#probably incomprehensible and i shouldn’t be taking it at this point

[champagnefountains]

LUCIFER MAGNE - H.H.

CHAPTER II - Prompt: Lucifer continuing to wear his wedding ring despite being in a relationship with you.

Previous chapter: [x] Word Count: 3.4k+ words (unedited). Genre/other tags: Angst with some fluff. Jealousy. Fem pronouns used. Warnings: Swearing. Self-deprecation. Manipulation (on Alastor's part).

It had been nearly over a week since you and Lucifer last talked – it had also been a week since Lucifer was last seen around in the hotel. Angel, being the gossiper he was, relayed everything that had transpired between you two to the others the following day. Seeing the sensitive and sad shell of a person you were left in, everyone remained cautious and had started walking on eggshells around you. Of course, you were quick to pick up on that, as embarrassing as it all was (minus Alastor, who continued on with his usual theatrics and mischief). 

Charlie in particular was the most concerned out of them all, since this was her dad we were talking about. She knew with certainty that he was confining himself in the castle to distract himself from what happened – likely something involving his rubber-ducky obsession – instead of facing the problem head on. It was his pride that sometimes got in the way of his better judgement.

Not only that, but Charlie clearly saw the massive toll it took on you. If you weren’t distracting yourself with work or doing something related to the hotel, you would lock yourself away in your room, only coming out to quickly grab a bite to eat from the kitchen. Charlie even made efforts to strike many conversations with you from time to time, but was either excused or was only given one-worded responses. She knew not to take your dismissive behaviour to heart, but she couldn’t help but fret over you.  

So it came as an absolute surprise when out of nowhere, Charlie received a call from her father. She messily scrambled for her phone on her desk, fumbling and nearly dropping it in the process before violently tapping on the small screen. “H-Hello?! Dad, hey!” She answers a bit too enthusiastically while nervously combing her hair with a free hand. “Uh, hey Charlie!” Lucifer stiffly greets from the other line, “I just…um, thought I’d give a call to, uh, see how everyone’s going at the hotel!” The Princess noted how much hoarser his voice was than usual, but decided not to comment on it aloud. 

“Well, y’know how it is! It’s been busy and lively as always–everyone’s been working really hard and all,” she answers vaguely, nervously chuckling. “Err, yeah! Right. That’s a–that’s a relief to hear. Yep,” he hums. There was a brief, awkward pause that ensued soon after, the both of them not knowing what to say next. The whole exchange was becoming increasingly painful that Charlie resisted the urge to pull her hair. She then clears her throat. “H-How about you, dad? What’ve you been up to? You’ve been gone for a couple or so days,” Charlie finally musters, “are…are you doing alright?” 

“Me? Oh yeah, psh! I just got, erm…a lot of things going on at the moment. It’s not so easy being the big boss of hell after all! Got a lot of important things to do! Plus, I’ve got heaps of paperwork to do for the hotel. You should know how tedious that is,” He says, adding an exaggerated groan. 

The princess furrows her brows. “Oh, that’s…strange. ’Cause I could’ve sworn you left all the papers here…y’know, the ones you told me to revise over?” Charlie replies, side-eyeing the said documents stacked neatly on her desk. A startled yelp escapes his throat. “O-Oh...did I?” He stammers.

Charlie couldn’t help but wince at the evident panic that began to set in as she listened to her father make incomprehensible noises from the other line. It was a poor attempt in reasoning, which ultimately became useless in the end. Lucifer let out a long sigh, caught red-handed. “Oh, who the hell am I kidding? You guys probably already know what happened–which by the way, Charlie, you shouldn’t be lying to me about!” He pointedly remarks. 

“I-I’m sorry, dad! It’s just…I’m really worried about you,” she reasons, before shortly adding, “...The both of you.” 

There was a small pause. “...How is she, by the way?” He then asks quietly. Charlie nervously tugs her bottom lip with her fangs. “Well, she’s keeping herself busy. Constantly, as a matter of fact. And I know she’s trying hard to convince us all that she’s holding up okay, but…she doesn’t look too good, dad. She seems really upset.”

A shaky exhale sounded from his end. “I…I really am hopeless, aren’t I?” He mumbles defeatedly. Even though she couldn’t see him, she could picture him burying his face in his hands. The image caused Charlie’s eyes to soften. “Dad, no. It’s not too late. You still have a chance to make things right,” Charlie gently encourages through the speaker, “you just need to talk to each other–”

Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, a bright, blazing portal manifests from thin air – from it, emerges Lucifer himself who appeared extremely dishevelled, effectively catching Charlie off guard. 

“But, hun, y-you don’t understand! I messed up big time!” He exclaims, tugging on his unkempt hair as he aimlessly paced around her office. “I-I mean, look at me! I’m a fucking mess and a coward! Why would she ever think to take me back after what I did!?” He chuckles humourlessly, shaking his head in disbelief, “I-It’s like no matter how many times I try to redeem and convince myself that everything’s finally going right in my life, I just continue to fuck myself over and over again. And it’s just– ugh! It’s pathetic! I’m fucking pathetic!” 

Charlie’s chest tightened considerably as she watched her father self-destruct before her. Strands of his golden hair were sticking out here and there, his dress-shirt tousled, and his eyes were glossed over and red, from both a lack of sleep and crying. He looked utterly devastated. Chucking her phone away, she immediately sped towards and enveloped Lucifer in her arms, who immediately broke down into heavy sobs. Seeing him like this brought tears to her own eyes, but she firmly told herself to be the stronger person in this situation, for his sake. 

“Hey, hey. Dad, listen to me, okay? Everyone deserves a second chance. You of all people should know–you were the one who taught me that, remember?” Charlie rubbed his back soothingly, trying to ease the jumpiness of his shoulders. “And that also applies to you. I…I know you’ve been through a lot, especially with mum…” She couldn’t help the way her frown deepened as she spoke, “...and I miss her too. I miss her a lot. But…I think it’s finally time for you to move on. It’s been years, dad. You deserve to be happy and you’re allowed to be in love again.” 

“[Name]’s an amazing person, and there’s no doubt about that. She’s proved that more than many times already. I’m certain that once things ease over and you guys finally talk things through, everything will turn out okay; she’s very understanding and kind like that. You’ll both be okay.” Charlie gently pulls Lucifer away and with the sleeve of her blazer, she wipes his damp, reddened cheeks. “I know for a fact that she loves and cares about you deeply – we can all see it as clear as day. You…you love her too, don’t you, dad?” 

For a brief moment’s contemplation, Lucifer suddenly recalled the times you spent together, from your initial meeting to now. He had always thought you were a strong and independent soul, with the way you carried yourself. You just had something about you that naturally drew in those around you, including himself. When Lucifer got to know you in a deeper level, he was enthralled by how kind and understanding you were – you were always there to listen to his many tales and endless nonsense; you would always seem genuinely interested in his rubber-duck-esque inventions, offering some input and critiquing his creations; and you would always be so, so supportive of all his plans and ideas, no matter how extraordinary they all seemed.

If he hadn't known any better, Lucifer would've thought you were an actual angel. You were the saviour that wore off the darkness in troubling times, and the one who pulled him out of the void that Lilith had left him in. That and more, as you continuously gave him a real reason to remain hopeful. You were proof personified, that he was able to open his heart once more, and to love again.

“I-I do, I really do,” Lucifer affirms in a heartbeat. Charlie smiles warmly, relieved by his answer, “then that’s all you need to say.” At that moment, Lucifer's chest swelled in overwhelming pride for his daughter, knowing that despite not being as present in her life until recently, she grew up to be the good and strong-willed person he had hoped for.

“O-Oh, jeez. Since when did you grow up so big? I should be the one comforting you,” He tearfully jokes, sniffling whilst returning her smile, “but thank you, Charlie. Really. I’m…I-I really am grateful to call you my daughter.” The two royalties then shared a heart-felt moment and a bone-crushing hug, with the King's heart being filled with a new-found determination. Because, just as he always says: The show must go on. 

Earlier on:

On the other side of the building, you were drowning yourself in your own self-despair as you overlooked the balcony by the front entrance of the hotel. Your eyes lazily scanned the new hotel patrons below, who were engaging in some trust exercises led by Vaggie, who came in to cover you just moments ago. Every once in a while, you couldn’t help but glance at your phone, silently hoping to receive some sort of notification from Lucifer, or even an inkling of his whereabouts. But you received nothing, which only fuelled your growing anxiety.

You felt awful leaving the way you did that night, especially after dumping so much onto Lucifer. You felt like you were being completely selfish, and had cornered him into making a big decision. And because of that, your relationship was on the line. You let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing angrily at your face.

Little did you know however, that you had some company lurking nearby, watching you in silent amusement. 

“Now, don’t you look as miserable as ever?” Alastor mockingly chimes in, stepping out from the shadows to make his presence known and joins you by the balcony. You roll your eyes at the deer-demon before turning your head the other direction. “Yeah, and what about it?” You scoff, leaning in to rest your arms against the rails, “Can’t you go bother someone else, Alastor? I’m certainly not in the mood right now.”  

“Why, I wouldn’t be a good hotelier if I left a dear co-worker of mine so down in the slumps!” To your dismay, Alastor reappears in front of you, obstructing your field of view, "And might I add, it's not healthy for you to be all cooped up in your room all the time – stay there any longer, and it can do silly, little things to your head!" He emphasises his point as he spins a finger in a circular motion by his temple. You shot him an irritated look, slowly growing fed up by his prodding. 

"Listen, I don't need you telling me what I should and shouldn't do. I’m more than capable of deciding that on my own,” you growl, straightening up to cross your arms firmly against your chest. “Hm...no, I don’t think so!” Alastor hums, shaking his head disapprovingly, “The unfortunate affair that took place in your courtship with the King has left you in such a vulnerable, and problematic state. And I’m sure you’ve taken note of how everyone’s been acting around you – constantly walking on their tiptoes in fear of setting you off on a hissy-fit. You’ve caused them to worry a lot about you, dear. Poor ol’ Charlie, especially.” 

You open your mouth to retort back, but nothing came out. A strong pang of guilt struck you as his words began to sink in. Seeing this, Alastor’s grin widened a faction as he stepped forward and levelled himself with you, now facing you eye-to-eye. “And as the executive producer of this fine establishment, might I critique that your behaviour is affecting our team’s morale and performance…and we mustn’t have that now, should we? Especially not since we’ve all been more preoccupied recently with our guests!” He…had a fair point, as much as you didn’t want to admit it.

“I…I’m sorry. I didn’t…know…” Your voice began to trail off, shoulders slumping in realisation of how selfish and contemptuous you’ve been acting this whole week. You recalled the fretful expressions of your friends and your dismissive attitude towards them. “I-I didn’t mean to make everyone worry…” you quietly say. Alastor’s words only made you feel immensely worse about the whole situation, leaving you sniffling on the spot. 

“Now, now. As long as you realise your mistakes, then you shall be forgiven,” he coos, softly patting the tuft of your head. At that, you couldn’t help but send a doubtful glance his way. “W-wait a minute…why do you care all of a sudden? What exactly are you playing at?” You suspiciously question as you rub at your eyes. 

“Oh, how you wound me, dear! Why must you always question any act of kindness I display? Is it really that hard to believe?” He adverts, evidently feigning hurt. You deadpan. “Yes, it is,” you reply almost instantly. Alastor chortles at your bluntness, “Haha! You’re quite a work of art, aren't you, dear? Now, let’s go out for a walk, shall we?” 

Before you could’ve processed what he had said, Alastor had already spun you around, pulling you with him as you both headed down a flight of stairs. “Wha–Alastor, where are we–where the heck are you taking me?” You asked, trying to keep up with his long strides so as to not trip down the stairs. “Hm? Did I not already specify? It looks like your brooding has impacted your hearing, dear. That’s a shame,” he slyly comments, now dragging you towards the entrance, “We’re both going for a walk around town, it’ll help clear that cloudy head of yours!” 

“Hold on-Stop! Just what makes you think I’d agree to go out with you?” You shoot back, retracting your arm from his hold and stopping metres behind him. Alastor sharply turns around and pulls out a wrinkled, yellow piece of paper out of thin air. Your eyes dart towards the sheet, seeing a familiar hand-writing across the page. 

“Why, I just knew you were going to question me – you're so predictable. But might I add, we’re not going out without purpose! No, no! Our lovely Charlie has composed a list and requested we fetch a couple items in town!” Stepping forward, you swiftly snatched the paper from his clawed hand and briefly scanned the list, noting that it largely consisted of decorations and party items. “She wanted to organise a heart-warming celebration for the wayward souls here who have accomplished some milestones on their journey to redemption! An anniversary ceremony of sorts, if you will,” Alastor explains, lightly patting the non-existing dust off of his suit.

“But couldn’t you just…I don’t know, teleport the things here?” You blatantly ask, raising a brow at him. You knew he was more than capable of doing such minuscule tasks within a span of seconds. “And waste such a beautiful day outside? Now, why would I even consider doing that?” Alastor states matter-of-factly, “And like I said, the short trip will help clear your troubled mind! Consider it a gesture of compassion from yours truly.” 

There was clearly something off about all this but you couldn’t see any reason for an ulterior motive. It was just…simply a manager looking out for the well-being of his work-colleagues, as uncharacteristic and off-putting as it sounded out loud. Already exhausted, you couldn’t bring it in yourself to question his actions any further.

“You’re really not going to take ‘no’ for an answer, are you?” You ask. Seeing the way Alastor’s grin widened had you sighing in defeat. “Shall we then?” Alastor questions, offering an arm out to you. Rolling your eyes, you loop one of your arms through and follow him out the hotel. ‘A small walk wouldn’t hurt…’ you think to yourself as the doors shut behind you. 

Currently:

Lucifer tiredly dragged himself to his designated room in the hotel, to rest for a while and take a much needed bath as per Charlie’s advice. He gave himself a lengthy pep-talk in front of the mirror as he brushed his teeth, deciding to approach you tonight to finally talk and clear things out. Yes, he was absolutely terrified about the possibility of things going south during the confrontation, but he didn’t think he could handle another second being without you. And he needed to make that loud and clear. 

After putting on an outfit and neatly slicking his hair back, Lucifer looked at his reflection once more in the bedside mirror, inspecting himself up and down to flatten any remaining creases of his clothing. But it wasn't until his gaze landed on his left hand that he tensed up. Peering down, he brought his hand into view to inspect the very wedding band that caused it all. With a shaky sigh, Lucifer slowly pulled the ring off of his finger. He took a moment to examine it, eyes filled with sentiment before kneeling down to open his bedside drawer, where its designated ring-box sat. The moment he encased the ring in its box and locked it away in his drawer, it felt like a breath of fresh air. To his own surprise, Lucifer found himself tearfully laughing – he felt...genuinely happy. Proud, even. It was at this very moment that he felt like he was finally ready to move forward.

After patting the stray tears away from his face, Lucifer slowly made his way down to the front lobby. There, Charlie and Vaggie were talking amongst themselves by the lounge area, whilst Angel and Cherri chuckled away by the bar, with Husk tending to their beverages. The King didn’t give an inkling of care as to where Alastor had gone, and he was certain that Nifty was hiding somewhere in the small crevices of the hotel, cleaning away. All in all, there was no sight of you whatsoever, visibly disappointing him. 

Seeing his approaching form, Charlie waved his father over towards them. “Hey, dad. Are you feeling a bit better now?” She asks with a comforting smile. “Yeah, totally. Thanks, dear,” he says, patting her shoulder affectionately before turning his attention towards her partner. “Hey! How’s it going, Maggie? I’ve heard you’ve been working real hard lately, huh? Good on yah!” He commends, playfully nudging the said demon. “Oh, um…it’s–it’s Vaggie, sir. And uh, thanks,” she nervously chuckles, rubbing her arm. “Mhm, yeah…that’s–that’s great,” Lucifer distractedly hums, all the while scanning around the room. Noticing this, Vaggie shared a worried look with Charlie. 

“Erm, dad, she’s not here at the moment if that’s what you’re wondering,” Charlie starts, alerting her father. “Oh? Well, is she up in one of the guest rooms?” Lucifer asked, gesturing upstairs with a thumb. To his confusion, Charlie appeared somewhat nervous, her hands fidgeting with her suit. “Uh, no, she’s actually not in the hotel at the moment,” Vaggie steps in, “she’s been out doing a couple of errands for us.” Lucifer raised a brow at the slight edginess in her tone, eyes darting back and forth between the two girls. “...Um, alright. What the heck is going on right now?" He asks, pointing an accusatory finger at them both, "You guys are acting sketchy as fuck. Are you...are you guys hiding something from me?" He narrows his eyes. Charlie sucks in a breath, brows pinching together, “Well...dad, t-the thing is–” 

“She’s out with Smiles right now!” Angel suddenly intervened, calling out from the other side of the room, and causing Charlie to cower and duck behind Vaggie. Lucifer felt his shoulders grow rigid. “She’s…what now?” He dangerously asks, glaring at the arachnid. Before Lucifer trudged towards the direction of the bar, the front doors of the hotel abruptly flew open. He felt the vein in his neck nearly burst at the sound of your laughter interlacing itself with that god-awful, irritating radio feedback. What a wild coincidence.

As Lucifer turned around, his eyes nearly flew out of his head as he saw how close you were with Alastor, arms basically locked together. The radio-demon was quick to meet eyes with the King, and out of spite, Alastor flashed him the biggest shit-eating grin he's ever seen.

“Oh, fuck no!”

Chapter III - Finale [x]

Thank you for reading!

[lycandrophile]

conversations i’ve had with my mom this week about top surgery that will make my brain melt if i try too hard to make sense of them:

i was talking to her about how i might have to extend my medical leave because i probably won’t be ready to work at 4 weeks. she told me she didn’t expect my recovery to take this long. this is the same woman who, before i got top surgery, told me horror stories about someone she knew who had complications for months after having a mastectomy. was she just making shit up? was she lecturing me about things she was actively still in denial about? i can’t even begin to guess.

i mentioned to her that i’ve been posting about my experiences with recovery and she seemed…offended? by the idea that i was talking about it publicly. i shouldn’t be surprised because she’s the one who once told me the online trans community is “cult-like” and that she thought i was only getting top surgery because the trans people in my computer convinced me. the thing is, she’s also constantly asking me how my recovery timeline compares to other people so i…don’t know how she expects me to get that information if she also thinks talking to people about my recovery is bad.

she was asking me about how my incisions are healing and she told me to describe how they look to her…but “not anything that’ll make me cry”. do i know what she meant by that? nope! i can only assume the right move was to not describe anything too in-depth, even if it meant not including important details because they might upset her. priorities, am i right?

she asked me if, having been through the worst of recovery and knowing what it’s like, i would still make the same choice to get top surgery. obviously i said i would. she then proceeded to keep saying things like “really? are you sure? even after all this? you know you don’t have to say that, right?” as if it was completely impossible to believe i don’t regret this. why did she ask if she didn’t really want to hear the answer? god only knows.

we found out how much my insurance paid for the part of my surgery costs that were covered and it turns out they paid way more than any of the estimates i was given. my mom kept saying “that’s a lot of money you know” over and over again, as if i didn’t know that an amount of money high enough to buy a small house is a lot. i think she was trying to make some kind of point. what point? idk man.

0/10 totally incomprehensible interactions. i don’t even know what to make of them. i think now that the surgery is done and she can’t fight it anymore, she’s gone from being overtly ridiculous about it to just bringing the absolute weirdest vibes to every conversation about it.

[turbulentscrawl]

HELLOOO could we get ithaqua with a modern Reader too? :33

MWehehe

-Honestly, not the brightest idea for a modern S/O to try and get with his one. Modern social culture is very deep in the anti-toxicity (to the point that we circle back into it without realizing sometimes) and Ithaqua exhibits a lot of red-flag buzzwords. He’s the kind of person reddit would constantly tell you to divorce haha.

-He would be a bit torn over you, though. On one hand, you clearly lived emersed in “society” as a whole, which is what he was generally the most at odds with in life. (In a modern setting, Ithaqua would be an off-grid homesteader. He’s probably against having wifi at his home, even.) On the other hand…you’re a bit of an outcast in the survivor manor. He’s a little crazy, but not BLIND. He can see how people are nervous about you in the beginning, shun you and your magic box.

-He’s got no fucking clue what the magic box is either, but Ithaqua does not believe in magic, religion, or the paranormal. The people who dictate those things called his mother a witch, and himself a demon, and he knows in his heart that they were just two people living life in a way others didn’t like. Superstition is what got him dumped in the snow as a babe, so even if he’s confused as hell by your technology, he’s smart and reasonable enough to know it’s due to a lack of education on his part and not you being some otherworldly, incomprehensible thing.

-He’s likely drawn to you a bit from the above treatment you suffer. Maybe the others are more than willing to use you as bait, hesitant to rescue you, or fail to even explain to you how decoding works. Ithaqua will notice these things even in the middle of a hunt. He thinks you’re pitiful—until you’re not, and that makes you interesting. Ithaqua finds the remnants of whatever your modern-ness makes up your skills. Your phone tucked into a grassy corner, playing a recording of someone shuffling through a chest, maybe, and he picks it up curiously. And then, well, he has to return it to you. Unfortunately for you, he’s one of the faster hunters and this only delays him for a few seconds.

-Ithaqua starts to, frankly, bully you in matches. He’s less vicious with the damage done, and instead of chairing you off the bat, he takes a liking to carrying you around while he hunts your teammates. It doesn’t matter that you struggle free or self-heal sometimes, he can catch you again easily enough. He talks to you while he zips around after everyone, his usual giggles and sighs replaced with questions and commentary for you. You reach a point one day where you self-heal, but don’t bother running…and Ithaqua just grins like a shark and pats you on the head.

-Eventually he notices the others warming up to you better…and it makes him bitter. “They’re all hypocrites,” he tells you in a dark corner of the basement. “I treated you like everyone else from the start, didn’t I?” That’s his argument to endear himself to you. To coil you further around his (admittedly gentle, all things considered) finger. Yes, he hit you, hunted you, but that’s his job. The POINT, he says, is that he likes you and it’s not FAKE because he’s always seen you as an equal to the others. (To the survivors, not to himself, because the manor roles say you’re clearly not.)

-The POINT is that you shouldn’t fully trust the rest of them—they’ll turn on you again if they get spooked—but him? Ithaqua doesn’t get spooked. He gets…possessive. He likes you. He’ll be here, if you need him. And even if you don’t. He’ll take care of your troubles for you, sweet pet.

[flowerwiththemachinegun]

I was trying to come up with realistic dysfunctional cringefail dating the turks scenarios to amuse myself in order to fall asleep (and it escalated to Rude who imo is the ex husband always trying to one you up in front of the kids by doing grand gestures and actually being there for them even tho that pisses you off cause you’re divorced now) AND then I tried to imagine Tseng as a parent or something and I think I short circuited cause the most I can see him doing is paying for the abortion,,,,, yk if he REALLY likes you, my question is WHAT IS YOUR STANCE ON THIS 🎤 (sorry if my English is incomprehensible I am in fact half asleep)

(sorry it took a bit to get to this, had to get to work) I love this and thank you for this interesting ask. So, I personally don't have a single maternal bone in my body and I'm probably going to project the distaste of having my own kids onto Tseng. (Also your English is fine, mine is usually trash no matter how rested I am)

I feel like, for Reno and Rude, they would both be the parents to go out of their way to show you up. I also feel as though they would go out of their way to fuck with any new relationship. Like you think you’re gonna have someone else taking a parental role in their child’s life? No way. Lol, good luck. Definitely the cool parents but these two can probably lack any disciplinary skills. So when they come back acting like spoiled brats from a weekend with their dad, don’t be surprised. Definitely lets their kid get away with a lot, but they’ll step in when it’s notably a negative thing. I think co-parenting would be more stable with Rude vs Reno. I super doubt Reno would be a very toxic baby daddy or anything, but he’s far more stubborn. Like I can’t imagine one could be mad at these guys for doing what they’re supposed to for their child, but I guess I can understand being constantly one upped and finding it annoying? But they’re going to make it clear to you how important it is for them to be in their child’s life and will never give up getting you to see this point. It took the two of you to create the little fella, they firmly believe both parents are a requirement. It doesn’t matter how you guys fell out, they’re gonna stick around. Going back to the thing about them not allowing you to have any successful relationships? Like….i do think that these guys would still fully fuck whoever they have kids with SORRY but not really. A little divorce means nothing and loyalty is something near and dear to their heart so don’t be surprised if they’re too whipped to let go?

Now Tseng? Oh god, I have a hard time imagining him as a father unless it’s post-Advent Children. (I have a couple of views for this) Otherwise….LMAO HE’S DEFINITELY PAYING FOR THAT ABORTION…I think he’d be insistent and very negative about having a child while he’s so heavily involved with Shinra the way he is before Advent Children. I don’t think he’d be able to spare room in his heart for a kid at this time and would see it as more of a burden and a distraction that he won’t really be able to take care of. I don’t think it’s the general dislike for having children. I just believe everything in his being thinks he shouldn’t have kids in the first place, probably wouldn’t give it much thought until he’s faced with a pregnancy situation. Doesn’t have the time to spare to figure out parenting and probably wouldn’t want to have a kid because that’s easy leverage too. I think there’s a LOT of reasons Tseng wouldn’t want a throughout CC and 7’s timeline. If he really cannot get you to agree to terminating the pregnancy I think he’d still have something to do with the kid in a couple of aspects. Mostly sending money for things that’s needed and if you desperately need a break and he manages to find the time away from work, but at this time he isn’t going to prioritize the both of you outside of actions he can preform that are quick and keep him at a distance. I think there genuinely would be emotion there but he’s constantly hiding it and acting like he doesn’t give a fuck to the point you can’t help but believe it. Just does what he’s required for this time. But for Advent Children Tseng? He’d give a fuck, he’s probably going to be similar to Reno and Rude just more closed off and he’s definitely not entirely the cool parent but from time to time he’ll spoil and let his kids indulge in whatever they want.

Dare I add….Rufus to this list? 😂😂😂😂GUESS WHO’S FIGHTING FOR FULL CUSTODY!!!!! RUFUUUUSSSSSSSS!!!! This will be the most toxic fucking guy out of all of them. Rufus is not mentally prepared to raise a child realistically but he doesn’t want his child to be raised in a lesser environment. Mr. Gets Full Custody But Doesn’t Know How To Raise A Kid. Expect him to call you about every little problem. You’re certainly not going to be able to start a new relationship with this one as the father. He’s certainly not having some common trash you picked up walking on the streets of Midgar around his child (at least that’s how he would put it probably). Mind you, he didn’t think full custody over properly. He’s gotta be a busy fucking guy so full custody makes zero sense anyways but he’s stupid and wants to get his way so bad, even when it comes to the kids, even if it means sometimes having negative effects on their child’s mental. Wants to not be like own father and it’s another reason he tries so hard and tries to do a lot of things without your help even though he knows he needs you, once again it’s one of those things that can make the kid suffer.

[ashtxeman]

WHY I LIKE GLASS JOE A LOT

I promised a lot of information about why I like Glass Joe so I wrote this in an hour with no plan, no proof reading, completely improvised. If I planned this it would probably be WAY longer lol but I'll spare you all the pain of that. SO. ENJOY MY REASONING.

Glass Joe. Glass Joseph. Fragile Joey. It’s a name that’s been uttered for centuries in many different forms, given many different explanations. Critics, theorists, philosophers alike have carved away at their lives trying to solve the answer to the universe's greatest question. And that is:

Glass Joe, good why?

I can answer that, absolutely.

HEY I LOVE GLASS JOE A LOT IF YOU DIDN’T KNOW THAT ALREADY JUST GOTTA ESTABLISH THAT HAHAHA OKAY LETS GO. SHOUTOUT TO THE FUCKING RTGAME PUNCHOUT VIDEO YOU DID THIS TO ME.

POINT 1: HE IS HANDSOME.

I swear to God this man was hand-crafted by the hands of an incomprehensible deity because HOW is he this flawless. He’s 5’10, great height honestly I’m 5’3 I don’t want to be dating a skyscraper you know. He’s a skinny bastard but that’s okay, more on that later. His hair, oh my goodness gracious, lord above, help me Jesus. HIS HAIR. IS SO GOOD. If you put that skateboard ramp ass hairstyle on literally any other character they would look like a dumbass, but here, on this man alone, it’s the most delicately poised series of ginger strands I ever did see.

His hair looks SO soft. It’s unbelievable. It’s such a lovely shade of auburn with hints of burgundy. It must smell like cinnamon. He must take great care of it. A real Head and Shoulders, coconut oil, double wash kinda guy. A real bougie kinda guy. Yeah he’s not great physically in SPORT terms but in PUBLIC terms he’s absolutely stunning and stronger than anybody else. I wanna run my fingers through his silky locks so bad it’s insane and to understand this desire I’ll have to be strapped down and operated on. DONATE MY BRAIN TO SCIENCE GO AHEAD. THEY NEED IT. 

Not to mention it is SO fun to draw. SO SO SO FUN. Maybe I’m just lucky it’s such a wacky and dynamic hairstyle it transfers quite well into my artstyle, but it’s so fun. It’s easy, it’s fast, it creates an absolutely iconic silhouette, I love colouring it because it’s so damn pretty and ginger/red is such a broad colour scheme that can be put into a gradient so well (i love doing gradients with hair cause i hate when its just a block of colour). Nobody could understand the sheer joy i get putting that dumbass ahoge between the bridge of his fringe and the rest of his hair. That little ‘ right at the top ITS SO FUN. i love him his hair is great.

His face. Carved like the works of the finest artest. He’s a canvas of quality that can rival Van Gogh, for god sake. He’s got the jawline of a man on a lifelong mewing streak, STOP IT HE’S SO GORGEOUS I CANT EVENNNN. He is seriously so good looking. His eyes, the little pink-tinted eyebags that show he doesn’t need sleep because he’s so hardcore on caffeine, his gorgeous big ol nose i wanna kiss so bad, his super dynamic chin i wanna kiss so bad, his face i wanna kiss so bad. I wanna kiss him so bad. He is genuinely such a beautiful man its stunning, im literally a lesbian but if they somehow brought glass joe into the real world looking exactly how he does in those GOD DAMN CUTSCENES OOOOO i’d be bisexual so fast it’s crazy. He’s just that great. He’s got that power. I love his nervous little grin and the little creases on his face, cause he’s OLD AND SENILE. He’s 38 for god sake he shouldn’t look this good and sure, you can see his age slipping in a little with the eyebags and the wrinkles but that only ADDS to how stupidly divine he is in appearance. Stop that handsome man officer!! He’s breaking the laws of BEAUTY. GIVE IT TO MEEEEE. MEEEE.

His fashion sense although odd (ive never actually seen anyone wearing red trousers) just works. It wouldnt work on anyone else but it works on HIM. this is a theme. THINGS DONT WORK ON OTHER PEOPLE BUT THEY WORK ON JOE HE’S SO COOL LIKE THAT. his turtleneck kills me its so good it highlights what little figure he has and it contrasts his red hair so well cause its a really deep blue. SIGH. i wish. I have a turtleneck thats exactly the same but let me tell you i dont even breath the same air of fashion that he breathes. He’s so far ahead of the game he’s on an entirely different runway. He is not gonna sashay away anytime soon. On a constant shante. Unstoppable.

POINT 2: HE EMBODIES HIS CULTURE WELL.

Cats out of the bag, joe is a french stereotype. But. and dont quote me here. I find it very admirable HOW he is a french stereotype. Because he kind of.. Isn’t? He uses the characteristics of that stereotype sure, but he doesn’t engage with them the same way an actual french stereotype would. He likes coffee, he likes bread, he loves France like its his child, sure. But he doesnt have a twirly moustache, he doesnt wear a beret, he doesnt galavant around in black and white mime clothing. Even if that would be funny yknow it just wouldnt be as good. 

His admiration of coffee and bread is so relatable cause hell, I LIKE BREAD AND CAFES AND STUFF! He needs that coffee to keep him going you dont understand. If he misses a dose of caffeine he’ll deflate like the pyramids did in despicable me 1. He’ll be a puddle on the floor, he’ll quite literally cease to exist. Coffee is his golden idol, his hand of midas, his treasure. He has great willpower (more on that later) but coffee is that secret weapon he uses to push him just a little bit further. Plus he just thinks it tastes good and is happy to express that, you cant blame the guy for that. A good drink is a good drink. Even though i dont like coffee he’s so happy with it i respect it. He makes things i dont like respectable. Thats whats so real to me. What a goat. As for bread, bread is just great. Baguettes are yum. All the french bread i know about is usually close to white bread and autism behold thats like the only bread i can bear to eat so its alright with me man. You can go to joes house and he will have one of those fancy bread cupboards. He’ll pull out baguettes like he’s at a renaissance fair and they have a sword shortage. He’s on the case. You will NOT leave his house on an empty stomach. Like a very caring grandma, he will get you fed with the most immaculate 5 star meal you ever did eat. French food is great and theres no doubt about that, thats why he loves FOOD. I TRUST HIM. HE KNOWS WHATS GOOD. if mr glass joe turned around to me and said ‘broken glass is good food’ you bet your ass id be smashing windows and munch munch crunching all day long. 

Maybe his admiration of his country is a little over the top to some. You know the french landmarks in the back of his cutscenes, the ‘vive le france’ and singing the national anthem. But no. i dont think its excessive, i think its passionate. This is undeniably a man that is SO passionate about his culture and the lifestyle he’s grown up around, he’s not afraid to express it to other people until they cant stand it anymore. He’ll take as many hits as he needs to in the name of france. He is an embodiment of everything endearing about being foreign, honestly. An extreme love for the things his country has: food, landmarks, fashion, language, culture. EVERYTHING IS ON HIS LIST. NOTHING IS LEFT OUT. HE LOVES FRANCE AND I LOVE HIM. YES SIR!! VIVE LE FRANCE!! YES!!! 

Also he single-handedly convinced me to start learning french. I seriously didnt care about it before but after i started to like him more and really get into punchout i downloaded duolingo and i still have a streak going AND im actually convinced to try hard in my french lessons and exams because yknow.. I want this fictional french guy to be proud of me. :] 

POINT 3: HE IS DETERMINED.

OHHHHHH BOY. okay right im gonna get inspirational here. Play some dramatic orchestral music or something. 

The thing about Glass Joe is that he never. Gives up. Never. There is nothing in the world you could do to this man that could possibly stop him from boxing. They call Kaiser a fighting machine but boy have they not seen Joe. once that man stepped into the ring for the first time, he’d found a second home, and i think thats evident. 100 times this man has fallen down, brushed it off and gotten right back up. He’s had hardships, ups, downs, tumbles, falls. But everytime, no matter what, he’s back on his feet and ready to try again. And there is something so admirable and inspirational about that kind of approach being written into a CHARACTER THAT IS MEANT TO BE A FRENCH STEREOTYPE. ‘GHHHH FRENCH PEOPLE ALWAYS SURRENDER ACSHUALLY’ SHUT UP!! NOT THIS ONE!! I like to think Joe’s motto is ‘never surrender’. Yes he’s a little self aware how ironic it is thats hes french and doing all this but shhh. He knows whats hes doing and he’s happy to do it. Because like ive said again and again, theres nothing that can stop him. 100 kos, 200 kos, 300, 400… you keep cranking that number up and he’ll keep cranking the punches. Keep those lights up, keep those gloves on, you knock Joe down and eventually, no matter how long it takes, he’s back for more.

Now dont misinterpret that, he’s not a masochist like aran ryan, no sir-ee. He doesnt enjoy losing, nobody does. But the thing is he pushes past that disappointment and those hardships because he knows that eventually, if he keeps on going, things are going to change. He knows that if he lays down the gloves and walks away, there’s no possibility of succeeding. You could drop Joe off on the other side of the world and just like that immortal snail, he’s gonna find a way back. Even if it takes forever. Cause he is weak but determined, he isn’t threatening but relentless, he is stoppable but unstoppable. Glass joe has the strongest will out of any character i know. Cause if any of my other favourites went through 100 whopping losses like he did, they’d retire on a tropical island and never interact with the world again. But not joe. Never joe. My king.

POINT 4: HE IS ENDEARING.

THIS GUY IS SO DAMN CHARMING IT MAKES ME WANT TO EXPLODE INTO CONFETTI AND GLITTER AGHHHHH.

Come on. How can you look at his smile, his lovely little, subtle smile with those shy old eyes, and not immediately fall in love with him. He’s got some many little subtle things. Like the way his pupils dart around or his little sway back and forth when he’s knocked out or the way he bounds back and forth on his legs like an old-timey guy about to have a squabble. The way his mouth goes :0 so very subtly when he’s breathing. The way he always looks either shocked beyond repair, completely zooted or very confused. It’s all so perfect. IT’S ALL THESE THINGS THEY MAKE HIM BRILLIANT.

Im seriously looking for scraps here but i love finding meaning in otherwise meaningless things. I love analysing every detail until there is literally nothing else i could possibly say about it. He is perfect for this.

His fucking VOICE. OHHH MY GOD. it was so damn funny the very first time i heard his voice, because honestly it feels deliberate how they put his humble cutscenes before his first bit of dialogue so you expect this soft-spoken kinda light-voiced french guy only to be greeted with CHRISTIAN BERNARD’S DEEP ASS VOICE. OHHH KILL ME HE SOUNDS SO HANDSOME I WANNA SINK INTO THE FLOOR AND CRY WITH JOY. i wouldnt even mind if he was a soft-spoken light-voiced french guy but they really had to amp it up a little and give this lowly frenchman the most eloquent unnecessarily deep and silky voice ever. HE DIDNT NEED THAT. BUT THANK YOU FOR GIVING HIM THAT NINTENDO CAUSE ITS ONE OF HIS GREATEST QUALITIES. Plus french is just a really fun language to listen to. I could honestly sit listening to joe’s voicelines on repeat for hours on end and be fine with it. They’re so good. He’s so beautiful sounding. Its absolutely hilarious considering his voice in comparison to appearance. COME ON!!! AAHAHHGGHGHGHGHGHGHGHAGHGHS I LOVE CHRISTIAN BERNARDS VOICE I WISH I COULD HEAR HIM SPEAK IN ENGLISH. I NEED MORE OF HIS VOICE. AGGGGGHHHHH. 

POINT 5: WHATEVER ELSE

I erm i erm i just wanna say i love joe so much. The way he’s constructed, appearance, personality, physicality, dialogue, culture inspiration, story. EVERYTHING about him is just so cool and fun to think about and in my head it all weaves perfectly together to create the best character in all of fiction. It has now been over 2 unapologetic years of me yapping on about this guy. Whether it be his canon self and the things he does or the fanon version of him thats ive sourced from other peoples awesome HC’s or forged from my own lore. Any excuse i get, i talk about joe. Because it is so utterly fun. Yeah, he’s not the only boxer i love!!! Not at all!! I have several other favourites persay, but on the punch-out tier list joe is so good he has his own category thats about 4 ranks higher than what S rank is. And that is deserved. 

He loves his culture, he never gives up, he’s arguably a weakling and an absolute screwup but he never lets that get in his way because of her persistent he is, he’s gorgeous, he’s cool, he’d be a great friend, dad, boyfriend, husband, EVERYTHING. He’s got a weird hairstyle and weird fashion sense but somehow he looks great with it. He beat NICK BRUISER CANONICALLY?!?! He’s french, he’s ginger, which in a joking sense makes him the worst but against all odds he is the best. The french are lucky to be represented by him because he’s so utterly and unapologetically awesome and cool and fun and nice and inspiring and all that jazz. There is not a single thing that could stray me away from the path of Joe. my lore for him is SO deep. My admiration for him is INFINITE. Ive read through his wiki a pagillion times. Ive beaten him over 80 times in-game simple because i like seeing him so much and.

Well. i have entire shrine dedicated to him. let me know if you wanna see that....

[feraltuxedo]

Oh look I made another cover... this one for my first and quite possibly only attempt at kid fic:

Fledging by FeralTuxedo M, 53381 words. Summary: Cool Dad was at the school gate again. Clambering out of his ridiculous sports car like a great big spider, all black denim and designer sunglasses. What a prat. He made his way towards the entrance, followed by his equally lanky son. All the mums' eyes were on him. Which was fine. At least they weren't staring at Aziraphale for a change. Cool Dad high-fived his son goodbye, because of course he did, then sauntered back to his car. Making it look so bloody easy. Aziraphale Fell is much too young to be looking after eleven-year old Pepper. He barely has his life together as it is, with his minimum-wage job and a half-baked dream of trading rare books for a living. And as if adopting a recently bereaved pre-teen isn’t enough, there are some rather more adult problems to navigate: playground politics, the shadows of his own childhood, and the growing question of how Crowley, the only other dad at the school gate, feels about him.

Excerpt below.

Aziraphale reached the street corner and looked up to cross. A sleek black two-seater stopped right in front of him. The window wound down, revealing a pair of sunglasses.

‘Hiya. Want a lift anywhere?’

Cool Dad pointed at the empty passenger seat.

‘Um,’ Aziraphale said.

Fantastic. Very articulate. Cool Dad leaned across the gear stick and pushed the passenger door open, making the decision for him. Automatically, Aziraphale got in the car. He regretted it almost immediately. Sitting this close to him, he noticed just how attractive the man was. Sharp cheekbones, long nose, wavy hair the colour of rust. Hot Dad as well as Cool Dad.

‘So?’ he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Where d’you need to go?’

Aziraphale tore his gaze away from the man and looked straight ahead onto the road.

‘Oh, yes. Into town, if that’s all right. The Asda car park, if you wouldn’t mind. Thank you so much, I really do appreciate it.’

Before he’d finished talking, the car accelerated. There was the unpleasant swoop of inertia in Aziraphale’s stomach. He dug his fingers into the expensive leather of the seat. The car glid along the road almost noiselessly.

‘You’re new here,’ said Cool Dad, incomprehensibly keen on making small talk. ‘Been seeing you all this week. Not trying to be creepy or anything, but you’re the only other bloke at the gate.’

‘Yes, I did notice that. You, me, and a hundred mums. Pepper’s new at the school. She’s in Year 7.’

Cool Dad whistled.

‘Your daughter’s the notorious Pepper Fell?’

‘Actually, she’s not my— wait, why notorious?’

He took a hand off the steering wheel to scratch his neck. His nails left faint red streaks along his jawline. Aziraphale forced his eyes back on the road. They had nearly reached the centre now.

‘Er, I probably shouldn’t tell on her if she’s not talked to you about it, but… yeah. You probably want to know what she’s been up to. It’s actually hilarious.’

The fact that five days into her new school career she was already known as the ‘notorious Pepper Fell’ was worrying indeed. For heaven’s sake. He was so out of his depth.

Cool Dad glanced sideways at him. ‘You free at all this morning? You look like you could do with a strong coffee and I’ve got the morning off, so...’

With compliments to my under-eye circles, thought Aziraphale. The to-do list was burning a hole in his pocket. Taking the day off had cost him already. He needed to get everything done today or he’d have to take another holiday next week, and Gabriel would hate that. He looked at Cool Dad next to him, shaded eyes flitting back and forth between the passenger seat and the road ahead. A small smile played around his lips. A smile or a smirk, hard to tell. And still, he’d been the only person so far this week to show him any kindness. To offer help. A ride and a coffee. And damn, Aziraphale deserved to sit in a café opposite a good-looking man after the week he’d had.

‘Yes,’ he said, stomach swooping again. Probably from the rather abrupt halt at the traffic light. ‘I’m free.’

[folliesandfolderols]

Writing prompts day 62-69 redux

From this prompt list.

So, fun fact, I wrote like 4500 words for the actual days 62-whatever, but then I had to cut them because they jumped the emotional progression too far down the line. They'll come later! (I'm talking about the words themselves, but Tim and Damian will also come later.)

From this prompt list. If you’ve read this far, I’m not sure you need any explanation, but the short version is I hadn’t written any fiction since 2019, I set a goal to write at least 150 words/day in 2024, and this list was my way to restart. Also I abruptly decided on day 2 I would write an entire Tim/Damian story connecting all the prompts, because I am Good at Judging My Limits. /sarcasm Anyway, I finished the rough draft a while ago and am now unlocking the old entries as I edit.

Read from the beginning here, or on ao3 here

Days 58-60 here

***

139. "Need a hand?"

***

Dick didn’t always have advice to give, but when he did Tim at least considered taking it, so the next day he decided to look at the evidence as soon as he got home from patrol. He was still too wired to sleep. Creating a timeline of events was one of the most important aspects of investigation, so he started by sitting down on his couch, closing his eyes, and pinning events on his mental screen.

First, Damian had approached him, saying he wanted to get rid of his virginity and that Tim was an acceptable choice while refusing any other explanation. Try as he might, Tim couldn’t remember some of the details of his expressions and body language because he’d been caught off guard. It had come out of the blue—

No, wait.

It hadn’t come out of the blue, because Damian had approached him for weeks before that on pretexts Tim had been confused by at the time. So a couple of possibilities: Damian had been trying to work up the courage to ask for what he’d wanted and had needed a few weeks to do so, or, Damian had actually . . . wanted to spend time with him?

Tim stared at that note, branching off the timeline with three flashing question marks, and moved on.

Next, they’d fucked. Damian had been an asshole at first, which was to be expected since he was nervous and absolutely hated not being the most superior person in the room. But after that, he’d turned sweet, asked if he could kiss Tim, and even agreed to spend the night. Which was another point in favor of the theory of Damian wanting to spend time with him.

After that had been the time Damian asked him if it was normal to think about a hookup for weeks afterward. Because he’d been thinking about Tim for weeks.

Hmm. Tim gave that incident a mental circle and highlighted it.

That had been closely followed by them fucking again, and Tim had dreamed about Insomnia that same night until Damian woke him up and comforted him. Next was the fight over Damian getting Tim benched because he was concerned about his sleep deprivation, then makeup sex that ended with Damian saying stuff in Arabic that probably shouldn’t have been said. And Damian had called him Timothy.

The next morning, Damian had left without incident. They hadn't spoken in person again until Damian found him at work to complain about Bruce leaving, and that was the end of things till Tim came back from space. Damian hadn’t initiated anything sexual after Tim’s return, but he had definitely taunted, incited, and harassed Tim into responding to him plenty.

Tim reviewed the timeline once he’d finished filling in the remaining dates, dumbfounded. All this seemed to indicate was that Damian liked him.

Which, okay, wasn’t impossible. But even if it wasn’t impossible, it was highly improbable, because he’d seen Jon and Damian together since middle school and the way Damian talked about Jon was the polar opposite of how he talked about Tim. Oaths of undying loyalty, indirect but sincere compliments in person, and grandiose praise when apart. A far cry from his brain’s operations are incomprehensibly juvenile. So, yeah, whatever was going on with Damian, it probably wasn’t true romantic affection, despite whichever postcoital hormones had made him say affectionate things a few times.

Then there was the issue of Tim’s own behavior. Because if he looked at it from an investigative standpoint with himself as the subject, it appeared to be an inescapable fact that he liked Damian. And that was the least disturbing option.

“What the actual fuck,” he whispered. He replayed the events back and forth, a fast-forwarded and rewound mental movie while his heart threatened to beat right out of his chest. The constant nausea and pain expanded to press at his ribs, and for a second he thought he really would throw up. Lying down on his back, he pressed his palms to his face, taking deep breaths. 

He couldn't do this. He just . . . couldn't. Pursuing Damian would be so incredibly stupid. Tim hid things as a matter of course even when it was unnecessary. The privacy of his thoughts was sacrosanct to his wellbeing. Damian never let him hide without demanding he show himself. Every day would be a new level of emotional exposure.

Ever since Bernard, the memory of Kon’s text taunted him, and for a second he grasped at something underlying the surface fear.

"Nightwing requesting assistance," Dick's voice suddenly popped into his ear. With a start, Tim realized he'd never removed his earpiece.

"Batman here, N. What's the situation?"

"Just got a phone call from Shrike in Metropolis. His communicator's been destroyed and Superman is temporarily incapacitated after a run-in with Felix Faust. They're both okay but Shrike needs a ride home because his vehicle was destroyed. I'd go get him myself but I've got work in three hours and I was kind of hoping someone else could do it this time."

Tim cursed. Fucking magic users. And what the hell was Damian doing hanging out with Jon in Metropolis on a weeknight? He was lucky Dick had carried his cell on him while on patrol—a lot of times he didn't. 

From the long pause on Bruce's end of the conversation, he had a feeling his sentiments were shared. "Understood. Let me wrap up what I was doing and —"

Tim's hand flew up to the earpiece. "Sorry, couldn't help but overhear. I got done early so I'll go get him. N, send me a location."

Another long pause, which he decided was indicative of absolutely nothing, because he couldn't handle speculating about what conclusions they were drawing. At last, Dick replied, "Will do."

A second later, Tim's phone buzzed with a pinned location and a note from Dick: He's in civvies.

Well, that made things easier. At least Tim didn't have to put his costume back on. 

This late at night, there was almost no traffic on the road, so he was able to make it to Damian's location in record time. It turned out he was waiting in a 24-hour diner, designer clothes sticking out like a sore thumb in the surrounding clientele of truckers and exhausted road-trippers when Tim stepped inside. Of course, Tim figured he probably wasn't very stealthy himself, but anyone out at this hour wasn't interested in him anyway.

"Hey, Damian," he greeted, soft-voiced, sliding in to the booth opposite him. They'd left off with Tim having inflicted more damage, and he'd taken Damian's lack of movement as he approached as a sign of displeasure. Now that he was close enough to catch microexpressions and see the untouched cup of tea in front of him, he realized Damian was hiding a great deal of pain through his immobility. A pang of worry pushed away more superficial concerns. "Are you ready to leave? Need a hand?"

Damian didn't look up from his folded hands. "Of course I don't need your help, Drake." He made to stand, only to freeze halfway through the motion and sit down with a thump that had him closing his eyes with a sharp inhalation.

Right. Tim moved to sit beside him, keeping a wary eye on Damian’s involuntary flinch as he scooted closer. "Where are you hurt?"

Without opening his eyes, Damian replied, "It's not a physical injury. Faust caught me with the edge of a magic blast and my nerves could only interpret the effect as pain. But I've experienced no wound."

Moving with caution, Tim slipped an arm around Damian's waist. Damian stayed stiff and unresponsive against his side for all of two seconds before his breath released in a sigh and he rested his cheek on the top of Tim's head.

Tim fought a smile, but he couldn't keep it entirely out of his voice. "You must be exhausted. Let's get you home."

"You must be exhausted," Damian muttered, but he leaned into the circle of Tim's arm and allowed him to help him stand.

Once they were in the Taycan, Tim pulled out a medkit and handed over a muscle relaxant and some painkillers, followed by a water bottle he'd brought from home. After Damian swallowed the pills down, Tim reached around him to draw the seatbelt across his torso and buckle him in.

Damian rolled his head on the headrest to watch. "I am not a child."

"Believe me, I'm well aware of that fact." Tim started the car and pulled away from the curb. Damian muttered something inaudible. "What'd you say?"

"I said, then why do you keep acting like I'm one still? Specifically, the one I used to be." Tim stayed silent for so long that Damian finally said, "I might have known you wouldn't give me an answer."

Tim shook his head. "Thinking about it, actually, not refusing to answer. I'm not sure I have an answer to give. It's not just because it's you. I'm very self-protective, Damian, and I don't let people in easily if at all."

"Tt. And that sets you apart from the rest of us, how? The others have grown to trust me, even Todd. A person who beat you till you were bloody more than once, stabbed you with a batarang, and with whom you share an cordial working relationship today, I might add."

The beginnings of a headache began a distant throbbing in the center of Tim's forehead. "I know. But with Jason, it’s different.”

A brief crease of confusion appeared between Damian’s eyebrows. “Because you’ve never slept together? Have you slept together?”

“Please, like he’d ever be interested with Roy right there.” Tim shook his head. “This is why I said I'm an asshole. It's like I can't stop engaging you for some reason, even though I keep telling myself I should leave you alone. I keep trying to quit and then I forget to make myself do it as soon as I see you."

"That's something I feel some kinship with." Damian's eyelids were growing heavier as Tim watched, only half his attention on the near-empty road. "I keep swearing I'll no longer let myself—" He cut himself off with a huge yawn.

Unable to endure not touching him any longer, Tim reached over and threaded their fingers together. "I don't know what to say, because it feels like every time I apologize I do something else that needs another apology right away."

Damian's fingers flexed in his grip. For a sickening moment Tim thought he was going to break free, but he merely rotated his wrist to allow an easier hold. "May I be honest?"

"Please."

"I'm glad it was you, to come get me, tonight." Another yawn. His voice fell to near-inaudible levels. "I tried to distract myself. It didn't work."

"Distract yourself how?" Tim asked, but was only answered by the deep, even breathing that meant the muscle relaxant had finally knocked Damian out.

Once they were back at the Manor, Tim got Damian into his room, stripped him of his more uncomfortable outer clothes with a whispered explanation, tucked him into the bed and stood by its side for a while, watching him settle back into sleep almost immediately. Bruce was probably still in the Cave, ignoring the fact that he had a human body that required occasional sleep. The moonlight peeking through the drawn-back curtains traced the outline of Damian's features in loving detail, highlighting his profile. Tim admired the view until a yawn of his own returned him to the reality of work in the morning, then walked across the room to pull the curtains shut.

All right, it was time to go.

He walked toward the door again, and stalled. His feet wouldn't take him past Damian's bed.

C'mon, Tim. Walk out of the room.

He gazed at the dark lump of Damian's body beneath the covers. The blankets moved with his breathing. Tim watched the rhythmic rise and fall, throat tightening. If Faust had caught him full-on with the eldritch blast, Damian could’ve died tonight. They all knew better than to dwell on could-have-beens, though. That habit tended to lead to second-guessing in situations that were life and death.

Go now. You’ve got work soon and he doesn’t really want you here.

The prospect of leaving him behind suddenly felt unbearable. 

Tim crawled onto the foot of the bed, just near enough to feel the heat from Damian's legs radiate into the front of his body as he lay down. He curled up into a ball on top of the covers, head near Damian’s feet, ready for a quick escape.

It still didn't feel close enough, so he fit one hand over Damian's ankle. Damian sighed but made no move to shake him off. The tension finally draining from his body, Tim fell asleep.

day seventy (part one) here

[pallases]

[pageofheartdj]

They were a curious one.

They knew so much about this world. The way the demon species evolved, all the paths magic development took. They could name you thousands of spells and perform them with closed eyes.

But apparently they knew nothing of the everyday routine life normal witches had.

“Come down, it’s breakfast time,” called Lilith, not taking eyes from her book.

Today was the day for her mother’s cooking. The table was already set with her long gone to buy ‘a few little necessities ’. Lilith was well aware what she meant after she practically cooed over her new grandson all evening. She will spoil him rotten, especially with how he was within her arm’s reach. It didn’t matter that they were a god child, that probably shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point.

Yet they were. The Collector was constantly pulling Lilith’s sleeve to ask yet another question that no other witch would ever even think to be interested in (like how long does it take to get boiled alive), while gawking at everything with pure child fascination. Who they technically were.

It was a hard concept for Lilith to stomach: someone who lived for a thousand years yet retained their childish psychic. But here they were, a living breathing proof circling around her, looking anywhere but the road ahead. He wasn’t watching where Lilith was going, but never lost his way.

‘I wonder if they used some spell for this?’

Lilith still didn't understand how it happened.

One moment she was running for her life from the collapsing structure right under her feet. The next moment a peculiar child, who was, in fact, a space born being, was getting right in her face, frighteningly giggling and muttering something about the ‘tear’. When Eda confirmed that they truly were the same mystical Collector, the one that provided Belos with the draining spell, the one that stopped it(when the moon got swooped away by invisible force, Lilith thought she would have a heart attack), was mainly responsible to the whole isles ‘rebranding’, and despite all of this somehow were a child, Lilith was ready to flip.

She felt like a fish being thrown on a shore, opening and closing her mouth, helplessly searching for words. Her thoughts were racing in her head and she couldn't grab any to concentrate on: the terror from their power, the astonishment from their unbelievable upbringing, the indignation from Eda ‘reforming’ them, and endless incomprehension of the same unchangable fact.

A child.

A child that for some reason glued themself to her side, bombarding her with silly questions and with her barely containing the same excitement for answers.

Somehow it was a reason enough for Lilith to be obliged to take him with her back home. Not that Eda was abandoning her all on her own with them, they still needed all the adult supervision they could get(plus their parents were an additional artillery). Even with the limited powers they still could bring chaos to the world. But he and King had a pinky swear and that for some reason was supposed to be enough.

Well, if it was enough for Eda, King, Luz, Raine- ugh, everyone! It was enough for Lilith!

“What are you doing?”

Lilith didn't need to put away her book to see the burning red eyes that were staring right at her. He was smiling, she could hear it in his tone.

“Reading,” she simply answered with no hint of harshness. It was an obvious fact and if he wanted her to confirm it, so be it.

“Ohhh, what are you reading?” she heard the faint whoosh sound, which meant they abandoned their spot and flew away to some other place in the room.

“Constellations and magic implications through celestial provenance,” said Lilith. She wondered if the Collector, or Zeke, the name her Mother helpfully provided(if was Lilith’s idea, mother just glanced into her list and picked one herself! The Collector eagerly accepted it, which left Lilith’s day of research and listing almost pointless. Almost. He did still take one of the names she chose), knew anything about that topic.

‘Of course he does, he was born up there!’ she immediately scolded herself.

‘That doesn't mean he was fully aware of his surroundings! Did he spend his infant stage in space? At what age correspondingly to witch years did he fall?’ mused Lilith.

Ah, she got distracted again.

“Why?” he sing-songed in a muffled voice. He was probably cuddling that huge plushy her mother dug up in the attic. A giant green colored bat, which most likely belonged to Edalyin. Lilith didn't remember this one.

“To learn more about celestial magic and star dust components,” she answered, trying to find the place she stopped.

“Why?” Zeke’s voice suddenly boomed right behind her and Lililth mentally patted herself on the back for not flinching.

“To try to understand your biology, since there is nothing close enough on Boiling Isles to just give us straight answers,” she could just ask him, she really could. But she wanted to do it herself, to research, to learn, even though she knew she would fail. She didn't want to rely on a child for the answers to simple questions. That weren't so simple after all.

“Why?”

Their voice was heard right next to her. They sounded… surprisingly sober.

Lilith finally moved the book away to steal a quick glance at the floating child.

Zeke was not smiling anymore. His stare lost that radiant shine, but still was just as burning. The cold, neutral expression was frozen on his face in a mask, eyes unblinking.

Lilith put down the book on the table.

“Because I want to be sure I will not accidentally hurt you with the most mundane action.”

‘Like the breakfast that was already served to him.’ They didn't have any other alternative though.

Zeke flowed down on the nearby chair that moved on its own, aiming right under him. He was still holding the plush, his little fingers clutching the fluffy fur.

He slowly blinked.

“You can't hurt me. Nothing can,” his tone didn't have any harshness or smugness. It was an obvious fact.

And a lie.

Lilith took a deep breath in and out.

True, nothing could physically hurt him. He could still feel pain, especially now, but it never left any permanent mark.

It didn't mean he couldn’t be hurt.

Lilith tentatively held her hand out and put it on their shoulder, gently squeezing. She had no experience with children and she hoped that gesture was comforting instead of weird and off putting.

“I still want to try my best in taking care of you. It's what you deserve.”

They faintly trembled. Lilith wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t holding their shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut and after a still moment, crashed into her in a violent leap.

Lilith gave away an awkward oomph, losing the balance on the chair and bracing for the fall. It didn't happen. Instead she felt the familiar lightness inside as her body floated up. The small figure was pressing into hers, the plush being uncomfortably squashed between them. But Lilith didn't mind. She enveloped her child in a warm hug and patted their head.

They will make this work.

[queenofcats17]

What Could Have Been

I had some more ideas for @hlvrai-twh~

The title comes from “What Could Have Been” from Arcane

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing Gordon does when Benrey walks up to him is apologize.

“Hey, man. I’m really sorry about all that.”

It catches Benrey off guard.“Sorry?” He echoes. “About what?”

“About the whole...making you the bad guy thing,” Gordon clarifies. “And the way I treated you. I know it’s not an excuse, but I was really stressed and I ended up taking it all out on you.” He smiles apologetically. “You didn’t deserve to be the scapegoat. I’m really sorry.”

His smile is gentle and kind, his eyes full of genuine regret.

“Why didn’t...Why didn’t you say that sooner?” Benrey asks, some of his hurt leaking into his voice. “If you were really sorry why didn’t you tell me before?”

A part of him thinks, “too little too late”. This isn’t going to save Gordon from his punishment, he tells himself.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Gordon says. “Tommy had to point it out to me. Like I said, I know it’s not an excuse.” He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “You’re my friend and I shouldn’t have treated you like that."

Benrey can feel his resolve crumbling. “I’m your...friend?” His voice is small, hopeful.

“Yeah, man.” Gordon smiles at him, full of fondness. “You’re really funny and I like being around you.”

Tears are welling up in Benrey’s eyes. “Then why’d you shoot me? Why’d you make me the bad guy?” All his feelings are boiling over, all his hurt coming to the surface. “I didn’t wanna be bad. I didn’t wanna be the bad guy!”

“I know.” Gordon’s smile becomes regretful once more. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Benrey’s about to start yelling, about to start unloading all his pain and anger onto Gordon. He wants to scream and cry and get out all the uncomfortable feelings that have been swirling in his chest their entire journey.

Then Gordon hugs him.

The hug is gentle but firm. Gordon has a strong grip. Benrey had thought more than once that Gordon probably gave good hugs. Now he knows he was right.

“I know I can’t fix everything with an apology,” Gordon whispers, his breath tickling Benrey’s ear. “But I want to try. I want to be friends. Can we start over? Please?” There’s a pleading note to that last word.

All of Benrey’s walls come crumbling down and he begins to absolutely wail, clinging to Gordon like a drowning man might cling to a life preserver. Everything he wants to say comes rushing out, although it’s pretty incomprehensible given how hard he’s crying. Gordon still listens. He’s quiet, continuing to hold Benrey until he stops crying. Once Benrey’s coherent again, Gordon asks him to repeat what he was saying.

Benrey hesitates, but he does. He tells Gordon everything he’s been feeling, all his anger and frustration and pain. He also apologizes for the whole arm thing because he does genuinely feel bad about that.

And Gordon listens.

The only time he interrupts is when Benrey mentions his data is being deleted.

“Wait, what?!” He puts his hands on Benrey’s shoulders, immediately looking panicked. “You’re being deleted?!”

Benrey sniffles loudly. “Yeah...”

He doesn’t tell Gordon what his plan was to escape this fate. He doesn’t know if he’ll still use the plan, but it’s looking less and less appealing. He already didn’t want to do it, but after Gordon apologized? After Gordon held him as he cried?

Would he be able to live with himself if he betrayed Gordon now?

Gordon’s look of panic transitions to one of stubborn determination and he takes Benrey’s hand, charging off down the hall.

“Where’re we goin’?” Benrey asks.

“To find the others,” Gordon answers. “They have to know how to fix this. You’re not getting deleted.”

Benrey almost feels like crying all over again. He’s so tired, everything hurts, and all he can focus on is Gordon’s hand in his and Gordon’s warm voice assuring him that he’s not going to let Benrey die.

He barely registers when Gordon finds the others and begins to explain the situation. There’s a lot of technical jargon being thrown around by Coomer, Gman, and Gordon.

Tommy moves over to hug Benrey as the others talk. “We’ll- We’ll figure this out,” he assures Benrey. “You won’t get deleted.”

“Like Hell we’re going to let you die like this,” Bubby agrees, folding his arms.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Darnold chimes in. “But it does seem pretty unfair.”

Forzen doesn’t say anything, but he nods in agreement at the others’ statements.

Tommy, Darnold, and Bubby don’t seem to completely understand the whole “this world is a game” thing, but they’re all in agreement that they can’t stand by while Benrey potentially dies.

It feels good to have everyone united in support of him.

He can’t go through with his previous plan now. Not when everyone has come together for him like this. None of them would ever forgive him if he did. And he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

Gman, Coomer, and Gordon do a lot of talking for a few more hours, with Gordon taking off his headset a few times to look at something in the game’s code. Tommy, Darnold, Forzen, and Bubby stay with Benrey, trying to keep him comfortable and distract him from the pain of being slowly deleted. They remind him of things he might have forgotten because of the deletion.

The deletion is still unbearably painful, but at least he isn’t alone while experiencing it. He takes comfort in this. He’s going to be alright. They’re going to figure this out. He’s not alone. His friends care about him.

He’s loved.

Finally, whatever Gordon and the others were doing is complete. And the pain stops.

“Did it work? Is he safe?” Gordon asks, looking between Gman and Benrey.

“He should be stable now,” Gman confirms with a nod.

“How do you feel?” Tommy looks down at Benrey, who’s laying with his head in Tommy’s lap.

“I feel...good,” Benrey says. “Doesn’t...doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Wonderful news, Bipple!” Coomer proclaims with a grin.

"Oh thank God.” Gordon lets out a laugh of relief, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “I was really scared we were going to lose you.”

“Yes, that could have been...” Gman pauses, his pale blue eyes slowly trailing over to where Benrey was being spun around by Tommy. “Very bad, indeed.”

Their group goes out to Chuck E Cheese afterward. None of them are quite sure how this is possible, but they decide not to question it. They’re just glad to be out of Black Mesa and have their friend’s safety guaranteed. They eat pizza, drink soda, and play dumb arcade games.

Benrey sits between Gordon and Tommy, not focused on following the argument that’s going on, simply enjoying being with his friends. This is what he wanted. He’s with his friends, he and Gordon have made up, and he’s not at risk of being deleted.

Everything is alright.

Gordon throws an arm around him, dragging him over. “Benrey! Weigh in on this!” He demands. His face is flushed and there’s a fiery intensity in his eyes.

Benrey feels his own face grow warm. “Huh? Wha-?”

“Don‘t drag him into this!” Bubby slams his hands on the table. “You can’t use him to make your stupid point!”

“What’s, uh, what’s goin’ on?” Benrey asks.

“They’re arguing about whether Chuck E Cheese is a restaurant or not,” Darnold explains, not looking up from whatever science he’s been doing with his soda.

“It is!” Gordon insists. “It serves food!”

“No, it is not!” Bubby fires back.

“It is a family entertainment center that contains a restaurant,” Gman agrees. “The entire establishment is not a restaurant.”

“What the fuck are you on about?!” Gordon yells.

Forzen and Tommy loudly sip their soda while Coomer begins to recite the Wikipedia article for “restaurant”.

Benrey smacks his lips. “I’unno,” he says. “Does...Uh...Does this place have a license to be a restaurant? Got the right documentation?”

For a second, it seems like Gordon is about to start yelling again. Then he erupts into raucous laughter, pulling Benrey closer.

“Come on, man! I’m trying to win an argument!”

“Gotta have those documents, bro,” Benrey says, which only makes Gordon laugh even harder.

This feels good. This feels right. All of them together, laughing over some dumb shit that doesn’t matter.

He wants this to last forever.

.

Benrey woke up crying.

He sat up, beginning to cry even harder at the curtain of long brown hair that obscured his vision as he did.

He’d had dreams like this before, but never this vivid. Never this real. He could still taste the cheap pizza, still feel Gordon’s warm body against his. It felt like a glimpse into another world. Was that what it would have been like if he hadn’t gone through with his plan? Was that what he could have had?

He drew his knees up to his chest and covered his face with his hands, still sobbing. Once more, the guilt washed over him, threatening to drown him. He’d ruined everything.

Tommy found him like that when he came to visit. He didn’t ask why Benrey was crying.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked softly, sitting down beside Benrey.

Benrey shook his head, drawing further into himself. He didn’t want to complain to Tommy. He knew it was his own fault. And Tommy would agree, even if he didn’t say it outright. Tommy had some sympathy for him because they were still kind of friends, but even Tommy didn’t forgive him for what he’d done.

“Okay.” Tommy nodded, shifting to sit with his back against the cave wall.

They sat in silence, the only sound being Benrey’s quiet sobs.

Healing would take a long time for everyone. But for now...the wound still gaped.

[sunder-soul]

PROMPT 1: Hellooooooo! First off ur writing goes off, second off listen to this idea that i truly think u can bring to life... reader n tom r in a relationship and someone tried to slip tom to love potion but ofc he doesn't fall for it and his gf is like ??? and then they rub their relationship in her face LOL. anyways no worried just thought this would slap! Admire u n ur work!!

PROMPT 2: hey i love your the last of your rules series and everything else you’ve written. i’m not very creative so idk what exactly i’m looking for plot wise i just trust you since everything you’ve written is good but i was wondering if maybe you could write a tom x ravenclaw reader please. the ravenclaw reader tends to be more emotionally reserved and isn’t big on physical affection and maybe tom finds that interesting in a way? idk this idea might suck but felt like asking anyways...

Decided to combine these two because I could see them working really well together… :D

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Retribution

Summary: After somebody tries to slip Tom a love potion to break up him and Ravenclaw Reader’s relationship, they get a little bit theatrical in response...

Wordcount: 1.8k

Content warning: none.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“Good morning,” says Tom evenly, lifting a wide-brimmed cup to his lips and taking an even sip as he looks at you.

“Is it?” you say dryly, sitting down opposite him at the Slytherin table and pulling out the new Magical Theory textbook. “Have you looked over this yet?”

“I have,” Tom replies with a very small smile. “Not to your liking?”

“Sophus writes like it’s still the seventeenth century,” you say with a shake of your head, “which isn’t surprising considering I don’t think he included a single reference from the last two hundred years… I mean honestly –” you wave at the title on the front of the book, “– ‘Corpus Magikus?’ Even the title makes it sound ancient.”

“Did you have any criticisms about the actual content per chance?” Tom asks as he lifts his tea again – though it doesn’t quite hide the amused smile on his lips. “Or did you not manage to get past the articulation?”

You give him a look. “The articulation is just as important as the content.”

“I completely disagree,” he replies easily, his cup clinking as he rests it back on its saucer, “regardless of how it is written, his points are extremely sophisticated.”

“I’m not talking about the quality of his points, I’m talking about how well he makes them accessible,” you say at once, picking up a piece of toast and buttering it lightly, “he can have the best criticisms of Magical Theory in the world and no one will care if they can’t understand what he’s saying.”

Tom arches a brow and leans forward on the table, resting on his forearms. “You’re placing the responsibility of understanding an argument on the person presenting it, and not the person receiving it,” he says fluidly, “personally when I find something difficult to understand, I take it as an indicator that I need to return to the topic after better preparing myself.”

“That works fine as an individualistic perspective,” you reply at once, leaning forward to match him, “but a book isn’t written for an individual, is it? It’s written for an audience. A book like this is measured by how wide an audience it can reach, meaning the responsibility is half on him to write accessibly, and half on the audience to go away and fill the holes in our own understanding. That’s when information is dispersed most effectively.”

“Your priority is the dispersion of information as a whole and not the expansion of your personal field of knowledge, and that is the crux of our differing opinion,” Tom says, sitting up straighter and tilting his head calmly.

“I am very aware,” you say dryly, “but you shouldn’t dismiss the importance of charisma when it comes to spreading information. After all, academics aren’t exactly known to be the most charismatic people most of the time, so you end up with intelligent, useful tomes that are utterly incomprehensible to most people –” you nod at the text again, “whilst compelling idiotic drivel is widely consumed.”

The Daily Prophet lands with a thump on your breakfast plate as the delivery owl swoops away with a mournful hoot, and you share a pointed, very wry look with Tom.

Tom breathes a little laugh and laces his fingers around his cup. “So you’re not looking forward to Magical Theory, then.”

“I am,” you amend, frowning, “I just hope the class follows more like Waffling’s work than this.”

“Of course you like Waffling,” Tom smirks, lifting his cup, “he effectively writes in verse –”

Tom suddenly freezes, his brow furrowing lightly. You raise a brow at his sudden reaction. “What?”

He looks down at his tea, still frowning.

“Tom?” you prompt, bemused.

“Someone has attempted to drug me,” he says in complete seriousness, looking up at you.

You stare back, bewildered. “Is… is this more Tom humour?” you ask after a moment, “you seriously need more practice at making jokes, Tom, you really are terrible at it –”

“I’m not joking,” Tom interrupts crisply.

Your scrutiny drops to the cup in his hand. “How can you tell?”

“My tea smells like you.”

Your brows raise. “Excuse me?”

“My tea,” he repeats evenly, his dark eyes coming alight with a flicker of amusement as he leans closer, his cup still in one hand, “rather suddenly smells like you. I can only assume someone has managed to slip Amortentia into my cup sometime during this conversation.”

You blink at him. “Oh,” you say simply.

Tom’s lips curve into a more defined smirk at your expression.

“Well who’s trying to drug you then?” you ask quickly, looking away.

“An excellent question,” he says silkily, eyes still on you. “Their motive is hardly a mystery, so that should narrow it down.”

You roll your eyes and level him with a flat look. “Nothing could narrow it down less, Tom,” you drawl, “half the school is in love with you, and the other half is in denial about being in love with you.”

Tom arches a brow and looks very pleased with himself. “Should I drink it and we can find out?” he asks in amusement, lifting the cup.

You huff a laugh and take a bite of your toast. “Go on then, but don’t expect any sympathy from me when you’re pouring your heart out to some random stranger in front of the whole school a minute from now.”

His hand freezes with the rim of his cup an inch from his mouth, amusement faltering.

“That’s what I thought,” you smirk. “If you want to play it that way you’re going to have to be smarter than that.”

“Oh?” he asks, dark eyes narrowing. “And what would you suggest?”

“If someone drugged you during this conversation then they’re probably watching for your reaction,” you say casually around bites of your toast, “so just look out for someone who’s waiting for you to dramatically break up with me.”

“According to you, that would be the entire school,” Tom mutters, looking significantly more disgruntled than before.

A grin slowly builds on your face. “That was nearly a real joke, Tom,” you say ironically, “Merlin you’ve come so far…”

He shoots you a flat glare and you snicker. “Alright, sorry, I’ll stop – look, if I storm out of here looking upset and you act all conflicted and brooding for the rest of the day, whoever it was will probably try to come talk to you.”

“How theatrical,” Tom deadpans.

You shrug. “Do you want to know who drugged you or not?”

His eyes remain on yours for a moment, and then he lifts the tea to his lips. You watch him pretend to drink, your eyes lingering on the tea glistening on his lips as he lowers the cup.

“Don’t lick your lips,” you say quietly, not quite able to look away.

Tom’s other hand shifts slightly where it’s resting on the table between you, and the tea vanishes both from his lips and the cup. You give him another dry look. “Show off,” you accuse, smiling, “wandless and non-verbal, huh?”

“If you ask nicely, I’ll teach you how to do it,” he smirks.

You huff a laugh and slide Corpus Magikus back into your bag. “I should make my dramatic exit soon,” you say casually, finishing your toast and looking around the hall absently. “Perhaps we should have a fight first.”

“That would make it more convincing, yes,” he says delicately, still looking amused.

“What shall we fight about?"

Tom’s expression immediately cools and he leans in so close that you can see the patterns in his dark irises. “The content doesn’t matter,” he says smoothly, a glimmer in his eyes despite his utterly blank expression, “rather, the articulation.”

You hold his gaze for a second, fighting the urge to smile. You force yourself to stand suddenly, as if he’s said something of great offence. “I’ve never seen you so quickly converted to my opinion, Tom,” you say icily, leaning down to him over the table and hoping it looks like you’re angry.

“You made your argument very convincingly,” Tom says immediately, lifting his chin coolly.

“Actively demonstrating my point, I suppose,” you snap, standing straight. “I’m going to storm out now.”

“I’ll see you in class,” he says dismissively, pouring himself more tea.

You turn on your heel and leave, ignoring the curious eyes following you on your way out and not letting the smile break on your face until you’re well outside the Hall. Now all you have to do is wait.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“Amelia Staghart,” Tom says in your ear before swiftly sitting down next to you in Potions that afternoon.

You raise a brow at him, watching as he arranges his Potions kit on the desk – Staghart is sitting a few desks behind you at that very moment and can most definitely see the both of you. “Are we no longer having a fight?”

“I grew tired of that pretence rather quickly,” Tom says curtly.

You smirk. “Did she talk to you?”

“Yes.” He looks decidedly irritated.

“A lot, huh.”

He shoots you a glare and you bite back another smile. “Are you going to report her then?” you ask, writing the date out on your parchment.

“No,” Tom says softly. You glance up curiously at his tone and find his dark eyes watching you write, before they flick up to yours. “I can think of a more pertinent retribution for her to endure,” he finishes quietly, not looking away.

“Retribution?” you echo, arching a brow with a slight smile. “And you accuse me of being theatrical.”

But Tom only leans closer and – to general astonishment – places a very gentle kiss on your cheek. His lips linger soft and warm on your skin for a moment as you’re frozen in place, staring at him as he slowly draws away an inch. His eyes roam your face as you blink in surprise, his lips curving into another humorous smile at your expression when there’s a sudden SMASH from behind you.

The entire class turns from where they’ve been staring wide-eyed at Tom’s display of affection to see Staghart’s inkwell knocked asunder on her desk, spreading black ink across the wood and dripping down to the floor, her eyes wide and her expression thunderstruck as she stares at you.

“Clean that up at once, Staghart!” Slughorn says disapprovingly as he strides into the room. “I certainly hope your clumsiness does not extend through today’s lesson – we’re brewing poisons today, class!”

Staghart goes red as the rest of the students titter and chatter, furiously glaring at the pool of ink dripping into her lap. 

You glance at Tom and share a silent look of amusement before the two of you simultaneously turn back to your notes, still smirking.

[breeeliss]

#LockedTombtober Day 6: Animal

a/n: short one today. life is busy and sucky so im falling further behind but oh well, you’ll just keep getting these into november

also i feel like i write in gideon’s POV a lot but it’s bc gideon’s brain is my brain lol

//

day 6: animal

griddlehark

// 

she names the stupid thing Stasia which is way more than it deserves. 

a mean tomb rat shouldn’t have such a regal name, but of course if Harrow is going to give anything a name it’s going to be the most ninth house name on the planet. and of course something that mean is going to adore Harrow. 

pets aren’t a thing in the ninth house because a pleasant existence isn’t a thing in the ninth house. it’s impossible for weak things to survive. rats are about the only things that persist in spite of the odds, and it’s always been an annoyance. they nip at your fingers if your hand dangles over the edge of your cot, and sometimes you’ll turn a dark Drearburh corner and accidentally find a small colony of them. they’re not enjoyable, and the only thing that keeps Gideon from stomping on them is that they might jump her in retaliation.

but Stasia is incomprehensibly tame, settled on Harrow’s shoulders as she stalks through the halls and hidden in her pockets as Harrow runs daily service. at meals, Harrow spills droplets of snow leek soup onto the waxy surfaces of the table for Stasia to lap up, and when Gideon passes by Harrow’s study, Stasia is curled up on one of her piss old books. it’s small in comparison to the bigger, nastier rats you find in the bowels of the castle, and has fur that’s a vivid, deep black. it always reminds Gideon of what Harrow would look like if she were a rat. 

but that’s not even the annoying part. the annoying part is that Harrow is a massive, raging, fantabulous bitch. a bitch that sneers, picks fights for no reason, scratches your eyes out as kids when you fight, and does nasty shit like get skeletal constructs to push Gideon down the last six steps of a steep staircase. and yet somehow, Harrow often pets Stasia gently with just the tip of her index finger and actually smiles when the thing lifts its head to meet it. somehow, Harrow makes a point to keep small bits of food scraps in her pockets to feed Stasia without even a thought. at this point, Gideon wouldn’t be surprise if the damn thing sleeps in Harrow’s room. 

Harrow treats a fucking rat with more kindness than she treats Gideon. 

not that Gideon needs Harrow’s kindness. she’ll sooner take a sword to the gut than bother with pining for something from someone so terrible. but it nags at her. it nags at her mostly because Gideon had gone through their whole life thinking Harrow a literal psychopath. knowing now that there’s softness in Harrow’s touch -- knowing that she fusses, cares, and smiles -- is excruciating. 

so there was an honest moment where Gideon considers leaving the rat alone when she discovers its leg pinched in the rusted hinge of a door -- probably too slow racing through the gap before the wind blew it shut. its a weak, small thing that would’ve probably died had Harrow not been taking care of it. survival of the fittest and all that when it comes to the ninth house. 

but the pained squeaking makes Gideon’s heart shrivel, and she swoops in to save the stupid thing. 

Stasia doesn’t bite and doesn’t wriggle. she lets Gideon take her to the kitchens to steal whatever flimsy is left in the dusty cabinets and wrap it around her leg with clumsy fingers. Gideon isn’t sure if it’s enough to make sure it doesn’t die from the injury, but Stasia’s nose nudges against Gideon’s palm, so she hopes it’s enough for now. she plucks whatever crumbs are left in her pockets and holds it out for Stasia to nibble on. 

and that’s how Harrow finds her, on the floor of the kitchens and tending to her pet. she’s not breathless or panicked, but there’s a pinch in her already pointed face. her eyes pause on Gideon and Stasia and her shoulders, which were already bunched when she sees Gideon’s face, drop with relief. 

“you found her...” Harrow breathes out. 

Gideon cups her hands around Stasia’s body and holds her out. “her leg was pinched in a door. i wrapped it as best I could, but if you have some spooky, creepy necromancy shit up your sleeve that’d be nice.” 

maybe Gideon shouldn’t judge Harrow for scrambling to pull Stasia in her hands and checking her over like her parents never did for her. it’s so hard to find things that love you back in this awful place. Drearburh, as much as Harrow puts her literal life blood into keeping it alive, shows no interest in returning the favor. but a mangy little tomb rat does. it would be pathetic if Gideon didn’t somehow also understand that need. 

Gideon locks eyes with Harrow who looks like she might have a compliment sitting on her tongue that seems more pleasant to chew over rather than speak aloud. but Harrow does something else that Gideon thinks may actually be worse -- she lays a hand on Gideon’s head and gently brushes her fingers through her locks so briefly that Gideon wondered if it was a hunger hallucination. but as Harrow turns her back, she leaves Gideon with a small whisper before rushing out. 

“I appreciate you taking care of her.” 

it’s so hard to find things that love you back in this awful place. so Gideon can only be angry with herself as her chest tightens delightfully at the newest glimpse of kindness hidden somewhere deep in Harrowhark Nonagesimus. 

[captain-lovelace]

Feel like there’s a certain kind of older cis woman who responds to young transmascs with rhetoric along the lines of “well I wanted to be a boy back when I was young but it was just a response to the fact that it was harder being a girl, and I’d have transitioned if the option was open so I could have what the men had, which would have been a mistake because I like being a woman” (with the implication that transmascs are transitioning to acquire male privilege and that “wanting to be a boy” is really just a normal response to the Natural Suffering of Womanhood, and that young people shouldn’t have the option to transition) and like… it’s so hard to deal with because taking offense at the implication that being transmasc is the easy way out immediately leads to the shutting of ears and a total refusal to listen, and saying that people should be allowed to experiment with gender even if they end up figuring out they’re cis is incomprehensible to them and also not really the point, and the misogyny these women grew up with was obviously extremely pervasive which is why they probably thought and are saying this but it’s also a complete false equivalence because the drive to transition, WHICH ISN’T EVEN INHERENT TO ALL TRANS PEOPLE, doesn’t come from a desire for privilege (and the idea of transmascs automatically having “male privilege” that isn’t tempered by transphobia is near comical in a lot of ways), and they’re coming from some deeply fucked and transphobic lines of reasoning that are unlikely to change, and. AUGH. I don’t even have a point to this it just sucks so much

[storytellerofuntoldlegends]

interrupted isolation: chapter 2

A/N: just a quick note!! while members of sbi are mentioned, i want to make it very clear that the only ones who are related are phil and wilbur. tommy only sees wilbur as a brotherly figure, and he mostly just knows phil as wilbur's dad. tommy and techno have a strenuous friendship at this point. but like i said, sbi is only mentioned and probably won't show up much (if at all). with that out of the way, enjoy some tommy and scott bonding time!

Warnings: trauma, implied/referenced character death (specifically past character death), banter

AO3 Link - Tumblr Masterpost

Tommy wasn’t sure what to make of this elf guy. Scott seemed just as jumpy as Tommy felt, but frankly Tommy was just waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him. Scott would inevitably send him away and take back all the things he had given like everyone else did. Tommy hoped Scott would at least let him keep the clothes he had given him- the fur lining the cloak was ridiculously soft, and even though Tommy was standing in the middle of a tower made of ice, he didn’t feel all that cold.

“Those actually fit you better than I thought,” Scott mused. The coat was definitely long in the arms, and there were the slits in the back for wings that Tommy didn’t have, but the gloves fit alright and the cloak covered his back anyhow. He had kept his own pants- they weren’t in that bad of shape, just a hole in the knee- but he definitely appreciated the boots.

“It’s uh. Cozy. Thanks,” Tommy muttered, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do now.

“Rivendell wool is the finest around,” Scott replied, sounding a bit down when he mentioned Rivendell. Whatever the fuck that was. Maybe he should ask about it.

“What’s Rivendell?” Tommy asked. Scott jumped a bit at the sudden question, and Tommy immediately felt like he did something wrong. He shouldn’t have asked, he shouldn’t have pushed- now Scott was surely going to take back letting him stay-

“Rivendell was my home, my empire. I don’t rule it anymore though,” Scott said softly. A dark look passed over his face, and suddenly Tommy was reminded of Wilbur in the caverns of Pogtopia. A leader, exiled and hopeless. But Scott spoke of Rivendell like a treasured memory of a childhood friend whom he had lost touch with, his tone remorseful and bittersweet. Wilbur had spoken of L’Manburg like it was something stolen, something he had to reclaim- something that if he couldn’t have it, no one could.

“You were exiled too?” Tommy asked quietly. Scott gave him a sad smile.

“Not by my people. I left by choice- uncontrollable ice magic, remember?” Scott said with a humorless laugh. Tommy stares at him blankly for a moment.

“You say that, but we’re in a fucking ice tower right now! Seems pretty controllable to me,” he pointed out, gesturing at their surroundings. Scott looked a little sheepish, wings shifting behind him slightly. Tommy vaguely recognized the action as a sign of nerves- he was pretty sure he’d seen Phil do something similar before.

“Well… I have more control now since leaving Rivendell. But back before I left, I wasn’t exactly making towers. Mostly just accidentally froze over water when I walked on it, caused snowstorms in my sleep, and somehow made giant ice spikes,” Scott replied with a nervous laugh.

“Doesn’t seem that bad,” Tommy pointed out with a frown. Scott let out an exasperated sigh.

“It’s bad when you have a prophecy of an eternal winter hanging over your head,” Scott muttered. Tommy blinked at Scott incomprehensibly. First magic ice powers, now something about a prophecy. What the fuck was this place?!

“Prophecy? Next you’ll be telling me that there’s some evil overlord who can only be defeated by the chosen one or some bullshit,” Tommy muttered. Scott went suspiciously quiet, and Tommy looked at him incredulously.

“Well-”

“You’ve gotta be fucking KIDDING me,” Tommy interrupted, burying his face in his hands.

“To be fair, that part of the prophecy is over with, I banished- well, trapped, I guess?- Xornoth into a crystal with the help of some friends, so we don’t have to worry about them anymore,” Scott explained in a rush, sounding like he was trying to convince himself more than Tommy. Something seemed vaguely familiar about this “Xornoth” Scott brought up- wait a fucking minute. Tommy looked up at Scott with a perplexed expression.

“Isn’t Xornoth the name of your brother?” Tommy asked. Scott suddenly looked like he was about to cry, and Tommy didn’t know what the fuck to do with that- but thankfully Scott schooled his expression back into something more neutral.

“They were too far gone, I didn’t have a choice. Plus the brother thing was… complicated anyhow. We were brothers in a past life, and I don’t really know if we were really brothers in this one,” Scott explained softly. Again, Tommy thought of Wilbur. The two of them weren’t really brothers… but Tommy wondered if it came down to it, if he could have done what Phil had to do on that terrible day. Or what Scott did, with his own actual brother. If he and Wilbur had some fucked up prophecy around them, could Tommy fulfill it? Then he remembered what Technoblade said about heroes, and he looked at the state of Scott before him. Prophecies and heroics only got you here: outcasted and isolated, whether it was of your own doing or someone else’s- that is, if you even lived through any of it at all.

“Prophecies sound stupid,” Tommy muttered. This surprised a laugh, a real one, out of Scott.

“That’s why I’m out here, far away from any empire. If I can learn to control my magic- which includes learning to unfreeze things, not just freeze things- then I can safely go home without worrying about causing an eternal winter and hurting anyone,” Scott explained. Tommy stared at him blankly.

“Kinda sounds like some self-sacrificial bullshit,” Tommy huffed. This got another laugh out of Scott, and while Scott was a stranger, there’s something comfortable that settles in the air between them. It reminded Tommy of simpler times, when he was joking around with his friends- no war, no looming threat, no exile.

“Maybe. But it was the only thing I could think of to keep my friends and my people safe,” Scott said with a small smile, and he turned to walk out of the tower. Tommy watched him leave for a moment, both in confusion and in slight awe of the elf (not that he’d admit the awe bit out loud). There was definitely more going on that he hadn’t told Tommy, and he got the feeling that he had stumbled upon quite the shitshow. But through it all- Scott was concerned about those near him. Hell, he even seemed concerned about Tommy, which was an odd experience. Tommy wondered what Rivendell was like, if someone as seemingly caring and kind as Scott was ruling it. But part of Tommy wondered if it was all a ruse, something to put him at ease so that Scott could do something terrible. He had banished his own brother or whatever, hadn’t he? Who’s to say he actually had noble intentions?

Tommy’s panicked internal monologue was cut off by the sound of Scott talking. He sounded agitated, and Tommy’s blood ran cold. This was it. Scott was already upset at him, and now he was going to show his true colors and turn Tommy into an ice sculpture or something. Tommy slowly made his way outside, bracing himself for the worst- and stared, dumbfounded at the scene before him. Because Scott was crouched next to an owl and talking to it. And the owl was chittering back at him.

“Slow down, slow down- how did you even find me here?” he reprimanded, scowling a bit at the owl. The owl gave a cheery screech, and Scott groaned. Tommy blinked a bit, distantly wondering if he should maybe run. Clearly this elf guy wasn’t quite right in the head- first he was talking about magic and prophecies, and then he started talking to the wildlife. The owl screeched and squawked at Scott a bit more, and Scott’s face went pale- well, paler than usual.

“Scott?” Tommy asked carefully. Scott startled a bit, and the owl looked at Tommy with something that felt like disapproval. He scowled back at the bird, he was NOT about to be judged by a pile of feathers with attitude.

“Fly home, and don’t tell anyone where you found me,” Scott said, turning his attention back to the owl. The owl just blinked up at him, not moving.

“You… you know you’re talking to an owl, right?” Tommy asked. Scott let out a sigh, standing up.

“Just… you better have left when I come back outside,” Scott said to the owl before turning back to Tommy.

“Are you alright, man?” Tommy asked, his gaze following Scott as he brushed past Tommy to get back into the ice tower. The owl hopped after him, and Tommy can’t help but chuckle a little at how stubborn the bird is.

“How would you like to see Rivendell?” Scott asked, pointedly ignoring Tommy’s question.

“Wh- but I thought you had to keep your people safe or something?” Tommy asked. The owl squawked, and Tommy wondered if he was going crazy too, because he could have sworn that screech sounded rather snarky in tone. Scott whirled around to glare at the owl, and the owl hopped to hide behind Tommy a bit. Scott rolled his eyes, shaking his head before he focused back on Tommy.

“Something came up- something more dangerous than the threat of an eternal winter. I have to make sure everything’s okay,” Scott explained.

“And… the owl told you this,” Tommy said slowly.

“Yup,” Scott replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. With that, he turned to gather things into a shulker box, and Tommy was left just staring at him in confusion. He looked down at the owl and the owl gave him a look that seemed to say “I dunno, this guy seems kinda sus” and yup, Tommy was definitely losing it. Maybe Tommy was suffering from ice madness, and maybe that’s what Scott’s issue was too. Tommy shook his head and looked back at Scott.

“I’m sorry, you’re telling me that you can fucking talk to owls?” he asked incredulously, deciding that he was not going to just let this slide.

“Anyone can talk to owls, but if you’re referring to understanding them, then yes, I can,” Scott said with a smug smile.

“Wh- how?!” Tommy sputtered.

“Winged elf,” Scott replied with a shrug, setting down an ender chest and placing his shulker box inside it.

“That’s not an answer!” Tommy said incredulously.

“I can sorta understand deer too, but I think that’s more a ‘Champion of Aeor’ thing than a winged elf thing,” Scott continued, and Tommy felt completely lost.

“A champion of what?” Tommy managed to get out, feeling incredibly judged by the owl that was still sitting by his feet.

“Not what, who. Aeor is the stag god that watches over Rivendell,” Scott explained. Well, Tommy was familiar with gods at least- Drista and XD were proof of that- and that explained why Scott had a shulker box. This was just the first time he’d heard of a deer god. And it certainly didn’t make any of this less odd.

“This is fucking weird, man,” Tommy muttered. Scott laughed, glancing around the tower for a brief moment before nodding and looking back to Tommy with a small frown.

“So… slight problem. You don’t have wings or an elytra, and I don’t have an elytra for you. And it’d be a long walk… are you alright with me carrying you?” Scott asked timidly. Tommy blinked at him in mild surprise. Once again, Tommy was startled by how kind Scott seemed. He felt like at any moment that exterior would fall away to reveal the true icy callousness beneath… but frankly, Tommy really didn’t want to walk.

“Uh, sure I guess-” the words were hardly out of his mouth before Scott scooped him up with surprising strength. He felt a bit like a baby, being carried like that, and he could feel his face burning with slight embarrassment… but it was strangely nice at the same time. Despite how little he knew about Scott, he felt safe for the first time he could remember. He looped his arms around Scott’s neck, pointedly refusing to meet the winged elf’s eyes.

“Comfy?” Scott asked, his voice tinged with slight mirth.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Tommy muttered. Scott chuckled good-naturedly, walking out of the ice tower. The owl hopped after them, and Scott shook his head at the bird. His wings stretched out a bit, icy feathers clinking. Tommy distantly wondered how exactly Scott could fly with ice on his wings, but with a few powerful beats, they were airborne. Tommy yelped, clinging a bit tighter to Scott and shoving his face against his shoulder.

“You alright?” Scott asked over the wind his wings were creating.

“Just fly!” Tommy shouted, still keeping his face buried in Scott’s shoulder. Scott shifted one hand a bit to give Tommy’s arm a comforting squeeze, and with that, they were off to Rivendell.

-

taglists below!! ask to be added depending if you want to be notified whenever i post any mcyt fic, or just this one!

general mcyt fic taglist: @corazon10000 @damiensaidno @franticfandomfanatic @gattonero17 @hetapeep41 @meowdy-pickles @space-ace123 @vyeoh 

interrupted isolation taglist: @midnightmagi

[jangofctts]

Bloodsport (din djarin x fem!reader) (part one) 

rated: 18+

word count: 5.4k

warnings: smut, knife kink (no blood is drawn and consent is clearly given), blowjobs, vaginal fingering, din is sorta a virg duDE, alcohol, mentions of violence (reader punches someone in the face kwejrkejh), some gambling (sabaac) also please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: oOf this is the first fic in sO LONG IM SO SORRY YALL KEHJRKEJH BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU ENJOY

It’s been a couple months since Din’s stepped foot on the sandy nightmare of a planet. Went through hell and back and kriff—it feels like a lifetime ago. But the landscape before him hasn’t changed an inch, Mos Eisley same as always—busy with all sorts of scum and villainy he turns a blind eye to. 

Din hopes it’s not the only thing that’s stayed the same—selfish as it is. Someone as volatile as you is bound to catalyze and shift, so is the nature of life. A lot can happen in a month or two and it’s ridiculous to think that you would ever push your life to the side and wait for him to return.    

Turns out, you are here, still working as the resident mechanic. Though in the same elated breath of hearing that tidbit of news, it’s equally dissatisfying when he somehow misses you completely. You’re off planet, looking for power converters and electrical wiring—back in few days Peli promises. Maybe by the time his wild goose chase is over, back from the butt fuck middle of nowhere, he’ll get to see you— 

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.           

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible. 

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here. 

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction. 

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.” 

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning. 

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.” 

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either… 

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.  

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.  

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow. 

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.  

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are. 

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?” 

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it. 

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”  

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”        

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you. 

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.   

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air. 

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.  

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter. 

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.     

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more. 

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.     

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.” 

Touching. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…   

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow. 

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“ 

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.” 

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.   

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen. 

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor. 

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.” 

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three. 

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand. 

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop. 

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.  

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.   

You scowl. “It’s fine.” 

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose. 

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums. 

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”  

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel. 

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face. 

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.   

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep. 

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.” 

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.  

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin. 

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.    

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.   

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward. 

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.” 

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you. 

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers. 

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw. 

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers. 

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”   

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not. 

Whatever.       

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare. 

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.    

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need. 

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp. 

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.  

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”  

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.    

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet. 

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides. 

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away. 

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off. 

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.  

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no. 

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head. 

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat.  Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts. 

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter. 

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise. 

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans. 

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world. 

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull  as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.      

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.  

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

tags (only tagging some moots for now bc i have no clue what’s going on in this fandom anymore dbdndn): @goldafterglow @jango-fettish @djxrxn @blsmjoon @spookoofins @krissology @steeeeeeeviebb @teaofpeach @comphersjost @gummiishark @delusionsxfgrandeur @pettyprocrastination @huliabitch

[helliontherapscallion]

Anon who’s dog had a seizure. I wanted to be able to give a positive update, but I won’t be able to. I was woken up by a call at around 1:30am from my mom and the first thing she said was “[my dogs name] died”

I don’t know all the details, I was in a full fledge panic attack and was overcome with despair when it was either explained to me or I overheard (frankly, I don’t remember) but apparently at some point either last night or veryyyyy early this morning my mom let the dog out to use the restroom, and he collapsed again similarly to how he did two days ago. My mom rushed him to the emergency vet (a thirty minute drive) but he didn’t even make it there.

I think I was dry heaving at some point because my panic was so bad. I ended up going to the vet with my dad so I could say goodbye (he had before my mom left with the dog) and ngl, going with him did not help in the slightest. My dad has NPD and he kept making the situation about himself and I stg I was ready to throw myself out the car window in the middle of the freeway and walk the rest of the way there OOP—

I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to because of Covid, but we were allowed to all head into the vet and hold him and give proper goodbyes before they took him to be cremated (they have a partnership with some place that does all that jazz). It was rough. He’s a small dog, only 18 pounds, but just holding him felt so different. There was no resistance when I picked him up (I’m not his favorite person lol, so he’d always deadpan and shuffle away a little from me before giving in whenever i’d make grabby hands hahaha) and it was just rough.

A year and a half ago my old bird passed away in that same emergency vet, so I just felt like I was suffocating the whole time. It was basically history repeating itself and I had a ✨mental breakdown✨ while cradling the pooch. My mom almost had to drag me out 2.5 hours later because I didn’t want to leave him. I tried to be strong, he was her dog in the end and they had an unbreakable bond. I should’ve been the one comforting her, not the other way around. I totally failed lol.

Thank god I was able to go home with my mom and not my dad. I wanted to be the one to drive home so she could rest, but I didn’t have the energy to protest when I saw she was already in the drivers seat.

We’ve had him since he was a few months old. I was in first grade at the time, and despite us having a very rocky start (young me didn’t like all the attention he received bc it used to be mine) he was my lil buddy and I would have done anything for him. I was looking forward to taking my senior and graduation pictures with him soon, but it seems like that won’t be happening. I just wish I did more with him.

Sorry for rambling and being so depressing! I haven’t gotten much sleep over the past two nights so I’m really out of it.

If it’s not too much to ask for, could I have a part ii of my previous request but have it involving what I wrote above? Asdfghjkl my depressed ass needs comfort and all of my friends are in school LOL. (Thank god I was called off from school this time) Plus, I don’t wanna make my mom feel worse by adding my grief on top of her own (I hope that made sense)

Part 1

(A/N): anon, I’m so sorry to hear about your dog. From what you sent me about him, he sounded like an absolute delight to be around and a very good boy. You deserve to grieve too, even if you don’t think you should. Grieving is healthy and it’s something that shouldn’t be ignored. Everyone grieves differently, so maybe you and your mom could reminisce on the good times with him? Only if you both feel comfortable doing so of course. Please get some sleep, drink plenty of water, and eat some food if you haven’t already. My DMs are always open if you ever want to talk <3

Warnings: death of a dog and bird (mentioned), panic attacks, NPD parent mention

You were jolted awake by a loud ring from your phone laying on your nightstand. It was the ringtone you specifically set for your mom. Blinking deliriously, you answered with a raspy, “mom?”

You were only met with her choked sobs on the other end. This woke you up completely as you turned on a lamp and sat up fully in your bed, “mom what’s wrong?”

“(Dog name)...” She was unable to say your dog's name before she broke into more harsh sobbing. Worry and fear pricked your gut at the mention of your dog’s name. “What about (dog name)? What’s going on?”

“He d-died, (y/n). He isn’t suffering anymore.” You felt as if ice cold water was poured onto you as you sat staring at the wall in shock. Faintly you heard your mom telling you how it happened, but you didn’t register her words. The words that came out of your mother’s mouth were nearly incomprehensible anyways due to her distress. You didn’t know when she hung up, but the next time you looked at the phone screen your homescreen met you: a picture of you, Techno, Wilbur, and Tommy at an amusement park. 

Your panic attack had escalated to you dry heaving over the toilet after puking up your dinner. You felt like you were suffocating as you remembered the techniques Techno used a few days prior. You stumbled up from a crouch and scrambled over to the sink. Your hands could barely grab the faucet and turn it on as you lost most of your sense of spatial awareness and everything you touched felt distant, like every single synapse in your body was both simultaneously working in overdrive and failing at the same time. The water was as cold as it was going to get, so you plunged your hands into the liquid and felt your body jolt at the temperature. After a while, your hands turned numb after regaining some senses back so you shakily cupped your hands under the faucet and gathered water into your hands. You splashed it at your face and felt yourself becoming more grounded as time passed.

By the time you left the bathroom, your dad gathered you into the car and started to drive you to the emergency vet. The entire time he was ranting about how you needed to pull yourself together because the dog was closer to him than to you. That definitely did not help in any way, it made you want to jump out of the car and walk the rest of the way to the vet. It would be better than having someone constantly belittling you for grieving. The ride was hell, but you persevered for (dog name). You needed to say goodbye to him.

When you left the car and walked into the building, it felt as if you were walking through the nine rings of hell with blazing infernos licking at your skin with every step. Dread and despair filled and overwhelmed you with every step. 

When a nurse escorted you to the room, she offered you her condolences and left you to say goodbye. With wide eyes, you slowly walked over to your mom and saw the motionless bundle of fur in her hands. It looked like he was sleeping, but you knew better. She looked at you with so much heartbreak and sadness as tears slipped down her cheeks that you remembered that he was her dog in the end and they’ve always had an unbreakable bond. You needed to be strong for her.

Your stony facade broke the second your mom handed you (dog name). He was cold and stiff as he laid unmoving in your arms, not even trying to wiggle out of your embrace like he always did. You were never his favorite person. He felt so… different. So wrong. 

Time passed around you as you held him and cried into his fur. This situation was very similar to your previous one that happened about a year and a half ago when your bird passed away and that was what finally sent you over the edge. Before you knew it, your mom was dragging you out of the building so he could get cremated. Your dad had long since gone home so he could get ready for work, so that left you to ride home with your mom. Not that you were complaining, it was certainly better than riding home with your dad. You just wished that you could drive so she could get some rest. 

By time you got home, it was about the same time you would leave for school. As you were driving down your neighborhood, you saw a very familiar car pass you. It was Techno, Wilbur, and Tommy’s car. They were probably going to school. You kept your head down and stared intensely at your tightly clasped hands. 

The second the car was in park in your driveway, you made a beeline for your room. For the rest of the day, you hid underneath your covers and ignored the incessant buzzing of your phone on the nightstand. You spent that time alone having a panic attack. This was your longest and most intense one yet, by the time it finally calmed down it was 10:30 at night. 

You smacked your dry lips together and feel absolutely drained. The buzzing still wouldn’t let up, so you reached out with a shaky hand and opened your phone. You had at least eighty combined missed texts from Wilbur, Tommy, and Techno. 

Tuesday, Innit?

Yo, the fuck’s goin on? 

Why the hell did you ignore us when we passed you???

Music man take me by the hand lead me to the land

Ignore that dumbass

What’s going on? You weren’t at school today

(Y/n)?

Technology Sword

You don’t have to tell us what happened if you’re not comfortable

Just tell us if you’re okay

That was only the start of the messages in the group chat. Granted it was mostly Tommy spamming your name and Wilbur and Techno trying to get him to chill out, but some of the messages managed to calm the swirling panic inside of you slightly. Your phone buzzed as you got another text. This time, it was an individual one from Technoblade.

Technology Sword

Look out your window, grab your notebook

You raised your eyebrows slightly as you read the message. Your window was right across from Technoblade’s, so when you saw Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me” music video and showed it to Techno, you both decided that this would be your primary communication before you eventually got phones. It wasted a ton of paper, but you both felt like the main characters in a story so you kept doing it. You hadn’t done this since you got your phone and he got his. 

After you grabbed your spare notebook and a sharpie, you sat up in your bed and turned on your lamp. When you opened your curtains, you saw Techno smiling at you before he grabbed his notebook and wrote ‘hello’. 

You uncapped your marker, wrote ‘hi’, and shakily raised it to him. You saw him frown at your shakiness, he wrote ‘you okay?’

You stared at your paper for a bit contemplating whether or not you should tell him the truth. It was no use in lying to him, he knew you better than you knew yourself. After a moment, you wrote ‘no’.

You watched as he frowned and his eyebrows crinkled together in an upwards slant. ‘Discord?’

‘Sure’

You closed your curtains once more and opened up your PC. You could already see that Techno, Wilbur, and Tommy were in a separate voice channel. When you joined, you were startled by Tommy’s loud screaming and Wilbur’s hysterical laughter. 

“WILBUR YOU PRICK WHY THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT I WORKED SO HARD GETTING THAT NETHERITE!” 

They were interrupted by a knock on Tommy’s door, “Tommy for the love of god it’s almost eleven at night kiddo. You can keep playing but please just keep it down.”

“SORRY DADZA!”

“Good job dumbass,” Wilbur chuckled.

“Hey (y/n), how’re you?” Techno’s somewhat pointed voice interrupted them. “(Y/N)! Please tell Wilbur that it’s not cool to borrow my armor and ‘accidentally’ fall into a lava lake.”

“It was an accident I swear!” Wilbur’s slight chuckle told you otherwise. “Wilbur,” your croaky and wobbly voice scolded him quietly, “not cool.”

The voice channel went silent as you logged into your shared minecraft server. You immediately spawned in the main lobby at spawn that you built the last time you logged in. You got to work gathering wood for walls you were going to build around the city. You saw Techno’s character run to you and help you gather wood. 

“...You good, (y/n)?” Tommy’s voice took on an uncharacteristic level of gentleness and concern. 

“‘M fine.” 

After a while of silence, you heard keyboards start to click again. Gradually conversation started back up and everything felt lighthearted once more. Though, you only talked when you were prompted to. After gathering the correct amount of wood, you and Techno went back to your house so you could craft some slabs. However as you approached the crafting table, you passed your bed. Next to your bed was your pet dog, barking slightly and looking at you with it’s pixel eyes. 

You could feel tears well up in your eyes at the sight of the pixelated dog. With a lump forming in your throat you struggled to breathe through it, your breaths coming out shuttering. You made quick work of muting yourself on Discord and started sobbing, the white dog staring at you sitting on top of your minecraft bed. This wasn’t a panic attack, you knew that. But you still felt overcome by a massive wave of grief. 

After a bit, you saw Techno’s character pop in front of you and start hitting the air. In chat, you saw that he private messaged you ‘vc 2’

You clicked off the main voice chat and was immediately greeted by Techno’s gentle voice. “What’s goin on buddy?” He was only met with your sobs, “deep breaths.”

“I’m not having a panic attack.”

“Still, deep breaths are good. Follow me.” With that, you two worked on getting your breathing back to normal and your tears slowly stopped. The entire time he was giving you praise and gentle reassurances whenever you tried to apologize to him. By the time you stopped crying you felt almost completely drained. 

“You okay now?” You hummed in confirmation, too tired to say anything. “Thank you Tech, I-I’m sorry-”

“Stop apologizing for feeling emotions. They’re one hundred percent valid… Do you feel comfortable telling me what happened?”

“I…” You trailed off as you couldn’t bring yourself to say the words out loud. “You don’t have to tell me, ya know.” Technoblade gently reminded you.

“I’ll PM it to you.” With that, you PMed him on minecraft explaining that your dog died this morning. “Fuck, I’m so sorry (y/n). I’m sure he isn’t suffering anymore. Did- did they ever find out what caused the seizures?”

“No, but… he had tons of health issues that I’m glad he doesn’t have to deal with anymore.” 

“Do you wanna talk about the good times with him with Wil and Tommy? If you don’t want to we can just talk about them here.”

“Let’s rejoin the main voice channel.”

“Hey (y/n), how’re you doing?” Wilbur gently asked you. “I’m alright, do- do you guys know what happened?” They both said yes. Technoblade must’ve told them what was happening.

“(Y/n) come outside. We built something for you.” Tommy was uncharastically gentle. 

When you moved to go outside of your minecraft house and Wilbur and Tommy led you to an empty spot in the city you four were building, you stopped in your tracks. In front of you built in various types of stone was a dog statue. In front of it stood a sign that read ‘in loving memory of (dog name)’.

“We aren’t done with it, but we can finish it in a couple of hours,” Wilbur mumbled into the microphone. 

“No, it’s perfect as it is. I don’t know what to say guys…”

“You don’t have to say anything, just know that we’re here for you.” Tommy said, his minecraft character walking over to your own and hitting you. 

“Oi, don’t hit them!” Techno punched him back and that started an all out brawl between the two. It quickly ended when Techno pulled out his fully enchanted netherite sword named ‘Orphan Obliterator’. 

“Get fucked, nerd.” You could just tell Tommy was holding in screaming at his brother. “I’m not the nerd here, you’re the one that reads for fun.” Tommy retorted. You heard shuffling on Techno’s end and him walking away from his PC. You were about to ask what was happening before you heard Tommy silently scream in terror. “Oh fuck he’s coming!” You assumed that Tommy ran to lock his door. Not long after that you heard a knock, “I just wanna talk.”

“No! You-”

“I just wanna talk.”

“Let him talk, Tommy!”

“NO WILBUR.”

You heard Philza’s groggy muffled voice, “it is midnight on a Friday. I don’t care what happens or who fights who, just do it in your own rooms and do it quietly.” 

“Sorry Dad,” you heard Techno’s retreating steps before he returned to his chair. “You’re a douche, Technoblade.” 

“I just wanted to talk, Tommy.” At that, Techno started beating Tommy to death once more. Each time he would kill Tommy, he would give Tommy a small head start before he would find him again. While this was happening, Wilbur PMed you ‘wanna prank Tommy and Techno? I’m thinking we put chickens under their houses’.

You looked at his player and nodded. You and Wilbur got to work luring chickens into holes you dug around their bases and burying them so that they were close enough to hear, but deep enough for it to be mildly inconvenient finding them. After you two were done with that, you met at spawn again.

“Techno stop killing Tommy. We want to tell stories about (dog name).” You saw Techno’s character sprint to your group and Tommy’s come up from a hole in the ground. “I was just about to find him.”

“Thank you! God, I hate it when he does that.”

The rest of the night you four spent reminiscing on the funny things that (dog name) did over the years. At some points you even laughed along with them. After you told them that you wanted to take your senior pictures with him, Techno offered to edit him into your photos. You didn’t know when you passed out but when you woke up, you had a crick in your neck and your PC monitor was off. You could hear three sets of soft snoring on the other end of the call. You felt yourself drifting off to their gentle breathing and smiled slightly; with them, everything felt better.