people who he felt rejected him, to the point where he was deluded enough to think that Giulietta would be impressed if her “enemies” died at his parties, leading him to create a (very convoluted, unlikely to work in real life) plan to win her affections. He probably never even had a proper conversation with Giulietta, he just became obsessed with her due to projecting onto her due to them both being outsiders among the elite (and I hc that perhaps he was even projecting his problems with his father onto her due to her own desires to be separate from her father’s reputation). I also love smart villains, and Archie was certainly that, and it makes sense why he thinks that the group of people who rejected him would jump at the chance to commit murder if they and someone they hated were at the same party. And he was right.

And then there’s how he acts when he comes back to Concordia. It’s interesting, because he is not taken seriously by either the game or the police when he returns, despite being treated seriously in Elysium Fields, which communicates that Archie is barely a threat compared to people like Horatio and Malcolm, especially the former. Something else that’s interesting is that Archie thinks he’s able to manipulate people to the point where he puts “gain allies and manipulate people” as an item on his to-do list you find in his desk drawer in Tipping the Scales, and yet he is clearly very easily manipulated, as Diego proves in the AI of Get Off Your High Horse, where he easily manages to get Archie to talk to him and the player literally just by complimenting Archie and saying how smart he is. And there’s how he’s treated by his family, too--ultimately used as a tool to further their political ambitions.

Which brings me to his death, which serves so many purposes. The game says multiple times that he did not to deserve to die, least of all so horrifically, while at the same time making it clear that he was not a good person and had done a LOT of screwed up things in his life (a view that some Criminal Case fans cannot seem to hold in their heads at the same time…), and I’m always a fan of  NUANCE like that, being able to acknowledge someone’s brutal death as undeserved while also pointing out the awful things they did in the CC games. Added onto the fact that Tipping the Scales reveals that it’s literally canon that Malcolm is physically abusive to his son, which adds a whole new layer and context to Archie’s very evident issues. And finally, Archie’s death shows just how violent and damaging ambition can be, because in the end, he was one of the final victims of  his corrupt family.

I’m sorry if that was a huge infodump about his character, I really love him and need to write a whole analysis of him.

Thanks for reading all of that! Feel free to share your thoughts, too!

[leiasources]

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻  𝑯𝑶𝑴𝑬  𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑩𝑨𝑴𝑨  𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒.    a  compilation  of  sentence  starters  from  and  inspired  by  the  film  sweet  home  alabama.  potentially  triggering  themes  present.  feel  free  to  adjust  as  necessary  but  do  not  add  to  the  list.  thank  you!

‘ your dream for me was to get out of this place and be somebody... ’

‘ how come it has to be so complicated? the truth, life... this. ’

‘ i mean, who hasn't been embarrassed by their parents at one point or another? ’

‘ are you sure? are you really sure 'cause if you're not sure, we could just go back to the car. ’

‘ well, aren't you just a big, fat liar... ’

‘ what makes you think that you can treat them like something you stepped in in those fancy shoes? ’

‘ oh, what do you want, {name}? i don't even think you know. ’

‘ i'd forgotten how beautiful this place was. ’

‘ you're right. i have changed, i don't even know that person anymore. ’

‘ this certainly is a surprise, hearing from you, you know... you being a busy girl and all. ’

‘ i remember standing there, thinking, 'oh, preacher, hurry up before he changes his mind.' ’

‘ sometimes that man makes me so mad, i could just wring his neck. ’

‘ in my entire life, i have never met anyone so manipulative, so deceitful... ’

‘ oh, come on, it's not like anybody can keep a secret around here... ’

‘ nothing is going to come between me and my protege. ’

‘ no one is going to change my mind about this. not you, not the media, not anyone. ’

‘ that's all that matters to you, isn't it? the money, the labels... you're pathetic. ’

‘ just tell me what i can do to make you happy. ’

‘ i met somebody.. and they're quite a catch... ’

‘ i, um... actually, i was thinking maybe we could have the wedding here, in my hometown.. ’

‘ well, look what the cat dragged in... ’

‘ so, what put you in jail this time? ’

‘ i'm just saying, i saw the way you two were looking at each other. ’

‘ those people are the only family you got. get your butt back in that car, drive over and see them, and then maybe we'll talk. ’

‘ the girl i knew used to be fearless. ’

‘ have you thought about children? ’

‘ you know what? i think you're right. i have had enough. ’

‘ you know i hate surprises. what's going on? ’

‘ you're shitting me, right? ’

‘ will you marry me? ’

‘ you show up here, after years without so much as a 'hey there, {name}, remember me? your wife?' or a, 'hi, honey, lookin' good. how's the family?' ’

‘ it must be exhausting, living a lie... ’

‘ hi, honey! looking good. how's the family? ’

‘ guess we all have our little secrets, don't we? ’

‘ now, {name}, you can't just go breaking into peoples houses. ’

‘ what's going on? where are we? ’

‘ look at you, all fancy, you look like you just stepped out of a magazine. ’

‘ i thought that baby would be an adventure... and it took me a while to realize that would have been your only adventure. ’

‘ please tell me he has a flaw somewhere. ’

‘ it's funny how things don't work out. ’

‘ hot damn, do we miss you around here. ’

‘ nobody finds their soulmate when they're {number} years old. ’

‘ how about another round of drinks for my friends here? ’

‘ oh, i missed you alright, but at this range my aim is bound to improve. ’

‘ i can't believe you're still wearing that same stupid hat. ’

‘ i never meant to hurt you, or anybody else for that matter. ’

‘ if you think i'm going to let some girl talk you into getting married... ’

‘ would you mind terribly if we kept this to ourselves for a few days? ’

‘ i've dealt with an awful lot from you over the years. ’

‘ i thought you said you took care of this. ’

‘ she's not 'some girl', she's my fiancee. ’

‘ you and i are different. we're not better, we're not worse, we're just different. ’

‘ you and i are in love with entirely different people. ’

‘ you show up here and then you insult my friends, acting like you're better than them? ’

‘ what i need to know is if there is a place for me in your future. ’

‘ i was hoping to get an interview with you and your family, and maybe a few pictures, if you don't mind? ’

‘ oh, like you're going places... ’

‘ what are you doing with all that cash? why don't you invest it? ’

‘ when was the last time you pushed me around the dance floor? ’

‘ i think i had enough fun for one night. ’

‘ get out of here before you make me cry. ’

‘ don't get me started on the things that i don't understand. ’

‘ you can't believe everything you hear on tv. ’

‘ you owe me a dance. ’

‘ i'm happy in {location} but then i come down here and this fits too. ’

‘ oh, sweetie, you look tired. are you tired? ’

‘ i mean, how do you people live like this anyway? ’

‘ hold on, what are you doing with all that cash saved up? ’

‘ you are just like your father. ’

‘ no, not 'like old times', alright? times have changed. ’

‘ why didn't you tell me you came to {location}? ’

‘ all of a sudden i just... i needed a different life. ’

‘ this is one of those disasters waiting to happen. you know, one of those big ones that only cockroaches survive. ’

‘ look at you, always the belle of the ball. ’

‘ i didn't break in. i used a key, my key. ’

‘ did you know that there's a great, big world out there and it has absolutely nothing to do with marriage, or children, or... ’

‘ you ever wonder what would have happened if we hadn't gotten pregnant? ’

‘ i'll see you at the show. it's going to be great. ’

‘ he can give you a life that you and i only ever dreamed of and he adores you. ’

‘ there is a wedding in your future whether you like it or not. ’

‘ god, i can't wait to see the look on my mother's face... ’

‘ i hesitated long enough to realize that my head and my heart were saying two different things. ’

‘ look at you... you have a baby. in a bar. ’

‘ we were wondering when we were going to see you. ’

‘ you're doing the right thing. ’

‘ you shouldn't want to marry me. ’

‘ i love you, i love you, i love you... ’

‘ you're not doing anything illegal, are you, {name}? ’

‘ i don't know what else to say... but i'm sorry... ’

‘ oh god, what if they hate me? ’

‘ when everything went pear-shaped, you never left my side, and then i just left you. ’

‘ hell, i bet your folks don't even know you're in town. ’

‘ there's nothing i can do, the law is the law, and she has done nothing wrong. ’

‘ you are one hard woman to get in touch with. ’

‘ oh my god, you're engaged?! ’

‘ is that what you want? to be humiliated in front of all of your friends? ’

‘ i can't marry you. ’

‘ at least i'm doing something with my life. ’

‘ this is just as you described it. it must have been amazing, huh? growing up here? ’

‘ {name}? is that you? it's so late, are you alright? ’

‘ you can't just leave. ’

‘ holy shit, what happened to the stove? oh, and where are the magnets i had on the refrigerator? ’

‘ you know nothing about her. are you sure you even know who she is? ’

‘ one man for the rest of my life? i'd ball my eyes out. ’

‘ what the hell are you two trying to do? get yourselves killed? ’

‘ that accent of yours is a whole lot thicker when you're sleeping. ’

‘ i came out here to say thank you. ’

‘ what you are doing? ’  /  ‘ leaving. you've done it, you should recognize the gesture. ’

‘ you didn't need to call, just come by. ’

‘ why do i feel like i'm in the middle of times square buck naked? ’

‘ why would you want to marry me for anyhow? ’

‘ i thought you would be gone. ’

‘ i got to get home. my mom's going to kill me. ’

‘ i really don't care what happened... so you have a past. who doesn't? ’

‘ for somebody who's been holding onto something so hard, you're pretty quick to let it go. ’

‘ are you in town for awhile? ’

‘ i better back off. don't want to get you in trouble with the little lady. ’

‘ it's not like that. ’

‘ i, um... i tried to call you a couple of times... ’

‘ don't i get a smile? i know you got one in there somewhere. ’

‘ see, the truth is i gave my heart away a long time ago, my whole heart, and i never really got it back. ’

‘ i don't know who you are or what else you lied about... ’

‘ you don't remember me, do you? ’

‘ i guess i figured if i was pointing at you then nobody would see through me. ’

‘ what upsets me is that she lied to you. ’

‘ you've done real well for yourself. i'm proud of you, {name}. ’

‘ who could be calling at this hour? ’

‘ i would have come sooner if i'd known you were sick. ’

‘ i'm your friend and i have to read about it with twelve million other people! ’

‘ you two got a whole lot of catching up to do so i'm just going to leave you to it.’

‘ i just thought i'd surprise you.’

‘ this isn't who i am anymore. ’

‘ could we try to keep this as civilized as possible? ’

‘ nice to see you got your accent back. ’

‘ you're the first person i ever kissed, {name}, and i want you to be the last. ’

‘ maybe you and i had our chance. ’

‘ you can take the girl out of the honky-tonk but you can't take the honky-tonk out of the girl. ’

‘ i'll tell you what it's not like... it's not like they're the only one around here that you ran out on. ’

‘ at least i fight for what i want. ’

‘ you called the sherrif? you know that old bastard hates me! ’

‘ bring that pretty face over here and gimme a hug. ’

‘ i bet you sat there wondering what you did wrong. ’

‘ you looked like you were having fun out there tonight. ’

‘ you remember that vandalism incident out at the stockyard? totally her. ’

‘ did you cry? ’

‘ next time you lock somebody out, make sure they don't know where the spare key is hidden. ’

‘ don't even pretend you spent all this time missing me. ’

‘ what did i ever do to you? ’

‘ i've been planning this for weeks... ’

‘ at the risk of being rejected twice, i'm going to ask you again... will you marry me? ’

‘ you expect me to tell you you look good? what, did they run out of soap down at the piggly wiggly since i left? ’

‘ see, that's the thing. i'm not really a 'watch and see' kind of girl. ’

‘ 'no,' you won't answer or 'no,' you won't marry me? ’

‘ you know, i've really made something of myself, i have a career, people actually want to be me... and somebody loves me and i love them. ’

‘ i just think that you deserve better. that's all. ’

‘ you know, i've never actually understood that expression, but no i'm not 'shitting' you. ’

‘ i don't have a single childhood memory that doesn't have you in it. ’

‘ don't see the likes of you around these here parts much. ’

‘ so, have you made a decision? ’

‘ you get a second chance so please don't mess it up. ’

‘ i haven't seen my folks in years and i feel like this is something i should tell them in person. ’

‘ i don't ask you about your boyfriend. you keep your nose out of my life. deal? ’

‘ i am better than them! ’

‘ i'm sorry about what i said. i'm really sorry. ’

‘ since when does it have to be one or the other? you can have roots and wings. ’

‘ you don't want to marry me. ’

[lykaios2]

hi! This is the anon(Again, still new! Forgive me!) who asked for the bullied sister! This was really special to me, because it reminded me of me and my little brother who gets bullied for being autistic.

Anyways, if it’s not to much to ask, would you do more little autistic sibling? Thank you!!

pt2 of mm turtles with an autistic sibling! semi sequel to this one

as per usual I tried my best to not make this offensive at all because my (theoretical) autism is not very severe (or maybe it is idk I can't wrap my head around the fact that autism is a spectrum and whenever I see people who have more severe forms of autism I feel bad saying that I likely have it)

anyways enough about me, here you go! hope you enjoy ❤️

Leo:

-Leo really likes to be around you a lot to make sure you’re safe, because he knows that it can be very easy for things to go wrong when you’re on your own. He tries not to be a helicopter parent, but he’s just worried about your safety. He’s aware that you can be very sensitive to your environment. One time, he witnessed you have a breakdown from overstimulation, and he almost had one himself. He was so concerned about you, and he didn’t like seeing you in that state.

-He’s learned all of your triggers and everything that makes you uncomfortable, so he can avoid them all. He knows how to help you calm down if you’re about to have a breakdown or panic attack. He’s basically designated himself as your main caretaker.

Raph:

-After Raph finally started getting the therapy he swears he didn’t need, one of the things his therapist suggested to help with his anger issues was fidget toys. He didn’t really have any though, but he knew you did, so he asked if you could share some with him. At first, you told him no. You didn’t want to part with your fidget toy, what if he broke it or lost it, or worse? He understood your concern, and instead asked if you could help him get one, which was a lot easier for you to do.

-Now Raph always has one on him, and a few extra for you two to share as well. Of course, you still have your own that you keep to yourself, but you've warmed up to the idea of sharing some with Raph. There have been quite a few times where you’ve forgotten a fidget toy at home and Raph has had one ready for you, which has saved you a lot of trouble.

Mikey:

-Mikey is very sensitive towards your lack of speech. He knows you don’t like to talk a lot, but it makes no difference to him. It’s still a little confusing to him though, because to him, talking is one of the simplest ways of expressing your feelings. But to help communicate with you, he learned sign language so you could talk to him without having to actually speak. He doesn’t use it himself (he couldn’t get the hang of it with only three fingers) but he still learned so he could know what you’re trying to say with sign language.

-Sometimes you stay after school with Mikey to watch him do improv or perform in a play. You love watching the shows he does, and you think he performs amazingly, but every so often you get this feeling that you could never show and express emotions like he can. You ask him how he does it, and he says it comes naturally to him. He tells you that it’s okay to not know how to express yourself, and that emotions are complicated and often difficult to understand.

Donnie:

-As quiet as you might be, you could talk for hours on end about your interests. And guess what? Donnie will listen. Your time together is mainly spent sharing about your interests, shared or not. Donnie understands that your favorite shows or books or whatever are really important and special to you, and all you want is to share your love for them with someone else.

-Sometimes at school, he’ll introduce you to one of his friends that likes something you do as well. He does most of the talking in the beginning, but after a while you start to hold the conversation on your own. He often sits and listens to you talk, occasionally chiming in, but he’s mainly focused on being proud of you for talking with a new person.

[josiebelladonna]

since 2020

i watched the world shut down and burn itself to the ground.

the tools that were “tried and true” by my parents, my grandparents, and even my fucking older brother, pretty much forced onto me since 2015 break down and render themselves completely useless.

i brought joy to joey belladonna and his wife.

i had my old url stolen by someone who wanted to undermine me for no reason but spite.

i experienced a betrayal that completely broke me and, as someone who had been bullied and harassed throughout her formative years, i knew there was no way i could stay silent about it. i used my voice. i broke down and bled through my art. i got angry. i got frustrated. i was vengeful. and i eventually came out on the other side of it because she was saying horrible things about me that weren’t even vaguely true and she was/still is playing dead on top of it.

i watched my country launch into further turmoil and chaos with the advent of the insurrection.

i comforted alex skolnick in the wake of that day as he said it brought out the ugly in him—and i told him he had to get ugly because the other alternative was to let the anger consume him.

i wound up watching him on a whim one night and it was the start of something sweet and new, something refreshing for me personally.

i wrote a million words of fanfiction all for him.

my stepfather passed, and my mom and i have realized that we have it pretty well with just it being the two of us (my mom has saturn in aquarius, too).

i started to see american society for what it is, rooted in racism and xenophobia and sexism (it was actually a reminder for me because i had initially learned of our systems in school). i actually started finding a lot more reminders, things i had either forgotten or put on the backburner because i had other things to pay attention to.

i began voicing opinions more, and yet it came with the price of people on tumblr blocking me for it and dying mad about it, and isolating me in the process.

the world of tumblr in the 2020s has only baffled me because i feel like most of you just don’t want to act your age for some reason: say what you will about 2014 tumblr, at least there were actual adults on here, people who acted their goddamn age and didn’t have the mental capacity of children which in turn gives the site this weird tone of teens dressing like 30-year-olds and talking like 9-year-olds and treat anything human like art or erotica as just another meme they saw on tiktok.

my initial fascination with alex eventually morphed into a crush as i began reading more and more about him, familiarizing myself with his voice and his behavior… to the point i began questioning my sexuality, something i had been doing since summer 2019 but ramped up when the boy with the pearl in his hair entered my view.

i threw myself at the wall (metaphorically speaking) and examined the pieces and all the hard emotions i had buried since the peak of my anorexia, when i was 19/20.

i looked at facebook and said “i don’t need this anymore, especially knowing how people on there, including my actual family, treat me, especially when i was 22 and said emotions were trying to surface themselves and my own brother was threatening to throw me into a conservatorship à la britney spears or amanda bynes because they all thought i was ‘unstable’ when really, i was making a cry for help, and i saw the help was utterly useless after a time, and thus, i turned to myself for two years, triggered by the death of my biggest fan, chris cornell.”

i have made my best art and have written the things i’ve always wanted to write.

i felt my crush on alex only blossom and bloom into something. it’s clandestine and hidden in little comments, instagram livestreams, and cartoons of him, but it’s there. he sees me. he feels me. and i feel him as if i actually have my fingers in his hair, my eyes locked onto those ocean blues, and my arms around his full round waist.

starting with joey, krista, and alex, only the best people have entered my life.

i pay no attention to reception i get on any of my art because all that matters is that i do it, something i’ve known for years but i never actually began to believe it until fairly recently. but good comments i get, i always thank.

i went from identifying as “straight female” to “pansexual female who doesn’t care about gender roles because they’re arbitrary and box me in”.

i realize not everyone will agree with me, or feel the same as me, or believe in the same things as me… because i grew up surrounded by people who didn’t want me to think for myself. i think everyone should believe whatever they want, barring you are kind and civil about it and i can see where you’re coming from with it, too (if you’re pro-life, that’s okay, but if you force it on me on the pretense of “killing babies/killing baby girls” and you’re going to patronize me for it, expect me to call you the real bitch here).

i have bled out in the realm of sexuality, and the whole thing makes me cry still, because kink is not normalized, neither is intelligence or sensitivity. it’s always going to be a hot button issue with me, i feel. in a strange way, there is something oddly comforting about that. i’m never going to be at peace with my sexuality: i’m always going to be sexually restless.

i’ve gained a lot of weight as a huge part of my healing my body. i love it, too: i don’t ever want to be below 250 pounds again. even with my weight gain, i take good care of myself and exercise regularly and eat healthy (i just eat a lot, is all).

i had my mail stolen back around christmas (gonna go down to the police station tomorrow to fetch it). i really, really hope this will be the one legal issue during this 9th house transit—i’m a good girl, saturn, you saw it yourself 😇 you’re my favorite planet, please don’t kill me.

i’ve started to relearn the things i was fascinated by in my childhood like earth science and the glowy irradiated stuff my grandpa taught me.

i’ve been growing weary of technology, between the constant advances and the shady bullshit happening all the time that we deserve a right to know, damn it. i’ve joined the fight against ai because believe it: it is an existential threat to us all, but it begins with the artists because we get the most abuse.

i want to play a part in helping the earth: i have an “e-tree” tidbit on the weather app on my laptop where if i check in everyday, i earn points. i accumulate 4000 points and they organize a tree to be planted in africa. i’ve planted… i think 12 trees at this point. hey, it’s something, and i’m always going to want to garden, too. i’m always going to make digital art even with the rise of the machines, and i use eco friendly art supplies as well.

i’m looking forward to next week when the conjunction is exact because i couldn’t ask for anything else to help me heal myself. bro, why is this time of life so stigmatized when it can be genuinely amazing?

saturn in aquarius, gang.

[surgerodriguez]

Boiling Point

Setting: Weekly Rodriguez Family Dinner, 1/29/2023 Mentions: @nichelleyoung  Triggers: Toxic Masculinity, Street Fighting, Incarceration, Anger Management Issues, Death Mention  Word Count: 1307 words  Note: Italics are Spanish

It was pretty common for Surge to wallflower whenever the entire family was together. Yes, he would occasionally join the conversation, or play whatever game his brother tried to get him into. But every week was loud, competitive, and being the lone introvert in a family of extroverts was exhausting. 

Well not the only one, Surge knew that his father was one. But the two of them had the tendency to wallflower on opposite sides of the room - if not opposite sides of the house. It was easy to forget within the crowd, the overlapping conversations, the kids all running around, the fact that there were 29 people all in this house that always seemed to small for the amount people that came over. 

But despite how exhausting his family was, he was actually glad to come to family dinner this week. Considering that his mom has insisted that Nichelle come (to which Surge only agreed to extend the invitation if his mother promised not to ask about when they would be having more kids), and this was her official introduction to the family that she hadn’t met at the restaurant, he was just glad that it was going well. That throughout all the craziness she seemed to fit. 

Pilar had taken it upon herself to introduce Nichelle to everyone, and Surge just watched with a smile on his face. He had his phone out, planning on sneaking a picture of the two of them while they were distracted, when a voice from behind him surprised him. 

“She seems nice,” the deep gruffness of Fernando’s voice was quiet, in a way that almost seemed like a contradiction. 

“She is,” Surge nodded to his father, “Didn’t exactly realize how nice it would be to have someone around until I met her.” 

“And Pilar?” Fernando asked, in a way that Surge could tell that his father was trying to get to something, but he wasn’t entirely sure what. 

“Pilar adores her,” Surge admitted, despite being wary of the conversation, a smile still came to his face, “the two of them have really bonded.” 

“Good,” Fernando nodded, “It’s about time you found the girl a mother.” 

The words caught Surge off-guard, his brows instantly furrowing as he took in his father’s words. His hand clasped around his phone, the picture that he was trying to take forgotten as he gripped. While his father had been full of critiques since he had gotten out of jail, it was almost as if Fernando didn’t even realize how insulting the words were. To him, to Pilar, to Nichelle, even to Sarai’s memory. 

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Surge asked, his words measured, hoping that his father has misspoke - but knowing the man well enough to know that hope was probably misplaced. 

“Pilar needs a gentle touch,” Fernando said, matter-of-factly, as if he still didn’t see the problem, “and you seem determined to raise that child surrounded by violence. Someone needs to shield her from that.” 

“You know, Nichelle and her father are both giant boxing fans, right? Oh wait, no you wouldn’t know that because apparently all you think Nichelle is good for is being a replacement Mom for Pilar,” Surge snapped, not realizing that his voice had gotten louder and that everyone had started watching. “But I didn’t start dating Nichelle in order to force her to be a housewife, I’m dating her because I like her. Actually, I love her. But I guess that doesn’t matter to you.” 

“You know as well as I that if Sarai were here...” the older man warned, his voice rising to match his son’s as her was interrupted. 

“You don’t get to say her name,” Surge yelled, “and you don’t get to act as if you knew her. That you knew what our family would be like, how we would have parented Pilar. You didn’t even know her!”

“She would have had the girl, and you barely would have seen her. Every other weekend until you lost interest or Sarai decided she had enough. We both know that you’re a horrible example for her, Sergio. Pilar deserves more than a lifetime of watching her father get injured over and over again. She deserves to have a normal childhood with a mother who can help her thrive.”  

“What, like we had a normal childhood?” Surge accused, his eyes narrowing, “Because you sure as fuck made sure we wouldn’t have that.” 

“You don’t know how much I tried. You don’t know what I did for this family,” Fernando warned, his voice growing angrier. 

“Everyone fucking knows what you did,” Surge countered, annoyed at the same excuse that Fernando had given time and time again. “because you were gone. Josue, Maria, and Anita all dropped out of high school the moment that they could to help support this family. I almost got arrested street fighting because nobody would let me drop out and get a job. But that violence that you hate - it’s what made sure that Mom could keep the restaurant. It bought the house that we’re in right now. It made sure that you didn’t have to go back to work after you got out of prison. It has made sure that Angel got to go to college and grad school without any fucking student loans, and has made sure that I’ll be able to do the same for my daughter. And it won me two Olympic medals. So maybe you should finally admit that I’ve done more for this fucking family than you have. And it’s my money that’s keeping us together now.” 

“Your blood money,” Fernando spat with disgust. 

“That you happily take,” Surge snapped back. 

“That. Is. Enough!” Sofia’s voice managed to be louder than the two of theirs, quieting them enough for Surge to realize that everyone was watching - that somewhere in his anger his phone had left his hand and shattered against the wall. And he could feel his father using that as another reason as to why he wasn’t a good person, why his boxing wasn’t an honorable career like everyone else, why he was a terrible father. 

This has been the worst of their fights, and it felt like all the work in his anger management therapy sessions had managed to go down the drain. 

But the worst of it was the moment that he noticed Pilar’s face - scared, crying, confused. Surge had always tried to hide his temper from his daughter, and here it was out in the open. Going over to the girl, Surge scooped her up and Pilar held onto him tight. 

“Why is abuelo so angry?” she cried into his shoulder, her words a whisper in his ear. And Surge didn’t have an answer, not one that he could give a toddler, especially when Pilar was just starting to understand that her mom wasn’t there like the other kids in her preschool had. 

“He’s just having a bad day,” Surge lied to try and comfort the child, wishing that he had something better to say - knowing that Pilar would probably have questions that he was going to have to answer, but figuring that he could at least get her home before she started asking. After saying his goodbyes and letting Nichelle do the same, Surge was still boiling, knowing that he needed to get out before it all started erupting again. 

“You keep treating him like this, and one day he won’t come back. Is that what you want? To lose our son and granddaughter?” Surge overheard his mother angrily lecture his father. 

But he was already out the door before he heard the answer. Because he didn’t want to know the answer. 

He was scared that he already knew it. And that the answer was yes. 

[treesap-blogs]

FIREKEEPERS DAUGHTER REVIEW! A few days late and I wrote it late at night still emotional and processing the book with minimal revisions made since then lol please have mercy

Greetings, Tumblrians! I can say with complete confidence that this account has for sure become a book review account! Aaa. Not what I anticipated, had to change up my bio order a bit. This book, Firekeeper’s Daughter, is the first thriller that I’ve ever read(beginning to end at least), which made it a bit of an intense one to get through (especially when 100 pages in I’d forgotten most of the summary, thought I was reading a romance and got confused, and then the character I’d gotten the most attached to got murdered lmao?!?!).

Now first things first, this is probably one of the only books (that I’ve read) that I can call a page-turner! I have ADHD, so my attention span is a little faulty when it comes to reading or watching stuff unless I’m super invested in it. A lot of books that reviewers say are “impossible to put down” were unfortunately ones where I could do literally just that, even if the writing quality was admirable. (Iron Widow by Xiran Jay Zhao is one of the only other ones I can think of that goes against that, finishing it within 2 November days was what kickstarted my love of reading again! Without it I would not have this blog💕.) But within a week(actually, a little less than that if I’m remembering correctly), I was about halfway through! Daunis’s integration of her heritage and the Ojibwe teachings passed down to her into her investigation, as well as the richness of Boulley’s writing and my genuine investment in both Daunis Fontaine and the meth-related rabbit hole she found herself in, was what kept me trudging through all of the difficult content throughout. Then, the period in which I’d borrowed this book had expired, as this was meant to be something to read for my free time in ELA, but the teacher had a very strange schedule with trying to be both easy on us and get our current unit done so it meant that we couldn’t finish our choice books. Thus, I hadn’t actually had the chance to pick it up in months, the last time I’d read some of it being in about October of 2022. So this is probably the one with the strangest reading schedule of my current covered stories.

Also, some people are gonna be indifferent to the “Secret Squirrel” stuff, others are gonna hate it, I was in the former crowd. The gimmick got predictable after the first few times but considering this was the first time I’d read a book that was this font of intense, I didn’t mind it that much.

It definitely also gets more intense the further along you go. That’s where I began having some issues with how, in the midst of all of the serious topics covered in this, SA was written and described?? Not that it was glorifying anything, it certainly was not, but.. in the case of Grant, it felt like just a way to make him seem more like a villain(and therefore, one other character, whose mention would technically be a spoiler but they’re directly related). While those scenes were (thankfully) brief, and weren’t gratuitous(but they did..get particularly graphic), it was distressing to see them included. I do wish that this was one of the books I’d read that had trigger/content warnings on the first page for that reason(some of the ones published in the last 3 or so years, like Iron Widow or Blood Scion, have done that). It leaves a bit of an icky aftertaste in my mouth.

To change topics! I did like how Daunis’ struggle of secrecy, as well as her kind of living a “double life'' at multiple points was handled. Particularly, the conflict within her family was written really well. A lot of the guilt she had surrounding her parents and how they turned out due to her conception and life hit me hard??? There’s a line that really gut-punched me on page 394: “Children are never to blame for their parents’ lives. Parents are the adults; we are the ones responsible for our choices and how we handle things … If I’m in limbo, it’s because I chose to remain there. Even inaction is a powerful choice.” (Boulley, 394.) (Okay, fine, maybe I just wanted to have an excuse to quote that.)

WE’RE ENTERING SPOILER TERRITORY NOW! Parameters will be marked if you want to skrrt around it.

I don’t know how anyone else felt about the romance between Daunis and Jamie (I’ll make sure to check out some reviews afterwards!), but it just made me feel uneasy? I get that Jamie was supposed to be a (young) rookie investigator, one making up for the dent left in his record at that, but it was incredibly unprofessional for him to start a relationship with a (slightly) younger woman he was meant to only work alongside (and also had to technically teach how all the FBI things worked due to her being really new to this and only there for this specific investigation). Not that there was really much of a mentor-trainee dynamic there, Boulley made it pretty clear they’re on similar levels intellectually, but..still. Felt a little sketchy! I could understand Ron’s concerns, and I’m glad Daunis addressed some of those issues towards the end of the novel.

Anyhow! Some people in the reviews I’d read halfway through felt that Daunis’ recurring grief didn’t really feel impactful, as they didn’t feel emotionally attached to Lily, but I..actually did? She was the character in the first paragraph of this review I was mentioning vaguely. Perhaps I’m biased, due to some stuff I was sorting out emotionally at the time, but I do feel like it could be justified with the writing itself; We got a good idea of her personality, her importance to and relationship with Daunis, and some of her past(which would be part of the plot later on). And it doesn’t feel rushed(at least in my opinion); the first 100 pages or so of this book is meant to be a lighthearted introduction to our main character and her life, not the mystery we as the readers are about to be entangled in along with her. Yet. (And when shit hits the fan it feels like the kind of whiplash our protagonist got hit with.) While Daunis was a fairly reasonable person and so was Lily a lot of the time, Lily had a more upbeat and sarcastic part of herself that contrasted with her friend(and made their dynamic really work, I think). The pair interacted basically like sisters. I could see why Daunis was left emotionally and mentally scarred after what had happened to her. (And I did tear up a little bit at that brief scene in the afterlife.) (If anyone who’s read the book is reading this now though, please let me know what you thought!)

Last bit of criticism I have: For the final reveal of the masterminds behind the drug distribution inside the trailer, I felt it got..a little bit too “villain monologue”y? Fine, it’s a staple of the mystery genre, but the way that there’s just. Snide remark after smirk and every step of the timeline spelled out in a very know-it-all manner by Mike got annoying after being placed in an extremely serious story that grounds itself pretty intensely in reality. (I think it’s mildly funny that Levi was quite literally the “weakest link” though, and that one argument after the party didn’t just have an insult thrown in out of nowhere kshdhfomefo.)

Also, were the deaths of some of the other students ever explained??!! Was it a side effect or intentional? I can’t remember if that thread was left unresolved or if there’s something I’m forgetting.

END OF SPOILERS! 

So, in conclusion, would I recommend this book? Most likely. Just be careful about the kind of story you’re going in for, and the kind of content that will be included. I feel it’s a little packed; it’s like Boulley really wanted to use this novel as a way to talk about not just some of her own experiences as an indigenous woman, and help people outside of her culture learn a bit more about it, but also tackle issues within her community; all within a narrative that already has a lot of elaborate threads going on(with the family drama/history and the mystery itself)! It is her debut novel, however, so she’ll have the chance to continue to grow as an author(and this was a well-written book albeit not without flaws!).

Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️/5.

Paz, signing off!

(Book trigger/content warnings: SA in both frequent mentions, and scenes on page 226-228 and 370-371(latter is worse in content), racism, including 2 instances of slurs(used by indigenous characters themselves but aren’t reclaimed), grief, PTSD, typical thriller stuff like drugging and kidnapping.)

[forgottenthreads]

If I could force the whole world to read a book I'd have to write it first.

The title would be

And for you it was a normal fucking Tuesday.

Trigger warning: mental health issues, references to self harm and suicide, bullying, abuse and so on.

Project is hopeful but if you're not safe to read or talk about these topics right now then do not continue. Feel free to come back when you're in a better headspace. The blog has been tagged mature content.

The book would take accounts of abuse, bullying and neglect, depression, anxiety and more. Every other page a new author (maybe more often than that), a day in their life taken from diaries or blogs or Retellings of the things they actually experienced.

Today I played tag with my friends and they kept tagging me and didn't give me a chance, I cried when I got home. (Age 5)

I'd want it to start fairly light, get really dark and return with hope at the end. Compile One story with a thread through all the bad days, though no one person experienced it all every experience in the book would be a real one someone experienced somewhere...

I'd want to cover. How it starts. How it feels. How it effects people. How it gets worse. How it destroys confidence and enjoyment. How it hurts. And how people have helped.

I'd like for the book to be an everyone and anyone story not getting hugely into the identities of each author as it goes along. Ideally I'd like all the harsh things to be translated for the person reading it, so every account appears to be from someone exactly like the reader and only at the end would it be revealed the people who collaborated on the book. This could be done by having different versions with different generic faces on the cover but might not be feasible.

Today I was working on a bridge project in class, my bridge exploded when we tested them. Rather than helping me pick up the pieces some of my friends threw splinters of my work at me and the rest of the class laughed. (Age 12)

Towards the end of the middle of the book I'd want to include outcomes, this person survived, this person escaped, this person made an attempt, this person is no longer alive, that person is in prison, that person escaped punishment.

I want it to be a book that horrifies and forces people to come to terms with the worst that humanity could do to each other.

I've stolen more painkillers from my dad, he hasn't noticed yet, redacted for reader safety, no one sees the pain I'm in, I don't see a future for me (age 15, author was hospitalised and emancipated, parents investigated for neglect)

I want it to teach empathy though I fear there are people who might use it as a template to abuse others or get away with the abuses they already commit.

I want it to provide hope for those who are going through horrors of their own but I fear it would drive people to do things that cannot be undone. Providing corrupt inspiration. I do not want to provide a step by step guide but I also don't want to pretend the worst stuff doesn't happen

I live another day, I don't know why but it isn't all over for me. Today wasn't as bad as I'd expected but I don't know how to continue (Age 12 after an attempt)

The title comes from somewhere else on the internet where an abuse victim talked to their parents about the abuse they experienced as a child, and for them it was trauma and for their parents it was forgotten because it was normal behaviour for them.

I'd hope that it would reach people across lines of bigotry: abilism, racism, homophobia, transphobia, ageism, body shaming, eating disorders, mental health disorders and more. But I fear it might provide reasons to be dismissive of people because of their struggles.

The story in this book was made from the accounts of a thousand volunteers and surviving relatives of deeply troubled people. The entries consisted of stories from people across the world including at least one from every nation, many have been translated with the help of the authors. Though no entry will be tied to their name contributors have been listed on the following pages where they have wanted to be identified.

I've included accounts from myself and my friends with their permissions for illustrative purposes, I understand it will be hard reading but if you'd like to post one day of your own in the reblogs I will try my best to read every one they can be light, they can be tough, they can be hopeful or dark, funny or sad. These were short to fit the quote/extract format but you can post as much or as little as you'd like. Similarly if you have diary entries and want to let me know but can't post them publicly comments are a perfect place to let me know those exist so I can reach out to you if I get to that point. I am not a polyglot so if you are bilingual and would like to translate my post into your first language in a reblogs I would encourage that, but don't translate the content of others without their permission. For those not reading this in English I may read your entries using Chat GPT or Google as translation tools.

While unlikely if I did get enough content to put this book together I would seek permission from all contributors to republish their work and work with them to ensure things are fairly and accurately represented, including with translation. I would like to give all contributors an advanced digital copy of the book to approve before publication (translated where necessary) though this may not be feasible. And since the work wouldn't really be mine I'd want to donate as much of the author's profits to mental health charities as I can.

[nessie31]

Books Are Powerful

First, I'm fine. This at home are okay, things...not at home are good. But, this post has nothing to do with either. Not in the direct sense anyway. So onto the reason for this post.

"Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it." - Dumbledore

Honestly, truer words have probably never been written. This is what makes books so powerful. This is why I became an English teacher.

Books have the power to transport us beyond our own lives. Into worlds we never imagined. They show us empathy in its purest form. They show us that it's okay to make mistakes and that it doesn't make us horrible people.

From a young age, books teach us how to see the difference between good and evil. And as we get older they teach us again that the line between the two isn't actually a line, but a spectrum of grey.

But the main thing I both love and hate about books is that, often times, they are a mirror. They show us parts of ourselves that we didn't know existed, have kept locked up inside, or just parade around in the open without thinking about the consequences. They show us who we are based on the characters we love and the characters we hate. They show us a reflection of our traumas, doubts, fears, weaknesses, strengths, triumphs, and so much more.

Now, why do I write about this today? It's not like it's a new revelation.

Today, once again, a book got me. A moment that I wouldn't have placed; that not only surprised me in the story, but surprised me in my own reaction. Let me show you.

This moment tore me open. And it took me a few moments of self-reflection to understand why. I sat and felt and tried to understand why this shook me so hard. Where did this trauma come from?

I've know that I struggle with attachment, and being left. And as I write this now I know that a huge portion of that stems from my mom leaving and my parent's divorce when I was a toddler. But, that's not the moment this brought me back to. The moment that I began to mask and internalize and believe I was unlovable.

No, that moment I had forgotten about and buried. It was a moment I didn't think still affected me or held any power over me. A moment I cast into the recesses of my mind as a childish overreaction. And maybe it was. But it was also the first moment that I asked myself what was wrong with me? Why could I not be loved? What had I done wrong?

First loves are hard, and I was way too young (11yo) to really understand how I was feeling and what this self-doubt would do to me throughout life. To protect the innocent and guilty alike, I will not go into it here. Other than to say, for my own memory later, that it was the moment we came back and he acted like I didn't exist. Like we were nothing. Before dating all of my friends (probably not on purpose).

This was by far not the last time that I was rejected; although it didn't happen often. But each time, each guy compounded into a narrative that I continued to ask myself what was wrong with me. Why was I not good enough to love, to stay with, to desire?

And even writing each of these sentences and thinking these thoughts as I have for all of the years, it still hurts. It still brings tears to my eyes. Even knowing, logically, that it wasn't about something wrong with me.

There are so many different reasons that things don't work out. And we are human. We don't always do the right thing to show people that it is not about them as a person, but the situations and circumstances that are happening at that time.

But I go through all this to remind myself, and anyone out there listening, about the power that books have over us to shape how we see ourselves and the world around us. This scene triggered this feeling of deep empathy and loss. And while it is hard to face, it reminds me why I love reading.

[frogsandfries]

So honestly

This has just kind of been on my mind, between some of the stuff I used to think about, triggered by some recent activities here on Tumblr, and kind of culminated by a video that I'm watching on YouTube from a handful of months ago.

I don't really have a thesis, just some random thoughts. More below the cut because this is a full-on essay.

About ten or so years ago, I think over-population was a much greater concern than I think/understand it has mellowed into. So let's kind of start at the beginning of my thought process on this:

To begin, over-population is kind of a scary thought. There's only so much water, only so much space that can be reasonably occupied by humans--we can't realistically expect to have massive, both sprawling and towering metropolises in the middle of the ocean. The more human bodies there are locking up this precious resource of water, and also needing to consume regular quantities of water, the less free water there is for other bodies to drink. Kind of scary, right?

But I'm not sure if it's just gaining some distance, or putting the pieces together or whatnot, but I've realized for a long time that all species have natural built in defenses against just straight-up blasting all of our resources. Obviously, we, living, carbon-based genetic organisms existing on the limited resource that is the planet earth, we don't want to consume ourselves into oblivion. That's not very genetically fit.

So.

One of the solutions that I remember kind of locking onto as an older teen, barely an adult, as gay people became part of my reality and I realized that people were upset about gay people, yada, yada, early 2010's drama. I heard about that, what, first gay penguin couple in the zoo that hatched that egg, and I was like

Ohhhh! Gay people, in a smaller community, they wouldn't be reproducing, but they could act "as a village", you know 'it takes a village to raise a child'. They could theoretically still have participated in the community, as we see in history that they often did. My very very cold analysis of the 'purpose' of gay people in communities, was that they would choose to not compete for resources and instead be a resource. About a decade, very objectively, I think I still generally agree, from an evolutionary standpoint removed from 'human things' like humanities and science and culture and that kind of stuff, gay members of a species still deserve to socialize and have love and culture and community and be parts of society--otherwise they wouldn't exist, as they would have no purpose.

Actually, it was also about this time that I become intent on what people did before capitalism, before you could just buy your bed in a nursing home and/or lock your aging and possibly decrepit parents away to be forgotten. Like, why would our species have old people if.....like, they're just meant to be locked away in old people homes?? That doesn't make any sense evolutionarily.

I didn't really have my parents' parents as part of my life, so I really didn't understand what old people might contribute to a family or community. Anyway. I recently had a paper suggested to me in my news feed that seemed to posit exactly that, so.....great job science? Or am I just a fucking weirdo obsessed with the idea of science and too floofy to pursue the theses to all my stupid science/evolution hypotheses. Good science does take time and is willing to change its opinions. I just don't think I have the temperament to be a proper scientist.

So even though babies can't necessarily agree or consent to being born and having to exist, there does appear to be some kind of checks-and-balances system, this silent....agreement? That this portion of humans are infertile and this portion of humans will just have no interest in the opposite sex and for the most part, not reproduce, in theory. And then of course, there are just the regular hets who are absolutely not interested in babies at all.

I guess my thing is, I'm mildly obsessed with 'finding my place' (I mean, aren't we all, all of us who don't feel like we have, and maybe even some of us who are confident we have??). Humans are social creatures, so I don't think there's actually one of us (yes, even sociopathic maniacs who commit genocide or adults who have come under the, ummm, mistaken understanding that children are sexual beings) who doesn't belong on the chart somewhere.

Additionally, intrinsically as a species, we aren't suicidal. We want to continue as organisms, to reproduce and evolve. So on the balance, each of us, elderly, gay, disabled, uninterested in children, infertile, etc, we all have a place, a purpose in our communities. And somehow--and this is what I'd be really fascinated to learn more about--somehow we all combine perfectly and seem to understand when the population is good where it is, and when we're secure enough that we can reproduce less and we don't need to be having fifteen kids in hopes that one or two make it two adulthood.

So, yeah, mass efforts of de-population, at this point, they only target countries that are still stabilizing to the twenty-first century. The US and much of the 'developed' world/economies, our populations are stabilizing, for the most part. And it is weird and, at the very least, uncomfortable, to stand here, with my fantastic vista of the world, and say, hey, we need to cut the population of the earth.

When we as a species, we've already agreed to do that. We're working on it.

I don't think I, myself, personally, have ever been very...genocidal.

I mean, I think genocide is dumb. As a teen, there is no humanly possible way I could have remarked on all the values one populace contributes to all other populaces. I'm not sure I could do that now, but genetically--we all evolved the way we did because it was beneficial. What if, in wiping out an entire population, we lose something genetically very important, something that would, at best, take dozens of generations to get back--time that our species probably wouldn't have.

That's just the utilitarian view.

Then there's the humanitarian view--the arts, culture, language, all the trickle-down impacts of language on thought and culture and perception. Stories, which yes, I know fall under arts and culture. The perceptions of each of these cultures, if those cultures could get some kind of megaphone handed to them, they might contribute something, if not today, then tomorrow, which might change.....something. It could be small and have a knock-on effect. It could be tremendous right out of the gate.

But it wouldn't be right to eliminate that either.

So.

How do you...solve over-population?

See above: We as a species want to continue to propagate and develop and evolve and keep passing on our genes.

We are, I think pretty obviously, a rather fit species. We're no alligators and crocodiles; we're no sharks or sponges. But we did rather conquer the planet, and I hope that says something about our ability to keep specie'ing.

I don't disagree that over-population is a bit of an issue, but for the past ten years or so, whenever it's been brought to my attention, I've struggled--and I know I'm just one person--to think of a way to preserve extent life with dignity, without some kind of lottery or some shit, to say, oh yeah, we're going to just fucking execute this entire like, fucking east Asian tribe, and then this central African tribe, and uh, yeah, these poor freaks living in the Arctic circle *dusts palms*. Tadaaa! Problem solved!!

No. Problem not solved holy shit what the fuck no!!!

Because the humans that are presently here on this planet--if it weren't for capitalism, we could fucking feed and clothe and shelter and doctor every single last one of them. I mean, okay, I've heard about the problem with eliminating, what is it, polio? In...what, central or like, south-ish Africa? But leaving off those kinds of hurdles, we have the prosperity as a species to take care of our own, ourselves.

In fact, that's the real fucking problem here.

Not over-population. Which, like, is that a dog-whistle? Because it's starting to feel like one.

The real fucking problem is (uber)rich, generally men, in fucking board rooms, insulated from fucking reality. Honestly, we should drag these fuckers, suits, heels, expensive watches and all, out of their fucking towers and down with the poor fuckers picking garbage off the sides of busy roads and down to ocean beaches to pick plastic out of the sand. Once each of them have collected at least their body-weight (huehuehue; get it, because of the obesity crisis? They'd have to collect more garbage? Okay, I'll stop, sorry) in garbage, then they can fucking.....idk whatever, cry about how some thug stole their expensive watch?

These fucking....CEOs and shit, they literally don't live in fucking consensus reality!! And they're spearheading the destruction of the planet, for fucking what, a hundredth watch and a seven property and a fifth super-yacht???? What....just....what the fuck do these things do for anyone?? What does it do for a person to never have to wear the same outfit twice, to have a closet bigger than most people's bedrooms, to have no idea what a fucking loaf of bread costs??? What does it do to have more vacation homes than......than fucking what???

And to bring this point home, what the fuck are these fucking anonymous boardrooms of assholes doing buying up apartment buildings in cities that they've never fucking been to, never even mind fucking lived in? You have no idea what this city is like, you have no fucking idea what this community, this culture is like. Who the fucking fuck are you??? You don't fucking know me, I can't bang on your door in the middle of the night because your shitty contractor didn't actually fix my toilet. You don't even know your own fucking contractors!?!?!

Anyway, at this point, if you've read this far, I'm getting off topic. I've come a long way from being at the back of the over-population boat. I think there is good evidence that we continue to be a fit species.....well, in some aspects...and then we have sociopaths who have been allowed to acquire massive resources. Soooooo, maybe if I had to choose anyone to put on the de-population block.... I actually do have a group in mind who does not appear to actually be benefitting the species.

[wcrpconfessionbooth]

yeah timberclanner in fe here from what ive seen in threads only five people are active at all from the colony that aren't already members of timber

i think the mods need to actually like ask them about the way the plot is going because even for me to be honest its a bit of a slog playing as the place keeping a bunch of cats prisoner knowing they are innocent ooc and having no set time when this small group is gonna stop being treated poorly

the discussion of food was a bit of a one off and not really about denying them food but almost worse as its more of a "youre fed and housed what are you complaining about it could be worse" and considering how picky rps are with tagging youd think theyd want to tag a mindset plenty of people have experienced from their own parents

Hey anon,

Thank you for reaching out in such a pleasant manner, my friend! I definitely agree that mods should communicate with those directly affected! I know a lot of staff teams can get defensive over secrets and plots that they have going on.

But the thing is, that ultimately secrets are only part of the reason why people will stay in a roleplay group like this! If you know that in _ weeks this plot will wrap up, that is not an inherently bad thing to know since right now everything is all up in the air. That can be stressful and rp is, most importantly, supposed to be fun!

Thank you for the clarification for the food part, too! And, yeah, I do agree that with how usually I see trigger warnings for 18+ groups, I don't think it's unreasonable to let people know things like emotional physical and mental abuse will be heavily involved. Usually you can like, opt into that. But it seems that the colony kind of got shoved into a box (based on the xenophobia claims).

As clarification here, for people not in Forgotten Elegy, please read through and acknowledge that neither side has actually given me like concrete anything. It's kind of just he said, she said. Not that I don't believe these anons, but it is important to note!

Mod Water