#someone who talks sense yet isn't a dick about it

[review-anon]

Mai! Talk about Mai!

She's best girl so of course I will talk about her.

Under the cut we go!

Mai is in all honestly the single most genre savvy character I have ever seen in a Danganronpa title; both canon and fangan. She knows and avoids all the common pitfalls that most characters fall into; don't make enemies as that paints a target, be suspicious but keep a open mind, allows people to make their statements so everyone's opinions are on the table etc. Its like she's read a guide on "how to survive a killing game" because most of what Mai does, is what fans have legitimately suggested to do in order to make sure you don't get targeted and killed.

It also helps she's one of the most physically imposing characters in the cast, meaning the amount of people who want to mess with her are almost none as nobody wants to mess with a bounty hunter. There's also the fact she doesn't sugercoat how dirty her job is; she freely admits to taking lives, but since they were villians she doesn't regret it one bit, and knows how to use weapons such knives and guns. I am curious what made her want to become a bounty hunter as not many people enter that job willingly so maybe something happened to her in the past that made her realise normal justice is bad and she needs to take matters into her own hands?

Her no nonsense yet still empathatic personality means a lot of the situations which could have spiralled out of control in most normal games, don't because Mai has a clear head, injects sense and logic into the matter and this makes the situation defuse peacefully. The Yanagi situation is a capital example of that because in most games, this would be the prelude to a murder but becasue Mai has a sensible idea to make sure Yanagi is given a chance to atone but under a supervised environment, and thus nothing bad happens and heck Yanagi is given chances to redeem himself, rather then be written off as someone who's shown their true colours.

As well as Kamimura, due to the fact she's taken lives, Mai is someone who doesn't mind touching and inspecting dead bodies for any useful information. That and her knowledge on weapons means that if said weapon is used, she can tell if it was done lethally or non lethally at a glance.

I've already mentioned her interactions with Yanagi before but I do applaud on how patient she is with him. I think at first she thinks he was a casanova bastard but once she learns the context behind why he cheated on his girlfriend, she realises that Yanagi is too pure for his own good and cannot handle how rough the world and thus decides to look out for him, because she knows he's far too naive to cope with the harsh reality.

As much as I love Mai to surivive, given how BS this game has been, I do suspect she might bite the dust as a victim and as for how, I don't know but maybe a really scummy motive was used. Then again seeing how she's fought off sleep deprivation and aderelinine gas, I don't know what the masterminds could throw at her.

Of course I always assume my favs die so when they do live I get very happy. Its the ultimate way to not feel disappointed, a character either dies or they live. simple as.

[acid-ixx]

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

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[jellybonbons]

Shared Apartment, Shared Feelings

Leon Kennedy x gn afab!reader

CW: 18+ (mdni), virgin reader, college roommate au, retired fuckboy!leon, vendetta trio (chris, leon & rebecca), talks about virginity/relationship/trauma (car accident), fluff/angst/smut, a lot of kissing, dick piercing, oral job (afab receiving), pussy slapping, thigh jobs, aftercare.

Words: 7.4k

A/N: special thanks to my wife @roseglazedlens for beta reading and helping me with the banners <3 muah muah

Without a doubt, college is such a drag. It’s a wonder you haven’t given up on yourself already, with all the assignments piling up, submissions one after another, professors breathing down your neck, dealing with crappy groupmates and customers from your part-time job. But here you are, almost three years deep into your degree, with no turning back now.

You sighed, feeling the strain in your fingers from typing away all day. The pressure was real with an assignment due in just a few days. You tried to unwind with a book and music, but the impending thought of reading through another paragraph might just make your head explode. 

It’s been known that college can get pretty lonely at times. Sure, you've got friends here and there, but they're all caught up in their own stuff, on top of all that, their partners. This is when you wish you had one yourself. You've had your fair share of relationships or flings in the past, but it never really went beyond first base – blame it on your commitment issues and insecurities.

Virginity is a funny thing, isn't it? Some people don't really give it much thought, while others, like yourself, see it as a significant part of who they are. To you, it's more than just a physical state – it's about vulnerability, about letting someone in and truly being seen. Maybe that's why your relationships never seem to last long. You realise now that you settled for them, not for yourself. You were caught up in the idea of a relationship rather than being honest with yourself about what you truly wanted and needed. 

Heading into college, you finally found yourself crushing on someone – your roommate, Leon Kennedy. Your first meeting was awkward, to say the least. It started with your classmate-turned-friend, Rebecca Chambers, asking if you wanted to live with her and two of her friends since they had an extra room. Without hesitation, you agreed – after all, why not? Splitting the rent between four people and having a bigger apartment than your current one sounded like a win-win. But when you finally met her two friends, it felt like you stumbled upon an adorable squirrel with her two guard dogs.

You could definitely say that Leon and his other friend, Chris Redfield, were pretty protective of her, but Rebecca reassured them that she trusted you and thought you were a lovely person – bless her heart. From that day on, the tension slowly dissipated, and all of you learned how to live with each other, quirks and all. If there was ever a disagreement, Chris would call for a 'family meeting' to sort things out.

You've grown close to both Chris and Rebecca, but with Leon, it's different. He's close, yet there's still a sense of distance.

—

Exhibit A: 

The huge, comfortable couch in the living room was decorated with a mismatched assortment of decorative pillows, giving the area a homely, well-worn feel. The walls were covered in posters of bands, and a shelf next to it held a tidy collection of DVDs. Game controllers, remote controls, and empty food wrappers were frequently strewn all over the coffee table – no matter how many times Rebecca told Chris and Leon to clean them up. The room had the ideal ambience for movie evenings thanks to the floor lamp's warm glow and the fairy lights. 

You noticed that Leon would always have your favourite snacks on hand, without you even needing to ask. But then again, he made sure to get snacks for everyone else too. You never once mentioned your favourite snacks to him – you guess he might have overheard you talking to Rebecca in the dining area while he was playing video games with Chris in the living room that one time.

"Here," Leon said, passing you the brightly wrapped package after doling out snacks to the others.

“Thanks,” you said, taking them from Leon. “How did you know these are my favourites?”

He shrugged casually. “Maybe I'm just good at picking up on things.” 

"But I've never told you," you pointed out, genuinely curious.

Leon hesitated for a moment, his gaze meeting yours. "I've got my ways of finding out,” he replied cryptically before turning away to grab a drink.

You raised an eyebrow, not entirely convinced by his response. “Oh, well, thanks again.”

"Oh my god! It's been so long since I've eaten those," Rebecca, who was cuddled up next to you, exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as she gazed at your snacks. You chuckled at her enthusiasm.

"You want some?" you offered, opening the snack package. 

"Yes, please!" she eagerly replied.

If you had turned back, you would have noticed Leon's ears turning a faint shade of red, but you were too focused on sharing the snacks with Rebecca to notice his reaction.

Exhibit B: 

Amidst the chaos of exam week, you and Chris had taken over the living room for a study session. Notes, textbooks, and Post-it notes were strewn everywhere, creating a cluttered workspace. Rebecca had wisely chosen to isolate herself in her room, knowing that if she joined you two, it would devolve into gossip rather than studying. As for Leon, he preferred the solitude of studying alone.

By 2 am, Chris had already succumbed to exhaustion, snoring away on the couch. Meanwhile, you were hunched over your notes on the floor, frustration building as you re-read the material for what felt like the hundredth time. A headache was starting to form, exacerbated by the late hour and Chris' snoring.

Lost in your work, you didn't notice Leon's quiet approach until he set a hot mug of green tea on the coffee table beside you. "Take a break," he said casually, before moving over to Chris and gently nudging him awake, signaling that it was time for him to call it a night.

"Hey, wake up," Leon whispered.

Chris grunted in response, rolling over to his side and snoring loudly. Leon couldn't help but roll his eyes and deliver a – gentle – punch to Chris's arm, hoping it would be enough to jolt him awake.

"Ouch! Damn, Leon, that hurts," Chris groaned, rubbing his arm where Leon had punched him.

Leon, unapologetic, raised an eyebrow at Chris. "Maybe if you didn't snore like a freight train, I wouldn't have to resort to violence." 

Chris, still rubbing his arm, shot you a playful glare. "Well, if someone didn't study so quietly, maybe I wouldn't need to fill the room with my soothing snores."

"Don't look at me, I'm just trying to study peacefully," you retorted, raising your hand in mock surrender while cradling the mug in your other.

"Yeah, right. Your snores are like lullabies, Chris. I almost fell asleep while making my late-night snack,” Leon said with a slight smirk. 

Chris mockingly gasped. "You wound me, Leon. My snores are an art form." 

You chuckled. "Well, gentlemen, whether it's an art form or a lullaby, it's time for the masterpiece to take a break. Chris, go get some beauty sleep." Chris nodded.

"You too, don't stay up too late," Leon said to you, shooting a glance in your direction before grabbing Chris by his shirt.

"I'm up, I'm up," Chris protested, his voice muffled as Leon playfully put him in a headlock and guided him towards his room.

You couldn't help but chuckle at their antics, taking another sip of your tea as you watched them disappear down the hallway.

—

You found yourself in a dilemma. Leon had always been just a friend, but lately, you couldn't shake off the growing attraction you felt towards him. It wasn't just his physical appearance that drew you in, although his blue eyes, his piercings and the little details about him were certainly captivating. It was the way he was always there for you, that’s what friends are for, right?

You discovered that you couldn't stop thinking about him, day or night. His presence seemed to linger in your mind, occupying your thoughts even when you were supposed to be focusing on something else. You couldn't help but notice the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his video game strategies or the way he would absentmindedly run his hand through his hair when he was deep in thought. And those moles scattered across his skin, you found yourself itching to trace your fingers over them, to memorise every little detail of him. 

But despite your growing feelings, you were hesitant to act on them. You cherished the ‘friendship’ you shared with Leon and you were afraid of risking it by admitting your true feelings. So for now, you kept your emotions buried deep within, hoping that they would eventually fade away – but they didn’t.

— 

Leon had been sceptical when Rebecca first introduced you to him and Chris. He thought you might have ulterior motives, using her to get closer to him for his body. After all, he had a reputation as a fuckboy, although he considered himself a retired one now. That's why both him and Chris were so protective of her; he didn't want to drag Rebecca into his messy past again.

However, Leon was genuinely surprised when he discovered that you didn't know much about his past. While you were aware of his existence, you weren't deeply immersed in campus drama, preferring to spend your time online with other interests. You treated him like any other person, and he found himself grateful for that. In the past, he had been the worst version of himself, indulging in alcohol, weed, and sex, using his body to get whatever he wanted. But hey, in this economy, whatever works. 

He had grown accustomed to people using him, whether it was for physical gratification or emotional support. It was the darkest chapter of his history, and his once-close friendship with Chris and Rebecca had deteriorated to the point where they were practically strangers, but that was six months ago. Now they were back to being three peas in a pod, their bond stronger than ever.

Then came that one fateful night – that one awful night – when he had drunk too much and made the reckless decision to drive home while intoxicated from a party. What great friends he had. 

As Leon stirred awake in the hospital room, the rhythmic beeping of machines punctured the air, accompanied by the clinical scent of antiseptic. His gaze fell upon Rebecca, slumbering peacefully in a chair beside his bed, though the fatigue evident in the bags beneath her eyes spoke of restless nights spent by his side. Summoning what little strength he could muster, he attempted to rouse her with a feeble movement of his finger.

Suddenly, Chris burst into the room, bearing two cups of coffee in hand. The sight of Leon awake nearly caused him to fumble the cups, hastily setting them down on a nearby table before rushing to his friend's bedside with evident concern. Rebecca, startled by Chris's sudden entrance and booming voice, blinked awake in a daze.

“Leon, you’re awake!” Rebecca's smile lit up the room as she clasped Leon's uninjured hand in hers.

Leon attempted to speak, but his dry throat betrayed him. Swift to notice, Chris quickly retrieved a water bottle and a straw for Leon. While Rebecca, with practised ease adjusted the bed to a more comfortable position, allowing Leon to sit up slightly. As soon as the straw touched his lips, Leon didn't hesitate to take a much-needed sip, the cool water soothing his parched throat.

Once he had quenched his thirst, Leon managed a weak smile of gratitude, his gaze shifting between Chris and Rebecca. "Thanks, guys," he murmured hoarsely, his voice still rough from disuse. 

"Was anyone else hurt?” he asked anxiously, recalling the events of the previous night with a sense of dread. He knew he had made a terrible mistake by driving under the influence, and he dreaded the thought of anyone else being harmed because of his actions. 

Chris exchanged a glance with Rebecca before answering, his expression sombre. "It was just you, Leon," he replied gently, placing a comforting hand on Leon's shoulder. "You're lucky, man. Could've been a lot worse."

Rebecca nodded in agreement, her worry evident in her eyes. "We're just glad you're okay," she added softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

For once in his life, he let his tears flow freely, openly crying in front of them. There were many reasons for his tears, but two stood out: their unwavering support despite his past behaviour and the stark realisation of how close he came to losing everything. It felt like a wake-up call, a sign that he needed to change his ways.

As both Chris and Rebecca leaned in for an embrace, he felt the warmth of their love enveloping him. That moment marked a new beginning for them. They took turns caring for him, offering support and encouragement every step of the way. And with their help, he began to see a therapist to address his trauma and work through his issues, determined to become a better version of himself.

He knew he wasn't perfect, but he was steadily making progress.

—

You were like a breath of fresh air, bringing a sense of normalcy to Leon's life outside his close circle of friends. The more he observed you, the more smitten he became. He found himself falling hard for you, enchanted by the melody of your voice and the way your smile lit up the room. Even when you laughed at his silly jokes while Chris and Rebecca remained unimpressed, it only deepened his infatuation. From your quick wit to your undeniable charm, he felt like a lovesick puppy in your presence. 

Many moments with you left a lasting impression on Leon. One night, he had fallen asleep on the couch, and you had just returned from a night shift. Spotting Leon asleep, you crept, careful not to disturb him. You gently placed your belongings on the dining table before quietly slipping into his room to retrieve a blanket.

You returned with the blanket and draped them over him, ensuring he stayed warm throughout the night. As you crouched down beside him, you couldn't resist the urge to tuck a loose strand of his hair behind his ear, smiling softly at the peaceful expression on his sleeping face. 

As you quietly left the room and retreated to your own, Leon being the light sleeper he was, felt a rush of emotions flooding through him. His heart raced as he became aware of your proximity, even in his slumber. The gentle touch of your hand and the warmth of your presence lingered in his mind, leaving him feeling strangely comforted yet unsettled all at once. It was a moment he couldn't shake, stirring something within him that he couldn't quite put into words.

These mixed emotions were still present during another memorable moment, when you, Chris, Rebecca, and Leon gathered for a pizza dinner. Chris, in his usual generous fashion, ordered a variety – cheese, pepperoni, and BBQ pizzas. The living room transformed into a makeshift dining area as you all settled in to watch a movie while enjoying the feast. Despite the lively atmosphere, Leon found himself quietly observing you, the feelings from the previous night still lingering in his mind, adding a layer of depth to the otherwise ordinary gathering.

Whatever, he shook his thoughts away.

As the pizza boxes opened, Leon grabbed a slice of the BBQ pizza, only to discover a surplus of onions. His displeasure was evident and despite his efforts to discreetly pick off the offending toppings, the struggle did not go unnoticed by you.

Your laughter bubbled up as you observed Leon's onion-removing antics. "Not a fan of onions, huh?" you teased.

"Nah, I don’t like the extra crunch," Leon replied, continuing to pick them off.

You extended your plate towards him. "Just give them to me; I like onions," you offered with a smile.

"Really? Thanks," Leon responded, handing you the onion-laden slices.

"You need to stop being such a picky eater, Leon," Chris chimed in between bites of his pizza.

Leon shook his head defiantly. "Nope, not happening," he retorted, earning a round of laughter from the group.

Rebecca joined in, adding with a playful grin, "Hey, at least now we know who the real onion lover is around here!" 

After your laughter died down, you couldn't help but sneak a glance at Leon – you loved onions, but little did they know that you had a particular disdain for red onions.

Despite all this, Leon couldn't shake the memories that haunted him. Beneath the surface of his laidback demeanour lay a vulnerability he had yet to reveal to anyone outside his close circle of friends.

It was a sunny morning as you and Leon walked side by side to class, chatting idly about your schedules. But then your conversation was abruptly interrupted by the screech of tyres from behind, a sharp, piercing sound that seemed to echo through Leon's bones.

Without warning, Leon's steps faltered, his body freezing in place as his breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened with fear, his muscles tensing as if preparing for impact.

You sensed the shift in his demeanour immediately, instincts kicking in as you turned to face him, concern etched across your features. "Leon?" you called softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "Are you okay?"

"Don't," he said sharply, his voice tinged with a mixture of desperation and frustration. "Please, just... don't touch me."

You froze, your heart sinking at the rejection. You had never seen Leon react like this before, and the realisation only fueled your determination to help him.

"Okay," you said softly, pulling your hand back. "I won't touch you. But I'm here, Leon. You're not alone."

Leon's breaths came in short, ragged gasps, his gaze fixed on the ground as he struggled to regain control of his racing thoughts.

Thinking quickly, you searched for another way to reach him. You remembered the breathing exercises you learned from the internet, the rhythmic pattern designed to calm the mind in moments of distress.

"Leon," you said gently, your voice a steady anchor in the storm of his panic. "Listen to me. We're going to try something, okay? Just focus on my voice."

Leon nodded hesitantly, his gaze flickering up to meet yours.

"Close your eyes," you instructed, your own voice calm and measured. "Now, take a deep breath in through your nose... and out through your mouth. Good. Now, let's do it again. In... and out."

Together, both of you repeated the breathing exercises; Leon's tense muscles gradually relaxing with each steady breath. You kept your voice low and soothing, guiding him through the process with gentle encouragement.

The chaotic noise of the campus faded into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of your shared breaths. And with each passing moment, Leon felt the grip of panic loosening its hold, replaced by a sense of calm and clarity.

"Thank you," Leon whispered as he finally opened his eyes, his voice hoarse with overwhelming emotions.

 "Anytime.” You smiled softly at him.

—

You were attractive, considerate, attentive, but sometimes sarcastic — all the more reason to love you. So imagine his surprise when, during one of your deep conversations, you dropped the bombshell: "I'm still a virgin."

Leon's reaction was immediate. "Wait, what?" His eyes widened in disbelief, and he nearly choked on the iced tea Rebecca had made for everyone.

You couldn't help but smirk at his reaction, finding his surprise somewhat amusing. "Yeah, I know, right?" you replied casually, trying to downplay the moment. "Just never felt the rush, I guess."

Leon's expression softened, his initial shock giving way to an understanding. "Well, that's... unexpected," he admitted, his voice laced with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. "But hey, it's your choice, and there's nothing wrong with that."

"Yeah," you said, taking a sip of the iced tea. You couldn't help but grimace as the sweetness hit your taste buds; Rebecca had gone a bit overboard with the sugar again. “I guess, I just have a hard time trusting people to truly see me, you get it?” you said, revealing a vulnerability that Leon hadn't seen before. 

“Just the idea of letting someone see a vulnerable side of you and then, things fall apart, and that person is not in your life anymore... it's terrifying."

Leon nodded thoughtfully, the flicker of a reassuring smile appearing on his lips. "I get it," he responded softly, his eyes reflecting understanding. 

"It's hard to open up when you've been hurt before. But not everyone is the same, you know? And sometimes, taking that risk can lead to something beautiful."

"Yeah, but I’m not ready to take that risk," you pondered, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

Leon leaned forward, his expression gentle. "That's okay," he said. "It's all about timing, and when you're ready, you'll know. Until then, just focus on being true to yourself." If the old Leon heard this, he would cringe in disgust at how poetic he has become. 

“Aw, look at you, Mr. Wise man,” you teased, playfully punching his shoulder.

“Hey, I have experience, okay,” he chuckled, offering a playful wink. "Life's full of surprises, and you never know when the right person might come along." Leon thought to himself, hoping silently that he could be that person for you.

To be your person — it was a dream he cherished deeply. He already felt privileged enough to see you with your dishevelled hair every morning, to enjoy the breakfasts you made, to hear you humming to yourself as you cleaned the apartment, and to witness all the little quirks that made you... you.

Like the way you always insisted on starting your day with a cup of hot warm water because of its health benefits. Or how you had a habit of tapping your fingers on any surface whenever you were anxious. The way you collect little trinkets and gift them to others because they reminded you of them, or how you could never resist stopping to take pictures of the sky when it looked especially pretty. The way you scrunch your nose when you laugh, and how you always double-knot your shoelaces because "you can't be too careful,” even though they somehow always come undone, so he has to tie them for you again — cue to Rebecca and Chris giggling quietly at the back.

“Yeah, who knows?” you replied with a smile, stopping him from his daydreaming state. 

Leon looked into your eyes, a gentle warmth spreading through his chest. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you at that moment. Your smiles softened, and a comfortable silence settled between you. Time felt like it slowed down as you both gazed at each other, the unspoken words and hidden shared feelings hanging in the air.

However, the moment was cut short when cock-block Chris slid the balcony doors open, surprising you guys. 

"Hey, sorry to interrupt," Chris said, his voice breaking the momentary silence. "But I thought you might want to join us for board games. Rebecca's been bugging me to drag you both inside.”

You chuckled at Chris's interruption. "Sure, sounds like fun," you replied, shooting a playful glance at Leon.

Leon grinned in response, a twinkle in his eye as he nodded in agreement. "Let's go then," he said, rising from his seat and motioning for you to follow. 

“Can’t wait to beat you in Monopoly,” you added with a mischievous grin, earning a playful scoff from Leon.

“Dream on,” Leon replied with a playful smirk, grabbing both his and your drink before heading back inside.

“Hey, we know Rebecca is the master of Monopoly,” Chris chimed in.

"Yeah, you’re right, she always bankrupts us within the first hour," you agreed with a laugh.

"Alright, let's see if we can finally overthrow the reigning champion," Leon said with determination, leading the way back inside.

—

You should have been spending your weekend with friends, but alas, the call of assignments beckoned you to spend the week in your room. Your fingers moved on autopilot as you typed away on your laptop, nearing the end of your essay. All that remained were the conclusion and the references. 

This was the second time you had to redo this assignment. Your professor, Dr. Wesker, critiqued it during the tutorial, and it fell short of his expectations, so you had to incorporate the points you had missed. You made a mental note to give him three stars in the end-of-semester review – that being generous — and to punch Chris because he said Wesker’s class was easy. No, it was not; Wesker made sure to run the class like the Navy.

As the evening turned into night, you fueled your essay-writing spree with a touch of spite. The anticipation of going to the new jazz bar in your area with your friends was the added motivation. Empty instant coffee cans littered your desk, proving your determination. In the apartment, it was just you and Leon; Chris was visiting his sister, Claire, while Rebecca was out on a date with Billy. Helping Rebecca get ready had only made you more jealous of her evening out. Ever the sweetheart, she noticed you were down and promised to bring back treats for you as a reward.

The apartment felt unusually quiet, with only the hum of your laptop and the distant sounds of city life filtering through the windows. The silence was a stark reminder of the fun you were missing out on. Yet, there was a strange comfort in knowing Leon was just in the other room, a silent presence that somehow made the tedious task of essay writing a bit more bearable.

However, the universe was not on your side as your old laptop finally decided to give up on you. Despite all your efforts — charging, troubleshooting, and pleading — it refused to turn back on. "No, no, no, no!" you exclaimed, punctuating each word with a frustrated slam of your hand against the desk. Scratch that, Dr. Wesker is getting only one star and a long paragraph in the comment section.

Hearing the commotion from Leon’s bedroom, he paused his game and rushed into your room. "What happened?!" he asked, concern etched on his face.

You looked at him with tears streaming down your face. "My laptop won't open," you said.

His face softened as he approached you. "I'm assuming you've tried everything," he remarked.

"Yes!" you exclaimed, frustration evident in your voice.

"Okay, okay, calm down," Leon reassured you, his tone soothing. "What did you use to do your assignment on?" he inquired, rolling your chair closer to him and kneeling down in front of you.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your emotions. "Google Docs," you replied.

He nodded reassuringly. "Okay, they have an auto-save feature, so your work is still there. In the meantime, you can use mine." Leon wiped away your tears with his thumb. "I know a guy who can fix your laptop, so you don't have to worry."

Leon's comforting touch eased your tension slightly. "Thanks," you said, your voice wavering with emotion. "I'm sorry for lashing out. It's just….it’s been a stressful week."

He offered you a sympathetic smile. "No need to apologise," he said softly. "We all have our moments.”

"You're too good for me," you whispered, your gratitude evident in your eyes.

Leon's sympathetic expression softened further as he gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face. "Hey, don't say that," he replied earnestly. "You're amazing, and anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend. And if you ever need someone to talk to or help you through tough times, I'm here for you, always.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” you said softly as you wiped the remaining tears away.

There was a moment of silence, filled only by the sound of the gentle hum of the air conditioner and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Then, you hesitated before speaking again.

"Leon... there's something I've been meaning to tell you," you began, your voice barely above a whisper. "I know we're friends, but... lately, I've been feeling something more. I can't shake this feeling that there's something between us, something deeper?"

Leon's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he didn't interrupt as you continued.

"I understand if you don't feel the same way," you said, the words tumbling out in a rush as you fidget with your fingers, feeling vulnerable and exposed. "I just needed to get it off my chest."

For a moment, there was only silence as Leon processed your words. Then, he reached out and gently took your hand in his, stopping you from fidgeting. On the inside, he was literally jumping up and down and screaming internally. His heart raced with excitement and joy, but he kept his composure, squeezing your hand gently to convey his feelings.

“I... I've been feeling the same way," he admitted quietly, his voice filled with emotion. "I didn't know if you felt the same, but… I've been wanting to tell you how I feel for a while now." His hands felt warm against your cold ones, a reassuring touch that sent a shiver down your spine.

"But are you sure you want to be with someone like me? I’m a bit damaged,” he confessed, his voice carrying a hint of insecurity. As you shared a tender gaze, his vulnerability spilled out. 

"At the same time… I want to be with you. You keep me grounded, and every day I feel like I'm becoming a better version of myself because of you. But I don’t want to burden you with my baggage."

Your heart swelled with affection as you reached out to cup his face, gently wiping away the traces of doubt etched there. "Leon, I see you, all of you, and I wouldn't have it any other way.”

“Being damaged doesn’t make you any less worthy of love and happiness. We all have our scars and struggles. What matters is that you’re taking steps to heal, to become the best version of yourself. And I want to be there for you, every step of the way.”

At that moment, Leon knew he couldn't let his fears hold him back any longer.

Leon’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as he leaned in closer, his breath mingling with yours. The world seemed to stand still as he closed the gap between you, capturing your lips in a passionate heartfelt kiss. His hands moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t bear to be apart. 

The kiss was intense, filled with all the emotions he couldn’t put into words—  the love, the gratitude, the desire. His lips moved against yours with fervent need, and as you responded, you could feel the weight of his insecurities lifting, replaced by the warmth of your mutual affection. 

Breaking the kiss, Leon scooped you up from your chair with ease, his arms strong and secure around you. He carried you to your bed and gently laid you down, his gaze never leaving yours. The tenderness in his eyes spoke volumes as he caressed your face.

"You mean everything to me, and I want to be the one you can always rely on." He leaned in for another kiss, sealing his promise with the warmth of his embrace. “Just how I can rely on you.”

When Leon's words settled in, you felt a rush of emotion swell in your chest. You reached up, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble beneath your touch and moving down to his neck where his moles were. The tenderness in his eyes was almost overwhelming, and you could see the sincerity behind every word he had spoken.

Leon let out a gasp as your fingers continued their gentle exploration, the touch feeling soft and human against his skin. He couldn’t even remember the last time someone touched him so tenderly. Letting out a sigh of contentment, he buried his face against your neck, inhaling your familiar scent—the comforting mix of laundry detergent and coffee, so wonderfully homey.

“God, you don’t know how much you've softened me.” He chuckled softly, his lips trailing kisses along your neck.

You couldn't help but tease him, a playful glint in your eyes. "Oh, is that so?" you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips. "Big, tough Leon going all soft on me?"

He lifted his head, meeting your gaze with a grin. "Yeah, you have that effect on me," he admitted. "Never thought I'd be saying that."

You laughed softly, your fingers brushing through his hair. "Well, I kind of like this softer side of you," you teased, your eyes sparkling. "Makes me feel special."

"You are special," Leon whispered, his expression turning serious. "More than you know."

“Leon…I’m ready,” you said, your voice steady but your heart racing.

“Ready for what, sweetheart?” he asked, the endearment rolling off his tongue naturally. He liked how it felt, unlike the generic terms, ‘Babe’ and ‘Baby’ he had used for his past flings when he didn’t bother to remember their names.

“Ready… for you to take my virginity.”

Leon’s eyes widened slightly before he softened, his expression filled with tenderness. "Oh… you're so precious. Not now, okay? I want to take you out on a date first."

“But—”

“No buts,” he interrupted gently. “I can make you feel good without taking it…do you trust me?”

“I do,” you replied, feeling a rush of warmth.

“Then just relax," he said softly. "I’m here, and I’ll gladly help you release your stress.”

Without another word, Leon closed the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a passionate, desperate kiss — a culmination of months of longing and pent-up desire. All your worries and stress melted away as you sought solace in each other’s embrace.

As the kiss deepened, Leon’s hands roamed over your body, pulling you closer with a strong need to please you. The hunger and longing that had built up over the months drove you both, igniting a fire that burned with an intensity neither of you had ever felt before.

Leon’s fingers deftly found the hem of your sweater, slowly lifting it up and over your head. As your bare skin met the cool air, a wave of shyness washed over you. Instinctively, you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to cover yourself. 

Leon paused, his eyes filled with a mixture of admiration and gentle reassurance. He reached out, his hands gently removing yours from your chest. “Don’t hide from me,” he whispered, his voice soft but firm. “You’re beautiful, and I want to see all of you.” He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, and you felt your body relax under his touch, trusting him completely.

“Leon…” 

With a reassuring smile, Leon stepped back slightly and grasped the hem of his own shirt. In one smooth motion, he pulled it over his head, revealing the defined lines of his chest, the faint scars that marked his skin, and the tantalising happy trail leading down from his naval.

“See? Nothing to be shy about.” Leon had come so far, enduring countless battles, to reach this moment of vulnerability and softness with you.

You nodded, your cheeks flushing at the sight of his happy trail peeking through his sweatpants. His lips, slightly swollen from your shared kisses, only added to the heat coursing through you. The mere thought of kissing him had you feeling an ache between your legs — maybe those cringy scenes in films about virgin sex aren’t so fake after all. As you squeezed your thighs together unconsciously, he chuckled softly and gently pulled them apart.

"You okay there?" he teased, his voice laced with amusement.

You laughed nervously, trying to mask your embarrassment. "Yeah, just... overwhelmed, I guess."

Leon's chuckle deepened. "I'd say that's a good sign," he teased, his fingers tracing a soothing pattern on your thigh. "But let's take it slow, okay?"

Leon's fingers trailed along the curve of your thigh, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine. "Have you ever... touched yourself before?" he asked softly.

Your breath caught in your throat at his question, the sensation of his touch combined with the intimacy of his inquiry making your heart race. "Um, well... yeah," you replied hesitantly, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks.

Leon's touch became even more tender, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin as he leaned in closer. "Tell me about it," he murmured, his voice low and husky with desire. "I want to know everything."

“I... I just use my fingers,” you confessed, feeling a little embarrassed by the simplicity of your answer. You found yourself rambling about the prices of sex toys and how impractical they seemed, but Leon's attention was elsewhere as he trailed his fingers down to your clothed heat.

With unabashed hunger, he traced his fingertips over the fabric shielding your wetness, sending shivers through you. He moved lower, his mouth finding your inner thighs, licking and biting gently, his breath hot against your skin.

As you continued to ramble with hitched breaths, Leon nodded along, occasionally responding with a thoughtful "hmm" here and there. His lips pressed against your clothed mound and his tongue piercing tracing circles over the fabric. Each teasing lick and swirling motion sent shivers coursing through your body.

“Leon, fuck,” you moaned, bucking your hips toward his face.

His lips curled into a wicked smirk as he slid down your underwear, revealing your glistening folds. His tongue darted out, flicking against your swollen clit while his hands moved to your hips, holding you in place.

Leon savoured the taste of your arousal, relishing how you quivered beneath him, desperate for more. His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently while his tongue worked in skilled motions. As your moans filled the room, he intensified his assault, his tongue delving deeper and applying more pressure.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your slick folds, his voice filled with possessiveness. “My special sweetheart.” With a playful yet firm touch, he lightly slapped your clit, eliciting a gasp from you.

Your breath hitched at Leon's possessive words and instinctively, wrapped your legs around his head, pulling him closer and squeezing them together in response. The sensation of his tongue and lips working so intimately against you, combined with the pressure of your thighs around him, heightened the intensity of your pleasure.

“Leon!” you babbled his name like a prayer as he worked his tongue on you. Each flick and swirl of his tongue made you tremble, the overwhelming sensation almost too much to bear. Your hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white, as you surrendered to him.

Lost in the intensity of the moment, Leon started to grind himself against the mattress. His sweatpants strained against his growing erection. He could feel the dampness of his pre-cum soaking through the fabric, each grind intensifying the need coursing through him. His cock strained painfully against the confines of his pants, desperate for release as he focused on bringing you to the edge of ecstasy.

Your breathing grew ragged, and you could feel the tightening coil of release building within you. Instinctively, your hands flew to his head, gripping his hair tightly as you arched your back, your body seeking more of his touch. The sharp tug made Leon grunt, a deep, guttural sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh. 

Despite the pain, he refused to relent, his determination evident in the way he continued to devour you. His hands gripped your hips, holding you firmly in place as his tongue and lips worked with relentless precision, pushing you closer and closer to the brink of ecstasy, refusing to let you go.

Finally, with a shuddering gasp, you surrendered to the overwhelming waves of pleasure crashing over you like a tidal bliss. Leon held you through it all, refusing to let you go until you were utterly undone beneath him, lost in the euphoria of the moment.

As you lay there, panting and trembling, Leon parted from your cunt, his chin and lips glistening with your release. He smirked, a wicked glint in his eyes, before tenderly kissing your clit. "You taste so sweet," he murmured, his voice husky with desire. "I could devour you all night."

Your cheeks heated up due to his remarks, a turbulent rush of feelings that filled your senses with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement. Under the intensity of his gaze, you quivered, feeling another desire surge through you again.

Leon leaned back, his eyes never leaving yours as he spat on your cunt, the warm liquid mixing with your own arousal. He clumsily peeled off his sweatpants, revealing his hard, straining cock. He positioned himself between your legs, pushing your thighs together to create a tight, plush space.

With a low groan, Leon began to stroke himself between your thighs, the friction against your slick skin sending jolts of pleasure through him. Each thrust caused his piercing to occasionally bump against your clit, sending thrilling shocks through your body and making you gasp with the unexpected sensation.

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, his eyes fixated on the scandalous sight before him — the view of his reddened and swollen tip emerging from the clutch of your thighs. 

You were certain Leon would leave bruises on your thighs from the way he was gripping them. “I’m gonna... gonna—shit,” Leon whimpered, quickening his pace. His thrusts became urgent and forceful, driven by an insatiable hunger for release. The air was filled with the sound of your moans and the slap of skin against skin. He leaned over you, shifting into a mating press with your legs squished to your chest and his balls slapping against your ass.

With a few more thrusts, Leon succumbed to the pleasure, his body tensing as he spilt himself between your thighs and stomach. Waves of ecstasy washed over him, and he continued to move, riding out his orgasm with a mix of intense relief and satisfaction. His body trembled with aftershocks and his breathing erratic as he slowly descended from the high.

As Leon collapsed beside you, panting and spent, he realised that you hadn't come for the second time. He then shifted his position, propping himself up on one elbow as he glanced down at your flushed form. Seeing the need still evident in your eyes, he gently brushed his fingers over your slick folds, seeking out your swollen clit.

"Let me take care of you again," he cooed as he began to rub gentle circles over your sensitive bud. With each stroke, he felt your body respond, the tension building once more as you whimpered and writhed beneath his touch.

Leon focused entirely on bringing you to the peak of pleasure, his movements deliberate and precise as he pushed you closer to the edge. Your moans grew louder, and your hips bucked against his hand, signalling how near you were to release. With a shuddering gasp, you finally reached your climax. Leon’s grip was steady as you trembled beneath him, lost in the overwhelming euphoria.

He pressed a loving kiss to your forehead before slipping out of bed. "I'll be right back," he whispered, leaving the room momentarily to grab a warm, damp towel. Returning swiftly, he carefully wiped away the sweat and traces of cum from your skin.

Once he finished, he picked up your discarded sweater from the floor and slipped it over your shoulders, ensuring you were comfortable. You nestled into its warmth as Leon retrieved his own sweatpants and pulled them on.

Returning to your side, he asked softly, "Feeling better?"

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips as you snuggled closer to him. "Yeah, much better. Thanks for taking care of me."

He smiled back, his eyes filled with affection, and gently massaged the nape of your neck. "How was the aftercare? It's my first time doing it."

You chuckled softly. "Honestly, I can't say much about it since I don't have any experience either."

Leon laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Guess we're both new at this. Maybe I should include 'aftercare specialist' on my résumé."

You grinned, your eyes twinkling with amusement. "Yeah, but only if I get to be your reference."

He smirked, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Deal."

Pics are from pinterest and edited by: @roseglazedlens

Dividers by: @chachachannah

[clockwayswrites]

The Haunting of Tim Drake

cw: blood & injury, bad parents Dr. Fentons, bad parents Jack and Janet Drake, bad others?, child neglect, child abuse.

He’d bled through the bandages.

His third set.

The first two sets had been from the the to-go bag that he had grabbed from the cemetery. Sam had found the old crypt, of course she had. She said since technically they were ancestors of hers, they had full right to use the crypt.

“Besides,” she had said, “what does it mater if we keep a bag there, they’re dead.”

Danny had done his best to hide his wince at that.

They didn’t know that part of him ached for not having a grave.

He never told them.

They wouldn’t get it.

The third set of bandages were ones he had stolen from the drug store he raided. He hated stealing like that, but this was life and death. Death and forever death? Whatever. He chose a chain to steal from. Bandages, pills, water, food. Most of that wouldn’t help Phantom.

He hoped to make it back to being Danny.

But he couldn’t yet.

He had to get away first. He had to be strong first. He had to fly.

It was so hard to keep flying.

Flight was usually a relief for him. It was a way for him to escape the weight of it all and just be. He used to say he could fly for hours. Turned out that wasn’t so true. Danny held back a scream as he suddenly dropped several feet and his injury pulled. He needed to find somewhere to rest and soon.

There, the house under him was dark. It was large, towering, and abandoned. Danny wasn’t sure how exactly he knew that, but something about that house, the lack of lights, the perfectly done yard, the unused driveway… the lack of attachment. That house was abandoned.

Perfect for a ghost to haunt.

Even with what his sense said, Danny was still careful as he poked his head through a wall. It was a living room— wait, what did Sam’s mom call it? It was a sitting room of some sort but all the furniture was covered in white sheets. As Danny slipped in and let himself land on the ornate rug, a plume of dust rose under his feet.

Abandoned.

Danny sank to the ground, hand pressed desperately to his side.

Abandoned.

---

AN: So the HH discord conned me into starting this *swoons*. This is a fic where Danny descides haunts Drake Manor only to quickly learn it's not so abandoned. But ghost rules are rules and now Danny is there and there's a tiny Tim who needs taking care of. For Tim, this is finally someone to talk to, someone who needs help. It isn't long before their brothers.

The question is...

(Jason will get to join the batfam no matter which option- and likely be saved/not have the Ethiopia trip.)

*I might not take the winner of the poll, but I'm curious for your thoughts!

**this is far far back burner, but what can I say, it won the poll.

[atydblack]

"demure" part 2

best friends dad! james x reader

masterlist (requests open!!!)

PART 1

glad u guys liked part 1 because i can not stop thinking about this version of james .

warnings: age gap, cheating, rough sex (not too much smut in this one tho soz), jamie is kinda a dick, everyone is of age!!!

MDNI

---

It had been 3 days.

3 whole days since the night you spent with James and he hadn't spoken one word to you.

In the grand scheme of things, 3 days isn't too long. But when those 3 days are spent longing after someone who is pretending you don't exist it is.

You were frustrated in every sense of the word, and with just over a week until you go back to Hogwarts - you were becoming desperate.

Every one was floating in between the kitchen and living room. It was rare that there was ever a quiet moment at the Potter's which made it even more difficult to find James alone.

You sat with your head resting lightly on Ron's shoulder whilst him and Hermione chatted about something you couldn't even focus on, your mind a million miles away.

Surprisingly, you had barely felt any guilt towards your actions a few nights prior. Every time you felt a bit bad about what you'd done, Ron would piss you off and it all made sense again.

You had even tried to somewhat recreate the incident with Ron, actually trying it on with him every single night but he would just make fun of you or would already be asleep before you'd even had the chance to touch him.

"Y/N?" Ron pushed you off his shoulder. "I said, are you okay?"

"Yeah," you half heartedly smiled. "I'm just gonna grab some water."

"I can get it for you-"

"No, it's fine."

You stood to your feet and wandered through to the kitchen and there he stood.

James was leaning against the kitchen counter, a mirrored image of how he was stood just a few nights ago.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

A white shirt hung from his body as he had just gotten back from his job at the ministry under an hour ago. A half empty glass of red wine sat in his hand as he spoke intently to Remus.

When he noticed you enter, he stopped talking and his jaw tightened.

He had been on your mind 24/7. The way his hands felt on you, the way he spoke softly into your ear, the way he made you feel.

It was constant, you couldn't think of anything other than James.

James broke eye contact after a brief moment. He muttered something inaudible to Remus before quickly walking past you.

James' heavy footsteps echoed through the house as he almost stormed up the stairs.

Remus nodded his head at you. You couldn't tell wether he was indicating for you to follow him or if it was just a simple greeting.

You didn't care either way, you were bored of being ignored.

Turning swiftly, you padded quietly up the stairs after James.

You were unsure of what exactly you were going to say to him, but something was better than nothing.

The house was huge and you weren't exactly sure which room he had gone into.

You decided on his bedroom.

You slowly opened the big oak door before entering quietly.

He wasn't in there, but it still caught your attention.

A strange feeling overwhelmed you as you took in the detail of the room James shared with his wife.

Jealousy? Guilt? You couldn't quite put your finger on it.

Everything was perfectly clean. On one bedside table sat a picture from their wedding day and the other was a picture of Harry.

Chewing your cheek out of anxiety, you stepped closer to the one of James and Lilly's wedding.

You had always been under the impression that they were so in love, so happy. Yet James had done this.

It almost felt like you had dreamt it all.

The door to the bedroom opened, making you jump.

You turned around to see James stood there with an angry look on his face.

"What are you doing?" James grumbled, stepping forward.

"I-I don't know." You muttered, your cheeks growing red.

"You can't do this, Y/N." He demanded, almost like he was telling you off. "I- What happened between us... it can't happen again."

He was frustrated, breathing heavy with his eyebrows furrowed.

You stood there twiddling your thumbs, unsure of what to reply.

"I fucking mean it-" James began pacing back and forth. "Shit, I could get in so much trouble for this, Y/N, you don't understand."

A ball of anger was whirling up inside you uncontrollably at his words.

A little voice inside your head telling you that he used you, he regrets you, he's embarrassed of you.

"You can't just ignore me!" You spat out. "I'm not just someone you can touch like that and then pretend doesn't exist!"

"I don't have a fucking option, Y/N." He came closer to you. "What did you think was going to happen? This can't be anything."

"What did you think was going to happen, James?" You bit back, sick of him talking down to you.

He was taken aback at your words, veins almost popping out of his forehead as he looked as if he was at war with himself.

"Fuck!" He spat, turning his back to you.

You weren't scared of him, he couldn't just use you and act like it never happened.

"You need to stop fucking doing this to me, Y/N." James muttered.

"I-I'm not doing anything!" You expressed, "I just want you to-"

Before you had the chance to finish your sentence, you were pressed up against the wall with his mouth on yours.

It happened all to quickly.

He lifted you up, legs wrapped around him.

James connected his tongue with yours, hands travelling all over you.

"I can't stop fucking thinking about you, Y/N." James muttered against your lips.

You could feel his hard cock pressing into you through his trousers as he pushed himself closer to you.

"Your sweet little moans,"

He pushed your dress up to your waist, hands travelling underneath to your breasts.

"Your tight little pussy,"

You let out a gasp as his cold hands brushed over your nipples.

"You think I haven't always noticed the way you look at me?"

In a swift movement he had you pressed up against the wall, ready to take you from behind. Your dress pushed up to your waist and his trousers around his ankles.

"Not so fucking innocent around you, Y/N?"

You must be dreaming. You must have dreamt this whole thing. There was no way your fantasy was unravelling in front of you.

"Do you want this, baby?"

You nodded with no hesitation.

"Words, kitten."

"Yes, James." You groaned. "I want you."

"Good girl." He muttered as he pushed his cock into you.

You gasped, he was much bigger than you'd ever had before.

It took a second for you to adjust but soon he was thrusting into you.

James couldn't contain himself, fucking you relentlessly as you moaned his name over and over.

"Have you been thinking about this, baby?" James groaned, choking you from behind. "I bet you have."

He was like an animal with stamina you didn't know existed.

"You gonna cum for me, sweet girl?"

You couldn't muster any words in response, just a loud moan harmonising with the clapping of him pounding into you.

It wasn't long before you were riding out your high, another unexplainable feeling he'd given you for the second time.

You tightened around him, only causing him to quicken his pace.

"Fuck-" He choked out as you felt his warm cum between your legs, his thrusts slowing down.

You both stood there attempting to catch your breath.

"No matter how hard I try," James said after a short moment. "I can't get you off of my mind."

"Likewise." You muttered.

"Y/N?" You heard a voice from the hallway. It was Ron.

"Shit." You whispered. "You- You stay here."

You quickly tried to fix your hair, pulling your dress down and trying your hardest to act like you didn't have James cum dripping into your panties.

You walked out to the hallway and smiled at Ron.

"What were you doing in there?"

"Just snooping." You shrugged, grabbing his hand and quickly pulling him back downstairs.

-

part 3 will be up tomorrow!

[psychemochanight]

Honestly, even if I love the new interpretation of Dick as the "angry Robin" that we have these days, sometimes it feels bad that you can't talk about a version of Dick as Robin that isn't like that without getting people saying things like "that's not Dick, he's the angry one, the bloodthirsty one" and... What?

It takes away a lot of depth from the character when people only think of that when talking about Robin!Dick, when, since always, Dick was, quite possibly, one of the best written characters, and one of those that has more nuances to make him a completely human character, not only in the sense of not having superpowers, but of being able to empathize with him.

There are many versions of the story, but the most widely accepted version is that Dick lost his parents at the age of eight, watching them fall because they sabotaged their act, an act Dick probably saw many times, one he knew for sure his parents would never fail... Until it failed, and through no fault of their own.

Dick was a little boy who grew up in a loving family (as far as we know, I still think they were strict, but not necessarily bad parents... We'll talk about the Court of Owls later), and from one second to the next, all of that ended. Even if Bruce was there for him, things obviously weren't the same anymore, they never would be again.

Although many have the idea that Dick escaped from youth center to kill Zucco, in the original stories Dick didn't even know yet about him, at least not that much to know what he really did; but he wanted to escape from juvenile so as not to lose his values, so as not to stop being who he is, who his parents taught him to be.

Even in the lines where he DOES say he wants to kill Zucco, in most cases, when push comes to shove, he wants to prevent Zucco's death. There are some moments where he even confesses that he didn't want Zucco to die, he just wanted justice for his parents.

People now see Dick as the Robin who only saw misfortune and was an absolute menace to society, and while, yes, Dick was an absolute menace, it was only to the villains, who heard a little boy laughing at them before beating the shit out of them. Plus, even as a child he was a master manipulator, both for enemies and allies.

But what about the rest? Robin was supposed to be the light where Batman was the darkness. He was the one who comforted scared civilians when Batman couldn't. He was the sensitivity that Batman cannot afford to show.

Dick Grayson was the one who saved Batman from losing himself in the same darkness that he himself was making his only way of life, and this is something that Alfred has pointed out before. It is thanks to Dick that Batman stopped being the ruthless "hero" he was becoming. Damn, he was the one who softened Alfred's heart in the first place too.

This was the Robin that Superman saw as worthy of carrying the mantle of Nightwing, whom he saw as someone who could represent hope itself.

Bruce didn't start smiling just because of the other Robins like many people now believe, no. Dick was the first to make him smile again, the one who opened the doors for the others.

Dick was always kind and tender-hearted, always joy where there was only devastation.

Even if he was the living nightmare of villains, he was still that cheerful child who wanted to avoid the pain of others. The boy who inspired other heroes, not only because of his skills, but because of his heart.

Dick is a character who, while he is now more recognized as Nightwing than as Robin (which doesn't bother me at all, because that was always his goal when he became an independent hero), he still has a history that people seem to increasingly forget about and pigeonhole his development into something... Flat.

Were there times when Dick had more anger and pain than any other feeling in him? Yes, absolutely YES. But this stage is mostly in his Discowing years, not of Robin as such (I'm not saying there weren't such moments, but there aren't as many as people describe now), or as some animated series showed (I love these series, even if they turned Dick into a feral child who is unable to smile, lol)

Again. I LOVE Dick's portrayal as a feral child and absolute menace to society (which he was), but I also LOVE when artists, writers, and the entire fandom itself appreciates the different nuances of his personality, from his ability to laugh despite the misfortunes in his life, to his sadness that never ceased to be a part of him, until the moments where he could only feel rage and pain and felt that the world was only darkness, unable to see the colors that emerged from the light he projected by himself.

Look at him, he's so cute <3

Does anyone care about this yap? No, but I wanted to let out what I've been repeating in my head for days because people on tiktok have me fed up HAHA

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter Four: Desolate Days

Heiress of Gotham

Bruce Wayne x Daughter!Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: It’s time. The funeral has finally come around. While the expected have shown up, will the unexpected lead to loose threads in your life? It'll certainly raise questions, that's for sure.

Words: 3.7k

Warnings: Funeral, Depression, Threats, Crying, Angst,

Mentions of: Death, Bodies, Trauma,

A/N: While this chapter is angsty, and the next one contains some twists and turns, I promise it'll actually start to become more fun around chapter six once the reader gets settled into her new life!

It wasn't easy, not by any means; a week full of setting up a funeral, at fifteen, for your mother... the only real family you've ever had. Sure, there were close family friends in your life, but they weren't a constant presence, not like her. All that flew out the window when you'd been orphaned, and now, who knows what will become of those relationships. You figure, only time will tell.

As for the actual events, tonight is the viewing, followed by a dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant you guys used to love, and tomorrow morning is the burial. While there'd been lots of talk about who would come and what it would mean to them, and you, the conversation never fully came to any certain conclusion.

You don't know and aren't close with your new siblings, and while from a publicity standpoint it makes sense they should come and show their support, your Father is really the only person who knew your Mother. Even then, how well did he truly know her? The question stands. With all this in mind, you know that Bruce is accompanying you tomorrow, and by extension, Alfred too. That much you're clear on.

Money is a tough subject. Isn't it for everyone? While you weren't rich growing up in Bludhaven, you also weren't in the degree of poverty that some are, either. Nevertheless, funerals you quickly learned, cost a lot of money. You'd think it'd be one thing to bury someone in your backyard (if you had one, that is), or even toss them in the dumpster (not that you'd do that), or even set them afloat on the river and nearest ocean (that either), yet, the government wants their money. That's always what it boils down too, doesn't it? Regardless, Bruce had been suspicious when you brought up paying for the funeral. He offered, and while you'd argued for a good half hour, you'd finally compromised with him.

He wants to pay for the funeral, and you can keep the money you--somehow--have for college. Apparently, he expects you to do that now, as well. Not that college was outside of the question before, but... you still have three years to think about it, don't you? All in all, he let you pick out what you thought your mother would like, which, ultimately sort of became what you'd like... right? Besides the preferences in her will, there was still the matter of some sort of plaque or headstone, obsidian or silver... the works. Trying to keep money in mind, you didn't go crazy, but you did let him deal with it while still trying to give her at least something fairly nice.

It all happened so fast, really. Picking out everything, setting things up, and sending out a message so your family friends would know when and where to show up to pay their respects if they wished to do so. Not many people knew about your recent transfer of guardianship, or rather, to who. And while there had apparently been somewhat of a civil kerfuffle with your mother's best friend in an attempt to waive Bruce of his fatherly duties, Bruce apparently decided to claim custody of you. That's what social services naturally thought was the best fit for you.

"You don't have to go in if you don't want," Dick speaks up from behind you.

Standing outside the doors to the funeral home, you know that all too soon the doors will open up for her viewing and you won't be able to escape. Regardless of how many people show up, you'll be met with stories, jokes, emotions, conversation, and things you're just not ready to handle. Staring at the doors, Damian walks past you, soon followed by Tim as they make their way to the door.

"Sure she does. Maybe not now, but sooner or later you have to," Tim offers you with a sympathetic smile, "otherwise you'll never forgive yourself."

"That's just his regret talking," Jason accuses as he straightens the lapels of his black vest and follows the younger boys. "You do what you want, kid." A pat on the back, he too heads inside, leaving you there, Dick still lingering over your shoulder.

"It's your decision," the Detective reminds you with a sympathetic and encouraging smile before pushing open the doors to the funeral parlor.

Standing there in your short black t-shirt dress, the hem whips in the wind as a storm brews in the distance by the Fawcett-Bludhaven border, eventually destined to head your way, closer to the ocean, no doubt. Though you're adorned by a simple black headband, the accessory doesn't keep your hair from hanging around the frame of your face, eyes glued to the fancy sheen of your church shoes: a pair of black mary-janes. 

"Are you second-guessing?" The gruff voice of your Father emanates from your side and you raise your eyes to meet his face. There's a forlorn and distant look in his eyes as he stares ahead at the double doors leading toward the place you know the two of you will be met with a familiar face.

With a subtle nod, he mirrors your action, a clearing of his throat as he straightens his tie. "I can't say I blame you. Though, I can make you an offer," he proposes. As he turns his head, you're met with knowing blue eyes, a hint of what you swear is mischievousness behind them. "If you ever need to bail, why don't we have some sort of code? A code word, what about that?" He expands, the furrowed brows on your face cluing him onto your thoughtful mentality.

"I have to think about it," you respond quietly, eyes roaming the property. While Bristol is an eclectic part of Gotham for sure, this part of town feels somewhat desolate. The nearest and nicest open-plot cemetery to Bludhaven, it was a compromise on everyone's behalf. Not far enough from Bludhaven to feel unlike home and lack a means of public transportation for those in need, and not one of the buildings in the city that are more mausoleum-like, an option you hadn't wanted to consider. She deserved something better. A rumbling of thunder echoes throughout the landscape, the sky growing dark in the distance; eyes brought to the weather, your mind churns. "What about... 'Blizzard'?" It wasn't totally innocuous, yet it wasn't entirely improbable either.

"It'll definitely be interesting to see how we manage to work that into conversation naturally," Bruce jokes, to which you offer him a quiet chuckle, the inkling of a smile working its way onto the corners of your lips.

"Is that okay?" You ask, unsure if he approves.

"Blizzard it is," the Billionaire agrees, stretching out a hand in a semblance of kinship. With a moment of consideration, it doesn't take long for your hand to meet his in conciliation. With a firm shake, you both turn to enter the parlor side by side.

--------

Hand clutching the prized middle-school graduation gift you'd received from your Mother, a golden chain necklace with a teardrop image of La Virgen on it, you subtly run it back and forth along the chain where it rests on your sternum between your collarbones. Despite uncomfortable conversation and questions, you hadn't needed the code word. The attempt to try and visit your Mother before the service was unfruitful, people having shown up earlier than expected, others wanting to set up and you consequently helping like the obedient little girl you often were. Nevertheless, even now with only family members remaining, you still stand at a distance where only her hands propped up on her waist are visible.

Bruce had gotten by through making conversation, trying to get to know you and your acquaintances through their association and knowledge, though their questions often turned on him. Upon the revelation that you're not only now, but always have been a Wayne dawned on them. The natural questions would tend to follow. 'How well did you know her? Were you close to her?' As much as the Playboy would love to admit he didn't know your Mother on the level it would seem most people assumed, he also knew that sort of answer might tarnish any image of your Mother that these people already had in mind. Hence, he tended to use his usual tactics of evasion in a similar manner to any gala he'd attend.

The boys ended up doing recon in some sense, all in their own versions. Damian had intended to simply find a nice corner to sit in and text Jon about the plans for their next hangout and fill him in on the dreadful activities he's been put up to on the behest of his new 'sister'. If he could even call you that. Tim hadn't been filled in on the situation concerning your little expedition with Jason and what the elder had found during that time, so when Dick naturally seemed curious and a little too snoopy for his taste in concern of the event, it was only upon questioning his brother that he found out about the circumstances.

Dick went into this with the hopes of finding out information on your family, on what you all knew, the type of people you were, and what they knew specifically about you and your Mom. That much cash laying around even with the excuse of not trusting banks, in Bludhaven of all places, was ridiculous. Especially for the job he dug around and found out your Mother had. Therefore, he took to subtly interrogating people under the guise of attempting to get to know his new little sister better. 

Jason had intended to go only on the purpose of supporting you, and watching his family in suspect, considering they've all seemed dubious of your Mother and your family's involvement in some sort of criminal activity. While he'd been curious, watching you, talking to you, he's found that there's probably not much further whatever 'secret' your family is hiding goes. Sometimes people do things they need to do to survive, and if he's heard any stories about your Mother this evening, he'd suspect that's it.

Damian eventually caught wind of Grayson's not-so-subtle tactics of questioning people, and decided his evening would be much more fruitful doing exactly what his brother was doing, only in a more professional manner. After all, once he'd rounded the parlor he'd seen his Father doing the same thing in his own fashion, therefore, he can't be mad at them for doing the same when he's the one who's supposed to be setting the example, right?

Oblivious to your new family's motives, you try and work up the courage to say goodbye to her... to her face. Evading the happy images that filter through wild transitions on television's slideshow to the right, you run a thumb over the memorium card you'd taken. Even if they were for everyone else, you still wanted one. Room practically empty, you finally take the leap and close the space between you and the open casket.

Immediately you have to avert your eyes. It's... too painful. Yet, another curious part of you tempts you to take another look. Upon second glance it simply appears as if she's sleeping. Peacefully. There's no lacerations or marks, no sign of any sort of ill-wrought event, and yet, you know the wiser. "I hate this," you whisper through your teeth, jaw clenching in an attempt to keep your tears at bay. "It's not fair. I don't know why... why it had to be you." With a sniffle and a heavy sigh that bobs your shoulders, you reach out and place a small hand on her larger, and eerily cold hand. "I wish I could ask you, that I could talk to you- that you could tell me why- why you never told me! I don't- I don't want to do this but I know I have to, and he's giving me... all you ever wanted for me. I-" Breath coming quicker, you have to force yourself to speak the next words, determined not to break down in front of everyone. "Te quiero mucho, mamá, te extraño, y vas a recordar para siempre." With a gentle squeeze to her hand, you turn and head for the doors, eyes downcast as you avoid everyone.

--------

Somehow, the universe always reflected its events; while it’d been mostly thunder and heat lightning the night prior, this morning the dark clouds have been pouring rain. Alfred had gotten you up, though really you hadn’t slept much in anticipation of what today would hold. Having been dressed for some time now, all you’ve done is sit at the window seat and stare outside, watching the rain pelt the earth repeatedly, unyielding in its triumph. You can’t help but think it’s like life, forceful until the end, when it eventually wanes and succumbs to a stop. Maybe you’re overthinking, but with everything that’s been going on… you don’t think you can help it.

“Hey,” your Father’s voice calls from the door, a gentle knock on the wood follows as he continues to open it and step through the threshold. “Are you ready? Breakfast is waiting, and then Alfred’s gonna take us,” he informs, “the boys are going to join for breakfast, but then it’ll just be us, alright?” 

Before he can get too far into the room you rise from the window seat and tear your attention away from the gardens. With a nod, you meet him halfway and follow downstairs.

Breakfast is mostly silent, as you’re sure no one is quite certain what to say. If they could say anything, that is. Hell, even Damian doesn't have a snarky remark, and Dick doesn't try and make meaningless conversation. It all comes and goes far faster than you'd imagined, though the food was delicious. With your departure and solemn looks from your newfound siblings, Alfred pulls the Rolls Royce up to a gentle stop before the Manor's fancy double doors.

It was hard to believe she was in there. Yes, you'd picked out the coffin, yes you'd seen her at the viewing, and yet... this is your Mother. The woman who birthed you, who fed you, who took care of you year after year, and was there for you no matter what. And now... she's gone.

It doesn't feel real. The rain pattering against the umbrella Bruce holds up over you. All the people who sit and stand opposite of the priest as he goes about his rites. Of course there came time for the eulogy, and while there was the option of making one yourself, you couldn't find it within yourself to do so. Like Tim had mentioned, this could be something you may regret later, but in this moment it feels like too much. There's a dull queasiness that never leaves your stomach as you stand, eyes cast downward as your hands lay clasped before you. Rain, muck, and mud cling to your black mary-jane shoes, the ground now beginning to flood as the soil's beared all it can soak up for the next coming weeks. 

People come and go, they give their well wishes and hopes for your sake, and yet you can't really put any of it to mind or manner as all you can focus on is the growing emptiness within you. This isn't how things were supposed to go. You weren't supposed to be burying your parent... not this soon. That's not how it works! 

It's the call of your name that stirs you from your thoughts. Eyes raising to the familiar face, you can't help but feel your eyes widen with the shock and astonishment that they had the audacity to visit... to stay. Yes, he wasn't a stranger; yet an acquaintance isn't necessarily a friend. The boy lifts his hands to cup one of yours between his. "I'm so sorry to hear what happened, Mi Amor, I'm always here for you, sabes," Saul says. Though there's a sympathetic look in his eyes, you don't trust him one bit. Not after he'd taken one opportunity after another and gotten trapped up with the man behind him: Antonio 'Angel' Marin. Sure, you'd dumped Saul before he'd become affiliated with the notorious Bludhaven mob boss, but it didn't do him any favors holding company like that. 

As Saul leaves you and heads toward the line of black cars along the cemetery road, you dread the man next in line. "It's an unfortunate thing, losing a mother," Angel speaks, "looks like luck had its way with you though, getting you out." From the outside it might seem inappropriate, or perhaps simply a mistaken and poorly judged comment, but you know better. Lips pursing, jaw tightening, you don't dare let your hands form into fists as you meet the man's eyes. 

His oily face and ratty mustache meet your gaze, and you suddenly feel anger beginning to simmer in your gut. Though you're not sure why. While there'd been a time you may have considered him a family friend, a protector, a genius, and a revolutionary... those times have gone. He hadn't done your family wrong, in fact, he'd done nothing but try to help you and your Mom out of poverty, and yet... there were always strings attached. Neither of you had seen them at first and once you'd wanted out, you'd luckily gotten out without too much of a fight. Thankfully, unlike some of the stories you've heard, and yet, somewhere within you the anger persists. Maybe it's the smug look on his face, his taunting words perhaps, but whatever it is, he irks you.

"Don't go gettin' into any more trouble, ya hear?" His thin voice lets out a wry chuckle and he lays a pat on your shoulder before you can dodge it. Watching him leave with his trail of two or three choice goons behind him, you can't help but feel like he'd only come here for one thing, and one thing only... to taunt you. Was it a warning? A sign? A way of telling you that without his protection you were doomed? Leading a life toward failure? Only to end up like your Mother? No... no, that can't be it. There has to be something else, that can't be it. 

"Do you know him?" Bruce asks, finally speaking up for the first time since the service ended. He'd seen the whole interaction, he knows who that man was... but he doesn't know if you do. Not truly, anyway. Even if the grimace and shiver that'd run up your spine was visible from the way you attempted to evade the evil man's touch. Eyes peering down at you, he's disturbed by the lack of eye contact you make. Maybe he shouldn't be... you haven't been talking or interacting as much as you had been in the days leading up to this, something that's normal, he can only imagine.

"Once," you respond faintly. Eyes coming back to the rolling hills of the cemetery you watch the rain continue to pour. Life doesn't seem to stir here, no sight of sneaky intruders like squirrels, doves, or robins, no other patrons coming to visit their loved ones on a day like this. Thunder cracks overhead, and the diminishing sound of tires on gravel signals the Angel's departure. With a thick swallow, your hands finally ball up into fists. A single tear finally breaches the confines of your eyelid and slips down your cheek. With a heavy sigh you turn, meeting Alfred who stands a few feet behind the both of you. Stomping over to him, you grab the bouquet of flowers you'd all picked up on the way. "If you want to say anything... here," you announce over the sounds of the thunderstorm. Undoing the plastic and rubber bands from the store-bought bouquet, you hand both the men a single flower. Determined that the rest should belong to you, you head over to the grave, uncaring if you get wet any longer as you're no longer under their umbrellas.

Though your teeth hurt from the way your jaw is clenched, you can't help it as the tears start to flow more freely. With everyone gone, you don't mind being here alone. Placing the flowers atop your Mother's casket, your hand lingers on the polished wood while your free hand hangs onto the necklace your Mother had given you. "I can't do this without you," the words come in a whisper, your head almost meeting the wood before you think better of it. You don't want to appear a broken-down mess in front of the men watching. "I don't know what t-to do."

Raindrops soak your hair, coat your dress and shoes, your socks have splashes of water and freshly cut grass, not to mention that your face is covered in a mixture of raindrops and tears. A few moments of silence is all you need before you finally gather the courage to say one last goodbye and turn away, heading down the hill back toward the car before the storm gets worse.

------

"Dick... there's something you should know," Bruce mentions quietly. It's obvious from his behavior that he's upset, that this won't be a long conversation. "Antonio Marin was at her funeral. He came up to her and spoke something cryptic. I asked her about it and she said that she knew him once. I know I asked you all not to dig around, but, this is in your territory and I thought you should know." Evading his son's eye contact, he straightens his tie and sniffs, still clad in his tuxedo from the funeral. "I'll see if I can get any more information out of her, but... I don't want her caught up in this... I don't-" he sighs, finally turning to meet his son's gaze again with a look he's only seen once before, "-I don't want her getting hurt."

"I... understand." With a nod and a sympathetic look upon his face, the younger man stretches out his hand to lay it on his Father's shoulder in a small form of comfort. He knows Bruce well enough to know that anything too grand would steer him away, and while the thought of another child getting hurt at his behest unburies all the trauma Dick knows Jason's death had brought him, Dick knows they can't change the past. "I- we won't let that happen. I promise you that, Dad."

~~~~~~~~

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

hog taglist: @luvly-writer , @clairese1980

[brucewaynehater101]

I'm seeing a lot of asks about this and I want to give my two cents: I'm cool with Bruce being a bad father, but only if DC admits that he is a bad father.

You can't have him doing downright abusive shit only to never address it. The only character that consistently criticizes Bruce parenting is painted as entitled and vindictive. I genuinely think the reason why we can't have a decent Red Hood arc is because if you want Jason to make sense you're gonna have to admit Bruce is a fucked up father or rewrite canon.

Same reason for Tim "never aging", not so much physically but emotionally. Because to have the character establish itself like Nightwing did you would need to address at some point all the bullshit he went through. Even with Dick. Like sometimes it looks like they want to recognize how being raised by Batman fucked him up by they end up settling for "oh it's the pressure". Like that's the most DC will say "Batman puts his kids under a lot of pressure buuuuuut it's justified because they're fighting evil :)".

Not just the kids, I think Batman himself would be so much more interesting if DC was willing to let him confront these things. As a redemption arc or as a fatal flaw that keeps his family at arms length. But they want to have their cake (have Batman be edgy and give the Robins Character Development™ through good old child abuse) and eat it (have Batman be Dad of the year). And that's what doesn't work.

Batfam fandom is great because you have people making content for Good Father Bruce, Bad Dad Bruce (he's trying and it's a bit funny/tragic), Awful Father Bruce (with no intention of changing. Every option is way more interesting than DC's directionless mess. Like, we don't even need them to make Bruce Good™ we just want them to pick a side and stick to it.

Thank you. My gods that sums it up perfectly.

Like, I've got no problem consuming Good Dad Bruce content... if it's not the comics. The animated stuff is usually fine, and fanwork is also great. There's a ton to like about it.

Hell, I'm even chill if Bruce makes mistakes and errors and fucks up with his kids. That's realistic, as long as they address that he did, in fact, do that shit. They need to talk about how his actions have hurt his kids and his relationships with them. He can try to do better, or he can stay distant with his kids because of it (low to no contact). It's truly not that difficult to chat about.

Now, media that addresses all of the horrid stuff he's done and considers realistic reactions/solutions to it? Fantastic. I love that so much. It's so cathartic watching him get his ass handed to him.

It's not necessary, though. I'm chill with good dad Bruce.

Despite that, outright ignoring what he does or brushing it under the rug? That's horrific. That reads like a sickening cycle of abuse, and I can't stand it. It's the exact same shit an abuser pulls by harming their victim (psychologically, mentally, physically, etc.), apologizing (ish), finding a way to pin the blame back on the victim, and then love bombing. Like, my gods. Bruce will beat the shit out of Jason and say it's Jason's fault for killing someone... "I wouldn't harm you/take a machine to permanetly fuck up your brain if you didn't do that. It's not my fault that I decided to hurt you. It's your fault that I did."

I just fucking can't.

I think Tim, with his little statement of "I don't expect you to apologize" after Bruce caused him to have a nervous breakdown post 16th birthday, that's a close approximation to admitting that Bruce is a piece of shit that does tendencies like an abuser. No matter what someone's intentions are, they should still apologize if they've cause unjustified/unintentional harm. Only assholes who don't regret their actions or people who feel their actions are justified won't apologize. There's times when apologizing isn't necessary or desired. That's fine. I won't apologize if Comic!Bruce and I are in a room, and I "accidentally" set him on fire.

Yet, Bruce is out here fucking up his kids. At the very LEAST, they deserve a fucking apology. Maybe a restraining order.

I ranted a bit. My bad. Anyways, have DC acknowledge the shitty actions Bruce does or don't have him do them. It's simple.

[aleximustpl4y]

My Chemical Romance – I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love: album review

Year: 2002

Label: Eyeball Records

Genre: Post-hardcore, emo, punk-rock, pop-punk

Members: Gerard Way (vocals), Ray Toro (guitar), Mikey Way (bass guitar), Matt Pelissier (drums), Frank Iero (additional guitars)

Producer: Geoff Rickly

Listen to it here: [x]

Join me in this beautiful journey of cathartic destruction where two lovers are doomed to meet and die in every lifetime.

You must keep your soul...

History

I don't think American rock band My Chemical Romance need any introduction, but for the sake of the review, I have to start from the beginning.

Hailing from New Jersey, the band was founded by Gerard Way in September 2001 after he witnessed the Twin Towers attack on his way to work. They are considered one of the most influential rock groups of the 2000s and a major act in the pop-punk and emo genres, despite the band rejecting the latter label. The name of the band was suggested by Mikey, Gerard's younger brother, who was working in a Barnes & Noble when he was struck by the title of a book by Irvine Welsh named Ecstasy: Three Tales of Chemical Romance.

I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love (Bullets for short) is their debut album, produced by Thursday vocalist Geoff Rickly. Despite being sold under the alternative rock genres, it is considered an emo album with strong influences from punk rock, hardcore punk and heavy metal.

The graphic impact

The album cover, as well as the disc, features Harry Houdini hanging upside down in a straitjacket. Gerard Way has stated that it is not a digital image, but was in fact made with some watercolor, some borax, some plastic wrap, and a color photocopier in the Eyeball Records offices.

Why put Houdini on the cover? All references to Houdini in the following albums aside, it's clear that Gerard admired the magician and saw in one of his most famous tricks – escaping from a straitjacket while dangling from a crane – a possible analogy for life: you can spend a whole lot of time in your life ‘escaping’ death, but it will still come eventually.

Autumn color palette, play of light and handmade special effects: aesthetically speaking, the album cover is very interesting to look at.

The tunes

Bullets starts off with Romance, an acoustic cover of an instrumental piece known as “Romance Anónimo,” “Romance d'Amour,” or “Spanish Romance,” composed by an unknown nineteenth-century musician. The sweet and melancholic melody lulls you into a (false) sense of security.

Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough for the Two of Us kicks off with a tits-blowing metal-core guitar riff, hitting you hard and fast, setting the real tone for the entire album. A very young Gerard yells the frustrated lyrics about a toxic relationship which, given the title's theme of the mirror, may be with an ex as well as drugs and/or alcohol. The chorus is an anthem for those who are sick and tired of their partner's (or the personification of drug abuse) manipulation tactics, and the way Gerard screams his lungs out makes it cathartic for those who haven't any words left in them anymore.

“This song is about sucking dick for cocaine.” – Gerard Way introducing the song in concert

Vampires Will Never Hurt You catapults you into another dimension, a darker, more eerie one, brought mostly by the intriguing bass line and the backwards whispering in the intro. The lyrics are the last rational, yet desperate, words of a man who's about to transform into a vampire against his will, and begs his lover to “put a spike in [his] heart” as soon as the sun goes down and to go hide before they'll get her too.

Drowning Lessons starts off with a bittersweet riff, introducing us to probably the saddest story told in the album. Drowning Lessons talks about a man who killed his spouse. My personal interpretation (I don't know if someone else had this idea before me) is that he killed himself shortly after and this is his otherworldly punishment: reliving this day over and over for eternity, perpetuating the cycle of insanity and guilt. The ending leaves you with a feeling of waiting and suspension, the fade-out suggests that the narrator is stuck in this loop and it will be like this forever.

In the fast paced Our Lady of Sorrows Gerard encourages his interlocutor to strip away their insecurities and live freely, to trust and believe in him so that they may be saved. The song is painted with religious imagery (hence the title), and implies that the narrator and the person he's speaking with are constantly at each other's throats: letting go of their doubts is the only way to end this before they murder each other. Gerard is angry, almost arrogant, but it's an arrogance driven by desperation since he doesn't want to lose his friend/lover over their insecurities, inviting and insisting that they “take [his] fucking hand and never be afraid again”.

Musically speaking, Headfirst for Halos is a sucker punch in the teeth, and yes, that is a compliment. The guitar is very Iron Maiden-esque, especially in the intro, and on a technical level, this song proves that these guys know what they're doing. The lyrics' grim undertones go in complete contrast with the upbeat tone of the music, turning it into a suicidal anthem. Despite the fact that it discusses how the narrator is stuffing himself with psychotropic drugs that make him numb to any kind of feeling, as well as his struggle against the idea of killing himself in this spiral of madness, Headfirst for Halos could be considered a powerful message of hope. This song, in my opinion, is not only about someone who succumbs to a psychotic episode, but it's also a way for the lyricist to remind us not to give up, not to do what the song proposes. Its end, where the protagonist probably commits suicide while repeating himself to “think happy thoughts”, is cathartic and destructive, truly beautiful in its tragedy.

"This song is about suicide - don't do it." – Gerard Way

I don't think I'll ever be ready to talk about Skylines and Turnstiles, but I'll try to give it justice. The track, the first one that was recorded while making the album, is a moving tribute to the victims of 9/11. It describes both the last moments of those people's lives and the experience, the feelings that Gerard had while witnessing it. The previous track's message of hope is reinforced in Skylines: when Gerard witnessed the tragedy, he knew he had to do something in hope to help people go through their grief and sadness and make the world a brighter place, giving them a reason to keep fighting. The song starts with “You're not in this alone”: Gerard is offering friendship for those who were hurt or scarred from 9/11, and it could also work in a broader sense, where he reaches his hand out to those who are feeling like this life isn't worth living anymore.

Inspired by Dawn of the Dead, Early Sunsets over Monroeville begins with a sweet and romantic melody, painting a dream-like picture of two lovers living a perfect life, “just like upon the screen”. The song, after that, takes a left turn that gives me shivers to this day just like the first time I heard it. The lyrics are a desperate call for help from the man who has to kill his lover, because she has been bitten by a zombie and is turning into one. He doesn't have the heart to shoot her, but on the other hand, it would be a mercy killing. The whole theme of the zombies could also be a metaphor for the couple's relationship that has gone awry, so the narrator has to “shoot” and hurt her by telling her that there's no love anymore between them. Gerard's voice, in the early stages of the song, is filled with nostalgia and melancholy, making the second part even more striking and emotional to listen to. His cries become more and more insistent, in a crescendo of desperation, and the fact that he repeats the same lines over and over only accentuates the interior dilemma he's having, while the melody becomes more and more fast-paced as well. The last line hangs in the air, which, again, marks the horror of the whole situation, leaving you in a state of suspended turmoil.

This is the Best Day Ever tells a story of a couple who meet in the emergency room, likely after they both attempted suicide, and they plan to escape the hospital together. It doesn't matter to them if they'll die after: they'll be free either way by doing it. What stands out the most is the upbeat and fast-paced melody, which accentuates the anticipation of the protagonists and their hope to get out of the situation they're in.

Cubicles tells a story of a shy and lonely office worker who falls in love with a woman who works two cubicles away from him but doesn't even realize he exists. He spends the time writing her love notes, but never gains the courage to give her the letters, let alone talk to her, until she quits her job and he misses his chance. From that point, he spirals into madness and is terrified he'll die alone, as portrayed by the repetition of the verse “sometimes I think I'll die alone”, which changes into just “I think I'd love to die alone” at the very end, coming to terms with his suicidal thoughts.

I think there's no better way to end this album, other than with Demolition Lovers. The song starts with a slow, sweet yet dark melody, while Gerard begins singing the beautiful, tragic story about a Bonnie and Clyde-esque couple, who run in the desert and eventually get shot by the people they were escaping from. As the music grows more intense, the man tells us how he isn't afraid to die for his lover and he is willing to prove how much she means to him despite their relationship being flawed. They die in a pool of blood, when they kiss for the last time. Demolition Lovers is masterfully made, with one of the most beautiful solos I've ever heard and with lyrics that are an arrow to the heart, not only for the passion they're sang with, but also for the meaning they carry. The ending is simply breathtaking.

Conclusion

Words can't even describe how much this album means to me. The themes, the arrangements, the messages of hope derived from destruction and tragedy, the whole meaning of the band itself... it's just beautiful. The genre is not cohesive but since it's their first artistic effort, it makes sense that they had yet to find their own style: after all, creation is just experimentation. But despite Bullets not being coherent in style, the atmosphere remains consistent thanks to the lyrics that have all the same feeling of catharsis in romantic destruction. I just wish that some songs were mixed better (but if anything that adds to their charm) and that it would last longer. Also it's worth mentioning how all the songs are connected without being connected at all (just how they are connected to their next album, which we'll check out next time), which makes me love the mind behind them even more, if possible.

Final, very personal and unprofessional score: ★ ★ ★ ★ ☆

...like a secret in your throat.

[deathsbestgirl]

So Never Again. Just saw this post and the way she looks up at him there is on a level with Mulder’s famous Fallen Angel eyes and his reaction to her? He doesn't melt? He chooses violence and being a dick? Please tell me why.

i LOVE this question because it is so easy to see it from scully's perspective. it's her episode. but you really have to think about mulder's perspective.

for mulder, this seems out of nowhere, and in his mind she was extremely inattentive with his informant on a case he's taking seriously. he doesn't understand what she's really asking or what the problem is, and a big part of that is she doesn't exactly either. it's almost like she's blaming him for the stand still in her life, but at the same time wants to be seen & appreciated (in a way that she understands, can feel, can see). and i don't think she could have figured it out the way she needed to with mulder. she needed the safety of talking to a stranger, someone inconsequential to her life. (like there's no way she could have that "other fathers" conversation with him lol) so ed jerse is the one to give her that. (she does with ed what she can't yet do with mulder. something neither of them are ready for and she isn't brave enough to do yet. and like. idk i just think she needed this! regardless of mulder lol)

like: "this isn't about you. or maybe it is, indirectly. i don't know." the one thing she got right is "i don't know" lol so of course mulder is confused!!

if you place leonard betts first, she's contemplating what she's leaving behind. has she had any impact working on the x files? on mulder? who is going to remember her? what evidence of her life will be left? in that office...it looks like she's had very little effect. (but i do not subscribe to this one.)

if never again is first, which i like better lollll (it makes more sense to me. i understand why people like lb first, it's more clear cut. it puts a reason behind her behavior. but i just don't think it quite fits. scully literally doesn't know what's wrong. if she was already worried about cancer, i think it would come across differently. but she's frustrated & confused and she wants for something she can't admit, express, pinpoint, articulate? idk what word i'm looking for lol) scully's just hit that point in her pattern again, her cycle...it took her four years, and after some rough cases (paper hearts – she couldn't help mulder despite how she tried, el mundo gira – a dead end. and idk, so many of their cases. and she's always wrong, he always does the crazy thing, he's always hurt)...well anyway, at the end he's still asking "all because i didn't get you a desk?" he still isn't quite understanding, until she says it's her life and he almost says "yes but it's become mine." he doesn't say it, they sit in silence, and in leonard betts, he tells her she did a good job & should be proud. all his little jokes like he's trying to make her laugh, to get back to their usual banter. because he wants to make her smile. so he understood at least a little by leonard betts. but they also come to a silent understanding. i just love the way kae talks about it. and i think the end is kind of the explanation for the beginning. the end is the real answer to the whole episode, and what it took to get there...and this post here, kae just understands him and talks about him in a way that i feel. it's exactly what i see in a way i could never articulate. (and she does my favorite thing!!! connects different moments. the characterization is so good.) and she has such a special insight to both of them, different patterns, but to me two sides of the same coin.

and so, either way, at the beginning of never again, he's completely thrown because he doesn't know. this is when their bad verbal communication and personal issues/insecurities/fears take hold. they're both so good at taking too much responsibility.

we're seeing into scully's mind a bit, but we aren't really seeing into his. but he's afraid, he doesn't want her to leave (something he's feared for a long time), he thinks space is the answer to whatever's going on. but he's also kinda needy and he can't just say that. so he calls her and they misunderstand each other again and she makes a date. he isn't trying to be an ass but he's scared & defensive, and he gets like that when she makes him nervous. like whenever she believes (beyond the sea, revelations, all souls, en ami). it feels like that to me. he's afraid, but this time he thinks he's the problem, their work is the problem. and he kinda said the worst thing he could say to her at that moment. "you were just assigned" — he has no idea how she understood that, how it hurts her. (and she's not thinking about how he means it, what he thinks/feels/fears.) and really, it's because she sucks at just saying the thing as much as he does. it takes them a long time to work out their direct communication. their unspoken communication, the way they work on their cases doesn't translate to their personal relationship. as intimate as their partnership is, working through their own issues takes time and it's those things that hinder them moving forward for so long. ya know?

i think @randomfoggytiger talks about it beautifully here — in depth essay on never again. here they touch on mulder's fear/walls & scully's insecurities/needs. it's a journey!! which they talk about here. and i forget what this one was (lol) but i'm sure i saved it for a reason: a little master post. i love the way foggy breaks things down, especially visually. it's something i could never do.

i also reblogged some other never again posts. not completely on topic but it's all connected!! (you can definitely go through my never again tag to see more probably too!)

[wuxianxkexing]

This face. I'm going to talk about it. Spoilers below!

So my pathetic little meow meow looks kind of unhinged here. I've said that much already. But what exactly is he thinking in this moment?

From a storytelling perspective Heaven Official's Blessing doesn't really have a main villain by this point. Pei Ming is the closest thing to one since he caused and ignored the Bridegroom and he tried to sweep his deputy's crimes in Banyue under the rug. However while those things might make him a "bad" guy that isn't quite main villain of the story material since he hadn't really gone after our main character Xie Lian all that hard. Yeah, he tried to shift the focus onto Xie Lian hanging out with Crimson Rain, but it wasn't really personal. He wasn't trying to drag Xie Lian down since he also spoke in his defense and said that Xie Lian was probably just tricked. He just wanted to shift the focus off of his deputy but failed to. Still a dick move to Xie Lian, but at least it wasn't personal? 😅 Or at least it wasn't personal until the very end when he realized that he wasn't going to be able to save his deputy after all.

But from a storytelling perspective having Mu Qing make this expression puts him on the radar as potentially being the story's main villain. At this point all we know about Mu Qing is pretty negative? He used to be Xie Lian's servant but left/betrayed him to ascend to godhood. He clearly still remembered Xie Lian though Xie Lian didn't recognize him and he seemed miffed by that fact. In the books it is revealed that he hangs out in the communication array all day every day, supposedly because he is catty and loves gossip and he has no friends. He is shown to have beef with General Nan Yang, who forgave Xie Lian's absolutely massive debt out of the kindness of his heart and who in this very episode publicly sides himself with our main character when he is concerned about him getting hurt. The audience realizes that Feng Xin is actually a pretty good dude, and naturally we are suspicious of anyone who openly hates him as much as Mu Qing does. Then Mu Qing makes that face. At this point the audience can only assume that Mu Qing made that face because he is a huge asshole and hates Xie Lian. The main villain has to be either him or Pei Ming. Right? They both have personal beef with him, and figuring out which of them is going to be the main villain gives the audience something to think about. I think this is why MXTX decided to have him make this face. The story needs a main villain but she wasn't ready to reveal them just yet so she kind of pretended to throw us a bone to keep us interested.

Ignoring the overall story reasons and focusing on the in world reason that I think Mu Qing made this face: He is just vindictive. Not towards Xie Lian, but Yong'An. Xie Lian describes him as both petty and spiteful. Up until Mu Qing makes his friendship confession and tries to kill himself afterwards the audience doesn't really know any better of him. I've seen some people say that he made that face because he was glad that Xie Lian isn't as perfect as he thought, but I don't think that is the case at all. If you actually hated someone for being too perfect would you even /want/ to be their friend? Let alone be willing to throw yourself into a volcano for them? Nah. Most people try to avoid people that they hate, so Mu Qing wouldn't have even helped out during the Bridegroom arc, or if he did then he would've only done it to sabotage the mission (which he didn't).

But knowing how spiteful and petty Mu Qing is having him make this face upon hearing that the former crown prince of his kingdom massacred the royal family of their invaders? That makes perfect sense for his character. This scene reveals that deep in his heart he is glad that the Yong'an royal family "got what they deserved." They destroyed his home country and they set into motion the process of him losing his 2 best friends as well. Arguably they are the root cause of a lot of his suffering. As for the frown after he was done having his moment I think that the revelation of why/how Xie Lian did it kind of ruined his revenge fantasy. Xie Lian did kill the Yong'an king to protect the former people of Xianle, but he didn't go on the cool V for Vendetta campaign that Mu Qing had hoped for. Which maybe that is a problem too but at least you can see where he is coming from.

Ultimately I think Mu Qing had a very real and human reaction to the news, but it only makes sense with context. Otherwise he just seems like a crazy person. Like all I can think of when I see that face is that if Mu Qing was the one poisoned by the Land of the Tenders instead of Xie Lian he would've had the worst bloodlust ever known to mankind. He is still my little meow meow though.

[nickeverdeen]

Can I ask for an imagine since there's almost none here pls?🙏🏻

So, in this one, gn!reader has beefs with their dad because he is very rude to them and a very mentally unstable man. Usually they spend a lot of time with joel because they like his company a lot and he's so good to them, they kind of wishes he was their dad. One time, they go to joel's house very sad, saying something happened home. Joel is not surprised, he knows the dick of a father this kid has. But now is different, reader says their father threatened them, and now joel knows the shit is getting real here. He asks, just by confirmation, what reader wanted to change the situation. Reader says all they wanted was their dad out of their life so they could have peace in jackson. Joel remembers he has patrol next morning with this man, and now he knows he has to do...something about it. Kiddo isn't asking much, after all.

Home, sweet home | Joel Miller x gn!kid!reader

Warnings: Cussing, neglectation, abuse, mentions of cigarettes, mentions of alcohol, mentions of blood

Summary: You’re seeking support from Joel, whom you view as a father figure, after your mentally unstable father threatens you. Joel decides to take action during his patrol with your father to ensure your safety and peace in Jackson

————————————————————

The tension in the air was palpable as you entered your father's house, the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey assaulting your senses. You knew what awaited you – another confrontation, another argument with the man who was supposed to be your dad.

Your relationship with your father had always been strained, marred by years of bitter arguments and hurtful words. You longed for a father who would offer guidance and support, someone like Joel.

But as you stepped into the dimly lit living room, the atmosphere shifted from tense to volatile. Your father's eyes bore into you with a mixture of anger and resentment, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. "Where the hell have you been?" Your father growled, his voice dripping with contempt.

Your heart sank as you braced yourself for yet another confrontation. You had spent the night at Joel’s house, seeking refuge from the toxic environment of your father’s home.

“I was out” you replied tersely, your voice tinged with defiance

Your father's eyes narrowed, his fists clenching at his sides. "You think you can just come and go as you please? You think you can disrespect me like that? Why can’t you be more like Tommy or Maria? They’re a responsible and useful people who unlike you don’t waste the oxygen on this Earth. You’re nothing, but a waste of time and energy!" You felt a surge of frustration and fear coursing through you as you locked eyes with your father. "Then why the fuck did you even have me, you asshole?!" you shot back, your voice rising in anger. Without warning, your father lunged forward, his hand snaking out to grab a nearby glass. Your heart pounded in your chest as you braced yourself for the inevitable confrontation.

"You ungrateful little brat" your father spat, his voice laced with venom. "You think you can talk back to me? You think you can defy me in my own fucking house?" Your pulse quickened as your father's anger escalated, the air thick with tension and fear. You knew you had pushed him too far, that your words had ignited a firestorm of rage. With a sudden, violent motion, your father hurled the glass against the wall, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the room. You flinched instinctively, your heart racing as you stared at the shattered remnants of your father's anger.

"Get the fuck out, you worthless piece of shit!" their father growled, his voice low and menacing. "Get out before I’ll beat the shit out of you, you stupid ass fuck!" Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at your father, your mind reeling with a mixture of fear and disbelief. You knew you had to leave, to escape the toxic environment of your father's house before it consumed you whole.

Without a word, you quickly got up and fled from the house, your heart heavy with sorrow and regret. You knew you could never change your father, could never mend the broken relationship that lay shattered at your feet.

As you made your way to Joel’s house, a heavy weight settled in your chest, dragging you down with each step. The events of the evening replayed in your mind like a broken record, the echoes of your father’s anger still ringing in your ears.

When you finally reached Joel’s doorstep, your heart felt heavy with sorrow and despair. You knew you could always count on Joel for comfort and support, but tonight, your burden felt too heavy to bear alone. Joel opened the door, his expression softening as he took in the sight of your tear-stained face. Without a word, he stepped aside, silently inviting you inside.

You stepped into the warmth of Joel’s house, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and leather enveloping you like a comforting embrace. You sank onto the couch, burying your face in your hands as tears threatened to spill over.

Joel sat down beside you, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm of emotions raging inside your heart. He didn’t need to ask what had happened – he could see the pain etched in every line of your face.

“Hey kid,” Joel said gently, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “You wanna talk about it?” You shook your head, unable to find the words to articulate the turmoil churning inside you. All you could think about was the look of hatred in your father’s eyes, the sharp sting of his words cutting you to the core.

Joel didn’t press for answers, sensing that you needed time to process your emotions. Instead, he reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity and support before wrapping you in a blanket and getting you a hot cocoa.

For hours, you both sat in silence, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire burning in the hearth. You found solace in Joel’s presence, his steady presence a comforting reminder that you were not alone in your pain so you decided to bring him into what happened, telling him about the glass accident, hurtful words and the threatening from your father. The weight of your words hung heavy in the air as Joel listened, his jaw clenched with simmering anger. He had known that your father was trouble, the whole town did, but the gravity of the situation hit him like a punch to the gut

“So, what do you want to do about it?” Joel asked, his voice low and measured. He had to tread carefully – he didn’t want to scare you off with talk of your father, but he couldn’t just sit back and do nothing either, you hesitated, your gaze dropping to your hands folded in your lap. “I just… I want him out of my life,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want to feel safe, Joel.” The raw vulnerability in your voice tugged at Joel’s heartstrings, igniting a fierce protectiveness deep within him. He wanted nothing more than to make things right for you, to rid your life of the toxic influence of your father once and for all.

As the night wore on, your exhaustion finally caught up with you, your eyes growing heavy with sleep. With a gentle nudge, Joel led you to the guest room, tucking you in with a warm blanket and a soft pillow. “Get some rest, kid,” Joel murmured, his voice a soothing lullaby, but his mind was already running wild as he remembered that tommorow morning he has a patrol with this shit called your ‘father’ and Joel knows damn well that he’ll do anything to protect his family, even if you’re not blood related, he doesn’t give a fuck he’ll protect you and make sure you won’t have to go through this hell again. You are his family since the first day of when Ellie brought you here when you were younger and he saw how your father behaves towards you, he already felt protective of you back then and now with that old man threatening you? Hell nah, the least he’ll do is have a conversation with him.

You drifted off to sleep, your dreams haunted by memories of your father’s anger and your own sense of helplessness. But in the warmth and safety of Joel’s house, you found sanctuary from the storm raging outside. “I’ll make sure he never hurts you again.” Joel whispered knowing you’re asleep as he gave you a small fatherly kiss on the cheek.

The next morning, Joel’s footsteps echoed through the quiet streets of Jackson as he made his way to the rendezvous point for his patrol with your father. His mind raced with thoughts of what he was about to do, the weight of his decision heavy on his shoulders.

As he approached the designated meeting spot, your father came into view, his presence casting a dark shadow over the sunny morning. Joel’s fists clenched at his sides, a surge of anger coursing through his veins as he remembered the fear in your eyes. “Morning” your father greeted him with a sneer, his tone dripping with contempt. “Ready to patrol, old man?” Joel forced a tight smile, his stomach churning with revulsion at the sight of the man standing before him. “Yeah, let’s get this over with,” he replied through gritted teeth.

For hours, they walked the perimeter of Jackson in silence, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Your father made small talk, but Joel barely registered his words, his mind consumed with other thoughts.

Finally, as they reached the outskirts of town, Joel’s patience reached its breaking point. He turned to face your father, his expression steely with determination. “We need to talk,” Joel said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. Your father raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from amusement to suspicion. “What’s this about, old man?” he asked, his tone tinged with arrogance. Joel took a step forward, his gaze boring into your father with unwavering intensity. “You need to leave,” he said firmly. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”

Your father scoffed, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “And who’s gonna make me, huh? Are you trying to scare me away ‘cause that bitch of mine told you to? They’re mine property, old man. I get to do whatever I want with them” he taunted, taking a step closer to Joel. “Whatever I want” he repeated.

Without hesitation, Joel lunged forward, his fist connecting with your father’s jaw with a satisfying thud. The force of the blow sent your father stumbling backwards, his eyes widening in shock. Joel despite being older is advanced at fighting, his movements fluid and controlled as he unleashed a flurry of punches, each one landing with deadly accuracy. Your father fought back, but Joel was relentless, his rage fueling his every move.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, your father lay crumpled on the ground, blood oozing from a split lip and more blood covering his face. Joel stood over him, his chest heaving with exertion as he glared down at the man who had terrorized you for far too long. “You’re done here,” Joel growled, his voice low and menacing. “You hear me? If I ever see you near Y/N again, I won’t hold back. Not again” With that, Joel kicked him in the stomach and walked away, leaving your father lying battered and broken on the ground. As he made his way back to Jackson, Joel felt a sense of satisfaction wash over him – he had done what needed to be done to protect the ones he cared about.

As dawn broke on a new day, you awoke to the sound of birdsong filtering through the window. You rose from bed, your heart heavy with the weight of the previous night’s events unaware that Joel made sure this won’t ever happen again.

But as you made your way to the kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of Joel’s quiet humming greeted you like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. You couldn’t help but smile, the warmth of Joel’s presence filling you with a sense of hope and renewal.

“Morning, kid,” Joel greeted you with a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners with affection. “You sleep okay?” You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, thanks to you,” you replied softly, your voice filled with gratitude as you saw a letter that Tommy and Maria signed that gives Joel the right to legally take you under his wing if you’d want to.

Joel poured you a cup of coffee, the rich aroma filling the air with warmth and comfort. As you sat down at the kitchen table, you felt a sense of peace settling over you like a blanket. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth and love of your makeshift family, you knew that you would find the strength to face whatever challenges lay ahead. And with Joel by your side, you knew you would never have to face them alone.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Paper Moon: Part One

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.7k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst

Summary: A case brings you back to someone you let go once before. Now, you have a decision to make: let her go again or kill her. Whatever option that will piss the Winchesters off, right?

Season Ten Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. I love seeing any and all comments <3

x

You're turning the small room you dedicated to yourself into something you might be permanently in. Who knows how long you'll be like this or if it will last forever? If it does, then you're never sleeping in your shared room with Dean ever again. You've just got back from shopping so you're putting your new clothes away. The door to your room opens and you don't have to look to know who it is.

"Hi," he says.

"I was wondering when you were gonna come talk to me," you smirk and look at your husband.

"I heard the rumors. I wanted to know if it was true."

"If what was true?" You grab the small pile of folded pants and place them neatly into your dresser drawers. "That I finally knocked some sense into me and saw you for who you really are? A man who has Daddy issues, abandonment issues, and is an all-around-dick kind of a guy? Then yes, the rumors are true."

This isn't real, Dean. She's not herself. This isn't the real her. Don't let her know her words hurt.

Dean reminds himself that you're a shell of the woman he loves, so he takes a deep breath to calm himself.

"I remember everything." You grab two shirts and hang them in your closet. "I want to know if you meant what you said."

"You're gonna have to refresh my memory. I said a lot of things."

The smile on your face tells him you know exactly what he's talking about.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"No, I don't. Please remind me. What did I say?"

Dean hates that he has to repeat your words, but you're not going to make this easy on him.

"That I'm such a shitty person, husband, father. How our kids are happier without me in their life? Ring a bell?"

"Yeah, I knew what you were talking about," you giggle. "I just wanted to hear you say it." Dean glares at you which brings you joy. He has to remind himself yet again to not give you a reaction. That's all you're after. If he gives you that, he's only going to get hurt. You grab your new underwear and place them inside one of the drawers of your dresser. "Look, I meant every word. Everyone around you dies so that also makes you a shitty hunter." He has a stoic look on his face but you can see the tears in his eyes. "I'm not trying to be mean, I'm only stating facts."

You finish putting away your clothes and are about to pass by him to leave your room when he pulls something from his pocket. He holds the item in front of him so you both can see what it is.

"I found this in my room."

You look down at your shiny wedding ring that you put in his duffel bag a few days ago.

"Am I supposed to be on the floor in tears for throwing that away?"

"You don't have to be that dramatic, but a little emotion wouldn't hurt."

You step closer to Dean and slide your hands over his body starting at his stomach. You move your hands up his chest and your arms around his neck so you can pull him closer. You lean your face in closer to his seductively. He closes his eyes thinking you're going to kiss him but you move past his lips and to his ear.

"Listen closely because I'm only gonna say this once. Whatever feelings I've had for you are gone. They do not exist. You mean nothing to me, and when I say that, I fucking mean it. You could drop dead at this fucking second and I'd step over your body and move on with my life. Don't think for a second that I'd trade my life for yours because I do not love you. I'm not in love with you, I do not think about you, and you're the least of my concerns. Do with that what you will."

You shove him away from you and leave him to think about your words alone. Without you there to see him, he silently cries. He clenches his jaw to keep himself from full-on sobbing but the tears still stream down. He's not sure what happened to you or why you're like this, but hearing those words come from your mouth is gut-wrenching.

He forces that heartbreak down and wipes his face until it looks like he hasn't been crying. He leaves your room in search of his brother. Sam is in the library doing something on his laptop when Dean enters. They've been taking a break while Dean heals from his time as a demon, but enough is enough.

"Hey, I got you your fav--" Sam looks up and sees a look of hurt across Dean's face. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. Where are my kids? Where are my dogs?"

This is the part Sam's been dreading. He knew Dean would ask sooner or later, and he hadn't prepared a better answer for himself.

"I don't know," Sam winces.

"What the fuck do you mean, I don't know?"

"They're safe. That's all I know, okay?"

"Are you serious, Sam? You don't know where my kids are?!"

"Look, do you really want them around right now? Do you think they'd be safe with Y/N the way she is?"

Sam's right. Sam is always fucking right. If you speak to your own husband like that, imagine how you'd treat your own kids.

"You're right, but I'd still like to know where they are."

"Do you?" Sam raises his eyebrows. "What do you think Y/N would do if she knew where they were? She could use them against us. She knows we'd do anything to protect them. Right now, they're safe and that's all that matters."

God, he can be so fucking annoying sometimes.

Dean rolls his eyes and lets the topic go for now. He pulls out a chair and grabs the newspaper Sam was reading not too long ago. He comes across an article about a murder with the heart eaten right out of the chest.

"Hey, did you see this story?"

"Maybe it was an animal kill," Sam says and continues to type.

"It was three kills, and it was in the same town all within the last month."

"Yeah, you're right. We should call some guys and have them fix it."

"Good. Smart," Dean nods. "Or we could do it. We'd be in and out. It's a milk run."

"When is that ever the case for us," Sam sighs.

"Listen, I appreciate us hanging out and doing brother stuff together, but I need to work. I need this."

Sam thinks about his words and the situation before giving in.

"If things go sideways... I mean, like an inch, you gotta give me the heads-up."

"Done. You got my word."

"When do we leave?" Both brothers turn to see you in the archway between the war room and the library. "What? It's getting boring here." Sam and Dean aren't thrilled to bring you along on a hunt, but any hunt means there will be death. Death means there will be chaos. Chaos is exactly what you're craving right now. "I'm already packed and ready to go. I'll meet you in the car."

"This is going to be a long week," Dean sighs.

It takes an entire day to get to King's County, Washington which you weren't too fond of taking. Especially if you're locked inside with both brothers yapping in your ear the entire time. You get out of the car to stretch your legs when your stiff shirt scratches at your neck.

"Tell me why I'm wearing this shit?" you complain as you walk to the station.

You and the brothers are wearing dark brown slacks with a forest green shirt tucked underneath the waist of the pants. You look like forest rangers if you had to guess.

"Hey, if you want to hunt with us, that's fine. You gotta look the part so that means keep your mouth shut and let us do the talking," Dean snaps at you.

You three walk into the police station where the sheriff greets you. Dean hands over his badge while Sam simply flashes it. You stay behind them and let them do the talking.

"Gentleman and lady. We're damn glad to see you," the sheriff says and hands Dean his badge back. "You three must come up on stuff like this all the time."

"Oh yeah," Sam and Dean nod.

"Hell, I've seen raccoons in rec rooms and bears in swimming pools, but this? You tell me."

"Yeah," Dean nods. The sheriff looks at him expecting a story of something crazier and Dean blushes slightly under the spotlight. "Oh, you know, where do we start? Logging."

"Ice caps," Sam chimes in.

"Bitcoin... Obama."

The sheriff stares at him in suspicion, and you snicker at how dumb they're both being. Dean turns and glares at you while Sam changes the topic.

"You know what? Maybe you could walk us through the attacks. Any similarities or anything weird you noticed?"

"The only weird thing about them was how similar they were. Those folks were torn clean through with their hearts gone."

"Gone as in...?"

"Consumed, most likely."

"We're there any witnesses?"

"The first two attacks were really late at night, but the one at the bar had a ton of witnesses. You'd think with it being jam-packed, there would be more witnesses than Tommy."

"What did he see?" Dean asks.

"Honestly, not much. Tommy ain't exactly what we call a reliable witness, and he's telling anybody who'll listen he saw some girl go out back with Barker, and she got torn up, too."

"So, there was a second victim?"

"I doubt it because Tommy's a drunk. There's no body, no DNA, no blood trail, and nothing to suggest another victim." A deputy walks up to the sheriff and taps on his shoulder. "Give me one second."

"Hearts missing sounds wolfy to me," Dean says once the two officers are gone.

"Yeah. It's pretty brazen, even for a werewolf."

"Do you think it was the girl?"

"Let's find out."

Tommy is the only witness to have seen something, and you knew he was going to be at the bar where the last attack took place. It isn't hard to pick him out of a crowd of people. He looks disheveled like he hasn't taken a shower in weeks, and his teeth are stained from the many alcoholic drinks he's had. Sam and Dean immediately talk to him while you go to the bar counter to order yourself a drink.

Once you have your favorite drink in hand, you walk back over to the brothers who are in the middle of a conversation with Tommy. 

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[yooniesim]

this as a prime example of what is wrong with simblr (and tumblr in general). this ask was sent to me within like less than a day of that post about cf going up, while I was away for the weekend and not at pc for days. I did not even see the post until right before I got this ask. yall are so damn terminally online that you lost the gd plot and cannot comprehend someone not keeping their finger on the dying pulse of the performative activism headquarters of the internet. and you definitely can't comprehend waiting for complete info or maybe just a full day before starting some reactionary bs. just peeking in here since yesterday i see that simblr is yet again so hyped up on smelling its own farts that it's turned an issue of genocide into yet another dick measuring contest of who can reblog more posts than one another the fastest so they can look more empathetic and better than anyone else. and call themselves "real activists" for being able to click the reblog button. not to mention the usual spamming anons to random people minding their own business. yall are weird as fuck and need to get a firm grip on some grass. stop making the horrific suffering of others about yourselves for once.

that being said, let me get serious for the people on here that are actually normal. for those that don't know by now, this anon seems to be referencing this post about cf, which talks about overwolf (the company that owns curseforge) donating to the IDF. But I also found this tweet by OOP made after that post that explains they have since received DMs from Overwolf stating that they have shifted their relief efforts to aiding victims that have lost their homes from the Hamas terrorist attacks exclusively and do not fund the IDF. this is a much better cause as the victims of terrorism definitely deserve to be helped, and it makes sense they would do this as an Israeli company. The DMs also clarify that it is donation based and nothing uploaded to cf (cc/mods) contributes to this effort whatsoever. As well as Overwolf/Curseforge revenue in general. So simply using curseforge does not mean that you fund or endorse genocide. OOP calls their new efforts commendable in that tweet but I am still looking into and keeping an eye on this matter since, as we know, more information could come out later that contradicts this. And since I have been away im still catching up on everything that has been posted relating to cf.

here are the pics for those that may not have Twitter. do I still support a boycott for those that want to? oh, absolutely. I know that many will still want to boycott regardless, and I'll be working to add alt links to my cc uploads as soon as possible (the ones that don't already have them) for those that don't want to use it. However, everyone I've seen wanting to boycott seems to want to do it because a) they believe overwolf is funding the IDF (apparently is not true) b) they believe having their uploads on cf or downloading from there will fund the IDF (apparently is not true) or c) overwolf itself is an Israeli company (is definitely true). therefore based on the new info we now have some may decide not to boycott after all or will still do so, it is a personal decision. will I be deleting my account there? for now, no.

to be completely honest, I'm in a really bad place financially right now, and while it isn't much, the little bit I get from cf downloads has been exclusively going towards my meds and dr appointment bills. I don't have the option right now to turn down the small amount of added income when I am currently living day to day, especially with the updated knowledge that simply having cc uploaded there does not contribute to their donation efforts in any way. I do not paywall my cc and never will and I do not ask for donations myself, so my options are somewhat limited. although I do not make cc with the aim of getting paid, I ultimately wouldn't be able to justify the sheer amount of time I spend on it if it wasn't helping me with my medical bills currently, as I am already caregiving with the majority of my time. I'm not reliant on cc making or cf to live, and I never want that to be the case god forbid, but in full transparency it is helping me with my healthcare expenses atm and I cannot afford to neglect my health anymore than I have. especially since, as established earlier, using cf does not contribute to the IDF in the first place. so I personally do not judge anyone that continues to use cf for this reason.

also, for the record so there is no confusion on my personal views, I fully support the freedom of Palestine and condemn genocide first and foremost, as well as terrorism and antisemitism. The current situation in Gaza is abhorrent and I encourage all my followers to not only reblog posts, but educate yourselves on the situation and bring it irl as you are able. Speak with the people you love as well as those you are acquainted with and bring this to this to their attention (if you feel safe to). Attend protests if you can. If you cannot, make the calls and emails to your representatives, sign petitions, and donate as you are able. I have been seeing that even spreading Palestinian culture among your loved ones and peers is helpful. So even if you are in a bad place mentally, that may be an option to spread the positive message of the Palestinian people in your everyday life. I'll be reblogging the posts I already did earlier and some new ones too so you can find those updated links. I will be tagging it with palestine so that it can be found easily on my page.

In addition, be kind. To others and yourself. Try to see the full damn picture instead of a snapshot. What someone posts on tumblr of all places does not reflect an entire person's being, or their efforts, or their heart. Yelling your head off on this dying website does not equal activism, and running your mental health into the ground taking on the weight of the world doesn't give you any more control over the issues we face- I learned that the hard fucking way, believe me. By all means share as much as you like, every bit helps (especially if you have a lot of followers), but keep in mind that it certainly doesn't make you better than anyone else. I know it's extremely difficult to feel helpless and you want to feel like you're doing something, but just make sure you're doing the right things for the right reasons. Please do not fucking attack random people for not responding within one business day of the latest info coming out. And take time away from all this shit to breathe. You can't help anyone if you're fucked up yourself. especially for those of us that already face discrimination and bigotry every day irl, I know it is exhausting. Remember to also care for yourselves through all this.

[not-so-mundane-after-all]

Dick & Rachel and the Invisible String theory (part 4)

Hey, it's part 4! LAST ONE! I hope you liked part 1, part 2 and part 3. Seasons 3 & 4 get a joined part because while there aren't many String moments in these two seasons, the ones that are there are major.

Season 3 in general doesn't have much, considering Rachel is gone until episode 9 (and if what I'm talking about here was considered canon and writers had some more brains this season, we would have seen the String work at long distance but nooooo) but it doesn't change the fact that the content that is there is still stellar. And the String basically slaps us in the face with it.

For the past few months Rachel had been on Themyscira, where she trained under the Amazons and studied her magical abilities. And in episode 3x11 "The Call Is Coming From Inside The House" she comes back right into the middle of a mess. The Titans are scattered across Gotham City with no way of reaching one another, the city is against them so they need to hide and the big bad of the season took over Wayne Manor. The first person Rachel finds is Gar, who brings her up to speed on the current situation. Then they head out to search for the Lazarus Pit, because Gar had figured out that it might be how Jason came back to life after being killed at the beginning of the season.

Meanwhile, in a different part of the city, we see Dick stepping out in full Nightwing gear to answer Jason's challenge. The fight, to say it nicely, doesn't end well for him.

He gets fatally shot in the neck, then bleeds out on the ground while a crowd of Red Hood followers attacks him.

When it happens, Gar and Rachel are underground of some office building, where the Lazarus Pit is located. Suddenly, the Pit starts glowing and the whole place starts to shake as if there was an earthquake happening - and Rachel senses that something really bad is happening to Dick, though she can't tell what. We see her eyes glow red as her power erupts from her and hear her ear-piercing scream.

Two things here. The Pit isn't reacting to Dick's death — it wouldn't make much sense if there was a small earthquake happening every time someone dies in Gotham, right? — but rather to what's happening to Rachel. And what is happening to her?

It's a reaction to the physical pain of The String being broken.

Her scream literally sounds like she's being ripped apart. It's so loud, Gar is covering his ears. She loses all grip on her magic and lets it explode out of her. She can feel Dick dying and therefore their connection breaking.

Now, remember these two things I mentioned in season 2 breakdown that I said I will bring up during season 3? Now it's time to talk about them.

In Dick's last hallucination in 2x11 we see two memories of Rachel, one of which is the moment she entered his mind trapped in Trigon's vision to save him — which proves that Dick was aware of what's happening at the time and remembers it in great detail. And if he was aware, if he was awake somewhere deep in there back then, it means he was also awake to see this:

Imagine him, trapped in there, banging his fists against the walls of his mental prison and screaming, having no control over his body and being forced to watch it. Had he felt it? If Rachel felt the pain of his death, was he able to feel the String being ripped out of his soul the same way Rachel's heart was ripped out of her chest? How bad did it hurt? Did he also scream in pain?

Episode 3x12 "Prodigal" picks up right where the previous episode left off and we see Gar and Rachel roaming the city streets, looking for Dick. Rachel can feel he's dying (meaning he's not completely gone yet) and she uses that feeling to find him. Again, the String is leading her to him.

They get to the place of the fight and find him on the ground. Rachel screams and runs to him, starts crying as she drops to her knees next to him and that alone is heartbreaking enough because it looks like the weight of her grief is pushing her down. It's not a controlled fall — she stumbles and drops.

She tries to heal him with her powers but it's too late, it doesn't work. She and Gar are both devastated. Having no other choice, the kids take his body to the Lazarus Pit with the help of Gar's new friends - the bats.

They spend their time holding vigil by the edge of the Pit and waiting for Dick to come back. Rachel doesn't want to take her eyes off the water, as if that alone would bring Dick back. When Gar asks if she can sense him in there, Rachel simply replies that "he has to fight". They can't help him anymore. All they can do is wait.

Meanwhile, Dick's soul goes through a little journey through his past, present and possible future, in order to decide whether or not he wants to come back to life. And even while under the magical waters, his connection to the living world remains intact, because before the journey begins, he can hear Rachel and Gar's voices. He can hear Rachel begging him to talk to her.

Eventually Dick emerges from the water and Rachel grabs onto him to help him climb out of the pit. He drops unconscious right after and she doesn't let him go until he wakes up and gets back on his feet. (It's also worth mentioning that this is the first time he sees Rachel in months, he had no idea she was back until now — talk about a crazy reunion)

He's alive. The String is restored. And also more powerful than ever.

And how do I know that? Because season 4 is where it gets insane.

The shit they're pulling here? In season 1 this would have been impossible. There's not many instances I'll be talking about here but they're huuuuuge and also the most logically unexplainable out of the entire series.

In Episode 4x02 "Mother Mayhem", after Lex Luthor mysteriously dies, Dick takes Rachel to the man's office so she can use her magic and figure out what happened. A vision shows her a house somewhere in town, and when they get there, they find a bloodied body of a woman on the kitchen floor and a little girl, Aria, in her bedroom upstairs, who's trapped in a nightmare. By entering her mind, Rachel is able to save the girl from the masked attacker, and from the dream she gets another location — an abandoned building. The Titans gear up and head out to investigate and find out that it's a slaughterhouse turned into a ritualistic lair. They go upstairs and seem to cross the whole length of the building, but Rachel breaks away from the group and comes back downstairs, following a feeling of someone watching her.

Upstairs, the Titans find bodies of five men, including Aria's father, hanging on chains, their blood being drained into the buckets at their feet. They're still alive so the group rushes in to get them down.

Meanwhile Rachel is wandering through what looks like the basement level of the bulidng (look at the high position of the boarded window between the two lamps, all it took me to figure it out is paying attention to the placement of windows throughout the scene), far away from the group at this point, having sensed that the figure that attacked her in Aria's nightmare is hiding here somewhere and she's trying to find it.

The masked figure surprises her and attacks her from behind, knocking her to the ground but she's able to defend herself with her magic right before the masked man is about to stab her.

Back upstairs, Dick suddenly turns and shouts Rachel's name, knowing that she's in danger. He drops everything and runs, leaving Kory and the boys to take care of the victims.

Now, I've rewatched this many times to figure out the logistics. Rachel went at least one floor down, to the basement, while the others went up from the ground level. She is on the other side of the building while the rest is trying to free these guys from the chains. How the hell did Dick know she was in danger? First thought: he heard her. BUT. There's no giant scream. Yes, she shouts at the figure but she seems to be too far from the rest of the Titans to be heard (especially over the rattling of chains and overall commotion) and even if they have comms in their ears, wouldn't everyone be able to hear her? Gar and Tim don't react, Kory doesn't either until Dick turns and calls Rachel's name — and that's not even a reaction to Rachel herself but to what Dick is doing. When he takes off, she looks after him over her shoulder but doesn't do anything, neither do the boys. And if they all heard Rachel being attacked, wouldn't at least Kory go with him? For backup? Wouldn't she have the same kind of reaction?

This is the clearest example of the pattern of Dick being able to sense when Rachel is in danger. The previous examples were really small compared to this. The String tugged at his gut and told him to run, and he left everything and immediately took off. She couldn't be heard. No one else reacted. They didn't know where she was. Only he knew, was able to find her, and then comforted her when she was shaken after the attack.

Now we move to episode 4x08 "Dick & Carol & Ted & Kory"

Dick, Kory and Rachel are stuck in a town hidden behind a magical barrier with all its residents being brainwashed into a perfect life (welcome to Wandavision, everybody). Rachel gets separated from the others and held captive by the Church of Blood, while Dick and Kory, on top of searching for her, are fighting with their own progressing brainwashing (and start confronting their feelings for each other).

First moment I want to mention is a small one and a liiiiiitle bit of a stretch but you've seen enough of my delusion at this point that it shouldn't even surpirise you that it's here.

Kory is rapidly succumbing into the brainwashing and more often taking on the persona of Carol — a perfect wife with the perfect life she shares with her husband Ted, who Dick is turning into. He's having it a little easier to keep control over his mind, but he's starting to struggle as well. They're at "their house", trying to figure out a way to protect themselves from losing their minds (a way that's bringing up some buried feelings as a side effect) so they can search for Rachel. Kory is losing her mind to Carol while Dick is trying to keep a very important conversation going, when suddenly he sees this:

A flock of ravens in the sky is basically an equivalent of Rachel sending a flare. A big neon sign saying HEY, I'M HERE! It's another example of Dick dropping everything and rushing with help. Kory has fully turned into Carol at this point and he obviously can't leave her like this (which he emotionally promises to her, saying that would never) so he takes her with him and asks her to stay in the car while he goes for Rachel.

Another one from this episode, a bit later. And this one's big. Again, it's Rachel bringing Dick back to reality, and this one is at the same level as the one from 2x01, if not bigger.

They found a way to break the brainwashing and the barrier. They head to the location. In the car, Dick is starting to turn into Ted, but all Rachel has to do is snap her fingers.

Later he fully switches into Ted, while they're attacked by guards inside the building — which makes the situation really bad because Ted isn't a fighter. He doesn't have the training and instincts, and curls on the floor in fear as the guards beat him.

And it's up to Rachel to remind him of who he is:

That first memory of her, of that little girl from the interrogation room staring at him with wide, pleading eyes full of tears is his anchor to reality. Obviously, Detroit holds a very special place in both of their hearts, it's the origin of their story, and the mere mention of it brings back who Dick is and what he's fighting for. It snaps him back in an instant and just like that he's back in the game, moping the floor with the guards.

Honorary mention to the third time she has to bring him back in this episode, only not from brainwashing, but from a cloud of rage that blinded him when he got his hands on the machinery responsible for the brainwashing and destroyed it all with his bare hands.

Then we have episode 4x10 "Game Over" which, along with 4x02, is their episode of the season. Now, I could write a whole new essay about the significance of the "Your weapon is your love for this child" line and said weapon, but I'm going to leave this for a fic. Here, I'm going to talk about something that happens later.

Dick and Rachel are performing a dark magic ritual to serve the link between Rachel and her half-brother Sebastian. The ritual gives "the inner evil" a physical form so it can be killed with a blade made out of love (how poetic, isn't it?). The monster that appears is connected to Rachel and feeding off her life force, so the longer it exists, the more energy she loses and in the end can die. After a brief fight with Dick, the monster runs away — Dick hesitates, not wanting to leave Rachel, but she tells him to go chase it.

Now this where we can see the String at work. The communication is the easy part this time — they have comms in their ears, they can talk to each other. But Rachel, despite being vulnerable and drained of energy, can sense both Dick and the monster. The monster? Sure, they're connected, it literally came out of her. It's the whole point of the ritual. But Dick? She knows where he is in the building, can tell him where to go and warn him when the monster is near. It's like she can see through his eyes, she stays connected to his mind and is able to guide him. What's more is that they are both aware of the connection and using it to their advantage. They're working like a well oiled machine at this point.

Technically, the blade can also be backed up by the String, since it's supposed to be powered by Dick's love for Rachel ("Your faith will make the blade. Your weapon is your love for this child."). Through the entire fight and chase, Dick is struggling to make the blade work, because he's thinking about it too much, and only succeeds when the monster takes Rachel for a target and has his hand around her neck, choking her. Fear for her safety is what makes the blade work.

And that's it! Man, writing it all down and gathering evidence took me way longer than I expected lol. What can I say to wrap this up? Dick and Rachel's relationship progresses as any other on the show, it has its ups and downs, but there's also this extra factor that makes it something more. It's right there from the start and it's consistent thoughout the entire series. Whether we call it fate, destiny, the invisible string or just a simple coincidence of events that wasn't thought out by the writers but somehow happened anyway, we can't deny that it's there. At least I can't — that's why I love them so much.

If you somehow read through all of this delusional blabbering and got to the end, thank you for your time and for allowing me to share a piece of my heart and brain with you. Creating these posts reignited my love for these two birds, it was a good decision to do so.

[crusherthedoctor]

It's really sad how people keep going after your group just because you defend yourselves

Apparently, the statements "I'm generally content with the quality of my personal stories" and "I spot many issues with this comic" justify getting spammed with graphic death threats and ableist insults

Yet it's insisted that you're the ones who are too harsh? It's straight up unfair.

Who would have thought that a group of people might occasionally get upset after being crucified and ridiculed by countless strangers?

Funny how they NEVER have a justification beyond "well shut up no one wants to hear you"

Somehow, it's always YOUR fault that a part of the fandom goes rabid whenever someone doesn't conform to the current "right" opinion, and YOU'RE to blame for THEIR ungodly behavior. That doesn't make any sense, does it?

This fandom is vain and abhorrent to the nth degree and y'all deserve better. That's all I wanted to say.

Par for the course, innit. They'll lash out at us. They'll hand out death threats. They'll make disgusting ableist comments about my autism, and similarly terrible comments towards my friends. They'll threaten to bomb SEGA HQ and stick Iizuka's head on a pike, among other wild declarations of violence. But don't you dare make a goofy meme about Surge not living up to her hype. And whatever you do, don't even think about criticising the unprofessional antics of the IDW crew. What are you, a monster?

They dismiss us as insignificant one minute, then fearmonger so hard that they see fit to give us a boogeyman-esque moniker the next. I'd be surprised if they could walk in a straight line without contradicting themselves.

As for "You talk so much about your fics!" ...No shit. I'm a guy with a blog. This isn't a movie production with a budget, I don't have a team or advertisements backing me up. And unlike fanartists, I don't have my own art to catch people's attention. I kind of have to talk about my writing in order to get it out there and inform people of its existence, and while I try not to sound too much like an unskippable YouTube ad, what else am I supposed to do? Upload them silently and then never refer to them again? How is showing passion for my work any different from official creators showing passion for theirs? Just because fanfic tends to get less attention on here than fanart doesn't mean it's not worth sharing, do they want fandom to flourish or not?

When I compare my work to a certain comic, I do it to highlight the dissonance. If fanfic writers - plural, not just myself - can understand the importance of keeping the characters recognizable, and making the universe faithful despite any necessary differences, then what excuse do official writers who have been involved with the series for over a decade have? If someone who doesn't even love Sonic that much compared to other characters, finds him annoying and unfunny half the time (no, not just in the Pontaff games, in general), and even finds it a pain in the ass to write for him at times and has more fun writing other characters because of this, can still attempt to write what made him appeal to fans... why do writers who supposedly love him so much keep fumbling so hard with him?

I compare for the sake of highlighting why these off-kilter portrayals are so easy to spot. If Sonic Twitter only gets "He's just stroking his own dick" from all of that, then they haven't been paying attention.

The most ironic thing about it all is that they've only gotten more vitriolic as most of us have mostly moved on from the height of IDW discourse (cause the comic goes in circles at this point, and is very likely to be running on fumes due to IDW's financial troubles, so there's no point). Yeah, I'll still criticise it now and then, and make a meme on occasion, but I rarely make lengthy ted talks about it or participate in ongoing Lanolin Is A Bitch/Silver Is Uwu-ified/Whisper Is Trauma Bait/etc back and forths anymore, because it's just tiring now. And since most current Sonic stuff has been putting me off in general, combined with growing fatigue and frustration at not being able to criticise certain games without people waving the finger at me (especially SA2, since the Year of Shadow has made it the center of attention yet again...), I've took a step back from intense Sonic discussion to focus on Stellar, as well as other fandom projects, like my recent brainstorming for Paper Mario or: How I Learned To Insert Eggman and Love The Vivian™.

In no way can you say I've been up in their faces as of recent. Yet they continue to cry otherwise, because they want people like me gone completely.